This will be relevant to another fic later, but for now, it's 

An Apology Snippet
 

Syracuse, New York - 1991

The muffled crack of gunshots drew him, irresistible as any honey trail to an ant.  The crumbling three-story building, covered in graffiti and supposed Satanic symbols, had visitors tonight.  Usually Alex had it to himself, a perfect place to practice skills and abilities no one needed to know he possessed.  Now, however, a blood-soaked body partially blocked his usual entryway.

Sloppy.  Perfect, precise targeting, but too many targets hit.  He was dead meat after that groin shot; why bother taking off the head as well?  Enthusiast.  He grimaced in distaste; enthusiastic killers generally weren't sane.  Insane people were unpredictable; unpredictable people were dangerous; dangerous people might require killing and he wasn't getting paid for this.  For a moment Alex considered taking the pistol partially concealed by the dead man's arm, then decided against it.  He could still faintly smell cordite; the cops might need it there as evidence.

The ringing scream of scraped metal came clearly to his ears now, and an almost rhythmic clang of steel pounding on steel.  If that was a knife fight, they were fast.  Alex wormed his way past the second body -- gutted as he fell; the leg must have buckled -- fastidious as any cat that his clothes not be stained by the blood, and at ease as that same feline with his own lithe grace.  And like a cat, his ears nearly pricked when he moved into the open room and saw the fight going on not thirty feet away.

A moderately tall woman (Alex automatically gauged her height at 5'6" or so) was wielding what looked like a yard-long sword and trying to beat down the defenses of the woman kneeling on the floor in front of her.  The crouching figure fended her off with a blade in each hand.

They're that quick with swords?   How?  But the one on the ground's fading fast.  No surprise if that's her own blood she's in -- looks like a small lake.  She's dead, whether she knows it or not.

What little light from the spotlights passed through the fog haloed around the black hair of the standing woman, who backed away for a moment, reaching for the gun in the back of her belt.  The brunette on the ground dropped her dagger, grabbed a gore-smeared chunk of concrete off the floor and flung it, nailing her opponent in the shoulder.

"Bitch!"

"Play the game, Melissa.  Bad enough you brought shooters.  Can't take an injured woman?"

The standing woman, Melissa, snarled, "Fuck the rules.  I'm in this to win.  And why should I fight you with a sword?"

"Because," the kneeling woman said grimly, "you'll not win if you use a gun.  I left your name and description on Connor MacLeod's answering machine.  Gods help you if I'm found decapitated with bullet wounds besides.  He's not likely to hunt you if you play fair.  He'll hound you to the ends of the earth if you cheat."

"You lie."  She sounded none too sure to Alex's ears.

To his surprise, it was the kneeling woman who spotted him, and she snarled in defiance too furious for words.  A long dark braid trailed past her shoulders, already soaked with blood where it had dragged through the puddle.  "Another one of her Gods-forsaken shooters?"

He held up both hands in a practiced attempt to look innocent.  "I heard the sounds....  Please," he asked, interjecting a pleading note into his voice, "tell me those are just mannequins.  The men aren't really dead, are they?"

Behind him, Alex could hear sirens wailing.  Shit.  Someone heard the shots.  So much for my practice site.  The cops will keep an eye on this place for months now, just in case.

Melissa whipped around to look at Alex, taking her attention off the kneeling woman for just a moment... and fell when a second rock slammed squarely into her temple.

Alex momentarily allowed surprise to show, then went back to looking innocent.  The kneeling woman pressed up to her feet and first pulled shoes and bloody socks off, then stripped the jeans off, as well.  She bit into one lip as she worked the fabric off a ghastly yellow-green bruise running the length of her left thigh, but didn't make any noise.  The whole pile, jeans, shoes, and socks, went into a hastily rolled bundle, blood-soaked shoes and stained cuffs in the middle, before she glanced back at him.  "The cops will be here soon.  You'd best run."

"But I didn't do any of this," Alex pointed out, holding to his 'reasonable innocent' façade and hoping she'd get moving.  The cops were getting closer and closer.

Her dagger went into the pants bundle; she had never put down the sword.  "They'll not care."  She managed one limping step, then another, and another.  As she went past Melissa, the woman stabbed down through her chest then withdrew the sword again.  "That will hold her a bit longer," she muttered, almost quietly enough not to be heard.

