Connor walked down the usually busy street, but this time of night it was quite quiet
Chapter 1
Connor walked down the usually busy street, but at this time of night it was quite quiet. Relishing peace and quiet nowadays must be my age thought the Highlander absently. He paused briefly to watch the mannequins in the windows, stationary, without will – like many of the population just following a trend. Unable to make decisions for themselves, or at least none that really mattered.
All the mannequins were already dressed ahead and wearing springs season collection. Tonight would be just him and clansman, Duncan, with a large bottle of whisky.
He shifted uneasily under the mannequins stare, which was unceasing and cursed as the Quickening of a passing Immortal entered his awareness. Leaning forward, head pressed against the glass, closing tired eyes very briefly. With gloved hands banged on the glass twice, and then used his hands to push back upright.
Deciding to try and elude the pursuer picked up his pace, and walking faster, snow crunching underfoot. He looked at the snow already covering the ground and knew it would make fighting tricky. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation as snow had begun to fall once more, flakes briefly alighting on his face before they dissolved due to body heat.
Quickly turning a corner, Connor spotted an alleyway and headed down it. Emerging onto a main road, kept his pace constant, and not wanting to draw unwanted attention by slipping. Spotting another alley headed down that, feeling the Quickening fade. Thank goodness. The smell of refuse emerged from industrial bins, luckily the cold dampened the odour, had it been summer time it would probably have been overwhelming.
The sense of the nearby immortal suddenly becoming more acute, realising it had been a trap, intended to bait him into an enclosed space.
Fate he mused silently had brought him to this place. Fate had meant that his adopted Daughter Rachel had gone away for a long weekend in Paris with her boyfriend, fate had arrange for him to meet Duncan tonight.
He savoured the word, and the bitterness made the Highlander want to retch. He turned and found the Immortal Shaolin Priest standing opposite, head shaved and keen oriental eyes watched Connor's every moment. "Not tonight" he growled impatiently. "I have errands to run"
The Chinese man stood there, known to many as Nichiren, assassin for hire, his real name unknown to most was Kwai Ling, born over five centuries ago, one of the five Shaolin that survived the Emperors purge in the 17th Century. They were masters of the martial arts then, and only the Ninja rivalled them on expertise and skill.
He also knew that the Shaolin art taught nowadays was a pale imitation of five centuries ago,
Connor saw Kwai smile, "Well Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod it has been a while!"
"I'm going to be late", and turning to leave changed his mind at the last instant, "but I'm sure my friend won't mind".
A couple of years ago Kwai had been a royal pain in England following Connor's every move, to the extent it felt like carrying a leaden weight. Even coming out of a Supermarket and the other immortal was there.
"I'll come along then", nodded the Priest, "To see who is so important for you to venture out on a night like this". Connor was beginning to get annoyed, and didn't particularly want to his clansman asking any questions, why were you late, or why is there blood on your clothes and more to the point didn't want anyone issuing challenges to Duncan either.
"I'm here to the see the water, nothing like a nice ocean and the fresh sea breeze", and adding emphasis began to rub his hands together.
The other immortal cheeks became more rosy coloured and in a burst of temper, "You're not here to see no damn water, or the ocean. You're here to see someone". Leaning against a dustbin, hands seemingly impervious to the cold temperatures, snow melting against his bare forehead as water trickled down a bald brow.
Nichirens's face hardened, as he pulled a Dadao, a kind of Chinese sabre from within a voluminous jacket.
"You do you know Scotland is surrounded by water, love the stuff personally" he remarked casually. "Sailed it for a few decades too", watching as light glistened on his opponents sword off a nearby street sign, "But was that the 19th or 18th Century" he remarked absently. Connor could almost make out the upside down words, 'Come here for cheap booze'.
He exhaled as his breath formed a plume of condensation, and even thought about making rings as part of a game, hoping his opponent would get bored. "Still here" he remarked tiredly and stood upright. "Did you want to fight here in this cramped space or was somewhere planned for our date?"
He scowled with the disgust at the comments, damn Westerners, so coarse. "On the beach, about ten meters there is large dune. Behind it is completely secluded".
