Collaborative Fiction: Seraphim Angels ... Mycroft - Redux.

The cool autumn evening had passed into night before giving way to a cold, crisp morning.

He rose from his bed and found his way to the mirror in bathroom, gazing at a face both familiar and strange to him. The name Malcolm McHenry appeared in his mind’s eye, and it was also both familiar and strange.

Was it his own name?

He wasn’t certain, although it seemed to him it may be and at the same time, he felt an association of the name with someone he thought he knew.

He made his way through the stone corridor outside of the bedroom to the stairway and followed it doen to a large room that contained numerous pieces of antique furniture and a large stone hearth. On a table next to an over sized, stuffed chair was a table with two items – a tankard and a piece with the words “Highlander”, “Seraphim Angels” and “Mycroft” scribbled on it. The tankard contained mead to a level about a third of the way to the top. He knew what that was; but the scribbled note was a mystery. Was it his handwriting?

He couldn’t be sure.

The big man went to the hearth and tossed some of the firewood in the rack nearby onto the hearth and searched for something with which to light them. He frowned as his search yielded no results. He stared briefly at the logs and the one in front burst into flames.

“Damn!”

Another thing strange.

He was filled with questions and lacking answers.

Where was he? Without a doubt, he was in someplace ancient.

Who was he? The name Malcolm McHenry resurfaced, as did the name Mycroft and the other words found on the note. What was their meaning?

There were doors leading out of the room – perhaps answers were there, he walked to the nearest and grimaced as his head smacked into the top of the opening. Several stones dislodged and along with chunks of mortar, fell at his feet. He rubbed his forehead, but found no injuries and felt no pain.

Strange again.

The room was a kitchen. He searched the old icebox near the left wall and found a huge piecev of ham, which served to stimulate his taste buds and remind him of his hunger/ he ate his way quickly through the food sand spied a bucket that was full of more mead. That was quickly consumed and he felt satisfied.

A door at the far end of the kitchen led a small courtyard with a vineyard. He stepped outside and looked to the sky.

Clear, cold, crisp – somehow he knew that was appropriate for this season.

But he really knewv little more than that.

=========================================================================

The big man walked into the courtyard and looked around. Looking back at the building from which he came, he noticed just how big it was. It was more than just a house; it was obviously much more – a castle or huge mansion, he guessed. The structure was unfamiliar, yet somehow he instinctively knew that he knew more about it than realized.

The thought of of something unfamiliar but not unknown was confusing.

He continued his walk, passing through a small stand of trees into a bigger area that contained what appeared small shed that included an apparent entrance to an underground cellar, he thought. Some distance away was a collection of stones that he figured was a small graveyard.

He knew about graveyards, but didn’t now why that occurred to him, since he didn’t remember ever seeing one. His head was beginning to ache from all the unanswered questions as he strove to recall answers.

He approached the supposed graveyard that contained an assortment of weathered stones composed of granite, obsidian and other minerals.

Wait …

How did he know what those were made of?

He noticed the engraving on the one stone – Ian Duncan, 937 – 1012.

A second stone was inscribed Michael Duncan – 1123 – 1167.

Several more stones contained similar engraving, with varied dates indicating various individuals, both male and female, young and old.

He looked at about a dozen or more before he inhaled sharply and stared at the largest stone.

Malcolm McHenry, 1285 – 1427. One hundred forty two years? There was the name again – the name he thought may be his. But this name belonged to a long-lived person, now long dead.

What the  … ?

He was more confused than ever.

The big man walked back toward the mansion and then around the side to the road that ran in front of the estate. A small car was approaching from the distance and the man stopped by the road as the car slowed to a stop.

“Beautiful day, aye?,” said the driver. “Here’s your posts. Not much today. A letter and some circulars be all ye get, sir.”

The postman smiled and waved as he drove off.

There was no return address on the letter. He rolled the circulars placed them under his arm as he walked back to the mansion, opening the envelope as he went.

He pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and another piece fell at his feet.

He retrieved the fallen piece, a small envelope and opened it, Contained therein was a receipt for an airline ticket and – a ticket. He , and the letter wasunfolded the letter and read it aloud.

“Seraphim Angels.”

There was an address followed by the words “Urgent” and “Mycroft.”

He looked toward the sky and said to himself,  “The mystery deepens.”

The big man returned to the mansion and opened the huge oaken door in the front. He st0p-ped in the entrance and looked at the door. Three or four inches thick, tall enough he didn’t have to duck his big frame to enter and a good two meters wide. Surety. Very heavy. Yet he had moved i8t easily.

Hmm …

hr continued in to the large foyer-like room and in the area with the many pieces of antique furniture he saw an elderly gentlemen. Finally, a chance to get some answers.

“Excuse me,‘ he said loudly.

The gentleman continued to lay out a breakfast, pouring tea or coffee, but showing no sign he acknowledged the presence of the big man.

He called again and like the first time, there was no response.

He walked over and gently placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Startled, the man jumped, turned and seeing the big man smiled broadly and gestured to the food and drink/

The big man asked,” Who are you? Where am I?”

The elderly man smiled again and gestured to the breakfast on the table.

The big man asked again and the elderly man lo0ked puzzled.

Now puzzled himself, the big man pointed to his own ear and the pointed to the man, holding his palms upright in a questioning manner. The smiled, pointed to his own ear and shook his head no.

He slowly enunciated, “Do you read lips?”

The gentlemen frowned slightly and again gestured to the food.

“Hmm. Guess not.”

The big searched for, and found, pen in the room’s, desk, and wrote the questions on the back of the envelope he had.

The gentleman’s countenance took on a sad appearance and he again shook his head no, shrugging his shoulders.

Apparently, no answers to be found here.

Dejected, the big man sat down at the table and picked up a biscuit. He bit into it and pleased with the taste, looked at the old held up the biscuit, and smiled, nodding his head.

The old man beamed and hustled out of the room to the kitchen.

Obviously, answers would wait.

After eating, the big man decided to survey the estate more thoroughly. He carried the small plate and coffee cup – each empty because the food was excellent – to the kitchen. The old gentleman was busy preparing a dish of some sort and reached for a spice just as the big man came in.

A horrified look appeared on his face and he shook his head vigorously as he hurried to take the items from the big man, pointing to himself as he did so. He pointed to the big man and shook his head no, then pointed to the dishes and then to himself as he nodded his head yes.

The big man smiled and nodded his head, attempting to assure the gentleman that he meant no offense and was merely being courteous. The old man smiled and patted him on the arm, giving him a thumbs up.

Communication was getting better, but there was surely a long, long way to go. He exited the kitchen through the door that led in to the courtyard and sauntered toward the orchard. He walked some distance into the orchard when a female voice softly singing. He looked around, not seeing anyone. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his hearing. After a few seconds, he had located the general direction. He headed that way, moving as quietly as a man his size could.

In a small space among the trees, an attractive young lady was was picking fruit from a small gathering of bushes. He stopped short of proceeding to just where the girl was kneeling and watched her for a few moments. She plucked the fruits so gently the bush scarcely moved, singing as she did. The tune seemed familiar and the words, he realized, were not English, but Gaelic, although he couldn’t put a name to either language. As she worked her way around the bush, she was gradually turning her face toward him. He could now make out her features. If he could have quickly recalled the appropriate word, he would have thought “She has the face of a goddess.”

As it was, the word that crossed his mind was “Wow.”

Having filled her bucket, she slowly rose and began to toward where he was standing. Suddenly, she stooped and inhaled sharply. She slowly raised her head; it was obvious she was aware of his presence. It was a presence she naturally didn’t expect.

