Disclaimer: These boys all belong to someone else. Darn it. I'm just borrowing them to play with for a while. Cheers.
*June 1, 2005*
*Darius' Church, Paris, France*
Duncan screamed as he watched the sword fall, severing his friend's head from his shoulders. He watched the mist swirl around the body, then slam into the ground. This was holy ground. There was no light show, no great blackout, just two seconds of misty light, then darkness again.
"Methos," he whispered, tears in his eyes. The Hunters who had just killed the oldest immortal stared at MacLeod, then turned and ran. "Methos," he whispered again, voice breaking. The immortal had put up quite a fight, but twelve-to-one odds were unbeatable. MacLeod gathered the body into his arms and left.
*Le Blues Bar, Paris, France*
"He'll be buried next to Alexa," Mac told Joe, watching him pour his scotch. The scruffy bluesman nodded.
"It's what he would want," he remarked as he wiped off the bar.
"I still can't believe he's gone," Mac said. Joe raised an eyebrow.
"Why not, I mean, aside from the fact that you no longer have to keep a supply of beer around?"
"I just, I never thought he'd die. I mean, no one ever got his quickening. He died for nothing!" Joe nodded.
"It's sad. He was a good friend, whether he liked to admit it or not." Mac nodded, then turned toward the door as it was flung open by a man in black, a machine gun in his hands. Jus behind the glove on his left wrist was the watcher symbol tattoo.
"Which one of you is Joe Dawson?" he demanded. He probably already knew, but asking would make it seem as though it wasn't an assignment from the watchers specifically. Joe stepped out from behind the bar.
"I'm Joe," he said, leaning on his canes. The man smiled, then opened fire. There was no way Duncan could get to Joe in time, but he had to try. He felt bullets rip into his back; felt himself hit the floor and then die. When he awoke, it was to the feeling of a new immortal close by. He scanned the room, over the bodies of people who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. One lone figure sat at the bar, a bottle of scotch in front of him. It was Joe, covered in his own blood, and that of MacLeod. When Mac walked toward him, Joe put a shaky hand to his forehead and groaned.
"Why me?" the bluesman muttered. "I'm old, I have no legs, I'm basically a sitting duck. Why me?" Mac was silent for a moment.
"I hoped that this would never happen," he said apologetically. "I'm so sorry, Joe."
"No, it's not your fault, Mac." MacLeod simply nodded, then sat on the stool next to his friend.
"I guess I have a new student, then," he muttered. "The first thing on the list is getting you some real legs." Joe raised his glass.
"Here's to eternity," he said, and downed his drink.
"And mobility," MacLeod added.
*May 31, 2026*
Peter Samuel Jacobs ran down the court, dribbling the basketball in front of him, weaving in and out of hiss opponents' grasp, to the three-point line. Suddenly, he stopped, set up his shot, and sent the ball flying toward the hoop. He watched it sail toward it's goal, drop through, catching nothing but net. Then the world came crashing down. He felt someone slam into his back, shoulder to spine and then he was falling to the ground. He felt the hard wood floor come up and hit him in the face as he skidded with the momentum from the hit. He heard someone calling his name, hands gently touching his body, people everywhere asking him things. He wanted to answer, but his mouth wouldn't work, and his vision was fading at the edges.
"Pete! Hey, Pete! C'mon, man! C'mon, stay with me Sparks! Pete . . . !" The voice began to fade into the darkness, along with all the sights and smells of the old stadium.
"Sorry . . . Mike . . ." he mumbled, then let the dark overtake him.
MacLeod watched as Peter "Sparks" Jacobs was rolled off the court on the gurney, an EMT straddling his unresponsive form, trying to perform CPR.
"Come on," he said to the gray-haired man next to him.
"Oh, come on, Mac, I was enjoying the game! Just because a player gets hurt doesn't mean that the game is over!"
"Joe! Come on!" the man stood and walked behind Mac, grumbling.
"Hey, Mac, why are we going, anyway?" The dark-haired Highlander didn't stop walking.
"Because, Joe, Peter Jacobs is about to find out that he's immortal, and he's going to need help." Joe stopped, then jogged up to catch Mac, who was unlocking his black T-Bird.
"Okay, so how do we know where he'll be?" Mac pointed to the ambulance pulling away from the emergency entrance a few yards away. Joe scrambled in to the car with Mac, keeping an eye on the ambulance.