"Maybe you do have intelligence", he retorted, "shame about the not having a sense of humour though". Backing to where he had walked earlier, Connor contemplated running, but what would be point he thought, Nichiren would only follow.
Connor emerged onto the quiet beach, not one soul about and walking another ten minutes Nichiren stood there waiting, sword poised, ready.
"Nice idea shows you did actually plan this then. Almost a shame to kill you", his Masamune blade held defensively.
"You ready?"
"Finish what you started, you Shaolin oaf".
He stood on the dark beach, silently brooding. Despite it having started to recently snow, he was unperturbed by the weather. His jacket lay in the sand, muscles straining beneath a white t-shirt trying to urge a body that would not obey the commands to go into the water, but it was not the cold that deterred him, more the fragments of memories - of being stored in a tank of water while Adamantium was injected onto his skeletal structure.
Not once, but dozens of times, as most times the scientists deemed the early attempts 'a failure'. Most of the times the water would cool the metal beyond moulding and the scientists would just rip it from his bones, and quite often the bone would go with it. Not that they cared, for they knew it wouldn't kill him and whatever drugs they used rarely lasted long enough – his body shrugging them off within a minute or two.
Unable to even scream within the water tank either, tubes crammed down his throat, knowing that whatever damage done would heal. Damn scientists and it was this memory that made it impossible to enter the water. It felt like carrying a tanker, feet completely unable to move; so there he was standing staring down at the ocean - impotently shouting his fury.
Professor Xavier had suggested other ways of retraining out of this, but the hard way suited him the most. A dozen more times he shouted furiously at the water. One day he'd own it and be able to swim again, not that it would do much good. Having Adamantium moulded to every bone sort of made it impossible to float, only to sink, and rapidly. But that is not the point he thought tiredly.
Resting between screams, throat hoarse as a strange set of sounds rose above the swell of the ocean. Turning about to listen more intently, swords, why would anyone be duelling with swords? Deciding to ignore the push of the ocean followed the noises instead, of steel on steel.
To most, they thought him sullen, introverted, and antisocial which was not really true. The training over the years had been not just of the body, but of mind too, to the extent that everything seen or heard was sifted through, catalogued, ordered as a threat, non-hostile or worthy of investigation.
That was the reason he spent so much time alone, the need to shut out as much of that risk assessment as possible. Peace. That was all that was needed. Peace and quiet, something that wasn't going to be forthcoming this night.
The sword fight had devolved from nice long distances to close quarters. After several minutes they had slowly made their way towards a pier, and were busy continuing their combat underneath. Swords cleaved through support posts, which rocked unsteadily with each jostle and impact.
Connor kicked an empty can at Nichiren, its partially open lid skidded against his face, causing a deep cut which bled profusely. The wind picked up under the pier, and some of the blood splattered into the sea. Advancing upon the monk, thought of something taught to Richie many years ago. Fight like an immortal not a human, embrace the pain of a mortal wound to cause the opening you want.
He ducked another cut, and attempted a counterattack. Blades met, amid a shower of sparks. Kicking the monk in the kneecap heard the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage, and quickly brought the Masamune blade across ribs and abdomen in a deep cut.
Kwai cringed at the pain that would have dropped most immortals, but he was not any immortal, he was a Shaolin Monk, warrior against all evil. Keeping a solid defence bided time and waited for the wounds to heal.
"Your entrails are falling out" hissed Connor, genuinely amused. "Don't trip over them"
"When I have your head, I'll fix them", and with a free hand held the organs in; feeling a tingling sensation as Quickening did its magical work.
Why couldn't people live well enough alone? Duncan will want to just relax and he'll be frizzy with power wanting sex with a woman, any woman. Watching the strokes as though disconnected to it all and realised that this game was almost over. He'd never wanted to kill Kwai, but you had it coming ever since England. Six manoeuvres to end this, one…two…three…..
Logan's hearing was many times more acute than a normal human, in fact the sword fight was the equivalent of a normal human being in a nightclub, and it was beginning to give the mutant a headache.
He stopped. This isn't my affair. I'm on vacation and not to deal with other people's problems. Yet the sound intrigued him, despite it setting teeth on edge as Logan ground molars in a silent fury.
