Chapter 12
Tools of Foul Play

"Flying tools of torment
Will penetrate the sphere
Erupt the rock of ages
Bringing final fear"

"Instruments of Destruction" - N.R.G.

18 September 1999
Seattle, Washington

So, David Ashton was gone. They had both known the time would come when they would have to leave one another, not just relocating together. It had happened before during their long lives, but it was never a happy parting. Although Ashton had found Jonathan a new guardian, the boy, part of him, the wariness of an Immortal, suspected treachery. He knew that was foolish, and he felt guilty for even thinking it. Ashton was a master swordsman, and could have had Fairbanks' head at any time had he wanted the boy out of the way. Fairbanks smiled. He was eight hundred years old, but Ashton could still call him "boy" for what was eight hundred years to one who had lived over four millennia, to one of the ancients?

Fairbanks exited the plane in Seattle, Washington. It had been a long flight from Georgia, made even longer by a delay for mechanical reasons which had required a two-day stopover in Chicago. He didn't mind. Time was not as much a concern to an Immortal. He had lived many human lifetimes and had the potential to live forever, though he doubted he would be the One. That was, of course, if that prophecy was true. David Ashton had expressed doubts about the truth of it. He had said, also, that he had encountered other ancients who shared this doubt, though none of them were old enough to know for certain. They knew as little of their origins and purpose as mortals did of theirs. If the prophecy was a false one, then it was created in a time so distant upon the earth that no Immortal, that they knew of, still lived who remembered a time before its formulation.

Fairbanks walked through the Seattle airport lugging his carryon bag. He still had to claim his suitcase which contained his wakizashi, but would first need to make a phone call. Ashton had given him a number to call when he got there, the number of the Whitakers. They would have been waiting for him had the flight gone as planned. Nothing seemed to be going as planned since he had gotten on the plane, though.

He went to a phone and put the bag at his feet while he made the call. But as he dialed, he became aware of others, as he might when feeling the presence of another Immortal, the wariness, but without the presence. It was the awareness of haragei, the perfect, almost mystical, oneness of a human with his environment. A haragei adept could sense the presence of mortals, especially other adepts or other potential enemies, almost as easily as Immortals could sense the presence of each other. It was yet another skill he had learned during his time with Ashton. He was not as skilled at the perception as Ashton, not by far, but he still noticed something was off about the crowd in the airport and that was enough to make him look around.

Two men approached wearing long black coats. They did not appear to be moving toward him, but they were certainly together, and were clearly amateurs, at least to Fairbanks' perspective. He hung up just as a voice answered, female. He turned. Several more men, similarly dressed, approached on his right. He looked to the left, and there were more. He reached down for the bag, a rapid movement, but they had expected it. They knew what was inside the bag, or thought so, anyway. And, Fairbanks thought fearfully, they knew what he was. He didn't know why that thought came to him. Maybe it was just the look in their eyes.

One of them moved in and kicked the bag away. It slid and clattered over the tiled floor of the airport lobby, but the noise was lost in the roar of conversation of a thousand voices, and the carryon was noticed only by a few, who quickly disregarded it. A man behind the boy fired three shots from a pistol into his back. The gun had a silencer and no one heard or saw as he slid to the ground, not dead yet but dying. The man stepped in closer, and putting the gun to the back of Fairbanks' head, fired once more. A skein of blood splattered all over the floor. He would have slid lifeless to the ground had not the others caught him.

They were attracting attention now. One of the men slung Fairbanks' limp form over his shoulder while another casually picked up the carryon bag and, surrounded by the others, moved quickly toward an exit, outside of which, no doubt, a car waited. People were crowding around them, asking questions, simply curious at first, not suspecting, in their innocent minds, that the boy was dead, then worried, angry, and fearful. Some moved away, afraid for their own lives, while the greater mass pushed in, wanting to know for sure, but knowing in their hearts that, yes, he was dead. They had killed him. Yes, there, blood, they shouted.

The men had reached the exit. They were unmoved by the crowd pushing against them. As the man carrying the dead boy moved through the exit, the others lifted weapons from beneath their long coats and cleared a path by firing randomly into the crowd. The people scattered. Bodies fell, blood pouring, the cold tile floor now slick with bright blood. Free now, the men moved through the exit and entered the car which immediately drove away at a fast speed, leaving the chaos behind, the mortal lives they had destroyed to get at the boy who was, they deemed, an abomination.

