Richie awoke at noon. He was momentarily surprised to find himself occupying Duncan's bed, but then the memories came thundering back. Mac's dead… Richie closed his eyes against the pain, but his desire to wallow was only short lived. Renault.

Richie crawled out of bed and showered. He made coffee and went downstairs to the dojo office. A quick check of his email and he found the files that Pete had emailed him. Giving himself a mental note to find a way to repay his roommate, Richie printed the files.

By one, he was done studying them. The guy is a cheater. Richie went over in his mind the various ways a person can cheat and found that Renault favored using guns and modified tasers. That must be how he beat Mac… Richie suddenly remembered Duncan telling him the story of how the watchers killed Darius. I need some non-conductive clothing.

At one-thirty Richie had returned from the hardware store. He bought some miracle product that, once applied like shellac, prevented electricity from penetrating to a conductive material. Unfortunately it would dull and probably weaken the blade, so instead he treated the hilt. If I can get the stream onto my sword I can beat him, Richie thought, momentarily remembering certain scenes from Star Wars.

His sword was finished at two-thirty. Richie then decided that if he was going to defeat Renault he would need something in his stomach. Perusing Mac's cupboard and freezer, Richie found the ingredients to make cheeseburgers. A fitting last meal for Richie Ryan, he thought fondly as he flipped the patties, remembering how often Tessa had chided him about his eating habits.

By three Richie had eaten. Now it was time to prepare himself mentally. He meditated the way Mac taught him for a half an hour to clear his mind. He only had one objective: kill Renault. Everything else melted away, nothing extraneous would distract him from his goal. There was an eerie calm to it all: preparing to avenge his teacher, father, best friend, or whatever descriptions came to mind. Killing Renault. Just a goal. Something to strive for. Something that required all of his energies and attention.

After meditating, Richie went downstairs to the dojo and went through some weaponless katas. His motion grew more fluid with each repetition, his body moving of its own accord as his mind was free to roam elsewhere. He thought of Mac and Tessa, how much they had both meant to him, and how they were now both gone. He remembered having the opportunity to avenge Tessa, but decided not to leave a fatherless child behind. Tessa wouldn't have wanted that. Besides, once he made the punk realize that he had killed her, living with that knowledge was sufficient enough.

This time was different. This time it was part of the gathering. This time avenging Mac was perfectly legal and acceptable. This time there were no alternatives, no causes for mercy. This time Renault will die!

Richie felt the anger rise, but he was ready for it. He forced it down into his limbs, keeping his mind focused on his fonder memories of Duncan and Tessa. The anger never reached his head and was unable to cloud his thinking. Idly he realized that this was a skill it took centuries for some immortals to learn, whereas he was lucky enough to inherit it through a quickening. One of the only decent things the transfer of knowledge and power had actually brought him.

Some time after five Richie decided it was time to go. He changed into a pair of black jeans and a long sleeve black tee. He wore his fencing cup for protection against an ill-placed blow and regretted that Kevlar would restrict his movements too much. He grabbed his jacket and fitted his sword into it. He left the papers on the counter and grabbed his bike helmet.

Only one thing remained. Richie went back into the bedroom and grabbed Mac's address book. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone, dreading making this phone call perhaps more than the actual fight itself. He dialed Connor's personal number and was grateful when the voicemail picked up.

This is Russell Nash. I'm out of town on Business. Leave a message.
Beep.

"Connor…" Richie began. He took a deep breath and continued: "I don't know how to say this so I'll just say it. Mac's…" Richie hated the sound of his own voice. Mac was a term of endearment, a nickname. Duncan MacLeod was more than that. He was a real person. A real person who meant the world to many people. And now he was gone. "Duncan's—" for some reason saying his teacher's real name, which Richie very rarely used, was even harder. "Dead." There. He said it.

Richie took a few more calming breaths, then: "I've worked out who… The bastard's tryin' to leave town. I'm gonna try and catch him at the airport…" Richie had to struggle to keep his voice from breaking. Saying it gave the information the last touch of finality that he could not escape. "I've left my key under the front doormat. At the dojo. All the information is upstairs on the counter…" Richie wanted to say in case I don't make it you have to finish it, but he could accept the possibility that he would fail. He wouldn't fail Mac, not now.

