He paced, he calculated complex equations, he plotted an Asian land invasion, he tried to remember every recipe involving walnuts he'd ever come across, he did push ups, he yelled pointlessly for awhile, he practiced various languages he wasn't entirely sure he remembered correctly, he sang, he did limited gymnastics and katas with his sword. (the fact that he had been allowed to keep the blade did not encourage him in the slightest) Eventually he slept.
Methos slept sitting up in a corner with his blade across his knees. The only non-white or transparent surface in his room was a too-bright light that was never turned off. The light was in the middle of the ceiling and it glared at him like a pissed off supernatural eye. The window wall was indeed plastic. Out of curiosity he had tried to batter it with the pommel of his sword but had succeeded only in leaving a shallow scratch on the surface of the plastic. Across from his room was another room that appeared identical to his. It was unoccupied and the light was always left on as well. He could see a door to one side of the glass wall.
"Hello? Bored yet? 'Cause I bloody well am." He started out shouting and trailed off into a sigh. Really there was no point to being upset. What was, was. He was a prisoner and it looked like he would be one until whoever was in charge decided to change that. Of course knowing that and actually accepting that were two very different things.
He sat back in his corner and closed his eyes. The light was bright enough to penetrate his eyelids so he threw an arm over his eyes. He wasn't tired. He could exercise more but he hadn't eaten or had anything to drink in what had to be at least a day.
He wondered why he hadn't been sick after John teleported him, wondered why he had been so sick when John normally teleported him. He thought about the island, the girl, the troops, the E.M field, the whole venture. He thought about the Five and his minor role in their grand tale. What had he been thinking?
For centuries he had kept to himself, been incognito, done his level best to avoid other immortals altogether or befriend them. So what does he do at the first opportunity? Join up with a band of rebel scientists with superpowers. Brilliant. And, as if that weren't enough, he fell in love with not one but two of them. Gods what the hell was wrong with him?
Loneliness, a little goblin whispered in his head.
"Fuck that." He growled surprising himself with the volume and venom of his voice. He ground his teeth and rubbed his eyes.
He remembered the John and Helen he had known, even Tesla had been somehow more innocent then. John and James had been fast friends and even Nigel had been a pleasant if lightfingered companion. Now all but John and Helen were dead, apparently Nigel's descendant had inherited his gift for whatever good it would do him or her. James, that was a real loss, the man had been brilliant before the vampire blood and after he had been a force of nature. Will reminded Methos of him, the way he had of seeing things and intuitively concluding.
He blew out a sigh. "Seriously, if you want to make me batty there are easier ways, I can tell you some." he suggested to his cell walls.
He ground his teeth and let out a sigh, this was insane he was letting them win. He knew better than this. He closed his eyes and drew his arm across them again.
Methos focused on something less aggravating than the myriad indiscretions of his apparently perpetual youth. You'd think he would learn after awhile. Ha, sure. Like anyone really learned. He broke off that train of thought as well, there was no point to it and it was getting him worked up again.
Finally he decided on meditation. He slowed his metabolism, something he should have done immediately, and focused on relaxing and resting while staying alert enough to react to anyone entering his cell.
Time passed, unsteady like an old film projector, skipping, slowing, speeding up and dropping away altogether.
"Mr. Pierson." The voice was male and ageless. It could be a man of thirty or four hundred, unnaturally accentless. Methos opened his eyes. The cell was empty, no obvious source for the voice presented itself.
"Mr. Pierson."
"What? By the way? Not my name thanks for playing." Methos groused. And flung his arm back over his face. The voice seemed to be coming from the light. Nice touch.
"Mr. Pierson, we have a proposal for you."
"Not my name you have the wrong guy, lemme go now, thanks." He snapped in a sing-song.
"Mr. Pierson."
"Fine! Look, if you want to talk to me, at least take your ass down here so we can chat through my fabulous see-through wall." He sighed. There was a loud click as whatever speaker system had been engaged was shut off.
"Assholes." Methos muttered and got to his feet. He twirled his heavy blade in his right hand and waited. Half an hour later a man approached the glass. He was dressed like a stereotypical scientist, light blue button up shirt, dark loafers, white slacks, white lab coat (no pocket protector), and thickish glasses. He looked to be thirtyish, had dark brown almost black hair, dark eyes, pallid skin, sharp almost rodent like features and too-straight teeth.
"You the face?" Methos asked placing the tip of his blade against the clear wall and leaning against it lazily.
"The face Mr. Pierson?"
"Okay, again, not my name there kiddo, the face, the face of the evil conspiracy responsible for trapping me here. Y'know the one that convinced my old bff to transport me into your shoebox and high tail it out of here? The fucking face." Methos sighed heavily.
"Very well, I am the face. You are indeed Adam Pierson, formerly of Seacouver, Washington and Paris, France, when you are not jet setting or vanishing from the grid."
"You think I'm Adam Pierson? I knew Pierson back in grad school, nice guy couldn't hold his liquor no luck with the ladies. But me? Not Adam Pierson."
"We have a job offer."
"You have a funny way of recruiting."
"Mr. Pierson, I represent an organization known as The Initiative."
"Oooh d'yeah happen to have a branch called the Cabal?" Methos asked leaning against the wall while making blowfish faces on the clear plastic. The scientist's face twitched just enough. Methos decided he was afraid and probably knew of The Cabal.
