Date: Sat, 25 Mar 1995 08:09:04 -0500 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: THOSE WHO WATCH - Part II He barely had time to hide his sword before he hit the city streets. The sun was setting as he ran across Beacon Street, much to the annoyance of the rush hour drivers, and ran into the common. He approached Bernard's bench and stood there panting, much like a wolf after the hunt was over, waiting. Waiting for the man to stop playing. "You know," he said when Bernard stopped. "You know all about me." "How did you figure out it was me?" That proved it. He was face to face with him. The man who had been watching him for at least fifteen years. "You bastard. WHY?!" Bernard looked at Patrick and for the first time in thirty-five years, actually _feared_ the man. He had known all along that Immortals kill, that Patrick was a _trained_ killer, not only with a sword, but with the most deadly of weapons, his bare hands. And yet, knowing what he was capable of, especially when enraged, had never frightened him. Until that rage was directed at him. Very calmly so as not to betray his fear, Bernard said, "We observe and record. We _never_ interfere." "Except in instances like Darius or Mei-Ling." "That was a cheap shot, Irelander," Bernard stood and looked up at Patrick. "_I_ wasn't the one who killed Darius. _I_ wasn't the one who set up Mei-Ling. You have Rules, well so do we. You can't fight on Holy Ground, we can't interfere. Interfering in the natural course of the Gathering _is_ like fighting on Holy Ground is to you. Only those who were never meant to be Watchers ever dare to interfere. We record your history so that your stories can be told after the Gathering. Nothing more, nothing less." "It still remains that because of YOU people Darius and Mei-Ling are dead." "I know," Bernard said, "and nothing we can do can bring them back. But understand, Patrick, that _we_ took care of our dissidents. Horton, the Watcher who killed Darius... his own brother-in-law tried to kill him, and would have succeeded if Horton hadn't worn a bullet-proof vest. When Christian killed Mei-Ling and it was found out she had been set up, _we_ took steps to make sure his next target, Duncan MacLeod, was properly prepared, since he had also been set up. We clean up our mistakes." Patrick said nothing. "Look," Bernard said, "I like to think that we've become friends these past years. You've always admired my playing. _That_ hasn't changed. The fact that I knew about your Immortality when you take such pains to disguise it shouldn't have anything to do with our non 'professional' relationship. But nothing I can say proves anything of what I'm saying to you, I know. Perhaps if I show you." Bernard scribbled an address on a slip of paper. "Come to this address at seven thirty tonight. I'll meet you there." "And how do I know this isn't a set-up?" "How long have we known eachother, Irelander?" "You've been playing here for fifteen years." "And I'm now sixty-eight years old. Would I spend fifteen years of my life waiting for the 'right moment?' If I was setting you up, I'd've done it _long_ ago." What the hell am I doing here? Patrick thought as he climbed the stairs of the Central Square building that was the address Bernard had given him. What am I doing here? Finding out about those who Watch, he answered himself. He knocked on the door and Bernard answered it. In a dangerously silly moment, Patrick realized that before this moment, he had never seen the man without his sunglasses on. He nearly burst out laughing. "Come on in," Bernard said. Patrick entered the small room, decorated posters of Jazz and Blues horn players and jammed with dozens of books a computer, and a small, cluttered desk. "Welcome to my office," Bernard said. He pointed to one poster and said, "Dizzy. The best ever." Patrick was silent. "Well Christ, I'm just trying to make conversation!" "Let's just get this over with, Bernard." Bernard said, "Fine," and gestured Patrick towards a chair. Patrick sat. "All I am is your biographer," Bernard said, as he shuffled around his bookshelf and pulled out several small volumes. "These are the O'Brien chronicle. Your life story from the time we discovered you in 1186, when you took your first head. It's complete except for a long gap between 1534 and 1559." Interested now, despite himself, Patrick leaned forward and said, "That's when I was in China." "We know that now. There were stories about an Immortal Chinaman named Hejan Sheng, and once our people found him, he turned out to not be a Chinaman at all, but rather you." "That's not entirely true," Patrick said. "You must have heard the term 'gone native?'" Bernard nodded. "That's what happened to me. I became totally immersed in the Chinese culture at the time. I even almost _looked_ Chinese. How do you think I was able to live among both the Chinese _and_ the Japanese in an era when Westerners were considered a desiese to be eradicated?" Bernard nodded and said, "It's _all_ here." Patrick