Date: Thu, 7 Sep 1995 12:57:00 EDT Reply-To: "Lloyd Dobbler, but with direction in life!!!!" Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Lloyd Dobbler, but with direction in life!!!!" Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles: King of Pain, part One The MacKenzie Chronicles King of Pain, part One (formerly known as Descendants to the Prize, revised) by Brian Procopio, of the clan MacKenzie Copyright 1995 Kaos Pictures, Inc. All Rights Reserved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "There's a little black spot on the sun today... It's the same old thing as yesterday There's a black hat caught in a high tree top There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop... I have stood here before inside the pouring rain With the world turning circles running 'round my brain I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain..." ______________________________________________________ September 16, 1883 Brooke's Bridge, Alabama Twelve thousand dollars. It was a hefty paycheck, even for me. Granted, I probably had a good portion more in my savings back in Scotland, but with the twelve grand I could safely "retire" from this life and move on to the next town and a new identity. It had been a solid seven years that I had lived in Brooke's Bridge, six of those years as sheriff. It was a pleasant little town in the beginning, if in a dusty sort of way. It quickly grew however, mostly due to an increase in traffic. We became a convenient go-between for the East and the West, as the multipling number of inns and hotels would show the casual viewer. Of course, once the railways constructed a stop there was no stopping the expansion. So, one way or another, I quickly ended up becoming the deputy to an aging sheriff, who kept on in his position for about three whole days before dying, leaving me in the position of being the sole lawman in town, as it were. On the one hand, this was awkward, for I was suddenly in control of a good deal of power over a population that, as of yet, did not trust me fully. On the other hand, I was in control of a good deal of power, and there really wasn't anyone to stop me from doing things my way. So, after two days in the position of sheriff, the town was made gun-free. Granted, this decree took quite a few moons to accomplish, but eventually it worked. (Well, there was that run-in with the infamous High Council, but that is most definately another story, and not mine to tell) The local populace found it reassuring that the sheriff wore a sword as a sidearm and not a gun, I guess. Eventually I took on a deputy and pupil, David Buck. Like me, he wore a sword on his hip and was fond of the color black. I knew that I would be able to depend on him as the next sheriff of the oh-so-illustrous Brooke's Bridge. Which, of course, brings me back to the matter at hand, one involving some twelve thousand of Uncle Sam's dollars and two weeks of my time employed as a personal protector of sorts of some rich executive-type who had angered the wrong party at some point in time and had the money to be paronoid. So there I was, headed on a train to California. Now of *course* it was not meant to be that easy, you know. It's *never* that easy... Upon arriving, I was succinctly informed by my esteemed, and anonymous, employer that the job I was being paid for was a little more direct than just a simple protection service. What do they say, a good offense is the best defense, correct? My employer evidently thought so. Now, I normally do not do assassinations, it's a matter of principal. But, being that the individual in question had a relatively blatant disregard for life and authority (and the quite strong coercing I recieved from my employer's "assistants"), not to mention the pay, I decided to take the job. Today, I would never have done it, but that was more than a century ago and people can change quite a bit in that length of time. How my employer came up with *my* name I never found out, although I would just love to find the name of the party responsible. So, as soon as my gear was assembled, I was off and about once more, this time into the heart of Arizona, seeking a random rouge who went by the name of Marak. Russian by birth, he ployed his way as a mercenary but, in his "spare time," occasionally went on sprees of death, killing indiscrimately. For one who had created so many enemies, this Marak was not very diffi- cult to track. Indeed, I wonder now if it was almost too easy... The small camp, little more that a fire, a few pots, a sleeping bag, and a tied-up horse to be specific, lay at the base of a small mesa, directly oppo- site the one I laid upon. Off in the distance I heard the blast of a steam engine, still several miles off. Its tracks crossed in between the two rocky outcroppings, passing just beneath the base of my observation post. My eyes scanned the surrounding area yet again, and, once more, saw nothing of my prey. *scrape* I whirled around at the tiniest of sounds, and quite thankfully so, for a sharp-edged throwing knife embedded itself in the ground where my head had sat just miliseconds before. Before I was able to gain my footing, a large and burly bear of a man pounced in my direction, two more similar knives clutched in either hand. I knew instantly that I had found my quarrey, and I instantly regretted leaving my sword behind at my own campsite. I dove for the ground once more, dodging Marak's first strikes and rolling to relative safety several feet away. "You do a poor job of following someone, boy," he growled angrily from behind his thick brown beard, dark eyes flashing in the late morning sun. "Who sent you?" "No one of consequence," I assured him as I reached for my rifle slung on my back. He snarled as he lept at me, intent on not letting me get at my gun. His knives stabbed at my midsection, but my booted foot sprang higher to connect with the Russian's jawline, stopping his attack cold. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, I drove my knee firmly up into the warrior's groin, causing him to drop in pain. Marak grunted, swinging one knife into my shin, causing a deep red gush of blood to begin flowing. I hobbled backwards a step. I would have gone two but, being that the cliff face was directly behind me, decided not to. As it was, the rumble caused by the stampeding locomotive on the valley floor beneath me was enough to make my footing tricky at best. The bleeding leg didn't help much either. It was over so quickly, although the fall seemed to last centuries be- fore he hit. A desperate lunge, a quick sidestep, and a solid push sent Marak hurtling towards the desert floor below. His body was actually shattered as it hit the coal car of the onrushing train, the impact sucking the life from his body as a bee does a flower. I slumped down to my knees, watching, numb. The shaking started then, first my hands and then my whole body. It was then that I remembered why I didn't do assassinations. His body was being slowly rattled underneath the coal, when suddenly I saw a flicker of movement, so small and fast that, from this distance, I was not sure I hadn't imagined it. I knew, however, that what I felt next was hardly imagined, the tightness in my stomach and the faint, if insistant, buzzing in my ears that told me only one thing. "My God," I whispered, "he's one of us now...." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So it was that poetic justice brought our paths together again one hun- dred and eleven years later, once more on a rocky outcropping overlooking a train track, although this time several things had changed. First of all, we were in Southeastern Pennsylvania, not Arizona, at the time. Secondly, Marak had gotten a whole *hell* of alot better since last we met. Other things were still the same. One, I was taken by surprise. Two, I didn't have my good sword with me. Three, I was wearing blue, which has since become my unlucky color. Now, I had a sword on me, don't get me wrong, but it was only a bamboo bokken that I had been using to train David Macleod, my newest pupil (his portion of the story will be told soon enough). In its own right, the bokken could be a powerful weapon. Against the two-handed bohemoth Marak lugged off of his back it was little more than an extra thirty seconds of life, if that. Another thing remained the same that fateful day in late December. One of us plummetted in an ungraceful swan dive into a passing train car full of coal, but this time it was I, intentionally, that made the dive. It was either face that extremely painful, but temporary, death, or face a more permanent one at Marak's swordpoint. As it was I was disarmed, slashed in several places, and quite close to death, and I am lucky that the Russian bear chose not to follow me down. A day or more passed until I awakened two states and a few hundred miles away, knowing that David's die had already been cast, and that I had no way to see the outcome as of yet. This part of the story, however, is best David's to tell... _______________________________________________________________________________ _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ _______________________________________________________________________________ Hell, the young college student decided, was not the inferno of blazing heat that everyone imagined. No, he confirmed, Hell was composed solely of a bitter, biting, cold, the type of cold that wasn't numbing, but merely painful. David Macleod, a thid generation American Macleod, pulled his trenchcoat a little tighter around his frostbitten body. "Dammit, MacKenzie, where the hell are you!" he muttered in between chattering teeth. "One cannot battle one's foe if one cannot battle the environment at the same time," he remarked in a bad impersonation of his Scottish swordmaster. It was a full half of an hour that he waited upon this deserted courtyard, watching the remaining students of Temple University head home for the winter break. A small econo- car puttered down Thirteenth Street below his eyes, four students somehow crammed inside, the car virtually bouncing from the paved roadway with every beat of the music blaring forth from its speakers, as well as from the occu- pants of the car itself. The song finally reached David's ears, a seventies song, *the* song.... