"The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise."

** 1995, Vladivostok **

"A few drops of the virus in a fountain? How many will that kill? You've gone soft, Methos!"

Kronos turned his back on the group, disgust lacing every word.

"I'm scared. Are you scared?" Caspian smirked, filing his nails with a wicked looking knife.

Methos threw a quelling look at him, and glanced sidelong at the brooding leather clad figure glowering at the edge of the group. Kronos glared back at him out of the corner of his eye.

Methos relaxed into his characteristic sprawl. "What is the first rule of great drama?" he asked, obliquely. There was a telling silence. Kronos turned back to face him.

"Start small, and build." Methos answered himself. He threw his head back, and looked away into the distance, speaking softly. "So - first, a fountain, to kill a few. Then, a swimming pool to kill... a hundred. Then, a stadium - to kill ten thousand. After that, a single drop of the virus in the city's water supply..." he spread his palms, as if to say, voila!

"You want to rule the world, Kronos? Then we give them a choice: the Horsemen rule, or they all die."

Silas growled his approval. Caspian's evil grin surfaced.

"The Horsemen rule, or the world dies. I like the sound of that. No one understands terror like you, Methos," Kronos said admiringly.

Methos allowed a sardonic smile to escape. "From order to chaos, that's our way. The way of the Horsemen. All the things that the mortals fear most in the world. We will bring their deepest, darkest nightmares to life. First, we send them Pestilence. A plague that will spare neither man nor beast. Then, while they are still reeling from the shock, Famine. We'll starve them to their knees. Then..."

"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of War!" Caspian put in, grinning ferally.

"Very good, Caspian," Methos nodded. "You've learned a thing or two in the years we've been apart. Why, I'll bet you've even seen Casablanca."

Caspian bared his teeth at him in a singularly unlovely way. But Kronos ignored the by-play, his mind already captured by the gorgeous visions of destruction and power dancing before him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!"

** 1998, Moscow **

Kronos laughed long and loud.

"The Horsemen rule!" he bellowed, raising his glass to his brothers. Silas and Caspian laughed back, repeating his toast gleefully.

Methos alone was silent, studying the computer console in front of him.

"Methos?" Kronos asked impatiently. "What the hell is the matter with you? Don't you want to celebrate with your brothers?"

Methos raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I think you can take care of my share of the celebrations, Kronos. I'm busy."

"Doing what?" Kronos asked venomously, coming to stare down over his shoulder at the computer screen. "More plans?" He was incredulous, but mollified. His good humour restored, he clapped his taller companion on the shoulder. "Look around you, Methos! We have most of Europe under our control now! Not to mention large parts of the Middle East and Asia. The world trembles at the name of the Horsemen again! Everything is going as we planned - even you need some time off, brother."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Methos said, smiling. Kronos studied him curiously.

Over the months, the ancient Immortal had become thinner still, his expression had grown relentlessly empty. The arched cheekbones and predatory nose were thrown further into relief by the hollows of a face that had lost every last remnant of spare flesh. Only the hazel eyes burned cold and familiar through the stranger's features. Yet, Kronos mused, Methos had not diminished - if anything, he had somehow become more himself. As though the hidden power within him had grown more concentrated, and burned fiercer still in the secret depths behind the mask.

The old Methos, the one who had planned their raids so ruthlessly in the Bronze Age, had been cold and efficient, but had only truly come to life in battle. He had been in his element then, revelling in his ability to out-think and out-fight their enemies; or their victims. All mortals had been prey, and most Immortals too.

This Methos was just as ruthless and just as efficient, but completely detached from the exhilaration of conquest and destruction that drove his brothers. He did his part superlatively, yet with indifference. Far from sharing in the orgies of excess that the other three indulged in after victory in battle, he watched from the sidelines, semming amused at their antics.

As though we were only here for his entertainment, Kronos thought, disquieted. Oh, Methos was still the best killer that the world had ever seen - he was Death, after all, and that name had not been lightly earned. But - things were different.

Kronos had watched him stalk through the remains of a Ukrainian town just a month ago, gunning down any living thing that moved - men, women, children - as though they were animals, or vermin. Kronos had been right by his side, as had Silas and Caspian, exulting in the victory, the sheer joy of it - the Horsemen rode again!

Caspian had watched Methos cut down a fleeing child with a single perfectly placed shot to the head and laughed. "You enjoy that, don't you, brother!"

Methos had glanced at him, impassive as a marble statue. "What, the killing?" His tone was disdainful. "Does a grave-digger enjoy digging?"

The others had been stunned into silence for a moment.

Then Methos's wicked smile had appeared. "I'm just very, very, good at it!"

Silas had roared with laughter and slapped Methos so hard on the back that the smaller man had staggered. "Always joking, Methos!"

Kronos had laughed, too, then. But the memory intruded at odd moments, stirring an instinctive unease that refused to go away.