Date: Wed, 5 Oct 1994 09:29:22 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Brian Macleod Subject: Descendants to the Prize, part 1 of ???? Well, here goes nothing..... ******************************************************************************* **************************H I G H L A N D E R********************************** ***********D e s c e n d a n t s t o t h e P r i z e*************** ******************************************************************************* by Brian Procopio, based on the student film of the same name. Copyright 1994, Chaos Pictures, Inc. All Rights Reserved. ============================================================================== A arctic gale howled through the deserted college campus. The few students adventurous enough to venture outside were bundled in layers of sweat shirts, scarves, gloves, and jackets. Except for one, that is... He stood up on the deserted second level of the building complex, gazing out at the bare trees, their leaves having been lost two months before. His only defense against the biting cold was a black trenchcoat, but he didn't mind. The cold fit his mood, it's teeth reminding him that he was still alive, and that he shouldn't be. His gaze caught a passing automobile, full of students on their way home for the holidays..... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<< "Aaaaawooooooooo! WEREWOLVES OF LONDON!!" they sang at the top of their lungs, the chilled air rushing in through the open windows. It was a good night on the radio, filled with one classic after another. He needed this, he really did. With finals just over six weeks away, he needed a getaway from it all for awhile. Consequently, his friends dragged him up out of the books for a weekend, having arranged party after party for them to attend. While he wasn't much of a drinker, he was commonly referred to as, "the drunkest sober person there is." By the time Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" came on the station, it was all over. David Macleod, the product of second generation Macleods in America, leaned far out the window into the freezing slipstream, shooting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. The carload of friends echoed the music inside, with comments to shut the window interspersed between the choruses of the song. David was almost able to forget the failed romance he was just getting over. Almost. He was still able to let loose enough to push her to the back of his mind though. Coupled with the fact that he ended up with half a dozen phone numbers over the weekend, Dave was a happy enough individual. He should have known then and there that it couldn't last, that this much enjoyment had to get balanced out somewhere. A pair of headlights slammed into view as a Ford Bronco jumped the divided between the lane..... >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> His gaze stopped on the parked Bronco down below. Before the memories piled up too much on his mind, he turned and paced away. "C'mon, Bri, where are you?" he muttered under his breath, the words instantly turning to ice crystals as they left his lips. Brian Mackenzie, the man he was here to meet, his mysterious mentor. Out of the shadows and into the night and such. His only explanation for his continued existance. It was just a short month before that he appeared, the tell-tale buzz a new sensation at the time... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< He sat in the crowded lounge, alone by choice. His half-eaten pizza sat on the table before him. Pizza, he thought, more like roadkill. What he should be. He remember only glimpses of the tradgedy, the truck tearing through the small import they were in, their car flipping end over end, himself crushed under the car over and over as the pain grew unbearable, the loss of concious- ness miliseconds after it all began. And then regaining conciousness in the ambulence, with only a few bumps and scratches to show for it, yelling at the orderlies that he was dead, demanding to know his friends' status. He remembered the funerals, all three of them, the guilty stares he recieved from his friends' parents, the knowledge that he should be dead too. It was all coming back to him again, like it had every day since the accident. A growing pain erupted in his forehead, spreading outwards through his body, a resonant buzzing sound flowing through his ears. He held his head tightly, thinking, "This is where it ends, right? Where Death realizes he forgot me too and comes back for the pickup? Just some unexplainable brain anurism or such?" "Greetings, young one, might if I grab a spot of lunch with you?" a voice spoke, its accent twinged with a strange foreign note. It took David several seconds to realize that the voice did not come from inside his head, and that the pain had passed. He looked up to see a figure adorned in a full-length leather jacket, lunch tray in hand, standing before him. His blue eyes flashed as he grinned. "Ah, we haven't been introduced, have we? I am Brian Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie," he announced with a flourish. "Listen, pal," began Dave, annoyed that someone his own age was calling him "young one," "that's great and all but I'm heading out to class, so if you'll excuse me..." He stood up, grabbing his tray and stepping past this new in- dividual. Mackenzie's arm shot out, catching Dave by the shoulder and pushing him back down into the chair he had just vacated. "No, you're not, Macleod. We need to have a little talk about your future, and your past." Dave stood up again, "Damm right we need to have a little talk, but about YOUR future if you don't let me by!" He was promptly forced down once more as Mackenzie hissed, "Calm down, David, and stop causing a scene. I mean you no harm, and I'm only here to help you understand your new condition. Who knows, maybe what I have to say will even help you stay alive? Give me one hour of your time, then I'll leave... if you wish it." The Scot stared intently at Dave, finally winning him over by his seriousness. So began the training.... >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> He was to meet Mackenzie here this afternoon for more training. The only problem was... no Mackenzie. Dave was eager to get on with his lessons, finding something he could throw all of his energy and pent-up anger into. He was still questionable about the whole immortality thing that Brian de- scribed to him, but the facts were hard to ignore. He knew he should have died in the accident, but here he was, the student of a three and a half century old Scottish Highlander, who kept telling tales of David's supposed kinsmen, Connor and Duncan, who were Brian's teachers at one time or another. He remembered the stories his grandfather told before his death, legends of Macleod's who failed to die in battle hundreds of years before. Dave always accepted them as fun bedtime stories, but now.... The buzz hit him again. "That's Mac," he thought as he turned around to face his mentor. The courtyard was empty here atop the Gladfelter-Anderson complex on campus. The first floor of the buildings were huge, spacious arrangements containing a number of large lecture halls within them. Atop these halls was the plaza upon which David now stood, the two office buildings stacked atop it on either side. Huge squares were cut into the center of the area, stairwells down to the first level twenty feet or so below. There was still an enormous amout of open space available out here, a perfect place for training. The upcoming holiday pretty much guaranteed that the overlooking skyscapers would be deserted as well, allowing the two immortals to spar with little or no problems or interruptions. The older immortal stepped out from behind a stone pillar under one of the buildings. Panic siezed Dave as he realized that it wasn't Mackenzie. His first instinct was to turn and jump to the ground level below, but then he regained control of himself. This was his destiny, after all, time to take charge of it. He withdrew his sword from under his coat, a katana, given to him by Mackenzie, and strided forth to meet the waiting immortal... to be continued.... =========================================================================