Date:         Thu, 28 Jul 1994 20:40:01 EDT
Reply-To:     Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Hobert@AOL.COM
Subject:      CIRCLES,  Part 5 of 5  (1/2)

*This is a continuation of events begun in CHANGES,
  previously posted to HLFIC-L


CIRCLES
by Kevin H. Robnett


Part Five - Joseph Randall Dawson, Watcher

- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -

     Antonio's was buzzing with the usual Saturday night crowd.
In a secluded corner, a table of eight waited on their food.
Liberally supplied with champagne and other beverages, they
were in no hurry.  Toasts had already been made, the sound of
glass clinking resounding in the good cheer.  It had been awhile
since Richie had been at a dinner party, this being special because
of the guests.  Dawson visibly relaxed at the head of the table,
joking with both Duncan and Gregor.  Connor spent most of the
appetizer detailing his recent trip to Richie.  David and Angie,
on Richie's other side, split their time between stories of
Amsterdam and Amanda, being remarkable polite to the mortals.

     The food arrived along with strolling musicians, adding a
flair to the remarkable creations Chef Flippo had arranged for
this graduation dinner.  It was surprising with so many Immortals
that conversation stayed in the recent past, giving David no clue
he was dining with people older than his antique pocket watch.
Joe led the chorus of requests for Richie's college stories as they
finished the apricot crepes, coffee being quickly supplied to all.
The graduate's bladder finally complained, causing the honoree to
beg everyone's pardon for a quick trip to the restroom.

     After calming his bladder down, Richie stopped for a moment
on the terrace, overlooking Manhattan.  The buzz warned him of
an Immortal's approach, even before the sound of the door opening.
<Bet it's Connor.>  As usual, he was right.

     The smirking Highlander joined him at the ledge, gazing at the
city from the one hundredth fifty seventh floor of the Empire Tower.
"Out for a bit of fresh air?" Connor casually asked, taking in a deep
breath himself.  "It wasn't long ago the air here could kill you."

     "I still came, didn't I?" Richie dryly commented, as he
grinned at Connor...

< < < < < Friday, July 28, 1995 < < < < <

     ...sitting on the couch in Gregor's office.  "Come on Richie,
I'm serious.  Run the shop so I can travel and buy stuff.  I'm tired
of New York," Connor pleaded.

     "Duncan put you up to this, didn't he," was all Richie said,
leaning against the darkroom door.  He had been waiting for Duncan
to pull such a stunt.  <But to involve Connor?  That's a real low blow.>

     "He told me what happened, and he told me where you were.  But
everything else is the truth.  I was already planning to ask you when
I called him."  Connor was running out of sales pitches, apparently
not thinking it would be this hard to interest the young man in a job.

     "Why me?  I'm sure there are plenty of more knowledgeable
people out there." Richie asked, trying to decide if he believed
the Scotsman or not.  <They can be so tricky.>

     "You're almost family, you have experience, and you know my
dirty little secret.  Enough!  Will you take the job or not?  I won't
beg," Connor stated, fed up with the hotshot.

     "By the way, Jeremiah did mention he was looking on the east
coast for universities with masters programs," Gregor injected,
breaking his silence since this whole thing began.  Richie trusted
the photographer, but still it felt like a setup.

     <Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.>  "Deal," he finally said,
shaking hands with his new boss.  "When do I start?" he asked,
relieved to end his freeloading off Gregor.

     Connor smugly reached in and pulled out two plane tickets.
"Our flight leaves in three hours," he said, smirking at Richie's
angry look.  "Don't pout, little thief.  One thing I learned in Dallas,
I can read you like a book."  Richie stood there...

> > > > > Saturday, May 13, 2000 > > > > >

     ...gazing at the city.  Not feeling very chatty, Richie drove to
the point.  "What couldn't you tell me with everyone around?
Something hit a snag in Amsterdam?"

