Highlander: Pariah by Noah "The Spoony One" Antwiler

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

Nani?! And I even commented on it?!

[wulfenlord]

Your muddy recollection is forgiven, it was just after Spoony's Prisoner of Ice saga :3

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

Prologue: Just Drinking in the Rain
(Or: Evacuation Portals of the Human Body)



Time to dive into the story proper let's goooo~

ChapterShow

The Spice Rack Seattle, WA October 22, 2004 – 11:30 PM

Drinking alone is one of the worst things a professional alcoholic can do. It keeps one in the house, away from friends, away from help, away from supervision. Such sessions usually degenerate into an angry, self-pitying depression that ends in unconsciousness and accidental eruptions from at least two of the major three evacuation portals of the human body. Jack Donahl preferred it that way. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. He didn’t feel like being cheered up. All his mates were either dead or rotting in some damned English prison. His arthritic knees ached in this close, freezing weather. He was sitting in the rain. And tonight of all nights, he felt allowed to get bollixed and reward himself with some self-pitying depression.

Donahl reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a collection of little liquor bottles that he’d grabbed from the hotel minibar on his rush out the door. He laid aside his shotgun microphone — mindful to keep it pointed towards the topmost church window - and knelt down on the rooftop of the building, spreading out the bottles. He sifted through them looking for whiskey, and eventually settled on a runty portion of Jack that probably cost five bucks. He didn’t care; he’d set this day aside specifically to get steamboats, because Quint wasn’t going anywhere.

He spun the cap off the bottle one-handed with practiced ease and raised it slightly to the shrouded moon. “Dia is Muire duit,” he said roughly and drained the bottle. He exhaled a low breath and propped himself in the corner of the restaurant rooftop. Another bottle. He’d never had Crown Royal before, but he drank that too and hated it. He didn’t really read the third one’s label-- figured it was American vodka, which is why it tasted like water. Just when he was getting nicely numb, the sound of someone climbing up drew his attention to the opposite end of the roof. Donahl eased his headphones off and draped them around his neck. A head poked its way over the threshold and the man swung his leg up.

“Jack?” the man called. He rolled up at last and stood, dusting his pants off. He was a roundish fellow that would have looked at home shelving books. Not fat, just unathletic. His hairline was desperately retreating to the back of his head, to the point where even a comb-over, last bastion of the balding man, had to be abandoned. He dressed like a physics professor, and an unimaginative one at that. From head to toe, his clothes were nondescript, dullish brown and gray department store fare.

“Ah Christ,” Donahl swore. “Not tonight.” He scooped up a pair of high-tech binoculars and plastered
them to his face, surveying the road under night vision. He looked for Quint; maybe he’d slipped out early
for once while Donahl was getting rat-arsed and not looking.

“Calm down, Jack,” the man said, stepping over near Donahl’s impromptu pub, “My boy’s not here yet.” He knelt down and plucked up a bottle. “I came by to see how you’re doing.”

“Oi can’t hardly stand this puy Yank she yeh call whiskey, Vaughn,” Donahl grumbled. He lowered his binoculars and sat back down on the wet rooftop. The rain picked up, and he huddled miserably in his corner. “Oi’d kill for a proper glass o’ Guinness. Might as well be drinkin’ tap water.”

“You okay?” Vaughn glanced over at the church across the street.

“Celebratin’, son, celebratin’.”

“Sure looks that way,” Vaughn observed at the state of the rooftop. “Quite a setup you’ve got here. Microphone, video, starlight…”

“Pullin’ me plum,” Donahl griped, punctuating his frustration by spinning the cap off another bottle.

“What?”

“Doin’ nothin’. Wankin’ in the bloody rain. Oi’m peachy, Jason, absolutely peachy. ‘Bout yeh?”

Vaughn reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. It looked expensive, and was engraved, although Donahl couldn’t read the script in this light. “The other guys chipped in and got you this, Jack. I know it’s a little stereotypical considering you’re Irish and all, but ehm…well, happy birthday.” Donahl blinked in surprise and reached out to take the flask, and was surprised at its weight. He unscrewed the cap and wafted it under his nose.

“Oh thank God,” Donahl breathed, his eyes rolling back in relief. “It’s been weeks, mate.”

“Thought you’d like a reminder of home,” Vaughn smiled. “What are you now, a hundred?”

“Seventy, ya twit,” Donahl belched. But he seemed in good humor. “But thank yeh far the gift, eh.” A melancholy look crossed his face, and Donahl hung his head. “Ah well. Drink wi’ an auld man?” But Vaughn pointed his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head negatively.

“I gotta go. Take it easy, all right?” He waved good-bye and headed back towards the other side of the rooftop. A sharp ratcheting click at his back caused Vaughn to freeze in his tracks.

“Not here yet,” Donahl said with frost in his voice.

“What?” The rain picked up. It was heavy and cold, and for a long while there was silence between the two men. Silence, except for the drumming of water all around them and the low rumble of distant thunder. The rain wouldn’t last much longer; the sky was already beginning to clear. But here, it persisted. Here, the weather seemed to match the foulness of Donahl’s mood and what was about to happen.

“My boy’s not here yet,” Donahl repeated. Vaughn said nothing but raised his hands up. “The hell’s that meant tae mean, Jason?” He stood up and pointed his gun at Vaughn’s back, still holding his flask in his other hand. “Yaer boy’s followin’ you for a change?”

“Jack, come on, Jack,” Vaughn said, turning around slowly. Donahl pushed his nine millimeter handgun into Vaughn’s shoulder and made him face the other way again. “You don’t need that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Tell it tae me bollocks, Vaughn,” Donahl snapped. He tried to put it all together through a haze of terrible Yank liquor. “Yer boy’s coming here? Followin’ yeh? And you…” Donahl shook his head in disbelief, “How did yeh even know Oi’d be-- Yeh followed me here? Tae get tae—“

“He…he just wanted to talk to Quint, Jack. Please. He just wanted to talk.” Vaughn was a terrible liar. Donahl had heard much better bullsh**e from much harder blokes than this.

“I can hear steel on steel over me headphones,” Donahl snapped, “On holy ground.” Donahl looked over at the church and cursed himself for being so dense. He tightened his hand around the gun and willed his head to clear. “You muppet. And yeh knew this would happen, eh? An’ yeh wouldnae come up here unless yeh were plannin’ to make sure I snuffed it, too. If all yeh wanted was Quint, Oi’d never have laid eyes on yeh. So why,” Donahl hissed, “are you here? Eh?”

Vaughn turned his head to look back, but Donahl poked him in the spine with his gun again. They both could hear the sharp ringing of swords clashing against each other from the headphones around Donahl’s neck, even over the sound of the falling rain. They listened for a while. “Jack…”

“Yeh dinnae have the minerals tae kill me face tae face like a civiloized murderer, did yeh?” Donahl spoke softly, his voice dripping with disgust. “I wasnae t’always a Watcher, ye dumb yella she. An’ like a puy, yeh’ve gone an’ poisoned an auld man’s whiskey.”

Vaughn stammered, “Jack, I swear it’s—I just thought--“ He trailed off as Donahl reached over his shoulder and smacked the flask against his chest.

“Drink it, Jason.”

“Jack!”

“Drink the whiskey or eat a bullet, mate.”

Jason Vaughn didn’t move, except to shiver, and once again time seemed to slow down. The only sounds that could be heard were the high-pitched tinny sounds of a distant sword duel through a pair of headphones, and the deep rumble of the weather all around them. They could see each other’s breath in the cold, hear the stress of every inhalation. For a long time they dwelt on the silent, common knowledge that only one man was going to walk off this rooftop.

And then, it all stopped. The rain weakened and dribbled to a halt. The sound of swords and microphone static ceased. All that was left were heartbeats that throbbed loudly in the thick, wet air. Shots rang out, but they came from the church across the street. Vaughn ran for it, primal fear pushing him onward. He crossed the distance of two rapid strides before more shots rang out, and Vaughn pitched wordlessly onto the rain-slicked roof—a shot through his neck, and another in the back of his head. He slid across the water a bit, twitched his leg, and laid still.

Donahl was already packing up his kit when a cacophonous shattering sound drew his attention across the street. The top of the stained-glass window of the church exploded outward as a man dove through it.

Amidst a shower of lead, blood, and colored glass that twinkled like fireflies in the streetlight, he fell from the second floor and crashed with a sickening crunch onto the stone stairway in front. Donahl cursed himself again for being such an old fool and shouldered his satchel. If Vaughn was here, that meant— Donahl looked from side to side and clenched his fists, trying to figure out what to do. Quint wasn’t going to make it.

Quint limped to his feet, collapsed, and drug himself forward into the street. His gait was awkward and his forward progress was made in a lurching step that barely qualified as a limp and was more a crawl. He rolled off the curb and into the street, oblivious to the little orange car that had just cruised through a green light at the intersection. Donahl squinted his eyes, a dark expression etched on his face. The car’s tires shrieked on the slick asphalt, a vacuous gravelly sound as the bald tires hydroplaned. The car fishtailed, swerved one way, then the other as the driver overcorrected, and hit Quint off-center in the knees. Quint was blasted clean out of his shoes. He bounced off the hood, spiked his head into the windshield, sailed straight up in the air, and landed on the side of his neck and collarbone as he fell across the edge of the vehicle.

