Date: Sat, 6 Jan 1996 13:49:58 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: The Kid (part 2) c 1996 by N.L. Cleveland *** "I tell you, he wasn't one of us." The voice over the phone was low and urgent, and Joe Dawson strained to hear it against the background noise of the street where his operative was calling from. "OK, run it by me once again." He furrowed his brow in concentration as he listened to the words, trying to sift their meaning, to understand the possible import of the situation being reported by Atul's Watcher. Former Watcher, now. It meant another reassignment. Or retirement. As the pace of the Gathering picked up, long time Watchers were being idled, as the numbers of known Immortals dwindled. But that was a minor worry now. "Fine. Try to track him down and find out who he is, what his possible interest could have been. Don't make any direct contact until you have some identification for me, and I can take it to the council." He listened again, and nodded, then realized she couldn't see his gesture. "Yes, that's great. Good work, and quick thinking. You always were one of the best. Just let me know what you and Peter discover." He modulated his voice to hide the concern, focused on reassuring her and acknowledging how well she had handled the situation. He replaced the receiver and ran his hand through his hair, trying to smooth away the worry that paced across his consciousness. Ellen was good, very experienced. She'd been Watching Atul for years and never been discovered. She could certainly trace this odd intruder who seemed to have stumbled with more rather than less intent into the middle of a Quickening. As soon as she'd realized what was going on, she'd immediately taken change and sent Ryan's Watcher after the man. They had a good hope of tracking him, now. The question she could not answer, of course, was why the stranger had intruded, and what it could mean for the Game. And what, if anything, the Watchers should do about it. He sighed, and paced across the room. He'd need to let the others know about this as soon as possible. It had been a constant nightmare of his since the loss of the original Watcher database and its threatened exposure last year. It was really a minor miracle that the existence of Immortals hadn't been uncovered before this, with the ever tightening web of information flowing across the globe, and the proliferation of cameras and surveillance equipment being used everywhere now, even by the average guy on the street. And this fellow had not sounded like an average passer by. Not following them into the alley with a drawn gun. And not considering he'd witnessed an apparent double murder and had not contacted the police. Joe shook his head. He had a bad feeling about the situation. A premonition of doom. But all they could do was wait, and watch. At least for now. A thought flashed through his mind and he reached for the receiver again, then hesitated. Where to draw the line between friendship, and his professional vows? Should he warn Richie? Let him know that he might be followed? It seemed like the only fair thing to do, at this point. Anything could be happening, or nothing. But his gut warned him that nothing was only wishful thinking, this time. He shrugged, decision made, and smiled slightly as he dialed the number, almost as familiar as MacLeod's. The other Watchers had accepted his connection with MacLeod, and with the younger Immortal, for now. They had made it clear, in the council, that is was only a provisional acceptance, though. One that could be revoked at any time. The council acknowledged their part in sharing responsibility for the actions of the Hunters, the renegade Watchers who had vowed to eliminate all the Immortals and had used the Watcher databases to track down and kill all they could find. And the council understood that without the Hunters' disruption of the Game, and the murder of MacLeod's mentor Darius, the Scottish Immortal would never have managed to uncover Dawson's identity as his Watcher. They understood that Joe was still trying to atone for the evil the Hunters had committed, and in offering his friendship and assistance to MacLeod, and later to Ryan, he was in a sense trying to balance the scales. They understood, and accepted it. For now. But it was also true that he had not briefed the council on every contact he made with the Immortals. No need to push the issue, no need to rock the boat. Until things came to head and he was ever forced to choose between being a Watcher and being a friend of Duncan's and the boy, he would continue his balancing act. And when the eventual time came for a choice, he'd make it. For now, he had a friend to warn. Richie's eager voice came on the line, but as Joe started to speak he realized it was just the answering machine. The kid seemed to change his message every week. This week it was a Don Juan DeMarco imitation. At least it wasn't as hard on the ears as the Smashing Pumpkins tape he'd used before. Talking to Richie's answering machine was Joe's window into the Generation X culture, and it was an interesting view. Joe smiled and paused, wondering if he should try to talk to Ryan in person instead. But no, the whole reason he was calling was because the situation was too urgent, possibly, to wait. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't betray too much concern, and left what he hoped was a relatively balanced message. Not too cryptic, but urgent enough that the youth would get in touch with him immediately. Now all he could do was wait. More information never hurt, in circumstances like these. He sat down at his computer and called up the file on Atul. Perhaps someone had a grudge against the Immortal,was following him for a reason? It was certainly conceivable. Atul had left a long and bloody trail behind him, in the five centuries he'd walked the earth. And had not shown much distinction between mortal and Immortal heads, either. Engrossed in the Chronicle, Joe retraced the Immortal's known life, searching the last twenty years in detail for possible leads to the stranger. *** "I swear, Mac, I never saw this dude before." Richie's eyes blazed in indignation as he stalked around the cluttered dojo office. "Here I am, about to get zapped by one of the nastiest Immies I've ever bumped heads with, and this guy pops up, with a gun in his hand, and stands there watching us. I almost lost it when I saw