BRBTitle:/B The Suicide King
brbAuthor:/B Troll Princess
BRBRating:/B PG-13 works for me.
BRBDisclaimer:/B Not mine. The idiotic Powers That Be own it, unfortunately. You know the drill.
BRBSummary:/B An alternate ending to "Archangel." A lost young man savors a victory.
BRBSpoilers:/B Immediately follows "Archangel." This was written right after the episode first was aired.
BRBAuthor's note:/B You wanted an alternate ending to "Archangel", you say? Okay, this is something that's been playing around my head since I first saw that sorry excuse for a Highlander episode. This is what happens after the sound and the fury ... and if you want to flame me for doing this, don't. It is, of course, fanfiction, and while I am daring to screw royally with a few of my favorite characters, I like it and that's all that matters to me. Just think "alternate reality" --- really alternate reality --- and maybe then you'll feel better about my little tale ...
PBcenter********************
PThe Suicide King
BRby Troll Princess
P********************/B/center
PThe old man at the counter had been blubbering on and on for the past hour or so about devils in the streets. No one paid much attention --- there were only a few customers in the Lark Cafe, and most were swept up in their apple pies and cherry sodas. The Americanized cafe tucked away in a cozy corner of a Parisian alley did much to keep everyone from being dragged down into the murky depths of whatever delusions the old man appeared to be having.
PSave for one gaunt, pale young man in the booth farthest from the door, his bloodshot eyes glued to the whirlpool in the center on his cup that dragged sugar and cream to the bottom of the cup.
P"It's pure evil, I tell you," the old man grumbled in a voice not American and not French. "Don't you feel the cold out there? The devil walks the streets tonight ... the demon himself ..."
PIn the back booth, Richie Ryan couldn't help but silently agree. Old man, you have no idea, he thought to himself.
PHis clothes were dirty and tattered, and his skin blemished by patches of faded dirt. He looked more like he belonged in a soup kitchen than in a tourist joint like the Lark Cafe. And yet, he'd been allowed to come in and take a seat in the back without a word of comment, and the waitress that night, a pretty little slip of a thing with a nose ring and excessively kinky green hair, had given him a cup of coffee and a devastating smile. Four more refills of java had followed, and it had only been an hour and a half.
PHe still couldn't believe what he'd seen at the racetrack that night. Duncan MacLeod, tortured by invisible demons that twisted him in a dance to the death with his polished katana. Red fog rolling in from the track, the box seats, and everywhere in between.
PRichie Ryan, dead, his head lying separately from his body like a Barbie doll in some twisted child's nightmares.
PBut he was Richie Ryan. And he was very much alive.
PHe'd left the instant he'd seen it happen. He hadn't cared to see the Quickening that followed. In fact, he hadn't even run from the scene, as one would have expected. No, he'd walked with a modicum of fuss and muss, the dazed look in his eyes evidence enough that he didn't want anyone to disturb him. No one had, not even as he had walked all the way across Paris in the bitter cold to the rustic piece of home that he'd grown accustomed to on his visits here with Mac.
PIn the kitchen, a glass fell to the floor, shattering instantly. Richie started, jolting his coffee cup enough to spill a minute wave of the stuff over the edge and across the top of the table.
P"Sorry for the scare, folks," the cook called sheepishly from the kitchen.
PThe rest of the customers didn't seem to have noticed, but Richie had. His nerves were so off tonight that he doubted there was anything in existence that wouldn't set him off.
PDuncan had killed him. With the sword that he had bonded with so many years ago, Duncan had taken the head of his student, Richie Ryan.
POr so he thought. Richie knew better --- how could he not when he was sitting here, in this booth, drinking hot coffee and pretending that it wasn't the vilest stuff he'd ever had the disadvantage of drinking?
PIt was Ahriman, of course. Ahriman had severed his connection with his former teacher like a pair of scissors does ribbon, and it had been so damned easy to do so. A touch of glaze and haze around the edges of MacLeod's mind, and suddenly, Duncan had decapitated his best friend in the world.
PDuncan MacLeod was lost. Lost, lost, lost ...
PHe'd lost. Which meant that Ahriman had won. Sweet Satan, he had won.
PSubtlely, almost quietly, a grin slowly crossed Richie's young face.
PIt was perfect. After five years, he'd finally managed to break MacLeod.
PIn an instant, Richie's entire demeanor and composure changed. Anyone who'd been watching him from another booth or one of the faded leather stools at the counter would have seen an agitated young man suddenly relax, his shoulders losing their tension and his aquamarine eyes brightening as he chuckled away all the troubles he'd walked in the door with. But he was the only one who knew the truth.
PThat the only trouble he'd had was MacLeod. And for now, he had won the battle. The war was still waiting to be fought, mind you, but the day was Richie's. Oh, and what a sweet victory it was.
PCasually, he signalled to the waitress to refill his coffee for the fifth time. A few minutes earlier, his shaking hands and chattering teeth had scared the hell out of her. Now she couldn't help but smile at the abrupt change in his manner. Well, she though to herself, somebody's day just got better.
