Date: Wed, 9 Nov 1994 01:16:27 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (p52-57) "I helped you, because of what you did. What you were. I cannot help you now." Shonte's voice was quavering, oddly modulated. "Don't make me watch you die. Not again. Not like Hachu." Hachu....Jonathan knew that name. The past crashed down on him. Hachu Mombune. The leader of a band of Zairean rebels. Charismatic, brilliant, passionate.....Oxford educated, son of a tribal chieftan, throwing over a respected teaching career in England as an economist to go home to his corrupt and backwards nation, and to try to drag it almost single handed into the democracies of the 20th century. Doomed from the start in his attempt at peaceful change through the ballot box, he'd turned to weapons and war after escaping from jail along with a group of opposition leaders who'd been accused of treason for daring to run against the existing government. Turned to any allies he could find, to support his struggle. And found the Chinese willing backers of his revolutionary army. Too willing, and too successful. Jonathan had been sent to stop him, before his revolution swept the corrupt, but friendly to the west, dictators out of power and put in a puppet government loyal to the Maoist state in its place. Jonathan had gone, and had seen again what he had been seeing before, in other despotic states around the globe. Had seen again those things that were slowly awakening him, slowly impelling him to start asking questions about who and what he had become. Had seen the ugly excesses of the people he was supposed to be protecting. Had seen the shining, hopeful faces of the peasants in their dusty hovels, dreaming of a better life after the revolution. Had seen the faith and fervor lighting the eyes and voices of Hachu's followers. And he had met the man himself, in direct violation of his orders and all training procedures. Had met him, spoken with him. Assessed him and found in him someone of worth and value. Jonathan had posed as a member of the western press, then. A common cover. He remembered now that others had been there, too. Hachu's growing visibility in the world media was another reason he'd been sent, he recalled. He didn't remember meeting Shonte...she would have been as unforgettable then as she was now...but he had known that there was a woman, a western woman, in Hachu's life. If he had continued in his mission, he would have found out more about her, as a matter of course, to assess her threat to mission security and possible impact on the outcome, after the man's death. But instead, after meeting Hachu, he had abandoned his mission, abandoned his job, abandoned his whole existence as an assassin for the Agency. Had returned to Washington, thinking naively that he could make them see the light. Had returned, and argued, and resigned, realizing that he was nothing to them but a tool. Realizing that he had forfeited his will and used his skills to serve evil ends, for too long. Not wanting to see one dictatorship replaced by another, just wanting to see an honest, sincere man get a chance to live in a democracy, and realizing at last that his own country had at much at stake in keeping the people from governing themselves as did the dictators of all stripes and ideologies. Gathered together the tattered shreds of his self respect and beliefs, and left. And read in a small buried paragraph in the Honolulu Times a few weeks later of the sudden, violent death of an unnamed upstart rebel leader, in Zaire. He had known who it was. Known he could have stopped it, could have gone back and protected the man. But had not. Had been too busy with his own life, then, his own concerns, the pursuit of his missing son. So now his past was coming back to haunt him, again. Shonte had sheltered him because he had destroyed the people who had ordered her lover's murder. But he was as responsible as those he had killed, in a way, for Hachu's death. He had known what was to come, and done nothing to avert it. Stepping aside from murder himself, he had left the man to his fate, at other's hands. So this was the shadow that haunted her. Hachu had been an amazing man, a truly unusual individual, his life marked by absolute dedication to his beliefs. To love a man like that, and then to lose him....Jonathan understood a bit of Shonte's grief, from just having met him. And realized too, that she had misjudged him. Had given Jonathan far more credit than he was worth, in her mind. He had come to the Agency seeking a private, bitter personal revenge. Not thinking, much , of the larger impact of his aftions. But she, she had loved a man who had offered his life,and lost it, for a larger purpose. Who had cared more for others, than for himself. Jonathan felt small. Unworthy. Ashamed. A flash of metal was his only warning. He blocked a cut, inches from his chest, parried and slipped the blade aside. Stepped back, defending. Stepped back, knowing he was fighting for his life. A fight he could only win, by killing. A fight he never wanted to start. Or to