High up, where the mountain peaks brush against the clouds, there is a three thousand year old temple, carved out of the living rock and dedicated to a solar deity whose name is all but forgotten. The exact location of the temple, and the ancient god's name, is known only to a handful of beings. For centuries it has served as a place of retreat and meditation for those with the Immortal spark.
Now, the owner and builder of the structure, plagued in recent decades by dark dreams and premonitions, relaxed within the darkened interior. His mind sought solace, or at least answers, on the Astral Plane. It was a trick he learned eons ago in the jungles of Brazil. In years past that gift had lead him to the key that unlocked the secrets of his existence and the Game he had played for so long. But now, as his mind navigated its way through the cloudy reaches of the Astral, he found no answers. Nor even any new questions.
He saw neither Necrophim nor Torturians. No mountebanks obscured his path. No shadow mantis sought his astral cord. All he saw was the silvery expanse of the Astral, obfuscated by mists and clouds. He searched for weeks, yet still the clues he sought eluded him. And now, his Immortal body rebelled, reaching the limits of exhaustion and starvation. It called to him to return, to give up his search so that he could see to his body's demands.
<Soon,> he thought. He would stay in the Astral a little longer. Perhaps he would stumble across something he needed in the next few hours. Perhaps.
And then, suddenly, he felt the soulscreams of six million human beings erupt across the Astral Plane. The force of it slammed into him and threw him backwards, tumbling through the empty, silvery sky.
Instinctively he cut off the connection and jumped back into his skin. In the damp darkness of the temple, Viracocha opened his eyes, and wondered just what horror had occurred. What could kill six million people with a single blow?
"Oh no," he whispered as understanding came to him.
Martin absently hummed to himself as he pulled the razor across his chin. Shaving was such a chore. But in an age where image was a measure of strength, he couldn't afford to look too old. The silver hair gave him an air of distinction, but a silver beard would make him look grizzled and old. He washed the razor under the faucet, and then began to carefully scrape it across his upper lip. He thought about his brother Nyarlathotep and the resurrection of the Kurgan. His brother truly was mad. The Kurgan was uncontrollable, a force of nature. He was a tool that could easily bite the hand of its master. Ramses knew better than most just how dangerous the Kurgan truly was. After all, he allied himself with the Immortal for several centuries. It was the dawning realization that the Kurgan lived *only* for slaughter that drove Ramses to dissolve the partnership.
Ramses realized early on that a being with such single-minded determination could not be harnessed. Not completely. When the elder MacLeod finished the Kurgan a decade ago, Ramses was privately relieved. No longer did he have to deal with the anxiety of the Kurgan coming for him or asking for some favor only Ramses could provide.
But now the Kurgan was loosed on the Earth once more. And Nyarlathotep used him to kill the younger MacLeod, Amanda, and some lesser Immortal. It was a waste of potential, in Ramses' opinion. Amanda had always skirted the edges of the law, and could easily have been recruited into his operation. And Duncan MacLeod had served his uses in the past as well. When Grayson and Kallas had become bothersome, Ramses was able to nudge them in MacLeod's direction. But no more. A pity.
Nyarlathotep never did grasp the delicate alliances and intricate relations of immortal life. He never understood the subtleties that one needed in order to survive in the twentieth century. Blunt and direct, that was Nyarlathotep in a nutshell. Ramses sighed.
"Martin!" Tatyana's accented voice yelled for him from the living room. Ramses shook his head, subsuming his ancient personality below the modern one.
He set the razor down on the sink and poked his head out the bathroom door. "What is it, dear? Is something wrong?"
"I... I... just get in here quickly!" was the reply.
Martin tried not to worry. Tatyana's nerve disease was a gradual one. She was deteriorating by inches. If she was having an attack... perhaps it was time for her to become immortal after all. He shut off the water, slipped on his housecoat and moved as quickly as he could to the living room.
He was relieved to find Tatyana fine, though her face was drawn and her body tense. She was watching the television. Martin sat down next to her on the couch. "What is it?" he asked. She shushed him and pointed at the TV screen.
