Gundam Wing: The Highlander
CHAPTER 4 - The New Guy In Town
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Author: Ravena Kaiou
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com
Genre: Sci-fi/Action
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU.
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel on 73rd and Broadway, a group of derelicts littering the once-elegant room turned their attention on an ancient television set, ignoring the giant man who was signing into his room.
"Okay, Mr. Treize Khushrenada," the chain-smoking greaser behind the desk, Alex, said as he checked the name written in the register. "Room 315. Here's your key. And I'm gonna hit you for twenty bucks in advance."
The Khushrenada pulled out a thick roll of bills, dropping a twenty onto the counter. Kenny's eyes traced over the roll greedily. "Listen, you want anything...broads, blow, whatever, you just dial 0. Alex'll take care of you."
The Khushrenada ignored the man, picking up the black oblong case that he carried with him, and headed towards the elevator.
On a sagging bed in Room 315, the Khushrenada had taken his shirt off and was munching tacos while watching Yosemite Sam on the television, enjoying every moment of the violence. He scratched at one of the many heavy scars on his body, ignoring the cockroaches that crawled around on a hotplate.
Bored, he opened up his black case.
Laid out in velvet slots were the components of a very large sword. Meaty fingers caressed quillions, pommel, hilt, and blade as he got up and moved to the window. Below him, junkies shivered in what was affectionately known as Needle Park.
"At last...The Gathering," he chuckled, the unnerving sound echoing throughout the room.
A sudden knock drew him away from the window. The hulk of a man threw open the splintered, rotting door to reveal a dark-haired hooker in hot pants and boots, her breasts bursting from a tight sweater. She leaned casually on the jamb, cracking her gum.
"I'm Lucrezia," she drawled.
The Khushrenada grinned. "Of course you are."
He dragged the woman into the room and flung her onto the bed. Fearfully, she watched him unbuckle his belt, then slam the door shut.
Trowa sat in the Glamis tavern, slamming down a tankard of ale, Rashid and Relena sitting with him.
It was 1536, the day after the fight between the Fraziers and the MacLeods. Angry villagers packed the small place, the only thing on their minds being Quatre MacLeod's strange delivery from the very jaws of death.
Relena was thrilled by all the excitement.
"Ye saw the wound, Rashid," Trowa said quietly as he downed another sip of ale. "He should have died."
"I say he's got the devil in 'im," Relena blurted out.
The tavern erupted in shouts at the woman's remark, then suddenly turned to complete silence as Quatre entered.
Seeing Rashid, the risen man went to join the table.
"Drinking with us, are ye?" Trowa asked.
Quatre froze as Trowa rose from his seat, noticing how Relena's eyes were sparkling in anticipation and how Rashid avoided his very gaze.
"What's the matter, Trowa?" Quatre responded.
"Ye," Trowa hissed, advancing on his cousin. "Talking and breathing--and this morning, all but a corpse." He raised his voice so that the rest of the crowd could hear. "How did ye manage that, Quatre MacLeod?"
"Would ye rather I was dead?" Quatre answered cooly.
"It's not natural!" Relena cried to the crowd. "He's in league with Lucifer himself!"
"Don't say that, Kate!" Quatre shouted over the ensuing uproar.
"Fine, I'll say it. Ye've got the devil in ye," Trowa shouted back.
"We've been kinsmen fifteen years, cousin!"
"Quatre MacLeod was my kinsman," Trowa said in a quieter voice. "I don't know who ye are."
Relena's eyes danced in the electric tension surrounding the confrontation.
"Ye'd best leave, Quatre," Rashid warned.
"No! I'm not going anywhere!" Quatre proclaimed bravely.
Trowa swung suddenly at Quatre's head, knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs. A plowman destroyed a chair on Quatre's back.
"For God's sake, stop!" Rashid screamed over the din. "Stop!"
