Date: Tue, 6 Jun 1995 14:29:34 -0500 Reply-To: Earl McDonald Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Earl McDonald Subject: Argent Argent(c)1995 by E. McDonald "Buy you a beer, MacLeod?" "White wine, please." MacLeod looked around uneasily. "He's late." Joe Dawson smiled paternally. "Richie's young and Immortal. what could possible happen to him?" MacLeod shot a glance at Dawson. "He could loose his head." Several blocks from Joe's Place, a rather exclusive cocktail party was in full swing. In attendance were employees of Hewlett Packard, the computer company, a major employer in the area, as well as major businessmen and industrialists from around the globe. They were all there to, in some capacity, facilitate the deal for the development of a new industrial facility to be built in the area. Also among them, was an Immortal by the name of Argent. "So, the Slavs never really had a chance when negotiating with Japan. No matter what their stance was on the treaty, the Japanese were going to oppose them. It all goes back to Yeltsin's stance on the extended GATT treaty." Argent looked around like a high school history teacher, which he had been at one time. "Anybody remember that, well most of you were kids when that happened. The Nippo-Slavic..." A pause and a wave of the hand, "altercation was almost a, dare I say, racial thing. Even though that sort of thing is supposedly out of vogue these days." He derisively aimed that last phrase at Jackson Carlisle, the South African industrialist. "Hrmh, eh, well, Mr. Nicholson, while you, personally, seem to have the, eh,... charisma, to expound your ideas, under close scrutiny, they don't uphold themselves. You see--" "Oh, look! My glass seems to have become... empty. Excuse me." Argent's departure signaled the dispersal of the small group that had drifted together, as they always did, to hear the impolite battering between Nicholson and Carlisle. He wasn't in the mood to debate with Carlisle tonight. He was edgy for some reason. Drifting among the ambient conversations, he tried to ease his wary mind, constantly, for some reason, on the watch for other Immortals. He had created the persona of Michael Nicholson, a senior engineer at a small but well respected consulting firm in Canton, Ohio. As one of it's founders, Argent had been with the company for twenty-five years and had taken to dying gray streaks into his long braids in order to hide his Immortal secret. Now that he'd finished his lesson on Nippo-European politics, he turned his attention to the refreshment bar, Walking among them, Argent finally noticed what he had been looking for, an Immortal. He looked around and finally up, where he saw the Immortal on a higher tier. He was Japanese. His physical age seemed to be about thirty. Argent could discern nothing else. The Japanese lifted his glass to Argent in a silent toast. Argent returned it, then began to make his way to the balcony. Richie glanced down at his watch. He was running late, as usual. MacLeod was going to have his head! Not literally, but he would be furious. Richie darted right unto the entrance lane to the expressway, cutting off a large sedan and causing it the slam on it's brakes. "Sorry," he said to no one in particular. He opened the throttle all the way coming onto the expressway, nearly reaching eighty as he merged into traffic. The speedometer leveled off at ninety-five and Richie began to maneuver through traffic, making darting sprints around cars then merging back into the flow. Richie was almost to his exit, when he came up behind a slick black Porsche. He sensed an immortal in the car, so he slowed down and waited for the car in the other lane to pass. He merged right and passed the car, but slowly, glancing several time at the driver. Richie gaped momentarily. She was beautiful! A black woman with long braided tresses hanging loosely around her shoulders. She glanced over at him with the hint of a smile. They made eye contact; she seemed to be searching for something in his eyes. Trying to see into his helmet. Quite suddenly, her soft friendly face hardened. She focused all her attention on the road in front of her now, ignoring Richie entirely. He kept pace with her for three more exits, weaving through traffic. "Oh, come on! I'm a nice guy. We can talk about old times... or make 'em." He eased up along side her again. Unfortunately, for Richie, at that point she had decided that enough was enough. They made eye contact again. This time Richie saw a cold detachment in her dark eyes. He stared deeper, feeling almost invited into the deep deep pools of nothingness. He became disoriented, the characteristic 'buzz' he felt around other immortals reaching nearly deafening proportions. Suddenly, a spark brought him back to reality. He was sliding along on the median. He frantically tried to gain control of the bike, nearly doing so, until he hit one of the barriers and was catapulted away from the bike as it came to a sudden stop. Richie was thrown seventeen yards in the air until he hit the ground and slid another