Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 03:34:17 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 03 of 20 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - For some reason, Duncan never woke from the dead slowly. It was always a gasp for air, and muscle spasms, arching his body. This time was no different. Harsh lights blinded him momentarily as he sat up on the cold examination table. {Great. A medical lab. At least they hadn't started on an autopsy yet.} He was alone, and still dressed. A quick look confirmed he had been shot three times, twice in the heart. A hurried search reveled his duffel bag in the corner, opened but apparently untouched. This time he did manage to roll to the floor and grab his sword as the door opened. The same gentleman who shot him stopped with a start, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. MacLeod, but we lacked any other way to confirm your identity." The look of astonishment told Duncan the man didn't know about Immortals. And probably didn't expect him to return from the dead. "I want to... see Richie," Duncan labored to say. The acrobatics had sent fresh waves of pain to his rapidly healing chest. Pain was something Duncan accepted during his life and death struggles, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. {There's not much about all this immortality crap I do enjoy.} "He's not here. He flew on to Florida early this morning." He slowly lowered his hands, relieved that Duncan didn't make another aggressive move. The door silently shut as he walked fully into the room. Duncan used the table as a brace as he struggled to stand, his katana falling to his side. "So what do we do, now, whoever you are?" "Terribly sorry, I'm Nigel Banes, General Manager here in SanFran." He rushed over to the table to help. "We have prior instructions to assist you in any way we can, then send you on to Florida. Shall I call and tell him you're coming?" Duncan managed to straighten up with only a small grunt. "Does he know I'm here?" he asked, reaching toward the duffel bag. Nigel beat him to it, slinging it over his own shoulder. "Not yet. I didn't want to do anything until we positively identified you. I didn't relish the thought of telling him I had killed you, either." They slowly walked to the door, Nigel guiding the quickly recovering Immortal down several hallways. "Then don't. I want to surprise him." Duncan stopped walking when Nigel indicated a door at the end of a short hall. He opened it, revealing a small apartment, more like a hotel room. It was comfortable, windowless, and decorated to suit Duncan's tastes. "Mine?" he asked, examining the plate on the door bearing his name. Nigel nodded. "You have accommodations at all Camelot offices. We have others for Connor, Greg Powers, Richie, and Joe Dawson. Plus two guests suites everyone else uses." He indicated the closet door. "We have clothing and necessities stocked for you. If they don't fit, or are unacceptable, we can get others. Call me when you're ready to leave. The phone goes to Susan, who will patch it to me wherever I am," he added, pointing at the vidphone on the dresser. "A nap would be nice," Duncan said, eying the bed. "I've been going since... yesterday morning." {Since Richie walked into my life again.} He didn't remember undressing, nor showering and shaving off his beard, or even crawling into bed. He awoke sometime later, a few hours of sleep restoring some energy. {I can sleep some more on the flight to Florida...} Selecting a purple silk shirt and black slacks, he got dressed. A punch of the intercom button brought the receptionist to the screen, and in moments, Nigel was connected. "I'm ready." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - A normal seeming airplane took Duncan from SanFran to LA, depositing him at one end of LAX. He was surprised to see a page holding a sign with his name on it. Apparently Camelot could pull a lot of strings, including a private car to ferry him to the cross-continental flight. The connections were close, but with the car, Duncan made it to the gate with time to spare, enough to grab some supper. "Sub-Orbital Flight 225, to Tampa, Florida now boarding." Duncan settled into his first class seat, duffel bag stowed above his head. Declining any food or drink from the waitress, he settled into a relaxed position, dozing even before the plane took off. He had set his watch ahead from midnight to three, marveling that the flight would only last three hours, depositing him in Florida at dawn. Nigel promised someone would meet him at the gate there. With everything taken care of, Duncan slept, and dreamed of secretaries, Amanda, and white castles. He could have sworn for a moment a buzz awoke him, but closer reflection pointed to his bladder. Checking his watch, he saw he had slept two hours. Stretching up out of his seat, he walked through the plane to the back bathrooms. Once his bladder was happy, he opened the door, ready to step out. At that