But the crowd didn't stop. A villager belted the now-struggling Quatre with a jug, watching in satisfaction as he disappeared under a shouting heap of clansmen.
A bit later, Trowa, Rashid, Father Dermail, and Relena found themselves standing in a circle of yelling villagers, staring at Quatre with an ox-yoke strapped to his back. Quatre's arms were bound to it with ropes, his face battered and bruised, knees buried in the dirt. Beyond the scene, Glamis Castle towered over Loch Shiel.
By now, the excitement had not only unhinged Relena's simple mind, but the minds of nearly everyone else in the village.
"He's yer cousin, man!" Rashid yelled at Trowa.
"Burn him," Father Dermail stated simply. "'Tis the only way."
The villagers chanted in agreement. "Burn him! Burn him," young and old shouted.
"Quiet!" Rashid thundered. The noise of the crowd subsided.
"There'll nae be a burning here today. We'll banish him instead," he said to the group.
"Burn him! Burn him!" Relena chanted, breaking the silence.
"Be quiet, you baggage!" Rashid roared in disgust by her religious frenzy.
The villagers shouted their objections as Rashid nodded to Trowa. The two men helped Quatre to his feet, supporting them as he staggered beneath the weight of the yoke.
"Can ye walk?" Rashid asked worriedly.
"I'll bloody well walk out of here," Quatre spat.
"Move, my friend," Rashid advised, "before they change their minds."
"I'll nae forget ye, Rashid!" Quatre called as villagers spit and cursed at him to drive the poor man out of their town.
"Devil! Devil! Devil!" Relena sang as she danced around him. Her song was contagious, as the rest of the villagers soon began to chant along with her.
Stumbling along the loch, Quatre headed for the mountains.
But in the twentieth century, Quatre was actually walking west on Christopher. The streetlights cast dim pools of light on anyone who would happen to pass by, making their faces look like those of the palest vampires. Dogs barked in the distance.
After a few minutes, Quatre smiled as he came to his home at 1182 Hudson Street. Surrounded by Irish bars, art galleries, and rubble-filled lots, it was the very echo of the Soho district.
He headed for the run-down shop next to the dilapidated ten-story glass-and-iron warehouse. On the shop door was "Q. Winner--Antiques" in a brilliant gold lettering that starkly contrasted with the overall dinginess of the rest of the neighborhood.
Quatre rummaged through his pocket for his keys, then upon retrieving them, unlocked the door and went inside.
After the doors of the freight elevator opened, a huge, open New York loft stood before him. The change from the drab outside to the sumptuous inside was stunning. Exotic fish swam in a huge aquarium that took up almost an entire wall.
But the glory of the living quarters didn't stop there. Quatre descended the stairs to a sunken living room, filled with modern art. A high ceiling rose over comfortable sofas, an Adam fireplace, and a window with a spectacular view of the river.
Moving past stereo speakers and televisions, he dropped his keys onto a table beside an intercom and answering machine. In a silver frame on the mantle was a photo of himself with a young girl, circa 1952.
Next, Quatre moved through a Georgian dining area, complete with a Queen Anne table, silver candlesticks, and intricate tapestries on the wall. He entered an ultra-modern kitchen, stocked with the newest appliances available.
Loosening his tie, he fixed himself a drink and walked out into his elegant, oval-shaped silver room. The walls were coated with fabric, and set off the spectacular arrangement of sofas, tables, and displays of ancient artifacts.
On one wall, thirteen broadswords from various eras were arranged like the spokes of a wheel. Beside them was a bronze shield, claymore, and cloak made of the black and yellow tartan of the Clan MacLeod.
Sipping his drink, he sank into a sofa, eyeing a glass case illuminated by several pin-spots. Inside was an ancient sheepskin doll, a 16th-century catalan feathered hat, and a rusted anvil and tongs.
Quatre stared at the anvil and tongs for a long while, remembering the life when he had made good use of them.
A red-hot piece of iron, gripped with tongs, crashed onto an anvil in a sweltering blacksmith's forge.
