Date: Sat, 14 Jan 1995 03:19:41 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: AlohaCh3.p151-157 c1995 N.L. Cleveland The figure took a half step toward Jonathan, moving into a shaft of light from a recessed doorway, and suddenly he recognized the face. He lowered his sword when the young Immortal made no move to bring out his own weapon from his long, brown trench coat. Merely stood, silently, his hands empty at his sides, waiting for Jonathan to approach. Stood too silently, Jonathan realized as he moved closer. Too stiffly, like a mannequin in a shop window, with no animation in his expression, no recognition in his eyes. Something was wrong. Jonathan hurried forward, his instincts screaming "trap! trap!" but his intellect and his heart telling him he had to go on. He reached out his hand to touch the Immortal, who sagged against the alley wall now, but before Jonathan could catch him, Richie stumbled back, his eyes rolled up so that only the whites showed, and he fell into a motionless, crumpled heap on the alley floor. Jonathan froze, listening for a hint of sound, any trace of another's presence, mortal or Immortal, near them. Watching them. He could sense nothing but the pressing burr of Richie's aura. The youth was still alive, then. Unconscious only. But how had he gotten here in this condition? What was wrong with him? And where was MacLeod? Satisfied for the moment that they were not being observed, Jonathan knelt by the youth's side. Richie's face was suffused, his skin a dark angry crimson, and his breath came harsh and uneven through his slack lips. A small tendril of drool edged its way down the side of his open mouth, the silvery gleam visible in the dim light. Fading bruises marked his face, flecks of dried blood still clung to his skin by his eyes and nose, and stained his clothing. Jonathan hesitated, not wanting to share the reawakened memories of another Immortal, hesitated, then touched the youth's skin, laid his palm on Richie's forehead. It was burning hot against his hand. Like a dry furnace. And the whirl of images and chaotic memories that surged in Richie's mind burned through Jonathan too. Burned inside him, reigniting that inner fire, that inner hunger that he had fought so hard to quench and to forget. That hunger for the Quickenings. That hunger for completion, as an Immortal. That hunger for eternal life, and for the prize. Jonathan shuddered, and pulled his hand away. Waves of dizziness swept over him in sympathetic harmony with the metabolic anarchy that raged through Richie's body. That much was obvious. He reached for the youth's arms, noting the deeply ridged cuts that encircled his wrists, half healed already, but still oozing blood and lymph. Like rope burns, as if the Immortal had been held captive. Captive, until very recently. And more more to the point, would Richie's former captors be coming around to pick up their straying hostage? And were they also after Jonathan? These questions deserved an answer, and a sober, lucid Richie was his only sure way of finding out. Which meant that Jonathan now had company for the night. Company he had not expected, or planned for. Another complication that would have to be dealt with. Pulling the youth's arms over his shoulders, Jonathan hefted his inert weight and carried him towards the street. Trying to make it look like he was supporting a half-drunk friend, instead of someone totally insensible to the world. Making sure to not touch the youth's bare skin with his own. Ignoring the suggestive whispers that hinted *here* was an opportunity to take a Quickening. To experience at last what it was like to be a true Immortal. He pushed aside the lingering temptation, pushed it firmly down into the deep recesses of his mind, and buried it. A vacant cab cruised by just as Jonathan emerged on the street, and it obediently pulled over at his hail, the driver smiling with pleasure at Jonathan's fluent command of the language, and unbending enough to join him in making raucous jokes about Jonathan's companion and his weak stomach for liquor. Festival goers were notorious for overindulging, especially westerners. Jonathan offered up a silent apology to Richie's character, then politely encouraged the cab driver in his rough humor. No one was following, at least not anyone careless enough to be seen to the casual eye. Jonathan peered behind them through the spotless rear window, searching for any pattern, any repetition of motion or shape of vehicle coming after. They moved into the industrial district, and the road emptied behind them. But still, he watched. They crossed the Kamo-gawa, the river's dark water sliding by cold and silent beneath their wheels. The streets flowed by like the banks of a concrete stream, and Jonathan glimpsed a vision, an image from his childhood, fishing with his father. On a trip into the mountains, north of the city. He had dipped his hands into the chilly, fast moving water, his fingers disappearing, leaving only a transient, ephemeral swirl in the rushing torrent. He remembered staring, entranced, as his tiny ripple disappeared over and over in the wild churning water. He flexed his fingers, holding his hand up to the window, pressing against the solid, cool