========================================================================= Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 18:06:41 EST Reply-To: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles: Behind Blue Eyes, chapter 1 NEW well, okay, maybe not NEW new, but at least heavily revised from the original way back when... The MacKenzie Chronicles Behind Blue Eyes, part 1 by Brian Procopio, of the Clan MacKenzie Copyright 1996, Kaos Pictures, Inc. _______________________________________________________________________________ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "No one knows what it's like To be the bad man To be the sad man Behind blue eyes... No one knows what it's like To be hated To be fated To telling only lies..." _______________________________________________________________________________ Feburary 9, 1994 Havertown, Pennsylvania ----------------------- With a painful grunt David Macleod slammed into my ribcage, knocking the very air from my lungs. He swung his weapon around, cracking it repeatedly against mine in his attempts. I shouldered my way past him, using my body as a shield. As I kicked the small rubber disk out from underneath me David's stick collided with my shoulder blades, slamming my unhelmeted head into the plexi- glass lining the ice rink. "That's two, cross-checking," I ordered as I spun around to face my stud- ent, shaking my head a bit to clear it. "Wha-- Um, *no* that wasn't, Bri!" Macleod gestered with his gloved hand. "Yes, it *is* and it'll be called if you do it in a game, dammit!" I shook my head again, this time in anger. "Where the hell did you ever learn to play hockey, anyway, Dave? Ulf Sammuelson?" David's features split into an ear-to-ear grin. "Why do you think I want to wear number five?" His brown eyes danced as he slowly circled me. I cuffed the youngest Macleod behind the ear lightly. "Aw, c'mon, Dave, you know you're not tall enough to be the next Ulfie..." The grin faded somewhat to a menacing snarl. Ever since I had known him, David's weak point was his height. "Wanna go at it?" he questioned as his padded gloves hit the ice. I suppressed a yawn. "Eh, why not...," I smirked as I bum-rushed the young immortal, falling with him to the ice. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Several hours, one bloody nose, two pairs of scraped knuckles, and a pair of beers on David later, we sat in a small little bar by the name of Kelly's, watching the Philadelphia Flyers hockey club on the television above the bar. It was one of those places which seemed immortal, with color on the TV and a new face manning the bar the only signs that almost twenty years had passed since I had last set foot in there. I motioned for Mike, the grandson of the bar's original owner, to replenish the amounts of diminishing alcohol before us. "Well, if you want the spot on defense it's yours, Dave," I explained as I tipped my bottle against his. The younger immortal paused a bit, mulling it over. His eyes seemed a bit surprised. "So you mean that was a tryout, sorta?" he asked. I nodded my assent. "The past few months have been a tryout; This was just a bit more formal I guess," I smiled. "We're going to be officially annoucing the team next week sometime I think, for next year's season. And, of course, we have a half-dozen exhibition games in the next couple of months too, just to see how the team works together and such..." David mulled over my words with a nodding motion, then turned back to the Flyers game. They had just pulled ahead to a 3-2 lead over the visiting New York Rangers. "Hey, Mac...," he began suddenly, tearing his attention away from the game momentarily. "What.... what should I do with myself? I mean, you know, like future plans and all?" he questioned. "Whatever you'd like too, Macleod, I'm not your father, you know..." I answered with a sarcastic smile. "Well, no, I mean..." An exasperated sigh brought David's sentence to a halt. "It's more that I don't know how all of.. *this* changes my future plans and all. How much of a life can I lead looking like I'm in my early twenties forever?" David's words made me pause and step back for a minute. I tried to place myself in his shoes. It was a decision that, while I had to face eventually, was out of my hands at that age. From actor to sword-pupil to chieftain was a progression which had happened at a quite furious pace, and little of it was actually left to my own whims and wishes. Granted, I was forced to address the issue soon enough, but had, by that point, another decade or so of experience to lean on. Eventually such a question almost became a second nature of sorts to me, as I traveled from place to place, doing what work was suited to me or came to me and trying my best to stay alive. It was not really as random as I make it sound there, of course, but still it possessed a certain freedom about it. "I still mean what I said, then, David. It all depends on what you want to do." My answer did not, judging by the lines through Dave's forehead, have the information he desired. "What is it you want; suggestions? hints?" "Of sorts, yes. I'm in