Pre-warning, author's note - I am not religious in any way, but I had thought about a sequel to Star Maker that would show the after effects of such an encounter.
To any of those who are religious though - this is not story designed to debunk or bash any particular faith. The setting for my universe is a cross between H.P. Lovecraft and Babylon 5; where any god worshipped by is likely to be an alien.
He slept now with the light on, the sight of darkness brought out cold sweats and nausea, sometimes even dizziness.
Walking down the street was the worst, even during the light of day. It is the shadows they cast which frightens the immortal, it takes all his willpower not to flinch, and hunch in the corner. Never has he been so scared, but viewing the Godhead is not an experience to take lightly. It was this day that Connor sat outside, trying to conquer his fear, but it was more than that, terror would be more appropriate. No matter the weather, boiling heat, or freezing cold he got cold sweats. It's a phobia, he cursed.
Damn God anyway. He'd heard him mention other species, and had even seen them in his minds eye, universe after universe, and species after species being given similar questions. The ones that got wrong answers were erased from existence, he'd been shown that as well. I will not give in, and willed the pain and nausea to leave, but they steadfastly armpits grew hot, and moist, his top lip and brow poured fluid like a waterfall. Every Quickening within was silent for the first time in his life, none spoke, gave counsel, or shouted their impotent rage. All cowered, just as Connor Macleod cowered before the awful memory.
Perhaps a psychologist, but how could he describe the reason for his fear? Talking to someone might help, but whom?
The immortal that had been known during the Crusades as Altaïr bin Al-Ahad was now known merely as Josh. He had taken great pains to separate from that identity, although he still performed what he termed righteous kills, albeit it rarely. Usually he kept his own counsel, thinking most of the fervent believers to be misguided, brainwashed by those seeking power. Peace was his way now, whenever possible anyway.
After leaving the order, he had finally found Allah, and took solace in that. It had happened somewhat by accident.
He walked back from the battlefield, having been hit by a hundred arrows, only to rise fron death like the Western Jesus, a lesser Prophet to Mohammed. Did this make him a Prophet, he doubted it, but something felt different. Somehow Altaïr felt stronger, faster than ever before, as if filled with a divine vigour.
There were those he had slain, who lay there unmoving, dead and at peace. Perhaps he had offended Allah for some slight, cursed to walk the Earth for eternity. The assassin was filled with dread, envying those who either walked in Paradise, or cast into Hell.
Hiding in the shadows, watching as Knights Templar walked by. He felt something strange, like before a thunderstorm as though the air carried the spark of divine power, yet it seemed to be all around; enveloping.
It was dizzying, yet scary at the same time. "Go on, I will look for survivors!" one yelled to his fellow Knights. He saw the other seemed to be having a similar sensation, constantly looking in circles, scanning for the source. Well if one of Templars had the same sensation, cursed he was then. "I know you're here" shouted the Templar, sword held at the ready. His once gleaming armour now dulled by combat, covered in gore, blood and other things.
Altaïr knew it was a matter of time before he was found, hiding away between two baskets. Choosing to stand, he faced the Knight, who cocked an eyebrow in surprise.
"You've come out then my little assassin", the tone clearly condenscending and intended to provoke. Shaking his head, Altaïr thought it unneccesary but said nothing choosing to let silence be his weapon. "Maybe I should let my comrades in arms kill you, but they might find that difficult…..considering". He had no idea what the Knight was referring to.
In an age where disease, war and famine were rife, the man's features were unmarred, like his own. He carried a hidden power, a command that his friends had not possessed. What caught his stare was the blade, which seemed otherworldly. Transfixed he was by the weapon.
The Knight patted the weapon affectionately. "You like this?" Smiling he looked down at the ground, kicking a pebble at a corpse for no reason, other than pure malice, not that the person cared being gone. Taking on a gloating tone. "I deprived this from a young King, my father, Arthur", he laughed mockingly. "Do you like Excalibur?"
Surely he couldn't be implying what he thought he meant. He was carrying a Holy Weapon, in the hands of an Infidel. Calming himself by taking deep breaths drew his own blade, dirty and pale in comparison to the blade his opponent carried. Not that his sword was covered in blood or mud, just that it had the used look, and if the others' blade really was Excalibur, it looked pristine, brand new off the forge. He was well aware of the legends regarding the weapon.
"I am called Mordred, son of the Witch Morgana, bastard son of King Arthur". Eyes wide in disbelief. "What little assassin do I owe you?" More laughter followed. Steadying his resolve, stepped forward not willing to cower to an Infidel, of a false God. "I serve Allah faithfully, little do I care for your foreign weapon of false origins, and Gods"
"So short sighted" replied Mordred, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. His normally pale complexion tanned in the foreign lands. "We create our gods, and our own causes. Anything else is infantile".
Doubt clouded his mind. "I shall not listen to your base lies….Infidel"
Mordred heard a moan from a man, he had once thought to be dead. A mortal sought the immortal's eyes, for recognition, and aid. It was not forthcoming. His booted foot, covered in armour struck out, fracturing the soldiers windpipe. He gurgled briefly, and then fell silent in death.
"Your own Master sought control of your order, power at any cost, giving false promises of salvation and entry in Paradise. There is no life hereafter, only dust and decay, and eternal death"
He had heard such nonsense whispered of in the order before, before the death of the Master, but Altaïr knew such members were never heard from again. Presumably silenced for blasphemy. Once or twice, he'd had such thoughts himself, only to find faith again.
The senselessness of it all, only made the plan of Allah all the more apparent, just that it was invisible to the eyes of mortals, occasionally glimpsed by angels. Mordred drew Excalibur, "Come whelp! Let us see what you have"
Swords clashed with brilliant sparks, like whirling blades that spat fire. Altaïr could not stand before the Infidel much longer, he was far too good. Grunting with exertion, felt liquid heat across his abdomen, his training had taught the immediate recognition of injuries and the abiity to surpass them. Backing away, felt his left hand come away with a sticky hot substance that smelt like iron. Risking a glance down, saw lots of blood. Even now, he felt the injury heal through Allah's will.
"You cannot stop the will of Allah!"
Mirthless laughter bounced between the walls, and the dead, making it seemingly come from everywhere at once. "You have no idea what you are? Do you?" No longer feeling the need the hold his intestines in, looked thoughtfully at Mordred. "What do you mean?" Reaching for a dagger, Mordred rolled up his sleeve exposing bare forearm. The small blade slashed across it, as arterial spray peppered a dead man's features. Altaïr watched as it healed with flecks of lightning. This cannot be he thought. What manner of beast is he?