Alex gave in to his instincts and moved.  She can identify me as being here.  I'm not getting my cover blown now, not when I'm almost where I need to be.  Fine.  I'll get her out of here until I decide whether she's worth blackmailing.  She'll be difficult to kill, if that's what I have to do, but she's wounded.  He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her on the weakened left side.  "Move, woman, neither of us wants to talk to the cops."

She snagged a trench coat off a half-rusted pipe as they passed, but made no attempt to pull it on.

"Do you have to have that?"

"Yes."  She gave no further explanation, and when Alex spared a glance at her, he saw blood on her mouth where she was biting her lip to stay silent.

"Fuck.  You'll never make it," he decided.  "Can you hold on piggyback?"

"Yes."

Somehow she did, with one leg and one arm, though she was heavier than he'd expected.  Alex wormed quickly through the rubble at the back of the building and worked his way to the old trash slide.  "I'll go first.  Give me your sword."

"No."

"I'll catch you at the bottom, but I am not getting stabbed just to rescue you."

Grey eyes met his steadily, the first time she had looked him squarely in the face.  "I never stab anyone by accident, oh good Samaritan," she said dryly.  "My breath to the Gods."

"This should reassure me?"

"You can always stand back," she offered.  "They'll be here soon.  Run, whoever you are.  I'd not blame you."

He snorted at that.  "Right.  I don't like losing.  But if you don't have the sword under control, I let you land on your own feet."  Rather than argue, he sat on the slide.  She'd make it down or not.

She slid down a few seconds later, braid tucked into her shirt and overcoat on.  The sword was nowhere in sight.

"Tell me you didn't leave evidence behind," Alex snapped at her, even as he caught her before the injured leg could take too much of her weight.  What little impact there was still shocked the breath from her lungs and he frowned.  Leg must be broken.  I'm surprised she can walk at all.

"In -- my -- coat," she gasped, as he helped settle her on his back.  "I've got a -- truck two blocks  from here," she finished, having finally caught her breath.

"I can carry you two blocks," Alex said firmly.  "We'll make plans somewhere away from here."

She directed him to the truck easily enough, using single words or pointing with a hand just inside his peripheral vision.  Twice he had to detour into shadows as more police arrived.  The truck was a two or three year old Chevy, sturdy and completely unremarkable with its age and camper top.

Alex set her down on the passenger side and said firmly, "Keys."  She is not driving.

The woman threw them to him without a word and slid cautiously into the truck.  It was a silent ride to his fourth-favorite hideout, the one Alex was most willing to write off for future use.  When he finally pulled to a stop on an apparently deserted rural road, she wasn't asleep or unconscious as he'd half-expected.  Instead she was watching the stars, one hand holding the door to keep from sliding and the other bracing her wounded leg against jostles.

"We're here.  I'll look at your leg when we're inside."

Her eyes and face were colorless in the dim moonlight as she studied the apparently abandoned clearing he'd driven to.  She nodded, finally, and said, "I'll need help with it, yes.  Will you please pass me the duffel bag from the back of the truck?"

Alex found it easily enough, and a bo staff that looked all too familiar from some of his martial arts training.  He tossed her that, and slung the bag over his shoulder.  God, what does she have in this?  Bricks?  "You have a name?"

"Aidan.  You?"

No last name.  She's not a fool.  Alex already knew she was dangerous; he had seen the unthinking motion that caught the staff out of the air.  "Alex."  He led the way past a tangle of blown-over trees and limbs, ducking through to get to the buried cabin underneath.  When he turned to see if she could make it, Aidan had dropped to the ground and was carefully crabbing under the sheltering branches using both hands and her good leg.

Once inside the cabin, he pulled a propane lantern and matches from under the unmade bunk.  "Let me see your leg," he ordered when it was lit.

Aidan dropped her duffel and coat on the bed, then peeled her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor.  "How steady is your hand?"

"Steady enough to set a bone," he answered.  "Let me see....  What the hell?"  He'd been openly admiring the pale, muscular body, but her left leg startled and then fascinated him.  Waves of bruising appeared in purple, black, and red glory, fading to green-yellow only to be overtaken by fresh bruises, all over a deformed swelling on her thigh.  What really caught his attention was the continuous crackle of electricity as blue sparks swarmed constantly over her skin, raising the fine hairs.

Aidan levered herself down to the floor and pulled the shirt under and around the leg before handing Alex a multi-use Leatherman from her duffel bag.  "Use the pliers."

