Date: Thu, 19 Oct 1995 17:46:13 EDT Reply-To: Lord Brian MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Lord Brian MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles, King of Pain, part Two/Two (reminder: King of Pain = Descendants to the Prize revised) ;) (note: This story starts off in the time in between the eps Under Color of Authority and Prodigal Son) The MacKenzie Chronicles King of Pain, Part Two by Brian Procopio, of the Clan MacKenzie Copyright 1995 Kaos Pictures, Inc. ---------------------------------------- "There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall... that's my soul up there. There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall... that's my soul up there. There's a blue whale beached by a springtime's ebb... that's my soul up there. There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web... that's my soul up there..." --the Police, "King of Pain" ________________________________________________________ September 19, 1994 Pittsburg, Pennsylvania It took me some four hundred and fifty-odd years to formulate my theory on life and, considering that large amount of invested time, it really seemed like quite a large waste of several centuries. It is actually almost Taoist in its simplicity: Life sucks. Granted, this opinion has been expressed countless times over by immortal and mortal thinkers alike for millenia, but I had just recently come to this conclusion. Picture me, if you would, stumbling through the industrial lab- rynth of Pittsburg's railyards, clothing torn, soot-covered, bleeding in sever- al places, and just having an all-over bad hair day to boot. It is surprising, actually, that someone with hair as short as mine can have a bad hair day, but oh, trust me on this one, readers. It was dark, that sort of dingy, clinging dark that permeates one's soul and casts each and every being and structure in a dull coat of slate grey. On top of it all, there was the rain. Not a clensing downpour, no, but a fine mist that soaked through every pore in one's clothing and skin, creating a nice, clammy, chill to go along with the healing wounds. He was a young immortal, that much I could sense and that little I had to my advantage. He was camped out inside of a freight car near the outskirts of the yard, a faded red and blue affair. Through the gloom behind him I could see the faint outlines of a racing bike, one of those small, fast, custom jobs. The immortal himself was of average height and build, with short, reddish-brown curly hair. He even appeared young, within a year or two of my own appearance. A faint layer of scruffiness floated about him, most likely the result of having been woken up so hurridly. Worn, black jeans and a weather-beaten brown leather jacket made up his clothing, and in his hand was a well-sharpened clamshell rapier. It was an original, too, not some cheap modern factory replica sword. No, this blade was a work of art, and it was this rationali- zation that first made me feel fear. We stood there silently for several heartbeats, eyeing each other's wary forms intently. He was roughly an inch shorter than I me, but his stance was loose, collected, disciplined. An eagerness surrounded him, though, his eyes betrayed it, the slight tightening of his fingers around the hilt of the sword. He had taken very few heads, that much I was sure of. Enough to not like the killing, not enough to hate it yet. My eyes scanned the surroundings hastily, looking for anything. Obstac- les, tools, weapons. *there.* A short length of steel pipe, about two and a half feet long. Not much, but if I could reach it.... "What are you doing here?" the young immortal inquired. Urban, Northern, accent. A slight touch of... fear? No, hesitency. Afraid to take another head perhaps. "Just passing through...," I replied cautiously. The red-haired youth loosened his grip just slightly, but still kept his guard up. Whoever had trained him did a good job of it. "I'm unarmed." "Uh huh, sure you are, buddy..." Mistrust. Betrayal? He lowered his vision for a split second, scanning my general appearance, looking for a concealed weapon. I chose that moment to act, springing headfirst to the dirt between us and finding the steel pipe. I swung downwards, striking at the youth's wrists. To my surprise he dropped his guard and sidestepped the swipe, then lunged his blade at my shoulder. My mind reeled as I just barely caught the point of his blade with the pipe, deflecting it harmlessly aside. Some- thing all too familiar with the manuever, but still my mind failed to register. I reached up with my free arm and tugged forcefully at the off-balance fighter, rolling him over my shoulder and onto his back quickly. Before he could regain himself, I pounced, landing atop his chest, pinning his arms to the ground with my knees and his neck with the length of pipe. The look in his eyes was definately one of fear this time, a faint sheen of sweat glistening off of his upper lip and brow. He struggled to throw me off, and I pressed down harder upon him. I was almost positive, but I needed to be sure of it. "Ritchie?" I growled at the prone immortal. "yeah...," he gasped, a look of shock and surprise passing across his face. I jumped to my feet and dusted myself off, tossing the steel pipe off to one side. "Brian MacKenzie," I offered my hand. "I trust Duncan's spoken of