looked at the cover of the first volume. "What's that?" he said, pointing to the symbol on the cover. Bernard was momentarily taken aback by the one question that he hoped he wouldn't have to answer. He said, "It's the Seal of the Watchers." He turned his right hand so that the palm was facing up, and pulled up his sleeve, revealing a smaller duplicate of the Seal, nearly hidden in his dark black skin. "It's how we can be identified." Patrick opened the cover and looked at the handwritten volume. Gaelic! He hadn't seen Gaelic for centuries. He read the opening, and was transported back to the beginning of his life. IRELAND, COUNTY CORK, SEPTEMBER 1186 "I am Samuel Desmond of England." Ramirez told Desmond his current name, and Patrick paused before using the pronunciation Aoife had used, "Patrick O'Braoin of County Cork." "Have you come for me?" Desmond said. "That depends on you." Ramirez said. "Have you ever met a Priestess of the Old Faith named Aoife?" Desmond turned white, but did not answer. "Thank you," Ramirez said, "that's all we needed to know. We _have_ come for you, then." Patrick said, "Please, Brother. _Let_ me face him." Ramirez saw the pleading in his Student's eyes. He was ready, no doubt about that, and even though he had not known Aoife long, he owed her perhaps more than Ramirez ever did. "Very well," he said, "But _my_ blade must make the Kill. Use it well." He handed Patrick his samurai. Wide-eyed, Patrick took it from him and stood face to face with Desmond. Desmond attacked, and Patrick blocked it with skill. He had not realized just how he had absorbed Ramirez's training until that moment. And he _knew_ he would win. Their blades a blur of steel, Patrick skillfully blocked every attack Desmond used. Only once did Ramirez have any doubts about who would be the victor. That was when Patrick briefly let his guard down, and Desmond sliced his side. But instead of defeating Patrick, it served to focus him even more. Patrick took the offensive then, and battered Desmond's blade. He disarmed him and sank Ramirez's blade deep into his gut. Desmond screamed in pain and sank to his knees. "Finish it," he said. Patrick lifted Ramirez's blade high over his head and said, "There can be only One." He brought the blade down towards Desmond's neck, severing the head from the body. He turned towards Ramirez, triumphant, and grinning. But then he noticed the storm that he was rapidly becoming the focal point of. He turned towards Desmond's body, and saw that it glowed, just like Visillius' had when Ramirez killed him five summers before. And that's when the Quickening exploded from Desmond's body. Patrick screamed in pain or pleasure, he did not know which. He sank to his knees and dropped Ramirez's blade. And that's when the memories began flooding his brain. Memories of an Englishman who wanted nothing but the Quickening of others. A lonely life of centuries spent wandering Europe seeking only Immortals' heads. And other memories as well. Memories of the Immortal Priestess living in peace for nearly a millennium, being taught and loved. Teaching and loving. And finally meeting her death while on her way to visit her oldest and newest friends. And memories of all the others that Desmond had killed, all the ones that they killed, and on and on. So many that they threatened to engulf his identity... CAMBRIDGE, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 He picked up another volume, this one written in Middle English and opened to a random page... ENGLAND, NEAR OXFORD, 1348 "Patrick? Patrick listen to me!" Ramirez said. "Patrick O'Brien of County Cork LISTEN TO ME!" Patrick looked up at his old teacher and friend, too worn with grief and too stunned by the death, the Black Death, to remember, or even care from which direction Ramirez came from or how long they had been traveling together. All he could see, whenever he closed his eyes was the horrible specter of entire villages wiped out in days. Of Katherine, his wife, suffering tremendously. Of bodies untended, lying in the streets. And all the while, himself, untouched by the horrible disease. Him, standing alone amongst the dead. Immortal. Unchanging Horribly alive. Forever. Patrick wept again for all the dead, but especially for Katherine. Simple, beautiful Katherine who could see the beauty in the sunrise or in a beehive. Who knew the joys of something as tedious as milking a cow or as magnificent as the miracle of life. Katherine, who wanted so much to see Oxford and London in her lifetime, but knew that she would probably never leave the village. Gone. Forever. Ramirez grabbed Patrick's face between his hands and said, "Brother, LISTEN to me! You can't keep this from happening! You can't. All you can do is remember them." Something in that phrase clicked in Patrick's mind. It pulled him out of the mire of dispair and enabled him to _see_ his mentor. Really see him. The look of concern on Ramirez's face was enough to frighten him out of his depression. If his Mentor