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They say that curiosity killed the cat; but when the cat can’t die, curiosity can lead to disaster. The whole thing started because of a young author’s incurable fascination with a tall dark highlander. Deb wanted to learn more about the real Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but after 400+ years, he had gotten very good at not talking about himself. Especially when she inevitably, though unintentionally, phrased her questions in terms of the Series. After a while, she decided to take matters into her own hands. What better way to find out about a man than from his kin?
It took her a while to come to terms
with the idea that Connor was still alive, but what was more shocking was
the fact that he was still living in New York. She supposed it didn’t really
matter; the fans all thought he was dead and enemies… well, enemies will
find you wherever you are. So she told a tale to Duncan about wanting to
see her publisher face to face, promised to be back in a few days and left.
Even her Watcher had troubles keeping up; he took a later plane and missed
most of the excitement.
§ § §
New York City was a rather intimidating place for a prairie girl who didn’t travel much. Toronto liked compare itself to New York, but her meager experience with that city could not prepare her for Manhattan. She knew where she was going; her destination was hard to miss. No tiny shop on Hudson Street this time, this persona was a successful investment consultant, Specializing in long-term investments? she thought with a grin, with an office in the World Trade Center. She didn’t have an appointment, which was the only reason why she was out and about at such an ungodly hour of the morning. If she were his first meeting of the day, surely he wouldn’t refuse her?
Deb felt strangely tense on the endlessly long elevator ride, but she dismissed it as nothing more than jet lag. Getting off on the 100th floor (she shook her head in disbelief at the idea) she searched for the offices of Mr. Nash Russell— Cute, Connor, very cute. The secretary, an older woman who looked vaguely familiar, frowned protectively at the sight of the author. When Debra said that she was a friend of the family, though, the woman gave her an odd look and nodded. Rachael? she thought to herself, her curiosity piqued; she decided to wait inside, to avoid the temptation of asking foolish questions.
The secretary said that Russell was usually in by 9:00am. It wasn’t even 8:45 yet, and Deb’s body was still functioning two hours behind. She groaned, and decided to stand; in her condition she might just fall asleep where she sat. She walked over to the giant picture window, suitably impressed. "Nice view," she said to no one in particular. Resisting the urge to pace, she wondered if she had reset her watch correctly. She looked around for a clock, but all she could see was a perpetual calendar; Tuesday/9/11 she noted absently. Typical Immortal priorities she thought to herself, not bothering to hide a smile.
Her wandering thoughts were brought back to reality by a rumbling sound that rattled the windows; she could almost feel the vibrations through her feet. She spun around quickly, shocked by what she saw. A passenger plane was flying straight at the tower, coming in much too low and much too fast. She stood there frozen in morbid fascination, as it seemed to grow larger until it filled the entire window. A jet intake yawned open like a dragon’s mouth, ready to swallow her whole and spit out bloody shreds of meat. That mental image broke her paralysis, and she ran for the door just as the world blossomed in red and orange flame.
The concussion wave picked her up like a child’s toy; she flew through the waiting room and into the hall beyond. She landed, stunned, in an office supply room barely larger than a closet. She twisted around, hoping for a quick escape, but the door was warped in its frame and it bulged grotesquely. She tried the doorknob and snatched back her hand, gaping at the smoking black circle on her palm. Oh God, fire! Panic started to bubble up within her. While she cringed away from the heat, debris pounded the room from all sides like windswept hail. One shelf crashed almost on top of her, and the door acquired several new dents, but her refuge remained relatively whole.
Right on the heels of this attack came an eerie sound, an unsheathed blade magnified a thousand times. A jagged sheet of aircraft hull, razor sharp and glowing an angry red, scythed through the door like it was paper, imbedding itself in the opposite wall. All this took place in seconds, though she experienced it in agonizing slow motion. Still reeling from the chaos, it took her several seconds to recognize the stench of burnt hair. As she reached up to touch a self-cauterized scalp wound—Guillotine! —her knees started to buckle. Her last thought before mind and body lost hold of one another was a solemn oath that she would never again to wish that she were a little bit taller.
§ § §
Time ceased to exist; she lost track of the number of times she’d died, each time awakening to a little more smoke and a little less air. She wondered if there were limits even to the gift of the immortals—would she end up caught between life and death until she was unearthed from the rubble? What if no one found her? The falling shelf had crushed her legs and they healed in unnatural positions. When she tried to crawl a few inches toward what might have been sunlight, bones snapped audibly and a wave of pain threatened to submerge her consciousness.
