Date: Mon, 10 Oct 1994 10:43:50 +0100 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: "End of the Road" Part 4 Part 5 should follow in a few moments, 'cos I wrote them last night. No party down the Students' Union, worse luck.... HIGHLANDER "End of the Road" Part 4 Duncan could see Tessa and Richie waiting patiently by the Thunderbird, but neither he nor Flint was quite ready to get in the car yet. Duncan was still trying to work out the true purpose behind Flint's request - if there was an alternative motive, of course. Could Flint be telling the truth for once, be actually serious? Or was he playing a game with them once again? Duncan shot a sideways glance at the other immortal, trying to walk along the top of a fence like an acrobat on a tightrope, arms stretched out to balance him and his face screwed up in concentration. The moment he'd made his request known to the three of them Flint had jumped up and walked off, behaving with childish abandon and refusing to discuss anything. Duncan walked across to the fence and looked upwards. "You'll never do it," he said. "Trying the oblique approach, Macleod?" Flint asked, taking a couple of steps forward. "A direct question like 'why do you want to die' fails, so you try the oblique approach. You think that hasn't been tried by people like you before now? I've been there, I've seen all the tricks." Duncan leaned against the fence and Flint wobbled dangerously. "I still think you'll never do it." He pulled sharply on the fence and Flint was forced to jump off or else fall over backwards. Duncan met Flint's angry glare with bland amusement. Flint took a deep breath. "I'll tell you why later, Macleod. Just work on this for a while. I've spent the past ten years making a record of virtually every single one of us who's still alive today. I've analysed, I've had psychiatric probes, and I've even managed to break into the Watchers' files." He smiled at Duncan's reaction of shock. "You really thought you were the first one of us ever to discover that group? Darius knew, I knew, a lot of us older ones knew." "So you know a lot about us," Duncan shrugged. "I know everything," Flint said matter-of-factly. "And out of every immortal alive on this planet, I chose you, Duncan. You've got one or two flaws, but nobody's perfect." "Thanks." Flint grinned that small wicked smile of his. "And now I think we ought to be going back to the shop." Duncan watched the older immortal walk back to the Thunderbird, where Tessa and Richie were waiting. His mind churned with the questions he wanted to ask, but he reluctantly forced them down. Flint would reveal everything when he was ready. And there was this question about the Watchers as well; Duncan had spent the past months of his acquaintance with the mortals' group mistrusting them...and now Flint knew something more about them, something which might prove vital. Certainly Flint seemed involved with them in some way. Duncan gave up puzzling it out and headed back to the Thunderbird, where Richie and Flint sat in the back and Tessa in the passenger seat. She gave him a brief smile as he sat down, but Duncan could tell that she was disturbed by something. He started the engine and backed the Thunderbird out of the car park. When they arrived back at the antiques shop Richie immediately began to brighten, for there was a car parked outside that he recognised. As soon as he had climbed out of the Thunderbird, he sped across the street and leaned in the driver's window, talking with his usual cheery optimism to the girl who was in the driver's seat. As Duncan got out of the car, he caught sight of Flint watching Richie with amusement. "Trying to remember what it was like?" Duncan asked. "Ha ha. Very funny. This from the man who managed to persuade six Victorian virgins to get a bit of experience with him in one single night." "You did what?" Tessa's eyebrows shot sky-high. Duncan had the grace to look abashed. "I was younger." "Not by much," Flint said. "One I could understand," Tessa said, "but six?" "Six and a half," Flint modified. "The seventh wasn't a virgin." "It gets worse." Tessa climbed out of the car and headed into the antiques shop. The door slammed with a bang that echoed across the square and made Duncan wince. He glared at Flint. "First Elise and now that night in Cambridge. D'you have to keep dragging up my past life?" "Shouldn't have done it if you were going to regret it," Flint said smartly, hopping out of the Thunderbird. He looked to where Richie was skirting the car and getting in. "Look's like Richie's well away. Is he serious with that girl?" "Nah. She's