AN: I like Lindsey far too much to let him stay dead. (I need a female in here somewere, don't I?)

With a deep, gasping intake of breath, Lindsey's eyes snapped open.

Oh, great, he thought. Here we go again.

He's betrayed the Senior Partners, yet again, and got himself shot for his troubles – by Lorne, no less; a demon he had actually liked and trusted. Which meant he had one of two fates in store for him. The Senior Partners might show rare leniency on their favored operative and relocate him, as they had done dozens of times since that fateful day two hundred years ago when he had so very stupidly signed away his Immortal life. Or – and this was much more likely – they were fed up with years of his side-switching and would cast him into another hell dimension, where he could suffer twice as much torment as those who had died normal deaths. Torment of the body and the soul. Turns out Hell was that much more hellish if you still had a physical body. Who would have guessed?

The man who had recently been Lindsey McDonald groaned and pulled himself up. He was so, so sick of this crap. He wanted things to be as clear-cut as they had seemed before his first death – fight for freedom, for Liberty, all that Revolutionary rot. Joseph Cook of South Carolina had died fighting for Liberty. That man was one he barely recognized as himself. Since then things had become more and more confusing, coming to a head in the Civil War. Drafted by the Union to fight for the state of Pennsylvania that he had lived in for fifty years, Joseph had found himself torn between the cause he knew to be right and the survival of the South he loved. He'd tried to escape then – by signing a contract. In exchange for working for what seemed to be a powerful but upstanding law firm, his Immortality would be protected and he would be removed from the Game. No being could learn of his identity, by natural or supernatural means, unless he chose to tell them – and he was contractually obligated not to tell anyone. Only the Senior Partners and their immediate underlings knew.

"It's your age," Holland had said. Lindsey had longed to slap that falsely paternal smile off of the man's face. But he hadn't known. No one knew. Not Lilah, who never knew she had never had a chance at that promotion. Not Darla, though she had wondered why he didn't fear death. Not even Lorne, though he could read Lindsey's soul as if it was a book.

It suddenly occurred to Lindsey that he didn't have much time. A glance at the clock showed that he'd been out for only about an hour; the Senior Partners would still be busy with Angel and his little group of do-gooders. He needed to get the ingredients for the veiling spell, get the tattoos, again, and get the hell out of Dodge. He was done. This time for real.

Angel. Of this whole mess, the way his relationship with the ensouled vampire had developed was his biggest regret. There was a kindred spirit – someone who had lived as long, had suffered moral conflict and bouts of both good and evil, had loved and lost. Someone who would understand, maybe even be able to help.

He'd tried that route, of course. That had lead to another moment of weakness, which lead to the loss of his hand. Still, he thought that if he could make the vampire understand…well, perhaps another day. They had time on their side.

Unless they didn't. Unless Angel was dead.

Focus. Lindsey thought to himself. Time to get going.

Moving quickly and silently, Lindsey made his way out of the bloodstained building and to his truck, parked down the street. His suitcase was still inside, packed and ready to go, and a temporary identity with it. Edward Rutledge. The name was something of a joke – Rutledge had been the representative from South Carolina, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and Joseph's childhood hero.

He was Edward from now on.

I think I'll go by Ned.

Reaching into his glove compartment, newly named Ned pulled out an envelope without a letter. The letter itself had been burned soon after he had received it; he'd been in hiding at the time and wanted no paper trail. He didn't need the letter, anyway; he'd read it over and over until it was memorized. It was from his mentor, Riorden, an Immortal who had about as much patience for the Game as Joseph himself had.

He'd found a way out. That was what the letter had said – he'd found a way out. So far out that he couldn't be contacted unless you had some very specialized knowledge.

If you ever get sick of all of this, contact Daniel. He's one of the eldest of us, and a good man. He'll know how to help you.

The words echoed in his head, as if he'd memorized them from Riorden's voice and not lines of type on a plain piece of paper. Riorden, who was himself nearly a millennium older than Joseph had been, born in Ireland in the Middle Ages. Riorden, who had devoted his considerable life to science ever since the Enlightenment, who was now considered one of the smartest people in the world. Who was now going by Dr. Rodney McKay, Canadian astrophysicist. Such high-profile identities were abnormal for an Immortal, but Riorden had heard of something he wanted to be a part of and created Rodney to be his ticket in. Whatever that something was, it must have been worth it, because it got Riorden out of the game.

Ned fingered the worn edges of the envelope, running his fingers over the return address, stuck on with a little label that bore the American eagle in the corner.

Dr. Daniel Jackson

c/o The United States Air Force, NORAD

Cheyanne Mountain

1 Mountain Dr, CO, 47820

A quick stop to Gary's, then, for supplies, then once the ritual was complete and the tattoos covered his body once more, he was off to Colorado.