Donahl looked away. He walked over and retrieved his flask, and emptied its contents on Vaughn’s body. “Drink’s on you, mate.”

RiffingShow

The Spice Rack Seattle, WA October 22, 2004 – 11:30 PM

Was the movie ever that specific? I honestly can't remember.
And I'm already a bit annoyed at how there's no separation between the location and the city.

Drinking alone is one of the worst things a professional alcoholic can do.

You wouldn't exactly be a professional alcoholic if you had a functional social life, would you?

It keeps one in the house, away from friends, away from help, away from supervision.

Just have a Skype call with your online friends if you need someone to tell the tale of the red dragon that tore out your heart.

Such sessions usually degenerate into an angry, self-pitying depression that ends in unconsciousness and accidental eruptions from at least two of the major three evacuation portals of the human body.

This is a lot more horrifying in hindsight. How often did you shit yourself, Boss?

Jack Donahl preferred it that way.

He's a nasty vomit slut.
And is everyone in this gonna have a weird surname?

He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. He didn’t feel like being cheered up. All his mates were either dead or rotting in some damned English prison. His arthritic knees ached in this close, freezing weather. He was sitting in the rain. And tonight of all nights, he felt allowed to get bollixed and reward himself with some self-pitying depression.

Spotted the self-insert.
And an English prison? Dude, you're in Burgerland, and judging by your arthritis you're not an immortal. Did your buddies get thrown into the Tower of London during a vacation for insulting the Queen or something?

Donahl reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a collection of little liquor bottles that he’d grabbed from the hotel minibar on his rush out the door.

You don't even have a hip flask to store your booze? What a fucking loser.

He laid aside his shotgun microphone — mindful to keep it pointed towards the topmost church window - and knelt down on the rooftop of the building, spreading out the bottles.

So you're also on a stakeout during your liquor-filled one-man pitty party? Okay.

He sifted through them looking for whiskey, and eventually settled on a runty portion of Jack that probably cost five bucks. He didn’t care; he’d set this day aside specifically to get steamboats, because Quint wasn’t going anywhere.

How common is "getting steamboat" as slang for "getting drunk"? I had to look that shit up to get it.
And why are you sifting in the first place if you don't care about the specific booze?

He spun the cap off the bottle one-handed with practiced ease and raised it slightly to the shrouded moon. “Dia is Muire duit,” he said roughly and drained the bottle.

That's Irish Gaelic for "God and Mary be with you", basically a Christian-themed way of saying "hello" (not unlike the Bavarian "Grüß Gott").
Not sure if this doubles as a toast to no one, but I think I'm gonna press X here.

He exhaled a low breath and propped himself in the corner of the restaurant rooftop. Another bottle. He’d never had Crown Royal before, but he drank that too and hated it.

This is already more existing than Angel Armor ever was. Just what booze is he gonna drink and rate next?!

He didn’t really read the third one’s label-- figured it was American vodka, which is why it tasted like water.

Just when he was getting nicely numb, the sound of someone climbing up drew his attention to the opposite end of the roof. Donahl eased his headphones off and draped them around his neck. A head poked its way over the threshold and the man swung his leg up.

That's an awfully strange and specific sound.

“Jack?” the man called. He rolled up at last and stood, dusting his pants off. He was a roundish fellow that would have looked at home shelving books. Not fat, just unathletic.

A nerd, if you will.

His hairline was desperately retreating to the back of his head, to the point where even a comb-over, last bastion of the balding man, had to be abandoned.

Just get a wig, man.

He dressed like a physics professor, and an unimaginative one at that. From head to toe, his clothes were nondescript, dullish brown and gray department store fare.

So he's not dressed like a pimp. Got it.

“Ah Christ,” Donahl swore. “Not tonight.” He scooped up a pair of high-tech binoculars and plastered
them to his face, surveying the road under night vision. He looked for Quint; maybe he’d slipped out early
for once while Donahl was getting rat-arsed and not looking.

“Calm down, Jack,” the man said, stepping over near Donahl’s impromptu pub, “My boy’s not here yet.” He knelt down and plucked up a bottle. “I came by to see how you’re doing.”

Are you guys doing this - whatever the fuck it is - often?

“Oi can’t hardly stand this puy Yank she yeh call whiskey, Vaughn,” Donahl grumbled.

This guy better die this chapter, 'cause fuck me is this annoying to read.

He lowered his binoculars and sat back down on the wet rooftop. The rain picked up, and he huddled miserably in his corner. “Oi’d kill for a proper glass o’ Guinness. Might as well be drinkin’ tap water.”

If you wanna get hammered there's no way any whiskey has less alcohol than a fucking stout.
After this and the "ale" from Angel Armor, I have to question how much these internet nobodies even know about booze.

“You okay?” Vaughn glanced over at the church across the street.

Aside from him being probably too drunk already to actually do his little stakeout?

“Celebratin’, son, celebratin’.”

“Sure looks that way,” Vaughn observed at the state of the rooftop. “Quite a setup you’ve got here. Microphone, video, starlight…”

And booze. That's the important bit.

“Pullin’ me plum,” Donahl griped, punctuating his frustration by spinning the cap off another bottle.

“What?”

“Doin’ nothin’. Wankin’ in the bloody rain. Oi’m peachy, Jason, absolutely peachy. ‘Bout yeh?”

I'm not sure what yeh doin', an' I hope yeh gonna enloiten me soon enough befyr oy loose me temper.

Vaughn reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. It looked expensive, and was engraved, although Donahl couldn’t read the script in this light.

Is everyone here gonna get hammered?

“The other guys chipped in and got you this, Jack. I know it’s a little stereotypical considering you’re Irish and all, but ehm…well, happy birthday.” Donahl blinked in surprise and reached out to take the flask, and was surprised at its weight. He unscrewed the cap and wafted it under his nose.

Oh, it's just a booze present for the alcoholic.

“Oh thank God,” Donahl breathed, his eyes rolling back in relief. “It’s been weeks, mate.”

“Thought you’d like a reminder of home,” Vaughn smiled. “What are you now, a hundred?”

“Seventy, ya twit,” Donahl belched. But he seemed in good humor. “But thank yeh far the gift, eh.” A melancholy look crossed his face, and Donahl hung his head.

Why are you in the USA to begin with?

“Ah well. Drink wi’ an auld man?” But Vaughn pointed his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head negatively.

“I gotta go. Take it easy, all right?” He waved good-bye and headed back towards the other side of the rooftop.

Yeah, you better go. Too much dialogue and shit might actually end up being explained.

A sharp ratcheting click at his back caused Vaughn to freeze in his tracks.

“Not here yet,” Donahl said with frost in his voice.

“What?” The rain picked up. It was heavy and cold, and for a long while there was silence between the two men. Silence, except for the drumming of water all around them and the low rumble of distant thunder. The rain wouldn’t last much longer; the sky was already beginning to clear. But here, it persisted. Here, the weather seemed to match the foulness of Donahl’s mood and what was about to happen.

It's like mood lighting, but wet.

“My boy’s not here yet,” Donahl repeated. Vaughn said nothing but raised his hands up. “The hell’s that meant tae mean, Jason?” He stood up and pointed his gun at Vaughn’s back, still holding his flask in his other hand. “Yaer boy’s followin’ you for a change?”

I'm so fucking lost right now. This is what playing Final Fantasy 13 must feel like.

“Jack, come on, Jack,” Vaughn said, turning around slowly. Donahl pushed his nine millimeter handgun into Vaughn’s shoulder and made him face the other way again. “You don’t need that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

By what? The flask? The turning away? The hand?

“Tell it tae me bollocks, Vaughn,” Donahl snapped. He tried to put it all together through a haze of terrible Yank liquor. “Yer boy’s coming here? Followin’ yeh? And you…” Donahl shook his head in disbelief, “How did yeh even know Oi’d be-- Yeh followed me here? Tae get tae—“

Wait, now you're freaking out that he found you having your little booze stakeout? What's going on?

“He…he just wanted to talk to Quint, Jack. Please. He just wanted to talk.” Vaughn was a terrible liar. Donahl had heard much better bullsh**e from much harder blokes than this.

Are you censoring yourself?

“I can hear steel on steel over me headphones,” Donahl snapped, “On holy ground.”

Finally something that makes sense.

Donahl looked over at the church and cursed himself for being so dense. He tightened his hand around the gun and willed his head to clear. “You muppet. And yeh knew this would happen, eh? An’ yeh wouldnae come up here unless yeh were plannin’ to make sure I snuffed it, too. If all yeh wanted was Quint, Oi’d never have laid eyes on yeh. So why,” Donahl hissed, “are you here? Eh?”

