InsaneJournal

Current mood:	amused
Current music:	My Chemical Romance - Desolation Row
Entry tags:	highlander, highlander: connor macleod, highlander: duncan macleod, highlander: joe dawson, highlander: methos, mcr: bob bryar, mcr: brian schechter, mcr: frank/jamia, mcr: gerard/lyn z, mcr: matt cortez, mcr: mikey/alicia, mcr: ray/christa, my chemical romance

FIC: Bastian's Tribe of -strike-Barbarians-/strike- Musicians 1/2--MCR/Highlander
Title: Bastian's Tribe of Barbarians Musicians
author: lisa roquin
rating: mature
fandom: Highlander/MCR
pairing/characters: Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod, Connor MacLeod, Brian (Bastian) Schechter, Gerard Way/Lyn Ballato Way, Mikey Way/Alicia Simmons Way, Frank Iero/Jamia Nestor Iero, Ray Toro/Christa Toro, Bob Bryar, Matt Cortez, Worm
series/sequel: Bastian Von Shonau
disclaimer: lies, fiction, untrue. completely and totally made up. I know no one, know nothing of thier personal lives. I make no claims of knowing much of anything. Nor do I own any copy righted characters. No money made, no harm intended. Just having ufn.
summary: In 1102 Methos found a new Immortal, a half insane young barbarian peasant named Bastian, eventually Bastian Von Schonau. Bastian's three preImmortal friends are now Immortal and the barbarians musicians have invaded Seacouver for help.
Warning: violence, decapitation, violence, gore-ish things. Crude humor. Duct-taped Duncan. Cute toddlers.
author notes: for the timestamp meme, Andy's request for something a year after Bastian Von Schonau, no longer all mortal and still batshit.
also—as per usual, canon? Canon? Oh no. nope not sorry. Arihmon arc didn't happen. Richie is alive and only the first movie exists in my world.
Word count: 13,600+



"Son of a bitch," Brian muttered as he felt the presence. His eyes scanned the parking lot, most of it hid in shadows, the bus of course was parked how far from the building.

He was going to fucking kill them. The three trucks and two vans had already pulled out, probably ten miles down the road by now. The guys had to dick around and then Frank had to fucking have Fun Dip. Yeah, just what Iero needed when he was already bored and antsy, flavored sugar and a candy stick to lick and dip in the damn sugar. Gerard needed a cappuccino. Also just fucking lovely considering it was one in the goddamn morning and Brian would like to sleep sometime this week. If Gerard got a cappuccino Mikey was getting one. The debate over French vanilla or caramel--heavily interspersed with whining about gas station/convenience store cappuccino inferiority--was interrupted by texting and the spotting of fucking Frankenberry cereal on the shelf. Gerard haranging the poor clerk to go look in the store room if they had anymore because they didn't know what the shit was in California.

He glanced up at the starless sky, he could feel the storm, not here yet but close, the lightning in the distance and not a star, not a scrap of moonlight, the bus just at the edge of the parking lighting, and the damned presence. He wanted to laugh at the goddamned cliche of it even as he stretched every sense and slid his hand inside the duster the guys had been giving him shit about the last month. There'd been a presence too close too often the last couple months. Following, sizing up. Hide the quickening in the storm, what the watchers didn't clear out....yeah there was a reason why cliches were cliches, because sometimes they fucking worked if you were smart.

"Move your asses fast," Brian snarled. "Kyle, don't even fucking try it. I've been around too fucking long not to recognize your tat. Ray, Gee, Mikey MOVE. Kyle, Joe Dawson in Seacouver. As long as Matt, Frank and Bob have their heads. Take them there. I don't give a flying fuck. Got it. I'll find a way to overpower the fucker and hunt you in his body if I have to. I'm strong enough to do it too. You get them to Seacouver if their heads are attached and tell Joe Dawson Bastian wants Adam to teach them whether he fucking likes it or not."

"Brian..." Gerard stared warily stopping in his tracks.

Brian cursed at the soft not quite soundless discharge of a gun, silencer. Bob then Matt down. "THEY'RE MINE! YOU'RE NOT HAVING THEM UNTIL YOU GET ME! COME FORWARD AND FACE THE CHALLENGE!"

Brian pulled his sword, his hand reached in the pocket pulling one of his two throwing knives. The first landed squarely in Bob's chest. Goddamn he didn't want to let Bob revive, not without at least talking to Methos. If a sledgehammer would do the trick before Bob revived from his first death or if it would absolutely ensure Bob losing his head to the first challenge he faced. The second knife landed in Matt's chest as the man came into sight.

"Get them on the bus in their bunks. Do NOT LET THE KNIVES COME OUT OF THEIR CHESTS OR I'LL HAVE YOUR FUCKING HEADS! ALL OF YOU MORTAL OR NOT!" He couldn't quite manage the Voice Cassandra had, but he could make these guys move, what little ability he had was cumulative in effect, the more exposed the more susceptible someone was, and he'd been barking orders at these clowns for years. He didn't use it or manage much but habit and every ounce of desperation in what little 'gift' he had moved them despite their shock.

"Interesting. I've never seen that before. I'll enjoy that talent."

