Build a K’Immie
The Holy Ground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Rysher Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
THE MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: Build A Kimmie!
Posted by Leah CWPack on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 9:08 a.m.
For those who wish to participate:
This week, you've been approached to come up with a new nemesis, a unique villain who will menace Duncan or Methos or any of his friends, BIG time. He/she has to be memorable...ideally someone who can be recurring. Other than that, no restrictions! You can present your Kimmie in any fashion you like best...a Watchers CD entry; a descriptive paragraph/profile; a poem; a short scene where the Kimmie first appears...anything goes.
Hmmmm....here is my attempt at a K'immie.....
Posted by T Rose/Tikasmom on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 12:13 p.m., in response to THE MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: Build An Kimmie!, posted by Leah CWPack on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 9:08 a.m.
Kendrick carefully hung the photos up, smiling slightly at the latest images of a white haired woman sliding down a steeply sloped wire into the Museum of Modern Art, and the following shots that showed the same female carefully removing the jade pendant from its supposedly theft proof case. Opening the top drawer of the file cabinet to his left, he pulled the folder marked Amanda from its slot and rifled through similar documentations of her thefts. Just about enough here, he thought, to start on her.
Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the wall while the photos dried and stared into the past. How easy it was to blackmail an immortal or two to keep his bank account full, and how much fun. Almost as much fun as letting one side of a battle know just where the other side was hiding out, or casually leaking the hiding place of the latest rebel leader. He had never decided if the thrill he got from watching the capture was better than the final picture of the atrocities that always followed or the resulting accolades from his adoring public and employers. Yes, being a photojournalist for World Wide Web Shots, among a few other similar companies, certainly had its little perks. Not to mention the myriad hiding places and identities he could accumulate so easily as he traveled from battle site to war torn country to his latest temporary haven. Add to that the benefits of a computer, a scanner and a nicely growing Swiss bank account, and Kendrick was certainly glad to have survived for 800 years into the 21st century.
Hey, you all suspected he was Evil....
Posted by Red Hunter(My First Try at a MWC) on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 12:46 p.m., in response to THE MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: Build An Kimmie!, posted by Leah CWPack on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 9:08 a.m.
William contemplated the events that had granted him immortality. It had been 15 years since it happened. Late one evening in a heated discussion with Steve over something as stupid as intellectual property. What once drove him to success, was now nothing more than a tool. A commodity. As they left the nearly constructed headquarters of his growing company, Steve suddenly shoved him toward the railing surrounding the foundation for the 5-story parking garage. He tumbled and shattered amidst re-bar and concrete blocks. Much to his amazement, he revived from the fall without even a bruise.
He was good with computers, so good that he recently cracked into the database of a group calling themselves “The Watchers”. He learned what he was, and spent months reading and gleaning as much information as he could on others of his kind. “The prize”, that sounded good to him.
He now perused an old Seacouver bookstore listed in one of the watchers records. As he picked up a very old volume to study it, A CD fell at his feet. The Jacket had what he now recognized as the watcher emblem on it. Bill Gates suspected that this was good. Very good. Later, as reviewed the CD, he realized he wouldn’t just have the computer industry at his mercy, but all of the Immortals and Watchers too. ……..
(Hey isn't that one of your biggest fears? That *He* is immortal)
MWC Entry: "Mommy Dearest"
Posted by Titania (hey it's been a bad mommy day) on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 4:23 p.m.
Barbara Westrel laughed manically as she sped from the Seacouver Chuck E. Cheese. Her British Racing Green Mazda Miata left fresh tire marks as she jumped the curve and got lost in the rush hour traffic. "That will teach those stupid mortals!" she sneered as she headed off into the sunset.
* * *
Joe had just served MacLeod a cold one when his cell phone rang. "Dawson" he answered curtly. Duncan glanced up in time to see Joe's annoyance change to horror. "She did what!?" the Watcher exclaimed. Duncan continued to observe this one sided conversation with curiosity. "What could Joe be so upset about?" he wondered.
"Joe, what was that all about?" Duncan inquired.
"Oh Mac, something terrible has happened! Barbara Westrel has escaped from her maximum security mental hospital and was just seen spotted at Chuck E. Cheese!" Joe exclaimed.
Duncan had heard of Barbara Westrel. All immortals knew of her. She was a fairly young immortal, but she was know by reputation. She had done things so horrific that even Methos was in awe of her.
"Joe, where is she? I've got to put an end to this! You know what she did to Richie when he was a boy!"
* * *
A ten-year old Richie Ryan was on his way home from school. His foster mom had given him some money for his birthday and he had spent it all on candy. All his favorites, M&Ms, Reese's Peanut Butter cups, licorice, etc. He happily ate as he walked on his way.
At the crosswalk a beautiful woman stopped him and asked him his name. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." Richie replied. "My name is Barbara Westrel and now we're not strangers any more" the beautiful lady had said. They talked for a few minutes about things that a ten year old boy would be interested in. As they turned to go their separate ways Barbara reached down and stole Richie's bag of candy! She ran away from Richie laughing and singing "You can't catch me, I'm the ginger bread man!"
* * *
"Richie never could listen to that story after that and candy never tasted good to him either." Duncan mused as he swallowed the last of his beer. "She's at the carnival by the pier." Joe stated. "Be careful Mac, remember she's not playing with a full deck."