"I am like you, Immortal. We have walked the Earth among men since time began". Doubted clouded his mind. But then he realised that had been Mordred's intent all along. "Find a teacher, and when next we meet, this will settled once and for all". With that the other performed a leap impossible to any normal human, landing twenty feet up on a ledge and scampered almost noiselessly away.
That encounter had shook Altaïr to the core for years afterward, until he'd met his new master Marcus Constantine, an immortal already over one thousand years old, a phenomenal warrior. He had taught the reluctant immortal about the Game, the Prize, although his take on it was different to most, and the rules by which they all lived. He believed the Prize was not ultimate power, but to meet Allah and reside in the Heavens. Constantine had shown Altaïr the fallacy of his earlier beliefs, those taught by Al Mualim, to find his own faith in Allah – without guidance, giving whatever reading and education the immortal needed.
It had taken years to break the conditioning, but Marcus had been a patient man, an excellent swordsman, a good friend. He was able to see why immortals had been deified the world over as gods of war. His mentor had commented on his thinking at the time, that it was a testament to his now surging individuality that had allowed this leap of logic. Constantine had shown the immortal the beauty and richness of life, all across the world. Animals, great and small, and that perhaps all had a part to fulfill. They had parted almost a year after that in Greece, still best friends to this day. Although Marcus had taken on a life of peace not long after, the legendary General had shown what a bloodthirsty warrior he had been during their lessons together. Preparing Altaïr for his life of immortality.
He walked down the street, his Middle Eastern tan somewhat lighter than it had been then. But the climate in America was different, a lot cooler, although he still tanned in the heat of summer. When he'd first met the Roman General, he'd been ignorant of the world, and its treasures, now he was not. He loved life, people too, almost unconditionally. It was the only way to balance the brutality of his immortal life, showing peace and harmony, and love to mortals whose lives were fragile in comparison.
He walked by a homeless man, stopped, and taking an apple from his grocery bag – passed it to someone more needy than he. The man looked up, and mumbled thanks, obviously still drunk from the night before. He pitied the man, and wished he could help them all, but it was impossible to save everyone. A little bit of good each day.
When it came to hating people, Mordred was into equal opportunities. He hated all equally. Religion was a particular pet hate of his, and any who practiced it. He loved to torture men and women, and people generally. If he could be sure to not be discovered by the police, he loved to gut stray animals, delighting in their squeals of pain. Homeless were also fair game, in his opinion anyway.
But he did love children, being the next generation upon which he could practice the art of pain; but when they reached eighteen that was a different matter entirely.
Mordred was unaware of what really fuelled his real hate, so blinded was he that it was almost incomprehensible to the legend that was the man, the immortal. That is what had caused his very careful crafting of his latest identity, Peter Markell who had passed a variety of tests in the army, fitting into that special box or certain moral ambiguities – allowing a change of career. He had then gone into the Navy Seals where he had excelled, finally asking for, and got into the CIA, Black Ops. It enabled a certain latitude to continue his neurotic behaviour in other countries, less likely to be caught.
In the last three hundred years Mordred had developed a penchant for torturing religious fanatics, it was somewhat of a fascination, watching them scream, plead with their god for salvation. Not that there was any forthcoming, ever. He'd done the same to many a Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, to name but a few. He had even found their wives, brutally raped them, and then tortured them. The game delighted him.
But there were more urgent things to occupy his mind at the minute. On a whim, he'd decided to murder some gang members. Finding the immortal almost unstoppable, he'd broken in killed as many as possible, and then begun to skin the others alive. One had proved to be religious, and a very good sport. Hands and blade covered in gore, to many the stink of hot iron would make them sick to their stomach. Only surgeons were immune, but he was a surgeon or mayhap a doctor of sorts - one who removed weakness from this earth in whatever manner, gave the immortal the most happiness.
Afterwards, he walked downtown Florida after a particularly satisfying set of kills. He'd recently heard about a terrible storm in town a called Homestead, about fifty miles away, but had not yet had the chance to go there. Huge sea swells had overtaken a lot of land, in the wake of a second hurricane.
Connor stood in the perfect daylight, no shadows today he thought wryly. Most would think that seeing God would be peaceful, serene, it was not. What it was was horrifying, scary to the point of terror, showing the utter hopelessness of life. He took a deep breath, letting fresh air enter his lungs. Birds flew through the skies, chirping at one another. All the Quickening he possessed was useless to help. His immortality was a hindrance, preventing the peace and release of death, leaving only the agony and terror of life, life eternal. He'd offer his head to another immortal, but his torment would only pass.
Suicide was an option, if only he could think of a way to remove his head, letting his power dissipate into the ether. Yes he thought, that would work, frantically devising a way to immobilise himself while a blade descended. Eureka, the answer so obvious, the French had invented the very contraption; guillotine. If he couldn't find a working one, he would make one during the daylight hours; to end his suffering.
Having no choice, he rang his kinsman, asking if he had a guillotine. He'd made some excuse up about a buyer, and hope no one got suspicious. Duncan had said he'd recently had a delivery of a perfect and working guillotine, and would deliver it personally in a couple of days. He'd mumbled something about too long a wait, could it arrive tomorrow, offering to pay for the transport.
Hopefully Duncan had not caught on to something being wrong, he was about to pray, stopping himself at the last moment. What was the point of praying to such a malevolent force? A huge pair of wings made of shadow moved across the garden, and Connor scampered away like an animal caught in crosshairs. It felt like God disapproved of his actions, seeing a raven stretching in the sun, wings spread wide.
A flap of wings and the bird as gone, the sunshine returned. As the moon rose, and nightfall came, and with extinguishing any hope of freedom from the nightmares and the terror. All he could see was that maw of utter blackness, and despair for any lifeform stupid enough to believe or hope for salvation. Connor shivered, and he looked right to left, and left to right. Frantic that nothing was in the room, and that he was alone. But he was not alone, God was there. Not physically, but he felt the presence of It, lingering.
There was a creaking of the floorboards, and he searched relentlessly for the noise. He knew it was nothing sinister, but contraction as the heating went off. Yet his conscious mind seemed to be short circuited, relying solely on instinct, primal fears gripped his supernal immune system. The 200 watt light bulb prohibited any darkness in the room at all. There was no bed. He could see a shadow out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to examine it. Yet it somehow followed his every movement, as he constantly revolved like a dog chasing its tail.
