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Bubble Gum Crisis is copyrighted Artmic Inc. and Youmex, Inc.  Highlander, the
specific concepts of Immortality, the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Amanda,
Joe Dawson, and the Hunters, are the property of Rysher Entertainment. I am
just borrowing the characters for a little while, and promise not to bend,
fold, or staple them - unless I can come up with a good reason to do so. I can
be contacted at the Email address above. C&C will be accepted, out and out
flames will result in a Boomer or two being sent after you.

Please, enjoy my take on the Bubble Gum Crisis universe.....

Note: This is a bit late - Work managed to occupy most of this week, and I
didn't have to chance to do as much as I wanted to do with Chapter 12 of
"Vigilante's Run". I am still writing all three BGC stories, and I may finish
them up one day.....
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Chapter 1

Somewhere in Northern Korea
April 5, 2036
3:45pm

     He smelt the smoke before he came within view of the
monastery. 

     The wind was coming off the mountain this time of the year,
and it passed through the narrow cleft in the rocks that allowed
the path to continue up to the monastery. The smells the wind
carried were clear and distinctive.

     He stopped and sniffed the air like a wild animal, his mind
racing to place the odors he detected. His posture, which had
been relaxed and easy now became tense and alert. He gripped the
sheathed sword tightly in both hands, pulling the blade halfway
out of its sheath before gently returning it.

     He was of medium height, broad shouldered and thick waisted
without having any excess weight on his frame. He wore his dark
blonde hair long, and sported a thin mustache and beard. His face
had the harshness of people who spend most of their time out-
doors, and his eyes were a clean deep green in color.

     He was dressed for the mountains' cold in thick native
clothing that made him look like a rotund native at a distance.
He wore a pair of thick gray woolen pants and shirt over thermal
underwear Over that, he wore a thickly padded winter coat, thick
felt boots, fur gloves, and a thick fur cap.

     He thought back several hours to the last village he'd
passed through, located at the base of the mountain. There was a
feeling of unease among the villagers when he mentioned in
passing that he was going to the Chun-Ji Monastery. He hadn't
really taken notice of the awkwardness at the time, but he was
wishing that maybe he should of. 

     <Maybe I should have asked some more questions,> he 
thought, slipping the compact backpack from his shoulders. 
<Because there's something wrong. I can feel it.> He hid 
the backpack in a small crack near the cleft and covered it 
with a small pile of rocks. He would retrieve it later, if 
he could.

     Holding the sheathed sword in his left hand, he stepped into
the cleft, and continued up the path. He was alert, moving
quickly, but quietly up the well-worn path. The silence around
him was total, imposing a stark feeling of being alone that he
shook off with great difficulty.

     Several minutes later, he emerged from the other end of the
cleft, and found himself at the gates of the Monastery. As soon
as he saw the monastery's twisted gates, he knew there was
trouble. The knowledge became certain when he failed to feel the
presence of other Immortals this close to the walls.

     He unsheathed his sword, and tucked the wooden sheath into
his belt. The sword was about a meter long, single edged, and
straight. The hilt was made of a plain, but solid, dark hardwood,
and was long enough to hold with two hands. There was no hilt
guard, the wider hilt the only thing that protected the wielder's
hands. That and the wielder's own skill. He'd used this sword for
over a hundred and fifty years now, and it had never failed him 
in that time. 

     Holding the sword in a ready position, he slowly approached
the gates. The smells were stronger now, and his jaw tightened as
he recognized them. A mix of scents that he had become all too
familiar with, ones from the battlefield. At one time, He'd hoped
he would never smell such odors again. But once smelt, they were
always identifiable.

     A quick visual inspection of the gates told him that someone
had used explosives to breach them. <This wasn't an accident.
Somebody attacked the monastery with modern weapons.> He 
stopped near the gates for a second and listened for any sound. 
When he heard nothing, he moved quickly through the gates.

     He had been expecting it, but the sight inside the walls
still sickened him. A dozen bodies, all dressed in the loose
robes of simple monks, were scattered around the open courtyard.
Several of the trees that grew there had been torn apart by
intense firepower. The stones of the walls and the ground showed
severe heat scars.

     He knelt to examine the body nearest the gate. The monk laid
on his back, staring up into the sky with empty eyes. He gently
closed the man's eyes, said a quick prayer over his body, then
stared at the large hole in the monk's chest. He moved on to the
next body, then the next, each time saying a quick prayer before
he examined the body. All were dead from shots that had punched
right through the chest.

     After he examined the last body, he strode towards the
center of the courtyard. The courtyard was wider then it was
long. It was bordered on three sides by the monk's sleeping
quarters on the right, the storage rooms and workshops on the
left, and the temple itself before him. He smelt the smoke from
several fires that still smoldered inside the structures.