"You ain't been around long, kid, if you ain't seen that." Brian snorted. The accent, the cadence and sound. Pre Civil War New England, at least raised as the son of merchants or something, educated enough. There was a wrongness to the accent, something in the cadence not heard now, in this time, but not so much he'd bothered to change his speech patterns, mask his accent. If he was older than he sounded he was an idiot if he bothered to change his accent that much and not continue to do so to blend in. It was the ones who sounded like when and where they were and claimed a decent bit of age behind them that were the ones who were the most dangerous.

“I am William Thane, of Boston, born seventeen eighty-two. Kid is quite inappropriate do you not think?” Pressed slacks, button down shirt, trenchcoat. He eyed Brian with disdain, worn jeans and tshirt under the duster he slid off.

Brian snorted. His natural accent eradicated centuries ago, but he could pull off archaic sounding German. He'd returned to his homeland more than once in his years. “Bastian Von Schonau, Between the plague and the witch hunts the village I was born in hasn't been on a map since about thirteen-twenty.”

“That is impossible.”

Brian kicked his coat aside, resigning himself to yet another fried fucking phone. Well, now that it was out, maybe he out to bill the damned asses for the phones he'd lost over the last how many years.

“You are not seven hundred years old.”

“Nah, I'm pushing thousand.”

“I've never met one of our kind over four hundred.”

“You been lucky then, kid, and your luck just ran out. We done talking?”

Thane didn't like being called kid. That was evident as he began circling. A few testing swings. Good, Brain would give him that. Very good, very stylized and formal. “Know what?”

“What?” Thane sneered confident in his coming out the winner, Brian thus far only blocking his attacks and backing off, scurrying away. He intended to get the fuck outta Dodge as fast as they could, which meant the quickening better damn well not touch the bus if they had a hope in hell of that. His 'retreat' edging away from the bus. He darted back away, in the time it took Thane to stalk after him he toed off his shoes and socks getting a strange look, visibly confusing Thane. Damned tread on the bottom of the tennis shoes was worn away, slick, it started raining he was better off barefooted, and the wind and thunder were picking up, first drops of rain as the storm started to roll in, still a good few miles off but making its way in a hurry. Which told him this particular bastard was a good strategist. No matter how bad Hollywood the storm was smart, the timing, opportunistic really but he'd made his move on it.

Good strategist and making most of opportunity, but arrogantly stupid, letting Brian's height and size fool him. Not recognizing the “retreat” as removal from the vicinity of the bus and time to study his moves. Brian kept his own varied and clumsy enough not to give away anything. This fool was showing everything he had Brian was willing to bet, just by the confident air. The arrogance of the annoying bastard was just astounding.

“It's time to stop playing.” Brian let loose a blood curdling scream and attacked. The fool had never seen let alone tried to ward off a berserker rage. Son of a bitch killed two of his band. Two of his. Thankfully two of the three that would recover from fatal gunshot wounds but the pompass fool had killed two of his and brought the Game to the attention of the rest. Brian was fucking pissed.

The downpour started in earnest. Thane's shiny loafers were shit on slick almost instantly wet blacktop on the edge of the parking lot, squishing in the mud where the parking lot ended, slipping on the broke pieces on the edge of the blacktop. The wind and deluge kicked up, elements on Brian's side no matter how they were hampering him as well. Brian held off Thane long enough that the storm's full brunt was on them and Thane wasn't used to fighting in the elements. Not a storm like this, Thane's seizure of what started as his advantage was quickly, obviously turning into a massive disadvantage.

“There can only be one, you stupid fuck.” Brian snarled as he raised his sword to deliver the final blow.

Lightning, almost blinding in it's intensity, streaked bright as daylight for a split second. Gerard, Kyle, Ray, Mikey, Frank...all standing there.

“STAY THE FUCK BACK!” he shouted over the storm. His custom somewhat shorter than standard broadsword dropped to the mud as the first of the quickening struck.

~

He landed on his knees in the mud panting. Feeling the not-right of the Quickening, something, nothing he couldn't handle normally but goddamn, of course this Thane idiot was going to continue to be a pain in his ass. Three preImmies and a single Immortal might get some attention. Three Immortals and one PreImmie was as good as tattooing “BAIT FOR THE YOUNG AND HELPLESS” on Frank's head. Bob and Matt wouldn't know how to really hold a sword let alone use one.

He picked up his broadsword and eyed Thane's Cutlass. Decent sword, and just might suit Matt or Bob. A little long for Frank, at least to start with, but nope, he wasn't leaving that for the voyeuristic vultures. He dug through Thane's coat, ignoring the antique pocket watch and wallet. The money clip was grabbed. Cash never hurt, and in a clip like this the odds of it being traceable astronomically miniscule. Methos would bitch at the watch being left, the antique was gold and it's inner workings non-electrical so had survived how many quickenings without being short circuited. Let the vultures have the watch, put it in their museum or if this idiot had any mortal family. Let them have it. Or they could bury the idiot with the damn thing. He didn't care.

Two guns, one with a silencer, too dark and every nerve ending vibrating with the quickening to even attempt to identify them. Three knives. Not a total idiot, evidently, and probably one that would fight dirty if he'd been given half a chance. He leveled the gun with the silencer on Frank. “Might as well get this all done at once. I'll explain when you wake up, Frank.” He pulled the trigger. Frank crumpled to the ground, mouth in a perfect O of shock, eyes wide, frightened and betrayed.