The dizziness and nausea took over, and he collapsed face first to the floor. More noises came from the floor, and he sat upright quickly. There was groaning coming from somewhere in the room, near him. He spun quickly. Coupled with the earlier dizziness and this together sent the immortal reeling towards the floor again, vomiting where he lay. Some splashed back upon his top and face, but he did not even notice it or the stink.
Altaïr stoo on a deserted beach, looking at the remnants of a pier. The quayside gone, recognising the telltale signs of Quickening in the air. An immortal had died here, one unknown to him, but that was nothing new. He barely heard the scream further down, it was almost drowned out by the slap of waves impacting with sand. The surf was noisy today, but he relished the waves, the sound the water made, creating a feeling of peace, harmony, allowing the immortal to feel a sense of smallness; despite his gift. The sea was truly huge and powerful, and he was small in comparison, that is how Constantine had taught him to feel the presence of Allah. 'Look not to your books for god, but in nature you will find it'.
The greatness of other things, and his insignificance, mystics would meditate for hours on the Koran; this was his contemplation. Not that the Koran was not of a guide, because it was. The vastness of ocean and sky were overwhelming, and it helped him centre. Sometimes it opened up other mediations, ones designed to raise his consciousness; when he contemplated the stars, and the universe – and the invigorating power behind it all; the Star Maker, Allah.
Although most immortals were fond of saying that they were just human, despite longevity; they were all lying. Many possessed almost the twice the strength of a normal human; being also faster, more agile, having greater endurance; they were in fact physically superior in every way. Thus he ran, somewhat faster than a 100 meters Olympic sprinter. Sand kicked up in all directions, not that there was anyone to witness this feat of physical perfection in motion.
The scream sounded again, and pumping his arms gained more speed. An immortal presence whispered across his senses, and he had a choice. Save the woman or locate the immortal. There was no contest, and he launched a tackle at the woman's assailant, one a rugby player would be proud of, rolling to his feet smoothly in one motion. He backhanded the man, sending perpetrator sprawling.
The robber stood up spitting sand and blood, all six feet plus, and 200 pounds of muscle. He looked intimidating, and most men would have backed down. An immortal who had stared death in the face innumerable times, just looked back; completely unimpressed. He swung punch after punch, but Altaïr just merely sidestepped or slipped behind the behemoth. Occasionally he'd leave a well placed foot sending the man face first into the ground again.
To the woman it reminded her very much of a bullfight. The brave matador sidestepping from the rampaging bull, skewering it intermittently. The more the opponent dodged, the madder it became. As quick as it started her attacker was pinned to the ground, grunting with exertion. Thrashing and then screaming in pain as the slight middle eastern man seemed to exert gentle pressure on his back.
In her state of shock it did not occur to her, that Altaïr was applying pressure to his victims spine, causing the screams of pain. "In my country, one does not rob ladies". More grunts were followed by further screams of pain. The victim was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, lay there, it was all he could do
The young lady, for she could be no more than twenty five years old, looked on in appreciation. "Thank you", she said graciously. Glad to have not been robbed, or worse. "My pleasure", and he was off again, tracking the immortal presence that refused to be identified. The sense led around a corner, which he approached warily. No sword strike followed, but an unknown immortal stood there holding an old woman by the neck. "Good of you to come".
"I do not know who you are, but I bid thee welcome, and ask that the woman be released". For the minute he was all pleasantries, waiting for things to turn nasty, as he knew they would. Unless the immortal would part with the hostage without bloodshed, or a fight, both of which were doubtful. The immortal let a cruel smile play across his features. A glint of madness shone from his eyes. "Not likely", he said, snapping her neck in one motion. The body slid to the floor, "Well, what is it to be?" The voice mocking, "Stop me or call for an ambulance?" With that the immortal ran, leaving Altaïr perofrming CPR, trying to keep her alive.
He did not possess the gift of life, but of death. What Westerners liked to call the demon on his shoulder, tempting him to let her die, give her the gift of death. How could he give chase, and let her die? Not an option, so he remained. While busy with chest compressions, he put the mobile on speakerphone and rang 911, hoping they would get here quick enough. He harboured no illusions of catching the other immortal, but of every minute he did this, was a greater chance she would die.
The more he thought it, the more he recognised the immortals' face, but from where? He went through his memories, skimming through like a computer until the relevant information was found. It wasn't an immortal he'd met. He could recall an immortal friend, now dead, called Jin Ke showing him a picture of the Highlander, the Elder one; Connor Macleod. Supposedly a known killer, as cold as they came, but one who was bound by the very tenets he lived by; justice. Punish the wicked, and deliver the good from evil. Perhaps his information, or Jin's had been wrong. Or just perhaps the Highlander had changed, all immortals did. Their personality, looks, speech patterns. All altered over the course of centuries of constant living.
His face clouded in righteous anger, he would punish the Highlander for his actions, and take his head; and his Quickening. It almost another ten minutes for the emergency services to arrive, a long time during which he planned the demise of Connor Macleod, concocting different ways to perform the sacred action.
The Elder Highlander sat in the downstairs of the building he owned. His clansman's was very similar in that it was not in a salubrious part of town, but neither was it beset by gangs either. Luckily for gangs that is. He stared at the guillotine, knowing an end was nigh, his end, an end to his eternal punishment by God. He put a melon in the contraption, and then with a click it was ready. He pulled the lever and down the blade descended. Two halves of a melon, good he thought, time for me to die and not to inflict my Quickening on anyone else.He kicked the two pieces of melon away, as they skidded across the floor. A final sigh and he was ready. Mentally he said goodbye to all those he knew were still left, Duncan, Joe Dawson, Logan, Methos, Cassandra.
About to step into the machine as absolute darkness descended within the room, leaving the immortal with one thought has God come to prevent my death, before scuttling into the corner like a frightened animal. Senses not completely lost however, picked up an immortal presence entering his home. Unable to discern where the individual was, his unhinged mind would not work properly. He shook uncontrollably in the corner, sobbing quietly.
The Middle Eastern assassin slipped in silently, having disabled the alarms effortlessly. He really should get a decent alarm system, but Jin Ke had warned him to never challenge the Elder Macleod who possessed a larger part of the Prize than any other immortal. Too late now and he moved silently, like a breeze. The only other assassins he feared were the Ninja, Masters of the Martial Arts – although he suspected that even they would be hard pressed against an immortal with centuries of experience despite their mythical skill.
