Date:         Wed, 18 Jan 1995 02:33:10 -0500
Reply-To:     NancySSCH@AOL.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "N.L. Cleveland" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Aloha Ch 3. p158-164

c 1995 N.L. Cleveland

With a sigh, Richie slid to the warehouse floor and sprawled across it. His
aura faded, and disappeared from Jonathan's consciousness. He was dead.
Vulcan's eyes broke their grip on Jonathan's and shifted to the young
Immortal's form. He frowned, and  used the moment's distraction to rally his
dignity and his composure. Then he looked up at Jonathan, jerked his chin
towards the youth's body and asked the inevitable question. "What are you
going to do with him?"

"He'll be fine. You know that already." Jonathan spoke curtly. He had no more
time for these delays. He'd answered Vulcan's question as best he could, now
he only waited to see what the man would demand of him as his price for
letting Jonathan continue to live, while he, himself, died. Died, with no
hope of return.

"You're not going to...take his head?" Vulcan gazed at Jonathan with
interest. "I thought, from what I heard...that that was the normal step for
your *kind* ?"

<What the hell did Richie tell him? And who else did he talk to?> Jonathan
was concerned now that the youth had spilled his guts to the Agency. Perhaps
totally unawares, under the influence of drugs. What harm had he done to the
secret lives of uncounted Immortals? <What harm have *I* done...the Agency
never would have come after him, if not for me.>

"No." Jonathan wanted this conversation ended. He didn't care to think about
the temptation that the youth posed, lying at his feet, his neck exposed and
vulnerable. <It would only take a second....>  He pushed the impulse away,
again. Looked at the mortal standing over him, instead. "Did he tell you
that?"

Vulcan looked thoughtfully at him, obviously weighing the advantages to him
in what he next said. "Not exactly. I put it together myself.  I saw you at
the power station, remember?"

Jonathan felt relief surge through him. So the boy hadn't entirely cracked,
hadn't babbled out *all* the secrets of the Immortals to everyone who asked.
Perhaps the Agency, and the Dragons, knew even less than he feared. Perhaps
his mission *would* succeed, after all. He grasped at that straw, clinging to
its slender comfort.

"You're after the Black Dragons, aren't you?" Vulcan's mind was a sharp as
ever, only his body was betraying him now.

"I'm going to finish what I started. What they started, first." Jonathan had
nothing more to say. It made no difference to him if the Dragons knew what he
was, only would make it harder...much harder..to achieve his plans. He could
only hope, and go on, as he had arranged. There was no time to stop and
rethink his strategy. He was committed. Other people's fate rested with him
now, as well. <Mariko....>

"Do they know what you are?"  Vulcan braced his wrist with his other hand,
trying to keep the gun steady, trying not to let Jonathan see the subtle
tremors that revealed the inner destruction that still continued. Their
glances crossed, knowingly, and Vulcan looked down this time.

"What do you think I am, Alexis?" Jonathan had to know. Suddenly it was
important, what this other man thought, not of him as a former colleague, but
of him now.

"Hell, Jonathan, I know what you did to the Director." Vulcan looked up,
smiled at him, the smile of a hunter, remembering the hunt, the taste of
 blood. "Not that I'm blaming you. A lot of us would have loved to have been
in your shoes, then. I would have loved it. " Jonathan watched as his eyes
turned inward, and Vulcan relived his own loss, his own betrayals by the
Agency. Their shared losses, of innocence, of faith, of belief in what they
did. Of love. Of Andy....

<Good, good. Remember what made us brothers, what makes us brothers still.>

"But you were in his office when the place went down. I saw it. On tape."
 Vulcan eyed him closely, now, and spoke slowly, deliberately. "No *man*
could have survived what you did, Jonathan. No one, no human being, came out
of that room alive. But you're here. Alive." Vulcan stopped. Waited. The
silence stretched between them.

