Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:25:56 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 01 of 20 * This story is the conclusion of events begun in CHANGES and CIRCLES, previously posted to HLFIC. It is a Highlander/Camelot crossover, with SeaQuest DSV and other tidbits thrown in. *WARNING* This story contains graphic violence, sex, torture, frontal nudity, and really bad language (people even curse, too!). Get your kids to translate for you if need be. And, by the way, it is dark, very dark, in space... PROLOGUE ---------- It was dark in the room. Stars shone in the large windows, majestic in their cold beauty. The muted glare of computer screens did nothing to affect their pure whiteness as they steadily beckoned. The lone man sat and watched the stars, wondering what was out there. It would fall to others to visit them; his calling, his duty, was here. And the time was now... *Beep* went the console as the man pressed a button. "Diary entry, April 15, 2026, Richard MacLeod. The Game has caught up with me. Even with so much left to accomplish, I'm ready for it. The human race is ready. Ready to take control of its own destiny. Mine lies... elsewhere. I am the only Immortal left standing between my offspring and world destruction. I cannot let him win, or everything I... everything we have worked for is doomed. I can no longer run, no longer let someone else deal with it. I am the last. "Jeremiah, my son, I give you these diaries, because... because I've said so much in them I could not say to you personally. Or to anyone else. I hope you'll come to know me through them, as I haven't shared much of myself with you in the past. Maybe you'll understand what I have done, and why, and know it was never about you. You've made me proud, even when I didn't have the time to tell you. Or show you. I have learned that it is foolish to try and change the past, better to focus that energy on building the future. If I lose, I will have no future, and all you'll be left with are these files. And a fight you must win. If I succeed, I don't know what will happen; what this 'Prize' I am fighting, and possibly dying, for is. I only know there's a slim chance I will return as I am. If I do return, you will never doubt my love again. For I do love you, as if you were my flesh and blood. Goodbye, my son. I hope you'll be happy. End entry." With a few short commands, the files were effortlessly downloaded to Freedom's data banks. The man left the room, the cold light of the stars still shining, as they always would. Some things truly were Immortal. CHOICES The Possibilities Trilogy by Kevin H. Robnett Chapter One ----------Homecoming "Begin diary entry, September 20, 2025, Richie MacLeod. I can't let him sit in his cabin any longer. Time is slipping away from me, and I need him. Whatever the cost. End entry." The canoe slid effortlessly through the water, speeding him toward a familiar hill, a single pine tree standing away from the others, watching over the lake. Birds called a morning greeting as they flew by, a few feet above the water, their cries echoing in the valley. From behind the rise, smoke gently wafted among the trees into the air, the only hint of human life in the Northwest Preserves. Beaching the craft, Richie Ryan MacLeod slowly climbed the hill, waiting beside the pine as the buzz hit him. He rested there until he saw the curtains in the window move, so slightly he could have imagined it. The redhead marched up the steps to the door of the cabin, banging on the wood surface with his fist. Silence. Again he pounded, louder this time. More silence. Even the birds had quieted. Pounding a third time, he followed it with, "MAC! I'm not leaving 'till I talk to you. You owe me at least that much." The door swung open before he had closed his mouth, the angry glare of the owner locked on him. "I owe you nothing!" came the reply, but the Highlander made no move to close the door. Or gesture for his visitor to enter. Taking the silence as an invitation, Richie barreled past, into the main room of the cabin. Very little had changed since he was last here, unlike its builder. Duncan MacLeod still looked thirty-five, his loose, black hair now halfway down his back, tangled and unkept. Days, or months of stubble adorned his chin. His clothing fared even worse, his shirt being mended too often, his jeans almost frayed off his legs. The clothes hung loosely on his unnaturally thin frame, the muscles from decades ago long unused. "What do you want?" Duncan growled, slamming the door. The dark haired Immortal began to angrily pace the main room, stopping in front of the fireplace, blazing in the chill air. Leaning against the warm mantle, he waited for an answer. "Not going to offer an old friend any refreshment after his long trip?" Richie sarcastically asked, diverting the question for now. "Or have your social skills deteriorated as well?" With a plop, he landed on the sofa, metaphorically digging in. With