Many thanks to Daniel Butter for writing the excellent Immortal Files series which inspired me to fire this off. This is what you get for half finishing a story and putting the most hated expression in any language, "To Be Continued" at the end of it. Those of us with withdrawal symptoms go off and write our own. This is rating R although I don't quite know what the US ratings for movies actually mean. I rate this as suitable for people with strong stomachs (graphic but not immoderate violence considering we're talking here about people fighting with razor sharp three foot blades and gun shot wounds) and a toleration for the need most of us have to vent our feelings using strong language. There is no sex for two reasons: 1 Somebody I know might actually read this and I'd rather keep my perversions to myself thank you very much 2 The damn keyboard melted! but a little bit of UST featuring you know who. Feedback gracefully appreciated but keep it civil, I can't guarantee I'll be the only person to read it. Immortal Files - GESITH By David Wilkinson Marske-by-Sea, County of Cleveland, United Kingdom 6.45pm GMT, 20 Years previous The view from the allotments was always impressive at this time of day. In the distance the sun was painting the clouds over the chemical works on the horizon in lurid hues of red and orange. The figure striding down the decaying tarmac track, which allowed access from the housing estate to the allotments however had other things on his mind. The land had been divided into allotments almost seventy years previously by the former lord of the manor who'd then rented it out for a nominal sum to various of the estate workers. To one side there grew an errant stretch of hardy thorn trees each bent at an angle away from the bitter easterly winds which came in off the nearby sea. Behind them was the housing estate where most of the allotment owners, now largely either chemical or steel workers, lived. To the other side was a field of barley, still green at this time of year beyond which at well over a mile could be seen the outer houses of the neighboring town of Redcar. Each plot was bisected by the tarmac, which allowed access. The larger nine tenths to the left of the track was intensively cultivated for vegetables, the remaining ten percent to the right was used for huts, chicken or bantam coups and the invariable heaps of rotting manure or compost. At this time of day most of the allotment owners were at their dinners or else preparing for a night down at the club or pub giving the plots a deserted look. Except almost at the very end a solitary individual was digging, the rhymic action of his spade working well rotted manure deep into the soil. He was concentrating on his digging and in fact didn't seem to be paying any interest what so ever in the man on the tarmac. As the other got to within a hundred meters however the pace of the digging slackened and he straightened up rubbing absently the base of his spine. It wasn't the presence of a stranger that halted his work but rather a strange tingling as if he had pins and needles all over. He became aware that the stranger, tall and ominous in his trench coat and smart shoes was walking onto the strip of grass used both to separate the allotment from its neighbors and to allow access. He glared angrily, it was customary to ask permission before using the grass path, even the employees of the local Parish Council who now owned the land knew that. Disturbed and suddenly frightened although he could see no cause for it he pulled the spade from the soil, manure and clay coating its broad blade, and held it defensively across his chest. A cold, vicious smile crossed the handsome countenance of the stranger as he reached inside his unfastened trench coat to produce a gleaming, razor sharp katana. Grinning at the open-mouthed astonishment of the gardener he said as he swung the blade, "there can be only one!" In later years he was never totally sure how he managed to bring the heavy, cumbersome spade up in time to block the decapitation stroke aimed directly for his neck. Even though the smartly dressed man was obviously surprised by his parry he didn't hesitate directing a second blow this time aimed at the gardener's leg which the other tried desperately to block. This time he was not so lucky and was forced to stagger backward screaming in the pain caused by the cut which had laid his leg open to the bone, blood spurting red from the wound. The grin on the stranger's face broadened as he stepped off the grass strip intent on following his victim. This caused his downfall, his smart city shoe stumbled in the freshly dug earth causing him to lower his gleaming blade for a second to try and regain his balance. He never got the chance. With a speed born of desperation the wounded gardener swung his muddy spade two handed in a desperate stroke at the head of his attacker. The blow was off target but blind luck instead caused the edge of the filthy blade to connect with the neck of his opponent. The edge although dull compared with the shinning katana was sharp enough to decapitate, especially when behind it were the muscles built up by over forty hours a week heavy manual labor, muscles which had been supercharged by fear and desperation. For a second the headless corpse remained standing and then almost reluctantly it collapsed into the muddy earth. The gardener stood there transfixed, the horror of having actually killed another human being warring both with a sense of relief at still being alive and the shock of the wound he had received. No one seemed to have witnessed the killing; indeed the only sound seemed to be the quiet whimpers caused by pain which escaped his lips. As he stood numbly staring at the body in front of him something strange began to happen. Piercingly bright tendrils of power seemed to leave the body moving in all directions, seeming to be searching for something until one of them found his feet. Too numb even to move he watched as a bright arc of power left the body of his attacker and poured into him. A confusion of images of people and places too fantastic to believe in rushed through his brain causing him to scream in fear, pain and confusion. It felt like the entire output of a large power station was attempting to ground itself through him. Dimly he was aware of windows in the nearer huts and chicken coups shattering and the sounds of badly frightened bantams going into hysterics and then silence. "I've never seen it done with one of them before." A second trench coated stranger stood on the tarmac staring at the gardener. Defensively he hefted his spade whilst trying to keep his hands from shaking from the reaction he was starting to feel. He also became aware again of the pins and needles sensation. "Before we go any farther just take a look at the cut on the leg he gave you," the stranger suggested a slight smile creasing his lips. He looked down at his leg, at the slash in his jeans, the blood coating the entire leg, at the skin underneath marked only by a red line that disappeared even as he watched. He sat down abruptly in the filthy soil and then suddenly rolling over he vomited long and hard until his stomach was empty and it began to hurt. He looked up to find the second stranger squatting a few feet away looking at him with some concern. Because of the way the other was squatting he could see the basket hilt of a broad sword concealed under his coat. The man was fingering the edge of the spade, beneath the mud and manure the metal was pitted with age and hard use, an age and hard use which had worn it edge almost as sharp as an ax. "Wwwho are you?" he stammered, "and wwwhats more important what are you?" "I am Liam O'Shae," the other replied, "and as to what I am, well lets just say we're kindred you and I. That individual," a casual gesture indicated the earlier stranger, "was kindred as well but you don't have to worry." This was added quickly as the gardener struggled to his feet. "He killed a friend of mine so I was after him, which is why I happened to see the end of your fight." "Why did he try to kill me?" "It's a long story but then people like us usually have nothing but time. You been in a nearly fatal accident recently?" "I don't see what that's got to do with things?" Liam O'Shae didn't reply but merely stared at the other until. "Two weeks ago I was in a pile up on the A19, six people killed, eight others in hospital, I was the only one to walk away from it." Liam smiled, "Local Man's Miraculous Escape from Death Crash, it would have been in all the papers no doubt, that's what set Dubois on your tail, he could even have witnessed your accident. However and whenever he found out what you are and decided to take you out of the Game." "What Game?" Apartment of Victor Robbins and Dana Coury Outside Chicago, Illinois 9:05 P.M. CDT Friday, The Present Day Scully had noticed the increase in her erstwhile partner's restlessness build gradually over a period of months. The length of time they had spent together allowed her eventually, after she became fully aware of it, to pinpoint the exact cause. Mulder was pinning for the X-files, or more accurately the thrill of the hunt. Early on in their relationship she'd realized that the investigation of mysteries filled some deep seated need in her partner. There were so many unsolved and unsolvable mysteries in his own past that he actually enjoyed the thrill of the chasing down the inexplicable, the sheer satisfaction of solving something that had stumped others and the fascination of putting flesh onto that which others thought legendary. she reminded herself wryly. The first manifestations of the restlessness had been an increase in his interest in the more lurid stories circulating in the tabloids. When she'd got in at night from the hospital the papers would be lying strewn around the living room. At first irritated she'd finally used the half remembered instincts and skills acquired in the FBI to check up on just what Mulder was finding so interesting in the supermarket rags. He'd also been raiding the local libraries for she also uncovered photocopies of articles from newspapers and books covering much the same subject area. Mysteries, he was looking at mysteries. A few minutes thought gave his most likely plan of action. The mid semester break was coming up and it was easy to anticipate Mulder's most likely cause of action. So confident was Scully that she had seen Greg Peters and actually expended five days carefully hoarded annual leave. The only question wasn't so much what he'd propose as when. The treacherous voice that lurked at the back of her mind mused She tried to ignore it but had to admit that she deep down she did agree, it went on Shut up! Fox Mulder glanced up from his lurid tabloid to catch Scully's brief glance at him. Does she know me so well that she can see what's coming, he wondered to himself. No, impossible he rebuked himself. the thought came like a gust of cold air, "Scully," Mulder's voice held a note of forced calmness that was painfully obvious to Scully, "have you got anything planned for next week?" "Aside from going to work you mean?" Damn it, not a promising start at all. "I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind going on a little trip with me out of state." "How little a little trip?" "Two or three days, I thought