DEFEND AND BETRAY

ACT 1

ENGLAND

Author's Note: This story is an amalgamation of the work of several writers compiled into one massive document. It originally began in 1999 and stalled sometime in 2000. What had been written was additions to an online roleplaying game and, taken by themselves, did not make a lot of sense. I got permission recently (in 2019) to restart the story and add significant portions to it in order for the pieces to make more sense as a stand-alone story. I have done my best to keep with the original intent of the story's original author (although it does have a lot of my own creative content, as well).

For the sake of originality, all references to canon Highlander characters has been removed and new names have been added. The old references had no real bearing on the story whatsoever anyway and the slight edits I have made have made the story fit more with my version of the Highlander universe. You will notice these differences as you read for they are quite significant.

Except for English, some German and some Spanish (and only smatterings of those), I do not speak the languages depicted in this story. Any mistakes are those of Google Translate and the intended meaning is shown in parentheses (unless left out for plot reasons).

When not used to display words in foreign languages or to show emphasis, any phrases or sentences shown in italics indicate the thoughts of a character.

There is also a good bit of Middle English mixed into the dialogue at one point in this story. I don't speak that language (and it is pretty much another language) either and have used in the best way I can manage. If there is anyone out there who is more knowledgeable in it who wishes to offer tips, I am open to them. When I have such dialogue, I again will put the modern English meaning in parentheses.

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Night Draws Near

"Rumors speak of war, all the nations
Turmoil in the streets, tribulations
Now it's plain to see
All the prophecies are taking place."

"Curtain of Iron" - Kansas

03 August 1999
Bromley, England
The Barrel and Horn

Max Correll was scared. Perhaps scared was too light a word to use. He was terrified. And the alcohol wasn't helping one bit. Right now, though, he couldn't give a shit. Maybe, just maybe, another round would give him the courage he needed to go out and face the light of day.

Besides, he thought, you're already hundreds of kilometers away from the scene. You should be safe, right?

The very thought was enough to make him scoff. Smirking darkly, he glanced at the blue tattoo on his left wrist. It was a bird-like cross enclosed by two circles. Thirteen blue dots ran between the concentric circles. Correll shook his head.

No, there is no escaping them. They're just like us…because they are us.

Correll caught the bartender's attention with a slight wave of his hand. "Another pint of stout, please," he requested softly. "After that, I'll go."

The bartender nodded and drew another pint. He set it in front of his patron along with the tab for his eight pints.

"Need me to call you a lift, mate?" the barkeep asked, his eyes raised in genuine concern.

"No thanks," replied Correll. "I'm walking anyway. I won't be going far."

The barkeep nodded again. "If you decide you're too wobbly to make it, take this number and call for a ride. These are good blokes and they'll come get you quickly. They won't stiff you on the rates, either." He slid a slip of paper across the bar.

"Thank you," said Correll, accepting the paper. "I'll do that."

Correll sipped his pint slowly, savoring the bitterness of the drink. As he sat on the stool, his elbows on the bar, he eyed his palms and fingertips. He turned his hands to inspect the back of them. In his mind, for he knew that was where the malady resided, he still saw the stains which had been there from a few days earlier. They couldn't still be there now. He had washed his hands repeatedly to remove them. He smiled to himself as he recalled a line from his drama class at university.

"Out, out, damn spot," he whispered.

"What's that?" asked the bartender, looking up from washing a few dishes at a small sink.

Correll flexed his fingers and shook his head. "It's nothing. Just a little Shakespeare for an addled brain."

The bartender grinned. "There are worse things than recalling MacBeth after a few pints, mate."

Correll chuckled and stood up. "Yeah, I guess there are." He looked at the bartender, about to ask for directions to the loo. The barkeep, used to the expression, pointed. Correll nodded his thanks and ambled away, taking a package wrapped in brown paper with him.

He returned a few minutes later with a sigh of relief. Picking up his pint, he downed the remainder in three quick gulps and set the glass back on the bar.

"I think it's time for me to head out now," he announced.

"I hope you have some glasses for that sun. It's quite bright out there." The bartender motioned toward the nearby door. Correll grinned as he produced a pair from his shirt pocket. He got a thumbs-up.

