Date: Sun, 5 Mar 1995 17:45:42 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Life's Blood" Part 5 *** I'm really sick, so I stayed up all last night writing this. I hope everyone enjoys it! *** "Life's Blood" Part 5 by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 (A little bit of violence and profanity) SEATTLE, March 1995 On the drive back to Michael's estate, Greg did think a lot of things over; he quickly realized that there was no one he could trust. MacLeod and Barnes, the ones who claimed to be his Teachers, just seemed to want to use him for their own schemes. He felt lost, adrift in the churning sea that had become his life. Why am I a part of this, he wondered. Why do *I* deserve to live forever? Immortality seemed nothing but a cruel trick to extend his pain forever. Torn between two Teachers, and the recently despoiled memory of the woman he loved. It was a long drive; he had to stop in for gas at some generic convenience store. Lost in his self-contemplation, Greg wandered through the door, getting out his wallet to pay the clerk. The only clerk at the counter was a kid who looked to be no more than sixteen. His wide eyes were bright with fear as he looked at Greg, and glanced back past a row of shelves containing fat, sugar and cholesterol, wrapped in gaudy plastic packages. The kid swallowed in terror. Greg went through a small refrigerator by the door, figuring he should at least get something to drink for the road. He took his time, deciding on what type of soft drink would suit his discriminating palette the best. He didn't notice the young kid's strange behavior. Retrieving a cold Dr. Pepper from the case, Greg walked up to the counter, took a soft pack of Marlboros off the display shelf by the register, and put a twenty on the plastic surface. The clerk wasn't even looking at the money or the merchandise. He was looking over Greg's shoulder... Click. Greg had seen enough ultra-violent action flicks to know the sound of a hammer being cocked. A vaguely Hispanic voice came from just behind him. "This just ain't your day, friend," the voice said as the cool metal touched the back of his neck. "Get on the floor, or I splatter you all over Miss April." He was referring to a rack of Playboy magazines behind the counter. Great. Of all the convenience stores in this great country, I happen to walk into one where I interrupt a psychotic robber, he thought. He began to think desperately, but fear clouded his mind. Duncan had told him to use his fear constructively, but he didn't see how being scared shitless was going to get him out of this. "Look, I just wanted a pack of smokes and some gas," he said to the man behind him. What he assumed to be the butt of the gun crashed against the back of his skull and forced him to his knees. A foot in his back slammed him to the floor. Half-conscious, he lay there with a ringing in his ears. He was faced towards where the thief had come from, behind the rack of candy and chips. He saw two other people, a man and a woman, lying back there. He couldn't tell if they were alive or dead. "Now, start filling that bag or you're the one who's gonna get splattered, my man," the jittery thief said to the clerk. The gun in his hand trembled as he pointed it at the kid. No doubt, a witch's brew of chemicals was circling his veins. He was unwashed and unshaved, greasy black hair sprouted from beneath his olive-green baseball cap. He waggled the gun at the shaking youth, and scooped up Greg's twenty with his other hand. Stuffing it into his pocket, he waited as the clerk filled the bag with the meager amount of cash in the register. "Now the other one, hurry the fuck up!" The drug-crazed robber wasn't getting any more patient, even though he had tonight's fix in his hand. Greg played dead on the floor, although his cut scalp was already healed. Either the woman or the man on the floor in the back of the store began to whimper. Greg was silent, just waiting for it to all be over so he could get on his way. Now that the robber wasn't paying attention to him, he felt more safe. His incapacitating fear started to melt away. The fear faded, and began to be replaced by waves of the familiar anger. It slipped over him like a well worn glove. White-hot waves of rage. The thief concluded his business and turned to walk out of the store. Feeling a bit cocky with the twin bags of cash in one hand, and a pistol in the other, he called out, "Adios, motherfu--" The profanity was cut short as the robber's wind was knocked from his body. As soon as he hit the floor, Greg let go of the robber's leg and climbed atop him, wrestling for the gun that the thief still held. The psycho was stronger than Greg had expected, probably due to whatever the guy was hopped up on. He fought like a savage beast, scratching and kicking with amazing power from someone who looked like he hadn't eaten in a few days. Greg was barely able to hold his own with the guy, let alone try to get the gun away from him. The punk's rank breath washed over Greg's face. Cursing his impulsiveness, Greg began to wonder if he'd made a bad mistake. The gun, held close between their bodies, went off with a muffled bang. Greg felt the wet blood against his chest. Not sure if he was shot, and not really caring, he kept struggling with the other man. It soon became apparent that it was the thief's blood which wet their chests. His arms grew weaker and he gasped an obscenity as they collapsed to his sides. Out of breath, Greg rolled over onto his back. His arms shook from the exertion of the struggle. The anger still coursed through him; his lips were skinned back from his teeth as he fought to control it, lock it back in its cage. He forced himself to his feet and saw what had happened. A small black hole was now in the thief's shirt, the area around it burned from the muzzle blast. Blood spread from the circle, soaking the area. His eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling. He was dead. The young clerk's voice was gone; he looked at Greg with an expression of mute gratitude. Greg grabbed his cigarettes and ran for the door and escape. He pulled over to the side of the road not far away, and sat in silence for a moment. "That was really dumb. Really, really, *dumb*," he chastised himself in a quavering voice. They were the only words he could think of to say. His hands shook on the steering wheel, the knuckles were white as chalk. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag. The nicotine did a lot to calm his nerves. After gaining some semblance of control over himself, he put the car in gear and got back on the road. ************* WEST WASHINGTON STATE, March 1995 Michael was sitting at his mahogany desk in his office when another Immortal's Quickening entered the range of his own. Television monitors tuned to stock market reports, computers, fax machines, printers, and a particularly loud accountant- looking type all attributed to the chaos in the room. Barnes was jacketless, his tie loose on his neck. His sleeves were rolled up. Greg threw the door open, creating a little chaos of his own by banging the heavy door into the wall. Barnes and his pet monkey looked up in surprise. The geek put down the printout he was studying, pushed his round glasses up his nose and sniffed at the unwelcome intrusion. Barnes pressed a button on his desk. The televisions, fax machines, and printers all were struck dead instantly at the touch of his finger. Monkeyface wasn't so easily silenced, unfortunately. "Mr. Barnes, we *need* to go over those--" Barnes waved him silent and gestured at the door. In an instant, the suited man was gone, giving Greg a wide berth as he saw the look on his face and the bit of blood on his shirt. Michael was up immediately, and with his Student, who was gaining support from his shoulder against the wall. "My God, Greg, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?" A brief look of anger crossed his face. "Was it..." Greg looked past Michael. "No, Duncan didn't attack me," he said. He made it over to a chair and slumped down into it. "I...interrupted a thief in a convenience store. I guess I attacked him, and the gun went off when we were fighting. He's dead," he whispered. Barnes leaned up against his desk. "Why?" he asked simply. "I don't know! One moment I was lying there on the floor, scared out of my mind, and the next I was just angry...so *pissed* at the guy who had the control over me," he said, more to himself than his Teacher. Barnes sighed. "*You* have to have control over *yourself*. Or you'll die. Control over others doesn't matter. There's no middle ground in this. The first time you're in a fight with another Immortal, and you lose control, you're dead." He looked at his Student. "Come on, we can go work it out in the practice room." He led Greg to a large room, not unlike Duncan's dojo. Weight training machines were around the edges of the room, and a large mat occupied the center. Racks of swords lined one wall. A door in the back led to an indoor pool. Michael selected two similar swords, longswords, for himself and his Student. Handing one to his Student, they went over to the mat. "Attack me," he said. "I want to see how much you've learned from MacLeod." Greg looked ashamed. "I've never touched a real sword before," he said. "Only practice ones." He looked at the mat. He felt cold steel kissing his neck. Barnes had his sword lined up for a death stroke. "Attack me!" he barked at Greg, like a centuries-old drill instructor. Greg brought his arm up and swung the heavy, unfamiliar sword in an arc at Michael. He easily blocked and kicked Greg in the chest, knocking him backwards, to the floor. "Get up!" he yelled in the other's ear. Winded, Greg got up and tried a different tactic. He feinted and got past Michael, slashing at his back. Barnes whirled around and intercepted the stroke on the pommel-guard of his own sword, shoving Greg back. "Better." Their swords clanged and flashed as they sparred. The sword was a good one, perfectly weighted in Greg's hand. It felt like an extension of himself. He swung, thrust, feinted and parried to the best of his ability, but it was obvious to him that Michael was barely using any of his skill to keep Greg at bay. They kept at it for a while, Michael slowly increasing his skill against his young opponent. Then, he almost carelessly knocked Greg's sword out of his hand. "What *has* MacLeod been teaching you?" he asked with a smile. Greg felt worlds better from the activity. "I guess he didn't teach me *that*," he said with a smile of his own. He bent down and picked up his sword. "I want to try again." They continued to spar, Barnes leveling off at the amount of skill he was using; which was but a fraction of his true ability. He was a good Teacher; obviously he'd spent most of his thousand years in top shape. He looked almost bored, while Greg was starting to breathe heavily after only ten minutes. Barnes stopped fighting suddenly. He laughed. "You fight like an old grandmother," he said in a condescending tone. "It's going to take me a decade to Teach you *anything*!" "So what! You're fifty times older than me," Greg said. Greg became serious. He felt good, like he had a new life, suddenly. His cynical side wondered what it was going to cost him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. Barnes silently took Greg's sword and deposited them both in the rack on the side wall. He came back to his Student and gazed at him coolly. Greg held his gaze. "There's a very strong possibility that I'll be the last one left," he said. "The time of the Gathering *is* close, make no mistake. And I don't want the Prize, whatever it may be. I've fought the evil ones for over a thousand