Merciless Chapter 1/8: Awakening Vi Moreau and Suzanne Herring Write the authors c/o Bridget Mintz Testa, btesta@houston.rr.com RATING: PG-15 for language and one sexually-suggestive scene Paris, July 3, 2008 Stephen Holz woke up in a large, featureless white room, cold right down to his bones. Trembling and gasping, kicking and fighting the entanglement of the white sheet which threatened to smother him, he fell off the narrow gurney, hard, hitting his head against a tile floor. For a moment he lay there in agony. Eventually the pain lessened, but something else took its place. Something worse, something he would gladly have traded for the pain: The dreadful realization of what and where he was. He was an Immortal. He was in a morgue. And he wanted to be dead. He got awkwardly to his feet, afraid of what he'd see on the gurneys next to him. Dead bodies, but not just any dead bodies. He uncovered the first -- Marie -- and next to her, on the other side, Francois. Marie's face was undamaged, still beautiful although too pale, and he turned away, unable to look at her. Stephen clearly remembered the accident on Rue des Ecoles. He'd stepped on the gas, to reach the intersection first, to beat the car coming down the cross street. As he'd crossed the intersection, he had turned to flick his lighter and light Marie's Gaulois. "Trop vite," she'd chided, bending forward to cup her hands around the flame. In that moment, he'd glimpsed the car bearing right down on them. The car he *hadn't* beaten to the intersection. Stephen leaned over the body of his dead lover, his eyes closed tightly. He wept long, low, racking sobs. They awakened an agony in his chest that he knew would never go away. After the accident, caught inside the twisted metal that had been his Citroen, he'd held Marie's hand -- it was the only part of her he could reach. But he really hadn't been able to feel anything, not even her hand. He had been able to smell, though -- the stench of blood that was oh, so familiar. And he had been able to hear. "J'ai peur," Marie had said, crying softly. "Moi aussi," he'd answered. "Je t'aime." And he had certainly been able to see. He'd seen Marie's eyes close, right in front of him, just before the darkness overtook him as well, and their love for each other hadn't mattered a damn in the end, as love never did. The lyrics of a tango had echoed in his head then, and he could hear them now, again. He could *feel* the words and the pain and horror that they brought with them. "Sus ojos se cerraron y el mundo sigue andando; su boca que era mia ya no me besa mas. Quise abrigarla y mas pudo la muerte; como me duele y se ahonda mi herida." It was one of Elena's favorite tangos. Elena Duran. His *mother*. The woman who had taken him in, adopted him, risked her life for him, loved and nurtured him for over ten years. And betrayed him, mocked him, lied to him every single day of every one of those years. "Immortality is a blessing, but it's also very difficult," she'd said. "You just have to adapt, like anything else." That had been her coy little way of *not* saying, "You're an Immortal, kid, and you're screwed just like me!" Damn her for not telling him he was Immortal! Damn her to hell! Elena wasn't in Paris now. She was in Argentina, and that was too bad. But she wasn't the only Immortal who had lied to him -- kept the truth of his Immortality hidden. And she wasn't the only one who would pay. Gritting his chattering teeth, shaking and sobbing, he searched until he found a doctor's white coat -- probably a coroner's coat, he figured. It was cold against his skin, but he pulled it on anyway, wondering if he'd ever feel warm again. On a nearby table, he found their personal effects -- Marie's purse, Francois' wallet, his own briefcase. Opening Marie's purse with trembling hands, Stephen took out the tiny silver flask filled with Chanel No. 5 that she kept for "emergencies." He opened it -- the smell filled his head for a moment, and more tears spilled. But then he closed it and put it in the pocket of the coat. He opened his briefcase -- his wallet and cellphone were still there, along with a scarf Elena had bought him. He put the wallet and phone in the pocket, too, then snapped the briefcase shut. His grief was ebbing away now, and rage was replacing it. Yes, the Immortals, killers and liars all of them, would pay, starting with the one Immortal Stephen knew was in Paris now -- someone who had watched Stephen's father die and done nothing to stop it, who had lied and mocked and betrayed Stephen, someone who was even more guilty than Elena. Stephen had to take care of a few things first, but he knew just where he would go to start getting his payback -- to the Quai de la Tournelle, where Duncan MacLeod's barge was docked. After sneaking through the building, narrowly missing being seen several times, Stephen finally reached a back exit. It had been nearly sunset when he'd died. The thought came hard, taking his breath away. Without windows in the morgue, he had no clue how long it had taken him to revive (and that thought came hard, too). But the exit door had a small window, and he peered through it. It was dark outside, so night had fallen. "Bon," he whispered. It would be easier to hide and sneak and elude the Parisian gendarmes in the dark. His bitter fury flamed higher and hotter as he thought about having to do this again and again and again as an Immortal. If only he'd known! He could have been prepared, he could have -- Shaking his head, he slipped out the door into the soft Parisian night, not caring about the alarm going off as he left, raging at the injustice done to him. Stephen's feet were bare. He stepped on a stone, hurting his foot, but he simply muttered "Merde!" and hurried on. After that, he didn't even notice the stubbed toes, the small cuts, bruises, and gashes. They healed too quickly, and his thoughts were elsewhere -- on his hatred and his need for revenge. He'd never wanted Immortality, never! Not the swords, not the rules of The Game, not the horror of killing, the constant fear, the paranoia -- none of it! But here he was, immortal all the same. Elena had never told him. Duncan had never told him. Or Richie, or Emma Cuzo, or Connor MacLeod, that other MacLeod whom he also hated and despised. None of them had told him. They had all known, but they'd let him believe that he was simply a mortal, a normal human being, not a freak like them. A freak like him. Well, he was going to get even. Immortals were killers -- it's what they did best. He might as well get started, and he didn't give a damn about the rules of their Game. Finally, Stephen found himself at the apartment he'd shared with Marie. He showered quickly, scrubbing the smell and the feel of death off of him. Then he went to the little safe in the apartment and drew out the two items it contained: a semi-automatic pistol and its silencer, both highly illegal in Paris, and both the subject of his worst fight with Marie. Well, he was going to avenge Marie's death with this pistol now -- and his own unwanted, endless afterlife, too. Stephen made sure the pistol was loaded and started for the door, but was frozen by a glimpse of pantyhose between the sofa cushions, where Marie had quickly stripped them off just the night before so the two of them could make love. He gasped as the pain tore at him again. Even if he lived a thousand years he'd never hold Marie in the night, never again argue with Francois about the best German beer ... He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and headed for the door once more, then stopped at a sudden impulse. Why not spread the misery? Why not make the bastards hurt as much as he hurt? Smiling viciously, he sat down to make a call. Translations: French: trop vite - too fast j'ai peur - I'm afraid moi aussi - me too je t'aime - I love you Spanish: Sus ojos se cerraron y el mundo sigue andando; su boca que era mia ya no me besa mas. Quise abrigarla y mas pudo la muerte; como me duele y se ahonda mi herida. English: Her eyes closed and the world continues on; her mouth, which was mine, no longer kisses me. I wanted to protect her, but death was stronger; my wound aches and deepens.