Highlander FIC: Immortal Hunt (PG)
Title: Immortal Hunt
Author: blade_and_roses
Challenge answered: Episode Update
Characters/Pairings: Wolf, Amy Dawson, Joe Dawson, Methos, Amanda, Amanda/Wolf background, plenty of OC’s - and neither Connor nor Richie are dead.
Rating: PG for swearing and some minor violence
Summary: Methos’ database comes back to haunt both Immortals and Watchers.
1995
Inside Shakespeare and Co, on one shelf, a CD-ROM disk peeks out from among the books . . .
Prologue, July, 2011
Greg wandered through the crowded aisles of Shakespeare & Company, managing, just barely, to avoid both knocking over a man engrossed in a moldy book with Voltaire stamped on the spine and tipping a stack of oversized art textbooks onto the nun kneeling next to them. ‘Now, where the hell did they go?’ he fumed. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out look into one of Paris’ landmarks before they headed off to the airport and back to San Francisco. Instead, he’d lost track of his two friends when he’d spotted a shelf of old European comics - and if they didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, odds are they’d miss their flight.
“Jack? Bobby? Where are you - yow!” he yelped as someone grabbed his elbow and hauled him into a little, blind corner tucked under the stairs. “Jack? What the -?”
“Porn, man,” Jack whispered, smirking. “We found high-class porn!”
Greg blinked, then focused on the book Jack had tossed onto the stack of comics he was holding. He swallowed a sarcastic comment and explained, for the third time on this trip, “That’s not porn. It’s an art studies book. For, ah -“ and his voice trailed off. As best he could read the French, it said something about sexual positions and drawing of == parts?
“Okay, maybe it is porn,” he conceded. “But we’re not taking it back with us - we’d never make it through customs!”
“Damn,” Jack said, as Bobby erupted into giggles from where he was crouched on the floor. Grumbling, Jack shoved the book onto an over-crowded shelf, dislodging several books - and a computer disk in a stained, dusty envelope. Bobby promptly pounced on it.
“A disk! Wonder what’s on it . . . “
“No label,” Greg observed, peering over Jack’s shoulder. “Probably should give it to the clerk.”
“How do we know it’s theirs?” Bobby demanded, turning the disk over in his hands. “Could be part of some book they sold! Or somebody lost it in here. Anyway, there’s no label , so -“
“Bobby!” Jack hissed. “What the hell are you doing, man?”
Greg watched as Bobby slid the disk into his backpack. “Relax, Jack,” and he smiled at a couple of blonde girls as they walked past the aisle. “It’s been sitting here for a long time, going by the dust. Nothing important.”
With that, he grabbed Greg’s comics and wandered over to the countertop, paid for their purchases, added them to his backpack and then glanced back at his friends.
Jack looked over at Greg, shrugged his shoulders and followed Bobby as he went out the door. With a sigh, Greg trailed after them, hoping that the disk wasn’t going to contain anything that would get them in trouble. ‘With our luck,’ he thought, ‘it’ll contain French state secrets or some such stuff that’ll get us shot.’
’Or worse.’
Cue the Highlander theme song . . .
Act 1, June, 2012
“Hey, Yoda! Lookin’ mighty - tall - for a whatever-you-are!” The bounty-hunter bent over double, laughing uncontrollably as one of his friends made hissing noises and swung an imaginary lightsaber in the air.
Arnie growled under his breath and picked his way past the trio, then realized he’d lost Quinn - again. “Damnit, he’s six hundred years old and like a spastic three-year-old at these things.” He used his usual trick - raising his ‘lightsaber’, which had an elaborate camera setup built into the shaft, and used the viewing scope to look for his wayward Immortal. ‘Oh, there he is. Conveniently standing under a spotlight.’
Arnie was positive that Quinn knew he was being followed - and that he was being followed by a Watcher. The past decade, since Joe Dawson had taken control of the Organization, selected Watchers and Immortals were slowly, carefully, getting ‘exposed’ to one another. ‘At least the ones who aren’t total loonies likely to kill their Watcher.’ Which, it turned out, was actually a very small percentage of the Immortal world - most of them, without the pressure of the Gathering, were happy to just live and let live. ‘And ever since the MacLeods took care of Kell, it’s been all quiet on the Gathering front.’ Things had become so quiet that some Immortals - and their Watchers - had been in the same cities, unchallenged, for years.
Joe’s reasoning had been that ignorance bred fear, and familiarity would breed acceptance and comfort. ‘And in some cases, also extreme amusement.’ Arnie barely managed to suppress a laugh as Quinn got distracted by a passing actor in Marvel’s latest film and fanboyed all over him.
“Yep, spastic three year old on a sugar high,” he snickered, as Quinn got an autographed picture and tucked it in the messenger bag slung over his Jedi costume. ‘Got to give him credit, the bag does go with the outfit. I’ll have to find one for the next con.’
Because there would be another con. Quinn lived for these things, and attended every one in both the Old and the New Worlds.
Fortunately for the Watchers, Arnie had joined up a few years ago. While he wasn’t quite as - enthusiastic - about Lucasville as Quinn, he could recite the entire Star Wars movie and TV output by heart - as well as the plotlines and characters from every novel written in the ‘verse.
Maybe he was that enthusiastic too. Just in a - quieter - way, and he snickered again as Quinn’s gaze was caught by a Slave Leia wandering farther up the aisle. Quinn promptly broke out into a traditional Irish ballad, with the lyrics altered to extoll the virtues of heroic princesses and the power of the Force. Despite his best efforts, which included hand-kissing while on bended knee, the ‘Princess” turned him down and strolled off with her friends towards the movie room.
Quinn’s face fell - for all of two seconds. Then, looking rather like an enthusiastic and large Irish Setter, he realized he was standing in an aisle of people pitching their new game concepts and began zig-zagging from booth to booth, long, braided red hair flying, collecting flyers and cards. Over the next few minutes, he wandered down the aisle from the brightly-lit front section toward a dimly-lit row end, the home of obscure, niche games.
