========================================================================= Date: Thu, 7 Mar 1996 21:46:16 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Epicenter 2/4 "You two stay here," Methos ordered. He was all the way to the stairs when he realized they were following him anyway. The young had no respect for their elders these days. The street was busy with afternoon traffic beneath the rose-colored sky, and Methos dodged through two lanes of cars to reach the spot where Octavia had been. Working on instinct, on the diminishing earthquake in his brain, he followed the nearest alley to a side street, then to another alley behind a commercial building of restaurants, banks and shops. He'd outrun MacLeod and Richie both, and was alone when he skidded to a stop to see Octavia and her companion climbing into a late-model Cadillac sedan. The companion took up most of Methos' attention. He was South American, an Indian, and from him came that unmistakable sense of the earth moving. Their eyes locked. Methos pulled his sword. "Don't be ridiculous," Octavia called to him in Latin before she slid behind the wheel and gunned the car down the alley. Methos ducked back out of the way. He had no doubt that Octavia would have run him down, but knew it wasn't her principal goal. MacLeod and Richie had just reached the mouth of the alley, and although they had plenty of time to clear themselves from her path, it seemed to Methos that Richie threw himself in front of the Cadillac's hood. The impact threw him into the air and then down, body already limp, to a crashing sack of flesh and bone against the paved ground. MacLeod moved quickly and decisively. He shouldered Richie's body and retreated to the side alley before any witnesses or spectators could appear. By the time Methos caught up to him, MacLeod was moving to hide in a doorway. He held Richie's bloody, lifeless body tightly to his chest. "You'll have to get my car," he said to Methos. "Bring it around. We'll take him to the dojo." Methos didn't move. "What?" MacLeod asked, somewhat testily. He appeared shaken. "Or do you want me to carry him through the streets without arousing suspicion?" Methos gazed at Richie's body. "He threw himself in front of her." MacLeod's jaw tightened. "You can't be sure." "What did you see?" Methos asked quietly. "I saw the car hit him," MacLeod answered. "What are you trying to imply?" The Highlander was not being logical. It was always hard to watch a friend die, even though he or she was going to revive anyway. Methos decided he would wait until later to press the issue. He retrieved MacLeod's Thunderbird, drove it carefully back to where MacLeod still hid with Richie, and then brought both of them to the dojo. Richie's skull was cracked, his jaw and hips broken, his skin icy with death. He lay as a corpse on MacLeod's bed for three hours. MacLeod said that Richie usually revived faster than that. Methos didn't speak his concern aloud, but thought the dark blood trailing from Richie's left ear might have something to do with his delayed healing. When Richie woke he was badly disoriented, and Methos took advantage of that to ask him why he threw himself in front of Octavia's car. "He didn't," MacLeod insisted from the sink. "Had to," Richie muttered, holding his head in his hands. MacLeod silenced himself. Methos asked, "Why did you have to, Richie?" "No choice," Richie answered. "The arrow. Can't . . . " He trailed off, and looked up at Methos. The confusion was clearing. His body, as it repaired itself, was wiping away his first instinctive answers. Within ten minutes Richie was fully functional and mentally alert again. He remembered going to the matinee with MacLeod, buying ice cream, settling down to study after the Highlander left. Then he woke up again in MacLeod's bed. "I'm going to have to buy you more sheets," Richie apologized. "I'd settle for knowing what's going on," MacLeod answered, but not unkindly. "You don't remember talking to us in your place? Chasing down through the alley? Jumping in front of a car?" Richie shook his head. "I'm flipping out, aren't I?" he asked somberly. "The first Immortal to go insane." "You wouldn't be the first," Methos said firmly. He didn't think Richie would ever be able to claim a first to anything, but didn't say that. But to be fair he added, "There's no proof of anything, yet. Duncan, what did you feel in Richie's apartment? Just another Immortal?" MacLeod retrieved three beers and settled himself into a chair. He fixed on Methos with a solemn gaze. "I felt another Immortal, and then I felt . . . something much more powerful than I've ever felt in my life. What did you feel?" "The same force," Methos