"Mr. Pierson-"
"I have some demands kiddo, I want, a steak, a big juicy one, rare with all the trimmings, I want a pony keg of the best local micro brew lager. I want the comfiest bed possible and a beautiful woman to help me get to sleep. I want-"
"Mr. Pierson -"
"Not my name face and yeah know you are really beginning to -"
"Mr. Pierson, we have an offer you will hear it out, you will be given one hour to make a decision."
"And then what? Beer?" Methos asked with a predator's grin. He breathed on the glass and started making tiny troll footprints with his balled fist, thumb, and pointer finger.
"If you decline you die."
"Kay, what's your offer?" Methos asked pausing in his footprint creation to eyeball the scientist.
"We need you to kill a man."
"Well what the fuck makes you think I can kill a man? Or that I even want to?"
"Money Mr. Pierson, and the promise of your immediate and permanent death if you decline."
"Permanent eh? What's that supposed to mean? Isn't death pretty much permanent?" Methos sneered.
"You have one hour to decide."
"Oh come on you haven't even told me who the hell you want me to wack! I can't make a decision on so little information, it's ridiculous to even ask." He huffed and folded his arms, which was awkward and improbable seeing as he was still holding his blade.
"One hour Mr. Pierson."
Methos glared at the little man. It would seem that he had to kill a man. He'd killed before, for fun, boredom, self defense, profit, hell any reason really. But, he hated to be forced into doing anything especially taking a life. It was unwise to take or destroy that which you could not return or create. His species were sterile, even if he weren't he couldn't bring another person back to life. Not an immortal not a normal human being so taking that life could never be undone.
He kept making a troll path while he thought, it amused him and passed the time nicely. He would have to say yes intially. He'd spent at least as much time lying as anything else. He was good at it, he could agree to kill this person and then just not do it. Of course that was an absurd -if comforting- thought. These people would have some kind of leverage or insurance. They apparently knew enough about him that they would realize he was slippery than a slime eel.
He was fucked. For now at least. He was their puppet and would dance but he was going to turn on them at the earliest opportunity. Which, of course, they would be expecting. He wondered idly if John or Helen had told them anything about him. A cold thought occurred to him (at long last), what if these were the people who had told John and Helen his real name? His past? He paled and lost track of his stupid troll footprints.
No one he knew of outside of two or three who would literally die before revealing anything knew that much about him. He had joined the Watchers twenty or so years ago and demolished their records on him, and the only other immortals who had shared his full past had died a few years later. He had to agree, if only to find out what they knew and how.
The hour moved much slower after that.
The ratty scientist returned and waited in front of Methos' cell.
"Your answer Mr. Pierson?"
"Okay seriously, stop calling me Pierson. The answer, as you know full well, is yes." He sighed.
"Very good Mr. Pierson, if you would follow me." The scientist said in what was apparently his best butler impression. The entire translucent wall slid down.
"Hmm, go big or go home eh?" Methos muttered. He was maintaining his banter but the fun had gone from it.
"This way Mr. Pierson." Methos followed the little man through what appeared to be a large network of cells and closed rooms.
"So how far underground are we? I bet we're far-"
"Mr. Pierson, please be quiet."
"Uhm, no? You kidnapped me – cleverly I might add – and now you've shanghai'd me into committing murder, by the way I'm holding a massive fucking sword, so I get to babble." Methos hissed.
"This way." The scientist muttered and scuttled ahead.
"How do you miss the four foot sword?" Methos grumbled to himself. Finally they entered a largish room with a projector screen at one end.
"Please have a seat Mr. -"
Methos waggled his sword suggestively. The scientist escaped with his dignity. The door closed and the lock snapped shut after him.
"Putz." Methos muttered.
"So shall I have a seat and wait for the movie? Or will there be rubber hoses and beatings first?"
A low hum started to emanate from the screen and an image appeared. It was a young man, early twenties. Dark hair light eyes, he was handsome. Average height. A name appeared below the image.
Alexander Harris, Sunnydale California 2002.
The image and caption vanished and were replaced. This photo showed the same man, older, with an eye patch. There was no caption. After a few seconds the photo vanished. And a mass of text appeared.
Alexander 'Xander' Harris is your target. You will kill him. You have one year. If you do not kill him Duncan Macleod, Amanda Darieux, and Joe Dawson will die.
That was it. No more information, no location, no likes, no skills, nothing.
"Very cute, Sunnydale ceased to exist a few months ago, a suspicious natural disaster right? Look if you want me to kill this guy I need information -"
The door opened and the little rat man reappeared.
"You may go sir, there is a bag by the exit, please take it with you. Inside you will find supplies and a phone. Keep the phone charged and on you at all times."
"Fabulous. How do you expect me to find and kill this guy? There are hundreds of millions of Americans."
"Not my concern sir."
"Hey tell me this chuckles why are you dressed as a scientist if you all you do is act like a fourth rate Alfred? Alfred could kick your ass by the way."
"This way sir." He replied and turned on his heel.
Methos followed him back through the winding circuitous halls and to a door with no exit sign and a duffle bag waiting for him. Methos scooped it up and flipped the scientist the bird.
"Amateurs." He sneered as he shoved through the exit.
Blinding sunlight stabbed at him. Oven hot air enveloped him, he could feel his skin prickle as pores opened and he started to sweat. He was standing in the middle of a desert. He turned around and there was only more desert. Fabulous, mysterious disappearing compounds were his favorite.