Data Annex (To Undo Time)

I've snitched them away without permission, but I promise to play nice and give them back.

Liza Ryan (under the alias Liza Johnson), Mary Ryan, Thomas Melville (AKA Henri Martin), Mark Dawson, Kaiso, Jaks Martin, Michelle Grayson, and Shakan all came from the twisted depths of my mind. This theory of time travel and the comidac are mine as well.

Author's Notes:

Most of the spoilers are pretty vague, and I'm playing with reality more than a bit here. The story will most likely make a little more sense if you know what it is, exactly, I plan to distort. <weg>

A big, big, big (redundant, but deserved) thanks to my beta readers, Shar and Carin, who improved this story exponentially. Their generous help can be seen in every scene; without them, this story would have been finished a lot faster . . . but much less skillfully. Thank you, Morrighan, for dealing with my spelling and thanks as well to Lauralynn, without whom this would only be *one* story, not the three it will hopefully become, and for sending me all those inspirational cards. ;) This story could not have been done without Janeen's Timeline, because I am abysmal with dates. <g>

Part 1: New York, 2115

Liza Ryan stared at the worn book in her hand. <It's proof,> the thought whispered through her mind. <They have to allow a Correction now.> She slowly closed the journal. *Horton's* journal, which they had never dreamed existed, much less hoped to find. It was proof, in the bastard's own words, that someone outside Time had ordered Darius and MacLeod killed. *Someone* had interfered and directed the Hunters to the one person who knew how to stop the Game and who also had a prayer of pulling it off. With this evidence, they'd have to authorize a Correction of Time. Both the Watcher and Immortal branches of Time Guard would back her, if she needed it. Duncan MacLeod himself would back her.

Liza moved to a nearby computer terminal and typed in her report. She encrypted it twice, red-tagged it, then sent it with an exultant grin.

To: Mark Dawson, Time Guard Head of Corrections
From: Liza Ryan, Field Researcher
Subject: Probable interference in Time. Request Correction.

Mark-

Recently, James Horton's journal was delivered to me. After his death, his daughter placed it in storage with many of his other belongings where it was forgotten. It was rediscovered when we received authorization to go through the storage rooms. I examined his journal, and one entry suggests that Mr. Horton met with Thomas Melville, under the known alias of Henri Martin. Mr. Martin convinced him to target both Father Darius and Duncan MacLeod. The following is an excerpt from the Journal in question:

". . . This afternoon I was approached by a man who claimed to be a Watcher sympathetic to our cause. I was suspicious despite the tattoo he wore, or perhaps because of it. He called himself Henri Martin [an alias of Thomas Melville, especially during the late 1990's] and suggested that there were more productive targets available, such as Darius and Duncan MacLeod. It's tempting, I admit. Those particular abominations are the most seductive to the weaker-willed among us. After careful consideration, I decided the idea had merit. Darius is easy to track; he never leaves his church. As infuriating as it is that this abomination masquerades as a man of the cloth, it nevertheless makes my job easier. MacLeod will be harder to pin down. He is reputably an excellent fighter, one of the best. It's better to proceed with caution, perhaps not to attack him directly. His so-called Immortal friends or even his mortal companions are weaknesses we can exploit. Unfortunately, only one Immortal he calls friend is close by, and Hugh Fitzcairn will have to be lured very carefully . . ."

Darius was the only Immortal at the time who both suspected the truth behind the 'Game' and would willingly work to stop it. His death set back the discovery of that knowledge until fifty years ago when Duncan MacLeod and Methos managed to duplicate his work. Because of his interference, Mr. Melville caused the needless deaths of many Immortals who still believed in the mythological lie 'there can be only one.'

Based on this evidence, I suggest a Correction of the events leading up to Darius' death.

-Liza

There was nothing to do except wait for a reply. Liza sat in a nearby cafe, ordered a small meal, and discovered she was too anxious to eat. <What if they decide against a Correction in spite of my arguments?> she worried unhappily, pushing the rapidly chilling food around on her plate. <The Game was stopped anyway, and Darius was only one man even if he is considered a saint. Will they decide that the danger of sending someone back in the past to Correct isn't worth what we would gain?> The silent alarm on her comidac went off, the flashing lights on the watch-like mini-computer signaling that she had a message. She abandoned her meal in the cafe and returned to the terminal. She carefully typed in the password to receive the message, then tapped one side of the terminal impatiently while her comidac ran the decryption codes. The message came up with a muted beep.

