"There are no hopeless situations in life...only men who have grown hopeless about them." -- A Barclay Comment

As Duncan MacLeod started his swing, he was -- for the first time ever -- grateful that he'd never quite gotten the hang of "The Move." Properly executed, it was supposedly unstoppable, but even when he was really trying, Duncan had problems with it. And this time, he wasn't really trying. As he brought the katana around, he fought the natural motion of the swing, pushing the dragon head away from him and bringing the butt of the katana handle squarely down on Connor's temple. Bloodied and bruised from the heavy blow, Connor reeled back a handful of steps, then crumpled into an unconscious heap. Duncan finally let out his breath in a noisy stream as he glanced at the glowing lights of the Christmas tree on a nearby rooftop. "That was one hell of a Christmas present you tried to give me, Connor."

Before they had reached the cemetery -- a journey which seemed eons ago now -- Joe had given Duncan the address where he and Methos were staying. Methos had bought the property probably around the time Connor had purchased his -- about 200 years ago. The neighborhoods and the look of the two buildings were similar, except that Methos' neighborhood hadn't declined into a dive with adult shops all around like Connor's neighborhood had in the past ten years. Duncan double-checked the address before knocking.

"Mac?" Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise as he opened the door. "What's up?" He glanced over Duncan's shoulder. "Isn't that Connor's Porsche?" Joe peered closer. "And isn't that Connor in the passenger's seat?"

Duncan nodded, rubbing his jaw nervously. "I've been keeping him unconscious," he said, noting Methos' sudden presence at the door as well. "And it needs to continue that way." Duncan sighed heavily, shifting his stance. "I need your help."

"A constant flow of sedatives can keep even an Immortal from coming to consciousness," Methos said thoughtfully. "You two get him in here, keep him quiet." He grabbed his coat. "I'll be back shortly."

Joe followed Duncan to the car. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, Duncan dragged Connor from the passenger seat and ducked under an arm to support the unconscious man. Joe noted that Connor's hands were tied, but didn't ask as they maneuvered Connor into the house. Joe nodded toward the staircase and Duncan carried Connor upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Connor began to rouse as Duncan laid him in the bed, and Joe finally noticed the dagger plunged handle-deep under Connor's ribs. Duncan pulled it out and shoved it back in. Connor groaned, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.

"Did you know it takes longer for an Immortal to revive if you leave the murder weapon in them?" Duncan asked, his voice simmering with sarcasm. "I'm sure having his heart and lung pierced repeatedly is painful, but it's better than what he wanted."

"What the hell happened, Mac?" Joe asked, his brow furrowed.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Methos' voice called up the stairs. He soon joined them, holding several IV bags full of some clear liquid in his hands.

"I don't wanna know where you get that stuff on short notice without credentials," Joe remarked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Then don't ask." Methos quickly set up the IV, barely giving Connor's tied hands a second glance. "He tried to do it, didn't he?"

"Do what?" Duncan asked defensively.

"Get himself killed."

Duncan swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. At my hands." He stared at Methos. "How did you know?"

"How could I not know, MacLeod? Or have you forgotten that I know Connor as well? Not as well as you do, I suppose, but I know the type of man he is." Methos flashed Duncan a serious look, then returned his attentions to Connor. "Remember when we first met, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? When Kalas wanted my head, and I couldn't defeat him? How did I try to solve that?"

It took Duncan a moment to remember. His expression turned stricken at the memory. "You tried to get me to take your head. To reinforce my power."

"Bright boy." Methos finished adjusting the equipment. "That's what Connor did, didn't he?"

Duncan nodded slowly. "But there had to be another way. His death didn't have to be an option."

"Mmm." Methos beckoned Duncan and Joe to follow him down to the sitting room. As they settled in, Methos said, "I'm beginning to think that boy scout behavior is a definite MacLeod family trait. Connor knew neither one of you has enough power to defeat Kell alone, and he didn't want to see his kinsman die, so his only option -- in his eyes -- was to sacrifice himself to you."

"He could have taken the power himself," Duncan said. "He could have taken my head."