moment, turbulence jostled the plane, sending a raven haired beauty tumbling into his arms, both crashing to the other side of the small compartment. With a slam, the bathroom door shut, then the plane righted itself, but the two in the bathroom still clutched tightly to each other. Dark eyes matching the dark hair looked into his. "Oh, I'm so sorry," the mysterious woman breathed. Ruby red lips moved in sync with the words, grasping Duncan's attention. Unnaturally red lips. His head swam, her face going in and out of focus. "Not a problem," he stammered, well aware of the soft, feminine body he was holding, pressing against his. The fragrance of her hair. The sound of her husky breathing. Parts of his anatomy took things into their own hands as he gazed at her face. She in turn was running her hands over his torso. Duncan went on autopilot as they mashed their lips together, the click of the lock resounding in the small compartment. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Duncan awoke from his seat, wondering if it had all been a dream. The empty condom wrapper in his pocket proved it wasn't. Not wanting to seem overly excited, he mindlessly thumbed through the channels on the screen mounted on the seat in front of him. Most of the movies were ending, so he settled for the first news channel he reached. "Repeating this morning's top story...Richard MacLeod, founder and head of the international Camelot Industries, died early yesterday evening when his private shuttle, the COPERNICUS, ignited and exploded seconds after liftoff at Camelot's Florida Center. He was fifty years old..." Duncan intently watched the video playback, the boxy shuttle Duncan had seen designs for lifting from the ground, blinding light at the rear. It cleared the runway and begun its climb when a smaller flame was evident near the passenger compartment. The shuttle had just flown out over the ocean when a massive explosion occurred, sending large, flaming pieces scattering through the air, falling slowly to the murky water. "...Senior spokesperson, Joseph Dawson, held a brief news conference at three eastern time this morning..." Duncan could hardly believe his eyes. {Dawson looks so old. And haggard.} The Watcher's hair had turned stark white, age lines covering his face. Duncan quickly added up the years. {He's past seventy!} It was evident by the press corps that they had tremendous respect for him, quieting to silence as he reached the podium. "Good morning. Computer telemetry indicates the possibility of a ruptured O-ring, the same situation causing the CHALLENGER incident in the late 1980's. Without more conclusive information, we are classifying this as an accident. Also on board, besides Mr. MacLeod, were Connor MacLeod, his nephew and senior aide, and Fitz Donnelly, Security Director for Camelot Industries. We believe all to have perished. More information will be forthcoming later this morning, and I will answer any of your questions at that time. Please make a note that this in no way affects Camelot's day-to-day operations, and that the Board of Directors will meet as soon as humanly possible to resolve the vacuum this tragedy has created. Thank you." Not a word was uttered by the mass of people in the room as Dawson hobbled to the door. A few pictures were snapped, and coverage was again taken over by the man at the desk Duncan tuned out momentarily, his mind racing over the possibilities. {Real? Or a setup? Are things getting that bad?} "...is survived by two sons, Jeremiah Russell, and Richard MacLeod, Jr. His eldest son and daughter-in-law, Ryan MacLeod and Grace Pontand-MacLeod, were tragically killed two years ago in a terrorist attack at the Camelot Science Foundation, located in the Andes. In other news, the UEO plans to announce the..." *CLICK* The flight attendant efficiently turned off the screen, informing Duncan of their imminent landing, as well as assisting him in returning his tray to the upright position. Smiling his thanks, he fastened his shoulder belts, thoughts turning mysteriously to his bathroom encounter. Once the flight landed, he waited where he sat until all the passengers had debarked, hoping to catch her as she passed. He never saw her, nor was she still seated behind him. It was then he noticed he could barely recall her face, just her eyes and lips. Something told him she looked vaguely like Amanda or Felicia Martins, but that was all he could remember. With a shrug, he grabbed his duffel bag and left the plane, exchanging a 'Thank you' with the attendant at the door. The noise in the terminal was deafening, even at this early hour. The mass of people almost frightened the Immortal, so used to solitude and quiet. At every turn, someone bumped into him, scurried around him. He stood near the gate, waiting for the throng to subside. Everyone seemed to have ten people here to greet them, and none felt any hurry to leave the waiting area. In a few minutes he noticed a small redhead, waiting patiently by the check-in counter. He only saw her from the neck up, she was so short, constantly scanning the crowd leaving the area. He could just imagine her on her toes, vainly trying to find her long lost love. She was strangely fascinating, not gorgeous, but striking. And serious. {A nice change now that the mystery woman has got me so worked up.