One of Us "If God had a name, what would it be And would you call it to His face If you were faced with Him in all His glory What would you ask if you had just one question?" -- Eric Bazilian, "One of Us" (recorded by Joan Osborne) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ No harm, no profit, no disrespect meant. I apologize up front for the cross posting. This story's been bouncing around in my head for a while, but recent events seem to have crystallized it into writable form. If there is any message here, it's about the strength of the human spirit, and the law of karma -- what goes around, comes around. In the timeline of my universe, it comes after "Re Sa" and another story I haven't finished yet (I see blue people!), but that doesn't really matter. If you get the references to past events and recognize OC's, fine -- if not, you shouldn't lose anything. All you need to know is that as the aftermath to a rather long, drawn out series of events, MacLeod, Methos, and Richie have been 'ejected' from the Game. If any of them takes a head, bad things will happen, with far reaching consequences. The title comes from the song "One of Us," recorded by Joan Osborne. I don't want to say anything else, as it would constitute a spoiler. Thanks to Emma, Sin, and Athos for the beta read. Comments are welcome. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part 1: [Quincy Market, Boston. Late August, 2000] Richie aimlessly wandered through the aisles of the quaint bookshop, maneuvering around patrons deeply engrossed in one or another of the eclectic collection of volumes. This store, like many of the other businesses crammed into the parallel rows of shops, was a mixture of tourist trap and highbrow culture. His taste buds had already amply sampled the wares of the food court, now his curiosity was being satisfied while his stomach digested. A glance at his watch told him that he'd already spent several hours in Quincy Market, but there was so much more left to explore. He'd never been to Boston before, and he was determined to take advantage of the free time and efficient subway system to lazily explore whatever moved him. Besides, the three elder Immortals who awaited him in a meticulously decorated Victorian house just outside the city limits could easily amuse themselves without using him as the butt of their good natured joking -- at least for a little while longer. Glancing at the neatly painted sign at the end of one aisle, he noted that he had wandered into the philosophy and religion section of the store. <<Must be Enkidu's influence.>> A bittersweet smile flashed across his face, then faded. At times, he missed the Akkadian more than he could bear. The moments were fewer and farther between, but still occurred, nonetheless. "Okay, I'll humor you," he murmured under his breath, to the essence of someone he carried deep within himself. "Just this once!" He skimmed the top row of one shelf of books, running his finger lightly along their spines. <<Hmmmm, Zen Buddhism. Sounds... out there.>> Bending over slightly, he cocked his head to the side and perused the shelf below. He smiled when he saw a name he recognized. <<Wow, I didn't know he'd written so many books.>> Pausing to read the names of each volume in turn, Richie stopped at the last of the author's alphabetically arranged works. <<"Violence and Compassion" -- this sounds interesting.>> Gently pulling the book out from the shelf, Richie studied its cover. Dressed in his customary burgundy and saffron robes, the smiling face of Tenzin Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, seemed to peer back at the young Immortal. Richie stared at the image for a moment in silence. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of his own externally imposed pacifism. He'd been essentially ejected from the game, on more than a technicality, and had to come to terms with how he was going to live his life from now on. He'd tried, on his own, to lay down his sword, but had been forced back into the fray by the hand of Fate, or some other higher power. Now, that very same power demanded that he, and his friends, disavow the Game -- for the greater good of all. No, he wasn't to be a pacifist, not in the strictest sense of the word. He could fight, he could certainly defend himself, he could even kill an opponent, albeit not permanently. He was only prohibited from taking heads -- no Quickenings. Not now, not ever, unless he wished to be the impetus for the cycle to begin anew. *That* was a leaden burden he was unwilling to bear. Pushing his own self doubts and fears from his mind, he flipped open the slender paperback to a randomly chosen page and began to read. <<"The Dharma, when