Correll drew the tab closer to him as he pulled out his wallet. With a contented nod, he pulled a fifty-pound note from inside and dropped it on the bar. He furrowed his brow, thinking a moment. He dug into his wallet again and added another tenner to the tab.

"And two for yourself, my good man."

The bartender grinned. "Appreciate it." Correll waved and turned to the door. As he left, the bartender wondered briefly where his package was.

Slipping on his sunglasses, Correll pushed his way into the mid-day sun. His grin lasted only as long as his presence in the pub. Now he had to worry about other things. He shoved his hands into his trousers pockets and turned south down High Street, trying his best to appear casual. Behind his shades, his eyes were scanning the thoroughfare in every direction.

Turning west onto Church Road, he removed his hands from his pockets and let his arms swing loosely. He thought about whistling to add to the appearance of a relaxed man, but decided against it. He just walked slowly. To his consternation, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Damn it, that's the problem. We're all trained not to be seen. They could be out they or they might not and I'd never know it. Our training never included anything about how to pick up on surveillance, only how to do it ourselves.

Correll thought about the spy novels he'd read and the movies he's seen, all those tidbits about using reflective surfaces to spot people following a person without obviously turning around to do it. He decided to give it a try and slowed his gait to stop in front of a newspaper vending machine. Bending slightly to appear as if he were reading the headline, he peered into the window behind the machine. He saw nothing of a telltale nature to give away a follower.

Naturally, he thought again, because we're taught how to counter such things as that. You keep walking when someone does something like this. You don't stop and glare at him.

Still trying to act natural, Correll shook his head as if deciding not to buy the paper after all and stood erect. He continued on his trek west, still racking his brain for how to spot the potential shadow.

Or am I just being paranoid? There's always that chance.

Rounding a curve on the road, he glanced left at Saint Peter and Saint Paul's Parish Church. The sight brought another cold grin to his face and he put his hands in his pockets again.

Wouldn't it be nice if I could seek sanctuary in there like the people I watch? Sadly, such a thing would do me no good. I'd find no safety there.

Crossing the intersection of Edison Road and Church Road, Correll kept walking. He found himself impatient now. Why, he didn't know. He didn't have that far to go. He was only a few minutes walk from where he had rented a one-room flat on 1 Glassmill Lane. He clucked his tongue at his own silliness and allowed himself a moment to reflect. As his thoughts wandered, he absentmindedly scratched the tattoo on his left wrist.

Max Correll was thirty-eight years old. For the last nine years, he had been part of a secretive worldwide organization responsible for surveillance and recording information on the lives of a particular group of people. Not celebrities or politicians, though sometimes the organization's people of interest strayed into those categories, but something far more elusive, more interesting perhaps. Max Correll and his cohorts surveilled Immortals.

Correll had laughed off the concept of immortality when it had first been broached to him, just as many of his peers had. How preposterous. This was the stuff of fairy tales, right? But he had read excerpts from the organization's chronicles and eventually seen the people himself. It was very much a reality. Immortals existed. They didn't glow in the dark or fly or have any other magical-type powers, except a supremely enhanced ability to recover from injuries, but they existed. Correll and others like him, who called themselves Watchers, had accepted the calling to observe these people and record the facts of their lives.

"Why?" he had asked when he had first been approached to do the job. "Why observe them if they'll live forever?" Because, he had been told, right now, they keep themselves a secret from mortals. There is a legend among them that, at some point, there will be only one of them left. At that time, the world needs to know that Immortals existed.

Only one left?

Yes. It is only a legend. Many Immortals, in fact, do not even believe in it at all, but there are enough who do and that is enough to keep them all driven to fight for survival.

"Wait a moment," he had countered. "What do you mean by fight?"

Correll's mentor had smiled patiently and explained that while Immortals could potentially live forever, they could, in fact, be killed. The most commonly known way to do so was by decapitation, but there were other lesser known ways. Since beheading was so well known among the Immortals, it had become accepted as the traditional way of doing so. The vast majority of Immortals were well trained in the use of bladed weapons in order to defend themselves against the attacks of others of their kind.