the third this week." Duncan headed for the antiques shop and Flint, after a moment watching Richie depart in the white car, followed him inside. There was no sign of Tessa in the shop itself, but the sound of chipping from the workshop suggested she was having a go at her latest art sculpture with a will. Duncan wondered if he dared go in and see her yet. ... The car slowed as it entered the dockside and Richie frowned. "What're we doing here?" "You'll see," Emma, the girl he was with, said cryptically, spinning the wheel of the car and bringing it to a stop near a warehouse. Richie frowned up at the flaking paint and crumbling brickwork. "Y'know," he said, "I hate to break it t'you, but I'm not going to sail away with you, okay? I mean, we're friends and all, but - " "Are we? Were we?" Emma climbed out of the car and stepped away from the car. Richie climbed out of the car as a couple of men wearing khaki emerged from the shadows on either side of the warehouse. He eyed them warily, the memory of Darius' murder by the renegade Watchers fresh in his mind. Were these more of the same? "Hey, Emma," he protested, "what gives?" "It's a trap, Richie Ryan," a new voice said in a silken and definitely feminine purr. A woman stepped out of the warehouse entrance and regarded him with a cool appraisal just as if he were nothing more than a mere object of amusement. She had roughly-cut red hair pulled back into a ponytail and her clothing was a mish-mash of styles from a dozen cultures, belted at the waist and with booted feet. She was not unattractive, but there was an air of experience about her that somehow made men shrink back. Richie knew with cold certainty that he was looking at an immortal. She also had a sword, in a scabbard strapped to her back. "Signed, sealed, and delivered, Maire," Emma said with a smile. "All yours." "I never doubted you, my dear," the woman assured her. She turned her attention back to Richie. "Macleod never picks his companions with any great degree of intelligence, does he? I see you aren't the exception that proves the rule." "Not again," Richie sighed. The immortal woman cocked her head to one side. "I'm sorry?" Richie shrugged. "Come on, puh-leeze. You know how many times I've been kidnapped by one of you guys trying to put pressure on Mac? I mean, you'd think one of you would have come up with something original by now." "I beg your pardon," the woman smiled, "but the old ways are always the best. By the way, my name is Maire." She pronounced it my-eer. "Remember that name, Richie. It might prove very important in your future life..always assuming that you're going to have one, of course." Richie would have backed away from her approach, but the men in khaki were blocking him from moving any further. He was forced to remain where he was as Maire ran a languid hand over his chest, up to his neck and then taking his chin in a surprisingly strong grip. She turned his head first one way and then the other, examining. "Not bad, though," she purred. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a more private situation?" "You got it right. I wouldn't." "What a shame," Maire pouted. She gestured to the mercenaries. "Alright, lock him up. I'll be along later." "Mac won't come, you know," Richie snarled defiantly as he was dragged away into the dark depths of the warehouse. Maire smiled sweetly. "Who says I'm after him?" She was about to follow inside the warehouse when there was a sudden piercing whistle. She glanced back and saw Emma tapping her foot impatiently. The immortal smiled. "Something wrong?" "Yeah. No payment. Come on, I may be high class but I still have to make a living, you know." Emma held out her hand for money. Maire turned and walked back towards her. "But you know too much," she said gently. As alarm started to flash across Emma's face, Maire withdrew the sword from the scabbard. The prostitute opened her mouth to scream just as Maire whipped the sword around and took the woman's head in a single stroke, so fast that the body remained standing dazedly for several seconds. As blood oozed from the stump of the neck, Maire jerked a thumb at one of the other mercenaries. "Clean up this mess," she ordered. ... "Clean up this mess!" The woman put her hands on her hips and stared around the wreck of the bedchamber. She was a burly woman in her mid-forties with a red face and a body on the plump side, and though her expression was stern at the moment there was a hint that her blue eyes were more used to twinkling. "Och, ye canna blame me for all of this," Duncan Macleod protested, "it were Flint's fault too." "Oh, and