ten feet. Police and medical personnel showed up almost immediately, closing off the scene. Marat habitually glanced at the rear-view mirror. She seemed to have lost the three cars following her and she had gotten rid of him easy enough. She forced her mind to compose, willing herself to remember the route she had mapped for herself earlier that evening. It didn't help that she was fighting off a case of the shakes. She said a quiet one-word prayer that she would be safe soon: "Argent." Outside, on the balcony of the fifty-two story building, Argent looked out on the city. The Japanese Immortal was gone, but he hadn't expected to actually talk to him anyway. Many Immortals like to play games befor they do battle. Argent just assumed that it kept them from getting bored. Presently, he was engaged in light conversation with an attractive woman on the balcony, slowly appraising her figure. Then, quite clearly, though inaudibly, he 'heard' a name: "Argent." His name. He stood silently listening for several moments when he noticed that the woman was staring indignantly at him. He apologized for ignoring her and excused himself. He could only think of one person that could reach out to him across the miles like that: Marat. Teacher, protector, lover, friend, and wife; at one point or another, Marat had been all of those to him. He checked his pager, but there was no message from her. Argent went back into the gathering for a while, exchanging pleasantries but no longer truly engaged in it's goings on. He said a few brief good-bye's and excused himself. On the way to his hotel, Argent was delayed by a police blockade. Apparently, there had been some kind of accident on the freeway. While stuck in traffic, Argent contemplated the time that they had lived together in Paris, but that was seventy years ago. He wondered where she was now. Richie awoke, terrified, in a body bag on a stretcher. He remained still and listened fearfully for anyone around him. When the coast was clear, he tore his way out of the bag and crept away from the scene. He walked six blocks, then tried to catch a cab, to no avail. Finally, he caught the bus and went to Joe's Place. Richie walked into Joe's three hours late, his clothes in tatters. He walked over to the table, drawing stares because of the condition of his clothing. On person actually complimented him. "Hey, dude, that's rad gear!" Richie glanced at the guy without turning his head. "Thanks," he answered with a smile and a nod. He walked over to the table where MacLeod and Dawson were sitting quietly, observing him and trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. Grabbing a chair, he sat down and stared from one to the other. MacLeod was the first to speak. He made up a stern face. "Look Richie, you know how I hate tardiness. Someone better had died." He and Dawson roared with laughter. Richie smiled tightly and nodded, waiting patiently for them to finish. "Yeah, that's nice guys. I'm glad you're enjoying this." They laughed a little longer and a waitress brought Richie a beer. You look like you need one," MacLeod said. "I saw an immortal," Richie explained. MacLeod's face grew serious. He looked up at Richie expectantly. "You didn't fight?" "No, I saw her on the freeway." "Her?" Dawson was interested suddenly. "Yeah! She-" "Ahem." This was MacLeod. Richie fell silent and looked deeply into his beer. Dawson nodded. "I understand, it's okay. Well, I'll tell you about her. She was a black woman, drop dead gorgeous, and a great smile." Richie smiled in acknowledgement. "Yeah, I know," Dawson said. "Her name is Marat. She's been around for..." he shrugged. "A while." MacLeod methodically twirled his glass of white wine. "How long is... a while." Dawson scratched his beard. "At least fifteen hundred years, and that's just from conjecture. The only reason we even know about her is because we were tracking one of her proteges. She's smart, and she's been aware of us, at least that we exist, for a long time." "Marat. I've never heard of her." But as he spoke, his memories betrayed him, or rather the residual memories of other Immortals. Marat was real. "That's not surprising. See, that's another reason why I'm inclined to believe that she's pretty ancient. Not to many Immortals even know about her. And the ones who do think she's either dead or-" "A legend," MacLeod finished his sentence. "Like Mythos," Richie concluded. "Do you think she's that old?" Joe Dawson shrugged. "Who knows?" The three men sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, MacLeod spoke. "Why is she here?" Dawson shrugged again. "Don't know? That's what we're wondering. She's been doing a lot of continent hopping lately. Her vanity is building powerful immortals, though." "Her students?" "Yes. She may be looking for one of them." He shrugged again. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. They talked quietly and passed a few more jokes about Richie's clothes and him getting a new bike. The crowd thinned and Joe announced that he had to close up. Richie and MacLeod left in conspicuous silence. Since Richie's bike was now demolished, they piled into Duncan's Chevy. Richie was about to bring resume his discussion of tonight's action; however, he was interrupted by the tell-tale clanking and sparks of sharp cutlery nearby. He and Duncan leapt from the car, running until they came to the scene of the fight. To their surprise it wasn't the woman, but two men. MacLeod noted the each was a relately good swordsman, one a small powerfully built European, the other a black man dressed for a party. Then suddenly, the tides turned and Duncan noticed that the black man was particularly skilled. He fought with a peculiar style that Duncan finally identified as that of the Turkish mercenaries that roamed Europe after the fall of Constantinople. With a lightning quick barrage of tight stabs he got the other man off balance, then beheaded him without rhetoric. MacLeod and Richie observed from across the street as he emerged from the alley. They stood side by side under the pooling light of a street lamp. MacLeod looked away, but Richie was transfixed by the dazzling lightshow, the after effects of the battle. When it was over, the decapitated carcass lay partially in the gutter. Argent rose to his feet and stepped over the body. He slipped his shortsword into his waistcoat and walked away shakily. The stranger noticed them and halted directly across the street from them. By the rules they should leave him alone; however, these were dangerous times. He slowly moved his hand and laid it on top of where his sword lie. They didn't move. Duncan started to speak, but the stranger walked away. He looked at Richie, who stared blankly. "I guess he's not very talkative." Back at the loft, they resumed the conversation that MacLeod had suppressed earlier. "What do you think?" "About what?" "Marat." "She's an immortal. She's beautiful. She caught your attention and you crashed. That's all I think." "Come on, Mac! Give me a little more credit than that. I didn't say this because Joe was there, but..." Richie stopped and inspected MacLeod's rack of swords. "I didn't just take a spill. She...she...did something. She... I was disoriented... uh, I..." MacLeod nodded. "I understand. I've been there." "Mythos?" He nodded again. The two sat in silence for awhile. "Well, the accident scene's probably clear by now. I need to go back and find my sword, or what's left of it." "That's another thing. You brought attention to yourself, again. Look, Richie-" "Mac, it wasn't my fault. I told you-" "That's not the poi- Wait a minute!" MacLeod looked up suddenly."You left your sword at the scene?" "Relax. It was a throwaway. A friend of mine forged it for me." Richie left. "A friend of your's...? Who's been forging swor-?! Uh, Richie! What friend?" He was gone. Several days passed. MacLeod turned Marat's appearance and the stranger's over in his mind constantly. It was making him edgy to have other immortal lurking about his stomping ground. On the other hand, he had always had a certain... fascination with the Old One's, the immortal's who were believed to be legends. He wanted to know what they knew. Be where they had been. Inadvertently, he began searching for Marat, assuming that she was still in the city. Taking long walks in the evening. Going to museums and public places. On the third day, he realized the futility of it. An immortal that didn't want to be found, simply wouldn't be found. He laughed at himself, remembering Mythos and how he had hidden among the Watchers themselves. He decided to give up the search and do something productive. Like? MacLeod went to a bookstore. He was bored. After browsing the entire science fiction section, MacLeod moved to the murder mysteries. It was ten thirty and he was bored. The dojo was empty and he and Richie, whenever he blew into town, had his own life(though, not as Richie Ryan anymore). Now, Duncan had taken to reading as his nightly entertainment, again. He paused momentarily to read the back cover of one of those murderous alphabet books by Sue Whatsername. He had heard that they were quite good; though, somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered what would happen when she got to 'Y' and 'Z'. Suddenly, he had the feeling that a thousand eyes were upon him. There was another immortal near. An old Immortal. To his left. He turned... and was confronted with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, which was an accomplishment considering his range of experiences. He was instantly attracted to her. For a split second he was absolutely speechless, then: "I'm Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod." She looked puzzled at first. "MacLeod? No." "That's Conner MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod. My kinsman." She considered this, then smiled slightly. "Kinsmen? Yes." MacLeod decided that he liked her smile. There was an awkward silence as she looked MacLeod over momentarily. Then she extended her hand. "Marat," she said finally. She shook his hand with a firm grip. "Marat." MacLeod repeated her name. There was