"I have work to do. I can't die, until I'm done." <Let him make of that what
he can.> He would not beg, would not plead. Would not explain any further.
This was it.  Jonathan had been carefully shifting his weight, inching his
feet further apart, as Vulcan's attention had slipped away from him for a few
critical seconds. He was ready now. He breathed in, shallowly, then exhaled.
On the next breath, he would move. The flat air of the closed warehouse
smelled sweet in his nostrils as he drew in what could be his last lungful of
air, watching the gun and the tiny shimmer of trembling light reflected on
its barrel.  Wondering just *how* Vulcan had managed to get Richie away from
an Agency hit  team, if he was this far gone. Wondering how fast and how
accurate the man's reflexes still were, and how many bullets remained in the
chamber of the gun.

"Wait." Vulcan's words cut across the space between them. Cut into Jonathan's
concentration, as he heard a new note in the man's voice. A note of hope. It
intrigued him. He rocked forward on his toes, but did not attack. Waited, to
see if he was right.

Vulcan was smiling now, a look of satisfaction, almost inner peace, glowing
from his face.  "I'll help you, Raven. You won't succeed alone. No matter
what you are, now. But you might, with me."

Jonathan considered. Vulcan's estimation of his chances, even as an Immortal,
was depressingly correct. He could almost taste failure, hovering in the air,
defining his future, mocking his past.  The Dragons could easily kill him and
 dance away from his grasp, leaving him to close his dying fingers on air,
instead of their necks. He knew he needed allies here, with the Agency  after
him now as well, plus whatever stray Immortals he encountered. Not all would
be novices with the sword. Either or both could interfere with or totally
derail his plans. Yes, an ally would help. Could make all the difference
between success, and defeat. But could he trust Vulcan? Trust his offer?
Trust his word?

Why Vulcan wanted to help, he could guess. It gave purpose to a life that was
empty of meaning. Empty of hope. Looking too closely at death.  To die on a
mission, in action, doing something, using the skills they had paid so much
for.....far better than to die clutching at the pain in your guts in a
sterile hospital bed, surrounded by uncaring strangers. Yes, he understood.
Understood well.  But did he trust him? That was still the catch. Did Vulcan
see the mission as one to help Jonathan or did he see Jonathan as the object
of his mission, and this as another way to get closer and try to discover
more about Immortals?

He had to at least ask. The answer could be a lie, or the truth. He'd have to
judge that for himself. "Why do you care?" He grated out the words, not
daring to look at the youth now stirring at his side. Richie's aura...or was
there something else? A flicker of strangeness, of something achingly
familiar....no, it was only Richie, the youth's aura pressing against his own
mind once more. Jonathan ignored him. Stared into Vulcan's face, looking for
the slightest hint, in the twitch of a muscle, the flicker of an eyelid, the
evasive dropping of his glance, that there was any duplicity in the offer.
Vulcan stared back at him, smiling slightly, that enigmatic, secret smile of
the Mona Lisa, that smile that defined an inner space others could only guess
at but never truly know.

"Because, Jonathan. Simply because." The man shrugged his shoulders, and held
out the gun, the barrel pointed down now, his finger off the trigger. The
tension had drained out of him, as if it had never been. Jonathan put his
hand out and felt the cold hard weight of the gun drop into his palm as
Vulcan released it into his grasp. Offering this instrument of death as
surety for his oath. Jonathan hefted it, noting by its weight that the
magazine was full, and handed it back, exchanging a wry look of understanding
with the man. No more words needed to be spoken. He would trust Vulcan. With
his life. With his death. With his revenge.

Richie was on his knees now, shaking his head, trying to clear the cobwebs
away. Jonathan didn't give him a chance to remember what he'd sworn to do
once already tonight, and died trying to accomplish. Didn't want another dead
would be hero cluttering up the floor. Bleeding all over things. Making a
nuisance of himself. Stirring up old memories of a time when *he* had cared
enough to offer to die for his ideals, instead of just his vengeance. A time
when he *had* ideals. <Time to tuck this one away.>

He reached over the youth's shoulders and pulled him to his feet, deafening
his ears to the youth's shout of consternation and surprise, Richie's arms
locked behind his back in a full Nelson.