me?" Richie Ryan sat upon the ground for a moment, rubbing his neck carefully to check that all was as it should be. "Yeah, once or twice," he grimaced. He took my hand and I pulled him to his feet. "Once or twice, eh? Well, I'll have to talk about that with Macleod next time I see him, won't I?" I chuckled slightly. "You two go way back?" questioned the thankful to be alive Ryan. I nodded slightly. "You could say that. He told me to keep an eye out for you if you happened to cross my path." We began to walk back towards Richie's impromptu settlement, and he sheathed his sword, placing it reverently atop his sleeping bag. "Yeah, sounds like something Mac would do," he grinned, then turned slightly pensive. "How's Duncan doing, anyway, I mean, you know, recently? I haven't seen him since Mak-- I haven't seen him in awhile." I rested against the wall of the freight car with a sigh. "He's Duncan, he's a Macleod. They get by..." Even as I told the younger immortal this, my thoughts drifted to another member of the clan Macleod... _______________________________________________________________________________ _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ _______________________________________________________________________________ The elder immortal strode forth from behind the pillar to meet David Macleod's path, casting aside the black wool trenchcoat resting upon his shoul- ders and drawing a thick, two-handed broadsword. He was wearing solid black from head to toe, with dark leather gloves and steel-tipped boots completeing the outfit, contrasting sharply with David's loose white shirt and subdued urban camoflage pants filled with subtle greys. The two warriors halted sev- eral feet away from each other, sizing each other up. The older of the two was powerfully built, with thick, muscular shoulders and a broad chest underneath his dark Russian features. Macleod, the younger of the two, was half a head shorter and not as powerful, but still firmly muscled. "You are the one named Macleod, are you not?" questioned the immortal brusquely. "That's me," David replied icily, his tenseness evident as his fingers kneaded the hilt of his katana. "MacKenzie's lackey," the Russian grinned. "I am Marak, warrior eternal. I have silently carved my name into history while mastering the power games that these feeble mortals play, but now I seek the power of the Quick- ening!" he brought his tightened leather-encased fist before his face, then motioned disparingly at David. "And no one, immortal or otherwise will stand before me in my journey to the Prize. You, Macleod, are just an insignifigant step on that journey," Marak raised his broadsword into a guard position. "And, in a moment, even that fame will escape you." The young immortal fanned his blade in anticipation. "Ya feelin froggy, LEAP!" Dave leered, his eyes alight. He could feel the Quickening surrounding them, its power infusing him so that he could taste of it. He wanted it, yearned for it, feeling the pre-battle edge coming to him as he emptied his mind of thought. "Ah... young immortals, so eager to die," hissed Marak as he swung his sword at the opposing warrior, who parried the blow easily. Dave brought his katana down high onto Marak's defenses, and rolled out of the way of the older immortal's answering riposte. He jumped back and to his feet, the air milli- meters in front of his chest parted by the blade of Marak's sword. Macleod dove forward with a thrust to the dark warrior's abdomen, which Marak blocked as he turned and elbowed David in the face, knocking him to the ground in a daze. Marak swung down in a powerful stroke, barely blocked by Macleod as he brough the flat of his blade up in defense. His senses regained somewhat, David swiped at Marak's kneecaps, the attack just avoided by the elder. "Kneecaps, god's great equalizers," he growled. With the other swordsman back on his heels, David gained an opportun- ity to rise to his feet again. The battle began in earnest then, both combatan ts weaving a web of steel and sweat as they transversed the length of the plaza. Finding his back nearly against the wall of one of the buildings, Macleod switched to a unorthodox reverse-hand grip, slashing his sword right and left in a figure eight pattern, clearing the space around him and allowing him to manuever to a more defensible position. He drove forward on the attack now, using all of the skills MacKenzie had taught him in his efforts to defeat his attacker. Marak countered his blows easily, with decades of experience shown in his ability. David felt his strength waning, his heart thudding violently against his soaked chest, the frigid air biting at the damp sweat. His own sword began to rise and fall in all too rythmic of a pattern, failing to find an opening in his opponent's defense, becoming dangerously predictable. Marak brought his offensive into play, his stamina far from depleted. He cut and thrust, swiped and slashed his way into Macleod's battle-worn and weary defenses, forcing him back step by step, gaining ground with each stroke of his sword. They fought alongside one of the twin stairwells in the center of the courtyard, the clanging of broadsword on katana echoing hollowly in the late winter dusk. David fought a battle of desperation, realizing that his very survival was on the line as he tried to regain an advantage he had lost