Dreams of the Morose and Under-Characterized

(or, This is a working title for something i haven't got a clue as to how to

name. Any suggestions?)

by Shannon Hoyt

***

"Don't be a tragic hero, Duncan. Trust me, it's a real bitch."

Duncan MacLeod whirled. He had heard no-one approach, felt no-one, but there

behind him was a tallish man with long brown-gold hair. He was dressed in an

old t-shirt, jeans, and a baggy flannel that had all seen much better days,

and he was sporting a bushy mustache and an affably annoyed grin. He slouched

insouciantly against something which Duncan could simply not see.

The Scot gaped for a moment, flustered, eyes wide. His mouth worked silently

once or twice before he managed a single word, in rather a smaller and meeker

tone than he had intended.

"...Brian?"

"Ah, you did figure it out." Brian Cullen stood straight, and his hands

moved as though he were turning a chair around. He sat straddling it, arms

resting on the air where the back was. Should be. Would have been, if there

had been a chair there, which there wasn't.

Duncan MacLeod's head began to hurt.

"Sorry," Brian said, and a chair appeared beneath him, materializing just

where it should be. "I forgot, you're not used to this."

"What are you... but you're *dead*."

Cullen nodded. "Yup. You killed me. So I'm in here, with you. Just like

all the others."

"This isn't real." Mac was shaking his head slowly, trying to make sense of

it. "It has to be--"

"A dream?" Brian cocked his head. "Sort of. It's close enough, though;

we'll call it a dream for now. Your damn Scottish skull is so thick, this is

the only way we can get in touch with you."

"...The others?"

Another grin from Brian. "Thrusters firing a little slow today, Duncan?

Fitz. Richie. Sean Burns, James Koltec, Mei Ling Shen, Michael Moore, dozens

of others you've known. They're still arguing about what to do about this. I

just slipped off to talk to you before everyone came up to assault you."

"Everyone?" Duncan shuddered. "And what to do about what?"

"Okay, not everyone. That Kronos guy just kept yammering until we had to

gang up on him and gag him; the man *never shuts up*. No wonder you took

hishead." Brian grimaced, then waved a hand and a chair appeared. "Have a

seat, Duncan. I could probably come up with some good Irish whisky for us."

Duncan sat. "No drinks, Brian," he said automatically.

"You look like you could use one. Hell, you look like you just lost your

best friend. And I know for a fact that you didn't." A table appeared

between them, with an old ornate whisky bottle and two glasses. "And it won't

hurt me in here. And maybe, just maybe, it'll get you to loosen up a little."

"Brian," Duncan said, in his I'm-warning-you voice.

"Fine, you want an explanation. Look, the "It's a Wonderful Life" thing

obviously didn't work, right? I mean, okay, fine, you didn't give your head

to O'Rourke, full marks for that, but Duncan, old boy, you are looking in

serious danger of dropping out of the Fight. And you've always been the

strongest fighter." He grinned again, mustache twitching, and added, "Not

that that doesn't make you a real pain in the ass sometimes, mind you...."

"The point?" His tone was more exasperated, and Brian sighed in response.

"Look, if this isn't enough, I can have Fitz come back up and turn you into

Jimmy Stewart for a few more reels if you like. We have *hundreds* of people

who would be different, and for the worse, if you hadn't been around. Me, for

instance. Without your kindly intervention in 18... ah, hell, what was the

year? You know, there in San Francisco. I spent over half of the nineteenth

century either drunk or stoned, it's a miracle I can remember anything. And

without you--if you hadn't been there to talk me down, and help me clean up--I

never would have made it to the twentieth. As a matter of fact, I'd have

killed that old man and about three more people, run off, and gotten my head

chopped off in a drugged stupor within a couple decades. During that twenty

years, a few dozen more mortals would have died because of me. And that's

just me, and just the short version. I can run you through people's stories

until the Trump of Doom. Hell, Fitz can make a golf analogy last that long,

though heaven only knows how. Or why."

"Brian--"

"Yeah?"

"Too many people have died because of me. I can't let it go on. I took

*your* head. I should have found another way." He leaned his elbows on the

table, head hanging. "I have to find another way."

