Chapter I: Consequences

"I AM THE END OF TIME!"

Duncan MacLeod performed a failed sword stroke at the head of Kronos, who had bellowed those words after clashing sword for the nth time with the Highlander. Then Duncan felt a quickening rising from a headless body, as lightning bolted a human shape somewhere. He glanced by reflex at that person, aghast upon the recognition of both the beheaded and the slim shape that was welcoming the quickening. A slim shape with an ancient face whose eyes were fixed upon him. Eyes that would be his last vision on this side, for Kronos lashed forward and severed off MacLeod's head...

Adam Pierson blinked, returning to reality. In his hand awaited the half-eaten piece of pizza he had been dining before the sudden vision of MacLeod's death startled him yet again. How long he had been dreaming awake he could not know. Ten minutes at least, given the pizza was cold. He stared at his home-made meal estranged. He had learned to make it in Naples, at the dusk of the nineteenth century. Over the last five thousand years, he had tasted many different foods. The pizza, in any of its varieties, stood out as his one of his favourites. However, he did not enjoy it now as he used to.

The lighting flickered for a few moments and faded out. Adam had crouched at the flickering knowing that was not a coincidence. It could not be a coincidence. Not now that immortals were considered public enemies, not to say a plague, that the Watchers had emerged from their position of secrecy and the Government had entrusted them the elimination of immortals.

The image of a darkhaired woman flashed in his head. Cassandra, Methos' slave in the days almost lost to history, the days where many legends hail from, the days of the Four Horsemen. She had found him again after three thousand years, hours after Kronos had done the same. She wanted him dead, and only Duncan MacLeod could keep her at bay.

In an attempt to gain time, Methos had helped Kronos find the other Horsemen: the kind giant Silas, eager for violence but at the same time easily led, and the sadist Caspian, a wild beast that had always been hard to contain. Kronos had plans to spread a disease around the world. In his way, there was a Scottish stumbling block. MacLeod took Caspian's head and escaped Silas. Kronos had kidnapped Cassandra to make the Highlander surrender.

MacLeod faced Kronos, who sent Silas to get rid of the sorceress. Methos rushed behind the giant, deliberating with himself his next course of action. He made up his mind to help the Highlander, but a split second too slowly as Silas bounced his axe over Cassandra's neck. Only for a split second. But it was too late. Silas moved away, leaving Methos in his stillness to be struck by the quickening of the sorceress.

The quickening startled MacLeod. Methos easily read disappointment, dread, anger, and many other emotions in the Highlander's face. Emotions which surfaced on Methos when Kronos took Duncan's head. Silas and Kronos followed their plan and spread the virus. Methos fled, as always...

He heard some noise coming from the main door. He crawled toward the living room, next to the kitchen, and to where the main door led. He grasped his sword and hid behind the sofa. Seconds later, three masked men wielding machetes and submachine guns entered the room. They spread.

One headed to the kitchen, the other stayed at the door. The third one moved toward Methos' direction. The immortal clenched his fist around the grip of his sword. When the man went past him, he rose and stabbed the man. The gasp of the wounded drew the attention of the others. With no other alternative, Methos attacked them. A whistle followed and suddenly Adam felt his shoulder was on fire. A second shot coming from the door hit him in the chest. He fell.

His senses began to fail and the last thing he noticed before his eyes closed was the pale glint of the moonlight, reflected on a sharp blade. Perhaps one day this war would be over. As the pain scorched through his neck, he knew he would not live to see it.

-----

"Good morning, I'm Christopher Wingfield. The news of the day is the elimination of the immortal Methos, known to be one of the heads behind the Water Disease the immortals caused in 1997. According to the spokesman of the Watchers, Methos used the alias of Adam Pierson, and was an insider providing information for the immortals. In other news..."

As he wandered inside a shop to see the many outlets he would never be able to buy, Kenny had overheard the TV anchorman. People were gathering around a TV to hear. There was a calm celebrating mood growing there. Kenny looked down for a second, not sure of what to feel. He had never liked Methos. Twice the late immortal had had the chance to take his head, twice a twist of fate had saved Kenny. But he had been aiding those who dared oppose the Watchers. In a way, a chunk of the small possibilities of success immortals had died with him.

His body shook in panic when he sensed one of his kind around. Merely out of habit. The days when carrying a sword was crucial to stay alive against other immortals were over. Anyone with a large coat, or any other kind of outfit that might allow to conceal a sword, was detained and questioned. If a sharp object were to be found, the suspect would be taken down to the police department. A swift trial totally devoid of fairness would follow, and then the immortal would be history.