Arnie’d heard rumors of a new, multi-player zombie-hunter game, another one of Quinn’s particular interests. And sure enough, yep, Quinn had tracked it down.
And then he’d frozen in place, standing still in front of the booth with its garish posters of blood-soaked bodies - but why was he staring at a series of standups in the next booth?
Arnie stopped breathing for a moment.
That was Amanda Deveraux, in that life-size poster. The Amanda. The Immortal Amanda. No mistaking that fine-boned face - or the stark-white hair above it.
And sweet Jesus, was that Michelle Webster behind her? He recognized Alberto Domante as well down at the end of the line, and wasn’t that that serial killer from Hungary? What was his name - Caspari? Something like that.
Taking a breath, he inched his way up until he was nearly standing on Quinn’s cloak. He noted, distantly, that his Immortal was shaking.
Then he saw the title of the game and understood.
Immortal Hunt.
Aw, crap. As Quinn turned and bolted past him, knocking over two wizards, Arnie grabbed a flyer from the booth and then hurried after him, fishing his phone out of his booth.
‘And here I thought nothing exciting was going to happen this week beyond Quinn passing out from an overdose of coffee . . .’ The call was picked up and he heard the familiar tones of his supervisor.
“Amy? We’ve got a really bad problem here . . .”
Amy Dawson hung up the phone and ran her hand through her hair. “Damn, damn, double damnit!” she muttered. “Ten years of quiet and calm and it’s all going to get blown to hell -“ No point putting it off. She walked out of her office and said, “Carla? Call round for my car, please. Now. It’s an emergency.”
Then she went back into the office, closed the door and hit the speed dial for the private number to the Watcher’s Council President.
Who was also her father.
“Dad? We have a bit of a problem up here.”
“No, I can’t put this through normal channels.”
“Let’s just say it may be connected with something our family was - involved in. A long time ago.. I’ll be over there in a couple of hours. I just need to check something, first.”
Shaking his head, Joe dropped his cell onto the table next to him, then spun his wheelchair around as something banged loudly behind the bar. “Hey, hey - easy on the equipment!” he called, and watched as one of his more experienced Waiter-Watchers-in-training removed the beer tap assembly from a newbie and set it down on the bar. Before he could wheel over there, the cell phone spit out the opening bars of “Pancake Blues” and Joe managed to grab it before the song hit its high-pitched chorus. “Joe’s Bar. We’re not open yet.”
“Not even for very old friends?” A teasing voice asked, and Joe slumped a bit in his seat, a grin breaking out on his face. “Mac! Where are you - still in Rio?”
“No, I wrapped up the job early, then decided to pay a visit to my dearest friend.”
“And possibly cadge a room to sleep in?” Joe asked, thinking quickly. “Isn’t your house still rented out to that friend of Richie’s?”
“Yeah, for another two months, and given the trouble he’s had lately, I don’t want to put any strain on him having to suddenly pack up and move. Bones in that leg’ll heal, if he rests. So what d’ya say, in the finest tradition of innkeeper hospitality - can I take a room over the bar?”
“Sure you can, Mac. The big room at the end of the hall’s empty - Siobhan had to make a quick trip to Greece with her ‘friend’. When’ll you get here?”
“Oh - about - ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” Joe blinked, then asked, “Why bother to call me at all, you coulda just shown up?”
“Not after the last time, Joe. Remember? Smashed glass, fainting bartender, annoyed waitress?”
“They were new to the job,” Joe said defensively.
“Right. Which is why I’m calling, Joe, to give you a head’s up that I’m on the way in. So, anyone in there I need to worry about?”
Joe chuckled. “Nah, this lot’s already had drinks with some of your friends - no dropped Laphroaig this time.”
“Someone dropped Laphroaig?!? That’s a crime!”
“Yeah, your cousin seemed to agree.”
Silence, then “Damn. I missed Connor again.”
Joe was silent for a moment, wishing, again, that he had the words to patch up the hurt feelings between the two MacLeods after the trouble with Jacob Kell. Then he took a breath and continued on. “Yeah. So, he startled this new kid by offering to help him restock the bar. Stevie was a bit - shocked - and knocked a fifteen-year-old Laphroaig off the shelf. Connor insisted on buying another bottle and teaching the poor kid how to appreciate good Scotch. Think he was hungover for a week. Stevie, not Connor. Once he sobered up he insisted on trading tequila shots with Connor. Your cousin was drunk for two days, and I thought we’d have to get Stevie’s stomach pumped. But they both lived.”
“So will I get to meet the kid?”
“Nah, he’s moved on to better things.”
“What happened to him?”
“What’ya think happened, Macleod? I assigned him to Connor’s team. At least now I have someone on him that can keep up with him on his next crawl through every pub in Glasgow! No, get yourself over here. I’ve got some new guys playing tonight that I think you’ll like.”
And as he hung up, he wondered whether he’d also need Mac’s help with whatever problem Amy’d run into.
In some ways, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had changed very little over the past two decades. His hair was now kept short, as he found it easier to care for during his frequent trips to South America. The accent had softened to the point that it was virtually impossible to detect any hint of the Highlander’s origins unless he was exhausted. He still wore the latest fashions, still indulged in classic cars and still made a habit of collecting troublesome friends.
Or rather, Alan Williams did.
The Highlander had finally given in to the inevitable (and Methos’ increasingly-impassioned arguments) and changed his name a decade ago. Since then, he’d found life was considerably easier when your name wasn’t the same as a suspected international criminal tied to numerous crimes, including still-unexplained murders on two continents. Plus, between the name change and his new policy of non-aggression, he hadn’t had to take more than two Challenges in the last decade.
He swung through the door and paused, impressed, as always, with Joe’s bar. He’d gone from the small, locally-known blues clubs of the nineties to this large, internationally-popular spot where all the major blues artists showed up to play. Including one ‘slightly-aging amateur’, as Joe liked to put it.