who's Flint?" the woman said sceptically. "He..." Duncan looked around the bedchamber. "He were here last night," he muttered feebly. "More excuses, Scot?" "Come on, Sarah, have a little heart." Duncan levered himself out from between the sleeping (and fortunately, covered) forms of two young women he'd never seen before and pulled himself to the end of the bed to look up with a spaniel-like pleading gaze into the woman's eyes. She snorted, but fondly. "I don't know why I put up with you, Duncan Macleod," she said. "Any landlord who was decent in the head would've kicked you out a long time ago." "Aye, but ye won't, 'cause ye're a nice person," Duncan said with a grin, groping for his breeches, which were for some reason tied in a neat bow knot around the waist of a third girl. He untied them gently and pulled them on with an effort. "Get these trollops out of here," Sarah ordered. She clapped her hands loudly and the girls began to stir, a couple of them murmuring soft dazed inquiries as to what was going on. "Trollops?" Duncan said, outraged. "I'll have ye ken I dinna spend my nights wi' trollops. I spend 'em wi' good proper - " "Sluts," Sarah said tartly, picking up a pair of frilly lace pantaloons to push her point home. Duncan shrugged, unabashed, and reached for his shirt, which had charcoal and wine stains on it. "Aye, well.." he began. "Where are my clothes?" one of the girls asked. She was older than the others, about twenty-eight, with luxurious red hair that fell down to the middle of her back. She stood up from the bed, holding what Duncan recognised as half of his jacket (God only knew where the other half was) over her breasts as she perilously negotiated her way along the mess on the floor in search of her clothes. "Hurry up and find them and then get yourself out of here, girl," Sarah said insistently. "Keep your hair on, old woman," the girl said disparagingly in a thick Irish accent. She started to rummage around on the floor as Duncan finished pulling on his shirt and reached for his gun - no, his empty holster, the gun wasn't there. He froze suddenly and began to look around the room warily, for guns were notoriously unreliable. If he had left in the room it could - "There's my dress!" the Irish girl declared in delight. She stepped forward and pulled it upwards. It stuck, and she frowned. "It's caught on something now." Caught on something... Duncan started to turn, eyes widening in alarm. "Dinna touch - " The Irish girl pulled her dress hard and the pistol caught in the dress' folds roared loudly with a flash of flame and a spurt of smoke. Blood fountained on the wall behind the girl as the bullet tore through her heart and sprayed blood and tissue out through a ragged exit wound in her back, knocking her staggering backwards. The other girls woke as one and screamed piercingly as they saw their companion collapse backwards with a dull thud like a sack of potatoes hitting the floor. Duncan yelled in incoherent rage and hurdled the bed in one leap, skidding to a stop beside the body of the girl. Her eyes were closed and blood was pooling on the floor by her naked pale arms, a neat circular wound right over her heart. He felt tears in his eyes. "Dinna die," he whispered fiercely, trying to waken her. "Dinna die, for the love of God! Och, no!" He felt the girl's breathing stop. "She's dead," Sarah's voice said gently and tolerantly from beside him, looking down at the cold slab of flesh below. Duncan bowed his head in anguish and self-torment, those momentary traumatic events going through his mind over and over. If he had taken more care with his pistol last night, if.... "Come on, the rest of you, out. Now." Sarah's order was businesslike and Duncan's other girls obeyed instantly, too shocked to argue or question. The landlady knew her tenant and she gave him a gentle but reassuring pat on the shoulder as she left. Duncan stared blindly at the dead girl. And then it happened. He felt the Quickening within him buzz and writhe, sending familiar sensations through his brain. At the same time a second aura began to build, close by him, whirling like a dervish through the silent body on the floor beside him. A spark of pure energy stung his fingers, resting on the Irish girl's cheek, and he snatched his hand away. The girl's Quickening surged, roared, and for an instant her whole body glowed with the force that resided in all living things, whoever they were and wherever they were. She opened her eyes. "So another joins the Game..." Duncan murmured. ...end of part four... =========================================================================