He walked out of the shop. As a ten-year-old-looking immortal, he was still able to carry his petty sword inside his scruffy blue sports jacket. Despite knowing about younglings with a very large life span, the cops did not regard them seriously. Had it been otherwise, after 800 years, he would have found it hard to part with his arm. Because the weapon was the only thing he could trust, but mainly because it reminded him of Amanda.

As he strolled through an avenue that seemed to be less and less crowded with every step he took, he remembered his teacher, his love, the woman he knew he would never have. Not now, not ever. She would have never taken him seriously. Or maybe she would at some point. But he would never know. The Watchers... no... that man was responsible. Joe Dawson. He had called her for a meeting at his bar. There he had turned her in. One slice and Amanda was history.

He turned into a deserted darkened street. His shadow ahead of him imitated his movements and he could see his mushroom haircut bounce up and down as he treaded. Slowly, more shadows joined his. Larger, better-built shapes moving at his same pace. Kenny gulped and started running.

But they were faster than he was. He was grasped by the arm and thrown to the floor. Two men, one blond with a small scar on the face below the eye, the other had long red hair. They glared for a second, and then the blond one spat at the little immortal. He almost grunted as he felt the saliva trickling down his left cheek. Then He felt someone. It was none of them, that was for sure. But soon it would not matter.

"Time to say goodnight, young punk."

The redhaired produced a large machete. But he did not have the chance to use it. A large piece of steel emerged through his stomach, and the tip of it dripped the blood of the now gasping man. The blade was removed and the man fell lifeless. The other eyed the person that had just arrived. So did Kenny, who found himself grinning.

The blond man produced another machete. Kenny knew he was afraid. He was shuddering and the weapon trembled in his hands. The immortal stepped forward and the mortal stepped back, before turning and escaping as if the hounds of Hell were following him.

Kenny stood up and examined his saviour. A bald tall man dressed in a brown robe. This man placed the tip of the sword on the ground, and kept the blade in a vertical position. He clenched his hands over the top of the hilt and began to pray. Kenny kicked the corpse angrily.

"Why are you praying? He tried to kill me!" he protested.

His prayer finished, the priest stood up.

"All those who die deserve it. All but one." He said calmly, yet bearing a cold viciousness in his face. "I'm Jacob Kell. Who are you, young man?"

"My name is... Kenny... I am..." he stopped. He was on the verge of saying all the speech about being alone, a homeless boy whose parents had died and the usual pile of nonsense immortals used to buy. They would trust him and when distracted, there would be one head less to worry about. If he wanted to continue alive, with the watchers hunting around, he would need a strong man like Kell. He could not trust him however. Not with the reputation he had. But for the time being, it was his only choice if he wanted to keep his head and shoulders together.

"Oh, I heard about you." It was almost funny how Kell spoke. There was a certain mixture of mockery and evilness in his words. He felt like laughing but at the same time, he could imagine how ruthlessly Kell would kill him if he did.

"So did I. You were said to have a... posse with you." Kenny tried to sound steady, yet panic was nibbling every fibre of his muscles, stiffening his limbs. "They did the dirty work for you."

"These are hard times. My acolytes' blood became one with the blood the waging of this war has shed. But you... the blond little kid who has taken a lot of heads using not his strength, but his intelligence. You plan, and then you execute. An impressive mastermind!"

Kenny felt uneasy with Kell speaking in such a high praise. No one had ever told him that. A bitter sensation hit him, plunging the pride he was feeling into darkness. Besides, Kenny did not know whether he could take Kell seriously, not with the particular voice he had.

"You're trying to make me trust you, in order to take my head."

Kell's evil grin made Kenny's small legs shake before going numb again.

"I would, if you were a stronger immortal and if the watchers weren't around." Kell shrugged. "Where are you heading?"

"New York." The young-looking immortal replied.

"So do I. A Godly coincidence that two masterminds share their path."

"This is no design of God." Kenny spat up. Kell hid his sword inside his robe. His face transmuted into one of serene seriousness. No one would dare questioning this priest-looking man. The kid began to walk, slowly, casually, as a ten-year-old boy would, knowing that he had all the time in the world to reach his destination. "The watchers are winning the war." He sighed. Actually, time was ticking out for him. Maybe for all of them.