Date: Fri, 24 Mar 1995 19:24:11 -0500 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: THOSE WHO WATCH - Part I THOSE WHO WATCH First things first. Thanks everyone for the positive and constructive comments about the admittedly ambitious "The Changeling." One thing I should mention. I messed up my math and had Rebecca meet her death eleven (!) years after her birth. Should have been twenty-one (her date of birth should have been 1165 _not_ 1175). Unfortunately my spellchecker doesn't check my math. Second, the opening scenes are based on an actual event. When I heard about the botched Brinx robbery in Harvard Square in late February, I thought it was a situation made for an Immortal to find himself in. It's not intended as a statement for or against the use of weaponry in stopping crime. Third, I've been leaning heavily towards the movie version of the Quickening (I.e., abilities inherited, able to speak to the slain Immortals). Jus' so you know. Forth, someone asked if I could mail parts I-VII of "The Changeling." I asked if she'd like them zipped and UUEncoded to take up less time/space, and have since lost her address. If you're out there, yes, I will mail them to you, just let me know what method you want to use. And finally, Fifth: There's spoilers for "They Also Serve," and "The Star-Crossed." Anyway, enough of my yappin' BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 He was face to face with him. The man who had been watching him for at least fifteen years. He didn't believe it when he heard it, but several things throughout his long life began to make sense. Most recently the deaths of Darius and Mei-Ling, and the information Connor MacLeod had aqired via his Clansman Duncan about an Immortal that was after his head. He thought back to the events that had led him to this moment. CAMBRIDGE MASS, UNITED STATES, FEBRUARY, 1995 "GET DOWN!" Patrick raced through Harvard square screaming the warning to the bystanders who would hopefully _not_ get in the way. The attempted bank robbery was foiled, but the perpetrators were attempting to escape. One shot fired. Then two. Patrick got up and ran in the opposite direction of the shots, towards the one potential robber who hadn't been felled by the action of the security guard, and who had the bag full of money in his possession. Another shot fired, this time from the man he was chasing. He felt the bullet pass through his coat and sweater, and bite into his shoulder, shattering the collarbone. He sloughed it off. It would heal itself soon enough. He had caught up with his opponent, and grabbed him with his one good arm. He slammed his head against the advertisement kiosk near Out of Town News and grabbed the sack of money. At that moment, a police officer took over and handcuffed the man. The security guard had caught up by that time and took the money from Patrick. "I can't say how grateful I am that you got involved, but next time, stay out of the line of fire," he said. "I'll remember," Patrick said. He could feel the bone knitting itself. "Here," the guard said. "Let's have a look at that." "It's nothing. Just a scratch." But the guard removed Patrick's coat and tore open his sweater. "You're right," he said, examining his rapidly healing wound. "Just a graze. Must've stung, though. And there's enough blood for there to have been a gunshot wound full in your shoulder." "Yeah," Patrick said, "I bleed easily." "And this just in. Shots were fired in the middle of a Harvard Square lunch hour today as three would-be bank robbers had their job foiled by the Brinx security guard on the job, and an ordinary citizen. He had been identified as Patrick O'Brien, a professor at Harvard University, currently on sabbatical. Details are sketchy at this moment, but aside from gunshot wounds sustained by two of the three suspects and a minor wound sustained by O'Brien, no one was hurt. We'll keep you updated on this very interesting story." "Understand, Doctor O'Brien, that this is purely routine. _You_ haven't committed a crime, but expect the media to accuse you of one," the Cambridge detective said. Patrick nodded. "Now, for the record, state your name and address." "Patrick O'Brien, 148 Beacon Street, Boston." "Date and place of birth?" "County Cork, Ireland, 1956. I emigrated to the United States in 1975. I attended Harvard from 1975 to 1985 working on my doctorate." "Now what happened?" "I was in Harvard square with two friends. Shots were fired, I told people to get down. I caught up with the perpetrator and placed him under