in the battle so long ago. His swings became more loose, too overextended, leaving himself open more and more often. Marak toyed with the young one, knowing that the fight was his. He swung low, and David's block just barely deflected the blow, Marak's blade slicing into David's side, the younger immortal's defense turning a disemboweling strike into a light, if still extremely painful, graze. He howled in pain as he dropped to his knees. Marak caught the hilt of Macleod's katana with his blade and flipped it up and away into the twilight sky. Dave made one last desperate grab for it before coming down hard against the bench behind him, preparing for the end. He regreted all the times he rationalized about how he really should be dead, and realized just how much he did not want to be. Marak grabbed the inexperienced immortal under the jaw and yanked him forcefully to his own eye level. "After MacKenzie's performance I would have thought you would have been more of a challenge," he sneered. "What-- the-- hell-- are--- you-- talk-- ing a--," David wheezed through his constricted windpipe. "Oh, you didn't know," Marak smiled darkly. "Your mentor died as you soon will, ON HIS KNEES!" With that he thrust Macleod down to one knee, slamming David's kneecap into the concrete. David's mind tumbled. MacKenzie, his mentor, dead. He, himself, about to be. He saw flashes of his life. The accident. Meeting MacKenzie. The Training. School. Friends. Life. My god, he thought, I can't die, I haven't lived!!! In his mind's eye, Dave saw bits and pieces of events, trying to prove to himself that it wasn't in vain. Graduating high school with honors, winning third place in the Philadelphia All-Public Wrestling League his senior year.... "THERE CAN BE ONLY O-- ARRGGGHHHHH!!" the older immortal grunted as Macleod's squat form lurched up from the concrete and barrelled into his gut, carrying him back nearly three yards and sending his sword clattering to the ground several yards further. They grappelled along the ground for several moments, Marak attempting over and over again to free his fists in an attempt to pummel the desperate immortal. "Oh-- no... you... DON'T!" snarled David as he slammed Marak's shoulders down to the ground, the elder swordsman's head cracking solidly on the surface of the plaza. "You're in my element now." Macleod elbowed his would-be killer in the face, causing a thin trickle of blood to seep from Marak's nose. Dave rolled off him and dove for the warrior's weapon. As he scrambled across the concrete the evil immortal half-rose and grabbed for his ankle-- and missed. Marak froze on one knee as Macleod spun around, broadsword in hand. A moment of silence and realization passed between them: Marak, seeing his defeat, lowering his head in submission, droplets of blood plopping to the ground beneath him, David, feeling his nerves explode as he saw just how lucky this win truely was, tightened his grip on the hilt of the weapon and steeled himself for the final blow. He spared no thought as to could he or couldn't he, shoudl he or shoudln't he. Emptying his mind of all, he declared, "There can be only one," as the sword met with the vanquished immortal's neck, cleaving it clean through. David stumbled back a few feet, not knowing what would happen next. Brian had described the Quickening too him, but his mentor's words were no preparation for the blast wave which hit him at that moment. His world erupted into an inferno of light and heat, electricity storming about him like a mael- strom. The broadsword was dropped, forgotten. He screamed, bellowing in agony as the lightning arced out from him and over the length of the courtyard, seeking out the streetlights on the pole nearby, shattering windows enroute. The memories flowed in him and through him, unbidden and chaoticly. He felt, saw, heard, experienced himself fighting a secret war in World War Two, trying to keep Germany out of his homeland at Stalin's bidding. He saw himself in Western America at the turn of the century, hiring his services out to the highest bidder. Korea, 1949, his training, killing his own instructors in cold blood by using the same killing arts they had so recently taught him. Africa, 1967, undermining the fall of three republics. Through time and globe he traveled, engaging here and there in conflicts around the world. The immortals he faced throughout the years, his knowledge of the Gathering at hand.... With a sudden rush it all stopped, throwing Macleod to his knees, spent, out of breath, bordering on unconciousness. As the sky darkened, he got to his feet at last. Gathering both swords, he stepped away into the shadows... _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ Well, that's all for King of Pain. Pick up with the new and improved version of Behind Blue Eyes, coming your way soon (hopefully next week)!! In the next chapter, we go to SCOTLAND, so pack you kilts and claymores, kiddies, and bring an appetite for haggis too! Sync, Brian _ _ KAOS PICTURES, INC. (_)__(_) ------------------------------------------------------------ |KAOS,|/ BRIAN MACKENZIE | STEVEN DIBELLO |_INC_|› --PRODUCER DIRECTOR | --TECHNICAL DIRECTOR /› MACLEOD@VM.TEMPLE.EDU | STEVEN.M.DIBELLO@CYBER. / › HIGHLNDR@ASTRO.OCIS.TEMPLE.EDU | WIDENER.EDU MACLEOD@MENTOS.COM : =========================================================================