glass, wondering if he was leaving behind anything more than a ripple in the river, a momentary eddy in the flow of life. What was he hoping to accomplish, tomorrow, that would matter to anyone beyond himself? Beyond grief, for the survivors. What did he hope to achieve? Beyond vengeance, beyond death, there was nothing. But for him, that was all he hoped for. All he lived for. All he would die for. It would be enough. He had to believe it. It was all he had left to believe in, now. They stopped near the warehouse, but not too near. Jonathan still felt uneasy, his senses fogged by Richie's presence. Someone could have been following. He had to try to flush them out, to be sure they were alone, before betraying his secret cache. He stuffed a wad of yen into the driver's hands, and half dragged the now mumbling and semi-delirious youth from the cab. Richie was fighting off the effects of the drug, whatever it was. Starting to focus his eyes, trying to talk. Making no sense, yet. Jonathan was not familiar with the symptoms. Perhaps it was a mix, a cocktail of different chemicals, to keep the healing factor of an Immortal at bay longer. Or perhaps not. He sincerely hoped not. Because if those persons who had held Richie knew of his Immortal status, then the Dragons could find out as well. And could find out about Jonathan.They were all too close, in time, in space. Here in Kyoto, tonight. Far too close. Jonathan had to know what had happened, had to know, to plan his actions for the dawn. He led Richie down the street, and took several turns, crossing and confusing their trail, as rapidly as his stumbling companion could follow, with still no obvious pursuit. Jonathan couldn't force the youth to go faster, and in fact had to slow the pace again, as Richie doubled over, clutching at his belly, as what Jonathan suspected were cramps from his body's detoxification of itself shuddered through his frame. Jonathan watched, sympathy warring with impatience in his breast, the urgency of his mission and its time line driving him on. Enough. He had to get to work. He turned one last corner and approached the warehouse once again, the key out and ready in his hand. He wanted to slip in quickly, as unobtrusively as possible. Just in case a distant watcher still lurked around a corner, perhaps they would miss the moment when the two Immortals disappeared from the streets. Perhaps. Bringing the youth here was not the wisest move. He realized that, fully. But at this time of night, so close to the beginning of his move against the Dragons, he had no other real option, except to leave him in the streets, a helpless target for whoever had lost him once already, tonight. And that was not a choice he cared to pursue. He half pulled, half carried Richie through the the door, then turned to close it while the youth sank to the floor in misery, retching the thin contents of his stomach, nausea battling his reemerging awareness of what was going on around him. Jonathan firmly latched the door. No one would be able to come in here, without him knowing, now. He turned back to the young Immortal. He could see, by the set of the youth's shoulders, the new tension in his neck, that Richie was fully conscious now, and preparing to run, even as he hunched over on his hands and knees, losing the fight to control his rebellious body. "Richie. Look at me." He needed to gain the youth's trust, and quickly. Find out exactly what had happened to him, and what implications that had for Jonathan, and his plans. He squatted next to him, and put his hand on the youth's shoulder, offering support and concern. Offering, tentatively, the possibility of friendship, of a temporary alliance in a dangerous and hunted place. Richie shrugged his hand away with a twitch of his muscles, and leaned back, uncoiling from his contorted misery. Mastering the nausea, at last. "I don't need your help." The youth's voice was sullen, his eyes flashed with anger as the lifted his head and stared full into Jonathan's face. "It's your damn fault anyhow. Your old *friends* want you dead. They were using me to track you." He was sweating heavily now, and he rubbed his hand across his face, then bit his lips as a last surge of nausea twisted his frame. "Who are you talking about?" Jonathan glared back at Richie, willing to make it a battle of wills if necessary, but intending to get the information he needed, any way he could. Friendship was not an option, that he could see now. Nor was an alliance, even temporarily, a possibility. But still, still, he hesitated to call the youth his enemy. His fire, his impetuosity...there was much that reminded him of himself, at a younger age. But he needed to know what had happened. Needed to know immediately. "Your buddies from the Agency. And are they ever pissed." Richie was gathering his feet under him now, struggling to stand. He rose, and reached out blindly for support as his balance wavered. Jonathan instinctively offered him a hand, reaching up, checking his movement too late. Their palms touched. Hands clasped. Connections flowed between them, for a timeless moment. Their eyes stared into inner space, seeing, experiencing, consciously, a part of each other's lives. Then Jonathan