There can be only One

We have been around for centuries, watching, learning, fighting, dying.

We are thee Immortals, we cannot die unless you take our head. None no way, none no the purpose, but in thee end there can be only one.

In this rpg you will be an Immortal, as such your mastery of the sword is unequaled.

No Powers

No Auto-Hits

Normal Rules Apply

You may create none controlled characters. These characters can be killed and auto-hit.

Holy ground is a type of safe zone. No one can be killed our attacked on it.

http://www.comicvine.com/message/official-rpg-rules/8030/&c=7&7

This is more then just a battle rpg, create a back story, maybe you were in Rome with Ceaser, maybe you sailed the seas with Erik the Red, maybe you were an actual Highlander from Scotland doesn't matter.

Maybe you wanna team up with other villains and track down all thee Immortals, or maybe your a hero just trying to survive its up to you.

Post Edited:2007-08-13 19:28:54
Post Edited:2007-08-13 19:35:13

Methos is the mythical "oldest Immortal." He is at least 5000 years old, the approximate date he took his first head, but claims to remember nothing before that - including his place and date of birth.

However, it seems that Methos was born either in ancient Mesopotamia or ancient Egypt around 3000 BC. He was the second son of three boys and two girls, and he lived with his family. When he was approximately 28 years old, he died when a sandstorm trapped him and his family. His family died, and Methos became Immortal. Afterwards, he roamed the Earth without ever knowing of his immortality. People thought he was a demon, and tried to kill him many times over. Methos learned how to survive from then on. By the time he was an estimated 603 years old, he took his first Quickening. He then realized that there were many Immortals besides himself, and he started to learn about The Game.

When he was a slave back in Ancient Egypt, an Immortal Pharaoh named Djer took him under his wing, but apparently the ruthless Pharaoh killed his nomad wife during a smiting of Sinai (the killing of all nomads), so Methos buried him alive inside a sarcophagus within a deep tomb, and claimed his throne as a Pharaoh of Egypt. His journey after that is unknown. [1]

He has been keeping a journal almost since writing began (approximately 3300 BC). He learned how to write in Egyptian hieroglyphics, Hyksos, cuneiform, Phoenician, and Ancient Greek writing systems. He claims to have met Helen of Troy, Socrates, Julius Caesar, and Cleopatra. He knew the English poets Byron and Percy Shelley, and Mary Shelley, and rode with Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. In his first meeting with MacLeod, he said not many people can claim to have been on the same stage (either metaphorical or not) as both Julius Caesar and The Rolling Stones.

Methos has often used the name "Adam" ("Adam Pierson") in most of his aliases as an inside joke, because he was amused that people referred to him as the oldest man. One of his aliases was "Benjamin Adams," or rather, "the good Dr. Adams," as he was known in the 19th century (he majored in medicine in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1453) He didn't care whether he was the oldest one, as long as people were not looking for him.

Methos was one of the Watcher Organization's greatest mysteries. His existence was doubted and questioned for many centuries. During his time at a University in Paris, Methos, under the guise of Watcher Adam Pierson, "uncovered" the "The Methos Chronicles," which documented - with varied accuracy - much of his life.

In order to prevent the discovery of his true existence, he volunteered to study the Chronicles. In so doing, he was able to prevent discovery of the true Methos, and keep tabs on other Immortals that he preferred to avoid. Methos tried to remain unseen by pretending to study the Chronicles of Methos, and became somewhat of an off-field agent for the Watchers. Therefore, nobody would suspect that he was actually the legend. That changed when two Watchers died at the hand of Kalas, an evil Immortal. Joe Dawson realized that Kalas was looking for Methos, while Duncan MacLeod knew that with Methos's Quickening, Kalas would finally be strong enough to defeat him. Both Kalas and MacLeod raced to be the first to find Methos. Duncan's search led him to seek out "Adam Pierson." Duncan immediately sensed that Adam was an Immortal and that he was actually Methos. MacLeod challenged Kalas, nearly defeating him when the police arrived to send Kalas to prison for the deaths of the Watchers. Unfortunatly, Methos had vanished.

A few months later, Kalas ended up breaking out of prison, due to the intervention of Amanda. She wanted to take his head, but he escaped. A woman named Christine Salzer wanted to reveal the secrets of the Immortals and the Watchers to the press, because her husband, Watcher Don Salzer, had been murdered by Kalas. Methos and Joe Dawson tried to talk her out of it, but she refused. In a desperate attempt, Joe tried to kill her, but accidentally shot Duncan instead. Methos wisely reminded Joe that Duncan didn't try to save Christine, but protected Joe through his actions. Ironically, Christine was later killed by Kalas who then took the disc containing the information about the Watchers and the existence of the Immortals. Duncan eventually fought Kalas on top of the Eiffel Tower, where he defeated the evil Immortal. The tower, being a giant lightning rod, amplified the Quickening, and shut down the power all around Paris, as well as destroying Kalas's computer and the disc containing all the information. The secret of the Immortals and the Watchers was safe, and Methos secured himself as Duncan MacLeod's friend.

learned that the man he trusted had a horrible secret; Methos had a dark past — he was actually a member of The Four Horsemen, who may have inspired the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Cassandra pointed out that the polite and witty Methos was actually Death, and had enslaved her many millennia ago. Methos had ridden with The Four Horsemen, who plundered and raped villages on two continents back in the Bronze Age. Kronos, the leader of the Horsemen, tracked down Methos in order to get to MacLeod. Methos decided to flee, but Duncan caught him leaving, then asked whether Cassandra's accusations were true. Duncan learned the shocking secret that his friend had an unjustifiably evil past. Methos knew that Duncan's moral conscience couldn't stomach this revelation, though he tried to make Duncan understand. In that confrontation, Methos finally admitted that his past was evil. He told Duncan MacLeod as much, in a chilling monologue:

“ "I killed. But I didn't just kill fifty, I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand! And I was good at it. And it wasn't for vengeance, it wasn't for greed. It was because...I liked it. Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing. Do you know who I was? I was Death. Death — Death on a horse. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is that what you want to hear?! The answer is yes. Oh, yes." ”

In that moment, Duncan decided to put an end to their friendship. Methos decided to put the band together again, and both he and Kronos tracked the remaining members. Silas, the brutal but naive one, and Caspian, the insane one. Kronos had a plan to rule the world once again.

