Richie scuffled down the steps leading out of Joe's bar, the restless night air ruffling his hair slightly. Chance lagged behind in the doorway; somehow a corner of his jacket had gotten caught on some part of the door frame and Chance couldn't get it loose.
"You know, Rich," Chance mused, while tugging at the stubborn fabric, "most of what we have so far is circumstantial... we don't know for *sure* that Carlson took them."
Richie turned around to look at Chance, who was partially hidden from view, "Yeah, Chance I know... but --"
Richie was cut off by the sudden spasm of pain and a faint whooshing sound. A stinging sensation burst forth from his chest and he involuntarily grasped toward the wound. His hands met something wet and sticky and he looked down to see them covered in blood which was discolored by the pink neon from Joe's lights.
Chance, wide eyed, ripped his coat loose from the door and bounded down the steps to help Richie, who had begun crumbling to the ground.
"Get *him*, Chance," Richie gasped, "I'm... fine." Richie slumped onto the ground with a shuddering breath.
Looking up, Chance saw a figure holding a gun with a silencer extension on the nozzle. The man had been making his way toward Ryan until he spied Chance. Apparently he hadn't seen Chance, who had been shielded by the darkness and his position in the doorway. Chance flew after the man, who had turned tail and was running for all he was worth away from the bar, and toward car parked a short distance away. They managed to run a short distance from the bar before the other man slipped on some loose gravel and went sprawling.
Chance seized the opportunity and threw himself toward the gunman. Instincually, he grabbed the hand which still clutched the gun. In a fit of adrenaline fueled fury, Chance managed to wrench the gun from the smaller man's grip, but in their struggle the object was thrown to the side.
Chance seized the closest object instead, the guy's trenchcoat. The young man had partially managed to pull himself up and Chance was clutching for all he was worth to the collar of the other man's coat. The smaller, slighter man, however, managed to wriggle his way out of it and escape into the car and off into the night with the roar of an engine and a spray of loose gravel.
Chance was left standing there, his own trenchcoat flapping slightly in the breeze, holding the other guy's coat in his hand. The pink lights from Joe's created a faint aura behind him.
Mulder, who had jumped out of the car just moments before, walked up behind him.
"Damn," Chance swore softly. "I lost him Mulder."
"It's okay, Chance," Mulder said simply, his face set in an indiscernible mask as he walked over and picked up the fallen handgun and tucked it away inside his own coat. Mulder was silently belittling himself for not reacting quicker. At least Chance had actually *done* something. For some odd reason though, when Richie was shot, Mulder had been partially hunched over in the car tying his shoe, and he hadn't seen anything until it was almost over.
The two walked back to the still figure of Richie Ryan who was lying, dead, on the ground outside Joe's.
Briefly, Mulder had some doubts about what Duncan had told him, "Chance... what if --"
"Don't worry, Mulder," Chance said with a faint grin, "he'll be fine. Just help me get him into the car."
Together they hefted Richie into the backseat of Chance's car. Thankfully, the surface of the wound had started to heal, so Chance's car wouldn't be blood stained. Silently the other two climbed into the front seat of the car and pulled out onto the street.
After driving a short while in silence, Mulder spoke, "Did you check out the pockets of that coat, Chance?"
"Nope," Chance said, nodding towards the coat lying on the back seat next to Richie, "have fun."
As Mulder reached into the back seat for the black trenchcoat, Richie coughed and stirred slightly. The young man groaned and his eyes fluttered open.
"Hey Richie," Mulder said, his expression a mix of apprehension and astonishment. Despite everything he had seen, Mulder was still slightly blown away by the whole affair. Richie had been dead. Now he was alive. Actually seeing this "Immortality" in action was... well... rather unnerving, and yet it was wonderfully intriguing. "You okay? I hope that your impression of Swiss cheese isn't a regular occurrence."
Richie threw Mulder a look, and ignored his last comment. "Other than the fact that I feel like I got hit by a Mack truck while being hung over on several bottles of tequila, I'm just peachy..."
"Yea, it's nice to see you, too, Rich," Mulder said, pulling the huge coat into the front seat with him as he spoke.
"Sorry, guys, but getting shot isn't exactly my idea of a good time. Would someone mind filling me on what the hell happened back there?"
"We don't know anymore than you do Rich," Chance began. "I'm just glad that you're immortal, otherwise --"
"Son of a bitch!" Mulder interrupted, looking at a card he had fished out of the pockets of the jacket.
"What?" Chance and Richie said, more or less simultaneously.
Mulder's voice was low and hoarse with emotion as he spoke the name of the man he hated than anyone else in the world -- the man who had killed his father.
"Krycek."