another brief awkward silence. "How's your friend?" "He'll live." Another dead space, then they both laughed. "So, why have you been looking for me?" "Who says I've been looking for you?" She gave him a blank look. "Okay, okay, I've been looking for you." "Why?" "Because you're older than I am. Because you've experienced more. You may have something to- that is, you may know something I can learn." Now, she openly studied MacLeod from head to toe. She decided that she was attracted to him and that she liked him. "You like murder mysteries?" MacLeod was momentarily at a loss. Then, he remembered the book. "Well, I read just about everything; but, I've taken to science fiction and mysteries of late." "Hmmh." She glanced over at the science fiction section. Nothing good?" "Oh! There're some very good, solid writers out now; but...." She smiled. " You read 'em all, hunh?" MacLeod smiled. "Yeah," he said hunching his shoulders. "Is she good?" He held up the book in his hand. "Uh, I don't know. I was thinking about reading one of them myself. When you read it, tell me about it." There was another pause. When would he ever see her again? "Would you like to have coffee or dinner? I'd really like to get know you." "Sure, coffee." "There's a little cafe here in the mall." Later They got coffee, paid separately, and sat down at a table near the window to the promenade. Marat started. "So, what do you do?" Between sips, MacLeod answered her. "I run a dojo. Well, actually, I just own it. A friend of mine runs it, well did run it until- Uh,... well, that is to say..." He was beginning to feel slightly inadequate. Marat laughed. It was the laugh of a twenty-one year-old. MacLeod felt a pang of envy. He wished he could be that young again. Without the weight of the scores of people he's killed. "There's no need to feel inadequate. I was just asking a question." "I'm not feeling inadequate. I just... uh, well... okay, maybe a little. But, just a little." He looked sternly. Marat's mirth was contagious. MacLeod began to giggle himself. "I'm an architect, of all things. Justification for all my traveling." MacLeod became serious. "Is that why you're here? Business?" Marat's smile faded. She avoided MacLeod's gaze. "No, it's not." MacLeod waited. "I have a friend. I'm looking for him. One of the trails leads here." "He's immortal?" "Do you have to ask?" MacLeod shrugged. "Your teacher?" Marat laughed unkindly. "God! No. Someone finally had the good sense to kill him. He was vermin on the Earth. He only taught me the rules instead of killing me because it was politically convenient for him." "Your student, then." Marat followed the curves of his face. He had a nice face. "You are persistent, Mr. MacLeod." "Comes with age." They both laughed. "He's one of my students," she confirmed. "My best student." MacLeod simply nodded. Marat fell silent. They both felt the immortal's approach. He was Japanese. He had a lithe and agile body and his casual movements seemed to fit a particular fighting philosophy that MacLeod recognized. Also, he had a scar on the side of his neck that he had tried, unsuccessfully, to camouflage. He stood in the center of the promenade, with people streaming around him, staring at Marat and then at MacLeod. MacLeod started to rise, but Marat stopped him. "It isn't your fight." MacLeod remained still and Marat totally ignored the newcomer. A waitress came. They ordered more coffee, and crepes. Then they ate in silence. MacLeod began. "There is a group of mortals-" "The Watchers." "Yes." Duncan wasn't surprised. Word of the watchers had gotten around since his initial discovery of them. "And the Hunters." "Yes. You seem to be very well informed." "And you believe you can trust your friend Dawson?" He blinked. "Yes, I know I can." Marat studied his face and his eyes then looked away. "Fine. But there are a few more questions you should probably ask your friend about that organization. It's your choice, you're a grown man, and you can play with fire if you choose." MacLeod shifted in his seat slightly and cleared his throat. He changed the subject. "How old are you?" Marat smiled. "Old enough to be juuust plaaain tiiired," she drawled. She sighed heavily and stretched in a particularly feline fashion. MacLeod involuntarily leered. He smiled slightly, when caught himself. She was gorgeous. When she finished her stretch, she noticed him staring and smiled. Suddenly, her plate became very intersting to her. She avoided his gaze, continuing to smile. "I was born in the twelfth century," she bit her lip, then smiled. "How old did you think I was?" Duncan shrugged. "Without a clue." He lifted his cup of coffee. "Cheers." They toasted to 'continued existence'. Later, they walked on the riverfront arm in arm talking about the Dark Ages, the Renaissance, and the current Generation X. MacLeod enjoyed soaking up the homegrown wisdom she had cultivated over time. Suddenly, the air changed. An immortal was about. MacLeod looked around. His eyes came to rest on a spot twenty feet in front of them. "Marat." It was the Asian