I don't own the fandoms and/or characters from 1. Highlander, 2. Highlander: The Series, or 3. Lord of The Rings.

I don't make money/profit from writing this story. Jordan Waters is mine; I originally posted this story as "HollyHobbit1", and have tweaked/reworked it here and there. This fanfic is geared more towards Highlander and Highlander: The Series fans and will assume the reader is familiar with H and H:TS franchise(s). Some Reviewers have asked when/if Jordie will reveal herself as Immortal; It MAY be explored, but IS NOT a given. Gerald Lamb owns the character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon, and is used WITHOUT his expressed/granted permission, as his webpage links no longer work/exist; Gerald, if you're out there, I loved your character so much, I just had to use him! No offense to any purists of any of the fandoms out there. In 'Highlander, End Game', Duncan was married to another Immortal, Kate/Faith. In my story, Duncan was never married. It is not my intention to upset/offend the purists of LoTR/H/H:TS; if you find this story highly improbably/inaccurate to either franchise, feel free to write your own fanfic. This is my story. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are appreciated, flames cheerfully ignored.

Only One

" . . . In the days before memory, there were the Immortals.

We were with you then, and we are with you now.

We are driven by the endless fight to survive

In a Game which knows no limit of time or place

We are the seeds of Legend, but our true Origins are unknown.

We simply are. . . "

-Highlander, Endgame

Origins

Seacouver, Washington

Present day

"Code blue, Life Flight, helo-deck!"

The Public Address system intones the announcement overhead three times, sending the medical trauma team scrambling to meet the helicopter. Behind doors clearly marked 'Operating Department – Authorized Personnel Only', in the wide hallway, Jordan Waters stands to one side. Pressed against the wall, the on duty surgical staff hurry past her - wheeling bulky, life saving equipment before them as they enter the operating room reserved for trauma cases. Tempted to keep walking, Jordan's conscience gets the better of her; with a sigh, she pulls out a clean mask from the box over the scrub sink, fastens the ties, and steps into the room's controlled frenzy of activity.

"It's a 'Code Blue'; what's going on?" Jordan asks her colleagues as she helps unwrap the sterile equipment.

"This is what separates the men from the boys Jordie - incoming trauma. A car with multiple unrestrained occupants rolled over, all ejected - driver only survived. You can imagine the injuries. We're ready if the Code Blue needs his or her chest cracked open." The Charge Nurse replies as he helps the team prepare the room for the impending patient's arrival.

"A better question is: 'why are you still here, Miss Waters?'" Craig asks.

Though the bottom half of his face was covered by the surgical mask, his expressive eyes say enough, and Jordan can well imagine the scowl it covers.

"I thought you could use more help." Jordan answers.

"If a sick call comes in the next thirty seconds, consider yourself back on the clock until the afternoon. Get out o' here while you can!" Craig sternly but affectionately instructs her. Craig is right. It is unknown how long the case will last, and she is tired.

"Let me help open, Craig. They'll be coming any second." Jordan says.

"You've done your shift and you're off the clock. Go before I change my mind!"

"Fine, fine! I'll see you when I get back. Have a good shift." Jordan concedes.

"Count on it!" Craig says as he gently but firmly pushes her out the door.

Though willing to stay until things calm down, Jordan is more than glad to leave. In the female locker room's full-length mirror, the woman studies her reflection before removing her OR cap and shaking her hair out. Winding a length of blue-black hair around her finger, she examines it.

"I need a trim." Jordan says, frowning.

Spiky bangs with graduated side layers frame an oval face, its length reaches her waist. Jordan leans forward, critically examining her features; her most striking feature is her eyes. The almond shape hints at her Asian heritage; however, the unusual color speaks of her American roots; green as a new leaf one moment, they darken to moss, depending on her mood. Or so she is told. With a sigh, Jordan makes her way to her locker, changes out of her hospital issued scrubs and into her street clothes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Jordan Waters has left the building. Wooohooo - Hello vacation!" she mutters softly to herself.

Wearily shrugging into her coat, she grabs her purse and closes her locker door. Though tired, Jordan's heavy footsteps lightens, feeling the unmistakable tingling, thrumming hum washing over her senses as she draws closer to the exit.

"Need an escort to your car, Jordan - its still dark out there…?" The night shift hospital security guard asks.