So Quint(us) is having some swordfight in the church while these two have some weird relationship drama going on. Got it.

Vaughn turned his head to look back, but Donahl poked him in the spine with his gun again. They both could hear the sharp ringing of swords clashing against each other from the headphones around Donahl’s neck, even over the sound of the falling rain. They listened for a while. “Jack…”

You can both hear the sound coming off of the headphone? Just how high is that thing's volume?

“Yeh dinnae have the minerals tae kill me face tae face like a civiloized murderer, did yeh?” Donahl spoke softly, his voice dripping with disgust. “I wasnae t’always a Watcher, ye dumb yella she. An’ like a puy, yeh’ve gone an’ poisoned an auld man’s whiskey.”

Ah, the old poisoned whiskey trick. This is like that puzzle in Mystery of the Druids where you almost kill some random hobo with pure alcohol.

And he's a Watcher. That explains the stakeout I guess. They're like observing the immortals if I remember correctly, like people on the internet observe Chris-chan.

Vaughn stammered, “Jack, I swear it’s—I just thought--“ He trailed off as Donahl reached over his shoulder and smacked the flask against his chest.

“Drink it, Jason.”

“Jack!”

“Drink the whiskey or eat a bullet, mate.”

He's gonna poison himself like a dumbass, isn't he?

Jason Vaughn didn’t move, except to shiver, and once again time seemed to slow down. The only sounds that could be heard were the high-pitched tinny sounds of a distant sword duel through a pair of headphones, and the deep rumble of the weather all around them. They could see each other’s breath in the cold, hear the stress of every inhalation. For a long time they dwelt on the silent, common knowledge that only one man was going to walk off this rooftop.

And it's probably going to be the drunkard.

And then, it all stopped. The rain weakened and dribbled to a halt. The sound of swords and microphone static ceased. All that was left were heartbeats that throbbed loudly in the thick, wet air. Shots rang out, but they came from the church across the street. Vaughn ran for it, primal fear pushing him onward. He crossed the distance of two rapid strides before more shots rang out, and Vaughn pitched wordlessly onto the rain-slicked roof—a shot through his neck, and another in the back of his head. He slid across the water a bit, twitched his leg, and laid still.

Not sure what the deal with the shots from the church was, but the drunkar had his gun stuck up your ass. No way you would've made it.

Donahl was already packing up his kit when a cacophonous shattering sound drew his attention across the street. The top of the stained-glass window of the church exploded outward as a man dove through it.

That's probably Quint(us) taking a "shortcut".

Amidst a shower of lead, blood, and colored glass that twinkled like fireflies in the streetlight, he fell from the second floor and crashed with a sickening crunch onto the stone stairway in front.

'Tis but a scratch.

Donahl cursed himself again for being such an old fool and shouldered his satchel. If Vaughn was here, that meant— Donahl looked from side to side and clenched his fists, trying to figure out what to do. Quint wasn’t going to make it.

I hope he has sidekicks that aren't 70-year-old Irishmen with a half-dead liver.

Quint limped to his feet, collapsed, and drug himself forward into the street. His gait was awkward and his forward progress was made in a lurching step that barely qualified as a limp and was more a crawl.

Just wait the 1-2 seconds it'd take for you to heal up.

He rolled off the curb and into the street, oblivious to the little orange car that had just cruised through a green light at the intersection. Donahl squinted his eyes, a dark expression etched on his face. The car’s tires shrieked on the slick asphalt, a vacuous gravelly sound as the bald tires hydroplaned. The car fishtailed, swerved one way, then the other as the driver overcorrected, and hit Quint off-center in the knees. Quint was blasted clean out of his shoes. He bounced off the hood, spiked his head into the windshield, sailed straight up in the air, and landed on the side of his neck and collarbone as he fell across the edge of the vehicle.

This is starting to remind me of a much different movie...

Donahl looked away. He walked over and retrieved his flask, and emptied its contents on Vaughn’s body. “Drink’s on you, mate.”

Next Time: Why is there a second prologue?

[Complicity]

Time to dive into the story proper let's goooo~

That's NOT the appropriate Highlander theme for this literary masterpiece, this is the one:

Prologue: Just Drinking in the Rain

At least he writes from experience, unlike Benito with his sex scenes.

The Spice Rack Seattle, WA October 22, 2004 – 11:30 PM

Was the movie ever that specific? I honestly can't remember.
And I'm already a bit annoyed at how there's no separation between the location and the city.

I'm already a bit annoyed that the leftoid faggot chose Seattle.
He could've pulled a King and pick Maine. Or being a bit daring, and go with Alaska.

Drinking alone is one of the worst things a professional alcoholic can do.

You wouldn't exactly be a professional alcoholic if you had a functional social life, would you?

Alcoholics drink alone all the time out of shame, he does it because he has no friends.
On the other hand, considering that there are still troons donating to his PayMeTron, i agree with him about professional alcoholics being a thing.

He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. He didn’t feel like being cheered up. All his mates were either dead or rotting in some damned English prison. His arthritic knees ached in this close, freezing weather. He was sitting in the rain. And tonight of all nights, he felt allowed to get bollixed and reward himself with some self-pitying depression.

Spotted the self-insert.

So his self insert is this Jack Donald, and not the protagonist, Quinton Reviews Fellaticus Stupefy?
Makes sense.
The only chance of survival for Spoony as an immortal would consist in being left alone by the other immortals, fearing of becoming weaker by absorbing his powers.

He laid aside his shotgun microphone — mindful to keep it pointed towards the topmost church window - and knelt down on the rooftop of the building, spreading out the bottles.

So you're also on a stakeout during your liquor-filled one-man pitty party? Okay.

"Microphone" is the nickname of his literal shotgun. He's contemplating the idea of joining his best friend, BritWario.

He spun the cap off the bottle one-handed with practiced ease and raised it slightly to the shrouded moon. “Dia is Muire duit,” he said roughly and drained the bottle.

That's Irish Gaelic for "God and Mary be with you", basically a Christian-themed way of saying "hello" (not unlike the Bavarian "Grüß Gott").

Can you imagine how long it took for him to look that shit up on Wikipedia?

From head to toe, his clothes were nondescript, dullish brown and gray department store fare.

"If my brother's life and mine were clothes, that's how the guy was dressed like".

I'm so fucking lost right now. This is what playing Final Fantasy 13 must feel like.

That gayme had walls of text explaining everything in autistic detail.
This is Spoony rambling incoherently because he's out of booze, and Orcril won't go to the store and buy more with Rachel's money.

>something something swordfite in church

Correct me if i'm wrong, but wasn't that something that immortals won't do no matter what, for reasons i don't know nor i give a shit about?

[Le Redditeur]

I think they have a taboo against fighting on "holy ground", but it's never specified why they have that taboo. I mean, even the villains seem to respect it, so it must be something serious.

[wulfenlord]

Why is there a second prologue?

https://youtu.be/5ra2AUl5JrQ?si=XIkO9oqpkLk7F0Id&t=417
Didn't find the clip of him wailing we just want him to suffer

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

That's NOT the appropriate Highlander theme for this literary masterpiece, this is the one

This thing has almost 30 chapters if you count the two prologues and the epilogue. I'm sure we will find time for everyone's favorite highlander track.

Also this would be more fitting IMO:

I'm already a bit annoyed that the leftoid faggot chose Seattle.

At least it's not Detroit.

So his self insert is this Jack Donald, and not the protagonist, Quinton Reviews Fellaticus Stupefy?

This was more of a joke considering the guy's alcoholic tendencies, but considering Quinty's slapstick antics he's definitely been the "cooler" character so far.

Can you imagine how long it took for him to look that shit up on Wikipedia?

Long enough to complain about it on twitter, and being a snarky asshole to anyone who gave him the answer.

Correct me if i'm wrong, but wasn't that something that immortals won't do no matter what, for reasons i don't know nor i give a shit about?

I think they have a taboo against fighting on "holy ground", but it's never specified why they have that taboo. I mean, even the villains seem to respect it, so it must be something serious.

The only one who breaks it afaik is that creepy main villain from Endgame, and he does so without hesitation and no repercussions of any sort.

Now that I think about it, during their famous review of the movie it was only Pat to complain about the rules breaking, whereas Spoony had his Funny Man routine going on (aka being delighted by the dumb shit going on instead of ranting about it).

[Complicity]

This thing has almost 30 chapters if you count the two prologues and the epilogue.

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

Prologue: Sanctuary of the Faithless
(Or: A Light Side of Thirty)



So, uh, apparently this epic tale was grand enough in scope to warrant a second prologue. Enjoy, I guess?

RecapShow

We meet was I fear is gonna be one of our recurring supporting characters: Jack Donahl, a name which I'm just gonna assume was derived from Jack Daniel's. Because you see, Jack is an old and grumpy Irishman with an outrageous accent who, believe it or not, is also a terminal alcoholic whose liver will probably give up in another decade or so.
Though credit where credit is due, our dear author managed to put a unique Spoonian twist on this tired old archetype: at least in this scene Jack is forced to get his alcohol fix using American whiskey, which of course isn't up to his high standards, so he's constantly whining and bitching while still drinking it anyways.

