-- I: A new game --

Connor MacLeod kneeled in front of the image of the Virgin Mary and placed by it the candle he had just lit. He crossed his fingers and closed his eyes, as the sides of his mouth formed a tiny smile.

"Happy birthday, my bonny Heather" he said tenderly.

He stood up and headed to the front seats. Then he sat down in the first seat, the one nearest to the central alley leading to the altar. Mute prayers left his mouth. Words he had never thought he knew. Some immortal probably had, and the knowledge was arising in that very moment.

A small girl ran by him, and soon found herself in her mother's arms. Connor took a glance at them before returning to his prayers. Brenda had wanted to have children. After four hundred years of mortal combats, so had he. He never thought he would be able to make it through the Gathering, but he had done it. He had defeated the Kurgan and become the last immortal. Brenda and him married and moved to Scotland. For the first time since the death of Heather, he felt truly blissful.

Footsteps echoed dimly, walking toward him. Someone sat down behind him, and a small circle-shaped thing was pushed against his back. For what he could feel, it was probably an automatic pistol. His breathing had lowered. He chuckled. Since when finding himself gunpointed was so funny? The quirks of some immortals were bothersome.

"Now, stand up and let's go outside to finish this."

"Whatever you say, Jack. You have the gun." Connor replied gaily.

He stood up slowly and managed to catch a glimpse of the man. A blond shorthaired male with a growing forehead, who was approaching his fifties. It did not struck Connor as something rare. He did not even care. He grinned when he spotted a tattoo right below the back of the man's right hand, the one pointing at him. These guys again, he thought.

Connor took the central alley and slowly began his way out. Behind him, the man had folded a newspaper around the gun. Every step Connor gave was followed by one of the other. The church was almost empty. The woman and the girl had left after the scene Connor had witnessed. Only the local priest remained, busily preparing the altar for the afternoon mass. And of course, his armed friend.

"For how long will we continue this?" Connor asked.

"Shut up and walk, Highlander."

Connor laughed again and stopped, and the other pushed the weapon against his back threateningly. He suddenly ducked, and the armed arm ended up between his head and his right arm which extended upwards. Connor grabbed the arm and pulled it, making the other fly over him and land roughly against the floor.

"Now who are you?" He demanded to know, having got hold of the gun and aiming it at the other's mouth. It was a nice Beretta with a silencer. For some reason, he liked it. He resolved not to try and guess which immortal had been a sucker for guns. The other closed his eyes. Connor could see in his face the pain the impact in the back caused him. "Who are you?"

"Kill me if you want, MacLeod. I'll say nothing."

Connor put the gun against the stranger's chest. The priest, whose attention had been drawn to them, made the sign of the Cross. But he could not let this one get away with it. He might call others. Perhaps he had already called. Holy ground, he thought. But there was no more Game, thus no more rules. He squeezed the trigger and a dim whistle and a gasp followed. Some drops of blood stained his hand and the sleeve of his coat.

He stood up and put the weapon under his shirt. The priest was petrified, after having born witness to the mortal sin committed before his very eyes. Connor looked at him apologetically for a split second, which seemed an eternity. Then he turned and left the church hurriedly.

-----

Connor found his place in a small bar, behind a glass of Jack Daniels. He was not particularly fond of that whisky, but it was all he could afford with the bucks he had in his pocket. His mind drifted backwards. He had never had the sort of training that could enable him to make such a move like the one he had disarmed the guy with. He had probably got that from Duncan.

Connor had never known when his clansman lost his head. But when the final Quickening took hold of him, he knew Duncan was a part of him. Had it been the Kurgan? Unlikely. He would have mentioned it at some point, like he did with some other things that hurt Connor.

"Glenmorangie please." A voice said to his right. Drawn by the mention of a drink he fancied, Connor glimpsed a man in his late forties. The newcomer was shorthaired, and abundant beard covered his face. The predominant colour of his hair was grey, yet some lines of black resisted the passing of time. He reminded him of someone. Probably he had met some relative of the man. A grandfather or something. He downed his drink and cursed himself. The Game is Over, Connor. Remember that, and forget all about it.

"Another!" he demanded sharply. The barman, a twenty-five or so skinny man, gave him an unfriendly look. The man had barely been able to fork out the glass he had just finished, and still had the face to order him another. Connor was not pleased at his stare and his face denoted that.

"Hey pal, I'll buy him one." The man popped in before things got tense, pulling out of his wallet a twenty-dollar bill and handing in to the barman. After checking the authenticity of the paper, he served another glass to Connor.

"Thank you, whoever you are." Connor thanked. The man offered his hand amicably. Connor shook it. The newcomer seemed nice. "Andrew Gore." The Highlander uttered his identity of those days. The name belonged to an immortal Connor had killed in the early 80's. Gore was barely 23 by the time he lost his head. The birth certificate was in the record. The death wasn't. Stealing the name had been too easy.

"I thought you were someone else." The man replied, and the sides of his face tried to form a smile.

"Happens." Connor said, plunging the contents of the glass down his throat. Indeed, he looked too familiar.

"I know, MacLeod." Perhaps it was the drink that had unbalanced him a bit. Or maybe the nagging sensation he had felt again since the episode at the church of someone spying upon him. It had been going on and off for almost 13 years now. Or, most probably, hearing his name again after a long time. The fact was that Connor was shocked, but he was not going to waste time arguing. It was damn obvious how the man knew who he was. He had to leave, before the man's friends called in and reduced him.

"Farewell stranger." Connor grunted. He stood up and began to move away.

"What's the rush, Russell?"

Having heard those words, Connor halted at the door and sat down again, staring at his own reflection in a mirror on the wall. He could see tiny wrinkles in his face, and some grey above the ears. He closed his eyes, pounded hardly by an evocation of the past.