Anyone who’d been there the night Joe and B.B. King had played an impromptu set just laughed at him when he said it.
Dumping his suitcase and briefcase by the table, Mac leaned over and gave ‘his’ Watcher - because Joe had never completely relinquished that role, no matter how high up he’d gone in the organization - a hug. Suppressing, as he’d had to do lately, the twinge in his soul when he felt how much smaller Joe’s frame had gotten, cursing the fact that such a good man wasn’t an Immortal.
Sitting down, he smiled when he noticed that, of the five other immediately-identifiable Watchers in the room, not one even blinked that he’d hugged their President.
“By the way, Mac,” Joe said, just as Mac picked up the signature of an Immortal moving toward him. “Amanda’s - “
“In town, and pissed at you,” the lady announced, storming through the door and posing before it, arms wide to show off her coat and hair dripping water on the floor. “Didn’t you see me waving at you out there? Before you splashed me with ditch water, thank you very much!”
“Don’t take it personally, Mac,” Wolf added, squeezing through the space between Amanda and the door. “She was already wet, because she insisted she couldn’t possibly carry an umbrella in case she needed the room for some jewelry.”
“To buy!” She hurriedly corrected, as Wolf towed her over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “I’m retired, remember?” She patted her husband’s arm as he sat down next to her. “I’ve been reformed.”
“Right, Amanda,” Mac said, waving a hand toward the bartender for some drinks. “And Joe and I have a bet with Methos over how long that -.“ The three swung their heads toward the door.
“It’s like living with a hound pack,” Joe chucked, telling the waiter who’d come over to the table, “Coffee for me and Wolf, Scotch for the other two -“
“A beer for me, and a nice red wine for the lady,” Methos called, holding his laptop case in one hand and the door for his Watcher in the other. Amy closed her umbrella, propped it by the door and came over to give her father a quick kiss. “Dad.”
“Amy?” and Joe put both greeting and question into that name, nodding toward the table.
“They might as well hear it, Dad,” Amy sighed. “Seeing that they’re the ones with the most at stake.”
“Also the ones most involved from the beginning,” Methos added, setting his laptop on the table.
“What’s going on Amy?” Amanda asked.
“You all know Quinn Fitzgerald,” Amy began, and Mac and Amanda both grimaced.
“Oh, yeah,” Amanda said, “he ruined a job I was doing in France back in the 1820’s. Also one in Russia in 1746, and that heist in Japan back in -“
“He’s an overactive teenager in a six-six body,” Mac explained to Wolf. “Great with a sword, not so great with keeping quiet at important moments.”
“Also an avid Star Wars fan,” Amy added. “And that’s where we found this - problem. At the San Fran Magic-Con. Arnie - that’s Quinn’s Watcher, called it in to me, and I -“
“Called me in,” Methos drawled, grinning at his Watcher, “Since she needed an expert hacker to find out how bad this problem could be.”
“I’d have called our IT department, but they were all at the Con,” Amy shot back, neatly putting her Immortal back in his place. “It’s a game,” she resumed, looking across the table at Joe. “A new, soon-to-be on the market video game.”
“Called Immortal Hunt.” And she handed Joe the flyer from the booth - showing an Immortal being beheaded by men wearing Watcher tattoos.
“The game’s not ready, yet,” Methos explained, voice lowered to be heard only by the six of them sitting at the table. “The developers need funding to finish the game, but they hit the Con with the prototype, and it’s getting some interest. It’s - kind of a cross between a vampire-hunter script tied to a mafia-war scenario. Immortals have their own organization, that runs the world markets and the major governments, and the Watchers are devoted to tracking them down and killing them off. And on top of that there’s an Immortal civil war going on, between a group that wants to pull back from total control and the rest of the Immortals.”
“Adam managed to hack their server and download the specs for this game.” Amy explained, then paused, looking directly at Joe. “It’s bad, Dad, really bad. They’re using recognizable Immortals.”
“Yeah, the title alone . . .” and Joe’s voice trailed off as he got a look at the specs now scrolling across the screen of Methos’ custom laptop. After a moment, Methos remarked, in a neutral tone, “The animation’s not bad. Not ILM standard, but then, what is?”
Amy not-so-subtly kicked him under the table. Methos winced, then switched to a screen listing the game’s characters. “But she’s right, Joe. This - could be very bad.”
One look at the list and everyone could agree.
“Mandy?” Amanda hissed in annoyance, glaring at MacLeod as he sniggered. “I sound like some bimbo in a second-rate horror film!”
“No, no,” Methos soothed, “That’s just your cover identity. You are really a thousand-year-old hit woman with ties to an international criminal syndicate run by your ex-lover.”
“Who is?“
“Ah, that would be me,” and Methos actually looked embarrassed as he clicked on an arrow to move to the next screen.
Which held a tall, thin, beak-nosed man dressed in a dramatic full-length leather trench coat and wide floppy hat, a sword slung over one shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of a cross between Nick Fury and Harry Dresden. Not my style, but then -“ He was interrupted by Joe, who’d noticed the name tucked into the corner of the screen. “Methuselah?” He pinned Methos’ hand to the table before he could advance the screen. “Anything you want to tell us, pal?”
“No,” Methos stated firmly and clicked.
“Don’t worry Dad,” Amy said, “I’ll get it out of him after we deal with this.” She’d been making real progress filling in the blanks in Methos’ Chronicle - somehow, she was able to tell when he was lying and could therefore get at least a partially-true answer out of him. She pulled the laptop toward her. “They’re using real Immortals. They’ve got Michelle Webster -“ Mac frowned; he was still protective of his former pupils - “a couple of fortunately-now dead psychos, a few more mid-level Immortals and -“
“Erik Mann,” Joe breathed, looking at the last screen.