"How do they even know if another Immortal is around?" Correll had asked. His mentor had told him that, somehow, they are able to sense each other's presence once they are within a certain distance of one another. The distance seemed to vary between ten and fifty meters, depending greatly upon the age or the power, or both, of the Immortal. No one knew for sure. Regardless, they were able to identify each other once they were close enough.

It was here that Correll's mentor had stopped and, with another grin, had added a proviso. Since carrying swords around was not an accepted practice in the modern age, duels between Immortals was more of a "by appointment sort of thing," he had said. This statement had caused a great deal of confusion in Correll's mind. Choosing a time and place to meet someone in order to duke it out with a sword and chop off someone's head…or lose your own? Ridiculous. But he had seen it numerous times himself over the years. It was very much true.

The sword duels were actually not the most interesting part of it all. It was what happened after the beheading. None of the Watchers really had an explanation for it, but they all said it was a phenomenal sight. It was called the Quickening.

The simplest way to describe a Quickening is an intense localized electrical storm. It starts out as a greyish glow at the neck stump of the dead Immortal and soon grows into powerful bolts of current emanating from the defeated Immortal's neck. Some of the bolts scatter randomly around the area of the duel, destroying items, breaking windows, or setting things ablaze. Most, though, seek out the Immortal who took the head of the dead Immortal and slam into him. While this does not harm the victorious Immortal, there is either a great deal of pain or some other type of sensory overload taking place as a result, as evidenced by the uncontrolled screaming of the victor.

There were many theories about what the Quickening was. Some said it was a transfer of power from one Immortal to another. Others thought it was a transfer of knowledge and ability. Still others theorized it was a transmission of life essence. There were several camps within the Watchers, each with their own die-hard ways of thought. None had any solid evidence, only conjecture. All they knew was the Immortals placed a great deal of value on their deaths being in the presence of one another so their Quickenings could be transferred to one another. There were many historical examples of solitary Immortals losing their heads and Quickenings not taking place at all.

Correll stopped his daydreaming. He was at the curve where Church Road became Glassmill Lane. A meander to the left and he would have only a few more minutes of walking to reach his flat. His gaze shifted lazily to the Bromley War Memorial twenty meters in front of him. It had been built to commemorate the seven hundred sixty-nine local men who died in the First World War and the four hundred seventy-six members of the armed forces and civilians who lost their lives in the Second World War. Correll shrugged. He could at least do it the respect of stopping there for a few minutes.

Correll had always enjoyed sculpture. He had, in fact, frequently been known to visit museums and spend hours admiring the work of the great sculptors of history. He had been fortunate a few years ago when he had been assigned to follow an Immortal named Dobromil Biskup who shared a similar interest. Sadly, those good years had ended when, eight months ago in Hungary, Biskup had drawn blades against an Arab Immortal named Aadam Farid. Biskup had not fared well in that duel and Correll needed another assignment.

If only he had won that battle. I would not be here right now, knowing what I know.

No, don't be a coward, Max. What you saw there is important and Walker must know about it.

Even if it gets me killed?

Well, yes, even that.

The die is already cast, then. I just have to see how it lands.

"A beautiful sculpture, isn't it?"

Correll started visibly as the voice behind him interrupted his inner dialogue. He turned with a gasp. The face he beheld did not bring pleasure to his own. Sharp Germanic features grinned back at Correll beneath a black fedora hat. The grin itself was ice cold.

"Now how did I miss the sight of that damn fedora in the crowd, Werner?" asked Correll, his shoulders slumping. He had never heard the man approach.

Werner Heinz continued to grin. "You already know the answer to that question, Max."

Correll nodded. "Yes, we had the same teacher," he said with a sigh. Looking to his right in the direction of his flat, he chuckled softly.

"I guess I won't get to finish From Russia, With Love tonight after all, will I? Grant and Bond were just having dinner on the train."

Heinz shook his head. Reaching into his right trouser pocket, he withdrew a switchblade knife and hit the button to release the blade.

"Ah, that was a good one. I could tell you the rest, if you like, for old times sake. You know, before you go. Besides, what are old friends for?"

