Date: Thu, 29 Jul 1999 23:19:25 MDT From: "Gillian Leeds" Subject: Something Borrowed, Something Blue Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue Author: Gillian Leeds Rating: Adult Characters: M Summary: Methos goes hunting. Disclaimer: I do not own Methos [sigh], but I sure as hell wish I did! No malice is intended here. I return the character a wee bit tarnished, but still upright. WARNING: This is a very dark piece. It contains graphic violence, language and non-consensual sex (in layman's terms...rape). If these things bother you, YOU WILL BE OFFENDED BY THIS! Do not go any further. Take this warning seriously. Thanks to my betas, Jennifer Campbell, and my beloved sister Rowan. Sorry if I gave you nightmares. And thanks to Jon for "disposal" help. :o) ~~~~ Something Borrowed, Something Blue by Gillian Leeds Once that you've decided on a killing, First you make a stone of your heart. And if you find that your hands are still willing, Then you can turn a murder into art. There really isn't any need for bloodshed, You just do it with a little more finesse. If you can slip a tablet into someone's coffee, Then it avoids an awful lot of mess. [Chorus] It's murder by numbers, 1, 2, 3, It's as easy to learn as your ABC. Murder by numbers, 1, 2, 3, It's as easy to learn as your ABC. Now if you have a taste for this experience And you're flushed with your very first success, Then you must try a twosome or a threesome And you'll find your conscience bothers you much less Because murder is like anything you take to It's a habit-forming need for more and more. You can bump off every member of your family And anybody else you find a bore [Chorus] Now you can join the ranks of the illustrious In history's great dark hall of fame. All our greatest killers were industrious At least the ones that we all know by name. But you can reach the top of your profession If you become the leader of the land, For murder is the sport of the elected, And you don't need to lift a finger of your hand The Police ~Murder by Numbers~ **** What most people fail to understand is that murder is an art form. A type of legerdemain with its own set of rules and expectations. It takes genuine talent to commit a perfect murder. A perfect murder stands the test of time, as does a beautiful painting or an inspired passage of music. It's a shame the three are not quite viewed by the same societal standards. The so-called experts who make the all-encompassing statement that anyone can kill given the appropriate stimuli are egocentric bastards who have no appreciation for a skilled artisan. Most of them simply come out with bits of flotsam and jetsam. It's ambiguous garbage that they spew forth mostly for the sake of getting their names in the paper or on the cover of some thick, impressive looking textbook that no one ever reads. They grotesquely (and contemptuously) lump together psychopaths and sociopaths with the truly gifted. It's an insult. I, for one, am no homicidal manic who roams the streets, drool spilling down his chin, eyes glazed. I simply have a forte. I kill. And I am very good at it. Killing has always been easy for me. Even the first time. Not for me the maiden jitters of a virgin manslayer. There was no hesitation, no vacillation of any kind. And time has not eradicated or lessened my bloodlust. Only the methodology has changed. I learned that the process can be drawn out, the gratification extended. I've had time to perfect the craft. Five thousand years to be more or less exact. And perfect it I have. That isn't to say that I go through life leaving bodies left, right and bloody centre (no pun intended). Genius strikes like random lightning bolts. One can go for weeks, months, even years without feeling its fingers probing through your skull. Suddenly the urge appears. Like it did tonight. I had felt it creeping up on me all day, starting at the base of my spine and crawling stealth-like toward my brain. By dusk it was firmly entrenched in my cerebrum, and I knew better than to ignore it. When the pendulum clock on my wall struck the last chime of seven, I grabbed my coat, appeased myself that all I needed was in the pockets and headed out the door. It was a cold, overcast night. Perfect weather for stalking. I decided to forego the Rover and take the bus. Trawling for prey was easier in the intimate space of public transportation. No one expected to find the next Ted Bundy on the No. 8 express heading for Gastown. Brilliant boy Ted was. The media portrayed him as smug and conceited, but when I taught him, he was still a hesitant, nervous amateur. He learned fast for a mortal, understanding the need to refine his talent now rather than later. He didn't have five thousand years with which to practice. I watched his trial with great interest, remembering the young man with the unquenchable thirst for learning. I was proud of what he had become. I imagine it was rather akin to a father watching his son score the winning touchdown. I have to confess though; I was rather disappointed with him in the end. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. All my hard work, up in a puff of smoke. I think everyone should have his or her fifteen minutes of fame. I certainly have had mine. London, 1888. Pity they still don't have a face and a real name to put to the desecration I caused. I never have been too fond of the name Jack, but I suppose it will have to do. People are used to it now. What really pisses me off is that so many have made money off of me, while I haven't made a penny. Every ten years or so, someone comes out with a new Jack the Ripper theory. In truth, I find them quite entertaining. I especially like the hypothesis that it was a member of the Royal Family. That one really makes me laugh. I took the first bus that came along, unconcerned where it was headed. If I couldn't find what I sought on this one, there would be others. The night was still young. As fate would have it, she joined me at the very next stop. I have read enough books on profiling to understand the formation of clusters, traits, patterns, whatever they wish to call them. That is my brilliance. I have no defined pattern. There is nothing that connects together any one of my victims. They have run the spectrum of mankind; old, young, male, female, fat, thin, tall, short. Some have been redheads, some brunettes. Even race has been of no dominating factor; I am an equal opportunity assassin. I do not know what it is that makes them stand apart from their brethren. What makes them the chosen ones? They just are. I have tried to connect the dots in my brain. Is it a hairstyle? Do they all wear a similar colour coat or sweater? But there is nothing. I just know the minute I lay eyes on them that they are the ones. A knowledge that before long, their eyes will be drawn to mine in a silent offering. I suppose I do not choose them as much as they choose me. This one is small, rather pretty, with a pert, upturned nose and a smattering of freckles. Her hair is somewhere between blonde and mouse brown, shoulder length in artificial waves. She wears a long, down-filled jacket, a mustard-yellow that does nothing to enhance her colouring. She would have been better to go with a dark blue, or a ginger shade. But mustard is in this year, and she looks the sort to follow trends. The bus is crowded, and I am standing, one hand precariously gripping the overhead bar as the bus shudders into motion. By law people are forced to strap themselves into cars, but one is allowed to stand in a bus with nothing more to secure you in place than a thin, slippery rod of steel placed at an inconvenient angle above your head. Sometimes the idiocracy of the powers that be are overwhelming. I have lived for five thousand years, yet my everyday activities are, for the most part, dictated to me by some juvenile piss ant who probably has no idea who Agamemnon was or the importance of the Rosetta Stone. I find that strangely annoying. My little subject is forced to move to the back. Her eyes sweep over me as she passes down the narrow aisle. I know she approves of what she sees. She draws closer, and our bodies touch provocatively when she slides by. Her head barely reaches my shoulder, and she has to look up to meet my eyes. She does so slowly, with deliberate grace, knowing that I am as aware of her body as she is of mine. Finally she finds my face. Bingo. She will be mine. She is behind me now. I can't see her, but I feel her gaze on the back of my neck. I purposely stay still, allowing her time to look me over from a distance, assessing my threat. She won't find any. I am as harmless as a newborn child. The projection of innocence is something I have mastered completely. The only person who has ever been able to see through the act was Kronos. That was why he had to die. Having MacLeod do it was, I thought, a stroke of brilliance on my part. I already have enough malevolence inside me. I judged MacLeod to require a little more. The fact that he got Caspian too was an added bonus. It was too bad that I had to lose Silas as well. I truly liked him. An uncomplicated soul who wanted no more out of life than to wreak murder and mayhem on the population of the world. Not for financial gain, not for glory or power, but merely for the pure enjoyment of it. I envied his simplicity. Cassandra saw through the guise too. But she was less of a threat. You will note my use of the past tense rather than the present. I don't do that in error. MacLeod should never have let her walk away. I wonder how long it will be before he gets wind that she is no longer on this earth? Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the young woman pull her backpack farther onto her shoulder in preparation to exit the bus. Anticipating her move to the bell, I reach out and pull it a split second before she does. How can I be following her, when I ring the bell first? The bus slows down. As luck would have it, we are the only two to get off at this stop. The gods must certainly be smiling in my favour. The stop is a lit oasis amongst dark, deserted streets. I am familiar with this area; I have the satisfaction of knowing that a park lies just a half block to the south. A perfect killing field. She sets off one way. I go another, walking a few yards then turning. I listen to her footfalls retreating, then start cutting through alleys and streets, dogging her every turn. She is looking over her shoulder; sure that she has heard something. I pause, leaning against the cool brick of an abandoned building. I will have to remember this place; it