pulled his hand away. Pulled it away, as if it had been burned. Pulled it away too late, to hide his intent. Richie stared down at him now, shock, and empathy struggling with one another across his face. "Wow, man. You are one nihilistic dude. Are you in love with death or something?" Jonathan felt a flush creeping across his cheeks. Being understood...that was the worst. Having other see his pain...only added to it. He stared coldly back at the youth, putting a chilly edge into his voice. "My life....my death.... is none of your concern." That was a promise. "It's not you, man. It's all the others." Richie's voice was outraged, hammering at him, trying to break through his defenses, his wall of rage and anger. Trying to stir what had once been his conscience, in Jonathan. He ignored the weak, pathetic thing. Ignored it entirely. Ignored his memories of the slaughter he'd left behind the last time he'd entered the compound of the Dragons. Ignored the names and faces of the dead that haunted his dreams. Ignored it all, and steeled himself to kill the youth if he made a move to stop him. Richie had his sword out now, and held it pointing at Jonathan, the blade level, poised for a lethal thrust, determination plain on his face. "I'm not making the same mistake I did before." His pale eyes held Jonathan's, promising death, for death. "I'm going to stop you myself, this time." "I have no interest in killing you. I could have just left you on the street, at that. Left you for my *friends* to find again." Jonathan could see the youth had less skill with a sword than he did. How he held the blade, how he stood. It would be a short, one sided contest. But still, if the young Immortal insisted, he would oblige him. "My death isn't the point. All those other lives are." Richie stepped towards him, his eyes boring into Jonathan's, who still knelt, his hands empty, looking up at Richie as the youth moved closer, the blade shining in his grasp. He saw the youth's muscles tense, his body shift, the preliminary to striking a blow. Jonathan let his rage flow through him, let it freeze his heart and his feelings. Let it animate his body and his hands. He pulled his katana from its place of concealment, drawing the blade and striking up and out in the same rapid, precise motion. Using the hilt, to block Richie's belated thrust, to push it aside, harmlessly. Continuing the stroke. Feeling the impact of his blade's steel, on Immortal flesh and bone. Swinging the sword back across his lap and wiping the edge clean, on his dark jeans, then sheathing it, all in a single smooth stroke. He sat, his hands empty again, his heart empty as well, and watched the youth. Richie stared at him, shock and amazement in his eyes. Jonathan looked back, impassively, as the youth's blade drooped in his hands, the point quivering as he tried to keep it erect. The tip touched the floor, and Richie leaned on it now, leaned on it like a staff, trying to remain erect himself, as a spreading sheen of blood veiled his chest, a bright red liquid ribbon, cascading down his body. "Damn..." Richie muttered the word, licked his lips and spoke again. "Damn, how'd you do that...." His voice trailed off, and he coughed, a pink froth bubbling on his lips. His knees sagged and he huddled over the sword like an old man, hunched and feeble. Jonathan felt a faint stirring of pity, but no more. After all, the youth would survive. Jonathan had no intention of taking his head. Just leaving him here, safely stashed, and out of the way. Until Jonathan's work was done. Richie stared at Jonathan, awareness of his own imminent death washing across his face. Fear, regret, sadness, all played out in his expression....and then, a dawning hope. His eyes met Jonathan's and found no hunger there, no hint that Jonathan intended to follow up on his attack. He looked his question at the Immortal, his lips forming the silent query....why? Jonathan had no real answer for him. He didn't understand himself fully, at this point. He could hardly explain to another. He merely shook his head slightly, reaffirming his decision, letting the youth know that even if he died, he would live again. This time. "Quite a reunion. Very touching." The voice came out of the darkness beyond the youth, accompanied by the sharp metallic click of a hammer being drawn back on a gun. "Don't move, Raven." Jonathan froze, his instinctive motion for his sword stilled in mid-breath. He should have known, should have realized, should have been prepared. A single bank of lights overhead were switched on, and Vulcan's pale face and shining hair emerged from the shadows, his hands cradling a large caliber automatic pistol. His eyes flickered back and forth between the two Immortals, then dismissed Richie as no immediate threat. Instead he focused his fanatic, burning gaze on Jonathan. His face was twisted with some great emotion as he stared at the Immortal, an emotion Jonathan could not identify, although it unsettled him as he looked back at the emaciated man, saw the dark hollows under his cheekbones, the loose skin sagging around his burning, desperate eyes. Jonathan methodically assessed his opponent's potential for causing mayhem, noting that Vulcan's hands shook ever