Dream As If You'll Live Forever 3/3
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Sun, 19 Aug 2001 04:07:29 GMT
"I wonder how long it's been?" MacLeod asked again.
"About three minutes longer than last time," Methos responded
tiredly, sprawled in a chair. "For a grand total," he checked his
watch, "of forty-six minutes and twenty-eight seconds."
Across the room Amy and Joe were still comparing notes, though
their attempt to teleconference with their superiors at Watcher
Headquarters had been prevented.
"I'm sorry, Methos," MacLeod suddenly blurted.
"For what?" he asked curiously, rolling his head against the back
of his chair to look at the other man.
"For not being a better friend. For not trusting you in Bordeaux.
For failing to admit that in spite of myself I should have
accepted your past, not made you feel as though you owed me an
apology for it."
"MacLeod, MacLeod," Methos sighed, smiling in bemusement. "Don't
go all nobly maudlin on me. No weeping and gnashing of teeth,
please. I don't want to die with that on my conscience."
"You don't have a conscience," MacLeod grinned.
"Well if I did, it would certainly weigh heavily on it."
Exactly five minutes later the door to the Oval Office opened
partially and a whispered conversation between the guards on
opposite sides took place. The door closed tightly again and
Methos held himself still as the order was given.
"Mr. MacLeod, Methos, please follow me."
MacLeod glanced at Joe then looked to Methos, who nodded once at
the Watcher hoping the man wouldn't make a scene. Thankfully, he
only raised a hand to them in silent regard then followed with
Amy at a discreet distance.
"Where are they going?" MacLeod asked the guard as the Watchers
were escorted in another direction.
"To a viewing room elsewhere in the facility."
"You're recording this for posterity?!" he asked angrily, but the
guard didn't answer and Methos was grateful for the blessed
silence that followed.
There was an elevator waiting to take them down. Deep beneath the
buildings of state a network of tunnels and even deeper bunkers
existed. Placed in separate vehicles, each man was allowed more
than enough time to contemplate their possible fate. As Methos
stepped out of the car he stumbled slightly, caught by a guard
who told him kindly, "It won't be long now."
He nodded dazedly, refusing to look at MacLeod's eyes, filled
with pity and a sort of wishful nobility that he could somehow
make things different. They traveled downward again. An even
longer distance this time. No hint of his massive Quickening
would ever reach the surface Methos realized.
The room they were eventually brought to was nothing more than a
massive concrete bunker. Plain and unadorned except for the
stainless steel guillotine bolted to the floor. Methos flinched
as the big kindly Marine took his wrist and gently drew it behind
his back, tying it with a thin, but sturdy piece of plastic
before reaching for the other hand.
"You won't need that," Methos said tightly. "I can do this."
"It's for your own protection, sir."
"You're about to cut off my head," he laughed, clamping down on
the rising hysteria. "Another nick or two will hardly matter."
"I'm sorry, sir," the man said quietly as he bound the other
wrist.
Methos closed his eyes, fighting for calm, thinking that this was
somehow worse. Like a common criminal, he thought, opening his
eyes only when he felt MacLeod's hand on his shoulder.
"Courage," the Highlander said quietly.
"A lack of courage isn't my problem," Methos gritted back. "It's
knowing you'll still be around after I'm gone mucking up the
world with your damn morality gone haywire!"
"And what would you have done with the Prize?" MacLeod asked,
truly curious.
Methos paused and lowered his eyes. "Nothing," he admitted
sullenly. "I'd have left the mortals to their own devices. Maybe
stepped in occasionally when a worldwide catastrophe loomed and
my own miserable hide felt threatened."
"Then they've made the right choice, haven't they?" MacLeod said
coldly, dropping his hand and lowering his arm.
A strong hand at his back led Methos to the place of execution
and he felt himself tremble as the shiny steel mouth of the
machine yawned evilly in the overhead lights. He'd left France
for America the day they'd voted to build the first of these
monstrous things, he recalled absently.
"Don't look at it," the man behind him advised as he carefully
knelt on the concrete.
It was good advice, Methos realized as he stared hard at the
place where he was meant to rest his neck. He shut his eyes
tightly; leaning forward as a warm hand came to rest at the base
of his skull gently pressing him down.
He shuddered as his throat touched the cool smooth steel, though
the lip was wide enough to comfortably rest his head. The hand at
the nape of his neck remained there as the man laid his arm down
the center of his back to rest where Methos' hands were joined in
plastic -- a gesture of comfort that both saddened and touched
the ancient Immortal. He was not a criminal -- at least in their
eyes. They were only doing what he had done for countless
centuries -- taking the expedient, self-serving route. He would
have applauded if it hadn't meant his own imminent demise.
Somewhere to his right he heard one of the other soldiers
stationed near the door talking.
"If you'll just stand for a moment against this wall, Mr.
MacLeod."
Methos focused on the floor in front of him, again refusing to
look at MacLeod as he heard the Highlander moving.
"Please remain still, sir."
This is a nightmare, Methos thought, all clinical detachment and
bizarre comfort as the arm along his spine steadied him firmly.
He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, snapping them
open as his mind registered that something was not right. Then a
flash of light, a tiny red dot moving swiftly across the floor a
few feet away, distracted him.
Were they planning to shoot him first? Methos wondered nervously
as the infrared of the sniper scope danced past his position
toward--
"MacLeod!" he managed to gasp, trying to buck as the heavy weight
of the soldier holding him fell full across his back. No, please!