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< "Aaaaaaawooooooooooo! WWEREWOLVES OF LONDON!!" the foursome bellowed at the top of their lungs, the chilled October air rushing in through the open windows. It was a good night on the radio, Dave decided, filled with one classic after another. He thought it couldn't get much better after one station played "Come on Eileen," but he was wrong. With finals just under six weeks away, he had really just needed to get away from it all for a few days. Consequently, his friends had dragged him up out of his book-filled room for a weekend filled with mirth, meyham, and general fun as they wandered aimlessly from party to party. Although he wasn't much of a drinker, the dark- haired, brown-eyed Macleod was commonly referred to as, "the drunkest sober person around." By the time Warren Zevon's song came on the radio, it was all over. David leaned his five foot eight frame far out into the slipstream, belting out lyric after lyric at the top of his lungs. His carload of friends echoed the music inside, commenting now and then that Dave should close the window. They tugged incessantly on the back of his Animaniacs shirt, but he paid them no mind. If he kept up with this level of fun he would almost be able to forget the failed romance he had just gotten over. Almost. He was still able to let loose enough to push her to the back of his mind, however. Coupled with that was the fact that Dave had garnered at least a half-dozen phone numbers over the weekend, so he was currently a happy enough individual. He should have realized then and there that it couldn't last, and that this much enjoyment absolutely had to get balanced out somewhere. A pair of headlights swerved along the oncoming lane, and suddenly a Ford Bronco veered through the divider between them... >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> David's stern gaze halted on the faded red, late Eighties Bronco parked down below. He turned and paced for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to prevent a pile-up of memories on his mind. He twisted his head slightly, cracking his neck. He could feel the small amount of gel he had put in his hair earlier in the morning begin to crystalize in the early winter air. He allowed his thoughts to stray to his reason for being here freezing to death, his new "mentor," Brian MacKenzie. It was just a short month since he had appeared out of the shadows as it were, the tell-tale buzz a new experience at the time... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< He was sitting in the crowded lounge, alone by choice and by fate, staring mindlessly at the half-eaten pizza before him. The cafeteria food was closer to roadkill, he decided. What he should be. Only glimpses of the accident remained, brief flashes of intense pain as he saw the Bronco tearing through their small import, feeling the car flipping, rolling, somersaulting atop him, crushing every bone in his twenty-one year old body over and over again, the pain unbearable. Then the blessed loss of conciousness several miliseconds later, followed by the pain, the confusion, as he awoke in an ambulance. He remembered sceaming at the ordelies, telling them quite succintly that he was well and truly dead. Eventually they sedated him, and he remembered hearing one say, "shock" and seeing the other nod agreeably. He felt the thirst racking his body, but other than that felt no specific pain, just a general state of overall soreness. It was quickly becoming much too much for him, and he felt himself sliding back into the inky blackness. No, he could not allow himself to black out. Some faintly remembered fragment of knowledge informed him that he had to remain concious if he had a head injury. "Hi, my name is Dave," he politely told the orderly seated next to him. "Hi, I'm Louis," the kindly-faced gentleman beside him replied. During the transit to the hospital's emergency room he managed to tell his entire life's story to the patient EMT. It really didn't seem like it was that long of a ride, though. He was pretty sure that he must have skipped a few parts, like, say, kindergarden through high school or such. Nothing very important. Then David remembered stepping, no leaping, into the bottomless pit of despair when he learned that he was the sole survivor of the accident. He remembered all three of the funerals, the guilty and tear-stricken stares from his friends' parents, coupled with the knowledge that he should be dead too. A pain began to spread through his forehead, an insistant ringing in his brain that spread outwards throughout his limbs. The young Macleod held his face tightly in his hands. "This is where it ends, right?," he questioned himself. "When Death realizes he forgot to grab me too and comes back for the pickup?" A voice spoke to David then, its accent twinged with a strange hint of somewhere foreign, yet strangely familiar, "Greetings, young one, might I grab a spot of lunch with you?" After a moment David realized that the voice did not originate from within his head, and that the insistant pain had passed. He looked up to see a figure adorned in a full-length black leather trenchcoat, dark blue turtleneck and jeans, and white sneakers. His face was friendly enough, but not as friendly as the traveling religious nuts who wandered campus in an over-eager quest to increase their flocks. A slight smile was arrayed on the stranger's lips, although his sky blue eyes seemed to have something