we could pack a small bag and take the car..." His words trailed off as he finally noticed the amused twitch of her mouth. After giving her a long look he finally said, "am I that obvious?" Scully grinned, "only to one who knows you." After a short pause she went on, "so what's going to be the wild goose chase this time?" Scully's smile robbed her words of any sting. Mulder carefully considered a number of options before replying. Holding her down and tickling her had a certain appeal, however despite been disconcerted at being so easily readable, even if only by Scully, he pushed on with his prepared spiel. "For the past couple of years I've been following the case of the Colorado Wose," he began. "The what?" "Over the past five or so years there have been reports from Northern Colorado of a wild man, very hairy, who is apparently living rough up in the Rockies. Most of the sightings have been of a nude or semi-nude hairy Caucasian male living off the land up there. Over the past couple of years there have been a number of attempts to find or capture him made by the Park Rangers Service or the local cops but so far no one's come even close." "He's probably an escapee from some local mental institution or prison or else some local survivalist who's flipped." "Ah, but just suppose he isn't Scully," Mulder said, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase, "he could be some form of Neanderthal or maybe something like the Jersey devil." "Mulder to the best of my knowledge there is no evidence of Neanderthal or any other pre human settlement in America before the ancestors of the Indians migrated here after the last ice age," Scully argued. "Scully there are wildman or hominid legends from all over the Americas and South East Asia. In this country alone we have Skunk Apes in Florida, Grassmen in Ohio, MoMo's in Missouri, Foulk Monsters in Arkansas, Sasquatch and Bigfoots in Canada, Kansas, California and Washington State. There are all kinds of sightings reported from Latin America, Didi's from Venezuela for example. In Asia there are Abominable Snowmen or Yeti from Tibet , Yeren, or Wildmen from the central and southern regions of China Kaki Besar in Malaysia, Almas, or hun gurees, in Mongolia, Nguoi Rung from Vietnam and the Orang Pendek from Sumatra." By this point in his impromptu lecture Mulder had maneuvered her to the table where he proceeded to pile in front of her newspaper clips and photocopies until she felt almost swamped by then. "Enough Mulder, enough," Scully finally got a word in edgeways, "we're going OK, its just that I have a certain skepticism towards all this evidence of yours, Bigfoot is just another urban legend." "That's what I've always liked about you Scully," Mulder grinned, "you'll keep my feet on the ground even if you have to nail them there yourself." He then ducked as Scully grabbed for his newspaper cuttings file and threw it at him. Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado 11:35 A.M. CDT Saturday To the fish the intrusion into their green slowly flowing world of the alien object was so gradual as to either alarm or alert them to the deadly danger it poised. Moving gradually until directly beneath one of the larger denizens of the stream its movement suddenly changed to violent excess as the surprised fish was hurled out of the water to lie gasping on the bank. Its sufferings were short lived however as with a grunt of pleasure the tall long haired and bearded man clad in the filthy remnants of a pair of cut off jeans and little else pounced onto the wriggling animal, beating its head on the ground to finish what he'd started. the thought came unbidden to his mind, provoking it's usual mixture of nostalgia and grief. The curse screamed silently to the skies followed as it usually did, his memories of his former mentor were always accompanied by his hate and rage at Gallagher and his friends. He squatted there by the slow moving water, the fish held limp and forgotten in his hands, the water dripping off his bare arms unnoticed onto his jeans. Finally when he seemed to have recovered his mental equilibrium he started on along the bank towards where he'd left his things. Suddenly he halted, overcome by an intense feeling of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach along with its usual associate the prickling of his skin as if he'd been exposed to static electricity. "No! No! No!...." Dropping the fish he ran whimpering to where his pack lay reaching under the heavy overcoat to fumble for and finally pull a long sword of medieval manufacture, its hilt elongated so as to allow the use of two handed strokes. As he turned to face the woods edge a shorter stockily built man emerged from the greenery, a heavy cavalry saber held loosely in his large hands. "Hello Tommo," the newcomer said an evil smirk on his face, "long time no see." "Bugger off Evan," the other pleaded, his quick eyes noting that due to the curve of the stream there was no easy way past his enemy, "I don't want to fight." "Tough shit," came the reply, "I do!" "Gallagher will be really pissed if you take my head," Tommo whined closing the range so as to avoid having the stream bank directly behind him. "He'll live with it." Suddenly as Tommo came within range Evan launched a savage lunge, which the other was barely able to parry in time. But parry it he did and then returned it with interest in a series of savage blows that drove Evan back towards the edge of the forest. Almost at the edge of the trees Evan saw an opening and lunged straight for Tommo's heart. A desperate last minute parry deflected the blow away from that organ but instead laid open a deep and bloody cut along the side of his ribs. Groaning in agony Tommo fell back barely able to beat off the flurry of blows directed at him by the other. Back step by step he went until suddenly he found himself back on the edge of the stream. Even as his numbed senses seemed to recognize this he slipped on the grass and found himself sliding down the bank to end up kneeing in the shallow stream. With a whoop of glee Evan jumped down into the stream to finish it. Landing awkwardly he stumbled towards Tommo who in sheer desperation cut two handedly at the other's legs. Off balance Evan was unable to parry the blow and Tommo heard distinct the crack of breaking bones as it connected. Screaming in agony Evan collapsed into the stream his head going under water. Instinctively his arms pushed his head above water. Gathering himself Tommo swung wildly at the other, his sword connecting with the other's neck neatly decapitating him. As the other's body collapsed back into the water Tommo struggled to his feet, water cascading down off his back. As he stood there up to his knees in the now bloody water bright tendrils of light erupted from the surface searching for something. One of them touched him and there was a sudden arc as a brilliant beam of light, crooked like lightening connected him with the submerged body forcing Tommo back to his knees. The shock of the contact caused him to scream as every hair on his body stood on end. Then it was over. The lightshow ended leaving Tommo huddled in the stream, his head barely above water, gasping for breath. Standing, legs shaking, he found himself dripping wet from head to foot, for a moment he just looked at himself. Then suddenly he gave way to a frenzy hacking at the submerged body of his opponent screaming like a banshee. The frenzied assault only ended when he could no longer lift his sword and was forced to drop to his knees again in the freezing water. "God damn you Evan," he muttered over and over again, "there was no need for this, no need." After a while sanity returned, Evan never usually hunted alone, somewhere close by would be the others. Taking care not to look at what lay in the stream he forced his stiff wobbly legs to carry him up the bank to where his meager collection of belongings lay. Gathering them up quickly and pausing only to collect his fish he hurried off following the river for a few hundred yards before turning suddenly onto a game trail possibly made by deer which swung off into the trees. For the rest of the afternoon he followed the trail moving quickly trusting to his sensitivity to other immortals to warn him of potential ambush. When darkness began to fall he finally slowed and looking for a sheltered place to spend the night he settled on a slight dip in the ground about twenty yards back from the track. There sheltered from hostile eyes he quickly with the ease of long experience built a small fire on which he grilled the fish. Once his spartan meal was finished he reached into the canvas sack and drew out the sword. It gleamed dully in the firelight as he examined it for nicks. //"You see this boy," Liam had said. "What?" Tommo asked lazily. If there was one thing he disliked about his mentor it was use of the word 'boy', oh and of course, the baby version of his given name. He'd tried all his life to get away from the Y ending as he'd always thought of it and his biggest mistake in recent years had been warning Liam how he felt about it. "This sword Tommy boy," Liam replied causing his 'apprentice' to cringe resentfully at the double insult. Liam held arm outstretched above his head a mediaeval broadsword with an elongated hilt long enough for both hands to grip. "This is the bastard sword given to me by William Marshal, the greatest knight ever to live, the only man to cause that shit Richard the Bloody Lionheart to wet his pants." Tommo studied the dully-gleaming sword carefully. Liam had regaled him with many stories about the legendary William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Counselor to three kings and Lord Regent to a fourth. Of how King John had promised anything to any man who could bring him his head. Of how the Marshal had, at the age of seventy, after John's death, led the English army that had defeated the rebel barons. And drove the French under Louis the Dauphin out of England after the battle of Leicester when Marshal had personally defeated the enemy general in hand to hand combat. Gripping the blade half way down its length Liam reversed the sword and pointed its hilt towards the younger man. "Take it!" His mouth had lost its customary sly, self-mocking twist and was deadly serious. "Liam," Tommo gasped, his face pale, "I can't take that, I know what it must mean to you..." "Take it damn you!" Liam shouted, the sudden increase in volume causing Tommo to start. "The sword is mine to keep or give away as I please," he went on at a more normal volume, "take it boy, or be prepared to give me offense!" "OK, OK, keep your shirt on," Tommo mumbled gripping the proffered hilt, "I don't know what, ...Jesus Christ!" he swore as at that point Liam released his grip on the sword. It took all of Tommo's strength to prevent the heavy sword's point descending towards the polished wood of Liam's gym. "Watch it!" "Sorry," Tommo apologized knowing well his mentor's opinions on blasphemy, "he must have been one hell of a feller your William Marshal to wave this thing about." "That he was lad, and do you know how he did it?" Guessing the next words coming Tommo remained stubbornly silent forcing Liam to carry on, "by constant practice every day until just before he died, just the same as you'll have to do if you don't want to lose in the game! You'll have to care for it too, I didn't carry it round for nearly eight hundred years for you to let it rust away." Tommo suppressed a groan.