Disclaimers: The Highlander characters and situations are owned by Davis/Panzer Productions, not by me.

This story was my entry in a contest to write about a dragon tattoo on Methos's posterior. My first attempt at H/C. Thank you, Desert Rat for your prompt beta comments as I wrote fast to meet the contest deadline. Warnings for torture.

The Dragon and His Wrath

Rated R for torture

"Come not between the dragon and his wrath."
King Lear, by Wm. Shakespeare, Act I Scene 1

Joe and his two immortal friends left the movie theater in the same manner as they had patronized it – with Joe between the other two, trying to keep a cheerful conversation going. Duncan MacLeod would barely speak civilly to Methos, and Methos largely ignored the Highlander.

"You didn't get it?" Joe asked. "Really?"

"No," Methos complained as the three men started up the street at Joe's slow pace. "What was all that nonsense with the castle at the end? And who was dead?"

"He was, dummy. He'd killed himself. You got that, right, Mac?"

"I got it," MacLeod answered, looking straight ahead.

"That's ridiculous," said Methos. "Why would the inspector question him if he was dead?"

"He wasn't on Earth. It was some kind of way-station to the afterlife."

"With rain and a leaky roof?"

They turned into the small accessway behind the theater, and three young men blocked their way, one stepping from the shadows and the other two dropping from perches above. A shuffling sound told him two others had closed them in from behind. Joe sensed the subtle tensing of his companions.

"Throw your watches and your wallets on the ground," ordered the first man.

Ah, shit. What a wretched ending to an enjoyable evening. Joe reached for his wallet, but MacLeod stepped forward.

"You don't want to do this," MacLeod said reasonably.

Joe caught his breath.

"Don't waste our time, asshole," the man said, raising his gun.

Joe heard the ones behind him move in closer. Stupid move – they would be in the line of fire if their leader shot and missed.

"It's a nice night," MacLeod continued. "Why don't we all just go home and enjoy it?"

The man stepped closer and the gang moved in more tightly.

"Shut up and throw down your wallet!"

"Get in front of Dawson," MacLeod said, still facing forward, gaze locked with that of the leader.

Methos stepped in front of Joe and murmured, "The blond will take Joe hostage."

"I said," yelled the leader, and leveled his gun, just as MacLeod struck.

MacLeod's arm shot out, reaching the man's wrist as if the arm were extendable beyond its normal length. Somehow MacLeod had covered the distance between them in less than an eyeblink. He seized the wrist and yanked it down, twisting. The man staggered and the gun went off, shooting into the ground. Pavement chips sprayed up, into MacLeod's face.

Two men jumped at MacLeod from either side. Without looking or releasing the leader's wrist, MacLeod pounded one attacker with a foot to the solar plexus and caught the other beneath the jaw with an elbow.

Joe's thoughts raced, but he could think of nothing he could do. He wasn't armed, and there were gang members between him and cover wherever he looked.

Methos stood in front of him, poised, watching the others. Suddenly Methos sprang to the right and slid under the arm of a man who now held a gun. The man dropped, soundlessly, and Joe couldn't even tell what Methos had done to him. Now Methos held the gun, though only Joe could see it. Methos shifted and aimed, not at the pile of attackers on MacLeod, but across the alley, into the shadows. The blond man stood there, a knife at the ready, watching MacLeod as Methos watched him.

Two more gang members brushed by Joe to attack MacLeod, which showed real determination, in Joe's opinion, since MacLeod's previous attackers were sprawled and groaning on the dirty paving of the alley.

Joe glanced behind him and saw the opening to the street beyond, clear of obstacles. Then a hand seized Joe, grasping him by the throat and chin and yanking. Joe winced as a knife slid beneath his ear.

Joe looked first to Methos, apprehensively, since he didn't know if the man could properly aim the gun he held. A click and a curse from Methos told him he didn't need to worry about Methos shooting. Damn.

"Freeze, or the old man dies!" Joe's captor screamed, very near his ear.

MacLeod stopped fighting, casting a worried look in Joe's direction. The young men on him scrambled to hold his arms – two men on each arm – and bend him painfully backward.

Methos put up his hands, one hand holding the gun loosely, by the trigger guard.

"Stick them now," wheezed the leader, picking himself up from the ground.

Someone came up beside Joe with a hypodermic, and jabbed him in the arm. The drug acted fast, and Joe saw nothing more of what happened.

When he woke, his first thought was to be glad he was alive, but his second thought was not so optimistic about his situation. He had the world's nastiest hangover, and he seemed to be naked on a cement floor. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a cage the size of a small jail cell in an old Western movie. The cage was the first of a line of similar cages all with locked doors facing a narrow accessway. High windows beyond the small corridor let in dusty daylight. The cage held no furnishings. Worst of all, his prosthetics were gone, which left him helpless.

"Joe? Joe, are you awake?" came a voice to his left. He turned to look and saw that the adjacent cage held Methos. Naked also, and haggard looking, the immortal grasped their common bars.

"Yeah, I'm awake," Joe croaked. "Where are we?" He pushed himself to a sitting position, gingerly, his stomach rebelling.

"Joe?" came MacLeod's voice, and he came into view in the third adjacent cage, the one on the other side of Methos's. "Are you all right?"

"No!" Joe snapped. "I feel like shit and my legs are gone. And where the hell are our clothes?"

Methos gave a half-smile. "I think he's all right, MacLeod."

"I'd like to hear it from him," said MacLeod icily.

"What is this?" Joe demanded. "It's cold. Don't we have anything to cover up with?" It bothered Joe more than he wanted to admit to be naked with his truncated thighs on display.