"You know, I really do owe you for these legs. It's so nice to be able to WALK without those damn canes." Mac didn't take his eyes off the road.
"Yeah, Joe, I know. Just keep an eye on that ambulance," he remarked, getting frustrated with traffic.
"Turn right," Joe informed him. Mercy hospital lay just ahead. The ambulance pulled up, Peter was rolled out, already intubated, a different EMT trying to pump his heart back to life. Mac Parked and walked into the ER, Joe trailing at his side.
"Hello, I'm Duncan MacLeod. A young man was brought here a few moments ago? A Peter Jacobs?" The woman behind the desk looked up at him, pity in her eyes.
"The morgue guys just came and got him. They declared him dead on arrival." Mac nodded, examined the hospital list on the wall, and marched down the hall toward the stairs that would lead him to the morgue. Joe shrugged his shoulders, looked around the ER, then followed MacLeod.
"So, Mac, when he wakes up, what are we going to tell him? Surprise, You're immortal? I mean, I already knew about immortals and all that jazz, but he probably doesn't have that kind of head start." Mac Shrugged.
"I'll figure something out. I always do." As they got closer to the morgue, Joe began to feel the buzzing sensation that signified another immortal close by. Very strongly.
"You sure this guy's newly immortal? I mean, feel that buzz!" Mac paused, concentrating.
"It feels like . . . Methos, only stronger," he muttered. "But that's not possible. Methos has been dead for . . . twenty-one years." Joe thought for a moment.
"Twenty-one years tomorrow. That's what it felt like when Methos was around? No wonder you could recognize it. It gives me a headache." Mac shrugged.
"Let's be cautious, Joe. I'll let you open the drawer; I'm going to have my sword ready. We have to get by the guy at the desk, first though." Joe nodded and put on his 'bereaved friend' face, the one that he usually used to get to where MacLeod was stored on the occasions when he actually got that far before Joe could rescue him. As they reached the door to the morgue, Joe found that he hadn't needed the face – the morgue attendant was not there. Joe looked to MacLeod, who shrugged, then pushed open the door. The buzz was now so powerful that Joe felt he had to hold his hands over his ears, if that would have helped. It was like walking into a room where the stereo was playing it's heart out with the bass tuned sky high. Even MacLeod seemed to be in discomfort as he pulled his katana from it's sheath under his long black leather trench coat. His chocolate brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, trying to tune out the 'noise' that was emanating form one of the stainless steel drawers that lined the wall five feet high. Suddenly, like someone turning a switch, the buzz that had been lowering Joe to almost a state of unconsciousness vanished, leaving behind what Joe at first thought was his mind holding the echo of the horrible 'noise'. Then he realized that it was a normal buzz, like his own, only weaker, like that of a new immortal. He looked to MacLeod for an explanation, but the older immortal just shrugged his broad shoulders and lifted his sword a little higher, into a defensive position, prepared for what or who may emerge from the stainless steel drawer he had stopped in front of. He nodded tersely to Joe, sending some of his long brown hair over his shoulder. Joe nodded back and placed his hand on the handle to the drawer. He could feel the buzz still pulsing quietly from the drawer; there was definitely an immortal in this drawer. He caught MacLeod's dark brown eyes with his own soft blue, and the two of them counted silently.
"One, two, THREE!" Joe pulled the drawer out fast, stopping only because the drawer would not pull out more. MacLeod stood motionless over the figure in the drawer, eyes screaming shock. Joe frowned, got up from where he had fallen when the drawer stopped and he didn't, and then walked over to the drawer. His face soon mirrored MacLeod's. The man in lying naked save for a sheet in the cold steel drawer, looking miserable, wet, cold, and afraid, was Methos. He looked younger, yes, but the eyes, those all-seeing, all-knowing green-brown eyes were those belonging to Methos. The high cheekbones, the lean face and body, the small, mobile mouth always ready to smirk, now drawn into a thin line by fear and physical discomfort, the shaggy almost-black hair; all belonged to a man whom Joe and MacLeod had assumed dead for nearly 21 years. MacLeod lowered the sword, still staring at the figure lying before him, eyes wide, mouth shut, long, thin fingers clamped into handfuls of the thin sheet he had with him. Joe, too, seemed frozen to the spot.
