The New World, 2/8

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(See intro for disclaimers)

[THE NEW WORLD, part 2 of 8]
(Second story in "The Disciple" arc)


"Whenever there's a serious confrontation
 I run the other way without any hesitation.
 Things get battered and beaten beyond expectation
 And often get destroyed,
 So my motto is, whenever possible,
 Avoid, avoid, avoid."
             "Avoid", Phillip Namanworth


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dojo
Sunday afternoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Duncan MacLeod passed one broad hand across his tired face
and tried his best to look pleasant.  He rested his elbows on the
back of the old chair he was straddling, and wondered absently
exactly when it was that he had become Switzerland: neutral
territory, separating two hostile powers.

On MacLeod's right, in the shadows near the office, Richie was
prowling around erratically, frustrated and upset, with a worried
scowl twisting his young face.  On the Scot's left, where the early
afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, Rachel Hudson
paced back and forth with neat, military precision: six paces in one
direction, a crisp turn on her heel, six paces back.  Her obstinate,
clouded face was prim and pinched with resentment, her mouth a
thin, determined line of resistance.

Rachel had refused MacLeod's offer to train her and help ease
the way into her new life as an Immortal.  She had turned him
down, firmly, definitely, and unequivocally, and MacLeod had
quietly withdrawn from the conversation.  He sat alone, a solitary
figure in the middle of the dojo's broad wooden floor, and watched
with detached interest as Richie's irresistible force slammed up
against the immoveable object that was Rachel.

"Come on, Rachel!"  Richie was protesting hotly, his arms flailing
the empty air in punctuation.  "You can't survive on your own.
It's dangerous out there.  Trust me, I know.  I mean, I really
know!!  It's not safe for you to be alone."

"No.  Thank you, but no," Rachel answered, for the fourth time if
MacLeod hadn't lost count.  Rachel's eyes were fixed straight
ahead of her.  Her voice was wooden and mechanical.  When she
spoke, she bit her words off with exaggerated patience, and the
click of her heels never missed a beat.  Richie threw his hands up
into the air in disgust and turned his back on MacLeod and the
stubborn young woman.  Rachel ignored him and continued to
pace back and forth.

Mac repressed a reflexive urge to wince as Rachel's black heels
rapped out a truculent staccato, back and forth across the polished
wooden floor.  Each one of those tight little turns was leaving a
small black crescent that would have to be buffed away later.  He
crossed his arms over the hard back of his chair, biting down on
his tongue and on all of the things he still wanted to say to Rachel
himself.  With her youth and her polite, ladylike demeanor, Rachel
looked deceptively callow and pliant.  It turned out that
underneath that courteous exterior, there was a solid core of
willful bullheadedness.  The more MacLeod or Richie worked to
change her mind, the more Rachel was digging in those hard black
heels.  At this point, anything more they said would just be wasted
breath.

Now, if only Richie would realize that.  Mac glanced over at his
former student.  Every passing emotion showed on Richie's
expressive face whenever he spoke, which was often and loudly.
So young, still so new himself, Richie wasn't yet able to take a
step away from his own feelings and look at things from Rachel's
perspective.  He couldn't see that the girl had taken in as much as
she possibly could for the time being.  Mac rested his chin on his
folded arms and waited for the hot outbursts of anger to blow
over.

In the shadows near the office, Richie looked over his shoulder
and shot a perplexed look at Mac's calm face.  Why wasn't Mac
helping here?  If Rachel was going to be trained, it was Mac
who'd be her teacher, and he was just sitting there, not saying a
single word!  Rachel obviously didn't understand anything at all
yet.  If she did, she wouldn't be giving them the brush off this
way.  Didn't she get it?  Didn't she believe them?  Richie had
learned long ago, when he was just a kid trying to survive on the
streets, that the world could be a dark and desperate place.  Then
he had met Mac, and the world of Immortals had turned out to be
even more dangerous and deadly than the world of the streets had
been.  Richie had learned things first hand that Rachel couldn't
even imagine.  She didn't understand that she had become very
vulnerable prey to very dangerous, experienced predators.

Determined not to give up, Richie changed tactics.  He'd gotten
too emotional, maybe that was why she wasn't taking him
seriously.  If he took it down a couple of notches, maybe then
she'd listen.

"You can do it, Rachel," he told her.  Kind, encouraging.  Maybe
she'd listen to that.  "I know it's scary.  It's scary for all of us
when we first find out.  Even Mac, I bet."

The restless pacing stopped and Rachel's head snapped around.
Richie could practically feel the icy chill of her glare.  "I'm not
scared," Rachel snapped at him, too quickly and too loudly.  "I just
don't want any part of it."  Her head jerked forward and she
resumed her back and forth march.  Richie took a breath    and
realized he didn't have anything left to say to her.  He shook his
head slowly and let his hands fall to his sides, defeated for at least
a few moments.