what I guess would be called a citizen's arrest. End of story." "And why did you go after him instead of seeking safety?" "Because sometimes I react differently from most people. _And_ because I have money in that bank." The inspector laughed and said, "Officially, I have to tell you _not_ to get involved in police business, or something that's in the jurisdiction of the Brinx company. Unofficially, I'd like to thank you for getting involved. No telling how far he would have gotten with that money if you hadn't caught him." He extended his hand to Patrick, who took it. "When asked why he had gotten involved in the apprehension of the would-be bank robbers, Dr. O'Brien simply said that he had money in that bank. Cambridge police and Brinx personnel, while thanking O'Brien for his quick reactions were quick to warn the common citizen to not get involved in a crime scene. And Dr. O'Brien himself told the press that he was lucky. 'It could have turned out very different for me,' he said." "I could have taken one in the heart," Patrick said, "and then have revived. How could I have explained _that_. We would have had to leave the country." "I know," Rebecca said. "But it didn't happen that way. Did Ramirez tell you..." "That we were given extraordinary life-force for a reason? Yes. Many times. He also said that none of us knew, or would ever know just what that reason was." "Maybe this is one of the reasons. To protect mortals, and to assist them whenever necessary. How is this different from being in battle, getting killed, and reviving?" "On the battlefield, a stunned soldier can be easily mistaken for a dead one. I've seen men take a shock in battle and walk away from it." "Don't, Patrick." "Don't what?" "Brood. I've known you too long, and I know when you're about to brood." They were walking through the Boston Common hand-in-hand, the snow melting all around them. The sounds of a saxophone drifted through the crisp unseasonably warm sunshine. Patrick smiled and said, "He's back." "Who?" "Bernard. I don't know his last name, but he's been here for at least fifteen years. Sometimes he goes off _somewhere_. I don't know where. He was gone for the week that you moved in." They walked down the path towards a parkbench that faced Beacon street and their townhouse. A short, round black man was sitting on the bench with a saxophone. He was dressed in an old ski jacket, jeans, a flannel shirt and sunglasses. His hair was cut short, close to the scalp, and was grey. Patrick tossed several bills into his saxophone case and said, "Afternoon, Bernard." "Ah!" Bernard said in a gravely voice. "Afternoon, Patrick. Heard on the radio on my way over that there was some action in Harvard Square. You Ok?" "Yeah. It wasn't a big deal, really. I just did what had to be done. Bernard, I'd like you to meet Rebecca DeJeniere. She's moved in with Nancy and I." Bernard stood, took Rebecca's hand and kissed it. "Charmed, as always, by the sight of a beautiful lady." Rebecca smiled. Then her expression changed to one of surprise. "You're not blind?" she said. Patrick and Bernard both laughed and Rebecca blushed. Bernard said, "Not me, no. But you'd be surprised at how many people _assume_ that I am, just because I wear sunglasses and play a sax on a parkbench." "Where have you been, Bernard?" Patrick said. "One of my regulars stopped by and said he had a friend who owned a recording studio over in Somervlle. In exchange for playing on _his_ band's new tape, and another project that he's working on, and a percentage of sales, he'd get me to record some of my standards accompanied by some guitar and keyboards," he picked a tape up, handed it to Patrick, and said, "Have one." "How much?" "For you, free. You always line my saxcase generously." With that he placed the sax to his mouth and began playing. Patrick and Rebecca stayed there listening to him for a long while. "I heard the news," Nancy said. Patrick hung his coat up and said, "Everyone's heard the news. Even _Bernard's_ heard the news." "He seemed rather upset at himself," the first Watcher said. "Why?" the second said. "I've watched him for thirty-five years and two identities now. He doesn't like having to start a new life. And _I_ certainly hope he doesn't have to. I don't want to have to start a new life either." "You could request re-assignment." The first Watcher shook his head and said, "No. Thirty-five years of my life is a long time. If I request re-assignment, it will be retirement. I'm not as young as I used to be. Oh, by the way," he handed