"Wassup?" Richie was trying to focus, to process the fact he was indeed still
alive, and that the man who had defeated him had not taken his lmmortal soul
as well. Jonathan ignored the youth's disjointed questions, moving him
rapidly across the floor. Haste was of the essence now. So little time
remained to finish his preparations. Jonathan knew just where to leave him,
safe and sound, and well out of the way. One of the empty storage lockers,
just by the door. He manhandled the struggling young Immortal into the open
wooden sided compartment, and shoved him forward, then slammed the door shut.


Richie turned and ran back to the door, pushing hard against it as Jonathan
slid the outer latch closed. "Wait. You can't leave me here. Not without my
sword!" Richie's voice twisted in desperation. Jonathan hesitated a moment,
then picked up the sword. Put it down again, just outside the door.  The
youth would chop through the flimsy wood too fast, with the weapon. It would
have to be later.

"I'll give it to you when I'm ready to go.  Trust me."

He turned to leave, to move deeper into the warehouse where the final touches
on his plan awaited him. Shutting his ears to the yells and pleas of the
young Immortal. To the rhythmic pounding as the youth began trying to break
out of his temporary prison. <It should hold long enough. Let's hope for his
sake that it does.>

With Vulcan's expertise to assist him, Jonathan found that he could indeed
complete his planned modifications in time. Barely, at that. Alone, he fully
realized, it would have been hopeless. He made a last adjustment in the timer
hidden in the statue that filled the inner sanctum of the palanquin. The grim
faced god glowered back at him, the six armed demon clutching a different
weapon in each hand, his sharp elongated canines hanging menacingly over his
lower lips, his face contorted in menace and rage. The Daigensui Myoo was a
fierce god, a suitable god for assassins and warriors. A strong, harsh god to
frighten evil men back to the path of virtue. A fitting choice, for his task.


He smiled, and glanced at the luminous dials of his watch. 5 in the morning.
It was time to go. The palanquin was balanced on a low wooden wagon, hitched
to the back of a hired van. He would drive to his rendezvous point with his
hired wrestlers and hope to hell that the lure of several thousand yen would
be enough to pull them out of bed, or out of the bar, if they hadn't made it
home yet. If not, well, he would just have to improvise. He was good at that.
His whole life seemed to be one massive improvisation, dealing always with
the unexpected, the suddenly lethal. He would survive, until it no longer
mattered any longer whether or not he lived. And then, then he would drop the
mask, drop the lines, step out of the play, and die.

Vulcan stood next to him, exhaustion from the demanding, precise work they'd
been doing leaving his shoulder slumped, in a bone deep weariness he no
longer tried to hide from Jonathan.

 "We did some good work."  Vulcan smiled, his eyes taking in the hidden
electronics, as well as the full scope of all that they had both achieved, in
their lives.

Jonathan agreed, talking only to the superficial present, not willing to
tread on the larger issues. "As good as any Natchez could do." Philippe
Natchez, the electronics genius, who had preceded them both into death by
several years. His work still the standard in the shadowy world of assassins.


"Better, Jonathan. Better." Vulcan looked at him, and touched his arm. "We
had a choice.  We decided to become what we are. And we are, were, the best.
 I don't regret it. Do you?"

<Looking for absolution a little late, aren't you, old friend?> Jonathan bit
back the sarcastic retort and softened his expression. He didn't want to
probe his own feelings on what he had become any further, because, frankly,
he did regret it. Regretted many things he'd done. Anticipated regret for
those he yet intended to do. But his role was not to judge the man next to
him, not to condemn Vulcan's soul as he had already condemned his own.