"That would be nice. Thank you, Werner."

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08 August 1999

Edinburgh, Scotland

The setting was the complete opposite of a B-horror movie script. Despite the intent of the four men in the room, there were no dark shadows or cobwebs, no creaking doors or cracked, drafty windows. Though the room was small, it was comfortable and the lighting was warm. There were cigars and bourbon for those who partook of it. Three of the four men did while the fourth chose bottled lager with his tobacco. Despite their differences in drink preferences, though, all agreed that it was a time to celebrate.

A tall man with red hair raised his glass to the others. Their hushed conversation quieted at his motion.

"Gentlemen," he said with an air of formality, the very slightest trace of a German accent tinting his speech. "We stand on the edge of a historical precipice." He indicated the European map on the table around which they sat. "In a few days, we will unleash our forces upon a menace which threatens all of mankind, the scourge of the Immortal race. We will take the first step necessary in eliminating that threat. It is the three of you and those you command which are making this event even the remotest of possibilities after so many years of preparation. I thank you for your dedication to this cause. And now, I raise a toast to all of you."

With those words, Alan Ottenbreit, lowered his glass and brought it to his smiling lips, drinking deeply from it. He sighed with pleasure. The other three followed suit. The one man who drank from a bottle, a muscular blond man with a crew cut, spread his arms wide.

"Thank you, Mr. Ottenbreit. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say we are all proud to be a part of this campaign." The American paused briefly to sip from his lager. "I only have one slight reservation in it all. Call it my prior career rearing its head, but I just want to make sure we've thought of all possible repercussions of our actions and that we've prepared suitable countermeasures for them."

"Calm down, Adam," soothed Harlan Earnshaw in his smoothest Irish tone. "There's no need to act like a U.S. Ranger every time we start an operation. We've put four years of work into preparing for this. I'm sure nothing will go wrong with it now."

"The first casualty of any operation when in contact with the enemy is the plan," stated Matzel dryly. "A good question we should consider, and I apologize for not bringing it up until today, is whether we should begin before the troops have all finished Harlan's training program." He took another pull from his bottle for emphasis.

Ottenbreit nodded. "Don't be so quick to judge, Harlan," he countered. "Adam has a point. Just a few days ago, we had a mishap at this very location."

"What sort of mishap?" asked Emilio Gironelli, a slender, swarthy Italian.

Ottenbreit reached for the bourbon bottle and refilled his glass as he spoke. "One of the men working with us, Max Correll, turned out to be a plant, a double-agent. He took out one of our assets, Brian Harrison, and disappeared on the first of the month."

"My God," replied Gironelli. "Without Harrison, a significant part of our operation is crippled."

Ottenbreit waved a hand while picking up his glass with the other. "I've already considered a fix to that problem. And Werner Heinz has dealt with the issue of Max Correll for us. This does, however, prove the point Adam was making. We need backup plans to the actions of our enemies and to any other problems we may face. In light of that suggestion, as we enjoy our cigars, let us review our plans one last time before we release the hounds upon Europe."

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09 August 1999

Westminster, England

Devon Sather tapped his finger on his desk, his frustration growing. He was the Regional Director for Europe, damn it all, and he had still been put on hold to speak to the big man, Michael Walker, the Executive Director of the Watchers.

It's not like I can get any higher in this organization. Why can't I call him directly rather than going through his fucking secretary?

Sather knew what it was, really. Though Walker had never said it himself, the fact that Sather was twenty-six and had become a Regional Director after only four years in the Watcher organization had angered a lot of the old timers. In fact, after having been a Field Watcher for three years and an Area Director for one, he had skipped the role of District Director - that of managing Watchers in one or more countries - entirely and been promoted straight to the regional directorship, control of an entire continent. There were many in the organization who did not accomplish anything beyond area directorship after thirty years in the organization and this whelp had somehow jumped two levels beyond that in four years. A lot of people were sore as a result. Now, he saw, even the Executive Director - or EDOW, as he was often called - was showing his bias way over there in his fucking cushy seat in Paris.

The line finally clicked and Walker's voice came on the other side. Sather's fingers stopped drumming on the desk.

