"Take care of yourself, Carl Robinson, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come by the dojo," said my long-time friend Duncan MacLeod, the legendary Highlander, as he clasped me in a bear hug, and I smiled and embraced him warmly. I haven't met a lot of good people in my nearly two centuries of living upon this earth, but the tall, dark-haired Scotsman with the kind smile is one of them. Dude's saved my life more times than I care to count.
"I'll hold you onto that, Mac," I said, and then I got on the next bus leaving the City of Seacouver, and hit the road. My name is Carl Robinson. If you were to look at me, you'd see a six-foot-four, well-built and dark-skinned, ruggedly handsome African-American male in his early thirties. This is where you'd be wrong. I've been alive for a long time. Indeed, I was born in 1824 in the City of New Orleans, Louisiana. Yup, I consider myself as American as apple pie, not that my country was kind to me in my early days.
In my time, I've been many things. A slave, a soldier in the Buffalo Soldiers unit during the U.S. Civil War, a baseball player in the Negro League and later a superstar in Major League Baseball. Now, I'm a man starting a new life. One of the perks of being an Immortal, I guess. You can always start over. I haven't made many friends as an Immortal, since the world is full of prejudice and as a black man, I cannot escape it. I'd like to think I'm an okay guy, doing only what I must to survive.
Actually, that's not one hundred percent true. I have always felt that I was meant for great things. Born as a slave on a farm on the outskirts of New Orleans, Louisiana, I chafed under the bigoted and brutish hand of the plantation owner, Seth Hobart. One day, Hobart's daughter got pregnant and gave birth to a mixed-race brat, and even though I had nothing to do with it, Hobart killed me for it because, according to him, someone had to pay.
After Hobart killed me, I rose as a newbie Immortal, unaware of what I was or what had happened to me. You see, it's only after we die for the first time that we become Immortal. I encountered a fellow named Matthew McCormick, and the moment he came near me, I felt something. No, not like that. I felt the Buzz, which is how us Immortals know another of our kind is around.
"You're an Immortal, Carl, put aside mortal concerns, a great destiny awaits you," Matthew told me, and he taught me about the ways of the Immortals. Basically, there are men and women in this world who are born different. After we die for the first time, we become Immortal. From that moment on, we cannot grow old or get sick, we heal quickly from injuries that would kill normal humans. Welcome to the life of an Immortal. It's all fun and games, until a psycho with a sword comes gunning for your head, and you have to fight him or her, or die.
Fighting other Immortals with a sword to defend one's head is how we stay alive, but not why we live. After that encounter with Matthew McCormick, I hit the road but not before paying Seth Hobart and his son for their brutality and racism. I killed the bastards, alright? I just wanted to make them pay and I did. Mother nature or whatever unimaginable power made the world decided to make me Immortal, and I decided to use it to my advantage.
The United States of America isn't kind to the black man, and the fact that I was Immortal didn't make a whole lot of difference. After I left the Hobart Plantation, I roamed across the continental U.S. and settled in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. I didn't find it a whole lot easier in the great north, but I wasn't a slave anymore and being an able-bodied man, I was able to find work. White northerners didn't own slaves but they weren't a whole lot nicer than the rednecks of the Deep South, let me tell you.
Time passed, and in the mid-twentieth century, I became a professional baseball player. Yes sir, I got me one sweet arm. Later, when segregation ended, with the encouragement of my new friend and fellow Immortal Duncan MacLeod, the man who saved me from the Klan one fine day in the marsh, I joined the world of Major League Baseball. That was a long-time dream of mine, ladies and gentlemen.
I had it pretty good as an MLB star in the late 1990s, and I was worth millions. My face was everywhere, and I was practically worshipped for my fame, my athletic prowess. I was on Fox sports, The WB Network, and CNN. In fact, I even had city mayors and other career politicians approaching me asking if I ever thought of a career in politics. Me, Carl Robinson! And then it ended. The past has a way of catching up to you, and indeed, that's what happened to me.
As it turns out, Matthew McCormick, the first Immortal I encountered and my First Teacher, was the husband of one of Hobart's daughters. Yes, the man who taught me about Immortality came after me because I had killed his father-in-law Seth Hobart, the slave owner and abusive bastard who owned me like you own a plough or a mule. Matthew had become an FBI agent and came after me for killing a cocky Immortal duelist named Myron Corman, the south paw dude who came for my head. It was self defense but Matthew McCormick wanted my head anyway.
Add to that the fact that the cops wanted me for questioning in Myron Corman's death, and things didn't look too good for yours truly. My coach Trey Franks tried to save me from trouble by confessing to the murder of Myron. Well, that last bit surprised me. You don't see a lot of old white dudes putting themselves on the line for us brothers, that's true.
I was touched by this, and wrestled with my conscience, until, with some prodding from Duncan MacLeod ( the Scotsman is a pain in the butt ) I decided to own up for what I'd done. Matthew and I were about to fight to the death, which is what us Immortals do, and then Duncan MacLeod interfered because, well, that's what he does. I swear, if this dude wasn't my good buddy, I'd seriously give him a kick you know where. He can't stay out of people's business!