it is protected, protects; when it is destroyed, it destroys.">> "Hmmmmm, there's the violence -- I wonder where the compassion comes in," he murmured unconsciously. The sudden strange thrumming in his brain distracted him from his reading. It was most definitely a presence, but unlike any he had felt before. Lowering the book to his thigh, held in a single hand, Richie searched the store for the source of the puzzling aura. He found it in the smiling face of a slowly approaching stranger. Clearly Oriental in origin, the stranger was dressed in loose cotton pants and a tunic, his feet adorned with simple leather sandals. The outfit reminded him of the garb worn by the Tibetan peasants with whom he had spent a night some months before. The closely cropped hair, only a tad longer than a crew cut, gave a slightly monkish appearance to the new arrival, but it was his face -- serene, friendly, reflecting a wisdom beyond the bearer's apparent youthful years. He reminded Richie of a much younger Dalai Lama -- without the eye glasses. "Hello," Richie offered, calmly waiting for the stranger to make some kind of an overture. The smile broadened on the other's lips. "Hello." He studied the cover of the book Richie still clutched in one hand. "The words of a wise man," he offered, gesturing toward the volume with an open hand. Richie glanced down at the book. "Yeah, I guess he is." He met the stranger's curious gaze and searched for any hint of danger. There was none. Feeling more secure, he juggled the book over into his left hand and extended the proper hand for greeting. "Richie Ryan." The stranger accepted the outstretched hand, cupped it with both his hands, and bowed slightly. "I am called Tsangyang Gyatso," he spoke, with a heavy accent that reminded Richie of the monks of Tibet. "Gyatso -- you must be related to the Dalai Lama." Richie's cheeky smile immediately faded into a self conscious expression of guilt and unease. "Um, sorry, that was pretty disrespectful... to make a joke about such an important holy man." The smile on the mysterious man's face never dimmed, but brightened even further. "Actually, I found it rather amusing. And, yes, one could say we are related." "Ah. So, you're from Tibet?" "Very far from Tibet. Yet, Tibet is never far from me." A glimmer of sadness could be seen on Tsangyang's face, tugging at Richie's heartstrings. "I've been to Tibet. I stayed in a monastery for a week or so -- as a guest, not a monk," Richie quickly clarified. "It's a really beautiful country." "Yes, it is. It has suffered so much, as have its people." "Yeah, I know." Richie stared down at the cover of the book in his hand, puzzled as he studied the smiling face of the Dalai Lama. "Okay, I don't get how come the Tibetans aren't calling for the U.S. to bomb the shit outta the Chinese, or asking the Indian government for weapons and stuff, so the Tibetans can go back over the border and kick some ass. I've heard stories of how the Chinese killed nuns, monks, trashed monasteries. I mean, your country was *invaded*... taken over... raped and pillaged and all that shit." Richie felt chagrinned at using such language in front of a perfect stranger. "How can you guys just... take it?" Tsangyang sighed slightly, his face reflecting sadness, yet not a hint of bitterness. "We *have* asked for help, from many countries. Diplomatic* help. We wish to find a peaceful solution which would be in the best interest of not only the Tibetan people, but all of humankind." A nervous chuckle echoed from Richie's lips. "No one's buying that, huh? I guess the Tibetans don't have anything Washington wants -- or they just don't wanna risk pissing off the Chinese." <<Damn, that sounds as bitter as the Old Timer. He must be rubbing off on me.>> "I do not have the answer to that question. All I know is that our way is that of compassion and wisdom. Part of wisdom is realizing the truth of suffering -- so long as we remain in this world." Indignation found its voice in the young Immortal's retort. "So you just let people steamroll over you? You don't stand up for yourself? What good are the rules of civilized behavior, if people don't follow them?" "Buddhism does not advocate lawlessness and anarchy, Richie. Discipline is always necessary, as are rules of conduct and civility. Persons who break those laws should be punished. We even have disciplinarians in our monasteries, to punish any monks who transgress the rules of the Vinaya. You always have to hold the rod in one hand and make use of it if necessary, but with as little brutality as necessary. Yes, one way or another, there must be a system of discipline. There is too much ignorance in the human mind for it to be otherwise."