school to become a counseling psychologist... how many psychologists out there will be as young as I'll look, hmmm?" he blurted out. "So? Why let that stop--" "How much of a patient base can I develop before I have to relocate? How long before I start hearing whispers about the terrific plastic surgeon that I must have? Any answers?" he interrogated, the game since forgotten. I took a long drink before answering. "So change the rules. Why play their game? Do it for as long as you'd like, Macleod. So, as the years go by, you may have to costume your appearance with makeup and the like to stretch the remaining years out, but don't let your special gift stand in the way of what you want in your life." Once started, I turned on the faded red barstool to face him more directly. "I've lived more lives than I've remembered or wanted to remember. I've led men into battle, I've helped men bring about peace. I've loved, learned, and grown through the years. Is it easy? No. Was it difficult to leave? Often, yes. Was it worth it to really *live*? Definately yes. I cannot tell you which way to go or not to go, but I can tell you this: For some reason or another you and I have been chosen with this gift and curse of immortality. For us to squander it away on indecisiveness and inaction is wrong. Live. Live each day to the fullest. If something strikes your fancy then go with it for as long as it carries you. We are immortal, yet still we face the threat of death often enough that each day may be our last. Live," I implored. A moment of silence passed in between us, puncuated by a loud bellow of, "Lindros shoots... he SCORES!!!!!!!" from Gene Hart's voice on the television. David blinked several times, then shook his head slightly. "So yer saying I should go with the psychology thing?" he questioned with a grin. "Youth," I muttered under my breath. "*Yes*, Dave, please do, preferably somewhere far far away from *here*, or whereever I happen to be at the time," I growled. "Ouch, I'm hurt," pouted David as he drowned his mock sorrows in a drink. "I always have trouble with rejection...." "Yeah, but you should be used to it by now," I remarked snidely, ruffling his hair. "HEY! *Not* the hair, thank you very much," the younger immortal scoffed in my direction. "Don't make me fight you again." His hands attempted to bring his dark hair back to natural looking. "Hmmm?" I questioned. "Was that an offer to pay for the next round of drinks?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _______________________________________________________________________________ *there* the hunter paused, considered, analyzed. *soon the hunt ends* *soon the circle closes* *soon MacKenzie dies* As he watched the small red Plymouth pull away from the curb with a beep, a slow, cruel, calculating smile spread on the hunter's face... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _______________________________________________________________________________ With a tired yawn I placed the faded bookmark into the pages of the Morgan Llywelyn novel I had been reading over the past few weeks. An artist's rendition of Finn MacCool stared back at me impassively. Did such a man once walk the lands of Tara? Or was he just another Irish legend, a collection of scraps and half-truths and war stories bound together at some point? My thoughts drifted, carrying the threads further. Could such a legend be, in fact, one of *us*?, I wondered. It had happened often enough, I'm sure, either by accident or by design, that one's deeds could carry an immortality of sorts long enough that even the immortal who lived them forgot which had happened and which were born from a bard's toungue near a warm hearth. How many authors of such historical fictions and truths and essays had actually breathed the same air as those they wrote of? Some, to the...hmmm, experienced? mind were obviously not so, but how many writers used their immortality to narrate tales of life long past? How many of *us* were there, in fact? I can count few occupations which have not, to my rather limited knowledge, held an immortal in their post at one time or another, and that is only building upon the experiences of myself, my friends, and those whose life I was forced to end. Slowly I began to think back to my earlier conversation with David, and the realization that most of what I had said to him was the root of many of my thoughts as of late. For the better part of fifty years my life had been that of a soldier. That role alone had shifted considerably, as some of my foes existed more on the political front than on the military one, and, to be honest, it was difficult to let it go at times. Indeed, I spent more of my immortal life in uniform than out, and I often grieve that fact. How much more could I have done for humanity if I had a greater calling towards the arts, or the sciences? But countering that was the arguement that my actions had brought peace or, more importantly, freedom to those who knew it not. Was I justified in killing mortals to bring the world to that state, I do not know. At least I know that many would have died from the