“Erik Mann,” Methos agreed. “A crazy, Viking-wanna-be who believes strongly in Immortals and Watchers not mixing. Especially since he was a good friend of Darius, and never stopped blaming you for his death.”
“And he was Quinn’s teacher, so it’s likely Quinn’s already told him about this,” Amy added.
“It’s bad enough that this game could ‘out’ a lot of Immortals to the world. Add in Erik Mann using it as an excuse to restart the Watcher-Immortal war,” Amy said softly. “And this time, our faces are known to a lot more people than MacLeod, here, so -.”
“And I was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening with friends,” Joe said, then reached over and knocked back Mac’s Scotch. “We need to keep this out of the public,” Joe continued. “And out of the main part of the Watchers - we don’t want to jumpstart the paranoia. Can we buy it?”
“Doubt it,” Methos said. “They probably want to be famous. And anyway, that’s not the whole problem.”
“What, there’s more?” Amanda exclaimed.
“There’s too much detail,” Wolf suddenly remarked, entering the conversation. He’d been scrolling through the character bios.
“Exactly,” Methos said in approval. He had developed a certain fondness for Amanda’s husband, even to the point of passing along a few less-than-honest sword tips to give the man an edge in Challenges.
“What do you mean?” Mac asked.
“Look,” and Wolf spun the laptop around, “look at Amanda’s biography. It’s not just that she’s an Immortal. It’s got her estimated birthdate, her teachers, who she’s fought and more importantly, what she’s stolen. And it’s accurate, as far as I can tell - although we are going to have a talk about this St. Peter’s Basilica job they list here.”
“Liam already knows about it,” Amanda said, desperately. When Liam and Wolf teamed up, she never won.
“And?”
“I already put it back.”
“This is one of those things I’m probably better off not knowing,” Joe remarked, then stared at Methos. “Give, Old Man. I know you. What aren’t you saying? How’d they get this level of information - have we been infiltrated? Hacked?”
Methos didn’t answer. Amy did.
“We’ve not been hacked, and infiltrated wouldn’t explain this level of detail about such a disparate group of Immortals. None of their records are on the same servers.” She stopped, looked at Methos and kicked him again when he didn’t say anything. “Confess.”
“Oh God, what did you do this time?” Mac said.
“Did.”
“Huh?”
And Joe realized where he’d seen something like this before. “This is your database, isn’t it?”
“Uh -“
“It was destroyed. When Kalas’ Quickening hit it.” Mac remembered the charred computer in Kalas’ hideout. “Wasn’t it? So, what, you kept a copy and they stole it?”
“I didn’t keep a copy!” Methos was defensive - and also a bit pissed now. “I told you then, I only made one copy and Kalas took it!”
“And?”
“And - I guess Don learned more about computers than I thought he had,” Methos said, a bit of sadness in his tone. He still missed Don.
“Methos,” Wolf said, and when the Eldest Immortal turned his attention to him, he asked, “How sure are you this is from your database?”
“Positive,” and Methos flipped the screen back to the entries for subsidiary characters. “Here. Simon Durbin. This is the exact description I put in the database.”
Mac squinted at the screen, then stared at Methos in surprise. “You really said that about him?”
“What? He was a lousy drunk, a lousy thief and an absolute shit of an Immortal. Calling him a big-nosed lying card-cheat was actually the nicest thing I could find to say about him!” Leaning back, he looked around the table. “And he’s not the only one. There’s things in there that Don said about Amanda - he had a bit of crush on you, you know - stuff I said about Methuseleh to separate that file from mine -“ “Hah!” Joe said triumphantly. “Not that I’m admitting anything here, but - there’s just too much that was in that database that’s in this game. Histories, fighting methods, personal habits -“ He slumped down, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s that damned database.”
“So, what do we do?” Amanda asked. “We can’t just walk up to them and say, hey, where’d you get the inspiration for your game, can we?”
“Why can’t we?” Amy replied, her eyes alight. “They need funding.”
“And we’ve got investment companies in the portfolio,” Joe responded. “So we pick someone to go meet with them, find out where the disk is and ‘acquire’ it and the game. Add in a strong non-disclosure agreement and we should be safe.”
“I’ll go.”
“Mac, you can’t,” Joe said, then cut in as he saw the classic MacLeod obstinacy rearing its head. “Mac, think. You’re all over the database, thanks to Methos’ giant mancrush.”
Methos just smirked and chugged the rest of his beer, then leaned back and waived at the bar for a refill.
“Same thing with Amanda, Richie, hell, with any Immortal over fifteen years old. They’ll all be on that disk. We need someone new. Someone who, preferably, wasn’t even on the radar back then. Someone with no connection to the Immortal world until recently -“ he stopped, as Amanda suddenly straightened up in her chair, staring at -
Wolf. Wolf, who hadn’t become Immortal until four years after Methos and Don made that database.
Who hadn’t even met Amanda before then.
And who clearly had top-notch instincts for when Amanda was about to volunteer him for something. “Amanda, no,” he began.
“But, Wolf, honey,” she wheedled.
“No,” he said firmly, “or rather, yes. Yes, I’ll help with this, it’s my neck on the line as well. If someone sees you, that’ll just lead to me. But no, You. Are. Not. Helping.”
“Bu-“
“Amanda, no. Absolutely not. You’re bored, you’re annoyed at MacLeod - again - and if this last decade has taught me anything, it’s that you shouldn’t even be allowed out of the house when you’re in that kind of mood. It’s dangerous for everyone. Mostly me, but everyone else usually ends up pulled into the mess, too.”
Amanda pouted, then looked at Methos. “This is your fault, Old Man. When we’ve straightened this out, you’re going to buy me something very, very expensive to make up for ruining my vacation.”
Methos growled, then grumbled, “Damn Kalas. When this is done I’m taking a trip to France so I can dig up that bastard and dismember what’s left of his rotten corpse. Twenty years dead and he’s still trying to kill me.”