After all the heated words, the silence in the dojo felt ponderous
and weighty, like a storm about to break again.  Rachel tucked her
hands under her folded arms so that nobody could see how badly
she was shaking.  Richie's words were closer to the truth than he
knew.  Rachel didn't want to admit it to herself, let alone the two
men, but she was becoming more and more nervous about them.
How much of her headache was the awful Buzzing thing, she
wondered, and how much was anger, nerves, and being so tired
that she wanted to cry?

Rachel's eyes stung with weariness; her jaw ached from holding
back tears.  God, why couldn't they just be done with it?  Richie
and Mr. MacLeod had both been good to her, and she wanted to
trust them, but she wasn't sure that was smart.  They were both
strangers, for God's sake!  They were being kind; Rachel really
didn't want to be rude to them, but maybe she was going to have
to be.  She could hear that sharp, belligerent edge creeping into
her voice already.

For all her bravado, Richie's arguments had badly shaken Rachel's
confidence, if not her resolve.  She clamped her arms more firmly
down over her chest, physically locking in all the fear and anger
and misery that threatened to fly out of her.  She continued to
pace back and forth fiercely, a poor compromise for the fervent
desire to run.  The sun streaming in through the dojo's high
windows was bright, but it was stark too, and as she passed in and
out of the pale blocks of light, Rachel felt chilled through.  She
was exhausted, and she was sick of talking about this "Immortal"
thing, and all she wanted was to get away and forget every single
moment of the last twenty four hours.  When Richie began trying
to talk her out of her decision, Rachel had knotted herself into a
sullen, immovable lump.  She couldn't change what had happened
to her, but she could damn well control what she did about it.  And
what she wanted to do about it, was nothing.

And Richie didn't much like it.  Well, Rachel didn't care whether
he liked it or not.  As a matter of fact, she took a certain surly,
petty satisfaction in irritating him so much.  It was one tiny piece
of control Rachel still had, to be able to frustrate him so badly, and
she grabbed at it.  It made her feel just a little less powerless.

"Look, Rachel," Richie began again; Rachel cut him off.

"I have a life," she insisted bitterly.  "I don't see why anything has
to change because of    because of *this*."  She spat the word
out of her mouth as though it tasted nasty to her.  She ran her
hands over the top of her head and took a deep breath, reminding
herself, again, that they meant well.  It was becoming a mantra
against losing her ragged hold on her temper: They mean well.
They mean well.  At least, she hoped they meant well.

Rachel's eyes closed with weary frustration.  "I know you're only
trying to help," she admitted, "but I'm not going to just change
*me*, my whole life, all at once.  I won't do it.  Look, I'll think
about what you said, but right now I just want to go back to my
own place and be left alone.  After I think about it, maybe I'll call
you.  All right?"

It wasn't really a lie.  She might call.  Sometime.

Richie opened his mouth to speak, but a calm deep voice cut him
off smoothly.  "Of course," Mac answered Rachel agreeably,
jumping in ahead of whatever Richie was drawing breath to say.
"Whatever you want, Rachel."  It wasn't the first time Mac had
seen this kind of reaction, nor did he expect it would be the last.
Denial wasn't a thing that could be affected by words or logic, and
Rachel was very deep into some serious denial.  Mac lifted an
eyebrow at Richie, hoping he would take the gentle hint.

Richie stared back at MacLeod, momentarily at a loss for words.

"I don't know how you can do this, Rachel," he protested, his fists
on his hips.  His stance was angry, but his face was tight with
concern and worry.  "Other Immortals are going to find you, and
they'll come after you.  What will you do when that happens and
you can't defend yourself?"

"Well, I'm certainly not going to take a sword to anyone," Rachel
snapped at him.  She crossed her arms across her chest again
belligerently, fists clenched tight.  Her voice rose as she spoke,
the words spitting out at Richie rapid fire.  "All I have to do is get
to a public place, or holy ground, right?  Right?  I even work in a
church.  I'm there twice a week, and most of the rest of the time,
I'm at the theatre.  I'm not going to change my whole life just
because some kid says so, and you can't..."

The words, "You can't make me" hung unspoken in the air.
Richie scowled at Rachel, a little hurt, and Rachel looked down at
the floor, chagrined and a little ashamed.  Making him mad was
one thing, hurting his feelings and acting rotten was another.  She
was a grownup; she was supposed to be better than this.

"I'm not going to change," Rachel repeated, more quietly but no
less determined, "and you don't need to worry about me.  Really."
She lowered her head and rubbed her eyes briefly before looking
back up and meeting Richie's hurt, worried gaze.