     Connor turned his head to look at the youth, face awash with
the sorrow of bad news.  He softly spoke.  "Gawain is dead."

     Richie stared out at the lights, almost as brilliant as the ones
of Camelot so long ago, saying a silent prayer for the man who was
once his squire.  "Who?" was all he wanted to know.

     "I did," Connor revealed.  When Richie made no comment, he
continued.  "Someone called me in Amsterdam, requesting that
I go to London.  Once there, Gawain asked me to take his head.
He was tired, Red.  So very tired.  He begged me for rest.  I couldn't
refuse."

     Richie spoke before he could remove the sarcasm from his voice.
"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

     "I couldn't," Connor answered, walking away from the precipice.
"We had the same teacher, Ramirez.  I couldn't turn my back on him.
He was in such pain.  And I was the only one alive he trusted with
his Quickening."

     Richie knew Gawain's mentor, not believing it was the same
person as Connor's Ramirez.  "Juan Ramirez was the Green Knight?"
he asked, voicing aloud his rhetorical question.

     "Aye," was Connor's response from across the terrace.  "If it
helps, I think Ramirez approved.  I could almost hear him giving his
consent."

     "You don't seem surprised.  Has it happened before?  Hearing him,
I mean," Richie asked, trying to sound casual. <Busted!>

     "Sometimes.  I think he helps me at important times.  Oh, I know
it's not real.  But sometimes it lets me live with my choices.  Enough,
you have guests waiting.  I just wanted to tell you about Gawain..."
He opened the terrace door, motioning for Richie.

     <I'm not crazy, guys!> Richie thought as he followed Connor back
to the table.

          /You're worried about that this late in the game?/

     <Well...  yes.>  "Are we leaving?" he asked aloud, as the group
at the table had gotten to their feet at his arrival.  Coats were
provided and they made their way to the elevator.

     "We have a lot left to do tonight, young man," Dawson reminded
him as he walked with Richie.  "I'm not the spring chicken I used
to be."  They descended in the private elevator car, and walked
across the massive lobby of the New Empire Tower.  As they reached
the glass entrance, Duncan handed a red ticket to Richie, everyone
moving so that he encountered the valet first.  The vested man
smartly grabbed the ticket from Richie's hand, and within moments,
a black Lambergini was deposited at Richie's feet, the door pivoting
straight up.  He longingly eyed it, not realizing anything until the
valet deposited the keys in his hands.  He turned around and looked,
Duncan and Gregor grinning at his silent question.

     "You didn't..." he started, grinning like a Cheshire cat.  He had
wanted one since long ago, in Paris.  It was a fantasy quickly
discarded, one he wasn't sure even Duncan knew about.  "How
am I gonna drive it in the city?  No combustion engines allowed,"
he pointed out, referring to the Clean Air Act of 1998.

     Duncan firmly grasped him across the shoulders, leading him
down the side of the beauty.  "Grace managed to add an electric
motor, good for about sixty miles.  Plug it in each night, don't joy
ride in town, and switch to the gas engine after you get to the city
limits, and you'll be fine.  Now get going, we have a business meeting
waiting," Duncan added, giving his friend a nudge to the driver's side.

     "Thanks," Richie gushed at Duncan and Gregor.  "Anyone want a
lift?"  Amanda looked interested, until Duncan whispered in her ear.
Duncan and Gregor passed as they had ridden in it that afternoon.
Joe Dawson broke the stalemate, guilelessly sliding into the
passenger seat, placing the cane in his lap as he slid the door down.

     "I guess age does have it's reward," the Watcher commented
before the 'whoosh' of the door seal cut him off.  With a hum,
they were off in the traffic, the car doing zero to sixty in five
seconds flat.  Inside what Richie considered a cockpit, he was
all alone with Dawson for the first time in a year and a half, not
counting that morning's awkward pleasantries.

     "You're a whole lot friendlier after a few hours sleep," Richie
said, starting the ball rolling.  He hoped he wouldn't strike a gutter.

