The Bridge

The days and weeks and months afterwards were spent in training. I lost myself in class work and sword fighting-anything to keep busy. Kronos had given me a lot of things to think about, like that little something on the diskette-but I kept them to myself. Something told me that I had no choice but to move on. He was in my mind, but we both made our choices. There was no going back. There might have been memories, and wondering if there had been anything else I could have done or said, and wishing things could be different, but no going back.

Time marched on, as the saying goes. I made use of my "technical" knowledge and set up a little corporation. (Let's just say biotech's been very, very good to me-what with AIDS, tuberculosis, strep, your basic, rapidly-mutating, anti-biotic-resistant new crop, and the thousand-and-one other bad buggies out there, some one can make a killing. Pharmaceuticals and research, and always something new to be found-and that doesn't even count what you can skim off the top.) Safe to say no one ever noticed my name on the board of one of the hottest little IPO's in the Delaware Valley. Not a bad business to be merely invested in-I set my own hours. I was engaged in the "money" end of it-not the actual R & D. Some things you do learn to keep your hands off of.

And, truth be told, I didn't exactly keep all my money in one place-after all, I couldn't count on staying in one place, myself. I funneled most of my cash through diverse investments, some legal, some not, and all the while kept my cover as a slacker-no fundage, no hassles. And let's face it, it is hard to be legit when you've already had an "in" underground. There I was, a neighborhood gal and ex-whore-with a sword.

I made the most of my time and the connections in the neighborhood-I had a pretty decent set of fake papers at the ready in case I had to drop everything and bail in a hurry. The workmanship was good, but sometimes I suspected they were hot enough to melt the steel lock-box I kept them in.

I managed. For the most part, it was like anyone else's life, only with a few minor complications, like when my then-boyfriend, Steve, wanted to know about the swords…I never told. He developed his own fiction about my "secret"-a story of some kind of very old-school organized crime with a cast-iron rule of omerta. I never disabused him of that notion, because, in my eyes, it was almost true. Very old-school. He didn't ask questions about that-he was raised right and knew better than to ask about family things.

He was very respectful of my family-it made me feel a little sheepish that he thought they might be "mob." A few were-but hell-they were mostly cops and priests and stuff. Funny, I never did set him straight. That still gets me.

He didn't know about the other bank accounts, the odd jobs I had to do. He might have guessed, but it wasn't the same as knowing. He knew about the fights, because the blood stains were pretty hard to cover up, but he never threatened to turn me in. He knew that I sometimes had another on my mind, but he wouldn't ask. And if he asked, I would have lied. There would have been no way to describe Kronos without telling him what I was, and I simply couldn't do that.

For better or worse, he accepted that I was a monster, and I accepted his indifference to that. And when the proverbial fecal matter hit the rotary oscillator, I thought he would accept that I had to do what I had to do.

****

After all, he accepted that I left early that evening and didn't ask what it was I needed to do in a long coat and leather gloves in the relative warmth of early fall. I think he probably already suspected me of wet-work-but it was never like that, I swear. With me, it was mostly courier stuff, sometimes drugs. I'm not saying I didn't drop off a thing or two to some guys, like directions, or payoffs-but I never killed a mortal. One thing you could say was in my favor. Roughed up, maybe. Killed, no.

I kept myself busy-what do you want from me?

I was going to meet this guy Rutledge-a real head-case in my opinion. He dogged me ever since he realized I was new to this headhunting business-it was almost like a kink with him, and I had the sneaking suspicion that he was more eager because I was a woman. So I went out to the lot by the Burlington-Bristol Bridge, hoping to dump his sorry carcass in with the other pollutants in the Delaware.

I didn't have a heck of a lot of respect-I learned this was a thing I had to do: try to totally hate the guts of the opponent, try to be merciless. The Happy Warrior route just never seemed to make it with me. I saw him as a long-nosed, squint-eyed, weak-jawed piece of grade-D horse shit. He had me figured for a rabbit, so I thought I might have a pretty good shot, not that I let myself be convinced of that. Your worst shot is when you suspect you'll do well. I drew my blade out of my coat, and we circled each other, warily.

But he was too eager. He thrust, hard. I expected as much, leaping back with a very (intentionally) weak parry. He took the bait and lunged again, and I played rabbit-kept back, so he had to keep advancing. I wanted him to think I wasn't ready to engage, or better, I wanted him to think I was scared. I kept my posture defensive, waiting for him to make a mistake. I could do that for a long time, because I had no intention of doing anything more than back off until then. I am strong-I don't tire easily. It was a boring fight, really, back and forth-block, block, and block. Occasionally I pretended I was really trying to make a move, just to get a feel for what he would do-how he would screw it up. It wasn't long before he did it. He overreached, and I sidestepped.

