Date: Sat, 10 Sep 1994 11:29:20 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (p 7-12) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland comments as always are welcome to NancySSCH@aol.com ............ She stood, the dark warrior, an Amazon, dressed like the night. Black Adidas, denim jeans, sweatshirt...she was a shadow, in the shadows. Jonathan felt as if he glowed, spotlighted, in his medical whites. But inside....inside his heart was dark as the ebony eyes looking into his own. Darker. He'd met so few Immortals. MacLeod. Richie. Now her. *She* had been the one. While he lay, buried. He had sensed her. Had she sensed him? Did she recognize him, now? Had she followed him here, to kill him? Figured he was an easy target? Weak? Disoriented? He gathered himself, pulled his scattered thoughts back from their random trajectories. Pulled his mind back to the present, to the issue at hand. He didn't know the protocol for these situations. Didn't know what to say. Wasn't sure *who* he was, as an Immortal, as a man..... He had played so many roles , had carried so many names. Lived so many lives.....what was a name, after all...what was his clan? His tribe? His people? What *defined* him? He was no longer sure. No longer anchored in the world he once thought he had been born into. Not anchored anywhere else, either. "Cat got your tongue?" The woman's voice carried a hint of laughter, her warm, rich tones like spoken music, the words floating lightly on the dark spring air. She moved closer, peering at him through the dusk, her sword ready. "You sure are a mess, aren't you?" He watched her, watched her feet, her eyes, tried to anticipate which way she would move, how she would attack. "I'm...." He paused. His voice sounded so thin, so weak, even to his own ears. He coughed. A dry, rasping sound. Took a breath. Tried again. "I'm not here to fight you." "Are you afraid?" The mocking humor was clear. She was enjoying this. At his expense. He felt a flicker of pride. Of anger. Smoldering in the charred ashes of his heart. "Of killing you. For a game I have no interest in." She laughed. A low chuckle. "You don't want to kill *me* ?" She chuckled again, louder this time. "If I was you, I'd worry about protecting my own sorry looking ass." Jonathan crouched, the razor sharp scalpel glittering in his hand. Saw her breathe, pause....He moved, anticipating her attack, mirroring her swinging blade with his own. He slashed at her chest, as she slid past him, her blade caressing his side, carving a long straight slice across his muscle and bone...his catching her, lightly, as she turned. Leaving a streak of red, on its tip. He swiveled, the paper booties tearing, shredding on his feet, against the rough tarmac...swiveled, following her motion, following the blades, flowing with the shimmering metal. Raised his leg and kicked out, catching her in the midriff, his foot against her bare skin, hearing the solid sound of flesh on flesh, *feeling* the memories, the flash of awareness, of centuries, of dozens of other lives. Struggling to maintain his focus, his concentration under the sharp, sudden onslaught. She rolled with his kick, and was up, on her feet, her sword flashing towards his face. Jonathan fell under her stroke, ducked it and rolled away. Slashed at her legs. Missed. Was on his feet again. Watching her come towards him. "So, you are not quite what you appear to be." She smiled. Her teeth gleamed white in her dark face. She feinted a half stroke of her sword at him. He blocked, realized it was just a feint. Stepped back, confused. She feinted again, and laughed aloud as he responded. Blocked. She stopped her attack. Watched him. The light caught the slash he'd made in her sweatshirt, showed it edged with a darker color. He stood, cautious, puzzled. Wary. Feeling the line of fire running across his side. Feeling it begin to heal, already. "You're too young for me, boy." She lowered her sword. " I prefer my prey a bit more *seasoned.*" He relaxed, a bit. Touched his side, felt the wet stain spreading across the fabric. "So, you were under that building?" There was curiosity, and something else, in her voice. "Yes." "And you were the one who destroyed it? You went in there to destroy them?" Her voice was sharp now, questing, like a sword thrust. "Why do you care?" "It is enough for you to know that I do care." Her voice was cold. Hard. She stepped towards him. He tensed again, his hands coming up in a defensive posture. She kept the sword at her side, held her other hand out towards him, empty. A peace offering. "And to know that I thank you for doing it, for me." Warmth. In her tone. Her face. He took her hand, braced, ready this time, he thought, for the surging memories , the visions, the emotions. Saw a flash of the past. Her past. Saw terror, saw pain, brutality. Felt her grief, her rage. Broke the contact. Stepped back, shaken. Looked at the smooth face, the calm demeanor before him. Wondered at the long road she'd traveled, from hate, to triumph, to