was _that_ concerned for him, he must be in a great state indeed. Ramirez went on, "You can't keep them from dying. And maybe that's what we're _really_ here for. Maybe the Higher Power put us here to remember them, always. And maybe _that_ is the Prize. Remembrance..." CAMBRIDGE, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 At random, he choose another volume, and again at random, opened to a page. This one was written in Chinese... CHINA, SEPTEMBER 1580 Hejan Sheng and Mei-Ling sat at the fire, Sheng staring into it. The long day's training with Mei-Ling had been fruitful, but even twenty years afterwards, he was still haunted by Yi's death. And that was why he was staring into the fire. "I said, where were you before you found me?" Sheng looked up at Mei-Ling, and scratched his long braided mustache. "I worked for a trader when I arrived here, and married his daughter. We were so happy until an evil Immortal captured her to get to me. She was held captive for four days before I found her. I took his head, but she was never the same after that. She died a few years later." "I'm so sorry." "No need to be. That was twenty years ago, and yet... I _still_ suffer sleepless nights from it. She never told me what had happened, but I knew." "From his Quickening." "Yes." They were silent for a time after that, until Mei-Ling broke it and said, "And before that? Before you came to China?" "Hmm? No place special." With that Mei-Ling laughed and said, "You amaze me, Sheng. You are obviously a European, yet you're more Chinese than many people I know." Sheng smiled at that and said, "Maybe it's because I'm European that I've taken to this culture so. But I _am_ Immortal, and every Immortal has time to immerse themselves in as many cultures as possible..." CAMBRIDGE, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 Next he choose the last volume in the pile. It was written on what was obviously a typewriter at first, and switched to computer printouts later on. BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1975 "Name?" Patrick looked at the immigration official. He couldn't believe that it was _finally_ his turn, after waiting for nearly an hour at the Kennedy Federal Building in a line marked "green cards, this way" in English and Spanish. He was having a hard time covering his annoyance. Instead of beginning his new life as an American Citizen, he had to be poetic, and come over from Ireland as an _Irish_ Citizen. So here he was, a man who had fought in the bloody American _Revolution_, for ghods' sake, waiting in line for a visa. "Name?" the young woman behind the counter said again. "Oh," Patrick said, laying the brogue on thick. "I'm sorry, lass. Um, Patrick O'Brien." "And how long are you planning on staying?" "At least long enough to get a degree. Maybe become a citizen." And so it went back and forth, until the immigration clerk said, "Sign here." "That's it?" "That's it." Patrick walked out of the Federal Building, to claim his possessions from his "Uncle" Sean O'Brien, his last identity here. So much had changed in the fifteen years since he was last in Boston, yet, it was still strangely the same. Over that way was the State House and the Old South Meeting House. Across the street was Fannuel Hall, down towards the North End was the Old North Church, and over the Charlestown Bridge was the Hill and the Monument. Things that were built before he had even _seen_ Boston, or commemorating events that he took part in. There were a lot of ghosts for him in this city. And yet, it was the one place, more so than either Ireland or China, where he felt at home... CAMBRIDGE, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 Patrick turned the page... BOSTON MA, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 When he faced Highsmith again, Patrick was a renewed man. His strength flowed from his body down into his sword. And it _always_ came down to two men and two swords. Highsmith, dodging Patrick's renewed attacks, knew the battle was lost, but tried, however in vain, to turn the tables again. He failed. Patrick slashed Highsmith's _own_ chest, leg, and sword arm. Then, extending his arm and aiming his sword along it in a manner taught to him by Ramirez, Patrick waited for the proper moment. Highsmith sank to his knees. He looked up at the man who was about to vanquish him and said nothing. Patrick brought the sword up and swiftly sliced down to Highsmith's neck, severing the head. "There Can Be Only One!" The Quickening exploded from Highsmith's body, the semi-electrical energies binding themselves to Patrick's body. It worked its way into his body, into his eyes, ears, very pores. Patrick screamed in pain and screamed in delight. And still the Quickening came, arcing from Highsmith's body, shattering windows and lights, and showering Patrick O'Brien with sparks and electricity. It was wonderful. It was horrible. And in one final burst of energy, it was over. Rupert Highsmith's Quickening was absorbed by Patrick