It was enough for him to be off-guard, and I tugged at him. I hate using a sword when I can get my hands on someone-nothing feels more real than giving someone a working over. Still holding on, I brought my knee to his face, then, with a bit of judo, brought him down. He was sprawled face down, but trying to rise with the sword still in his hand, so I kicked his hand hard and the sword went off. I hovered, the point of my sword in his face. I was disgusted. I had been about to be a sport about it, let him die in a decent position, but he stayed on hands and knees like some animal, and then spoke.

"Won't you say it?"

I knew what he was looking for, but I had vowed I wouldn't say it because it was shit. I knew by now that I didn't believe in the Game, and I had nothing but contempt for people who wanted to play it. I sniffed as I swung back, and then sliced through his neck. Then I was seized.

Oh how the static licked at my skin! It is exciting, but it is also excruciating. There is nothing you could compare to a Quickening, and even having had one, you aren't prepared for the next. I was assaulted, but in the midst of the frenzy, the mind's eye opens just a bit, and I saw the Big Picture. (It's an illusion, really…no more real than the fantasies you can dream on hash when everything seems to Make Sense and Seem Connected.)

I also saw a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of my eye. It was a mortal! Someone was watching me!

If a Quickening brings us power, why do we feel so drained afterwards? I wondered, struggling to get up and feeling like I was fighting through rapids. Odd glimpses of whatever weird crap was going on in Rutledge's mind in his last few moments were still playing themselves out in my mind, but I ignored them-and it was easy to-not a deep thinker-Rutledge. But I had to get to this guy. After all, he had just witnessed the beheading of what anyone would see as a fellow human being. And that meant he'd go to the cops! This, I didn't need.

The fellow seemed petrified. He should have run, but it was as if he couldn't, and when I got closer, he tried to move, but staggered backwards on the ground in his scramble to avoid me.

"Look, I just want you to know, what you just saw, you didn't really see, okay?" I began, trying to sound a bit like a wiseguy. Regrettable, but that's the kind of language 80% of the world responds to. "You see what I'm saying? Can you repeat that?"

But he didn't answer, or at least, not coherently-he just whispered a steady stream of "nos." He was trembling, and it struck me how truly terrifying I might seem to him. I've seen myself after a fight, even with a candy-ass like Rutledge who doesn't give me a sweat, and it isn't pretty. Witch hair, black coat, wild eyes, a sword (put that away, you idiot! I told myself, and did) all bearing down at him.

He continued in his negative vein, though.

"No, no, this is not happening…no," and he was scrambling backwards like a crab.

I lunged, lowering myself to the point where I was almost in his face, and inspected his eyes as if I was reading a map of a minefield. And then, I hauled back and slugged him. He seemed to have needed it. He clammed up, and his eyes grew big. I wrapped my hand around his chin, squeezing his face close to mine so he could see how deadly serious I was.

"You saw me kill. You were watching me…what should I do with you?"

"Kill me," he moaned. "That's what you do, isn't it?"

I was appalled. I may kill the odd Immortal every now and again, but just going around killing people who get in my way? I wasn't that irresponsible. But then, he did have a point. Killing him was an option to keep in mind.

"Now, why would I do that…unless it was to shut you up? But there are much less, mmm, permanent ways to quiet someone." I dabbed a finger in the trickle of blood that came from the corner of his lip, and then held it up. "Even ways better than hitting." I tried to seem as menacing as I could. Any wonder where I learned that?

"I won't say anything," he said, wildly. "You have my word…I would never mention what one of you do…." And then, his face went blank, as if he'd let something slip. Of course, it was because he had.

"One of us?" I asked, curious. "One of us? You know what I am, don't you?" The idea was astounding-that a mortal knew. It seemed to me that most mortals were clueless about this and should stay that way-after all, we're tabloid-ready. We're like-I don't know, a bad "B" movie. Something from the "X-Files". Some days, I can't take myself seriously. The idea of a mortal knowing what I was I found truly novel.

He averted his eyes, not even wanting me to see what he thought. I pulled my switchblade from my boot, and snapped it inches from his face.

"You know what I am and you were watching me?"

"Just kill me."

Fat chance now, buckaroo, I thought. This was too interesting. How could I resist trying to continue this little conversation?

"We are going for a walk," I informed him, gesturing with the knife to my car. "To just over there. And we're going to have a little conversation."

"I have nothing to say."