To be continued. . .tomorrow.
Author: blade_and_roses
Challenge answered: Episode Update
Characters/Pairings: Wolf, Amy Dawson, Joe Dawson, Methos, Amanda, Amanda/Wolf background, plenty of OC’s - and neither Connor nor Richie are dead.
Rating: PG for swearing and some minor violence
Summary: Methos’ database comes back to haunt both Immortals and Watchers.
1995
Inside Shakespeare and Co, on one shelf, a CD-ROM disk peeks out from among the books . . .
Prologue, July, 2011
Greg wandered through the crowded aisles of Shakespeare & Company, managing, just barely, to avoid both knocking over a man engrossed in a moldy book with Voltaire stamped on the spine and tipping a stack of oversized art textbooks onto the nun kneeling next to them. ‘Now, where the hell did they go?’ he fumed. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out look into one of Paris’ landmarks before they headed off to the airport and back to San Francisco. Instead, he’d lost track of his two friends when he’d spotted a shelf of old European comics - and if they didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, odds are they’d miss their flight.
“Jack? Bobby? Where are you - yow!” he yelped as someone grabbed his elbow and hauled him into a little, blind corner tucked under the stairs. “Jack? What the -?”
“Porn, man,” Jack whispered, smirking. “We found high-class porn!”
Greg blinked, then focused on the book Jack had tossed onto the stack of comics he was holding. He swallowed a sarcastic comment and explained, for the third time on this trip, “That’s not porn. It’s an art studies book. For, ah -“ and his voice trailed off. As best he could read the French, it said something about sexual positions and drawing of == parts?
“Okay, maybe it is porn,” he conceded. “But we’re not taking it back with us - we’d never make it through customs!”
“Damn,” Jack said, as Bobby erupted into giggles from where he was crouched on the floor. Grumbling, Jack shoved the book onto an over-crowded shelf, dislodging several books - and a computer disk in a stained, dusty envelope. Bobby promptly pounced on it.
“A disk! Wonder what’s on it . . . “
“No label,” Greg observed, peering over Jack’s shoulder. “Probably should give it to the clerk.”
“How do we know it’s theirs?” Bobby demanded, turning the disk over in his hands. “Could be part of some book they sold! Or somebody lost it in here. Anyway, there’s no label , so -“
“Bobby!” Jack hissed. “What the hell are you doing, man?”
Greg watched as Bobby slid the disk into his backpack. “Relax, Jack,” and he smiled at a couple of blonde girls as they walked past the aisle. “It’s been sitting here for a long time, going by the dust. Nothing important.”
With that, he grabbed Greg’s comics and wandered over to the countertop, paid for their purchases, added them to his backpack and then glanced back at his friends.
Jack looked over at Greg, shrugged his shoulders and followed Bobby as he went out the door. With a sigh, Greg trailed after them, hoping that the disk wasn’t going to contain anything that would get them in trouble. ‘With our luck,’ he thought, ‘it’ll contain French state secrets or some such stuff that’ll get us shot.’
’Or worse.’
Cue the Highlander theme song . . .
Act 1, June, 2012
“Hey, Yoda! Lookin’ mighty - tall - for a whatever-you-are!” The bounty-hunter bent over double, laughing uncontrollably as one of his friends made hissing noises and swung an imaginary lightsaber in the air.
Arnie growled under his breath and picked his way past the trio, then realized he’d lost Quinn - again. “Damnit, he’s six hundred years old and like a spastic three-year-old at these things.” He used his usual trick - raising his ‘lightsaber’, which had an elaborate camera setup built into the shaft, and used the viewing scope to look for his wayward Immortal. ‘Oh, there he is. Conveniently standing under a spotlight.’
Arnie was positive that Quinn knew he was being followed - and that he was being followed by a Watcher. The past decade, since Joe Dawson had taken control of the Organization, selected Watchers and Immortals were slowly, carefully, getting ‘exposed’ to one another. ‘At least the ones who aren’t total loonies likely to kill their Watcher.’ Which, it turned out, was actually a very small percentage of the Immortal world - most of them, without the pressure of the Gathering, were happy to just live and let live. ‘And ever since the MacLeods took care of Kell, it’s been all quiet on the Gathering front.’ Things had become so quiet that some Immortals - and their Watchers - had been in the same cities, unchallenged, for years.
Joe’s reasoning had been that ignorance bred fear, and familiarity would breed acceptance and comfort. ‘And in some cases, also extreme amusement.’ Arnie barely managed to suppress a laugh as Quinn got distracted by a passing actor in Marvel’s latest film and fanboyed all over him.
“Yep, spastic three year old on a sugar high,” he snickered, as Quinn got an autographed picture and tucked it in the messenger bag slung over his Jedi costume. ‘Got to give him credit, the bag does go with the outfit. I’ll have to find one for the next con.’
Because there would be another con. Quinn lived for these things, and attended every one in both the Old and the New Worlds.
Fortunately for the Watchers, Arnie had joined up a few years ago. While he wasn’t quite as - enthusiastic - about Lucasville as Quinn, he could recite the entire Star Wars movie and TV output by heart - as well as the plotlines and characters from every novel written in the ‘verse.
Maybe he was that enthusiastic too. Just in a - quieter - way, and he snickered again as Quinn’s gaze was caught by a Slave Leia wandering farther up the aisle. Quinn promptly broke out into a traditional Irish ballad, with the lyrics altered to extoll the virtues of heroic princesses and the power of the Force. Despite his best efforts, which included hand-kissing while on bended knee, the ‘Princess” turned him down and strolled off with her friends towards the movie room.
Quinn’s face fell - for all of two seconds. Then, looking rather like an enthusiastic and large Irish Setter, he realized he was standing in an aisle of people pitching their new game concepts and began zig-zagging from booth to booth, long, braided red hair flying, collecting flyers and cards. Over the next few minutes, he wandered down the aisle from the brightly-lit front section toward a dimly-lit row end, the home of obscure, niche games.