In the end, Methos joined Duncan MacLeod to destroy the Horsemen. The two defeated the Horsemen together, resulting in a powerful "Double Quickening". Duncan first killed Caspian and later slew Kronos, while Methos had to kill Silas, the only member of the Horsemen that he really liked. But it was too late to repair the friendship between himself and Duncan.

Although Methos's friendship with Duncan was officially over, it didn't prevent the two from interacting, wherein Methos would talk to Duncan about life. Amanda begged Methos to do something, because Duncan's outlook on life had been shattered by another Immortal named Steven Keane. He shared Duncan's black-and-white point of view, and it affected him in dealing with The Game. Methos wisely told a reluctant Duncan that life was not as simple as good and evil. There were always two sides of the same coin, and also a grey area in between. Methos claimed that he was not a perfect Immortal, and there was no such thing as being perfect. An Immortal should just accept his life, and decide what was best for himself. Immortals also made mistakes because they are just human beings and mistakes could be forgiven. As Immortals, they had their duty to play in The Game.

Duncan's reluctance to compete in The Game affected him in many ways. He accidentally killed his own protegé, Richie Ryan, because he thought he saw an evil being called Ahriman posing as Richie. After realizing his mistake he became more brooding, but in the end he defeated the evil being. Unfortunately, Methos had disappeared again and not even Joe Dawson could find him this time.

When Methos returned again, the following year, he found himself being chased by an obssesive Immortal named Morgan Walker, who hated him for having had an affair with his slave 200 years ago. Methos had no choice but to hide for the time being, and to look for some information from the Watchers' computer database. Joe Dawson was angry when he found out that Methos was back, only to try to save his own life by hacking into Joe's files, instead of explaining his whereabouts one year earlier.

Methos, in his own clever and manipulative way, reminded Joe about his Watcher oath, and that Joe had broken his own vows to help MacLeod, but not Methos. This offended Joe, and damaged their already-shaky friendship. But Joe couldn't stay mad at Methos because he needed his help as a rookie Watcher, also Joe's illegitimate daughter, Amy Thomas had been kidnapped by Walker. Both Joe and Methos had to escape Walker's henchmen and try to save her. In the end, Methos bonded with Joe, and defeated the evil Immortal. Joe also patched things up with his daughter.

Being the oldest in the gang, he could be very witty with a great sense of humor and an extremely sharp mind, which sometimes could be annoying (according to Duncan and Joe). In some ways, he was pretty manipulative towards his friends and foes, not to mention a bit arrogant. Duncan once even compared him to a hammerhead shark. Methos has said that although he knew most of everything in life, he was a bit weak in pop-cultural matters.

Most people considered Methos to be weak, because he always avoided a battle, or even any Immortals close by, and tended to be paranoid unless there was a good reason to stick around. He even hid his sword under his bed, and sometimes carried a handgun. Some say that his behavior seemed unusual for an Immortal; he would hardly participate in The Game, and just continued his life, travelling around the world, appearing here and there whenever he liked. Whenever there was a great danger nearby, he suddenly disappeared for years until he came back again like nothing ever happened. He preferred, however, to observe rather than fight. To him his behavior wasn't a sign of weakness. As Methos himself once said: "Just because I don't like to fight doesn't mean that I can't." And when he had to, he was one of the strongest adversaries.

He considered opera music to be boring, and he liked Bruce Springsteen, Queen, and other music as well. His lifestyle was a bit expensive. He collected things, mostly antiques and modern art, that many people considered to be junk. He thought some of the "junk" could be his from earlier times. He enjoyed life so much that he considered himself to be a peaceful and regular guy who drinks beer at the bar with his friends. Nobody knew what was in his mind. Methos was also very easy going, but could be serious when needed. Although his loyalty was questionable at times.

Many argued that Methos might be one of the strongest Immortals, albeit not in a physical or fighting-technique way, but more in a strategy-and-survival way. He claimed once he hadn't felt guilt since the 1100s, but he did regret some of the things he'd done in the past. Sometimes, he hardly wanted to help others unless it had some benefit for him, which made his friends and foes angry on occasion.

According to Methos, he got married 68 times — never to an Immortal, however, because according to him, it would be too much of a commitment.

Sometime during his life, when realising that for being the oldest Immortal, he was the main target for all the other Immortals, he removed himself from The Game, eventually deciding the best place to hide was within the Watchers, where he was put in charge of locating himself. (As he told Duncan, "And I make sure it never happens.") When Duncan MacLeod met him in 1995, he hadn't taken a head for roughly 200 years. That changed when he had to behead Duncan's obssessive former lover Kristin Gilles, when the Duncan proved unwilling to do it himself. However, after that, he only fought when it was necessary.

Methos leans back on his chair at Joe's bar and orders another pint...

life is good...

M
Post Edited:2007-12-03 03:49:43

Born in Nazi Germany Aleister Von Hynrich quickly rose threw the ranks of the third reich. He's passion for torture earned him thee nickname Death Bringer, he was personally responsible for the murder and torture of 1100 men, women, and children.

Tried and executed at Nuremberg Aleister was believed dead. But soon after a trail of grizzly murders led authority's to Russia were a man matching Aleister's description had been working in thee KGB. It was written of as a mistake and he was released.

Eventually he made his way to America and threw various means built a global communications empire. But now a rash of decapitations have broke out all over the world and that can mean only one thing.

The forests of California lay still in the moonlit night, rays of light shining through the treetops. A figure ran through the forest, holding a spear-like weapon. A dummy popped out from behind a tree and the figure knocked its head off in a flash.

FLASHBACK...Ancient Egypt. The royal throne room. The Pharoah sat in his throne, looking out over the courtyard. Entertainers performed in front of him, while guards stood at every entrance. A man dropped down to the balcony behind the Pharoah, creeping up behind the concealment of the throne. No one heard him, but he covered the Pharoah's mouth and slashed his neck with a dagger. The objects in Oharoah's hand fell to the floor, and everyone turne to him. Guards rushed for him. The man had already jumped over the balcony and was plummeting to the ground below. The Pharoah deserved it. The slavery, the killings. All the Pharoah's doing. He had set it right.