Blood, that was a familiar smell and sniffing the air once more picked up on the warm metallic odour and followed it. He could see two of them just under a pier, and one was about to kill the other. Taking off at a run, claws silently slid into place with the barest twinge of pain.
A Dadao cut across Connor's face, leaving a deep wound down to the bone; and without pause the Highlander cut back. A 'meaty thud' followed as the head of a Chinese man fell to the floor and began to roll down the bank. Just before the head fell silently into the sea, the eyes looked at Logan once, the face evidently showing fear having just realised it was no longer attached to a body.
Settling into a defensive crouch, yet oddly the victor was not yet aware of his presence.
Lightning fiercer than anything Storm could ever conjure erupted from the corpse's headless body. It seemingly came from everywhere, jumping to electrical cables, even along surfaces that under normal circumstances would not conduct electrical energy. A spark jumped off the pier, and ran along the underside and picked up the katana wielding victor, surrounding him like a whirlwind.
Another blew the pier off its supports, and it fell crashing into the sea. A bolt struck Logan in the centre of his chest and blew the mutant twenty feet backwards to impact with a sand dune. Burnt tissue instantly regenerated, along face, hands and chest. Somehow it caused a kind of dissonance within the Adamantium that coated his skeleton.
What the hell was he? Ropes of fire continued to assault the victor, but there did not appear to be any kind of tissue damage, temporary or lasting. How can this be?
Just as quickly as the storm had begun, it was over. The man reached for the handle of the sword that had been dropped only moments ago and turned around – suddenly registering that he was no alone.
Logan was not sure he could take anyone that could contain that kind of power. The man halted in a crouched posture that he had taken only moments ago. Waiting obviously surprised that someone had seen this little murder and he intended that it never happened again.
Connor watched the man in the t-shirt, nervy bloody Watchers he thought they're supposed to be more discreet. Amateurs! He growled silently, understanding the danger from someone who was not friendly. Definitely not a Watcher, as waves of violence came crashing off the other man, impacting with the immortal. Nice posture, good balance, knees not too far over his toes. The hands and feet are never too close together. He also notices that the other doesn't break eye contact.
Followed by the stark realisation, those aren't gloves! What the hell is this guy?
Since reincarnation as Weapon X, he'd fought off a lot of men, and many things in between. Big men, strong men, athletic men, brawlers, martial artists, animals and even women have tried to kill him.
Since then he'd learnt what kinds of people are dangerous, you can see it in their eyes. This guy was clearly that, and despite carrying a pig-sticker, or the light show earlier, this man obviously registered. Didn't even pay close attention to Logan's claws, or moved as he advanced – waiting for the fight to come to him. Very cool customer.
Sniffing the air experimentally as he advances, there is no scent of fear, none at all. Just the smell of cologne with a hint of sweat, spicy food, and the need for sex; several times or with several people.
Knowing that the lightning is dangerous, he advances slowly – plus it made his bones ache conducting along the Adamantium. Those eyes just track Logan wherever he moves, motionless, like a statue. Why no lightning? Does he expect to win with that sword? He imagines his fist inside the victor's guts, claws emerging from his spine and back, watching the lights dim from the others eyes.
It is then the mutant spots lightning underneath the skin on the cheek, where a deep cut heals. What the….he can heal too. His trained senses quickly take in the adversary's build, slightly shorter and with very little or no strength at all.
A mind almost as razor sharp as Adamantium claws run through every type of mutant, including the members of Mutant X. None share his talent. What was that lightning? He wonders again, must be supernatural concludes the mutant, the way he just sucked it right out of the victim. Yet there are no burns, strangely. There are always burns with lightning as even Storm occasionally suffers from them; albeit nothing serious.
Logan hasn't survive the centuries by being intelligent, but by following his gut, instincts, and every one he has now is saying this is not any type of mutant you know about; and it is this revelation that causes the hackles on his neck to rise in warning. This is a very dangerous man, and just perhaps the fight would not be over as quick he would like.
While he stands there idly wondering, but never letting the thoughts cloud his judgement, would the lighting man heal around the wounds, would those ropes of electricity conduct across the Adamantium? All these question buzz around his head, and deciding to weigh the options some more attempts a dialogue.
"You look like you need a drink"
"I want a girl..." and he tilts his head slightly, "well you know?"