} As the crowd thinned, he noticed she was holding a sign. {Enough of an excuse to see if she's free for dinner...} Pressing through, careful not to bump anyone with his duffel bag and concealed sword, he made his way to her. Ironically, the sign read 'Duncan MacLeod'. {Just my luck... I hope she's not a secretary!} "I'm Duncan MacLeod..." he started, screwing his face into a smile, small muscles complaining at the sudden use. He never got to finish his sentence. A curt nod acknowledging his words, a quick turn, and off into the crowd she went, not checking to see if he followed. Slugging the duffel bag higher, he shrugged and tried to keep up with her, weaving in and out of the mass of people. {Definitely serious. Ice Princess.} He pressed forward, managing to reach her side and stay there. "And you are...?" "Your guide," the Snow Queen replied. They walked passed a glassed area, revealing a huge lot of cars under the slowly dawning sky. Something nagged at Duncan as they turned the opposite direction, heading instead to a service door, opening into a dimly lit hallway. Farther into the bowels of the airport they went, each step sounding like a deep bell tolling. They started down a flight of stairs, utilitarian, not meant for the average traveler, but for workers. Duncan was content to let the woman lead, mentally preparing himself for the ambush. Once more in a deserted hallway, he managed to get his bag partially open without a sound, but the act of pulling the sword out unbalanced his steps. She had turned, neatly kicking his hand as the sword cleared the bag. He managed to hold on, but her return kick dislodged it from his grasp, sending it skittering up the hall. Giving up on the blade, he managed to block most of her other attacks, a duck taking care of one. {She's darn good at this.} The Immortal held his own, unfamiliar with her blend of styles. It was heavily oriented toward footwork, something he always had minor difficulty countering. Her gymnastic ability didn't help matters, more developed than his. Duncan found himself being slowly driven down the hall, giving ground to avoid several surprising moves. He turned down a side passage, almost enjoying the exertion, as the buzz hit him. {Damn it, it was a trap!} Desperate, he moved into a throw that was ungentlemanly and usually not used on a lady. Duncan had lost all hesitation centuries ago, overriding embarrassment with the need for survival. She didn't land far enough away, her legs kicking out, sending him to the floor as well. Intent on breaking the fall, he never heard a door swing open, only heard the deliberate footfalls as they approached. The dim light was blocked by a face looking down, framed by wild, unkept hair, the smell of a pipe overpowering. {Well, at least they sent the head of Camelot Security to protect me!} "Now is that anyway to greet a dear, old friend, Duncan?" the voice asked, tinged with an English accent. The smell and sound of Hugh Fitzcairn surrounded Duncan, all the sudden tension fading from his body. He held up his hand at the shadowed figure, waiting for help up. Fitz shrugged, pulling the smiling Immortal to his feet. Duncan was ready to grasp the man in a hug, but the usually cheery Englishman didn't have the air of joviality about him. Instead they kept their hands clasped a little longer, silently saying hello. Fitz spoke first, indicating Duncan's opponent. "Duncan MacLeod, may I present Gillian Fenmore." The Ice Princess didn't return Duncan's smile, but she did let him raise her hand to his lips, brushing the back ever so slightly, before releasing it. Not yet giving up on her, he turned and walked down the hall, going to retrieve his sword and bag. From behind, he could faintly hear Fitz, "That's Mac." Once they were together, Gillian led the way down more stairs, finally arriving at a room resembling a small subway station. A teardrop shape car rested on tracks, its door pulled aside. Fitz led Duncan into the compartment as Gillian brought up the rear, securing the door. In seconds, the car shot into the tube, Duncan and Fitz settling into seats at the rear, giving both a good look of Gillian as she took a seat in the front. Duncan admired the view as she leaned over, examining a monitor next to the seating. He turned back to Fitz, noticing the other was still looking at the woman, face betraying his feelings. {He's in love with her. Don Juan loses his heart to an ice cube. Great!} He didn't say anything, content to look on his oldest friend, a man who shared a very special time with the Highlander. {Oh, Fitz...} =========================================================================