// Although there were no major marks on the ancient battle brand he rummaged deeper into his bag producing the rags, oil bottle and whet stone. Working carefully he gradually eased away the nick made by parrying a particularly vicious blow and then with rags and oil he gradually removed all signs of abuse from the fine weapon. As he finished he noted the flickering of the fire as it burnt lower and as he watched it gradually went out. As dusk returned to the forest he settled down and tried to sleep. Although he was no longer wet, the exertion of his flight through the woods having dried both him and his ragged clothes, it was still cold at this time of year high up in the Rockies and he found himself shivering. he thought wryly to himself, ,. Before he settled down to try and sleep he pulled out of the sack a ragged T-shirt and a green camouflage jacket. He'd managed to loose his sleeping bag during the winter, thanks to a distinctly grumpy bear which now carried three long scars on its body to warn it off molesting hibernating immortals. Despite being dog tired he still found it difficult to surrender to blessed sleep as his taut nerves made him start at any noise produced in the darkness of the forest. Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado 1:35 P.M. CDT Wednesday Although she would have never admitted it to Mulder, Scully was enjoying herself. The weather was good, so far, the scenery breathtaking and unlike in their X-files days so far no one had tried to either shoot, knife, knock them over the head, suck their blood, experiment, infect them, etc. And that was definitely an improvement. There had been some awkward moments however, at one point whilst questioning a bait shop owner she was sure she'd seen Mulder groping at the pocket where he used to keep his FBI badge. And then there had been that Park Ranger, so patronizing had he been that Scully had found herself wondering that if they dumped his body off the road whether anyone would ever find it. Aside from that however she'd found the vacation restful, even Mulder, whose usual method of handling his frustration at dead ends would be to do something reckless, seemed unfazed by their lack of success. Their most recent lead had come from a couple out hiking who had seen a semi nude individual deep in the heart of the Rocky Mountain National Park apparently wading a stream just off the Big Thompson river. Having acquired directions from a Ranger station they had turned their car up the highway and driven to as close as they could get to the stream. From there on in they walked. Mulder in his eagerness to reach the stream was pushing off ahead of her, his long legs enabling him to make better time over the rugged slopes of the National Park. Scully followed panting behind, her shorter stride forcing her to follow on behind Mulder. Still, she reflected to herself, it's not a bad view from back here.. Moving on ahead Mulder was picking his way through a wide stand of pines heading along what must have been originally a deer track before mankind, in its usual acquisitive manner had turned it into a track of its own. Ahead of him he could see the glint of sunlight off water. "Nearly there Dana," he called backwards remembering in time to use her first name as opposed to the surname like he had always done. Away from the privacy of their apartment it was important to use their assumed names at all time. Still it felt strange for him to call her by it, for so long he been accustomed to using her surname in the same manner that she used his. Previous to their going into hiding as it were he'd only ever used her given name when he needed to comfort her or reach her in some manner. On not receiving an answer he looked back to see Scully toiling up the path about ten yards behind him, panting and perspiring heavily. Grinning he said, "not too steep for you Red?" "It's not the steepness that's the problem," Scully panted as she got her breath back, "it's the speed some people insist on walking that's the problem." "Face it Dana," Mulder teased, "you're out of condition." "Right, you've asked for it, as soon as I get my breath back I'll race you down this damned mountain." "OK Red, when we've finished here the last one back to the car buys dinner." "That's a deal Victor, where are you going to take me then?" "Oh I thought you could take me to that McDonalds's back in town." "Dream on Victor, dream on." Mulder grinned as he picked his way around the trees to the stream, for some reason Scully could never quite see him as a Vic or Victor and the use of his assumed name always seemed to cause her some quiet amusement. Reaching the bank he stood there surveying the stream and the surroundings, definitely a good place to fish he thought, the water's so clear you can actually see the fish. It took a moment for his eyes to register what exactly the dark shape lying just under the water was. His sudden curse drew Scully's attention to him. "What is it?" she asked. "Our Wose isn't a Neanderthal or Bigfoot at all," Mulder said quietly. Following his gaze Scully saw the dark shape of a headless corpse lying just under the water. "It could be just an ordinary murder," she said although the tone of her voice indicated no real belief. "I'd better have a look," she added, the instincts of a trained pathologist and FBI agent taking over. "Yeah," Mulder agreed, "I suppose you'd better." He turned away and walked a couple of yards further down the bank. Recently he had decided that one of the plus's about being on the run was that Scully no longer had to cut up human cadavers to satisfy his morbid curiosity. Indeed he felt that she was far happier bringing life into the world as she did these days rather than having to hack its lifeless remains to pieces. He was suddenly painfully aware that their swords were left back in the car safely locked in the boot. "Well, he's been beheaded, but that we already knew," Scully's voice carried the professional tone he remembered so well. "It looks like the corpse was badly hacked about after death," she went on, "wounds consistent with the use of a long, heavy edged implement." "If you mean a sword why don't you say so," Mulder was surprised by the harsh tone in his voice. Meeting her gaze for moment he suddenly looked away, "sorry Scully," he mumbled, "when I wanted to relive some of the excitement of our x-files days I didn't envisage this." "That's all right Mulder," she replied softly, "no one could have predicted this." "Thanks," he said, "lets get out of here, I have the funny feeling someone is watching us." "It's probably only a Watcher." "Yeah, but lets not take a chance on that." Highway 34, Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado 4:35 P.M. CDT Wednesday Tommo reached the edge of the road just as it began to rain. The clouds had been racing in from the west for the past two hours and their colour had warned him of what was to come. Struggling into his blue waterproof he headed on up the road. Returning to civilization had been a hard decision. The encounter with Evan however had proved that his refuge in the wilds was not as secure as he'd hoped. He'd done a lot of hard thinking over the past few days and the conclusions he had reached were not pretty. Point one, no matter where he hid sooner or later some other immortal was always going to find him eventually. With that in mind he had the morning after killing Evan performed the sword based calisthenics that Liam had taught him and which he'd neglected for well over ten years. Point two, living on his own in the wilds with no one to talk to or interact with was not good for his mental health. Liam had said that whilst it took a decapitation to kill an immortal and they were effectively immune to disease, they were not immune to mental disorders of a non physical nature. Long periods living alone could affect the sanity of humans evolved was they were from gregarious primates and immortals for all their advantages still carried the mental and emotional baggage of their shorter lived (on average) brethren. He himself had been brought up in a large and tight knit family and although at time they could drive him to distraction he missed them terribly. For the sake of his own sanity he needed to be amongst people. Since he'd killed Evan he'd found that he was thinking more clearly than he had been since his last trip down into civilization, when his boots had worn out. And that was over two years ago! It was as if the shock of the Quickening had dragged him back from an abysses of insanity and he had no intentions of going in that direction again. And point three, he was definitely not going to spend another winter in the Rockies. The black bear that he'd fought over a cave last winter would definitely be glad about that! Trudging up the road as the rain came on heavier he found that his boots and waterproof were both leaking. "Brilliant," he grumbled to himself hunching his head deeper into his shoulders. At first he'd decided to walk back to civilization but now with it coming on heavily to rain and a rising disinclination to never ever rough it again he began to watch for passing traffic in the hopes of thumbing a lift. As is usual in these instances few cars were visible on the road and the few that passed seemed disinclined to stop for a disreputable tramp hunched miserably against the rain. Indeed one camper van even swerved through a puddle to add further to his misery. Standing there dripping mouthing off the kinds of curses that would have got him into trouble in front of his parents and shaking his fist at the retreating camper van, he heard another vehicle approaching. As he turned to raise his thumb he saw it slow as if to pick him up. And then he felt it! "Not again!" he moaned as he reached into his sack for the sword. Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado 4:05 P.M. CDT Wednesday The journey back to their car was undertaken in far different manner to the trip out. No mention was made of the bet. Mulder was aware of the black mood that had come over him and he was sure of its origin. His whole purpose in coming out here was to forget for a while the central reality of his life, to pretend in some way that he and Scully were still normal FBI Special Agents, or at least as normal as it was possible to get considering their case load. And now this, a headless body in a stream high up in the Rockies, an immortal's handiwork and he'd led Scully right to it. A fine break it had turned out to be! What had also disturbed him was the clear evidence of a frenzied attack on the body, most probably carried out after its death. There had been a lot of hate and anger in that attack. He'd feel a lot safer when they were off this mountain and back at the car where their swords were. His mood wasn't helped by the way it came on to rain and by the puddle he stepped in that caused water to flood into his hiking boot. Scully had been silent, sunk deep in her own thoughts as they trekked down the mountain, which had added further to his guilt. He should really have suspected this, he berated himself. "Mulder," as if on cue Scully's voice came from behind him, "don't blame yourself, you couldn't have known." "But I should have known," his voice was harsh with guilt and self recrimination, "that's what they used to pay me for, remember." Scully didn't answer, she knew Mulder well enough to let him alone, later on when he'd had time to calm down she'd try again. Eventually ahead of them they saw the car parked off to one side of highway 34. Suddenly Scully jogged past Mulder and slapped her hand on the hood. "You owe me a meal Mulder," she said smiling. Mulder gave her a tired smile, "OK Red," he admitted with a slight smile, where do you want to go?" "I don't know, how about having some Mexican this time." He pulled a face, "Mexican it is." It was good to see that she could still smile after what they'd seen this morning. Perhaps he hadn't loused it up so badly after all. Before getting in they both removed their wet waterproofs for greater comfort. Mulder quickly checked on the swords in the back before turning their vehicle and heading off back to town. As they headed back towards town Mulder noticed the rain getting heavier. "Looks like we're missing the worst of it," he observed. "Not like that poor devil." Ahead of them they noticed a camper van suddenly swerve through a puddle thoroughly drenching an already bedraggled hitchhiker. Mulder, his own socks still damp felt a sudden empathy for the bedraggled hiker and slowed sympathetically ready to offer the other a lift. And then he felt it. "Mulder!" Scully's alarm indicated that she too felt it. The hitchhiker was another immortal. For an instant he felt like flooring the accelerator and roaring past the potential danger. Or else aiming straight for the other in an attempt to knock him down and take his head. He suppressed the thought immediately, a wave of combined guilt and anger rising through him. It was in the spirit of this rebellion that he brought the car to a halt besides the breaded hitchhiker who stood half crouched, lips pulled away from his teeth, one hand deep in a canvas sack. He looked at Scully, she was tense and upright. For a long moment the three immortals stared at each other, two of them of them seated, wishing their swords were nearer than the boot, the third gripping the hilt of his but leaving it cocooned in his sack. Scully spoke first, "can we give you a ride?" Mulder felt obliged to add, "we don't want your head." The breaded, lank haired man didn't answer for a long while, so long in fact that Mulder was about to speak again when the other replied in a voice hoarse from long disuse, "thanks." Scully opened the rear door and the other slide himself in keeping a firm grip on his sack. As soon as the door was shut Mulder pulled out and accelerated away. For a couple of miles there was an awkward silence, the two former agents were wondering about the wisdom of offering a lift whilst the hitchhiker wondered about the wisdom of accepting it. Paranoia that's what it is, Scully thought disgustedly to herself, even Mulder and me have got it. Paranoia and suspicion of our peers, somebody somewhere must be having a good laugh about this, the most gifted of God's creation running about in fear of one another. "You've been hiking far?" Tommo had been so busy keeping his eyes looking out the window that the question from the petite redhead in the passenger seat took him by surprise. "Far enough," he said adding, "thanks for the lift." "You're welcome," she replied, "by the way I'm Dana and this is Fox." Mulder's much despised first name slipped out before she could stop it. "Tommo," the other replied feeling it necessary to add, "it's a nickname I've carried so long it fits better than my real one." "Being in the mountains long?" This question came from Fox in the driver's seat. "Too bloody long." "You're English?" the driver said continuing, "I lived near Oxford for a few years some time back." "Which century?" "Back in the nineteen eighties," Fox replied seeming not too bothered by the other's tone of voice. "We've been hiking up in the mountains, beautiful scenery, the wildlife, the crystal clear streams...." Fox didn't finish his sentence, the silence seemed to challenge Tommo to fill it. Which he did. "His name was Evan Tudor, he'd been after me for over seventeen years and no, he didn't leave me any alternative." "Seventeen years," Dana said quietly, "there must have been a lot of hate there." "A lot of fear more like," Tommo replied, "I'm the only witness to their murder of my mentor." "Their murder?" "Evan Tudor, Padraig Gallagher and Paul Crane, all of our 'brethren' cornered me and Liam O'Shae, my mentor down by the old docks in the Isle of Dogs, London. Evan attacked me whilst Gallagher and Crane tag teamed Liam," Tommo's voice was a dull monotone. "Tag teamed?" This time Fox spoke never taking his eyes from the road. "They took it in turns to attack Liam, trying to wear him down. Eventually they managed to disarm him and...you can guess the rest. //"No! Liam!" "The river boy, Old father Thames will pro...." "No!"// "I managed to dive into the river, Evan almost took my shoulder off. I suppose I was lucky since he was aiming for my neck at the time. I pulled myself out ten miles down river, went to my emergency stash, Liam was a great believer in them, got my change of identity gear and fled to the States. Did alright for a number of years then made a silly mistake and just narrowly avoided becoming a head shorter. That's when I fled into the great blue yonder." Tommo's tale came to a halt and he went back to staring out the window. It had been so long since he could talk to anyone that the words had come tumbling out. And as always when he had to remember that last fight in London he found it still hurt. There was a grim hard note in Tommo's voice that caused Scully to repress a shudder. There was anger there, and fear. She realized that she was seeing here an aspect of immortal existence that perhaps she had missed due to her association with Mulder. Fear of the buzz, which for them could mean the presence of one another, meant for this wild eyed, filthy tramp the approach of someone determined to kill him. Although MacLeod had often spoken of the pain of watching those you love die as you continued on, he had not mentioned the fear which she was now beginning to realize all immortals must carry with them to some degree or another. The fear of one another, the fear of the decapitating stroke, the fear of "there can be only one." A long stretch of road followed accompanied by silence as each of them was sunk deep into their own thoughts. Eventually through the gathering twilight the street lights of the town of Boulder, Colorado came into view dead ahead. "If you don't mind you can drop me off just here," the sudden comment from the Englishman didn't take Mulder by surprise. The general air of tension coming from the back seat had indicated that the other would probably take the first chance he got to leave. Pulling into the side of the road Mulder drew the vehicle to stop and Tommo slipped out the rear seat. For a long moment he stood there awkwardly then muttered "thanks for the lift," before turning abruptly and disappearing into the night. Mulder exhaled deeply, only now becoming aware that he'd been holding his breath. "And you think you've got problems," he remarked to no one in particular pulling back out into the road. "I think I'll call Connor when we get to our motel," Scully's comment took Mulder by surprise. Sensing this Scully went on, "I don't like the idea of this tag team concept and I'm sure Connor would have warned us of it." Reinfeld Antiques Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 4:27 P.M. EST Wednesday MacLeod picked up the phone on the third ring, "Reinfeld Antiques." "Connor how are you". MacLeod allowed genuine affection to enter his voice, "Dana, it's always a pleasure to hear from you, are you still with that loser Mulder." "I heard that," the second voice was muffled as if its owner was being held at a distance from the mouthpiece. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure." "We're calling from Boulder in Colorado," Scully said. "On honeymoon?" "Nope, wrong guess this time," MacLeod thought. "Actually, Scully went on, "we're on one of Mulder's wild goose chases, hunting Bigfoot this time and, to cut a long story short we ran into another immortal who had a very interesting tale to tell us. About some immortals who were teaming up to take heads no less." "Did he give you any details?" MacLeod asked a worried frown crossing his face. "His name is or was Tommo and apparently three immortals, Evan Tudor, Padriag Gallagher and Paul Crane attacked him and his mentor killing the mentor and forcing him to dive into the Thames to get away. He said he'd killed Tudor but the other two are still out there." "Did he mention his mentor's name?" "He said it were Liam, Liam O'Shae." //He knew as soon as he reached the short passage leading to the gym that Liam had company. Although he had never been able to recognize individual immortals from their Quickening he could always tell when there was more than one. For a second his hand slipped inside his long coat towards the comforting hilt of his Katana before he realized that the two were not fighting. That was the other thing he'd always been able to tell. Pushing the door open and passing through the first thing he saw were the two men standing facing the gym's entrance. Although both were clad in heavy white cotton jackets and fencing masks, in place of a foil or epee each carried a long sword, the shorter one to the left a heavy basket hilted broadsword of seventeenth century manufacture, the taller one to the right a long hilted medieval bastard sword. "MacLeod," the man to the left said in greeting, "next time ring before ye come, I'didnae ken who is was when I felt ye." He pushed back his fencing mask to reveal a pale grinning face surmounted by a shock of black hair. MacLeod grinned, "I half expected you to have moved on since last I were here." "I will be soon," the other replied returning his sword to one of two cases open at the side of the room alongside a pair of fencing epees. The other man didn't move, his eyes following MacLeod warily. "Tommo," Liam exclaimed, "this is a friend of mine, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you can trust him lad." "Trust no one, that's what you've always told me," the other grumbled reluctantly returning his weapon to its case. Liam shook his head, "Connor this miserable heap of paranoid Sassanach goes by the name of Tommo, I think he's ashamed of his real name because he never gives it." The younger man didn't reply to this, merely instead pulling off his fencing mask. He was taller than his mentor with brown hair and a ruddy complexion. "Known each other long," he eventually asked more for the sake of politeness than anything else. "Since 1811," Liam replied, "MacLeod there pinched me boots when his sprung a leak." "That's a goddamn lie," MacLeod riposted, "you stole them off me in the first place." "I took them off that dead Frenchie, it weren't my fault you were slow off the mark." "If you'll excuse me," Tommo said, "I've got a date to go to and I really must be getting changed." "OK lad," Liam's voice held a touch of exasperation, "I'll see you Friday for our practice." "Right," Tommo said, "nice to have met you Mr. MacLeod." This again was said more for the sake of politeness than out of any real