Brian sighed explosively, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Sean told us not to

underestimate Scottish guilt." He grabbed the bottle and poured out two

shots, plunking one down in front of Duncan. "Have you ever, while in your

right and sane mind, discounting such instances as the Dark Quickening"--he

was somewhat unsuccessful at suppressing a violent shudder--"or having your

strings pulled by a creepy demon, have you ever taken major action that did

not have at its root a love of life, and a desire to see it prosper?

Everywhere?"

Mac stared into his drink, despondent. "You didn't see me after Culloden,

Brian, you didn't see what I did--"

"Of course I did. I live here now, remember? Every time you have a

flashback, we get it in full-color surround sound. Better than movies, Richie

even makes popcorn." The smile fell from his face, and he leaned forward.

"But answer this: would you have been mad enough to do that if it had not

been for the tremendous violent waste of life? The man earned his treatment,

and you recovered your wits, and thousands of dead scotsmen cheered and

toasted you from beyond."

Duncan's head came up, and he watched his friend with haggard eyes. "It was

wrong."

Brian nodded equably. "But it was prompted out of a love of *life*. Not the

way people talk about someone who 'loves life,' that usually just means too

many women and too much booze--" Brian grinned over at him before turning

serious again-- "but a love of *everyone's* life. And utter outrage that so

many people should be so quickly, brutally, unreasonably deprived of what you

love so much."

"It won't work, Brian. I've killed too many people. I've let too many people

die, while I didn't save them."

"You can't save everyone, Highlander!" The words ripped themselves from his

throat. "There will always be more evil than you can defeat, because no

matter how many evil men you take care of, there will be more. There

will always be people who care nothing for life, mortal or immortal. The

mortal ones, you fight, and you hand over to mortal justice. The immortal

ones face immortal justice. There's not a prison anywhere that can hold one

of us forever."

"I have no right to judge."

"This is getting us nowhere." Brian stood and started pacing. "I'll have

Fitz play the rest of the tape, don't think I won't. Personally, I don't want

to watch it again, but I will if it'll shake you out of this."

"I don't need to see the rest of the tape. I get the idea."

"I don't think you do. 'I can't save everyone, I won't save anyone,' is that

it? Sounds like pretty poor sportsmanship to me."

"I won't let anyone else die because of me."

Brian stopped pacing, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, now I see where

this is headed. You think they were there against their will? Duncan, ask

any one of them. Give them a choice of occasional danger and possible death

or not being your friend, and *every one of them* will chose your friendship.

They already have. They know these things happen; Hell, Joe's nearly been

killed *how* many times? Faced trial and execution by the Watchers, because

your friendship meant more to him than anything else. He put up with the

dozen times you broke off contact 'for his own good', and he came back,

because you were important to him. Methos offered you his head, rather than

see Kalas able to take the Prize, risked it *again* to get you back into your

right mind. And suddenly, you can't judge anyone, but you're willing to make

that decision for them? Get bent, MacLeod. They're old enough to make their

own decisions. Although I'm not sure you are anymore."

"And what if they make the wrong decision?" Duncan's voice was anguished,

less sure of himself, and a ghost of a smile flitted across Cullen's face.

"As long as no one else gets hurt, it's *their* decision. Not yours. Free

will is a bitch, but it's the only consolation we have. You have to make

*your* decision, every time this happens. Which is the lesser evil, allowing

people to be killed, or killing someone yourself? Do you let someone choose

something, even though it might get them killed... or take away their right to

choose?" Brian shrugged. "I know which way I'd go."

"Big talk, coming from you."

Brian wasn't fazed. "I made my choices. Some were bad, some were good, just

like anyone else. But I never told you you couldn't be my friend because you

might get hurt. And I never--when I was in my right mind--killed innocent

people. Or let them be killed when I could do something."

"And if doing something meant losing your own life? What then?"

"Then you fight with every breath and you take as many of the bastards with

you as you can, and you pray like anything that you make it out with your head

attached."

"And what about the people who died because you were near? Because they knew

you, or were just in the wrong place?"

"If you're going to start going down the whole chain of action, I can play,

too; 'cause the only way around that is to stay away from people. Just how

long do you think you can live without people, Mac? Without friends? How

long do you think you can stand by and watch innocents die?"

"I can't keep killing, Brian. You should understand that, of all people."

"I'm not asking if you can kill, Duncan." Cullen picked up his whisky and

knocked it back. "I'm asking if you can watch."