Also he compares whiskey with Guiness for some reason, which continues the trend of Channel Awesome authors not knowing that a fancy-sounding booze is just a different flavor of beer.

Jack is also a Watcher, an invention from the Highlander TV series. They're basically a super secret organization of mortals who love watching the immortals do their thing. And he's currently stalking the actual main character Quintus - or Quint, as he's known these days.
I have my doubts that a pseudo-religious order of weirdoes would entrust the pseudo-holy duty of recording the exploits of the immortals to a drunkard who is literally downing multiple bottles of whiskey at work, but what do I know about worldbuilding?

So while Jack is hanging out on a rooftop stalking Quint, he runs into a dude called Vaughn. I guess he's a Watcher too? Perhaps an old rival of sorts? They certainly appear chummy enough at first (well, as chummy as you can get with an Irish version of Spoony), but then Jack flips a switch, pulls a gun, accuses Vaughn of ulterior motives, and finally guns him down in cold blood.

(Completely unrelated clip.)

Jack also somehow correctly guesses that the bottle of whiskey Vaughn just gave him as a late birthday present in poisoned.
Personally if I wanted to get rid of an old fart who loves getting drunk on rooftoops, I'd just blow his brains out from a different rooftoop (or pay someone to do it), or set his apartment on fire after he predictably collapses there in a puddle of vomit and cheap whiskey.

They also appear to have some relationship drama going on, which involves at least one other person? I'm just gonna assume it's about Jack's gay son and the polycule that the son and Vaughn are part of.

The prologue ends with the stunning debut of our actual main character. You see, while Jack had his little episode Quint was having an off-screen duel. Seems old Quint found himself on the losing end, so he decided to bravely run away in a series of planned and unplanned Looney Tunes stunts that leave him with just about every single bone in his body broken at least once.
This fanfic better turn out to be a comedy.

The duel also took place in a church aka Holy Ground (tm). And Jack was more or less "Not cool, man" instead of "BETRAYAL!"
I imagine Spoony got his first batch of "mean reviews" from this little factoid. I guess Endgame (the weird movie/series crossover that was more of a hostile takeover of the series continuity) that came out a few years before this fanfic made it technically "canon" that you can just screw the rules if you're a bad enough dude, but people hated it. Even the writers had to eventually course-correct and argue that the sanctuary was not actually on holy ground.
Except it was inside of a church.
And it would kinda defeat the purpose of an immortal sanctuary if it wasn't on holy ground.

I'm probably thinking too much about this. I mean FFS, I've maybe watched a handful of episodes of the TV series. The only thing I know about that one is that one of the characters used to be one of the Four Horsemen. I think.

ChapterShow

University Christian Church Seattle, Washington October 22, 2004 – 11:30 PM

The city looked abandoned from where Quint stood atop a flight of narrow stone stairs. “Abandoned” was perhaps not the right word, more accurate to say that the city had a vacant feel to it, but still a life of its own. Quint could see no one walking along the street, and it seemed both comforting and frightening that, in a city such as this, he was alone. Occasionally a car would pass, a low rumble and a sharp glare of light made potent by the glimmer of rainfall that quickly faded into the night. Quint was alone, but the city was alive; the passing vehicles made him imagine the city breathing.

He leaned his head back and let the hood of his coat fall. The icy bite of the rain on his skin made him grimace. Quint loved the rain. It felt fresh and cleansing on his face. The sound of it soothed his nerves and loosened the tightness that often gripped his neck. He loved the reflection of city lights and neon on black puddles. Some might say that it poisoned Quint’s mood, that his personality was dark and dreary. That it gave Quint some angsty schadenfreude to revel in a phenomenon that causes misfortune and trouble to so many others. Quint had thought about that, but decided the only thing about rain that really filled him with angst was the notion that humanity had finally found a way to screw even that up.

Angst. Ah well. If the shoe fits. Quint wasn’t any part of the solution either, so who was he to judge? Leave it to the beret-wearing rich girls on algae diets, and the long-haired guitar-strumming guys trying in vain to score with them via the sensitive-guy route to chain themselves to trees. Quint spit his gum out in the nearby planter and drove such inane thoughts from his mind. He was just upset because his Walkman crapped out last week.

Quint slicked his hair back with a lazy swipe of his hand, and turned away from the street. He pounded on the door a couple of times and waited. After a few moments, the door swung open. A black man on the light side of thirty leaned against the doorjam, wearing after-hours business casual: a button-up gray shirt with the collar loosened and charcoal-colored slacks. He had closely-trimmed dark hair, already graying at the edges. He had the carriage of a man without cares and who had long ago stopped bothering to suck in his gut.

“Didn’t think you were gonna make it,” he said.

“Traffic. Good to see you again, Bri.”

Brian smiled warmly and swung his hand out. “You too, Dex.” Quint gripped his wrist and they shook hands. “Come on in. I’ve got pizza rolls, and Trump’s about to fire that one guy. I love Tivo.”

Quint rolled his eyes and almost reconsidered entering the church, but did it anyway. “You’re a minister. Can’t you denounce reality TV or something?”

“You just don’t deal well with change,” Brian said over his shoulder as he led the way to his office. “I got American Idol cued up. One of those audition episodes where everyone’s terrible.” Quint made a guttural sound.

“I’m just going to sit in the hall down here. You have a good time though.”

“Sorry man,” Brian turned around. “You looked sour. Thought I could help a little. I know you don’t want to talk—“

“I don’t,” Quint said in a harsher tone than he meant to. He corrected his tone, “I just want to be alone for the next 30 minutes.” Brian nodded sagely, looking as if he wished he could help. But he didn’t intrude. That's why Brian was one of the best friends a man like Quint could have. He seemed to understand that Quint had a lot of mileage on him, and most of what he kept bottled inside wasn’t anything he wanted to feel better about. Brian walked down the hall.

Quint turned towards the main aisle and hesitated. “Pizza rolls?” Brian laughed and kept going. “Evil.”

Quint waited until he heard the door to the reading library close before he walked down the aisle. The hall was dimly-lit, the pews swathed in splashes of color from the stained glass windows behind the altar and chancel. The chancel was a walkway that stretched behind the pulpit, elevated above the congregation by two small flights of stairs on either side. It allowed the choir to file in from the left, stand in front of the windows and sing directly to the congregation, and exit to the right. It also kept the young acolytes from sleeping during the sermon, because thirty booming voices stood behind them at all times.

He stood in the middle of the aisle and closed his eyes, once more enjoying the sound of the rain against the roof and windows. He dropped his duffel bag heavily onto a nearby pew and concentrated. The acoustics were wonderful. The air hummed and throbbed as if it were special here, or magical, and the hair on his arms raised sharply at the sheer bliss of what he was hearing. He fell to his knees in humility. He swore long ago that he would never bow or bend knee to anyone ever again, except one person. And so, here he knelt.

“It won’t end. You know that, Quint. It never ends. I won’t be protected.”

Quint’s fists clenched in his hair. He bent low, pressing his head to the floor.

“I won’t beg. I am asking you now, and that should be enough. Make it clean. Then walk away.”

His teeth ground audibly, and his eyes clenched shut, but tears still squeezed through and fell.

“It’s all right. If I could have chosen anyone, it would have always been you.”

Quint gasped for breath as a shock coursed through his body. His spine prickled as he felt a new presence approach. Someone like him. Unconsciously, he reached for his bag until he remembered where he was. Holy ground. The doors swung outward, allowing a rush of frigid air to flood the church.

“Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.” Silhouetted in the doorway stood two men, side by side. The tall one had light, almost white hair that laid awkwardly on his head and drifted in the wind. He wore a trenchcoat, buttoned up against the elements and a red scarf wound around his neck. His eyes were narrow and full of malice, and though Quint had never seen him before, it looked as though the man held some deep hatred toward him.

The other man was relatively smaller, but had a body that carried much more density. Quint could tell he was well-built, and he wore his tailored business suit as if he were born to be in one. He had thin, round glasses balanced atop his nose that reflected the street light harshly into the room. His face was severe and stern, with immaculately-trimmed facial hair shaped into a Van Dyke-style goatee. An umbrella was propped over his right shoulder. Quint turned to face them, his eyes red and puffy, glassed over with fresh tears.

“Dry your eyes, Quintus. O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,” the man in the suit teased. He stepped inside, flanked by the larger man. The speaker closed his umbrella and leaned on it; Quint noticed that he carried a noticeable limp.

“You don’t get to call me that,” Quint said, his tone murderous. He instinctively knew to hate this man, and it wasn’t just because of the poetry. “And we’re closed for a private function.”