would be a good site to acknowledge a challenge. She is off again, her pace a little quicker now. When the sound occurs a second time, she knows she is in trouble and breaks into a run. I love it when they run. In the end Alexa ran, but it was already too late for her. Just like it's already too late for this one. Poor, pathetic little Alexa. The girl that wanted to see the world and actually believed I would show it to her. In reality she never made it out of the state. I wonder what they do with the bodies of the unclaimed? Oops, I guess they have to find her first. No need to stay hidden any longer, I step out of the dark and follow her unconcealed. She looks back over her shoulder and recognition hits. Something in her mind tells her that I'm not going to simply ask for directions. A small sob escapes her lips. The park is up ahead. I cut to the right, making sure she sees and hears me. She responds by cutting to the left. And they say cattle are stupid. Into the park she goes. <> I tell her silently. I finally decide to reel her in like a fish. Extending my stride, I easily catch up to her, grabbing her by the backpack and pulling her down. We land in a pile, my body on top of hers. The impact of the fall knocks the wind out of her with a loud "oooof". I smack her soundly across the head, dazing her. Then I haul her to her feet, not giving her time to get her bearings. My mouth closes on hers, smothering her with what could only be loosely termed as a kiss, my tongue invading her mouth savagely. I hold her close to me, using my body to render hers inert. Her teeth sink into my lower lip, and I taste blood in my mouth. I reciprocate the act, leaving her screaming in agony. She struggles and screams, then one hand snakes out and fingernails rake down my face. I reach out, placing a vice-like grip on her wrist, forcing it back down to her body. "You're feisty. I like feisty. They last longer." She shudders and struggles harder, frantic to get away. This time I let her. She stumbles backward, surprised at her release. Recovering quickly she heads toward the trees. I give her a count of ten, then start after her. She darts behind a tree, a move I have anticipated. "BOO!" I jump out at her and she screams, her face completely covered in terror. "You'll have to do much better than that." I reach out and grab her by the hair. She struggles against me but tames down after a few vicious blows to the stomach. Because she is already on her way to her knees, I give her a small push and help her complete the journey. She kneels before me, head at crotch level. Perfect. I swiftly divest of my clothes, listening to her raspy breathing, hearing it increase as she realizes what is about to happen. Easier to wash my naked body, or mask the blood with clean clothes, than to try and explain it. Using her hair, I yank her head up. Her eyes meet mine. The terror in them is like a drug, and I spend a few seconds drinking it all in, committing it to memory to be replayed again and again. Something stirs within her terrified orbs. Anyone new to the killing game would have missed it, but I have been at this too long to let it go by. I understand completely what it means. I look down at her and sneer. "If you have the least idea of biting me this time, think again. You don't need teeth to do this, and I have no qualms about removing all of yours before I make you continue." Without waiting for a response I shove myself into her mouth, deep enough to kick in her gag reflex. She heeds my words well. It doesn't take long for her to suck me dry, and I suspect this is not her first experience of this sort. Some lucky son of a bitch has already been on the receiving end of this one's talents. "That was very good," I offer, pulling out. She looks up at me, eyes optimistic, hopeful that her compliance will guarantee her safe release from the hell she has found herself in. The hope dies when I push her backward. I am on her in an instant, not giving her a chance to move, knowing full well that the gravel of the path we are now on must be digging into her. I really don't care. She struggles briefly while my hand moves up under the skirt she is wearing. One swift tug renders her underwear into rags. The garment industry has dropped in quality control considerably over the past few years. It used to take at least two yanks. I take the destroyed garment and force it into her mouth. She is going to need something to silence her screams. I sit up, reaching back into the pocket of my coat. Large eyes grow even larger when she sees what I have in my hand. A small dagger, beautifully made, edges kept razor sharp. I'd like to say it was mine, but I'd be lying. I picked it up at MacLeod's a few days back. He had been using it as a letter opener. Sacrilege. A marvelous object like this was meant to be used on the flesh. I can see it's not what she expected. "You really didn't think I was going to fuck you, did you?" I ask her dryly. "Be serious. I don't know where you've been." I lean over, placing the blade close to her face. "That's the charm of this little toy. It can't catch all those horrible diseases that are out there. But it still goes deep, if you know what I mean." I laugh while I watch what little colour remains in her face drain away. The next hour was