"No thanks, Brian; someone is waiting for me — see you in a month!" Jordan replies with a wide grin.

"Must be nice! Where you goin'?" the burly guard asks jovially and with just a touch of envy.

"On my vacation? Anywhere but here, my friend!" Jordan calls over her shoulder as she walks towards the exit.

With a mischievous laugh, Jordan blows him a kiss; Brian makes a show of catching it and holds it over his heart, blushing with pleasure as Jordan winks and waves good-bye; the automatic doors slide open and then close behind her with a pneumatic hiss. With a sigh, the security guard watches Jordan disappear into the darkness. Making her way to her car, the smile on Jordan's face fades as she thinks about her night . . .

All is quiet and uneventful in the Operating Department – until an emergency rolls in during the last hours of Jordan's shift. Despite the heroic efforts of the attending surgeon and the surgical team, the man dies, leaving behind a wife and three young children. During the operation, it is learned two days prior, the patient presented to the emergency room suffering from a stroke; after the usual battery of tests, it is also discovered the stroke is caused by a blood vessel bleeding in the brain – or a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Ironically, he was been scheduled for surgery early that morning, but the re-bleeding aneurysm drastically altered those plans. Jordan did not envy the physicians their grim and unpleasant task informing the family of their sudden loss.

Life is so precious and fragile. I wonder if he got to say goodbye. . . ? she wondered.

Lost in thought, Jordan doesn't see or hear the dark figure shadowing her steps until he is literally upon her.

"You don't need this, girlie" a rough voice growls.

Startled, Jordan looks up at her assailant as he snatches her purse. Angry and indignant, she stubbornly hangs onto it—until the man pulls out a screwdriver; he quickly and repeatedly stabs her in the chest and stomach. Jordan clutches her midsection, her mind registering the bright red blood oozing between her fingers, covering her hands, she watches the rapidly spreading crimson stains. Jordan looks at her assailant in disbelief as she falls to the ground in shock, her hands and feet feel colder than they should; her last conscious thought is "Duncan's not going to like this . . . "

Darkness… a dull throbbing pain in her chest and midsection; dull sounds sharpen, pushing through the thick, fog-like sensation filling her mind. Memories rush back with vivid clarity. With a quiet gasp, Jordan's eyes fly open and she bolts upright, frantically feeling where she was last stabbed – in the heart.

"Rule number one Jordie – 'pay attention'. Here, drink this." Duncan's stern tone brooks no argument as he hands her a lead crystal tumbler filled with malt whisky.

"No, I don't-"

"Drink!"

The younger woman obediently reaches for the proffered tumbler and takes a small sip, choking as the amber liquid burns its way down. Jordan glares at her rescuer over the glass rim as she takes a second sip; grimacing from the sting of the alcohol. Inhaling slowly, Jordan takes stock of her situation. She is in Duncan's loft, in his bed, clad in one of his old, comfortably worn shirts. On her, its hem reaches her knees and looks more like a nightdress. Her bloody, punctured clothing is draped over a nearby chair, and her coveted purse.

"Everything's in there. He didn't get far…"

Jordan didn't bother asking what happened to her assailant, knowing Duncan dealt with him as he sees fit; frankly, she does not care.

"Did anyone see?" she hesitantly asks.

"Fine security the hospital's got." The Highlander snorts sarcastically.

"I guess that means 'no'." Jordan concludes, relieved.

Without witnesses, the young Immortal will not have to leave everything behind and assume a new identity – and life. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, known in Immortal circles as the Highlander, sits back in his overstuffed chair, a faint smile on his lips. The sight of Jordan in his bed takes him back in time, to a special moment in his long life, when he shared his heart, home and bed with Tessa Noël. For over ten years, Duncan is blessed with Tessa, the love of his life. They had so much love for one another, building a life together; they were planning to marry when Tessa was cruelly taken from him – fatally shot by a robber. Never lacking in offers to share a woman's bed, and occasionally accepting one, it has been a very long time since Duncan allowed a woman in his bed; now there - in the middle of it, sits Jordan. However, all he feels for the younger Immortal is that of a brother's love and a Mentor's concern. Thankfully, it is mutually platonic.