a small plastic box to the second Watcher, "have a tape." "Patrick," Rebecca said after they had finished dinner and had settled down in the living room. "Did you ever know Darius?" "Unfortunately," Patrick said as he placed Bernard's tape in the stereo, "I only met him once. But I was planning on getting to know him better next time I went to Paris." "Darius is dead," Rebecca said. "What? Why did he leave Holy Ground?" "He didn't." Patrick got up and went over to the window, contemplating the consequences of Darius' death, and the Immortal who would dare kill him on Holy Ground. "Who's Darius?" Nancy said. Rebecca told her the story of the Immortal general, one of the most violent and powerful of the Immortals, who took the head of an Immortal priest. The priest's Quickening overwhelmed his violent nature, and Darius had spent the remainder of his life as a monk on Holy Ground. And someone killed him there. Patrick turned back to Rebecca and Nancy and said, "Who's the Immortal who killed him? And why would they _dare_ kill him on Holy Ground?" Rebecca sighed and said, "He was killed by mortals." "WHAT? Why didn't you tell me this when you got here?" "Because of Riley. This is one of the reasons I came, and I was going to tell you immediately. But then I saw Riley, and..." Patrick sat back down and took Rebecca's hand. "I understand," he said. "Now begin at the beginning." The second Watcher glanced at the tape for a second before speaking. Then he said, "We're in trouble." "We are?" the first said. "Yes. Rebecca DeJeniere knows about us. She's spent the last two years, ever since the death of Darius, uncovering us. She _almost_ found me. And if she knows, then O'Brien now probably knows. Do you think O'Brien will figure out that it's you who's watching him? "O'Brien's no fool. He's extremely intelligent and perceptive. He'll figure it out, but I'm _not_ requesting re-assignment." "I'm leaving on the next plane. Watch yourself." The first watcher smiled and said, "And him." "This group of mortals hate and fear us. They consider us an abomination. So they trap us and take our heads. And the Quickening is lost." "How do they know about us though?" Rebecca paused for a long time. Then she said, "They call themselves the Hunters. They're a splinter group of an organization called... the Watchers." "And... this group of Watchers... they watch... who?" Bernard's saxophone played a painfully beautiful passage, and Rebecca said, "Us." Patrick placed his hands on the sides of his head and said, "Why?" "I don't know. I don't know who they are, or where they are, or how they watch, but I _do_ know they're there." "How did you find this out?" "Through pieces of information. I had met up with Fitzcairn a year and a half ago, right after Darius was killed. He told me what had happened to Darius, though he only told me about the Hunters. I don't know if he knew about the Watchers. And I had found out that Mei-Ling's head had been taken by a nearly-cub Immortal who had taken up residence with a Watcher. You knew Mei-Ling, didn't you?" "Yes," Patrick said. "We were close friends when I was in China. She taught me many of the martial arts forms I use. I knew when she had died, and would have killed Christian myself had not Duncan MacLeod gotten to him first." Rebecca nodded and continued. "I've been piecing this together," she said, "for a year and a half, and finally had enough information to tell you, and any other friend I came across. Mei-Ling's death clinched it for me, and I came here as soon as that happened." Nancy was silent, not knowing what to think. It was obvious that Patrick himself was out of his depth. But Patrick stood and walked downstairs. Nancy and Rebecca remained silent. When Patrick returned, he had a sheet of paper in his hand. It was a fax sheet. He handed it to Rebecca and said, "This makes sense now." Rebecca read it. It said: "For the past century, RUPERT HIGHSMITH has tended to follow his targets and get to know their lifestyles and use it against them. His favorite recent strategy consists of stalking the target's mortal lover to the point of terrorism thus forcing the target to come to him. He takes enjoyment out of terrorizing the innocent mortals and it has seemed that the Quickening gained from the enraged Immortal is merely a bonus to him. He has never actually physically harmed a mortal lover." "Where did you get this?" she said. "From Duncan MacLeod, via Connor. This Highsmith was after me late last year. I had wondered where Duncan had gotten it, but Connor