"I don't know when you'll get this message. Hopefully you check you messages often in case—" Richie bit his lip in he struggle to maintain his composure. He could taste the coppery droplets of blood as his lip instantly healed. "This son of a bitch is mine." Richie gave voice to the anger, but it sounded hollow to him. "I'm sorry," he finished, knowing that Connor wouldn't take this well at all. Then he hung up the phone on what was one of the hardest things he has ever done in his brief life, and grabbed his jacket and helmet.

It was time to kill that son of a bitch.

Richie made it to the airport in record time. He knew which flights were leaving for Portland and made his way through those terminals hoping to feel the presence of an immortal.

He wasn't disappointed.

Renault was sitting in terminal C, casually reading a newspaper. He looked up upon feeling Richie's presence and Richie made a beeline straight for him.

"Can I help you?" The man asked innocently.

"Jean-Pierre Renault," Richie said with perfect French inflection.

"And who the hell are you?" he asked impatiently.

Richie's voice was like ice. "A challenger."

"Well you've caught me at a bad time. You see, I've already checked my bag and—"

"Bullshit." Richie cut him off. "You're too old to not know how to carry your sword on a plane." He kept his voice low to avoid attracting attention, and it lent a menacing quality to his speech.

Renault regarded Richie sternly for a moment. "Leave now if you want to live," he said, just as menacingly. "Right now I'm after bigger fish than you."

Richie laughed a hollow, sneering laugh. "You can always catch the next flight."

"You've made a big mistake boy," Renault declared, rising from his chair. "You shan't live to regret it."

"You made the mistake," Richie nearly spat the words, "when you went after my teacher."

Renault grabbed his carry-on bag. "Where?" he asked.

"Parking garage. West Gate. It's closed for construction."

"I know it."

Richie and Renault walked through the airport in silence. When they arrived at the parking garage Richie removed his sword from his jacket, discarding the jacket on the ground. Renault also discarded his jacket after having removed his sword. They moved slightly away from the entrance.

"Care to tell me your name?" Renault asked casually.

"Richard MacLeod," Richie supplied, surprising himself as the name rolled easily off his tongue.

"Another MacLeod eh? Well I'll be damned."

He's got a French bastard sword, hand and a half. I don't think its balance is correct. He's confident. Richie went through a mental checklist as they circled each other. Then he was Richie who attacked first. It was a cautious strike, a few blows easily parried.

"Is that all you've got?" Renault taunted.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Richie came right back. He attacked again, this time with increased speed and intensity, striking at different places then before. Again Renault easily parried them.

"I think I'm getting bored," Renault declared.

Richie just laughed coldly. He has a solid defense, but won't attack and defend at the same time. If I can get him to go on the offensive…

His thoughts were interrupted when Renault took out what Richie momentarily thought resembled a cell phone. The small electronic device then shot a dart at him and Richie realized too late that it was connected to a taser wire. Renault depressed the button and Richie's knees buckled as the electricity assaulted his body. He just barely kept a hand on his sword.

"Didn't I tell you that you'd live longer if you'd have minded your own business?" Renault asked as he shocked Richie again. Richie cried out in pain as Renault upped the power to overzealous cattle prod he was holding.

Get your sword up Ryan!

Richie didn't know where the voice came from, but he quickly did as he was told. He swung his sword up, but rather than severing the wire his blade merely ground against it. Renault upped the voltage again and Richie saw white spots dancing before his eyes even as some secluded part of his brain informed him that the 'taser modifications' the watchers recorded meant that the wire was made of something difficult to cut through when you've got untold amps coursing through your body.

That's when Richie remembered his hilt. If he could direct the current to his sword instead of his body he stood a chance of disarming Renault. Unfortunately the taser dart—the other modification, he belatedly realized, was short and barbed like a crossbow bolt. Removing it would be immensely painful—provided he could wrap his hand around it long enough to pull it out.

Your sword, Ryan!