“You killed--”

“He's Immortal. Or will be. Only way he'll stay dead from here out is if he's decapitated. Pick him up and carry him Ray. We've got to get out of here while the storm's still here. Let the Voyeurs do their job and clean this up. This one can be hid if we move our asses. Quickening's not gonna settle easy. You're going to have to trust me.” He pushed as much of his 'gift' in his voice as he could. He wasn't sure if it was shock and habit that had Ray picking up Frank's body, or he'd actually managed to control his 'gift' as badly as the quickening was buzzing under his skin.

“C'mon, Mikes, Gee. Gonna be okay but you gotta fucking listen and do exactly what I tell you. Got it?”

Gerard tilted his head. “You totally cut that fucker's head off and you shot Frank.”

“Frank will be fine.” Brian repeated.

~

Ray's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as Brian pushed the knife in Frank's chest once Ray'd put the smaller man into his bunk.

“Now you three are going to have to fucking listen to me and do exactly what I say. This Quickening isn't settling for shit, it's not gonna not in anyway I can manage on the bus so you fucking listen. You're going to have to do this. You call Shelly, Ray. Cancel the next fucking two weeks. Hell cancel the rest of the tour. Bob's wrists, Mikey having a nervous breakdown. Me having a nervous breakdown. Frank dying of plague. Cortez needing an intervention I don't fucking care what you use. Just write down the fucking story so I know exactly what I'm spinning and have to deal with when I'm back alive okay?”

All three of them stared at him. He picked up the knife that had been dropped on the table of the 'kitchen booth' He held up his arm and sliced, a shallow line soon healing itself with little blue sparks. “I'm Immortal. Only way to permanently kill me is to decapitate me. I'm a helluva lot older than I look. Bob, Matt and Frank are new Immortals. They'll revive when the knives are pulled from their chests. Eventually might take a few hours, maybe a day or so after but that's besides the point. Frank's lungs—his asthma type shit. I'm not sure how that will carry over. The one I want you to go to would know if anyone would. Possibly inject something in Frank's lungs to totally destroy them so when he comes back they'll start new again, might not make a damn bit of difference. Running out of breath in a fight like that will lose you your head.” That was mostly bullshit, made up as he went, but it sounded eerily plausible enough to his own ears to make him want to ask Methos about that anyway. The chance to do something about anything chronic that might carry over from mortal life was usually non-existent. Frank safely dead was still best, especially if Brian wasn't alive to deal with any threat that might crop up. Okay, odds of that weren't that high but, these guys had the strangest freaking luck in the universe at times. He didn't want to take any chances. When he continued the concerns were damned real.

“The damage the bullet Matt took did I don't know...I don't know about even letting him revive. I don't. I've never seen head trauma like that with a new Immortal. If he was already Immortal there's a good ninety percent chance the damage would heal without any brain damage.” True enough but the bullet that had killed Matt had hit his head, fuck still lodged in his head. The entry wound at an odd almost ricochet like angle that made a messy fucking hole, but no exit. Hell maybe it was more than one bullet? Riccochet of something hitting him. He wasn't sure, didn't care at the moment beyond a good chunk of Matt's skull was shattered. “Especially an older stronger Immortal. New Immortal I don't know. The older an Immortal is, the stronger their Quickening is. An Immortal takes another Immortal's head, they take their Quickening, absorb their power. You guys read enough fucking comic books I shouldn't have to draw you pictures. New Immortals aren't usually that strong and easy prey, especially nowadays when swords aren't something everyone can handle. The older and stronger an Immortal is the faster and more easily they recover. I don't want Bob reviving either. His wrists—fuck there's days he barely holds drumsticks. How the fuck is he going to hold a sword? He's dead the first Immortal he comes across in the mood to be headhunting. If his wrists are crushed with a sledgehammer before he's allowed to revive I think he's got a chance of them healing back to normal, undamaged. I'm not sure, could be that's sentencing him all the much quicker to losing his head if he doesn't live on Holy Ground. Our kind can't take heads on Holy Ground. We can sense one another. That bastard's been following—that's why I took up wearing the duster, so I could carry my sword. Shooting's a cheap shot. Take their head as they revive and take their Quickening. They wouldn't stand a chance.”

Gerard and Mikey nodded in almost unison, eyes absolutely huge. Ray looked a little green.

“Immortals can't sense a dead body. We're safe, as long as no one gets on the bus. DONT LET ANYONE ON THE BUS BUT ADAM. Go to Seacouver—Joe Dawson at the Blues Bar, tell him you have to speak to Adam that Bastian sent you.”

“Who?”

“The name I was born with is Bastian. Adam will know who you are and who you mean. Hell Joe probably will too. You met Adam last year. Remember? The Cocksucker Shirt Show?”

“I can't believe you were such pussies about those shirts--”

“GERARD FOCUS!” Brian snapped. “Have Adam get me first. Tell him Thane's quickening is rough, not wanting to settle so he's braced for that, if he wants to take me somewhere, let him. I mean it. Got it?”

Three wary nods.

“Swear it. Fucking swear it. This is important. It's fucking majorly important. One screw up we're all fucked. Embalming fluid is a mother fucking bitch and trying to get out of a morgue these days is almost impossible and digging your way out of a grave is a fuck of a lot harder than it used to be. Coffins these days are harder to bust than an old pine box and that was repeated death by suffocation and dehydration over a course of a couple weeks at least is a hell of a lot more than what used to be a couple days of clawing your way out when you were just dumped in a hole or a flimsy ass box of thin board.”