It was 1541, five years after Quatre MacLeod's banishment. Wielding a hammer, the exile was streaked with grime and sweat as he pounded out a horseshoe, occasionally plunging it into water and causing hissing steam to radiate from the metal.
By now, the young man had filled out quite nicely with muscle, although none of his wide-eyed youthful exuberance had faded.
Quatre took up the horseshoe and began shoeing a mare outside the small forge, which clung to a crag along a precarious trail. Not far down the trail was the small town of Jedburgh.
Up the hill was a three-story stone house. From the house appeared Une MacLeod, a full-breasted, lusty woman with apple cheeks, dressed in sheepskins, a bonnet and boots. She fed a gander of geese from the basket she carried, pausing to watch her husband work.
"Pie and ale!" Une called, waving another small basket. "D'ye want it?"
Quatre dropped his hammer and ran over to the woman, grabbing her buttocks and crushing her up against his strong body, a sly grin coming over his face.
"All the time," he said with a smirk.
"Ye filthy sod!" Une squealed with a smile on her face. "Ye're all muck and muscle!"
Quatre nodded. "Aye. The way ye like it." He grinned again and kissed her, then stripped his apron and dunked his torso in a rain barrel, shaking himself off like a dog.
Une smiled. He was the loveliest man in the world, according to her.
A bit later, Quatre and Une found themselves making love on the cliff-top in the grass. The remains of a picnic lay nearby.
Thunderheads soared over the mountains, proclaiming to all who noticed them that a storm was coming.
But neither Quatre nor Une paid much attention to them. Quatre kissed his wife passionately once more.
"Ye can do that forever if ye like, m'lord," Une whispered. "Will ye, Quatre?"
"Aye, blossom," Quatre whispered back. "I will."
A string of foreign curses startled them into sitting up.
A man with olive skin, a hawk nose, and twinkling eyes was climbing the trail to the forge, a flintlock pistol in his belt and a crossbow across his back. Strapped to his side was a Samurai sword with a carved handguard, razor-sharp and feather-light.
The poor traveler was terribly overheated in his cloak, pantaloons, feathers and gloves. Yet he still clambered higher, though nearly swooning with fatigue. Dragging himself to the top, he mopped his brow.
"Greetings!" he called. "I am Solo Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Chief Metallurgist to King Philip II of Spain."
He clicked his heels. "At your service, might I add."
"Who--?" Une asked with a start.
Solo ignored her. "My God, man!" he gasped, looking back down the trail. "That's a climb!" Breathlessly, he replaced his hat, adjusting various frills and furbellows.
"What d'ye want?" Quatre asked, just a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I'm looking for a Quatre MacLeod," Solo answered.
Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Maybe ye've found him."
The Spaniard watched him suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. "The same Quatre MacLeod wounded in battle and driven from his village five years ago?"
Something suddenly seized Quatre. He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe.
"Quatre?!" Une gasped in alarm.
"Une...go in the house," Quatre ordered between spurts of breath. When she hesitated, his tone became stronger. "Do as I say, woman!"
Une obediently went back up the hill and inside the house.
Solo flashed wall-to-wall teeth as thunder reverberated down the valley.
"A beautiful young woman," he said, jerking his head just slightly in the direction of the house. "Is she your wife?"
Quatre nodded.
"Sad," Solo commented, shaking his head.
Quatre's temples felt like they were in a vise as Solo opened his tunic, tracing a long, ugly scar that ran from neck to hip with an elegant figure.
"When I was young," he said cooly, "a cart ran over me. I should have died. But the wound healed by itself."
Stars began to explode inside Quatre's head. The forge, the house, and everything in between were spinning wildly.
"Ah, the sensations you feel..." Solo sighed. "It is the Quickening."
Thunder cracked overhead, as if to accentuate his statement. The storm broke in all its fury, a howling wind gusting over the valley and the two men within. Solo's golden eyes began to blaze with an unearthly light.
