Oh, the Glamour
(Disclaimer: Just a very silly story. Some of that Adult language, if you think that language is very adult.))
Gregor Pushnik wanted to be a Watcher ever since he knew what the Immortals were--since always, it seemed. In his earliest memories, it was the idea--the idea his father passed on to him, even with the cancer that was killing him--the men who lived forever. The Watchers had resources, and could carry him beyond even Moscow. Beyond mother Russia...beyond even Europe. They were his ticket out of a mundane existence. He had read books, and knew there was a brave world waiting for him, if only he would dare. Listening to his father's dying words--he dared.
And so to the Academy--Leningrad. In his most private thoughts--St. Petersburg, and also in his most private thoughts--to be a field operative. To know the glamour of following ever so closely the life of one of these Immortals. He knew no more exciting concept. This was his ticket!
Like a diligent scholar, he studied. He knew more about Immortals than anyone--anyone! He studied, and he also learned their tricks. He knew about their swords, and their ways of using them. He knew the many ways they could change their identities--one day, being a mild-mannered librarian, perhaps, and the next, a spy for the Stasi. Amazing, the things these Immortals could do--and he, Gregor Pushnik, was to be in the field! Not to be one of those useless researchers, spending all their time and energy tracking down some legend, probably dead--but an operative! Knowing his subject, intimately!
It was the intimacy he craved, as well as the travel. His inner voice told him this was the way he would escape a mundane life. This was a notable existence--making note of the exploits of another. In being the footnote to another's history--perhaps he would make history, himself.
And so he waited his time, taking his notes and rigorously studying, until the moment came. He would be given an assignment. He wondered where this noble thing would take him--Paris? London? Or, he could scarcely hope--New York City? Something inside of him quivered at the thought of America--home of the capitalist--the imperialist--the decadent--the home of Carl Sandberg, and Walt Whitman, and the home of many writers and poets he loved. America. But even Luxembourg would do--anywhere but within Mother Russia's borders.
He longed to follow a Haresh Clay--a Xavier St. Cloud. He wanted to know the life of a man who killed other Immortals for sport--who took his livelihood where he would. He wanted to know the excitement of tracking an enigma like the boy-man, Kenny. Or even--his ideal--a warrior like Connor MacLeod. There was a man worth emulating. A man wise to the Game--and to the ways of living well. A man of war, but who seemed well adapted to living in peacetime.
A man who resided far from the fucking Soviet. And who did not endure cold fucking winter upon cold fucking winter, as Gregor found himself doing.
Oh, he was assured that his assignment was old. An old Immortal. Very old. He apparently got to be old by doing nothing. Ever! Except, chopping wood. Sometimes, he would shoot at a deer, or a bird. He seemed to go to the outhouse a good three times a day, on average. Over twenty years, Gregor was familiar with that average.
Silas. Oh, that great, hulking albatross of an Immortal man! Silas! What spirit did he offend, that he should be assigned to a boring idiot like Silas!
Writing in his journal, he would admit to the unfairness of it all. Being a Cold War baby with no mother, and a father who died too young. Knowing about these creatures that could live for so long, and such wonderful, interesting lives. But as the years wore on, he wrote more and more about his disappointment, his disillusion--his assignment was a boring man! He did nothing! What did he ever do to deserve watching Silas! A man of regular bowels! A man of few visitors, and no words! Old--and boring! And finally--the worst, he knew it to be true--he longed for something to occur. Anything...so long as he was free of watching this wretched, boring man.
Twenty years went by this way--twenty years, Gregor Pushnik watched. And Watched. Oh god, if there is one, being merciful, if he could--Pushnik watched.
Not that there weren't opportunities for transfer. He could always take a nice research assignment, following some myth, like that Methos, who probably didn't even exist. But the idea of sitting in some library--impossible and unthinkable. Learning dead languages to follow up on dead people. It was not what he joined the Watchers for! What he desired was another assignment--an interesting assignment. That opportunity never presented itself. Many of the Immortals who were local relocated--i.e. defected, and the higher-ups had decided it was for the best Gregor stay close to home. They did not want to deal with the bureaucratic red tape--as if the Watchers were not so full of it themselves--
Gregor became something of a bitter man. He could have learned to like the assignment, but the idea of something better always loomed just out of reach. And then, he gave up. He resigned. He watched the television, and saw some pointless rhetoric involving the slick-haired president of the U.S.--that actor, talking of the evil empire...and something snapped.
Independent of any other soul in the Watcher organization, independent of James Horton, independent of hope or sanity, Gregor Pushnik decided he would do a radical thing. His dissatisfaction was so complete, and it all rested on one man--his assignment. Silas. He would go out to those woods. He would take a gun, and a sword. And he would kill his assignment. He would claim it was some Mongol warrior who crossed the border--some damn heathen weirdo. There were some Immortals from that way who were unknown--there wasn't so high a concentration of Watchers, there, either.
