Disclaimer: I do not own Highlander or its characters, no copyright infringement intended.
Methos stumbled, stepping wide to catch himself. Despite a remarkably high tolerance for alcohol, he had managed to get completely shit-faced. It hadn't been intentional, he had just been having a good time… and he had gotten started much earlier in the evening than usual. Regardless, he was now weaving his way home from Le Blues Bar, on unsteady legs, and hoping desperately that there weren't any opportunistic immortals in the vicinity.
He turned from one wide, empty street to another, mentally chastising himself for the potential danger that he could be facing. "Never again." He muttered, but this wasn't the first time he had made that proclamation in his very long life, and it wouldn't be the last. He suddenly froze mid-step, listening carefully to the silence. Nope, not silence, he heard it again, and against common sense, followed the sound.
"No! Please… don't hurt me. I-I'll do anything!" It was a woman's voice, the words dripping with fear. Methos peered around the corner, keeping himself out of sight, buried in the shadows. There in the alley, a young woman was on her knees, blood flowing freely down her face from a deep cut near her eyebrow. Two smiling men jeered at her, one held a pistol in his right hand, probably the object that had opened the gash in her face. They were obviously thrilled at having subjugated a member of the fairer sex.
Methos had no interest in putting his life in jeopardy, to rescue anyone, it just wasn't his style. He came, he saw, it was time to go home, but something kept him rooted in the darkness. He briefly cursed MacLeod, maybe Boy Scout was contagious? No, certainly not. It wasn't a need to save this woman that kept him where he was, it was the onrush of memories.
Once he would have reveled in the domination of another person, truth be told, he still did every time he rolled out a plan that went off without a hitch. He was a master of manipulation, knowing exactly which buttons to push to put people on the right path to reach his goal. These two had the fear part right, her voice was testament to that, but they were much too base to do anything else correctly. The key to true domination was to let her believe that she could escape alive; that as long as she did what they asked of her, her life would be preserved.
The perfect balance of fear and hope would have her eating out of his hand, practically asking him to hurt her, just as long as she could live. It was all a lie, of course, the hope is false; it's just a way to control.
He watched the two men joke with each other, excitement and nervous energy animating their faces, and Methos realized that this was new to them. Both were anxious to get started with the woman, no doubt raping, and beating her, but neither wanted to be the one to start.
He had never had that problem, when he decided to hurt someone, there was no indecision. It was swift, calculated, and satisfying. The woman whimpered, and a lock of auburn hair fell into her face, smearing the trail of blood across her cheek. The reddish tints, lighting up in the dim glow of the security light affixed to the back door of the building, briefly taking on a blazing brilliance, and reminding Methos of a particular red head he had once decided to play with.
He wasn't really into red heads, the hair color just didn't do it for him, but this one girl, that's what she was, a girl, made the mistake of attracting his attention. By today's standards she would still be a child, she had been fourteen or fifteen, but back then she was already married, and he had cleaved her unfortunate husband in half. Instead of running and accepting the quick death that should have been her fate, she turned on him. She stared Death in the face and thought that she could get defeat him, her husband's sword in hand, she tried to stab him, spinning and running when he easily stepped out of the way.
It was obvious that the heavy bronze sword was too much for her to handle, but she refused to drop it racing out of the tent. Methos strode after her, and she tried again to slash him, but he stepped into her, knocking her to the dusty earth and yanking the sword from her hands. He wrapped his fingers in her bright red tresses and yanked her to her feet, dragging her back to the tent where her husband's cooling body still lay.
He shook his head violently, dragging himself away from the memory. He really did have too much to drink if he were reminiscing fondly about his days with the Horsemen. He really should do something about the woman, she didn't deserve to be abused by these amateurs, and MacLeod would be terribly disappointed if he didn't swoop to the rescue.
He was just about to slip out of the shadows when the woman raised her eyes to her tormentors, her face a perfect mask of terror, perfect until you got to her eyes. There was no fear in her eyes; none at all, which reminded Methos that there was something else he had learned in over five millennia, not all predators are created equal. Cats and vipers both hunt mice, but cats prefer to play with their food before they kill it.
The man with the pistol laughed and pointed it at her head, and in a fraction of a second, the woman had slapped the gun away from her with her left hand, and yanked the pistol away with her right. She stepped smoothly to her feet and fired two shots, one into each assailant.
Methos watched her walk past him, her stride easy, demeanor calm, a wicked half smile lighting her face, and just before she turned the corner she paused and looked straight at him; the wink she gave him was barely visible in the darkened alley. He laughed, foolish mortals, they really were amateurs.
Yep, cats like to play with their prey, but house cats should be careful not to hunt tigers.