"You know, Jordie — if you continue to day dream when you should be alert, that pretty little head of yours won't be on your neck for much longer. Not to mention mortals will be on to you. We survive by secrecy and I'd rather not be parted from your company. It's good I came when I did." Duncan says.

Though Duncan's tone of voice is deceptively mild - his Highland burr is more pronounced, and his dark eyes are more intense than usual – unmistakable signs of his displeasure. Silently, Jordan accepts the rebuke, her eyes cast respectfully downward. Standing, the Scot tosses Jordan some clothes.

"Put these on. Joe and a friend I want you to meet are here; join us in the kitchen after you've dressed and I'll fix you a plate." Shaking his head, Duncan sighs heavily and leaves. Cocking her head and listening intently, Jordan hears low voices; thankfully, a lacquered screen provides a measure of privacy in the loft's open floor plan.

The sweats Jordan pulls on once belonged to Duncan's former student and friend, Richie Ryan. Heart wrenching guilt is never far away; no matter it was accidental; it doesn't change the fact Richie died by Duncan's hand. Though many years have since passed, the pain is fresh - as if it happened just yesterday. Once Immortality is triggered, time's passing ceases to matter. The years flow together with numbing sameness, marked by the number of heads taken, by the never ending battle to keep one's own head. Now Duncan has Jordan Waters. She is his chance to atone for Richie's death. As her First Teacher, Duncan reserves a special place in his great heart for Jordan, for she is many things to him: more than a Student - not quite a lover . . . perhaps the daughter he will never sire . . . a friend in need of his wisdom, experience and guidance. An endless romantic, intelligent, naïve and strong, Jordan is full of contradictions that amuses and frustrates him to no end. Duncan MacLeod swears to teach his young charge all he can, to ensure Jordan has a fair chance at The Game. Unfortunately, circumstances may change, the Highlander muses. After all, there can be only One. Sifting through countless memories, Duncan thinks back to the time he met Jordan Waters…

Philippines

February 1945

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is fighting with the Allies in the Pacific campaign, when his Army Company deploys to the Philippines. As promised, General Douglas MacArthur returned the year prior. The Second World War ends, and the American presence in the Far East is to provide stability -to root out and quell the remaining pockets of Japanese resistance hiding in the dense jungles and many caverns of the Philippine Islands. It is on a weekend liberty pass, that the Chieftain's son meets Jordan Waters. Catching sight of her from across the street, the Clansman recognizes her as a pre-Immortal. Following Jordan from a distance, Duncan discretely inquires about her. Jordan brings out the fiercely protective side of Duncan, especially when a rowdy bunch of sailors with too much drink in them, follow her, attempting to convince a decidedly uninterested Jordan Waters she's willing and eager to have their company.

After knocking a few heads around and bloodying several noses and faces, the Highlander is able to convince them otherwise. Making her acquaintance in such a dashing manner, Jordan is suitably impressed and invites Duncan to lunch at her family's compound. Cherished and coddled, Jordan Waters, Duncan learns, is the only issue of an American entrepreneur wed to a rich Chinese businessman's daughter - and all of 21 years young. Even then she is a bit of a brat, but oh, what a lovely one. Jordan's almond shaped eyes, pink lips and pearly skin come from her Chinese/Filipino mother. Winning the gene pool lottery, her unique eye color - a startling shade of green, are from her green eyed, black haired Caucasian American father.

Jordan's father, grateful for Duncan's timely interference, welcomes the gallant Scotsman and treats him to his best Cuban cigars and an endless supply of San Miguel beer. In her mother's eyes, the Highlander can do no wrong. Their growing friendship progresses to where Duncan often stops by Jordan's home – just to spend time with her parents; the Clansman can often be found with her father in his library discussing business, or in the kitchen flirting outrageously with the family's ancient cook, who prepares choice Filipino dishes with extra care when Duncan is visiting.