Little did he know of the Masters of Sinanju, and the Hashish assassins who had once threatened the Great House and their special services. The Sun Source had watched them for almost a decade or more, and realising they were worse than useless butchered the lot of them – the only ones that lived to tell the tale were out performing services at the time.
Moving silently in the darkness, eyes having already adjusted through the use of various techniques, swept the room for traps, or life; encountering none Altaïr went to the next room. The sense of the immortal Highlander was like a beacon in the darkness, he possessed such power, which either he knew about or was barely aware of. He heard sobbing in the background, and scrabbling. It was the sounds of nails clacking on the hard wooden floor. What is going on? He crept forward, his feet stepping with practiced ease, having learnt the techniques of silent movement almost a millennia ago.
Connor did not even feel the blade against his throat, until the last moment. Cold steel pressing against flesh brought him spiralling away from the madness, albeit briefly. "I wouldn't do that…if I were you"
His scimitar already against the others neck, he drew the Kukri; using it primarily as a parrying blade, although he had killed a few immortals with it alone. His scimitar was the primary weapon of choice though, but two weapons increased the odds of his success. Growling like a bear, as his anger rose, "Why is that?" They made eye contact. "Because you don't want to die, like the woman whose neck you broke today?"
Perplexed, and his face showed it, visible to Altaïr's nightvision – something he'd worked on for three hundred years, Quickening enhanced naturally. "I don't know what you're talking about"
Huddled like an animal awaiting the final stroke of death. "Why would I lie? What do I have to gain?"
"Your life of course. Give me one reason I should not kill you, here now?"
Disdain in the Elder Highlander's voice, "You really don't want my Quickening, and the curse it carries", the words were solemn, thoughtful.
"What curse? Again you lie. Allah Akbar!" he screamed, signifying it was a righteous kill.
Connor felt Altaïr's latent psychic ability, his sensitivity brought on by years of training. He opened his Tanjian eye, and plunged deep into the others' mind at the right time. The blow stopped mid-swing, blades clattering to the floor noisily, continuing to vibrate for a little while afterword like tuning forks. He hated to do this, but there was no longer any choice. Caught unawares, and not even thinking about shielding his mind, although it was unlikely he even knew how. The Highlander rode conscious thought like a surfer on a wave, then at the right time dove deeper. It was then he showed of his experience with God.
The Arabic Assassin had never felt so violated, another reason for the Highlander to die. It was like…..rape, but only mental. Entering his mind uninvited. It was then he saw of his experience with the being claiming Godhood, the creator of all things. The same who claimed Allah, and Jehovah were inferior to him. It could not be,unable to finish those thoughts. He saw why the Scotsman was insane, the dark maw of God destroyed all – not worthy of worship or reverence. It was simply destructive.
Something wet ran down his leg, followed by something else, faeces he had fouled himself with the trauma of the experience. No more did Altaïr care about his beliefs, destroyed by the awful truth of Reality. He wept, as did the Highlander for both their losses. The God he had believed in was a lie, as were they all.
Several immortal presences made their way in Connor's building, although neither the Highlander or the Arabic assassin were aware of much. So overtaken were they by shared madness. The two immortals seperated and made a break for both of their targets. One was to kill Connor, the other Altaïr. Mordred followed close behind wielding Excalibur, ready to kill his two servants once they had done their deeds.
None were aware of another in the building, skulking as was his habit, to listen, to learn, but rarely to act. It was not a Watcher but another immortal. One of the assilants never knew he was there until a metal object struck the back of his head, caving the skull in. Quietly he moved, silent like Death; but that was another lifetime, almost four thousand years ago. The second immortal heard a meaty thud, a body collapsing to the floor. He turned toward the sound quickly, barely registering the impact as his skull also suffered a fatal fracture, sending the immortal into dormancy while it made repairs.
With two fast slashes, heads rolled from either Knight Templar. A huge Quickening storm lit the room, lightning, and a spectral mist enveloped Death. It lifted hm from the ground, tossing him like a leaf in the wind against a nearby wall, shattering masonry.
"Methos!" cursed Arthur's bastard son. "I'll kill you for this!" He ran back the way he had come, leaping through the window in a languid jump. Five floors down he made a prefect landing, unhurt but angry.
The Quickening hit Methos, but instead of being absorbed was redirected, almost as though he was copper wire, sending the current to where it needed to be. Two massive bolts arced towards Connor and Altaïr, who were in turn were lifted in the air. Eyes registered shock. Whirlwinds rocked the fifth floor, and lightning caused thousands, upon thousands of dollars damage to everything nearby.
He had piggybacked Connor's childish attempts at telepathy, already knowing from whom the skills had come. The Tau-Tau adepts of Japan were advanced in terms of human psychic ability; compared to the skills a Taelon that had taught Methos, it was almost puerile. Both psyches were broken beyond imagining but without thought to his own personal safety did whatever was possible to heal both immortals. Under normal circumstances they would heal, but something was preventing it. Pulling neural pathways together, knitting nerves in the correct places, he felt for the source of the disruption.
A mind over five thousand years old was not easy to damage as these two young striplings, seeing within Connor what had unhinged them so. Shaking his head, as though to jumble the thoughts up, severed the connection and waited like an expectant mother.
He knew that Mordred would not attack again this night, and went to repair the lights. Within twenty minutes they were up and running again, wincing at the brightness. "Bloody hell man!" he shouted when he saw the guillotine. He knew the Elder Macleod was on the verge of suicide. "Good job I came instead of your dunderhead clansman", he opened the fridge, retrieving a beer in the process.
A half hour later the bottle dropped to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. Not again, he groaned, don't I ever learn. If any form of afterlife existed; which he seriously doubted, Ma'El was laughing at him. Not only did he have a psychic connection with Duncan Macleod, but his actions had now opened one to Connor and Altaïr. "Damn, damn, and crap!" By the time both woke up, he had cleared up the glass and was supping another beer. His earlier mood gone, replaced by a cheerfulness, of sorts anyway.
"Nothing really" he answered. "What about you Altaïr, how do you feel?"
The Arabic assassin rubbed his head, as though he had a monster hangover. "Wanna a beer?"
Grimacing, "I do not drink"
"Sorry I forgot", lied Methos, smiling.
"Methos, what the hell is going on?"