Another Dummy dropped down from above to the figure's left. The figure brought up his foot and kicked the dummy back before spinning his spear around and knocking it's head off.

FLASHBACK...Middle America, in the Caribbean. A merchant vessel sailed through the crystalline waters of the Caribbean. It was carrying a high ranking official in the East India Tea Company. He was responsible for numerous people losing their jobs, thanks to the Tea Act passed by the British Government. It allowed the Company to sell tea England's colonies without having to stop in England to pay a tax, letting them sell the tea cheaper than local merchants, who lost their jobs in the process. A ship came up behind this vessel, and sailed up beside it. Men jumped aboard, yelling and attacking the soldier's on the ship. The doors to the captain's quarters, where the Official was, swung open. The official couldn't see the face of the man standing at the doorway, but he did see his pistol. After a shot rang out, the official lay limp on the bed, blood trickling from his forehead.

The figure ran a bit more and three other dummies popped up out of nowhere. He stabbed one of them, sand pouring out. The second dummy he cut him own the middle, and the third he stabbed in the face, using leverage to rip his head off his shoulders.

FLASHBACK...Feudal Japan. The night settled gently in the Imperial City. A shadowed figure dressed in black jumped from rooftop to rooftop, on his way to the Imperial Palace. The Emperor sat in his throne room, guards stood outside the door. The figure crawled in through a window somewhere in the palace, an ran to the Throne Room, killing any who got in his way. He apporached the guards and released a smoke bomb, smoke billowing out and masking the figure as he opened the doors to the throne room. He ran for the emperor with a few throwing stars in his hand. The guards, caoughing from the smoke outside, entered the throne room to see the emperor with a throwing star lodged in his forhead, another in his chest. His eyes were wide open, limp in the throne. The figure jumped from the balcony to the courtyard below.

The figure breathed heavily and sat against a nearby tree. He had organized all of these dummies for training with his Taiaha. It was a Polynesian spear-like weapon that he picked up in one of his travels through the Pacific Ocean. It was carved from wood, but still effective. One end blunt, an the other sharp with a blade of stone attached to it. It had cut through the man's enemies like butter. It was what he used as a weapon now, but he had used many in his lifetime. aggers, pistols, throwing stars. He was Scott Wolfman, an immortal. He had flashbacks sometimes, each time recalling a significant moment in his history. Scott had usually been unoticed through history, but he like it that way. He assassinated those who need to be, often by wrongful acts the person commited. Scott had been everywhere, and done almost everything. He ha been a ninja, a pirate, even a cowboy of the old west, each memory as vivid as if it occured yesterday.

Scott got up and heade to the edge of the forest, and to his car. He placed the Taiaha in the ttrunk and started it up, heading for the next footnote in his long history.

M

"Mr Lockhart your one a clock is here" Christopher turned round to look at the young intern who fumbled into the room, "Keep him waiting, Let him know who owns the power in this Office" Christopher Lockhart has lived for over seven hundred years, Now he stood in the office of justice, He now wore a White suit and black tie instead of armour.

Now he fought his battle in the court room, A wicked tounge and quick wit gave him a 90 percent win, He only represented the just, It had been many years since he saw or felt another immortal, But he kept his training up, For the first 600 years he travled the world training and fighting, But most of all gaining knowledge, His ture identy was hidden by the death of young children mainly orphans , He would take the identy and use it.

But he had risen so high in power that now he used his real name, Using money and hand shakes to hide his real life.

Methos groaned as the automatic doors to Plainsboro teaching hospital opened and the sickly smell of antiseptic filled the air.

it had been forty years since he'd been a Doctor, not that he hadn't kept his medical knowledge upto date, and he had his identity switched to a new Doctor, a trainee transferring her straight out of medical school, a Doctor Pierce Adams.

it was a safe way to stay out of the game, there were only a few immortals in Jersey, most of them travveled north to New York to see the fabled Highlander, fabled my arse, Connor still owed him a round of drinks from 1928 in dover.

"Here goes nothing" he mumbled as he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered over to the reception area.

"Can i help you?" The woman asked.

"I'm new here, was told to see Doctor Cuddy?"

"I'll let her know your waiting, your name?" The receptionist asked politely as she dialed the phone.

"Pierce, Pierce Adams." Methos smiled as the name rolled off his lips like a well practiced lie.

He tuned out the rest of the conversation and started glancing round the hospital, it seemed busy, not emergency ward busy, but busier than a normal hospital.

"She'll be right down with the consultant you'll b training under." The receptionist replied, breaking him out of his musings.

"Consultant?" Methos asked, puzzled.

"Yes, you've been assigned to Doctor House's team of diagnosticians." The Receptionist smiled as the elevator doors opened and a thirty something woman and a older man with a cane walked out and started making their way towards him.

"Guess this is them?" Methos said with a wry smile.

The receptionist just smiled and nodded.

"Doctor Adam's, I'm Doctor Cuddy, and this is Doctor House." The woman held out her hand for him to shake, which he accepted as the man just looked bored to be there.

"Yes, thank you. i was transferred on short notice, sorry, i didn't know i'd be working in a team." Methos thought back, he hadn't seen anything about working as a diagnostician in his paperwork.

"Yes, i noticed your high scores on the internal medicine exam, so i transferred you to doctor House instead of working with Dr Slade." Doctor Cuddy explained.

"And i'm just thrilled." Doctor House said with a sarcastic smile as he turned and walked back towards the elevator. "Well? are you coming? we have a patient suffering from 7 different symptoms, none of which mesh, a perfct chance to see if your cut out for this."

Methos just turned to Doctor Cuddy, not quite sure if Dr House was kidding or not.

"Just go with it, it'll all fall into place eventually." Dr Cuddy said with a smile as she walked off towards an area marked "clinic".

"Better than research i suppose." Methos muttered with a grin as he jogged over to catch up with Dr House at the elevator.

Northern France

13 AD

The woods lay silent. Stretching away to the horizon in a black sea of leaves, illuminated only by the pale moonlight radiating from the half moon. Nothing moved but the branches as they swayed in the slight breeze, creating a mass of distracting movement. The sudden sound of running feet smashing through the autumn fall crashed through the night air, the gasping sound of someone running for their life echoed off the ancient boughs.