"I know." Duncan murmured as he turned from the bar. Just then the TV. above the bar went to a breaking news story regarding the local Chuck E. Cheese.
"I'm Randi MacFarland standing outside of Chuck E. Cheese where one of the most bizarre and horrible crimes in Seacouver's history has just taken place. One hour ago a young woman stormed Chuck E. Cheese, broke all the rides, stole all of the children's tokens, toys and tickets, then ran out laughing and yelling "You can't catch me I'm the ginger bread man.". Police have identified the woman as Barbara Westrel an escaped inmate of the Shady Pines maximum security hospital for the criminally insane." As Randi continued her report, Duncan looked at Joe and said "This will end tonight!" The fierce look in Duncan's eyes told Joe that it would be finished, one way or the other.
* * *
As Duncan swept the katana up to take the final blow he sternly said "You shouldna take other people's candy!"
The Quickening was immense. The Ferris Wheel lights burst in rainbow colors, while the skeet balls shook from their frames. When it was finished Duncan lay on the ground spent, but satisfied. "I caught you, you wicked gingerbread man."
Re: THE MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: Build An Kimmie!
I had an idea a while back for a x-over tale, but I got into the story I'm writing now and never went in that direction. As the saying goes, The Truth is out there....
As soon as she stepped into her partner's cramped office, Scully was assaulted by a projection, bigger than life, of a headless body. "Well, if you're looking for a cause of death on this one, I don't think you'll need _my_ help" she said with a touch of a smile.
Fox Mulder clicked the remote, and the next slide appeared, a warehouse that looked like it was ground zero for a small explosion: black scorch marks on the walls, burst light fixtures, shattered windows all the way to the ceiling. "And how would you explain _this_?"
"Looks like a catastrophic power surge, or maybe a case of arson. Nothing unusual."
Fox grinned, "Ah, but what _is_ unusual was the fact that _that_ body was found in _this_ building, along with a sword. And this isn't the only case. Bodies like this have been found all over the world: the United States, Europe, even as far away as Japan; but none of them are being investigated. Someone is trying to suppress this, and I want to know why."
Elsewhere, a shadowy figure turned down the sound on the bug in Mulder's office and blew a long puff of thick grey smoke. He knew that smoking was bad for you, as a matter of fact it had already killed him a couple of times. Everyone had their own weaknesses, his was an addiction he'd had for centuries.
Finally, something useful would come out of his cultivation of Fox Mulder. He knew right away that the man's obsession with all things mysterious and paranormal would eventually lead him to the Immortals, and all _he_ would have to do is follow where the young mortal lead. Once he latched onto an idea, Mulder held on like a terrier; soon the Smoking Man would have all the information he wanted about Immortals: names, hiding places, weaknesses. He might even leak some information to the X-Files, just to keep him on the right track.
"These mortals are so easy to manipulate" he thought to himself, leaning back in his chair and pulling another drag from the cigarette.
Annie made me do this.
Posted by Leah CWPack on Thursday, 8 June 2000, at 12:10 p.m.
So complain to *her*.
He'd started out as a perfectly ordinary sort of fellow. At least, that's how he used to see himself. Sybil had a somewhat different, vastly lower estimation of him, but the old cow had never given him any credit, anyway.
Funny, that--he'd thought that his new state of being, this inability to perish permanently, would change things. To some degree they had, but not really, not the really *important* things, like getting rid of his ball-and-chain of a wife and the white elephant masquerading as a hotel in Torque for decades, nor even the hopelessly incompetent staff in his employ.
No, all that had happened when the decorative moose head had broken loose from its mooring on the lobby wall one last time and crashed down on his head, killing him was that he now had to carry a humongous sword hidden in his tweed jacket. Bloody awkward, that. That, and the chopping off the head bit.
When he'd woken up from the moose head accident, a multitude of his current clientele were standing over him like so many inquisitive vultures. Only the doddering Colonel had bothered to ask if he was alright, without enough consideration to set down his evening glass of whiskey. Thankfully, a stranger had stepped out of the crowd and helped him up, taken him aside and explained that he was something called an "Immortal."
Nonsense. He'd only been temporarily incapacitated by a falling wildlife trophy.
"No, you were dead," said the stranger.
"I was simply unconscious," he'd insisted.
"You were dead. Deceased. You'd stopped breathing."
"Impossible. I don't know what you're about, but the dead simply do not arise again. Ergo, I was not dead."
The stranger rolled his eyes and shook his head, which only called attention to the ridiculous ponytail that adorned the back of his head. In a slightly Scottish tone, he blurted: "You were dead! You'd gone to meet your maker! You were pushing up daisies! You were in Hotelier Heaven! You were DECEASED!!!"
He'd thought it was some ploy, at first, for the Scotsman to avoid settling up his bill. Maybe he thought he wasn't obligated to pay a dead man. It was all academic in a moment, however, when the crazy haggis-eater had pulled a Japanese sword out of nowhere and cut him with it.
After he'd gotten his screaming and hysterics under control, the maniac had pointed out that the wound had healed. He had showed an alarming willingness to demonstrate this miracle again, but once was quite enough. He had accepted the Scotsman's sullen and very reluctant offer to teach him all sorts of nonsense about this Immortality business. After a few excruciating weeks, the man had gratefully departed.