Instead of Charlie Gibson and that annoying blond woman, Peter Jennings was on. He looked harried and upset. As he talked, Martin realized why. As Jennings continued talking, his voice still strong despite the horror he was explaining, ABC switched to an aerial view of what used to be Hong Kong. Nothing but a crater sat their now.
Tatyana gripped his hand tightly, and if he could have torn his eyes away from the television, Martin would have seen the tears in her eyes.
Martin heard the telephone ring, and he stood up, crossing the room to the phone near the kitchen door. Ogbanna's deep baritone came over the line. "Have you heard?"
"Yes." Martin thought furiously. "Get in touch with our military contacts, and the British and Chinese ambassadors. See what we can do to help -- if there is any kind of relief effort. Or if there's anything left to save."
"Consider it done," Ogbanna said. There was a slight pause, and when Ogbanna spoke again, there was a hesitance in his voice that Martin had never heard before. "I may have to take a vacation soon. I feel something calling me south. I must answer it."
Martin was almost speechless. Two earth-shattering shocks in the space of five minutes was enough for even a 3,000 year old immortal. "Do what you have to do," he said. Ogbanna clicked off, and Martin returned to his seat and tried to comfort the girl he so desperately loved.
The airport was packed to the gills. Richie and Connor almost lost track of Adam in the press of people. Paris, city of love. With Valentine's Day only a short while away, tourists of every size and description were pouring into the city for honeymoons, both first and second, family trips, and winter vacations.
Richie felt slightly ill coming here without Mac. It just didn't feel right. Of course, in France Richie was supposed to be dead. So Adam and Connor forced him to dye his hair black. Adam gave him a pair of glasses too. Richie felt stupid wearing them, but he did it anyway. Not for the first time he regretted dying on a race track, in front of a crowd and television cameras. <Well,> he thought, <the hard lessons are learned the hard way.>
On the plane, Richie tried to engage Connor MacLeod in conversation. He felt a tenuous link to the moody Highlander, a sort of kinship based on his long friendship with Duncan. Unfortunately, Connor didn't appear to feel the same. He rebuffed Richie's attempts at conversation, and, when Richie finally quieted down, Connor settled into a brooding posture, staring out the window at the clouds. Richie couldn't quite understand. Naturally, Connor and Duncan would have different personalities. But for some desperate reason, Richie had hoped he would find some kind of substitute for Duncan in Connor. It was a childish hope, he now acknowledged. Duncan was gone. And Richie was alone.
Connor, for his part, knew what Richie was going through. His own teacher had been butchered by the Kurgan. Connor was forced to deal with that on his own, with only Heather to help him. The girl, lovely and wonderful as she was, could never really understand the loss Connor felt when he found Ramiriz dead. The sense of brotherhood he felt with Ramiriz was something he could never share with Heather or anyone else he knew at the time. In those days, the only Immortals Connor knew were Ramiriz and the Kurgan. When Ramiriz died, it was like losing his clan all over again, only ten times worse. For Ramiriz had understood him in a way Angus and the others never did. Richie, at least, could comfort himself with the knowledge that other Immortals considered him friend.
Sadly enough, Connor was beginning to think that the solitude of those early years may have given him an edge that Duncan never developed. Duncan could never truly envision an end to the Game, a time when only one Immortal was left on Earth. But Connor's early years had prepared him for just such a world. Duncan never really liked solitude, and too often he relied on the strength of others to see him through the difficult times. He knew for a fact that Duncan survived Tessa's death largely because of Richie's presence. Connor though, had been hardened by long years of loss and tragedy. He possessed an inner core of steel that no one but Heather had ever penetrated. If Richie could develop something akin to that, Connor mused, he might have a chance at surviving the Game longer than Duncan. It wasn't the best plan, Connor admitted, but it was the only one he had. Besides, with the Kurgan on the loose, Connor couldn't be bothered with molly-coddling a neophyte Immortal.
