DISCLAIMER:
The concepts of Immortality, and the characters used in this work are from HIGHLANDER: THE SERIES which is the property of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., Rysher Entertainment and Gaumont Television, and are used without permission. This is an amateur publication intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. No copyright infringement is intended.
The concepts of aliens as used here, and the characters used in this work are from STARMAN which is the property of James Henerson, James Hirsh, ABC Television, and Columbia TriStar Television, and are used without permission. This is an amateur publication intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. No copyright infringement is intended.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dialog from the third season Highlander episode "Courage" written by Nancy Heiken is quoted in this work. The idea of MacLeod being a rock is taken from the third season Highlander episode, "Shadows" written by David Tynan.
CREDITS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
I want to thank all the people who edited "A Reason to Live" and helped me with suggestions and advice. They are: Michele Martin, Todd Andrews, Linda Ratoff, Lynda Sappington, Joyce Fossek, Sonja van den Ende, Janine Shahinian, Russet McMillan, Helen Keckler.
All the people who read this work provided ideas, feedback, and helped me keep the characters from going off on tangents. But a special thanks goes to Michele Martin for her invaluable assistance. Throughout the writing and editing process I called her my second brain. In order for this story to work, I had to have a plausible reason for Duncan MacLeod to get into the state we find him in. It had to be something believable for this very strong character. Michele gave me the idea that became the centerpiece of "A Reason to Live". Thank you Michele.
"A Reason to Live" will be published in the new Starman crossover fanzine, STARCROSSED 2 (September 1996). The editor of that publication, Bruce Jividen, has graciously given me permission to post this story to the Highlander fiction list.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I use a quotation from Samuel Clemens in this story. According to 'The Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Quotations', Samuel Clemens actually said, "The report of my death was an exaggeration". The book continues on to say the line is often mis-quoted as "Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." Since Sam was a friend of Duncan's, he would use the right line. :))
What is STARMAN? For those of you not familiar with this series, here is a brief synopsis taken from STARCROSSED 2:
This 1986-1987 series was inspired by the 1984 movie, in which space travelers from another solar system intercept a human space probe and one of them comes to visit, only to be shot down by American defensive aircraft. Unable to survive in his natural form (all energy that appears as a blue light) until his comrades rescue him, the alien clones the body of a woman's dead husband. The woman, Jenny Hayden, embarks on a cross- country trip with the alien to rendezvous with his spacecraft. Along the way they are pursued by government forces, led by agent George Fox, and Jenny teaches the Starman amount life on Earth. She finds herself falling in love with him, and he gives her a child before leaving. The TV series happens 14 years later, when Starman returns to help Scott Hayden, the son he left behind. Fox's pursuit forced Jenny to give up her son when he was young, and Scott's foster parents die in a car accident, leaving him alone. This time, Starman stays on Earth in the cloned body of Paul Forrester, a wild-living photojournalist who was killed during a helicopter crash. Father and son travel across the country searching for Jenny and out-running agent Fox, who's still after them, accompanied by his bumbling assistant, Wylie. Starman and Scott both have small silver marbles called "spheres" that glow blue when they are activated. The spheres are capable of projecting illusions, manipulating objects, locating people or things, healing injuries, etc. Starman and his son are touch empaths. In their travels, Starman and Scott bring hope, understanding, and a catalyst for positive change into the lives of those they meet.
Paul Forrester followed his son and stumbled into him as Scott's headlong flight came to a sudden standstill. Paul panted, "Don't stop now, Fox isn't far behind us." Less than a half hour ago, father and son were peacefully eating dinner in their second floor apartment. Then a neighbor from the first floor came to tell them a man was asking the apartment manager questions about them and the two fugitives fled on foot. Their quick trip down the fire escape didn't go unnoticed by the police posted outside the building.
Trying to catch his breath, Scott pointed and managed to say, "What...what's that?" The sound of metal clashing against metal reverberated against the narrow walls. In the dim light Scott could barely make out the silhouette of two people going at each other with what looked like swords. "Did we just run into the Three Musketeers?"
"A candy bar?" Paul asked with a puzzled expression. "How can you be hungry at a time like this?"