Joe sat quietly regarding the smoking man. He was certain that Carlson was capable of pursuing his intentions. With his ruthlessness, experience and the government's and Watcher's resources at his command, he could accomplish almost anything he set his mind to.
And Carlson had his mind set on immortality.
That was such a common theme throughout history. So many people wanted to be immortal, to never suffer the pains of age and the fear of death. That fascination with immortality was what had finally persuaded Dawson to join the Watchers after he lost his legs in Vietnam.
Joe had always considered immortality a myth, an ancient idea thought up by some ancient scholar... and yet when Joe had lost his mobility, he had gained knowledge of an ancient esoteric secret and through that knowledge, regained a certain amount of his freedom.
He felt needed at the Watchers, and it was something that he wanted to pursue. Those two feelings, being needed and the feeling of being unique through his experiences in the Watchers, were the driving force behind helping him cope with the loss of his legs. He had a goal to pursue and knowledge that many other "normal" people didn't even dream about.
But, aside from a passing fancy or daydream, Dawson never wished himself Immortal. Granted, he wouldn't grow old, or suffer the fear of death from anything other than beheading. But there was so much he would have to give up -- children, a secure life, friends whose life didn't seem to last more than the blink of an eye. And after meeting MacLeod, that belief was only strengthened.
Duncan was an amazingly complex man, and Joe was proud to be his Watcher. But knowing the things he did about Duncan, Joe knew that he would never have survived or been happy as an Immortal. Sometimes Joe wondered how the Immortals, Duncan and Richie in particular, were able to cope -- thrown into a barbaric Game with no say in the matter, to battle to the end for a mythical Prize.
And Carlson wanted immortality. Joe could think of only one question...
"Why?"
"Must you ask?"
"Yes. Carlson, why? Why would you want to live forever? Why would you want to get involved in Their Game?"
Carlson came the closest to laughing out loud that Dawson had ever seen... the corners of his mouth turned upward and his eyes shimmered momentarily with silent amusement. Then they dead panned once more, hiding whatever emotion had briefly flickered to life.
"Dawson... The "Game" as they put it, is no more than a cruel joke created by some early Immortal seeking to find a purpose to his eternal existence."
"But the Quickening --" Joe protested.
"Is simply the natural exchange of energy which occurs at any death, Joe. Even when mortals die, there is a discharge of life energy. Immortals are simply bound to their Quickening more tightly than other organisms, and when one dies in close proximity to another, a "Quickening" occurs because the energy exchanged is so much greater, and therefore more uncontrolled and violent. It's not anything "magical," and it has nothing whatsoever to do with a "Game" in which there can be only one winner."
"Yea, well, have fun trying to convince other Immortals that the Game doesn't exist."
"Oh, I'm planning on it Joe..."
"Who's Krycek?" Richie asked, leaning forward until he was practically sitting in the front seat with the other two.
"He... he used to work for some "friends" of mine. If he's involved, then I have a pretty good idea of what happened to Scully."
"I take it that if you ever met up with these "friends" of yours, it wouldn't be a pleasant encounter," Chance said.
"Yea. They're not a nice bunch. What really bothers me, is just *how much* they are involved with your friends' disappearance."
"Mulder... I don't think I like what you're inferring," Chance said slowly.
"I'm not inferring anything, Chance. I'm just being cautious... I've dealt with these guys before."
Richie stayed quiet during the exchange. He wasn't sure he followed what the FBI agent was driving at, but these two obviously had more experience with government conspiracies than he did, and Richie was quickly learning to keep his mouth shut about things he didn't have much experience in. It kept him from making a fool of himself.
There was silence in the car for a long time. No one felt much like talking after the recent incidents and instead elected to drive quietly with their own thoughts. Plus, Mulder's attitude had somewhat damped any efforts to renew their former conversation.
Occasional flashes from white headlights bolted by as they passed other cars. Richie leaned his head back against the seat and relaxed as the car's vibrations began to lull him off to sleep. It was very late -- or early, depending on how you looked at it, and Richie hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a couple of days. Shutting his eyes to the receding city line, Richie tries to temporarily shut the events of the last few days out of his mind as well.
"Richie?" came Mulder's unexpected voice, jerking the young Immortal from the hazy recesses of the onset of sleep.
"Yea?" Richie said, not opening his eyes.
"What's it like?" Mulder sounded tired, too, yet there was an inner fire that still managed to glimmer though. Apparently he was trying to take his mind off the plight of his missing partner, Watcher conspiracies, and kidnappings. After all, there's only so much that a person can assimilate in one night.
"What's what like?" Richie said, still not opening his eyes and slowly being recaptured by the gentle sway of the car.