Her eyes hesitatingly moved up his body, starting at the very large boots that covered his rather large feet and moving ever slowly upwards. He could see her eyes getting bigger as she began to realize how big he was. Her eyes finally widened as far as they could when she saw his face. Her lips began to tremble and she muttered something softly. The young lass dropped her bucket, and fainted.

The big man knelt by her side and took off his cloak, laying it across her for fear the cold brisk morning and the dew-covered grass would make her uncomfortable. Ignoring the bucket and spilled fruit, he gently picked the lass up and cradling her, took her back to the mansion. The old gentlemen was carrying some food out, supposedly for the birds flying around, or for other animals. He spotted the pair and frantically waved to the big man to bring her inside. Once inside he led him to the big room with all the furniture and motioned to the large couch, before turning and going back into the kitchen,

The big man gently laid her on the couch and the old gentleman motioned him away as he came in to the room with a damp cloth and laid in on the girl’s forehead. He gently patted her forehead until she began to stir.

The big man heard her mutter “Papa” and start to push herself up. She spotted the big man, softly said “oh” and dropped back down to a prone position.

The big man sighed and went to the overstuffed chair and sat down, resting his elbow on the arm and using his hand as a rest for his chin.

The old man continued to minister to the young lass, who was showing signs of recovering from whatever effect the big man had on her. She was now sitting upright, but only glancing furtively toward the mysterious – to her – stranger.

“I apologize if I startled you,” he said to her. “I didn’t intend to do that. I thought your song was quite beautiful.”

She smiled, but glanced only quickly at the speaker.

“You took me by surprise,” she said. “I had thought stories about the giant who once lived here long ago were no more than legend. I certainly never expected to see you. When did you arrive?”

“I don’t know,” the big man replied. “I was here when I awoke this morning. I don’t remember anything before that. And, I’m not a giant. I think I may be bigger than most people, but I’m by no means a giant.”

“You are to me.”

“I imagine I am,” he chuckled. “What’s your name?”

“Fiona.”

“What’s your surname, Fiona?”

“My last name is McHenry.”
 
“I see. Are you familiar with the name Malcolm McHenry?”

“We do not speak that name, nor is any McHenry male ever named Malcolm.”

The big man’s brow furrowed.

He inquired, “Why is that?”

“Malcolm McHenry was my ancestor. He was killed over six hundred years ago after he had massacred a family of Clan MacGregor after they refused his request to give their daughter to him in marriage. Surely you remember. According to legend, you killed him; it was your right under clan law. After all, he murdered your clansmen.”

That information was definitely a jolt. The big man was at a loss for words. He found it impossible to accept tat he could be over 600 years old. Preposterous, indeed!

He slumped back in his chair and stared at the young lady seated on the couch.

“That’s impossible,: he muttered. “That cannot possibly be true.”

“You don’t believe you are really Donnchadh MacGriogair?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then, who are you?”

That left the big man at more of a loss that he had been before.

Maybe, he should just use the name Duncan MacGregor. It was as good as any, and obviously the name Malcolm McHenry wasn’t his. That burial site didn’t contain the remains of a man he killed, did it? No, it couldn’t be. Those remains would be over six hundred years old. And he wasn’t that old.

Fiona, apparently feeling better, rose and walked to the big window that overlooked the front of the estate. He watched as she placed her hands on the sill and gazed through the glass.

“You must be him,” said Fiona. “You cannot be any other. After you avenged your family, you told Malcolm McHenry’s brother you would return someday to reclaim what was yours. We have waited these many centuries for your coming. We have kept the manor and estate as it was during that time.”

“Where did I ... er, MacGregor go?”

“You did not say, and they did not ask.”

“If that was me, when did I return?”

“I do not know. I have just seen you today.”

“I guess I’m no closer to knowing who I am than I was when I awoke this morning.”

“Not true; you are the MacGriogair. You are the lord of this manor.”