"I have regrets, Alexis. But I am what I am. What I made myself. I have to
accept that."  <And I have made myself into the ultimate tool for my revenge.
And I am *proud* of that.> He put his hand on Vulcan's shoulder, feeling the
bones through the thin layer of skin, the scanty, shrunken muscles burning
with heat,  with the last, accelerated metabolism of the dying. <Like a bird,
so delicate. His soul is almost free, almost gone.>

"It's time. I'll meet you by the alley door. I have to say goodbye to the
kid." Jonathan watched while Vulcan climbed into the cab of the truck,
started it up and pulled out under the slowly rising garage door. Jonathan
held the remote control, and as soon as Vulcan was clear of the warehouse, he
hit the return and waited until he saw the door starting back down again.
Then he turned and headed back to the door he'd come in by. Back to Richie,
and his sword.

He had felt the youth's aura steadily all along, brushing against the edges
of his mind, tickling his consciousness, teasing the banked, hungry fire in
his soul. <What would it be like, to take a Quickening?> He would never know,
he told himself, firmly. There, the sword lay on the floor, gleaming pale
against the dark wooden planks. He reached for it, picked it up, and found
himself testing its balance, holding it ready to strike, to attack, to sever
a head from a neck. Envisioning the strike, the cut, the fall. The shuddering
anticipation of the joining... All in an instant.

Shocked at the raw tide of hunger that washed through his mind, he closed his
eyes, clenched his fists and concentrated. <I am Jonathan Raven. I have a
mission. A goal. Nothing else matters to me. Nothing but my goal.> He was
sweating, he noticed, and felt lightheaded, dizzy. <What is happening to me?
I don't want to take this boy's head.>  Where had those memories come from?
Those images, those feelings...those fragments of other Quickenings....for
that is what he knew, knew suddenly, certainly, that they were.
Fragments...fragments of someone else's memories. Fragments from another
mind. A mind he had touched once...touched for the last time in a place far
away, but only two days ago. <Shonte....>

He would mourn her later. Mourn her as she deserved to be mourned. But he had
no time to dwell on that past, now. No time to puzzle out why he still felt,
stronger than he had since they last met, those little touches of her mind,
her soul, her life, on his. In his. As if she were a part of him, still. And
he, a part of her. As if that incautious moment when he had cradled her in
his arms, held her to protect her from the buffeting storm of the Quickening,
as if it had mixed in them, and sealed them both together, for eternity.

He damned MacLeod again, for not warning him. Damned himself for not
listening, not asking. He tightened his grip on the solid, cool metal in his
hands. Held it, earthly reality giving an anchor to his soul, pulling his
mind back from these flights of fancy, into the dark, cavernous warehouse.
Back, to the waiting youth, whose breath Jonathan could hear, soft and
frightened, behind the door.  He knelt and pushed the sword under the door,
through the wide gaping crack where the roughly sawn wood did not meet the
floor.  He heard the youth scrabbling along the wooden planks, and the scrape
of the metal on wood as he found the weapon and picked it up.  Heard his
breath catch in almost a sob of relief, as the Immortal was once again
reunited with his sword.

"You can hack your way out of there in a few hours. Just don't try to follow
me again. It won't go so easy on you, next time."  He spoke brusquely, not
wanting the youth to know he had been over heard. To know that Jonathan
understood what he had been feeling and experiencing in his long, lonely wait
in the dark, wondering if he would ever see daylight again, or find the door
opened to the face of some hate filled Immortal, sword in hand, ready to take
his soul.

Jonathan turned away, his hand on the door. Hearing the rumble of the van,
outside. Vulcan, ready to leave.

"Raven." The youth bit off the words. Stopped. Silent.

Jonathan paused. Compassion moved him, and he turned back. For a moment,
only. "What, Richie?"

"You're leaving me for the other, then?" The fear was there, in the almost
inaudible quaver in the youth's voice. Anger and pride battling to cover it.
Losing the fight. As the youth clearly feared he would lose his next fight.
<To whom?>

"What other?" Jonathan sensed no other Immortal. Only himself, and Richie.
Himself, his memories of Shonte, and Richie. His memories of Shonte...