"Being Immortal," Mulder said. The question had an innocent quality to it, in the simple way it was stated, yet in the dark stillness of the night it hung heavily in the air.
Richie opened his eyes and straightened up somewhat in the seat. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have answered, but their earlier conversation and recent shared adventures were making him slowly open up to the FBI agent.
He took a long breath before answering. "I dunno, it's kind of hard to exactly pin it down like that, Mulder. I mean, when I died the first time, I kept waiting for a time when I would *feel* different somehow, but it never happened. I was, and still am, plain old Richie Ryan."
There was a brief pause.
"You talk about that so casually," Mulder said.
"About what?"
"Dying."
Richie was silent for a moment, "Yea, I suppose that I do... but it's not like it's a big issue in my life anymore. Well, no I shouldn't say that -- it is a big issue, but not in same way it used to be. But you know, I never really thought about it before -- I *know* that I'm immortal, and I've even been killed a few times, but emotionally I'm still in the same boat you are. I haven't lived for four hundred years like Mac."
Richie smiled faintly in the dark. Another car whizzed by, illuminating his face briefly and then disappearing.
There was silence in the car again.
"Chance, what about you?" Richie said. "Mulder gets to ask me questions, but I'm not the only paranormal one here."
"Richie, I'd hardly consider my luck paranormal. It's just... well, it's just *luck* there's nothing weird about that."
"Isn't there?" Mulder asked. "Though I have to admit... I have seen weirder."
"Have you seen stuff weirder than Immortals?" Richie asked, leaning forward and teasing Mulder.
"Oh, yea," Mulder said with mock seriousness. "Wouldn't you consider an ancient race of bugs which cocoons human beings and drains their body fluids to survive or a mutant that can elongate it's body and has to ingest human livers before hibernation stranger than Immortals?"
Now it was Richie's turn to be skeptical, "You've *got* to be kidding."
"Nope. Just a day at the office for Scully and me."
Now it was Chance's turn to smile, "Are you *sure* that I'm the only one with strange luck, Mulder?"
Carlson sat puffing on his cigarette a moment longer. Joe was as stubborn as he always had been, that much was certain. Apparently if he wanted Mulder in the Watchers, he'd have to take more drastic steps to convince Joe of the importance of what was going on here. Besides, once Dawson was involved, there was no way back out.
"Joe," Carlson said, reaching forward and smashing the butt of his cigarette in a glass ash tray on his desk, "come with me."
Carlson stood up from his desk and opened the door in the back of his office. Joe sat still, quietly regarding the other man. Then, making up his mind, Dawson hauled himself stiffly out of the chair and, after picking up his cane, thumped over to the door. As insane as this whole business was, Dawson had to admit that he was drawn to it, as a moth was drawn to light.
It reminded him of the time someone had videotaped an Immortal's duel. While it was something that never should have happened, it did happen, and the resulting tape was something that the Watchers would have loved to obtain. Dawson saw this as something similar. Carlson should never have been allowed to do something like this, but now that it had happened, Joe decided that he might as well take advantage of learning as much as he could.
Of course, Duncan had ended up destroying that videotape.
Joe walked into a white hospital room. The walls were lined with diagnostic equipment, and two beds graced the center of the room. One bed had a metal object constructed on one end that had a frightening resemblance to a guillotine.
In the middle of the room, however, was a tall metallic, pyramidal structure which was thick at the base and tapered off toward the top, which was about a foot short of the ceiling. It vaguely resembled a lightening rod, except for a few important differences... it wasn't solid, instead it was more of a framework, like the Effiel Tower. Also, twisting up the sides, and entwined among the beams were naked cables.
Joe's eyes wandered over the shiny metallic surface of the tables and the "rod" in the middle of the room. "Carlson... what is that?"
Carlson took another cigarette out of his inside breast pocket and slowly lit it. Taking the slim white stick from his mouth which was hazed in a cloud of smoke, he said, "What does it look like, Joe?"
"Okay, according to Mike's directions, we need to turn *here*," Richie said, looking at the scrap of paper Mike had given him.
Chance started to pull into the narrow paved road that turned off the right side of the main highway. Trees stretched in all directions and the stars glittered like jewels in the ink black sky around them. Richie suddenly felt very isolated. What was he doing out here with an almost total stranger and someone else he had only met days before? He was helping his other friends, Richie reminded himself. It wasn't anything that Mac hadn't done for him before.
"Wait, stop for a minute Chance. Are you *sure*?" Mulder asked, swiveling around to look at Richie.
"Yea, I'm sure that I'm sure."