No, he thought, checking himself in the mirror of the lobby and adjusting his tie, he was not an ordinary sort of man. He was also not a man with fancies about swashbuckling and winning some idiotic, eternal "Game". He had a business to run, and about the only thing that Immortality had gifted him with was the certainty that someday, he would outlive Sybil. In the meantime, his first order of business had been to have Fawlty Towers consecrated as Holy Ground.
He turned to watch a short, hapless figure in a white jacket skitter across the lobby toward the kitchen door, like some sort of Barcelonian cockroach. "Manuel!!!" He shouted, freezing the man in his tracks. He gathered his breath and issued a long list of instructions to the staff member, then applied the sole of his shoe to the man's rear end, propelling him the rest of the way into the kitchen. A crash of breaking dishes and glass followed from within. He flinched.
If things weren't bad enough, ever since he'd woken from the dead, the little Spanish twit was causing him some sort of buzzing headache, every time they occupied the same room together. He was surrounded by idiots. He had a depressing premonition that he was always going to be surrounded by idiots.
Who the bloody hell in their right mind would want to live forever?
Midweek Challenge...somewhat Grimm
Posted by Chimera on Thursday, 8 June 2000, at 7:08 a.m.
He hesitated, his white-knuckled hand upon the heavy key already inserted into the ancient lock. Beyond the barrier of the great oak door was a legend, a mystery. The young man looked around at his companions, two farmers from the local community whom he had paid to accompany him. They were goggle-eyed with terror, their blue eyes wide and staring at the door. No one seemed to breathe as the young Canadian glanced down at his trembling hand, and then, with a determined twist, slid the tumblers back.
With a combined push by all three men, the door groaned open, and the young man, Richard, shouldered through, feeling a soft rush of air flow past him into the chamber. As he crossed the threshold, he felt transported by time into the Dark Ages. Time had stopped for this room in his newly-inherited castle. The air of proprietorship he had felt as he strode through the great hall, the sense of his own illustrious ancestry which had pervaded all his senses as he wandered through his demesne, evaporated. Here, he was an intruder into a shrine owned by an ancient spirit. He had been warned not to open this room by the villagers whom he had met at the local pub.
As he stood, uncertainly, with his hand still on the door, he recalled the legend. They said the castle was haunted by an evil demon who killed and tortured for pleasure. According to the villagers, she was the daughter of a Norman lord. Her crimes were many and horrific, and she was a scourge to her serfs and servants. At the last, she had been murdered by a serf whose child she had beaten to death for a misdemeanor.
Richard stepped into the stone-walled room, its dim light casting an eerie glow over the gossamer drapery of cobwebs which overhung everything. His companions hung back in the corridor, ready to take to their heels. He walked further into the bedchamber, eddying dust and cobwebs catching on his trouser legs.
The canopied bed, with its yellowed linen coverlet, was turned back invitingly, as if waiting for the sleeper who would never lie there again. Richard shivered with more than the chill of cold room. The chamber had been kept as a shrine until the castle had been abandoned, centuries past, Richard mused as he glanced at the dust-covered chests, the candle holder with its puddle of hardened wax, and the desiccated flowers that crumbled as he stirred the still air with his motion.
But the room's most arresting feature was a stone sarcophagus which lay at the foot of the bed. A single dried rose lay on its rough lid, and a candle, half-burned down, extinguished, no doubt, by the airlessness of the chamber.
Richard signaled to the two men and they entered, gazing about in terror, as they came to his side.
"I'm going to open the coffin. As a professor of anthropology, I'd be interested in seeing what a woman of the 9th century looked like. In that stone sarcophagus, she should be pretty well-preserved." Richard motioned the two men to help him with the heavy lid, but they shook their heads.
"Oh, no, sir!" one of the men, Gavin, whispered harshly, as if fearing to alert the ghost to their presence. "Leave it be! Close the room and let's get out of here!"
But Richard was already shoving at the stone lid, and his companions, having been well paid to help him, put their strength into pushing the heavy cover off the coffin. It slid over the stone casket with a rasping and scraping sound that seemed to fill the entire chamber, and crashed to the flagged floor.
Their heavy, ragged breathing stilled suddenly as the three men gazed upon the body lying within the coffin. She had an unearthly beauty, her fair face pale as porcelain, framed by golden locks curling softly to her shoulders. Richly gowned in pale blue silk, her arms were crossed upon her breast, and in her hand, she held a gilded, bejeweled sword.
Richard was shaken to his very core. He had not expected such perfection, such beauty. He stared, unable to move, rapt by the vision which lay in timeless preservation before him. His two companions backed from the chamber, and dimly he perceived their footfalls descending the stone staircase and dying away.
He put a tentative hand to her smooth cheek, expecting to feel the coldness of death, and gasped at the warmth under his touch. A hand gripped his as he tried to stagger back, and her eyes flew open, her cold blue gaze locked with his, and she smiled.
Using his strength as he backed away, she arose from her stony bed, and stepped out onto the chamber floor, one hand still clenching his arm and gripping the sword in the other. Richard's last thought as the sword plunged into his heart was, the legend is true. God help me. I have awakened the evil Sleeping Beauty.
Midweek challenge attempt..
Posted by destiny on Thursday, 8 June 2000, at 12:44 a.m.
Justin Shayne slowly withdrew his sword, silently cursing the whispering hiss of sound as the blade slid along the dark cloth of his duster. To be forewarned was the last thing he wanted for this immortal. Quickly, he crossed the wooden deck of the barge, eager to end this. The familiar buzz of a nearby immortal shot through him, the electric tingle racing down to his fingertips. Ah, well, so much for surprises.