win. This was what Shonte had been trying to protect him from. The loss of identity. The dissolution of self, in the struggle between Immortals for control. Some Immortals, he now realized, were so powerful that they could live on, their will and minds almost intact, after death, in another Immortal's body, another Immortal's mind. He twisted and fell, rolling away from the swinging blade that sliced across his stomach, sliced a shallow gash through fabric and flesh as he desperately pushed himself out of reach. The blade following him, implacably, flickering pale death through the dusk, touching him lightly across his wrist, across his cheek, leaving a trail of blood and fire behind. He tasted his own blood, the warm salty liquid slipping down his face, into his mouth as he gasped for breath, evading the falling sword. His left hand was limp, useless, the tendons sliced through. It flopped helplessly at his side as he shifted his grip on the katana, kneeling on the floor, crouched like an animal driven to its lair, knowing he had to attack, knowing that once he attacked, he had to kill, or he would die here, now. But he could not. Could not kill this woman who had offered shelter and refuge, understanding and love to him, who had shared herself and her life with him. Who had sacrificed herself, to protect him. He could not. Would not. Would rather die himself, instead. A mocking, jeering voice inside his head taunted him. Surely, he could not. And then he remembered. Remembered that this fight was not with a mortal woman. He moved. Brought up the katana in one last desperate thrust, as he heard Shonte's blade whisper past his ear, felt it slice down through his shoulder, cutting deep into muscle, cartilage and bone. Thrust, with his last ounce of control, before his arm dropped, numb, to his side. Felt his blade strike home, sliding between her ribs, cutting deep into her chest, severing the large veins and arteries that fed her heart. Even knowing she would live again, it was like striking his own heart, cutting his own soul. She sighed. Fell in a huddle at his knees as he struggled not to pass out himself from the shock and the pain of having his shoulder half severed from his body. He held his torn and broken flesh together, hugging himself as he sagged, half fainting, on the floor. She murmured inaudibly, as he leaned forward over her form. Murmured his name, he thought. Murmured and died. His sense of her presence faded. He knelt, helpless, his arms useless, waiting for his strength to return. Waiting to see if Shonte would return, this time. Reviewing the fight, in his mind. Replaying every move, every feint and counterthrust. She had left him the opening. Deliberately. As if she were still battling to control her body, inside. After what seemed like an eternity, he began to regain the use of his arm, his hand. Pins and needles prickled and seared down his limbs with returning sensation, and he flexed his awkward fingers, picking up the katana from the floor. Staggering to his feet and pulling away Shonte's blade from her still cold and rigid clasp. He moved across the room to look at the second Immortal, the unknown being who had caused him so much grief. The Immortal's features were indistinct in the poor light. His face was vaguely Asiatic. Slender, with high narrow cheekbones. He appeared harmless enough.Like an accountant, or a clerk at some large firm. Youngish, balding, with broken wire rimmed spectacles that crunched underfoot as Jonathan discovered them. Wearing a dark suit. An anonymous man. One you'd never look at twice. A being of such immense power that he'd overcome Jonathan's new mentor, after death. He wondered if he would know, would realize, when he met such an Immortal himself. And how he would fare, if he defeated it in battle... afterwards. A sigh, behind him. The aura pressed on his mind, once more. Shonte. Alive. Awake. He turned, and moved towards her, both swords still in his hands. Unsure how he would know who she was. Unsure what he would do, if it was not her, in her body, this time. "Jonathan." The voice, was hers, and only hers. It was Shonte. Her eyes, lucid, stared into his. She was herself, again. A surge of relief lightened his heart. He had gambled, and won. He dropped the swords and knelt by her side, reaching out to take her in his arms. To celebrate her victory over death, and over what was worse than death. She flinched away. Raised her hands, palms out, to ward him off. "No. Don't touch me." His arms hung in the air. Empty. His heart emptied as well. He looked at her, slowly lowering his hands, perplexed. Fearing the worst. But her eyes were sane, level. She was not battling for control against another presence. She looked the same, sounded the same. Except for this hint of difference. More subtle now. Deeper inside her. But still there. He realized with a surge of despair that she had changed. On a very basic level. In a way that, he now feared, could never be undone. "Why not? Isn't it over? You've won, haven't you?" His voice rose on the last question, his