He smiled and left the room, pondering all Fiona had told him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fiona had told him at dinner that evening that the closest airport was at Inverness. She also informed him that the ticket had no flight number and therefore, they could not determine the destination. Since there was no telephone at the estate, it appeared the only solution was to go to the airport.

Tomorrow would be fine for two reasons: Firstly, he wanted to get this resolved and secondly, that was the date on the ticket. He could walk into town and catch a taxi, or maybe a bus, or even talk someone into driving him there.

He awoke the next morning, packed his grip and headed out the door. There set a car, and behind the wheel, Fiona.

“Ready?”, she asked.

“I didn’t know you had an automobile.”

“Well, it’s not six hundred years ago,” Fiona said. ”We kept the manor pristine, but we updated elsewhere.”

The trip was pleasant, albeit short. The airport was only a few miles away. The were there fairly quickly.

“Where do I go?”

“Let’s go through the main doors, shall we? It makes sense,” said Fiona.

He followed her through the doors and she headed immediately to an information kiosk to inquire concerning flights.

As they were searching, a man stopped next to them.

“Please come vith me, sir.”

The big man scowled at him. “Why?”

“Because, I know vhere you need to go for answers, Mr. MacGregor,” the man answered. “Please.”

He gestured to a concourse leading to the left.

“It appears we’re to go that way,” Fiona said.

“No,” said the man. “Just Mr. MacGregor. You are to remain here – this time.”

MacGregor (apparently, it was his official appellation … for now) followed the man.

“Where are we going?” the big man queried.

The other man didn’t respond; he just continued walking.

They passed through a set of double doors into a small hangar. There set a black helicopter.

A man – clad entirely in black and holding two helmets – stood by the copter.

MacGregor’s escort stopped and the man saluted him. The escort returned the salute and said, “This is a very valuable payload. Deliver him in one piece.”

“SIR!”

MacGregor climbed in the rear seat of the copter and took the helmet offered by the man was apparently the pilot. The door was shut and the pilot climbed into the front. Suddenly, screens dropped into place over the windows and another screen appeared between the front and rear compartments.

MacGregor was entirely shut off from the outside world … or so he thought.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. MacGregor?”

“Yes, I am. I won’t be able to see where we’re going, will I?”

“No, Sir. Just relax. You’re in good hands.”

So, he did.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His next sensation was a jolt. The copter set down and the screens disappeared.

 The door opened and MacGregor disembarked.

“Welcome!”

MacGregor turned toward the voice and there stood a man, leaning on a staff. The man had a patch over one eye.

“We’ve been waiting on you," said the man, extending his hand.

They shook hands, and the man with the eye patch said, “You can call me the Director. Simply that; nothing more. Walk with me and I’ll fill you in on what we know of you.”

Director and MacGregor walked through the doors of the hangar and into a long corridor.

“We’ll be going to my office here. What does the word Legion mean to you?”

“Nothing, Director. Should it mean something?”

“Perhaps not. Considering your general low profile existence and reluctance to engage in social intercourse, you may have not heard the name.  It also speaks volumes of the efficiency of our field operatives,” said Director. “We’ll fill you in about Legion shortly. Right now, it’s of the utmost importance that we restore as much of your memory as possible.”

“You lost me at field operatives, Director.”

“Of course. Helmut and Fiona. Helmut was the man who met you at the airport. And Fiona ... well, you were unaware that she was never far from your side for the past five months, Director said with a wry grin.

“Couldn’t be,” MacGregor said. “I would certainly have remember seeing her.”

“As I said, the efficiency of our field agents speaks volumes,” said Director. “We recovered you from Legion about six months ago. It had kidnapped you shortly after its arrival on our planet and psychically manipulated you to conform to their agenda. That was how we first became aware of you. One unit of our organization – which is known as B.A.D.G.E., by the way – affected your release and Fiona took charge of you. Legion possesses great powers and technology, but their psychic powers pale in comparison to Fiona’s.