He kicked open the door leading into the main deck of the barge, shattering the lock. Stepping over the splinters of sharp wood, he braced himself for the challenge ahead.
"So, Duncan MacLeod, we meet again, my friend," he sneered, hatred turning his handsome face into an ugly mask.
Duncan dropped the glass he held in his hand, watching with amazed hazel eyes as it shattered on the floor, red wine spilling forth like the dark stain of blood. He brushed a trembling hand through his thick, dark hair, pushing the soft waves back away from his striking face. "Justin, is it really you? My God, man, I thought you had been beheaded. You were challenged by Kane...he is so evil...your watcher reported..."
"Well, he was misinformed. He mustn't have even bothered to stay until the quickening. I won that challenge. Just as I intend to win this one." With a mighty sweep of his sword, he lunged at Duncan, intent on beheading him.
Duncan ducked and rolled, the lightening quick moves of his toned body attesting to the hours of physical training he had endured. He snatched up his sword and met the downward slice of Justin's blade. The cold, hard ring of steel upon steel echoed throughout the small barge as Duncan came to his feet and parried another vicious blow.
"Justin, wait," Duncan grunted as he tried to reason with his former friend, "you don't understand."
"Understand?" Justin growled through gritted teeth. "Oh, I understand all too well, Duncan. You let her die, Highlander. You let my sweet, brave Brianna die!" His anger overcame him as he lunged once again at Duncan. His attack was quickly met, their blades sparking in the semi-darkness. The two immortals stood face to face, one dark, one light, each of equal size and strength, momentarily at an impasse.
Duncan breathed in deeply and held his ground. His dark eyes locked with the sky blue ones of his opponent, looking for what? An ounce of compassion, the memory of a once deep friendship? "You're wrong, Justin, so terribly, terribly wrong!"
Okay, I did it. I built a K'immie...
Posted by Torisen on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 10:38 p.m.
Well, *someone* built a K'immie, at any rate:
Lightning spattered across the dark sky and thunder echoed through the mountains. Igor rushed to secure the shutters over the laboratory’s only window. He bent to pick up a stray dart off the floor and hand it back to his master before scuttling off to finish preparations. Doctor K'imenstien cackled with glee as he threw the last dart, squarely hitting the eight-by-ten glossy of Duncan MacLeod taped to the wall. He then turned to survey his creation one final time. The Creature was far from perfect, of course - there were quite a few cosmetic flaws, for one thing (the stitching around the neck was especially visible) - but there would be time later to work out the kinks. In basic structure, at least, It showed far more promise than any of the doctor's past attempts. It had the lovely head of Kristen, the powerful arms of the Kurgan, one of Xavier St. Cloud's hands, and the brain... ah, the brain!... K'imenstien let out a whoop of triumph as he recalled how he had recovered the brain of Kronos, one of the most evil of them all!
Another burst of lightning flared above the castle, followed almost immediately by thunder. The mad doctor donned his goggles and gave a thumbs up to Igor. The misshapen little assistant joined in his master's maniacal laughter as he cranked open the portal in the roof and raised the lightning rod.
For a few moments, all was still and silent, save the pounding of the rain. Then, a tremendous bolt of energy broke free of the clouds and plunged toward the earth. It found the lightning rod and surged down it. Both K'imenstien and Igor jumped back as blue sparks of electricity played off the equipment heaped about the laboratory. On the metal table in the center of the room, the Creature was bathed in an eerie glow, its skeleton occasionally visible through the overlying tissue.
When the energy had dissipated, the evil genius crept forward and carefully removed the shroud from his creation. The Creature lay motionless, apparently dead, but as K'imenstien was about to turn away in disgust, a hand suddenly began to twitch.
"It's alive!" K'imenstien cried, catching up Igor and leading him in a victory waltz around the lab. "IT'S ALIVE!!!!"
Final Result.. thanks for all the help..
this should be easier on the eyes..
Posted by HonorH the Arctic Wolfe on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 9:35 p.m.
The tall, slim, blonde huntress moved into the restaurant almost unnoticed, save for a few admiring glances thrown her way. That was how she liked it. A huntress doesn't go out of the way to be noticed.
Before long, she felt him. There he was. Sitting with an attractive brunette, perhaps 25. He himself was as blond as the huntress. The huntress watched as he stiffened slightly, then excused himself from the table.
His eyes met hers, and a minute tip of her head sent him in the direction of the men's room. She caught up with him in the narrow hallway.
"Care to dance?" she asked, voice deceptively calm.
"Actually, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not," he said, equally calm, equally deceptive. Then he turned and walked into the men's room, dismissing her.
No, my friend, the huntress thought. You do not walk away from me. She turned her attention back to the restaurant tables, to where a young brunette sat awaiting her husband's return.
By the time he got back to their table, it was too late. A note left by the huntress told him where his wife was.
So he made his way outside, into the alley beside the restaurant, to where his wife lay unconscious at the feet of the tall blonde.
"Care to dance now?" asked the huntress, naked hunger in her voice.
He drew his sword, expecting her to do the same. She didn't. She just gave him a feral smile.
"Come and get it, cutie," she hissed.
"John Ries," he announced.
"Karine Duvey," she responded.
Ritual introductions done, he moved in, ready to attack, ready to recoil, if need be. She didn't even flinch. He brought his sword up. She didn't respond. He attacked.
