The New World
July 22nd, 2010 AD

There wasn't much left to do, Methos thought as he looked around his sterile hotel room. With a silent sigh he shut down the computer and stretched his shoulders, working out the tension in his muscles. He rose tiredly and walked to the window, looking out on the quiet night. He could feel them -- the last few Immortals left alive. Their Quickenings sang in his veins like an ever-present static discharge. By morning, he sensed, it would all be over.

With a wry smile Methos gave a last glance at the computer as he headed for the shower. No matter what the final outcome, he mused sardonically, he'd be damned if the Watchers profited from his demise. If he didn't make it back his assets weren't going to be lining anyone's pockets, he thought smugly. At least a dozen different charities, universities, hospitals, small churches and temples where he'd found refuge over the years were going to be in the black for decades to come. Besides, with their job done what would the Watchers do with all that money? Hand out post-Gathering bonuses to the rank and file? He doubted it. And he'd noticed quite a few of the Watcher top brass living far too well for mere historians during his most recent tenure with the organization. Only Joe Dawson, his friend, confidant and loyal bartender would be double checking his bank account when all was said and the battle finally done.

His journals... Well, that was another matter entirely. He'd seriously considered sending them to the Smithsonian, or perhaps the British Museum. They were not so much a personal account of his thoughts and feelings, but an historical record of all he'd seen and done. And he feared, having seen too many changes and internal struggles within the Watchers' secret society over the years that if he left it to them his journals, like the chronicles they kept so well, would never see the light of day.

And he wanted to be remembered if nothing else. So his journals, carefully left with his lawyers, would be parceled out among a dozen different scholars, experts in their fields. The list of recipients would be published, the truth would be known and in death as he'd never been in life, Methos would be a lasting memory among mortals.

***

The number of Quickenings in the area had dwindled to just two during the long hot night. At dawn, they met on a hilltop above the city just as the sun was rising. Methos acknowledged his opponent with a respectful nod.

"You knew it would be this way," Duncan MacLeod accused softly.

"No," Methos told him honestly. "I suspected it might, but hoped it wouldn't."

"I don't want to do this," the other man admitted. "You're my friend."

Methos nodded in understanding. "As you are mine, Highlander."

MacLeod and his morals again. He'd counted on them for years and was no less pained by the thought of killing a friend than MacLeod was. Still...

"We are lemmings, MacLeod, swimming upstream. There is no right or wrong in that. It is merely survival instinct."

The Scot frowned at the idea, but he could feel it too. The need to engage. The need to win. To end the constant burning in his mind and body that had been his only companion for weeks. To be The One.

He drew his sword purposefully. "I don't want to kill you," he apologized, beginning to circle his opponent.

"I know," Methos said, offering forgiveness as he drew his own weapon, smiling gently. "And I still want to live."

The two men focused on each other ignoring the discordant sounds of the waking city below. Their swords caught the first ray of sunlight flashing as they met. Neither man spared a thought for anything more than the battle at hand. And neither man paid the slightest bit of attention to the approaching whir of the helicopters. If they had, they might have thought it was merely the Watchers. Ever present, ever following, no doubt hoping for a better view of the proceedings video cameras in hand.

Had they wavered -- paused by mutual consent to examine their surroundings more closely -- they might have seen the earth moving. Small nubs across the landscape to which Methos hadn't bothered to pay attention when he'd originally scouted the area and chosen this small flat hilltop for his final fight. It was only in that last instant when the first of the choppers cast a shadow over the ground that they glanced up. And only an instant later when something small was tossed out of the cockpit that they noticed the movement all around them.

They stared at each other then in horror and fascination at the ground as the object landed a few feet away. And together they shouted--

"Grenade!"

***

Methos woke to what felt like a hangover, his head throbbing in time with his heart. That rhythm became distinctly erratic as he remembered what had happened and he nervously opened his eyes. Not just any grenade, he thought absently as he glanced around the room, but a concussion grenade so loud his ears still rang. He'd been unconscious before he'd hit the ground.

He was alone in the room he realized as he sat up, though he could sense MacLeod nearby. Had to be the Highlander, there wasn't anyone else left, he thought wryly as he stood on shaky feet to survey his surroundings.