O'Brien, the Irelander. He collapsed on the hard frozen ground, out of breath.... BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, FEBRUARY 1995 Nancy, seeing that Riley was absorbed in the fight, ran over towards Patrick's Katana and slid it across the floor in Patrick's direction. Patrick, by this time, was winded and still on his knees. Seeing the sword, he placed his hands comftorably around the hilt. "Fitting," Riley said. "I hear Ramirez died on his knees defending one of his cubs." He swung at Patrick's neck. Patrick brought the sword up, blocking Riley's swing. He then weakly stood, still with the blades locked, easily enveloped Riley's blade and disarmed him. Then, with one hand on his knee and the other at Riley's neck, he said, "There can be only One." He swung, severing Riley's head from his body, and collapsed in an exhausted heap on the warehouse floor. The Quickening leaked, slowly at first, from Riley's body. Then it exploded. It shattered windows, all the lights, and exploded against the support pillars and walls. And Patrick writhed on the floor, screaming in pain and delight. Riley's memories came and went, easily held at bay. But the memories of the young Immortals, dead at his hands, were not so easily brushed aside. The confusion, fear, wonder, and newness of them all threatened to overwhelm him. There were so _many_. Patrick closed his eyes, fighting for his very soul. And when it was over, he opened them to see two very concerned beautiful Immortals leaning over him. One he did not know, but the other looked familiar. His teacher, perhaps? But then the disorientation faded, and he was Patrick O'Brien once again, and once again, had kept his soul. And through it all, Bernard, and countless others, Watched... And observed. And recorded. CAMBRIDGE, MASS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 1995 Patrick was speechless. Most of his 838 years were recorded here, in these volumes, lovingly preserved. He closed the last volume and handed it back to Bernard. "That," Bernard said, "Is the O'Brien Chronicle. There's a chronicle for most of the Immortals. Some of them are fascinating reading. You are easy to Watch, since you've made friends with so many Immortals, it's easy to collaborate with other Watchers." "I don't know weather to hate you or respect you. You people obviously care about your work, and take pains to get it accurate. But to have my life under a microscope like that... It's not something that I'm crazy about." Patrick left Bernard's office not entirely convinced of the value of the Watchers. Yes, they _were_ fine scholars, and yes they had taken up the thankless task of chronicling the Immortal's lives, but the "observe, record, never interfere," Patrick was having a hard time buying that. Darius... Mei-Ling... But this all happened _recently_. If mortals interfered in the affairs of Immortals, wouldn't he had heard of it? Even the century he spent in China wasn't exactly isolated. He spent much of the time after his wife Yi had died with Mei-Ling and Yoshohiro Ammamoto. And word _had_ reached him, via Rebecca, that Ramirez had been killed, even though he knew it the moment it had happened. He had not exactly lead an isolated life. So involved in his own thoughts he was that he nearly missed the telltale buzz of another Immortal nearby. Bringing himself out of his revere, he ducked into a convenient alleyway and took his sword out of his overcoat. The other Immortal approached him. "I am Patrick O'Brien of County Cork." "Well... I hope so, old Teacher!" the Immortal who emerged from the shadows had a face that was instantly recognizable to Patrick. Brown hair and eyes, short well-kept beard, nearly Patrick's height. "Sam!" Patrick said, face-to-face with an old student of his. "Samuel Leonard! How are you doing?" "Just fine, Pat. Are you gonna put that sword away?" "Oh, yeah." Patrick slid the sword back into his coat. "What brings you here." He began to walk out of the alleyway. "Buisness. And I wanted to see how my old Teacher was doing." "Fine, just fine. You bring your car?" "Yeah." "I'm living on the same place on Beacon Hill. Why don't you follow me there? There's something you should know." "Sure. I'll be along in a few minutes. I just have to check something." "Fine," Patrick said. "I'll see you there in say, twenty minutes?" "Sure." Bernard's office phone rang. "Yeah?" he said as he picked it up, "Bernard here." "Listen you son of a bitch. You killed Darius." "What? I have no idea what you're talking..." "DON'T play games with _me_ you bastard. You're gonna pay for what _you_ people did do Darius." "Who is this?" Samuel Leonard hung up the phone and walked over to his car. He got in, started it, and drove down Mass Ave towards Boston, and Patrick O'Brien's home. <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords Mike Breen e-mail with comments, n' stuff to mikester@bix.com. They're greatly appreciated! =========================================================================