PFinally ... he could enjoy the win he now had under his belt. Before now, he'd been so tense, perhaps fearing --- no, his kind had no fear --- that MacLeod would walk through the door of the cafe at any minute and spot Richie's deception.
PFive years --- that was how long it had taken him to grab a hold of MacLeod's life and tear it asunder like so much paper confetti. But oh, how wonderful it had been. How savory to have MacLeod's trust and concern and use those emotions to twist and choke the miserable Highlander into submission.
PThat first night, when he'd broken into the antique store, Richie had known instinctively that his plan would work. It had just been a matter of loitering in the store until MacLeod came downstairs and confronted him. And the pre-Immortal sensation ... now that had been a stroke of genius. Of course, that Quince character had interrupted his plans, but Richie, in of his extensive years, had learned to deal with surprises.
PAs expected, MacLeod had taken him in. His pride and sense of duty would have allowed him to do no less then practically adopt the kid and make him a part of that pathetic excuse for a family. The fact that MacLeod had that fine piece of female ... what was her name again? Oh, yes, Tessa ... was just an added bonus. Richie had always imagined himself waiting until MacLeod wasn't around, then grabbing a hold of that blond mane of hers and taking advantage of his future teacher's 'hospitality'.
PBut killing her had been just as sweet. Oh, sure, he hadn't taken the gun in his own hands, but why bloody his hands when he could get some peon to do it for him? Making someone hallucinateinto murder was one thing. But sending a drug-addled mind into the kind of passion it takes to commit the crime was so much easier. She'd lain in the street and bled away the last tendrils of life while MacLeod cradled her in his arms.
PSometimes, Richie pondered over that sight and would laugh and laugh and laugh.
PSweet Satan, MacLeod fell for everything! That was the great trick of it ... that MacLeod took his whole "little boy lost" act seriously! Every stupid move, every ill-thought decision, all of it had been the act of a stubborn, headstrong kid who leapt before he acted. But inside, he was plotting. The amount of manhours he'd put in alone on plotting exactly what he'd do with the child of the winter solstice ... perhaps he'd give himself a year or so before returning to MacLeod and frightening the hell out of him.
PThen that tiresome old man had stumbled upon the wretched tomb in which he'd spent the last millennia. Trouble was that Lantry had forgotten a few minors details concerning the history of Ahriman ... and everyone else in existence. A few details known to no one but the great demon himself had escaped Lantry as well. Among others, the main detail being that you couldn't figure out a division of a thousand years without remembering that the Christ child was born a full four years before the common era began.
PIf one followed Landry's research, Ahriman had gotten an early parole.
PThe end was the best, though. Even Richie felt like patting himself on the back for that move. It had been enough that he'd been driving MacLeod insane, and doing a damn fine job of it. The phone call ... Satan, but he'd almost managed to convince himself that he'd seen Joe in a car, being held hostage by the demon version of James Horton. Richie could just imagine MacLeod on the other end of the line, this picture of Richie blurting out his destination and then running off into the distance racing through his mind.
PAnd Methos.
PRichie had known the name even before MacLeod had introduced the two. As always, that was part of the plan. What sort of imbecile would leave behind his sword and give up on the Game, forfeiting his head? The easiest way to get Methos out in the open was to back himself into a corner and get MacLeod to pull him out. Piece of cake ... was that the expression these pitiful mortals used?
PMethos knew who he was as well, whether he cared to admit it or not at the time. Not Richie, of course, but the evil inside. No matter how many protestations he made to the contrary, he had known all along.
PAfter all, allies usually do.
PA bell tinkled above the front door of the cafe as it swung open and a chilled gust of air rushed in, followed by a gentleman --- if you could even refer to him as such. The cold wind caused more than a few customers to wrap their jackets tightly around their shoulders, but the gentleman who'd just entered didn't seem to notice. The man with the tousled dark hair and the dignified patrician's face strode directly up to the booth in which Richie sat without a glance around at anyone else.
PThe slightest hint of slyness crept into his smile as he asked, "Are you ready to go, Master?"
PRichie lifted his head to study Methos. Ah, Methos --- his most devout follower, his most loyal subject. That Methos had stayed at his right hand for almost four thousand years now was the strongest evidence of his devotion.
PHad there ever been a Richie Ryan? Well, of course there had been. Some nobody kid with no past and no future, from the looks of things, save for his latent Immortality. He'd been a jerk, a punk. If Richie was not mistaken, the original Richie Ryan was right where he had left him --- his body anchored along the bottom of Seacouver Bay, his head buried strategically near Duncan's cabin on that precious little island of his.
PImagine MacLeod's shock some day when he came upon the head of his former student tucked away in the garden.
P"Yes, Methos, I'm ready." Richie pushed away his coffee and tossed a ten dollar bill onto the table. "Let's go."
PAnd with that, Richie Ryan, former street punk and thief, present bodily host of Ahriman for the past five years, and his closest adviser departed the Lark Cafe.