"Excuse me," came a high, whiney voice from the other end of the room. "Excuse me, but do you have any ID, do you have permission to be down here?" The man was rather large, his small head seemed like it was transplanted from an entirely different person, a thinner one, save for the huge jowls that hung from his fat cheeks. His beady little eyes caught sight of the sword and widened, his mouth opening to scream. Joe was there in an instant, slamming both fists into the side of the man's head, effectively knocking him into a fat unconscious heap of lard. MacLeod looked at the boy – man – in the drawer before him. He offered him a hand up, which was taken by one almost skeletal-looking, cold and shaking hand. He pulled the man up into a sitting position, wordlessly turned away so that he could arrange the sheet around his body, and waited.
"Wh – who are you people?" the man asked, placing a hand on MacLeod's shoulder. MacLeod thought for a moment.
"This is not the time or the place. That man over there could wake up at any moment. You'll have to trust that I will not harm you, and I will not hold you against your will if you choose to leave after I have explained certain things to you." The man nodded.
"Like why in the hell I woke up in a steel drawer?" he asked. MacLeod nodded on his way to the door, Joe trailing behind the two, still watching the so-familiar man.
"Uh, is there something I can call you guys? I mean, aside from maybe Starsky and Hutch?" MacLeod laughed. This was the humor he remembered.
"My name is Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," he told the man sneaking behind him, wrapped in a sheet.
"I'm Joe Dawson," Joe announced from behind them. The man nodded.
"Peter Samuel "Sparks" Jacobs, enchanted, I'm sure. Uh, am I going to try to sneak out of this place dressed like an ancient Greek? I mean, I don't mind the style, but, uh, it's just a tad conspicuous." This brought MacLeod up short. He hadn't really thought about it. He took off his long coat and helped Peter into it, allowing him to button it up himself. A moment later Peter announced that he was ready to go. MacLeod walked across the ER waiting room like he owned the place, or like he had a reason for being there, and hoped that the two following him were doing the same. Once they got outside, thankfully unharassed, even by Peter's teammates, who apparently weren't paying attention to who was walking among them through their tears, MacLeod led Peter to his car. The young man opted to sit in the rear seat, rather than sitting next to the dangerous-looking Scot, so MacLeod had to look into the rearview mirror to talk to him.
"You want to talk on the way, or do you want to get a shower and some fresh clothes before getting an explanation?" MacLeod asked, and Peter laughed.
"I don't know. Hear the crazy story now, or later, when it'll seem crazier. I think I'd like an overview now." MacLeod took a deep breath.
"Okay. You are now immortal. That means that you cannot die by most normal means. The only way you can die is if your head is separated from your shoulders." Peter lifted one eyebrow in a decidedly Methos-like manner, but remained silent. "I am also immortal, as is Joe here. I am about 430 years old, Joe is approaching a hundred. All immortals are involved in what we call 'The Game'. We have duels to the death, the last one left alive wins." MacLeod paused to allow the boy to ask the question that new immortals always asked, but it didn't come. He turned to look at the boy in the backseat, and slammed on the brakes. Peter was looking at him like he was the funniest thing on earth.
"Is that – is that the way you welcome all infants into The Game?" Peter stuttered between laughing fits. MacLeod grabbed his katana and hurried out of the car, opening the door to the backseat and ripping it open. He then grabbed a fistful of Peter's shaggy brown hair and pulled him out of the car, slamming him up against the side, katana held slightly shaking to the pale skin of Peter's throat. The boy pulled up short, staring at MacLeod as though he were no more dangerous than a biting fly.
"Who are you?!" MacLeod demanded, not noticing as cars flew by on the freeway, kicking up gutter filth and dirt as they zoomed past at seventy-five miles per hour and more. Peter's face transformed from the innocent you man he had appeared to be, the eyes turned even darker in the twilight. He actually looked ancient; old, old eyes staring out from a young face. It was eerie. MacLeod felt Joe shudder just to the right of him, his sword also ready in case the strange man escaped MacLeod's grasp.
"I would think you knew, at first, the way you paused in that interesting vision of shock when you rescued me from that cold prison. But then I realized that you thought it couldn't be, that I just held a strong resemblance to your one-time murdered friend. So I decided to play along, to see how long you would doubt yourself. I found out, didn't I?" The voice had changed from the American accent to the more-familiar Welsh accent Methos had used when he knew the Highlander. "Hey, when did Joe cross over?" MacLeod was still motionless.