feeling." "Likewise." The other collected his sword case and exited towards the changing room. Liam felt he had to apologize, "sorry about that Connor, he sometime has an unfortunate manner. The first of our kind to meet him tried to take his head and that can leave scars." Connor shrugged, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone ain't out to get you. No it's probably healthier for him in the long run." Liam sat down on the bench. "Of all the students I've had over the years he's one of the best, in the time I've had to train him he's become good enough to take me, or you for that matter. I met him almost three years ago," he went on, "I was trailing Rene Dubois, he'd killed one of my students and I wasn't very happy with him. By the time I tracked him down he'd tracked Tommo down and tried to kill him when he was digging his dad's allotment. Before I could intervene the boy decapitated him using a spade." "A spade?" "Yeah, it was so old and worn it had an edge like an ax, he told me it was some thing of a family heirloom, on its fourth shaft according to him. I told him who we were, what the Game was and everything." Liam's face went somber, "that night he left home, his family and everything he knew leaving just a short and of course inaccurate note for his parents. It's hard on him sometimes, today for example is his mother's birthday, that's why he was so short with you." MacLeod was quiet, his eyes far away. "Do you remember your mother's birthday?" he asked. "Of course not," Liam replied quietly, "it were too long ago." "Liar." "It's your round, Connor." "No its not I bought in the Round House." "I thought we were last in the Crown and Anchor." Long pause, even longer scratching of scalp. "Hang on a minute, we started at the Green Man right, went on to the Ferret and Firkin, Red Lion, Dooleys, Cock of the Walk, got slung out the Mucky Duck because you tried it on with mine host's wife. We went on to the Drover's where we won two quid on the fruit machine, then the Crown and Anchor where we lost five quid on the quiz machine because you got Christopher Marlowe confused with William Shakespeare." "Good lad Chris," Liam gazed somberly into his empty pint glass. "I know, and so now do all the regulars at the Crown and Anchor thanks to you," MacLeod shook his head in disgust, an act he promptly regretted as the room started to spin. "That's why we went onto the Round House where I," a note of triumph entered MacLeod's voice here, "bought the last round, along with two bags of dry roasted and some pork scratchings." Liam spent a moment counting on his own fingers and then with an irritated grunt got to his feet and, grumbling made his way to the bar by an erratic route. MacLeod rested his elbows on the sticky table in front of him and placed his head in his hands. Boy was he going to suffer tomorrow for this evening's excess. He knew he only had himself to blame, visits to Liam invariably ended up as pub crawls. a treacherous voice inside his head informed him. Liam after a long interval eventually returned with two pints and a couple of bags of crisps. "What the hell's this?" MacLeod indicated the too dark liquid in his glass. "Mild." "I wanted bitter," MacLeod objected petulantly. "Get it down yer boy," Liam growled, "and eat yer crisps." MacLeod read the label on the bag through blurry eyes, "hedgehog! What in the name of mercy possessed you to get hedgehog!" "Ah stop whining Highlander and get them ate." After three attempts MacLeod finally managed to get the bag open. "Jesus Christ Liam, they taste nothing like hedgehog." "Watch yer tongue MacLeod," Liam said, "ye know I don't hold with blasphemy." "These crisps are foul!" MacLeod objected, "they'd set a saint to swearing." "Just stop whining and eat the bloody things OK?" Halfway through the bag MacLeod looked up, "I fancy a curry after we leave here." "I was thinking we could go to the Top Hole again." "Not after the last time you went there." "It weren't so bad," Liam took a quick swig of beer adding, "any how you weren't with us last time we went there." "Duncan told me all about it. They're certainly not going to forget in a hurry one of those responsible for sending four bouncers and three coppers to hospital, not to mention over a thousand pound's worth of damage." "Duncan exaggerates, all those lads were out of the hospital the next day and it weren't a thousand pounds worth of damage anyway." "How much was it then?" A long silence followed forcing MacLeod to prompt the other, "well?" "Nine hundred and sixty three pound, thirty four pence," Liam's mutter was so low that the other barely heard it. "Thirty four bloody pence, typical bloody accountant, couldn't they round up or somemut," he went on in an aggrieved tone continuing proudly, "but I paid every red cent of it!" "Very noble of you, now do you want to drink up and go for that curry?" "I fancy a kebab meself." An hour later two men with a combined age of just over two thousand years found themselves sharing a police cell. "It weren't my fault this time MacLeod, I did offer to pay for the drink." MacLeod signed and buried his head in his hands. "You didn't have to offer to buy his mate a drink too." "Allus been too generous that's my fault, unlike certain people." "Always been noted for your generosity Liam I'll give you that. But tell me what possessed you to phrase our offer of drinks that way?" "What way?" MacLeod cleared his throat and imitating the other's clear brogue said, "and what's yer sister there drinking?" Liam grinned uncertainly, "did I say that?" "Yes you bloody well did, and you ducked the first bloody punch," MacLeod rubbed his jaw at the memory of it. "Sorry boy," Liam yawned, "I've never really liked to see fellas with their hair over their shoulders." "That's rich coming from you, when you were born everybody wore their hair long." "Not me boy, I allus had mine in a lime wash, up and spiky like a punk rocker's." "It happens every bloody time," MacLeod swore violently getting to his feet and pacing back and forth. "Let's go for a few drinks you say, for old times sake you say. Next thing I know its morning and I either can't remember the night before, if I'm lucky. Or else have to spend the best part of a morning having a magistrate remind me of it. And do you what's the worst thing about it? The fact that I know for certain that the next time I pass through London I will still look you up and spend yet another night in the cells or else end up lying in the gutter doing a technicolour yawn." There was no reply from beside him, rather instead a nasal snore began to reverberate around the cell. MacLeod signed and settled down for the rest of the night besides his friend. It was going to be a long one he knew, after a skin full Liam would sleep like a log until morning, snoring all the while and impossible to rouse. This time round they managed to avoid the Magistrates court due to the publican's willingness to avoid a court appearance and Liam's offer of full restitution of all damage done. The fact that the four youths sent to the hospital were known local troublemakers and not seriously injured to boot encouraged the police to take a lenient stance and use their discretionary powers. Outside the police station MacLeod took a deep breath of air and gave vent to a long yawn. "Well I'm away to me bed now Liam," he yawned again, "I can never sleep in police stations." Liam grinned, "I never have any problem with that boy." "I'm not surprised, your snore could wake the dead." "I do not snore!" "Oh I'm sorry Liam," MacLeod said in a mock placatory tone of voice, "it's just that in the States they don't take the road up at past midnight." "Meaning, boy." "Meaning you snore like a herd of elephants with ......" "Not you two again." The Custody Sergeant was a fifteen year veteran with gray flecked close cropped brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. To say that he wasn't pleased to see the two disheveled men in front of him was a major understatement. "Tell me something, didn't I explain the legal meaning of being bound over to keep the peace clearly enough for you two?" "No Sergeant." the two men in front of him murmured. For a long moment he glared at them making them sweat then he asked to two arresting officers, "did they cause any damage to any one or anything besides themselves?" "No Sarge," the older of the officers said, "they were rolling on the pavement knocking twelve bells out of each other but they were on their own and the only things damaged were what they were wearing." Her male colleague added, "I thought the little one was going to swing a punch until he realized Jen was a WPC. He came like a lamb then." He thought it wiser not to mention that on the way into the station the said individual had managed to arrange a date with his colleague. Although that in itself was a rare and notable occurrence he still had to work with Jen. It was good gossip for the canteen though. The Sergeant signed softly and put them out of their misery. "Alright you two it's your lucky day, I'm about to go off shift and as it's being a long night I can't be arsed to process you. This is your last chance though, if I see you again I clap you in the cells and throw the keys away, understood?" "Yes Sergeant," this time the murmur had a relieved tone to it. Thirty minutes later the two immortals found themselves sharing a strap in an overflowing underground carriage. "I still say we should have got a taxi," MacLeod grumbled. "What's the point of visiting London and then ignoring one of its true marvels?" MacLeod gritted his teeth and tried to avoid another argument. It had been embarrassing being dragged back into the police station by a copper who looked to be barely shaving. It was typical of Liam's luck that the copper hauling him had been young and pretty. And available, talk about some people falling on their feet! "Why didn't your prot‚g‚ join us last night anyway?" he asked changing the subject, "you always manage to pass on your bad habits to them, so why not him?" "Ah, he's studying for an exam he is, studying for a history degree, says he's going to find out if I'm making up all my wonderful stories he is." There was an amused grin on Liam's face. "Next time you're through we'll all go out and really have a night to remember."