"It has to be done."
Joe looked down at the smoking gun, the heavy weight of the black metal resting in his hand a kind of metaphor for the darkness he felt must swallow him whole. A part of him, the part an Immortal had once called "boy scout," screamed that this was not right -- that it was not honorable or fair -- and that this man at least deserved a chance to fight; a chance to go down swinging according to the rules of the Game. But that voice was only a distant whisper now, drowned out by loathing, hate, and fear. James was right. Sooner or later they all became something twisted and evil. To allow any of them to gain the Prize would mean an eternity of slavery for mankind.
James took the gun and pressed a sword hilt into his hand. Joe took a deep breath, stepped forward, and rested the blade of the broadsword against the Immortal's neck.
"Goodbye, Duncan MacLeod."
He cut clean.
-oO0Oo-