Date: Fri, 4 Nov 1994 19:46:02 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (p40-46) For all you folks who have asked...the earlier chapters of this story are available in the Archives (I can tell you how to download them if you want). Aloha Chapter 1 is about 77 pages, Chapter 2 is about 130 pages. Comments, as always welcome, at NancySSCH@aol.com c1994 N.L. Cleveland Jonathan scanned the article. A picture of collapsed rubble, black smoke still spiraling into the sky, illustrated the story. Terrorists were being blamed. The dead were still being found, and counted. He looked at the numbers, the brief, cursory listings of their names and ages and occupations, those deemed fit for public consumption, the few small blurred photographs released by some of their relatives smiling out blindly from the page, and he felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders. More blood, on his hands. More death, flowing like a river from his obsession with revenge. He thought back to those frantic, desperate, driven minutes in the building, as he'd fought his way to the subterranean headquarters of the Agency. As he'd planned and executed their final destruction. He had focused all his concentration, all his thought and energy and will on his mission, his narrowly defined mission. As he had been trained to do. As he had learned so well, from so many different teachers. That ability to focus, to ignore all the peripheral issues and concerns and to achieve the objective, despite all obstacles, was what had made him so lethal and so valuable, first to the Dragons, then to the Agency. It was what had allowed him to achieve his original objective, the death and destruction of the Black Dragon clan. Almost. Until pity stayed his hand. And what had made him the most skilled and sought after assassin on the Agency's payroll. Until compassion broke through to his heart, again, and stopped him in the middle of a mission. And when he had lost that ability to kill without feeling, when he had started asking questions about the ramifications of his work, he had lost his focus, and his value to the Agency. He had left, a rebellious tool, a man....spurred by conscience. But pity, conscience, compassion, had died in him. Had died as he did, along with Jari and Hikari, in the blood splattered kitchen of his home. Had died, in the burning rage of his newly reawakened thirst for revenge. Barely a week ago...if that. Such a brief time, since he had become an Immortal. An eternity.... And his rage had burned brighter, flaming to incandescence, searing his heart, at Andy's murder. Impelling him back on this precipitous path, hurtling towards destruction, for himself. For others. For anyone who got in his way. Now he looked at the full implications of his vengeance. Saw again what it meant, to the others caught in his play. Saw again, what he had glimpsed before, in Kyoto. The evil that he had done. The monster that he had become. And how he had forgotten. Suppressed. Hidden the truth deep in himself, and gone on. Had joined the Agency, to help hide from himself. To find value and worth and acclaim in the skills of dealing death. To find purpose and meaning in a life that was empty of both. A memory stirred, of his past. Of the teachings of his first sensei, Aki's father, the man who had been his own foster father after his parents' death, until the two of them had parted ways. Violently. He pictured the scene again, how he had turned his back on his teacher, turned his back as well on his teachings of control, of restraint, of peace. How he had lashed out, when the man had grabbed his shoulder, to stop him from leaving, on that last day. Had lashed out, and hit his sensei. Had drawn blood. He remembered the fury he'd felt, as he'd stood over his fallen teacher, shaking with barely suppressed rage, ready to kill. Boiling over with fury and grief, misdirected at the one man who cared the most about him. Who cared enough to try to stop the calculated self destruction of the youth in his quest for revenge. Jonathan could see that now, clearly. But nothing had been able to stop him, then. No one. No person. Not his sensei's care and concern. Not his teachings. Not Aki's love. He had chosen his path, rejecting the ways of peace, of forgiveness, of life, in pursuit of his own dark goals, and followed it....here. He had thought, once, that he had found a way out. After leaving the Agency, he had gone back to his earliest teachings, aspiring to the pure contemplation and appreciation of life in all its beauty and diversity. Seeking mastery over himself and his own dark rage. Seeking the oblivion of za-zen in his meditations, attempting to imbue the honor and restraint of bushido into his martial skills. Seeking balance. Seeking peace. But always within himself, a part of him he could never destroy or contain, just soothe and divert, for a while. All his studied calm, all his carefully nurtured joy....inextricably linked to his fury, hate and