The New World, 4/8

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(See intro for disclaimers)

[THE NEW WORLD, Part 4 of 8]
(Second story in "The Disciple" arc)


"Let me out of here
 Give me back all my dreams
 Let me out of here
 Let me please see the sun
 Let me out of here
 At least tell me what I did wrong."
           "King of the World", Jason Robert Brown


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rachel's apartment
Several weeks later
Early Monday evening
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Rachel stepped out onto the stoop and into the chilly, grey
morning.  Her front door was just a little bit warped, and she had
to slam it hard to get it to close.  She always winced at that sound,
so loud in the quietness, but nobody else ever seemed to notice.
Her upstairs neighbor had never mentioned it, and he always
stuck his head out of the front window over every little noise.

She locked the double deadbolt that she'd installed after the
breakin, more than a month ago now, and tucked the key into her
waistpouch.  It was just a little past nine, and the morning rush
hour was pretty much over.  There was only a little traffic, and
the small trickle of people passing up and down the sidewalks was
sparse.

Rachel marched down the sidewalk purposefully, turning north.
There was a park a few blocks away, with wide flat running
paths.  She had discovered it by accident a few months ago: new
to Seacouver, she had gotten off the bus at the wrong stop, and
there in front of her was something called Robert Humphreys
Park.  It was a small place, just a pleasant little patch of grass and
trees and running water on the fringes of the business district.
Rachel went there every morning now, though she hadn't yet met
anyone who knew who Robert Humphreys was, or why he had a
park named after him.

Reaching back behind her head, Rachel began to drag her dark
hair into a braid, and her lips turned down ever so slightly into a
sulky grimace.  The wind was picking up, cutting right through her
old grey sweats.  Wonderful.

Rachel just totally loathed running.  Swimming, that's what was
best for a singer.  It did wonderful things for her lungs, and it built
up her breath capacity and her control.  Her high notes came
more freely when she was able to swim regularly, and those long
sweeping phrases that Massenet and Puccini liked to write just
got easier and easier.  Running might be great for your legs, but it
didn't do near as much for your breath control as swimming did.
Not to mention that running was boring as all get out.

But swimming cost money.  Even at the Y, the fee was $5.00 a
day.  $50.00 if you paid by the month.  That didn't sound like
much, but even before, it was more money than Rachel could
afford.  And she needed to save every penny so that she could
find a new place to live.  Running didn't cost anything, and it was
better than not exercising at all, so Rachel was a runner by default.

At the corner of the block, she was pleased and grateful to see
that Paolo and his coffee wagon were open for business under his
big green and white striped umbrella.  The little vendor sold
coffee and pastries, and in the mornings he always set up at the
crosswalk to catch the commuter traffic.  Rachel was a regular
customer.  Paolo spotted her from half a block away, and waved
to her in between handing out coffee and making change,
chattering happily with his patrons.  He was dressed against the
chilly breeze in several layers of clothing, with a rumpled, grey
checkered golf cap pulled down over his ears, but his dark eyes
were bright with gleeful animation.  Rain, wind, or cold, Paolo
never seemed to notice the weather, and he always seemed to be
having the time of his life.

"Ah, buona mattina, bella signorina," he called to her.  "Posso
dipendere sempre da voi!"  Ever since he learned that Rachel
sang opera    including Italian opera    Paolo had insisted on
speaking Italian to her, deaf to her protests that she couldn't
actually speak the language.  Laughing with Paolo was one of the
few things that Rachel looked forward to when she dragged
herself out to the park every morning.  Their customary bilingual
exchange was a pleasant little ceremony in her life, and it didn't
matter one bit to Rachel that Paolo's charm was as much a part
of his stock in trade as his wonderful coffee.

"Ciao, Paolo," Rachel answered with a grin.  Already her
conversational Italian was pretty much exhausted.  "Don't go
away, I'll be back soon."

"Saro qui rispondere alla vostra ogni esigenza," Paolo answered
cheerfully, and waved her on towards the park.  Resolutely, if
reluctantly, Rachel passed by the seductive scents of strong
coffee and cinnamon, and began to hurry towards the park.  Cars
rumbled by while she waited impatiently for the light at the next
crosswalk to change.  She didn't have time to dawdle.  Back in
her room, there was a list of apartments, copied from the
Seacouver Times in a neatly ordered list; she had made
arrangements to go look at them later in the afternoon.  There
were only three "possibles" this week.  For once, one of them
might actually turn out to be as good as it looked in the ad.