The moment of his attack, she pulled a set of sais from her jacket. One caught his sword. The other stabbed into his lung. She wrested the sword easily from him, then pulled her sai free of his chest and used the butt end to give him a smashing blow to the head.
Behind her, Jenna Ries stirred. Someone had threatened her, forced her from the restaurant, and then . . .
Jenna looked up, hearing something like a struggle. There was the blonde who had taken her, standing with a sword over John.
"NO!" screamed Jenna as the sword fell.
Crackling energy filled the alley. Jenna was held immobile as electricity arced, striking the blonde, and sudden whirlwinds threw trash heedlessly.
The huntress screamed her delight to the skies, opening herself to the Quickening as to a lover. Her body shuddered and jerked with the electricity.
Then it was over. Jenna heard only her own whimpers of fear and grief, but gradually became aware of something else: a woman's heavy breathing and moans, as if after sex.
Jenna's eyes found the woman again, standing with an ecstatic look on her face over John's decapitated body. The blonde's eyes slowly lost their glaze and looked into Jenna's.
"Magnificent," breathed the killer. "He had to be over a thousand. Bet he was incredible in bed, eh, sweetie?"
"You k-killed him," whispered Jenna brokenly.
The blonde shrugged. "It's the way of our kind. Don't take it personal." She fetched a sai off the ground. "It's an art, really. Hunt your opponent, set the bait--in this case, you--and go in for the kill. Then you reap the reward--the Quickening." The huntress breathed out a sigh, almost a moan. "I admit to being an addict. It's the only experience worth having, and the older they are, the better. I hunt only the old ones. A thousand is the youngest I'll take 'em, but what I really want is Methos. Do you know that name?"
Jenna realized the other woman was completely mad. Fear edged out even her rage.
"Methos is the oldest of us," the blond said conversationally. "Five thousand years. Can you imagine the intensity of that Quickening? I can almost taste it. The pleasure, the agony--it's all there is to life, mortal. You have no idea. In a way, you know, I pity you."
Jenna had forced her feet under her. She hoped the madwoman had gotten what she wanted as she sprang away, running for the other end of the alley . . .
Something hit her in the back. Her legs lost their power, and it was hard to breathe. Everything was turning dark . . .
Karine Duvey walked over to the dying woman and pulled free the sai she'd thrown into Jenna's back.
"Then again, a good kill is a thrill all its own," she told the body. "Don't take it personal, sweets."
Yet Another K'Immie
Posted by Jo Raumo on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 9:22 p.m.
Here’s my answer to Leah’s MWC.
I really like ‘Band of Brothers’ and one of the scenes I like best is the one where Mac and Richie are talking around the campfire and Mac tells Richie the stories about Darius. I always wanted to hear more stories that immortals might tell around the campfire. This is an extension of that scene. The k’immie in question is the one with the name beginning with ‘k’.
Now, wasn’t I supposed to be writing a tag or something?
Myth and Superstition by Jo Raumo
Mac stared into the fire. Sitting here, in the woods, telling stories to Richie around the campfire reminded him of times long past when it had been Connor’s voice telling the tales and he had been the youngster listening. Glowing embers swirled up into the night sky and disappeared into starlight and snow.
‘I dunno, Mac.’ Richie peered at him from the other side of the fire. ‘So you’re telling me that all this happened, and Darius is in the history books and everything and no one noticed he didn’t die? Just how much of our history are Immortals responsible for? I know, I know, the space program, walking on the moon, that was one of you guys, right?’
Mac laughed. ‘It’s not like that, Richie. And I never said that Darius was in the history books. I said he was a legend among us. Mostly we lead pretty unassuming lives and if we don’t the Game finds us often enough that we don’t lead any kind of life at all.’
Mac stared into the fire again for a moment. He weighed carefully what he would say to the boy who sat across from him. He had assumed he’d have all the time in the world with Richie, but it wasn’t necessarily true.
He looked up again. ‘OK, Richie. It’s like this. People tell stories. Everyone tells stories. And then some people write those stories down, that’s you guys. And then that gets turned into history.’
‘So Immortals don’t have their own history?’
‘Given the constraints of the Game it would be foolish to write a history down. But we do tell each other stories. And those stories become legends, Immortal legends. In that way, we know something, we share something about being immortal.’
‘Like what legends?’
‘Well, like the stories about Darius.’
‘And, like the Maid of Hebron, like Methos, like Kyoung Jin.’
Richie looked skeptical. “So who are those guys?’
Mac grinned. He felt like Connor, he probably sounded like Connor. He moved around the fire and sat down closer to Richie. And he began to tell the stories he’d heard from his teacher.
‘Immortal legend holds that there is only one among us that was in Jerusalem that Passover.’ Richie’s eyes widened as he realized what Mac was talking about. “The Maid of Hebron, it’s said, witnessed the Passion of Christ, The Maid of Hebron may have had a hand in writing the Bible. Most importantly, it is said that the Maid of Hebron knows the true nature of Jesus.’ Mac paused, leaned back on his heels.
A pine scented wind blew at his back. In spite of the snow his face was flushed and hot. He moved away from the fire. He remembered when Connor told him this story he had thought it heretical. Richie seemed to be taking it with more aplomb than he had. He continued.
‘The Maid of Hebron will answer your questions, will testify, will guarantee your salvation depending on who is telling the story, but only if you first challenge her and win.’
