Date: Tue, 9 Jan 1996 13:11:15 EST Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Mortality Rate, Part 1/? Warning: this story is likely to come a bit slowly, because 1) it's challenging to write, 2) it seems to want a leisurely pace, and 3) I'm very busy now. I have three installments written so far, and I estimate the length will be about ten (but you know how good my estimates have ben so far). I wouldn't ordinarily start posting a story with so little done, but I want to get this one started before the next batch of episodes airs, because it occurs shortly after "Chivalry". So, with apologies to those who save parts before reading, and thanks to those who spur me on after each installment. . . Mortality Rate, Part 1 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu When I was younger, people used to tell me I attracted trouble. No, actually, they used to say I made trouble, or even that I _was_ trouble. And I believed them. Why wouldn't I? I sure fit the part; I ran away from foster homes, I bounced in and out of juvie detention, I dropped out of school, and after a while I ended up hawking stolen motorcycle parts and related merchandise. But one man saw the potential inside me. He knew what I could become, and he did his best to make sure I turned out right. I owe a lot to Duncan MacLeod, and I'm never going to forget what he taught me. But sometimes I think, deep down inside, I'm still that same troublemaking kid. Or maybe I'm a jinx. I sure do seem to draw some kind of bad luck. Take what happened last week at Joe's. I wasn't trying to make any trouble. Actually, I was hoping to head it off. I was worried about Mac; he'd been acting kinda strange and preoccupied lately. I couldn't tell what was wrong, even though I'm closer to him than anyone else, right now anyway. I thought maybe Joe would have an idea -- after all, he's made a life's work out of studying Mac. But it was a tricky business, talking to Joe about Mac. They'd been on the outs lately, and neither of them would tell me why. It had something to do with the death of a friend of ours. I knew they had at least started talking to each other again, but I wasn't sure how far I could push. So I went to Joe's bar in the afternoon, when there wouldn't be any customers there. If I was lucky, I'd find him alone and have a chance to talk in private. I wasn't lucky. I walked in, and there were a bunch of people at one of the tables, playing cards. They looked up when I came in, then looked away real quick. I'd never seen three of them before; the fourth sometimes tended bar for Joe. "Hi, Richie!" Joe got up and smiled at me. He always looks at me like a real person, without that fear in the back of his eyes. I'm not sure he even realizes the fear is there, for the other ones. "Can I get you anything?" "Just coffee's fine, thanks," I said. There was a pot on the bar, and I poured myself a cup. I was disappointed that he wasn't alone, so I said a little nastily, "They're getting better." "Who?" "Them." I jerked my head at the crowded table. "They almost manage to act like I'm an ordinary guy. If I didn't know they were Watchers, I'd never suspect them." Joe twisted his head around to look toward his friends, and frowned. "You should run a Watcher training school. Get them used to being around us tame, dependable Immortals before you send them out into the real world." I took a too-hot swallow of coffee. "Or is that what you're doing already?" "Richie," Joe protested with his forehead wrinkling unhappily, "it isn't like that. It just takes them a while to get used to the idea, that's all." "Yeah, sure." I didn't believe it for a second, but there was no sense punishing Joe about it. "Sorry, Joe. I guess I'm just . . . kinda worried about something. Look, could I talk to you?" "Sure thing, Rich." He adjusted his cane and tripoded himself for a long conversation. "Fire away." "Uh --" I glanced at the others. "Privately?" Before Joe could reply, I heard the door to the bar open behind me, and a sort of stunned look came over his face. I turned around. It was a woman in her thirties, pretty but not exceptional. She wore an expensive, tailored business suit, but she didn't have that hard look in her eyes like most successful corporate women -- or men, for that matter. She checked out the bar a little shyly, as out of place as a china doll in a bull's pen. When she saw Joe looking around my shoulder, her face lit up. "Hello, Joe," she said, and then started looking doubtful again. "Do you remember me?" "Sure!" Joe gasped. "Of course I remember you, Barbara. Um, Richie Ryan, this is Barbara Wylie." She gave me a polite smile and stuck out her hand, but then her eyes slid right back to Joe. Apparently she didn't know what I was, or didn't care. I couldn't get a clear look at her left wrist. "I'm a little surprised, that's all," Joe said, starting to recover. "I didn't expect to see you around here. Don't you have