"No, Dad," Scott said with exasperation in his voice. He wondered to himself how long it would take for his father to assimilate all of human culture. It had been ten years since his father's return to this planet in answer to Scott's involuntary plea for help. While his dad was now very good at fitting in, almost never making mistakes, there were still times when little things slipped out. "The Three Musketeers are... Oh, never mind, I don't have time to explain it now. Let's go, Fox and the police will be here soon."
Paul began to walk quickly and silently toward the pair at the far end of the alley.
"Where are you going?" Scott hissed in a loud whisper, then shook his head as he followed his father.
The Starman said nothing as he advanced on the battle, removing the sphere from his pocket as he went. It was obvious to him that this was a serious fight and people would be hurt. He couldn't stand by and do nothing. When he was about ten feet away, Paul could see one of the combatants was a woman of medium height, with short brown hair. The other was a tall man with long, black hair pulled back into a pony tail.
The woman's sword came down in an arc straight towards the man's neck. He deflected the blow at the last second and stumbled back. The tip of her sword continued its downward motion and sliced a deep, diagonal gash across his chest. Blood welled up in the wound immediately, staining the man's clothes red. Taking advantage of his loss of balance, the woman thrust her sword completely through the man's body, twisted it, then pulled it out.
Duncan MacLeod dropped his sword and fell to his knees, holding his left hand over the bleeding wound in his chest. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he struggled to reach his weapon.
Laughing diabolically, April kicked the katana out of his reach.
Duncan felt himself starting to get dizzy as blood pumped from his wounded heart. He sat back on his heels and looked up into the eyes of his executioner. He accepted his fate and felt only relief.
Paul watched the woman raise the sword above her head and heard her say, "There can be only one." As the deadly blade swung down, the Starman activated his sphere. The blue light leapt from his hand and enveloped the woman's arm. A bolt of lightning surged from her sword and arced into the sky. A second blast struck the lone light mounted on the wall inside the alley, shattering it.
The woman took her eyes from the man at her feet and stared at the stranger. "Who are you? What are you doing?"
"I'm someone who can't let you kill that man," Paul said quietly.
"You have no right to interfere." She tried to move her sword downward, but found her arm was immobile, as if pinned by a force field.
The man collapsed to the ground and Scott rushed to his side. Placing his hands on the man's chest, Scott's empathic sense told him the wounds were fatal and he knew that quick action would be necessary to save his life. He pulled the sphere from his pocket and whispered to the unhearing form, "Just hang in there, buddy." As he activated his sphere, Scott tried to remember all the things his father had taught him in the years they had traveled together.
Paul's eyes never left the woman's as he said, "Please lower your weapon and leave. I mean you no harm."
Scott concentrated with all his being. He relaxed and visualized the exact nature of the wounds in the man's organs. The sword had punctured the heart and the man was rapidly bleeding to death. Focusing the energy of the sphere, Scott began his attempt to repair the damage.
Struggling to move her sword arm, the woman spat. "What are you doing to me? What is he doing to MacLeod?" She squirmed again, but found her arm held completely motionless. "You can't do this!"
"But, I am doing it. I won't allow you to hurt anyone."
"No," Scott moaned, "don't die." He knew his attempts at healing weren't working. He just didn't have time to fix everything. Scott felt the heart beat its last, and saw the chest grow still. Scott cradled the man's head in his lap and looked into the unseeing eyes. He deactivated his sphere, and carefully closed the man's eyelids.
Looking into the face of the man bathed in the blue glow from...from something in his hand, April Groves wasn't sure what she was seeing or feeling. She took a couple of steps backwards and glanced down at the young man and her opponent. "Another time, Highlander." Finding herself released from the strange force, April put her sword under her coat, turned and ran from the alley.
Paul knelt beside his son. A quick examination confirmed what Scott already knew. Paul closed his fingers over the sphere, extinguishing its light.
"Dad?" Scott asked hesitantly.
Paul remembered healing Jenny after she was shot in the head, but knew in this case, he didn't have the luxury of that kind of time. Besides, in his years on earth, Paul had learned that sometimes it wasn't right to interfere in the natural course of life and death. "There's nothing I can do. It's too late for him."
In all of his twenty-three years, this was the first time Scott had seen a person killed. As Scott moved to get up, he gently placed the man's head on the cold, gritty asphalt. He knew he would never forget that face as long as he lived.
