"We never made anything big, though," he continues, "just small stuff like swords, fences, horseshoes. Here, I made the beams that hold up half of this country." His grin is luminous. "Can you say that, Adam?" He knows I can't. Truth be told, I don't give a shit about not making steel girders and pylons. But I can't tell him that. So I shake my head and give him my best harmless Adam Pierson smile. He seems to buy it. That causes him to shake his head, grinning. "I don't hardly know you, Adam," Sean says loudly, his hand leaving the steering wheel dangerously. "I mean, I know what you like to feel in your hand, but that's all we do, business," I pause to look at the palm of my hand. It is grubby from all the beer nuts and the pool cue. Sean pulls a tight turn, and I take that hand to grip the armrest on the passenger side door. It is true, I realize, that I use Sean. It is petty, and perhaps he resents it. Perhaps not. Sean has never refused my money before. He certainly didn't refuse it when I bought the Ivanhoe. "I never really thought you'd be interested in me, Sean," I try to explain feebly. "No," he answers, scoffing. "None of you ever do." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The selection of blades is small but impressive. There are three short swords, delicate blades sharpened already to a deadly edge. There is one almost paper thin epee that I pass on entirely. There is also a lovely long sword that catches my eye. When I pick it up, it hums. Not literally, but figuratively. The blade is handsomely oiled, and the steel itself is something dark and gleaming at the same time. Most blades take on a terrible cold grey color, losing their shine. Sometimes they don't even have that glow in the first place. Almost every blade I've ever had has never really had that luminescence, as if they knew from the moment they hit my hand that they would be used for death, and they weren't excited about it. The only weapon I ever had that seemed to have a light of its own was when I was Death. The sword I used was a short blade that grew more in color the more lives I took with it. Towards the end, every time I picked it up, it made the noise that this blade is making now. I once saw a Japanese anime show with a character whose sword had killed so many people that it was coated with human oil. The blade was saturated in it, and when he ran it along the metal glove on his hand, he could ignite it and make it burn. Sometimes, out of morbid curiosity, I wish I still had my Death weapon, just to see if I could call up that circle of fire. Oh hell, if I was really curious, I suppose I could try Mac's. It has to be crazy oily by now. I turn the pommel around, flipping it from side to side, over and over again. Sean lays out the last of the blades and leans against his office wall, folding his hands across his huge chest. I turn the pommel again. It is made of teak with silver inlay, a silver that makes the blade seem so much lighter. The end is a heavy ball to weight the hilt and balance the blade. "You like what you see?" Sean asks. He knows that he doesn't even need to ask it. I want the blade, and I haven't even tried it yet. I pull a half-hearted arc in the middle of his office, stopping short of the filing cabinet. He makes a face, and I shrug. The true test of the blade is in a fight. I won't know until then if I can take the length, which is a bit more than the Ivanhoe, or if I like the way it moves when I do my patented underhand defense (and yes, I came up with that. Anyone who might possibly contest that just needs to see my birth certificate.). Sean is fit for a reason. He selects one of the broadswords and we slide out of the office to play around a bit on the factory floor. Most of the time I'm not fond of fighting, but there are two times that fighting is necessary: when you're cornered, and when you're buying a weapon you intend to use to defend your life. I swing the new weapon in a few pendulum takes before Sean raises his own. He takes his time; always has. He cracks his neck, adopts a low defensive stance and then breaks it to launch a full onslaught right towards me. Blades talk, you know. When the edges of them touch for the first time, the reverberation sends a massage to both players. In reality, the first few strokes towards your opponent pretty much dictate the entire outcome of the fight. Sean's eyes tell me what the blades have already said. But I have to say it out loud, because it has happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Most of me is cursing myself for walking into it. "Sean," I say warningly, hefting the new blade in my hand. The weight is perfect, but something tells me that its maker isn't. Not at this moment. He smiles, and his face is drawn, even through the grin. He brings the heavier blade up into a down swing that I have to set my teeth against. "Time to pay up, Adam." I think it's the cheesiest line I've heard, and I spent a lot of time with Ryan. I slip my blade around his and manage to back away, putting up a better front guard. Then I do what I do best. I run like a motherfucker. I never learn lessons. The cops know the city, and Sean knows his mill. I may be clothed, but I'm just as naked as when I chased Heather down the street. I clamber past vats and coal pits, slip on a bit of coke resin and try to hide in a drenching shower. Poor mistake. The only good thing about fighting here is that it's impossible to hide one' s footsteps, so while Sean can hear me, I can still hear him. I side-curl the blade and catch him in the stomach as he comes around a corner, but it won't be enough to stop him. I'm right. Sean takes the blow like a good little Immortal. Before the blade is even back in my defensive position, he'll start healing. "Sean, really, you