‘And?’ Richie prompted.
‘And, the legend goes, no one has ever challenged her and won.’ Mac studied the incredulous expression on Richie’s face.
‘Richie,’ he said gently, ‘they are only stories.’
‘Darius is real!’ the boy shot back.
Mac nodded, sagely. ‘And so is Methos, sort of…’
‘Methos?’ Richie questioned.
‘Methos is the oldest living Immortal. Thousands and thousands of years old, he studied with Buddha, he was friends with Socrates, he rode with Genghis Khan, with Darius, with Alexander. He influenced Caesars and kings. He invented writing, built Stonehenge, discovered gunpowder. It is said that if you take his head you are almost guaranteed The Prize.’
Richie’s mouth hung open with awe. Mac laughed.
‘And you say this guy is real?’ Richie asked.
‘Well, in a way. Look, Richie, someone is alive who is the oldest among us. But he didn’t do all those things the legend says he did. In fact, he probably doesn’t even know he’s the oldest living among us. No one could. It’s not as if anyone keeps a list.’
‘And when he gets whacked?’ Richie asked.
‘Then the next guy in line is the oldest and he can lay claim to being Methos.’ Mac went on ‘If he wants to, if he even realized.’
Richie shook his head. ‘Wow, when you tell campfire stories, Mac, you really go all out. All right, lets hear about this last guy, Kong someone.’
Mac laughed. ‘Not guy, Richie, girl. Kyoung Jin. Legend holds that she was a tenth century Korean princess. Barely five feet tall, coal black hair and skin as pale as moonlight, she was a stunning beauty, and a pampered and privileged daughter. She had the misfortune to go to her first death at fifteen, a virgin. As time passed and she realized the entire cost of her immortality, her pain turned to bitterness and her bitterness turned to rage and she began hunting immortal men. She would seduce a man then stab him as he slept beside her.’
‘Then she’d cut off their heads? Right there in bed? You’ve got to be kidding, Mac!’
‘Richie, it wasn’t heads she was interested in cutting off. The legend goes that if you died in Kyoung Jin’s arms you’d wake up, but you’d wake up a lesser man than you had been.’
Richie groaned and shifted on the log. He pulled in his legs adopting a much more protected position. ‘You know, Mac, I don’t think I needed to know about that one’ he said.
Mac grinned at the boy, then he looked away, back into the fire.
‘No need to worry, Richie. The word is that she only hunts immortal men.’ Mac kept his tone even. Richie really didn’t have to worry about Kyoung Jin. Not for the reasons he’d given, but there was no need to go into that now.
Richie stood and stretched, held his hands out to the dying fire. The snow and the wind were both picking up.
‘On that happy note,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll turn in. Not that I’m going to be able to sleep or anything. You coming, Mac?’
MacLeod got to his feet, shook the snow out of his hair. He glanced at the boy standing next to him. He’d accepted that he might not live to teach Richie. It had been a difficult realization but he’d made the necessary preparations and felt better for it. He put a hand on Richie’s shoulder.
‘Thanks for listening to my stories, Richie.’ he said.
‘Hey, any time!’ Richie answered and they both walked away from the fire.
Posted by Ysanne on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 8:25 p.m.
He strides into the room and fills it with his presence, taking half the air you breathe. He pauses and his eyes probe you like a quick stab of red-hot iron, leaving you smoldering and twisting under his attention. You are afraid, but when those dangerous eyes move away, you feel bereft.
He moves through the crowd of mortals with the grace and power of a dancer, dressed in black from his silk turtleneck and cashmere jacket to his handmade shoes. A black snakeskin belt with a silver buckle circles his narrow waist, and a small silver earring glints in his left earlobe.
Although his bearing is imposing, he is not tall. His height is the only average thing about this man. Certainly his hair is not average. It is a thick riot of short, soft, silvering curls, beautiful hair. His face is not beautiful, but there is something about the arrangement of his features that call the eye back again and again. You find yourself moving in counterpoint with him just so you can keep that face in your sight.
You are aware of his methods; you've seen him work before, and tonight is no different. He can be very charming, and tonight several young women are entranced by the charismatic attention that he lavishes upon them. They rub against him like cats, begging for more petting, and you shiver and gulp your white wine.
When the time is right, he chooses one ripe blonde, casting the other women aside to sulk and stare daggers at the winner. He insinuates his strong sword arm around her waist and escorts her from the room. She laughs flirtatiously as he gathers up her white coat and tucks her warmly inside its fur folds.
As they leave together, you notice that he checks the placement of his sword, and of that other instrument he uses on nights like this. A part of you wants to scream a warning. And a part of you, god help you, wants to replace her in his arms.
You think that surely he could see that you are not like the other women he uses and discards like broken dolls. Couldn't he? If you just took the chance? Couldn't you be the one to change him, to give him whatever it takes to slake his obsession for this? If you tried? The thought of being with him makes you burn, and you hurry out into the cool, dark night.
He is out of sight, vanished again, where you never get to follow. So you take out your tape recorder and punch the button with a trembling hand, and begin.
"Report on Watcher subject..."
Mid week challenge answer, from non forumlander, my boyfriend....please read....
Posted by Viking Lass CWPack Chief MCR on Wednesday, 7 June 2000, at 7:55 p.m.