wouldn't tell me. Next time I see him, he's in for a surprise for not telling me." "Patrick, I think there's far more here than we know. We don't know _why_ the Watchers are watching us, or why the Hunters began killing us. Perhaps you should find out _why_ he didn't tell you before you confront him." "You're right," he said. "I'll hold my tounge." And from the stereo, Bernard's sax played another beautifully sad passage. "What did you do when he found out, Dawson?" the Watcher said. Dawson's voice came over the phone line. He said, "I told him. We've since become friends, rules be damned. Why? Do you think he's suspicious?" "Rebecca DeJeniere found out about us because of the Hunters' murder of Darius. She pieced together disparate bits of information and uncovered us. I'm sure she's told O'Brien." "You could request re-assignment." "I don't want to do that. Thirty five years... and I'm not a young man anymore." "I know. I've been watching MacLeod for fifteen years. And you're one of our most successful Watchers. Not many have watched a single Immortal as long as you have. So you have two choices. If O'Brien confronts you, you can deny it, or you can tell him. How much you tell him depends on how much he and Rebecca have already figured out. I broke the rules for him once, without even knowing it. I was a bit mad, but then we had the business with Ian, Rita, and Michael Christian. Anyway, O'Brien and Rebecca are both intelligent." "I'm sure they'll figure me out." "And there's nothing you can do about it if you're not going to request re-assignment." "I could retire. I've been thinking that as well. I'm sixty-eight years old, Joe. I can't do this forever. _I'm_ not Immortal." "Yeah. I know. Look, it's been quiet around here since MacLeod left for Paris. Why don't I come out there for a few days and we can talk." "That'd mean a lot to me, Joe. There's really no one, not even a Watcher, who knows what I'm going through." "Good. Then you can return the favor someday. Once this is all over, come out to Seattle and stop by the bar We can jam a little blues. Or get O'Brien to come over here once MacLeod comes back." "Thanks, Joe. I will." QUINCY/WALISTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 Watchers. The very implication shook Patrick down to the very foundation of his soul, and the souls of all those who's Quickening he possessed. At times like this, he wished he was Connor, and in possession of Ramirez's Quickening. As it was, he did consider himself lucky to have possession of something almost as good, and equally as precious. Aoife's Quickening. Aoife. She was his first encounter with a religion besides Christianity that did not result in fear and hatred. A priestess in the old Pagan religion that was still common in Ireland at the time of his first death in the early 1180's. Despite the best efforts of the Christian hierarchy, Patrick had been able to open his mind to Aoife's faith, of the Creator as a Mother, and of the oneness of all things (which was rather like some of the more mystical properties of the Quickening). And through the opening of his mind, he had grown extremely close to Aoife, until she had become his Teacher in matters Spiritual as Ramirez had become his Teacher in matters Immortal. Until the summer she had left the Holy Ground of her faith to be among the world for a time, and to visit Patrick on the other side of the island. She had ran across an unethical Immortal, who had taken her head. He had left with Ramirez, and, when they had found her killer, had insisted on taking the man on himself. It was his first kill. And here he was, walking along a deserted Waliston Beach, alone. The weather had turned cold again, and the beach was covered with snow and sand. He stood at the water's edge and concentrated on that familiar string of energy within him that was uniquely Aoife's. He sat, unaware of the chill of the sand against the seat of his pants, and stared at the horizon. And as he had done many times before, he brought her consciousness to nearly equal status to his own. *You're troubled, O'Braoin,* came her voice inside of his own head. *Aye,* his thoughts, for some reason whenever he communicated with her Quickening, took on the Irish brogue of his early life. *Tell me what it is, and mayhaps we can solve it, as we've done many times these past centuries.* Patrick told her everything that Rebecca had told him, finishing with, *And there's probably someone Watching me.* *And you're suprised?* *Why shouldn't I be?