don't want to do this," I say, looking for my friend in Sean's face. But Sean isn't my friend. He's just someone I trusted enough to get a blade from. This pretty much reinforces my theory that no immortals are good immortals. Or perhaps immortals that you don't really know. If I had a foot free, I'd be kicking myself. "You really expect me to let you out of here?" Sean growls. I shrug, wondering if I can pull the knife at my back. No sword does not mean not being armed at all. "I said I'd pay you," I tell him. "Why do you have to do this now?" Sean smiles. "Change of heart. Change of plans. Change of initiative." There's nothing I can really say to that. The great thing about being immortal and having the Game in play is that one can decide to kill someone else, and really, we all know why. No need for a motive. It's just a happy head hunting time. I decide then and there that I am not dying in the middle of a steel mill. If anyone is going to die in this god forsaken filth, it's Sean. The funny thing about a beheading, I think, as Sean's body falls backwards, is that the head seems to register the actual landing of the rest of its self. The eyes go wide, every single time, as if it can't believe that the body is no longer its to command. And even though I have to think that the beheaded is indeed dead, here is something like surprise, something like rage in the eyes. Just for a split second, I see the soul leaving the body. Then it is gone, and the flame no longer flickers, because it's busy rolling into me. There is nowhere to hide a body in this town. I hate leaving my kills for the police to clean up. I don't like being in the same town as any reported beheading. Modern technology is too fishy for me to trust not making a mistake, especially after a quickening. But then I have a flash of invention. Urban legends are amazing things, and much like proverbs, I know a wealth of them, from Babylon to Los Angeles. Sometime in the twenties, a steelworker in this very city fell into one of the large molten vats of hot liquid metal. They say that his body was mixed with the steel and molded into one of the girders they used in all of the bridges around here. Legend says that the worker's spirit still haunts the bridge. I don't believe in ghosts. But I do believe in the power of molten metal. And I know Sean did, too. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Leaving Pittsburgh is the most relieving thing I've done in ages. Returning to the barge means that I have to confront Mac, and I don't know if I have the spirit for that. When I watch the three rivers disappear as my plane goes higher and higher into the clouds, I wonder about so much metal in the air. I wonder about the pollution that made this city unlivable at one time. I wonder about Sean's comment about the metal in the blood, and I wonder about what could have possibly made him go mad. It could have been the steel, or the ages, or the feeling of being used. Perhaps Sean, like so many others in that god forsaken place, the place that once spawned labor unions and child labor laws, broke down because he was old, tired, neglected and without hope. Perhaps he was past his use, past his prime. Perhaps the steel in his veins had finally gotten to his heart. The new sword is in the cargo hold, and I plan to keep it. I am thinking of what I will need to modify in order to accommodate its additional length while my laptop warms up. I absently check my email, even though they say you shouldn't jack into the plane phone. The flight attendant brings me a glass of ginger ale and one of those little bags of peanuts. I read the directions of the peanuts: "open bag. Eat nuts." I check my email. There is a message from Joe. To: firstman667@hotmail.com From: bluesboy334@ihateclowns.com Subject: Lose something, feeb? I have something you don't have, nyah nyah nyah.guess what your watcher took from a dumpster? Ha ha ha ha- Joe P.S. If I were an evil man, I would make you pay your bar tab to get it back. I stop to consider this for a moment. It takes so long for the message to sink in. Then I start to laugh. I don't know when I start shaking, but I manage to not cry. Instead, I busy myself surfing the porn web for a second before finishing my mail. To: olddude44@juno.com From: macleodd@earthlink.net Subject: Uhm, the vase? And the mirror? Is there something you want to tell me? And what's with all the pizza boxes? Can't you throw anything away? Stop by. Joe says he has your sword. What are you doing running around without that? Don't answer that. Duncan I consider that last line. Don't answer that. I don't think I can. END *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Let Me Touch You For Awhile written by Robert Lee Castleman performed by Alison Krauss and Union Station It's been a long time coming As you shed a lonesome tear Now you're in a wonderama I wonder what you're doing here The flame no longer flickers You're feeling just like a fool You keep staring into your liquor Wondering what to do I don't hardly know you But I'd be willing to show you I know a way to make you smile Let me touch you for a while I'm gonna to ruin my black mascara You're drinking whiskey when it should be wine You keep looking into that mirror But to me you're looking mighty fine I don't hardly know you But I'd be willing to show you I know a way to make you Laugh at that cowgirl as she's walking out the door I know a way to make you smile Just let me whisper things you've never heard before Just let me touch you baby Just let me touch you for a while I don't hardly know you But I'd be willing to show you I know a way to make you smile It's been a long time Let me touch you for a while Amand-r/MethosMuseUnion#666/Super Evil Methos Clone: Aku. Soku. Zan