     He stood and stared at the structures, remembering what
Master Chang had told him the first time he stood here, all those
years ago. The monastery, the Master had told him with evident
pride, had been in existence for over seven hundred years. During
that time, it had survived several wars, weathered several
occupations from both external invaders and internal political
extremists, and never had been swayed from its path of spiritual
enlightenment.
 
     <But it couldn't withstand an assassination squad of
Boomers, Master,> he thought, as he felt the tears well up. 
The signs clearly pointed to being a Boomer attack. The monks 
never had a chance. <It is good you are not here to see this 
now.>

     But where were the other Immortals who were staying here?
Went after the Boomers? Such an attack would have been serious
enough to track the culprits, but to leave the bodies like this?
A sudden thought gripped him, a certainty that chilled him more
then the cold air.

     He ran to the temple, taking the steps two at a time. The
temple doors laid in several pieces around the entrance,
shattered by great force. <More Boomer handiwork,> he 
thought. He slowed and approached the entrance carefully, his 
sword gripped tightly in his hands.

     As soon as he looked inside the temple, he knew his worse
fears had occurred. The other immortals hadn't left the
monastery. They were still here - or at least their bodies were.
Someone had taken their heads, and with the evidence of their
arms tied behind the back, they never had a chance to defend
themselves.

     His heart pounded, and his mouth went dry. His friends,
fellow immortals, killed like animals, and on holy ground. He
couldn't bring himself to enter the temple, so he counted the
bodies from the doorway. He counted seven bodies, the same
number of Immortals who were currently living at the monastery.

     He heard something moving behind him, and his instincts took
over. He spun quickly, the sword a blur of steel. The figure
stepped back, the sword missing it by a full meter.

     "Hold your sword, Jason Storm," the figure said calmly in 
Korean. 

     Storm blinked. He lowered his sword, and stared at the monk
standing in front of him. "Master Cho?" he asked uncertainly, 
also in Korean. 

     Master Cho nodded. He was several centimeters shorter then
Storm, spry for a man in his mid sixties. His robes were stained
and dirty, and his usually cheerful face was drawn and grim. "You
must calm yourself, Jason," he said slowly in English. "This is
not the time for anger." 

     Storm slumped against the wall, his face showing relief and
concern. "Master, are you all right?"

     "I will live."

     "What happened here?"

     "I am not certain. I was visiting several of the villages on
the far side of the mountain." 

     "Someone attacked this monastery using Boomers."

     Master Cho nodded. "I arrived here less then an hour ago,
and found this." He waved a hand to encompass the entire
courtyard. "I was checking the sleeping areas when you entered."

     "The immortals are in there," said Storm weakly, pointing
inside the temple.

     "I know," said Cho sadly. "Someone with knowledge of
Immortals, yet not Immortal themselves did this deed."

     Storm nodded slowly. No immortal, no matter how craven,
would dare fight on holy ground, let alone take a head. "If 
not immortals, then who? The Watchers?"

     "Not exactly." Cho shook his head sadly. "I fear that the
Hunters are again back to plague both immortals and Watchers."

     The Hunters. Renegade Watchers who had forsaken their oaths
of not interfering, and killing those Immortals they could. They
followed no code, observed no rules in their efforts to eliminate
what they saw as a threat to humanity. The last group of Hunters
had been put down about twenty years ago.

     A thought occurred to Storm. "How many Watchers were at the
monastery?" 

     "Just myself and Brother Ko." Cho looked at Storm carefully.
"You do not think -"

     "No, I don't, Master." Storm stopped leaning against the
wall, and stood up straight. "Brother Ko's body is out there in
the courtyard, and from the blood around him, he did not die
alone." He looked at Cho. "And I've know you for thirty years,
Master. This type of hate is not in your soul. While I have never
like the Watchers, I know that neither you or Brother Ko would be
a part of this...savagery."

     Cho nodded. "What do we do now?"

     "First, we bury the bodies and perform the appropriate
ceremonies." He came over and placed a hand on the Monk's
shoulder. "You must get word to the other Immortals who trained
here. Tell them what's happen here, and warn them of the danger.
Then, you must hide. Is there somewhere you can go where you will
be safe? This place won't be until I track down the people who
did this."

     Cho nodded. "There is a temple in a village south of Seoul.
I can go there and remain hidden until it is safe. From there, I
can pass the word along to the other Immortals with little risk
to myself." He looked at Storm. "I can not change you mind? You
will go after these Hunters?"

     "I must, Master. Not only are you and I in danger should
these attacks continue, but other Immortals and Watchers are at
risk."

     "I can not condone the violence you will commit, but I can
not condemn it either. Do not let anger blind you, Jason. That
has always been your greatest weakness."

     Storm nodded. "I will heed your advice, Master. This will a
challenging time for all of us."

     "Come, Jason," said Cho. "There is much work to do, and time
is short for both of us."