Methos snorted. "Yeah, maybe. After hell freezes over or something. Come on, MacLeod, can't you see what's happened to him? He's let the years get to him. He wants to die. Hell, he wanted to die ten years ago, but he didn't see a way to do it. Sanctuary seemed like the next best thing. But seeing you again kicked that piece of his puzzle into place. He saw a way out."

Duncan closed his eyes as he shook his head. "There has to be another way around this whole Kell thing. Around the power factor."

Joe aimed his serious gaze at Duncan as he spoke up. "There is...but you have to be open to it."

Duncan turned to Joe. "What is it?" Joe shifted uneasily, and Duncan stamped his foot in frustration. "Dammit, Joe, I know there are some things you don't tell me, even when you know I could use the information. Part of keeping your Watcher oath. But you'd better tell me now. We can start with this: how the hell did Kell get away with killing on Holy Ground?"

Joe shrugged. "I guess because it's possible. Maybe you just have to have the right amount of power to override The Rules."

Duncan narrowed his eyes. "But you can't violate The Rules, that's why they're called The Rules..."

"Maybe there are exceptions, MacLeod. Think about it. Do you think any Immortal in his right mind is going to go around telling his students, 'yeah, you can fight on Holy Ground, but you have to get to a certain really high level first'? Too much temptation -- the younger, stupider ones would try it too early and cause all hell to break loose; the ambitious and devious ones would take their teacher's head to further their own way toward that level. No way, Mac. It's much easier just to lay down the whole thing as law and say absolutely no fighting on Holy Ground. At least it gives the illusion that there's a place you can go for safety. And that just carried on through the years, until no one even knew there was an exception. Besides, without knowing just how much power it takes to override the Holy Ground rule, most wouldn't chance it."

"Except Kell."

"Yeah." Joe shrugged. "Maybe he alone knows how much power it takes. Or maybe he just discovered it by accident. But unfortunately, he knows."

"No Immortal really knows how much power he has anyway," Duncan said defiantly as he stood and began to pace. "There's no way to measure it."

"Actually," Joe replied, "there kinda is. In recent years the Watchers have done some tinkering with electrical and meteorological monitoring equipment, and based on those findings and some educated guessing, we've got a system for figuring out an Immortal's power."

Duncan turned to Joe, his face stony. "Starting with those numbers you gave me the other night."

"Yeah, starting with those. But those numbers I gave you are just a base figure," Joe said, the beginning of an idea brewing in his eyes. He pulled out his laptop and tapped into the Watcher database. "Just think about it...you have 174 confirmed Immortal kills, right? And how many heads did each of them take? And for each of those heads there's a history....and a history behind the history, and so on and so forth. Of course those are only confirmed Immortal kills...and there are gaps in histories...so it's still less than perfect. Like I said, it's more like handicapping horses, not an exact science. But close counts here, like horseshoes and hand grenades. Anyway, when you get down to it...the heads are only a part of the system...you might call the whole thing Quickening Quantum Physics." Joe pressed a few more keys.

"So how does it work?" Duncan raised an eyebrow, his disbelief radiating.

"Well...power units are called Q. Inventive, I know." Joe gave a cynical grimace of a smile. "New Immortals start off with 5 Q. That represents the difference between beheading a pre-Immortal and beheading a brand new Immortal -- like the Kurgan tried to do with Connor. Of course, the difference between a Quickening from a newbie and the Quickening from an Immortal with more experience -- and more Q -- is like the difference between a sparkler and a firework."

Joe furrowed his brow, tapped a few keys, then spoke again. "Every ten years of life earns you another Q, just for sheer survival. Ten-to-twenty victorless confrontations -- stuff that challenges your skills but where no one gets beheaded -- earns you a Q. That one depends on the length and intensity of the confrontations, and it's up to your Watcher and a review board to determine that. Anyway...one year of intensive training as a student, or two years as a teacher -- when you're not learning so much, but you're working out -- gets you another Q. Each Immortal kill gets you a Q, I guess from the intensive fighting and all, raising your skill level. Plus you then get all the Q your opponent has racked up. At the end of each year of an Immortal's survival -- or when they die, to be calculated for the winner -- the Watcher has to make adjustments for other physical training and stuff too, adding and subtracting fractions of Q's, trying to ascertain just how much knowledge and power their Immortal has." Joe gave a frustrated sigh. "Some nutcase we picked up who used to play too many role-playing games came up with the system. Damn the people who created Dungeons and Dragons."

