Disclaimers in Part 1 Joe's heart thudded in his chest. He swiveled the bar stool and scanned the casino. Methos hunched over his drink. "See anyone?" Methos murmured. "No one I know. Not yet," Joe replied. "Can you guys identify each other in a crowd?" Now Joe's heart thudded for a different reason. Would Methos answer? It was one of many questions which Watchers had debated for centuries. Sometimes it appeared that immortals could, sometimes it seemed that they couldn't. "Adam" must have found it endlessly funny to watch researchers combing the Chronicles for evidence one way or the other. Joe had learned better than to just ask Methos things like that over drinks. A mellow Duncan was a better mark. But this was different. Lying to Joe just to mess with the Watchers wouldn't be a good idea. Not when they both had the same goal - keeping Methos alive. All this was reflected in the irritated look Methos shot him. "No," he admitted, however. "If I just sit here, looking oblivious, he shouldn't find me." "But, sometimes ..." Joe knew he didn't have to list the examples where two strangers had sought each other out in a crowd. Methos shrugged, but kept his shoulders hunched and his gaze on the video screen bar. "Bravado. Territorialism. Fact finding. We're made for fighting, Joe. Lots of people like it." Joe continued scanning the casino floor, being Methos's eyes, but inside, he felt triumphant. Another mystery answered. It also answered the question of whether the immortals' sense grew stronger with proximity. Apparently not, or else Methos would be concerned that this new immortal could "home in" on him by playing "hotter/colder" with his senses. Now how could Joe work this into the Watchers' knowledge base without giving away where he had learned it? Joe was startled out of his thoughts by the sight of ... his thudding heart sank ... Connor MacLeod. And contrary to all Methos had just said and implied, Connor was heading straight for them, weaving purposefully around the tourists, his malevolent gaze on Joe. "It's MacLeod," Joe reported. God, if these two fought ... Methos would lose his head, and the dread that thought evoked in Joe almost made him sick. "Can you still get away?" Methos sat straight up, jolted, looking truly alarmed. "Duncan?" he gasped. "What? No!" Joe was exasperated with Methos's thickness. "Connor. Nash, I mean." "Oh." Methos slumped and turned his own barstool toward the tide of people which flowed around the edge of the casino tables, beside the dais of the bar. "No, I'd better not." Joe's dread gave way to a growing excitement. He couldn't help it. He was going to witness the meeting of the mythical oldest immortal and the legendary star who had defeated the Kurgan. Joe hadn't wanted it. He had some guilt over his own role in it, but it was going to happen anyway. And right in front of him. The bar area was slightly raised. Not bothering to circle to the two-stair entrance, Connor mounted the dais with a bound. He wore a light jacket, in place of the more customary, for immortals, long coat, and his signature jeans and tennis shoes. His gaze took in Methos, swept the bar, and landed on Joe. Connor took the seat next to Joe and leaned forward onto his forearms. "I enjoy traveling," he commented, with no other greeting, "and it's a good thing I do. Good thing for you." Joe's response was interrupted by the bartender. "Water," ordered the Highlander. Geez, Joe thought, he wants to stay sober. "Would it have made a difference?" Joe asked. "If I had said I didn't mean anything by that?" If Connor recognized any justice in that, he gave no sign; unless changing the subject was a sign. "Who's he?" "Uh ..." Omigod, thought Joe, *I'm* going to *introduce* them! "Russell Nash, meet Adam Pierson." Methos leaned forward on the bar looking past Joe to meet the Highlander's eyes, a guarded expression on his face. Methos inhaled to speak, but ... "I asked who he is, not what his name is." Joe glanced at Methos, startled, and replied, "Him? He's nobody." *Please believe me*, Joe prayed. "Joe ..." Methos began, quietly, but Connor produced from a jacket pocket one of Joe's album photographs, showing Duncan proudly displaying a large trout, and Methos making a rude face. "Wrong," the Highlander accused, slapping the picture on the bar. "I'm tired of games." *Aren't we all?* thought Joe. *Too bad.