"For what?  Pulling your teeth?"

"I'll re-open the wound and hold it open, but you'll have to pull the blade from the bone.  She broke her dagger in my thigh, and I won't heal properly 'til the shrapnel is out."

Green eyes stared at her in disbelief.  "You've got to be kidding.  If we pull this out, you'll die.  You've already lost too much blood."

"I'm very difficult to kill, Alex.  Just help me with this, all right?" she added when he seemed unconvinced.  "I won't put you to the trouble of hiding a body, I promise."

"I don't think it'll be up for a vote," came the sarcastic reply.  "And I'm not sticking my hand into an electrical field.  What is that?"

"I heal this way," Aidan said tiredly.  "The blood loss isn't too bad, Alex.  Truly.  Please, I'll have enough to do holding the wound open and the leg still.  I don't know that I can pull the steel as well."

"Is it going to shock me?"

She sighed and said, "If you're worried, put down the Leatherman and feel for yourself."

He probed carefully, ready to yank his hand back, and felt only a mild shock, like playing with a nine volt battery.  Deliberately he left his fingers there, enjoying the minor tingle as the current flowed over and around his skin.  A new bruise under his fingers pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.

"Just grab the metal and pull?"

"Basically," Aidan answered grimly.  "Try to draw it straight from the leg, if you can, but I'll settle for having it out.  If I pass out, hold the wound closed and it'll heal more quickly.  Can you do this?"

"Just remember, you have to stay alive.  You get to clean up the blood."

Grey eyes narrowed, then she dredged up a smile that lit her entire face.  "Fair enough, Alex.  I'll cut on three.  One, two, three."

Her dagger laid open skin and muscle with appalling ease -- beautiful weapon, razor-edged, too -- and then Alex was too busy to consider extraneous details.  His entire attention focused on finding and removing the blade fragment buried in her leg.  Light sparked off metal and he opened the wound even farther with his left hand, fingers tearing muscle farther apart to make a path for the pliers.  The knife blade refused to come free and she doubled over, but still held the wound open.

The shard came loose all at once, and Alex nearly fell, then rolled back up.  He dropped the pliers on the floor and wrapped both hands around Aidan's thigh, trying to press the wound closed.  A gout of red stained the shirt under her leg, but the gash was already closing.  Electricity crackled under his hands, and he shivered at the feel of it.  Too much about this was far too strange...everything but the color of her blood.  Aidan was definitely human at least, if as cold-blooded as he'd learned to be. With an attitude like that, she's probably another professional, but spy or killer?  With healing like this, they'd be fools not to use her as a killer, no matter who she works for. 

He let his mind wander across her actions, her reactions, her behavior, completely at random to see what his subconscious had come up with, all the while holding that blood-sodden shirt against her thigh.  Sooner than he'd expected, the flesh felt more solid, as if it would hold if he released it, and Alex looked at her.

Unconscious and unguarded, the woman he'd reluctantly rescued looked very different.  Without the careful control of her face, it was obvious she liked to laugh and smile.  Alex memorized her face and features out of habit, then looked for more useful information.  Calluses from karate, it looks like, and I suppose these are from the sword grip.  For a female, extremely strong hands and wrists -- makes sense if she uses that sword much.  Good muscle tone, slow heartbeat:  an athlete and trained fighter.  No one to cross, even if she is weak and half-dressed.

The gash across her leg had closed to a long, red-seamed scar; even as Alex watched, it faded from red to pink to white... and was gone.  Looking along the mostly naked body in front of him, he could only see one scar on her, a faint line running along a rib and curving up to the sternum.  Nothing on her hands or arms; her nose doesn't look like it's been broken, or her fingers.  She's a close-up fighter with no identifying scars or marks.  I have got to find out how she does it.

Without opening her eyes, Aidan said tiredly, "It's cold.  Is there water available?"

"Down at the stream.  About a quarter mile."

"Ah.  Does the fireplace work?"

"Yeah.  Pass the shirt and pants.  You can wear the coat back into civilization."

She chuckled quietly.  "Start a fire, Alex.  Are you hungry?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her.  "Why, did you bring a French restaurant in that duffel?"

"Nothing so fancy, sorry, but I'll keep in mind you like French cuisine.  Start a fire; I'll start cleaning up the mess."