pain. He had unleashed the beast within, had plunged deep within the abyss, had fully realized all the potential for death and destruction that a man could comprehend, and could never leave that part of himself behind, now. He held the paper, staring past and through it. Examining the stark landscape of his heart. His life had been a repetition of the same struggle, over and over. The drive for vengeance, leading to death for others, and death for himself, inside, by increments. The angry inner demon riding him, eating his soul, consuming his passions and feelings, taking the complex rainbow of his existence and turning it into a flat monochromatic gray. And now he was starting out on that path again. The paper crumpled in his hands. He threw it from him. He bent and clutched his head, rocking his body in grief and sorrow, trying to shut out the memories of all the dead. Through his grief he felt a touch. Inside his brain, the buzzing presence of another Immortal intruded. He kept his eyes closed, his head bent. If it was Shonte, if it was another, so be it. He would not fight. He was willing to die, at this moment. To give his own life up, in recompense for all those he had taken. To surrender the burden, the crushing weight of the past, and to leave behind the rage that still drew him towards a dimly sensed, dark and bloody future. He was willing to let it go. All of it. Now. He waited. Relaxed. Passive. At peace, for a brief, timeless moment. Cinnamon and spice tickled his nose. He opened his eyes. Shonte kneeled next to him. Her hard, competent hands gripped his shoulders, drew his head lightly up, to face hers. He felt her concern. Her mind was closed to his touch, the rush of memories and feelings inside her just a faint ghostly trace in the background of his consciousness. "So, Jonathan Raven, you have decided to die, now? To let the first Immortal who comes near you, have your head? Like a child, you throw everything you have away in a fit of petty rage?" The ice in her voice cut through his indifference, stirring a spark of anger in his heart. He glared back at her, summoning his will, his strength of purpose back from where they'd fled. Finding reason to live, once again. If only to bring death. Laughing at that purpose, inside. Feeling the sick twisting nausea of grief roiling in his guts, again. "I've already thrown everything away. A long time ago. You know that." Her eyes did not blink, the liquid black pools holding his gaze, steadily. "I know what you've done. I understand. Do you?" Her voice was soft, but the hardness was there, behind it. He caught a glimpse, through her words and tone, of an ancient, almost alien sensibility, so at odds with the smooth, unlined face before him. He felt a moment's dislocation in space and time. It was what he'd imagined talking to one of the fabled sufi masters would be like, those whose sight looked beyond and before. Who saw but were not touched by the brief and transitory passions of man. A thrill of awe, of fear, whispered through his soul. This woman was not like any other he had known. He could forget, for a moment, just looking at her. She seemed so young. But her heart, her understanding, were so old. Was this what would become of him, in time? Would he gain this perspective on life and death, this aloof distance that let the years, the struggle and pain and love and human tragedy, flow past, like bubbles in a stream, while he endured, a rock parting the waters? Was this what it meant to be an Immortal? Would time, the distance of years, bring him peace? Or just unconcern? Would he find his humanity, again, or lose it forever in a quest eternal life? He wondered if she were still truly human. If he were, as well. What made a man, a woman, but the struggle to survive, the struggle to forge an existence and stamp meaning and worth out of a tiny sliver of eternity called life. What made him, but his quest. And what would he be, without it? With an effort, he pulled his thoughts out of their wandering paths, listening as Shonte spoke again. She gestured at the paper, lying in a scatter across the floor. "You could have done better. You could have done worse. I saw an operational briefing report on the recovery effort." She paused, considered him, noted she had his attention and continued. "Classified, of course. It won't get into the papers. Or on the evening news. That's how they keep this stuff off, sometimes. Let us have a sniff of something more, as a guarantee of the media's cooperation in massaging the story the way they want. Anyhow, you know that." She quirked her lips at him in a small, mirthless smile. "Something interesting was mentioned. It seems that someone pulled a emergency alarm, before the building blew up. Someone on the 5th level, underground. The staff in the upper stories escaped, evacuated before the building collapsed." Her eyes stared into his, assessing. "It was odd.. all the bodies recovered on that level were dead prior to the explosions. The