"Who are ye?!" Quatre shouted.
"We are the same, MacLeod," Solo shouted back. "We are brothers."
Lightning etched their silhouettes against the rolling sky.
In the twentieth century, Hilde was moving through a squad room towards Heero, who was on the phone at his desk. The walls of his office were plastered with mug shots, and occasionally reverberated with the hissing and banging of the steam pipes concealed inside.
Seeing Hilde, he waved her to a seat with the receiver as he shouted into the mouthpiece. "Listen pal," he said angrily, "my advice is, get a bigger one next time. Maybe one that'll bite him!"
He slammed down the phone, eyeing Hilde.
"Here's what I'm dealing with," he said in an agitated tone of voice. "Guy calls up Homicide. Wants to swear out a complaint. His Vietnamese neighbour ate his dog."
There was a moment of silence as he allowed himself to calm down.
"So? How are things in Forensics?"
"Dull," Hilde sighed. "Come on. Let's have lunch."
"Who pays?" Heero asked suspiciously.
"Me."
Heero liked that. He put on his coat, and the two of them headed for the door. But Hilde suddenly stopped.
"Heero, I left my purse," she said. "Go on, I'll catch you by the elevator."
Heero shrugged and left.
Seizing her chance, Hilde returned to the desk and opened a drawer, shuffling through stack after stack of papers until she found what she was looking for.
A bound blue folder containing photos of Fasil's body, the sword, a copy of an interrogation report, and a mug shot stared up at her.
Hilde's heart stopped as she saw the man in the mug shot.
It was the man from the bar who had fought the scarred giant.
"I'll be damned," she breathed. "So you're Quatre Raberba-Winner."
She stared at the picture for a long while. Even in the harsh photo flash, his face was compelling, his eyes haunting, evoking a timeless mystery.
She jumped as Heero's phone rang.
Glancing around, she jotted Quatre's address down, shut the drawer, grabbed her purse and headed out.
CHAPTER 4 - The New Guy In Town
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Author: Ravena Kaiou
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com
Genre: Sci-fi/Action
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU.
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel on 73rd and Broadway, a group of derelicts littering the once-elegant room turned their attention on an ancient television set, ignoring the giant man who was signing into his room.
"Okay, Mr. Treize Khushrenada," the chain-smoking greaser behind the desk, Alex, said as he checked the name written in the register. "Room 315. Here's your key. And I'm gonna hit you for twenty bucks in advance."
The Khushrenada pulled out a thick roll of bills, dropping a twenty onto the counter. Kenny's eyes traced over the roll greedily. "Listen, you want anything...broads, blow, whatever, you just dial 0. Alex'll take care of you."
The Khushrenada ignored the man, picking up the black oblong case that he carried with him, and headed towards the elevator.
On a sagging bed in Room 315, the Khushrenada had taken his shirt off and was munching tacos while watching Yosemite Sam on the television, enjoying every moment of the violence. He scratched at one of the many heavy scars on his body, ignoring the cockroaches that crawled around on a hotplate.
Bored, he opened up his black case.
Laid out in velvet slots were the components of a very large sword. Meaty fingers caressed quillions, pommel, hilt, and blade as he got up and moved to the window. Below him, junkies shivered in what was affectionately known as Needle Park.
"At last...The Gathering," he chuckled, the unnerving sound echoing throughout the room.
A sudden knock drew him away from the window. The hulk of a man threw open the splintered, rotting door to reveal a dark-haired hooker in hot pants and boots, her breasts bursting from a tight sweater. She leaned casually on the jamb, cracking her gum.
"I'm Lucrezia," she drawled.
The Khushrenada grinned. "Of course you are."
He dragged the woman into the room and flung her onto the bed. Fearfully, she watched him unbuckle his belt, then slam the door shut.
Trowa sat in the Glamis tavern, slamming down a tankard of ale, Rashid and Relena sitting with him.