Ray was really green. “You've--”

“I'm over nine hundred years old, yeah I have basis for comparison Ray.. Adam found me in 1102. I'm not sure how old I was exactly, not even quite sure how long I'd been Immortal. At least five years, maybe as many as fifteen, I was probably somewhere between seventeen and twenty-two in mortal years before that. Once an Immortal has their first death they stop aging, and they don't get sick but cuts broken bones and shit—still hurt the same even if they're recovered faster. We're as fucking human as anyone—just, don't age, don't die permanently except for decapitation.”

And he seriously had to get a knife in his heart before he hurt one of the guys. The quickening he'd take sparking violently under his skin. He was not up to calming them and keeping himself under control.

Three nods. They were freaking but he was pretty sure they were going to do what he told them. He checked and secured the knives in the other three, reiterating his instructions to Gerard, Mikey and Ray half confident that it had sunk enough. He snapped “fucking google it” when the address of the Blues Bar was questioned.

He climbed in his bunk, the thought that it was going to be a bitch to get the mud and blood cleaned up skittered through his head, annoying in its total fucking pointlessness at the moment. He gripped the hilt of the knife he had in both hands, lining up just right and raising it up, slamming downward with all of his strength to slide between his ribs. Fuck. Fuck that hurt and he'd missed, hit his lung instead of his heart. Drowning sucked. Drowning in your own blood sucked twice as hard with the pain from the wounds on top of it. He coughed. “Not in my heart—has to be in my heart—stay there.”

He could taste the copper of blood as he coughed again, wet sliding down his cheek. Mikey wove on his feet a little.

Gerard reached for the hilt, wriggling it trying to work it into Brian's heart without passing out, determined look on his face. Fucking hurt, and that was the last thing he knew before darkness claimed him.


~



“I need to talk to a Joe Dawson,” the kid said. Long black hair in dire need of a washing, his jeans looked like they'd been worn a few days with the shine to the faded bordering on ragged material. Hell the kid was in need of a washing period. Joe could smell him six feet away.

“I'm Joe, kid.”

“Yeah, you know some guy named Adam?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass, dude. You gotta call Adam. Bastian needs him. Brian said that was the message. Bastian needs him. So fuckin' call Adam right fuckin' now.” The kids eyes were kinda crazed, dangerous.

What the hell had the old man gotten into? Usually it was Mac or Amanda, and a little less often Richie, he was wondering that about but when Methos got himself in a mess, it was something as spectacular.

“Okay, I'll call Adam. He's in town...why don't you have a beer and calm down while you wait?”

The kid shuddered. “Oh fuck no. They'd fuckin' beat me. Coke Zero? Diet Coke? Whichever if you got that.”

Joe nodded slowly. “Be right back, kid.” He made as steady of a retreat for his office as he could, grabbing his laptop after a call to Mac's loft and getting the old man on the line long enough to tell him to get his ass to the bar, he had some crazy here looking for him because Bastian needed him.

Joe settled behind the bar and started digging for the recent records to see what challenges had been taken in the last week or if there was anything flagged to be sent out as a notice.

Brian Schechter, who was ID'ed as immortal of undeterminate age, and Methos said was Bastian von Shonau and in the ball park of nine hundred plus had taken the head of William Thane, a couple centuries in the game. A headhunter with some elitest theory of culling the unworthy. Not unworthy by virtue of being weak but by being low class.


~


Methos stifled the growl as Mac stepped on the back of his shoe as he entered the Blues Bar. Joe had sounded rattled and Bastian...

Methos relaxed slightly at the lack of Immortal presence and he recognized the man sitting at the bar. He'd been following Bastian's latest career and that of his three would-be students. The abrupt cancellation of the last three weeks of their present tour four days prior citing “personal and health related reasons” and the seventeen cancelled concerts would be made up, rescheduled as soon as possible going to the cities and venues they were skipping this time had definitely caught his attention.

The band's lead singer sat at the bar, stringy greasy hair falling in his face clutching a can of Diet Coke for all he was worth, the can popping a bit as it was dented slightly, leg bouncing nervously toe on the footrest of the bar stool.

“What happened?”

The green eyes snapped up in his direction, crazed to the point of nearly snapping and almost feral. “Who the fuck is that?”

“MAC!” Methos snapped feeling Duncan tense behind him. “A friend. Duncan MacLeod.”

The kid glared dangerously, head tilting a little at Mac. He eyed Joe head tilting again and staring hard at Joe's wrist. “Kyle has a tat like that.”

Joe nodded warily. “Kyle okay? He hasn't checked in in four days.”

“Kyle's fine, kinda pissed at us cause we won't let him off the bus. But he's fine. You got a sledge hammer or we got to buy one?” The kid asked distractedly as he lit a cigarette, mind obviously miles away or ahead of the present...”Oh shit.”

“WHERE THE FUCK IS FRANK, GERARD!”

“In his bunk, Jamia. How the fuck did you find us?”

“Alicia traced Mikey's cellphone. She's got the gps tracking option on it.”

“Oh fuck, Hi Alicia. Christa, Lyn...”

“What the hell are you doing now, Gerard?” a woman with a toddler of about two on her hip demanded.