Alex watched in surprise as she did just that.  That damn duffel of hers produced a cook pot, dehydrated stew, bottled water, a coffee pot and coffee.  Once dinner was arranged over the fire, she pulled out more bottled water, liquid soap, and a washcloth before stripping down completely.

"Ever heard of modesty?" he asked curiously.

"Mm-hmm.  I simply don't worry with it.  If my nudity bothers you, turn your head.  I'll get dressed again in a few minutes, but I'm not wearing clean clothes while I get the blood out of my hair."  Aidan produced baby wipes from the duffel and began cleaning the ends of her braid, unraveling the dark hair slowly and working her way back.

"Do this often?" Alex asked.

"Now and then," she answered quietly.  "Here, pour this where the blood got into the floor, would you?"  This excursion into the duffel yielded a bottle of peroxide and he had to grin.

"Did you earn merit badges in the Girl Scouts?"

"No, that... was never an option," Aidan said slowly.  She stirred the stew, then went back to cleaning off the remnants of the fight.  "By the way, since I forgot to tell you earlier?  You would make an excellent battlefield medic.  You have a superb grasp of essentials."

He studied her to see if that was sarcasm, but from serious expression on her face, it wasn't.  "Why?"

"You deal with necessities.  First you pulled the blade, then you reduced the bleeding.  Thank you.  Low blood pressure is miserable."

Alex watched the peroxide eat out most of the blood and poured a bit more over a particularly stubborn spot.  "What else is in that bag?"

"Clothes, survival tools, food -- this and that," was the evasive answer.  "Stay out of it, Alex, some of it will bite you."

"Nice of you to warn me," he answered and tried not to smirk; he'd already figured that out.  "Coffee's almost ready.  Got an extra mug?"

"No, I'm afraid not.  Here, fill the bowl, too; the stew won't be ready for a bit."

"Aidan, come sit by the fire.  You're shivering, and you missed some blood."  He pushed her down on the hearth and took away the washcloth, scrubbing her back with rough efficiency.  Strong hands tilted her face to the light of the fire and Alex cleaned caked blood from her cheek and down under her ear, making sure all evidence was removed.  "Did she catch your face?"

"No, one of her shooters grazed me.  I'll pass the word that she cheats, but I doubt Melissa will be a problem anytime soon.  After all," and Aidan smiled wickedly, "the cops found her with bloody sword in hand in a building with two dead men, one of them decapitated.  Oh, they had guns, recently fired, but she'll be a while explaining this to a prosecutor."

"Why did you take his head off, Aidan?"  Alex kept his voice calm, soothing.  After all, he needed this information to decide if she lived or died.

"Honestly?" she asked, sounding a little surprised.  "He rushed me, Alex.  I slapped the gun down with the dagger, and the other arm came up in a backhand.  Just a memorized pattern."  Implicit in her voice was the awareness that he was a trained fighter, one who understood muscle memory and a body reacting when the brain couldn't think.

"Before or after they shot you?"

"Which time?  Yes, this was after they creased me.  Why?"  She turned and studied him thoughtfully, uncaring that the firelight silhouetted her bare skin with gold and red.

"You owe me," he pointed out coldly.  "I'm trying to decide if you'll stay alive to pay me."

"Staying alive is what I do best.  But I'll not argue, Alex.  You're right; I owe you.  What do you want in repayment?"

Alex didn't have to pause to consider it.  The woman was a fighter, a killer, a survivor... and quite possibly not connected to the Consortium.  He'd have to check into that, subtly, when he got back.  In the meantime, though, he knew what he wanted from her.  "For now?  Nothing."

"In other words," and she dropped her voice to a husky, Italian-accented whisper, "one of these days, you're gonna need a favor."

Alex shook his head, green eyes cold in the firelight.  "Bad job on the quote.  Marlon Brando you're not.  But yes."

Aidan nodded slowly.  "Fair enough.  When you need it, call in the marker. My name is Aidan Logan.  I'll be living in Syracuse for another few years, but at the latest, I'll be moving by '98.  I suspect you'll be able to find me, if you're still alive."

"We understand each other," he nodded.  Her eyes and breathing had never changed; she intended to make good on her promise then.  Good enough.  "Pull those extra clothes on, then, Aidan, and I'll pour the coffee."

She gave him a very amused smile as she extracted and put on a thick corduroy shirt.  "Might as well talk for a while, yes."
 

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