agreed. "So who was the woman? You know her, don't you?" MacLeod pressed. Methos said, "Her name is Octavia." He watched Richie for a reaction, but none came. "And?" MacLeod asked. Methos told them that he and Octavia had been neighbors in Constantinople in 378 A.D. She'd been just two hundred years old then, and he clearly remembered her standing at the wall between their gardens in a robe as yellow as the sun, with hammered gold bracelets on her wrists and jeweled pins in her hair. She'd been one of the wealthiest women in the Roman Empire. Her mortal husband was one of Methos' fellow generals in Emperor Valens' army. He'd died at the battle of Adrianople, and Octavia had left Constantinople for good. Constantinople had once been called Byzantium, and was now called Istanbul. Adrianople was now Erdine. Richie looked blank at the mention of all five names. Methos mentally noted that modern education for university students was obviously lacking breadth and width in its curriculum. MacLeod, who'd been born over a thousand years too late to remember Adrianople, asked what the battle had been about. Methos didn't want to get into the sordid mess. He too clearly remembered the bloodshed and horror of his army being decimated to pieces on the once-fertile coastal plain, under an opposition of twenty thousand fierce Goth warriors. Valens, the idiot, should have known better to take them on without reinforcements from Rome. But Methos had long since forgiven his old friend for his mistakes. "It's somewhat complicated," he said now, lying just a little. "It had to do with the Visigoths, and such." "Visigoths." Richie's face lit up as he made a connection. "You mean, like Vandals and Huns?" "The Visigoths and Huns were mortal enemies," Methos said. Richie's face fell. Methos considered telling him that it wasn't important now. The Huns and Vandals, Visigoths and Ostrogoths, were all gone to dust, even if their genes survived in millions of Balkan, German, Turkish and other descendants. But it had been vitally important to him once, and to Octavia and her husband, and to Alric. And 'now' was such a relative term. "What about the other one?" MacLeod said. Methos had no idea who Octavia's companion had been. He had no idea of where Octavia was, or how to find her. He would have to find her Watcher and probe for information. In the meantime, given the unusual events, it was decided that Richie would stay with MacLeod, sleeping on the sofa. MacLeod and Methos privately agreed that he shouldn't be allowed to leave their sight. Methos privately told MacLeod to watch out for his head. "Richie's not going to go after my head," MacLeod said dismissively. "You don't know what he's going to do. He doesn't even remember where he's been for the last twenty four hours. You have to be prepared." MacLeod's face darkened, but he didn't argue. They'd both seen too many teachers fall before their students. If the time came to battle Richie, then it would come regardless of what MacLeod or Methos preferred. MacLeod would probably win, although nothing was certain. "I know Octavia," Methos added, "and if she's involved, it doesn't bode well." MacLeod scrutinized him. "There's more you're not telling." "It's a story for later," Methos promised. Octavia's Watcher thought she was somewhere in Brazil, but on Adam Pierson's advice starting combing Seacouver for traces of her. Richie took his final exams, worked out in the dojo every day, and suffered no more episodes of vanishing or lost time. A week later, Methos was watching in fascination as MacGuyver built a radio receiver out of chewing gum, dental floss, and a soda can when Jorgen Thommsen called him. Jorgen was his favorite Viking Immortal. Sometime around 975 A.D. they'd stood together, drunk and singing, at the precipitous edge of a mile-high fjord in a winter storm as ice and hail crashed around them in a chaotic symphony. That particular endeavor had ended badly, as Methos remembered. Luckily Jorgen's suggestion that they meet did not involve fjords or other heights. It did involve Octavia, however. "I'd like to invite someone else along," Methos said. "His name is Duncan MacLeod." "The Highlander," Jorgen grunted. "I know him. How old is he?" "Just over four hundred." Jorgen hesitated. "All right. But not the very young one. He mustn't even know you're coming, or that I'm in town." Not Richie. Methos rounded up MacLeod and together they drove out to meet Jorgen in a hillside cemetery. The moon was full, hanging low in the trees. The spot would have made a perfect site for a Beltain ceremony. Jorgen was the same as Methos remembered him - immense and broad, with thick whitish-blond hair and a