so slightly, holding the gun. He shifted his weight subtly, tensing his legs to move, to attack. "Don't even think about it, Raven." Vulcan's voice was almost gone, a hollow whisper of what it had been, like his strength, like his fierce will to live, but even as his life guttered out its last flickering weeks , the former assassin still had a sting. "I can blow your head off with this. And I will, if you push me." Jonathan acknowledged the likelihood of that, and settled back, to wait and see what his once time ally, one time enemy, wanted. No, he knew how Vulcan had tracked him, he *had* sensed a follower, but had let the young Immortal's aura distract him, had ignored his own, finely honed human instincts, overwhelmed by the presence of the Immortal, missing the mortal follower instead. A mistake he would not repeat, in the future. In the short time left to him. "What do you want, Alexis? How can I help?" He needed to reach the man, to remind him, however slight and tenuous the connection still remained, of the time they had been...well, not exactly friends..., but allies. He watched Vulcan's eyes, as he simultaneously tracked Richie, subliminally aware that the youth still hunched in confused misery, hovering between life and death. Jonathan's plan had been to tuck him into one of the storage lockers, while he was dazed or dying, and to leave him to batter his way out after the other Immortal left. Now, however, he looked at Richie with new consideration. He could still recover from the wound, and might provide a distraction, yet. Vulcan laughed. A wry, self mocking laugh. A bitter laugh, the laugh of someone who saw no future. Jonathan felt a kinship with the man, as he always had. They were two of a kind, two of the lonely, deadly breed who had learned to bring killing to a form of high art, meticulous professionals in their field. There had always been that acknowledgement, that respect, between them. It was still there, now. Jonathan just had to figure out how he could use it to his own advantage. "You know how you can help, Raven." The words stirred Jonathan's brain to action. In a belated flash of insight, he grasped the dynamics that drove this moment.. Vulcan was dying. He wanted a cure. He wanted immortality. Of course. How could he not have seen, not have understood. Too caught up in his own dance towards death, he had totally missed the most obvious reason for the man's dogged pursuit. He would gladly have traded his Immortality to Vulcan. Traded it for the certain revenge and final peace he sought. Traded it, and died happy. Died well, as a mortal man. But it was impossible. Totally impossible. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do about it. He stifled a sour laugh. The irony would not be appreciated here. "What you need, no one can give you. I am truly sorry." He looked Vulcan full in the face, his expression open, his eyes frank. Trying to show the truth, the raw, ugly truth, and nothing more. He *was* sorry. He would miss this man. His equal, in many ways. Possibly, once, his better in some. Now, just a fading husk, clinging to hope and looking for a miracle that didn't exist. Facing the kind of death no one deserved to die. "That's what the boy said." Vulcan let the gun sag in his hands now. Seeing his own inevitable fate written clearly in the pity in Jonathan's eyes. "After I found him, got him away from the others, we talked. Then I let him lead me to you. To ask you. It was the only reason I went after him. The Agency means nothing to me. And I wouldn't have time to spend the reward they've posted. It's been doubled, you know. You're more valuable than Salman Rushdie, now." Vulcan showed his teeth in a humorless smile, sharing the joke with Jonathan. "I'm honored." Jonathan murmured the expected response, and waited for the rest. For the inevitable anger, the rage and envy and hate, that would come next. "But the boy said there were only a few like him....and you." The man's voice cracked on the word and he stopped speaking, swallowed, and continued. "He said I wasn't one of those few. " His voice had faded here, as if the words were too painful to speak, the memory too painful to recall. "But I had to find you. Had to see you. Had to know. To hear it from your lips. I know you wouldn't lie to me about this, Jonathan." There. The connection again. He *knew* Vulcan acknowledged it. Knew it meant *something* to the man. And so he gambled his life, his Immortal soul and his quest, all on that thread, that link, that had once bound them together. And he spoke the truth, to the man, instead of inventing a lie. "No. I wouldn't lie. Not about this." There was nothing else he could say. No way to soften the blow. There were no more options, for the man. The assassin had met his final match. The last spark of life that burned in Vulcan's eyes flickered, as if about to extinguish itself, here and now. His slender frame seemed to shrink back in on itself, and before Jonathan's eyes the man appeared to age, to totter on the brink of death, as the hope Vulcan had girded around himself like arrmor all peeled away. Leaving the naked human soul exposed, underneath. =========================================================================