It was 1536, the day after the fight between the Fraziers and the MacLeods. Angry villagers packed the small place, the only thing on their minds being Quatre MacLeod's strange delivery from the very jaws of death.
Relena was thrilled by all the excitement.
"Ye saw the wound, Rashid," Trowa said quietly as he downed another sip of ale. "He should have died."
"I say he's got the devil in 'im," Relena blurted out.
The tavern erupted in shouts at the woman's remark, then suddenly turned to complete silence as Quatre entered.
Seeing Rashid, the risen man went to join the table.
"Drinking with us, are ye?" Trowa asked.
Quatre froze as Trowa rose from his seat, noticing how Relena's eyes were sparkling in anticipation and how Rashid avoided his very gaze.
"What's the matter, Trowa?" Quatre responded.
"Ye," Trowa hissed, advancing on his cousin. "Talking and breathing--and this morning, all but a corpse." He raised his voice so that the rest of the crowd could hear. "How did ye manage that, Quatre MacLeod?"
"Would ye rather I was dead?" Quatre answered cooly.
"It's not natural!" Relena cried to the crowd. "He's in league with Lucifer himself!"
"Don't say that, Kate!" Quatre shouted over the ensuing uproar.
"Fine, I'll say it. Ye've got the devil in ye," Trowa shouted back.
"We've been kinsmen fifteen years, cousin!"
"Quatre MacLeod was my kinsman," Trowa said in a quieter voice. "I don't know who ye are."
Relena's eyes danced in the electric tension surrounding the confrontation.
"Ye'd best leave, Quatre," Rashid warned.
"No! I'm not going anywhere!" Quatre proclaimed bravely.
Trowa swung suddenly at Quatre's head, knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs. A plowman destroyed a chair on Quatre's back.
"For God's sake, stop!" Rashid screamed over the din. "Stop!"
But the crowd didn't stop. A villager belted the now-struggling Quatre with a jug, watching in satisfaction as he disappeared under a shouting heap of clansmen.
A bit later, Trowa, Rashid, Father Dermail, and Relena found themselves standing in a circle of yelling villagers, staring at Quatre with an ox-yoke strapped to his back. Quatre's arms were bound to it with ropes, his face battered and bruised, knees buried in the dirt. Beyond the scene, Glamis Castle towered over Loch Shiel.
By now, the excitement had not only unhinged Relena's simple mind, but the minds of nearly everyone else in the village.
"He's yer cousin, man!" Rashid yelled at Trowa.
"Burn him," Father Dermail stated simply. "'Tis the only way."
The villagers chanted in agreement. "Burn him! Burn him," young and old shouted.
"Quiet!" Rashid thundered. The noise of the crowd subsided.
"There'll nae be a burning here today. We'll banish him instead," he said to the group.
"Burn him! Burn him!" Relena chanted, breaking the silence.
"Be quiet, you baggage!" Rashid roared in disgust by her religious frenzy.
The villagers shouted their objections as Rashid nodded to Trowa. The two men helped Quatre to his feet, supporting them as he staggered beneath the weight of the yoke.
"Can ye walk?" Rashid asked worriedly.
"I'll bloody well walk out of here," Quatre spat.
"Move, my friend," Rashid advised, "before they change their minds."
"I'll nae forget ye, Rashid!" Quatre called as villagers spit and cursed at him to drive the poor man out of their town.
"Devil! Devil! Devil!" Relena sang as she danced around him. Her song was contagious, as the rest of the villagers soon began to chant along with her.
Stumbling along the loch, Quatre headed for the mountains.
But in the twentieth century, Quatre was actually walking west on Christopher. The streetlights cast dim pools of light on anyone who would happen to pass by, making their faces look like those of the palest vampires. Dogs barked in the distance.
After a few minutes, Quatre smiled as he came to his home at 1182 Hudson Street. Surrounded by Irish bars, art galleries, and rubble-filled lots, it was the very echo of the Soho district.