bullets and other such wounds which I had recieved throughout the decades, so perhaps, my immortal soul hopes, it all evens out in the end. But, alas, the world changes. Sometimes it takes the blood of thousands, sometimes the blood of one, or at times no blood at all. Indeed, that is per- haps the reason why my quest for such a calling ended with the finish of the Cold War. Oh, do not get me wrong, no one was happier than I to see it end without more deaths, but I think the peaceful resolution gave a sense of closure to my life's ways. As it stood, my life was in a stasis of sorts after the end of the tension. Like David, I was left in a crossroads of sorts as to my future. To be honest, little inspired me at that stage in life. I was attending college as a journalism graduate more for the relative safety that the guise of a college student often brought me than for lofty career goals of any sort. The little experiment in founding a Temple ice hockey team was about the only project that I could really throw my weight into. That, even, had its drawbacks, as the endless meetings and negotiations and budgeting had begun to wear on me, all immortality aside. Yet again I missed the military, for it seemed there was always someone available to hand such duties off to. I had learned to play hockey soon after World War Two, and came back to the sport occaisionally over the next fifty years, often as an aside when I was in between "lives," as it were. The last experience with it had been in the early 1970's as a coach of a junior league team in Ontario, somewhere in be- tween Vietnam and my role as a Navy SEAL. Fortunately for me, my class schedule last year allowed me to befriend Rod Brind'Amour, who played for the Philadelphia Flyers NHL team and attended classes in the off-season at Temple University. It was inevitable that conversations over lunch turned eventually to hockey, and soon we were contesting in one-on-one skirmishes at a local ice rink. After awhile the idea of creating a Temple ice hockey program began to haunt me, and, with Rod's support and several large donations from an unnamed contributor, soon enough I had approached the university with the idea. My involvement with that field could only go so far, however, for I had only so many more semesters to go before graduation. Granted, I would proba- bly be asked to stay on as head coach, although I'd have to give up playing once more. Still, though, how many years did I have here? Five at most? *So, why play by their rules? Do it as long as you'd like to, Macleod* I hate it when my own words come back to haunt me like that, I really do. In all honesty I couldn't say how long I'd like to continue with it. Too often as of late I found myself tired, weary of the daily grind and stress. Again I owe too much of that to the events surrounding my struggle with Marak just a few short months ago. I still did not feel as if my *edge* had returned to me, no matter how I worked it so. In fact, I had begun to fear that I had dulled it through overworking it, much like a sword's blade can be ruined by oversharpening it. So it was that I slept that night, and my dreams were anything but quiet and peaceful as I stumbled through a dark, violent maze... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< A shudder passed up the length of my arms as the claymores met once more with a resounding clash. The younger immortal's attack left something to be desired, I decided as I pivoted , throwing my hip into his leather-clad mid- section and depositing him across the emerald grasses beneath our feet. I immediately launched an offensive, bringing my two-handed blade back in a hack- ing motion, nicking at the previously unmarred tunic which Gabriel, my as- sailant, wore about his body. Although he was only the fourth immortal I had faced, I could tell that he was young as of yet. A certain cockiness which only youth could exude had warned me of that fact as soon as he approached me in the clearing. Light, sandy-blonde hair topped his gaunt, tight, features, sweat now forcing it to become matted around them. Coldness radiated from his rain-gray eyes, eyes that better fit a bird of prey than a man. It was his eyes which warned me to be cautious about him at first, but soon enough his training had become appar- ent in it's meagerness. Granted, my own training left more than a little to be desired as well. I had remained as chieftain of the MacKenzie clan for close to twelve years after my battle with my uncle, although I was forced to cover my age through deception in the latter end of that cycle, in the end allowing an opponent to slip through my guard in battle, bringing my time with the MacKenzie clan, that generation at least, to an end. Kenneth, my brother, had borne one son before his death so many years ago, and it was to he that the clan would be granted. The amount of knowledge and wisdom which I had gained during that time is something that I cannot measure, but unfortunately formal sword training was not a part of it. There was, however, plenty of on-the-job training, as they like to call it, so the battlefield was not a