Date: Wed, 29 Nov 1995 18:33:05 EST Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: King for a Day, Part 1 Well, this one's a little less serious -- about as close to goofy as I get. If you can swallow the premise, you might enjoy it; otherwise, hit "d". King for a Day, Part 1 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Duncan MacLeod groaned and opened his eyes. The ceiling of his loft looked the same as it always had, except maybe a little blurred. Focusing seemed like too much effort. He closed his eyes again, but the headache didn't go away. "I feel like I've been dead for a week," he told the empty room. There was no answer. Maybe it was a hangover. Except that it didn't taste like a hangover. And Immortals didn't get hangovers -- not like this, anyway. And he couldn't remember drinking much last night. He tried to remember what he had been doing last night. Something tame, anyway. He rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. A hot shower made him feel somewhat better, but still a little out of kilter. He was off balance and set his hand on the hot stove while he was heating coffee. He hissed, ran cold water over the burn, and ignored the pain. It would go away soon enough. The clock said it was past noon; fortunately, it was a Saturday. Duncan still wasn't very clear on what he had been doing to feel like this today. "Maybe somebody's poisoning me," he mumbled to himself. But it would take a constant dose of poison to make him sick for so long. He sniffed the air. No gas that he could detect, but maybe his nose was used to it. He pulled on some clothes and dragged himself outside. The fresh air did seem to clear his head a little. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he started to button the cuffs of his shirt and winced at a sudden pain. He stared at his wrist in disbelief. Duncan went to Joe's bar and followed the sound of a guitar to the back, where Joe Dawson sat on the edge of the stage picking out a mournful theme. He caught sight of MacLeod and frowned curiously as he set the guitar back in its case. "I, uh, I wasn't expecting to see you here." Duncan remembered suddenly that he had been avoiding Joe for several weeks. He had told Joe it was better that way. How could he have forgotten that? The distraction of the moment, perhaps. In any case, it didn't matter now. "Yeah, well, something's come up." "I see." Joe plucked his cane off the arm of a chair and levered himself to his feet. "Does that mean you want my help with something?" "No, nothing like that." Joe walked to the table Duncan was sitting at and pulled out a chair, but instead of settling into it he turned to pace around the table. Duncan frowned. "Something wrong, Joe?" "Why should anything be wrong?" Joe growled, shifting his weight awkwardly. "You look like you're in pain." Joe gave him a sharp look and sat down heavily in the chair he had grabbed. He seemed annoyed, though whether with himself or MacLeod it was hard to tell. "It's nothing to worry about." "You shouldn't ignore pain, Joe. Your body could be trying to tell you something." "What, even a part of my body that isn't there anymore?" Joe asked sourly. "Oh." Duncan bit his lip. "Sorry." "Forget about it. What did you come here for? Offering the olive branch?" Duncan lifted an eyebrow but didn't rise to the bait. "No, it's a little more important than that." He looked at Joe consideringly, then extended his arm and pulled back the unbuttoned sleeve. Joe looked as if unsure what he was supposed to see, then bent closer to examine the blisters. He picked up Duncan's hand and angled it toward the light. "What did you do to yourself, Mac?" "I burned it on the stove, about an hour ago." Joe whistled. "An hour ago? Must have been some burn." "No worse than it is now." Joe glanced up. "What are you trying to say?" Duncan reclaimed his arm. He started to pull the sleeve down, flinched, and left it in place. "I'm not healing, Joe." "Why not?" "I don't know. Look." He rubbed his jaw. "My face is still raw from shaving. Usually that passes off in a minute or two. And I have a headache. Whatever's happening, it isn't just my arm that's changed." Joe leaned forward, fascinated. "You think this has something to do with what happened last night?" "Last night? What do you mean?" "Are you kidding? We --" Joe broke off suddenly and lurched against the table, clutching his stomach. "Joe? What's wrong?" "Don't know. I just feel -- really weird, all of a sudden." Joe's head turned toward the door as if pulled by a string. The door to the bar swung open, and a familiar red-headed figure stepped in. "Hey, Mac! I wasn't expecting to find you here. Good to see you two talking to each other, again." Richie stopped in his tracks as he neared the table. "Whoa. That's weird. How'd you do that, Mac?" He stepped from side to side as if trying to see something from a different perspective. "Do what?" Duncan asked, baffled. "Throw your buzz like that. I could swear you were sitting --" his hand waved in Joe's general direction "-- over there somewhere." Duncan's eyes grew wider. "I'm not doing anything. Richie . . . I didn't feel you come in. I can't sense your buzz at all." "What do you mean? If I can feel you, you can feel me!" Joe's jaw dropped. "Mac, you don't think . . ." The two of them stared at each other in mutual disbelief for several seconds. "Think what?" Richie demanded. "C'mon, guys, what is going on here?" Joe swallowed. "Richie, you got a sword on you?" he said slowly. "Of course. Why?" "Give it to me." "Huh? What for? Someone want to give me a clue, here? Mac?" "Give it to him," Duncan husked. Richie pulled the rapier out of his jacket and handed it tentatively to Joe. Joe held it in his left hand, stared at it, looked up briefly at MacLeod. Duncan made no sign. Joe drew the blade across his right palm. "What the heck are you doing, man?" Richie cried, pulling the sword away. He hurried to the bar for some napkins to soak up the blood running down Joe's wrist. By the time Richie came back to the table, the bleeding had already stopped. As the three men watched in amazement, the cut healed the rest of the way. When Joe took a napkin and wiped the remaining blood away, there was nothing but healthy skin underneath. Duncan held out his own blistered wrist for comparison. "I'm . . . Immortal?" Joe breathed. "Yeah. And I'm not," Duncan finished. =========================================================================