// "Is this Tommo of yours still in town." "Probably," Scully replied, "it was too late when we dropped him off for him to catch a bus and the state he was in means no sane person would rent him a car." "And he probably didn't have enough to buy one," Mulder's voice in the background indicated that he was still listening in. "Look, I need to talk to this guy," MacLeod said, "I'm going to catch the first flight I can to Denver or wherever's nearest to you." "He'll be gone by then," Scully said. "I know, that's why I am going to ask you to do me a favor, I need you to go find him before he has a chance to skip town and tell him I need to see him. I think I met him once and I really would like to find out what happened to Liam." "Old friend?" "Liam was one of my oldest," there was a sigh in MacLeod's voice, "I knew he'd fallen in the Game but never how. This Tommo of yours was his last student and by what he told you a witness to his death." There was a low muffled consultation on the end of the phone and then Scully came back to him. "We'll have a look for him after we've ate, we owe you that much at least." "Thanks, now I owe you." "Our pleasure," and then she hung up. Sitting back in his chair MacLeod steepled his fingers. It had come as a shock to hear that Liam was gone. With all his centuries of experience and determination not to play the Game anymore he'd always thought that he would survive him. No if Liam had a weakness it was trust. It weren't that the other trusted too easily, no he'd have died years ago if he'd been like that. No Liam trusted too deeply, never willing to believe even after centuries of experience that some one he cared for could turn on him. Sighing he reached again for the phone and dialed long distance. At the other end the phone rang four times before being answered. "Joe's," came a familiar voice. "Joe, its Connor." "What are you after this time MacLeod," Joe's voice held a note of quiet resignation which cause MacLeod to grin despite himself. "Now Joe you wound me, you really do." "Cut to the chase Highlander, I've got things to do." "I wonder if you knew that an immortal called Evan Tudor is no longer among us." At the other end of the phone line he could hear the clicking of a computer keyboard as Joe entered the name in his Watcher's database. "Hmm, he dropped out of sight two months ago, who took his head?" "An immortal called Tommo, ring any bells." A further clicking of the keyboard followed. "A pupil of your old friend Liam O'Shae I believe. We have a record of your meeting him a few years back." "Do you know what happened to Liam?" "MacLeod you know I can't tell you that!" "Come on Joe, I told you about Tudor, at least give me something in return." There was a long pause then a sigh "It's not much, Liam was killed down the London dockland shortly after you saw him last. Our man wasn't able to witness the fight but he did identify the body. When last seen he'd been heading towards the area accompanied by Tommo." "Don't you have any better name for him." "We believe his real name is Thomas Warren. After Liam's death Tommo dropped out of sight and was next located living as a history teacher in Kansas City of all places about two years later. He stayed there for another two years and then disappeared. He left rather in a hurry, his watcher was of the opinion that he was running sacred from another one of you. No contact since then. Oh and he was living under the name of William Aiden if that means anything to you." "Two of Liam's favorite name drops, the William comes from a famous knight of the twelfth century Liam was in service to once, the other one was a saint of the conversion of the English back in the Dark Ages. Do you know which Immortal he was running from?" "We had an unconfirmed sighting of Paddy Gallagher there at about that time but there is no evidence they met." "He was another one of Liam's pupils?" "Yes." An ugly possibility began to form in MacLeod's mind. Indeed the only way for anyone to have taken Liam's head would have been to take an unfair advantage, such as betraying him. "Thanks Joe, you've been a great help." "Wait a minute MacLeod, where is he, Tommo I mean." "Oh he's in Boulder, Colorado Joe." The phone clicked as MacLeod rang off. Boulder Colorado 8:35 P.M. CDT Wednesday Mulder and Scully's technique for finding Tommo was blindingly simple based as it was on a very simple psychological profile of their target. Mulder had known North Country Englishmen, there had been some on the same course as his at Oxford and he knew their habits. Using this as a basis they hit the bars and taverns of downtown Boulder entering each and walking slowly through waiting for the buzz. Even then it took them the best part of two hours. And if it wasn't for the buzz they'd have walked right past him. In the few short hours since arriving in town Tommo had effected a drastic change from the scruffy bedraggled tramp they'd picked up on Highway 34. He still wore jeans, only now they were clean, along with a tartan shirt, cowboy boots and a new jacket. Not only that however he had also managed to get his hair cut back short and the bread trimmed close to the jaw. All in all it was quite a transformation. One thing had remained constant however, at his feet there lay the canvas sack, the one containing his sword. Even as they entered the bar he turned sensing them at the same moment they sensed him. Mulder was relived to notice that his lunge towards the canvas sack stopped still born and he straightened up warily. As Mulder and Scully approached him he turned his back on them and deliberately returned to the beer on the bar in front of him, watching them covertly through the mirror which lined the back wall. The two former FBI Special Agents settled down on each side of him. Mulder spoke first. "Enjoying yourself." "Not particularly." "You've been busy." A shrug, "I found my plastic was still current." "Convenient." "I renewed it last time I came down out of the wilds. Look, I appreciated the lift and I don't mean to be rude but is there a special reason for you joining me here?" "We have a mutual friend who'd like a word with you," Scully said. "One of us?" "Yes," said Scully. "Where is he then?" "Coming in from the east," Mulder said, "he asked us to ask you to stick around until he had the chance to have a word." "What if I don't?" "It's up to you but he seems to think he knows you, or more properly your mentor, Liam." "Would he have a name?" "Connor MacLeod, some people call him the Highlander." Tommo finished his beer, looked disgustedly at the bottle and belched noisily. "I've had seven of these and all I've got is wind," he complained, "no wonder you buggers go mad over cocktails and spirits." He stared at the back of the bar, "I've been catching up on the news, do you know my team won the Cup last year. Whilst I was playing hide and seek with a trio of murderous head- cases my team were thumping the Scousers. I should have been there, damn it, there at Wembley with me dad n' me brothers and the lads I grew up with, roaring the boys home, not stuck here in the back of beyond. What a night we'd have had in the pub." The breaded man glared angrily at his reflection in the mirror, "I don't even know if they're dead or alive, its been so bloody long." He ran his hand through his short cropped hair, "Right now I'd give my head for a bag of greasy chips wrapped in newspaper on a cold night after chucking out time." After this outburst he was quiet for a long moment glaring angrily at his reflection in the mirror. Mulder and Scully retained their positions at the bar waiting patiently. Finally he signed and looking at Mulder he said, "OK Foxy, tell yer mate I'll be in here tomorrow night around six. Tell 'im I won't hang around if he's late." "I'll tell him that," Mulder replied giving Scully a 'laugh if you value your life' look, "and the name is Mulder, Fox Mulder OK." Tommo grinned, the first time they'd ever seen him do so. "Fox!" he laughed, "you must have given some one some sleepless nights as a baby." Mulder scowled and stalked out of the bar. Scully shrugged and followed him. Mulder waited for her outside the bar, his back stiff with offense. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it," she said placatingly, "and at least it proves he can still laugh." "It's not his laughing I dislike," Mulder replied leading the way back to where their car was parked. "But rather its target. I have you know I was a very placid baby, my mother used to embarrass me by recounting that every birthday." "Yes Mulder," Scully was glad the darkness concealed her smile. Boulder, Colorado Thursday 17:55 CMT MacLeod yawned and stretched as he stood at the bar. At this time of day he was the only customer and the bartender after serving him was now busy reading a lurid tabloid. MacLeod thought to himself surpressing a wry smile and sipping from the surprisingly good single malt he'd been able to order. Then he felt the buzz and looking up he saw a tall man with close cropped hair and beard enter the room, a canvas sack in his hand. For a long moment he looked at MacLeod tensely, his hand inside the neck of the sack. But then he relaxed letting the sack drop until it was held loosely by his side and walked up to the bar. "MacLeod." "Tommo," MacLeod returned the greeting. At this point the bartender hustled up and Tommo ordered a beer. After he'd been served and the bartender had returned to his reading Tommo indicated a table in the far corner and the two carried their drinks to it. There was a tense silence as the two sized each other up. Tommo was the first to break it. "What can I do for you MacLeod?" There was no point in beating around the bush, "what happened to Liam?" "Someone took his head." "I didn't fly this far to hear something I knew already." A bitter grin twisted Tommo's face at this causing MacLeod to switch tracks, "Liam was my friend and I've heard someone killed him unfairly," he said, "where I come from that requires an accounting." Tommo took a long swig from his beer grimacing at the taste, considering his reply and how much he should tell Liam's friend. MacLeod curbed his impatience and let him think. Finally Tommo spoke. "It were two months after your visit when Liam had a visit from another immortal called Evan Tudor. He said he were a new boy, a student of Paddy Gallagher, who Liam had trained a century or so earlier. He said Gallagher had been killed by Paul Crane, a Yankee immortal who were now after him, he asked Liam for protection. Although Liam had fallen out with Gallagher some time ago he agreed to protect Evan, probably felt responsible." "I remember Liam telling me about the dispute between them," MacLeod said softly, "it were the start of the troubles in Northern Ireland. Gallagher wanted to get involved but Liam wouldn't, said that whilst he agreed with the aims he didn't agree with the methods. Paddy took it rather hard according to Liam." A mirthless smile crossed Tommo's face, "I'll say he took it hard." After a brief pause he continued, "two nights later whilst Liam and I were at our regular Friday night sparring Evan rang us from the docklands, said he'd been cornered there by Crane and begged for help. You knew what Liam was like, regular knight in shining armor, he rushed off to help him, would have gone alone if I hadn't persuaded him to take us. When we got there we found Evan and Crane alone there as we thought. No sooner were we out of the car than someone put a magazine from an assault rifle into the engine. When the shooting stopped who should step out of the shadows but Paddy Gallagher." "How did Liam take it?" "How do you think, he'd been in mourning for the bastard for two days!" With an effort Tommo kept his voice down and continued, "they split up and attacked us, Evan on me, the other two against Liam." Tommo's fists were clenched on the tabletop as he recounted the fight in a low savage voice, spitting the words out. "They attacked him one at a time, if one of them got into trouble or got tired the other took over. I had me hands full with Evan, he were better than me. The cocky bastard even boasted to me about how he'd rode with the cavaliers in the civil war." Tommo paused for a moment, long buried grief easily readable on his face. Finally he went on, "eventually they wore him down, disarmed him. I tried to get past Evan, broke one of his legs with a lucky blow but I couldn't reach him in time. 