Hard Sell

(Coffee Tree Restaurant-1996)

He looked at the young one-it was her, all right. He had seen a glimpse of her before in the midst of a battle, even watching the Quickening-although that sight had come to sicken him in the last few decades. In the midst of it, perhaps she didn't even notice the presence of another Immortal, but he certainly noticed the way she acted after that fight. She had promptly left the scene, climbing the auto yard fence with all the grace of a juvenile delinquent expecting the cops to be coming at any minute, and then drove aimlessly, probably cursing herself for the violence, wondering why she did it, all the usual mental arguments. She was distracted enough not to notice his car following hers. He considered approaching her in the diner she eventually retired to-but that was rarely his way. No, he had found it was better to try and get to know his intended students first-that way he'd better understand how to deliver The Message.

Sometimes he thought of it that way-in capital letters, sometimes gold-leafed. When it had finally hit him-it was an "on the road to Damascus" moment. He could never see the pointless Game that he had once lived for in the same way when he realized it-the Quickening, whatever it was, flowed through all of them and was a gift-not something to be wasted by violence. There had to be some reason for that gift, and so every Immortal life had to have some value-far too much value to be lost in petty challenges and heated combat. He hoped that his message would change the face of their world and end that Game. That was why it was important to him to teach that message in such a way that it would make an impression. This girl was still young-there was hope for her, yet.

Her face bore the typical suspicious look that he had come to know-accepting the challenge before it was even proposed. He noted the magazines she had on the seat next to her-"Popular Science" and "Business Week". Her pale blue eyes met his for a moment, deliberately hard, and then she looked down to the newspaper that she was currently reading.

"Don't know what you're after, but I've had my quota of crap for the week."

"I'm simply interested in talking," he replied. "Not in taking your head, but in what's in it."

She viewed him quizzically for a moment, and then shrugged. "There's a lot of things in my head. Lyrics to lots of t.v. theme songs. Some frog in a blender jokes. Several of the most common protein markers for a host of blood disorders-current interest of mine. Life is like that when you've one of those funny memories. Funny, do I remember you from anywhere?" He could sense that she was being intentionally rude, unable to see this as anything but a potential fight in the making. It was time to bring up what he was here for.

"No, you wouldn't. What I want to talk about, is peace."

"Piece of what?"

"Peace of mind, perhaps?"

She sighed in irritation at having her own pun turned back on herself. "It could well be a piece of my mind."

"Does your mind sometimes feel like it's in pieces, Genevieve Fowler?" He took a seat-not without a bit of drama.

It was the sound of their own names that sometimes impressed them-or bits of information that seemed too particular to ignore. Of course, there was occasionally added suspicion, skepticism, and the need to know why he had any information about them-but they would get over it. Knowing what he did showed that he cared-and what good salesman wouldn't try to understand his customer first? Strange to find himself likening it to that-but there it was. Genevieve's reaction to the sound of her own name was immediate.

"What, do I already have some kind of reputation? I don't think I've made that kind of bones in this Game yet." Her eyes narrowed to a cagey squint. "There's some guys I know…in regards to a little capital venture I'm in the middle of. I haven't lost anyone's money or pocketed anything but my necessary operating fees. If you've been sent after me for that." She crossed her arms, waiting for a response.

"This wouldn't be about any of those interesting things you're doing with other people's money-not that I approve. This is actually about Michael Hunt. What if I told you that that challenge could be your last?"

"He was a friend of yours?" Her lips twitched, and she raised the cup of coffee to them. From the froth, it looked to be cappuccino-from the scent, she seemed to have spiked it with something.

"I said I wasn't interested in taking your head, but in peace. What I'm offering you is the possibility of not accepting another challenge."

Her face brightened at that. He was momentarily heartened by the look, but then she said, "I get it. We're talking protection racket. Well, look, I'm not a big guy like yourself, and I could probably afford you, but I kind of do my own dirty work. Not interested."

He smiled at that. So used to a life of violence, that the very notion of no one getting killed was remote, if not impossible. She would learn. They all did.

"I stopped taking challenges years ago. I no longer take heads."

"Get out of here," she replied, in disbelief. Then, she leaned in closer. "So, what do you do? You got somebody else to take them out of the picture? What's the deal?"

He leaned in closer in response. "I simply say 'no'."

She sucked in her breath. "Wow. Just say no. The Nancy Reagan approach. You know, that never really worked with me. You mean-you don't…" she clenched her hands around an imaginary sword handle and made a tiny swoosh. He shook his head.