care, he placed his feet on the table, trying hard to match the pose he so easily used in ages past. Duncan glared for a minute, then stormed off to the kitchen, slamming drawers, banging utensils more than necessary. "Breakfast?" came the inquiry from the window over the bar. It seemed less harsh to Richie than it could have been. Habits and manners rusted from disuse slowly ground into action, as did the antiquated stove. The redhead suppressed a grin. "Since when have I ever turned down food? Especially yours?" he yelled back, hoping the memories would do something in his favor. Intent on his thoughts, he barely made out the comment from the kitchen, sounding close to '...did eat like a horse...' or such. He grinned wider, knowing if Duncan got back his humor, he might find purpose again. Within minutes the smell of bacon wafted by, Richie glad the conversation was detained until later. Time for good memories to do their work. - - - - - Richie wiped his mouth with the napkin, then placed it on the table. Reaching for the steaming cup of coffee, he sipped, trying to remember what he wanted to start with. They had eaten in silence, except stilted mumblings about the weather and cooking. Now both leaned back, one full, content, satisfied. The other was a mystery. He decided short and truthful to be the best way, so... "I need you, Mac. Bad. You've got to come back with me." For a second he thought Duncan would explode, throw him out, challenge him, something. But the haggard eyes calmed, and sadness shone through. "I can't.... Not.... It's still too soon." Duncan struggled for the words, not able to express what he felt, even to Richie. He helplessly threw his napkin on his plate of half-eaten food, standing awkwardly, looking anywhere but at his visitor. "I can't do it anymore," he finally said, moving to gaze out the window at the tranquil mountains, hoping the peace would calm his soul. Richie stood also, walking to the window. Gently, he asked, "Play the Game, you mean? Or live? You really haven't done either in twenty years." Silently, the clouds passed overhead, gracefully dancing past the oppressive mountains. Duncan tried to explain. "It gets harder, each time I have to start over. Each new person I want to be with, get to know, all I see is the time I won't have them. Why bother? Why can't I keep the friends I have already? Why do I have to do it again and again?" More words poured from his lips today than had been uttered in the last ten years. Conversation, language, had almost been forgotten in the long silence of the cabin. Confusion clouded Richie's teenage face. "I don't understand, Mac." "How could you?" Duncan replied, a hint of bitterness surfacing. "You're barely out of diapers as far as Immortals go. You haven't lived passed your normal lifespan. Everything a mortal experiences, we experience once, then twice. The third time around is a novelty, and by five, six, it gets old. But still we live on, and on, and on, watching our lovers and friends die, and making new ones, and watching them die, and finally, what's the point? They'll die anyway." If Richie didn't know better, he would think the man babbling at the window was hysterical. Instead, he saw four hundred years of frustrations and bitterness pouring forth, a weight long settled on his friend's shoulders. "The point is that we do go on, and become better people, and make the people around us better, making the human race better. Dragging and kicking if we have to." That line of reasoning was the only thing keeping Richie from wholeheartedly embracing the Game. A Game of death and destruction. "What kind of life would I have if you hadn't taken me in? A street thug. Where would Linda Plager have been without your support? Your love? How many countless others have you helped? You've never turned your back before, and I don't think you'll start now," Richie asserted. Duncan had yet to turn away from the scenery. "Someone would have found you. Linda would still have died. Famous? Maybe, maybe not. Does it matter, now? I have nothing left to give to anyone." The Highlander moved suddenly for the door, before Richie could react. He had a jacket in his hand and the door open as he continued, "Leave, stay, whatever you like. I won't be back for awhile." And he was gone, the door closed, leaving the redhead alone. Richie ran to the door, opening it and yelling his last argument at the retreating back of Duncan MacLeod. "So you're just giving up? You've tried that before. There are less than twenty of us left, Mac. If you stay here, the last one will come after you with all our Quickening. You won't stand a snowball's chance in Hell...." The last word echoed for several seconds, sending it through the valley in different directions. And then Duncan was gone, hiding in the wilderness he loved so well. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Duncan knelt in the clearing. From here on the mountain one could see forever, including the small dot of his cabin. One could watch a small figure launch a canoe into the lake, angrily paddling away to civilization. Next to him was an ordinary lump in the rugged terrain, indistinguishable except for the gleaming sword stuck halfway into it. A sword Duncan had cleaned and oiled each day for twenty years. By now he had said everything he could to the spirit resting here. Now he only remembered, a ritual he had also performed every day... < < < < < November, 2005 < < < < < The snow was falling from the night sky as Duncan waited in front of the brightly lit restaurant, pacing back and forth. He pulled his hand from the warm pockets of his trench coat, checking the pocket watch again. Amanda had never been this late, especially for their anniversary dinner. {What has it been? Eight years since we set up 'house'? It hasn't been as bad as I thought it would. Maybe Angie called. Little Maxwell is due any day now.} The promise of exotic surprises usually kept her very attentive and focused this time of year. He was looking up and down the sidewalk for her as the black car pulled up, the passenger window silently lowering before it had come to a halt. "Get in," came the gruff voice of Joe Dawson from the interior. The serious tone and urgency of those two words had Duncan in the passenger seat without a word, just a questioning look as the Watcher pulled the car into traffic. "I got a call. There's trouble at your warehouse, and Amanda's in the thick of it." Duncan didn't reply, just checked the katana under his coat as the car weaved in and out of traffic. Within minutes, they arrived, the abandoned building dark, the peaceful silence broken by the two men shutting the car doors. Once inside, he slowly walked to the unmoving shape on the floor. With super human control, he stood next to her headless body, katana at his side, all emotion denied. Looking at the body. The breasts. The hips. Just this morning, he had run his hands over them, over her, as they woke up with each other. Now the only thing touching them would be the worms. Determined, he marched to a black corner, where Dawson was questioning a woman, partially hidden by crates. Duncan stood silently, face empty, as she described the Immortal Amanda had faced. And lost to. Dawson finished his interrogation, looking expectantly at the silent warrior. "Pierre DuBoise, one of Slan Quince's students," Duncan stated, holding out his free hand. "Your keys." Without hesitation, Dawson placed them in the outstretched palm. With screeching tires, Duncan drove into the night, the snow still falling. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The car pulled up outside the old building, the faded "DeSalvo's Martial Arts" sign still illuminated. The windows in the partially refurbished dojo were dark. The loft was unsurprisingly lit. Duncan guessed at what was waiting for him, DuBoise being an unimaginative student. He took the stairs outside two at time, wondering why it had taken Pierre so long to even the score. {Even for us, thirty-three years is a long time for revenge.} Once inside, a quick flick of the dojo light switches illuminating the gory scene. Charlie's body lay disemboweled on the plastic protecting the wood floor, laid out like a banquet. The black man's face betrayed the agony of the experience, even as the bruises and cuts betrayed the hopeless struggle given by the forty-seven year old. MacLeod winced, knowing the mortal died without understanding the reasons. Died because of him. {I should have let you make that choice, Charlie. Then you could have said 'no'. Stayed where you were needed. You gave up your questions for my friendship. And it cost you your life. Not a fair trade. Damn it, Charlie, why the hell did you come back?} (I want you to tell me... before... I... die,... MacLeod....) Clamping down on all the emotions surging forth, he drew the katana from under his coat. Walking steadily to the freight elevator at the other end, he closed the gate and turned the key, rising to his apartment. He lacked reason to be silent, the betraying buzz alerting the other Immortal to his presence. Pierre had been kind enough to rearrange the furniture, leaving a wide, clear area in the middle. The middle-aged Frenchman calmly waited, sipping something from Duncan's own stock of wines. "Making yourself at home?" Duncan asked, after he had opened the gate. Struggling out of his trench coat, he slung it to the side, hearing it land on the kitchen floor. He readily moved into a defensive position, eager to begin. The other slowly finished his wine, setting the glass on the metal shelves. "Oh, I thought we could talk about old times. Like how you and your kinsman double teamed Slan? Do you care so little for the Rules, MacLeod?" He too drew his cutlass, swiping at the air. In his somewhat baggy pants and flowing white shirt, he looked the pirate captain he had been many centuries ago. =========================================================================