Richie stood inside the door and peered around the cavernous room. Folding bleachers lined the two long walls, pushed into their out-of-use position. A climbing wall stood on the opposite end, behind one of the ubiquitous basketball hoops that was currently folded up against the ceiling. The smell of wood polish and sweat socks filled his lungs.

"You know, I made a deal with myself the first time I changed lives: no high school. I can't believe I'm back in one already."

With a thump, Liam finished unfolding the last of the blue mats he'd been setting in place. "There's a difference between being in high school and being in a high school," he commented, without looking up. A heave and he yanked the last mat into alignment with the others. "I think your deal is safe. Think this'll be enough space to work?"

A half dozen mats were spread on the floor, defining a space about the size of the main living area in Richie's apartment. It wasn't a lot of room, but they weren't planning on doing floor routines, either. He nodded. "Should be. I've trained—and fought—in smaller places. Ceilings are usually the bigger issue." Tilting his head back, he peered up at the rafters. A trio of climbing ropes were coiled up high, and Richie's stomach clenched in remembered nausea. Gym had been his favorite class back in his own high school days, often the only one he regularly attended—except on rope climbing days. He'd never liked heights. It might be different now that he knew he couldn't actually die if he fell; then again, he had once thrown himself out of a fifteen story window, so he knew exactly how it felt to hit the ground from a long fall. He wanted to never repeat that experience. Taking a steadying breath, he said, "Well, that won't be a problem." Nor was it even the real issue. The buzzing of the huge fluorescent lights that prickled his ears and unease from being someplace he wasn't sure he was supposed to be were only distractions. He stepped further into the room, the exercise bag he'd brought swinging from his shoulder. "Are you sure this is safe?"

Liam straightened up then. He was already dressed in sweatpants and a worn gray t-shirt that would only be improved with a few rips. "It's Holy Ground, Rich. There isn't any place safer for us." Tilting his head, he quipped, "Unless you're planning to take my head."

"No! God, no." Richie dropped the exercise bag and knelt to unpack it. The faint thrum of Holy Ground ran through him, and in the back of his mind, he heard Mac teaching him the rules of the Game. It was a short list, with "Never fight on Holy Ground" directly stated. There were only rumors about what would happen if the rule were violated, though those rumors included the words Vesuvius and Pompeii. "It's just... what if I kill you? Or you kill me? Don't sell yourself short; it could happen."

Liam rubbed his chin, a thoughtful expression deepening the creases around his eyes. "Amanda once forced me to fight on Holy Ground. It wasn't one of the more shining moments in our relationship. The only consequence was that we had to come up with some fast excuses when we got caught. Now, neither of us killed the other. Neither of us even drew blood."

"Doesn't sound like much of a fight," Richie commented.

"Our swords clashed. If the rule were sensitive enough to bar all fighting, then that would have been enough."

Rocking back on his heels, Richie brought his own thoughtful gaze on the priest. The man was almost three hundred years old, and he'd spent most of that time studying everything there was to know about the Game. "So, are you saying you don't believe that rule? Or you do believe that rule, and there's a loophole?"

With a one-shoulder shrug, Liam gave his answer. "I don't know. All I know is that nothing exploded, no natural disasters were triggered, and the world didn't end. I suspect that if there is any consequence, it's only triggered when there's a Quickening. Now—" He clapped his hands and changed the subject— "What have you brought for us?"

Richie grinned. This was his territory. "I skipped the protective gear. Figured we didn't need that."

Liam gestured to a janitor's bucket and mop behind him that Richie hadn't noticed. "The clean-up crew is already in place in case of injury. You'll go easy on me, I hope? I never was all that good with a sword."

"You were good enough to survive ten years in the Game," Richie pointed out, realizing as he said it that he had no idea if Liam had ever taken a head. He'd assumed so, but only because he'd never met an Immortal past their first year who hadn't. "Which was a long time ago, so—" He pulled a pair of practice swords out of the bag first. They were shaped like katanas and made of a hard wood that matched the weight of a metal blade without the slicing ability. "We can start with these, if you want. Or use them exclusively." Next he removed two sets of escrima sticks. Their lengths of hardwood allowed for the practice of two-handed skills that working with a single weapon did not. He'd brought them in case Liam had a change of heart about being willing to work with a sword. "Door number two," he said, holding one of the pairs up for Liam to see. "Something from my day job." Then, reaching back into the bag, he retrieved two short swords in their scabbards. These were the regulation US Army swords from the middle of the 18th century. "I know you were done with the Army by the time these were introduced, but I thought they might be familiar to what you know." They were about the same length as the escrima sticks, and far deadlier.

Liam faltered at the sight of the real swords, and his breath began to speed up like he was headed for a panic attack. He squeezed his eyes shut, and Richie was just about to shove the swords back into the bag when Liam asked, "Can I?" and held out his hand.

Richie extended one of the swords hilt first toward his friend, and waited as Liam touched the silver cross around his neck and mouthed a silent prayer before accepting it. Then he busied himself with the needless task of refolding the jeans and long-sleeved shirt he'd worn for the ride over and packing them back in the side-pockets while Liam reacquainted himself with the weapon he'd once disavowed.

The shrrk of the blade being pulled from the scabbard sent a thrill down Richie's spine. It was a warning signal, but also an announcement of excitement, like the starting pistol at a race. It's only practice, he reminded himself. They were on Holy Ground, and he had nothing to fear from Liam. And Liam had nothing to fear from him. The laces on his shoes had come out of their holes when he'd changed, so he re-threaded them before sticking the shoes back in the other side pocket.

"It's been well-tended," Liam commented with obvious appreciation. The edges of the double-sided blade glimmered under the gym's lights. Not a speck of rust or tarnish marred the metal. He twisted the blade back and forth, watching the steel gleam. "Where did you get it?"

"They're Matt's. I'm pretty sure he's the original owner. He's the one who suggested them."

"Them?" Only then did Liam seem to notice that Richie had produced two identical swords. "You're not going to use your own sword?"

"Nah. I left it at home." Because he wanted to indulge the fiction that what happened here had nothing to do with the Game. "It was hard enough lugging this bag on the bike." The Catholic boy deep inside Richie squirmed at the lie.

Liam regarded Richie for a long moment in that eerily perceptive way he had, then gave him a deep nod. "Thank you." He rose, twirling the sword with a dramatic flourish that belied his long absence from handling a weapon. "Next time, bring your blade. You need to be practicing with the weapon you'll use."

"Are you sure, man? We're only here for practice. For fun." Training was fun, too—even the kind Methos put him through. Once Richie had learned enough technique to not land on his ass every time he sparred with someone, all the kinds of fighting became fun. It helped that he could walk away from every session without any injuries. "I don't mind getting some practice in with a different weapon. Ya never know when you'll need to improvise."

"Bring your own sword next time. There's no need to pretend we aren't what we are…or that there isn't someone out there who's after your head."

Richie shook his head and let out a tired sigh. It was hard to get worked up about potential challengers when there were so many of them out there. "I can handle Drake." He sounded so confident, and he had a right to be—if he was only fighting for himself. The more personal connections he made, the more each fight became worth. These days he had Henry, Jo, and Liam to take care of, too. And Emily, he reminded himself, who doesn't know anything about the life you lead or what she might need to be protected from.

"Then let's make sure it stays that way," Liam answered.

"In that case, Old Timer—" Richie grinned, pushed himself to his feet, and stepped onto the mat—"let's see what you remember."