Arnie’d heard rumors of a new, multi-player zombie-hunter game, another one of Quinn’s particular interests. And sure enough, yep, Quinn had tracked it down.
And then he’d frozen in place, standing still in front of the booth with its garish posters of blood-soaked bodies - but why was he staring at a series of standups in the next booth?
Arnie stopped breathing for a moment.
That was Amanda Deveraux, in that life-size poster. The Amanda. The Immortal Amanda. No mistaking that fine-boned face - or the stark-white hair above it.
And sweet Jesus, was that Michelle Webster behind her? He recognized Alberto Domante as well down at the end of the line, and wasn’t that that serial killer from Hungary? What was his name - Caspari? Something like that.
Taking a breath, he inched his way up until he was nearly standing on Quinn’s cloak. He noted, distantly, that his Immortal was shaking.
Then he saw the title of the game and understood.
Immortal Hunt.
Aw, crap. As Quinn turned and bolted past him, knocking over two wizards, Arnie grabbed a flyer from the booth and then hurried after him, fishing his phone out of his booth.
‘And here I thought nothing exciting was going to happen this week beyond Quinn passing out from an overdose of coffee . . .’ The call was picked up and he heard the familiar tones of his supervisor.
“Amy? We’ve got a really bad problem here . . .”
Amy Dawson hung up the phone and ran her hand through her hair. “Damn, damn, double damnit!” she muttered. “Ten years of quiet and calm and it’s all going to get blown to hell -“ No point putting it off. She walked out of her office and said, “Carla? Call round for my car, please. Now. It’s an emergency.”
Then she went back into the office, closed the door and hit the speed dial for the private number to the Watcher’s Council President.
Who was also her father.
“Dad? We have a bit of a problem up here.”
“No, I can’t put this through normal channels.”
“Let’s just say it may be connected with something our family was - involved in. A long time ago.. I’ll be over there in a couple of hours. I just need to check something, first.”
Shaking his head, Joe dropped his cell onto the table next to him, then spun his wheelchair around as something banged loudly behind the bar. “Hey, hey - easy on the equipment!” he called, and watched as one of his more experienced Waiter-Watchers-in-training removed the beer tap assembly from a newbie and set it down on the bar. Before he could wheel over there, the cell phone spit out the opening bars of “Pancake Blues” and Joe managed to grab it before the song hit its high-pitched chorus. “Joe’s Bar. We’re not open yet.”
“Not even for very old friends?” A teasing voice asked, and Joe slumped a bit in his seat, a grin breaking out on his face. “Mac! Where are you - still in Rio?”
“No, I wrapped up the job early, then decided to pay a visit to my dearest friend.”
“And possibly cadge a room to sleep in?” Joe asked, thinking quickly. “Isn’t your house still rented out to that friend of Richie’s?”
“Yeah, for another two months, and given the trouble he’s had lately, I don’t want to put any strain on him having to suddenly pack up and move. Bones in that leg’ll heal, if he rests. So what d’ya say, in the finest tradition of innkeeper hospitality - can I take a room over the bar?”
“Sure you can, Mac. The big room at the end of the hall’s empty - Siobhan had to make a quick trip to Greece with her ‘friend’. When’ll you get here?”
“Oh - about - ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” Joe blinked, then asked, “Why bother to call me at all, you coulda just shown up?”
“Not after the last time, Joe. Remember? Smashed glass, fainting bartender, annoyed waitress?”
“They were new to the job,” Joe said defensively.
“Right. Which is why I’m calling, Joe, to give you a head’s up that I’m on the way in. So, anyone in there I need to worry about?”
Joe chuckled. “Nah, this lot’s already had drinks with some of your friends - no dropped Laphroaig this time.”
“Someone dropped Laphroaig?!? That’s a crime!”
“Yeah, your cousin seemed to agree.”
Silence, then “Damn. I missed Connor again.”
Joe was silent for a moment, wishing, again, that he had the words to patch up the hurt feelings between the two MacLeods after the trouble with Jacob Kell. Then he took a breath and continued on. “Yeah. So, he startled this new kid by offering to help him restock the bar. Stevie was a bit - shocked - and knocked a fifteen-year-old Laphroaig off the shelf. Connor insisted on buying another bottle and teaching the poor kid how to appreciate good Scotch. Think he was hungover for a week. Stevie, not Connor. Once he sobered up he insisted on trading tequila shots with Connor. Your cousin was drunk for two days, and I thought we’d have to get Stevie’s stomach pumped. But they both lived.”
“So will I get to meet the kid?”
“Nah, he’s moved on to better things.”
“What happened to him?”
“What’ya think happened, Macleod? I assigned him to Connor’s team. At least now I have someone on him that can keep up with him on his next crawl through every pub in Glasgow! No, get yourself over here. I’ve got some new guys playing tonight that I think you’ll like.”
And as he hung up, he wondered whether he’d also need Mac’s help with whatever problem Amy’d run into.
In some ways, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had changed very little over the past two decades. His hair was now kept short, as he found it easier to care for during his frequent trips to South America. The accent had softened to the point that it was virtually impossible to detect any hint of the Highlander’s origins unless he was exhausted. He still wore the latest fashions, still indulged in classic cars and still made a habit of collecting troublesome friends.
Or rather, Alan Williams did.
The Highlander had finally given in to the inevitable (and Methos’ increasingly-impassioned arguments) and changed his name a decade ago. Since then, he’d found life was considerably easier when your name wasn’t the same as a suspected international criminal tied to numerous crimes, including still-unexplained murders on two continents. Plus, between the name change and his new policy of non-aggression, he hadn’t had to take more than two Challenges in the last decade.
He swung through the door and paused, impressed, as always, with Joe’s bar. He’d gone from the small, locally-known blues clubs of the nineties to this large, internationally-popular spot where all the major blues artists showed up to play. Including one ‘slightly-aging amateur’, as Joe liked to put it.