The running figure slid to a halt in a small clearing and listened. Her ears straining for the slightest noise which would betray the presence of her hunter. It was unbelievable what this man had done. In one day he had killed all of her followers, over a thousand years of collective immortality ended in 24 hours. First Hrolfgar had been pinned to a tree with a boar spear, unable to move. Then Lucius had lost his head while charging at their attacker, in a blinding display of swordsmanship the man had fought off three immortal swordsmen and killed two. Julia had fled to the sounds of Hrolfgars bellowing, a noise which was quickly cut short.

She knew that the man was tracking her, waiting for the opportunity to claim her head. But she wouldn't let him, she was too clever. Something snapped behind her and she spun, blade swinging out into the darkness. Something moved to her right and she spun again, cutting nothing but air. The fear had risen now, closing in around her heart, choking her.

"Wait!" she screamed at the darkness, "Don't kill me"

Her attacker stepped into the pale moonlight. He was a tall man, almost too tall. With raven black hair and bright blue eyes that showed no mercy. Julia whimpered and fingered the handle of her sword, offering prayers to every God she knew of to save her. The man smiled slightly, but his eyes remained the same, glaring, fierce, like a bird of prey.

"I am Julia Aquinus of the House of Scipii, who are you?"

The man took a slight step forwards, his muscular body moving like a dancer. But no dancer had such murderous intent. Slowly he spoke, the words flicking out of his thin mouth with a strange lilt.

"I am Malcolm Reed, born of a witch and I am your slayer."

Both immortals leapt forwards, blades singing in the cold air. Back and forth they fought, clashing once, twice, a third time. Malcolm was fast and confident, with the experience of a warrior born while Julia had the experience of a hundred fights and the cunning of a fox. She parried a seeking jab and sent a murderous riposte swinging towards Malcolm head, but at the last moment he ducked under, his whole body moving like a snake. With a total lack of speed, or so it seemed to Julia, he plunged his sword through her foot and flicked his wrist, sending a razor sharp dagger into his palm. With horrific speed now he slid it into her belly and tugged upwards, spilling her intestines. She gasped in pain and let her sword fall before collapsing backwards.

Malcolm looked down upon her for a moment as she tried to ladle her guts back into the hollow shell of her body. Then with a savage tug her freed his sword and beheaded her with a single brutal swipe. The night was broken by flashes of lighting and a strange glowing light.

Modern day

New Jersey

Malcolm Reed swung himself out of bed and looked at his pale reflection in the mirror. Sweat had plastered his black hair to his forehead and was dripping from his chin. His eyes however, were still bright and piercing. Slowly he heaved himself out of his bed and padded through to the bathroom. The cold tap water washed away his fears and brought him back from the land of his dreams. Ever since Jen had left him he hadn't slept more that two or three hours a night and it was showing in his tired features.

The apartment was cold and dark but he cold feel that everything was in the right place and so his fear settled down to gnaw at his guts. Still in his boxers he walked into the central room of the house. Without Jen he no longer had any reason not to practice his swordsmanship and so had converted the dining room into a small dojo. His weapons were hanging on a rack, exactly as he left them and it was with a touch of nostalgia that he ran his hands over the smooth leather handles. He swung the scabbard up and fixed it across his chest, so that the blades rested on his back. Two swords in one scabbard.

The weapons had been a gift from a feudal Japanese lord and they were unique. Unlike the curved katanas favored by the samurai the two blades were straight and short. They lacked the reach and hitting power of larger weapons but complemented his fighting style perfectly. The two blades had razor sharp edges and their light weight allowed him to deliver killing blows quickly and easily. They were an immortals weapon.

A feeling of calm stole over Malcolm as he tapped play on his ipod and the sound of an Irish jig filled the room. With slow ease he hit the two studs which would allow him to draw his weapons and slid the oiled blades out of their sheath. One was jet black, with spots of silver along the blade edge, the other was bright copper and bronze giving it a hue not unlike the morning sun. The swordsmith had called the the Swords of Night and Day. With a slight smile MAlcolm took the first defensive position and let the music fill his head.
Post Edited:2007-12-03 07:10:15

“Driver, pull over.”

Here Sir? But this is not a safe…..

“DO IT!!!”

The long stretched limousine came to a rolling stop along side the curb. The exhaust rising up into the cold night air of New York City. As Von Hynrich slowly stepped out of the back seat, careful not to step in any puddles thus ruining his thousand dollar tailor made shoes, he paused and leaned back in,

“Wait, here.”

Yes Sir. Well do Sir.

Slamming the car door behind him, the multi billionaire, Forbes Man of the Year, Nazi War criminal, and complete psychopath, Von Hynrich, took a long deep breath while a sinister grin ran across his face. He began to whistle as he strolled down some dark, rat infested alley. It was an old melody from the old country, one he used to sing as he tortured countless Jews. Suddenly he stopped, carefully he folded back the flap of his black trenchcoat, slowly removing his reverse bladed Dove’s Head Imperial Officer’s sword. It had been hand crafted for Count Haeseler of the Third Reich and was priceless.

The blade glistened as Von Hynrich unsheathed it from its case.

“Come out come out where ever you are? Why prolong thee inevitable? Let me end y………”

His sentence was cut short, as in a flash he felt the piercing cold steal of a blade slash cross his neck. Blood began to trickle down his shirt and onto the dirty pavement below.

You always did talk to much Hynrich. A problem that should be rectified once I TAKE YOUR HEAD!

The man moved with grace and elegance. But as his blade closed in for the kill, Hynrich side stepped the blow and pulled out a snub nose revolver.

“Foolish Cajun.”

Five shots rang out into the air, but in this neighborhood, nobody cared. The bullet ridden body of the Crafty Cajun known as Gambler, lay twitching on the ground gasping for air.

“Awww Gambler. So many fools, so little time.”

In one quick motion Von Hynrich removed the legendary Immortals head. Newspapers began to swirl up of the ground, a bolt of lightning stroke a near by fence before vaulting across the alley and striking a dumpster. And as Von Hynrich was engulfed in sparks and electricity, he laughed out, half in pain, and half in some twisted moment of pleasure.

The door clicked open behind Malcolm and he span, swords in the ready position. There were no lights on in the house, with only the dawns faltering sun illuminating the room. The tension mounted for a few moments and then a head appeared in the doorway. It was Jen, she'd come back to him. He lowered his weapons and started forwards.