Methos elbowed Mac who was staring at the four dark haired women, all of them had hair ranging from dark brown to black, and dark eyes. One was obviously pregnant, one hand low on her side supporting the bulge of her abdomen, if she was anything less than eight months along Methos would eat his shoes, or give up beer for a week and with the tank top she was wearing clearly showing several tattoos including a collar style one. The one who demanded what the hell Gerard was doing with the toddler with a wild mop or red-brown tight curls sticking up every which way and thumb in his mouth. A third had jet hair in a pony tail and a dainty little girl perhaps a year old with whisps of chestnut hair and big brown eyes on her hip and a slight roundness to her belly firm enough to make Methos believe that pretty baby in the pink t-shirt was going to be a big sister sooner than later. The shortest was in the lead with dark eyes snapping fire.

“We can explain, Christa, I promise—it's just complicated.”

“Gee, honey,” the woman with both arms covered in tattoos and the girl on her hip asked shakily.

“I'm not drinking. I'm not on any thing. Jesus Fuck, Lyn, wouldn't do that to you and Layna.”

“Where. Is. Frank. And. Why. Hasn't. He. Answered. His. Phone. And. Why. Are. You. Assholes. Being. All. Fucking. Weird.”

The little girl in pink wriggled and struggled “Dada!”

The baby girl was set on the bar floor and ran headlong for the unwashed kid at the bar who swung her up in his arms. “You been good for mommy?”

“Ghoot!” she agreed.

“That's my girl.”

“What the fuck is going on!” the shortest woman demanded again.

“We can explain really, but it's probably better after he—fucks Brian or something, because the game shit went wrong and not settling right.”

“You did not fucking cancel three weeks of touring over a fucking game and a booty call! And why the fuck is my husband not answering his fucking phone.”

“Because Brian shot him. He'll be okay once we get the knife out of his heart though.”

“Tourings done you in hasn't it. You've lost touch with reality and are going on a dungeons and dragons binge.” the very pregnant woman shook her head. “Please tell me my husband is not off his meds. I'll kick Michael's ass, and yours if he is.”

“Aun' H'mia shoun'ts says fucks.” the little boy with curly redbrown hair lisped around his thumb, by size Methos would guess him about two, something said the little boy was probably a bit younger.

“Aunt Jamia's all grown up and Uncle Gerard's lost his damned mind. It's allowed just now. You can't say it 'til you're as tall as your daddy though.” his mother informed him.

“Mikey's taking his meds, Alicia. He's doin' good. Promise.”

Alicia's eyes narrowed. “He better be, Gee. Or you'll be needing a strap on of your own, got it?”

“S'dapon” the baby girl parroted.

“Aunt Alicia's just threatening to make your daddy a girl again. That's all, honey.” the baby girl's mother rolled her eyes.

“Dada peddy.”

“Yep, Daddy's very pretty. He'd make a pretty girl too, wouldn't he?”

“Peddy,” the baby girl nodded.

“Don't, Mac,” Methos warned dangerously as the strangled squeaks a half step behind him were starting to come close to coherency. Bastian certainly had assembled himself one unbelievable tribe.

“If—If Alicia's got the track your teenager thing on Mikey why are you here.” Gerard looked skeptically at his wife.

“I have the same thing on your phone, honey, and Jamia and Christa do on Frank and Ray.”

Gerard stared at his wife in disbelief.

“Brian made us. He convinced Bob and Matt to do the same thing for security's sake, that way him and Worm could track you all.”

“I'm gonna beat Brian with a baseball bat.”


~

The small convoy that included what was apparently Brian's car, the minivan the women and two tots had rented and Mac's car with Methos, Mac and Joe all in it stopped twice...at a hardware store for a sledgehammer for Bob, a couple sheer mosquito net style tents they could set up so the kids could play outside without getting bug eaten or wandering off and a tube of lube from the drug store.

“What the hell, Methos?” Joe demanded as they left the city limits of Seacouver behind.

“Has Bastian taken a quickening lately?”

“Four days ago. William Thane. First death 1809, he was basically mugged and beaten to death near Boston Harbor, down there checking on property his father owned. Thane has spent the last couple hundred years making it his mission to remove the riffraff from the game. Uncivilized and low-class, the thought of some 'common trash' winning the Prize is intolerable evidently. The Chronicles and his current, final watcher pretty much all agree he was an arrogant fuck and one hell of a swordsman. The challenge report says Thane shot two men, that Schechter then threw knives at and demanded they get put in their bunks. Watcher didn't get close enough look but presumed the knives landed in the guys hearts, he has no idea who the men were. Storm rolled in just as the challenge started. Schechter apparently fought barefoot and went into a berserker frenzy screaming in something that kind of vaguely resembled German that threw Thane.

“Bloody hell, and it was German, Old German heavily laced with words from the remainders of a couple Gothic and Saxon tongues that the peasantry of Bastian's home village spoke.” Methos shook his head. “Quickening is wrong, or trying to go wrong.” Methos decided with what Way had said.

“So you know what's going on?”

Methos snorted. “No, but I know Bastian.”

“You canna--”

“Can't what, Mac?”

“That--”

“Duncan, I know Bastian as well as I ever knew Kronos, Caspian and Silas. He was my student and with me for over a century and a half. The man I saw last year was the same. Bastian is as insane as ever, and his tribe of musicians are as insane as he is, but there is no doubt that is still completely the Bastian I knew.”

~

“Ray, that's a gun.” the woman with the little boy said warily.

“Hi honey, what—GEE?” Methos was pretty sure the tall man with the long reddish brown frizzy hair who said that was Toro.

“Brian has that track-your-teenager GPS crap on our phones.”