And then there was Methos to consider. Connor met him only once, a few hundred years ago when he was studying with Nakano. Methos stayed with the sorcerer only a few days before traveling on his way to see the Shogun. Connor was greatly impressed at the time to meet an Immortal of such great age. Impressed enough that, only a few days ago, he had fallen to his knees when he saw Methos again. Now, he regretted that action. It was rash and the mark of a newling. Duncan was always the one infatuated with the older Immortals. Darius, Methos, even the Kurgan on some level. Connor never cared that much about them. Again, those feelings could be traced back to Ramiriz and the Kurgan. Ramiriz, for all his age and experience, treated Connor like an equal, a brother. The Kurgan thought he was an insect. As a result, Connor never developed the starry eyed view of elder Immortals that Duncan seemed to have. Not that Duncan had ever been soft. He was well versed in the arts of combat. Only someone like the Kurgan or Connor himself could ever have beaten him.
Connor was suddenly pulled out of his reverie when Richie grabbed his arm in a deathgrip. Connor turned to reproach the youngling, but Richie pointed at one of the airport monitors hanging from the ceiling. It was displaying local and national news. Richie couldn't understand it, of course, but Connor spoke French. And what he saw made his guts turn cold. Methos backtracked his way through the crowd to them. His face was ashen. He too saw the news program, and, unlike the younger Immortals, he understood the implications. The Gathering, the true Gathering, was on its way.
Kurt Densmore rolled out of bed early, did a few pushups, took a long shower, and then headed downstairs for some oj and some Special K. He checked his front door for the paper, and unrolled it as he headed back to the small kitchen in the back of his home. He threw the paper on the table and then turned on the radio before starting the Mr. Coffee. His morning jazz program did not go on. Apparently, it was pre-empted by the news. Kurt grimaced around a spoonful of cereal. What had the humans done now?
He almost choked on his breakfast when the announcer said, "As near as we can tell, the entire city of Hong Kong and the surrounding area has been obliterated in a twenty-five mile radius. Sources say a stolen nuclear weapon was detonated early this morning, resulting in the greatest single act of destruction in human history."
Kurt dropped his spoon and lurched for the television. He flipped through the stations and stopped at CNN. Bernard Shaw was searching for the words to describe the image on the screen -- a satellite picture of Hong Kong. Or rather, the blackened crater where Hong Kong used to be.
Kurt felt what little breakfast he had eaten try to force its way back up his throat. If Hong Kong was gone... then Perseus failed. And Lei succeeded. Which could only mean that Perseus and Shelley were dead. For the first time in many long centuries, Kurt found himself on his knees, facing East. The Arabic came haltingly at first, but in a few minutes, his tongue was tripping over itself trying to get Allah's attention.
In Perseus' guest room, Bran slept fitfully. The battle he engaged in the night previous had drained his resources. Though he was able to heal his wounds easily enough, he volunteered a substantial amount of his blood so that Hazard could recover as well. As it was, when Hazard limped off into the night, Bran was certain he wouldn't see the Vampire for a few more days at least. The poor guy suffered terribly from the inferno. Bran didn't share the Vampire's vulnerabilities, but he could certainly sympathize.
Bran's dreams were filled with fiery corpses and shadows that bit and scratched at him. When he finally awoke, it was a relief. He sat up in bed and ran his fingers through his unruly mane. "I'm getting too old for this," he grumbled. He checked himself, and was pleased to see that his chest was whole, though still lobster red and very raw. The little scratches on his arms and back were not healing as quickly as they should have. Bran could only guess that, whatever those things were, the wounds they inflicted were not normal. With any hope, he would be whole and back to normal by the afternoon.
He slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Mornings like this was when he most missed Brigid. When he felt this low he needed to talk to someone. Her especially. He turned the faucet on in the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He looked up into the mirror for a moment. His eyes, as usual, were drawn to that scar. How he hated that thing. He wasn't too pleased about his appearance -- the kind of anonymity his kind needed to survive was hard to come by for a six foot six inch man with blood red hair -- but he hated the scar most of all. It was given to him before he became Immortal, and it symbolized the most humiliating and degrading years of his life.
