"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith"--2 Timothy 4:7
Elijah vanished without a trace, and with him presumably went any wealth that Chang had amassed over the centuries. The SFPD, when they came to investigate reports of gunfire, and a man who'd fallen from a ten-story building, found plenty of corpses, one missing a head, and a lot of drugs. What they didn't find, however, was any trace of eyewitnesses, financial records, or forensic evidence. The discovery of presumed-dead Inspector Harry Callaghan's fingerprints on the tenth floor were baffling, but ultimately turned up no leads. No arrests were made as a result of the discovery, but the mayor told the press that 'A great deal of good has been done by the heroic men, and women, of the SFPD.'
Meanwhile on Fisherman's Wharf, two men walked and talked and ate. One was a grim man of medium build, with shaggy brown hair and cold grey eyes. He was wearing a long overcoat despite the climate. Alongside him strode a tall, weathered man, his hair a steely grey, his face like old leather. In his hand was a long gym bag.
"So, Harry," the first man was saying. "What are you going to do now?"
His companion finished chewing his food before answering. "I've got my new identity set up, all legalities taken care of. Birth certificate, drivers license, whole deal. Now I figure I'll head out on the road for a while, see if I can't find someplace to settle down. If I can't, I'll just keep moving."
"How are you for money?"
"About $100,000 in cash. Chang had some loose change stashed in his desk, and I figured he didn't need it anymore. I won't have to find work for a while. What about you? What're your plans?"
"I'm heading back to New York. I have a business to run, and I've been away too long."
"Maybe I'll drop in sometime. Or is that against the rules, too?"
"Nothing wrong with old friends seeing each other, Harry." Connor grinned. "And I'm the oldest friend you've got. Maybe you'll make others among our kind. Mentors, allies, even students of your own. Just remember: There can be only one."
Harry frowned. "If it came down to just the two of us, would you take my head?"
"That's what I asked Ramirez."
"What'd he say?"
"Nothing." Connor took a bite of his sandwich, washing it down with a swallow of coke.
"And you let him get away with that?" Harry frowned again.
"Listen Harry. The Game has gone on for countless centuries. It may go on for millenia. And even if the Gathering is right around the corner, there are enough true enemies to fight that friends probably won't need to worry. One or both of us will probably die well before the final battle."
Harry finished masticating the last of his hot dog. "And if not? Is the Prize worth killing a friend for?"
"I don't know," Connor answered. "And I don't think I ever will know, not unless it is put to the test." A look came into Connor's eyes that Harry had only seen once before: When the Highlander had told his story at the fireside. A haunted look, sad, whistful, and perhaps a little bit afraid. "I lost touch with religion when the village priest and his...His pupil, burned my mother for heresy and black magic. I lost religion, but some prayers I still say daily. One of them is that I never need to face a friend at swordpoint. So far, God seems to have listened."
Harry put a massive hand on Connor's shoulder. "I'll be seeing you, Connor. Don't lose your head."
Connor grinned. "If I could survive teaching you, Dirty Harry, I can survive anything. Take care of yourself."
And with that, the two men parted, comrades-in-arms in the battle that was their life.
Elijah vanished without a trace, and with him presumably went any wealth that Chang had amassed over the centuries. The SFPD, when they came to investigate reports of gunfire, and a man who'd fallen from a ten-story building, found plenty of corpses, one missing a head, and a lot of drugs. What they didn't find, however, was any trace of eyewitnesses, financial records, or forensic evidence. The discovery of presumed-dead Inspector Harry Callaghan's fingerprints on the tenth floor were baffling, but ultimately turned up no leads. No arrests were made as a result of the discovery, but the mayor told the press that 'A great deal of good has been done by the heroic men, and women, of the SFPD.'
Meanwhile on Fisherman's Wharf, two men walked and talked and ate. One was a grim man of medium build, with shaggy brown hair and cold grey eyes. He was wearing a long overcoat despite the climate. Alongside him strode a tall, weathered man, his hair a steely grey, his face like old leather. In his hand was a long gym bag.
"So, Harry," the first man was saying. "What are you going to do now?"
His companion finished chewing his food before answering. "I've got my new identity set up, all legalities taken care of. Birth certificate, drivers license, whole deal. Now I figure I'll head out on the road for a while, see if I can't find someplace to settle down. If I can't, I'll just keep moving."
"How are you for money?"
"About $100,000 in cash. Chang had some loose change stashed in his desk, and I figured he didn't need it anymore. I won't have to find work for a while. What about you? What're your plans?"
"I'm heading back to New York. I have a business to run, and I've been away too long."
"Maybe I'll drop in sometime. Or is that against the rules, too?"
"Nothing wrong with old friends seeing each other, Harry." Connor grinned. "And I'm the oldest friend you've got. Maybe you'll make others among our kind. Mentors, allies, even students of your own. Just remember: There can be only one."
Harry frowned. "If it came down to just the two of us, would you take my head?"
"That's what I asked Ramirez."
"What'd he say?"
"Nothing." Connor took a bite of his sandwich, washing it down with a swallow of coke.
"And you let him get away with that?" Harry frowned again.
"Listen Harry. The Game has gone on for countless centuries. It may go on for millenia. And even if the Gathering is right around the corner, there are enough true enemies to fight that friends probably won't need to worry. One or both of us will probably die well before the final battle."
Harry finished masticating the last of his hot dog. "And if not? Is the Prize worth killing a friend for?"
"I don't know," Connor answered. "And I don't think I ever will know, not unless it is put to the test." A look came into Connor's eyes that Harry had only seen once before: When the Highlander had told his story at the fireside. A haunted look, sad, whistful, and perhaps a little bit afraid. "I lost touch with religion when the village priest and his...His pupil, burned my mother for heresy and black magic. I lost religion, but some prayers I still say daily. One of them is that I never need to face a friend at swordpoint. So far, God seems to have listened."
Harry put a massive hand on Connor's shoulder. "I'll be seeing you, Connor. Don't lose your head."
Connor grinned. "If I could survive teaching you, Dirty Harry, I can survive anything. Take care of yourself."
And with that, the two men parted, comrades-in-arms in the battle that was their life.