Author's Note: Folks, first let me tell you, I do not normally approve of character death, but this story just pleaded with me to be written. It hit me squarely between the eyes as I puttered about at work, and yipped at my heels until I got home. Yipped? Hell no, the sucker was squatting on my head, staring me right in the eyes, and pulling on the writer tinglies. I had to write it, I had no choice. That done, I plan on never ever plan on writing a story with canon character death.
To my Number One Fan: Immortaljedi, please update. See how twisted I'm becoming, oh pooka? The lack of an update is having me write stories that kill off the Old Bastard! No, I'm not gonna do it again. My story tinglies have definitely gotten dark. It's time to bail out poor Marie Juliet, and kill off Arrashareth. He's screwing up my story telling skills. Now, how do I do that?
Legal Stuff: I do not, and won't ever, own the ideas of Methos, Duncan MacLeod, the Watchers, Joe Dawson, Amy Thomas, Joe's Bar, or the submarine base in Bordeux. Or the idea of the Quickening or the Game. Not even the idea that Methos' Quickening would blow out Paris. That came direct from other people. Plural. I'm only using them to portray a story in my own words, which I think has to be written. The sick young bastard, San Vincent, he's my idea. I think. I might have accidentally copied the idea, but I didn't do it on purpose.
The fireworks went off in a great concussive bang, and at the heart of the storm, a man screamed, floating in the air as lightning ripped through him, causing the buildings nearby to buckle, and even collapse.
The Watcher hid in the shadows, taping the entire event, and praying to God that the zoom lens on his camera wouldn't attract the lightning storm. He was a full two hundred meters away.
In the end, it was only luck that saved him. Transformers on the high lines broke and shattered, rain began sleeting down, and when the Watcher crawled out from under the rubble, and his lucky little cave he'd Watched from, he looked out on possibly a square kilometer of devastation.
Roads were buckled, wires had melted, glass exploded, buildings collapsed, and a lone Immortal laid limply on the ground, two hundred meters away. His clothing was charred tatters, shredded and burned, and he wasn't moving or breathing.
"Bloody hell." The Watcher mouthed, and looked at the devastation about him. "Pierson really was Methos."
His camera had survived, but his cell phone, dropped during his frantic scramble to find safety, was a melted heap of plastic, and half crushed under a slab of rock at that.
His car, well, it wasn't that good of a car to begin with. It was burning merrily, along with lots of other cars, sending up light and heat, and cracking the already destroyed pavement.
The Watcher somehow gathered the head, and body, of a man who'd been the oldest living inhabitant of the planet. He somehow got out of there, and to a location where he could hot wire a car, before emergency people could get there. But he looked, and he realized Paris, the City of Lights, was dark. Not one light shone in the darkness.
Joe's Bar was empty, except for a few people, most of whom were Watchers, cursing and sweating.
"What the fuck was that thunderstorm, and where the hell did it come from? I'd have sworn it was a Quickening, except no Quickening can be that big! It blew the entire city's power grids!" One Watcher swore.
"And it left a kilometer square of devastation in the warehouse district." Gasped the torn, tattered, and otherwise messed up Watcher. His clothes and hair still smoked slightly. One side of his head was frizzy, a lightning bolt had come so close to hitting him, he didn't want to remember it. His clothing was torn, he had cuts, bruises, and a piece of glass was sticking out of one of his legs. He didn't feel it yet, though. "Devastation, in one great circle, probably a kilometer or more across. Buildings crumbled, cars burning cages, the road's torn up, in places you can even look down into the sewers. And the Catacombs, scarily enough. The Immortal who won is dead, and looked badly injured. His Quickening wasn't doing anything to help him either. But then again, I suppose that's what you get for taking the head of Methos." He staggered up to the bar, and put the camera on it. "I got this. I got out, with Methos' body. I'm sorry, but dammit all to hell, I'm bloody well retiring. I am not doing that again."
Dawson was pale as a ghost, and belatedly, he realized the old man had been friends with Pierson, and hadn't dropped the friendship when it was revealed the researcher was really Methos.
"I'm sorry, Joe. And Cristophe couldn't even fight fair. He shot the old one, and took Methos' head while he was gasping for breath, trying to heal."
Watchers there were staring, eyes wide with shock, and startlement.
"The car's outside, I had to steal it. Mine was still burning merrily, like a bloody bonfire. Methos is in the boot. Now, if you don't mind…" He staggered some, and strong arms caught him, and laid him gently down, not that he was aware of it.