He turned away from the mirror and started a shower. Twenty minutes later, Bran felt more relaxed and sure of himself. He made his way down to the first floor and let the dogs out into the yard. He bustled about the expansive, though largely bare, kitchen of the Spartan and located a few slightly stale donuts. With a tall glass of milk, those would be adequate. He settled down to his makeshift breakfast, and was on his third donut when the phone started ringing. Grumbling curses on Bell, Bran lurched to his feet and answered the phone.
"H...Hello?" a feminine voice asked from the other side of the line.
"Hello," Bran answered around a mouthful of donut. "Can I help you?"
"This is Rachel... Rachel Van Horn? We met last night."
"Of course, of course," Bran said. "What can I do for you Rachel?"
"Well," the girl started to explain, "I didn't know who else to call. I don't have Kurt's number, and Michael isn't answering his phone, and I remembered you mentioning that you were staying at Nick's..."
"Eh," Bran interrupted, "is there a point to this, Miss Van Horn?"
"Yes," she answered. "Yes, there is. What I wanted to ask you was... is what happened to Hong Kong related to what Kurt was talking about last night? I just have this horrible feeling that it does."
"Hong Kong?" Bran was thoroughly perplexed. "What are you talking about?"
"Bran," Rachel asked slowly, "have you turned on your TV yet?"
"No," Bran said, a bit testily. He hated the contraption.
"Well, I really think you better. Hong Kong was nuked."
"Did you say... nuked?"
Selura ran down the street, heading back to her hotel. It felt good to stretch her limbs out again after the long trip from Australia. Through the weather in New Orleans could have been better. With the exception of that morning, all she'd seen so far was rain. And though it had abated long enough for her to run a few miles, the steel gray skies promised more of the same.
She hated the rain. It reminded her too much of her childhood. She much preferred the clean dryness of the Australian outback or the Arizona desert. The sun also gave her a terrific tan, and, thanks to Immortal genes, she never had to worry about skin cancer or sun burn. Immortality truly was a gift. Selura had met Immortals who saw their nature as a curse of some kind. They bemoaned the fact that they watched their loved ones grow old and die, that they could never have children. Rubbish. Yes, it was painful to be forever young while your husband or friends grow old. But you could still live a full, wonderful life with them. And who really needed children anyway? The humans seemed quite capable of reproducing their kind. Selura's genes didn't need to be passed on at all. Children got in the way of things, anyway. Limited what one could so, where she could go. And for a woman like Selura, limits were anathema.
She was born into a strictly Catholic home in Southern England during the late Middle Ages. Her father was a cruel man, and her mother a wilting flower. European society was strictly patriarchal, and as a girl, Selura chafed under the inherent restrictions of such a society. She learned to hate limits. And when she died and was reborn, she realized that limits were a thing of the past. No longer would she have to do what anyone else wanted her to do.
She slowed down her pace as she approached the hotel. At this hour, most of the other guests were still slumbering in their beds. Only the hotel staff bustled about, cleaning the lobby, loading laundry, cooking breakfast, and all the assorted tasks needed to keep a big hotel running. Selura slipped into the lobby and paused at the front desk to see if she had any messages. The young woman at the desk looked slightly dazed when Selura asked her for her messages. "Is something wrong?" Selura asked.
The woman looked around. "Have you heard?"
Selura herself shot a quick glance around the lobby. Some of the other people showed evidence of being stunned about something as well. What was going on? "Heard what?" she asked.
"Somebody bombed Hong Kong," the woman said, in a tone that said she didn't quite believe it. "Somebody dropped a nuclear bomb on Hong Kong."
"Oh my god," Selura gasped. As she listened to the woman explain, she ran through the catalogue of her mind, wondering if she knew anyone in Hong Kong, or who could have been in Hong Kong. The names she came up with did not hearten her.
The lake looked more turbulent than normal on this icy, February morning. And Greystoke's heart felt heavier than normal as well. He regretted sending Jones on so dangerous a mission. He should have gone himself. Jones had expressed confidence in his ability to stop the insane Immortal and keep Hong Kong safe, but apparently that confidence was misplaced.