She had always imagined that Hell would be louder somehow; besides an intermittent groan that threatened total structural collapse, the tower was eerily quiet. The silence was oppressive, a physical thing. She tried to close her eyes and shut out the world around her but that was worse, she could feel the screaming Buzz of newborn Immortality. How many new warriors had the Gathering gained from this disaster, and what would the experience do to them? Her mind shrank from the thought, sought sanctuary—
§ § §
The library, her Library, was warm and familiar. Her sanctuary had everything she needed; there was no reason to go anywhere else. She couldn’t remember where she’d been a moment before, but it didn’t matter. Two giant stacks of books, bound in black leather, stood waiting for her to read them. A paper airplane floated past, crashed into one of the towers, books began to topple in slow motion. Unwanted memories flooded in from reality; she spun around to glare angrily at the culprit. The Englishman leaned casually against a bookcase; "What a dry place for such an imaginative woman. The least you could do is imagine us a nice English pub?"
"Fitzcairn, get out!"
"That’ll be a bit difficult Lass, I’m here for the duration. If you’re going to hide in your own head, you’ve got to deal with me."
"You’re dead!"
"If I’m dead, what does that make you? You can’t stay here forever you know."
Deb trembled, whether from fear or anger she wasn’t sure, but she could barely stand. She collapsed into an old leather chair, on the edge of tears. "I’m not going back out there! There’s nothing there but pain and death; terror and evil."
Fitz tried awkwardly to comfort her; it was clear he hadn’t done this often for women he wasn’t trying to bed. "All it takes for evil to triumph is for a good man—err, person—to do nothing."
"Didn’t you steal that quote from someone else?"
A wide, unapologetic smile; "That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. It isn’t hopeless until you give up hope. You are not alone."
A door opened up; she didn’t remember the library ever having a door before. Bright, blinding light flooded into the room, and in that light was the figure of a man. He spoke. "Take my hand Lass. For God’s sake, take my hand!" She reached out, and the false safety of her sanctuary shattered. "Hang on Lass!"
"MacLeod? MacLeod!" Deb opened her eyes on a heart-stopping scene. She hung in mid-air; the strong arm of a former blacksmith the only thing that kept her from a freefall plunge. She twisted around to look up at her savior, saw a face. "Oh. Wrong MacLeod."
A familiar chuckle, the same deep rolling tones she knew so well; "I’ve never had a Lass turn her nose up at me before, but if the wee fishie doesn’t want to be caught, I could always set you free…."
She twisted again in his grip, her shoulder protesting the abuse. Far below, her former prison was a tiny pile of rubble, the blade-like sheet of steel angled upward, glinting hungrily. She gulped and tried to hold back a wave of nausea. "You do, haggis-breath, and you’ll have to explain to your cousin how you lost me. Now pull me up before my arm falls off!"
§ § §
She was alive; she was a survivor. For all the good it did, so much senseless destruction. With all the airports shut down she had no choice but to stay in New York. The evidence of the attack—the discovery that it was an attack and not an accident had made her sick with anger and grief—was impossible to avoid. It was all around her; when she tried to hide, it came to her, through television, radio and newspapers. After a while she wouldn’t leave the apartment; she wouldn’t speak, she hardly ate. Connor tried to find a balance between providing comfort and giving her privacy, but he knew he was a poor substitute for his kinsman. She would have to find her own way to heal.
She stared blankly at the television screen, showing for the hundredth time the plane crashing into the north tower. "How many people died?" she asked, her voice dull and empty. Connor tried to keep his voice gentle; "They’re not sure. Over 200 on the planes; hundreds, maybe thousands in the towers. And that’s not including what happened in Washington."
She nodded slowly, paused in thought. She remembered the newborn Quickenings she had felt in the tower. "And how many do you think came back from the experience?" He shrugged, "A handful perhaps; there are some born in every tragedy."
She finally turned to look him in the eye, her face a mask of grief. "And how many survived; truly survived, the ones that only have one life to live?"
"Lass, dear lass. They pulled 2,000
wounded out of those ruins, and that’s enough for hope." He offered her
his strength and she took it gratefully; for the first time since that
tragic day, real tears ran down her cheeks. She would grieve, but she could
also hope.
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