MEGATOKYO, JAPAN - APRIL, 2033

     Patrick sat at the bar of Hot Legs with a bottle of whatever passed for
beer in the place.  As a rock club, Hot Legs was typical.  Dingy, smoky,
loud, smelly, with bathrooms only the truly brave would venture into.  It
reminded Patrick of several places he'd been to in the late 1970's during
the first punk rock explosion, like the Rat in Boston or CBGB's in New York
City.  And like those two places, it wouldn't surprise him if he found out
that it began life as quite a different place.  The Rat, for instance, began
its existence as "The Rathskeller," a German sausage restaurant.  And CBGB's
stood for "Country, Blue-grass and Blues."  He was expecting someone to
approach him and say something like, "You know, this place used to be a
strip club."  Whatever its history, _now_ it was a rock club, and it was
packed and sweaty with anticipation.  The crowd was restless, waiting for
the headlining act, Priss and the Replicants.  
     Dispite the broadcast he'd seen earlier in the day, Patrick was
surprised to find out that the Replicants were currently the biggest thing
in the Megatokyo underground scene.  Leafing through an issue of _Mud
Flaps_, a dirty, inky fanzine he found on the bar that had a cover story
about them, he read that in the '32 year-end poll they had been voted best
unsigned band, Priss had been voted both best front person and best female
vocalist, and "Konya Wa Hurricane" best local song.  Hopefully it wasn't all
hype.  Patrick had seen far too many bands in far too many dives that failed
to live up to the hype that had been built. 
     Another thing bothered him, too.  Duncan MacLeod had once told him of a
pianist who became Immortal and lost all her musical passion.  The only way
she was able to get it back was to refuse to carry a sword, the fear of
death sparking that flame once again.  He hoped that Priss wouldn't find the
same thing. 
     "Hey Sal!" said a large man who had approached the bar.  "Gimme another
beer."
     "Hold your horses, Leon, I've got other customers before you." 
     Leon sighed and put the empty bottle on the bar top.  He looked at his
watch, then looked at Patrick.  "What time have you got?" 
     "Almost midnight," Patrick said.
     "They should be coming on any second."
     "You've seen them before?"
     "Yup.  I make every show I can."
     "How are they?"  Patrick pointed to the article he had been reading.
"I'm suspicious of any band with that much hype."
     "Me too, but I've gotta tell ya, they live up to it.  The first show I
saw, I was blown away.  Come on, Sal!  Whaddaya say?"
     At that moment, the between-bands incidental music faded and lights
went down.  Leon grabbed the beer that Sal had just placed in front of him
and quickly headed to the front of the club.  Dry ice began to billow off of
the stage as gentle keyboard strains filled the club.  Then a faint
four-count came from the drumkit, and the rest of the band kicked in.  There
was a guitar player, bass player, keyboards, and drums, but he didn't see or
feel Priss anywhere.  After the long intro, he felt the presence of another
Immortal nearby at the same instant Priss walked onto the stage.  
     Only it was a different Priss.  The biker clothes had been replaced by
a low-cut sleeveless red blouse, black miniskirt, boots, and fingerless
gloves.  And the picture was topped off by the blond wig.  It was at that
moment Patrick realized just how beautiful Priss actually was.  She
positively oozed sensuality as she slinked across the stage, glancing in
Patrick's direction as if to secretly tell him that she knew he was there.
Then she began singing.
     Patrick didn't have to worry about her loosing her passion.  Through
song after song she alternately whispered and belted, wrapping each melody
around the audience, singing each note like it would be her last.  The
entire audience, himself included, couldn't take their eyes off of her.  And
the band was top-notch too.  All good talented players who merged chops with
punk attitude.  The hype, for once, was justified.  Priss and the Replicants
were _good_.
     So how was it the Immortal that Duncan MacLeod knew needed a fear of
death in order to be able to perform, yet Priss obviously didn't?  Or for
that matter, Patrick's own wife?  Rebecca was an artist, and while she
occasionally complained of a lack of inspiration, she never complained of a
lack of spark.  Perhaps since both Priss and Rebecca had tough early lives,
that honed them.  Duncan's student had been pampered since she was adopted,
always going to the right schools and meeting the right teachers.  Priss had
no such advantages in life, had spent most of her childhood in orphanages
and on the streets, and it showed in the rough edge of her music.  The
audience loved it.  They loved _her_.  
     They were hers.