handshake that could crush stone. Jorgen's brawn and slowness had always hindered his swordfighting, and he tended to survive more on his intelligence than anything else. Jorgen and MacLeod scrutinized each other closely in the moonlight, in case they one day became adversaries. Then they all sat down amid the carefully kept tombstones and short grass, and passed around a fine bottle of brandy while the Viking told his story. "Last year, in a period of two weeks, six Immortals vanished from the L.A. basin area. All of them were fairly young - the oldest was a valley accountant aged fifty six, and the youngest was an east L.A. teenage carjacker only two weeks into his Immortality. They walked away from jobs, families, homes, even cooking meals." Methos remembered Richie's ice cream, melting across his desk. Jorgen continued with, "One of them was my student, Jason Colby. It took me months of tracking down useless leads before I discovered him living in a house outside of Julian, California. Your friend Octavia was there, Methos, as well as a very powerful other Immortal." "We've seen him," MacLeod said. "All of the missing ones were there, I think, although I only saw two of them besides Jason," Jorgen said. "Octavia and the carjacker - his name was Raul Basulta - did all the grocery shopping. No one else ever left the house or grounds. I knew I had to get into that house to find out what was going on, but the day before my planned break-in, they vanished. All except Jason." Jorgen paused to steel himself for the most unpleasant part of his story. "Jason challenged me. He didn't even seem to know who I was. He came after me with the sword I'd given him, and nothing I could do would persuade him to stop. He would have killed me, I was sure of it. I had to take his head." Unexpectedly he covered his face with his hands. "I took his head," he repeated, as if he still hadn't learned to live with the memory. Methos didn't say anything. Grief deserved its moment in time along with love. MacLeod swallowed more of the brandy, intently studying the dark ground beneath them. When Jorgen could continue he said, "In the house I found the remains of the other five Immortals. They'd all been beheaded, but not recently - I would have seen the Quickenings. I think they were killed one by one, over a period of time. I also found information that led me back to Rio de Janeiro. It turns out that in 1991, nine Immortals disappeared there during a four month period. Same age group - very young. Same circumstances - quite mysterious." "What's your theory?" MacLeod asked. "That Octavia and her friend kidnapped all the young ones and killed them at their leisure?" Jorgen shook his head. "I think it's more complicated than that. I think somehow Octavia and her friend influence what the young ones do. They have some kind of mind control, if you like. Something made Jason act the way he did. Something draws them, like magnets. None of the L.A. Immortals or the ones in Brazil seemed to know each other. The only thing they had in common before their disappearances was their Immortality." "Mind control," MacLeod sighed. "I don't know if I believe that." Methos stirred from his own thoughts and memories. "Something made Richie throw himself in front of that car. Made him disappear for a full day. Made him loose his memory." "Your friend came back," Jorgen said, "and that doesn't fit the pattern. Is he himself?" "There could never be more than one Richie," MacLeod said, with a half-smile. "He hasn't been acting strangely?" Jorgen pressed. "No." Jorgen looked disappointed. "If he had been acting strange, I would think he's still under Octavia's control." "You think Octavia or her friend can make other Immortals do as they wish," MacLeod said. "But you have no proof. I've never heard of such a thing." Jorgen shot him a scornful look and asked, "Methos, what do you think?" Methos took the bottle. "When Octavia and I lived as neighbors in Constantinople fifteen hundred years ago, she wanted to learn from me all the legends and myths I knew about our kind. One story fascinated her for months. I told her that once, about 1300 B.C., I lived in the Hittite capital city of Hattusa. Hardly anybody remembers the Hittites anymore, but they rivaled the Egyptians as a powerful empire, and Hattusa was one of the largest metropolitan areas of that century. In any case, there was a rumor in Hattusa of an Immortal named Labarna who could control minds. I never found proof. If there was a Labarna, I've never heard of him since. But Octavia decided to further investigate the matter, and embarked on what I considered a foolish quest." "To find someone who could control Immortal