serenity. Understood that she had shared this with him, for a purpose. Wondered why she cared. What her purpose was. Wondered how much more she'd seen, understood, from him. Felt the shell, the armor he'd put up around his soul, his conscience, start to crack. Held it together. Piled hate and rage and revenge into the breech, welded it with cold icy fury.....Closed his eyes, feeling the battle raging inside himself. Guilt. Duty. Obligation. Responsibility. Revenge... He clung to that, clung to the rage, to the hate. It was his shield, his buffer, his defense, against weakness, against pity, against compassion....against himself. Against the gaping dark pit of insanity, that beckoned him on, beckoned him in..... "You need to get off the street." Her tone was brisk, businesslike. He wanted to trust, wanted to believe the feelings he'd sensed were true, were real. He opened his eyes. Saw her standing at the van, her sword sheathed, the door open. She climbed up, in. Started the engine. Lowered the window. "Do you need a formal invitation? Or do you want them to pick you up again?" He pocketed his scalpel. Walked to the other side of the van. Opened the unlocked door. Took a mental breath. Slid in. Sat, tense, waiting for a trap to spring on him. Nothing happened. She switched on the headlights, tucked her sheathed sword under the seat, backed the van from its parking spot, and headed out the gate of the lot. Jonathan glimpsed motion, activity at the hospital door as they passed. A police squad car pulled up, its blue and white lights flashing. Two uniformed officers got out and hurried inside. "Um...you might want to get rid of the mask." Her voice was dry, the humor held gently in check. "And the hat, while you're at it. You're not in the operating room any more, *doctor*." He flushed. He ripped the dangling mask from his neck, pulled the green paper cap off and rolled them both into a tiny green ball, stuffed them into the trash bag hanging from the door handle. "There's a jacket on the seat behind you. You might want to put it on. Cover all that white....hide the blood." Her voice was cool. Impersonal. He reached around, feeling the pull at the scabbing slash on his side, feeling the twinge and sharp ache as he stretched the healing cut beyond its tolerance. Felt fresh blood, trickling down his side. Felt the jacket, smooth nylon, slipping through his fingers. Pulled it around his shoulders. Noted the ABC logo, the embroidered helicopter above it. "Why are you helping me?" He tried not to sound curt, tried to keep the raw edge of suspicion out of his voice. It was there, anyhow. Shonte kept driving. Concentrated on the other cars. Stopped for a traffic light. Looked at him. Thoughtfully. Spoke. "It's more a matter of repaying a debt. One I owed to someone else. *You* helped me. Inadvertently, perhaps. Now I owe you." She turned into a heavily wooded street. Houses set far back from the road, invisible behind tall brick walls, spiked iron fences. Pulled the van up at a black wrought iron gate, edged by solid walls. Dug out a remote control unit from her glove box, pushed in a nine digit code. Jonathan memorized the tones. Watched as the gate slid silently open. Shonte drove through, up a winding gravel path that glowed pale in the moonlight, splotched by shadows from the tall, overhanging trees. Jonathan glanced back, in the side view mirror, saw the gate sliding closed behind them. Saw a dark shadow, cutting across the pale gravel path, the shadow of a man. With a gun. He glanced at her, alarmed. Parted his lips, to speak. Met her amused eyes, watching him. She winked. "That was Boris. He likes to prowl at night. He's my groundskeeper." The drive curved up to a house. Sprawling Georgian brick, white casements and leaded glass windows gleaming under the soft flickering light of the gas lanterns hanging at the entry way. Two large slender dogs, hunting dogs of some kind, rose gracefully to their feet and stood, waiting, at the doorway, their tails up, ears pointed and alert. Shonte stopped the van, killed the engine, and got out, her sword held easily in the crook of her arm. The dogs crowded around her feet, whining softly, nosing her. As Jonathan climbed from the van, the dogs turned to him. One looked at Jonathan and growled, a low, threatening sound. He stood still, his hands held out before him, open. "Ah, Kali, Mojo...quiet girls. Friend." Shonte reached for Jonathan's hand, pulled it to the first dog's nose, knelt and whispered in the dog's...Mojo's....ears for a long moment. Jonathan felt his consciousness whirling along the ancient passageways within Shonte's mind, dizzy at the wealth, the richness of the images and the memories housed there. Like seeing double, his own awareness superimposed on all these others, their minds, their lives flashing quicksilver in and out of his thoughts. Felt the crackling energy emanating from her skin, from the strength in her soul. She released his wrist. The images disappeared. Only their faint memory remained, hints, elusive