medical examiner thought they had even died before the alarm went off." She was offering him salvation. Balm, for his grief. A small measure of solace, of ease from the overwhelmin guilt. So they had gotten out. Some of them. Some of the rest, who were not directly connected to the Agency. But not enough. Never enough. Never... He shook his head. Denying responsibility. Denying her speculations. Confirming them with his dropped glance, his evasive eyes. Knowing she could see through him. Feeling transparent, and a fool. He no longer knew what he wanted. No longer knew if his goals were worth living for, worth dying for , worth anything. He only knew he had this compulsion, this need to close the circle. To return to Japan, to finish what had started, what had driven and shaped him for so long. To find the last of the Black Dragons, to discover what role Aki had played in this drama, and to end it. But first, he had one last obligation here to perform. He shook off her hands and stood, looking down at her while she sat, crosslegged, on the floor, her gleaming ebony skin glowing dark and warm against the pale cool polished marble slabs. She tilted her head back to look up at him, the sun catching the angle of her jaw, playing along her fine high cheekbones. She was relaxed, to casual inspection, but to his eyes, she was poised to fight. Her guard never down. Always ready for a challenge. For treachery. For betrayal. This was the price of Immortality, he saw now. Just one of the payments, he suspected. He would learn of the others in turn. Learn why sadness lingered behind the eyes of all the Immortals he'd met so far. Sadness, or insanity. He would learn, if he survived. "I'm leaving, Shonte. You know I must." She nodded, this time, and he relaxed infinitesimally. He hadn't realized her permission, her approval, meant so much to him already. "The memorial service, today. I want to be there. Can you lend me some money for a cab?" He had yet to actually try to draw anything from his local accounts. He supposed with the Agency's computers destroyed, the funds would still be safe. At least for the next few hours. His cash position was an issue he had to deal with, next. But his debt to the dead came first. She inclined her head towards the side table, and rose gracefuly to her feet. "You can take what you need from the drawer. For later. For now, I think I'll come with you, if you don't mind." Her voice was casual, but the undercurrents were there. Some danger...not just the normal one of being recognized. Something else...Jonathan wasn't sure what, but the meaning was clear. Life as an Immortal held hazards he'd never encountered, before. He would watch and learn what he could, from Shonte. In the very brief moments they had left together. Perhaps she would teach him enough to survive. Perhaps he already knew all he needed, for his purposes. Only time would tell. He opened the drawer of the smoothly finished rosewood table. The shallow compartment was filled with neatly stacked, bundled bills, still in their paper wrappers, the amounts of each bundle penciled on each wrapper, fresh from a bank. 10's, 20's, 50's, 100's...he estimated there was around $200,000 in the drawer. Gently, he picked up a sheaf of 50's. There were 100 bills in each sheaf. He would repay Shonte, after he visited his bank. He turned, holding the bills to show her, but her back was to him. She gazed out the tall cathedral window, watching the play of light across the sweeping lawn that rolled in a gentle greeen slope to the darker wooded verge of her property. He joined her at the glass, leaning against her warmth, finding a sudden, solid comfort in her presence. Shonte shifted her weight, molding her body against his. They stood in silence for a long moment. Watching the robins hop across the lawn, busy with their hunt for earthworms. Savoring the play of emotions that washed over them both. Shonte turned, sliding her body across Jonathan's, and kissed him, lingeringly, on the mouth. He felt the hunger rising in him, pushing through his turmoil, pushing aside, for a moment, the driving press of his plans, the bitter grief for his victims, pushing it aside in a sharp, urgent celebration of life and feeling and passion. He still didn't know, entirely, why this stunningly beautiful, wealthy and sophisticated, wise and worldy Immortal was alone. Why she had no lover, no adopted family, around her. And why in her loneliness, she had chosen to help him. He accepted it, and was grateful. He suspected, from hints she had dropped, that she had lost a lover, and recently. That shadow of sorrow that peered out from her eyes, that brushed across his mind among the complex tangle of emotions they shared in thier intimate moments ...that told him something. But it was not his nature to pry, not about this. Shonte would share her past with him, if she wished. And if she did not, he still knew that while she helped him, he in some way was also helping her. That was