Just like that, Altaïr's eyes opened in fear. He'd never the met the immortal with dark hair who drank beer like water, but to know he was the oldest of them all was awe inspiring. "By Death's pale horse"
"He wasn't called Binky either" replied Methos sourly. "He was a nice stallion, shame about the other horseman though, such bores". The comment was delivered with such dryness and equanimity, he did not know whether to take it as humour or reality.
"Where's that damn Scotch?" grouched Connor.
He swung a leg over the arm of the chair, getting comfy. "You ask me like I live here, how am I supposed to know?"
Connor groaned. "Top cupboard over there" pointed Methos, "next to that awful Absinthe you insist on drinking when you can't get a woman to screw after a Quickening".
The surreal ness of it all was boggling, and Altaïr did the only thing he could do, laugh uncontrollably from the tops of his toes throughtout his whole body.
"You could learn a lesson here Highlander", came the sour voice, "big belly laughs are good for the soul". Connor was about to say something, and bit back a reply.
The Employer, as he liked to call them, had requested the death be violent, 'but no poisons'. During a kill, he liked to be up close, personal, but this man was very different.
Altaïr watched his target warily. He sensed something odd about him, as though he was surrounded by a kind of aura, either that or he was a secretly a Magi. What he did know is that whoever got within a certain distance of the man always ended up being almost completely captivated, and acted as though under a sort of spell.
This resulted in using firearms, which he hated, but there was no real choice. He wanted to chop the victim into little pieces, but an attempt by someone else had failed, captivated as they were when within twenty feet. So he sat there across from where the target lived, admiring the view. Or at least pretending to be.
Waiting patiently for the man to return home, figuring it as the best place for an assassination, where the bodyguards would relax and be most vulnerable. He played little games by lowering his heart rate, allowing long periods of immobility. He then practiced not breathing, holding his breath for almost an hour. Even playing awareness games taught during childhood, moving only the eyes at the slightest movement. His concentration never straying, or becoming less than vigilant, ready to strike, and so about 1.15am on 7th April 1868 he moved the rifle towards the target.
He'd practised holding his breath, inhaling and shooting, continually breathing and shooting. But by far the most effective method was exhaling, letting all the air go, releasing any held tension and pulling the trigger. Sighting along the barrel at the target, following his movement, he then took a deep breath in, exhaled, releasing tension. It was at this point he fired. The bullet sped out of the gun with a bang, hitting D'Arcy McGee in the centre of the chest. He staggered, as a red stain soaked his white shirt, spreading outward like a pool.
Before his legs gave way, he looked at the assassin in the eye. What he saw there made Altaïr shudder. It felt like the air was charged prior to a thunder strike, and wondered if Allah himself would strike the humble immortal down.
The eyes of D'Arcy glowed white very briefly, with a light purer than the sun. Dropping the rifle in shock, barely hearing it clatter to the ground, or shattering on impact.
A white presence rose above the head of D'Arcy, angel faced with wings of light. In fact, the whole being was made up of that same pure light. Altaïr squealed in fright, becoming pale as a corpse, having struck down the body of Allah's divine messenger, backpeddaling in shock and awe of spectacle. What was more concerning, how could an Infidel be the home of an angel? One that radiated such beauty and warmth it could only be Gabriel. Forgetting to breath, grabbing the wall for support in an attempt to stand.
The angel soured high in the air, and floated at rest, three feet above the floor of the rooftop of the building where the assassin lay.
"Forgive me Allah! Forgive me mighty Gabriel"
The angel looked at the lesser creature, "Why did you choose to kill my host in that way?"
Mumbling more prayers of forgiveness, "Speak child" demanded the angel with a voice of thunder. Although its lips never moved, the words went straight into his head, unbidden. Slamming the sides of his hands into his head and screwing his eyes shut, he hoped the voice would go away. No such luck, however. "Well lesser being, speak, I do not have all day"
He prostrated himself before the mighty angel, "Forgive me emissary of Allah, I beseech you"
The angel smiled, and placed a glowing hand on the assassin's head. "I forgive you" intoned Gabriel, flying off into the sky. It was then that Altaïr noticed something strange for the people below had stopped moving, as though a time itself had stopped.
Within a second normality returned, and people continued their last action. The Arabic assassin gaped in awe, still able to feel the energy of Gabriel upon him. Marked by a messenger from Allah, was it good or bad? He did not know, but he wept for a very long time.
The Vorlon flew over the rooftops, abandoning its angelic form, one recognized by many races, having been in their mythologies from time immemorial. It smiled to itself, although there was no physical change, but it did radiate a kind of warmth it had not earlier. Plunging into the side of hill, unimpeded by dozens of feet of soil and rock, its ship waited patiently.
Methos sat at the table, noticing that Altaïr had become somewhat precoccupied, as though a stormcloud sat above the immortal's head. The Arabic assassin remembered the angel, could clearly see the same image of God that Connor had. How could both be true, unless one was false? But which one? He did not honestly know, to say it challenged his faith was an understatement.
Even the coffee tasted bitter, and over the years he had grown to enjoy the different types immensely, sometimes relying on it to keep him sharp and ready. Today he felt listless, without cause. Without God.
For the first time in weeks the Elder Highlander felt fine, in fact better than fine. Even the other Quickenings within had resumed their normal activity, shouting advice, and wisdom; which usually he ignored. The fact that they were more vociferous than usual was a good sign, at least to him anyway. It meant that his normal faculties had returned from having been burnt out beyond normal repair - at least according to Methos.
"I'm going to kill him" muttered the 'old man'.
Before anyone could say anything, they could hear the lift rise and the grill open to reveal Joe Dawson. "Hope I'm not interrupting the party", his salt and pepper beard turning up at the edges, showing white teeth and a smile. His eyes held richness about them, a man of deep humour and passions.
"Joe, what brings you here pray tell? Is it my wit or humour?"
They all noticed that the Arab immortal winced at the word pray. None knew the conflict with which he wrestled though, influenced by two sights that shook him to the core.
False legs finding purchase on the floor, glad it was not the one above littered with debris, he sat down. "Okay so who was the bad guy?" The sour face of the oldest immortal showed his contempt of the last statement. "You're beginning to sound like Macleod", and he looked left, "No the other one"
Connor could only agree, "I'd like to know who they were too"
King Arthur lay in his bed, half asleep, waiting for his Queen Guinevere to join him. It had been too long, and he wanted her. The tent flap swayed, and he felt a cooling breeze enter the tent, evidently his Queen had chosen to lie with him tonight.