     It was getting late the Replicants had left the stage twice already,
yet the audience clamored for more.  Patrick himself clapped and shouted.
Eventually, the band returned and Priss stepped up to the microphone.
     "Thanks allot.  We've been told that the club's gotta close up."
     The audience began booing.
     "Relax!  We can do one more song.  This is a cover we just learned and
it's the first time we're playing it out, so this should be interesting.  It
was written about fifty years ago, but it seems to ring true today.  In
fact, when I first read the lyric sheet, I thought the writer had written my
biography."
     The bassist played an introduction riff that Patrick immediately
recognized.  No, he thought, smiling.  No _way_!  Priss began singing,
though, and removed all doubt.  It was "That's When I Reach For My
Revolver," originally done by Mission of Burma in 1980.
     Priss sang with her eyes closed:
     "Once I had my heroes, once I had my dreams
     But all of that has changed now, it turns me inside out
     The truth is not that comfortable, no.
      "And Mother taught us patience, the virtues of restraint
     And Father taught us boundaries, beyond which we must go
     To find the secrets promised us, yeah."
     Patrick had to admit, they were doing a good job of it.  The keyboards
added a new dimension, and the female voice gave it a twist that he hadn't
thought of before.  The band was picked up the energy level, and slammed
into the chorus at full force:
     "That's when I reach for my revolver,
     That's when it all gets blown away.
     That's when I reach for my revolver,
     The spirit fights to find its way."
     Then the level of intensity dropped, and they continued into the next
verse:
     "A friend of mine once told me, his one and only aim
     To build a giant castle, and live inside his name
     Cry and whisper, plea in muted pain."
     They slammed into the chorus again, then into the break.  Patrick was
pleased that they didn't cheat their way out of the bass solo, instead doing
it note-for-note in their own style.  Then the last verse:
     "Another sky has ended, but that is nothing new
     His dead eyes look upon us, and they tell me
     e're nothing but slaves."
     As they tore through the jammed-out ending, Patrick felt another
Immortal nearby.  Priss felt it too, she looked around, but continued
belting out, "That's when I reach for my revolvahhhhh!" complete with a
mock-Boston accent.  The song ended, the audience roared, and the lights
went down.  When the house lights came up, the stage was empty.

      All the encores had been played, all the alcohol drunk, and all the
lights turned back on.   Most of the patrons had already filed out, to
couple, to eat, to sleep off the light-headedness, or simply to talk about
the incredible set.  The only people who were left in the club were the
staff, the Replicants' crew, and a few hangers-on waiting to catch a glimpse
or even talk to the band before some record company made an offer and they
became The Next Big Thing, so they could brag to their friends that they
"knew them when..." 
     Leon came over to Patrick and sat next to him.  "So what did you think?
They live up to the hype?"
     Patrick nodded.  "They're better than Vision."
     "Hey now, I like Vision."
     "I didn't say I didn't."
     Eventually Priss and her band came out from behind the stage dressed in
street clothes carrying instrument cases.  Priss looked over to the bar when
she felt Patrick's presence, then looked towards two women, one tall with
black hair, the other short with red hair.  She signaled them to wait, then
walked over to Patrick and Leon. 
     "Another excellent show, Priss," Leon said.  "One of your best.  How
about we go to your place and..."
     Priss looked at Leon and shrugged.  "Leon, get lost."
     "All right..."  Leon rose from his seat and walked over to the other
two women.
     "Sorry about Leon, Teach," she sat next to Patrick and took the beer
the bartender placed in front of her.  "He's a pain in the ass sometimes,
but he's OK."
     "Police?"
     "Yeah, AD Police.  How'd you know?  He didn't have his badge on for a
change."
     "He's got that look you told me _I_ had."
     Priss laughed, then turned serious.  "Was there another Immortal here?"
     "Could you tell?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "There was.  In fact, he's still here."  Patrick took a sip of the end
of his last-call beer as Priss tried unsuccessfully to subtlety look around
the club.  "Calm down, so long as no one challenges you, there's no need to
make a scene.  You do have your sword with you, don't you?"  
     Priss nodded.  "It's with my bike."  She changed the subject.  "So
what'd you think of my set?"
     "It was great.  You've got a real talent.  That version of 'Revolver'
was pretty damn incredible."
     "Thanks.  We just learned it last week.  I picked up the Mission of
Burma CD recently, and that song just _roared_ at me."
     "I saw them, a bunch of times as a matter of fact.  They were a pretty
amazing band."
     "So what do your kids think of you hanging around in rock clubs?"
     Patrick's face grew serious.  "We can't have children."
     "Never?"
     "Never.  That's the trade-off."
     "That's OK, I never planned on having any."
     "Really?"
     Priss paused.  "Hey, do you know what's _real_ amazing?"
     The sudden change of subject wasn't lost on Patrick.  "What?"  
     "My ears... my throat..."  She lowered her voice.  "Before, my throat
used to be in shreds after a show, and my ears would be ringing like a God
damn telephone.  And when I got off stage tonight, my throat was sore and my
ears rang... for about thirty seconds.  But then... it all stopped.  I could
sing all night."
     "Yup.  You've been granted a great gift, Priss.  Use it wisely."
     She sighed.  "Will you come _off_ it?  Stop acting like a damn
samurai."  She got up to leave.
     "Priss..."
     She stopped.  Patrick continued.  "You've got to realize what's at
stake here."
     "I do.  And I'm gonna do it _my_ way."
     Patrick sighed.  "Does that mean your training's over?"
     "I suppose that's up to you, isn't it?"
     "Nope.  If you really want to do this your way, that means completely
your way."
     "All _right_.  I'll be by tomorrow afternoon."
     "Good."  She turned to leave.  "And Priss?"
     "_What_?"
     "I _was_ a samurai."
     "Figures."

