"Behold, I show you a mystery: we will not all sleep, but we will be changed--"--1 Corinthians 15:51
I am Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod, born in the highlands of Scotland, four and a half centuries gone. I am not alone. From the dawn of time, there have been the Immortals. We are cursed with the inability to age, and gifted with the power to heal any wounds, even those that leave us with the appearance of death. True death can come only by decapitation. With death comes also the loosing of the power that preserves us, that which we call the Quickening. If one of us kills another, he takes this power into himself, and gains strength by it. That is what we live for. The Game of death, single combat with edged weapons, began before even we can remember, and must continue until only one remains. The legends of our kind speak of a Prize, power beyond imagining, that will be granted to this last warrior. The time of the final battle is near. Soon, it will be finished. Until then, the Game continues.
Once in a very great while, a warrior is reborn to immortality who seems chosen for greatness, whose skills and prowess are great enough to forever alter the balance of power in the Game. This is the tale of one such man...
San Francisco, 1981
Harry Callaghan regained consciousness suddenly, with a gasping intake of air. He blinked his eyes a few times to clear his vision, picked up his .44 magnum from where it lay at his side, and carefully sat up.
He was in a warehouse, the only light coming in from the grimy skylight overhead. Blood was everywhere, and he was the only thing moving. He let his eyes adjust to the dim illumination and scanned the room. By the closed door, a few feet to his right, lay his partner, Joachin Mendoza. Joachin was dead, three bullet holes in him, lying in a pool of his own blood. He'd been a good cop, and about as close to a friend as Harry'd had since Digiorgio bought it. Before him, arranged in a semi-circle about twenty feet from him, were eight members of the Mad DragonZ gang. The DragonZ were the latest in a series of street gangs to try and fill the power vacuum left in the drug trade after the Anaconda went down. Harry and Joachin had gotten an anonymous lead directing them to this warehouse in connection to some recent cop killings. An obvious trap. Harry cursed at himself for a while for his stupidity, his failure to save his partner. Then he stopped. Guilt wouldn't bring Joachin back. At least he'd gone down fighting. Not all of the dead DragonZ were brought down by Harry's Magnum.
This thought reminded him that he'd fired the entire cylinder before going down. He reached for the speed loader on his belt, and noticed something that brought him up short.
In all this excitement, he'd forgotten about the seven bullets that had gone into him before he'd hit the ground.
He looked down at his chest. He was covered in his own blood, but the skin was unmarked. The bullets that should have killed him left no trace on his body.
For the first time in his life, Dirty Harry felt fear.
I am Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod, born in the highlands of Scotland, four and a half centuries gone. I am not alone. From the dawn of time, there have been the Immortals. We are cursed with the inability to age, and gifted with the power to heal any wounds, even those that leave us with the appearance of death. True death can come only by decapitation. With death comes also the loosing of the power that preserves us, that which we call the Quickening. If one of us kills another, he takes this power into himself, and gains strength by it. That is what we live for. The Game of death, single combat with edged weapons, began before even we can remember, and must continue until only one remains. The legends of our kind speak of a Prize, power beyond imagining, that will be granted to this last warrior. The time of the final battle is near. Soon, it will be finished. Until then, the Game continues.
Once in a very great while, a warrior is reborn to immortality who seems chosen for greatness, whose skills and prowess are great enough to forever alter the balance of power in the Game. This is the tale of one such man...
San Francisco, 1981
Harry Callaghan regained consciousness suddenly, with a gasping intake of air. He blinked his eyes a few times to clear his vision, picked up his .44 magnum from where it lay at his side, and carefully sat up.
He was in a warehouse, the only light coming in from the grimy skylight overhead. Blood was everywhere, and he was the only thing moving. He let his eyes adjust to the dim illumination and scanned the room. By the closed door, a few feet to his right, lay his partner, Joachin Mendoza. Joachin was dead, three bullet holes in him, lying in a pool of his own blood. He'd been a good cop, and about as close to a friend as Harry'd had since Digiorgio bought it. Before him, arranged in a semi-circle about twenty feet from him, were eight members of the Mad DragonZ gang. The DragonZ were the latest in a series of street gangs to try and fill the power vacuum left in the drug trade after the Anaconda went down. Harry and Joachin had gotten an anonymous lead directing them to this warehouse in connection to some recent cop killings. An obvious trap. Harry cursed at himself for a while for his stupidity, his failure to save his partner. Then he stopped. Guilt wouldn't bring Joachin back. At least he'd gone down fighting. Not all of the dead DragonZ were brought down by Harry's Magnum.
This thought reminded him that he'd fired the entire cylinder before going down. He reached for the speed loader on his belt, and noticed something that brought him up short.
In all this excitement, he'd forgotten about the seven bullets that had gone into him before he'd hit the ground.
He looked down at his chest. He was covered in his own blood, but the skin was unmarked. The bullets that should have killed him left no trace on his body.
For the first time in his life, Dirty Harry felt fear.