"Connor, are you okay?" Duncan's voice was heavy with concern.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Really." Connor gave a half-smile, but it did not reach his eyes.

Duncan smiled sadly, looking Connor straight in the face. "I know you too well, Connor. I've never seen you like this."

"People change, Duncan," Connor replied firmly, his tone bordering on hostile. "You'll learn that." Connor left his gaze firm for another moment, then turned away from Duncan, putting on his sunglasses and walking through the crowds toward his home on Hudson Street.

Connor hadn't really wanted to leave Duncan like that. They weren't adversaries, they were friends, and as close to brothers as Immortals could be. But Duncan was trying to push Connor to say things he didn't want to say. Connor would rather they parted with a shade of bitterness than have to confess to what he was feeling. Duncan would let it slide, eventually, and in time they'd be back to being the buddies they had been for centuries. It was only because Duncan loved his kinsman that he pushed so hard to get Connor to tell him what was wrong. And Connor could appreciate the effort -- but he was an intensely private man with intensely private emotions, and there were things he wasn't comfortable sharing with anyone, not even his closest friend.

Connor had never told Duncan about the curse that seemed to follow him. He'd never confessed that the redheaded girl they'd competed for a century and a half ago in London had been murdered in her sleep. A similarly brutal death had met that girl in Barcelona that he'd gotten involved with back in 1742, the swordmaker he'd befriended in Milan who had crafted him a nice rapier in 1893, and a dozen other people Connor had cared about through his years -- including Brenda, who had died in a car accident in 1987. It was that event which had driven him back to New York, the antique shop and Rachel. And now, just last week, there'd been a robbery at the shop and a threat against Rachel, who had seen the robber's face. It was all a rather clumsy affair, yes, but that didn't assuage Connor's fears. He worried for her safety now, and only today while he was in Duncan's company had Connor let her out of his sight.

Somehow Duncan himself had managed to hold on to his life through this madness of the years, but Connor didn't want him nearby now, just in case. If Connor truly was the magnet for the trouble, then he wanted Duncan as far away as possible. Connor only wished that he could have convinced Rachel to leave too, at least for a while.

Connor began to cross Hudson Street, looking up at the building that he had owned for generations, and had lived in on and off for decades. Rachel should be there now, he thought. Maybe he could convince her to take a little vacation somewhere...

A blast knocked Connor off his feet as every window in his building blew outward. The building itself rocked with the line of secondary explosions that followed, showering the street with fiery debris. A single horrific heartbeat passed as Connor recovered from the shock and put a shouting voice to his fears: "Rachel!"

three months later

"Connor MacLeod?"

Connor looked up from his umpteenth glass of Glenmorangie in the neighborhood bar he had taken to frequenting, and he stared right through the blond-haired man who had questioned him. "Who wants to know?"

The stranger jerked back with a start at both the stare and the response. Connor's voice suggested that he was far less drunk than he should have been, considering his level of alcoholic consumption. "I thought you might like to talk," the man said.

With a less-than-friendly gaze Connor's eyes followed the man who was now sitting down in the chair across from him. "About what?"

"About a life full of pain, violence..." The man lowered his voice. "Beheadings." Connor's look grew colder, but the man continued. "Look, I know what you are. There's a whole organization of mortals out there who knows about your kind. We sort of...keep track of your guys' history."

"So?" Connor kept his face calm, but his mind was reeling. Mortals who keep track of Immortals? What the hell?

"So...we also have a place for those who might be...getting a little tired of The Game." The man leaned forward conspiratorially.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because we know the consequences of one of the bad guys winning The Prize." The man shifted under Connor's gaze. "We know what it means for us mortals. We want a good ending to The Game, and if we can just nudge the odds in our favor..." He shrugged. Connor's hard gaze still did not relent, and the man let out a long breath through his nose. "Look, we'll contact you again with more information. But if you change your mind before then, here's my card." The man laid a business card face down on the table, then walked out. Connor's eyes were on the man til he was out of sight. Taking another drink, Connor stared at the card for a long while before turning it over. It read:

Matthew Smith, Director
The Sanctuary
555-SANC

The sun had been playing hide-and-seek all morning, but was now making one of its rare appearances. Methos had found the one perfect sun-beam slanting through the rain-streaked windows of the café and had promptly seated himself at a table there. He tilted his head back to absorb the glow, closing his eyes against the dinginess of the room. The windows, dirty as they were, were plentiful; Methos could lounge in the sun (when it existed) and people-watch to his heart's content. And no one bothered him too much if he just wanted to sit and think. Methos slouched a little further into his chair and took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the pungent taste and smell of the strong Colombian blend.

"Adam!"

Methos turned in surprise toward the sound of his friend's voice. He'd met Matthew in a Classics class (of course the professor had been wrong about a lot of the translations, but undercover as a Watcher at the Watcher Academy, what could Methos do?) a few years back, and had really taken to the young mortal. Of course, for Methos, anyone under a few centuries was a youngster. "Matthew, good to see you. How have you been?"