"Malcolm run!" she shouted, her voice strained with panic.

The door crumpled inwards as three cloaked and hooded figure burst in. Jen was thrown to the floor by the force of their entry and cried out in pain. Malcolm swords came back up as two of the figures rushed at him. He parried a blow that was meant to eviscerate him and slammed an elbow into the second attackers face. Both backed away, the long black fabric of their clothing hiding their movements. Behind them the third assailant plunged his blade into Jen's unprotected back.

Hatred bubbled up inside Malcolm and he lunged forwards, swords spinning through the air. The men were ready for him and parried both blades, leaving him open for the third to skewer Malcolm on his bloodied sword. With a grunt Malcolm jumped backwards, feeling the hot wetness of his own blood soak his boxers and t shirt. All three of the men rushed at once, swords swinging for his neck. With a considerable lack of grace Malcolm threw himself backwards, cleaving through one of the mens necks but failing to sever his head. The figure collapsed, material blood spraying through the air and lay still.

One of the men turned to his fallen companion and exposed his back Malcolm. With huge effort he threw his sword. The second man grunted and staggered as the razor sharp blade slammed into his spine. The last assailant watched Malcolm sink to his knees before turning to run. The small room stank of blood, dark pools of the liquid were spilling from the bodies and pooling on the hard, wooden floor. Malcolm collapsed forwards, noticing for the first time several nicks which he hadn't realised he had received. He managed to crawl to Jen side just as his neighbor, an elderly woman called Mrs Jenkins, opened the door.

She gasped and turned away, no doubt to call the police. Malcolm no longer cared, Jen was lying still, too still. It didn't take a doctor to see that she was dead. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling until the paramedics arrived. They acted fast, flinging the bodies into black bags and strapping Malcolm to a stretcher. He closed his eyes for the first time in several days ad let the blackness over take him.

The faint smell of antiseptic woke Malcolm. He sat up sharply and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his stomach. With deliberate care he lay back down and explored his stomach with his fingers. A nurse noticed his movement and came over.

“Don’t touch that. You’re lucky to be alive, the paramedics were sure that you’d died on the way over. But we checked your pulse and it was weak but there.”

“Where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You’re at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, you were in a fight. Now I need to check your dressings before the police officers do an interview.”

Malcolm raised his arms as she lifted his bed clothes and checked the bandaging. After a few moments she peeled back the gauze and inspected the nearly healed stab wound.

“I need a doctor over here!” she shouted.

After a few moments a middle aged woman wearing a white lab coat approached the bed. She took the chart from the nurse and inspected it.

“Ok nurse what seems to be the problem with Mr Reed.”

“He was admitted this morning with a stab wound to the liver, but if we look at the wound…”

She let the statement hang in the air as the doctor inspected the wound and looked at the chart again. The two of them exchanged a look and the doctor nodded, the nurse practically sprinted from the ward. Malcolm allowed the doctor to recover his wound before he spoke.

“What’s going on Dr….”

“Cuddy, I’m Dr Cuddy. Were going to hand you over to one of our specialists.”

Post Edited:2007-12-03 10:01:14

Dr. Lisa Cuddy tapped her foot in the conference room that was used by the Infectious Disease team. Seated around the table, looking uncomfortable, were Doctors Eric Foreman, Robert Chase and Allison Cameron. The focus of her ire? Dr. Gregory House, who was sitting in his office, phone to his ear, and looking like someone had recently smacked him in the forehead with a sledgehammer while his new team member, Pierce Adams was looking at him with a look of horror on his face. .

"What the hell could he be talking about on the phone for so long, that's more important than his very angry boss, who's about ready to go in there and stick that stupid cane right up his--"

"He didn't tell us!" Chase protested, holding his hands up peacefully.

Cameron nodded, "Yeah, he got the call while we were arguing over the Malcolm case, and kicked us out of his office." She was still miffed about that. The Malcolm case was truly interesting, though Foremon was sure he was diagnosing Lupus, even when House had hit him over the head with a book screaming ‘It’s never Lupus’.

"On the bright side," Foreman murmured thoughtfully, "At least he looks like he's forgotten about his leg for the time being." House and Cuddy had a little bet, regarding the crippled physician's love for his little white pain pills. Cuddy's answering glare, however, moved Foreman to pick up a legal pad and study some notes they'd been going over shortly before the phone call.

"That's it!" Cuddy snapped, "I don't care if he's on a call to regrow his thigh muscle in there, I'm going in."

"Can't," Foreman stated, still studying the notes, "He locked both doors, he only let Adams in because he got to the side door before he could lock it." Cuddy's reply to this news was to emit a quiet scream of frustration.

Abruptly, House hung up the phone and dialed a number. It was only four digits long, so it must have been within the hospital. Two sentences were exchanged, and he hung up the phone again. House then leaned back in his chair, hands covering his face for a few moments.

Cuddy marched over to the locked door separating his office from their conference room, "House! Get out here, now!" She demanded.

House gave her a dull look, as if he weren't really seeing her. He then stood up, and began to limp over to the door. Cuddy's look of satisfaction was quickly replaced by indignation, as he passed that door by. Instead, he opened the door to the hallway, just in time for Dr. James Wilson to enter. He then closed and locked it once more. Locking eyes with Cuddy, then Adams, he then performed the ultimate insult, and closed the blinds between himself, and her and the rest of his team.

"..I can't believe he just did that." Cuddy stated, too astonished to be angry for the moment.

Cameron blinked at this development. Perhaps this had nothing to do with the case? House certainly wasn't going to let his leg pain get in the way of trying to prove to them all that he was so very much smarter. Even if he was so obviously wrong this time, because he was detoxing from the Vicodin.

A few minutes later, House and Pierce joined the rest of them while Wilson walked off down the corridor with a sullen look. Before Cuddy could draw breath to yell, he cut her off, "I need to take off for a few hours."

"You've got to be joking," Cuddy's rant had been neatly deflected, but she wasn't above incredulity.

"Yeah. I'm joking. With my jovial demeanor and tone, I'm ready for Open Mic night at the Improv." Raging sarcasm, of course which caused Adams to break out in a huge grin.