He got himself together. The pistol--a Luger. No silencer would be needed, but he had one--just to be on the safe side. He was a man who liked to put caution first. The sword--a scimitar, a real priceless piece of art picked up at a semi-legal auction fourteen years ago--cost him the equivalent of eight thousand American dollars, even then. But it was priceless, because it would be his ticket. And the bottle--Stolichnaya. Only desperation made him a killer, but he needed help being a cold-blooded killer. He knocked back a shot, feeling like a spy in a novel. It was very exciting.
He would kill the big man.
Certainly, he felt bad. It could not be the man's fault entirely that he was so boring. He was, perhaps, some kind of sage. A holy man, retired from the active life. He was old--who knew what sins the man could be repenting, there, in his cabin? Who knew, but that the logs he split were not the equivalent of prayer beads? But that, his isolation, was only atonement for the accomplishment of serious crimes?
Bah. It did not matter. Perhaps the giant knew some kind of interesting life, once, but he was boring the living shit out of Gregor in the here and now. The man must die.
He knocked back two more shots, and then made his way into the wilderness. His gun was loaded, and so was he. The blade was sharp, and so was his feelings of resentment. He came to a clearing, and he had the cabin in view. He stared, wondering if he should simply knock on the door. Immortals were a cagey lot. Perhaps the man would see right through an obvious thing, like knocking on his door.
And so he waited. He waited for the inevitable. The man was a man of regular bowels. He would end up leaving the cabin for the outhouse. And when he returned from the call of nature--Gregor would have him right where he wanted him!
As he waited, he thought. Thirty years--perhaps ten, learning, studying. He would follow strangers on the street that had interesting faces--wondering perhaps, could this one be? Or that one? He would see a man with a long coat, and he would wonder if it held a sword. He studied the languages of many countries--French, English, German. What would one say to an Immortal, if one were to meet such? What would he say to this Silas, before he died?
He hoped he should not have to say anything. That would be strange: speaking to a man before he was killed. He couldn't imagine that the man might have anything interesting to say, anyway.
Twenty years--yes, it had been only about twenty years of actual Watching. But they seemed like an eternity, because it was Silas. He felt a certain degree of happiness when he saw his prey leaving the cabin. Yes--to go to the wretched outhouse. Yes...this was the time. His assignment would die, and perhaps he would be able to follow--who? An Alexei Voshin? Anyone! He steadied the pistol, but then thought the bettor of it. He took a swig straight from the bottle of Stolichnaya, and steadied himself, first. And then, he got the pistol ready again.
The big man left the outhouse, and Gregor fired. He missed, the man hit the ground, and then he fired a few shots directly into the man. He was on his feet, firing, and the clip jammed, and he could fire no more--and then--and then--he tripped! He fell! He struggled. He could feel his cheeks flushing, and his heart thudded in his chest. Perhaps a little too much vodka, but only a little. He got up, and got the scimitar ready...and then perceived that the man had brought something out of the outhouse with him--an axe.
Why would this man have an axe in his hand? He could not imagine. He stood over him, the sword ready. Only a few moments more--and this Silas would no longer be his concern. Never again, to hear the idiot humming while at some tedious task. Never again, to watch him speak to the squirrels as he fed them.
He was about to lower the sword to bisect the Immortal's neck, but the axe came up--and, shockingly, the sword shattered! Gregor heard a low chuckle then, issuing from the prone monster at his feet.
"Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho," the man began. "The blade was trash. Why ever did I worry? You are only one of those watching people! It must have been from Hong Kong--trash!"
"You wretched creature--it was used in the Crusades!"
"My ass. Your sword. Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho. Why should you want to kill me?" The eyes blazed with a strange light. The man was insane! Gregor could perceive in an instant that he would be killed by this creature. "No one has wanted to kill me in some time. I think no one but you people know I exist. Ho ho. Do you wish to fight me? I haven't fought in an age!"
Gregor swallowed, hard. He could see what was happening. He had erred, oh lord, if there was one, be merciful, if he could. "No, I do not wish to fight you. I was..."
"Ho ho. You were curious! I had a brother, always thinking, always curious--you're nothing like him. But he was good for talking to. Maybe I will speak with you. Would you like that?"
He swallowed again. His heart was going to burst--he knew it. He would die in the woods, of a heart attack, never having had an interesting life. It was fate, after all. Unavaoidable. He stepped back, and watched the man get to his feet, too easily for his size, and with the axe still in hand. His face was cheerful, and quite mad.
"I smell Stoli! Let us drink!" the man bellowed, beaming.
Gregor found his tongue. "Yes. We'll drink, and talk. That would be good."
"Yes, yes," the man said, still beaming. "Talk, drink. And then--" and with this, his face came perilously close to Gregor's own--"Maybe, you die!" And then he saw the look on Gregor's face..."Ho ho ho. Or maybe not!"
Neither knew how long the other had waited for something so interesting to happen.
Gregor attempted to bring his Watcher training to bear--but couldn't think of any. There simply wasn't any protocol for what to do when you found yourself face to face with one of the Immortals after confronting them with a scimitar (Hong Kong? Trash?) and attempting to kill them. There was no such protocol because it was one of those things one was expressly not to do! He realized his error. He would now have to face up to the consequences. He got out the bottle of stoli, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the man took it off of him.
"Hee hee...my turn. So, why is it you people do all of this watching, hmm?"