Perhaps it would have been wiser to send a battalion after Lei, as the American military wanted. If that happened though, there was a chance that the truth about Immortals could become public knowledge. Greystoke sighed. Maybe it was better that all the evidence was erased in the conflagration. At least now they knew the final attack would not come from Hong Kong itself, though some of the signs pointed that way. Hong Kong was just a signal, a portent of things to come.
More and more, Greystoke was beginning to believe that the Final Battle would be played out in New Orleans. The presence of the Wraith alone hinted at New Orleans' importance. Greystoke decided to send Lamont and Gordon down south. If anyone could uncover the secrets New Orleans held, it would be those two. And may God help them both.
The morning sun caressed her cheek, and the light and heat woke her. Carefully, her eyes fluttered open and she pulled herself out of the painful position she was laying in. She looked around, and was pleasantly surprised to see a rocky mountain slope, clear blue skies, and a big, bright sun.
She didn't expect to be alive, and she dragged herself up on all fours, ignoring the glorious aching in her muscles so she could examine her slumbering allies. Victoria Baron looked unharmed. The effects of the blast -- scorched skin and burned out eye sockets -- were nonexistent. She remained unconscious, though, and Shelley was reluctant to awaken her. Jones was similarly unconscious. The fact that he was unharmed was less surprising. He was Immortal, like Shelley, and he healed all of his wounds. Though she had no reason to like the man, Shelley was overjoyed to see them both alive and well. But where was Perseus?
She scrambled to her feet and scanned the area. The three of them were lying on a rocky knoll, an upthrust section of rock and scrub grass that was part of a larger mountain. She saw a human form a few hundred yards down the slope of the mountain, standing on the edge of a cliff and looking out at the deep, blue sea.
Shelley made her way carefully down the hill, picking her way across worn chunks of rock and small humps of grass. She tried desperately not to think about what happened back in Hong Kong. Maybe, just maybe, if Perseus was able to save them, than he was able to save the city as well. Of course, it was certainly possible that Perseus wasn't able to save them at all -- though this didn't feel like the afterlife.
He looked up at her as she drew closer to him, and the now-comfortable sense of his buzz washed over her. She drew to a halt, horrified at what she saw. It was Perseus, yes. But somehow, he had *aged.* Lines had appeared on his face, and a touch of silver graced his temples, a sharp contrast to his black hair. He was easily ten years older than he had been the day before.
"Hello Shelley," he said. "How are you feeling?"
She closed the distance between them. "I feel..." she was about to say that she felt great, but that wasn't true. "Are we still alive?" she asked instead.
Perseus nodded. "Yes. *We* are," he said bitterly.
"Then...," she couldn't finish the sentence.
"Yes," he said, turning back to the sea.
Shelley's knees buckled, and she sat down hard. It was too big. Too much to comprehend. Everyone she saw yesterday was dead. Every building she passed the day before was gone. The room she slept in the night before no longer existed. The beat up little car they borrowed was gone. Those cops Perseus talked to... Tyr's monks, men he rescued after China invaded Tibet... Tyr.
Perseus killed Tyr. She latched onto that thought. "You killed Tyr," she said through gritted teeth.
"Yes," Perseus said. Nothing more.
Shelley lurched to her feet. She grabbed Perseus and spun him around. "Why?" she demanded.
Perseus looked her in the eyes. He was tired. And something in those dark orbs had died. Shriveled up and disappeared. "It was the only thing I could do, Shelley. The only plan I could think of to save the city. I needed a Quickening to capture the force of the blast. But Lei had sanctified that floor. Both of them had to die." He closed his eyes. "No, not exactly. If Lei had told the truth, I could justify what I did. If I knew Lei's weapon was somewhere else in the city... I killed Tyr. And I didn't have to."
Shelley brushed tears out of her eyes. She felt a great shuddering sob well up from her chest, and she collapsed into Perseus' arms. She held him tight as she wept for her friend and the six million strangers who were now dead.
Perseus wrapped his arms around her and held her close. One hand gently rubbed her head. "Be glad you can cry, Shelley. All the tears have been bled from me."
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