“Love has made you predictable, Quintus,” he continued. “For whom do you mourn?” Quint scowled and stepped forward, anger coloring his face, but the taller fellow in the trenchcoat stepped in front to shield the man behind him. Quint restrained himself, but the talky fellow persisted in provoking him. “Mortal? Immortal? What would she say to you, Quintus? ‘I long to believe in immortality. If I am destined to be happy with you here-- how short is the longest life. I wish to believe in immortality-- I wish to live with you forever’. “

“How short is the longest life . . . I wish to live with you forever.”

Quint’s jaw sagged open, and he staggered backwards in horror. He knew. It was a quote from Keats, “Letter to Fanny Brawne.” It was what she used to say, in dark warmth together. And when she said it, Quint felt needed. He felt important. When this man said it, he felt violated. The breath leaked from his body, turning acid in his throat. “Tell me how you know that,” he threatened. He will suffer. “Tell me what you want.”

“Hear ye not the hum, Of mighty workings?” he quoted. Keats again. Who was he? The man pointed his umbrella at Quint. “The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled. Our time draws short, Quintus. And so much depends on you.”

“Answer me!” Quint cried out. He could hear the door to the reading library open, and Brian wandered out. Quint cringed and called with a broken voice, “Brian, go back into the library.” He pointed a finger at the man who quoted Keats, his tone moderated into a cool assurance of imminent death. “Answer me.”

“You have fallen so far from your greatness, Quintus.” This Keats man seemed genuinely saddened. “There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. And what a hell you must struggle in. But you mourn, you stagnate, you rot. You live, and yet you are more dead than most who walk this earth. You keep wishing to undo time’s inexorable grind forward. As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. She has broken you, Quintus. And we know her name.”

The tall man finally spoke. "La belle dame sans merci,” he said, in natural French. With that, the Frenchman opened his coat and calmly withdrew a masterfully-wrought sabre and gestured to Quint with it as a challenge.

“What are you doing?” Quint’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Frenchman advanced quickly. Quint rushed to grab his bag, but he barely had time to grab the shoulder strap when his opponent was on him. Quint dove past an overhead slash as he dove into the pews. He gripped his duffel bag in his hand, but had no time to search in it for his weapon. The Frenchman showed no quarter, no hesitation; he hacked into the pews as Quint scrambled to regain his feet. “This is holy ground, you ah*!”

Keats laughed with a sardonic amusement dripping from his voice, “Is there such a thing for a faithless man?”

Quint screamed as the Frenchman’s sabre lashed across his collarbone. With mortal fear hastening his steps, he dropped his bag and scrambled to the altar. He fell over it, and sensed his enemy swiftly behind him. He rolled aside just ahead of another chop that rang woodenly off the altar. Quint snatched up an iron candlestick and managed to parry a slash meant for his belly. Quint hooked the Frenchman’s swordarm [sic] under his armpit and drove his palm into the man’s nose. The Frenchman stumbled backwards, clutching at his bleeding face. Quint hurled the candlestick into his groin.

He half expected the Frenchman to drop his sword after that, but he was only momentarily set back. Quint looked around for a weapon. His bag was out of reach. He ran to the pulpit. Nearby stood a pair of flagpoles: the American flag and the state flag of Washington. Quint wrenched Old Glory free from the base and tore the fabric away. The Frenchman regained his footing and bared bloody teeth at him as Quint spun the pole as a quarterstaff. Quint held the pole low across his waist, his hands spaced far apart at opposite ends.

The Frenchman rushed in with a furious yell. Quint had already sized up a flaw in his technique; he was a devastating fighter because he psyched himself up for gruesome murder when entering battle. His blows were all power, balanced by basic technique. Anyone caught unprepared could be easily overwhelmed, as Quint had been. But anger and power lead to mistakes. As the Frenchman charged, Quint flung his makeshift staff forward as if it were a pool cue. The poor lighting hindered depth perception, and in an instant, Quint was holding the staff at the extreme end like a sword. His nose crashed straight into the eagle that capped the flagpole, and he almost somersaulted backwards from the impact.

His opponent regained his feet, his face masked in blood that still gushed from his ruined snout. With another cry, he waded back into melee, his sword never at rest. Quint managed to parry the attacks, but his enemy was a brutal swordsman who had seen combat. He could tell. Quint was not suited for this type of combat, and he was being driven backwards steadily.

He dropped low as he parried a slash at his legs, and the Frenchman followed up with a high downward-arcing hack. Quint parried high over his head, the staff parallel to the ground. He clove the pole in half, and the sword collided with the ground. Quint seized the advantage and pummeled the Frenchman about the head with the broken ends of the pole. He clubbed him in the head with brutal rights and lefts, hoping to knock him out long enough to run or find a real weapon. He planted his pivot foot, and was spinning around to follow up with a roundhouse kick to gain some distance, but the Frenchman rolled under it and hacked upwards into Quint’s hamstring. Blood flowed hot down his leg and Quint seethed in transcendental pain. He felt his muscle ripping and tearing against the bone. He had to keep moving. He leapt forward on his good leg, gaining as much distance as possible. His enemy’s tactic was ruthlessness and overbearance.

“Dex!!” It was Brian’s voice.

Quint looked over to see Brian standing in the aisle. Oddly, he could see no sign of the man who quoted Keats. Quint had lost track of him. Brian had Quint’s duffel in one hand, and one of Quint’s swords in the other. It was small and deceptively compact, but sturdy and swift in design. Brian reached high over his head and hurled the gladius in Quint’s direction. It rang off the far wall and clattered to the carpeted floor. But it was close enough. Quint hobbled over and scooped up the old sword, and in one motion narrowly managed to parry the Frenchman’s lightning onslaught.

Quint was overwhelmed, and even though his technique was the best he’d ever known it, the Frenchman was too fast, and Quint was barely ambulatory. He fought a retreating duel, dragging himself up the stairs to the chancel that overlooked the entire church. To his left, the rain rattled against the stained glass like a snare drum. The Frenchman pushed him back with a thrust. Quint tried to get in a counterattack and slash at his opponent’s sword arm, but the Frenchman stepped forward and kicked Quint in the wounded hamstring. Quint screamed and fell backwards, nearly blacking out from the pain, and the Frenchman followed up with a brutal thrust into his belly.

Quint’s sword fell from his hand and he doubled over. The Frenchman laughed shakily at his victory and kicked the gladius to the floor below. “Il ne peut y en avoir qu'un,” he intoned, his mouth full of blood. So much for tradition.

“At the risk of sounding unsportsmanlike…” Quint groaned as the Frenchman raised his sword to finish the job. Quint rolled aside as the deathstroke fell and withdrew a handgun from his coat. He pushed it into the Frenchman’s ribs and squeezed the trigger several times. The Frenchman shrieked in pain and fell forward. “…you started it.”

Quint fell to his back and twisted away as the other man's body collapsed nearby. Quint considered taking the sabre, finishing him off. He swore under his breath and crawled away in an attempt to regain his feet. He heard a gurgling sound behind him. The Frenchman was back on his hands and knees. He gripped his sabre once more and was starting to stand! Quint allowed himself a moment to gape in amazement at the man’s persistence and resiliency, and it almost cost him. The Frenchman rushed to his feet and charged. This man was a pit bull, and faster than Quint expected.

Quint put all the strength he had left into a desperate jump. He fired his gun into the window and crashed into it, praying his weight would be enough to carry him through. It was. Quint sailed through the frigid night air amidst a shower of colored glass and icy water. He felt like he was falling for a longer time than he should have, and then he plummeted hip-first into a sharp edge of concrete. His leg snapped with an audible crackling noise of broken celery. His knee was wrenched unnaturally to the side, and he felt his kneecap dislodge. His hamstring was healing, but the fall reopened the wound with a vengeance, and blood rushed anew from the gash.

Forward. He had to keep moving. His thoughts now were of escape. He clutched at his belly and threw himself forward using the power of his one good leg, one push at a time. He barely knew he was in the street until he heard the sizzle and slide of hydroplaning tires. Just as he regained some semblance of a standing position, he turned his head at the sound and was immediately blinded by twin headlights.

He remembered flying. He did not remember landing.

He smelled motor oil. His vision was tunneled into narrow pinholes that threatened with each heartbeat to wink out of existence. He saw a yellow stripe and a flat patch of ancient chewing gum in breathtaking
detail. His leg screamed. His arm felt like it had been crumpled into a ball. The side of his head was wet and sticky, and a knot throbbed horribly. He wished someone would answer the phone. He felt gravel still embedded in his face. Someone gathered him up and put him somewhere soft. It smelled like old hamburgers and hand lotion now.

“Take him someplace safe. Please. Please, stop panicking. Just drive.” Brian? Was that Brian? Something heavy thumped into his lap, made of cloth. His duffel bag. Brian?

He heard a woman’s voice, too, arguing. Afraid. He had to get out of here, but he could not remember why. He pointed his gun at the source of the voice. “Drive…” he croaked in a freakish voice. His ribs were broken. He felt shards of bone floating in his lungs. “Driiiive or I’ll …I’ll kill you.”

He couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak, but only blood leaked from his mouth. His vision was fuzzy, grainy, then gray.

“How short is the longest life . . .”

Then black. Then gone.

RiffingShow

University Christian Church Seattle, Washington October 22, 2004 – 11:30 PM

I'm slightly annoyed that "University Christian Church" is an actual name that someone came up with for a church. That's not name. That's a fucking description [insert joke about the USA having a lame name here].
And the time means this takes place concurrently with the previous prologue. Is this gonna be a thing in this fanfic?

The city looked abandoned from where Quint stood atop a flight of narrow stone stairs. “Abandoned” was perhaps not the right word, more accurate to say that the city had a vacant feel to it, but still a life of its own.

Dude, this is Seattle. The whole city lights up like a fucking Christmas tree at night.

And nice. This is the prologue from Quint's POV. I can't wait to find out what led to the self-defenestration.

Quint could see no one walking along the street, and it seemed both comforting and frightening that, in a city such as this, he was alone.

Are you aware of the Watchers? I think they were a big secret at the start of the series, at least.
And what the fuck kind of writing is this? "[thing] makes me feel [emotion], but also [opposite emotion]". Make up your fucking mind, man. The fuck is this, some Young Adult novel where the main character isn't allowed to have real opinions so the readers have an easier time projecting themselves into them?

Occasionally a car would pass, a low rumble and a sharp glare of light made potent by the glimmer of rainfall that quickly faded into the night. Quint was alone, but the city was alive; the passing vehicles made him imagine the city breathing.

How dare those cars break up his fantasy of being alone in a city with a population of over 700k.

He leaned his head back and let the hood of his coat fall. The icy bite of the rain on his skin made him grimace. Quint loved the rain. It felt fresh and cleansing on his face. The sound of it soothed his nerves and loosened the tightness that often gripped his neck. He loved the reflection of city lights and neon on black puddles.

Rain: It's awesome.

Some might say that it poisoned Quint’s mood, that his personality was dark and dreary. That it gave Quint some angsty schadenfreude to revel in a phenomenon that causes misfortune and trouble to so many others.

Who is "some". And how does loving the rain make you gloomy?
And I guess rain is a bit of an inconvenience for many, but when it comes to farmers and shit rain is a good thing (until you get too much of it, but that's very much true for any type of weather).

Quint had thought about that, but decided the only thing about rain that really filled him with angst was the notion that humanity had finally found a way to screw even that up.

Is this about cloud seeding or something? That shit provides such piss-poor results you can't even prove it actually does anything.

Angst.

Linkara hates it. Except when one of his OCs throws one of his contractually obligated temper tantrums. I hope we won't get this shit here.

Ah well. If the shoe fits. Quint wasn’t any part of the solution either, so who was he to judge?

Solution to what? The wheater? Nothing has actually happened so far, and I'm already lost.

Leave it to the beret-wearing rich girls on algae diets, and the long-haired guitar-strumming guys trying in vain to score with them via the sensitive-guy route to chain themselves to trees.

(The spoony gifs are gonna get repetitive btw, 'cause it ain't easy finding them.)

Quint spit his gum out in the nearby planter and drove such inane thoughts from his mind. He was just upset because his Walkman crapped out last week.

A Walkman? This is supposed to be 2004, not 1994.

Quint slicked his hair back with a lazy swipe of his hand, and turned away from the street.

He pounded on the door a couple of times and waited. After a few moments, the door swung open.

Man, that confused me for a bit. After all this pointless meandering over... something I've already forgotten he's standing at the top of stairs which probably belong to the church (because that's what the location is supposed to be).

A black man on the light side of thirty leaned against the doorjam, wearing after-hours business casual: a button-up gray shirt with the collar loosened and charcoal-colored slacks. He had closely-trimmed dark hair, already graying at the edges. He had the carriage of a man without cares and who had long ago stopped bothering to suck in his gut.

That sounds like he's way past a "light side of thirty".

“Didn’t think you were gonna make it,” he said.

“Traffic. Good to see you again, Bri.”

Brian smiled warmly and swung his hand out. “You too, Dex.” Quint gripped his wrist and they shook hands.

>abbreviating "Brian" to "Bri"

“Come on in. I’ve got pizza rolls, and Trump’s about to fire that one guy. I love Tivo.”

>pre-POTUS Trump joke

Quint rolled his eyes and almost reconsidered entering the church, but did it anyway. “You’re a minister. Can’t you denounce reality TV or something?”

I feel whatever is important enough for you to go here in the middle of night is important enough that you can swallow your pride.
And denouncing? You should know better than anyone that nobody gives a flying fuck anymore what the Church has to say.

“You just don’t deal well with change,” Brian said over his shoulder as he led the way to his office.

Spoony in a nutshell.

“I got American Idol cued up. One of those audition episodes where everyone’s terrible.” Quint made a guttural sound.

That's most episodes IMO.

“I’m just going to sit in the hall down here. You have a good time though.”

The self-insert is strong with this one.

“Sorry man,” Brian turned around. “You looked sour. Thought I could help a little. I know you don’t want to talk—“

“I don’t,” Quint said in a harsher tone than he meant to.

He really is Boss uwu

He corrected his tone, “I just want to be alone for the next 30 minutes.”

Take all the time you need, Boss. Your immortality comes first.

Brian nodded sagely, looking as if he wished he could help.

Don't worry. No one can.

But he didn’t intrude. That's why Brian was one of the best friends a man like Quint could have.

Because he's a passive bitch who knows his place.

He seemed to understand that Quint had a lot of mileage on him, and most of what he kept bottled inside wasn’t anything he wanted to feel better about. Brian walked down the hall.

This isn't a fanfic. It's a prophecy.

Quint turned towards the main aisle and hesitated. “Pizza rolls?” Brian laughed and kept going. “Evil.”

Turns out this is only funny when it isn't trying to be funny.

Quint waited until he heard the door to the reading library close before he walked down the aisle. The hall was dimly-lit, the pews swathed in splashes of color from the stained glass windows behind the altar and chancel. The chancel was a walkway that stretched behind the pulpit, elevated above the congregation by two small flights of stairs on either side. It allowed the choir to file in from the left, stand in front of the windows and sing directly to the congregation, and exit to the right. It also kept the young acolytes from sleeping during the sermon, because thirty booming voices stood behind them at all times.

Thanks for the overly detailed breakdown of this place's layout.
Well, at least he didn't compare this church to a castle unlike some other author...

He stood in the middle of the aisle and closed his eyes, once more enjoying the sound of the rain against the roof and windows.

I hope that nothing that happens in this story will get between you and your one true love that is Rain-chan.

He dropped his duffel bag heavily onto a nearby pew and concentrated.

Why is it always duffel bags? This one better not be full of guns.

The acoustics were wonderful. The air hummed and throbbed as if it were special here, or magical, and the hair on his arms raised sharply at the sheer bliss of what he was hearing.

That's, like, cool, man.

He fell to his knees in humility. He swore long ago that he would never bow or bend knee to anyone ever again, except one person. And so, here he knelt.

Now it's just getting silly. Dude is like splooging his pants in quasi-religious euphoria because he dropped a duffle bag.

“It won’t end. You know that, Quint. It never ends. I won’t be protected.”

Quint’s fists clenched in his hair. He bent low, pressing his head to the floor.

“I won’t beg. I am asking you now, and that should be enough. Make it clean. Then walk away.”

His teeth ground audibly, and his eyes clenched shut, but tears still squeezed through and fell.

“It’s all right. If I could have chosen anyone, it would have always been you.”

Is he having a flashback, or did the Holy Duffle Bag (tm) 'cause him to hear voices?
Also I'm getting the distinct fear that nothing in this PDF is italicized, so I hope we won't get inner monologues to make this even more confusing.

Quint gasped for breath as a shock coursed through his body. His spine prickled as he felt a new presence approach. Someone like him. Unconsciously, he reached for his bag until he remembered where he was. Holy ground. The doors swung outward, allowing a rush of frigid air to flood the church.

So he carries his sword in the duffle bag.
Well, I guess this is more plausible than the MacLeods who just pull their swords out of their ass.

“Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.” Silhouetted in the doorway stood two men, side by side.

Can immortals die of cringe? 'Cause it might be working if they keep this up.

The tall one had light, almost white hair that laid awkwardly on his head and drifted in the wind. He wore a trenchcoat, buttoned up against the elements and a red scarf wound around his neck. His eyes were narrow and full of malice, and though Quint had never seen him before, it looked as though the man held some deep hatred toward him.

Anyone wanna bet if that red scarf contains kevlar? In his review for Highlander: The Source Spoony mentioned that as part of his ultimate trick if he were an immortal.

And no shit he doesn't like you. You're an enemy.

The other man was relatively smaller, but had a body that carried much more density.

Maybe I should come up with someting clever for the "density" part, but I'm too annoyed at the "relatively smaller" bit.

Quint could tell he was well-built, and he wore his tailored business suit as if he were born to be in one. He had thin, round glasses balanced atop his nose that reflected the street light harshly into the room.