     "Wow, who's that guy Priss is talking to?" Linna said.
     "Don't know," Nene said.  "Why are you so interested?"
     "Oh, no reason...  He's sure good looking, though."
     Leon approached them, waving.  "Hi, ladies."
     "Hey Leon," Nene said.
     "What's up?" Linna said.
     "Not much.  I was just told to get lost."
     "Par for the course," Nene said.  "I wish Priss wouldn't be that way.
She could do a _lot_ worse than you."
     "I'll try to take that as a complement.  'Night."
     "Night Leon," Nene and Linna said in unison.
          Nene looked at Priss and the guy she was with, then back to Linna.
"I thought you had a boyfriend.  What happened to the guy at EMI?"
     "Ugh.  He's history.  He was already married." 
     "_Married_?!"
     "Yeah, to his job.  He had no time for me.  Whenever we'd go out, his
cell phone would ring off the hook.  Finally, one night we were at dinner
and he was talking to some band's manager so I got up and left.  He probably
hasn't even realized it yet."
     "He probably didn't even realize he was going out with you," Nene giggled.
     "Hey, now stop making fun of me!"
     "Well, you walked into it.  Hey... I wonder if that's the guy..."
     "What guy?"
     "You know," Nene whispered.  "The _guy_."
     Linna looked at Nene, perplexed.  Exasperated, Nene hissed, "The
immortal guy Priss told us about."
     "Oh, _that_ guy.  Who knows, but Priss looks like she's her usual
annoyed self.  Some things will never change."
     Priss walked over to them.  "Hi."
     "Great set, Priss!" Nene said.
     "Outstanding as usual, only more so tonight," Linna said.
     "Thanks."
     "Say Priss... who's that guy?"
     "Married, Linna.  What about your EMI boyfriend."
     "History," Nene said.
     "Figures."
     "Oh stop!" Linna said.
     "Come on," Priss said.  "I'm starving.  Let's get something to eat."