* *As secretive as we like to think we are, we're not exactly low-profile beings. We leave a trail of headless corpses through the centuries, and wonder why the lawmen of the land are suspicious of us. _I'm_ surprised that I didn't discover them while I was alive. If I hadn't become a Priestess, I probably would have.* *Wise words as always, Teacher, but it doesn't help my feelings of uneasiness. What are their purpose? Rebecca already told me that a 'splinter group' wanted nothing but to kill us. How do I know that they're not _all_ out to kill us?* *You don't. And you also don't know that every Immortal you meet _isn't_ after your head.* *I know.* *O'Braoin, if you're looking for approval from _me_, you're not going to get it. Very rarely do Immortals get killed by mortals. All I can say is mayhaps 'tis best to leave well enough alone.* Patrick stared at the sea, silent. *You intend on finding this Watcher of yours, don't you?* Aoife said. *Yes.* The Quickening of Aoife made a "sound" remarkably like a sigh of resignation. *Very well,* she said and sank back into non-existance. BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 The Watcher stood in the Boston Common across the street from O'Brien's townhouse. He had decided to continue until he was found out. And if he was found out, he would, like Joe Dawson, offer his friendship against the rules. Thirty-five years was a long time to just give up. If Patrick would not take it, he would retire. He sat on his usual bench, took out his prized saxophone, as much a part of him as Immortals' swords were part of them, and began playing a sweet blues melody. Patrick parked his car in the garage he rented a space in and walked across the common. He heard Bernard's sax far sooner than he saw the street musician, as was usually the case. He was playing a sad passage as Patrick approached. Patrick tossed several bills into the case and sat next to him. Bernard stopped playing and stared at the Immortal, not sure of what would happen, but eager to play it out and get it over with. Patrick spoke. He said, "Bernard, what do you do when you find out something that shakes you down to your soul?" Slightly nervous, Bernard answered. "Usually," he said, "I play my sax. Makes me feel better. And it's cheaper than therapy." Patrick laughed and said, "Usually I go into the gym I have in my basement and either do some martial arts exercises, or take out a sword and hack the shit out of a practice dummy." "And does that make you feel better?" "Sometimes." "So why don't you go and hack the shit out of a practice dummy right now?" But Patrick shook his head and said, "I don't think that would work. Or at least I'll have to use so many dummies that it _won't_ be cheaper than therapy." This time it was Bernard's turn to laugh. He said, "It would seem that we have similar dilemmas. I've also found out something that's shaken my soul, and my sax ain't making me feel better." Taking a risk, he said, "Wanna talk about it?" Patrick said, "No, Bernard. You're a great listener, and I love to talk to you, but you won't understand this. Thanks for the offer." With that, Patrick got up and walked towards the townhouse. An hour later, another Watcher walked over to the park bench and sat. Leaning on his cane, he said, "Anything happen yet?" "Not yet," the first Watcher said. "We talked, but I don't think he suspects yet." "Come on. Let's get a drink." "I can't, not yet. Rush hour's an hour away, and I have to be here. That's when I make most of my money. I'll meet you at your hotel at six thirty." "It doesn't _have_ to be someone I know," Patrick said to Nancy and Rebecca. "It probably isn't." "But that's the easiest place to start," Nancy said. "Ok," Patrick said as he and Rebecca sat in the kitchen. It was Nancy's turn to make dinner, and she was hovering around the stove preparing stir-fried chicken. "Let's eliminate the obvious ones." "The two of us," Nancy said. "It probably wouldn't be a colleague at Harvard," Rebecca said. "Or my lawyer, accountant, or stock broker," Patrick said. He picked Bernard's tape off of the table and said, "And I think we can safely rule out..." Rebecca and Nancy looked at Patrick as he fell silent. "Pat?" Nancy said. "Holy shit." he whispered. He stood, rushed into the closet, grabbed his overcoat and sword, and raced out of the townhouse. <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords Mike Breen e-mail with comments, n' stuff to mikester@bix.com. They're greatly appreciated! =========================================================================