The lighthearted times end after Jordan dies her First Death. Late to rendezvous with her girlfriends, the young lady stubbornly refuses her mother's request that Jordan be driven to her appointment by the family's chauffeured car. Instead, her headstrong daughter insists upon travel by jitney – flamboyantly painted and outrageously decorated United States military jeeps left over from the Second World War. Relishing the novelty of the small commuter bus, and most importantly – the chance to be away from her driver's ever-watchful gaze, Jordan enjoys an exhilarating and often hair-raising ride to Luneta Park. Catching site of her girlfriends waiting for her at the Jose Rizal monument, the young lady waits impatiently for a lull in traffic to cross the busy road. Seizing the first opportunity presenting itself, Jordan hurriedly crosses the street; unfortunately, another jitney - the driver intent on beating pedestrians through the busy intersection - fails to see her. Burdened with a full load of passengers, the driver is unable to stop or swerve in time to avoid her. The resulting impact drags Jordan beneath the jitneys' undercarriage. Rushing to her side, her best friend gathers Jordan's bloody, broken body to her and holds her tightly as Jordan takes her last, shuddering breath, she watches the light of life fade from Jordan's eyes; a throng of morbidly curious on-lookers gather around the lifeless young woman, pressing closer whilst nervously laughing and pointing at Jordan's open, unseeing eyes. Throwing her head back, her best friend screams; the awful sound joins the hysterical screams of their weeping friends, adding to the increasing cacophony of excited chatter of the curious on-lookers leaning outside the jitneys' windows. The horns honking around the throng blocking traffic, and the wails of emergency vehicle sirens, whose services are no longer needed, add to the din.

Duncan is at Jordon's home, playing the tile game 'mahjongg' with her parents and their close friends, when her parents receive word of her death. Too distraught to make the trip to the morgue to identify Jordan's body, the Highlander immediatley takes charge of the situation, leaving Jordan's parents in the care of their friends; Duncan pulls strings, calls in favors, and spreads a small fortune in pesos to purchase silence - knowing Jordan will revive, and the real questions will begin. Jordan's heartbroken parents, emotionally devastated and despondent from the loss of their treasured daughter, do not question Duncan's sudden assertiveness in the matter.

Shortly thereafter, Jordan's grieving parents cremate and inter the remains of another, believing the cremains to be their lost daughter; in reality, Jordan is cloistered in Duncan's apartment. Heavy curtains drawn tightly shut, in the stifling heat of the closed room, Duncan waits. The dim light of the single bulb barely reaches the Clansman, who sits unmoving next to the bed upon which Jordan's lifeless body lays. Evening becomes morning becomes evening again, and still he waits, listening to the muted sounds of the world outside fade and begin anew. Duncan's vigil ends when the atmosphere noticeably changes. The smell of ozone fills the room. Duncan closes his eyes and inhales deeply, nostrils flaring slightly at the distinctive scent. The hairs on the nape of his neck and fore arms rise in response to the crackling electricity that collects from everywhere and nowhere and races along the very walls of the room and down the wiring of the naked light bulb; it floods the room with light that permeates every corner and shines impossibly bright; forks of electricity gather and intensify. Shadows flicker madly upon the walls. The room goes dark when the bulb bursts, unable to withstand the fierce intensity. Under Duncan's watchful gaze, tiny pinpoints of bright, white - hot light coalesce, hover over the young woman, enshrouding Jordan in its luminescence before fading away. For long moments, nothing happens. Faintly, a spark appears, then more; Duncan's lips lift into a thin smile. The mysterious, shimmering particles are innumerable; concentrating into a mass of energy - it seeks, surrounds and envelopes Jordan's crooked appendages, the strange force takes hold of her damaged limbs. Guiding them slowly and purposefully, the broken bones straighten of their own accord. Exposed, splintered bones, dark with congealed blood, lighten and brighten to a vibrant red as the bone reabsorbs the spilt life giving fluid. The room fills with wet, squelching, squishing, sucking sounds of shifting limbs moving back into their proper anatomical places. The reversal of Jordan's fatal injuries play out before the Highlander's eyes, her wounds miraculously heal at an unnatural rate – ante mortem and postmortem bruising lighten, then fade completely, eventually taking on a healthy, youthful glow. Finally, with a gasp, the newly resurrected Immortal opens her eyes; panic stricken, her mouth opens wide in a soundless scream. Taking a deep breath, Jordan tries again to scream; instead, a hoarse, guttural cry escapes from her lips, as her eyes dart wildly about.

