DISCLAIMER: Highlander and its familiar characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended. Please archive at 7th Dimension. Info for archiving: Title: Survivor Part 1 Rating: PG Characters: Jacob Kell and his posse. Connor MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod and other canon characters are mentioned; Duncan will have more of a role in Part 2. Summary: Jacob Kell's vendetta against Connor MacLeod and its shocking climax, as told by one of his henchmen. Contains spoilers for "Highlander: Endgame" (primarily the theatrical version, which I prefer in most respects), and a good deal of interpretation. *Author's Note: This fic contains spoilers for "Highlander: Endgame" (the version released to theaters), and provides my answers to some nagging questions. It recognizes as canon only what we actually saw onscreen--not, for example, character biographies given at the film's website. I am accepting Christopher Lambert's claim that the year of Connor's disappearance was meant to be 1992, the film's present 2002.* *A first for me: I'm posting Part 1 before Part 2 has been written. Interest in "Endgame" is high now, and I think this Part stands alone fairly well. Part 2 should follow in a month or so.* *I took some license in adapting the Sanctuary Massacre scene, because the film itself is inconsistent about the ease with which those opaque helmet "visors" could be lifted. And I apologize in advance to anyone who may be offended by my description of a certain geographic feature. I know nothing about its real appearance or condition; I just needed a metaphor.* *I'll also say now that according to textbooks I've read, it is permissible to use a first-person narrator who's destined to die in the end...* ****************************************************** "You, you, and you," Jacob ordered, "each bring three of the heads." My stomach turned over, but I didn't think of refusing. I made myself walk toward the blood-soaked bodies. Unlike most permanently dead Immortals, these did have heads--severed from the trunks, but held in place by helmets bolted to their metal reclining frames. Winston moved faster, wearing his usual broad smile. He was a thrill seeker, gung-ho for any new experience. But Carlos scowled and asked, "Why?" I stopped in my tracks. I knew he didn't mean, "Why the three of us?" Winston, a dark-skinned Jamaican; him, a cocky brother from Watts; and me, Manny, a pot-luck racial mix who claimed to be Sioux. We always got the crappy assignments--that was just the way things were. We understood Jin Ke was special, two thousand years old, not one of Jacob Kell's students. And Cracker Bob was-- well, he was *white*, and for all his showoffy ways and seventy-plus years, still a naive kid. For both those reasons, Jacob treated him like the son he'd never had. Our tough luck. Right now, after the monster Quickenings he'd received, Jacob was barely able to stand. And we couldn't risk hanging around much longer. So if he was going to walk out of the place, Jin Ke and Bob would both have to support him. That much was clear. What wasn't so obvious was why he wanted the heads. I wouldn't have dared to ask. But Carlos had been asking a lot of questions lately. He was bright, maybe too bright for his own good. Jacob didn't have the energy to give him a hard time. He said in a low voice, "MacLeod will take off when he gets free of that last restraint. The Watchers will be one body short, and I don't want them to know *which* one. So you'll have to scatter some of them on the floor." Carlos wasn't satisfied. He glanced over at Connor MacLeod, the only Immortal still alive on one of those reclining frames. We had uncuffed MacLeod's hands and feet, but the helmet kept him trapped. Its bolts had been loosened by the jarring Quickenings, and he was pawing weakly at them, moaning. Tears ran down what we could see of his face, under the thing that looked like it should have been a visor, but was really solid iron. He couldn't see us. Carlos said, "What makes you think he'll leave? He wanted to be here. He may just wait for some Watcher dudes to show up, drug him an' make him comfy again." "No, he won't. He won't trust anyone after this--not the Watchers, not the idea of the Sanctuary. And he'll want to find and kill *us*." Jacob smirked. "Don't worry. He won't be able to." "I ain't worried," Carlos growled. "Do you want we should cut the dead men's hands off and bring them too, on account of fingerprints?" He may have meant that as sarcasm, but Jacob took it seriously. After some thought he said, "No. Good idea, but the Watchers won't have prints on file. It's not part of their *tradition*." Winston walked by just then, with a ghoulish grin on his face. He held three heads at arm's length, by their long hair. Blood was streaming from them, and the stench made even Jacob gag. Carlos and I collected the other six. I got stuck with the one head of a black guy. His nappy hair, crushed by his helmet, was no good as a handle. There was no chance of his body being mistaken for any of the others, but I decided not to risk riling Jacob by pointing that out. Had to carry the damn thing cradled in my arms. And when I finally got rid of it, stashed with the rest in the trunk of Jacob's car, I threw up.