“Did you get a sledgehammer? We can so totally beat him with it later.” a thin young man, Mikey Way Methos was certain. “You shouldn't be here, shouldn't have traveled, you okay?” he moved and hugged the very pregnant woman.

“Michael. James. Way.” she glared but wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

“Ray, why do you have a gun?” Mrs. Toro demanded.

“It's Brian's. He kinda stole it off that asshole's body.” Ray answered

“What asshole's body?”

“Mikey, where's the tape?”

“On the table, Gee.”

Methos stared warily at the group. All three Pre Immortals were conspicuously absent. Toro guarding the bus door, gun in hand, grim determination on his face and a slightly hysterical edge to him.

“Mikey, get the lawn chairs from the storage compartment.” Toro demanded

Mikey did so. Opening one of the bus' luggage compartments and pulling out a almost a dozen aluminium framed folding lawn chairs from it in a clanging pile. Two pulled from the pile and set up.

“Where is Frank and what the hell is going on, Ray?”

“Frank's kinda dead at the moment, Jamia,” Ray answered.

“He's got the plague again and you assholes didn't tell me?” the shortest woman, evidently Jamia snarled.

“No he got shot then Brian stuck a knife in his heart,” Mikey said.

“You two get your asses in the chairs,” Ray pointed the gun at Joe.

“Do it, Mac,” Methos said quietly.

Mikey grabbed two more chairs. “Here, honey,” He helped the very pregnant woman who was presumably his wife into the chair. “Lyn?”

“I'm gonna beat your brother with it if you guys don't start making sense.” the woman with the baby girl on her hip and tattoos covering her arms said sounding like she meant it. Methos wasn't going to put it past her. He'd had a couple wives who had meant exactly what they said in just such a tone over the centuries.

Gerard was back off the bus with a few rolls of electrical tape and a rather wicked looking dagger in his hands. “Kyle said that Brian would probably take at least a good twenty minutes or more so I pulled out the knife.”

“Good,” Ray nodded.

“I got Febreeze too. I'm soo getting him with it when he's settled down,” Gerard grinned wildly

“Cool,” Mikey grinned back.

“You're going to Febreeze Brian,” Mikey's wife stared.

“Mother-effer is starting to bloat. He reeks,” Mikey nodded.

“Really freakin' bad,” Gerard said.

“Didn't notice it over the smell of you two,” Ray muttered.

“Oh c'mon it's only been five days. I've so totally gone longer without showering and it's not like we've been doing shows where we're drowning in sweat every day. You haven't showered in five days either so you can't say much.”

“You two stink worse. You two seriously. Worse then four day old corpses,” Ray insisted.

“Do not!”

“No freakin' way!”

“Do too!”

“Not!”

“Do!”

“Not!”

“Gerard, Mikey and Frank have finally driven you totally freaking batshit,” Toro's wife stared.

“Frank,” Jamia demanded.

“Frank's fine. Just—two hours, Jamia, and then Brian can explain all this. I promise,” Ray said. “Please, I promise.”

Methos was a little surprised that Jamia actually nodded, furious and unhappy but was willing to stand back and wait. But then again, the guy was decently built, over six foot, kinda crazed around the eyes and holding a gun.

“You. Will. Die. Slowly.” she promised.

“I know. It'll be okay, Jamia. It will.”

“It. Fucking. Better. Be. Toro.”

“Mikey, go get Kyle out here,” Ray said. “Adam, get a chair set up for Kyle.”

Gerard taped Mac's arms to the arms of the lawn chair from wrist to elbow while Ray held the gun at Joe. Bright. Way too bright. But then again, Bastian wouldn't waste his time with idiots. These men might be able to do a fair impression of the village idiot, but there was an intelligence under the lunacy that he knew better than to underestimate.

Mac's legs were taped ankle to knee to the legs of the chair. The three men looked at each other back and forth for a moment, a couple raised eyebrows and a shrug as Mikey shoved Kyle in a lawn chair next to Joe. Kyle's hands were taped together at the wrist. Joe had one single ankle taped to the leg of the lawn chair he was sitting on. More exchanged looks and moved eyebrows, a couple of head tilts. Mikey grabbed another industrial sized roll of duct tape and started taping Mac's torso to the back of the chair.

“Geez, babe, just mummify him why don't you?” the pregnant woman said with sarcastic disbelief.

“Repeat asphyxiation is kinda extreme for making sure he doesn't hurt anyone until Brian can deal with this shit, don't you think?”

Mac choked.

Gerard ran back toward Brian's car. “Here, just in case.”

Methos took the tube.

“YE CANNA MEAN!”

“Homophobic much?” Mikey snorted.

“Wha's dat?” the little boy asked around his thumb.

“It's for Uncle Brian's butt. So it doesn't get sore.” Gerard said.

“Gee, I'm just...gonna beat you one of these days.” Ray sighed tiredly.

~


Brian gasped, air filling, burning into his lungs with a head to toe shudder. Shit he hated that sensation, reviving sucked as bad as dying.

Disorientation gave the unsettled quickening a bit of a chance to rattle him, but at least the full brunt of energy had dissipated. The annoyance in the back of his head dealable for now. Another deep breath waiting for the blood to get flowing and chase away the pins and needles sensation.

“Your tribe of musicians have a highland clan chieftain taped to a folding lawn chair with Day-glo electrical tape and duct tape, barbarian. It's got to be the most ridiculous imprisonment I've ever seen.”