Disoriented, Jordan's last memories rush back, disjointed - her friends waving and calling out to her as she hurries toward them, not understanding why some are screaming, others frantically motion her to "…titigil (stop) – TUMAKBO (RUN) – antabayanan (look out)!", her best friend's tear-streaked face above her, becoming strangely blurry and dim, before all goes dark. Holding her flailing body down to the bed, Duncan's familiar low voice calms and soothes Jordan, giving her a focal point. Jordan's confused and frightened mind refuses to accept Duncan's explanation of why Jordan is not in her home. The Fledgling refuses to believe she died, despite the jumbled images of her last mortal moments, and her inability to reconcile time's passing. The toe tag issued to Jordan at the morgue means nothing - after all, Jordan is very much alive, isn't she? Duncan has no choice, but to repeatedly, forcibly restrain Jordan from leaving the apartment and returning to her parents.

Acceptance of her own death does not come to Jordan until Duncan gives her a copy of her official death certificate. One month after Jordan's memorial service, Duncan brings word her parents, in an attempt to ease their grief and pain, embarked upon an extended trip away. If a painful death is not bad enough, the fledgling Immortal finally accepts her former life is lost to her forever, when Duncan informs Jordan her father's business and her childhood home is sold, her family's assets liquidated soon after her parent's departure. Everything is gone: Jordan's family, her friends - she does not have a single Centavo to hold, for her personal effects -the contents of her purse, her shoes strewn across the street like scattered leaves, were collected by her friends and returned to her shocked, disbelieving parents. Their elderly Cook passed away from grief of Jordan's loss; the old woman watched Jordan grow from infancy, and loved her as her own. Life as Jordan knew it, is no more; she has no choice but to learn The Game.

"You're under my instruction now, Jordie; we are linked and locked for all time. As long as you live, you'll be under my protection." The Highlander swears.

"But . . . after I'm stronger . . . will you come after my head?" she anxiously asks.

"Don't give me reason to." The Highlander answers her.

"That's not reassuring, Duncan." Jordan says.

"We live violent lives. It's the best I can give you." He replies.

Duncan MacLeod begins training Jordan in the art of combat; often, the process requires a combination of saint-like patience and incredible self-restraint—from having to beat her into compliance. In the beginning, it is difficult working with the Princess Jordan is; however, once Jordan focused, she proves to be an apt and diligent pupil. During their sparring sessions in the Philippines, Jordan learns the ancient art of Escrima, or stick fighting. The duo travel through the Asian continent; in Thailand, Duncan teaches her basic survival skills in the wild - a far cry from her pampered lifestyle. In Japan, the Teacher teaches his Student the way of the sword. Duncan enjoys instructing Jordan how to throw knives, spikes and other weapons. There they discover the new Immortal's skill with the shuriken—or throwing stars - they are Jordan's favorite. Pleased with her progress, Jordan still has much to learn; time, experience and determination, the best instructors, will teach her what Duncan cannot - provided Jordan keeps her head on her shoulders.

After Jordan takes her fifth head, Duncan gifts her with a dozen of her own Scorpion shuriken, a set of Escrima sticks, that when joined, became a bo staff, and her first sword- a beautiful Masamune Katana forged by the wizened master sword smith himself; shortly after, Jordan experiences wanderlust and decides it is time to strike out on her own. After making Jordan swear to keep in touch, with many misgivings, and Duncan's parting gift, a small fortune of ten thousand American dollars, Teacher and Student part ways.

Dressed in Richie's old sweats and a pair of Duncan's thick cotton socks, Jordan resembles a forlorn child as she slowly makes her way to the kitchen. Joe Dawson, a Watcher and good friend, sits on a kitchen stool drinking a glass of Cola. Smiling as he slides off the stool, Joe envelopes Jordan in a gentle hug before pulling out a stool for her to sit on; smiling her thanks, Jordan takes her seat at the kitchen bar as Duncan pushes a plate of food before her.

"Good to see you, kiddo; Duncan here tells me you had a little…'incident' at the hospital; kinda ironic, eh?"

Making a face at Joe while she chews, Jordan swallows before she smiles sheepishly.

"My knight in a cluttered antique shop came to my rescue!" she replies.

Eager to put the incident behind her, Jordan looks quizzically at Duncan's other guest. An older gentleman dressed in a dapper gray suit with silver-white hair, he has a presence about him, an unmistakable aura of authority. However, it is his eyes that hold Jordan's attention; kind in expression, blue-gray in color, and a sharp, perceptive glint. With a single, piercing glance, Jordan feels Gregory knows everything about her. Disconcerted, she looks expectantly at Duncan, who is quietly watching her.

