Date: Mon, 19 Jun 1995 22:14:15 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 2 of 17 This is being posted for the author, who currently doesn't have internet access. Please direct all comments you want to be passed on to the author or requests for missing parts to nhayashi@sfsu.edu X-File: #A274-D33 Part 2 of 17 by Albert Low Dana Scully sipped her coffee as she walked through the basement of the FBI headquarters building in Washington DC. She hadn't seen many people since she'd arrived, but then she hadn't expected to. After all, it wasn't even seven yet, and most agents reported to work at eight. In fact, she was here early only because she had to finish her report on her latest case so she could hand it in before her supervisor became impatient. Scully slowed her pace as she walked through an area of relative darkness caused by a burnt out light bulb. That was one of the few drawbacks of her current assignment, working out of an office in the basement. There were moments when she felt envious of her fellow agents who had offices with windows, moments when she yearned to feel the warmth of the sun on her face, to see something other than the gray walls of her office. But those moments were far and few between. She loved her job and wouldn't trade her current assignment for any other position in the bureau. She stopped at the door of her office and put her portfolio on the floor so she could open the door. "It's about time you got here. What took you so long?" Scully halted in the doorway, momentarily surprised. Her partner Fox Mulder was seated behind his desk and, judging by appearances, had been in the office for a while. His coat was on the rack, his tie had been loosened, and a small pile of discarded sunflower seed shells had accumulated on the desk. Mulder had been leaning back in his chair, holding some sheets of paper, but now he sat up and placed them in the folder in front of him. "I took the scenic route," she replied, stepping into the room. "What are you doing here so early, Mulder?" "I got a call about a case I've been following," he answered, indicating the folder on his desk. "A new case?" Scully was intrigued and more than a little surprised; she hadn't been aware of anything impending. She set down her coffee and portfolio and picked up the folder. Mulder nodded and got up. "But you'll have to read that," indicating the folder, "en route." He tightened and straightened out his tie. "We're booked on an eight o'clock flight from Dulles." "And where are we off to this time?" "The sunshine capital of the west. Seattle." He walked over to the rack and put on his coat. "Don't worry, Scully, I've got everything we'll need." And he held up two umbrellas. Scully sighed in exasperation. "It'd be nice if you had told me ahead of time, Mulder." "Sorry, Scully. I tried to reach you at your apartment, but you must have already left." He tossed the umbrellas in a briefcase, closed it, and hefted it experimentally. "What's wrong?" "I _had_ planned to finish my report on the Folkstone case this morning. If Skinner doesn't get it soon, there's no telling what he'll do." "I thought you were going to write it up last night." "Something came up." Mulder looked at her questioningly. "I had a date," she told him archly. The look of surprise on his face was almost enough to placate her. "With my mother," she added. "We went out for dinner." Mulder nodded, looking amused and...relieved? "How is she?" "Just fine. She wanted me to say 'hi' for her." Scully paused, uncertain whether to continue. "Actually we were supposed to have lunch together." "Oh." Mulder seemed nonplused and slightly ill at ease. "Why don't you stay here, then? You can finish the report for Skinner and meet your mother for lunch." He reached out and took the folder from her. "I can handle this one by myself. You stay and hold down the fort." Scully was silent for a second. It was moments like this that reminded her of how much her recent disappearance and subsequent return had changed things. It was still frustrating, being unable to remember what had happened to her after Duane Barry had kidnapped her. But, in a strange way, the incident had affected Mulder more than it did her. Their relationship had subtly changed. It wasn't that he now treated her as if she was fragile, incapable of protecting herself. He respected her far too much to do that. It was just that he was a little more solicitous with her, a little reluctant to put her into situations he wouldn't have thought twice about before her disappearance. Scully for her part, was determined to place the incident firmly behind her. "Thanks for the offer, Mulder, but I'm going with you." She pulled the folder out of his grasp. "After all, we both know you'd be lost without me." And she flashed a quick grin. "No question about it," he said, smiling slightly. "And, since that's the case, why don't you drive?" He tossed some keys at her. Scully glared at him as she caught them, but she couldn't hold the expression for very long. "So what's this case about?" she asked as they exited the office. "You read the file and tell me." She looked at him curiously, but he said no more. "It's time to see how good you really are," said Duncan MacLeod. Then he stepped forward and attacked, his sword flashing through the air with blinding speed. He varied the speed and direction of his blows, never letting his opponent anticipate his next move. His enemy was being steadily driven backwards, but he managed to deflect all of MacLeod's attacks. Then he rallied and launched an offensive of his own. Now it was MacLeod who was on the defensive. He stood his ground, parrying all of his adversary's blows, biding his time. Then the opportunity he'd been waiting for presented itself. His opponent was pressing his attack hard. Too hard. His defenses had relaxed, not enough for MacLeod to bring his sword about and through them, but enough to leave him vulnerable, nonetheless. MacLeod waited for the right moment; he deflected a vicious thrust, then kicked his attacker in the stomach. Before the man could recover, he stepped forward and hit him in the face with a