enough, for him. He knelt, sliding his hands up her legs, pulling her down with him on the soft floor cushions heaped in a caual pile by the window. Pulling her to him, as he forgot about the future, and the past, and existed, for this moment, only in the present, in the immediacy of sensation and shared passion. - - - - - The crowd overflowed the National Cathedral, spilling out onto the steps. Jonathan stayed back, watching the mourners file to the waiting limousines, heading towards Arlington Cemetary for the burials. He had come, as he needed to, but he had found no peace here, no expiation. Rather, watching the weeping children and pale, grim widows and widowers, he had felt his burden resting heavier on his shoulders. Shonte had stepped away, with an admonition for him to wait for her on this church's ground. Drawn into unwiling conversation with several of her peers, steering them carefully away from her mysterious male companion, despite the interested glances of more than one of the women, and men. Jonathan suppressed a smile. Clearly he was going to be an object of speculation for the rumor mill. It was time to go, no question. He hadn't expected to catch so much attention, himself. Shonte had been the one attracting it. He would have been better coming alone. But it meant nothing, as he would be out of her life shortly. He pulled his newly purchased black stetson hat a bit lower over his eyes, shadowing his face against the too inquisitive eyes of Shonte's companions, walked out of the churchyard, and down the narrow sidewalk. He was casually attired, in a navy linen blazer, jeans, Italian leather loafers and a roughly slubbed white linen shirt, all picked off the rack at a small, expensive men's boutique Shonte had taken him to on their way here. He had worn the new wardrobe right out the door, leaving behind the slightly loose set of clothes she had provided him, to get out of the house in. He had a feeling, from the complicitous, knowing attitude of the sales clerk, that she had done this before, with other men. He wondered if she was in the business of picking up stray Immortals, or if it was just a hobby. He had made one additional detour on their trip here, to collect his newly minted identification documents from an old friend who worked for the Department of Motor Vehicles now. It was handy, having valid D.C. drivers licenses in five different names. Now he had one more stop to make, later, to call on his State Department contact f or the passports. Five, again. It never hurt to be well prepared. He'd actually been on misions where he'd used up all five identities and had to slip out of a hostile country with stolen identification. Never a pleasant or easy task. One he hoped to avoid, today. After that, he'd visit the bank, reactivate his lost credit cards and book a flight to Tokyo. He felt the aura. He stopped and turned, searching the path behind him, then glancing ahead once more. An Immortal was approaching. But Shonte was nowhere in sight. He reached under the lightweight black nylon trenchcoat, also a new purchase, and grasped his sword. His blood quickened in his veins. He had not expected a fight. but he was prepared. It was just a matter of finding out who....and where.... The sensation faded. The Immortal had left his immediate proximity. Without contact. Without a challenge. Jonathan moved his eyes rapidly across the pedestrians in the street around him. Then he glanced at the cars. It was impossible to tell where the Immortal had gone. Too many of the cars had smoked glass windows, hiding the identities and number of the persons inside. He strode back towards where he'd left Shonte, concern speeding his pace. She was no longer there. He glanced around, saw one of her chattering friends, and approached her. The woman, a dramatically dressed Latina, noticed him coming and smiled at him. "Weren't you the gentleman with Shonte? I'm Maria Alvarez. We work together at WABC." She held out her hand. Jonathan took it, feeling the warm skin, the delicate prickling of her long, sharp, gleaming fingernails tickling his palm. She was playing with him, playing like a cat, enticing its prey. He smiled back at her, unenticed. "I've ...mislaid Shote. Have you seen her?" He kept his tone light, flirtatious, as he followed the Maria's lead. "Not for a second or two. Let's take a look, she went this way." She tucked his hand under her arm and steered him around a corner in the cedar hedge that framed the courtyard of the catherdral. He let her walk, wondering at her purpose, sensing she had an ulterior motive for pulling him away from the crowd. He devoted half his attention to her, his eyes still searching the crowd for any sign of Shote. Knowing she was not here, feeling nothing of her aura. Feeling alone again, on the arm of this woman. Feeling lost, as if a support he'd been leaning on without knowing it had been suddenly pulled away. =========================================================================