Do immortals end up needing glasses? That sounds like it would've blown a few centuries ago.

His face was severe and stern, with immaculately-trimmed facial hair shaped into a Van Dyke-style goatee.

I got very confused with this and was scrambling to find a photo of Dick van Dyke with a goatee. But it turns out a "Van Dyke" just means "goatee and mustache". Doesn't even matter which style they have. As long as you have both it's a Van Dyke. That sure narrows things down.

An umbrella was propped over his right shoulder. Quint turned to face them, his eyes red and puffy, glassed over with fresh tears.

Oh, he's definitely gonna go Lady Snowblood on Quint.
Where's Scarf Guy's weapon, though? Does he have razors hidden in his scarf?

“Dry your eyes, Quintus. O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,” the man in the suit teased. He stepped inside, flanked by the larger man. The speaker closed his umbrella and leaned on it; Quint noticed that he carried a noticeable limp.

Are these guys for fucking real? And I thought the Irishman was annoying af. JFC.
And I guess this means that Umbrella Guy is mortal? How would you even end up with a limp as an immortal? Did like someone literally steal a joint or bone of his? Would that even work?

“You don’t get to call me that,” Quint said, his tone murderous. He instinctively knew to hate this man, and it wasn’t just because of the poetry. “And we’re closed for a private function.”

Oh it's definitely the poetry. At least for me.
And will we ever find out what exactly he's doing here? Beside telling the black guy to leave him alone?

“Love has made you predictable, Quintus,” he continued. “For whom do you mourn?” Quint scowled and stepped forward, anger coloring his face, but the taller fellow in the trenchcoat stepped in front to shield the man behind him. Quint restrained himself, but the talky fellow persisted in provoking him. “Mortal? Immortal? What would she say to you, Quintus? ‘I long to believe in immortality. If I am destined to be happy with you here-- how short is the longest life. I wish to believe in immortality-- I wish to live with you forever’.“

Now I understand the guy is annoying af, but I think you're overreacting a bit.

“How short is the longest life . . . I wish to live with you forever.”

Who wants that, eh?

Quint’s jaw sagged open, and he staggered backwards in horror. He knew. It was a quote from Keats,
“Letter to Fanny Brawne.”

He knows an English Romantic poet that's not Lord Byron!

It was what she used to say, in dark warmth together. And when she said it,
Quint felt needed. He felt important.

I guess he has the standard issue immortal backstory involving a mortal waifu

When this man said it, he felt violated.

The breath leaked from his body, turning acid in his throat. “Tell me how you know that,” he threatened. He will suffer. “Tell me what you want.”

Don't act like Keats is your dirty little secret.
Though at least you finally asked what these clowns want.

“Hear ye not the hum, Of mighty workings?” he quoted. Keats again. Who was he? The man pointed his umbrella at Quint. “The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled. Our time draws short, Quintus. And so much depends on you.”

Would he have gone for a different English poet if these lines didn't kinda-sorta match what's going on here?

“Answer me!” Quint cried out.

He could hear the door to the reading library open, and Brian wandered out. Quint cringed and called with a broken voice, “Brian, go back into the library.” He pointed a finger at the man who quoted Keats, his tone moderated into a cool assurance of imminent death. “Answer me.”

Not sure what good this is gonna do. They already know there's another dude here. If they plan on killing him too they'll just move their asses to him.

“You have fallen so far from your greatness, Quintus.” This Keats man seemed genuinely saddened. “There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. And what a hell you must struggle in. But you mourn, you stagnate, you rot. You live, and yet you are more dead than most who walk this earth. You keep wishing to undo time’s inexorable grind forward. As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. She has broken you, Quintus. And we know her name.”

Her name better not be Lenore.

The tall man finally spoke. "La belle dame sans merci,” he said, in natural French. With that, the Frenchman opened his coat and calmly withdrew a masterfully-wrought sabre and gestured to Quint with it as a challenge.

I'm pretty sure a sabre is just long enough to be very awkward to hide in your coat, but it's no tlike it ever made sense in the movies.
Also La Belle Dame sans Merci is the name of a Keats poem, btw. Who are these two? The Super Keats Bros.?

“What are you doing?” Quint’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Frenchman advanced quickly.

"Screw the rules, I know poetry!"

I wonder if this is gonna be explained in this fanfic, or if we're just gonna go by Endgame logic of "Fuck the rules".

Quint rushed to grab his bag, but he barely had time to grab the shoulder strap when his opponent was on him. Quint dove past an overhead slash as he dove into the pews.

Man, the repetition of verbs here is killing me.

He gripped his duffel bag in his hand, but had no time to search in it for his weapon.

That's all on your, honestly. Put that sword in its own compartment instead of treating this duffel bag like an oversized purse.

The Frenchman showed no quarter, no hesitation; he hacked into the pews as Quint scrambled to regain his feet. “This is holy ground, you ah*!”

I can't tell if Quint got hit, or if Spoony is censoring himself.

Keats laughed with a sardonic amusement dripping from his voice, “Is there such a thing for a faithless man?”

"Screw the rules, I'm an atheist!"

Quint screamed as the Frenchman’s sabre lashed across his collarbone.

Oh, so he did get hit.

With mortal fear hastening his steps, he dropped his bag and scrambled to the altar.

He's immortal, you dummy.

He fell over it, and sensed his enemy swiftly behind him. He rolled aside just ahead of another chop that rang woodenly off the altar. Quint snatched up an iron candlestick and managed to parry a slash meant for his belly.

How has this guy been alive for centuries when a surprise attack turns im into a bumbling fool?
Sure, it's on holy ground, but I'd love to see him fumbling for his sword in that giant purse of his if he got surprise-attacked on the streets in the middle of the night.
FFS you're a Highlander. An immortal. Whipping out your sword should be a natural reflex for you.

Quint hooked the Frenchman’s swordarm [sic] under his armpit and drove his palm into the man’s nose. The Frenchman stumbled backwards, clutching at his bleeding face. Quint hurled the candlestick into his groin.

Classic IN self-insert protagonist. Always going for the loins.

He half expected the Frenchman to drop his sword after that, but he was only momentarily set back.

Quint looked around for a weapon. His bag was out of reach. He ran to the pulpit. Nearby stood a pair of flagpoles: the American flag and the state flag of Washington. Quint wrenched Old Glory free from the base and tore the fabric away.

Better than nothing, but a bit inconvenient for close-quarters fencing.

The Frenchman regained his footing and bared bloody teeth at him as Quint spun the pole as a quarterstaff. Quint held the pole low across his waist, his hands spaced far apart at opposite ends.

How about holding it like a spear so you can capitalize on your longer reach?

The Frenchman rushed in with a furious yell. Quint had already sized up a flaw in his technique; he was a devastating fighter because he psyched himself up for gruesome murder when entering battle.

As opposed to the average fighter who is only psyching himself up for moderate injuries?
You're immortals. Lopping the opponent's head off is the only intended outcome for your little kerfuffle.

His blows were all power, balanced by basic technique. Anyone caught unprepared could be easily overwhelmed, as Quint had been.

Also you were surprised and only have improvised weapons.

But anger and power lead to mistakes.

Gotta exploit those recovery frames.

As the Frenchman charged, Quint flung his makeshift staff forward as if it were a pool cue.

Oh, so he does use it like a spear after all.

The poor lighting hindered depth perception, and in an instant, Quint was holding the staff at the extreme end like a sword.

Or a fucking spear.

His nose crashed straight into the eagle that capped the flagpole, and he almost somersaulted backwards from the impact.

I'm sure Spoony meant Mr. Frenchman here, but the way this is worded makes it sound like Quint just decked himself in the face.

His opponent regained his feet, his face masked in blood that still gushed from his ruined snout. With another cry, he waded back into melee, his sword never at rest.

This guy has Hit Points for days.

Quint managed to parry the attacks, but his enemy was a brutal swordsman who had seen combat. He could tell.

Duh. You've both been alive for centuries, if not longer.

Quint was not suited for this type of combat, and he was being driven backwards steadily.

What type of combat are you suited for? Turn-based?

He dropped low as he parried a slash at his legs, and the Frenchman followed up with a high downward-arcing hack. Quint parried high over his head, the staff parallel to the ground. He clove the pole in half, and the sword collided with the ground.

Somehow missing your head in the process? What was he aiming for?

Quint seized the advantage and pummeled the Frenchman about the head with the broken ends of the pole. He clubbed him in the head with brutal rights and lefts, hoping to knock him out long enough to run or find a real weapon.

You might also want to try and disarm him.

He planted his pivot foot, and was spinning around to follow up with a roundhouse kick to gain some distance, but the Frenchman rolled under it and hacked upwards into Quint’s hamstring.

Fool! Roundhouse kicks have too many startup frames!

Blood flowed hot down his leg and Quint seethed in transcendental pain.

That's the worst kind of pain !