The sound of approaching sirens spurred father and son into action. They sprinted from one end of the alley just as a police cruiser pulled into the other.
"Nooooo!" Scott yelled, as he sat up in bed. Panting to catch his breath, he hoped he had not awakened his father again. This same nightmare had haunted him frequently in the three weeks since they'd left New Hampshire. The face of the dead man swam before his eyes even as he lay back on his pillow and tried to return to sleep.
In the next room, Paul lay awake wishing there was something he could do to help his son. The violence of this world always distressed him, but he wasn't sure why this one incident had effected Scott so deeply. Tomorrow they would have to discuss it, again.
"Do you want to talk about it, Scott?" Paul asked as he passed the milk at the breakfast table.
"What?" Scott snapped, more sharply than he intended.
"The nightmare. Tell me about it."
"I've told you before, it's nothing."
"It's not, 'nothing', or you wouldn't keep dreaming about it." How could he get his son to see that keeping his troubles inside did him no good? It wasn't healthy.
Scott looked into his father's face and saw patient understanding. "I felt him dying in my arms. I knew his heart had been cut open and his pain...his pain was overwhelming."
Paul nodded.
"I mean, I don't even know the guy, yet I feel like I let him down." Scott rubbed his eyes. "I should have been able to save him."
"That's not always possible." Paul put his hand on Scott's arm. "Sometimes people die."
"You would have saved him."
"Maybe, if I'd had more time and could have gotten to him sooner."
Scott got up and took the breakfast dishes to the sink, then turned back to face his father. "How long will it be before I can use what I inherited from you to help people?"
"You already can. You've made great advances in your abilities."
"Not enough, obviously." He turned and began to wash the dishes. Still with his back to his father, he asked, "Does it always hurt so much?"
"No." Paul got up and put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Sometimes you can help people, and then it feels good."
A fleeting smile crossed Scott's face. He was glad he had his father to teach him the meaning of his alien heritage.
Richie Ryan paused for a brief moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior of Joe's. Spotting the gray- haired proprietor of the establishment behind the bar, he made his way across the room. "Hey, Joe, you called. Have you got some news about Mac?"
Joe Dawson looked up from his task of arranging the liquor bottles. It was still several hours until the tavern opened, but he hadn't been able to concentrate on the books or on the Watcher business that he needed to do. He just kept moving things around as he tried to resolve his feelings about the conversation he was about to have. "Sit down, Richie."
The look on the Watcher's face made Richie's heart sink. "It's bad, isn't it?" Richie had started to worry about MacLeod a week ago when he had not returned from his trip to New York. He'd left a little over a month ago to go visit his kinsman, Connor. When Richie had been unable to contact the older MacLeod, Joe promised to see what he could find out using the Watcher network.
"Connor's Watcher said Duncan left New York about a month ago heading towards New England at the same time Connor returned to Scotland."
"Connor's Watcher? Aren't you Mac's Watcher?" Richie shouted angrily. "Where were you?"
"Richie,..." Joe tried to explain.
"Shouldn't you have been there? Shouldn't you know what happened to him?"
"Richie, calm down," Joe commanded. The uncharacteristic rise in the older man's voice brought silence to the younger. "Listen to me. It doesn't work like that. Our network isn't perfect, and one person doesn't do all the surveillance."
"Okay. So you guys aren't the FBI. Was anyone tracking MacLeod?"
"We did have a Watcher on Mac while he was back east, but she lost him in Boston."
"How? Aren't you people supposed to be experts at tracking us?"
Joe waited for the young man's passion to subside a little. "You know that Mac knows about us. Emily said he was intentionally trying to lose her and finally succeeded. She never did pick up his trail again."
"So, why did you call me over here? To tell me you still don't know anything about where he is?"
Taking a deep breath, Joe pulled himself up on a stool. "No, there's more. Three weeks ago I talked to the Watcher of an Immortal named April Groves. Although she's only about two hundred, she's a headhunter, and good at it. Mark said he's pretty sure April took Mac's head in an alley in New Hampshire."
"Three weeks!" Richie shouted. "You've known about this for three weeks and you didn't tell me?"
Joe studied the young Immortal's face. He had every right to be angry. "I wanted to check out the story before I said anything to you. I've had people combing New England looking for something more concrete than the one report."