"You don't sound too happy about this system, Joe," Duncan taunted, finally managing a smile.

"And why should I be happy about it? Thanks to this guy, I had to go through your entire history and figure out 'fudge factors' -- did your training become more intensive so that it was worth a bit more, did those hundred years out of the game deteriorate your knowledge and power, and so on and so forth. All this bookkeeping -- I didn't become a watcher to be a goddamned accountant!" Joe huffed out a breath.

"Well, I didn't become an Immortal just to become an account," Duncan replied dourly. "So if I don't take Connor's power...how do I beat Kell?"

"By getting more power than Kell has."

Duncan folded his arms over his chest. "And just how do you propose I do that?"

Joe let out a long breath. "We find you the power. In a...donor, of sorts."

Duncan frowned. "A donor," he repeated, not believing his ears.

"Yeah." That was all Joe said, his attention still focused on the laptop.

"So how will you find this...er...donor?" Duncan leaned against the wall, still frowning.

"That's what I'm doing now. Searching for a number that's greater than 'Kell minus Duncan.'" Joe watched as a list began to slowly come up on the screen. He pointed to one entry. "Connor would give it to you -- but not by much." A few more names appeared. "England, Denmark, Japan, Philippines...c'mon, there's got to be a worthy local here."

Duncan shook his head. "I can't do this, Joe."

"Sure you can." Joe's eyes were glued to the screen as more entries came up.

"What if this 'donor' is a good guy? What if he's better than me?" Duncan swallowed hard. "What if I'm the one who's supposed to die now?"

Joe cast a glance at his friend. "And what if Connor's the one who's supposed to die now?"

"I can't let Connor give up his life..."

"Then someone else is going to have to," Joe replied bluntly.

"The power itself won't assure me of a win..."

"But it damned well ain't gonna hurt the odds any." Joe threw Duncan a dark look to silence him. "Let's try this guy..." Joe clicked on a name, and the record opened up. "There ya go. Lives not far from Connor's old place. Rapist, thief and murderer." Joe snickered. "Rumored to be Jack the Ripper in former times."

Duncan shook his head. "I can't do this."

"And why the hell not?" Joe turned to confront his friend.

"Because I have no proof he's done anything wrong."

"We've got Watcher witnesses, MacLeod. The guy's scum. You'd be doing the world a favor."

"Sorry, Joe." Duncan turned his face away.

Joe shook his head. "Look, MacLeod, it seems to me you've got three choices. One, stick with the power you've currently got and get your ass kicked and your head taken by Kell, which will give him more power and one more death to hold over Connor's head. Two, take Connor's head and then go after Kell. Or three, behead some slimeball who deserves it anyway and in the process get the power you need to get Kell."

Duncan shifted, his frown deepening. "Can we at least try to catch this guy doing something bad so I can feel justified?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You want to wait that long?"

"I want to be sure." Duncan glanced up the staircase toward the bedroom where Connor was. "Is he going to be all right?"

"As long as Methos keeps him sedated," Joe replied. "But you know you're going to have hell to pay when this is all over. Connor's not going to be happy about any of this."

Duncan sat in a chair by the bed, watching over Connor. Methos had stopped the sedatives and the elder Highlander should awaken any moment now. Duncan had untied Connor's hands, though he wasn't sure it was such a good idea. Joe was right, there'd be hell to pay when Connor woke up.

With Joe's help, Duncan had staked out the "donor," Tony Jackson, and defeated him -- rescuing a girl from Jackson's clutches in the process. The next day Duncan had responded to Kell's challenge and defeated him. Kell had been under the impression that Duncan had actually taken Connor's head, and Duncan let him believe that -- the more arrogance Kell had, the more apt he was to make a mistake. Although Kell still hadn't made many, and Duncan had had a struggle on his hands for the victory. But it the end, it had been accomplished.