Again the voice, calling out from somewhere and penetrating the haze of pain that was his world right now, and suddenly Richie knew what to do. Summoning the rest of his strength and swung his sword again. Only this time, as the blade slid against the wire, he dropped the tip down and allowed the wire to encircle the blade. There was enough give in the wire afterwards for one more pass, and again that secluded part of his mind noted the fact that his hands weren't being shocked by gripping his sword hilt.

"Not this time!" Richie ground out through grit teeth, barely audibly, as he tightened his grip on his sword and yanked upwards. With a sickening squish-like noise that resounded loudly (if imaginary) inside his brain, the taser dart tore its way back out of Richie's flesh, and suddenly the pain stopped. The taser dart now dangled at the end of the wire, dancing as if alive from the electricity. The barbed tip was coated with blood and began smoking as the current fried the dying cells.

The fire in Richie's body faded into the background as his quickening surged forward to combat the damage the taser current had wrought. Richie climbed unsteadily to his feet and saw Renault's eyes go wide while the electricity danced along his blade, unable to penetrate the protective coating on the hilt, unable to ground to his body.

Another slash of his sword, this time downwards, and the taser flew out of Renault's hand. Like a living whip of electicity the taser flew overhead, and Richie allowed the wire to fly off his sword. It sailed into the garage wall, sparking as it went. The tail of it caught one of the fluorescent lights hanging overhead and it shorted out, showering sparks of it's own in a rain of amber fire.

Now Richie and Renault stood ten feet apart, Richie with his sword clutched in two eager hands and Renault, his sword apparently forgotten in his left hand, stared at him with a mixture of surprise, respect, and rage.

"That's a neat trick," he said with a shake of his head.

"You'll find I'm full of surprises," Richie spat back through clenched teeth.

"Clichéd," Renault chided.

"Sue me."

Renault sneered as Richie moved to close the gap between them, but unfortunately Richie didn't get far. Renault pulled a .22 out of a holster on his ankle and shot Richie at he approached. The first shot missed, but before Richie had the chance to wonder how Renault was planning on slipping the gun through customs the second shot struck home. Richie was hit… squarely in the Fencing cup. The pain was excruciating even though the small-caliber bullet was deflected. A third shot followed and gouged across Richie's left thigh as he twisted around from the impact of the shot before it.

Now Richie lay curled into the fetal position, watching Renault close the remainder of the gap between them. Pretend your dead, catch him off guard and get the gun away from him.

The gamble worked. Richie heard the telltale there can be only one as he saw Renault raise his sword while still keeping the gun pointed at him. Richie took advantage of Renault's sword being held out over his head and he sprang into action. He struck swiftly, slicing his blade upwards, and connected steel to gunmetal. The .22 went flying across the garage, and now Renault was staring at Richie, on his feet and seemingly uninjured, armed with only his sword.

Renault cursed him and Richie then surmised that had been called the two-faced son of a whore, but the French Renault used was archaic.

"Are you through cheating?" Richie asked, sounding tired and annoyed.

"To each their own," Renault said with flourish.

The combatants then began circling each other, which was a blessing for Richie. It gave him, the chance to continue to heal from the gunshot wounds. To this end he was determined to wait for Renault to make the first move. Eventually Renault caught onto the idea that Richie was waiting because he was still healing and immediately attacked. Richie blocked the first blows easily, and then jumped back onto the offensive again. Renault quickly went back on the defensive, and didn't try to attack again.

He's overly defensive. He won't attack unless he perceives obvious weakness. He's too rigid. If I can get him to attack I might be able to get him off balance.

Richie and Renault circled again, and then Richie launched into his largest offensive yet. Renault blocked easily, speed and stamina not lost on him. Richie surmised that he was more than used to this, and the only advantage to continuing his assault would be to tire him out.

"What's the matter?" Richie taunted. "Afraid to attack me without your toys?"

Renault's face hardened, but he said nothing, and then Richie attacked again. This pattern was maintained for many minutes: circling, Richie attacking, Renault blocking, Richie withdrawing, them circling again. Unfortunately he knew that if this kept up that he would tire long before Renault. I need to get him to attack me!

Even more minutes passed with the strategies unchanging. Richie was beginning to tire physically, but mentally he wouldn't allow himself to give in. He finally decided that he would have to goad Renault into attacking by being… well, himself.

