Disclaimer: None of these characters actually belong to me. Nor does the concept of Immortality. The plot is, however, entirely of my own devising.

Author Notes: Again, while the physics mentioned in this chapter does stem from factual evidence, quite a bit of Richie's opinion does stem directly from my own findings. I have something of a fascination with physics I'm afraid, and you have to admit, Quickening-inspired swordfights in the middle of a large-ish city does seem like soemthing straight out of a science fiction novel.

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He stopped in at the bookstore first to pick-up the book he ordered weeks ago, for a class he was taking at the University of Washington, Seacouver. It was a history book, which made sense he supposed, seeing as that was his concentration. He slid his debit card over the counter, shook his head politely when the clerk asked if he needed anything else.

"You were in my math class last semester, right?" the clerk asked. "Professor MacMillian? How'd you do?"

Richie signed the receipt, and pocketed the yellow slip of paper for his own records. He took the plastic bag with his book. "A B+. You?"

"A C-. Tough luck, huh? You taking anything else with him this semester?"

Richie shook his head. "Nah, you?"

"Nope." The clerk scratched the back of his hand awkwardly. "Well, have a great day."

"You too." Richie waved.

He popped his helmet back over his head, and kicked his motorcycle into gear. He stopped in at the dojo next, spending two hours in the office finishing the paperwork he hadn't last night, before he paused to watch a kid's martial arts class. Mumering soemthing about keeping up the good work, he left quickly to make his way back to the university, sliding into his seat mere seconds before his class started.

Time: noon-thirty.

Yep, another beautiful spring day.

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Richie remained after class, lingering while he gathered his books and papers, making a big deal of straightening his pens so they were all perfectly lined up, and fiddling with the zipper on his coat. He waited while the other students slowly cleared the room, leaving in small groups, heads bent close together while they discussed normal college students things. He waited while his professor stuffed his own papers and that day's homework assignment into his leather briefcase before he carefulyl approached the desk, and cleared his throat.

"If this about next week's homework, you can forget asking for another extension," the professor stated without even looking up.

"It's not," Richie answered quietly.

"Well, then." Methos looked up from his still unzipped briefcase, and his expression softened just slightly. "What can I do for you, Rich?"

"Mike said you talked to Joe earlier today?"

"Bloody woke me up, bribing me with coffee and beer to come down there, but yes, I did." He jammed the last paper into his briefcase, and he pulled the zipper shut. "He called you too?"

"Did, yes. I talked to Mike. Thought I might stop in before I headed over to the garage. Did you happen to see a girl by the name of Fiona Phillips while you were over there? Mike mentioned she was by this morning?"

Methos cast Richie a puzzled look. "I was in yesterday, Rich." But he paused slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Fiona Phillips, you said?"

"Uh-huh. Why? You know her?"

"The name sounds familiar. She's a researcher, isn't she?"

"That's what Mike said."

"That's probably why then. You'd get more out of Joe."

Richie sighed. "I know."

Methos smiled then, a cross between melancholy, rare understanding, and rarer sympathy. He cuffed Richie's shoulder on his way out, brushing past the younger boy in a hurry both knew was more for show than actual. "Don't worry about it too much. I'm sure Joe'll take care of it. You, in the meantime, just worry about the paper coming up. And no asking Connor for help this time. I'll know if you do."

"Yes, sir," Richie mumbled, but he spoke the words to empty air, for Methos had already brushed past him and was gone.

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He didn't know much about black holes or wormholes. Hell, half the time, he figured he didn't know mucb about actual Quickenings, other than from what he had gleaned listening to the older Immortals and from his own few, less than pleasant, experiences. He had taken only one physics course in his life, and that wasn't even in any proper classroom setting, Duncan had simply deciced to give him an impromptu lesson, spouting anecdotes from the age when he knew Albert Einstein. Connor and Rachel had been in visiting from New York, and it was Connor could do to keep from laughing.

"I suppose next you'll be telling the boy that it was you who convinced Albert to not take the Israeli presidency position?" the elder MacLeod had chuckled.

"Well, I don't like to brag…" Duncan had answered back.

Richie, of course, had been at a loss. He had perused the internet later that night, fiding what he could on the theory, not learning mcuh more than physics was much more theoretical than other sciences, like biolofy or chemistry, relying much more on the use of equations and theorems and proofs than any actual evidence. Stuff like the beginnings of the universe—and its eventual end—and time travel and rocketships to the enxt nearest star and alien life forms and black holes and wormholes and superstring theory all somehow jumbled together, feeding off one another, giving rise to new theories and questions and answers every day, to the poit where one almost couldn't tell what was fiction and what was factual. So much of the stuff sounded like complete science-fiction that he was only partly surprised that they weren't in there: Immortals, you didn't get much more science-fiction-y than that.

Fighting with swords. Quickenigns. Living forever. Someone could make a fortune off it, producing it into a book or television series.

Sometimes he wondered if he might. Write a book of it, he meant. He certainly knew enough stories from listening to Duncan and Connor for so many years.

He sighed, jammed the helmet back onto his head, and he sped off onto the road, heading to Joe's Bar. He had enough time for a few drinks, a few jokes with Mike, some harmless flirtation with Darcy, and whatever conversation Joe was expecting from him.

He still had to call Asher back, but then, she didn't really expect him to call before late. In the early AM at least; they were both busy: school, jobs, that peskey little thing known as real life and all the quirks, clauses and realities that came with it. That was why they had come up with their arrangement in the first place, or one the reasons, anyway.

Yes, he'd call her later. Around midnight, he figured. After he was done at the garage, and he had had time to at least start some of his homework, and had managed to eat dinner.

Meanwhile, time now: 3:00 in the afternoon. He needed to be at the garage by 6. Maybe in between he might call Fiona Phillips, figure out what it is she wanted, but first, first he wanted to know who she was.