“Methos,” Brian murmured. “They actually got us to Seacouver.”

“What the hell happened?”

Brian recounted the story quickly. Matt's head trauma. Bob's wrists...Frank. “Okay I bullshitted on that one just to keep Frank down to until I was sure there was someone who could teach them and explain shit if the fucker didn't settle—and take my head if they had to.”

“Am I going to have to?”

“No. It's—not settled but it's to the point it will.”

“Your singer bought lube just for the occasion. And a sledgehammer.”

Brian snorted and ran his hand over his face. The shouting calamity outside the bus caught his attention. He got unsteadily to his feet got out of his bunk and headed up toward the front of the bus. He groaned as he looked out the window. “Oh fuck. What day is it? They called the girls?”

“June twenty seventh. The girls spilled about the track your teenager gps plan on the cellphones. There was mention of baseball bats.” Methos snorted.

“Good girls.” Brian shook his head as Jamia, Christa and Lyn turned Manuel and Layna over to Gerard and Mikey to entertain and had the tent thing set up in no time flat. The tots inside it with blankies and sippy cups settling fairly easily for naps.

“That's a bloody lot of mortals to have knowing about us, about the game.”

“The son of a bitch shot Bob and Matt in front of the guys. I took the challenge and the dumb fuckers didn't stay on the bus, they came out and watched. And there's no way the guys are knowing without the wives finding out.” Brian sighed.

“I'd never considered—what you said about this Frank's lungs. That—I don't think will hurt. The smashing this Bob's wrists shouldn't either. At least they should heal to what they were at the time of death rather than be worse. It could actually do the trick. A lot of minor things seem to be fixed with a first death...”

Brian nodded.

“Matt?”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

The guys had cleaned Matt up some and tried to, put what there was back sort of how it belonged but it didn't change the fact that the bullet had done one hell of a number on Cortez, more than the bullet. Definite riccochet of rock or something the way Matt's head was shattered in beyond the bullet's entry. He tried to think how many soft pops there had been...at least three? With the noise the guys were making and the thunder approaching, maybe as many as five? It almost looked like the damn bullet had exited an inch over from where it entered. One of those freak things conspiracy theories and grassy knolls were made of...which of course meant it happened to one of his guys.

Methos frowned.

“Yeah...that's what I thought. Thane didn't care or the shot was a bad one that got lucky.” Brian swallowed. It was entirely likely Thane didn't plan on leaving any witnesses and had intended to shoot Kyle, Ray, Gerard and Mikey as well.

“Are you going to be able to take his head if you have to?”

“Fuck yeah. No one's getting Cortez quickening except for us. Not even you. These guys are good at pulling miracles, at least as far as bouncing back from the worst shit. Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll be Matt's turn.” Brian sighed.

Methos glanced at the damage done to the skull of the young man. “I've never seen anything quite like that...”

Brian snorted, gallows humor asserting itself. Matt's head was the stuff “Yeah, well these guys are good at that too. Cortez less than the rest. But...”

“Somehow that's not a stretch to believe.”

“Twenty-seventh you said? Four days...shit so where the hell are we exactly?”

“About forty-five minutes from Seacouver, state park I believe. Hiking trails and a campground that doesn't seem to be used much. Not this area. There's the same on the other side of the park that's more popular.”

Brian swallowed and glanced out the window again at the cries of Worm. He shook his head. Goddamn. Well that explained who had called Worm up. The cargo van he was driving was being unloaded. Tents, sleeping bags, inflatable mattresses, lanterns—all still in their boxes. Coolers, grocery sacks. Well, camping gear wasn't a bad purchas in the big picture. Some time off the road take Frank and Bob, and please God, Matt up in the mountains somewhere and work on training them. The rest of the circus would probably follow along. He really wasn't sure how he'd be able to keep them from doing that.

“Time is it?”

“About five in the afternoon.”

Brian sighed. “Girls and the kids should really go back to town for the night. Get a hotel. Not like they will.” he snorted. “You want a job as a roadie?”

“A barbarian leading a tribe of musicians...”

“Yeah, so...we could use a bronze age swordsman who bleeds beer. You'll fit right in.”

Methos laughed.

“You sure you're okay?”

Brian nodded. “Thane wasn't that old, and never took anyone that strong. Just a bastard of an attitude giving me a headache now. Four days took care of the worst.”

Brian looked out the window again.

He looked like shit. Blood and mud crusted on his clothes. He felt like shit. And he had four pissed off women, two of them pregnant, on top of the guys to deal with.

“Lets get this over with.”

Gerard, Mikey and Ray's eyes were on him the second he stepped off the bus. Wild, demanding. Furious. Afraid. The last few days had been a bitch on the guys. There was no way it couldn't have been. Brian knew it. He saw the second they decided it was going to be okay. He was going to make it okay. And then the fuckers went for bottles of Febreeze.


~

Methos slipped around out of the way of the—Febreeze fight over to where Joe and Mac were taped to the lawn chairs...well, no, Joe was no longer taped.

Joe was fighting a laugh at the hurled insults and four bottles of fabric freshener being used as squirt guns. Mac was gaping stupidly, and had perhaps a little more tape on him than before.

“Shhshh, I'm okay, Mikes,” Bastian grabbed the thinnest of the three guys into a tight hug.

“I'll I'll...shoot you in the ass you fucking pull shit like this again, Bri,” Toro said.