"Talk to me, Devon. What's going on over there?"

"Got a problem here, sir. One of my guys found Max Correll's body in Bromley. He's been sliced up pretty badly. His eyes have been gouged out and, get this, an X has been carved through his Watcher tattoo. The police are keeping a close hold on it. I just found out this morning."

"Goddamn," replied Walker. "I was wondering why Max had gone silent. And what have I said about calling me "sir," Devon. I said you can call me Mike."

Sather grinned as he leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up on his desk. "Old habit," he said. "Anyway, this doesn't seem to bode well. Seems like some sort of message. Now, Correll wasn't one of my guys after Biskup was killed. He was transferred to your control. So what did you have him doing in Bromley?"

"Nothing. I don't know why he was there. I had him working up north on a special project in Scotland. He went dark over a week ago."

"Special project, eh? I don't much like the sound of that? Care to elaborate?"

"Not on the phone. We're not exactly secure."

"Sounds like we need better equipment on our phones, then."

"Take it up with IT, Dev."

"I should. Do I need to come over there and talk to you?"

"Not right now. Hold tight for now. Keep your ears open with the assets you have and let me know what you're hearing. Okay?"

"Can do. Can you at least give me a hint on what I should be hearing?"

"Not yet. Let's just say I have a bad feeling about it all and Max was checking up on it for me. As you can see, he must have found something. Something awful."

"Yeah, awful seems to be a kind word for it, Mike. Out here."

"Bye, Dev."

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10 August 1999

Westminster, England

As usual when things were not going his way, Sather could not sleep. He had given it the old college try but had failed miserably. Now, after glaring at his clock for the Nth time and seeing it stare redly back at him, inanimately telling him it was twelve past one in the morning, he threw the bedclothes aside and got up. He rubbed his face and groaned. Clad only in his boxers, he padded barefoot across his flat to the kitchen.

He poured a glass of milk and drank half of it standing in front of the open refrigerator. Shutting the door, he walked into his sitting room and eased himself in front of his desktop computer. The machine was typically used for playing video games but, at times, he used it for work purposes, as well. Running his fingers through his short blond hair, he switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up.

Sather sipped his milk as he clicked the desktop icon for the secure connection to the Watcher network. He set the glass on the little desk and typed in his password, waiting for the mainframe in Paris to recognize him. Seconds later, he was accepted into the network. Now he could investigate the question on his mind. He typed in the name: Maxwell Correll.

One benefit of being a Regional Director was practically no information was denied him. The full dossier on Correll was laid bare before him. Sather perused the man's entire service history with the Watchers, starting with the last eight months. "Investigating unusual Watcher activity in southern Scotland," was all it said.

Sather frowned. He went further back. He read through Correll's entire chronicle for Dobromil Biskup up to the man's death at the hands of Aadam Farid. Nothing particularly unusual there. Sather went back still farther. A four-year stint watching Johannes von Hapsburg, his first assignment, before being reassigned to Biskup, and that was it.

Sather drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. What he saw was the typical career of the standard Field Watcher. There was nothing, except that last entry, which stood out at all. Rubbing his eyes in frustration, he moved his mouse to close the record.

He paused. A thought came to him. He clicked over to Correll's history before the Watchers. Sather's eyes widened. It had been there all along. Now he saw it. For six years, Max Correll had been an agent with the criminal investigative service in the British Army prior to his recruitment into the Watcher organization. The last two had been working undercover as part of a sting operation against the London mafia.

Correll's recruitment, in fact, had been a result of that sting. Sather's father, Jack, had approached Correll to inform him in order to tell him why it was best to leave a German hitman, Karl Eichmann, out of the final arrest operation. After much explanation, Correll had agreed to the change, the Army made the arrests, Correll left the Army and joined the Watchers.

"Good ol' Dad," whispered Sather, saving the record to his computer. "So, Mike," he continued under his breath, "Now I wonder why you were using a former CID agent on Watchers up in Scotland. What was going on up there? And what did he see that was so bad it made them gouge out his eyes and desecrate his Watcher tattoo? Well, I think I have at least an inkling of what to listen for on my end now."