He'd been lying on a comfortable divan; the kind of leather covered lounge one might find in a psychiatrist's office. There was a desk, a few chairs and another smaller couch against the far wall. Not an uncomfortable room, he decided, but not a place in which one could get too comfortable either. A waiting room then. And given the soothing nature of the art prints scattered along the walls and neutral wall to wall carpet it probably was a psychiatrist's office.

Methos headed for the door, guessing it would be locked, but knowing it would be expected that he try. It was indeed locked and he turned to the windows suddenly realizing there were none.

"Perfect," he muttered, circling the room once before sitting down at the desk. He checked the drawers, assuming they'd be empty, but still, it was something to do so he did it.

He finally settled in a chair facing the door, quieting his thoughts. The temerity of the Watchers astounded him. And yet, in recent years as the belief in the coming of Gathering had increased among Immortals, so too had the anxiety of the Watchers. He didn't doubt that standing on the sidelines viewing the Game unfold was difficult, even painful for them. He also knew that he couldn't have sat idly by while his own life hung in the balance, but they had sworn an oath, damn it!

The sound of footsteps in the hall outside alerted him and Methos raised his chin determined not to let them see how nervous all this was making him. A moment later his jaw dropped as his captors entered and the image they presented utterly shocked him.

"Marines?!" Methos blurted without thinking. What the hell were the Americans doing involved in--?

Oh, he realized silently. Of course. They had a vested interest in this. Then again, everyone did. Still, he thought, rising calmly as he was politely requested to accompany them, this wasn't at all how he'd imagined the Game would be finished.

There were four of them. Big men, one to each side, the others in front and behind, dressed formally as if for a state occasion. Blinding white gloves, crisply starched uniforms, shoes so brightly polished when they paused at the elevator he could see his image reflected in them.

All this? he wondered, slightly bemused as they exited the elevator and he was led down a darkly paneled hallway to an unremarkable door. For him and MacLeod? Were they joking?!

No, he realized swallowing his shock as he entered the room beyond and his eyes widened in astonishment. Apparently, they were very serious.

His guards took up positions near the exits and Methos stood awkwardly in the center of the room above the giant seal, which identified the owner of this particular office. Feeling a little bit more than lost, he briefly wondered where MacLeod was then felt his question answered as he sensed the other Immortal's presence grow stronger. Another door opened and the Highlander entered, tearing his rounded eyes from the room's sedate, but powerful ornamentation to stare questioningly at Methos.

The ancient Immortal shook his head, indicating he had no explanation either and MacLeod spread his arms to show he was also unarmed.

Methos almost laughed. "Well, they're not going to let us fight in here!" he exclaimed just as the door behind them opened.

"We're not going to let you fight anywhere," a voice announced as several men, some in suits a few in uniform suddenly entered the room.

"And who are you to decide..."

MacLeod's voice trailed off as he quickly recognized the speaker.

"I'm the man," the President told him quietly moving easily to his desk, "who gets to choose who lives or dies."

"You cannot interfere!" MacLeod protested angrily, though Methos suspected it was useless.

The President ignored him, sitting calmly behind his desk while the two Immortals stood before it like errant schoolboys called before the Headmaster. And wasn't that the truth, Methos thought with a hint of chagrin. They were deciding the fate of the world here. Who better to control the final outcome than the one man who held the power to destroy it? And what better time to do it, he acknowledged silently as the President quietly assessed them. With only two of their kind left in the world how easy it would be. Had been, he admitted ruefully.

"Immortals," the President began abruptly. "First came to our attention during the Lincoln administration. Reports of men who died in battle and came back to life, or were shot and left the battlefield uninjured. War seems to draw your species, like a magnet, to a fight."

"Don't look at me," Methos murmured at the President's glance. "I was in Spain at the time."

He too was soundly ignored.

"Little was done with the information," the President continued neutrally. "Except to eventually determine that your kind posed no immediate threat to us. You won't congregate in groups of more than five or six and you never stay in one place for a great deal of time. Later research determined that while you appear human and live typically as-- What do you call us? Mortals?"