"That is one man's opinion." I jerked him to his feet by his left arm, and put the knife to his kidney. His arm nestled in mine in a position that might make it seem as if he was escorting me, but truth be told, his wrist could have snapped in my grip if I chose.

"Just do it and get it over with."

My face went cold.

"There are worse things that can happen to you short-timers than death."

Where does an ugly slur like "short-timer" come from? I never heard it before, but it came out naturally-since when did I have contempt for mortals? Since never-my husband was one, fragile and prematurely graying. The people who raised me were-steadfastly convinced even now despite my red hair, full lips and chaotic independence, that I was their own child. My lack of family resemblance never fazed them. I had known thousands of mortals, and never thought of them as inferior. Where did that come from?

But that thought, combined with the implied threat of torture, loosened his lips. Death is easy to face, but disfigurement, loss of a finger or an eye, not so easy.

So I found out what very few might already know, that there is a group of mortals who follow our lives, recording them for posterity. I was both amazed and disgusted--just how much did they know about me? And why should they care? The Watchers believed in this Game every bit as much as most Immortals did. How stupid. There can be only one. Recording our lives because they believed there would only be one-some prize that would be, huh? Maybe I'm cynical for my age, but what kind of prize is power if you are alone? Self-genocide is a pretty crappy tradition to hail from.

I made him sit quietly in the car while I carefully took off my coat and slid into the driver's seat.

He looked at my leg.

I looked at him. "What?"

"You really do go armed to the teeth."

Oh. The bowie knife strapped to my leg. That, with the switchblade from my boot and the sword, brought the sharp-thing quotient to three. I wasn't letting on that I carry a second short sword in my coat. A girl can't be too careful, you know.

"So," I said, changing the subject, "whose were you?"

"W-whose?"

"Watcher. Mine or the stiff's?"

His face wrinkled. It wasn't an unpleasant face, just a little too pale and scholarly. His eyes were puppy-dog brown, a warm color. He didn't want to answer me-more of that stupid oath business. I could appreciate the importance of keeping secrets-I kept plenty of them, but my opinion on that was-you don't take an oath if you aren't good enough not to get caught-he got caught. At this point, all bets should be off. He might as well spill.

"Yours," he admitted, eventually. I started the car, feeling a touch of Quickening-munchies, and wondering if a trip for some fast food wouldn't be inappropriate.

Emily Post never covered kidnapping etiquette. Usually, you don't want the victim to see your face-there's one hard-and-fast rule--but I guessed this guy knew a thing or two about me.

"Congratulations. You've got a long-term assignment." Saying that felt weird. Wrong. Just what the hell was I doing?

"So," I continued. "Dazzle me."

"What?" he began, with a start.

"You heard me. You have been watching me. I want to be dazzled." I leaned close to him. "Think of this as a lesson in perspective." The idea was so cool, after all. I wanted to see myself as another might see me, and find out if I was as bad as I thought.

****

I was.

He picked his words carefully, but not quite carefully enough, because it was plain as day that he didn't care for me one bit. I was fascinated and perversely amused by his apparent disgust, almost relishing it as he went over the details of my worst moments.

"Genevieve Fowler. First death presumed to be in 1993 in the Crystal City Marriott at the hands of an Immortal going by the name of Myron Coleman-later to be identified as Kronos."

I kept my eyes on the road. Sometimes I didn't really like driving at night. Funny the things that get on your nerves. Like I should be worried about an accident-I'm uniquely insured. But it was a rush, hearing what the Watcher knew, a fantastic distraction from my nervousness.

"Go on."

He went on. About the explosion in the lab, and the (not so) mysterious investigation by the FBI not long after. The cemetery meeting with Kronos (I nearly blushed). His unconfirmed suspicion that a deadly virus almost used by Kronos was actually developed by me. (And this made me concerned-but I let it pass. I never saw anything in the papers about a plague.) I let on nothing, only smiled. I wondered if any Watcher would be ready for one of us to really tell them the score-what made us tick besides the little time bombs in our heads.

"A bit raw with a sword..."

"I'm still here," I commented, dryly.

"Opportunistic, secretive. Could have accomplished a lot more if…"

I stopped him with a hand motion.

"Look, the Game isn't a popularity contest. If it were, I'd be a loser. I admit it."

I drove on feeling a bit flushed. I was lost in thought. Was this really what I've become? Yeah, guess so. Even down to kidnapping a Watcher and pumping him to satisfy my own vanity. I was disgusted at myself.

Coldly, he then stated, "I have no doubt you'll be as dead as your mentor, in short order."