House was grimmer than any of them, save Wilson and Cuddy, had ever seen him.

Cuddy shook her head sharply, "You have a patient dying, House!"

"Fine. Put him on the transplant list, and do whatever voodoo you do to bump him up it. When I get back, I'll resume proving that you're all wrong."

House was about to continue on that bent, his face indicating that some truly choice venom was in the offing, when he was forestalled by Adams, "Dr House... go down to my car and wait for me there... Please?"

With one final glare at Cuddy, House hobbled painfully out of the room and towards the elevators. Cuddy wheeled on Adams, "He actually listened to you? What are you--?!"

Dr Adams held a hand up, "Doctor Cuddy... give him a break. He just found out he has a daughter."

That got everyone's attention. "You mean, someone spawned with.. him?" Foreman asked, astonished.

"The mother never told him. It was a girl he met back in pre-med. Joyce something. And, they apparently had a 'moment' before they broke up. Now, she's dead, and apparently she wants her daughter to go to him." Adam's explained what Dr House had told him, to be honest he was still surprised that House had opened up to him like that, though it may have been the promise of a few choice beers after the shift if he behaved that swung House around to liking him.

Cameron's face welled up with empathy for the girl who'd lost her mother, "Oh, the poor thing... what's her name?"

"Elizabeth Summers. I guess she goes by 'Buffy'." Adams grinned, clearly he didn't think that was the best abbreviation for her given name, but he wasn't unkind enough to say so. "Anyway, she's apparently landing in New Jersey in an hour or so, and I'm taking him to pick her up."

Adams paused, "Cameron, would you come with? I think .. Buffy.. would be more comfortable if there were a woman present."

Cuddy sighed, the wind having been completely drained from her sails, "Fine.. just get back here as soon as you can. I'm going to go see what I can do about getting Malcolm moved up on the donor list just in case House is wrong and there actually is something wrong with him."

Adams and Cameron left to catch up with House, at least this would actually give Adams chance to get to know one of hi other team mates. Cuddy headed off to her office. Foreman and Chase looked at each other.

Foreman slowly shook his head, "Why does it seem like everyone in the world who shouldn't have a child, does?"

Chase shrugged, "Well, if this girl doesn't put the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' yet, she will soon."

Two o'clock ran round,leaning over he pressed the intercom on this phone "Show him in", a man walked in , His suit smelled of books and libarys, a small breif case in his hand "I do not enjoy being kept waiting" Lockhart stood and walked to his bay window behind the desk looking out over the great city of DC, "You will wait as long as you need my money and my input, Now sit down".

The man was in his late thirtys and sat as commanded, He knew what lockhart was and knew how to deal with him if he became violent, But so far his input in the matter had been extremly helpful, "Santuary, was a failure the new proget is working a head of secdule, We have three fully growen projects are ready", The man went to run down his list but lockharts arm came up.

"I do not need numbers, I just need to know what you are here for, I do not like dealing with watchers, I have spent 700 years seeing what you see , But I chose to act while you run round like headless chickens, Pun intended." the man nose ruffled he hated lockhart , He thought he was above humans, Above the council little did he know soon his time would come, "We need more money to compelte the project on time", "then see my people and begone, I need to be in court in an hour, you should have come earlier".

The man stormed out the office and Christopher smiled , He walked to a closet and picked out a black suit with a blue tie, Jurys liked bule they found it nice to look at and Lockhart would do anything to win over a jury.

The flight kind of passed Buffy by in a blur. A regular blur, followed by a dark blur, once they crossed the time zones far enough east, so that nighttime happened a couple hours sooner than Buffy was used to.

This blur would be due to the fact that her mind was reeling from the dislocation of her entire world rotating about ten degrees to the left. Her mother was dead. Her father wasn't her father. She was being sent to live with a father she never knew existed.

Wasn't just being the scourge of the forces of darkness confusing enough? What deranged story editor decided this added twist was going to be fun? Obviously, her life had hit a major snag.

It seemed like the more fretful she got about her soon-to-be-new living arrangement, the faster the plane ride seemed to be going by. Wasn't that just the way it always goes? When it's something you want, time didn't pass - it tailgated. When it's something you're worried about? Zoom! Time suddenly could travel at the speed of light.

No matter how much she tried to quiet her brain, it kept rambling off on tangents that she'd rather it didn't ramble toward. Would he even want me around? I mean, he's this big time doctor! That's what Giles said, anyways. Am I even going to like it in Plainsboro? Doesn't it snow in New Jersey? Maybe this wasn't such a good-- Hey. Was that the plane touching down? Ohh, boy.

Buffy went about the procedure of disembarking, finding the luggage carousel and fetching her bags, and shambling along with the rest of the travel sheep to get past the security checkpoint. Lindsey had told her that her father would be picking her up, once he was able to get a hold of him. And if not, she had the address of the hospital that her father worked at. She could take a cab, if needs be. It wasn't like she was a stranger to the concept of the taxi, what with living in L.A. and all.

She cleared the security gate and looked around with a lost little sigh. There were clusters of people being greeted by families. Friends greeting friends. Mothers (oh God) greeting children. Buffy paused and closed her eyes, giving serious thought to having a major crying jag. But, no. Not in the middle of the airport. And not when she still needed to see if she was being met, or if she had to deliver herself. Maybe she should call Lindsey first, see if he'd managed to get a hold of her doctor-father, or...

Wait, what was that over there? Three people, standing and watching the security gate.. a pretty auburn haired woman, a guy that put off a 'Giles' kind of a vibe, and... someone that looked kind of like the Marlboro Man had been stretched on the wrack, and given a cane to help him walk afterwards. And the woman was holding a sign that said, 'Welcome, Buffy!'.

Dear gods. It even had a smiley face on it. Was she a potentially overachieving stepmother? This day just couldn't get more surreal.

Buffy took a deep breath and began to proceed toward the trio. While the uncle-ish man and the woman were still anxiously watching the gate, the older one noticed her as she approached. He blinked in vague recognition. "Adams..." He muttered.

All eyes focused on the displaced Californian, "Hey," She greeted, feeling foolish as she waved her hand half-heartedly. "That's me. I'm Buffy."

