Disclaimer: I do not own Highlander or any of the characters or concepts. I also do not own Charleton Heston and or anything from Planet of the Apes (see Author's Note). Also, I apologize for the frightfully long Author's Note. Please do read it if you would. If not, then skip to the story. Thank.

            Author's Note: This story is actually a kind of challenge. One of my English instructors is blatantly against Richie, can't even stand him. He claims that Richie has no personality of his own, so I set out to see if I could perhaps . . . create one. Let me know if I succeeded. Also, just so everyone is a bit familiar with the situation, try to recall the episode where Duncan receives the Dark Quickening. This Fanfic asks and answers the question, "What if Joe had missed?" If any part of this story seems a bit rougher than it should be, blame the computer I was working on. I swear, it was the most evil program I've ever used coughMicrosoftWordcough, and it totally screwed me over when I was working on the story. The program refused to let me indent paragraphs, so in order to start new paragraphs I was forced to hit return and go to the next line. Then the program decided to let me actually indent so, as I'm writing this author's note before I actually finish this story, I don't know how the whole ordeal will turn out. Also, this Author's Note is becoming far too long so I shall end it very soon. I apologize for any problems or angst this causes anyone. Any complaints should be sent directly to Microsoft. Unfortunately for me, computers are a necessary evil. To steal a line, "Damn them all to hell!"

                                                                 One More Mark
            I watch in morbid fascination as the blood drains from my opponent. Countless times I must've done this before, and now is no different. I deliver the final blow, ending the girl's suffering by severing her head from her dying body. My energy spent, I collapse to my knees, completely exhausted, waiting for the Quickening. It is short and weak, much like the girl. She was young, more so than me. I didn't want to fight her; I'm not a headhunter. To tell all truths, she was the one who'd made the Challenge. I suppose I could've refused, but I was pissed off at Mac, and I needed to vent on someone. And now that someone is dead. Great. Yet another mark on my slate.
            Groggily, I stand, cursing myself silently.
            "She was just a kid," I voice says in my head.
            "Yeah," answers another voice. "You could've spared her so she could come back and finish you off later. Another enemy is exactly what you need."
            Sarcasm is an overrated virtue.
            I trudge back to the dojo, letting the two voices argue back and firth, too tired to put forth an effort to shut them up. Once I reach the gym, I make my way to the locker room so I can change into my workout clothes. God, I hate these daily workout sessions with Mac. I think he lives to point out every mistake tiny little mistake that I make. Then again, I do tend to make quite a few. Can I help it if I get impatient during fights?
Every muscle in my body is aching from the fight, but I know that if I slack off even a little during the work-out, Mac will be all over my ass for at least a week, and he won't let me forget it for a least three months. That is why I'm now going through warm-up katas with every limb feeling as if it's about to drop form my body. Maybe Mac'll even be proud of me for working out despite the fact that I've just won a Challenge.
            Shit! You know, it really burns me up how I feel like I always have to please Mac. Sure, I am his student, but that doesn't mean he has to run my life, damn it! I may be less than a twentieth of his age, but I'm sure as hell not a child, either. Can't he just leave me alone for five seconds?
            I work my way through my katas, starting slowly and deliberately at first, trying to stretch my sore, tired muscles. As the minutes tick by and sweat drips from my beet-red face, my already-aching arms begin to falter from overuse. Gritting my teeth, I continue to slash and spin, block and duck, attack and counterattack. I glance up at the clock. Startled, I realize that Mac is over an hour late for our workout session.
Just then, I feel the presence of another immortal and sigh with relief.
            "It's about time," I mutter, lowering my sword a moment. The door swings open, and Mac strides into the room. He pauses several feet away, still in the shadows. The breeze from the open door blows his coat around his feet, and I shiver as a chill runs down my spine. I can feel his gaze resting intently on me even though I can't see his face yet. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and it dawns on me: something is not right.
            "Hey, Mac. How'd it go? Did you find your friend?" Simple enough question, just trying to be polite . . . I really wish he'd quit staring at me like that. Why won't he come into the light?
            "Yeah, I found him."
            The simple phrase comes drifting across the room, and I pause a moment, for once at a loss for words. Something still isn't right. That doesn't even sound like Mac.
            "So you're doing your katas on time for once, eh, Rich? Or did you just start them five minutes ago, as usual?"
            That hits deep. Sure, sometimes I slack off and goof around, but Mac knows I work my ass off for him. I'd think he was joking like he always does, but there's a definite sting in his words that makes them all too serious.
            Besides, I'm too damn tired for jokes.