Logan looks at the stranger, the unshaven complexion gives the man a slightly hooded look, and yet for all that sounds so civilised, refined, intelligent – whereas he was considered coarse, gruff, and quite often downright uncivilised. Not that civility or lack thereof did not in any way create a particular type of killer – the mind of person did that.
This person looked like a weakling, sounded like an angel, and had the stare of a wild animal, now there's a contrast, and he hated things that were so unexpected and so dangerous. "I know what you mean" growls the mutant. The other hasn't really moved either and just stands there waiting, and he wonders how easy it would be to stick all six claws into the chest, or cut the ribcage out; and then all of a sudden the eyes change.
So full of malevolence, yet somehow flat, the dead eyes of a killer, he sees them every morning in the mirror. The mutants' senses scream to either pounce like a cat, or back off and wait; and it is strange looking into eyes that mirror his own. Like two sharks who maintained the façade of civilisation, ready to erupt in a hail of fire and blood at any second.
Yes he reads it too, and the stance shifts accordingly, reading his intention correctly. It is then Logan also realises one thing, he's within range of the pig-sticker and a single swipe could easily take the mutants face off. Yet he does not, this man kills only when he wants.
His eyes become slightly warmer, and the opponents eyes reflect this change; and slowly Logan glides out of reach, but too fast as that might cause the eruption of violence he want to avoid. But does he want to avoid fighting the lightning man? This causes some confusion to the mutant.
Perhaps the best way would be to cut the opponents eyes out, and then kill him? Chop him into tiny pieces. All of sudden Logan sees the eyes go savage and animal like again, got to stop thinking about killing him.
"You put your swords away and I'll put away mine". Logan almost smiles in shock, humour at a time like this; perhaps in other circumstances…..maybe by putting away three he muses, would that be enough. So slowly sliding away all the claws of his left side, the opponent barely registers their removal; most show outright shock when the Adamantium slides underneath the skin.
Obviously still observing like a cat eyeing its prey, does it pounce now or later, is it hungry or can wait. As he effectively invaded the murder scene and deciding to be a sport, there is a telltale 'snick' sound as the blades on his right side slide beneath the skin. As always it is accompanied by the familiar bite of pain. It is then he sees it, in the eyes, the doubt and confusion over whether he could actually take Logan. Sure it was there, but not ready to risk it all, not yet his instinct growls in warning.
All of a sudden the sword whisks back up behind the others arm, and then vanishes into the long rain coat, that is so old fashioned and out of date, Logan likes it immediately. Someone who dresses how they want, fashion and trend be damned. Slowly the stranger walks towards the water and for one moment the thought that he was going to loot the body arises, but with the care and grace of a wild Tiger, washes both hands in the sea, wiping them on the dead mans shirt.
From about fifteen feet away the other makes a move.
"Connor"
"Logan", he returns. Even situations with Sabretooth were never this fraught. Such hidden depths of violence lie between them both, unvoiced, unsaid, yet the undercurrent is unmistakably near like the nearby ocean; ready to sweep one away at a moments notice.
"Don't walk behind me" Connor rasps.
Resisting the urge to smile again, they even think alike. Almost like being best friends already, now they both know what to call one another. Deciding to jibe the other a little, but just a little, "Bet you can use that pig-sticker with one or two hands, so it's not exactly safe walking next to you"
Barely stopping an overt smile, "It's not. But you will just to prove you've got balls!"
Logan stepped alongside Connor, both kept a respectable distance albeit about five feet. "Yeah each one the size of an elephant", this was the mutants kind of beast.
Connor snorted derisively at that, either having used it or heard it before. A thought wandered through the mutants' brain, unbidden, but it was there; wonder if any other part of his anatomy shoots blue fire?
The mutant knew he was opposite a master swordsman, or better, of the kind rarely seen. Barely able to keep in check the urge to battle, to test the mettle, literally of this man, and see who's better.
Walking alongside this monster, or whatever he was, with the eyes of a raging lion, and despite years of training certainly did not want to provoke such a beast. They crossed the curb together, in synchronisation like a swimming duo; the distance between them unwavering. Not eroding or growing which could signify a looming attack.
