"Mac, I'm telling you, it's the damnest thing! It's like the sensation we get when we sense another Immortal... only it's, I dunno, it's weaker somehow."
Duncan socked the heavy sand bag a few more times, and brushed his damp hair out of his face with an arm. Duncan looked at his pupil, who was braced up against the punching bag, holding it in place with all his strength.
"Richie, it just doesn't make sense -- why would Kerrigan's Watcher have a "buzz"? And why would he sell pictures of my Quickening to the paper?"
"Because he's not Kerrigan's Watcher, Mac. I looked -- he didn't have a tattoo."
Duncan frowned and pulled a white towel from where it had been dropped on a weight machine. Wiping his face, Duncan looked back over at Richie, who had straddled one of the machines and was looking expectantly at his mentor.
"What did you say his name was, again, Rich?"
"Chance. Chance Harper." Richie said from were he sat. Then, as if on que, tingly semi-Immortal buzz filled the minds of Richie and Duncan. Looking over at the door, they watched as the figure of Chance Harper entered the empty dojo.
"I take it you're Duncan MacLeod?" Chance asked, walking up to the tall Immortal and extending his hand.
"Last time I checked," Duncan replied, accepting Chance's handshake. "What can I do for you?"
"Your friend, Richie here, said that you might be able to explain some stuff for me?"
Duncan cast a sideways look at Richie, "Yea, I suppose he did say that. Very well, follow me, Mr. Harper --"
"Call me Chance."
"Okay, Chance, lets go somewhere we can sit down, this might take awhile," Duncan lead the way to the rusted elevator and slammed the grate shut, starting the freight elevator's noisy assent into Duncan's loft apartment. The noise of the elevator drowned out the uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
After pulling the rusty grate back up, Duncan gestured to his spartan apartment. Chance looked around at the large, open loft. The couch and other furnishings made it clear that Duncan MacLeod was a man of wealth, but who wasn't ostentatious about it. The sofa in the middle of the main room was leather and various knick-knacks appeared to be antiques. The entire room was permeated by an air of comfort and simplicity.
"Make yourself at home," Duncan said to Chance as he pulled Richie after him into the kitchen and out of Chance's hearing.
"What exactly do you expect me to tell him, Rich?"
"Everything -- and I'll tell him, Mac, it's okay."
Duncan opened his mouth to say something, but Richie cut him off, "I know what you're going to say Mac -- but you felt him, he's not an Immortal, but he *is* connected to us somehow. I think that he has a right to know."
"Richie..." Duncan began, clearly not liking the idea.
"Look, Mac, he's not really involved in our lives or anything, I don't think it will put him in any danger -- in fact he might be in worse trouble if he didn't know about us... what if Kerrigan had found him instead of us? What if some inexperienced Immortal mistook him for once of us? Besides, maybe if he understands our situation, he won't sell those pictures I told you about to the paper."
Duncan sighed and looked out over the island counter which separated the kitchen from the living room/bedroom. Chance was at the far end of the room looking at a large tapestry which hung over MacLeod's bed.
"We can introduce him to Joe -- you know how Joe's always looking for new recruits," Richie pleaded.
Walking out into the loft, Duncan cleared his throat, "Um, Chance," he said, as the freelance photographer turned around, "I suppose you are entitled to an explanation -- please have a seat."
Chance sat down on the leather sofa which graced the middle of the spacious room and looked expectantly at Duncan.
"Richie hand me a knife," Duncan said.
Richie pulled a steak knife out of a kitchen drawer, solemnly walked over and handed it to the standing Duncan.
Duncan exposed the palm of his hand so that Chance could see it. Then, with one smooth movement, he slashed his palm open. Blood welled up from the jagged wound, smearing the pink flesh of MacLeod's hand. Duncan grimaced slightly -- he hadn't meant to cut himself that deeply. The fire in his hand gradually cooled and the wound swiftly healed over leaving only a smear of red blood.
Chance slowly raised his eyes from Duncan's palm to the Scot's face. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he asked for an explanation. Looks like it was going to be one of those days.
"I'm an Immortal," Duncan began, "I was born in 1592 in the Highlands of Scotland, and I cannot die," he paused for a moment, letting that sink in. Chance was taking it surprisingly well -- aside from the usual look of astonishment there was no sign of fear or hatred -- two things of which Duncan usually encountered on the few occasions when he had told others his secret.
Chance collected his wits and his brain rushed to analyze what he had just seen and heard. This was by far the strangest thing that had ever happened to him -- stranger than the Elvis Potato, even.
"You said "an Immortal", as if it was the name of a race or something," he said finally.
"That's right," Richie chimed in from his seat next to Chance, "although it's something of a misnomer... there is one way which we can be killed -- beheading."
Chance grimaced and then thought for a moment, "But what does all this have to do with that -- buzz -- I keep feeling?"
"Immortals are involved in a "Game," as we call it," Duncan began. "The idea is that we must kill each other until only one of us remains. When an Immortal is killed, it results in the release of their life-force, or Quickening. If another Immortal did the killing, or is close enough when the killing occurred, they absorb the life-force of the dead Immortal.
"My mentor and clansman, Connor MacLeod, explained to me that the Quickening is a force present in all living beings, humans, animals, plants, everything. In Immortals it exists in extremely high amounts, which is what triggers their Immortality after their first death. The amount is so great, that when two Immortal get in close proximity of each other, it creates a temporary buzzing sensation --"
"Whoa! Hold on there, are you saying that I'm -- Immortal?"