The woman immediately gave her a bright, welcoming smile, "Hello, Buffy! It's good to meet you! Was the flight okay?" She passed the sign off on the younger man, (Adams?), and reached out to envelop Buffy in a tentative hug.

Buffy could very well have kissed her for that. Well, not really, but the gesture was nice. Joyce had been a very tactile mom, always ready with a reaassuring caress or motherly hug. Since she had... since she left, Buffy felt like she was the only person on the planet, because suddenly there was nobody that would touch her in any sort of reassuring fashion. (She wasn't counting the boys at school, whose idea of 'touching' was a great deal less platonic.)

"It was.. y'know.. a flight," Buffy replied quietly, closing her eyes again, briefly.

"Oh! I'm sorry, you don't have any idea who we are." The woman straightened up after giving Buffy's arm a reassuring squeeze. "I'm Allison Cameron. This is Pierce Adams," She gestured to the younger man, who gave her a kindly, sympathetic smile. "And this..." Cameron trailed off, uncertain of the best way to introduce the two.

The cane wielding man took matters in his own hands, and leaned forward to offer one of said hands to Buffy with an unreadable expression on his face, "I'm Greg House. I guess I'm your father." There was a tightness around his eyes that Buffy could sort of read. He was either really tense, or.. no, he was in pain. A lot of pain. Was it because of her? Oh God, this was so confusing...

Buffy took his hand, watching her own delicate fingers vanish in his palm as they were concealed in a surprisingly gentle grip. Well, he was apparently a doctor, he must have a lot of experience in being gentle. "Hi. It's nice to meet you.. all." House withdrew his hand again, after the appropriate amount of contact.

Well. Wasn't this awkward silence nice? "So, you brought friends with you...?" She asked of House. How keen. Everyone wanted to meet her.

Cameron came to the social rescue, "We work with your father," she explained.

Adams spoke up, "I've only just met him, but I thought it might be less awkward if you didn't meet completely alone." That, and he didn't trust House to greet a distraught sixteen year old by himself, without saying something to frighten her or hurt her feelings. He'd only known House a day, and even now he could tell House wasn't a people person.

Buffy glanced at the overly careful duo that had accompanied her father, "And, are you starting to see the flaw inherent in the plan..?" Truthfully, there wasn't much of anything that could make this less awkward. Although she did kind of appreciate the effort. And that hug from Allison had been nice.

At Buffy's question, a half smile quirked the corner of House's mouth. Perhaps some of his genes were swimming around in that petite frame. Because she certainly didn't look anything like him. Well, perhaps the eyes...

Meanwhile, a realization was slowly dawning on Buffy. They worked with her father? They.. were all doctors? She began to feel faintly like one of the kids on the 'short' bus. Not that she was unintelligent or anything, but.. they were doctors. It took like, years and years of school to get that. And her years and years of school were all primary education. That couldn't be good.

Cameron felt the awkwardness begin to pile up. "Oh! We got you a welcoming present. It's not much - just something we picked up in one of the gift shops before you landed, but..." She held up a yellow sweatshirt that read, You live in New Jersey? Which exit?, complete with a cartoon picture of a tangled looking snarl of freeway roads that were all tied in a knot.

Buffy gave a half smile, not quite getting the joke, but it was kind of cute. And the occasional gusts of air coming in when the automatic doors to the street opened were kind of chilly. "Oh. Well.. thank you." She murmured, bestowing a grateful smile on Allison. Though, it really didn't touch her eyes.

Adams caught the bemused look that Buffy had given the shirt, “It’s a running gag. Sort of the state shame. It’s often said that you can’t hardly go anywhere in New Jersey, without ending up on a highway of some sort. The truth is.. You really can’t go anywhere without getting on the highway, unless you’re walking.” His reward was another of those almost-smiles. He then glanced at the clock next to the screens that displayed when flights were due or had landed, “It’s getting late. I ought to get you two home, so you can get settled in, Buffy. Cameron, did you want me to drop you back at the hospital?”

Cameron shrugged, “Sure, I don’t think there’s much we can do that the nurses can’t for Malcolm.” At Buffy’s curious look, she explained, “Our current patient.. We can’t figure out what’s wrong with him, exactly. We’re sort of at the ‘hurry up and wait’ phase.” This explanation had the virtue of being true, without going into the sordid details of exactly why the man was in such bad shape.

Buffy nodded, accepting this explanation for now. “I could stand to be somewhere that’s not moving for a while, anyway.” She paused briefly to tug the sweatshirt over her head, and the four of them began the trek to the parking garage, in search of Pierce's car.

Fourty minutes and no less than three separate highways and a pause at the hospital later , (The sweatshirt wasn’t lying!), they pulled up in front of House’s apartment building. (House’s House, Buffy punned inside her head). Adams walked them inside, insisting on helping carry Buffy’s luggage. He seemed so keen on helping, that Buffy didn’t have the heart to tell him no, but she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of a sword under his long coat, she just brushed it off, ignoring at and thinking the jetlag had finally gotten to her. Never mind the fact that she could’ve carried all of the luggage balanced on one hand. The hospital had been on the way, so Cameron was already dropped off.

“Well, make yourself at home,” House invited gruffly, waving an arm vaguely about. He was a bit at a loss as to what to say.

Adams took over, “If you’re hungry, Buffy, I’m sure there’s... something in the fridge. Just don’t touch it if it’s moving.” He wished he was more than half-kidding, He’d seen House’s place last night after their shift, and he wasn’t exactly the most organised person. While Buffy settled her luggage out of the way, Adams tugged House aside.

“You know you can’t stay in this apartment much longer, right? It’s not room enough for a teenage girl.” Adams began in hushed tones. Not hushed enough, because Buffy could hear every word clear as a bell. Bless that Slayer hearing.

“No, I thought I’d traipse merrily along through life with my long lost daughter on my couch,” House snarked back, leaning against the wall and rubbing at his leg. “Yes, I know that. I just have a few extra preparations I have to make first. It’s not like I’m much good for carrying boxes.”

House’s new friend sighed, “Fine. And.. Try to talk to her. She’s got to feel weird enough as it is, without having a grouchy old man barely saying two words to her.” He glanced over his shoulder at Buffy, who was pretending not to hear. Adams’s voice dropped to the barest whisper. “Do you want me to bring you some pills? Cuddy couldn’t have foreseen something like this happening.”