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Jonathan Fairbanks came to sudden life, air rushing into his lungs. He was lying on the floor of a large van, its vibration indicating that it was moving. He strained against his bonds. For a moment, his vision swam. Then, as it cleared, he saw that he was bound in chains and three men sat about him, holding weapons, but they were not the ancient weapons an Immortal might use, but modern weapons, firearms, though one of them held a sword.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The one holding the sword spoke. "Who we are does not concern you. You will be dead soon. But first we will make you tell us of others of your kind." He leaned in and smiled fiercely. "And the advantage is that we can torture you to death, again and again, until we get what we want. And then you will die, for good." He lifted the sword. "For good."

"Why?" Fairbanks asked wearily. He was still weak, but his strength was returning fast. He strained against his bonds, but knew it was useless. Not even the strongest of them could break those chains.

"Because you are an abomination, something that should never have existed, and must not be allowed to exist any longer."

Fairbanks' eyes fell to the tattoo on the sword wielding man's wrist. His brows rose. "I've seen that symbol before. You're Watchers."

The man struck him across the jaw. Fairbanks was stunned, but felt the pain only a little. Many Immortals developed an immensely high pain threshold over time. Despite his diminutive size, Fairbanks could withstand an immensity of discomfort.

"The Watchers" repeated the man. "Yes, we were a part of them, once, until we saw the truth."

Fairbanks said defiantly, "The truth? What is that? Do you fear us? Or is it because you are envious? You envy us our Immortality, while you are doomed to die? And because you can't have what we have, then you want to make us like you…?" The man struck him again, but Fairbanks barely acknowledged it. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "To make us mortal like you." He was struck again. The man leaned back then, and held the sword to Fairbanks' neck.

"You are mistaken."

One of the others moved over. There was a silent exchange between the two. The man with the sword sat back. The other, holding an M-16, struck Fairbanks across the face with the buttstock and the Immortal slumped back, unconscious.

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When Fairbanks awoke again, he was bound upon a table, naked to the waist. They were preparing to torture him for information then. He knew he would not betray his comrades. It was enough that his own life and the Quickening power he possessed would be lost in time forever. He would not betray others of his kind to the same fate through his own weakness and fear. He resolved himself for what was to come. They could torture him for an eternity and he would die many times before they took his head. He had suffered the pains of Spain's inquisitors; he could outlast what these amateurs had in store for him.

Using mental exercises learned over the centuries, from Luca Bianchi and David Ashton and others, he brought his mind and body to a state of calm. Other techniques could be used to limit the amount of pain felt by his body. But he was not yet a master of this technique. A true master could enter a trance-like state and be impervious to all pain and injury of the body. There were some Immortals who could achieve this. Fairbanks wished he'd been able to learn such a skill.

While Fairbanks waited, he wondered idly what methods of torture they would use. He looked at his bonds as he thought. They were iron, binding his wrists and ankles. He searched his memory for ways he might overcome them. In his time with David Ashton, he had learned much. Few among Immortals knew as much as David Ashton. Knowing that Fairbanks' survival might very well depend on his mastery of any number of things he knew, Ashton had sought to teach the boy everything. Such was an almost impossible task in the time they had been together. But even so, Fairbanks had mastered many things and had at least knowledge of others. Centuries or millennia would pass before he could have the same ability in these things as his mentor, but by the standards of mortals, he was skilled indeed. He also did not have to worry about damaging himself in escaping, as mortals might. None of those techniques were of use now, he thought. He had to do what he could. There was only one thing, though it was painful. He began working his right hand in the manacle that held it.

As he worked, one of the Hunters entered, carrying Fairbanks' prized wakizashi. The others, it seemed, were still preparing. Fairbanks continued to work. The Hunter laughed. He held the sword lazily in his right hand, swinging it idly for a while before leaning it against a wall, deciding it would not be needed for some time yet.

"You're wasting your time," he said. "You'll never get free of those. First we'll make you talk, then you will die."

Fairbanks stopped his work. He stared at the Hunter for a while.

"Thanks for collecting my suitcase from baggage claim," he said to the Hunter, grinning brightly.

The man scowled and said nothing. Finally deciding the others were taking too long, he picked up the sword and left. Fairbanks worked quickly now. He squeezed his hand painfully through the manacle, tearing it, crushing it. But, at last, bloodied and mangled, it came through, and he held it upon his chest, attempting to calm the pain with his mind while he waited for it to heal. He did not like the idea of doing this with his other hand, the pain was terrible. But he knew he must.