He looked up into a face of such beauty it could stop the men's hearts, and almost did daily. Arthur watched her frequently, getting dressed, bathing, walking, her beauty astounding as though shining with an inner radiance. His manhood stirred, as it always did, and she parted the sheets, as she lay on top. They moved together in synchronisation, until both climaxed. It was then the façade was apparent, for above Arthur was Morgana, his sister. "What have you done?" he cried.
"Begot a son"
Arthur smiled, "Not bloody likely", confidence in his voice.
He used his hands to sit up, his sister sliding off. "We'll see" she said, and vanished into thin air.
"Bloody witch" he cursed, "Just like Cassandra"
Joe sat bolt upright for a minute, incredulity surrounded the table. Only the mortal voiced what everyone was thinking. "Are you saying that you were King Arthur?"
The old immortal smiled, "I never said that, only that he knew Cassandra". His smirk hid a thousand secrets that would never be told, and then he continued.
Morgana was somewhat mad at this point, and desperately desired a son. But not any son, to conceive was easy, what she wanted was unique. Using her alien Alteran technology she intended to find a way to produce a son from immortal seed. Unfortunately she also wanted a son long lived enough to act against Merlin, in case she was called back to her home plane.
After many months experimenting, she had it. Using her technology she caused the pregnancy to advance quicker than usual. It would only be three months until the child was born.
The voice of the Watcher angry again, "C'mon, you're stretching it a bit, don't ya think? Aliens in Camelot"
The tone was one of pure innocence, as he shrugged his shoulders, feigning indifference. "Would you prefer the fairy tale then? The one told to all good children?" He got up and went to fridge, retrieving a beer. "I would have thought being in the Watchers might have opened you're eyes a bit", the last comment slightly scornful, but full of disappointment. Sitting down, he took a gulp. "Would you like to hear Buddha was an alien? Or that Jesus was a fourteen thousand year old Cro-Magnon who took Buddhism, thought about it and made Christianity?"
Joe's face was one of shock, and horror. "Don't joke about such things, old man!"
Ma'El had taught long ago of other races that trod the galaxy, ones far superior to the Taelons in almost every way. He'd told tales of Vorlons, Shadows; and of beings even the Greater Races spoke about in hushed whispers. "I'm not", he challenged. "Who knows, maybe angels are aliens too"
Altaïr went as rigid as a board. "Stop it, both of you!" he screeched. He then mumbled prayers in a language only one other understood. When he stopped, he tapped Methos on the arm, "Tell me truly, are angels alien?" The last word was made to sound dirty, as though it was a foreign word that was not easy to pronounce.
"Ask me in a century or two, when you're ready". Having finished his beer, he got another from the fridge, as well as one for Connor and Joe. In his other hand he held a J2O, a fruit drink. "Don't worry its alcohol free".
Taking the bottle, he drank it greedily, not sure if he wanted to hear more of the tale, or not.
"Let's skip the rest and get to the end shall we?" said Methos, ignoring any other comments. "We're all agreed then; good"
Arthur faced Mordred on the battlefield. Two immortals fighting for the right to survive, knowing Merlin could not help having been imprisoned by Morgana weeks ago.
Excalibur flashed in the air, impacting with an Ivanhoe blade, both met with a flash of sparks. "You cannot win father"
He smiled, "Don't be so sure Mordred, I'm full of tricks, been around a bit". The blades met again, and again. The younger immortal was certainly stronger and faster than him, but he was a survivor. Rage gripped Mordred, "I'll have your head and Quickening!" Blades met, and Arthur tried to step aside, only to slip in the mud. Losing his footing in this ground could prove serendipitously fatal, even for him. A low cut nearly disembowelled, his son glowing with rage.
Blades met in a cross shape before both immortals, neither willing to lose ground. As they tried to push one would slip, regain their footing, for the same to happen to the other. It was almost a stalemate. He tried to back-pedal and consolidate his position. Mordred was vampire strong, and would not be easily overcome.
"Oh come one, vampires now!"
"Shut up Joe", the Scottish brogue of the Highlander silencing the Watcher.
They fought to standstill after standstill, neither gaining the upper hand, until Mordred conjured flame on the clothes of Arthur, causing them to burn. Overcome by heat and flame he nearly dropped Excalibur.
His son's blade penetrated Arthur's heart, and was then withdrawn. Not sure which was worse being stabbed or the blade being removed, although he decided both were immensely painful. Blood was spilling in the mud, his blood. Mordred raised his sword for a final strike, his intent to decapitate.
Arthur's will to survive took over as he plunged Excalibur through his son guts, watching Mordred's face contort in surprise, and then pain. Both combatants dropped their blades, waiting for their supernal systems to regenerate from the damage. Mordred scrabbled, managing to grasp Excalibur before temporary death claimed the immortal. A supernatural mist appeared out of the nearby lake, followed by a spectral light. It was the Lady of the Lake, to escort Arthur away to Avalon.
Methos sat there with a self satisfied smirk, watching the others around the table. Dawson reciprocated the gesture. "Now I know you're lying, Arthur was supposed to be a good king, an example to us sowing human compassion and generosity. Not one that went around drinking beer all day"
The second oldest immortal had a cold calculating look. "Whoever said that?" he asked. "You've been reading far too many fairytales". The comment was so bland, and without intonation, everyone in the room felt a spectral chill to the air.
He sat in park where parents regularly took their children to play, not just pre-school, but of all ages. Even some teenagers sat there with friends enjoying picnics, or just sitting there conversing, many played in their own way – seeking temporary escape from the world. In many ways Mordred saw himself as a wolf, striding among the sheep and lambs of society. He had every intention of killing someone today, and waited patiently near a school, which by convenience was close to Macleod's building.
Sandwich in hand, munching contentedly, waiting, parents looked at the man in alarm, not knowing of his intentions. Not that he cared one iota. He'd lived for over a thousand years, having seen and perpetrated just about every cruelty going. He hated his father; hated his mother for abandoning him. Above all, he just hated.
Most people gave away anger in their eyes, but over the centuries he'd learnt to mask it, creating the façade of indifference – very much like his father. He could kill without showing emotion of any kind, a true sociopath. His prey would arrive soon, licking his lips in anticipation, reached for something else. A bag of crisps would have to do for now. The salt in the crisps made him salivate more, craving the taste of blood on his lips. I am part vampire he mused, it's not my fault.