Rachel hated having to look for a new place.  It made her
remember why she needed to move, and that made her remember
*them*.

She trotted into the park, passing through the pair of tall stone
pillars, and put one sneakered foot up on an old cement bench.
Dutifully and diligently, she stretched out her muscles.  The trees
were bare and ugly this time of year, almost spooky, even; but in
the spring this was probably a nice place.  A few other runners
were out already today, mostly familiar, and some of them nodded
to her or lifted a hand in recognition as they passed.  All sorts of
people ran at this time of day: senior citizens, students, wealthy
young women in goldy glittery running outfits and full make up.  It
was a loose community of other people who, like Rachel, didn't
have jobs that required nine to five work hours.

Rachel took a deep breath and set off down the runner's trail at a
quick jog.  Five times around the perimeter was just a little over
two miles.  The sooner Rachel got through it, the sooner she could
go and try to find someplace decent to live, and then she wouldn't
ever again have to think about... all that stuff she was working so
hard at not thinking about.

When Rachel had walked away from the dojo and from
Immortality, she had taken immediate refuge in routine.  She
established a schedule for herself and she stuck to it fanatically:
out of bed by nine, no matter how late the performance ran the
night before; walk downtown to the park for a two mile run, rain
or no rain; then a shower; and then to the theater or the church to
practice.  She worked hard.  She filled every waking minute with
study, with meticulous housecleaning, or exercise, or anything else
that kept her mind occupied and let her go to bed at night too
exhausted to dream.  When she couldn't fall asleep right away,
she tested her memory by singing to herself softly in the dark:
sweet melodies by Puccini and Mozart and Faure, until she fell
asleep.  It kept her from thinking about other things.  In Rachel's
mind, it was a simple bargain of sorts with the future: if she made
every day as normal as possible, then everything would *be*
normal.

And lo and behold, it had worked.

Little by little and day by day, Rachel realized that nothing out of
the ordinary was happening to her after all.  None of those awful
"Buzz" headaches ever came again.  No strangers showed up
with swords offering to cut her head off.  Her life was going on
just the same as it always had, just as if that awful, nightmare
evening at the dojo had never happened at all.  She hardly gave a
thought anymore to the unspeakable *thing* she had become.  It
seemed so unreal    so impossible    that once, just to see if
maybe she had imagined it all, she had picked up a knife and
made a small cut on her arm.  Just to see if it would still happen.

That tiny, healing spark had flickered across her skin, and she had
put the knife away and put the memory away too, locked up in a
dark place that she never, ever visited if she could help it.

Rachel turned a corner, sped up on a straight stretch of pavement,
and skidded on a patch of wet leaves.  She balanced clumsily for
a moment, her arms flopping back and forth, until she righted
herself and continued trotting along the trail.

For weeks now, Rachel had skipped lunch and kept the heat
turned off, and had sandwiches or cold cereal for dinner, and cut
a dozen other small expenses out of her life    little luxuries that
she could get by without.  Finally, she had saved up enough to
make the payments most landlords insisted on now: a damage
deposit, and first and last month's rent.  Well, now she had the
money saved, and she couldn't find a single place that was right.

Rachel didn't ask much in a place to stay.  She didn't need a lot of
room, or a lot of comfort.  Just someplace safe and clean, near a
busline, within walking distance from the opera house where she
worked.  With bars on the window that actually kept intruders
*out*.  So far, every room, every efficiency and apartment that
she called about was either already rented, or it was way outside
of her budget, or it was a roach trap that was even scarier than
the place she lived in now.

Rachel rounded a small stand of trees for the fifth time, and she
knew she was in the home stretch.  She ducked her head and dug
in, pushing herself until she reached the old stone pillars again and
could finally stop.  The thudding of her sneakers on the brick
paving slowed to a halt, and Rachel braced her arms on the
chipped cement bench for another series of scrupulous stretches.

She stubbornly refused to think about her knees.  They didn't hurt
at all, not one bit.  They always used to ache after a two mile run,
before she had become...