"Methos?" The man before him smiled what was probably his most winning smile.
"Shall I do a dance and prove it?" Methos offered, still standing motionless under MacLeod's blade. MacLeod still simply stared, and from Methos' look, Joe was doing exactly the same thing.
"Look, are you going to get your blade out of my face, or are we going to stand here until someone notices the man holding a sword to another man's neck and sends the news reporters over to watch?" MacLeod pulled his katana back from Methos' neck, sheathing it in the case his coat.
"Let's go," He replied, getting into the car without checking to see if Methos was following suit. Methos shrugged and climbed in the back, scooting over behind Joe so that he could see MacLeod better. Joe hadn't said a word.
"You let us believe you were dead. For what, twenty-one years you've just let us believe you were gone forever!" MacLeod yelled once they were on the road, completely losing his temper. Methos simply stared back at him.
"First of all, it's not twenty-one years until tomorrow. And second, I had no idea this would happen. I had no clue whatsoever that I would be able to come back. Third, I WAS dead. I was born, abandoned, and raised again by different people. This body really is twenty years old going on twenty-one tomorrow. Fourth, GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK!!! It's not MY FAULT, OKAY?! Get over this ego trip or whatever it is that's making you act like a complete moron!" Methos punctuated his statement by slamming his fist into the middle of the back of the driver's side chair. Duncan felt the impact of Methos' fist through the seat, and pressed the gas pedal harder.
"We'll take care of this back at my place," he grumbled, just loud enough for Methos to hear.
"Whatever, MacLeod," Methos replied, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. "I have no wish to discuss this further." Duncan scowled, reminded of how Richie had been when he'd been in this mood. He glanced up at the rearview mirror to see Methos glare back, just as much venom in his gaze as Duncan knew had to be reflected in his own eyes. Oh yes, they'd settle this as soon as they got to the new dojo.
Okay people, I tried to do some paragraph spacing here, hope it's better. This IS the END of the first chapter. More will follow. Still open to suggestions, and thanx to all of you who have already contributed your ideas.
*June 1, 2005*
*Darius' Church, Paris, France*
Duncan screamed as he watched the sword fall, severing his friend's head from his shoulders. He watched the mist swirl around the body, then slam into the ground. This was holy ground. There was no light show, no great blackout, just two seconds of misty light, then darkness again.
"Methos," he whispered, tears in his eyes. The Hunters who had just killed the oldest immortal stared at MacLeod, then turned and ran. "Methos," he whispered again, voice breaking. The immortal had put up quite a fight, but twelve-to-one odds were unbeatable. MacLeod gathered the body into his arms and left.
*Le Blues Bar, Paris, France*
"He'll be buried next to Alexa," Mac told Joe, watching him pour his scotch. The scruffy bluesman nodded.
"It's what he would want," he remarked as he wiped off the bar.
"I still can't believe he's gone," Mac said. Joe raised an eyebrow.
"Why not, I mean, aside from the fact that you no longer have to keep a supply of beer around?"
"I just, I never thought he'd die. I mean, no one ever got his quickening. He died for nothing!" Joe nodded.
"It's sad. He was a good friend, whether he liked to admit it or not." Mac nodded, then turned toward the door as it was flung open by a man in black, a machine gun in his hands. Jus behind the glove on his left wrist was the watcher symbol tattoo.
"Which one of you is Joe Dawson?" he demanded. He probably already knew, but asking would make it seem as though it wasn't an assignment from the watchers specifically. Joe stepped out from behind the bar.
"I'm Joe," he said, leaning on his canes. The man smiled, then opened fire. There was no way Duncan could get to Joe in time, but he had to try. He felt bullets rip into his back; felt himself hit the floor and then die. When he awoke, it was to the feeling of a new immortal close by. He scanned the room, over the bodies of people who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. One lone figure sat at the bar, a bottle of scotch in front of him. It was Joe, covered in his own blood, and that of MacLeod. When Mac walked toward him, Joe put a shaky hand to his forehead and groaned.
"Why me?" the bluesman muttered. "I'm old, I have no legs, I'm basically a sitting duck. Why me?" Mac was silent for a moment.