Another car wizzed by on the otherwise quiet road, momentarily filling the car with the bright light from its headlights. Chance started down the road, the gravel and dirt crunching under the tires. Occasional flashes of moonlight filtered down though the overhanging tree branches, making patches of light and darkness on the surface of the road.
"Stop the car," Mulder said.
Chance obeyed, and the engine abruptly died. The three piled out of the car and Mulder led them off into the woods adjacent to the road. Trying not to make any more noise than they could help, the Immortal and two mortals swiftly approached the complex.
Then, somewhere in the dark woods surrounding them, an owl hooted. It was a lonely, ominous sound, and it sent shivers up and down Richie's spine. He didn't like the woods. At least, not at night. Growing up a city kid, Richie was accustomed to the constant motion and life of the inner neighborhoods... the glow of neon lights and the sound of cars or a distant train. The woods were just too damn quiet... and when there was a sound, it broke the silence with the shock of a sword though an Immortal's neck.
/Wonderful metaphor, Ryan,/ Richie thought to himself, /fits right in with the lifestyle./
Abruptly, rising up in front of them, there was a six foot chain link fence with three lines of barbed wire lining the top. Off to the left, they could see the faint gleam of lights, presumably from the guard at the main gate. Through the fence they could see the road which ran though the middle of the military complex.
Several small outbuildings -- trailers, really, branched off to the sides. Presumably they were living quarters. There were a few other nondescript buildings lines up in military precision, and the road ultimately ended near a large, sprawling building similar to a hospital.
"So what do we do now?" Chance asked.
"We break in," Richie said, walking over to the fence. Richie quickly tapped the fence with the back of his hand -- nothing happened. It wasn't electrified, so he hooked his fingers into the wire mesh and stared in at the buildings.
"Um, Richie? Reality check," Chance said. "There are three of us, and probably about a million of them."
"Geez, Chance, you seem like the last person to quote odds..." Richie said, turning back to look at the other two.
"I'm not quoting odds, I'm advising discretion, Rich."
"Hm, too bad the pizza delivery thing won't work this time," Mulder mused to himself.
"What?" Richie asked.
"Nevermind. Let's decide what we have going for us... Richie you're Immortal, that means you get to go in first --"
"Oh, gee... thanks, Mulder," Richie said with more than a trace of sarcasm.
"-- I have a gun... you don't carry any kind of weapon, do you, Chance?"
"Not unless you count my cell phone."
"Okay, you can use this," Mulder said, handing him Krycek's dropped gun.
"I have something we might be able to use," Richie said.
"Such as?" Mulder asked.
"This," Richie reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out his rapier in a single swift movement.
"Where'd that come from?" Chance asked, "I didn't see any --"
Richie cut him off with a secretive grin, "Trade secret."
Mulder rolled his eyes at Richie's flamboyant methods, but he had to admit that it was an impressive sword, and it would undoubtedly come in handy.
"So, are we going to do this or not?" Richie said, wanting to get out of the still night.
"As soon as someone decides how we're supposed to get in," Chance said.
Mulder got a smug look on his face, "Don't worry, I have that covered..."
"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Richie asked. Richie shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the barbed wire on the fence. With the practiced ease of someone who'd broken into more houses and climbed out more windows than he could count, Richie clamored up the fence and over the barbed wire where his jacket was. He jumped to the ground with a dull thud and shook his jacket free from the fence.
"You guys coming?" he asked innocently from the other side of the fence. Richie turned and started following the fence line down toward the compound. Mulder removed his trenchcoat and, with a bit more difficulty than Richie, managed to throw it up over the barbed wire. He and Chance then climbed up over the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. Mulder pulled his trenchcoat down with a faint ripping sound.
"Damn," he swore, "If I keep requesting compensation for clothes damaged in investigations like this Financing is going to have my head...."
Chance gave Mulder a weird look -- he was at a loss to figure out how Mulder's partner put up with his bizarre sense of humor and dry wit.
Mulder and Chance caught up with Richie, who had already traversed half the distance to the compound. They remained in the shadows of the trees which were overhanging the portion of the fence bordering the woods. Overhead the clouds parted, and the white, misty moonlight lit the world around them with an eerie white light.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled heavily again. The rumbling sound traveled swiftly toward them. A breeze rippled thought the tops of the trees, and the air was still restless and thick with tension from the storm.
Richie had stopped along the fence line, his naked sword at his side, and was looking at something on a tree just outside the chain link.
"Richie," Chance said in a loud whisper, "why'd you stop?"
"Chance... what do you see on that tree over there?" Richie asked, indicating the trunk of a tree which was illuminated by the white moonlight.
"Some symbols, or something... why? What's wrong Rich?"
"Damn, I thought so. Chance... this is Holy Ground."