nerves cracking through. She had to have won. That's how the Game was supposed to work. Wasn' t it? He cursed himself again for not listening more closely to MacLeod, for not thinking about the ramifications of the little he had heard, for not asking more questions, before, of MacLeod, or of Shonte. "Yes....I won." She seemed to ruminate on her next words, pausing as if searching for an explanation she didn't want to give. "But it isn't over." She bit off the sentence, abruptly, and stood, towering over him, unspoken menace hanging in the air between them, almost palpable to the touch. Menace, and something more. Some connection that even he could sense. Some connection that seemed to bind them together, to pull him closer to her, even as she drew back, stepped away. Stepped towards the abandoned swords. Let him sense her intention, this time, almost before she moved. His foot lashed out and kicked the swords away. He was flat on the floor, rolling sideways and back, racing his rival, his lover, to the instruments of one of their deaths. She moved almost as quickly, as if she could anticipate his motions, his thoughts, as well. He realized this, processing the information almost instantly as she evaded his grasp, then he blanked his mind and acted on instinct. He tripped her, catching up her feet with his ankles, scissoring his calves around her waist as she fell. He strained, and held her tight, captive for a brief moment, her body tensed against his, her arms groping for a hold that would set her free. He couldn't restrain her long. Eventually one of them would break out of this position, and the dynamics would be wide open once again. But for this instant, it was enough. Enough to let him ask, and try to understand. "Why?" She hesitated, still twisting and arcing her limbs against his, fighting to apply leverage and force him to let her go. He could feel her pause, feel a slight relaxation in her tensed muscles, as she replied. "I told you to run. Why didn't you listen?" There was anger, and a hint of despair in her voice. Despair, at the thought of slaying him? He hoped so...hoped that she still had some control, that the woman he'd known so briefly, so intensely, still had some impact on the familiar yet unfamiliar being she had become. Her emotions poured through him, stunning him with their intensity, their power. He fought to hold onto his sense of identity, his purpose, his very struggle to exist and survive. He felt his will weakening, under the onslaught. "You have a part of me, inside. I need it back." She gritted out the words, striking his chest, his face with her fists. She was crying, as she struck at him. Crying for her lost self, crying for him. He could sense the turmoil in her mind, as she fought him, and once again fought herself. He flinched, grabbing for her hands, feeling her working her legs free and barely anticipating and blocking her next move, one which would have crippled him if she had succeeded. He shifted his grip with his legs, forcing the air from her lungs, trying to stun her, to hold her back without hurting her again. It was too much to ask himself, to kill her again. Too much to ask himself to watch her die, again. Especially now, with this odd connection he felt to her, a connection that seemed to be growing stronger all the time, as they struggled, sweating bodies touching, limbs tangled in a deadly pavane, souls entwining. He had trouble spearating her actions, his thoughts, her emotions, his reactions. He was losing himself, losing track of the boundaries of his identity. She moved again, a deadly lunge towards his face, and he countered, fighting himself, this time, as well as her. She was able to sense his every move, as he was hers, and they strained, uselessly, against one another, for endless moments. He felt himself weakening, under her grasp. She was actually using her mind to push agasint his, to sap his will and erode his resistance. He could feel her, pummeling at his beliefs, his most basic self. He felt his hands, his arms, his legs start to relax. Why fight himself? With a last thrill of fear, he recognized what was happening. He felt her inside his mind. Felt the other Immortal, felt the evil gloating presence as it anticipated his death and subordination to its will. It sickened him, feeling its touch, feeling its mind pawing through his life, staining and corrupting everything it touched. Carrying Shonte captive, within. He had no time left. He could not control his own body with conscious commands. He retreated into the mindless state of pure focused action. Thinking of nothing, moving without thought, in a pattern he'd drilled through thousands of times before. All his strength focused, gathered in one spot, one motion. He twisted her neck, heard the bones snap, and felt her body collapse against his, her mind pull back, fade from its close entangling with his. He held her, tears streaming freely down his face. This was the last time they would embrace, in this world. =========================================================================