"Great, just great. What are you doing in the States?" Matthew seated himself across from the man he knew as Adam Pierson.

"A little vacation, a little research," Methos replied with a shrug.

"Ah yes, the Methos project. How goes it? Any hard evidence show up yet, or are you still chasing a legend?"

Methos laughed, more to himself than at Matthew's taunt. "Still chasing a legend, I'm afraid." And ever will be, as long as I can help it.

"Too bad." Matthew ran a hand nervously through his wavy blond locks. "Hmm... since you're around, do you think you might be able to do me a big favor?"

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

Matthew swallowed nervously, lowering his voice. "Have you ever heard of The Sanctuary?"

Methos nodded, but shrugged. "Last time I saw it mentioned in the Chronicles, it was a bunch of cells in the dungeon of a castle, with all the hallucinogens one could consume available to -- or forced upon -- its occupants. Designed by sympathetic Watchers to let Immortals take a break from the Game." And, some say, to keep the Game from ever being won, he remarked to himself.

"Yes," Matthew commented. "Except now it's life support systems and a constant flow of sedating drugs."

Methos' eyes opened wide. "Are you telling me it still exists?"

Matthew nodded. "We mostly cater to the good guys, you know? For their good and ours. But..." Matthew frowned. "We've got a guy right now who could use the option, but he needs more selling. And we're low on Watchers to do it. Would you mind, Adam, if I asked you to make a house call to this guy, play salesman? I can give you all you need to know to be able to do it. I just need someone I can trust. This is my project now, my baby. I can't afford to fail."

Methos' frown was deep. How could he make a house call to an Immortal? They'd freak out knowing he was one of them. And yet something kept Methos from outrightly saying no. "What's his name?"

"Connor MacLeod."

Methos knew the name. The guy was practically a legend among Watchers and Immortals alike. He had a reputation, anyway. Savvy, smart, not necessarily a Boy Scout but most definitely on the "right" side of the line. Student of the infamous Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez (though Methos had always considered Ramirez a little full of himself). Defeater of the Kurgan -- one of the strongest Immortals at the time. And MacLeod had managed to evade the police then, too, in spite of a load of circumstantial evidence piled up against him. So what could have brought Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to the point of possibly needing something so drastic as Sanctuary? Methos decided he really wanted to know. "I'll do it."

Connor felt the sensation before he heard the knock on the door. Warily he picked up his katana. "Yes?" he called through the door.

"Avon calling."

Connor furrowed his brow at the jaunty, English-accented voice. It wasn't someone he knew.

"We have this wonderful new scent called Sanctuary...I'd love to tell you more about it," the voice continued.

Connor opened the door a crack, leaving the chain in place. "I thought your organization was all mortals," he hissed.

"They are. Except for me, but they don't know that. No better place to hide than among them." The dark-haired man gestured toward the door. "May I come in?"

Connor looked at him for a long moment, then unhooked the chain, but kept the katana in hand.

The man entered, and Connor closed the door without taking his eyes off the stranger. Extending his hand, the man introduced himself. "Adam Pierson."

Connor did not accept the handshake. "Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," he said with a slight nod. "But I think you already know that." He gestured into the room. "Be my guest."

"Thanks." Adam sat down in a low chair, propping his feet up on one of the small tables.

"So why am I being pursued for this Sanctuary?" Connor asked bluntly, leaning against the wall. "What's in it for them? And for me?"

"For them...a chance to give the good guys a break. A chance to tilt the odds in a positive fashion." Adam folded his hands in his lap. "For you...a chance to escape The Game."

"For how long?"

Adam shrugged. "As long as you want." He paused, his direct gaze from large, knowing eyes sending a tremor down Connor's spine. "Perhaps forever."

Connor gave a brief laugh. "Forever, hmm? Not possible. The Game would drive us to complete it."

"Maybe." Adam looked down at his hands. "The Sanctuary is secure. Guarded full-time. Built on Holy Ground."

"What keeps the inmates from going after each other?" Connor asked. "Or just going mad?"

"Drugs," Adam answered flatly. "A constant stream of drugs into your body, enough to keep even an Immortal sedated. And locked restraints." Adam gave a long sigh. "It's an incredibly high price to pay, I know. But it's better than losing your head just because you don't have the mental strength to keep yourself going. And the likes of you..." Adam shrugged. "You're too important to lose, MacLeod."

Connor snorted. "Me? Too important? Now that's funny." He finally seated himself across from Methos. Connor seemed more relaxed now, but kept his katana across his lap.

"You're one of the good guys, MacLeod. Anyone who knows your reputation knows that. You've been trained by some of the best, and you have trained some of the best."

"And they can carry on in my place," Connor said solemnly.

Adam shook his head. "And have your power go to one of the bad guys, hmm?" Connor shrugged. "If you give up your head, you can't change your mind."

"If I'm doped up on drugs I can't either." Connor's gaze was steady.

"You'll have an option to be woken up at a certain interval, to decide what you want to do then."

"And how do I know I can trust any of you to wake me up, ever?"

Adam sighed in frustration. "Come inspect the facilities. See what it's about."