very entertaining, although I don't think she enjoyed it quite as much as I did. There is a reason that when wild animals begin to tear up a carcass, they begin with the genitals. The tender skin there rips so easily. I eventually grow tired of the game. The staccato beat of her head against a tree has become annoying. The blood that covers my hands and arms is now tacky, like melted popsicle on a hot, summer day. She isn't moving anymore, isn't reacting to the knife's plundering. So, for me, she's lost her appeal. It's time to move on. I lay for a few moments staring at the sky, watching the clouds roll past a crescent moon. The coppery scent of blood hangs in the air. My body is covered in dried gore, and I can feel it beginning to crack as I move. Amazingly enough, there is still life in the old girl yet. I look over astonished as the gurgling sound of an agonizing drowning breath reaches my ears. I give this one full credit; she's trying to hang on. As much as I would love to lie here all night, listening to the bubbling sounds coming from the body next to me, I still have work to do. Her attempts are in vain. Her fate was sealed the minute our eyes met on the bus. With a sigh, I drop the dagger and once again reach into my pocket. Another borrowed piece, the items of this one courtesy of Joe Dawson. Piano wire with a drum stick tied to each end. A home-made garrotte. I pull myself to my feet, reaching down and lifting her head. I slip the wire around her neck, kicking her body so that she rolls over and lies face down. Then I begin to twist. Hands slick with blood, sweat and urine, make it hard to get a good grip on the ligature. She rises to her knees, hands clawing at her neck. Fingernails scratch madly as she tries to loosen my grip. Before long, she begins to rip her own skin. Her knees begin to scrabble on the gravelled path. My foot in the small of her back ensures that she can't get her legs beneath her to push herself up. I press down with my foot, pull up with my arms. Her tongue hangs out grotesquely, and her face turns first red, then purple, then the most wondrous shade of blue. As I had pondered earlier when I saw her in the mustard-coloured coat, she really ought to have gone with a blue. It was definitely her colour. I always laugh at the movies that show the maniac strangling some poor, large breasted tart. It's over before it's begun. In reality, it takes several minutes to strangle someone. It is not an easy death. Even from a semi-conscious state they will fight you every step of the way. You have to be committed. Finally the clawing and the clamouring stop. Her body hangs slack from the noose, now a simple shell. The spark that gave it life is gone. Drifted off to whatever better world she believed in. I hope for her sake that such a place exists, just as I hope for mine its antithesis does not. Now comes the challenging part. What to do with Mary Sue? This is where my genius really kicks in. I could be a boyscout (no affront intended to MacLeod) and "be prepared". But that would take some of the fun and spontaneity out of this. It would also mean that I had to control things, and I do believe that it is important that they themselves choose where they die. My challenge is to work with what they give me. This one has given me a park. It takes me a minute to give birth to the idea, but suddenly there it is. I grin. It's perfect. I loosen the garrotte. First a little prep work is required. Picking up that wonderfully sharp little object I'd just used so effectively on her nether parts, I begin to remove all ten fingers, beginning with the pinkie. I count them off as they make a small pile on the grass at my feet. Without those little digits, she is harder to identify. That task completed, I drop the dagger once more before searching my pockets, removing what I will need. Then I hoist the carcass onto my shoulder. This one is light and presents no problems. Some have not been so weightless and damn near crippled me. The sharp stones cut into my bare feet as I follow the path around. The pain feels good. Eventually I focus on what I seek. Large metal garbage containers. I drop the body to the ground. It lands with a wheeze as the last of the air discharges from dead lungs. The head slides sideways in excellent imitation of a drunk. I could always use that reasoning should I ever be questioned, although I think the fact that I am naked would make it a tad bit awkward. Carefully I lift the container lid. The first one is unsuitable. Too full. I move to the second one. This one will do admirably. It has just enough everyday material to make sure the police are entertained for a long while. As usual, someone read the 'no dumping' sign and assumed it was meant for everyone except him or her. I thank the gods for people like that. They make my job so much easier. Getting the corpse into the bin is a bit tricky, but I've had years of practice. Finally, she just sort of rolls in, ending up on her back, eyes staring lifeless into the overcast sky. Gingerly, I haul myself up, using the lever on the side of the bin as a foothold. The metal is cold and rough against my naked skin. Carefully I remove the stopper from the small glass bottle I have brought along. I reach down and yank on the woman's jaw. It is difficult