Altaïr had chosen to stay behind and pray, seeking to find the faith he had now lost. Part of the immortal hated Macleod for taking away the illusion of Allah, of a kind and merciful God, another part revelled in it. Not in the slaughter he could cause, but in the freedom and understanding the nature of reality. He was cast adrift, free of the constraints of hope, and faith and such childish notions. The last thousand years he had been a child, and now saw things with the eyes of an adult. If the vision that Macleod had shown was true, there was a God, it was just not a nice one; it took mean and vindictiveness to whole new levels, not just across the universe – but many, many universes.
Methos drove the car, while Connor and Joe listened to the radio. Both were still somewhat in shock over the recent tale. For once he hadn't embellished a single word, just none were really ready for the fact that aliens had visited earth frequently in the past, their actions having caused mayhem and religion. Luckily he was free of that burden. True he'd viewed the events in Macleod's head that had fractured the sanity of the Highlander; of seeing God firsthand, and that of the assassin. But his mind was somewhat sturdier than both, for reasons he kept to himself.
Whistling softly to no one in particular, waited for the lights to change. It would be good to get his sword back; Excalibur had always been a welcome friend in his hands. Turning left, both he and Connor felt the presence of another immortal, on the very edges of their awareness, but present nonetheless. He could not help feel a chill crept up his very spine.
"I hope he doesn't hurt those kids" said Joe Dawson. Connor gasped, seeing the immortal gesture for them to pull up.
Mordred sat luxuriantly on the bench, one leg crossed over the other, currently eating the remnants of some kind of pasty. He ate with such gusto not all of it went into his mouth, spilling across sensual lips onto the floor. Pigeons hovered expectantly. "It's good of you all to come" he said, counting them with fingers in a mock gesture. "Now, where is that cowardly assassin Altaïr? I hope I did not scare him?" Mocking laughter followed, setting Connor's nerves on edge, and taking a step forward was stopped by a wagging index finger. "Now, now Highlander. Don't want to hurt the little ones, they are all so fragile".
A nearby parent grabbed her daughter, backing away from the immortal in fright. Grabbing a nearby child snapping the neck quickly to one side, as she fell at his feet. A parent screamed, both Connor and Methos had seen the twist stop, barely in time; a chiropractor did the same technique many times a day. It was designed not to kill, but quite often the fast relocation of vertebrae C-1 to C-5 rendered the person unconscious if only for a short while.
The immortal's actions were creating somewhat of a furiora, as a scream reverberated across the street, people and animals stopped their actions, pausing in shocked at the sound. An old man nearly missed his step, his cane preventing a nasty fall. Birds then took to the skies, eager to get away from the sound, and possible danger.
Connor walked over, "Sssssh! Sssssh" he whispered sympathetically, although unable to ever experience what the woman must be going through, the nearest thing for him would be to lose an immortal friend to a headhunter. Gently laying a hand on her shoulder. "She's not dead, look", he pointed at the girls chest, as it rose and fell, "she still breathes".
The mother stopped her screaming, her look promised certain death and pain if anything befell her daughter. "You hurt her and I'll kill you".
With the speed of a snake he grabbed someone else, who had just happened to not move away when the commotion had arisen, both rooted to the spot in fear. Both never ceased struggling, mother or son until with a flick of both wrists, blades emerged; held at their throats. "You know", he said in silken tones so enticing, "I would never hurt a child, they are my next generation of victims; but the mother, well……." He cast the son aside who fell heavily to the floor; scraping knees and hands.
He craddled the mother, each pass of the knife produced a tiny laceration, the smallest of cuts. It was almost as if he was a surgeon. "No……"
Most children had scampered off by this time, either by themselves or their parents had taken them home to safety. Dawson used Methos as cover to covertly draw a pistol, but he needn't have bothered as a police car pulled up; obviously one of the parents had done the right thing. Two officers got out, one black, one white, each had almost idetical physique; broad and stocky that spoke of hours in the gym. "Well you break the stereotype" came those silken tones. Adam could feel his son reachout, trying to use his psychic abilities to mentally dominate the officers.
Feeling his father trying to cloud his control, resorted to more overt tactics, and willed the heart of one to burst, the white officer clutched his chest and fell to the floor; dead - beyond any hopes of recovery. "Help him!" screamed Joe.
Without even turning, knowing only one man on Earth, John Oldman, could heal the officer and he was thousands of miles away. "He's dead Joe". He gripped the cane with white knuckles, face flushed. "You cold blooded son of a bitch" vented the mortal. The officer stood, having checked his partners pulse. About to reach for his radio until a voice said, "Do not call for help". Mordred was using the Voice Methos knew.
The officer quickly drew a gun pointing at the man holding the woman hostage. "Shoot yourself in the head". The officer unable to defend against the Voice raised the gun towards his head.
Methos made a choice; to continue his old life of secrets and let the man die, or open up and show compassion; an action which would undoubtedly raise many more questions, ones that could only be avoided for so long. His kinship with Duncan had begun to change Methos though from the beer swilling cynic with an answer to everything, to a man believing in right and wrong. He just did not believe in the absolutes that the younger Macleod did, hope that never happens.
Using his psychic abilities overpowered the childlike skills of Mordred, the officer stood there arms limp at his sides, fingers lax. The only sound was the gun clattering to the floor.
When the building had exploded killing Rachel Ellenstein, Duncan had sought him out, only to find Kell's retinue. A huge fight had then erupted. Only instead of one on one, it was seven on one, Duncan having to fight them all. In the end he'd almost won, until Carlos had shot Duncan, counter to instructions. The immortal Kell had been standing at the top of the stairs, and moving with an unnatural speed, had suddenly appeared at the Carlos' side as though bypassing the intervening space.
Dawson stood there mouth agape, seeing Connor standing ten feet away and then suddenly in front of Mordred - having never seen him move, striking the immortal in the chest, while simultaneously pushing the woman to safety. Adam's son through advanced science was feet three feet of the ground until he impacted with bone jarring force. The Highlander stood there with a foot on his throat.
Waves of violence emanated off the Highlander. There was nothing psychic in it, just the vibes, and promise of extreme violence if he even moved. The eyes were so bereft of anything even resembling human, seeming to mirror the coldness and the vacuum in space. "Don't", cautioned Connor.
Choosing to remain where he was, fear gripped Mordred for the very first time, his dry mouth felt like sandpaper.