that had appeared earlier. "This is a peaceful evening. Leave us be!" The stranger stepped closer. "Duncan MacLeod. You'll have to wait for another day. Marat." Marat stepped away from MacLeod. "Marat! You don't have to fight him if you don't want to. Walk away. Remember what you were telling me." She stopped, regarding MacLeod briefly, then edged farther away from him. The stranger followed. MacLeod was about to follow them, then his nerves jangled again. Yet another immortal! Then, it seemed as if he were surrounded by immortals. He saw them, hanging in the distance. Occassionally, the light would catch one's sword or another would take a step closer. By the degree of his edginess, he could tell that several of them were quite old. What was going on here?! These people were after Marat and it was just his luck that he happened to be there. "What are you doing here? It's against the rules! She's unarmed!" MacLeod had been scan her for a smord all evening and hadn't seen any. Perhaps she was like Mythos and Darius, tired of fighting. A voice rang out of the shadows. "Shut up. Ishihara, she's your prey!" MacLeod attacked the closest with a powerful stroke. He parried and took a defensive stance, delaying MacLeod until Ishihara had done what they came for. MacLeod looked back and forth from Ishihara and Marat to the Englishman facing him now. Marat evaded Ishihara in a continually increasing arc. Finally, she stopped and took a stand. "Dammit! Why are you after me?! Why me?!" "There can be only one, Marat" Ishihara answered her. He drew his sword from his long trench coat, raising it above his head. "You know the rules better than any of us. There can be only one." Marat stumbled and fell backward. She looked up at Ishihara fearfully as he approached with raised sword. He drew a breath to take the final stroke. In that instant of hesitation, Marat extended the forearm-length retractable blade under her sleeve and, pushing off her left leg, took a powerful swipe. The razor-sharp blade sliced diagonally and upward through his torso, exiting at his shoulder. Ishihara stopped dead with a blank (and surprised!) look on his face. His sword fell to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees, upper torso (including his head) toppling to the ground. Marat rose to her full height, then kicked over the remains of Ishihara's jagged carcass and spit on it venomously. She retracted the blade and looked up at the moon with tense outstretched arms. Simultaneously, lightning snaked from the heavens and from the mangled carcass, converging on Marat. Every muscle in her body tensed. She writhed in ectasy/pain, lifted into the air nearly a foot while the hellstorm continued. MacLeod averted his eyes downward. He believed that the digestion of another's Quickening was personal in nature. He fixed his cold stare on the Englishman, who quitely retired from the scene. Finally, it was over. Marat fell to the ground. MacLeod kept his distance and gave her time to gather her wits, but he could feel the other Immortals closing in on them. Suddenly, the powerful roar of a sportscar rumbled out of the darkness, a sleek black Porsche 911 with a street-illegal racing engine. The sound was bouncing off the water and no one knew from which direction it came. Then, it emerged into the light, running down the Englishman MacLeod had engaged. It skidded to a halt near Marat and the passenger door opened. She lept into the car and it took off. The driver gunned the motor, and sped off in a cloud of dust while Ishihara's fingers twitched involuntarily, in search of a sword. Then, as an afterthought, the car careened toward MacLeod, skidding to a stop about three feet from him. The door opened again. "Get in!" Marat screamed. MacLeod sprawled unto her lap. The door closed and the car careened off again nearly missing several Immortals. When they were clear of the scene, with following vehicles fading in the distance, Marat made introductions. "This is Duncan MacLeod. MacLeod, this is Argent." It was the Immortal that he and Richie had seen earlier, the silent black man. He was dressed differently now. He looked much younger. The gray streaks were gone from his hair. MacLeod nodded in acknowlgement. Argent shifted into sixth gear, then introduced himself. "Argent." They made it onto the expressway. "Where can I drop you, MacLeod?" "Well, I'd like someone to tell me what the hell's going on!" He and Marat compromised for knee space in the two-seater. "A friend of mine runs a little establishment. Most immortals avoid it like the plague. Let's go there and talk." Argent laughed cruelly. "We're going to a Watcher's den in order to fortify ourselves against other immortals." His expression more resembled a sneer than a smile. "Funny old world." "They're called the Gauntlet. The youngest of them is twice as old as you. They fancy themselves the immortal elite. They think that they will decide who wins the Prize." MacLeod shook his head. "There've been gangs like that before." "Yes, but not like this one. They kill off immortals they consider