Disclaimers in Part 1 After all that, Joe still had had a show that night. He lay in bed, afterward, staring at the ceiling, too wired to sleep. He wondered how his performance had been. No one had said anything, so his detachment from the music hadn't turned him into a virtuoso. If he was lucky, there'd been no particular difference in his playing. He just wasn't able to tell. His mind still whirled with the afternoon's events. Connor MacLeod and Methos. And *he* had introduced them. It had to be an historic meeting in the annals of immortals, and he couldn't even chronicle it. It wasn't fair. He'd kept Connor from suspecting that Adam was Methos, and they hadn't fought. *Thank you, Jesus.* He'd told Connor about Duncan and Richie, and Connor hadn't killed the messenger. *Thank you, Adam.* And Kirin ... and Bjorn. He needed to get ahold of Bjorn before he left for Bora Bora. Damn. Probably too late for that. What about Kirin? What was he up to? And why wouldn't Adam listen? Whatever Kirin was doing, he remained their best hope of finding Duncan. Adam. No, Methos. Joe's thinking grew more clear as he focused on his unease. What was wrong with the man? After Connor had left, Methos had insisted that he needed some air, and they had moved outside, trading the cacophony of casino sounds for the more common sounds of cars on the Strip. Methos had led him to a surprisingly secluded spot on the Caesars Palace grounds near a genuine Buddhist shrine. An odd dollop of reality in a city of carnival facades, but Joe believed the shrine was real because the Asian tourists lighting incense and bowing to it clearly believed it was real. Was belief sufficient to make it Holy Ground? Joe wondered. There behind a wall of manicured gingko bushes, out of earshot of the worshipers, Methos had let him have it. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "What do you mean?" Actually, Joe thought he had a pretty good idea of what had infuriated the oldest immortal. "You say I'm Duncan's student, then you drop my *name*! You even gave away that I was the immortal in the place. Are you *trying* to get me killed?" "Oh, like he wouldn't have figured that out, once he'd seen me. What's the matter?" Joe jibed, fighting the dismay filling him. "Don't think you can take him?" Methos went utterly still, his angry gaze on Joe frozen as if he'd suddenly been turned to stone. It was an odd stillness, making Joe feel uncomfortably like "Adam" had just left the room. The "room" being the too-still five-thousand-year-old form before him. Joe's own words echoed in his ears. Something had to be said. "I, uh ..." Methos turned his head away and crossed his arms. When he looked back at Joe, Joe knew an immense relief. At least the man he knew was back. "It's not your Game, Joe," he stated. "Don't try to play it." He was right. Joe knew he was right. It was Methos's life he was playing with. Maybe even Connor's, he realized with a start. Nothing's ever certain once the fight begins. But ... "How?" he asked, a misery he had only barely been aware of, welling up in him. Methos frowned. "How do I not care? Can you tell me that? How do I not try?" Methos blinked. "Damn," he muttered, as if he weren't addressing Joe. He shook his head. "Do I just say 'Oh well, Richie ...'" Joe couldn't finish that one. He gulped, angry with himself for his weakness. "How do I not try everything I can ...You tell me, how?" Methos sighed and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, an action which hunched his shoulders. His face was darkened by the long late afternoon shadows, so Joe couldn't quite read his expression. He sounded aggravated when he spoke, but not angry. "I can't. I've never really had a good answer for that one." Joe was surprised. He took a minute to get his feelings under control. "Then you'd better be ready to deal with having an amateur player on your team." "No." Methos kicked at a clump of desert earth which had somehow been persuaded to support lush Asian foliage. "I can't afford it. You're on the bench, Joe." "But I'm not, and you know it. Look, Connor didn't suspect." "We have no idea what he suspects! Listen, Joe, there's no one on my team but me. Stay out of it." "Fine! And what about Duncan?" Methos went stone-still again, his expression odd. "What about him?" "Who's on his team? Why aren't you looking for him? You're not really afraid he'll take your head; you faced him when he had a Dark Quickening." "I can't look for him, Joe. I can't be around him. It's too dangerous. And you shouldn't either." "What are you talking about?!" demanded Joe. Methos gave the clump of earth such a powerful kick that it broke free of the grass roots and flew past Joe. "I can't ..." Methos's response was interrupted by the laughter of a group of approaching tourists. They were lost on the grounds and asked for directions to the fountains. Neither man could supply them, and, as they left, Methos followed, mumbling a good-bye to Joe. Joe, of course, was unable to run after him and shake him. Looking back on the afternoon's conversations from the vantage of his hotel bed, Joe was increasingly puzzled about Methos. Every time Duncan had come up, Methos had acted ... what? Scared? Was it that simple? Joe didn't want to believe that the man he had known as a dear friend to Don Salzer, not to mention to Alexa, would just abandon a friend out of fear for his own life. Of course, he was Methos, the ultimate survivor, damn him. And it was the Game - some primordial survival of the fittest dictate which Joe could probably never truly understand. But still ... Joe hadn't hesitated to send Methos after Duncan during the Dark Quickening, even though Joe knew better than anyone except maybe Richie what the risks were. And Methos hadn't hesitated to go, even leaving Alexa. And speaking of Alexa ... Methos had risked his head to try to save her - he had to have known what the likely consequences were of being found out by the Watchers. So why was he so unwilling to risk now? He had ignored Joe's plan to watch Kirin, insisting that Kirin had to be stopped. He seemed to want Connor to stop Kirin. Maybe fight him. But what would that serve? *Nothing's ever certain once the fight begins.* Joe sat up and switched on the light. He fumbled for his laptop, blinking in the sudden glare. Thank goodness he hadn't unplugged anything. With no wheelchair for mobility around the room, Joe was stranded on the bed unless he wanted to strap on the prosthetics. His phone bill was going to be horrendous. A half hour later, Joe had what he'd feared. Kirin's Watcher had reported that the prophet of "Love Now" had been secretly training, brushing up old sword skills. He'd started, Joe noted, right about when Richie had died. And Kirin/Cage's sword skills had always been very impressive. Before his apparent conversion to peace and love - Joe snorted. He'd always distrusted that - John Cage's list of beheadings would have impressed even Kalas. Cage had, in fact, escaped Kalas's leaving-the-monestary trap, unarmed, by disarming the murderous monk and chasing him back to Holy Ground. He just hadn't reported the incident to Brother Paul. So now Kirin, the man of peace, was a wolf in lamb's clothing. Any immortal challenging him would think him rusty and uncommitted to killing. Anger at Methos burned hot in Joe. That sneaky son-of-a-bitch. With no hope of sleep, Joe researched Kirin further, and, after some thought, put in a Request to Meet with Kirin's Watcher. Her name was Maya, and she had joined Kirin's movement as a follower, before it was known as Love Now. Joe didn't know her, but he did note that she was not cleared for a very high level of danger in her fieldwork, which was probably why she was assigned to a "holy man". She must not have graduated from the Academy with a high ranking. His thoughts went to Amy. She was in danger of the same fate, her life spent Watching some accountant or something who never left Smallville. At least Maya got to travel some with Kirin. And Maya's assignment was about to get more interesting, Joe guessed.