He felt his muscle ripping and tearing against the bone. He had to keep moving. He leapt forward on his good leg, gaining as much distance as possible. His enemy’s tactic was ruthlessness and overbearance.

Aka "keep swinging at the idiot who doesn't have a real weapon."

“Dex!!” It was Brian’s voice.

Quint looked over to see Brian standing in the aisle. Oddly, he could see no sign of the man who quoted Keats. Quint had lost track of him.

Oh, I'm sure you'll see his umbrella sword impale your buddy in a matter of seconds.

Brian had Quint’s duffel in one hand, and one of Quint’s swords in the other.

One of his swords. He has multiple swords in his duffel bag - and still can't find one when he needs it the most.

It was small and deceptively compact, but sturdy and swift in design.

Of course it's swift. It's small. And how the fuck can you be compact in a "deceptive" way?

Brian reached high over his head and hurled the gladius in Quint’s direction.

Oh, so it's a Gladius. Just say so.
Though due to its short length it's probably not a very good duelling sword if you don't also have a shield. Even if you want to stick to your Roman shtick you should probably favor a spatha, which is much closer to a typical one-handed sword from the Middle Ages and beyond.

(Also I'm pretty sure a Gladius' iron is shit tier compared to the steel of a sabre.)

It rang off the far wall and clattered to the carpeted floor. But it was close enough. Quint hobbled over and scooped up the old sword, and in one motion narrowly managed to parry the Frenchman’s lightning onslaught.

I feel like only throwing one of the swords was a bit of a dick move, as it makes it pretty easy for Frenchie to figure out in which direction Quint would fling his limping carcass.

Quint was overwhelmed, and even though his technique was the best he’d ever known it, the Frenchman was too fast, and Quint was barely ambulatory.

Classic Quint. Always good for an excuse why he sucks

He fought a retreating duel, dragging himself up the stairs to the chancel that overlooked the entire church. To his left, the rain rattled against the stained glass like a snare drum. The Frenchman pushed him back with a thrust. Quint tried to get in a counterattack and slash at his opponent’s sword arm, but the Frenchman stepped forward and kicked Quint in the wounded hamstring. Quint screamed and fell backwards, nearly blacking out from the pain, and the Frenchman followed up with a brutal thrust into his belly.

How come you have to fight for your consciousness because of a flesh wound in your leg, while Mr. Frenchie over here keeps shrugging off multiple blows to his noggin'?

Quint’s sword fell from his hand and he doubled over. The Frenchman laughed shakily at his victory and kicked the gladius to the floor below. “Il ne peut y en avoir qu'un,” he intoned, his mouth full of blood. So much for tradition.

(This means "There can be only one" in French.)

“At the risk of sounding unsportsmanlike…” Quint groaned as the Frenchman raised his sword to finish the job. Quint rolled aside as the deathstroke fell and withdrew a handgun from his coat. He pushed it into the Frenchman’s ribs and squeezed the trigger several times. The Frenchman shrieked in pain and fell forward. “…you started it.”

So you just break one of the informal rules, and you don't even have a good one-liner for it? Shameful.


(And this is probably another thing he got "mean reviews" for.)

Quint fell to his back and twisted away as the other man's body collapsed nearby. Quint considered taking the sabre, finishing him off. He swore under his breath and crawled away in an attempt to regain his feet. He heard a gurgling sound behind him. The Frenchman was back on his hands and knees. He gripped his sabre once more and was starting to stand!

Dude is more unstoppable than a Terminator.

Quint allowed himself a moment to gape in amazement at the man’s persistence and resiliency, and it almost cost him.

I mean, what did you expect?

The Frenchman rushed to his feet and charged. This man was a pit bull, and faster than Quint expected.

Or he went to the Dark Knight School of Swordfighting. And his groins are too well-protected, so you're just fucked.

Quint put all the strength he had left into a desperate jump. He fired his gun into the window and crashed into it, praying his weight would be enough to carry him through. It was. Quint sailed through the frigid night air amidst a shower of colored glass and icy water.

Up, up and away!


(Though faceplanting against the unbroken glass would've been pretty funny.)

He felt like he was falling for a longer time than he should have, and then he plummeted hip-first into a sharp edge of concrete. His leg snapped with an audible crackling noise of broken celery. His knee was wrenched unnaturally to the side, and he felt his kneecap dislodge. His hamstring was healing, but the fall reopened the wound with a vengeance, and blood rushed anew from the gash.

Yeah yeah, we've seen that already last prologue.

Forward. He had to keep moving. His thoughts now were of escape.

Unless you regenerate as fast as Wolverine or have a getaway car with a driver waiting for you, you're fucked.

He clutched at his belly and threw himself forward using the power of his one good leg, one push at a time. He barely knew he was in the street until he heard the sizzle and slide of hydroplaning tires. Just as he regained some semblance of a standing position, he turned his head at the sound and was immediately blinded by twin headlights.

He remembered flying. He did not remember landing.

Landing is overrated, anyways.

He smelled motor oil. His vision was tunneled into narrow pinholes that threatened with each heartbeat to wink out of existence. He saw a yellow stripe and a flat patch of ancient chewing gum in breathtaking detail.

Hyper-realistic chewing gum!

His leg screamed. His arm felt like it had been crumpled into a ball.

Those are some cool tricks.

The side of his head was wet and sticky, and a knot throbbed horribly. He wished someone would answer the phone.

If it's important they should've tried e-mail.

He felt gravel still embedded in his face.

Now where does that come from?

Someone gathered him up and put him somewhere soft. It smelled like old hamburgers and hand lotion now.

I smell imminent rape.

“Take him someplace safe. Please. Please, stop panicking. Just drive.” Brian? Was that Brian? Something heavy thumped into his lap, made of cloth. His duffel bag. Brian?

I guess Watchers who have decided to interfere in this foul play.

He heard a woman’s voice, too, arguing. Afraid. He had to get out of here, but he could not remember why.

You still didn't get to angst around in some dark corner for 30 minutes.

He pointed his gun at the source of the voice.

How the fuck are you still holding that gun?

“Drive…” he croaked in a freakish voice. His ribs were broken. He felt shards of bone floating in his lungs. “Driiiive or I’ll …I’ll kill you.”

"I mean it. really!"

He couldn’t breathe.

[insert George Floyd joke here]

He tried to speak, but only blood leaked from his mouth. His vision was fuzzy, grainy, then gray.

“How short is the longest life . . .”

Then black. Then gone.

It's the Super Keats Bros. again

Next Time: The actual first chapter. Finally.

[Complicity]

The duel also took place in a church aka Holy Ground (tm).

And now we have Le Sanctuary of the Faithless.
Quinton Review's weapon of choice must be a complimentary multi-folded Nihon steel that came with his Fedora purchase.

That it gave Quint some angsty schadenfreude to revel in a phenomenon that causes misfortune and trouble to so many others.

Who is "some".

Spoony.

And how does loving the rain make you gloomy?

It reminds him of showers. He punches the rain, like the Christmas trees.

>abbreviating "Brian" to "Bri"

>calling a black man bri

“You just don’t deal well with change,” Brian said over his shoulder as he led the way to his office.

Spoony in a nutshell.

Is he more or less high functioning than CWC?

“Come on in. I’ve got pizza rolls, and Trump’s about to fire that one guy. I love Tivo.”

>pre-POTUS Trump joke

Back then, Donald Trump was just Le quirkee pop culture reference.

Solution to what?

Climate change that "fucked up" the rain.
Greta was a big fan of this, like Viga Kong with Cockslut's books.

“I don’t,” Quint said in a harsher tone than he meant to.

He really is Boss uwu

"Don't.
Tell me.
How to play.
Nigger".

He pounded on the door a couple of times and waited. After a few moments, the door swung open.

Man, that confused me for a bit. After all this pointless meandering over... something I've already forgotten he's standing at the top of stairs which probably belong to the church (because that's what the location is supposed to be).

I'm still on the fence about this being a church called University, or a college called Christian Church.

Are these guys for fucking real? And I thought the Irishman was annoying af. JFC.

They are all written by Spoony.

And I guess this means that Umbrella Guy is mortal? How would you even end up with a limp as an immortal? Did like someone literally steal a joint or bone of his? Would that even work?

I 'member the plot point of one of the TV show's episodes, featuring an immortal child, being that immortals become immortal after their first death, and then they stay the way they are foreveeer.
But in another episode there was an Egyptian kween that comes out of her sarcophagus perfectly fine, so unless she died, became immortal and was pretending to be dead a second time while being mummified, the whole IP is dumb.

Quint’s jaw sagged open, and he staggered backwards in horror. He knew. It was a quote from Keats,
“Letter to Fanny Brawne.”

He knows an English Romantic poet that's not Lord Byron!

Can you imagine how long it took for him to look that shit up on Wikipedia?

His leg screamed.

More or less than the writer's mind?

He couldn’t breathe.

[insert George Floyd joke here]

"He then pointed the gun at the pregnant woman's belly"

Next Time: The actual first chapter. Finally.

I'm already exhausted.