“Fiona needed to wipe your memories of your connection to Legion. Unfortunately, in order to be thorough, she needed to subvert any memory that could trigger a thought that would that would bring any suppressed memory concerning Legion to the surface. Therefore, it was necessary to erase all of it. That took longer than we anticipated. To begin with, your name is indeed, Duncan MacGregor. Much of what we do know about you is pieced together from Chronicles of Clan MacGregor. What Fiona told you of the killing of Malcolm McHenry comes from those sources.”

“Wait. You’re telling me I AM 600 hundred years old?”

“Apparently, much older even than that. There was reference to your existence before the clan’s written history, which begins somewhere around the sixth century B.C., as near as we can determine. It appears someone – we believe your mother – made a pact with an ancient druid. She didn’t fulfill her part of the agreement, and he decided to punish her by taking her only child. The druid endowed you with powers of some sort, including immortality. The manuscripts indicate you were but a child. Members of her clan found and killed the druid and took you back.”

“That’s quite a story. Director. You’ll have to forgive me if I find it rather unbelievable.”

“I don’t blame you, Duncan. It smacks of fantasy and legend,” Director said. “I was tempted to ignore it, but Fiona said there were traces of memory that she could tie to the general time period. As far as your powers, she discovered them through your memories.”

“I’m at a loss, Director,” said Duncan. “I’m unable to imagine what all memories I’ve lost because of this.”

“Fiona thinks some may return naturally. She told us she needs to restructure some of the blocks so memories could reassert themselves without triggering memories of Legion.”

“Tell me about Legion.”

“That will be provided to you by another member of Seraphim Angels. Later.”

MacGregor’s head was hurting. Not surprising; it was doing considerable gymnastics trying to wrap itself around all the new information being tossed at it.

He had laid down in the quarters assigned to him temporarily at whatever location to which he had been brought by the black copter to meet with the individual who referred to himself as the Director.

When he woke, he felt refreshed enough to look around his quarters. It was rather spartan in terms of furnishings, although the furniture looked like it would comfortable. The bed was certainly so.

He found a closet and peered inside. There were clothes that appeared to be his size. Included among them was what appeared to be an outfit or uniforms of some sort, which had a kilt of what he somehow knew was the tartan pattern of Clan MacGregor, along with a head covering or mask. Curiosity compelled him to try it on and he was surprised to find it conformed to his head snugly, and at the same time comfortably. He grinned and decided to try on the remainder of the of the items with it.


Gloves, a top that was form fitting to his muscular build, the kilt and pair of boots that also fit percectly. He walked over to a full length mirror in the room and studied his appearance.

A dashing figure, aye.

Apparently meant for him, considering the fit. He may as well continue to wear it. He felt comfortable wearing it.

A tone sounded and he looked around, realizing it must be the facility’s version of a doorbell.

“Yes?”

The door to the quarters opened and the Director entered, followed by a gigantic dog.

No, Duncan realized. Not a dog. A gigantic wolf.

Startled, MacGregor backed up slowly.

”Do not be afraid. I vill not bite.”

“Wha …?”

“He said he won’t bite, Duncan,” the Director said.

Duncan stared, dumbfounded, at the wolf.

“Ve have met before, although I vas in human form,” said the wolf, which slowly transitioned into the likeness of the man MacGregor recognized as Helmut, the man he encountered as the airport in Inverness. “My volf form is my natural form. It takes effort and concentration to maintain different forms such as this one.”

“Helmut is a shape shifter,” Director said. He’ll be your right hand; Fiona will also be with you as you work, but it will be some time before she joins you. We have an assignment for you. Helmut will brief you on the way. We’re sending you to Colorado – that’s one of the states in America. You’re to meet with another of our people named Astra. You and Helmut will report to her to assist her. I’ve forwarded to her your profile. She’s somewhat familiar with Helmut in terms of his background. Assist her in asny way possible.

“Oh, by the way, Duncan. Your operational name from here on is Highlander, ID 21107. Good luck.”