Not both of us! he cried silently even as he heard the wicked
telltale sizzle of a laser rifle scoring into concrete and he
twisted brutally to see MacLeod's head just hitting the ground.
And then it struck him -- what was wrong. The hand at his neck
had never been pulled back!
Methos felt an instant of horror as the chill air of the room
suddenly touched his bare skin as the warm hand was removed --
only to feel it grasp his shirt. The soldier sat up, pulling him
back as warning klaxons sounded.
"Clear the area!" someone shouted and a heavy hand slapped his
shoulder.
"Good luck!" And the room was suddenly deserted but for Methos
and the body of MacLeod.
Stunned beyond the capacity to think clearly Methos simply
blinked at the thick fog of the Quickening as it rose, lifting
the corpse off the floor. Around him, tendrils of energy sparked,
crawling across the ceiling and walls until every hair on his
body stood on end and Methos felt the first bolt of the massive
lightening storm strike him.
It seared into him, easily melting the slim plastic bindings. His
arms flew apart and he felt himself rising, pulled upward by the
force of its terrible power, taking every lash and stripe
MacLeod's Quickening had to offer. He screamed in agony, tasting
MacLeod's life as it bullied and pounded him. Saying, "I was
here!" And behind that came the others -- so many and so varied
that even Methos couldn't begin to fathom it all. And when he
finally thought he couldn't take anymore the last of those many
lives slid into him and he fell sobbing to the floor.
***
"Are you feeling better?"
Nice shoes, Methos thought irrelevantly as he recognized the
voice. The President stood over the Immortal where he lay, still
gasping out the last of his tears. Shock and joy, pain and
ecstasy -- he felt bereft and fulfilled all at the same time. He
struggled to at least kneel, grateful for the unknown hand at his
arm that aided him in this monumental task.
Methos squinted with exhaustion, surprised as the President
crouched down in front of him holding out a handkerchief. He
stared blankly at the white square of cloth, too tired to
remember what he ought to do with it. There was a long pause then
a sigh from the President who reached out and gently wiped
Methos' face dry.
"Are you all right?" he asked again and Methos nodded dumbly.
"I..." he whispered, swallowing hard against the rawness of his
throat. "Yes. But..." Methos shook his head, truly confused.
"Why?" He gestured toward MacLeod's body.
The President smiled wryly. "You're benign."
Benign?! Methos carefully sat back on his heels. He'd been called
a lot of things, harmless generally wasn't one of them. "Benign?"
"You don't want to help and you don't want to hurt," the
President explained gently. "We aren't monkeys in need of a
keeper, Methos. Mr. MacLeod's intentions may have been honorable,
but the end result would have been intolerable. Complete moral
certitude is just as dangerous as a complete lack of morals. The
forceful imposition of honesty and goodness just as evil as the
imposition of decadence and immorality. Ambivalence and
ambiguity," he added thoughtfully, "allow for diversity and
growth, morally and otherwise."
Methos cocked his head then nodded slowly as he began to
understand. It was something he'd often noted, but hadn't given
much thought to in recent years. Humanity was like a child,
growing and learning with each passing age just as he had done
over the millennia. After all, how can one learn what is good
without seeing and experiencing an example of what is bad?
Still...
"He would never have harmed you," Methos defended his friend.
"MacLeod loved mortals.
"Perhaps a little too much," the President responded. "That kind
of love can smother a child. Prevent it from ever taking a risk
or a chance. We need to make mistakes, Methos. Even fatal
mistakes or we learn nothing. It would be nice if we could all
learn what he wanted to teach us on our own. That way it might
even take."
The ancient Immortal narrowed his eyes. "And you're not afraid
that I will suddenly change? Use the Prize to lord it over all of
you."
The President only smiled. "Do you even know what the Prize is,
Methos?"
He had to think about that. He didn't feel any different. "No one
knows," he admitted. "Are you saying you do?"
"In a sense, yes," he nodded. "The Prize is whatever the winner
wants it to be. The Game was never about mortals. It was always
about your kind. It was about instinct. Immortal instinct."
"Lemmings," Methos murmured distantly.
"And the attainment of a dream, perhaps?"
Methos smiled ruefully. It sounded so right. When Connor MacLeod
believed he'd won the Prize he'd dreamed he was mortal because
that was what he'd always wanted to be. MacLeod had wanted a
better world where mankind was safe and protected and he would
have dreamed that into existence as well. We get what we need,
Methos thought wonderingly.
"And me?" he asked suddenly nervous. "What happens to me now?
"What do you want to happen?"
"I..." he hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want to go home,"
he said decisively.
The President nodded, offering his hand to help Methos rise.
"This man will see that you get there safely," he gestured to the
Marine beside the Immortal, the same one who'd seen him through
the mock execution.
"That's it?" Methos asked, surprised as the President turned to
join his advisors.
"For now," came the soft response. "We'll call you when a
worldwide catastrophe starts looming."
Laughing softly Methos followed them out, only to be confronted
by an irate Joe Dawson. He backed up a pace into his Marine as
the other guards caught the furious Watcher.
"What'd you do, Methos? You bastard! Play let's make a deal with
the corrupt politician?!"
"Joe...I... I'm sorry," he murmured, flushing because he had
thought of that, but discarded the idea after taking the measure
of the man.
"Yeah, I'll bet!" Dawson spat. "So what do you get out of this?
Huh, Methos? What do you get?"
With a sad smile playing at his lips Methos moved forward resting
a gentle hand on the other man's shoulder.
"What I've always dreamed of, Joseph." He fought back bittersweet
tears of joy and anguish. "I get to live!"
~Finis~