"What's the matter Renault? Afraid to attack me?"

"I rather enjoy watching you do all the work," said Renault with a sly smile.

"Just keep telling yourself that, coward," Richie spat the last word and went into a quick offensive. Bingo! He scored a small slash in Renault's left arm, the first legal hit either had allowed. Richie had guessed correctly that Renault's most vulnerable spot was in the ego.

"You'll pay for that remark," Renault hissed, obviously angrier at having been insulted than to be bleeding.

"How's that," Richie asked in the tone he remembered using on cops and foster fathers. "When you can't even seem to attack me?"

Renault's face contorted into a hideous grin as he stepped into an attack. It was a quick three parries that Richie easily blocked and then Renault retreated and they went back to circling.

Richie made a show of stifling a yawn. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Renault hurled another insult, this time one that Richie didn't recognize, as he launched another attack. This one was five easily blocked parries and once again Renault retreated out of sword's reach and they began circling again.

"You know, you're like the fat kid on the playground trying to outwit the bully," Richie taunted, a malicious grin growing on his features that made him look rather psychotic. "I'll bet you were that fat kid, the one mommy and daddy would buy the best swords for even though their chicken-shit of a son would wet himself if he had to use one." Renault looked almost too angry to form words. Richie was on a roll. "I'll bet you pissed your tights all the time, especially when the little girls would flirt with you… Or perhaps it was the little boys?"

That did it. Renault let loose a primordial scream and launched into his most aggressive offensive yet.

The battle had finally begun in earnest. They were both offensive and defensive, trading roles almost every other blow. Renault was physically stronger than Richie and so was able to gain ground against him, but Richie was faster and was able to constantly knock Renault off balance, which allowed him to recover his defenses before attacking again and gaining that ground back. This cycle continued for several more minutes.

Richie and Renault were playing at the top of their game. It was obvious that this fight would go to the first to make a fatigue-related mistake, and Richie refused to be the one to cave.

Finally Renault came in on Richie's off side, but the throw was sloppy and off balance. Richie blocked it and shoved upwards, sending Renault staggering. With his sword out of the way, Richie landed a clean slice down across Renault's chest. In the instant the pain flared Renault made the mistake of grabbing at the wound with his weak hand. The bastard sword, raised awkwardly above his head, then proved too heavy for him. It slipped through his grasp and hit the pavement with a sickening clang. Renault was now unarmed.

Richie immediately capitalized on Renault's misfortune. He sliced Renault deep across the stomach, bringing the immortal to his knees as both hands went to keep his insides from spilling out. Renault was dying, leaning forward on his knees.

"For Mac," Richie vowed as he delivered the killing blow.

Renault's head departed his shoulders and dropped to the ground with a hollow thud. It rolled a few feet away, the eyes staring at the ceiling non-seeing. Richie nodded to himself that the deed was done as he waited for the quickening to overtake him.

He didn't have to wait long. The mist soon rose out of Renault's dead body, hovering just slightly in the air like a supernatural fog for a few moments before moving to encircle Richie. Richie shut his eyes, knowing what was to come.

The fog quickly turned violent, sparks of malevolent lighting arching up and down across Richie's body, striking him at odd intervals with the strength and determination of possessed cobras. The pain was intense, the electrical charge over-stimulating his nervous system, pushing and pulling his body this way and that as though he were a marionette on a string. Richie hadn't yet learned not to scream.

The torture continued, distorting all sense of time and place, pain causing an out-of-body experience while the essence and memories of Renault—and every other immortal whose quickening resided within him, forced their imprints on Richie's thoughts and vision. Who was Richie Ryan? Where was he? He had never been to the places his mind was taking him to. He didn't know these people he was seeing with his mind's eye. Richie Ryan's soul just invited over three hundred new residents to spend eternity inside his head.

Not that he had much choice. The essence of who he was has just become that much more tainted, other personalities irrevocably staining his own without neither thought nor consideration. It was unwanted. It was torture. It was the immortal version of rape.

When it was finally over, Richie found himself half standing and quickly fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands. His eyes were his own again, as were his synapses and muscle responses.

Well, almost all of them.