Careful not to think about attacking, after all Connor had seen and felt the energy changes in Logan whenever his thoughts drifted to violence, so it was sensible the other was likewise gifted. Yet despite it all, he was curious about the man with extendable metal claws that came out of his knuckles, just as that curiosity was obviously reciprocated.
As they rounded another corner, his heart and mind sank and saw the familiar sign, 'Joes'. That's where Logan was heading. Damn him! He screamed internally. If either deviated from their course, a fight might start, and that was something he didn't want. He could read it was not the intention to choose this place, but merely the nearest bar in which they could sit. Otherwise the other would obviously fear a trap.
Careful not to let any sign of tension enter his body, they walked side by side. A patron walked out and held the door, so luckily there was not the issue of door, otherwise they could be standing there hours glowering at one another, again.
He needed to know several things first though. Could there be peace between them, and if not…Were there more like him, how many, and how to kill them. Careful to move without a change in pace, not to draw attention that he knew this place, or draw the notice of Joe who was talking to one of the barman.
Logan sat down at a booth, "Keep both hands in sight". The immortal sat, resting both forearms on the edge of the table, ready. Both sat in another awkward silence. The barman came over and Logan ordered without looking up. "Beer"
"Scotch, neat" replied Connor. He knew the look in those dark eyes, its meaning, death, saw that look in the mirror every morning. What manner of beast was Logan? He wanted to kill Connor, at least attempt it; or die trying.
As the alcohol arrived, neither drank, not that they could risk it affecting judgement at a crucial time.
Both stared at one another for a moment. "Do they hurt?"
"Coming in and going out" Logan replied. "What about that lightning under the skin?"
"If the cuts deep enough, otherwise there isn't any"
"I heal too". Slowly he picked up a knife off the table, dragging it across his palm.
The immortal watched blood well within the cut, and then using a napkin Logan wiped it away to show a perfectly healed wound. Damn he heals as well thought Connor, change of tactic required. "Were you born this way?" Perhaps he could chop Logan into tiny pieces.
"Yes, but the metal was extra" he added, "But it's Admantium, and steel can't cut it or penetrate it".
"I see".
"And it's not the only place I'm reinforced 'Lightning'" he answered, making a point. "So I'm not easily killed".
He knew Connor was thinking it. Not that he was psychic like Professor Xavier; but it is what a killer like him would think, and therefore by deduction so too was Connor. The simple cold logical mind of a killer was a simple thing, sometimes.
"What's the Lightning or Blue Fire 'bout?"
Logan had obviously seen the Quickening and he was not about to reveal its true nature. "All my kind generate it at death, no one knows why" he said, and got to divert topic a bit, "But sometimes the pain is a pleasure if you know what I mean?"
He did indeed know what the other meant, but was not about to admit it, and merely nodded in acknowledgement of the comment and that he understood.
"It's called the Quickening" he answered, but was not about to explain how things worked.
"What is it?"
Connor's eyes hardened slightly, and Logan could an answer would not be forthcoming. Obviously important, so changing tack, asked another question. "What are you?"
"Scottish and old" answered Connor, "Been alive over four hundred years"
"I know what that is like" he replied, seeing the shock show on the others face. "It's shit"
"I'm glad we can agree on something".
The absurdity of the situation was almost laughable, two killers watching for any danger signs and ready to act on a moments' whim. The tension between them was palpable. There was no one within ten meters of their table. Even the bar staff watched worriedly, but none made a move to intervene.
"I have some added DNA and RNA most humans don't have. So by that you could say I'm a mutant, one of many, each with a different ability or gift".
That last phrase was like the crack of a gun, more of them, probably many more. Damn! Cursed the immortal inwardly, this could prove a problem.
"Your turn 'Lightning'"
The immortal scowled at the nickname, and found it infuriating. Deciding the bite back, "If you say so Claws….as to DNA and RNA, no one I know has looked hard enough. We and it is a plural tend to try and stay out of the spotlight of chemistry labs and scientists where possible. Government lab rat is not my favoured title…if you know what I mean?" Although the comment came out a bit more of a strained than he would have liked.
"'Fair 'nuff. Would I get lightning" and he saw Connor scowl at the word, "Sorry, Quickening if I cut off your head?"