hidden behind them. "Ah, we haven't been introduced, have we? I am Brian MacKenzie, of the Clan MacKenzie," he pronounced with a flourish and an out- stretched hand. "Listen.. *Bri*, that's great and all," began Dave corsely, "but if you'll excuse me, I'm late for class now." It was hardly within David's usual character to turn down an offered hand, but ever since the crash Dave had been just a little bit out of character as it was. In addition, he would rarely be so friendly to someone so close to his age who had called him "young one." He stood, grabbing his tray and motioning to squeeze past this MacKenzie individual. Brian's arm shot out, catching Dave by the shoulder and pushing him back down into the chair he had so recently vacated. "No, Macleod, you're not. We need to have a little talk about your future, and your past." "Damm right we have to have a little talk," bristled David, "one about *your* future if you don't let me by!" It was also out of character for him to be so billigerent, but if it was a fight that was needed, Dave could hold his own. He stood up to leave again and was promptly forced down once more. "Calm down, David, and stop causing a bloody scene," MacKenzie hissed through a forced smile. "I mean you no harm, and I'm only here to help you understand this new condition of yours. Who knows, what I have to say might even help you stay alive? Give me one hour, then I'll leave-- if you wish it, of course." The Scot stared intently at him, and, in the end, it was the seriousness that finally won David over. That, and the nagging thought at the back of his head, "how did he know my name?" >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> So began the most grueling month of his life, mentally, physically, and spiritually. General workout in the morning, then school, then swordwork, then, after dinner and school-related assignments were taken care of, a combin- ation of meditation and mental lessons. This went on six days of seven, for Saturdays were Dave's and Dave's alone, although he usually continued his daily workouts, for he had learned early and hard that his teacher preferred it that way. He moved from his lonely dorm into MacKenzie's loft apartment in Center City, since it made his training easier on them both. In addition, David did not really mind the compainionship either. Brian was the sort that grew quickly on someone, and, although David wasn't sure they could exactly be called good friends, at least a friendly student-teacher relationship existed. He was to meet MacKenzie here for training that afternoon. The only problem was-- no MacKenzie. Dave was eager to get on with his lessons, finding something that he could, if nothing else, throw all of his energy and pent-up anger into. The immortality thing, however, was still a rather large question mark in his mind. Not that he didn't believe Brian, mind you, but more that he was not about to go out and put it to the test anytime soon. It made sense, though, even if there was no real good reason for it. He knew he should have died in that accident, but here he was, the student of a four century old Scottish Highlander, one who kept telling him tales of his supposed kinsmen, Duncan and Connor Macleod, who were immortal themselves and Brian's teachers at one point. He remembered the stories that his grandfather had told him as a child, legends of Macleods past who had failed to die in battle hun- dreds of years before. David had always accepted them in the past as fun bed- time stories, but now... The buzz hit him again. "That's Mac," he thought as he turned around to face his mentor. The courtyard was empty here atop the Anderson-Gladfelter complex on campus. The first floor of the buildings were huge, spacious ar- rangements containing a number of cavernous lecture halls within them. Atop these halls was the plaza upon which David now stood, twin office towers stacked on either side of it. Huge squares were cut into the surface of the courtyard, stairwells leading down to the ground level twenty feet below. There was still an enormous amount of open space available up here, however, a perfect place for training. David's bokken rested next to his backpack on a nearby bench, although he also had his katana concealed underneath his trenchcoat, since the offices would be practically deserted due to the holiday, and Brian and he might get the opportunity to spar with live steel today. The older immortal stepped out from behind a stone pillar under one of the twin towers. Panic siezed David as he realized that it was not MacKenzie. He bit back his initial urge to turn and jump to the ground level below in hopes of making an escape. No, he decided somewhat hesitantly, this was what he had been training for. He withdrew his katana from underneath his coat. He had selected it himself, after careful consultation with Brian. MacKenzie had offered several times to give David a sword, but he had refused, wanting to find his own. In the end they had reached a compromise, and MacKenzie's money had purchased David's weapon. Steeling himself, he strode forth to meet the waiting immortal... _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ to be continued... =========================================================================