"Why didn't you say something when I called you last week? Do you think I'm a kid and can't take it?"
"No, Richie, no. You're not a kid, but Mark was so unsure of what he'd seen, I didn't want to upset you if it was unnecessary."
"What do you mean, 'unsure'?"
"It means he didn't actually see the beheading, but he saw the Quickening...and he saw April afterwards."
Richie didn't know what to say. If a Watcher reported a battle and then a Quickening, it was pretty conclusive evidence that his teacher and his best friend was dead. Richie blinked rapidly to keep from shedding any tears. "Tell me...tell me everything. Why didn't he see the beheading?"
"Mark watched as April challenged MacLeod and they took their discussion into an alley, away from the city street. He stayed at the corner but could hear Mac trying to talk her out of fighting."
"That sounds like him. He doesn't like...never liked to kill a woman."
Joe shook his head. "Most of us who knew him said his sense of honor and chivalry would get him killed someday."
"Yeah, I know." The two friends shared a look of pain and memory. Several seconds of silence passed.
With a sigh, Joe continued, "April was getting the upper hand in the duel when Mark was distracted from the scene by the passing of several police cars. He ducked into a doorway to stay out of sight, and it was from there he saw the Quickening rise from the alley, then a few minutes later he saw April run out."
"Why didn't he go back t...to confirm the kill?"
"The police were back, and coming into the other end of the alley. He couldn't very well be found near a beheading victim." Joe paused and stroked his beard with one hand. "You know, Mark said this was the strangest Quickening he'd ever seen, especially for an older Immortal."
"How so?"
"He said there were only a few lightening bolts, no breaking glass from the surrounding buildings, and only one shattered light. You'd think that as powerful as Mac was, his Quickening would have been spectacular."
"That's for sure." Richie was numb as he sat quietly letting the information sink in.
Several seconds passed before Joe asked, "What are you going to do now?"
Richie felt like he was standing on the edge of a deep black hole that was threatening to draw him inside. "I think I need to be alone. I have to say good-bye in my own way." Richie took a couple of calming breaths. "Maybe, then, I'll be able to face going into Mac's loft and taking care of his things." Richie got up and walked towards the door. Just before putting on his sun-glasses, he turned and said, fighting back emotion, "I'll be seeing you."
A few minutes after Richie left, Joe slid off his stool and went into his office. It was finally time to face the task he'd been putting off for weeks. Starting his computer, he opened up the chronicle on Duncan MacLeod, and began to type the terminal report on the Immortal he had watched for almost twenty years.
The words didn't want to come. Joe didn't want to face the fact that he would never see MacLeod sitting at his bar again drinking single malt Scotch. He didn't want to think about the fact that he would never hear that strangely mixed Scottish accent any more. For in the last few years, MacLeod wasn't just an assignment, he was a good friend. Joe had defied all the Watchers' rules and made a mockery of his oath of non-interference, but he wouldn't trade that friendship for anything.
Pushing his chair back, Joe pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the glass enclosed cabinet behind his desk. He removed a leather bound book and ran his hand over the symbol on the front. This was supposed to be at Watcher headquarters, but Joe had convinced his superiors to let him keep it. Opening the cover, Joe began to read the first reports, written in Latin, on the new Immortal, Duncan MacLeod.
Duncan awoke with a shudder, sat upright and inhaled a deep breath. The smell of sweat, booze, urine and feces should have made him gag, but he had lived among the stench for so long he didn't even notice. The single room with the peeling flowered wallpaper had one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The water didn't run in the sink, and the kitchenette stove didn't work. There was no other furniture. The bathroom was down the hall, but usually the toilet was plugged and most often there was no water for the showers.
He wasn't sure if he'd been dead again, or just passed out from the whiskey, but he felt like hell. The dirty mattress he sat on was surrounded by empty bottles. In the three weeks since his battle with April, he'd lived almost exclusively on liquor, any kind he could get. Occasionally, he died from alcohol poisoning, but when he came back, he just went and got more booze. Damn his Immortality. He couldn't even get drunk and stay that way for long. He couldn't drink himself into oblivion and forget his troubles because the effects wore off too fast.
The night in the alley was still a blur. Duncan remembered seeing a blue aura and a Quickening. He shook his head as he thought, I couldn't have seen the Quickening. Surely, you don't see your own Quickening. And why was the aura blue instead of white?