The crippled physician looked mortally offended, “What? And miss out on the chance to get out of clinic duty for a month? Begone, heathen.”

Rolling his eyes, Adams began to make his way to the door. “Call me if you guys need anything, alright? Buffy, it was wonderful to meet you. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.” With what he hoped was a reassuring smile for the girl, Adams beat a hasty retreat so he could get home to check something on the watcher databse, the name Buffy Summers was ringing a bell with him, but he was damned if he could remember what it was.

Silence reigned in the apartment for about five minutes. Buffy tried to fend off the oppressive quiet by puttering with her things, getting her backpack situated since it contained her most immediately needed items. She got so wrapped up in it, that she jumped when House spoke again. “So. Burned down the gym, eh? That anxious to get out of P.E?”

Of all the things he could’ve brought up first... “Pills, huh? That have anything to do with the fact that you look like you’d go around the world to the right, if it wasn’t for your cane?” Never put a Slayer on the defensive.

House gave a partial grin. She definitely had to have some of his DNA in there. Could love of snarkiness be genetically transmitted? “Do you know what a blood clot can cause?” Buffy shook her head silently. “If it’s in the brain, it’s called an aneurism. If it’s in the heart, it’s a heart attack. I had one in my leg; the medical term is 'infarction'.” He paused, frowning. “The only symptom is pain. If there was any way for my physicians to know more info, they might have caught it in time.” He limped over to his wetbar, and poured himself a scotch.

“They didn’t.”

Buffy’s brows furrowed, “They didn’t know more info, or they didn’t catch it in time?”

“Both.” House downed half the glass. “I had two options. One was to remove my leg. The other was to let it run its course. It caused what’s known as ‘muscle death’. So, the booby prize for keeping my leg, is chronic pain. I’ve been using Vicodin to manage it. But they think I’m getting addicted. I was bet that I couldn’t go a week without the meds. If I do, I get out of doing extra duty at the hospital for a month.”

Buffy stared at him for several moments. “Why are you telling me this?”

House glanced at her over his shoulder, “You asked. And I never lie.” Outside of work, at any rate. But there was no need to go into that. She’d find that out soon enough, he was fairly certain.

While Buffy was digesting this, House made his way slowly to his recliner. “So. School gym?”

Buffy flushed slightly, “It was a total accident. There was this... Gang that tried to crash a school dance. I tried to push one of them off of me, and I knocked over a candle, and...” She made a hand motion that was the equivalent of ‘poof!’.

One of House’s eyes narrowed slightly. She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t telling the whole truth, either. Hm. Interesting. “There’s blankets in that closet over there. Like Adams said, if you’re hungry, feel free to raid. I only have the couch at the moment, but it shouldn’t be too long before that changes.”

“Um.. Okay! Thanks, er...” Buffy paused, “What.. What should I call you?” That was one of the more confusing things she’d been considering on the plane.

“Call me what you want,” he shrugged, “Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’ll be nicer than what I get called half the time at work. I’ll take some time tomorrow to get you enrolled at Plainsboro college... do you want to go to college?” House paused, it wasn’t as if he was hurting for money, if his daughter wanted to go to college, she would. But he wouldn’t push her into any decision tonight. Looking over at Buffy where she was lost in thought he heaved himself up from the chair and made his way to his room.

She watched him disappear into the hall, “G’night...”

Buffy awoke after a fitful slumber and had a few moments of panic, not recognizing where she was right away. Once the adrenaline from her abrupt start had burned the sleep from her brain, she calmed down slowly. Oh, right... I live in New Jersey now. A distinction she could've done without, really. California was a place that she thought she'd live her entire life.

Then again, she also figured she'd be middle aged before anything happened to her mother. Or, that's what she thought before she became the Slayer. Afterwards, Buffy thought that she, herself, would be dead before she was old enough to legally drink. Or possibly by voting age - she hadn't settled on which.

And that line of thought needed to stop for the time being. Down that path, lay mental meltdowns galore.

To distract herself, she puttered carefully around the apartment. It seemed that House was already gone to work for the day. She couldn't hear him anywhere in the small apartment, at any rate. However, there did appear to be a folded note affixed to the fridge via magnet, with a word that might be her name.

Boy, they really do all have bad handwriting, Buffy mused to herself.

She unfolded the piece of paper and squinted as she read.

Buffy - At work. –House

Below that, in a somewhat less messy hand:

Loosely translated, that means, 'Make yourself at home. There's money on the end table if you want to order pizza or something. If you get bored hanging around the apartment, feel free to catch a cab and come visit the hospital.' He just writes in shorthand. -Pierce Adams

Buffy couldn't quite suppress a faintly amused grin at that. The bottom of the paper was crumpled, as if the two men had gotten into a tug-of-war over the note. One would think she'd feel a bit put out that she didn't get a more personal note from her own father. Somehow, the fact that his friend had to translate his almost-sentence was more humorous than upsetting. She ended up leaving the note sitting near the money left on the table, and went about the unmemorable process of getting showered and some breakfast into her.

Once that was over with and Buffy was feeling very nearly human again, she decided that some mindless TV, followed by a bit of equally mindless busywork. Just straightening up, really. So she felt like she was doing something other than being a lump on the couch. Nothing too invasive. She straightened up piles of stuff into less disorganized piles of stuff. Cleaned up the kitchen, did some dishes. She would have cleaned out the fridge, but.. well, there really didn't seem to be much to clean out. Maybe she'd use that pizza money for a few groceries, instead?

Nah. Besides, Buffy still had the money allotted to her from the trust fund for some spending fun. Now there was a thought. Maybe later, she'd go and start learning the lay of the land in the malls nearby. That was always good for killing a few hours...

However, she wasn't feeling adventurous enough for that quiet yet. Around midday, Buffy was curled up on the couch, holding Mr. Gordo and debating which of the midday soaps to watch. She'd just settled nostalgically on General Hospital, when there was a light rap on the door.

Buffy hopped up to answer, opening the door to reveal, "..oh! Dr. Adams! C'mon in." She waved vaguely. It was likely, she hoped, that the man knew the apartment better than she did by a large margin.

“So, Buffy, or should i call you The Slayer?” Adams paused at the door, ready to defend any action at the slightest hint of aggression from The Slayer.