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.