* "Look, Nash," ventured Methos, "let me buy you a drink ..." "I only drink with friends." "He is a friend!" protested Joe. "You can see that from the picture. Which I'll take back, by the way." He suited his action to his words, pocketing the photo. "In fact," *take a deep breath,* "he's Duncan's student." "Joe!" exclaimed Methos, with just the right amount of aggravated surprise. "I am *not*!" Perfect, Joe thought. Methos couldn't have done better if they'd planned this. Ignoring Methos, Connor accused "I thought he was nobody." "I meant nobody you have to worry about." "I am not his student!" Methos complained. "I am NOT WORRIED ABOUT HIM!" Connor nearly roared. Joe and Methos fell silent. Around them, the casino dinged and burbled, though the bar remained an island of calm. Joe noticed for the first time the shadows around the Highlander's eyes, and the stubble on his jaw. Of course, he thought, maybe he usually looks like this. But Joe didn't think so. During the pause, Connor's angry look faded. "Heh," he said, and took a long swallow of water. "Well," Methos ventured, with mock aggravation, "that's a fine thing." Connor sighed and leaned on the bar. He fixed those shadowed, glittering eyes on Methos. "If you're not a student, what are you?" "I'm his friend, not his student." Joe grinned inwardly. Try as Methos might, now he couldn't sound like anything but a petulant adolescent wanting acceptance in the adult world. "Oh yeah," Joe mocked, determined to give him the protection from Challenge which student status could afford, "you're Methos the great and terrible. So, when did you graduate?" Methos glanced once at Joe, very briefly. Buried in that look was deep danger for meddling Watchers. Joe tried to think of how to change the subject. Connor watched them both, closely. "If you're his friends," Connor said, very deliberately, "help me find him. I know he's in trouble." "Well," Joe exclaimed, "I have an idea about that." He brought out the newspaper, and handed it to Connor. "I think," he began, "that we should stay close to Kirin after this stunt. It should become an international story - a sensation, I'd say - and wherever he is, Duncan might hear of it and come find Kirin." Connor read, and Methos said nothing. Joe glanced at Methos, but saw no curiosity - nothing. Perhaps the oldest immortal was calculating the quickest safe exit from Connor's vicinity. But, when Connor put the paper down, Methos reached for it and Connor allowed him to take it. "So?" Connor queried. "Some immortal wants to make hay from his immortality. Why would Duncan care? *I* don't care." "Not that part," Joe corrected. "The 'Chosen Champion of Mankind' part." Methos looked up from the paper. "He has to be stopped," he announced. "Why?" Joe exclaimed. "It might smoke Duncan out." "We should leave Duncan alone. Someone has to fight Kirin. It's the only sure way to stop an immortal from doing something you don't want him to. Kirin probably *means* to smoke Duncan out." said Methos. "But then he'd have to know about ..." Joe stopped. "Know about what?" queried Connor, menace in his tone. "Why would the Champion business interest Duncan?" Joe looked at Methos, who slumped back, shook his head, and sighed. "Looks like this is your show, Joe." Fine. Then Joe looked back at the Highlander, and his couraged wavered. Just how do you tell someone their son or brother or whatever has apparently gone mad and committed murder? Especially someone as unpredictable as Connor? At least they were in public and he had "Adam" to back him up. The pause lengthened, and Joe realized the Highlander could probably read his trepidation with ease. With what looked like deliberate effort, Connor removed his diamond-hard gaze from Joe and signalled the bartender. Without much movement, he had somehow removed the aura of threat from the bar. Or, at least, it became more subdued. "Scotch. Glenmorangie, if you have it." They all waited in silence while Todd brought the scotch. Connor tilted his head. "He's buying," he said. Methos's eyes widened and he sat up, fishing for his wallet, and paid, all with an over-eager-to-please attitude. Then Connor lifted his glass toward them. "To friends?" Joe snorted. Subtle, this was not. Back to good cop. "Yeah, yeah," he agreed, lifting his own glass. "Just don't threaten me with a sword again." Connor regarded him seriously. "All right," he finally responded, and Joe had the odd feeling it was a promise. An apology would probably have been too much to hope for. "Well?" Connor prompted. Oh, yeah. "Duncan, before he left ... he thought it was possible ... that he was a ... champion, of some kind, supposed to fight some millennial evil." Connor appeared nonplussed. "What kind of evil?" "A ... demon." God, it sounded so crazy to say it out loud. "A demon," Connor repeated in a neutral tone. At Joe's nod, Connor frowned and took a drink. His gaze flicked to Methos, looking, Joe assumed, for contradiction. Methos said nothing. He held his glass with both hands. "Did he say why he thought that?" "There was a prophecy." Joe found himself wondering if Connor knew Cassandra, and, if he did, what he thought of prophecies. "What did it say?" "Nothing very clear. It was all metaphor and poetry; you'd think they could just say what they meant. But it seemed to be about