Nothing about that night made any sense. Duncan knew he should be dead...permanently dead. The last thing he remembered clearly was dropping his sword and looking up into April's face as she raised her weapon for the killing blow. The pain in his chest was excruciating and his feeble attempt to reach his sword had failed. Duncan had never before accepted final death, but in that instant, when he knew he was going to die, he felt peace.
When Duncan revived, there were police all around. He pulled his coat tightly around himself to hide the blood on his clothing, and staggered out. His performance at pretending to be a man just awakening from a drunken stupor should have won him an Emmy. Now, he didn't have to act.
Duncan lay back down, closed his eyes and remembered Brian Cullen's words. "Don't pity me MacLeod. One day it will be you. You can't keep your nerve forever, always looking over your shoulder for a guy with a sword." At the time he had argued with his long-time friend about the drugs that were destroying Brian's life, Duncan never believed Brian would be right.
A tickling sensation caused Duncan to open his eyes and he saw a three-inch cockroach crawling across his arm. He flung the bug away, and stood up. Running his hands through his matted hair, he searched the room for something to drink but all the booze was gone. Duncan had hocked everything he owned except his sword and now he was almost out of money. He had avoided using his credit cards because they were traceable, and he hadn't wanted to be found.
"Hey, Richie," Scott shouted, "wait up."
Richie stopped at the bottom of the steps leading into the Social Sciences building and watched Scott jog towards him. Before MacLeod had left for New York, Richie promised that he would enroll in some classes at the community college. He almost backed out, but at the last minute decided to follow through. Richie had met Scott a month ago in the line for late registration of new students, but in that short time they had become fast friends.
"Where have you been lately?" Scott asked, "I haven't seen you around for a week." He laughed. "You're really going to have some catching up to do in old man Zeist's astronomy class."
"I got some bad news and I had to think things out." After he had left Joe's bar, Richie went to Mac's island and stayed. He tried to imagine what it was like a hundred and twenty-five years ago when Mac had first built the cabin. It had been Mac's place of solace after the loss of his Sioux family. Richie's days spent in solitude while hiking or fishing, and the still, quiet nights spent in remembering the last five years had helped some in easing his loss. But there was still a large, empty place in his life. A grimace of distress crossed Richie's features.
The look was not lost on Scott. He put a hand on Richie's shoulder and almost recoiled at the agony of loss and grief he felt coming from his friend. Slowly, he removed his hand so as not to startle the other young man. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there is." Scott kept his eyes focused on Richie's and wished he had more of his father's abilities. He wondered how many years it would take to learn it all. "My dad is always telling me that keeping your troubles inside does you no good. It isn't healthy."
"Well, I never had a father to tell me things like that," Richie snapped. He turned and rushed up the steps. The only man who ever treated him like a father was Mac, and he was gone. Now, both of them were gone; Tessa and Mac - the best 'parents' anybody could want.
Scott watched Richie go, then followed, deep in thought. This was the first time in a long time that Scott had found a good friend and he wanted to hang onto that friendship. Also, if he could help Richie, maybe he would feel good about something, and stop having the nightmares.
As he left his world history class, Scott felt a hand on his shoulder. His empathic sense let him know immediately this was a person in distress so he figured it was Richie. There was also something else, something he hadn't noticed before when he had only briefly touched Richie. There was a strange, almost electric aura coming from his friend. It was something he'd never felt before.
"Scott, I'm sorry I got angry earlier. I found out a good friend of mine died and I'm a little on edge."
When Scott turned to face Richie, his friend's hand dropped away so the current of emotion was no longer flowing through him. "Are you ready to talk about it?"
Richie looked away. "Yeah, I think I am. Do you want to come over tonight?"
"Sure." Scott felt a little nervous about trying this on his own. "And Richie, I'd like my dad to come along too. He's really good at helping with these kinds of problems."
Richie had only met Paul Forrester a couple of times, but had taken an immediate liking to him. He was so unlike Mac, yet like him too. Mac was a warrior, and Scott had told him how passive his father was, not even willing to kill a fly. But both men seemed to have a presence about them that defied description, and they both had a wisdom that far exceeded their years. Well, in Mac's case it was because of his age, but most people didn't know that.
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