"I hoped that this would never happen," he said apologetically. "I'm so sorry, Joe."
"No, it's not your fault, Mac." MacLeod simply nodded, then sat on the stool next to his friend.
"I guess I have a new student, then," he muttered. "The first thing on the list is getting you some real legs." Joe raised his glass.
"Here's to eternity," he said, and downed his drink.
"And mobility," MacLeod added.
*May 31, 2026*
Peter Samuel Jacobs ran down the court, dribbling the basketball in front of him, weaving in and out of hiss opponents' grasp, to the three-point line. Suddenly, he stopped, set up his shot, and sent the ball flying toward the hoop. He watched it sail toward it's goal, drop through, catching nothing but net. Then the world came crashing down. He felt someone slam into his back, shoulder to spine and then he was falling to the ground. He felt the hard wood floor come up and hit him in the face as he skidded with the momentum from the hit. He heard someone calling his name, hands gently touching his body, people everywhere asking him things. He wanted to answer, but his mouth wouldn't work, and his vision was fading at the edges.
"Pete! Hey, Pete! C'mon, man! C'mon, stay with me Sparks! Pete . . . !" The voice began to fade into the darkness, along with all the sights and smells of the old stadium.
"Sorry . . . Mike . . ." he mumbled, then let the dark overtake him.
MacLeod watched as Peter "Sparks" Jacobs was rolled off the court on the gurney, an EMT straddling his unresponsive form, trying to perform CPR.
"Come on," he said to the gray-haired man next to him.
"Oh, come on, Mac, I was enjoying the game! Just because a player gets hurt doesn't mean that the game is over!"
"Joe! Come on!" the man stood and walked behind Mac, grumbling.
"Hey, Mac, why are we going, anyway?" The dark-haired Highlander didn't stop walking.
"Because, Joe, Peter Jacobs is about to find out that he's immortal, and he's going to need help." Joe stopped, then jogged up to catch Mac, who was unlocking his black T-Bird.
"Okay, so how do we know where he'll be?" Mac pointed to the ambulance pulling away from the emergency entrance a few yards away. Joe scrambled in to the car with Mac, keeping an eye on the ambulance.
"You know, I really do owe you for these legs. It's so nice to be able to WALK without those damn canes." Mac didn't take his eyes off the road.
"Yeah, Joe, I know. Just keep an eye on that ambulance," he remarked, getting frustrated with traffic.
"Turn right," Joe informed him. Mercy hospital lay just ahead. The ambulance pulled up, Peter was rolled out, already intubated, a different EMT trying to pump his heart back to life. Mac Parked and walked into the ER, Joe trailing at his side.
"Hello, I'm Duncan MacLeod. A young man was brought here a few moments ago? A Peter Jacobs?" The woman behind the desk looked up at him, pity in her eyes.
"The morgue guys just came and got him. They declared him dead on arrival." Mac nodded, examined the hospital list on the wall, and marched down the hall toward the stairs that would lead him to the morgue. Joe shrugged his shoulders, looked around the ER, then followed MacLeod.
"So, Mac, when he wakes up, what are we going to tell him? Surprise, You're immortal? I mean, I already knew about immortals and all that jazz, but he probably doesn't have that kind of head start." Mac Shrugged.
"I'll figure something out. I always do." As they got closer to the morgue, Joe began to feel the buzzing sensation that signified another immortal close by. Very strongly.
"You sure this guy's newly immortal? I mean, feel that buzz!" Mac paused, concentrating.
"It feels like . . . Methos, only stronger," he muttered. "But that's not possible. Methos has been dead for . . . twenty-one years." Joe thought for a moment.
"Twenty-one years tomorrow. That's what it felt like when Methos was around? No wonder you could recognize it. It gives me a headache." Mac shrugged.