He headed for the run-down shop next to the dilapidated ten-story glass-and-iron warehouse. On the shop door was "Q. Winner--Antiques" in a brilliant gold lettering that starkly contrasted with the overall dinginess of the rest of the neighborhood.
Quatre rummaged through his pocket for his keys, then upon retrieving them, unlocked the door and went inside.
After the doors of the freight elevator opened, a huge, open New York loft stood before him. The change from the drab outside to the sumptuous inside was stunning. Exotic fish swam in a huge aquarium that took up almost an entire wall.
But the glory of the living quarters didn't stop there. Quatre descended the stairs to a sunken living room, filled with modern art. A high ceiling rose over comfortable sofas, an Adam fireplace, and a window with a spectacular view of the river.
Moving past stereo speakers and televisions, he dropped his keys onto a table beside an intercom and answering machine. In a silver frame on the mantle was a photo of himself with a young girl, circa 1952.
Next, Quatre moved through a Georgian dining area, complete with a Queen Anne table, silver candlesticks, and intricate tapestries on the wall. He entered an ultra-modern kitchen, stocked with the newest appliances available.
Loosening his tie, he fixed himself a drink and walked out into his elegant, oval-shaped silver room. The walls were coated with fabric, and set off the spectacular arrangement of sofas, tables, and displays of ancient artifacts.
On one wall, thirteen broadswords from various eras were arranged like the spokes of a wheel. Beside them was a bronze shield, claymore, and cloak made of the black and yellow tartan of the Clan MacLeod.
Sipping his drink, he sank into a sofa, eyeing a glass case illuminated by several pin-spots. Inside was an ancient sheepskin doll, a 16th-century catalan feathered hat, and a rusted anvil and tongs.
Quatre stared at the anvil and tongs for a long while, remembering the life when he had made good use of them.
A red-hot piece of iron, gripped with tongs, crashed onto an anvil in a sweltering blacksmith's forge.
It was 1541, five years after Quatre MacLeod's banishment. Wielding a hammer, the exile was streaked with grime and sweat as he pounded out a horseshoe, occasionally plunging it into water and causing hissing steam to radiate from the metal.
By now, the young man had filled out quite nicely with muscle, although none of his wide-eyed youthful exuberance had faded.
Quatre took up the horseshoe and began shoeing a mare outside the small forge, which clung to a crag along a precarious trail. Not far down the trail was the small town of Jedburgh.
Up the hill was a three-story stone house. From the house appeared Une MacLeod, a full-breasted, lusty woman with apple cheeks, dressed in sheepskins, a bonnet and boots. She fed a gander of geese from the basket she carried, pausing to watch her husband work.
"Pie and ale!" Une called, waving another small basket. "D'ye want it?"
Quatre dropped his hammer and ran over to the woman, grabbing her buttocks and crushing her up against his strong body, a sly grin coming over his face.
"All the time," he said with a smirk.
"Ye filthy sod!" Une squealed with a smile on her face. "Ye're all muck and muscle!"
Quatre nodded. "Aye. The way ye like it." He grinned again and kissed her, then stripped his apron and dunked his torso in a rain barrel, shaking himself off like a dog.
Une smiled. He was the loveliest man in the world, according to her.
A bit later, Quatre and Une found themselves making love on the cliff-top in the grass. The remains of a picnic lay nearby.
Thunderheads soared over the mountains, proclaiming to all who noticed them that a storm was coming.
But neither Quatre nor Une paid much attention to them. Quatre kissed his wife passionately once more.
"Ye can do that forever if ye like, m'lord," Une whispered. "Will ye, Quatre?"
"Aye, blossom," Quatre whispered back. "I will."
A string of foreign curses startled them into sitting up.
A man with olive skin, a hawk nose, and twinkling eyes was climbing the trail to the forge, a flintlock pistol in his belt and a crossbow across his back. Strapped to his side was a Samurai sword with a carved handguard, razor-sharp and feather-light.