"Jordie, meet a friend of mine, Gregory McGulloch; Gregory - this is Jordie. Gregory also deals in antiques, mainly Celtic items from Scotland, England and Ireland; his Paris shop isn't far from mine." Duncan says.

"Lovely to meet you, Jordan Milagros Waters. Duncan tells me you two go back quite a ways." Gregory's gaze rests upon her.

As Gregory clasps her hand, Jordan notices his grip is firm, his skin warm and dry. Glancing at the men's half-eaten plates of food, she picks up her fork and forces herself to take dainty bites of food as Joe settles back onto his stool.

"Likewise. Yes, Duncan and I traveled through Asia for a while. He taught me a few things." She shoots a cheeky smile at Duncan, who raises his eyebrows at her in return. Gregory smiles apologetically to Jordan before turning to his host.

"Well, Duncan, it was a pleasure to visit with you again; alas, I've business to attend to." said Gregory, "Kindly inform me if you find more acquisitions I may be interested in; I am here for three weeks and shall see you next week."

With his cane in hand, Joe Dawson slides off his stool as well. The Watcher turns to Duncan. "Same here, buddy, I gotta get going. Thanks for breakfast! I owe you one; a band's comin' over at 11:00 for rehearsal before their gig tonight. See you then-and make sure Jordie comes—there's more to life than the operating room, you know." Joe fixes Jordan with a steely glare, the smile on his lips softening the expression.

As Duncan walks his guests out, Jordan waits till they are out of sight. Glad to drop her façade of decorum, she eagerly devours the rest of her food and starts to work on Gregory's untouched fruit. Still hungry, the woman reaches for Joe's half-eaten plate. Generously buttering a flapjack, Jordan piles scrambled eggs onto the center before placing two sausage links on top of the golden, fluffy eggs. Holding it like a taco, Jordan pours maple syrup over it before taking a large bite, her eyes close in ecstasy as she chews.

Slowing down long enough to enjoy her food, Jordan licks the crumbs and syrup from her fingers, all the while thinking about the Highlander's odd guest. Jordan stops chewing when she realizes Duncan hadn't stated her full name, yet Gregory McGulloch knew it.

Things that make you go 'hmmm' she muses. With a shrug, Jordan pushes it out of her mind, and thinks about Joe's comments. Glancing at the clock, she is surprised to find that it is only 9:00am.

His guests must have come early; either I took long to revive, or I really need the rest. she muses.

Taking a sip of her cranberry juice, the hollow thud of Duncan's footsteps draw closer; cradling her glass between her hands, Jordan steels herself for the forthcoming lecture. Duncan sits next to her, pulls his plate toward him and picks up a fork. Taking a bite of his eggs, the Chieftain's Son chews slowly and purposefully, a sure sign of his displeasure. Slowly sipping her juice, Jordan stifles a belch as she waits for him to speak. Placing his fork on the counter with a resounding 'clink', the Highlander turns to his Student.

"Jordie, you had seven puncture wounds. The fact he was able to get close to you and take you out concerns me. He is mortal. What if he wasn't?" Duncan says, his dark brows drawn together. Eyeing his bacon, Jordan puts on her best innocent expression.

"Are you going to eat that?" Jordan asks him hopefully, batting her eyelashes.

Glaring at her, Duncan hands over three strips of bacon and places them onto Jordan's—formerly Joe's—now empty plate. Taking a slice of toast from Duncan's plate, Jordan ignores his exasperated expression as she places the bacon on the toast, folds it in half and takes a bite. Chewing contentedly, she glances at the Highlander, who pointedly looks at the empty plates surrounding her.

"I missed lunch - I just got off work and healing always makes me hungry." She says defensively, her mouth full of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Duncan says, slightly annoyed. The slight twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away; it is difficult for him to be stern with Jordan. However, he does not intend to let her off so easily.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asks; his hard tone brooking no argument.

Brushing the crumbs from her lips and hands with her napkin, Jordan sighs.