Anyone who’d been there the night Joe and B.B. King had played an impromptu set just laughed at him when he said it.
Dumping his suitcase and briefcase by the table, Mac leaned over and gave ‘his’ Watcher - because Joe had never completely relinquished that role, no matter how high up he’d gone in the organization - a hug. Suppressing, as he’d had to do lately, the twinge in his soul when he felt how much smaller Joe’s frame had gotten, cursing the fact that such a good man wasn’t an Immortal.
Sitting down, he smiled when he noticed that, of the five other immediately-identifiable Watchers in the room, not one even blinked that he’d hugged their President.
“By the way, Mac,” Joe said, just as Mac picked up the signature of an Immortal moving toward him. “Amanda’s - “
“In town, and pissed at you,” the lady announced, storming through the door and posing before it, arms wide to show off her coat and hair dripping water on the floor. “Didn’t you see me waving at you out there? Before you splashed me with ditch water, thank you very much!”
“Don’t take it personally, Mac,” Wolf added, squeezing through the space between Amanda and the door. “She was already wet, because she insisted she couldn’t possibly carry an umbrella in case she needed the room for some jewelry.”
“To buy!” She hurriedly corrected, as Wolf towed her over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “I’m retired, remember?” She patted her husband’s arm as he sat down next to her. “I’ve been reformed.”
“Right, Amanda,” Mac said, waving a hand toward the bartender for some drinks. “And Joe and I have a bet with Methos over how long that -.“ The three swung their heads toward the door.
“It’s like living with a hound pack,” Joe chucked, telling the waiter who’d come over to the table, “Coffee for me and Wolf, Scotch for the other two -“
“A beer for me, and a nice red wine for the lady,” Methos called, holding his laptop case in one hand and the door for his Watcher in the other. Amy closed her umbrella, propped it by the door and came over to give her father a quick kiss. “Dad.”
“Amy?” and Joe put both greeting and question into that name, nodding toward the table.
“They might as well hear it, Dad,” Amy sighed. “Seeing that they’re the ones with the most at stake.”
“Also the ones most involved from the beginning,” Methos added, setting his laptop on the table.
“What’s going on Amy?” Amanda asked.
“You all know Quinn Fitzgerald,” Amy began, and Mac and Amanda both grimaced.
“Oh, yeah,” Amanda said, “he ruined a job I was doing in France back in the 1820’s. Also one in Russia in 1746, and that heist in Japan back in -“
“He’s an overactive teenager in a six-six body,” Mac explained to Wolf. “Great with a sword, not so great with keeping quiet at important moments.”
“Also an avid Star Wars fan,” Amy added. “And that’s where we found this - problem. At the San Fran Magic-Con. Arnie - that’s Quinn’s Watcher, called it in to me, and I -“
“Called me in,” Methos drawled, grinning at his Watcher, “Since she needed an expert hacker to find out how bad this problem could be.”
“I’d have called our IT department, but they were all at the Con,” Amy shot back, neatly putting her Immortal back in his place. “It’s a game,” she resumed, looking across the table at Joe. “A new, soon-to-be on the market video game.”
“Called Immortal Hunt.” And she handed Joe the flyer from the booth - showing an Immortal being beheaded by men wearing Watcher tattoos.
“The game’s not ready, yet,” Methos explained, voice lowered to be heard only by the six of them sitting at the table. “The developers need funding to finish the game, but they hit the Con with the prototype, and it’s getting some interest. It’s - kind of a cross between a vampire-hunter script tied to a mafia-war scenario. Immortals have their own organization, that runs the world markets and the major governments, and the Watchers are devoted to tracking them down and killing them off. And on top of that there’s an Immortal civil war going on, between a group that wants to pull back from total control and the rest of the Immortals.”
“Adam managed to hack their server and download the specs for this game.” Amy explained, then paused, looking directly at Joe. “It’s bad, Dad, really bad. They’re using recognizable Immortals.”
“Yeah, the title alone . . .” and Joe’s voice trailed off as he got a look at the specs now scrolling across the screen of Methos’ custom laptop. After a moment, Methos remarked, in a neutral tone, “The animation’s not bad. Not ILM standard, but then, what is?”
Amy not-so-subtly kicked him under the table. Methos winced, then switched to a screen listing the game’s characters. “But she’s right, Joe. This - could be very bad.”
One look at the list and everyone could agree.
“Mandy?” Amanda hissed in annoyance, glaring at MacLeod as he sniggered. “I sound like some bimbo in a second-rate horror film!”
“No, no,” Methos soothed, “That’s just your cover identity. You are really a thousand-year-old hit woman with ties to an international criminal syndicate run by your ex-lover.”
“Who is?“
“Ah, that would be me,” and Methos actually looked embarrassed as he clicked on an arrow to move to the next screen.
Which held a tall, thin, beak-nosed man dressed in a dramatic full-length leather trench coat and wide floppy hat, a sword slung over one shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of a cross between Nick Fury and Harry Dresden. Not my style, but then -“ He was interrupted by Joe, who’d noticed the name tucked into the corner of the screen. “Methuselah?” He pinned Methos’ hand to the table before he could advance the screen. “Anything you want to tell us, pal?”
“No,” Methos stated firmly and clicked.
“Don’t worry Dad,” Amy said, “I’ll get it out of him after we deal with this.” She’d been making real progress filling in the blanks in Methos’ Chronicle - somehow, she was able to tell when he was lying and could therefore get at least a partially-true answer out of him. She pulled the laptop toward her. “They’re using real Immortals. They’ve got Michelle Webster -“ Mac frowned; he was still protective of his former pupils - “a couple of fortunately-now dead psychos, a few more mid-level Immortals and -“
“Erik Mann,” Joe breathed, looking at the last screen.