The poor traveler was terribly overheated in his cloak, pantaloons, feathers and gloves. Yet he still clambered higher, though nearly swooning with fatigue. Dragging himself to the top, he mopped his brow.
"Greetings!" he called. "I am Solo Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Chief Metallurgist to King Philip II of Spain."
He clicked his heels. "At your service, might I add."
"Who--?" Une asked with a start.
Solo ignored her. "My God, man!" he gasped, looking back down the trail. "That's a climb!" Breathlessly, he replaced his hat, adjusting various frills and furbellows.
"What d'ye want?" Quatre asked, just a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I'm looking for a Quatre MacLeod," Solo answered.
Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Maybe ye've found him."
The Spaniard watched him suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. "The same Quatre MacLeod wounded in battle and driven from his village five years ago?"
Something suddenly seized Quatre. He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe.
"Quatre?!" Une gasped in alarm.
"Une...go in the house," Quatre ordered between spurts of breath. When she hesitated, his tone became stronger. "Do as I say, woman!"
Une obediently went back up the hill and inside the house.
Solo flashed wall-to-wall teeth as thunder reverberated down the valley.
"A beautiful young woman," he said, jerking his head just slightly in the direction of the house. "Is she your wife?"
Quatre nodded.
"Sad," Solo commented, shaking his head.
Quatre's temples felt like they were in a vise as Solo opened his tunic, tracing a long, ugly scar that ran from neck to hip with an elegant figure.
"When I was young," he said cooly, "a cart ran over me. I should have died. But the wound healed by itself."
Stars began to explode inside Quatre's head. The forge, the house, and everything in between were spinning wildly.
"Ah, the sensations you feel..." Solo sighed. "It is the Quickening."
Thunder cracked overhead, as if to accentuate his statement. The storm broke in all its fury, a howling wind gusting over the valley and the two men within. Solo's golden eyes began to blaze with an unearthly light.
"Who are ye?!" Quatre shouted.
"We are the same, MacLeod," Solo shouted back. "We are brothers."
Lightning etched their silhouettes against the rolling sky.
In the twentieth century, Hilde was moving through a squad room towards Heero, who was on the phone at his desk. The walls of his office were plastered with mug shots, and occasionally reverberated with the hissing and banging of the steam pipes concealed inside.
Seeing Hilde, he waved her to a seat with the receiver as he shouted into the mouthpiece. "Listen pal," he said angrily, "my advice is, get a bigger one next time. Maybe one that'll bite him!"
He slammed down the phone, eyeing Hilde.
"Here's what I'm dealing with," he said in an agitated tone of voice. "Guy calls up Homicide. Wants to swear out a complaint. His Vietnamese neighbour ate his dog."
There was a moment of silence as he allowed himself to calm down.
"So? How are things in Forensics?"
"Dull," Hilde sighed. "Come on. Let's have lunch."
"Who pays?" Heero asked suspiciously.
"Me."
Heero liked that. He put on his coat, and the two of them headed for the door. But Hilde suddenly stopped.
"Heero, I left my purse," she said. "Go on, I'll catch you by the elevator."
Heero shrugged and left.
Seizing her chance, Hilde returned to the desk and opened a drawer, shuffling through stack after stack of papers until she found what she was looking for.
A bound blue folder containing photos of Fasil's body, the sword, a copy of an interrogation report, and a mug shot stared up at her.
Hilde's heart stopped as she saw the man in the mug shot.
It was the man from the bar who had fought the scarred giant.
"I'll be damned," she breathed. "So you're Quatre Raberba-Winner."
She stared at the picture for a long while. Even in the harsh photo flash, his face was compelling, his eyes haunting, evoking a timeless mystery.
She jumped as Heero's phone rang.
Glancing around, she jotted Quatre's address down, shut the drawer, grabbed her purse and headed out.