"Yes, Duncan, I did. To answer your question, well . . . I would've felt him, right? I'm okay. Granted you were there, I would've revived-" Duncan interrupts her.

"And then what? How would you explain the situation to the security guards, or better yet, the media? Do you want to end up as someone's guinea pig? Trust me, it's not something you want to experience." The Scot assures her.

Standing, Duncan carries his plate to the sink; about to scrape his leftovers into the garbage disposal, he hesitates. Offering the plate to Jordan, she happily accepts it. Picking up her fork, she digs in and eats almost all of his toast and bacon.

"How can someone so small eat so much?" Duncan wonders.

Jordan shrugs and licks her fingers. Unable to finish the rest, she sits back and rubs her full stomach. Hoping to make more room in her decidedly full belly, she slides off the stool and helps Duncan clean up. Together, they load the dishwasher. After consuming her large breakfast, Jordan looks forward to a nap on the balcony.

"I stopped by your apartment and picked up your gear and some clothes. Finish your food, then change and meet me in the dojo. We're training." Duncan says nonchalantly.

"But—" Jordan begins to protest; her Teacher's glare silences any further protests as she scrapes her plate into the garbage disposal.

#

Wincing as she pulls on her white shirt, Jordan studies her wounds in the mirror. The punctures over her heart, chest and abdomen are healed, the skin still pink and tender to the touch. She quickly plaits her hair into a tight French braid, the wispy side layers, too short to plait, tickle her face. Groaning, Jordan sucks her breath in as she buttons her sturdy black denim jeans, that hug her lower half like a second skin.

I shouldn't have eaten so much! I won't be able to move. She laments. A belch helps ease her full stomach. Somewhat.

Over her shirt the Immortal buttons a molded black leather vest, that serves as both a fashion statement, and as demi-armor. Draping a sash over her shoulder it holds her shuriken for easy access. Cinched at her waist is Jordan's weapon belt: her Katana in it's scabbard on her left hip, her Escrima sticks at her right hip, both neatly out of sight, hidden within the folds of her overcoat. An Armani, of course-it doesn't provide much warmth, but it looks fabulous; its graceful line, fabric and cut flatter her figure, without hindering her movements.

The coup de grace is the secret scabbard holding her Katana. Inspecting herself, Jordan iss satisfied with her appearance. With her overcoat open, the shuriken are the only visible weapons, winking in the light. Changing her mind, Jordan leaves behind her sash, sticks and overcoat, and instead grabs her Katana as she heads out to train.

Duncan stands in the middle of the dojo, his Dragon Head Katana in hand. Like the man who owns it, the dojo hasn't changed much. Various weapons hang from their wall casings and weight lifting equipment is at one of the far corners of the room. On the wall hung Japanese swords and scrolls with Kanji characters decoratively and strategically placed. Jordan's light footsteps whisper across the hard wood floor.

Stopping four feet away from her mentor and friend, they bow then assume an easy fighting stance. Raising their swords, they circle slowly, eyes locked upon the other, calculating … attempting to anticipate the other's moves. To throw her off balance, Duncan suddenly rushes towards Jordan; automatically, with her sword gripped tightly in both hands, Jordan counters his attack, her eyes never leaving the Highlander's. Brilliant sparks from their empowered blades fly once their Katanas connect. The force behind the Highlander's sword rattle Jordan's teeth, yet she holds her own, glad to see Duncan isn't holding back. For a time, their breathing and the ringing clang of metal on metal, are the only sounds in the room as they trade blows and parries in a dizzying series of thrusts and counter-thrusts, their bodies moving in a graceful yet menacing dance. Breaking away, circling each other, feinting, lunging, parrying, exchanging strikes, they spar, until at last Duncan signals the end of the session.

"You've improved since the last time we trained." Duncan says approvingly, pleased that Jordan kept up with him.

"I like my head." She replies with a saucy tilt of her head, blinking rapidly as the salty sting of her sweat falls into eyes. Looking out the window, he decides to end their session.

"Okay, let's eat lunch." Duncan says. Surprised, Jordan follows his gaze to see the sun had climbed high in the sky.

With a wicked grin, she yells, "I treat—you pay!" Duncan swats her derriere with the flat of his blade, causing her to yelp in mock outrage. Sticking her tongue out at him, Jordan runs for the door as the Highlander gives chase.