"Now that's going above and beyond the call of duty." Whispered one Watcher, looking at the still slightly smoky man. Then they all looked up at the man who'd caught him, and flushed guiltily as Duncan MacLeod looked sadly down at the unconscious form.
Joe looked at Mac, tears glittering in his eyes. "The old bastard is dead, Mac."
"I know. I felt it." Mac looked up. "I'll lay odds every Immortal within range of Paris felt that Quickening." His own eyes were dark, and they sparkled suspiciously.
"Mac…."
"No, Joe. I can't stay. Whoever it is probably hasn't left yet." And MacLoed shook his head, and headed for the door.
"Mac, you're not gonna be a head hunter, are you?"
But the Scot didn't answer, and the Watchers regarded the door nervously.
"Amy, follow him!" Joe barked out, and Thomas scrambled for the door.
She grabbed the Scot's coat. "Wait. Let me come."
"You might get hurt."
"There has to be a Watcher."
She shivered under those cold eyes. "He was my Immortal, dammit. I wanna be there for the revenge. Dawson can't come, and Dawson was his friend. You don't begrudge him the desire to see wrongs righted?"
The Scot didn't protest, merely opened the passenger side door for her.
Emergency personnel still weren't there, but all of Paris was in chaos, and there were no houses, or hospitals, near here, for them to worry about.
The Immortal hadn't healed all the way yet. He was limping, and still badly burned, with red weeping skin exposed to the air. But he was alive, and the crackle of silver lightning could be seen dancing over his skin.
He looked at Mac, with one blue eye, and one an odd green gold hue. He was shuddering. "He fights."
They drove, for hours, to Bordeux, a dead Immortal stuffed in the trunk.
The abandoned base was hollow.
And Christophe San Vincent shuddered, endlessly, and held a sword in hands still raw and bloody. It had seen better days, the sword. The metal was warped and half melted, the temper ruined.
"Oh hell!" Duncan muttered, and went to the car. He brought another sword, this one a captive from a defeat earlier in the week. Methos' Ivanhoe was lost.
San Vincent took the sword. And the strange eye, not the blue which matched the blond hair, and fair features, flashed. A hollow voice spoke from his mouth. "I will not fight you, MacLeod."
Duncan eyed him warily, and noticed Thomas standing a good distance away, close to the exit, so she could flee if necessary. Her digital camera fixed on the scene.
The battle was short, but San Vincent was actually pretty good, and managed to get a few hits in. But MacLeod was known as one of the finest swordsmen of the world. Soon enough, Vincent thudded to his knees, both eyes sky blue, as the katana's fine edge sliced into the neck.
This Quickening was much shorter, and much less destructive.
And Amy Watched, her camera fixed on the now weeping MacLeod, and her eyes widened, as a ghostly image stood there, hands in his pockets, baggy sweater covering his features. He winked at Amy, and helped MacLeod to his feet.
Don't cry for me, Duncan. I had plenty of good times. I had five thousand years of being my own man. Well, three thousand. I did spend some time as a slave, as you now know. And you know how the mortals always say the departed are carried within them? Well, you really do have me. I can't say I'm happy to be dead, but it's a lot of pressure off my back. Look after Joe for me. And keep an eye on my stuff. It's got a lot of meaning, or it did to me. Hell, give Joe my journals. He'll get a kick out of them. Might take his mind off things.
"Methos…."
The ghost smirked, slightly, and then touched MacLeod's forehead, lightly, to vanish, streaming down his own vanishing form to pour into MacLeod, in a display of light and color. Electricity crackled over the Scot's skin.
And MacLeod wept. Amy turned off her camera, and held a four hundred year old man, weeping over the loss of a friend.
The funeral was quiet, and really rather large, Watchers stood nervously about, as Immortals who'd heard about the event clustered near the grave. Next to Alexa's. The Ivanhoe, located in the rubble, laid in the coffin, with the old one's body. Adam Pierson aka Methos. Died August 12th 2003. Live, Grow Stronger, Fight Another Day.
Tears fell from the eyes of those who knew, and MacLeod stood, eyes dry, as other Immortals came up to him.
No words had to be said. They all knew. Methos had been slain by treachery, and MacLeod defeated the rule breaker, and now Methos was but a memory in MacLeod's mind.
MacLeod smiled when someone said that it was a shame Methos was gone.
He was keeping a journal now, and sometimes, a sarcastic voice spoke in his head, interjecting comments to deflate his pride. And a hawk nosed man sat on his sofa while he dreamed, and traded obscene stories with Fitz, and Connor. As others gossiped, and laughed, and told old jokes, some so old that the Romans had not learned them.