fragments.... glimpses of some isolated incidents of her life. He came back to himself. Relieved. But longing... ..somehow.... ..missing the contact.....the other voices, calling out to him. Stirring something in his soul. Some hunger. Some need to join, to be a part of a larger whole. He resisted the urge. Bottled it up. Packed it away in the buried recesses of his mind. He wondered if it was different for her. For a full fledged Immortal, one who had defeated, conquered others. If is was as disorienting, as overwhelming, to touch another living Immortal, as it was for him. Wondered if the pull was always there, for her.....the constant hunger, the instinctive, pushing drive he'd tasted, sipped lightly from, the urge to seek out others, to absorb them, to conquer and bring them inside oneself. To expand the boundaries of knowledge, of experience, the understanding of past and present....Wondered why she hadn't tried harder to kill him, before. Wondered if she would, again. The dog's nose was cold, moist, on his hand. Its soft warm tongue slid briefly across his flesh. He looked it in the eyes. Felt a tingling...a momentary touch....of what? His hand jerked back...His mind snapped shut, pulled away from that touch, that truly alien understanding. Rejected it, utterly. Mojo stood, watching him. Quiet now. Shonte knelt on her haunches, looking up at him speculatively. The second dog, Kali, yawned, stretched... "You've never been taught, have you?" There was a muted surprise in her tone. She ruffled the dog's neck, patted it absenlty as her eyes, her thoughts looked inward. Jonathan wasn't sure he wanted to know. He eyed the dog. It stared impassively back. Impossible. He shook his head, trying to shake out the memory of that alien touch. Shonte rose, effortlessly. Stepped back, gestured an invitation. Walked to the ornately carved door, laid her hand on a recessed metal panel, listened. The locks slid back. Shonte turned the heavy brass handle, opened the door. Held it wide. Stepped in. Mojo at her side. Waited for Jonathan to follow. He was getting paranoid. Was paranoid. Fought down the urge to run and followed her inside, instead. Kali padding in behind him. * * * * * Duncan picked up his bag from the rotating metal track, shouldered his way through the pushing, shoving crowd and strode towards the customs desks, ahead. He hoped his freshly minted passport would stand the scrutiny. With the Red Army Faction shelling planes as they landed on and off over the past months, security was extra tight. But maybe not for the incoming gaijin..... He had barely had time to wait for the necessary documents, a drivers license, social security card, birth certificate, and passport, all procured from a small print shop tucked away near Embassy Row, whose proprieter he'd know, under different names, different identities, for the past 50 years. Father and son. Refugees from the German concentration camps. The only survivors of a large, wealthy family-owned publishing house, one whose proud history had stretched back hundreds of years. Utterly destroyed, now. Land, property, priceless manuscripts, all gone. Destroyed. Stolen. Burned. Well aware of the need for individuals to travel anonymously, without the interference or approval of governments. Committed to helping that happen, especially for the *son* of an old friend. And the young friend of that *son.* Richie would have no trouble following him. He would be the best documented tourist in history. Duncan smiled. The youth needed to travel more, to see more of the world. To understand all the different peoples, all their beliefs, all the myriad customs and lives and cultures that made up this world. To see all the differences, and to see, finally, all the similarities that bound humanity together. The shared hopes and dreams, the striving to better oneself, one's family. The hope for the future that humans invested in their chidren. Their faith that things would be better. Their determination to make them so. Absorbing the memories of another Immortal was one thing, but it was not quite the same as living and experiencing life itself. Duncan needed to balance all the memories of past lives with his own experiences, to keep them in perspective.To maintain control. He wondered, sometimes, how Richie was managing. He was so young. So inexperienced. Had lived such a short time, as a mortal, and as an Immortal, before killing and beheading Mako. He wondered sometimes if the boy would be able to maintain his control, his equilibrium, if he took the head of someone who was truly evil, who tried to fight him inside for dominance, for control. Duncan wondered if Richie realized just how lucky he was that he had defeated Mako, of all the Immortals Duncan knew, for his first Quickening. Mako believed in the law. He would not attempt to destroy Richie. To undermine him. To erode his will, to manipulate his life, his thoughts, his identity. He certainly could have. =========================================================================