I nearly lost control of the wheel. My heart sank and drifted off to who-knows-where and my eyes filled with tears. I should have expected this, right? I knew it was going to end this way. I gave him the means to an end-his end. I felt responsible-I don't know why, I felt as if I should have done something-- I pulled off on to the grass at the side of the road. I was going to cry my eyes out.

But then the idiot reached for the door-handle, seeking to run off into the night. In an instant, I unsheathed the Bowie from my leg and held it to his throat, eight inches of steel glistening in the streetlight and the headlights of passing cars.

My voice was thick with emotion as I spoke: "I'm not finished with you, yet."

I knew what I had to do. I remembered my promise. He dies, and it's my life that flashes before my eyes-every memory I had vied for attention at that moment-every moment I spent with him, from the time I heard his voice in my ear to the time I realized I would never see him again. I should have…for pity's sake! I knew better. There was nothing I could have done then. It was about what I could do, now.

"Who was the bastard? Who took him out?" I demanded, because blood cried out for blood. And my lips trembled as I spoke, because I could still feel him in my arms. Funny how memory will do that, you know? Zap you back to a moment, when you can feel and smell and taste everything, and the here and now doesn't mean squat.

At this, the Watcher laughed the way a person can only laugh if he has a Bowie knife to his throat and a rich sense of absurdity. I, however, wasn't much amused. How dare somebody just ignore my feelings like that?

"You're thinking about getting revenge!" he gasped and wheezed. I pressed the knife a little closer, letting him feel how sharp the edge was. I saw a little blood, and felt odd about that. I never really hurt a mortal before. Weird-I've killed my own kind-but when I torture a mortal a little, I feel guilt.

"Oh, that is too much," he went on, ignoring the fact that I've given him a little "shaving cut." "You are a total whack-job. I should tell you who did it just to see you get yourself killed! What the hell do you think you're going to do?"

I steamed. "Cut your eyes out and feed them to you. What do you suppose will be worse, the nasty fluid seeping out of your eyeless sockets, or the taste of…."

He cut me off. "Please! You are so bad at that! It was Duncan MacLeod. Even you might have heard of him…he's really good. You go after him, you're toast."

"Any idea where…" I trailed off. Pointless, wasn't it? Even I knew I wasn't that great. I gave up. "Look. I'm going to turn around and drop you back off. No harm, no foul. And you can just…do whatever it is you do." I felt total resignation-he was right. I had heard the name "Duncan MacLeod". His head was like---Fort Knox, the Hope Diamond, freaking nuclear secrets or something. Valued. Even somebody like me-and I'm totally not a "Game-hag"--has heard of him.

I wasn't shitting him, though. I went back to the bridge, and I let him go. But as he went out the door, I noticed something in his pocket, and, without thinking, grabbed it. He didn't seem to notice. As he walked to his car (one of those new Volkswagons, silver), I glanced at the envelope. His electric bill. With the return address sticker neatly pasted on. I smiled as he drove away.

There I go again-I can't leave things alone.

****

I made it home, but I was a wreck from mulling things over. I hate when I do that. I think too much sometimes, like when I'm driving. Do I pay him a visit? Do I ransack the place for information? What would I be doing it for? Was I still entertaining thoughts of revenge? Even if it was impossible, foolish, and could get my ass killed?

Yes. I was. I made a promise, and you don't go back on a thing like that lightly. And you don't forget someone like Kronos. I couldn't get him out of my head-how could he be dead? How could he have lived four-thousand-freaking-years-and now be gone? I had expected as much, but it was unthinkable. I couldn't deal. No way. I was going nuts inside. He meant something to me.

First thing in the door, I grabbed a glass and filled it with ice. It looked like another night in which I'd be seeking the counsels of Mr. Beam. I poured my drink and dropped myself on the couch. Once or twice, I've had nights like this. Have a fight, come home stiff, pour something stiffer. Steve must have been waiting up.

"Drinking again?" I suddenly hated him. It might not have been my fault-or his-but it was true. He didn't understand any of this. He couldn't, he wouldn't, and I could never explain. He never liked it when I drank-how the hell was he to know I had reasons? I had just lost somebody I could never tell him about, and I wasn't about to try and come up with an excuse-not this time.

"Yeah."

"Do you know that stuff could kill you?"

"Probably not," I replied. I was in no mood for this crap. I know he meant well, and that a mortal person shouldn't drink like me. I didn't want to keep up this pretense anymore. It hurt, not being what I was. Try hiding your true self from the people who are supposed to be close to you-it sucks.

"You can't just get a new liver…"

"Or a new head," I muttered to myself. "Look, I'm just kicking back, okay? I had a little run-in and I don't want to talk about it."