Connor groaned, and his eyelids began to flutter slightly. Duncan kept his gaze trained on his kinsman's face. Perhaps the trauma would make Connor forget some of his past -- like Warren Cochrane had after accidentally killing his student. Duncan wished it could be so -- if only a matter of Connor forgetting the past few days, forgetting his desire to die.

Connor blinked once, twice, his eyes still unfocused, not quite conscious. Duncan knew his kinsman would not forget. Like Duncan after his fateful swing at Richie, Connor would carry the tragedy of this part of his life for a long time, perhaps forever. Duncan could only hope that Connor could recover enough to go on.

Connor's eyes finally focused on Duncan, dark humor dancing in them. "Duncan." With a grim smile, Connor reached up and patronizingly patted Duncan's cheek. "You didn't study your moves well enough." The smile faded. "Now you'll never have the power to defeat Kell."

"I do have the power," Duncan replied, "and I did kill him."

"Did you?" Connor slowly sat up, stretching stiff muscles. "I'm impressed by your resourcefulness, kinsman. What, did you take Pierson's head for the power?" Duncan opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Connor waved his hand blithely at his kinsman. "I'm not stupid, Duncan. You could never do that to a friend unless you absolutely had to." Connor's wry grin returned. "And even then sometimes you can't."

"I had my reasons."

"I'm sure you did." Connor stood up, stretched again, and began to pace. "You were a fool, Duncan, to disrupt the plan I'd laid out."

"How can you say that?" Grief was heavy in Duncan's drawn face. "You were using me in order to die, Connor. I had no other choice but to do what I did...I wanted you to live."

Connor frowned, his eyes blazing. "But I didn't want to live, Duncan. No one gave you the authority to make that choice for me."

"And no one gave you the right to use me in your little plan," Duncan shot back, standing to confront his friend and mentor.

Connor shook his head. "You're still too blind to see it, aren't you?" he said, his hostility rising. "I was giving you a gift, Duncan. I was trusting you with everything good I have in me, all my power, my strength, my legacy of defending The Prize."

"Burdening me with your legacy," Duncan growled, "burdening me with the guilt of your death."

"I was trying to keep The Prize out of the hands of the likes of Kell!"

Duncan took a deep breath. "I know that, Connor. And how you chose to do that shouldn't surprise me. I know you too well." Duncan shook his head. "I never should have let you go off alone after we met in the cemetery. I should have been there to talk you out of it..."

"You should have taken my head and gotten it over with," Connor hissed. "You never could accept The Game, never accepted that There Can Be Only One."

"No, I couldn't," Duncan countered, "because there's more to life than The Game."

"And there's more to The Game than prancing about and pretending you're just another mortal!" Connor shouted. "The Immortality is a gift, The Game is a gift."

"I never asked for that gift," Duncan spat back, "any more than I asked for your head."

"You have to accept the gift. The Game must be played out to its logical end."

"Your giving up your life is not playing things out to their logical end!" Duncan retorted fiercely.

"Ah, but it is, Duncan. It's strategy. Like chess, sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece to gain the advantage."

"So it's a chess game between good and evil." Duncan frowned.

Connor shrugged. "Something like that."

"And we're all pawns." Duncan flared his nostrils. He was not willing to accept this metaphor.

"No." Connor pointed a finger at Duncan's chest, his eyes gleaming. "Some of us are knights." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "And others...well..."

"Some are too important to lose." Duncan leveled a steady gaze at his kinsman.

Connor gave a brief, bitter laugh. "You sound like Pierson."

"Well sometimes he's right." Duncan rubbed his temples, pinching his eyes closed. "I just can't understand why you'd sacrifice yourself, Connor."

"Good men sacrifice everything for their cause."

"You were committing suicide, Connor." Connor flashed Duncan a dark look, but Duncan pressed on. "Aye, you don't like that word, do you? Takes away from the noble, heroic glow you tried to put around it. Well, it wasn't noble."

"It would have been if it had been allowed to work!" Connor growled as he stared down his kinsman.

"No, it wouldn't," Duncan retorted. "It was a selfish, single-minded act..."