          **********          **********          **********

District 2
MegaTokyo, Japan
April 10, 2036
1:45am

     Priss gunned the engine, and the motorcycle shot forward.
Under her helmet, she was grinning madly. A quick glance down at
the speedometer informed her she was traveling well over a
hundred kilometers an hour. Traffic was light at this time of
night, making the job of avoiding cars much easier.

     She felt good. The night's performance at Hot Legs had gone
better then expected. In fact, she couldn't remember having a
better time singing, of connecting so well with the crowd. Even
the band, who had been hesitant about letting her back into the
band, enjoyed themselves tonight.

     Leon was keeping his promise not to interfere with the day-
to-day running of the club. The new Manager he'd hired to run 
the day to day operation of the club, a tall, quiet guy by the 
name of Toshio, stayed in the shadows unless there was a problem. 
At Leon's suggestion, Toshio also hired two other bands, and 
set up a rotation so everyone got two nights off a week. A 
better sound system was added to the revamped stage, and the 
club remodeled to take the edge of decay off the place. Once 
everything was in place, Leon would only drop in a couple of 
times a week to check the books, sit at the bar and watch her 
sing, but otherwise stayed in the background. Jeena Malso 
was even less visible, her job at MALCORP occupying most of 
her time.

     <But if he thinks I'm going to throw myself into his arms,
he's out of his mind,> she thought. <The funny thing is, he
hasn't asked me out in over two months, not since that run in 
with Nemesis at the Fu-Shui nightclub. And I have all these 
great one liners to shoot him down with too.>

     Priss was so wrapped up in her thoughts, she didn't notice
the large black car taking the off ramp ahead of her. Had she
taken notice then, later events might have turn out differently. 

          **********          **********          **********

Seacover, USA
April 10, 2036
11:49pm WST

     The vidphone buzzed twice before the bartender picked it up.
"Joe's Bar," he said quietly.

     "Is Joe Dawson there?" asked a voice with a trace of accent
the bartender couldn't place. The screen showed an Asian man,
maybe in his mid sixties, looking tired and grim.

     "Who's calling please?"

     "An old friend. Sung Ill Cho, from Korea."

     "May I ask your business with Joe?" replied the bartender
warily.

     "Tell him that there's been a development in the Horton
matter."

     The bartender stiffened. "I see if he's available." He
placed the vidphone on hold and waved to the other bartender to
take over. He moved to the office door, and knocked quietly.

     "Come in," a muffled voice said.

     The bartender entered and closed the door. "There's a phone
call for you, sir."

     Joe Dawson looked up from the desk. "Who is it, Phil?"

     "A Mr. Sung Ill Cho. I think he's a Watcher, sir."

     Dawson snorted. "I'm retired, and enjoying my last years
going slowly mad. I don't give a damm about -"

     "He told you to tell me there's been a development in the
Horton matter."

     Dawson looked sharply at him. "I'll talk to him."

     "Yes sir."

     The bartender left, and Dawson slowly reached over and
turned the vidphone on. The image solidified into that of a 
tired and grim looking Asian male. "Joe?" he asked respectfully.

     "Cho!" said Joe, trying to sound cheerful. "I haven't heard
from you in a long time. What's up?"

     The faint trace of a smile flittered across the Asian's
face. "I see age has not slowed you any. I only wish I had good
news for you."

     "You mentioned something about a development in the Horton
matter. Don't tell me we have a problem."

     "We do. The Hunters are back."

     Joe felt his chest tighten at those words. "Are you sure?"
he asked slowly.

     Cho nodded. "They attacked and eliminated the Chun-Ji
monastery in Northern Korea several days ago. They used Boomers
and machine guns to kill the monks, then beheaded the Immortals
staying there."

     "Damm. Did any of the Immortals escape?"

     "One did. Jason Storm was away from the monastery at the
time, as I was. He has already left to pursue the people
responsible for the attack. I am currently in hiding."

     Joe leaned back in his chair, feeling tired. "Why call me?
I'm retired from the Watchers."

     "And thus above suspicion," replied Cho. "The only way the
Hunters could have learned about the monastery was from our
secured files. Someone with access to those files has to be a
Hunter, or in league with them."

     "So, the at the very least, the entire Asian sector security
is compromised." Joe leaned forward again. "What do you want me
to do?"

     "Pass the word along to those `special friends' of yours.
Jason Storm lives up to his name, but he is only one man. He
might need some help."

     "Where was Jason headed?"

     "He managed to trace some of the Boomer pieces we found to a
factory in MegaTokyo. He is there now."

     "I'll see what I can do. Are you safe for now?"

     Cho nodded. "I will not call again. It will be safer for
both of us."

     "Good luck, Cho."

     "Good luck to both of us." The vidphone went dead, and Joe
Dawson leaned back in his chair and cried softly. After several
minutes, he dried his tears and punched a phone number into the
Vidphone. He could cry later. Now, he had a job to do.