Whatever was left of the cheeseburgers emptied themselves onto the pavement. When he was done he shoved away from that spot, rolling onto his back a few feet away. The pavement felt soothing, the cold cutting through his sweat and turning his skin clammy. He felt the headache coming that protests sudden temperature changes and dehydration. He felt his wounds try and complete the healing process and couldn't be bothered with the mild itching sensation they caused. He felt an anger rise inside him, a cold hatred that was unfeeling only because the emotions bled together into one, but he couldn't tell if it was directed at Renault or if it was simply Renault making his presence known.

And it didn't matter.

Richie eventually forced himself into a sitting position, resting back on his hands. He saw Renault's headless body and his own blood and vomit stains and barely suppressed the urge to be sick again. He shoved himself to his feet, not trusting them at first to hold his weight. Once he was certain of his balance he went to pick up his sword. That's when he finally noticed that there was more staining his pants then blood and sweat.

"Not since Mako…" Richie mused with sad humor as he grabbed Renault's sword too. He shoved them both in his jacket, not caring about the bloodstains or that he ripped the hidden pocket with the added weight. His thoughts as he left the garage were of the fact that the less you wanted a quickening the more it hurt you. This one put Duncan inside his head. Now there was no denial. Richie believed that was only a matter of time before he saw flashes of himself through his teacher's eyes. He didn't want to be privy to all of Duncan's thoughts and emotions. Then the rape would complete.

Richie made his way around the outside airport without being seen closely enough for anyone to scrutinize his appearance. He found his bike right where he left it and took off for the dojo. He briefly contemplated heading to the island, but he knew that all too soon Connor would arrive and would need to know what happened. Richie was sure it was Duncan's voice telling him that.

Once back at apartment Richie discarded his jacket and removed the swords from the torn pocket. Both were stained, but Richie's was by far the worst. This is the sword that killed Mac…He mused as he stared at Renault's bastard sword. I wish I could find the katana.

Richie left the swords on the counter and went to the fridge. His body was craving water but his mind decided on alcohol. Alas he discovered that he finished the last of the beer the night before. Undaunted, he moved to the liquor cabinet.

The small fifths bottles were tempting. Most were different incarnations of alcohol and at least thirty years old. Mac collected those. He probably wasn't going to drink them.

Richie settled on the bottle of brandy Connor had given Duncan last year. He went back to the couch and collapsed onto it. That's when he noticed the bottle was corked. Richie cursed loudly in disgust and grabbed the bottle by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the coffee table. When the sudden rage passed Richie looked down at the puddle of brandy and glass shards on the floor and grimaced. Now down one very good source of intoxication, Richie cursed again and stood up.

His next choice from the liquor cabinet was an antique bottle of rum. Richie liberated the bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking a generous swig on his first mouthful and gasping horribly when the taste caught up with him. No wonder he hasn't touched this stuff yet!

Richie took the bottle and headed into the bedroom. It was his hope to avoid the images that would haunt his dreams while he was still under the influences of the quickening. He did not want to feel Duncan's memories of Tessa. He did not want to know anything about his teacher, best friend, and surrogate father that only possessing his quickening could teach.

Unfortunately Richie awoke from a nightmare not long after having finally succumbed to sleep. The images retreated back into the ether as soon as he opened his eyes, but the sensations remained: anger, fear, and loss. Richie felt them in the pit of his stomach and knew they were foreign. His body was aching for a way to actively release the tension, but Richie would be damned if he would be active right now. All he wanted was for the intruding feelings to depart—it was bad enough that he would soon be forced to deal with his own. But not now!

Richie finished the bottle of rum in one gulp, hoping the presence of bad tasting but extremely potent alcohol would wrench the invading sensations from his body, but no such luck. Richie hurled the bottle across the room and saw it connect with the full mirror on the back of the door. Richie winced. That was Tessa's.

The breaking of the mirror pushed Richie over the edge. It was Tessa's and she's gone. The rum was Mac's and now he's gone too. They're all gone! Angrily Richie struck out at nightstand next to him, sending the clock radio and lamp crashing to the floor. Not satisfied, Richie swung over to the other side of the bed and did likewise to the other nightstand, sending the lamp, telephone, and the assortment of empty beer bottles flying. They were meaningless. Nothing in the room mattered. The people were gone. Things can be replaced, but not people. What would it matter tomorrow since Mac wouldn't be there to scold him and force him to clean it up?