'Jump, jump in the river,' he said and I did." There was another pause before Tommo concluded, his voice a whisper, "that was the only thing I ever did for him that I regretted." MacLeod found that he'd been holding his breath as the climax unfolded and he now released it with a whoosh. "You had no choice lad, they'd have done you next." "I know that," Tommo replied staring deep into the depths of his beer, "but it still felt like desertion." Both men pulled at their drinks thoughts far away. Finally Tommo asked, "Liam always told me it had to be one on one, he never mentioned that it were allowed to gang up on one another." "There's a good reason for that," MacLeod said, "how many Quickenings have you had." "Two." "And how do you feel afterwards?" "As weak as a puppy for a minute or two." "Exactly, if two immortals were present at the death of a third the one who received the Quickening would be vulnerable to his partner," MacLeod frowned, "that's why there are three of them. The extra one is insurance." Tommo stared thoughtfully into space, "Liam believed in honor, although he always said that it were foolish to expect it from others," he muttered quietly. MacLeod smiled sadly, "that was one of Liam's most endearing qualities, he seldom practiced what he preached." MacLeod finished his drink and got up to go. "MacLeod." "Yeah." "Tell your friend Mulder I really shouldn't have taken the piss about his name, if anyone should know better it's me. Tell him to put it down to chronic homesickness." "I will," said MacLeod, "but I think he knows already." Tommo smiled briefly, "say if those two have never been cops they certainly know how to pretend to be ones." "I didn't tell you this but they used to be special agents, partners would you believe, in the FBI." "Feds huh," Tommo managed a grin, "that must give them certain advantages over the rest of us when it comes to hiding out, gamekeepers turned poachers so to speak." MacLeod settled his sword under his coat and turned to go but then suddenly turned back on impulse reaching into his pockets and producing a small card. "If you ever need to get in touch...." "Thanks." Boulder, Colorado Thursday 19:06 CMT "I've had a word with our friend," MacLeod sipped carefully at his coffee, "and I think I believe his story." "Happen often does it this tag teaming?" There was brittle note in Mulder's voice as if he suspected MacLeod of holding out on them. "There are some very good reasons for the rules which govern the Game," MacLeod said, "occasionally some of us loose sight of that. Unfortunately Immortals for all their benefits are very human in most respects, some good, some bad, most of us however lie somewhere between the two extremes." MacLeod looked up from his coffee to catch two intense stares, Scully's although less obvious was just as intent as her partner. he thought, It was a thought he put quickly from his mind. He sighed, "Some times but it's very rare. It has happened before although from Tommo's story, and knowing one of the participants like I do, it seems this group are very well organized." "I see," said Scully. "We should be safe from them for a while now that they've lost someone." MacLeod went on to recount what he'd told Tommo. "Until they recruit another," Mulder grumbled. "That isn't easily done, considering our paranoia where other immortals are concerned," Scully cut in. MacLeod climbed to his feet draining the cup, "thanks for the coffee but I really must be going now." "Not staying?" Scully asked. "Things to do Dana," MacLeod grinned at her knowing this would upset Mulder. Ever since he'd met the two of them he'd been aware of his jealousy where Scully and other men were concerned. It was usually well hidden but it was there. It was a jealousy bedded deep in Mulder's fear of loosing her, a fear of loosing his soul mate, of being alone again. Mulder hadn't talked much about his background, which was significant to someone as perceptive and with as much experience of the ways of the heart as MacLeod. It never failed to amaze him that two people as smart and intelligent as them couldn't see what was blindingly obvious to everyone who knew them. By now he'd come to realize that they were both afraid of that first step, afraid it would destroy something they both needed. MacLeod let himself out of the motel room and walked over to his hire car. Back to Denver, call Joe and tell him what he knew, that was all part of their unwritten arrangement, catch the first flight out, then what? For a long moment he thought and then reached his decision. England, he'd go to England and see if they'd buried Liam decently. He owed him that at least. Boulder, Colorado Friday 9:46 CMT It was fortunate that Tommo recognized the car when he did, standing as it was outside the motel just off the street. He hadn't gone out consciously to look for them but rather instead to find a second hand car place where he could acquire some wheels. The haircut, clothes and accommodation for the previous two nights had been paid out of his own personal account, one which not even Liam had known about. He'd been thinking long and hard about how the tag team had managed to find him that time in Kansas City and finally had linked it to a purchase he'd made using an account given to him by Liam. Presumably they'd had some way to keep tabs on the various accounts opened for him by Liam in various names. This was a problem since most of his ready money was held in accounts opened by Liam. Bearing this in mind his plan of action was simple, he would go to a salesroom, buy a second hand car using one of Liam's accounts, drive straight back to his motel, grab his gear and high tail it out of town. Hopefully he would be able to do this before the hunters could get on his tail again. At least that was the plan. Fortune further favored him in that there was a coffee bar located some two hundred plus yards away from the motel yet with window seats which would allow him to keep tabs on the motel. Although he didn't want to believe the two were a threat to him it was only prudent to make sure they were actually leaving town. He wasn't frightened of them, they'd had chances to kill him and not taken them so he figured they were non hostile. It was just that he still didn't feel comfortable around other immortals. He didn't have to wait long, in fact no sooner had the waitress departed after delivering his coffee then he saw them exit their room. The tall, dark haired Mulder carried their cases which he deposited in the boot whilst his shorter, prettier red haired companion returned the key to the manager's office. He was relived when the car, with Mulder behind the wheel, turned away from him and headed off down the road in the opposite direction. There was no chance now of the buzz giving him away. Even as he relaxed however he became aware of another vehicle pulling out from over the road. He got a good look at the nondescript features of the driver. . The face was familiar but he still couldn't place it. Frowning he lingered over his coffee and then left. Business went as he expected and within the hour he'd bought a decent second hand vehicle, collected his gear and departed town in the opposite direction to the two ex-FBI agents. As he drove north he felt something nagging at the back of his mind. Mulder and his pretty partner, girl friend, lover, wife?'s tail, he was sure he'd seen him somewhere before. But where? After a moment he shrugged and concentrated again on his driving, all the while keeping a careful eye open for any tail. Doubtless it would come back to him in time. Boulder, Colorado Saturday 2:12 CMT At this time of night the town of Boulder was quiet, the late night crowd had found their, or at least a bed, the early morning risers still enjoying the last couple of hours of sleep. The back of the motel was reassuringly dark as a shadow flitted towards the office window. Tommo thought to himself as he skirted sundry trash cans and other items left out for removal. The decision to return although a hard one had been taken quickly. It had been mid afternoon when far to the north at a gas station whilst browsing through a magazine rack that the sight of a copy of Guns and Ammo with a picture of an AK47 on the cover had prompted the recollection of a certain face. //Liam's battered Ford Escort bumped its way to a stop over the rubble strewn ground. The headlights were killed. "It's around here somewhere boy," Liam's equally battered features were concerned. "At least it was before they flattened the place." "Who," Tommo asked, a wry smile twisting his lips, "Hitler or the developers." "Both." On both sides of them were the stumps of gutted warehouses, standing roofless to the elements. Tendrils of mist were sneaking in from the river. "We won't see owt sitting here," Tommo said quietly. "Aye," Liam agreed opening his door and getting out. "I don't suppose I can get ye to stay by the car," he said as Tommo followed suit. "Nope". "Didn't think so," there was resignation in Liam's voice, "OK you go to ...." Tommo suddenly became aware of a shape moving in the shadows to his side. He couldn't feel what Liam always called the buzz therefore..... The sudden burst of fire from the AK47 caused Tommo to hit the ground as he felt the wind from some rounds pass his face. Despite his lack of what anyone could call combat experience he quickly realized that the shooter seemed to be aiming not at the two men but rather their vehicle, or to be more precise as few rounds seemed to be hitting the window, at the engine and petrol tank. Rolling away from the Escort in fear of an explosion Tommo briefly glimpsed the face of the shooter, pale and nondescript in the shadows, illuminated only by the muzzle flash of the assault rifle. As the firing stopped and the shooter disappeared into the night Tommo pushed himself to his feet moving in pursuit pulling his sword from under his overcoat as he ran. "Liam, are you OK," he shouted as he ran. "Tommo," he heard the other shout even as in front of him he saw another shape move towards him and felt the distinctive buzz of another immortal. "Hiya Tommo," Evan Tudor seemed to almost purr the words as he pulled a curved cavalry saber from under his own trench coat. "Evan! What the hell's going on." Tommo backed instinctively away from Paddy Gallagher's old pupil bring his ancient bastard sword up into a defensive position. By now the buzz was coming on bad and looking over his shoulder he saw two more men, immortals! facing Liam. Liam's face had gone pale but his voice was calm, there was no indication of surprise or shock in it. "Hello Paddy, I were told you were dead." Paddy Gallagher saluted mockingly with his katana, "the rumors of my death have been much exaggerated."// Once he'd realized that it was Paddy Gallagher's shooter he had seen tailing the two ex-federal agents there was left to him only the question of what to do about it. Pulling a card out of his pocket he walked across to the call box and made a long distance call. "Hi Reinfield Antiques, can I help you?" The voice on the other end of the phone was cheerful, helpful....and female. Damn! Tommo had to stop himself just in time asking for Connor MacLeod, obviously the other would in his long life have gone through any number of assumed ones. "Err, is the boss in?