Rachel stood up straight and set her fists at the small of her back,
enjoying a long stretch backwards.  Well.  Now that *that* was
over, the day could start for real.  She dragged the back of her
arm across her face, wiping the sweat and stray strands of hair
from her eyes, and trotted eagerly out of the park, back towards
home and Paolo's coffee stand.  Two blocks away, she was
already reaching into her waistpouch.  She *needed* coffee.

Paolo was watching for her, and he held up his biggest brown
cardboard cup enticingly.  "And what can I tempt you with today,
giovane signorina?  A cappuccino?  A mocha latte?"

"Just a large black coffee, thank you, Paolo," Rachel answered,
but her eyes lingered, yearning, over the stained, dented espresso
machine that steamed and hissed and produced such wonderful
concoctions of bliss and caffeine.  A grande mocha latte with
whipped cream, or a triple cappuccino with hazelnut syrup
once, those had been her rewards to herself for making it through
the whole two miles.

Except that those cost more than $3.00, and a plain large coffee
was just $1.25.

Paolo pulled a comically dismal face.  "Un altro tempo," he said,
and poured Rachel's coffee.  "Fa caldo," he warned, slipping the
cup into a little cardboard sleeve to keep it from burning her
fingers.

"Si," Rachel acknowledged, taking the hot cup carefully with a
smile, and handed over a neatly folded bill and a quarter.  "A
domani," she said, with a wave of her fingers, and turned down
the street towards her apartment.  She walked briskly into the
wind and lifted the steaming coffee to her lips.  Ooooh, it was
good.  So much better than the coffee she made for herself at
home.  She took another cautious sip

        and the Buzz knifed into her head.

Rachel's hand convulsed into a fist, crushing the cup.  Steaming
coffee spilled over her hand and ran down her fingers, leaving a
trail of scalded red flesh that hurt for only a few seconds.  She
doubled over with a wave of nausea and disorientation, hands
pressing to her temples against the pounding in her head.
Dizziness swallowed her up, leaving her blind to anything but a
blur of colours and white light.

Someone close by was practically yelling, but the roaring in her
head was so loud that she couldn't hear anything clearly.  Rachel
sank slowly to the sidewalk, her legs crumpled up underneath her,
her head in her hands.  For a moment, she couldn't even think.
And when coherent concepts began to form again, indignant
anger came with it.

Where were they?  Where *were* they, and what were they
doing here?

A few more moments, and the dizziness and the stabbing pain
began to pass.  Rachel dragged her head up and looked around.
Small knots of curious onlookers were clustered around her.  She
could see them speaking, but their voices and murmurs melted into
a confused hum.  Someone was wearing so much Old Spice it
made Rachel want to gag.  Paolo was there, leaning over her.  He
was saying something to her, but she couldn't make out the words
for the Buzz that filled up every corner of her mind.  Rachel
ignored Paolo and scrabbled to her feet, lurching clumsily.  Half a
dozen voices were all muttering to each other at once, and
somewhere close by a dog was yipping in excitement, high and
loud.  Hands reached out to Rachel, trying to help.  She shook
them off brusquely and tried to peer over around the shoulders
blocking her view, turning to look up and down the sidewalk,
across the street, back towards her apartment.

Where were they?  Richie or Mr. MacLeod, it had to be one or
the other.  Or maybe both?  At least one of them had to be
around here somewhere, because that Buzz thing was still ringing
in her head, but she couldn't see anything; there were too many
people crowded around her.  Where was Mr. MacLeod?  What
was he doing here, anyway?

If it *was* him.

Rachel froze abruptly, as Paolo's hand slipped under her elbow.
Her breath stopped as something Richie had said to her at the
church, weeks ago now, repeated itself in her mind: "When you
feel it, don't panic, 'cause it'll probably just be me."

"It'll probably just be me."  That was how he had put it.  Which
meant it might be someone else.  One of *them*, but maybe one
that she didn't know.  Whoever it was, they could feel the Buzz
too.  They knew what she was.  Maybe they were going to...

