Doubled Edge 2b/10

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Doubled Edge by Katt Solano
Disclaimers & further hoopla in part 0
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Domou arigatou," Connor said in flawless Japanese as he carelessly swung
the plastic bag of take-away sushi with one hand and slipped change into his
pocket with the other.

"Douitashimashite."

The bells above the door sang chimes harmoniously as he opened the door. In
his four hundred and some-odd years, he'd travelled to many places. Next to
Scotland, Hawaii was the closest to paradise. Not only was the weather
fantastic, the scenery breath-taking, and saling almost mandatory but he was
here with his wife whom he loved too madly and his son for whom he would cut
his own head off. The Immortal ratio was low especially during the non-peak
seasons. The natives had a laissez-faire attitude and respected his privacy:
from his home, he could bellow the MacLeod battle cry at the top of his
lungs and his nearest neighbour would just barely hear it.

Even his current job seemed tailor-made for an immortal: the designer and
maintainer of the local universities' research sites. Because ninety-eight
percent of the job could be done over the Internet, he hardly ever had to
meet his co-workers, making the secrets of his life that much easier to
keep.

It would be another hour until the rush at the dojo started. The handful of
people who were there now used the mats or the weights for their own private
use; the after-work/school crowd were the students. Connor only taught the
classes that Chris did and left the rest to the two sensei that the dojo
owner had hired. It wasn't so bad. Alex had teased that she had finally
started to crack his paranoia. It wasn't true. He was as cautious as ever;
he just chose to hide it and keep his family happy.

Zilla was still filing away when he returned, her thin-- almost scrawny--
body hunched over Chris' desk, her brows furrowed in concentration and her
tongue caught between her teeth. He knocked on the door. When she looked up,
startled, he held out the bag.

"We can eat here," he said.

Looking around doubtfully at the pristine office-- obvious signs that Chris
was not using the place-- Zilla said, "I don't think we should."

"Nah, it'll be all right." He took out one of the Styrofoam boxes. "I got
you salmon maki and a dynamite roll." Handing her the chopsticks, he started
to dig into his own lunch. The sweet-salty juices of the beef teriyaki burst
in his tongue. Connor sighed happily.

Later, after demolishing the teriyaki and the rest of the contents of his
bento box, Connor and Zilla's silent lunch was interrupted by a knock on the
door.

"Come in," Zilla invited.

A young man threw the door open and stepped in. He was about as tall as
Connor himself but more built, with dark auburn hair closely cropped so that
the curl was barely there and an equally pristine goatee. His eyes were
strange, a bit too large and slanted upwards like North-eastern Asiatic eyes
but with shimmering hazel irises. Closing the door behind him, he said,
"Hello, I was told I could find the owner of the dojo here."

Connor stood up, holding out his hand without bothering to wipe them. "Chris
Takemoto isn't here right now, but I'm acting on his behalf."

The young man accepted the handshake. He had a good shake; firm, a bit damp
but quick enough not to tick Connor off. "Tyce Beauregard. I just moved here
from the mainland and I was wondering if there was anyone here I could spar
with," he said, "I don't really have the time to take any more lessons but I
don't want to lose what I've learned so far by lack of practice." He
shrugged and grinned and suddenly, he looked like a sheepish child.

"When did you want to come in?" asked Connor.

"I'm pretty much free around this time every day. Got work the rest of the
time and school in a few months."

Connor, his bum nice and comfy on Chris' desk, took his chin in his hands
and asked, "How many years of lessons did you have."

"All my life," answered Tyce with a smile, "I've been using swords for...
oh, about five years now."

"Just the katana?"

"I know how to use the other blades, too. And the bo, but not as well."

The clock high on the office wall softly ticked the hour. Connor stood up.
"I have a class in a few minutes so the mats will be busy. I'll take to the
other sensei. Tomorrow, noon?"

Tyce grinned. "That'd be great. Thanks, Mr. Uh..."

"Montgomery."

"Yeah. Thanks. You have a nice day." He nodded towards Zilla as well.

"Yeah, you too."