an evil which threatened the world every thousand years. The next champion was supposed to be named MacLeod." "There are a lot of MacLeods," Connor supplied, with a quirked eyebrow. "Yeah, well, I guess maybe you hadda be there." Connor fell silent, his expression thoughtful. He lifted his glass to signal the bartender for another. Methos paid, also in silence, as Todd gave the Highlander a refill. The oldest immortal's eyes were dark with interest as he studied "Nash". "Did anyone else see this demon?" Connor finally asked, a note of caution in his tone. Joe sighed. "No, and it wasn't just a demon. He was seeing people ... um, dead people." Connor blinked, absorbing that. "The work of the demon," he deadpanned. "Well, sure," agreed Joe. Sure. Or the delusions of a psychotic killer. One or the other. Connor scowled. "And you didn't think this was worth mentioning to me?" he growled. "Hey, you didn't exactly ask nice!" Joe protested, rubbing his throat. Ignoring that, Connor turned his scowl on Methos. "What do you think, *friend*?" he demanded. "Me?" Methos fairly squeaked. "I don't know what to think!" Connor pounded his fist on the bar. "You must have thought about it! Or did you just leave your 'friend' to his delusions?" Methos flinched, and Joe thought it was genuine, not part of his 'who me?' act. *Yeah, buddy, that's exactly what you did.* "I didn't know where he went!" Methos protested. "And I think we should leave him alone. He's ... dangerous." Connor snorted. "You don't know him," he declared and knocked back a big swig of scotch. Joe glanced at Methos and met him glancing back. They were both silent. Too silent, apparently. When neither man retorted, Connor put down his glass and peered suspiciously at the poker-faced oldest immortal. Then he turned to Joe, dread understanding in his eyes. "Ryan ...?" he breathed. Joe's mouth went dry. He nodded once. Fury flashed across the Highlander's face. "Say it!" he demanded, and reached for Joe, then stopped himself and whipped his focus to Methos. "What happened!" "Duncan killed Richie," Methos replied, with admirable calm, Joe thought. "No," Connor denied, doubt in his voice, nonetheless. "His student ... he would never ..." "Well, he wasn't technically his student anymore," Methos pointed out. Methos actually looked sympathetic, Joe thought. Go figure. "You're saying it was a Challenge?!" Connor asked, incredulous. Methos bore up well under the gathering storm of the Highlander's ire. "I don't think so." "Then what happened?!" Connor roared. Methos drew back, and Todd, the bartender appeared. "Everything okay here?" he asked the group in general, but particularly, it seemed to Joe, Methos. "Yeah, thanks, Todd," Methos replied, making a 'go away' motion with his head, but never taking his eyes off of Connor. Todd moved away. Joe, too, felt that the heat was on Methos just a little too much, here. "We don't know," he injected firmly. "When we got there, Richie was ..." Joe did a quick check that Todd was out of hearing range. "Already dead, and Duncan ... was distraught." "Then, someone else ..." Connor began. "There was no one else," Methos cut him off. Besides, Joe thought, we saw Duncan receive the quickening. He kept the observation to himself, however, since he was not clear about how immortals felt about discussing quickenings. Mentioning the boy's life essence might be ... indecent, or at best, rude. Connor slumped slightly, apparently accepting their stated and unstated testimony. "What did Duncan say?" "Nothing," Joe answered. *Not in English, anyway* "He left." Joe looked to Methos for help. His own memories of those awful hours were fuzzy with grief. "And you just let him go? Unarmed?" demanded Connor. "He wasn't our first concern," Methos said, surprisingly gently. "We had a brother to bury." Joe winced. Methos's last use of "brother" had not been auspicious. "Son," Joe corrected. "More like a son." Connor could hardly be oblivious to the mourning at the bar. His storm clouds had dissipated, but his expression had hardened. "He *should* have been your first concern. 'Let the dead bury the dead.' Duncan needed strong shield brothers. Grief is a weakness when there's still a battle to be fought. *I* should have been there." Connor stood and tipped back the last of his scotch. "Nash, wait," Methos asked. "What if strength isn't what Duncan needs? Are you sure you have whatever it is?" "He needs kin, not cowards." Connor turned to go. "What about Kirin?" "What about him?" "He's up to something. He knows about the Champion. He has to be stopped." Connor paused, then stepped back to the bar to snatch the newspaper. A distant part of Joe's mind was amused by the thought that Connor MacLeod was leaving with his Watcher's paper. "Thanks for the drink," Connor smirked. Then he left, shouldering through the casino crowd.