Methos gave a slight nod though the term 'research' had made him feel a bit queasy. He glanced at MacLeod, who looked more furious than nervous, turning his attention back to the President as he went on.

"Yes. Mortals," he nodded briefly. "You typically live as we do, though in the strictest sense you are not human. Still," the President allowed. "We share a cultural heritage which makes you part of our society whether you wish to acknowledge that shared history or not. Which is why, gentlemen, you are both here today. To state your case -- or to be given a choice."

"You've found a way to circumvent the Game," Methos whispered softly, not daring to hope as he shared a look with MacLeod.

"I'm afraid not," the President shook his head. "Merely a way to prolong it indefinitely."

"Not Sanctuary," MacLeod stated emphatically.

The President raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I've read about that through our operatives in the Watchers. I can't imagine offering that choice to either of you. It's little better than a death sentence and the chance that it could be maintained indefinitely for millennia to come is highly doubtful. No," he added, sighing heavily. "What our experts had in mind was something more permanent. Far less dramatic but considerably more drastic. We amputate your hands at the wrist and neither of you ever fights again."

The words hit Methos like a sucker punch. He paled, clenching his fists and turned to MacLeod who seemed no less affected.

"We would, of course, offer you state of the art prosthetic devices." Methos heard the words as if from a great distance. "Though nothing that would ever allow either of you to pick up a sword again. And you'd be required to live in separate areas of the world, closely monitored. It's not much of a choice," the President admitted. "But you'd both be alive."

"We'd be allowed to live?" Methos asked hopefully, rubbing his fingers together as the words sank in.

"I won't do it!" MacLeod insisted when the President nodded. "I can't live like that!"

"But we'd be alive!" Methos pleaded. "Both of us!"

MacLeod frowned mightily. "Survival. That's all life is to you, isn't it?"

"What more is there?" Methos asked. "To read a book. To watch a sunset--"

"To never touch the one you love again!" MacLeod spat angrily. "I cannot live like that, Methos!"

The ancient Immortal closed his eyes in despair. He didn't think he could either, but if MacLeod had been willing...

"It's both or neither," the President said quietly.

Slowly, Methos shook his head, opening his eyes to see the President nodding sadly.

"I didn't think you'd be thrilled with that option," he said. "But I had to offer." The Immortals said nothing and he nodded. "And now I'm afraid, you leave me no choice but to decide for you."

"I ask again, by what right," the Highlander repeated, "do you presume to interfere?"

"Duncan," Methos began gently even as the President raised a hand to silence him.

"There are close to five billion mortals living on this planet," he explained quietly. "Neither I, nor the men in this room will allow their safety to be decided by a game of chance."

MacLeod looked ready to argue the point, but wisely held his tongue. What could he say, after all? Methos wondered. That mortals should have no say in their own future?

"So what happens next?" Methos asked softly. "You choose between us?"

"Well... Now that's not entirely decided yet," the President explained. "Those gentleman back there, the Joint Chiefs," he nodded to the men arrayed behind them. "They'd like to see a simultaneous execution take place. No Quickening, no element of chance."

Methos blinked and swallowed hard, but refused to look back.

"On the other hand," the President continued. "I'm not quite so willing to commit to that. There's always the chance that our fates are intertwined. Perhaps the reason for your species entire existence on this planet is to do it the most good in its hour of most need. Then there's the knowledge that the winner will possess. A history of life if you will -- a storehouse of wisdom like no other. It begs the question, doesn't it?"

"And by what standard of morality would you choose?" MacLeod asked curiously.

The President merely stared at him for a moment. "Do you like mortals, Mr. MacLeod?"

"I love mortals," he responded sounding slightly offended by the question.

"But do you trust us?"

"With my life, apparently."

The President nodded slowly. "Then trust us to make the right decision for our future."

"The life of the one for the lives of the many?" MacLeod asked sarcastically.

"Or the few," the President agreed.

"Enough, MacLeod!" Methos interrupted before they began a long and tedious philosophical discussion on the nature of Morality. "We would do the same were the positions reversed!"

The Highlander stared at him and slowly nodded. "Aye," he finally murmured. "We have done."