“Erik Mann,” Methos agreed. “A crazy, Viking-wanna-be who believes strongly in Immortals and Watchers not mixing. Especially since he was a good friend of Darius, and never stopped blaming you for his death.”
“And he was Quinn’s teacher, so it’s likely Quinn’s already told him about this,” Amy added.
“It’s bad enough that this game could ‘out’ a lot of Immortals to the world. Add in Erik Mann using it as an excuse to restart the Watcher-Immortal war,” Amy said softly. “And this time, our faces are known to a lot more people than MacLeod, here, so -.”
“And I was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening with friends,” Joe said, then reached over and knocked back Mac’s Scotch. “We need to keep this out of the public,” Joe continued. “And out of the main part of the Watchers - we don’t want to jumpstart the paranoia. Can we buy it?”
“Doubt it,” Methos said. “They probably want to be famous. And anyway, that’s not the whole problem.”
“What, there’s more?” Amanda exclaimed.
“There’s too much detail,” Wolf suddenly remarked, entering the conversation. He’d been scrolling through the character bios.
“Exactly,” Methos said in approval. He had developed a certain fondness for Amanda’s husband, even to the point of passing along a few less-than-honest sword tips to give the man an edge in Challenges.
“What do you mean?” Mac asked.
“Look,” and Wolf spun the laptop around, “look at Amanda’s biography. It’s not just that she’s an Immortal. It’s got her estimated birthdate, her teachers, who she’s fought and more importantly, what she’s stolen. And it’s accurate, as far as I can tell - although we are going to have a talk about this St. Peter’s Basilica job they list here.”
“Liam already knows about it,” Amanda said, desperately. When Liam and Wolf teamed up, she never won.
“And?”
“I already put it back.”
“This is one of those things I’m probably better off not knowing,” Joe remarked, then stared at Methos. “Give, Old Man. I know you. What aren’t you saying? How’d they get this level of information - have we been infiltrated? Hacked?”
Methos didn’t answer. Amy did.
“We’ve not been hacked, and infiltrated wouldn’t explain this level of detail about such a disparate group of Immortals. None of their records are on the same servers.” She stopped, looked at Methos and kicked him again when he didn’t say anything. “Confess.”
“Oh God, what did you do this time?” Mac said.
“Did.”
“Huh?”
And Joe realized where he’d seen something like this before. “This is your database, isn’t it?”
“Uh -“
“It was destroyed. When Kalas’ Quickening hit it.” Mac remembered the charred computer in Kalas’ hideout. “Wasn’t it? So, what, you kept a copy and they stole it?”
“I didn’t keep a copy!” Methos was defensive - and also a bit pissed now. “I told you then, I only made one copy and Kalas took it!”
“And?”
“And - I guess Don learned more about computers than I thought he had,” Methos said, a bit of sadness in his tone. He still missed Don.
“Methos,” Wolf said, and when the Eldest Immortal turned his attention to him, he asked, “How sure are you this is from your database?”
“Positive,” and Methos flipped the screen back to the entries for subsidiary characters. “Here. Simon Durbin. This is the exact description I put in the database.”
Mac squinted at the screen, then stared at Methos in surprise. “You really said that about him?”
“What? He was a lousy drunk, a lousy thief and an absolute shit of an Immortal. Calling him a big-nosed lying card-cheat was actually the nicest thing I could find to say about him!” Leaning back, he looked around the table. “And he’s not the only one. There’s things in there that Don said about Amanda - he had a bit of crush on you, you know - stuff I said about Methuseleh to separate that file from mine -“ “Hah!” Joe said triumphantly. “Not that I’m admitting anything here, but - there’s just too much that was in that database that’s in this game. Histories, fighting methods, personal habits -“ He slumped down, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s that damned database.”
“So, what do we do?” Amanda asked. “We can’t just walk up to them and say, hey, where’d you get the inspiration for your game, can we?”
“Why can’t we?” Amy replied, her eyes alight. “They need funding.”
“And we’ve got investment companies in the portfolio,” Joe responded. “So we pick someone to go meet with them, find out where the disk is and ‘acquire’ it and the game. Add in a strong non-disclosure agreement and we should be safe.”
“I’ll go.”
“Mac, you can’t,” Joe said, then cut in as he saw the classic MacLeod obstinacy rearing its head. “Mac, think. You’re all over the database, thanks to Methos’ giant mancrush.”
Methos just smirked and chugged the rest of his beer, then leaned back and waived at the bar for a refill.
“Same thing with Amanda, Richie, hell, with any Immortal over fifteen years old. They’ll all be on that disk. We need someone new. Someone who, preferably, wasn’t even on the radar back then. Someone with no connection to the Immortal world until recently -“ he stopped, as Amanda suddenly straightened up in her chair, staring at -
Wolf. Wolf, who hadn’t become Immortal until four years after Methos and Don made that database.
Who hadn’t even met Amanda before then.
And who clearly had top-notch instincts for when Amanda was about to volunteer him for something. “Amanda, no,” he began.
“But, Wolf, honey,” she wheedled.
“No,” he said firmly, “or rather, yes. Yes, I’ll help with this, it’s my neck on the line as well. If someone sees you, that’ll just lead to me. But no, You. Are. Not. Helping.”
“Bu-“
“Amanda, no. Absolutely not. You’re bored, you’re annoyed at MacLeod - again - and if this last decade has taught me anything, it’s that you shouldn’t even be allowed out of the house when you’re in that kind of mood. It’s dangerous for everyone. Mostly me, but everyone else usually ends up pulled into the mess, too.”
Amanda pouted, then looked at Methos. “This is your fault, Old Man. When we’ve straightened this out, you’re going to buy me something very, very expensive to make up for ruining my vacation.”
Methos growled, then grumbled, “Damn Kalas. When this is done I’m taking a trip to France so I can dig up that bastard and dismember what’s left of his rotten corpse. Twenty years dead and he’s still trying to kill me.”
To be continued. . .tomorrow.