"Because...because...Immortals are interesting. I mean...most of you..." Gregor stammered. "The fighting. The..."
"Killing! Yes, and the power. All very interesting, you think? Glad we can be interesting for you. Now...I wonder. Just what about watching makes you want to kill me? Hmm? You aren't the first. No, not by a long shot. Am I not interesting to you?" The man's face radiated something besides madness. Interest. Gregor had given himself reason to believe the man was not clever--why would anyone chose to live such a life. But now it dawned on him the man had lived for possibly hundreds of years if not more--
How stupid could he be?
He gulped, wishing very much that the bottle was in his hands, that his gun was not jammed, and that the scimitar had not shattered. He did not know what to say. The truth, that he wanted the man dead simply because he wanted a better assignment, seemed quite mad, now. At the same time, this was getting interesting. Uncomfortable, but interesting.
"I...thought you were..."
"Boring! I'm bored too. All of this..." Silas gestured. "Very nice. But dull. Do you know what I used to do? Used to be?"
Gregor shook his head. He could not imagine.
"I used to...say...why don't you come inside? Get warmed up? Heh heh, maybe you could use the outhouse, friend? You look like you have a load! Heh heh. Ho. Then, we talk!"
Gregor could not deny that he desperately needed the use of facilities at that point. The excitement, the fear, the axe, and the vodka, had made his bowels feel quite loose. He nodded, numbly, and made sure to shut the wooden door tightly behind himself. He sat on the planks, deep in consideration of what he should do next. He heard a door slam, and realized that his new friend had gone back into the cabin.
Perhaps this would not be so bad. If the Immortal was truly upset about the shooting and the waving a sword about thing, wouldn't Gregor be dead already? He wondered. Obviously, the man was going to be a good sport about all of this. Maybe, at long last, he was in the midst of a good situation--an interesting assignment. Sure, some rules were being bent--but couldn't he use this to his advantage, somehow?
As Gregor sat and pondered his situation, Silas sat inside the cabin, sharpening the blade of his axe. It had been a long time. A very long time. Too long, since he had really had someone to talk to.
Taking a deep breath after figuring out a way to make the minimum hygienic requirement a civilized man might make, Gregor left the outhouse, feeling a bit lighter, no pun intended. He decided that it was interesting, after all, to speak with an Immortal, no matter who the Immortal in question might be, and that, even if it broke every intention included in his Watcher oath, it nonetheless, was better than being a murderer.
Thus fortified with the best of thoughts and intentions, he made his way into the cabin, where he made note of the fact that Silas had a fairly sophisticated rig--in terms of a menagerie. He had a small goldfish bowl, which contained not goldfish, but SeaMonkeys. He had a Pet Rock. There was also a small, petrified baby alligator to be seen, as well as rabbits and a hamster, who wailed the living hell out of the wheel he ran from his corner-cage vantage.
"Meet my friends!" Silas explained. "Friends...meet..."
"Gregor," the Watcher said, weakly.
"Gregor! And now, why don't we drink!"
A drop of Stoli made its way into the SeaMonkeys' water, the hamster had enough to be well-wasted upon, and the rabbits would...do whatever rabbits do, but only this time with a good case of Stoli-goggles. The pet rock and the petrified alligator chose to abstain. Silas poured a double shot into a glass for Gregor, and reserved the remainder of the bottle for himself.
"Shame you didn't bring more! So, you want to know something about me--something interesting? Something you can write down for those journals of yours, hmm? Wonderful--I have a story for you--about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse--are you in? Because…I could talk all night!"
Gregor nodded weakly, realizing what he was in for. Obviously, this gifted, intellectual sadist was going to share with him a tale about the Four Horsemen, but of course it would be an allegory--he had been right! This fellow was some kind of yogi--a holy man who buried himself in the wilderness in order to purify his mind--and get rip-roaring mental in the process! And now he was going to share some tale about...the very mythical bringers of doom. He suppressed a yawn and prepared himself to politely listen to what the man had to say. And he listened. And he listened.
The gist of the allegory suddenly became clear. The man spoke of Famine--who was actually a creature driven by his own tastes and desires--a carnal being, obviously referring to sins of the flesh. He allegedly ate the flesh of people-but this was a weak part of the allegory, and not to be taken as literal fact. He spoke of Pestilence, who was, from what he could gather, a man of overwhelming charisma, capable of spreading his evil seed--like a disease. And lastly, he spoke of Death--a man who seemed to run from the very condition he caused. A man who, in making death his slave, became its servant.
Gregor listened, and listened. Finally, when there was a pause, it seemed that he needed to show that he was listening.
"So, Silas. Who were you?"
At this, the big man's eyes became very excited. A smile lit the corners of his mouth. His hands gripped the axe-handle-it had been so long since he told anyone about this.
"Who else? WAR!!!!" And at that, to bring the point home, he lifted the axe.
Gregor Pushnik had never been exposed to much excitement in his years as a Watcher. The vodka, the excitement, the exertion-it had all been too much. His heart thudded, madly, and then gave out. Silas felt bad about that, but after he buried him, he realized that meant there was more vodka for him, and the strange man would not try to kill him again. And that was pretty good.