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Reinfield is abroad at the moment, can I help you or take a message?" "No, thanks." Tommo hung up with a muttered curse and returned to his car. Seated in the driver seat with his hands resting on the wheel he stared out the window. What to do? Could he allow the tag team to strike again? Although they were now one short he knew Gallagher and company would carry on. There would be a change in tactics but they would continue. And they would still be hunting him. Hiding was obviously futile, his encounter with Evan had told him that. They were obliviously either very good at hunting or else very experienced, clearly prepared to wait years for a clue to his whereabouts. Like it or not he needed allies and considering the few immortals that he had actually met, as opposed to have heard about during Liam's stories, he had realized that, with MacLeod out of the country, the tag team's next victims were the only game in town. But which town? Gritting his teeth he cursed, "if you want a job doing proper you have to do it yourself!" And so it was that he found himself back in Boulder behind the motel he'd seen Mulder and Scully leave earlier that day. There must be, he thought, some sort of register in this place with some sort of address. he prayed. As he approached the window he almost missed the brief flash of light inside the darkened room. , he though, . Retreating carefully down the alley he made his way to the main street. What was going on? Even as he scanned the few cars parked along the road the answer came to him. There, suddenly he realized was the same car which had tailed Mulder and Scully that morning. Dropping low he crouched in the road besides the looming bulk of a dark blue four wheel drive. It was none too soon as a man walked casually out of the back alley he just left and headed towards the car. Tommo still hugging the shadows hunched down until he was past. Reaching around his back he pulled the 357 magnum revolver from his belt. He'd acquired it ten years ago on one of his infrequent visits to civilization but had run out of ammunition for it two years ago. The rounds it carried now were wadcutters purchased that very morning from a gun store in town. The other man walked out into the road and down following the line of cars headed towards the parked vehicle Tommo had seen earlier. Halting there he then bent down and talked through the open window of the car to someone sat in the driver's seat. Realizing if he wanted to hear what was being said, Tommo took a deep breath of air and crept silently along the line of parked car keeping himself hunched almost double. In one hand he clutched the revolver pointing in the general direction of the car, the other hand held low almost brushing the tarmac in order to help his balance. As he crept closer and closer hidden by the shadows cast by the cars he could hear the man in the car talking on a cell phone, "yeah, that right Chicago." All the while the other man standing by the driver's door had been scanning the street. He looked once in Tommo's direction, causing the other to freeze until the gaze moved on, the man turning slightly concealing his right hand from view. Concealing his right hand from view! Even as he realized this Tommo locked his arm on target and as the other turned fast with a large black automatic in his hand he fired twice, double tapping the target. As he saw the other go down Tommo remembered Liam's advice, 'never be stationary in a fight, be it sword fight or gun fight, always keep on the move, don't give them a chance to draw a bead on you boy.' He ducked quickly down between two cars moving towards the pavement. As he came round the end of the car he was just in time to see the passenger side door of the tailer's car come open and illuminated by the internal light a figure drive out of it and onto the pavement. It was the obvious move really for the driver. Even as Tommo pulled his revolver up to take aim the driver came up, an automatic in his hand spitting fire. A red hot poker was suddenly driven deep into Tommo's left shoulder. Howling in pain he brought his other hand up and fired the revolver rapidly until the hammer repeatedly clicked on empty chambers. It wasn't so much the realization that the gun was empty which caused him to release the trigger and lower the weapon, it was the silence. In front of him the driver was just a huddled shape on the pavement, in the light from the car his head was a bloody mass, red and gray matter mingled with the brown of his hair. Controlling his pain and nausea with difficulty Tommo went back into the road and checked the other body. The other man had taken two shots to the body and wasn't breathing. For what seemed an age Tommo stood there and looked at the third and fourth men he had been forced to kill. The first mortals he reminded himself, and if I'm lucky the last. In fact the only thing to drag him from his stupor was the sound of police sirens in the distance. he goaded himself into movement. Holding his useless left shoulder he returned the revolver to his belt and ran back down the street, ducking into the alley leading past the back of the motel. At the opposite end he slowed down and walked as normally as he could back to where he'd parked his car. Once he had to duck back into the shadows as a police car hurtled past on its way to the shooting. Starting the car up he drove back north out of town until he was five miles clear where he pulled over to the side, got out, walked two meters into a field and threw up. As he straightened up something fell down the inside of his sleeve but was caught long enough in his shirt cuff to allow him to retrieve it. It was the bullet he'd taken in the arm, it had taken his body's unnatural vitality until now to work it out of his arm. He looked at it long and hard, it was in almost mint condition except for a slight warping at the tip where it must have hit bone. With a sign he threw it into the field and got back into his car. Seacouver, Washington Sunday 20.30 WST For almost an hour after receiving MacLeod's call Joe worked steadily away at his computer updating the files of the immortals mentioned in the phone call, cross referencing and indexing the entries and generally pursuing any leads he found. Finally he just sat there staring at the screen. Something wasn't quite right. Why had Paddy Gallagher hunted down and killed his own mentor? Why had Tommo fled to the States when it was more logical for him to flee to an area he knew and was more comfortable in? Although the north of England was small geographically a study of the atlas had revealed a population just short of twenty million and extensive urban sprawl. A man who knew the area could probably stay out of sight there for a long time. When a man runs, Joe knew full well, he usually runs to somewhere he knows. Unless he knows it is dangerous for him. After checking the time zones Joe put in a call to the United Kingdom. "Middlehampton 34523," the voice at the other end sounded sleepy. "John? This is Joe Dawson, you were good enough to show me some hospitality some years back." "Dawson? Oh yeah, I remember, how are you Joe?" "Still aching in all the usual places. Look John I hate to bother you at this time of night but I need some information from you. An old acquaintance of yours has resurfaced, one Thomas Warren, Tommo as he preferred to be called." "Tommo! I'm glad to hear that Joe, I always had a soft spot for him, him been Liam's last apprentice." "John, at the time Liam lost in the game was there anything you didn't report that might have had some bearing on why he fell out of it." Joe had always hated the way they had to use contorted language just to maintain security. A pause followed, "it could have had something to do with his reputed association with the King of the English," John Harrison, the recently retired senior most British watcher replied. "It's a legend we've heard bits of, mostly I believe since the accession of Queen Elizabeth although we could have had earlier mentions that could have been confused with the reigning monarch if you get my meaning. Apparently some of our friends, the older ones in particular believe that one of their number used to be a King of the English at one time." "A King of the English?" "Yes, they use that specific term all the while, not a King of England, or Britain but a King of the English. I've done some research on the term and apparently it was originally a title taken by the kings of Wessex in the ninth and tenth centuries after the Viking invasions. At that time the Vikings had managed to wipe out all of the royal dynasties of the Anglo Saxon kingdoms except for Wessex whose kings assumed the title to give them a legitimate reason to expand into areas they'd never controlled. The first of these was, I believe Alfred the Great." "It's not him surely." A laugh came down the phone line, "of course not, he had at least four children! No, I do have a short-list headed by his grandson Athelstan, my own personal favorite, followed by Athelstan's half brother Eadred, the chronicles say he was a bit sickly that one, their nephew Eadwy, not a strong enough character in my view to have survived as long as the King apparently has, plus half a dozen or so others who's lives were so obscure we have little on them." Joe scratched his beard thoughtfully, "Probably some Queen miscarried and when this baby appeared on the doorstep she seized the opportunity" he said. An amused note entered John's voice, "That's why the clever money's riding on Athelstan, apparently he was born out of wedlock. Presenting a future king with a first born son would have cemented her place at court so to speak." "I'll bet you have a book running on that." "That we do," John laughed again, "Liam was said to be one of the King's Gesith, Household, it was said that he was responsible for protecting him. My own personal opinion was that that was the reason he was taken out of the Game, it is only an opinion mind you which is why I've kept it to myself." "How about me telling you that the other players were Paddy Gallagher, Evan Tudor and Paul Crane." "Hmm, if the first two of those were Englishmen with 'opinions' towards Celts rather than vice versa you'd call them racists and probably use them as villains in some Hollywood movie or el cheapo TV series." There was a short pause then John continued, "if Gallagher and Tudor were involved then my opinion becomes a certainty." "Tudor's no longer in the Game, your friend Tommo took him out." John didn't bother mincing his words, "Good, he was a vicious underhand bastard." "I know, I've read his file. Look I need to ask a favor of you. We last saw Tommo in Boulder, Colorado where he managed to avoid a friend we sent to watch him. We suspect he's gone to Chicago since that's where friend Padraig and company have gone. Now I know you're retired but could I ask you to come over and help us find him? It would be a big help to us." "Of course I will Joseph old chap, turn down a free trip to the States at my time of life, I assume the flight and accommodation will be paid for?" Joe found himself grinning at the eagerness in the other's tone, it wasn't just the prospect of a free trip that had animated the other but also the prospect of getting back in the saddle. Once a Watcher always a Watcher. Continued...