to get it to open up enough. The grisly protruding tongue takes up most of the room. Eventually, though, I manage to find a little space. It doesn't take much, just a few drops of the acid in her mouth. With a little luck, by the time they find her, her teeth will be so far gone, true identification will be almost impossible. Just to make absolutely sure, I pour the rest of the acid over her, concentrating on the face and the genitals, the places where most of the evidence exists. Satisfied that she is well taken care of, I jump down, cringing as I land on a particularly sharp stone. After lowering the lid, I turn and make my way back to my clothes. Along the way I spot a water tap set back from the pathway in a picturesque location. How convenient. Now I will have no need to stick to the shadows until I can find a public restroom in which to clean up. The cold water strikes my warm skin and I gasp. Vigorously I scrub the blood and other bodily fluids, some mine, some hers, from my skin. Then I rinse out the bottle. Shivering, I wander back to my clothes, dressing hurriedly. I hate catching colds. After retrieving the knife, the garrotte, and ten bloody fingers (which I place in a ziploc bag - another wonderful invention), I head out of the park, whistling softly as I go. Time for a beer. I wonder how MacLeod would view my night's activities? I snort in response to my own question. What's to wonder? He'd be appalled, shocked, horrified. Every adjective you could muster in description of his outraged morals and wounded sense of justice. But I also think he'd be curious. I am sure there are those who speculate why I hang around with MacLeod. Even with the personality I painstakingly cultivate when I am around him and Joe Dawson, we are as different as night and day. Some would believe that I bask in his friendship to exonerate myself of past sins. If that's the case, it's not working. The sins are continuing to pile up, tonight's being just latest. I stay not so that some of his moral virtue will rub off on me but in the hope that some of my depravity will rub off on him. For a while I thought it was a lost cause. Then came Ahriman, and I saw a glimmer, an inkling that my subtle manipulations just might be working. It's given me new strength to stick around. I want to be here when he turns, and turn he will, we all do eventually. I want to see that holier than thou attitude replaced by the darkness of immorality. I find, as I often do, that I am ravenously hungry. I walk several blocks before an all-night deli catches my eye. Its good deed is two-fold: It provides me with the nourishment I seek and the ability to discharge the last remaining evidence. I stand over the toilet, suppressing the urge to wave good bye to the fingers as they swirl around the bowl, then disappear into never never land. At one time it was difficult for me to distance myself from a trophy. A finger, an ear, or a toe. For a while I did keep such reminders, but given the increase in ability of today's police, I have decided it is no longer a wise idea. One hour later finds me on the other side of town; all traces of anything untoward erased from my person. I hesitate before the bar door, allowing MacLeod's immortal presence to wash over me. Time for a new persona - Adam Pierson. The lines of my face relax, along with the rest of my body. No more the tightly strung frame of a raiding warrior, instead the gangly identity of a grad student. The metamorphosis is not entirely complete. Not even five thousand years of character adaptation can completely eradicate the feline attributes I have been graced with. I push open the door, nodding slightly at the greetings my entrance receives. Joe, the cripple, instantly supplies me with a beer. As he should if he wants to keep his heart beating in his chest. God knows how many bar owners get their throats slit while locking up late at night. It would be so tragic. We make small talk, the usual bullshit; Amanda, the weather, who's in town. It's all I can do to stop from yawning in their faces. Joe asks me about an immortal named Amarande who's recently surfaced. He is supposed to be old and Joe is wondering if I've ever met him. He turns and gives me that look of expectation. You have to realize that Joe is pretty stupid, even for a mortal. He doesn't get that I'm not the sociable type. If I feel them coming I just disappear. I've been trying to explain this to the fool for years, but he can't seem to grasp that concept. Lately, I've simply given up. It's like talking to a wall. Suddenly his expression changes, and I follow his gaze to the back of my right hand. A smear of dried blood coats the skin. I look up sharply. Some of her blood must have gotten on the cuff of my coat. How careless of me. "Must have cut myself shaving." I bring the telltale appendage up to my mouth, using my tongue to expunge the last remaining evidence against me. The coppery taste reawakens my senses, bringing anew the memory of the fresh kill. I suppress the grin that hovers at the corners of my mouth, choosing instead to occupy myself with the expected practice of quaffing the beer in a single solitary action. A well deserved reward, I'd say, after a night's hard work. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dinedinAhotmail.com