"Let's be cautious, Joe. I'll let you open the drawer; I'm going to have my sword ready. We have to get by the guy at the desk, first though." Joe nodded and put on his 'bereaved friend' face, the one that he usually used to get to where MacLeod was stored on the occasions when he actually got that far before Joe could rescue him. As they reached the door to the morgue, Joe found that he hadn't needed the face – the morgue attendant was not there. Joe looked to MacLeod, who shrugged, then pushed open the door. The buzz was now so powerful that Joe felt he had to hold his hands over his ears, if that would have helped. It was like walking into a room where the stereo was playing it's heart out with the bass tuned sky high. Even MacLeod seemed to be in discomfort as he pulled his katana from it's sheath under his long black leather trench coat. His chocolate brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, trying to tune out the 'noise' that was emanating form one of the stainless steel drawers that lined the wall five feet high. Suddenly, like someone turning a switch, the buzz that had been lowering Joe to almost a state of unconsciousness vanished, leaving behind what Joe at first thought was his mind holding the echo of the horrible 'noise'. Then he realized that it was a normal buzz, like his own, only weaker, like that of a new immortal. He looked to MacLeod for an explanation, but the older immortal just shrugged his broad shoulders and lifted his sword a little higher, into a defensive position, prepared for what or who may emerge from the stainless steel drawer he had stopped in front of. He nodded tersely to Joe, sending some of his long brown hair over his shoulder. Joe nodded back and placed his hand on the handle to the drawer. He could feel the buzz still pulsing quietly from the drawer; there was definitely an immortal in this drawer. He caught MacLeod's dark brown eyes with his own soft blue, and the two of them counted silently.
"One, two, THREE!" Joe pulled the drawer out fast, stopping only because the drawer would not pull out more. MacLeod stood motionless over the figure in the drawer, eyes screaming shock. Joe frowned, got up from where he had fallen when the drawer stopped and he didn't, and then walked over to the drawer. His face soon mirrored MacLeod's. The man in lying naked save for a sheet in the cold steel drawer, looking miserable, wet, cold, and afraid, was Methos. He looked younger, yes, but the eyes, those all-seeing, all-knowing green-brown eyes were those belonging to Methos. The high cheekbones, the lean face and body, the small, mobile mouth always ready to smirk, now drawn into a thin line by fear and physical discomfort, the shaggy almost-black hair; all belonged to a man whom Joe and MacLeod had assumed dead for nearly 21 years. MacLeod lowered the sword, still staring at the figure lying before him, eyes wide, mouth shut, long, thin fingers clamped into handfuls of the thin sheet he had with him. Joe, too, seemed frozen to the spot.
"Excuse me," came a high, whiney voice from the other end of the room. "Excuse me, but do you have any ID, do you have permission to be down here?" The man was rather large, his small head seemed like it was transplanted from an entirely different person, a thinner one, save for the huge jowls that hung from his fat cheeks. His beady little eyes caught sight of the sword and widened, his mouth opening to scream. Joe was there in an instant, slamming both fists into the side of the man's head, effectively knocking him into a fat unconscious heap of lard. MacLeod looked at the boy – man – in the drawer before him. He offered him a hand up, which was taken by one almost skeletal-looking, cold and shaking hand. He pulled the man up into a sitting position, wordlessly turned away so that he could arrange the sheet around his body, and waited.
"Wh – who are you people?" the man asked, placing a hand on MacLeod's shoulder. MacLeod thought for a moment.
"This is not the time or the place. That man over there could wake up at any moment. You'll have to trust that I will not harm you, and I will not hold you against your will if you choose to leave after I have explained certain things to you." The man nodded.
"Like why in the hell I woke up in a steel drawer?" he asked. MacLeod nodded on his way to the door, Joe trailing behind the two, still watching the so-familiar man.
"Uh, is there something I can call you guys? I mean, aside from maybe Starsky and Hutch?" MacLeod laughed. This was the humor he remembered.
"My name is Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," he told the man sneaking behind him, wrapped in a sheet.
"I'm Joe Dawson," Joe announced from behind them. The man nodded.
"Peter Samuel "Sparks" Jacobs, enchanted, I'm sure. Uh, am I going to try to sneak out of this place dressed like an ancient Greek? I mean, I don't mind the style, but, uh, it's just a tad conspicuous." This brought MacLeod up short. He hadn't really thought about it. He took off his long coat and helped Peter into it, allowing him to button it up himself. A moment later Peter announced that he was ready to go. MacLeod walked across the ER waiting room like he owned the place, or like he had a reason for being there, and hoped that the two following him were doing the same. Once they got outside, thankfully unharassed, even by Peter's teammates, who apparently weren't paying attention to who was walking among them through their tears, MacLeod led Peter to his car. The young man opted to sit in the rear seat, rather than sitting next to the dangerous-looking Scot, so MacLeod had to look into the rearview mirror to talk to him.