"Like your decision to spare my life?" Connor shot back.

Duncan frowned. "That was an act of mercy."

"You did it only because you wanted me around!"

"Damned straight I did!" Duncan shouted. He composed himself before responding further. "I need you, Connor. The Game needs you."

Connor shook his head. "Do you really want me to keep suffering, Duncan?"

Duncan sighed heavily, letting his shoulders slump forward. "Someday, Connor, you will get over it. And someday you'll thank me that you still have your head."

"Maybe." Connor turned, staring out the window. "But for now, I'm still angry. I'm still alone. Rachel's still gone. And so is my home...what was left of my life..."

"Let me make some of that up to you, then. Methos is going back to London, and he's given me run of his house here for as long as I want. So stay with me for a while, Connor. Give yourself time to adjust -- to the new decade, to Kell's death, to the 'curse' being lifted." Duncan rested a hand on Connor's shoulder. "I know it's not easy for you. But don't forfeit your future with a hasty decision."

"My decision wasn't hasty," Connor hissed, shrugging off Duncan's hand.

"Perhaps not," Duncan conceded, "but it was influenced by a fast turn of events. Problems that have now been resolved in other ways."

Connor stared at his clansman for a long moment, eyeing him both warily and critically. Finally he spoke. "I'll stay." Connor gave a grin that was almost a snarl. "Just to make you happy, brother."

Connor had been virtually "asleep" for ten years, haunted by visions of the past; sleep and dreaming were not things he craved these days. So he walked now, and he kept walking, sliding with the shadows through the corridors of the city he'd once loved. Duncan knew of his kinsman's sojourns, and hadn't yet stopped them. Perhaps Duncan understood them -- or, perhaps, he was beginning to regret not granting Connor his death wish. Connor knew his mood was drawing Duncan down, but couldn't help how he felt. He'd had his chance at freedom, and he'd failed. Or, more rightly, been robbed of it by the person who would have benefitted most from it. But Duncan wanted Connor to live. Connor shook his head at the thought as he turned the corner at the next side street. He didn't feel alive. Kell was dead and the curse was lifted, but having lived under the curse for so long, Connor didn't feel any different. With the exception of Duncan, all of Connor's loved ones were dead, and no one could reverse that.

Connor tried to ignore the people screeching and shouting as they cruised the streets and bar-hopped for pleasure. They lived for the moment, driving too fast, partying too hard, cheating death repeatedly. And maybe that was what Connor was missing. He was not mortal. Cheating death came naturally to him, and therefore life did not hold the same vibrancy. And when one was locked in the Game, life tended to hold a sameness, a numbness, that led to tiredness. Maybe that's why Duncan surrounded himself with mortals so much, to feed on their energies, to feel more alive. But Connor just couldn't do that. A little piece of his soul died whenever a loved one did, and unlike his Immortal body, his spirit did not recover so quickly -- if it ever really did at all.

Duncan had accused Connor of being too willing to die for his cause, like a kamikaze pilot. Connor had met some of those during the war. They were nuts...or perhaps just blindly dedicated? Was there a difference? Connor had been called single-minded more than once, including by Duncan. Perhaps his kinsman had been right. Connor had been so sure that his death was the only option for defeating Kell. Perhaps he'd just wanted to be free of his life so much that he hadn't been willing to look for other options.

Through the practice of walking all night, Connor had found the old saying to be true: it really was darkest just before dawn. In the literal sense, anyway. Connor's life was now at its darkest. He had wished for death, reached for it, nearly grasped it -- a perverse twist on mortals' eagerness to cheat the grim reaper. That was about as dark as you could get, right? So where was his dawn?

The smell of car exhaust and the sound of motors blotted out most other sensations here, and were almost soothing in their constantness. Though it was late, there was traffic. There was always traffic -- this was New York, after all. But there were also shadows, plenty of them, places to hide from the glare of neon and phosphorescence. Connor had found one of those places, a walkway on one of the (relatively) quieter bridges, shadowed by the awkward placement of the bridge lights. Only occasionally was it invaded by some wandering light beam. Connor was so caught up in his own thoughts that it took him some time to notice the other figure on the walkway, the one now starting to climb over the railing...