     Stephen Kowalski watched the new Immortal leave the club with her two
friends.  A minute or two later, Patrick O'Brien got up and left.  Kowalski
rose, walked into the rain-filed night, and followed O'Brien to his car
parked in the lot behind the club.  
     Patrick turned around before he got into the car.  "Kowalski. Are you
still around?  I thought someone would have gotten you by now."
     "Laugh it up, O'Brien, but I'm still here.  Maybe I'm not as good a
fighter as you or the MacLeods, or your old Teachers, so I've had to be
creative.  And that's not only enabled me to survive, but it's actually
given me some Quickenings." 
     "Now that can't be legal," Patrick sighed.  "Nothing much has changed
in the last fifty years, have they?  You're still a punk."
     "Oh I am, am I?  At least a punk like me doesn't have a weakness."
     "Weakness?"
     "Yeah, that cub Immortal chickie you've taken in.  I know all about
your soft spot for cubs.  Maybe I should go after her first." 
     Patrick sighed again.  "She's been an Immortal for about a week and
already she's a better warrior than you could ever hope to be.  Normally I'd
tell you to stay away from her or else, but this time I'm gonna encourage
you to challenge her, 'cause she'll have no problem ending your sad excuse
of a life."
     Kowalski growled with one fist clenched.
     "Now if you'll excuse me," Patrick unlocked his car, "I'm getting wet."
     "Oh _no_ you don't!"  Kowalski had his sword out.
     Patrick turned, his katana out as well.  "Don't you remember what I
said to you almost forty years ago?  I said change your ways or I'd take
your head the next time we met.  Do you _want_ to loose your head?"
     "We'll see about that!"  Kowalski lunged.
     Patrick parried easily, grinning.  Sometimes it could be fun,
especially with an unscrupulous little bastard like this.  He thrust and
lunged, backing Kowalski against another car.  Kowalski attempted to lunge,
but was pinned.  Still grinning, Patrick gripped Kowalski by the shirt and
tossed him away from the car, causing him to sprawl onto the ground.
     "Get up!"
     "Screw you."
     "Get _up_!"
     Kowalski got up and was about to attack when the rear door of Hot Legs
opened.  They both quickly returned their swords to their places beneath
their coats as two couples emerged from the club.
     "Another time, Irelander," Kowalski said, running out of the lot.
     "I'll look forward to it."

     "Come in," he said when he felt the other Immortal's presence on the
other side of the door.  Stephen Kowalski opened the door and entered. "What
have you to report?"
     "Both Frederic Rillio and Richard Smythe are dead," Kowalski said.
     "Good.  That nearly takes care of any potential threat to me.  Smythe
and Rillio were both good fighters."  He pressed three keys on a computer
keyboard.  "You'll find your usual pay for both Immortals already deposited
into your account."
     "Th-thank you, sir."
     "Remember we must eliminate, through either monetary means or
beheadings, all Immortals in Megatokyo who would oppose me.  A good number
have already been bought off.  The rest are your concern, and I am pleased
with your performance so far."
     "Th-thank you, sir."
     "Now, we need to set up new targets.  Li Chin has refused monetary
rewards, and I have heard through my sources that Patrick O'Brien arrived
earlier this week.  I want them both eliminated."
     "Chin should be no problem to track down, and I've already encountered
O'Brien."
     "What?"
     "I..."
     The other man turned and glared at Kowalski.  "Your strategy is not
effective unless the element of surprise is present.  Why did you make
yourself known to O'Brien?"
     "He and I have a history..."
     "I don't care _who_ you have a history with.  You are not working for
revenge, Kowalski, you are working for _me_.  Shall I put someone else on
O'Brien's trail?  An Immortal who won't let personal feeling interfere? "
     "N-no, sir.  I apologize, and I swear that I won't let our history get
in the way of my job.  O'Brien won't see me again until I kill him."  
     "Make sure of it."  He turned back to the window and stared down at the
city.
     "Sir?"
     "What is it, Kowalski?"
     "O'Brien is training a new cub.  She apparently became Immortal only a
week ago.  Her name is Priscilla Asagiri." 
     He laughed once to himself.  "Interesting."
     "Should I dispose of her too?"
     "No.  Asagiri is of no threat to me, at least not yet.  I'll let her
live for a while and see which side of the Game she ends up on before
deciding whether to do away with her or not." 
     "As you wish."  Kowalski bowed and walked out.
     He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down on the lights of
the city.  The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared, and the sun was just
below the horizon.  As soon as O'Brien was eliminated, he'd take Kowalski's
head.  Not only was O'Brien's Quickening something he'd like for himself,
but Kowalski was beginning to be a nuisance with no idea how dispensable he
actually was, and how easily he could be replaced by a young unscrupulous
Immortal.  Priscilla Asagiri, for example... 
     No, she'd never work for him, and as an Immortal, Asagiri would be an
eternal thorn in his side.  Maybe he _should_ order Kowalski to eliminate
her.  On second thought, as the eternal thorn she'd keep him sharp and on
his toes.  He'd always be on the alert with her around, so the dangers of
growing lazy and making a mistake centuries from now were reduced.  He'd let
her live until she was the second to last one, _then_ take her head.  He
smiled to himself.  Perfect. 