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He heard the approach of the Hunters. Two of them entered, holding weapons. They looked casually at Fairbanks. All his bonds at first glance appeared secure. But then one of them noticed the blood on this chest from when he had rested his hand there. One turned to the other and said, "Did you do that?"

The other shook his head no. They approached Fairbanks. As one leaned in to examine, Fairbanks lunged out, gripping the man's neck in a savage bite and holding fast. He grasped the submachine gun the Hunter held. Then, releasing him, the neck wound gushing blood, Fairbanks turned the gun expertly and shot the man in the chest. He fell away dead. The other man was fast, but could not compete with the battle-earned reflexes of an Immortal. Fairbanks shot him in the chest and the man fell.

Fairbanks heard the rapid footfalls of the other Hunter approaching. Quickly battering the two manacles binding his ankles with the butt of the weapon, they broke apart, and he was free just as the third Hunter entered. The Hunter fired his submachine gun immediately, two bullets ripping into the boy's side. Fairbanks took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The man's head virtually exploded.

Recovering his wakizashi from the second Hunter's body, he staggered from the building, then began running as a terrible fear overcame him.

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It was dusk. Fairbanks dragged himself quickly away from the building, taking note of his surroundings. Open fields lay to the north and west. To the south was a road, deserted at this time of night. He turned to the east, noting with satisfaction a wood. It wasn't as far away from the Hunters as he had hoped, but it would do. He staggered along, one debilitated arm dragging the wakizashi, knowing that he was damaging the blade, but too weak to care. The other arm, still clutching the purloined submachine gun, hugged the wound in his side.

The trees were only a few hundred meters away, but it seemed like kilometers to him. He knew he was dead, well, dying anyway. Better to do it tucked out of the way than in the open. Finally, he reached the dark shade of the forest, stumbling a few more meters into its cool green depths before dropping to the ground beneath a large pine tree. Oh, Tannenbaum. Oh, Tannenbaum, he thought, just before succumbing to death.

Five hours later, he awoke with a gasp, muttering again how much he hated the pain of rebirth. It took him several minutes to remember where he was and what had happened. At first, he had just thought it a bad dream, but the fact that he was in a wood in God-knows-where, barefoot, and wearing only his blue jeans only emphasized that it wasn't. He shivered as the cold gripped him. He would give anything to have his shirt back. He absolutely hated being cold.

A snap of twigs to his left brought him out of his reverie and he sat up, senses alert. Another snap and he knew it wasn't just a settling of the land. He stood, sword at his side. The brilliance of the flashlight caught him off-guard and he startled, his arm coming up to shade his eyes.

"Put the gun and sword down," a male voice, heavily accented, told him. It was backed up by the sound of a weapon's safety being released.

Fairbanks cursed himself, chastising that he should have wandered deeper into the trees before dying. Stupid idea, he thought, as if he had any control of when death took over.

He debated momentarily whether or not he should put up a struggle, but decided against it. He would only be shot and die again, no doubt, then who knows where he would wake up - or if. Perhaps they would just take his head before he resurrected. Alive, at least, he stood half a chance.

Swallowing slowly, Jonny lowered his weapons, allowing himself to be grabbed, his arms forced cruelly behind his back and handcuffed. Then he was pushed along in the darkness, tripping and falling over debris, banging into trees that he couldn't see, all the while a pair of rough hands continually landed in the small of his back and pushed him further.

Once back inside the building, he was able to assess his captors. The pusher was a small man with a deeply receding hairline and a severe overbite. The other, the one with the gun, Fairbanks presumed, was heavy set, his face marred with acne scars and dark circles under his eyes. He smiled cruelly at the boy.

"Thought you could escape, did you? Well, you didn't get very far. Immortal you might be, but it's been my experience that there are none of you too smart. Not much of a loss to society, if you ask me."

"I don't believe I did," Fairbanks shot back, earning a crack across the jaw for his comments.

The two men dragged him along a brightly lit corridor, taking the second door from the end. They pushed him roughly into a cell-like room. Fairbanks stumbled and sprawled across the floor, hands unable to break his fall. His head smacked soundly against the stone block wall. The door behind him shut loudly, the laughter of the two men reverberating down the hall as they walked away.