"Is the cop okay?"
"Mmmmm…just a bit shaken is all".
Grabbing Mordred by the scruff of the neck, Connor dragged the immortal to his feet. "Well" he said bouncing him off a wall like a recalcitrant bully. Predictably he tried to use the wrist blades, which were blocked effortlessly, before breaking both arms and executing a throw. Mordred landed on his neck, followed by the sound of a dry twig snapping.
Dawson had never seen the Elder Macleod display such abilities, and the skills used on Mordred made him Duncan's equal, if not his better. The Elder Macleod had always had a reputation for being a brawler, while the younger Macleod was a superlative martial artist whose skills bordered on the supernatural. The mortal did not know if this was a recent change, or possibly something Connor always kept hidden, even from Duncan, in the event they had to battle for the vaunted Prize. Canny bastard!
Despite the park now being empty, it was overlooked by dozens of buildings, not the best place to behead another immortal where a Quickening would likely make the six o'clock news. Such actions would alert the authorities to their long lived cousins, and using emergency powers would likely hunt down anyone with any involvement in a beheading. Not immortal would thank Connor for that. Grunting in annoyance, the Highlander walked over to the car, opened the boot and threw corpse inside.
"Are we going, or shall we sit around a bit longer and see if anyone notices anything amiss?"
Methos sat in the back while Connor drove, keeping an eye on his bastard son that should never have been. But should that be true? If technology is the key to unlocking our curse, then we could all have children. The thought filled him with warmth, with wonder. If genetic manipulation was possible, he could have a child for every century he'd been alive; there was more than enough money.
A gasp could be heard in the boot, followed by coughing. He withdrew a 9mm from his coat, and pulling back the seat, levelled the gun at Mordred, "Moan, or attract any attention and I'll shoot you in the head" he warned, the recovered immortal watched the silenced pistol warily. When they reached Connor's building they all exited the car, and got into the lift.
He did not know who to be more scared of, Connor or Death who was standing next to him. "What now?"
"We go to the roof", was the reply, "You fight to stay alive, and then I kill you"
"You could have stopped this centuries ago" remarked Death, his voice tired, and absent of emotion.
"You going to let him kill me….father". When there was no reply he fell silent, sensuous lips twitching into a smile. Daylight flooded the lift as the doors opened, leading to the roof. Face hardening all of a sudden, mouth frothing, and his berserk rage beginning to take hold. Not impressed the Highlander just shoved him out like a carcass of beef.
Excalibur shone in the daylight, the preternatural blade taking a blue tint along the sharp edges. The Masamune sword met mythical blade in a clash of sparks. "C'mon whelp!" taunted Connor. Using the Voice, Methos stepped forward, "Step back Macleod, let me handle this", although not really too surprised when it had no effect.
"Heh…heh…heh, won't work on me I'm afraid".
An Ivanhoe was placed at his neck, "I'll handle this". Backing away the Highlander placed the re-forged Masamune back into the webbing of a hideously out of date coat.
A five thousand years old immortal fought Mordred, evil incarnate, as electrical sparks arced from the impacts of both blades. "I hate you father!" Not about to let a simple taunt cause the eldest Quickening immortal to make a mistake, he dodged a body blow hoping to get inside the cutting arc. As Excalibur came back into a reverse swing, Methos shoulder charged, knocking Mordred to the ground.
The roll was perfect, coming to his feet as sword cut through his father's tricep. Methos winced, but did not slow his counterattack. He kicked low, hearing the grinding of cartilage.
A part of Methos…..Adam Pierson, the persona he now was could not kill his son; even the inveterate survivor was unable to take the openings as they were offered.
The salt and pepper beard shook from side to side, "He's going to lose isn't he?"
A nod from the Elder Macleod, "That's why you offered to take him on, just in case this happened"
The tone was merciless, "Silly fool, but then I'll kill Mordred shortly after, so it won't matter"
Joe saw a grim expression, "Are you sure you can win against both?" When the answer was silence, he knew Macleod was getting ready for the fight of his life.
A blade clattered to the ground, it was an Ivanhoe, Methos was kneeling. "Go on Morded, finish it, just like you do with all your victims". Excalibur was against his throat, and its almost supernatural sharpness could remove a buffalo's head effortlessly. Madness filled his eyes, as though over a thousand years of waiting were finally over, the chance to reap his revenge. Saliva dribbled out of his mouth uncontrollably in anticipation, down his chin and into the floor. It had the consistency of treacle, thick, and viscous.
Ma'El had taught many things to Methos over the millennia, one of which was their ability to control the energy flows of their body. A blinding light was emitted from his palm, throwing Mordred against the side of the wall. Unable to stand as an arm and a leg were missing from the left side of his body, vaporised in the blast.
"You don't hate me or Morgana, you hate yourself – you always have. Hated immortality craving the solace of death, that which took all your friends from you"
While in the grip of extreme pain, he was finally able to understand why he hated so, what drove him on through the centuries, face slack, eyes wide in shock, at the revelation – he'd killed so many, enjoying their mortality, watching them expire for they had what he needed most in the entire world, death. The thought sickened the immortal, and he retched, the remains of half digested meals spraying all over the roof. The death toll was in the thousands, if not more; even helping in the Nazi Death camps during the Second World War. Hundreds of thousands, as sobs shook his body.
Methos understood, and knew that Mordred would be unable to cope with the realisation, of the deaths on his conscience. He picked up Excalibur, as metal scraped on concrete leaving furrows where the blade had been. Immortals could re-grow limbs, eyes, or any manner of missing appendages, if they only knew how to control their Quickening. Connor did, of that he was certain. Duncan did not, and neither did Mordred. Not that it mattered as a broken mind had been completely shattered, beyond the ability of repair. Some wounds even for immortals were permanent.
The eyes were pleading, wanting, and his mouth moved. No sound emerged, but the intent plain. "I'm sorry"
The sword descended, and the head rolled at Dawson's feet. As Quickening lifted Methos into the air, and lightning arced from rooftop to rooftop - Joe turned to Connor Macleod. "Still think you could've beaten the beaten the old man?"
"Not chance" remarked Connor happily.
The Arabic assassin Altaïr bin Al-Ahad is indeed the one fron the computer game Assassin's Creed. I thought he would make a perfect addition to the list of immortals, especially considering the fighting skills displayed during the game.
The speed displayed by Jacob Kell was not really in the film, but it was in the draft script – search for Highlander World Without End.