     Leon McNichol studied the files on each of the four victims of the
boomer headhunter.  Four people so widely different, yet tied together
somehow.  Each one of them getting their chest blasted out by boomers, then
beheaded.  Beheaded by a human, Leon stressed to himself.  It _had_ to be a
human.  Sometimes it seemed as if imagination was the only thing
separating boomers from humans, and imagination was, for all intents, the
lighter side of psychosis.  It takes a _real_ overactive imagination to
think up some of the sick plots serial killers come up with.  He should
know, after all, he did work for the regular police before requesting a
transfer to the AD Police in '27.  But while he was there, he saw some
pretty twisted _human_ fantasies played out.  The question was, which
fantasy was being played out here? 
     The first victim was Tochiro Segawa, Japanese native and school
teacher.  No enemies to speak of, no real family ties, either.  He was found
in Yokohama, Chinatown, last month, and had no organ deterioration nor
medical records upon examination by the ME. 
     The second was Olga Heismann, German cybernetic engineer, who emigrated
to Japan to work for GENOM.  She was married to Hans Heismann, who told the
regular police that she kept to herself at work, and made no contact with
anyone who could have become a powerful enemy.  Aside from her husband,
though, she had no family.  She was found near the GPCC building two weeks
ago.  When the ME examined her, it was found she had no organ deterioration
nor medical records. 
     Frederic Rillio was the third victim, found in an alleyway downtown
last week.  Rillio was an American in Megatokyo on business, a VP with the
Schwartz and Arnaman securities firm in New York.  Daily phoned his
co-workers, who said he was an excellent man to work for.  Dispite this, he
had no real family ties, his last living relative died fifteen years ago
around the time he began working for Schwartz and Arnaman, and left him all
his possessions, including a rather large fortune.  Once again, though, when
the ME examined him, there was no organ deterioration, and no medical
records were found. 
     The fourth was the humanitarian Richard Smythe, who's most recently
calculated net worth was a quarter that of Chairman Quincy's.  After the
Second Great Kanto Earthquake in '25, he donated generously to relief
organizations, even kept a lot of them going when the money began to run
out.  No one would consider him an enemy, in fact, many considered
themselves in his debt.  Smythe was a widower, having lost his own wife in
the Earthquake.  They had no children, though they were married for at least
twenty years and could more than afford fertility treatments.  Aside from
his wife, and his wife's family, he had no family ties, either.  He was
found in the garage of his office building just two nights ago.  Not
surprisingly, upon the post-mortum, it was found that he had no organ
deterioration, and as expected no medical records were found. 
     Four people, three men and a woman, all from different walks of life,
all from different countries.  A teacher, a GENOM employee, an American on
business, and a humanitarian.  The only thing tying them together was a
strange lack of organ deterioration, medical records, and family.  The one
and only thing that Leon could come up with was the fact that someone went
through a _lot_ of trouble to make these killings look like they were done
entirely by humans.  The guns?  Boomers don't _need_ guns to kill people,
most of them are outfitted with enough weaponry to take on, and in many
cases defeat, an entire unit of AD Police.  The beheadings?  Boomers didn't
need to behead someone, and he doubted they would even if ordered to.  Why
kill someone after he's dead, would be their reasoning.   The swords?
Boomers could be easily outfitted with the latest in vibro-blade technology,
so carrying a sword around would be a waste.  Boomers were nothing if not
efficiently designed.  So there _had_ to be a reason why boomers were taking
these people out and then being covered up to make it look like it was a
human serial killer.  If it hadn't been for that piece of synthetic skin
found near Rillio's body, the case would still be considered solely human.
And _that_ was the piece of the puzzle.  Find the boomers, find the human
behind it all.
     Piece of cake, right?
     Not in this town.