weak. And opposition to their ideas constitutes a major weakness in their eyes." Dawson nursed a beer at the bar, sitting silently with another Watcher. "Doesn't it bother you a little that they came here?" The other Watcher asked him. Dawson shrugged. "Not really. At least we can... watch `em." Finally, Duncan introduced himself properly. "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he said. A puzzled look crept over Argent's face. "Duncan...?" "They're kinsmen," Marat explained. Argent mused silently. "Interesting." Which Argent was. He had been born into slavery in France in 1834, though Marat had managed to arrange an escape. They talked more of the Gauntlet and its ultimate aims. "Well, they've got to be stopped! It's against everything we are taught to go around ganging up on other Immortals." He held up one finger. "Single combat." Duncan fiercely believed in this rule. Marat put her beer down. "MacLeod, there is no watchdog to police them. The best we can do is to kill them one by one. Administer our own justice for their indescretions. There is no ultimate justice until someone wins the Prize, and then it is according their whim." She looked ffrom MacLeod to Argent. "Excuse me for a moment." She got up and went to the rest room. The two men sat in silence at first, then MacLeod spoke. "We have to take some responsibility for the way the world is. No one else has as clear a picture of the whole thing. Otherwise, what's the use of us having our gift?" Argent didn't respond at first. "We have our gift to fight or the Prize. We live and gain wisdom and compete for the Prize." He fell silent. "What has she told you of herself?" MacLeod was puzzled at first. "A little." "She was born in the twelfth century,b.c.,during the rule of the Prince, that's what she calls him." MacLeod mused silent, immitating a silent whistle. "Three thousand years, I knew she was--." He shook his head. "The Prince?" "The Western name for him is Tut-Ankh-Amen. During that time, and in her language, he was..." he spoke an entirely unfamiliar dialect. "That was during my childhood." Marat had returned. "I was a young adult when Rameses II came to power." She looked up and noticed that MacLeod was still comprehending her age. "Three thousand years," she repeated. "I'm speaking from experience, MacLeod. I'm going to tell some of my history to convince to be very watchful in the coming years. And to leave these people be. "But, when I've given all I have to give, you will be exactly where you were before: an Immortal being who must find his own reasons to exist." Argent smiling to himself. MacLeod smiled as he recognized the quote. "You've read the Vampire Chronicles, I see." "Haven't all Immortals?" She changed the subject. "The best we can do is let this group run their course like the ones that have sprung up before it. "Whether you know it or not, Immortals rule the world, though indirectly. The same rules and concepts of justice simply don't apply to us, normally." She talked a little more about the Egyptian rulers she had been subject and advisor to. How she had shaped the direction of history and then gotten sucked into its ramifications. "It's possible to shape their end. To kill their leader would leave them like a snake with its head cut off. The body would writhe and writhe and finally die. But don't come into direct opposition of them. Your 'continued existence' would then become 'problematic' for them. Ask Argent about that." She shot him a stern glance that softened when he acknowleged it. Marat reached over and stroked his beard. "Have you ever fallen in love with one of your students, MacLeod?" She glanced at him. MacLeod shook his head 'no'. "Well don't." MacLeod took that as his que and walked over to Joe, who was still sitting at the bar. The other Watcher was now standing by the juke box, trying to seem casual. "Thanks for not bothering us. Have you seen Richie?" "He left town. He said that you'd understand." MacLeod nodded. "Three-thousand years, huh? I wonder how she got past our people for so long?" MacLeod didn't respond. Marat appeared at his side suddenly. "Duncan, I'm going to retire for the evening. I'll let you two discuss things further." She walked out. The other Watcher attempted to follow her but was accosted by another man, a mortal MacLeod hadn't even noticed. By the time the Watcher freed himself, Marat had vanished. MacLeod smiled and rejoined Argent. "What do we have to talk about?" Argent looked up and shrugged. "Not much." He took a sip of his beer. "I think for myself; but, I have an ear for wisdom when I hear it. Marat's right: Don't engage the Gauntlet. There's no profit in it." Duncan digested this. "Is Richie in danger?" "No, he's less than thirty years old. He's no threat to them." "Are they here for Marat?" "No, they've already failed to kill her. They're after me now. One in particular. A Chinese by the name of Li Ch'uan. We clashed about a hundred years ago. I killed his adopted son, a mortal." MacLeod glanced at him sharply. Argent nodded. "They gave me no choice. I