            "Come off it, Mac!" I groan. "Yes, I'm doing the damned katas, and no, I didn't just start them five minutes ago, if you can't tell from my sweat-soaked clothes. Also, I'm not the on who's over an hour late for our workout session, if I might point out you one flaw of the year. I'm the one who just finished, which I won I'd like to add, and I'm dead tired, so please get the hell off my back!" I turn away quickly before I say something I'll really regret. I begin the kata again moving quickly to lose the frustration building within me.
            I don't even realize he's behind me until I feel the cold steal of his katana pressed against my neck. On pure instinct and reflex, I duck to one side, bringing my sword up to knock his away. Rolling to my left, I bring my sword up just in time to block the blow aimed at my neck.
            Chuckling, Mac lowers his sword. "A little jumpy, aren't you Rich?"
            I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to lower my defensive stance. God, I jus can't tell if he's joking or not.
            "What's with you tonight, Mac?!? You nearly took my head!"
            "Calm down, Rich." That smile again. Like a shark. His eyes are dead and black like a shark's.
            "I was just messing with you. Besides, if I were trying to attack you, I wouldn't have to try. I would. Much like this!" He lunges at me, slashing viciously at my stomach. I dive to the side, barely in time. His katana leaves a two-foot slash in the workout mat instead of my abdomen.
            He's laughing now, a hollow, ominous sound that echoes through the dojo. He slashes at me once more, but I manage to step out his range.
            "Come on, Rich," he leers, his eyes glinting maliciously. "Take a swing at me! Or are you just afraid to fight back?"
            The proverbial "Last straw."
            Clenching my jaw with barely suppressed rage, I swing my sword at his torso, but as he moves to block me, I lower my aim, scoring two slices just below his kneecaps, severing the tendons. Hissing with pain, he lowers his sword for a brief moment as he staggers backwards. Seizing this weakness, I lunge forward, thrusting my sword towards his exposed stomach. I aim for a killing blow; as I don't plan on taking his head, I know he can revive soon enough, and only want to put him out long enough to figure out what the hell is going on.
            But he's expecting this move and is already prepared. As he brings his sword up to block mine, the thought briefly crosses my mind that perhaps Mac's not as injured as he appears to be. I stumble backward, desperately fending off Duncan's furious attacks. My arms are quickly beginning to feel like lead. My muscles begin cramping, but I know if I slip up even once it'll cost me my head.
            Suddenly, my arm cramps fiercely, and my hand seizes up, causing me to drop my sword. In that moment of distraction, I feel a fiery pain slash across my thighs. I look down and see a dark red stain spreading down the front of my sweat pants. My eyes move back to Duncan as I fall to the floor, my legs unable to hold me up any longer. Gasping with pain and fear, I try to scramble sideways, away from Mac, but my severed leg muscles haven't yet healed and refuse to cooperate. The cold steel of Mac's katana against my neck rids me of any further thoughts of escape. My breath catches in my throat. I think my heart just skipped a beat.
            Time around me seems to slow down, but my thoughts are racing. Why is this happening? What did I do this time to screw up so bad? Is he really gonna kill me, or is this come whacked out test? I wonder if I'll get to see Tessa. I wonder if I'll get to see my mom and dad, or if they're even there . . . Wherever "there" is. What if I end up going     to . . . God, I can't even think it! But where else would a smart-ass punk who chops off people's heads just to save his own sorry ass go? Not to any Heaven I've ever heard of, I know that. But I know that's where Tessa is; there's no other place she could be. But I know I won't end up there.
            I can feel my legs start to heal, but Mac has other plans for me. A swift kick to the side of my head sends me sprawling across the floor, dazed. Mac takes a step towards me, his sword raised, and a shot suddenly rings out, the bang echoing around the room, making my headache go from throbbing to a skull-splitting pounding. Mac falters in his step but doesn't fall as a dark-red stain begins to spread from the bullet hole in his upper thigh.
            Without a sound, Mac turns and hurls his katana through the air, embedding it halfway to the hilt in Joe Dawson's gut. Oh, God, not Joe too! Groaning, I try to move, try to get my uncooperative body over to Joe, but I'm already too late. Joe is dead before he hits the ground, a look of shock and pain on his lifeless face as the gun falls from his hand and clatters across the floor.
            Already, Duncan's leg is healing as he strides over to Joe. Wrenching the bloodstained sword from the body, Mac turns and faces me once more.
            "Now, where were we?"
            My head is finally beginning to clear, but still I don't move. This just doesn't seem real! It's not right! Mac has never acted like this before! I know something is wrong, but I can't figure out what. Please, Mac, I don't want to be just another mark on your slate! I don't want to die yet! I stare up at Mac, my eyes wide with shock and pure panic, frozen with pure panic.
            "Good-bye, Rich."
            A swish of air, and everything fades to black.