Fairbanks shook his head and struggled to sit up. He surveyed his surroundings, noting that, with the exception of a rough blanket, the room was empty. His eyes fell on the camera trained on him. It was suspended from the ceiling. Tentatively, he rose to his feet, crossing the room to the farthest corner. The camera swiveled and followed him.

"Big Brother is watching," Fairbanks muttered softly. He sat and lifted his knees to his chest and brought his cuffed hands over his feet to his front. Standing again, he began an inspection of every inch of his cell, looking for any weakness or weapon. He found none. With a frustrated sigh, he settled himself down on the floor, doing his best to wrap the blanket around his still shivering body, and waited for his captors' return, wondering what fate awaited him and if he would see the dawn.

Three hours later, after he had mentally repeated the alphabet in sixteen languages, gone through the times tables from three to three thousand, and tried to recall every religion he had ever encountered, the door opened.

A tall, red haired man stepped through, a Billy club in his hand. He smacked the end of it repeatedly into his free hand, a smirk across his face.

"Well, Mr. Fairbanks, we meet at last. I'm Alan Ottenbreit and I've been asked to visit you and see if I can't elicit some information from you. Perhaps you'll be more cooperative this time around."

Fairbanks shrugged but said nothing. His eyes rested firmly on the baton and his face was grave.

"So, shall we do it the easy way, or the hard way?" the Hunter asked. "Will you tell us where the others of your kind are…or do I have to beat it out of you." With the last part of the sentence Ottenbreit swung the truncheon, connecting with Fairbanks's right shoulder.

Fairbanks heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking and felt searing pain shoot down his arm. He yelped and struggled to move out of the way.

Ottenbreit swung again, this time connecting with Fairbanks' right knee, dropping him to the floor. Then, the Hunter placed one booted foot on the Immortal's chest, restraining him to the ground.

"I'm well aware of your regenerative abilities, Mr. Fairbanks, but what you need to ask yourself is just how many days, how many weeks, how many months can you put up with the pain, always knowing that when your shoulder heals, I will simply come back and break it again." Ottenbreit swung the club, viciously smashing Fairbanks's newly healed shoulder, destroying it yet again.

Fairbanks hissed audibly, but held his tongue. His eyes stared hard into the cold, bleak depths of Ottenbreit's gaze. Physically he could survive forever like this, assuming they didn't take his head. He would sustain the injury and heal, repeating the process as many times as they inflicted damage. Mentally, too, he was strong - he had been held prisoner before in his eight hundred years, tortured in unimaginable and indescribable ways. While he had no desire to do it again, he could not, would not, give up the lives of his friends.

"Hit me with your best shot," he snarled, inwardly preparing himself for another beating.

He wasn't disappointed. This time Ottenbreit struck his ribs, crushing them and damaging the vital organs beneath. Fairbanks could feel the blood pooling in his internal cavities. He knew he would bleed to death slowly, lungs, kidneys, liver and other systems all slowly shutting down until his entire body gave in and died. Only then would his body rejuvenate and rebuild to be whole again once more.

Ottenbreit noted the stubborn set to Fairbanks' face and prepared to swing again, this time aiming for his head. He was halted in mid-swing by the door opening and a female voice.

"Mr. Ottenbreit, Mr. Wrigley has asked to see you. Immediately."

Ottenbreit hesitated for a brief moment, then removed his foot from Fairbanks' chest. He pulled his shirt straight and strode toward the door. Turning, he addressed the Immortal.

"Heal quickly, Jonathan Fairbanks. I will be back." With that, he stepped out of the cell.

Fairbanks closed his eyes and waited for the clang of the door shutting - but it didn't. Instead, he was startled by the sound of a female voice, this time very close to him.

"Oh, Jonny, I'm so sorry. I tried to get here faster, but I couldn't."

Fairbanks opened his eyes and stared into the face of Natalie Lansky. She looked back at him, concern and fear across her face.

"You have to get out of here. It won't be long before Ottenbreit figures out Wrigley didn't send for him. He'll hang up the phone and come back even angrier than before."

She slipped one hand behind his back, drawing him up to a sitting position. Placing his scabbarded wakizashi next to him, she unlocked the handcuffs, freeing his arms.

He stared at her in amazement. "You're one of them?" he blurted. Natalie Lansky was the last person he had expected to see.

After taking Heinrich Gruber's head and realizing Lansky had seen him, Fairbanks had taken her back to his home. Once there, he had told David Ashton what she had seen, not sure what he should do about it. David had explained things to Natalie and arranged to have her meet some people he knew, people who would help her understand what she had seen. Watcher people.