"You want to talk on the way, or do you want to get a shower and some fresh clothes before getting an explanation?" MacLeod asked, and Peter laughed.
"I don't know. Hear the crazy story now, or later, when it'll seem crazier. I think I'd like an overview now." MacLeod took a deep breath.
"Okay. You are now immortal. That means that you cannot die by most normal means. The only way you can die is if your head is separated from your shoulders." Peter lifted one eyebrow in a decidedly Methos-like manner, but remained silent. "I am also immortal, as is Joe here. I am about 430 years old, Joe is approaching a hundred. All immortals are involved in what we call 'The Game'. We have duels to the death, the last one left alive wins." MacLeod paused to allow the boy to ask the question that new immortals always asked, but it didn't come. He turned to look at the boy in the backseat, and slammed on the brakes. Peter was looking at him like he was the funniest thing on earth.
"Is that – is that the way you welcome all infants into The Game?" Peter stuttered between laughing fits. MacLeod grabbed his katana and hurried out of the car, opening the door to the backseat and ripping it open. He then grabbed a fistful of Peter's shaggy brown hair and pulled him out of the car, slamming him up against the side, katana held slightly shaking to the pale skin of Peter's throat. The boy pulled up short, staring at MacLeod as though he were no more dangerous than a biting fly.
"Who are you?!" MacLeod demanded, not noticing as cars flew by on the freeway, kicking up gutter filth and dirt as they zoomed past at seventy-five miles per hour and more. Peter's face transformed from the innocent you man he had appeared to be, the eyes turned even darker in the twilight. He actually looked ancient; old, old eyes staring out from a young face. It was eerie. MacLeod felt Joe shudder just to the right of him, his sword also ready in case the strange man escaped MacLeod's grasp.
"I would think you knew, at first, the way you paused in that interesting vision of shock when you rescued me from that cold prison. But then I realized that you thought it couldn't be, that I just held a strong resemblance to your one-time murdered friend. So I decided to play along, to see how long you would doubt yourself. I found out, didn't I?" The voice had changed from the American accent to the more-familiar Welsh accent Methos had used when he knew the Highlander. "Hey, when did Joe cross over?" MacLeod was still motionless.
"Methos?" The man before him smiled what was probably his most winning smile.
"Shall I do a dance and prove it?" Methos offered, still standing motionless under MacLeod's blade. MacLeod still simply stared, and from Methos' look, Joe was doing exactly the same thing.
"Look, are you going to get your blade out of my face, or are we going to stand here until someone notices the man holding a sword to another man's neck and sends the news reporters over to watch?" MacLeod pulled his katana back from Methos' neck, sheathing it in the case his coat.
"Let's go," He replied, getting into the car without checking to see if Methos was following suit. Methos shrugged and climbed in the back, scooting over behind Joe so that he could see MacLeod better. Joe hadn't said a word.
"You let us believe you were dead. For what, twenty-one years you've just let us believe you were gone forever!" MacLeod yelled once they were on the road, completely losing his temper. Methos simply stared back at him.
"First of all, it's not twenty-one years until tomorrow. And second, I had no idea this would happen. I had no clue whatsoever that I would be able to come back. Third, I WAS dead. I was born, abandoned, and raised again by different people. This body really is twenty years old going on twenty-one tomorrow. Fourth, GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK!!! It's not MY FAULT, OKAY?! Get over this ego trip or whatever it is that's making you act like a complete moron!" Methos punctuated his statement by slamming his fist into the middle of the back of the driver's side chair. Duncan felt the impact of Methos' fist through the seat, and pressed the gas pedal harder.
"We'll take care of this back at my place," he grumbled, just loud enough for Methos to hear.
"Whatever, MacLeod," Methos replied, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. "I have no wish to discuss this further." Duncan scowled, reminded of how Richie had been when he'd been in this mood. He glanced up at the rearview mirror to see Methos glare back, just as much venom in his gaze as Duncan knew had to be reflected in his own eyes. Oh yes, they'd settle this as soon as they got to the new dojo.
Okay people, I tried to do some paragraph spacing here, hope it's better. This IS the END of the first chapter. More will follow. Still open to suggestions, and thanx to all of you who have already contributed your ideas.