"Don't do it." Connor startled himself with his own voice.

"Why are you stopping me?" The woman glared at him, her eyes burning darkly in the dim light. A stray sliver of light played in her long dark hair.

I don't know. Connor shrugged as he slowly walked toward her. "It's not worth it." Your life is too short yet. You are young. Old ones like me have more of a right to die.

"How would you know?" she retorted, but she drew her leg back to the safe side of the railing. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through."

Finally reaching her side, Connor leaned on the rail and stared out toward the river. "Then tell me." Bet my story's worse than yours....

"Why should I tell you anything?" she glared harder. "I don't know you."

"You didn't jump when I told you not to," Connor replied evenly. "Either I mean something to you, or your life means more to you than you think it does," he taunted.

The woman eyed him suspiciously. "You really want to hear all this about a total stranger?"

Why not, can't depress me any more than I already am. Connor held out his hand. "I'm Connor. See, I'm not a total stranger anymore."

The woman gave a brief laugh and shook her head, but accepted the handshake. "Laura."

"So tell me, Laura," Connor said levelly, "why do you want to take a long walk off a short bridge in the middle of the night?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

Laura turned her gaze out to the water. "It's been a rough road." She sighed, and Connor gave her the time to collect her thoughts. "My brother -- my only sibling, and my best friend -- committed suicide last year. Earlier this year I found out I can't have children, and my husband promptly left me for someone who could. And today...today I lost my job due to downsizing. Everything that ever meant anything to me is gone. But you wouldn't understand that, now would you?" She glanced at Connor just as the wavering light caught his face. "Or maybe you would."

"I might." More than you know. "What about your parents?"

"Died in a car accident when I was seventeen."

"Friends?"

Laura laughed bitterly. "Mostly acquaintances. Hard to make real friends in New York. Especially not in a cutthroat workplace."

"Something kept you from jumping," Connor insisted.

Laura snorted. "You did. And probably some piece of survival instinct, but I can overcome that."

"Do you want to?"

Laura looked at Connor, tilting her head and studying his face as best she could in the dark. "I don't really know," she said quietly, turning her face to the river.

"Have you been out all night before?" Connor asked suddenly. Laura nodded. "Then you know it's always darkest just before dawn."

Laura snorted again. "Don't throw old, worn-out cliches at me..."

"Cliches wouldn't exist if there weren't some truth to them," Connor replied firmly.

"I suppose so." Laura sighed. "So why are you out here in the dark of night, Connor?"

He gave a wan smile. "Trying to find the dawn, I suppose."

"We could jump together," she said, only half-joking.

"Or we could both walk away from here," Connor replied, "and you can get some sleep, and go looking for a new job in the morning. And I..." He paused, not sure what to say. "I'll go looking for the path I seem to have lost," he finished.

Laura twitched her nose, then nodded. "Sounds fair. For now."

Connor searched his inside pockets for a scrap of paper and a pen, his fingers accidentally brushing against the handle of his katana tucked inside his coat. "Listen...I want you to call me," he said, scribbling down his name and phone number.

Laura laughed caustically. "Coming on to a woman you just saved from killing herself?"

"Not 'coming on to.' But if you want to talk..." Connor shrugged, his eyes losing their focus as he gazed toward the water. "I've been considering myself a failure lately," he said quietly. "Call me and let me know I succeeded, just once."

Laura nodded slowly. "All right. I will." She squeezed his hand as she took the paper from him. "Good night, Connor."

"Good night, Laura." Connor watched the woman as she headed for the far end of the bridge. He stared at the water for a moment, the water that would only temporarily kill him, temporarily ease his pain, if death was truly a respite from it. The same water that would have violently ended Laura's all-too-short life would provide no reprieve for him either, Connor decided. And he was beginning to think that maybe death wasn't the answer, that maybe moving on again would be a good enough respite from the harshness of life, as his own words to a young woman desperate enough to consider taking her own life had shown him.

It would be hours yet before there would be light in the sky, but dawn had come for Connor. And her name was Laura.