And I didn't. I couldn't, after all. No one knew this about me-no one knew I was Immortal-hell--my Watcher would've been better cut out to deal with me-and he obviously hated my guts!

The only person I knew, talked with-who also knew what Immortality was, was Kronos.

I felt like a lost a-shit-why try to tell what I lost, now? It was a moment in time. Something I could never understand-I should have said "Yes!"

Maybe he'd be alive, and I wouldn't have wasted all these years.

Steve raised his hands, almost as if he was about to clench his fists tight. He wanted to slam something. He had nothing in reach. He always seemed to know better than to try anything with me. He knew better than to touch me, when I was like this. He also knew I was done with him.

He tried. I'll give him that.

"Why can't you be…"

"You can have normal, or you can have me. You can't have both." It was something I had said a hundred times before. He thought it was my career that was in the way of kids and a white picket fence. Damn, I was so tired.

"Sometimes I wonder."

Something in his voice made the decision for me. How did it get to this? Was I really about to throw my marriage away over a promise I made to somebody nearly five years ago?

Yes. I would. It was easy, because I was finally getting it. I could try to be "normal". I could try to be sane. I could try so many things, but what I could never do was be mortal. I wasn't cut out for this. Marrying-a mistake. Lying for my whole damn life-a huge mistake. I was Immortal. Why apologize? Why drink? Why live some piddling half-life masquerading as something I'm not? It hit home as it never did before.

"I've got some things I need to do tomorrow," I said, poker-faced. "I'll be making some arrangements. I'll need to burn some vacation days. It's a favor for a friend." He totally failed to say anything-he just turned and went to bed. He could have the bed, snore, be peaceful-be mortal, and have the dreams of a person who has never killed.

That was a gift I'd never know.

****

I woke up that morning on the couch, hangover-free, as always, only mildly buzzing. Did I really get that smashed? Half a bottle was gone. My husband had gone off to work. I darted a look at the phone. Was it worth calling in? Hell, let them fire me. I know the boss. It's not like I really needed to work, after all. I looked at the envelope on the table. "Ryan Richardson" was living in the lovely Northeast. Mayfair-I knew it like the back of my hand. I could find his house in a flash, and pump him for the info I needed. After all, I was feeling a little violent this morning.

His place was one of those small, two-bedroom dwellings usually favored by elderly couples who've taken to separate beds. I looked at it with a touch of disgust…you might as well have an apartment.

Something seemed wrong as I got out of the car and walked up to the door. It was oddly quiet. There was no sound of a television or radio, but he was home. His bug was parked right out front. I tried to shake the thought off, and reached for the doorbell.

No response.

I knocked.

Nothing again.

Feeling like an idiot, I tried the door. It was open, and I let myself in, expecting at any moment to be reminded that I was an unwelcome guest. But even within, I was struck by the silence.

It was like there was nobody home. Who is the doofus who lives in Philly and doesn't think to keep his door locked when he isn't home? I wandered through the house.

"Richardson?"

I still got no response. I noted the history books he had lining his shelves. The place was furnished spartan-scholar. I continued through the hall, and then approached the bedroom. I felt funny, as if I was sensing another Immortal, but that couldn't be. I opened the door, and was immediately shocked by the sight.

He was dead. Of that there could be no question. No soul could be in that condition and live. I came closer, not afraid for myself, but trembling all the same. The skin from his extremities-surrounding his eyes and fingernails, his nostrils, his lips, was eaten. The remaining flesh seemed sunken, eaten from the inside. I went through the diseases I knew-leprosy, ebola, necrotising fasciitis. Not a one of them did exactly this, but I didn't have to be Quincy to know what I was looking at.

He was a victim of my virus. I had never seen a human suffer these consequences-and I never wanted to. I didn't even want to consider how-it dawned on me that this was now officially a hot zone, and I didn't know what procedure to follow. Trust this to a team of first-responders?

No. Couldn't do that.

Notify the National Guard and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, and tell them that all hell was about to break loose in the next six hours, give or take?

Or take matters into my own hands?

Dazed, I ran to the bathroom. I scrubbed my hands, not as if I feared contamination, but fearing I would spread it. As the truth dawned on me, I felt sicker and sicker, and I retched. I admit it.

Before I did what I had to do, I had another piece of small business…I looked about for something, anything, that would lead me to what I wanted-the truth about Kronos' death. The whole story. Maybe even the head of Duncan MacLeod, impossible commodity that that was. I found some notebooks, and a laptop, and appropriated them.

A little this, a little that, a little Terrorist's Handbook, and all was set.

I was four blocks away and dialing "911" on the cell phone when the house exploded into flames.

On to "Day of Judgement"

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