June 1999
It's ironic how alike the past and the present were. Nothing much had changed with the passage of years. People were still the same. The air was the same. The trash smelled just as bad.
Adam shrugged his shoulders, straightening out of the deliberate easy slouch he effected in the company of others. The leather coat suddenly felt overly warm in the cooling air. Inside the gallery, the air-conditioning made the coat's presence near-negligible. And strangely enough, although the outside temperature wasn't all that different, he felt absolutely stifled. He walked slowly, but purposefully, long legs striding with an ease his heart did not acknowledge. Behind him, he could feel Mitcha's -- no, *Mikhail's* -- presence, the familiar buzzing low and droning in his ears. It was different from Mac's, whose buzz was instantly recognizable. Mikhail's was more sedate, quieter -- younger. The alley widened out into an empty area where several large trashcans stood lined up against the stained, whitewashed walls. The ground was relatively free of rubbish of the more disgusting variety -- which was understandable given the locale, Adam surmised.
"This will do nicely, Adam."
Mikhail's voice stopped his advance and he turned slowly to face the other man. His hands still snug in his pockets, Adam offered the blonde another lazy smirk. "It's not too late, you know," he drawled. Imperceptibly his feet shifted slightly apart, planting his weight on a wider, more stable base. "We could forget all about this and go about with our lives."
Mikhail's face was stone. Cold, unyielding stone. "No," he hissed. "We finish it now. I'm tired of you getting in my way. You're old, Adam, but not as old as McLeod. And I want him so bad, it hurts. Consider yourself the appetiser, and McLeod my main course."
"Very well," Adam nodded, head slightly bowed, his eyes darting away from Mikhail's furious face to survey his surroundings quickly, efficiently. The walls around them were empty, decorated here and there with graffiti that modern advancement couldn't seem to stamp out. There were several doors, all closed -- back entrances to the buildings around them. Somewhere a cat hissed, sounding both scared and angry at the same time. The air was cool, not heavy or humid, but not moving either. It wasn't the season for wind and rain in New Bourdeaux. The ground at his feet was littered with paper scraps, packing peanuts, shredded paper -- the usual high-class throwaways, he smirked.
The coat on his back suddenly felt comfortable, and Adam finally took his hands out of his pockets. No sense in delaying the inevitable. Fools were born everyday, and one such fool was standing before him, greed and a certain type of lust shining in narrow eyes of icy blue. That was what made an opponent dangerous sometimes, Adam thought absently as his fingers felt the familiar grip under his coat. Not the physical strength, not the skill, not the weapon. But the fervour with which he viewed his kill. The lust for blood. The need that eclipsed all else, to the point where dying was secondary. The Ivanhoe was heavy in his hands, but it was a familiar and comforting weight, one he'd grown accustomed to over the centuries.
It felt like a friend.
Mikhail had similarly drawn out his sword. It was smaller, seemed lighter compared to his, but looked just as deadly. And from the way Mikhail held his blade, Adam knew the man was an expert. This would not be an easy, simple fight, Adam concluded, drawing in a long breath more to reassure himself than the actual need for air. He hadn't had a need to fight for quite a long time -- years, actually. There were fewer of them now, and it was getting increasingly harder to actually stumble onto one by accident. And the few immortals he was acquainted with were just not the dying kind.
Haha. Joke.
Adam held his sword up, stance ready, waiting. Mikhail stood similarly. Neither seemed ready to be the first to make a move, but neither seemed likely to back away. The fight had begun. The heat was on. It was too late to turn away.
"Adam Pierson," Mikhail finally spoke. "There can be only one." He lunged.
*Bloody shit!*
Adam rolled, turning away from the violent downward sweep of Mikhail's blade just as it struck the ground behind him. Part of his coat wasn't so lucky, and lay tattered on the ground, a new addition to the litter.
He blinked away the narrow trickle of blood that flowed down one side of his face, the result of a lucky clip from Mikhail's fist. The man was wearing gloves, for God's sake! Where the hell did the ring come from? Or at least, Adam assumed it was a ring. It definitely wasn't his sword, or else the world would be short of one more immortal. He grinned at that, narrowed eyes following the slowly advancing blonde.
"Not so cocky now, eh, Pierson?"
Mikhail was grinning, only the grin on his flushed face had nothing to do with happiness. Far from it. It looked crazed. It reminded Adam of a rabid dog he'd seen once, drool and spit dripping from slack jaws. Its teeth were bared and exposed by lips that curled back, tongue protruding in between its jaws. The frothing had gotten worse as the dog twitched, dying. And when it finally did, its eyes were open. And even dead, those eyes carried the madness that had haunted the last moments of its life. A look Adam never forgot, even after all the centuries, for that look -- or a semblance of it -- was always on his opponents' faces. And it frightened him somewhat to think that perhaps, he too carried that look.