*  *  *  *  *
Two days later...
Heathrow Airport: London, England...

Seven minutes. That was how long it took for trouble to find them from the
moment they stepped off the airplane. Methos knew this because he'd started
his mental stopwatch the moment they stepped off said airplane. Thirty-six
hours they'd spent on two planes and a bus, landing in three different
states to try and keep ahead of not only the Caelum, who'd made a
reappearance in Virginia, and those invisible creatures that liked to attack
hotel rooms. The nine-hour flight from Toronto to London-- lushly cushioned
seats, an amazingly fine selection of beer, a well-preserved book of Hittite
poetry, and blessed sleep-- was a much-needed reprieve. And now, sadly, it
was over.

To his credit, Duncan was on full paranoia mode and spotted their tails as
soon as Methos himself did. The older Immortal sensed a change the
Highlander's Quickening, a slight tightening as though preparing himself for
flight or fight. He didn't miss a step, though; just kept strolling to the
exit doors saying, "That's the last time I ever catch a red-eye."

"I rather appreciated the lack of any stopovers," said Methos, playing
along, "That always drives my internal clock mad."

"Hrmph."

There were no available flights to Scotland until the next day. Duncan
looked so forbidding at that announcement that the trembling woman behind
the desk stuttered an offer to take a few pounds off a car rental. Their
tail followed them to the parking lot. It pricked at Methos' skin; he could
sense the danger all but pouring from him/her/them but they didn't make a
move. He could see that Duncan wasn't left unaffected, his moves were
getting more and more jerky. He slammed the door of the Jeep so hard the
vehicle rattled.

"How long to get to your place?" asked Methos as they pulled into the main
road out of Heathrow.

There was no reply. Duncan's eyes darted to the rear-view mirror. The
typical black, nondescript sedan was three cars away. Their followers
weren't making contact but they weren't trying too hard to hide either.

It was one of the most uncomfortable trips Methos had ever taken. Granted
nothing would ever beat being dragged behind a camel through a desert or
hiding in a cart in the summer under a pile of dead bodies but this came as
a close third. Duncan wouldn't let Methos play any of his CDs and if he,
Methos, heard another Italian caterwauling about lost loves and dead honour,
he was going to retch quite violently.  Idea of a paved road was apparently
just as alien in Duncan's part of the country now as it had been centuries
ago. The poor Jeeps' shocks were no match for Highland "hills," bloody great
crags of them. Methos' teeth clattered and when he tried to read, he just
got nauseous.

Not for the last time, he wondered why he was doing this. He was rather
certain that Duncan was on the precarious side of insane-- too many bad
things had happened in too short a time. The weight of all the world was
starting to strain the Boy Scout's shoulders. But did the bugger even think
about putting it down? Nooooo!

::After five thousand years, I'm finally becoming senile.:: Methos gritted
his teeth as the Jeep was forced to leap over a bolder in the middle of the
path. ::It's the only explanation. That or Duncan's disease is catching. And
I'd really prefer the former explanation to that latter one.::

"They're still behind us," Duncan said, his dark eyes sparing a glace at the
side view mirror.

"It's not like they had much traffic to hide behind." Methos followed the
suit. The other car was about two hundred metres back. "I don't suppose we
can lose them over the next ravine."

"No." Duncan jerked the Jeep to a stop. "Stay here. Protect the Pearl."

"As you wish, oh great lord and master." Methos sighed as he unbuckled his
seat belt. "By all means, put on your patriotic leotard and tights and fight
evil for truth, justice and the American--"

Duncan pulled a handgun from his bag.

"--way." Methos blinked. _Duncan_ had a _gun_.

"I won't lead them to Connor's home," Duncan said by way of explanation. He
ducked out of the Jeep.

Their stalkers stopped a scant metre away from the Jeep. Two women and a man
came out, all dark in colouring, all dressed in black. They fanned out in
front of the Highlander. There was nothing but the wild landscape all around
them, the cool breeze sweeping over the moors, and stars peeking through the
far away pines, silent witnesses.

Hefting the gun in his hand, Duncan stepped towards them.


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