Rachel's knees went weak.  She jerked her arm away from
Paolo's supporting grasp and backed slowly away from all the
people who were crowding around and staring at her.  One
clumsy, halting step back, and then another.  For the first time, she
really looked at the faces staring back at her.  Some were familiar
from weeks of morning runs; most were strangers.  Was it one of
them that was Buzzing?  The tall guy with the backpack?  The girl
holding that yapping little dog?  They all looked just like regular,
normal people.  God, it could be *anyone*!  The old man in grey,
or that woman with the wild hair, or the guy in leather!  Or even
Paolo!

"Don't hurt me," she begged in a strangled whimper, one fist
pressed to her mouth.  "Please, please, don't hurt me."

Paolo took a step forward, hesitantly reaching out to her again.
"Signorina Hudson   "

Rachel slapped Paolo's hand away.  "Leave me alone!  Get away
from me!"  Her panicked shriek startled the pack of  spectators.
One or two took a step back, and Rachel broke and ran, pushing
her way through the crowd, an animal bolting away from danger.
Her heart was pounding as she raced down the sidewalk,
stumbling over the ruts in the sidewalk.  Tears stung her cheeks
and turned icy in the wind.  Sobs choked her at every blind,
stumbling step, while the Buzz still circled around and around in
her head.

Heedless of the traffic, Rachel dashed headlong through the
crosswalk amid horns and squealing brakes.  Her toe caught the
curb on the far side of the street and she went sprawling forward,
falling hard onto the sidewalk.  She felt her palms burning,
stinging, scraped raw by the concrete, and another sob ripped out
of her as she felt the blue sparks dancing over her hands.
Scrambling to her feet, she staggered on

        and then it was gone.  As suddenly as it had come, the Buzz
in her head vanished, just as if someone had snapped off a light.

Panting, struggling for breath, Rachel stopped.  She was afraid to
believe the Buzz was really gone, afraid to move for fear it would
come back.  Finally, when she realized it really, truly wasn't
ringing in her mind anymore, she gasped, a deep sobbing breath of
relief.  She couldn't feel the Buzz thing anymore    didn't that
mean *they* had gone away?

Maybe.  *Maybe* they were gone.

How could you tell?  For sure?

Rachel stood uncertainly in the middle of the sidewalk, wringing
her hands together tightly.  People passed by her, gawking or
glaring; she barely noticed them.  They didn't Buzz, so they didn't
matter.  And that meant that it couldn't be Paolo, she realized,
because she saw him almost every day and he'd never Buzzed
her.

But maybe they don't Buzz all the time?

The air kept catching in her throat as she tried to breathe.  Who
was back there?  What were they doing there?  And where did
they go?  Or are they still there?  Were they waiting for her?
Jesus God, were they following her, watching her right now?

"Stop it!  You have to stop it!" Rachel berated herself in a nervous
whisper, chewing on a ragged thumbnail.  Think.  She needed to
just think for a minute.  She couldn't feel them anymore.  Did that
mean that *they* couldn't feel *her*?  Could they be close
enough that Rachel could see them, but far away enough not to
feel them?  Maybe.  She just didn't know.

Mr. MacLeod would know, and he probably would have told her,
but Rachel hadn't known to ask him.

And maybe... maybe it was just him, after all.  Or Richie.
Coming to check up in her, or even just passing by somewhere
near.  Maybe that's all it was.

Rachel thought about that for a moment.

There were three other Immortals in Seacouver that she knew
about: Richie, Mr. MacLeod, and that Adam Pierson.  They had
all been at the dojo that first night.  Joe Dawson didn't count,
because he was normal, so it couldn't be him Buzzing her.  They
had all as much as said there were other Immortals in Seacouver,
and how dangerous life would be for her now.

So... so if there were other Immortals around, this had to happen
sometimes.  Maybe even a lot.  It didn't mean anyone was after
her.  It didn't mean that anyone meant her any harm, or even
knew who she was, any more than Rachel knew who it was that
she had felt.

And she had never been in any real danger anyway, now that she
thought about it.  In her stupid hysteria, she had forgotten what
Richie and Mr. MacLeod had told her: she was safe as long as
there were other people around.

"It's nothing," she told herself out loud.  "It doesn't mean anything.
It just happens sometimes.  It's only natural that it would.  You
don't need to panic over nothing.  Just go home and get cleaned
up and forget about it."

Rachel shoved her fists deep into her pockets and continued
miserably towards her apartment.

Even to herself, she didn't sound the least bit convinced.

[End of Part 4]

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