him." Richie paused, remembering the momentary distraction as he'd lost his focus on the fight, then the searing pain of the slash across his abdomen, and the bitter taste of defeat and fear that had almost choked him as he lay shuddering out his life's blood on the alley floor barely an hour ago. He flushed at the still vivid memory, and looked up at the somber face of his friend. His voice dropped, husked a bit. "If you hadn't shown me how to keep on going... even after taking a hit that was going to kill me , I wouldn't be here talking to you right now." He took a breath, steadied his voice. "I just wanted to say thanks." The youth managed a small smile. "See, this is the reward you get for all the bitching you had to hear before. I still remember how pissed I was when you really hurt me that time, and how incredibly angry I got when I realized you were really gonna kill me." His pale eyes glazed as he reviewed those past events... Remembering how the clearing had looked, the pale green leaves of early spring just showing, the cool air fresh and brisk in his lungs, the muddy ground offering a new challenge in keeping his footing. Mac had said it was important to learn how to fight anywhere, under any circumstances. "You can't always pick your own battlefields," Duncan had commented, keeping a remarkably straight face as Richie had slipped during their warm up session and sat down abruptly and unceremoniously in the muck. "Survival means wanting more than anything else, to live." Richie remembered how he'd noticed the odd twist to the older Immortal's tone, remembered how he'd thought it was due to Mac's trying to stifle a laugh at his student's clumsiness. Remembered how he'd attacked, as Mac had gestured him in, swinging his blade fast and low in a new move he'd just mastered. Remembering the abstract interest he'd felt in seeing Mac's stance shift, the sudden change unsettling his own balance as the flashing thrust of MacLeod's blade hit his chest and sank in deeply, tearing through muscle, cartilage, tendon and bone. He still remembered how the first stab of pain was eclipsed by astonishment, disbelief and then rage as he stared at the once familiar, suddenly unfathomably strange face of the man he'd believed was his friend. Stared, realizing he was dying. Stared in sudden fear, the easy trust he'd always held for the other Immortal ripped away with his fading life. On his knees now, he endured the pulling twisting pain as his mentor's sword was yanked from his body. He dimly sensed his own warm blood gushing across his chest as his vision darkened and his consciousness faded. He saw, as if through a gray veil, MacLeod raising the katana, preparing for the final, fatal blow. He knelt and watched it come, numb to life, ready to die. But the spark of rage, fanned by this last, treacherous betrayal, fueled by the pain and anguish he felt in body and soul, grew in his heart. Burned bright and roared through his brain, consumed him, as his arms rose in a last desperate gesture and he half fell, half lunged forward, his blade sinking deep into his treacherous teacher's unprotected guts. He'd come back to life a while later, not knowing how long it had been. Fear sliced through his heart the minute he was fully conscious. He'd rolled, grabbing in the mud for his sword, his scrabbling hands coming up empty. Then he had frozen, his eyes raised to the form of the waiting Immortal, sitting and watching him from a nearby fallen log. Both swords resting across his knees. "You did very well, Richie." MacLeod's voice was serious, sincere. Or so he would have thought, before. Now...nothing was obvious, nothing was clear. "I never had a chance to practice dying in a fight." The voice was persuasive, almost pleading. Apologetic, even. "I almost lost my head the first time it happened. I think most Immortals just give up. Now you know what it's like. And you know you can win. It was the last gift I could give you. I have nothing more to teach you about surviving." He'd sat for a moment, silent. Staring. Not knowing what to say. Amazed he was still alive. Hoping that it had all been a bad dream. Realizing it was not. Then the angry words had come out. Pushed by his fear and his rage. His pride. And his hurt. His sense of betrayal. Too late to call back, even while he realized at one level that MacLeod was telling the truth and had done the best any teacher ever could for a student. He'd never been able to take them back. Never been able to say thank you, before. His pride had gotten in the way. He could have choked on it. They'd sat silently in the T-Bird on the way back to the dojo, and Richie had left for his apartment after that. With a tacit silent consent they had never discussed that day since. Never been able to break through the stiffness that had grown up between them, since then. It had lingered, for over a year, subtly driving them apart....until today. Richie came back to the present, and refocused his eyes on MacLeod's dark ones, the warmth in his gaze met and matched by the approval in his friend's. "I understand now why you did it. I must have been hard for you, too." MacLeod quirked his lips in a wry, half-bitter grin and nodded, once. "It was. I kept telling myself I'd done the right thing, the only way possible. But losing your trust...it was a high price to pay." He relaxed visibly and grinned again, more broadly. "...and it was only worth the trouble if it kept you alive...so I guess it was worth it after all." Richie blinked a bit, moisture stinging his eyes, and moved closer to MacLeod. Took his mentor's hand, and felt the warm clasp meet his own. The past was buried. They understood, and trusted, one another again. Chopping greens for the dinner salad, while Mac stepped out to pick up some pasta and olive oil for the improptu meal to celebrate their rapprochement, Richie turned over in his mind the troubling issue of the stranger with the gun. It was odd, but he had a hazy memory of the man aiming a camera at him, too. He'd have to talk it over with Mac some more when the older Immortal got back. It have been a Watcher, he supposed, but he was almost certain Watchers didn't carry guns to Quickenings. And certainly didn't push into the middle of a fight like this guy had. Maybe Joe could cast some light on the situation. He promised himself to be sure to call him, later. =========================================================================