     Nene Romanova brought a piece of cake and some ice cream into her
computer room.  It was her day off and she wanted to get some shopping done,
but there was this ultra-secure computer system that she was just dying to
hack into, and had been trying on and off for the last six months.  Last
night after Priss' gig she was almost close before exhaustion took over.
She cleared her Ryo-ohki screen saver and started her communications
program.  Taking a scoop of ice cream, she entered the address of the system
in question. After she broke through the initial security measures, the
screen responded.  
     PASSWORD?
     She picked up where she left off last night and entered "laura"
     The screen responded with PASSWORD IS IN THE WRONG.
     PASSWORD?
     "laurel"
     PASSWORD IS IN THE WRONG.
     PASSWORD?
     "lauren"
     PASSWORD IS CORRECT.  STAND BY...
     Nene giggled to herself and took a spoonful of cake.  After a few
seconds, the screen responded again.
     WATCHER DATABASE - ASIA, 2033
     **NOTE!  NEW ENTRIES**
     Would you like to see the new entries? (Y/N)
     "y"
     STAND BY...
     Now her curiosity was fully engaged.  Watchers?  New entries?  What was
going on here?  She was about to find out.  The screen changed.

     NAME
     Patrick O'Brien
     KNOWN ALIASES
     Patrick Brian, Sean O'Brien, Keith Leonard, Brian Patricks
     KNOWN NICKNAMES
     The Irelander
     HOME BASE
     Boston, Massachusetts, United States
     OCCUPATION
     Owner/Operator, Ammamoto School of Martial Arts, Boston
     DATE MOST RECENTLY SPOTTED
     April 25th, 2033
     LOCATION
     Megatokyo, Japan
     WATCHER
     Alan Keanealy
     REMARKS
     I have trouble describing O'Brien in one paragraph.  In fact, he is a
hard man to describe at all.  Bernard Willis did a much better and more
extensive job after Watching O'Brien for over fifty years.  Suffice to say,
O'Brien is a very honorable fighter, and, though a player in the Game, does
not fight without good reason, and even then, more often than not, tries to
find a way to avoid taking his opponent's head.  He rarely goes headhunting.
He is married to Rebecca DeJeniere O'Brien (see separate entry), and has
taken in many cub Immortals, the most recent being Nancy Peters (see
separate entry).  It is the opinion of this Watcher that O'Brien is a good man. 
     **LATE BREAKING**
     O'Brien has been spotted in Megatokyo with a new Immortal.

     Beside the entry was a photo of the man Priss was speaking to the other
night.  Now her curiosity was _really_ piqued.  She scrolled down to the
bottom of the screen and clicked on the button marked "NEXT >>." 

     NAME
     Priscilla S. "Priss" Asagiri
     KNOWN ALIASES
     None
     KNOWN NICKNAMES
     None
     HOME BASE
     Megatokyo, Japan
     OCCUPATION
     Lead singer, "Priss and the Replicants" rock band
     DATE MOST RECENTLY SPOTTED
     April 25th, 2033
     LOCATION
     Megatokyo, Japan
     WATCHER
     Alan Keanealy (temporary assignment)
     REMARKS
     Not much is known about Priscilla Asagiri yet.  It is unknown how she
became Immortal or where, but she is being trained by Patrick O'Brien, so
her future in the Game is probably assured.

     Beside the entry was a picture of Priss, taken... taken the afternoon
she caught her for speeding!  In fact there was Nene herself in the
background.  Things were getting interesting, if not a bit confusing.  What
was this "game" these files talked about?  And headhunting?  Taking an
opponent's head?  What was all this?
     Not knowing how long she had before someone on the other end figured
out she was there, she hit the "PRINT" icon, then scrolled down to the
button marked "<< PREVIOUS" and printed the Patrick O'Brien entry. 

     "He got in!"
     "Damn."  He walked over to the terminal and said, "How deep did he get?"
     "Not very as of right now.  Just the new entries so far."
     "I'm getting too old for this.  Can you trace the line?"
     "Already did it."
     "Great."  Joe Dawson looked at the slip of paper his assistant handed
him and grumbled.  When he took the "retirement promotion" he figured he'd
take a gold watch, go to Florida, buy a boat, and do some fishing until he
faded into the sunset.  Instead he got a new pair of cybernetic legs and
shipped off to Japan to head up the Asian division of the Watchers.  Though
in his nineties, Joe had never felt better.  He was as spry and as gruff as
ever.  Dispite his initial reservations about them, the new legs had done
him a world of good.  And truth be known, he wouldn't have enjoyed a real
retirement.
     "We know who the guy is?" he said.
     "Not yet, working on it.  Got it.  _She_ is named Nene Romanova, and
according to city records, she's a computer operator with the AD Police.
You want to lock her out?"
     Joe ran his hand over his now-white beard, adjusted his glasses and
looked at the screen closer.  "No, let her in deeper.  That'll insure she
stays put until I get there.  But just in case, lock her out of all the
sensitive information until I get back.  And keep up the good work." 