"It's all part of Kreegan's mind games, I'm afraid," Methos said.

"Kreegan? The immortal?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Joe closed his eyes. One of the wierdos. Quite old, and he didn't fight fair. Or, he fought according to his own notions of fair.

Joe opened his eyes and looked around his cell. His had two walls and two sets of bars. The other, adjacent, cages had only the back wall and bars on three sides. His own was the first of the cages. Along the entire back wall, running through all the cages, was a trough in the floor with drains and faucets.

Joe dragged himself to the trough and threw up. He heard no sound from the immortals as he heaved. When he was finished, he turned on the tap, drank, and washed the vomit down the drain. The drain was industrial-sized – large enough to serve as a toilet, if need be. Given what the Watchers knew of Kreegan, Joe guessed he would be here long enough to need it.

"Feel better?" MacLeod asked.

"Yeah. I knew I would. It's like a hangover."

"Joe, what do you know about Kreegan?" MacLeod asked.

Joe pointed to Methos. "I know what he knows. Kreegan's old, he's fabulously wealthy, the usual. But he's got a funny idea of honor…" Joe looked at Methos. "Did you tell him?"

"He doesn't want to hear it from me."

Joe groaned inwardly. They were still feuding.

"Tell me what?"

"He'll fight his opponent fair, but only after he's starved him for a few weeks."

"What!"

"Sometimes a month."

"And he'll use some of the usual mind games," Methos put in. "Keep us naked in cages, treat us like animals. Chip at our self-esteem."

Duncan paced to the door of his cage and pounded a frustrated fist on the bars. "What about Joe?"

Joe was rather curious on that point, too.

"I don't know," Methos admitted. "He is oddly honorable in his own way, and he has no record of murder. Other than immortals."

"How comforting," Joe grumbled. But it was, really.

"Methos, how did you know the blond would take Joe hostage?" MacLeod's voice held suspicion.

Methos regarded the Highlander for a moment before answering. "The leader kept glancing at him to see what he was going to do. He must have been the challenger for top dog. So the guy had to do something flashy to save the day – show off."

"But how did you know that's what he would do?"

Methos shrugged. "How do you know when a red traffic signal is about to turn green? Experience. What does it matter?"

"If you knew he was going to do that, you should have …"

A door opened, somewhere to Joe's right, beyond the wall of his cage which he couldn't see around. Closing, it made a hollow, booming sound. Both immortals faced the corridor, and Joe cursed his doom to remain sitting, legless.

The man who appeared was not physically large or intimidating, but he brought with him a presence that filled the building. Also with him came another man – larger, more muscular, bald and dour. But Joe had no doubt which of them was the immortal.

"Gentlemen," the man said. "Welcome to my hotel."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Duncan demanded. "How dare you?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. MacLeod, get it over with. You say I have no right to treat you like this and who do I think I am. I laugh maniacally and point out that you are completely in my power and your backward concepts of right and wrong have no meaning here. You bluster some more until I either walk away laughing, or, if you succeed in pissing me off, I dominate you with torture. Now, shall we dispense with the pleasantries? Wouldn't you rather just learn what I have in store for you?"

Even from two cells down, Joe could sense the fury from MacLeod.

"I will kill you," MacLeod said with all the solemnity of wedding vows.

"You'll have the chance. I challenge you, Duncan MacLeod. We will meet in battle one month from today."

"I don't think much of your accommodations."

"Get used to them."

"If this is between us, let the others go."

"Can't. They'll have to wait their turn."

"Dawson's not immortal. Let him go."

"If you defeat me, both your friends go free. If I win, I will challenge your immortal friend here, and he can try his skill. Mr. Dawson has two chances to live.

"I was surprised to find two immortals together. Not a common occurrence. I assume he's your friend, and you weren't just looking for a secluded spot for a duel?"

MacLeod did not reply.

Kreegan moved to stand before Methos's cage. "Your ID names you Adam Pierson. I've never heard of you, but there's so little in a name. I'm more interested in your tattoos. They tell me you have one on your wrist which is identical to the one on Mr. Dawson's wrist. May I see it?"

"I can't think why I should make anything easy for you."

Kreegan smiled. "The wrist is a particularly painful place for a tattoo. A man gets a tattoo on his wrist when he has to prove something." He gave Joe a speculative look. "Or when he has to join something."

Joe clung to his poker face, as did, he was glad to see, Methos.

"Your other tattoo interests me as well. They described it to me as a serpent or a dragon on your buttock. May I see that one?"

Methos did not respond.

Joe looked, and he saw the roundish mark on Methos's behind, high on the right, near the small of the back.

Kreegan tipped his head insolently, trying to view the tattoo. Methos could have moved so as to keep his back from showing to Kreegan, but the effort would have been ineffectual, in Joe's opinion. The frightening truth was they really were in this sick immortal's power.

Still wearing his falsely genial grin, Kreegan studied the tattoo. The shape was essentially oval, with what might have been an eye, a wing, and a trailing tail. Joe couldn't entirely make it resolve, but it seemed to mean something to Kreegan. As the immortal studied it, his expression changed, hardening.

"What is that?" His voice crackled with authority and intensity, and Joe cringed slightly, despite himself.

Methos seemed unaffected and stared blandly at Kreegan.

"Olaf!" Kreegan ordered, straightening up.

The other, silent, man produced a dart gun and shot Methos with little warning. The dart struck him in the center of the chest and Methos collapsed immediately.

MacLeod cursed.