"So how do you want to proceed?" Methos asked the man so obviously in charge.

"A brief interview where you may each state your case, then I'll meet with my staff. Unless you'd care to choose between you? We might not accept your choice, but your input is always welcome."

"Always in this room looks to be a very short time," Methos muttered petulantly, but he wasn't about to give over the playing field to MacLeod just yet -- no matter how bleak his prospects suddenly looked.

And how could they not choose the Highlander? he thought with a sense of foreboding as he was led through another door into a small waiting room. They were mortals, steeped in a tradition of morality and honor. Just like MacLeod.

He slumped in a chair, looking up a moment later as he heard the door open only to see Amy Zoll, just entering his little holding area. "What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"I'm your Senior Watcher," she said simply, reminding him unnecessarily that she'd been handed the Methos Project after his alter ego's abrupt disappearance.

He frowned disgustedly. "Well if you've come to complain," he sneered. "Take it up with the management. Sorry, no swords at dawn here."

"Joe and I," she explained quietly, "were requested to be here. To observe and record only. I'm sorry, Adam. We... The Watchers... We never foresaw this eventuality."

"Who bloody well would?!" he breathed despairingly, turning in his chair so he couldn't see her.

Long minutes passed as Methos sat quietly with his arms wrapped around his middle, gnawing a knuckle as he tried to figure out how best to state his case. What case? he mused cynically. You haven't got a case. Certainly not after MacLeod gets done articulating how he plans to end world hunger and have "peace in our time." And if there's any question about the Moral One's motives all the Highlander has to do is read them my resume. Death On A Horse wins the Prize? Not bloody likely.

Methos bowed his head, covering his face with his hands. It was hopeless, he realized. No matter how much he'd changed his record was so spotted and his utter lack of concern for the lives of most mortals so apparent that he couldn't possibly compete with MacLeod.

And still he wanted to live.

But did that also mean he wanted the Highlander to die?

The door behind him opened quietly and he turned to see the guard.

"Mr. Methos?"

"Just Methos," he sighed, rising reluctantly to follow.

He caught sight of Joe leaving through another door as he reentered the Oval Office. The man spared him a painful glance and Methos finally knew what had to be done.

"It's no good," he said hurriedly as he approached the President's desk. "I've known MacLeod for some time now and he truly is the best of us. I've been around awhile, so I should know, shouldn't I?"

The President nodded. "MacLeod is a good man," he agreed. "And he wants to do good things with the Prize. But why don't you tell me what you want, Methos?"

"It's not the damn Prize that's for sure," Methos snorted. "Maybe when I was young I wanted it, but never for the reasons MacLeod does."

"Then for what?"

"To survive!" was his passionate response. "I don't want to help anybody. I never have. My desire for the Prize has always been purely selfish. I just want to live," he added softly.

"Not an admirable goal," the President commented. "But understandable."

"So you see now, don't you? MacLeod should be the one to survive."

"That's yet to be decided."

"Kill the both of us and we all lose," Methos insisted. "All that we have learned, everything we have fought for will be gone. Not just all that I am or MacLeod's Quickening, but the thousands of others who struggled to survive and lost. You said it yourself. Our history is the history of the world. That will die with us if you choose to end it all."

"You make an excellent point," the President agreed. "One which I and my advisors will take into serious consideration as we make our decision. Is there anything else you feel we should know?"

"I'm sure MacLeod said enough for both of us," he grimaced.

"I wouldn't say that," the President disagreed. "He did say you had a rather...colorful past."

Methos snorted derisively. "Did he happen to mention what shade it was in?"

"Crimson," came the cool retort.

Methos nodded slowly. "I won't bore you with the particulars. Simply put, I was not a nice man. Not a good man. And certainly not a decent man."

"And now?"

Methos shrugged. "I'm still not any of those things, but I'm not a bad man either. I'm just a man. No better or worse than any other."

"Thank you, Methos," the President said quietly. "I appreciate your honesty."

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one Methos turned to leave seeing Amy surreptitiously wiping her eyes. He gave her a brief, sad smile. At least someone other than he had been in his corner.

***

"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!"