This morning I mentioned this week's mwc to my boyfriend and told him to think about it. I kinda wasn't inclined to write today. So here's my boyfriend's answer. Note to Annie: ya don't need to archive this one since he's not a forumlander.
A woman in a severe suit and dark-rimmed glasses came into the corridor. She called for the group to listen and she read from a clipboard, "This is the second stage of auditions for Highlander. If you're not looking for the position of a recurring kimmie nemesis then you're in the wrong place."
Looking up from her clipboard she addressed two similar-looking people in the middle of the crowd. "I think you're looking for Building Three, the Babylon 5 auditions?"
The two mollusk-headed aliens bowed in thanks and left the area.
"Everyone else needs to gather inside. We can have only one, in the end, so we apologize now to those of you who will be cut. Follow me."
"I am Cadae. I fought with the Celts in Germania, Gaul, and Scotland. When I first met Duncan MacLeod, he was young and impulsive. His first instinct was to challenge me to a duel. I accepted, but only to teach him a lesson. He fought with all his heart, but I defeated him. I let him live, but only if he swore to serve me for a year.
"His pride was great, but for some reason he accepted. Later I was to learn that he feared death. He had served me well for about three months, and I taught him some of what I knew. Then we met another rash young immortal. Duncan challenged him, as well, and the two fought as I looked on.
"The Highlander defeated his foe, who begged for mercy with dying breath-"
"Excuse me. Sorry, Cadae, your history with Duncan sounds very rich, a good source of material, really. But we've got Duncan past a lot of his early angst, and are looking for something more gritty. But we like your look, and we'll definitely call you when we go back to the sad history story line. Next!"
"I fight with two blades, each with nasty looking spikes! I thrive on mayhem, and have hunted the Highlander since we met in 1845. MacLeod got in my way, but our fight was left unfinished. I am Kodax!"
"Sorry, I think we'd have some copyright issues with your name. Next!"
"Hi. I, uh, well, I hate Methos. I have this plan to ruin him before I kill him, see. And, well, my name is Clancy-"
"Karla Makler. My grudge is against both of your heroes. In 1226 I met Methos. It would be difficult to say today who was seduced by the other. We spent much time in Italy doing sinful things. He made me what I am, a heartless user.
When I met Duncan MacLeod in 1784, he thought I had fallen for him. I was using him at first, but then I began to change. I began to care. He left me, as he was prone to leave when intimacy was likely. Shortly after he left my life fell apart. I blame them both for my troubles, and I hope to see them kill each other."
"Thank you, Karla. A Methos-Mac-Kimmie love triangle might work in fanfic, but our research indicates that it won't have much appeal to our major demographics. Next!"
"I died my first death on the field of battle. I had a glorious reputation as the most fierce knight in Brittania. Sir Culver I was, and when the man I cut down rose up again I slew him a second time. The demon Methos rose up again and opened my belly with a dirty trick. The dog has no honor.
"I quest now to see and end to him."
"Well, you seem very sincere. But we are at a bit of a loss on how you'd be recurring."
"This is where my story gets interesting. It was I who told Duncan MacLeod of the legendary Methos. He believed it was myth, a fairytale. But he respected my honor enough to allow me my beliefs. He also never accepted my stories of Arthur or Excalibur. But they were as real as I. Perhaps MacLeod will stay my hand for a fortnight, or even a year. But I shall follow Methos and take his head someday. Highlander or no Highlander."
"Ah, yes, well that does answer the recurring problem. Thank you, Sir Culver, we'll let you know. Next!"
"I am Octavio. Methos knew me in Roma, and now he owes me for-"
"Excuse us…Octavio, that's only vaguely Kimmie. The 'kay' sound is actually rather important to us. We'll get back to you. Next!"
"Looks like the room's cleared out. Am I the last one?"
"For our two o'clock, yes. We also have a group coming in at four."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'm just really looking for some extra work. It's been hard lately, building houses. I did get to travel a little, but the island wasn't all that nice. I thought maybe I could go to Paris…"
"Could you just tell us a bit about yourself?"
"We'll I truly believe in the environment. I think we need stronger protection-"
"What about Mac and Methos?!"
"Oh, well I've never actually met-"
"Thank you, you may go."
In the dim room, with all the immortals having cleared out, the casting group discusses their thoughts.
"Who was that last guy? He looked a bit out of shape."
"Says here his name was Carter, Jimmy."
*************** It's almost as bad as a Miano joke. Hope you enjoyed it and no one is too offended. :-)
Answering the MWC...
Posted by Robin on Thursday, 8 June 2000, at 8:15 p.m.
"Immortals were dying, being hunting and killed truly. The Watchers were worried. "Was this another James Horton? Another Watchers trying to help their Immortal like Rita?" Those questions were being asked. To make matters worse, three weeks ago Watchers started dying along with their Immortals. Since it started the Watchers are terrified. The best have been called in to help: Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod. Word has it that they are trying to reach Adam, Methos. Someone has to stop this madness."
Anna Roseburg The Methos Chronicles
She sits back and looks from the computer screen to the blue Watcher tattoo on her wrist. "Let Methos come." she smiles and picks up her sword.
Posted by lynnann-a heart thats true on Thursday, 8 June 2000, at 8:09 p.m.
I was bored at work, what can I say....
I work for the federal government. What better way to have access to resources and files? I can find almost anyone I want to find. My co-workers make fun of my speech impediment, but I don't care. I will be the one laughing in the end. I am Immortal.