     Nene was slowly, but surely, piecing it all together.  The Immortals
fought each other, but she didn't know why.  And they _could_ be killed, but
only if their heads were chopped off.  But there seemed to be something
else, some underlying thing.  She saw it mentioned in two or three entries,
"the Quickening," but each time she tried to look up the word, the
system halted, asking her for a password.  Undoubtedly she could hack into
it given enough time, but that was the problem.  It was only a matter of
time before someone realized she was there (if they hadn't already), locked
her out completely, and changed all the log in routines and passwords, maybe
even the address.  Frantically, she printed each page she came across,
because she knew that the next time she tried this the odds were that she
wouldn't get in this deep, if at all. 
     She was printing off a file about a man named Duncan MacLeod when the
doorbell rang.  She looked at the door, then at the computer.  She hot-key
activated the screen saver, got up, and went to the door.  She looked out
the peephole and saw an old man with white hair and a beard. 
     "I'm not interested in whatever it is you're selling, so go away."
     "I'm not selling anything, Nene Romanova.  Can we talk?"
     "About what?  How do you know my name?"
     "About computers.  Can you let me in, or would you like your neighbors
to know?"
     Computers?  Damn!  It must be his system she hacked into!  She opened
the door, while at the same time cursing the fact that she couldn't get to
her gun.
     He actually looked kind, in a rough way.  "My name is Joe Dawson, and
I'm not gonna hurt you," he said.  "Can I come in?"  She nodded.  "Thanks." 
     Nene closed the door.  "What's this all about, anyway?"
     "It's about Watchers and Immortals.  It's about that mainframe you've
hacked into.  Very good, by the way.  No one's been able to do that.  By the
way, we know that you knew about Immortals before you gained access to our
system."
     "What?  How?"
     "One of our people tailed Priscilla Asagiri to the Lady's633 building
last night, then saw you go there.  Later, you left with her and another
woman and went to Hot Legs.  Then he trailed you to a burger joint where you
ate with Asagiri and the other woman.  He recognized you from the picture in
our database of Asagiri.  Let me guess, you saw your friend die, she tried
to deny it, and later admitted she was Immortal." 
     "Not exactly.  She never denied it."
     Joe nodded.
     "So what do you do exactly?" Nene said.
     "We observe and record, but we never interfere."
     "Why?"
     "For posterity.  For history.  Because one day when there's only one
left, someone has to tell the stories of all the others."
     "One?  There'll be only one?"
     "She didn't tell you?"
     "No."
     Dawson nodded.  "She had good reason not to."  He sat on the couch and
gestured to her to sit as well.  She sat in a chair opposite him.  "For as
long as Immortals have been around, we've been watching them and recording
their history.  Oral at first, then written, then on computers.  And as long
as Immortals have been around, they've fought and killed each other.
They're fighting to win the Prize, the power, or Quickening if you will, of
all the Immortals who've ever lived.  It literally is the battle between
good and evil, and your friend has entered it.  Some would say she's been
chosen, and some would say she's been cursed." 
     "And this O'Brien guy?"
     "One of the best.  Your friend is being trained by him to fight.  She
couldn't be in better hands."
     "But if they fight to be the last one..."
     "O'Brien has said constantly that he doesn't want to be the last.  He's
married to another Immortal, one who he's known for his entire life.  If he
was after heads, wouldn't he have taken hers?"
     "Yeah, I suppose you're right."  Then she looked up and gasped.  "The
boomer headhunter!  All those people without medical records!"
     Dawson nodded.  "A careless Immortal who doesn't dispose of the bodies
of the Immortals he defeats and who's cheating by using boomers as hired guns."
     "Why are you telling me all this?"
     "Because you could join us.  Be a part of the Watchers."
     "Me?"
     Dawson nodded again.
     "Why?"
     "You know about Immortals.  You hacked into our system.  You don't have
to be a field Watcher, you can work with computers."
     "Oh, I don't know... I have to think about it."
     Dawson handed her a card.  "I understand.  But when you make your
decision, call me."
     "I will."

(continued...)
(c)1997 Mabnesswords