"It is possible to turn your back on the killing. You have a very important gift-you could put it to a lot of good use. You could make a big difference. Wouldn't you like to do that?"

"Big differences and me don't get along real well-but run it past me. I'm listening."

"What I'm suggesting is that you lay down your sword. Just lay it down. If enough people do that-we could end the Game. Imagine a world without the killing. I know you hate it."

"Lay down my sword…" she mused in a quiet voice. Then, a bit quickly, she added, "A person could get real bad killed doing that."

"There are ways to fight without a sword-without taking a head. Ways to disable an opponent and get away-I could give you a demonstration, if you'd like. I could make you my student."

Genevieve's face got a faraway look. She thought back, eerily enough, at the picture of Kronos on the floor of his hotel room with a pair of handcuffs on and her pantyhose still stuffed in his mouth. She had her ideas that it was quite possible to disable an opponent and escape-funny how they came back, though.

"I know. This is the bit where you demonstrate by taking me out to an alley, and 'pffft!'" she said, making a slashing motion across her throat with her index finger. "I'll pass."

His face grew serious at that. She was a hard sell, that was for certain. But he knew she had to have some respect for a higher power-after all, there was a silver crucifix around her neck. He reached over and fingered it.

"Not even for the greater good-whatever happened to, 'Thou shalt not kill?' The finest teachings of the greatest churches have been that taking a life is wrong. In fact, aggression itself-'turn the other cheek.'"

"And you get two red cheeks. Look, I hate to play front-pew lawyer, but I think I do have the ethical right to self-defense. Truth be told-I see the Game as a war-and the Church recognizes that war…happens."

"Are you saying you see a future in the Game?"

Genevieve shrugged. She eyed the cappuccino. She imagined it would be cold. The idea of cold cappuccino was eminently depressing.

"I see a future in electronic trade. The possibilities of the Internet are endless. And genome-derived pharmaceutical research. Or at least, that's where I'm putting my money."

"You aren't even willing to investigate the alternatives?"

She appeared to be thinking about that. "Or go long with Microsoft-I think in two, three, a couple years, Gates is gonna do it again-especially if Apple comes up with a new big thing." She noticed the polite stare she was getting. "You hate the Game, I hate the Game-look, I'm not a Game hag. What I'm saying is-a girl has to do what a girl has to do. If I lay down my sword and get whacked tomorrow-where was the good I did?"

"What happened to the good of the seven human beings who have lost their lives to you? Every time you take a life-the world is less one soul and is a harsher place because of it."

She looked down briefly, as if trying to fathom her own actions by reading her future in the light-brown, lukewarm beverage before her. As she looked, her face began to redden. Seven? What-he kept count? She had her reasons to keep count-but he had no business flinging it at her. She was getting the creeps.

"Next you'll be telling me Quickenings put holes in the ozone layer. Look-I'm doing a little research over here-fine-tuning my system. I've got places to go and people to do-so if you don't mind." She made a dismissive hand wave.

He rose, but then realized that there was still a chance. He hated pulling out this last stop-it was kind of showy, but it made an impression on most and lent the appropriate gravitas to The Message.

"Perhaps you aren't quite ready yet, but there will come a day. Once you've lived a few thousand years. As I have."

She gave him a look of interest. "A few thousand years? I don't believe I caught your name."

"My name is Methos."

The look of wonder he got in return made him certain that he had made his impression. And when she rested her head on the table in front of her and shook with violent laughter, he got the distinct impression that the impression he had just made was the wrong one.

But in Genevieve's eyes, this whole experience was well worth it. He so completely looked nothing like the guy in that grainy photograph Kronos had shown her! Why-that other guy was almost cute, in a kind of-"with the nose" sort of way-but this guy? She tried to imagine him riding and wreaking havoc with the Horsemen-and simply couldn't. He reminded her of her childhood dentist. She sniffed deeply, and then spoke.

"Oh, look, I'm sorry. You just aren't. I mean…look, you didn't know, okay? But uh…the guy's still alive. As far as I know. You ain't him. Look, the whole thing-it's a little tooo-- conceptual for me, all right? I'm just really traditional, and…I kill people. Maybe, I dunno, you should take this act out on the West Coast or something." She shrugged. Agitated, he turned. Sometimes, you have to realize you can't save them all.

But as he walked away, he heard her mutter something to herself. It sounded vaguely like, "Does he get chicks that way?"

Some days, it was very hard to remain a pacifist.

Back to the Miscellaneous Short Fiction Page

(My sincere apologies. My sense of humor runs away with me.)