The memory of my first death is dim, a hazy recollection of an accident with a box of cheap explosives. After the third or fourth time, I began to realize nothing could kill me. Plane crashes, car crashes, explosions and landslides, falling from very high places, still I always seem to survive. But I learned there are others like me, who survive amazing odds. I want to be the only one, and I will hunt the others, especially the one that lives in Holy Ground.
I have had little luck in destroying the others up to this point, but today I have a plan. I drive to my destination, Wagner's "The Valkyrie" playing on the CD player. So inspiring. I haul the explosives out of the car, double the usual amount for I am determined for this to be the end. As I set them up, I know he will come to me; he always does, for I know his weakness. I know the explosives will not kill him, but they should stun him long enough for me to finish him off.
The charges are set. I reach behind me for the plunger, but it is not there. My eyes widen in desperation. He will be here soon. Yes, there is the familiar buzz.
"Looking for this, doc?" the Immortal one asked.
I turn around, the one in gray is standing there, tossing the plunger from hand to hand. It was connected to the explosives.
"No.o.o.o.o.o" I cry out. but I am too late. My feet scramble below me, but I go no where.
The Immortal grins smoothly, and pushes the plunger down.
I am alone when I regain life. Singed, but alive. He is gone, back to Holy Ground. "That does it," I vow. "Tomowow, I Kelmo the Fed, go afte' the Duck." My staccato laugh echoes through the forest. "Heh.eh.eh.eh.eh.eh.eh"
That's all folks :)
a very small tribute to MB, the man of a thousand voices. He will be Immortal.
thanks for reading...lynnann
Mid Week Challenge (so I'm late) NC17(may be offensive to some)
Posted by Celedon on Friday, 9 June 2000, at 9:12 p.m.
The receiver slowly lowered itself onto it's cradle. Joe stared at it with concentrated silence before finally, after what seemed to be forever he uttered, “Score one for the kid.”
The young boy scoured the garbage cans behind the restaurant he had cased out the last few days in hopes of getting a bite to eat before the rats came to take their share. He gingerly picked up a lid, glanced inside then around the area to see if anyone was watching before he reached in and pulled out what had been a rather large casserole still half full of food. He didn’t care what it was as long as it could be eaten—it had been days since he had managed to pull off yet another con with someone just to get a hot meal and a place to sleep.
Taking his prize with him, he glanced about again with the look of someone who was used to being hunted down like some kind of an animal. He jogged over to where a pile of crates lay stacked haphazardly and melted into a pile onto the ground before hungrily tearing into his stolen meal.
A car pulled up across from where he sat cross-legged on the ground; the boy’s head jerked upwards as his eyes scanned the area and finally settled on the car itself. Moments later the car door slammed and footsteps were heard coming closer, making the boy leap to his feet to run away but something made him pause to look the person over.
“Hungry?” the man from the car said. “Even our kind needs to eat something hot once in a while.”
“What’s it to you?” the boy belligerently responded.
“Nothing, nothing at all. Just offering a little help. Maybe a warm bed for the night too if you want it.” The man looked the boy over and a secretive smile tugged at his lips. Yes, this one would do quite well for the night.
He had had many over the centuries, all children, all young and innocent but never had he had an immortal child in his bed to do with as he pleased. Most times, he tired quickly of his victims and had relished in the delicious sounding crack as either skulls or necks broke under his hands. But this boy, this boy would be more exciting, more interesting, more of everything because of exactly *what* he was.
“What d’ya get out of it?” the boy asked. “I can’t say that I would trust you considering what you are and what our kind tend to do when we meet.”
“What do I get out of it? Why, my dear boy, my dear child, I get out of it the pleasure of your delightful company, nothing more. Sometimes, there is more to what our lives are supposed to be like. Won’t you come join me tonight? I promise, no swords, no taking of heads.”
The boy looked warily at the other man then glanced back at his cold meal. He nodded; his eyes still held wariness and his body was tensed, ready to run at the slightest hint of anything being wrong about the situation. He looked about a last time then both entered the car and drove away.
Later, after a full and satisfying meal that he had greedily devoured, they had sat around playing games making small talk. He reached over for the remote for the television only to find that his hand was covered by the man’s in a tight grip.
“Come, my dear child, time for dessert now,“ the man said as his eyes glowed with a different kind of hunger.
The boy jerked his hand away and ran to a small coat stand near the door and swiftly withdrew a long, thick ebony cane with a golden handle. He threw off the lower part of the cane, revealing the sword underneath.
The man advanced upon him, all the while laughing at the boy’s audacious behavior but jerked when a swing from the blade connected. Blood spurted down the front of his shirt; he glanced down at himself then back at the boy. “What did you say your name was? I want to be able to bury you properly….”
“Kenny.” Kenny swung again; hoping and praying that what the Ryan kid had taught him would work. He grunted in satisfaction as metal hit flesh and continued on through bone. He smiled as the head thumped then rolled off to one side and the body fell heavily to the floor. “*Don’t* call me a child!”
A diffuse blue glow emitted from the body then bolts of what appeared to be lightning arced upwards, around him and even through him. Sparks flew as electrical appliances crackled then shorted out while glass shattered into a thousand shards of deadly glass spraying the room with deadly shards of various sizes and shapes.
After a few minutes, all was quiet again. Kenny shakily got to his feet then looked at his opponent. “Now *that* is what I would call a Last Supper!”
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