hard left. His enemy staggered back, barely able to stay on his feet. MacLeod knocked the sword out of his hand with one hard blow. Then he brought his sword down towards the other man's neck. His opponent's face reflected his dismay, but, to his credit, he didn't so much as flinch. The sword descended, coming to a stop barely an inch short of its target, MacLeod's control nothing less than miraculous. "You're dead," he said withdrawing the blade. His erstwhile foe said nothing. He merely rubbed his jaw where MacLeod had hit him and groaned. Richie Ryan was a young man in his twenties, his reddish hair and exuberance a stark contrast to MacLeod's dark hair and levelheaded personality. "Always remember: your enemy has more to fight with than just his sword. Never let down your guard." He picked up two towels off a chair, used one to wipe the sweat off his face. "You're getting better, though. That could have been worse." And he tossed the other towel to the younger man. "Thanks, Mac. That really makes me feel better," Richie said sarcastically. The two were alone in MacLeod's dojo. It was early, too early for even the most dedicated of exercise buffs to come in. It was the perfect time for MacLeod to train the young immortal. "These things take time, Richie. Remember, Rome wasn't built in a day." Then, to placate and encourage his rather hotheaded protege, he added, "I think you've come a long way." "Really?" Richie said skeptically. "Really." "Thanks, Mac. That means a lot, coming from you," Richie said, this time with no hint of sarcasm. "I think that's enough for today. Time to hit the showers." He had just enough time to shower and change before he was supposed to meet Anne. "Duncan?" MacLeod and Richie turned to see a woman standing in the doorway of the dojo. She was young, no more than twenty-five years old, and very attractive, although her features were marred by the tears that smudged her makeup. "Margaret, what's wrong?" Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. *No. Please let me be wrong.* "It's Chris. He's..." She broke off, unable to continue. Then she looked at him and said in a remarkably calm voice, "He's dead, Duncan." MacLeod's spirits flagged, but he held out a hope. "Dead? How?" he asked, stepping towards her. After all, Margaret didn't know the true nature of her husband. "We were supposed to meet for dinner, but he never showed. I waited, then went home. I found him in the garden. He...someone had...cut off his head." Then her last vestiges of her control vanished, and tears ran down her cheeks. "Oh, Duncan!" She stepped forward and hugged him hard, pressing her head against his chest. MacLeod was stunned. "Do the police know who was responsible?" "No," she sobbed. "Who...who could do that to Chris? And why?" Richie just stood there, looking as helpless as MacLeod felt. MacLeod couldn't think of anything to do or say that would take away the pain Margaret was feeling. So he settled for words he had spoken many times before. "I'm sorry, Margaret. I'm so sorry." Even as he spoke, he recalled a similar occasion. "I'm sorry, Chris," MacLeod said, laying a hand on Christopher Franklin's shoulder. "I'm so sorry." "How could this happen?" Franklin said despondently. The two men stood alone in the center of a large cemetery. The fading afternoon light provided just enough illumination for them to read the inscription on the headstone of the grave in front of them. It read simply: HERE LIES ELIZABETH FRANKLIN BELOVED OF CHRISTOPHER SEPTEMBER 16, 1786 - MAY 13, 1809 Franklin knelt and rested his forehead on the tombstone. He tried but couldn't hold back the ragged sobs that tore out of his throat. "It's not fair, Duncan. I knew she would die sooner or later; they all do. But I thought we would have years, decades with each other. And what did we have?" He laughed bitterly. "Three years, just three years." He looked up at MacLeod. "Why did this happen?" "I don't know why accidents like this happen," MacLeod replied softly, remembering the horror he'd felt when he had found their charred bodies after the fire. Franklin had recovered; his wife hadn't. "Just as I don't know why we are what we are. I do know the two of you loved each other very much. Remember that love." Franklin nodded and slowly stood up. "I do remember; I always will remember. It's...it's just that it never changes. You find someone special, someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. But they grow old and die, and you're left alone again." "That's our lot in life, Chris. Or so you've told me." Franklin managed a wan smile. "Throwing my own words back at me is hardly fair. But you're right, of course." He looked sheepish. "I'm not setting much of an example, am I? I should be used to this. After all, I've lived twice as long as you have. I've been through this many times. But here I am, falling to pieces." "I don't think we ever get used to it," MacLeod said sadly, remembering all the friends and loved ones he had buried. Then he pushed those thoughts aside. This wasn't helping his friend. "Besides, you artistic types are supposed to be more sensitive. So you're entitled to overreact once in a while." Franklin chucked. "Thanks for everything, Duncan. I couldn't have made it through this without you." "I'm glad I could help," he paused. "Have you given any thought to what I said earlier?" "You mean about leaving?" "Yes. I think you should leave England, start a new life on the continent or in America. You have to put this behind you." Franklin sighed. "You're right. It's just that I don't feel right leaving so soon after -" He broke off in mid-sentence, his body visibly tensing. MacLeod felt it a second later. The two turned around to see a tall blond man walking towards them. MacLeod didn't recognize him. He looked at Franklin who shook his head. The other immortal stopped a few feet away, his hands at his sides nonthreateningly. "Please relax, gentlemen. I mean you know harm. And we are on holy ground." He smiled. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Helmut Stocker." =========================================================================