stranger by this time. After that point, I wandered freely throughout the Britons for several years, learning the ways of the land and living from it. Two immortals I had faced in that time, and in dealing with both I was extremely lucky, one to have beheaded and the other just to escape. But, as it were, in time I had returned to the land of my mother's birth, to visit for myself the fabled island of green. I had free-lanced as a mercenary for a time, eventually earning the trust of the head of a small town and a position on his guard staff. For saving his life twice in the same battle, he allowed me to wed his youngest daughter, a beautiful red-haired lass named Ashley. So it was that we lived in relative peace, for once in a home of my own. It was a pleasant time, then. I maintained a spot on the guard reserves yet was able to live a simpler life than I had before or would after. After, that is, one immortal decided to come a-calling on this fine summer's day. Gabriel lashed out with a swift kick, catching me across my shin and forcing me to step back a foot as he scrambled to his feet. We circled warily, the unspoken threats polluting the air with a tinge of promised death. I lunged in with my blade, which Gabriel twisted awkwardly to block. Taking ad- vantage of his positioning, I pressed in, driving the sword along his left bicep and drawing blood. With a stiffled cry of pain the blonde immortal jumped backwards. Again I pressed my advantage, hacking with the claymore for all it was worth, forcing Gabriel further and further back across the gently sloping field. He launched a counterattack, finally, fueled by the audacity of youth; wild strokes flying right to left and back again. On one particularly agressive swing I ducked to the earth instead of retreating, and speared Gabriel in the side of his stomach, a deep red gush beginning to spread downwards. He stumbled to his knees, jaw gasping in shock. With a grunt I pried the point of my blade from his side, released more of the pent-up fluid. His hands pressed over the wound area, trying to hold it together enough to facilitate healing. A shrill, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!," cut through the air, forcing me to lower my upraised sword for a moment. Ashley's red hair blew fiercely about her face as she ran full tilt up the field, one hand holding her skirts above her ankles to prevent tripping. I held out my hand to bid her pause. "Stay back, lass, you know this doesn't concern you!" I ordered. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Gabriel regaining a bit of his color, struggling to his feet as the wound closed. Ashley deftly avoided me, ducking about to wrap her arms about my foe, tears streaking the curves of her full cheeks. "Gabriel!!" she cried. "Ashley, no," I repeated, placing a hand on her shoulder to draw her away from the other immortal, who regarded his savior coldly. "No, ye cannot fight him, Brian, he's... he's my brother," she took the younger man's face in her hands, staring as in disbelief. "B-but, what hap- pened to you, Gabe? We all thought you had died.. I mean, father, Bran, they would have searched had they--" As I began to turn away from the reunion, a painful-sounding slap caused me to spin around, just narrowly avoiding the strike by Gabriel's weapon. I cast a quick, concerned, glance in Ashley's direction, a red sting across one of her cheeks as she got to her feet again. She dove between us recklessly, unheeding the twin blades as she pressed a hand firmly against each of our chests. "Brian.. Gabe...," she implored us each, both with her voice and her eyes, "ye canna fight each other!" "Like bloody hell," snarled her long-lost brother, our eyes locking in a promise of a quick, painful, death. "NO!," she commanded. "Ye must promise me this.. *Both* of you," she added, glaring at her brother as only an older sister could. I broke eye contact with the other immortal, seeking out Ashley's in- stead and holding them for several long seconds to let her know what it was that she asked of me. Once more I shfited my attention to Gabriel's eyes, letting him know my feelings on the matter. "For you, Ash, only for you." The Irish woman gave a slight shove to her brother's chest. "And now you too, promise it..." she warned. "Fine," bit off the defeated immortal, a final glare his last communica- tion as he shruged off his sister's arm, sheathing his sword and turning back for the forests beyond as he did so... >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _______________________________________________________________________________ The hunter sat quietly, alone, in the darkened room, naked to the waist, a slash of pink just above his waist hinting at an earlier scar. His right arm slid the sharpening stone up the length of the blade once more. *soon* he grinned. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Okay, that's all for now. BTW, this version of Behind Blue Eyes will probably only be three or so parts, just so you'll know. As always, comments very very very welcome, and they usually lead to less time in between chapters :) sync, Brian