     "Yes, I am.  Thanks for the use of the bed," Dawson answered,
watching the city pass by the tinted windows.  He swung around
to look at Richie, smiling.  "I had forgotten how comfortable it was."

     "No regrets?" Richie said, again avoiding the chitchat he
considered useless with his friends.

     "About coming? No.  About Jeremiah?  Other than introducing
the two of you?  No.  Things happen.  People die, Immortals included.
That shouldn't cripple me anymore than my legs did," he replied,
stroking his prosthesis.

     Richie didn't take the easy way out.  "I'm just sorry you had to
trade my life for his."

     "Who could have known, back then?" Dawson asked, as Richie
suddenly blared his horn...

< < < < < Sunday, March 19, 1995 < < < < <

     ...of the car going by as they kicked in the double doors.
Framed against the afternoon light was Richie and Connor,
swords ready.  "I don't think so," Richie announced to the
stunned pair in the foyer of the French villa.  Kiem Sun smiled
as he lowered the blade, his assistant still struggling with
the bound and kneeling Duncan.

     "Mr. Ryan, Mr. MacLeod, so good of you to come visit," the
Chinese intoned, smiling.  "You've saved me much trouble."
He rapidly added a word in Chinese, his smile faltering as the
Immortals showed no apparent effect.  He looked down right
nervous as they descended the four steps from the double doors.

     His assistant flung Duncan to the floor, drawing his own
sword at their approach.  Kiem Sun darted for a side door.
Richie and Connor spilt up, Connor staying with his clansman,
Richie chasing the impeccably dressed Oriental.  He followed
the curving corridor until he reached a back door, open to the
fields behind the house.  Seeing a flash of orange in the dense
foliage, he gave chase.

     Diving through the underbrush, he found himself face to face
with a high brick wall, taller than he could jump.  Moving to his
left, he soon came to a small gate in the wall, made of black bars.
Once through it, he found himself surrounded by statues, pedestals
and tombstones.  <Holy Ground.  That coward little shit!>

     He found his prey calmly standing in the middle of the cemetery.
As Richie approached stealthily, the tormentor waged his finger and
shook his head.  "Holy ground, Mr. Ryan.  No Immortal may fight here.
And here I shall remain, until my servants arrive, too many for you to
overcome.  It seems I win, Mr. Ryan."  Kiem Sun smiled at his brilliance,
not believing for an instant Richie would break the sacred rules.

     Richie didn't stop.  As he got within feet of the Chinese, he
raised his sword.

          <Stop it, boy.  You can't break this rule.>

     [Monsieur, listen to Mako.  This is madness...]

               /Richie,  please stop, you're scaring us.../

     "Fuck the rules," he said, neatly severing Kiem Sun's head
from his meticulously dressed body.  The smile was still plastered
on the face as it fell and rolled among the graves.  Richie turned and
began walking to the gate, each step a struggle against fatigue.  The
first bolt of Quickening caught him square in the back, sending him
reeling.  He was proud that he kept on his feet in the first few seconds,
not falling to his knees until it became too strong.  It was so powerful,
he was flattened to the ground, his face in the dust.  And then it was
over, a feeling of relief rushing through his body after the Quickening
had finished.  He was waiting for the mental welcome he would give
this Immortal, surprised when he felt another small shock of energy
along his legs.  He tried to rise to his hands and knees, but two more
small shocks weakened his arms, sending him back to the ground.
Small bolts, like ant bites, flicked to him from the graves, randomly
hitting parts of his body.  As the seconds passed, they became more
numerous, irritating in their own way.  By the first minute, the agony
was almost unbearable as small jabs continued to pierce his skin.
A general feeling of heat joined the pain, like his skin was burning
from the sun.  A cry of pain left his lips, his body trying to curl into
a fetal position as each new shock sent a different muscle twitching.
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