A sudden rush of cold air alerted him to the sudden swipe of the sword, and he lifted his own to block its descent. The sound of metal against metal reverberated through the seeming emptiness of the alley, bouncing off the walls even as the sparks bounced off the sharp edges of the blades.
He grunted as Mikhail rushed him, pushing against the crossed blades with surprising strength. It wasn't one he couldn't surpass however, and Adam pushed back, one leg stepping back to brace himself against the other man's compact weight.
The world could do without bottles, it really could. But without bottles, beer would be that much less pleasurable. It just wasn't the same drinking it from a can. The bottle gave the brew just that little bit of added value. But still...
Adam cursed loudly as the bottle rolled under his foot, upsetting his balance. The little stumble gave Mikhail the edge he needed and he pushed home, forcing Adam's sword away from between their bodies.
Despite Mikhail's surprise move, Adam found the time to frown. What was a bottle doing in the alley -- *this* alley! -- in the first place?
It was then that he heard a strange snicking sound, and the immortal wondered what the hell it was. It definitely wasn't the bottle breaking, or him falling on his bum. Mikhail had dropped his own sword -- *Stupid!* -- and had a death grip on his wrists. He heard himself give a small cry when the smaller man wrenched his wrists back, banging his hands against the rough brick wall.
When did that wall sneak up on him? Adam wondered dazedly, trying to block the pain in his wrists. Definitely some misplaced joints there, he thought. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the sharp twinge and discovered that he was clutching empty air. Vaguely Adam recalled turning to look into Mikhail's face but when a hard elbow smashed into his nose, there was just a violent explosion of red and flashing lights -- lots and lots of flashing lights.
"Not the nose," he heard himself moan. There was warmth washing down his face and he knew he was probably gushing but what he felt next left him no room for further thought.
*snick* *snick* *snick*
So that was what the noise was. His eyes widened as he felt the blades bite deep into his gut, twisting up his insides. Damnit, but his wrists were just healing, for God's sake! And the cut on his face was already gone, leaving just drying blood as a reminder that there had been one there in the first place. And he could feel his nose, his beautiful, hurting nose mending! It wasn't fair!
"You fight dirty," he heard himself gasp, coughing as a spasm ran up his spine. Blood gurgled in his throat, and the salty, rich taste of it filled his mouth as it bubbled over his lips. As his eyes dimmed, he felt the narrow blades twist again in his stomach before pulling out.
He felt numb. Dying always felt numb. But the sliding of metal out his flesh was strangely acute, sharp and slicing. His insides clenched, clutching at the metal intruders. The spasming muscles sent another coughing fit up his throat, and this time he could *definitely* taste bile.
"As long...as...I...win, Pierson," Mikhail gasped back, pulling away from the dying immortal.
The man was wheezing, Adam noticed with a strange glee, looking at the cruel, thin blades that erupted from the back of Mikhail's glove with a morbid fascination as he slid down to his knees. Mikhail's arms let him go and he collapsed onto the ground, curling around the gaping holes in his abdomen. Instinctively, his arms folded around himself as though to stem the gushing blood that flowed like endless rivulets down his shirt and pants, soaking into the cloth like there was no tomorrow.
Which was probably the case.
Had it been anyone else, he could have died in peace, knowing that his opponent would wait until he regained consciousness before resuming the fight. But this was Mikhail, and Mikhail thought nothing of bending the rules. *That* was what was so scary about the man, Adam grimaced against the pain. Mikhail was too much like himself. Mikhail fought to win, like he did.
And how ironic it seemed to be attacked with hidden blades. That was *his* modus operandi, damn it!
Fat lot of good that did him now.
His vision darkened, and with the diminishing light his hearing got more acute. He could hear Mikhail breathing -- heavily, Adam smirked -- as he stooped to pick up his fallen sword. He heard the other man walk up until he stood beside his dying body. He heard the man's coat rustling as he raised his arms, bearing the heavy sword above his head.
Closer, closer. Adam twitched, his body preparing to finally surrender to the shock and blood loss; his mind preparing to close down with the oxygen deprivation. He inhaled, willing himself to live just a few moments longer. Just two fuckin' seconds, damnit! He just needed two *seconds* to leap up and cut that smirk off the bastard's face!
But death didn't do requests, and the last thought on Adam's mind was a jumble of observations really -- like how heavy the two hidden daggers in his coat felt; or how cold it suddenly was; or how he'd never drink beer again if he ever found out that he'd stepped on a beer bottle.
But the dead couldn't drink anyway, right?
And the world went black.
End Part Six
Shirin
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