<No!>

It was as if his lover were approaching him, in his mind. As if a broken hole
in his soul were being mended. It was not the aura of another Immortal he
felt, it was his own aura, in someone else. Shonte....the shell of what had
been Shonte...had she...it....tracked him here? Tracked that part of herself,
in him? Used that lost part of him, in her, to find him?  Yes, it was
possible. More than possible, he admitted, as that traitorous part of himself
reached out, beckoning, calling, summoning the agent of his doom, of his love
and his final fate.

How could he fight her? How could he? He had run once, to survive. He could
only run again. He knew he could never defeat her...him....it. Knew  it in
his heart, in his mind, in the bottom of his soul. Knew it with all the grim,
dread certainty he possessed.  And Richie....Richie had sensed the other
Immortal. Had sensed it stalking them both, and thought Jonathan was leaving
him as bait, as helpless prey, while he used the diversion to cover his
tracks and finish his mission.

And the youth would die. Of that, Jonathan had no doubt. Richie was doomed,
if he waited here. Doomed if he won, or if he lost. Doomed to lose his
identity, his control, his existence, in the ravening hunger and overwhelming
power of the other, the unnamed, ancient other whose essence now inhabited
the husk of the woman Jonathan had loved. So briefly. So hopelessly. So long
ago. Two days. Only two days had passed...He saw her in his mind's eye, saw
her fierce, flashing gaze, her proud ebony beauty and strength, remembered
her wisdom, and her tenderness.

No. He could not leave the youth here, for her animated puppet body to take,
to defeat. Could not add another captive soul to the string of trophies
already far too long, that that ancient, immense appetite had already
consumed. He, himself, was doomed.  Even if he somehow survived his final
confrontation with the Dragons, somehow escaped alive, Shonte, that thing
that had become Shonte, would follow him to the end of the earth, would track
him down to recapture that lost part of its soul. He realized that, now.
Realized it more clearly, as he felt her...it....approaching. Felt the pull,
the draw to be reunited with that missing part of himself, and knew it could
only be stronger, much stronger, for the other Immortal.

<So little time. Will the youth do as I say? I can't take the chance.>
Jonathan shoved the bolt back, flung wide the door to the wooden cage. Richie
stumbled out, yelling, his sword up and swinging wildly at the attack he
expected would come. Jonathan slipped under the upthrust blade and punched
the young Immortal in the belly, putting all his anger and desperation into
to thrust of his arm, feeling his fist sink deep into the muscle of the
youth's torso, hearing the air whooshing out of Richie's lungs with an
audible "oomph."  He almost didn't feel the slice of Richie's blade across
his shoulder, the edge sliding through skin and muscle, leaviing a tingling,
aching burn in its wake.  And wetness. Blood.  Not too deep, he prayed. Not
too deep.

Richie doubled over, gasping, as Jonathan wrenched the sword from his hands,
and dragged the youth bodily out the door with him, virtually tossing him
into the flat bed of the wagon, next to the palanquin. He scrambled up after
him, gesturing to Vulcan to go, quickly.  The van lurched forward as Richie
uncoiled from his curled, breathless pain and tried to punch out at Jonathan,
grabbing at his wrist in an attempt to win back the sword. Jonathan held him
with both hands, pulling him into a bear hug, shoving aside with sheer
willpower all the myriad images from Richie's past and present lives that
surged across his mind. He faced the youth, remembering that behind the
unlined face were memories from dozens of other Immortals, some centuries
old.

"Do you want to live, or die?" He hissed the words, fighting to control the
youth's body as he continued his struggle to escape. Fighting to break
through to his conscious rational mind, to reason with him, and try to forge
some kind of agreement. He had no time for unwilling captives. No time to
deal with hidden treachery or plans for escape. Either Richie would agree, or
he would die. Here and now. Permanently.
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