Dream As If You'll Live Forever 2/3
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Sun, 19 Aug 2001 04:07:21 GMT
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 eight 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.
***