had just escaped from slavery in America. They were trying to... I had no choice." MacLeod nodded and took a sip of his white wine. "What are you going to do?" "Fight, and possible die. It won't be a fair fight." They talked very little after that, mainly listening to the music reflecting on the past. Every now and then, Argent mention some experience from his life and how it affected him. MacLeod found that they had a lot in common. Argent was very contemplative in nature. MacLeod could identify with that. At two a.m., Joe announced that it was closing time. They finished their drinks and headed for the door. Argent nodded at Dawson in ackowlegement for his hospitality. Dawson stopped and returned the nod, then resumed his task. MacLeod and Argent halted suddenly, another Immortal was near. They stepped outside into the street. Marat stepped from around the corner. "You're making it easy for them to find you." "What do you suggest, that I hide?" "No. You, of all people, wouldn't do that." There was a bitter silence. "Come on, Li Ch'uan can wait. I have a few things I'd like to set straight with you myself." The two Immortal got into the cab Marat had waiting and left. MacLeod smiled and went home. Duncan awoke shortly before five a.m. He felt an intense concentration of Immortal energies. He quickly slipped out of bed and got dressed. They were nowhere near him, which unnerved him because the feeling was so strong. He went downstairs and stopped in the middle of the street. They were within walking distance. He followed the 'buzz'. Five blocks away, at a local park, he found then gathering. They circled Argent like vultures, most of them staying in the shadows. MacLeod couldn't tell how many were there. Every once in awhile, one would stab in with his sword. Argent would parry the stroke and strike at the other one, effectively keeping them both at bay. Finally, Steed, the Englishman MacLeod had fought earlier, came in to attack. Argent stepped out of the circle they had formed around him and engaged Steed directly. He discovered that he was the superior swordsman and quickly had Steed on the defensive. Then Li Ch'uan volleyed from behind him. Argent dashed to the left and assumed a defensive crouch. The Immortals converged on him from either side, but then Argent simply... was not there. Argent laid out and made his body rigid in order to ride the somersault. As he neared earth again he kicked out, crashing down on Steed with his right foot. Using Steed to balance himself, he then engaged Li Ch'uan. The two traded strokes until Argent heard Steed advancing boldly behind him. Argent turned to engage him. Argent made three wide strokes across Steed's mid-section, the last nearly slicing his left arm off. Almost as an afterthought, he turned and caught Li Ch'uan's advancing blade in his left hand, slicing it open and fracturing several bones. With nearly perfect precision, Argent followed the momentum of Li Ch'uan's attack, letting it carry him into Steed. He grimaced as he cut through the flesh and bone of Steed's neck. A small crunch emmitting as Steed's head was severed from his neck. Argent pivotted on his left foot and threw his weight into his next stroke, making a tight arc with his blade. Li Ch'uan stared dumbfoundedly as the the Argent's sword brought an end to his long lifetime. Argent's mangled hand still gripped Li Ch'uan's blade. Argent stood and stared at Li Ch'uan as his decapitated corpse fell to the ground. Distantly, he heard Steed's head fall to the ground. He dropped his sword and stetched his hands to the heavens. There was a moment of absolute silence. Only the wind slowly stirred. Then, a thousand tendrils of lightning shot from each corpse to Argent in alternating waves of intensity. His body was racked back and forth, then finally lifted from the ground some five feet. As abruptly as it began, it ended. Argent stood and observed the scene, also inspecting his healed hand and the small tendrils of lightning still surrounding it. Two Immortals! Even he had to adjust to that one. He looked up and caught the glint of the streetlights off his car. He took two steps toward the light, then collapsed flat on his face. Dawn was approaching. The other Immortals seemed to have made some silent decision that Argent had passed the test. They departed like wraiths. MacLeod began to jog to Argent, but Marat beat him there. Marat was crying. "How the hell did you manage that?" Argent strugled to clear his vision. "Just lucky, I guess." "God, I hope you live to be three-thousand years old!" "Why, to see what you've seen?" "No, 'cause then I'll be six-thousand," she said mischieviously, then kissed him. MacLeod looked all around him, noticing the ebbing of energy. Only one member of the Gauntlet remained: An old man, literally. He looked to be about sixty, but in excellent condition. He stared at MacLeod, then turned and walked away casually. MacLeod followed him with his eyes, memorizing his face. The sun was almost up. Fin =========================================================================