"You would, but not at you, for you're not like me"
"More than you would like"
It was the Connor felt the familiar presence of another immortal, recognising the familiar Quickening anywhere. Duncan breezed through the door, unaware of any danger.
He walked towards the table that Connor and a stranger were seated at, unmoving, like two talking mannequins. His kinsman had both hands on the table, what is going on? He recognised the signs, danger signs, between two dangerous men. Who was the other that had Connor, the most powerful immortal on then planet spooked? Approaching cautiously the younger Highlander made sure to draw the attention, standing equally in the plain sight of both men.
"What are you doing Connor?"
"Drinking" he replied tonelessly. Both men had the poise of wild cats that had encroached on the others territory. Every muscle and sinew screamed in Connor, Duncan could see that much. The way his left shoulder is set is wrong, making the sword within the webbing easy to reach. Surely he cannot be that close to fight, not in here? Yet even pondering the question Duncan knows it to be true. There is no movement within his clansman at all, like a bomb ready to explode and kill anyone and anything nearby.
He's never seen Connor this wound up, ever, and it scares the younger Macleod. Even when he appeared at the last instant and took Jacob Kell's head, there was certainly no sign of this kind of tension.
The angry maw of violence is ready to swallow everyone in this room, including him. "I'll be outside in ten minutes" assures Connor without moving or turning his head, not even the eyes move.
Connor does not really watch Duncan, doesn't even bother to 'remote view' the location of his clansman, it's not necessary as it takes all his concentration to focus on the all too dangerous man before him.
He contemplates killing the mutant, and knows that Logan senses it. Not even part of the Game, yet he contemplates it. It's what killers do, and therefore by deduction Logan is doing the same. In another lifetime we would be friends, wage war on the same battlefield and drink ourselves stupid after. Another lifetime…thinks the immortal.
It is Connor's stillness that causes the mutant concern, that perhaps, or rather in all likelihood he had misread the signs on the beach, that Connor had no doubt about being able to take Logan on, and it had instead been his own fear and doubt that had been made manifest, at meeting his mirror image. Such an epiphany caused Logan to pause.
In truth Logan didn't even smell any fear, in fact never had smelt any on Connor at all during their stalemate on beach, or in here. Neither was there the whiff from Connor's friend either. He who stood there so self assuredly, eyes almost as cold as Connor's and his own. In another time he thinks, we would be fighting side by side, swapping women afterwards and drinking ourselves into a stupor.
Slowly Duncan saunters off outside, careful to keep an eye on both.
The company of violent men is sometimes like a drug, it either leaves you wanting more; or it kills you.
"Is he like you?"
"Yes"
"What if kill him?"
"I'll kill you with bitterness and remorse"
"And burn the ashes?"
"Bathe in your blood, eat your organs and pour your ashes into my Scotch and drink them"
"Screw that then. I won't kill him". He looks directly at the Connor, "or you" he adds with finality. "You going to kill me?"
"Not if I don't have to"
"Fine but stay away from me and mine"
"The same goes for you. And don't say anything about what you know about us"
"To keep you safe? Or me?"
"Yes" answers Connor.
A truce had been reached between violent men, both with the eyes of assassins, cold blooded, relentless if need be. But a truce nonetheless, and it was as close to a handshake as they were ever going to get, for now.
He'd been down on this beach for a week, screaming his frustration at the waves. Unable to step foot in the water, but inching ever closer, sometime he would make it down there. Perhaps a century or two, but he had time.
Taking a quick slug of the whisky, he picked up the scent of familiar cologne, the one worn that night by Connor. Down the beach he sauntered, carrying a crate of beer in his left hand. Just the way he would have, leaving the weapon hand free.
Logan knew that was why he'd come back, the same reason Connor did so, to be near someone like himself. No need for the masks or illusions that society provides, and indeed requires; the ability to be free, and in truth……be what he is. A killer. Like me, a predator, hunter, murderer and stalker when the need requires.
We both sit down on the sand, no too close, not too far apart. Logan hands the whisky to Connor, who passes over a beer. They sit on the beach and talk.
One day soon, when the tension wears off we'll find out who's better, but not tonight, or for a long while yet. I'm not sure it's gonna be me, but that doesn't matter. For now, we're content to sit and talk.