Connor shook his head, his gaze turned downward. "I just don't know about all this."

Adam looked at Connor with scrutinizing eyes. "I've read your file, MacLeod. I know probably as much about you as anyone outside you could know." He paused. "And the only thing that could have made you come to the point you've come to is the death of Rachel."

Connor bowed his head. "Yes." He paused. "She meant a great deal to me. Knew me better than anyone." Connor looked up to meet Adam's gaze. "And she met the same fate as everyone else who has been touched by my life -- violent death."

Adam shrugged. "Your wife Heather died naturally, did she not? And that student of yours, Duncan MacLeod, is still alive. There were others..."

"The few lucky ones." Connor stood up and began pacing. "I can't live with the curse anymore."

"Oh come on, how can you possibly think those deaths were connected? There's no evidence..."

"Because they were," Connor shot back. "I know it." Giving a barely audible sigh, Connor turned to the window. "Having been with Rachel for so many years...raising her, having her as a companion over the years...I thought maybe the curse had faded." He gave a mirthless laugh. "More fool me."

Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again at the look on Connor's face as the Highlander stared out the window. It was obvious that there was no arguing with this man. "If life is truly that bad, MacLeod, then consider The Sanctuary. There were days long ago when I wish I had known it existed."

Connor continued to silently stare out the window as minutes ticked by. Finally he spoke. "I want to see The Sanctuary."

Adam nodded as he stood. "I'll stop by tomorrow, take you there myself." He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "It's a much wiser choice than giving up your head. And less painful," he added with a smirk.

Connor MacLeod paced his hotel room. He'd spent the past three months staring out its window, just as he'd spent much time over the years looking out the windows of his loft apartment -- before the explosion. But as he waited for Adam Pierson to show up and escort him on a tour of The Sanctuary, Connor needed to pace. It helped him think.

Not that Connor hadn't already been thinking since Adam's visit the day before. Connor had scrutinized every crack and bump in the ceiling, hardly sleeping a wink while going over his options -- which weren't so much a variety of choices, but rather a decision on just how badly Connor wanted the new option he'd been offered. If, as had been cited to him by some long-forgotten acquaintance, life brought hope and pain, these days Connor was feeling far more of the latter than the former. Rachel's brutal death had eradicated his hope of leaving his personal curse in the past, as well as his desire to even attempt to begin again and create new relationships with anyone. Now there was only one person he cared about in the world -- Duncan MacLeod, kinsman and fellow Immortal. But Duncan would never truly understand this decision Connor wanted to make.

"You can't quit." Connor's own words to Duncan a hundred years earlier came back to haunt him. What Duncan had done then was no different than what Connor was contemplating now. Leaving The Game not necessarily forever, but just for a little while. And just as Connor had tried to argue against Duncan's sabbatical from The Game, he knew Duncan would tell him not to walk away from his life. For Connor, however, grief was a deeper and darker thing than it was for Duncan. Duncan jumped into life with both feet -- he reveled in every bit of the joy and pain that relating to others brought. Connor himself was far more hesitant. He loved the joy and loathed the pain, and in his mind, the latter always outweighed the former. He remembered the good times with Heather, yes, but the bad times -- her illnesses, their fights, her death -- were much more engrained in his memory, burned into his mind by the pain. Just as now his good memories of life with Rachel were obliterated by the too-fresh memory of her horrific, tragic death. Duncan embraced life for the wealth of emotions it brought on; Connor avoided it for the same reason. With the death of each loved one, a little piece of Connor died too. After nearly five centuries, Connor wasn't sure how much of him was alive and how much was dead.

Duncan had been raised a chieftain's son; his first thought was always on the people, on their protection. Connor had been raised with a warrior's mindset. While that involved protection of the people too, it centered on a cause. Connor's cause had gone from defending his clan to defending The Prize. And the latter kept him from simply giving up and handing over his head to someone else, especially the type he'd dedicated his life to keeping The Prize away from. If Sanctuary could give him a respite from life, from death, while letting him pick up defending The Prize sometime down the line, it was worth considering.

Connor's head shot up as the Immortal buzz came over him. Adam was here to take him on the tour of Sanctuary. Connor grabbed his coat and opened the door, and was almost smacked in the nose by Adam's knuckles. "Let's go," Connor growled, pushing past Adam into the hallway.

Adam shrugged as he followed. "Whatever you say."

They moved down the hallway, both remaining silent. Connor caught Adam's thoughtful sideways glances at him. "Am I doing the right thing?" Connor finally asked.

"You sound like you've already made your decision," Adam replied.

Connor shrugged. "Pretty much."

"I won't tell you you're wrong," Adam said evenly.

Connor nodded. He wasn't sure what it was about this other Immortal that he trusted; he just knew that he did. "Adam..." He hesitated, his stare focused straight ahead as they approached the elevator. "If I do go...would you do me a favor?"

"And what would that be?" Adam turned to face Connor, but Connor didn't meet his gaze.

"Keep an eye on Duncan MacLeod for me."

Adam smiled. "No problem."