“Bastian, would you care to introduce your tribe?” Methos snorted. “That's Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and Joe Dawson, Duncan's Watcher.”

“Gerard Way, his wife Lyn and their daughter Layna is sleeping in the tent back there by where Worm is sitting. Mikey Way and his wife Alicia who is due in...shit five weeks? Why the fuck is your ass not in Jersey, Alicia? Ray Toro and his wife Christa and the little guy is their son, Manuel. And this is Jamia Iero. And that's my watcher and the guys bus driver, Kyle Smith.”

“What the Fuck is going on, Brian?” Jamia demanded dangerously.

Methos listened to Bastian's patient explanation of Immortals and the Game, and what had happened. He caught the roll of duct tape thrown at him and taped Mac's mouth shut with a little more enjoyment than necessary.

“Is that even possible?” Joe frowned as he listened to the discussion of Frank's breathing problems and Bob's wrists.

Methos shrugged. “Theoretically, it makes sense. At least it shouldn't leave them any worse off than what they are now if it doesn't work. It's not like there's usually an opportunity to even try something like that before recover from a first death.”

“We got Drano,” Mikey blurted.

“Drano?” Bastian raised an eyebrow.

“And some tubing and a funnel,” Ray added. “So if it might work we'd have everything, if you know how to get the tube in his lungs to fill em with Drano.”

“We got a bunch of Terra Chips too,” Gerard added. “I mean—that's gotta come back out and if you do that and he hacks out and pukes up all the Drano he's gonna fuckin' hate us. So...that might make up a bit. Got a tarp to put him on and some towels. And a steel plate thing that's like two foot long eight inches wide to put Bob's arms on. And I just got the sledgehammer. We tried to think of and pick up shit that might be useful on the way here from Tulsa.”

“It wouldn't have taken so long but we got lost a couple times.” Ray sighed. “Mikey fucked around on his phone to find that steel plate thing in New Mexico and that was a fucking nightmare getting there.”

“If one of you tell me you shoulda took a left in Alberquerque I'm going to beat you,” Alicia managed shakily.

“I'll help,” Christa agreed, her voice unsteady.

Methos didn't dare look at Joe who was choking. Didn't dare take another look at Mac who was trying to have a fit of righteous indignation while taped to a aluminum lawn chair.

“You want to put Drano in my husband's lungs...”

“Honestly worth a try, and Adam's done a few turns through medical school. It might kill him a few times trying to get it all out of his system.”

“What about Matt?” Gerard asked.

Bastian shook his head. “Adam doesn't have any idea more than I do—if...if the damage is too bad, if he's not Matt when he comes back, that this has him all fucked up somehow...or he's a vegetable—I'm taking his head. Take Bob and Frank with me. Hopefully the quickening will hit all three of us in that case, share it. I'm not doing that until, unless I'm sure, he might come back just fine, might not but still recover well enough even if he isn't quite the same. I've never seen that kind of head injury with a new Immortal, neither's Adam, and he's got a few miles on me. Hell, it would be debatable on someone a century or three.”

“Do the fucking Drano,” Jamia said with a deep breath and a determined look.

“Get Frank out here first? He's the easiest to move,” Ray suggested. “Bring them out here so everyone's there? I mean, ya know?”

Bastian nodded. “Worm, you want to get Frankie? Gee, Mikes? You two manage Matt? Ray and I can get Bob. Let's get this set out here...be easier.”

“Do you guys have buckets? I need a bucket. If Frank's going to be puking Drano I'm gonna end up hurling too.” Alicia said rubbing the mound of her belly. “And I want tacos. And cheeze whiz. I hate cheeze whiz. Damn...Mikeyway, your kid is seriously weird.”

“One question--” the big guy who had been sitting silently back by the tent with the sleeping babies.

“Yeah, Worm?”

“You're not aliens or mutants from another dimension or anything?” Worm asked and looked warily at Gerard and Mikey.

“Nope. Just Immortal. I'm sure the comic geeks there are a bit disappointed. No super powers other than healing for the most part. No freaky anatomy no tk or telepathy or shit like that. I'm human, so are Frank Bob and Matt. Just...immortal.”

“Okay. Just as long as I don't have to deal with little gray men from another galaxy or something. Bored over caffeinated Frank is bad enough human.”

“Tentacles could be fun,” Lyn teased.

“I don't want to hear about whatever tentacle porn you found on the net, Lyn,” Bastian groaned.

Mac tried to shout behind the duct tape. Methos shook his head and fought down the urge to laugh at Mac. And at Bastian. The tribe he had assembled were absolutely insane and fighteningly practical in a...psychotic bizarre sort of way.

They were—organized wasn't the word. The chaos of everything was, honestly, nothing short of chaos but they managed not to trample one another, trip over one another and actually spread out a decent campsite next to the bus, between it and the row of four tents the women had set up when it seemed like everyone was there for the duration of whatever this lunacy was. They knew how to move together, how to work together, how to manuever around each other without a second thought. An awareness of all the others that was honed to a sixth sense. Knowing what the bloody hell they were doing exactly was another story.

He'd known generals that would have sold their souls and sacrificed their firstborns for such a cohesive unit. Hells, once he might have. Though he wasn't certain about the train-ability of this group and wasn't sure it would be wise to train them into any sort of fighting group. He didn't doubt the mortal portion of this group would insist on learning sword fighting along with the three new Immortals. That was a terrifying thought.

~

part two