years, doing my part to keep one of them from gaining it. But *I* don't want it." "I just want to rest," he said. "Let one of the others claim the Prize. I have to be sure the Immortal who gains it is worthy. That's where you come in, my friend. You're young, skilled, with immense potential. If I can mold you into a good one, a strong one, and we are the last two left; I want you to take my head." He seemed to gain a calmness from the statement. "I've tried before, obviously, with other young ones," he said. "Some had their own agendas. Some, simply went bad." He sighed. "I did my best, but still I stand alone." Greg suddenly realized what Michael was saying. "What makes you think I want it, either?" He thought of the stories and legends Duncan had told him about the Prize. To have all that power; the power of every Immortal who had ever lived... "You won't have a choice," Michael replied. "The Gathering has a power greater than any one of us. We have to fight." His eyes were far away. "But I will not. I've killed so many times through the centuries. There *has* to be an end to it." He blinked, returning to the present. "Come on, Michael. There are still countless Immortals around. What makes you think you'll even have to make that choice, any time soon?" Greg liked Michael, he felt like his son, almost. The son he'd never been to anyone, except a long string of foster parents. "You're young. I can *feel* the Gathering, coming, just over the horizon. It may happen ten years from now, or a hundred. That's not so very long, when you've lived for a millennium. Just long enough to pass on my skill and knowledge to you. But you're right, there is still time." He abruptly changed his tone of voice. "And there's no time like the present." He took a swing at Greg's head with his fist. Taken by surprise, Greg jumped back. Smiling, he circled Barnes on the mat. He charged forward and they grappled, each trying to gain a hold on the other. Strengthwise, they were about equal. In skill, there was no contest at all. Barnes turned, and threw his off-balanced Student over his shoulder. Greg landed with a thud, the thin mat doing almost nothing to break his fall. He got up, far from defeated. Drawing on the martial arts skills Duncan had begun to Teach him, he spun and threw a roundhouse kick at his Teacher's head. Barnes saw it coming, and smoothly dodged. Just as he had with the swordfighting, Barnes limited the amount of skill he used in the fight. He was toying with his Student, occasionally taking a blow on his arm or chest. He showed Greg a few moves of his own, learned centuries ago in the far East. He always pulled most of the strength out of his attacks. Greg knew it was hopeless, but he didn't care. Working out the tension by fighting seemed to be the best medicine. And he could feel himself learning. Out of breath, the burning pain in his chest felt good. He knew Barnes was playing with him, but he still wanted to give it a good try. Eventually, though, Michael knocked him down for the last time; Greg's aching body refused to take orders from his mind anymore. He laughed. A little winded himself, Barnes asked, "And what's so funny?" "You," he panted, "kicking my ass is not teaching me a thing, except how hard this damn mat is." Barnes helped Greg to his feet and he stood, unsteadily. "You're quite right," Michael said. "You needed it, though. The way to deal with all the negative emotions: aggression, fear, despair; is to work them out of yourself." It was true; Greg felt better than he had in a long time. Feeling a surge of gratefulness to his Teacher, he said, "I trust you have a better way to train me, however?" "Of course. `Kicking your arse' as you so eloquently put it, isn't going to make you learn anything. I'm going to start at the very beginning, teach you basic fighting strategy. In fact, our first few lessons won't even be in the training room; but in the classroom, so to speak." Barnes looked at the large spot of blood on Greg's chest, and the sweat staining his shirt. "For now, go shower and change your clothes. Take a break." He gestured at the door with his arm. Greg walked out of the training room, and headed for his own room. As he'd told Duncan, he had a lot of things to think over. One thing was sure, though. He picked up the antique- looking phone in his room and dialed Duncan's number. He lit a cigarette while he waited for an answer. "MacLeod." The voice sounded tired. "Duncan. It's me." Greg put his hand on his brow. A thin trail of smoke from the cigarette between his fingers rose toward the ceiling. "I'm listening." "I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it. I'm not coming back." Greg rubbed his forehead with his thumb. "I see," Duncan said. "Greg, there's no anger between us." "I'm glad for that. I'll give you a call tommorow, let you know how things are going." He put his hand on one of the twin buttons on the phone's cradle. "Fine. And in the meantime," Duncan said, "don't lose your head." It was his way of saying, `I care'. He hung up. Feeling emotionally drained, Greg put the phone back. He flicked on the TV and saw an exquisitely coiffed and made-up, yet vacant looking woman reading the news. "And in local news," the TV said, "Police are looking for a mystery man some are calling a hero, and some a vigilante. Earlier today--" Greg hurriedly flicked the TV to another channel and watched for a few minutes, but he was unable to become interested in the idiot sitcom. He pressed a button on the TV and blessed silence descended. [End part 5] +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ The Vampire Chronicles Home Page -- fanfics, gifs+sounds, Anne Rice stuff ***http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html*** +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ =========================================================================