a lot to keep you busy these days?" She wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, I got sick of it all, so I thought I'd come by and see you." When she started to relax, she looked less like an art collector's prize exhibit and more like a person. "I wasn't sure if you'd be open at this time." She glanced at the table of people pretending not to watch us. "My door's always unlocked for a friend," Joe told her. "Listen, can I get you a drink or anything? I was just talking to Richie here, but if you can wait a few minutes . . . " "I just came to hang out, Joe. It's no big deal." She waved at the Watchers. "I'll watch the card game for a while." "So, Richie, what were you saying?" Joe asked. "Oh, well, it can wait till another time, I guess. Looks like you're pretty busy here just now." He looked over his shoulder, obviously reluctant to abandon his friends -- friend -- but not wanting to push me away. "If it's something important . . . " he began. "No, it's probably nothing. I'll, uh, see you tomorrow, Joe." I finished the last of my coffee and put it down, and just then the Buzz started and dragged my head around toward the door. All my muscles bunched up. "Geeze, what is this place? Grand Central?" "Everybody comes to Joe's," Joe said. "Who is it?" That was a silly question, and Joe probably knew it. The Buzz feels different for different Immortals, depending partly on how old and strong they are and how many heads they've taken -- but it also depends on the weather, where you're standing, what mood the other guy's in, which side of the bed you got up on this morning, and probably sunspots, for all I know. Most of the time when I come to Mac's place, he's all calm and relaxed like he knew it was me, but I've walked in a few times and found him waiting with a sword. And if he can't tell who's coming after four hundred years, you can bet I wouldn't have a clue. "How would I know?" I said. "Probably Mac." We waited, and no one came in. I glanced at the Watchers, and two of them quickly stopped looking at the door. "You sure?" Joe asked, hitching his cane up on his elbow. "Of course I'm sure," I snapped. "What's he doing, standing around outside having a smoke or something?" I headed for the door. Halfway there, I could tell something was wrong. Two steps later, my legs turned to water and I crashed into one of the bar stools. It was like my own neck had been sliced. "Oh, shit." I didn't have to be a genius to guess what was coming. I wanted to run outside and see who it was -- who had just died -- but all I could do was wait for the inevitable. Joe's cane thumped the floor behind me. "Richie?" A silvery cloud seeped under the doorway and sent out little tentacles toward me. They climbed up my hand where I was holding myself off the floor, and burned their way into my heart. I heard Joe snap, "Barbara, get down! Get under a table!" And then the Quickening came. It's one thing when you're expecting it, but this was like -- well, like getting hit by lightning. I didn't want it, I didn't ask for it, I wasn't ready for it. I didn't even know who the hell I was absorbing. But I didn't get a choice. All I could do was throw my arms out and scream. Afterward, I grayed out for a few minutes. By the time I cared about anything again, Joe's friend Barbara was bending over me. "Are you okay?" she asked. "That looked . . . really painful." I turned my head. The bar hadn't fared too well; there was glass scattered around from shattered lights, and I could smell the broken bottles on the far side of the bar. One of the spotlights had come loose from its brackets on the ceiling and was swinging in a lazy circle by its cord, dribbling glass shards and wire entrails onto the floor. The Watchers were making a beeline for the door, with Joe at the back of the line. I rolled over and tried to push myself to my feet. "Watch out, there's glass," the woman said. Too late, I'd already cut myself. I blinked at the blood on my hand, wiped it against my pants, and stood up. The woman held my elbow to support me, and for just a moment I could see both her wrists clearly -- no tattoo. So that was why she was worried about me. I pushed her away and staggered to the doorway. One of the swing doors hung lopsided from a broken hinge. Outside, on the loading dock, the Watchers had formed a half-circle, staring down and inward. When I first saw the body, I thought it was just a kid. Small, with jeans and a bright red sweater. The head had rolled over into a corner, beneath the highest crimson splashes on the concrete wall. Upside down, lifeless, twisted with fear, the face was nothing you would recognize. It wasn't until I looked at the body again and saw the shape of it under the sweater, and realized that the sweater was really yellow under the blood, with little pink flowers knitted in -- then I knew it was a woman. =========================================================================