Betting Man: Michael DeLioncourt vs. Christopher McCready
February 1, 2001
Edited by Greg Masterson for the Highlander Role Playing Game
This Story is Rated PG
"Well, well. If it isn't the rock star."
Michael De Lioncourt turned at the words, but the youth who spoke them was a stranger to him. The low keyed thrum that emanated from the boy was familiar though, and Michael closed his eyes for the length of a heartbeat, remembering what it had been like to be that young and unprepared for the realities of life.
The boy was . . . what? Eighteen, perhaps; younger than Michael had been when he'd tasted first death so long ago; younger than Michael would ever be again.
All things considered, Michael was inclined to ignore him and get on with life.
"So, what? You're just going to turn your back on me, Mr. Rock Star?" the kid asked, his voice getting louder. "Gonna walk away from a fan?" he demanded. "Can't I even get a f***ing autograph?"
Escalating, the voice followed Michael all the way down Water Street, but the boy apparently had better things to do than follow him. Like play with his scooter, for heaven's sake. De Lioncourt sighed, watching the kid push off from the curb and head away. One and two generations before in America, scooters had been kids' toys, reserved for children too young for two-wheel bicycles, but they'd been revived as last year's hot item with the teens.
God, Michael thought. When he was eighteen, he'd been a man, with a man's responsibilities; not some whining kid who thought the world owed him a living and fifteen minutes of fame. And if anyone could tell you the limitations of fame, it was Michael De Lioncourt . . .
Michael Templar of Metaldeath. Michael Templar and the Acolytes. Michael Templar and the Order--it was laughable, really, when you thought about it. A five hundred-year-old Immortal and he'd spent a fair portion of the last twenty years chasing after fame and fortune, obsessed with having his name ranked with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Byron and the like.
He rounded the corner, squinting momentarily as the sinking sun flashed abruptly into a plate glass window on the opposite side of the street. Catching sight of his own reflection, Michael ran one hand through his blond hair, worn loose today to his shoulders. The sunglasses he habitually wore lent an extra shade of bluish gray to all he saw, toning down the brilliant white the windows reflected back: white shirt, open at the neck, cuffs rolled up to his elbows to show muscular forearms; white jeans, frayed at the hem in a way that marked them as old, comfortable favorites.
Rock star, he thought.
A little over a month ago he'd been at the Chambersville Fairgrounds with his new group, the Order. Of course, thirteen years before he'd played Madison Square Garden, so the state fair circuit was a bit of a let down, but at least no one had been shooting at him. Death by assassin on the stage of Madison Square Garden, Michael thought, shaking his head. Now, that was a tough act to top.
How he'd ever thought he could get away with yet another resurrection of his rock 'n' roll fantasies he couldn't imagine. Fortunately, it didn't look like he was going to have to worry about it. Less than half way through the state fair circuit, he'd wound up in California with the Order. Their manager had arranged a week's studio work for them, covering a few numbers on the soundtrack of a teen flick no one would remember in six months. For Michael, it had been a reminder of just how grim the climb to the top could be. For the rest of the group, it had proved to be too much and three days into the recording sessions it was obvious the Order--and his musical career--was falling apart. Michael had walked out rather than face the final disintegration of his band.
His wanderings had taken him northward up the coast and he'd figured he'd hole up in Seattle for a while, touch base with some old friends, maybe see if he could still get a posting on a local archaeological dig. Do anything, he thought, except think about the past few weeks. His mood soured. He turned several corners without even thinking and found himself out of the throng of evening foot traffic on a block urban renewal had apparently neglected of late.
The sense of another Immortal whispered suddenly, bringing Michael's dark musing to an abrupt end and his attention into sharp relief. The sense was just a touch at the moment, but there nonetheless, almost enticing. Unfortunately, he wasn't even wearing a sword since his casual summer clothing would have made the customary calf-length coat cause for immediate comment. Instead, his Walther P99 was snug in its holster, a comforting weight at the small of his back, easily concealed by a shirt tail on such a day.
Stay or withdraw? He debated, but not too long or too hard. It was a bit more than a month since he'd done more than spar, and his hand itched for the feel of a sword. In this case, he figured, the other fellow's would likely do very well. Anyone else might have considered it foolhardy, but Michael had to admit it: There was a grin on his face as he ducked into the alleyway and slipped silently to the rear of the building, ears alert to any sound.
There. The creak of a hinge that needed oiling. It could have been nothing, but Michael had always been a betting man. He looked up, and out of one eye he could just make out a door to the metal fire escape stairs overhead. As he watched, it closed slowly, silently.
Michael slipped the Walther from its belt holster and moved quietly up the metal stairs to a paint-flecked steel door stenciled with the name of whichever past occupant had last bothered with such niceties. His heart loud in his ears, Michael eased open the door and stepped inside.
There was no one in sight, though the sense of another Immortal near by was undeniably stronger. He crossed the empty space and moved up four steps to a slightly elevated level, both hands wrapped around the gun butt now.
Another door, this one leading to a flight of ten or twelve stairs and the floor above.
Oh, what the hell?
Moving quietly, he took the stairs two at a time, senses alert to the ever-increasing sense of another Immortal.
At the top of the stairs he stepped right into Chris McCready's forearm as the other man slammed it into his face. Backed up as it was with a leather wrist brace and supporting McCready's impressive Scottish half bastard sword, De Lioncourt's only real surprise was how many of the stairs he actually managed to miss as he tumbled backward down their length.
Sprawled at the foot of the stairs, De Lioncourt threw himself sideways, but not fast enough to avoid the toe of McCready's boot as it knocked the gun out of his hand and sent it skidding across the cement floor.
"I'm Christopher McCready," his opponent said above him, "and you just made your last mistake."
Face down on the rough floor and painfully aware he'd broken at least one wrist in the fall, De Lioncourt swallowed. Slowly--cautiously--he rolled onto his back, hands up and empty, posing no threat to his attacker.
"I don't suppose we could talk about this," De Lioncourt said. He watched as McCready's dark eyebrow climbed toward an equally dark shock of hair. A grin spread across the man's face and his blade caught the evening sun as he swung, deadly accurate.
"Yeah," De Lioncourt thought. "That's what I thought."