After that, Natalie Lansky had disappeared. Fairbanks had assumed she had been recruited by the Watcher Organization.

"I'm not a Hunter!" she replied fiercely. "I'm scheduled to attend the Academy starting in the spring. Until then, Mr. Wrigley, one of the Regional Directors, has me assigned to "other duties." They told me this was a place where they took care of the unwanted Immortals. The ones who do no good and simply spread evil and malice around the world. I believed them...until I saw them bring you in." She bit her lip. "What an idiot I am. How could I be so naïve?"

Fairbanks glanced at the camera nervously. "Let's not worry about that right now. Right now, I need to get out of here before whoever is behind that," he pointed at the camera, "sounds the alarm."

Lansky responded with a small smile. She noted his questioning expression and smiled more. The boy looked like he needed it. "Oh, they won't, the person behind the camera is a bit busy at the moment...helping an Immortal escape." She ruffled his hair. He grinned shyly at her. She was stunned at how beautiful he was when he did that. It was time to go.

It took them almost half an hour to make their way out of the building, hiding in closets and offices as they went. It helped that Fairbanks' disappearance had yet to be noticed. Obviously, Mr. Wrigley and Mr. Ottenbreit had found something to discuss after all. It didn't help that he finally succumbed to his injuries in one disused office. Their saving grace was that he didn't take long to revive. Lansky was sitting beside him, holding his hand. She gasped almost as loudly as he did when he roused.

Eventually, they reached the final barrier, a manned security door that stood between them and freedom.

"Stay here, when you see he's distracted, move through the door. Don't look back, just keep going. My car is a red VW bug, the new kind. Take it and go." She handed him the keys. "You do know how to drive, don't you?"

Fairbanks nodded. "Yeah, I do. But what about you? I can't leave you here. They'll know you had something to do with it."

Lansky shook her head. "I'll try to get out with you, but don't wait for me. Just go. Tell the rest of your kind. And show them who to be wary of." She pressed a videocassette into his hands. Fairbanks had seen her pick it up from one of the offices they had hidden in, wondering what it contained.

Without waiting for his response, Lansky stepped into the hall. She paused momentarily, unbuttoning first one button on her blouse, then, after a thought, another. She wiggled her already short skirt up a few more inches and set off down the hallway.

"Well, Sam," she purred to the man at the guard station. "I didn't realize you were working today, too. I would have saved my coffee break." She hopped up on the counter in front of the man who was now giving her a lascivious grin, effectively blocking his view of the door. One hand moved behind herself, pressing the red button that allowed free access to and from the building.

"Well, N-N-N-Natalie. I didn't r-r-realize you were working e-e-e-either," the man managed to stutter, his eyes never leaving the woman's overly exposed chest.

Fairbanks saw his opportunity and took it. On his hands and knees, he hurriedly crawled to the door, pushing it open only as much as he needed to slide through. Once beyond the man's eyesight, he jumped to his feet and broke into a run.

The security guard swept Lansky from his desk, just catching Fairbanks's image on an outside security camera. Immediately he gave the alarm that the Immortal had been seen.

Slamming through the final door, Fairbanks was outside. He paused only briefly to get his bearings, noting a red VW bug parked in the far side of the lot. Again, he broke into a run, already hearing the pandemonium behind him.

An alarm blared behind him. His escape had been noted. Frantically searching the bundle of keys Lansky had given him, he finally selected the right one, thrust it into the lock and turned. The lock popped and he dove inside, just as a bullet whizzed by his head. Another followed, shattering the passenger window of the car.

Fairbanks slammed the door shut and put the key into the ignition, all the while keeping his head down. The engine started and he slammed the car into reverse, his head popping up to see where he was going. He sped toward a group of men and women scattered across the road, all armed with guns, every one pointed at him.

"Queynten," (Cunts,) he muttered, the Middle English expletive slipping from his lips easily.

Fairbanks slammed his foot to the floor and ducked. The Hunters continued to fire at the car until the last possible second, then they dove out of its way. The Bug sped by, crashing through the parking barrier and out onto the access road.

Fairbanks sat up, staring in the rearview mirror at the Hunters behind him. He saw Natalie Lansky in the milieu, being shoved roughly to her knees by Alan Ottenbreit. He gasped audibly as he watched her head explode.