minds," Jorgen said darkly. "What do you plan to do?" MacLeod asked. "Keep looking for Octavia and her friend." "The Watchers might have information," Methos said. "Especially about any young Immortals disappearing. I'll help you, Jorgen, any way I can." MacLeod said, "As will I. I don't like the idea of anyone being able to control Immortal minds." When they parted in the cemetery Methos asked Jorgen what he was doing, living in Los Angeles. The Viking shrugged and with a perfectly deadpan face replied, "What everyone else in Los Angeles does. Wait on tables and write movies." The next afternoon, Methos had more answers. The Watchers had noted the disappearances in the L.A. area but not linked them. Their Brazilian coverage was spotty, but one of the Watchers had marked the disappearance of his Immortal with a question mark. Octavia's Watcher, reprimanded for not knowing where his Immortal was, did produce the information that Octavia had been documented as living for a time with the Ureau-Wau-Wau Indians in the Brazilian highlands of Rondovia. Methos knew nothing about Rondonia or Ureau-Wau-Wau Indians, but he began research immediately. He spent long hours circling through the city with MacLeod, trying to feel the earthquake, but nothing came out of the rides but stiff muscles and frustration. Three days later, Richie went missing again. *** Richie and MacLeod had gone to a matinee movie to see a new Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Richie's choice. MacLeod reluctantly acquiesced, on the condition he picked the next one. At the candy counter Richie bought popcorn, nachos, soda and candy. MacLeod watched in amazement. "I always knew you had a cast iron stomach," he said as they navigated through the darkening theater to find two seats on the aisle. "I just didn't know you had two." "And later, we can go out for dinner," Richie said cheerfully. The previews started rolling. Richie groped around and said, "Whoops. Forgot the napkins. Be right back." In the still-crowded lobby, Richie grabbed a handful of napkins. Then a warm flush rose in the back of his skull with a horrid sense of deja vu. It had happened twice before to him. Once in the dojo, while waiting for Mac to return from lunch. The second time, in his studio. He'd been settling down to serious cramming of American history with the remains of a hot fudge sundae when pain blasted through his skull and demanded immediate surrender. This time, he vowed to fight it. He wouldn't let Octavia and Xan take him again. He wouldn't go the house on the hill, where other Immortals with pale faces and frightened voices spoke of being guinea pigs, of being lab experiments. He would cling to the knowledge flooding back into him long enough to tell Mac, and he would find a way to keep Xan out of his mind. The pain notched up to a level beyond unbearable, and he caved in. He left the lobby and, obeying instructions, crossed town to an economy hotel near the train station. Octavia knew exactly where he was to go. Once there, he made his way past the worn pastel lobby to the second floor and to a door near the fire stairwell. He broke it down with his left shoulder. He broke his shoulder as well, but didn't feel the pain. It knitted within seconds anyway. Martin Hyde was sitting in a chair, cleaning his sword. He stood up when Richie appeared. His cold, cruel eyes took on an edge of pure delight, and his voice rang with condescension. "So the puppy returns for more," Hyde sneered. "I thought you would have learned your lesson in Spain and France." Richie too clearly recalled the terror Hyde had inflicted on him - first by slaying his companions in Madrid, then stalking him across Europe, and finally having him put in a Paris jail with the prospect of life imprisonment to torture him. Mac had said he'd taken care of the bastard, but sometimes Mac wasn't entirely truthful. "We'll see who learns a lesson today," Richie said. Their swords clashed. The battle took them out the hotel room, up the stairs, across the broad expanse of the roof. Hyde wasn't nearly as good as MacLeod had said he was, and Richie endured only one or two cuts before he ran his rapier through the other Immortal's chest, withdrew it, and then lopped off his head. The Quickening hit him with the force of a tornado, ripping away some of Octavia and Xan's control. When he could think again, he found himself on his knees, drenched in sweat, shaking from the Quickening's aftershock. He had a headache that surely would qualify as migraine, and the sight of Martin Hyde's head just a few inches away nearly brought up the shaky contents of his stomach. He had to get to Mac. He had to tell him, before he forgot again.