Silent and sulky, the two young Immortals glowered at each other
across the empty width of bare floor    Richie, distressed and
troubled, his weight resting on one heel in a slouch of unhappy
defeat; Rachel, her spine stiff and straight, glaring at the young
man, her eyes angry and anguished.

It seemed to MacLeod that both of the young Immortals had said
everything they needed to, and just a little more than was wise.  It
was time to break the stand off.  He unfolded his long legs and
stepped over the back of his chair, a pacific, untroubled presence
in the middle of the hostility and tension.  He strolled over towards
Rachel with a smile that was only a little forced.  Mac was as
tired as either of the youngsters.

"If you change your mind, the dojo's listed in the phone book," he
said to Rachel kindly.  "It's a standing offer.  Any time you want
to take it up, just call.  Or drop by.  You'll be welcome here.  Joe
Dawson has a bar downtown, 'Joe's Blues Bar.'  You'll be
welcome there, too."  He held out his hand to her, and after a
moment's pause, Rachel, still ambivalent, unbent enough to give
him her hand in return.  Her offer was something small and civil;
Mac's hand closed around hers warmly and turned the polite
gesture into a declaration of good will.

"I have a private box on subscription at the Seacouver Opera," he
told her, smiling.  "I imagine I'll see you in performance some
night.  I'll look forward to it."

Rachel started to give a polite, automated response, and stopped
with her mouth open as she realized suddenly: he was warning
her.  He meant that if he came to the Opera, she would "feel" him
there.  It had never occurred to her that the owner of a martial
arts dojo would go to the opera.  Or be able to afford a private
box for the whole season.

"Thank you," Rachel said.  "I appreciate everything.  Really," she
added, shooting Richie a glance that might have been a little
apologetic.

The young man opened his mouth, on the verge of trying one
more time to persuade her... but changed his mind and shrugged
in capitulation.  Maybe Mac had the right idea.  Trying to
convince Rachel that she wasn't taking things seriously enough
hadn't exactly been a whopping success.  "Be careful, OK?"
Richie said earnestly.  "Remember about Holy Ground, and that
being around other people is safer than being alone."

"I will," Rachel promised.  "Believe me.  I will."  And she meant
it.  Kind of.  She found she couldn't meet Richie's serious, honest
blue eyes, and she looked away.  "May I use your phone, please?"
she asked MacLeod, turning away from the younger man and his
troubled expression.

A phone call and a brief, uncomfortable silence later, the two men
stood in the doorway of the dojo and watched a cab from one of
Seacouver's cheaper taxi companies pull away with Rachel in the
back seat.  As the cab turned the corner and disappeared from
sight, taking Rachel and her Buzz away with it, Mac folded his
arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.  It was to
Richie's credit that he was so determined that Rachel learn, as
soon as possible, how to deal with the perils she was going to be
facing.  Mac felt a little ripple of pride in the young man.  Richie
had his own deep, innate sense of honour and, well, chivalry.
Mac and, earlier, Tessa, may have helped strengthen that, but
they hadn't created it.

"Well, that's that," he said to the younger man.  "We did
everything that could be done.  The rest is up to her."

Richie shook his head in fervent disagreement.  "We should have
done something more, Mac," he said, staring down the road
unhappily.  "She can't take care of herself.  What if someone like
Kalas or Kern or St. Cloud finds her?"

Mac understood his former student's distress very well.  Rachel
Hudson was Richie's first encounter with a genuine new
Immortal, and the boy was taking her recalcitrance personally.
Mac had felt the same way, more than once.  The only thing that
would help Richie was the same thing that would help Rachel:
time.  Time and experience.  Tossing his arm across Richie's
shoulder, Mac turned back towards the dark interior of the dojo,
drawing his former student with him.

"We can't force her into training, Richie," he said.  "She has to
make her mind up about it on her own."

"And what if she doesn't decide fast enough, Mac?" Richie
demanded hotly, upset and ready to take it out on whoever was
handy.

"Then someone will take her head," Mac replied bluntly, and then
added more gently, "I know how you're feeling, Richie.  I feel the
same way, but nobody can force help onto someone who's
unwilling to accept it.  You've heard about being in denial.  Right
now, Rachel can't even hear what we're saying."

Richie grimaced, but nodded.  Mac was right, and in the more
rational corners of his mind, Richie knew it.  Still, he couldn't help
looking over his shoulder one more time, half hoping he'd see the
cab coming back around the corner.

"This sucks, Mac," he announced, righteously angry at their
helplessness.  "I get that we can't make Rachel do anything she
doesn't want to, but it still really, really sucks."

"Yes, it does," MacLeod agreed, looking back towards the street
himself.  "It really, really does."


[End of Part 2]

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