I can do this and he won't care because he's gone and never coming back!

Richie's thoughts tormented him as he continued to trash the bedroom, punching walls and picture frames. He only stopped when he came to Duncan's dresser, the Celtic knots staring at him from each door like a reminder of Tessa's watchful eyes. This was Tessa's too… He remembered when she carved it, a gift for his four hundredth birthday. Four years ago.

Richie felt his eyes sting with unshed tears, his body too dehydrated to truly form them. He resolved to end the torment somehow, and the only way that came to mind was death. With purpose he strode back into the living room to the liquor cabinet. He took each of the six alcohol nips and fifths and downed them without pausing to taste them or even to read the labels. When he finished one he would move on to another, throwing the previous bottle against the far wall and not registering the jarring sound as that of shattering glass.

Those bottles broken, empty, and strewn about, Richie felt quite like would pass out. However, simply passing out was not an option. The dreams would still get him, and he still had a great chance of his body rejecting the alcohol before his immortal liver could process it, and sick-drunk was something Richie had managed to avoid ever since moving into the antique store. He wasn't about to break that record in Mac's presence, even if that presence was only a stern warning in the form of the fierce pounding inside his skull.

A moment of lucid thought and Richie remembered where Duncan kept the sleeping pills. He stumbled to the kitchen counter and took the earthenware jar from next to the coffee maker. Inside was an assortment of herbal teas and at the bottom sat the bottle of pills. They were prescription, probably from Anne, and Duncan used them whenever he (or someone else) needed a good rest and he was out of Darius's special recipe tea.

Richie was debating what to take the pills with when he saw the swords on the counter. He picked up Renault's bastard sword and debated just stabbing himself to death, but decided that he didn't want to burden Connor with finding him like that. This sword killed Mac! Richie was suddenly repulsed, seeing his blood on the sword and immediately thinking of Duncan. He hurled it out of the kitchen and into the living room. It slid unceremoniously under the couch with a loud thud-clang-scrape and rested out of sight.

Richie then set his eyes on his own sword, another hand-and-a-half weapon. It had considerably more blood on it than Renault's did. Richie momentarily contemplated, in the way very drunk and overtired people tend to contemplate things, how most of the immortals he knew carried hand-and-a-half weapons. It gave more power and greater control than a one-handed weapon, provided you didn't mind sacrificing a bit of speed and agility. It also gave you greater freedom of movement than a two-handed great sword, an option that he hadn't seen any immortals use to date. Riche held his sword in his hand briefly, knowing he could swing it one handed if he chose, and decided that hand-and-a-half swords were definitely the way to go.

Richie held the sword and stared at the blade, seeing it stained with Renault's blood. The blood of a cheater, he thought angrily. He cheated Mac out of his life, and now they're both in my head.

Richie dropped the sword and grabbed his temples, unsure if it was the alcohol, dehydration, or presence of another hive of immortal consciousnesses that had wrapped itself around his gray matter entreating entry. The momentary pain passed, replaced by unfocused rage. Richie picked up his sword and hurled it into the wall. It was a testimony to the quality of the blade more so than the force of Richie's adrenaline-charged muscles that drove the blade nearly halfway into the drywall. It covered the bloodstains at least. The handle drooped slightly from its weight but Richie didn't notice. He had already picked up the sleeping pills and headed to the living room and the liquor cabinet.

Once there, Richie grabbed the only bottle of alcohol Duncan had left: his twenty-eight year old scotch. He only drank this during special occasions… Or after really bad ones. Richie took the scotch and the pills back into the bedroom. After a few unsuccessful attempts at opening the child-proof cap Richie gained access to the medication. He emptied the entire bottle into his mouth and swallowed it with quite a few quick gulps of the scotch, nearly retching again when he discovered that it tasted worse than the rum, if that were possible. His last thoughts before passing out on the bed were of wondering if Duncan's quickening would impart the ability to drink the vile liquid. He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and was undisturbed by dreams until the alcohol and pills conspired to kill him painlessly in his sleep.