Duncan smiled, "No, your buzz doesn't feel right -- apparently you have more Quickening than a normal mortal, but not enough to make you an Immortal. However, I have no idea why that would be or how it could occur."
Chance sat for a moment, considering everything he'd just heard. These two guys seemed perfectly normal, but like himself, they weren't. They had an unseen, strange side. Suddenly Chance felt a tremendous connection with the two Immortals.
"Chance... do you understand now why Richie tried to take those pictures?" Duncan asked, "If something like this was disclosed to the general public, we would become objects of government experiments or even hunted down and killed. I doubt most mortals would accept the concept of our Game... and there is some danger in this for you, as well, Chance. Since Immortals can sense you, other, less experienced, Immortals might assume that you're one of us and try to engage you in a duel. I have a friend, however, who might be able to help you avoid other Immortals...you've been really lucky not to have run into any of us before now."
A brief smile flashed across Chance's face at the irony of that statement. Then his expression hardened briefly as he considered being hunted down by a sword wielding manic... not a pleasant thought.
Then, trying to break the mood with a lopsided grin, Chance said. "Well, Richie, I asked for a good reason not to sell those pictures to the Examiner and I guess I got one. I don't suppose either of you want a picture of a -- "Quickening," do you?"
Richie grinned back, "No, but I think I know someone who might."
"Look, Logan, I'm sorry about last night -- but they have a right to come to my bar just like everyone else," Joe said to the heavy-set black man who was sitting on a stool at the front of the bar, his trenchcoat draped over the stool next to him.
"Serving Them is one thing, Joe, being friends with Them is another --" Logan stopped mid-sentence as Duncan, Richie and Chance walked into the busy bar.
Swerving around waitresses and tables, the trio made their way to the secluded corner of the front counter were Joe was talking quietly with Logan.
"Hey, Joe," said Richie.
"Hey, Rich, Mac -- who's your friend?" Joe said, glancing apprehensively over at Logan.
"Joe, this is Chance Harper -- Chance this is Joe Dawson."
"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Harper --," Joe began extending a hand.
"Call me Chance," Chance said, grasping Joe's hand, and then removing his trenchcoat and dropping it on a barstool next to him.
"Then you can call me Joe -- so, what can I do for you guys today?"
"Actually, it's more along the lines of what we can do for you," Richie said.
Joe broke out in a grin despite Logan's oppressive presence, "Well I guess there's a first time for everything."
Logan snorted disgustedly from his seat next to where the four were standing, "I'll catch you later Joe," he said, snatching up a trenchcoat and heading for the door.
The lonely sound of jazz music drifted though the smoky bar for a moment, mingled with snatches of conversation as the four stood in momentary silence.
Finally, Richie broke the silence, "Wasn't he --"
"Yea," Joe answered.
"Oh."
"Would anyone mind clueing me in?" Chance asked.
Joe looked over at Duncan and Richie.
"He knows," Duncan said.
"Oh, okay," Joe said, still regarding Duncan -- he knew MacLeod pretty damn well... he was his Watcher, after all... and he knew that Duncan wasn't one to tell just anybody about his Immortality without a good reason. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.
Joe continued, "He's a Watcher, so am I," he bared the skin on his left wrist, showing Chance his blue tattoo, which vaguely resembled an upside down Mercedes hood ornament. "We Watch people like Richie and Duncan."
Chance regarded Joe for a moment, "You're serious, aren't you?"
"I've never been more serious in my life."
"Why would you "watch" them?"
Joe shrugged, "For posterity... for history. These people actually experience history... they have a tremendous influence on world events. Someone needs to keep track of them. We keep records... journals, chronicles, pictures that sort of thing."
"So that's why Richie said you'd be interested in my photos," Chance said. At Joe's questioning expression, Chance continued, "I took some pictures of a Quickening yesterday -- I'm a freelance photographer for the Examiner. When Duncan explained to me what he was, I decided it might be a good idea not to sell the pictures."
Joe paused for a moment, in shock. Pictures -- of a Quickening? Immortals had nearly been exposed, and the Watchers hadn't even *known* about it. This had almost turned out worse than the Kalas business last year when Immortals had nearly been exposed to the world because of an experimental Watcher CD-ROM. Why hadn't Kerrigan's new guy told him about this? He'd have to have a little "chat" with him later.
/Well, maybe it'll work out for the best -- the Organization could use more pro photographers./
"Okay, do you have them with you? I'd like to see 'em," Joe said finally.
"I have the pictures and negatives here in my coat -- you know it's amazing what you can carry in a trenchcoat," Chance said. Then, upon seeing the lop-sided grins on Duncan, Richie, and Joe's faces he added, "What's so funny?"
"I'll explain later," Joe said, suppressing his grin.
Chance turned back to his coat and searched for a moment longer, before a realization struck him -- this wasn't his trenchcoat! "Umm, guys, I think we have a problem."
"What's wrong, Chance?" Richie asked, after everything he had gone though to keep those pictures out of the paper, he wasn't in a mood for anything to go wrong now.
"This isn't my trenchcoat," Chance said, placing the black coat on the counter.
"Wait a minute," Joe said, looking over the jacket, "this is Logan's. Don't worry, as soon as he realizes that he made a mistake, he'll return your coat and pictures. He probably won't be to happy about it, but he'll return it.
Joe glanced at Richie and Duncan who took the hint and wandered off to listen to Dawson's newest band.
After the duo left, Joe pushed the coat aside and pulled out a couple of glasses and a bottle of scotch, "Now, Chance -- you know, the Watcher Organization is always on the look out for new recruits -- especially good photographers..."