To: Liza Ryan, Field Researcher
From: Mark Dawson, Time Guard Head of Corrections
Re: Probable interference in Time. Request Correction.

Liza,

Correction authorized. See me immediately.

-Mark

Liza stared at the message, then deleted it. The cryptic 'see me immediately' must mean she was assigned to the Correction; there was nothing else it could mean. The thought hit her like an unexpected blow. She had considered that she might be assigned to a Correction. Who in Time Guard hadn't? But now that the opportunity was there, it seemed fraught with hidden traps and dangers. She forced herself to return to the cafe and think the situation through.

If she was sent back, she'd be out of Time. For a mortal, that didn't mean much. For an *Immortal*, it meant quite a bit more. Out Time Immortals lost the ability to sense In Time Immortals, completely and irreversibly. A margin of safety existed because Out Time Immortals couldn't be sensed by In Time Immortals either, but being unable to pass for either mortal or Immortal was dangerous, and ultimately lonely for the Immortal in question. The only community they belonged to was with the other Out Time Immortals, and there were precious few of those. Michelle Grayson's pet theory to explain the discrepency was that the Immortal soul was divided, existing in two times at once, and that the changes inflicted on the soul during transit rendered the two types of Quickenings incompatable. Liza snorted skeptically. It was romanticized thinking. Sending a person back copied the persona, but the soul? The soul was a way for mortals to grieve their mortality, and wish for something better in the "next life." The only evidence Liza had seen that a soul existed was the Quickening, and that *certainly* didn't move on to some mythical afterlife. Michelle's idea was wishful thinking on her part, and hardly productive for Time Guard. Why mourn something that might or might not exists when there were jobs that needed to be done? It was far better to deal with life as it came, and let the afterlife sort itself out. That's what the level headed Powers That Be had decided as well. They--of whom Mark Dawson was one--made all the important decisions regarding Time Guard policy. They were the ones who objected to sending Immortals back in Time, even though it was theoretically logical to do so. After all, Immortals would eventually reach the time they left and in basically the same condition.

The theory didn't work so well in practice. A person who was sent back was 'copied' by the massive energies of the transit. One of the two stayed in the present time, the other was flung back. If the person was sent back again, the division repeated itself. The result was innumerable clones of the same person, and, according to Michelle, innumerable times that the soul was "folded back" or stretched thinly between the copies. This same duplication principle was what made traveling to the future impossible. To go forward, the person had to be halved, something which took an impossible amount of energy and a technology no one possessed. Thomas Melville was the first to discover the duplication effect, sending himself back in Time to change the past and then sending himself back again to kill the Immortals who were sent to Correct what he'd done.

There was another, darker, reason not to send Immortals back. Immortals out of Time were simply too powerful. They could change history without being detected, and they could do it for centuries. Mortals were stranded, the damage they could do restricted by a few short decades, and they could be killed. It was safer to send a mortal. Not to mention that sending an Immortal resulted in two versions of a person in the same time, once the Out Time Immortal eventually caught up to the Time of origin. Since those first reckless days of Time changing, Immortals were sent back only under very special circumstances. Liza thought she knew why Time Guard was suspending it's unwritten rule.

Time Guard was dealing with a very delicate situation with this Correction. They planned to interfere in Watcher/Immortal business. Any missteps--if discovered--could renew the tension between the Watchers and the Watched. Liza--whose loyalty extended not only to the Immortals, but also to the Watchers, and ultimately to Time Guard--could be trusted to work for the benefit of all three groups. She had successfully passed her unstable Immortal adolescence and proven herself capable of handling crisis situations. She was also discreet. On top of that, she knew the Immortals in question--and the situation--very well.

She called Methos friend, one of the few who could claim the reclusive oldest Immortal as one. She had met Duncan MacLeod on several occasions. She grew up hearing about her "cousin" Richie. Her foster mother, Mary Ryan, had tried--and failed--to gain custody of him after her younger sister's death. The Watcher refused to be thwarted when her assignment killed the protector of a eight-year-old pre-Immortal. Mary arranged to take the girl in, so Liza grew up knowing about both Immortals and Watchers. She had even planned to join the Academy until Mary had explained why it was impossible. The impetuous eighteen-year-old had immediately gone out and gotten a tattoo on her left wrist, exchanging the Watcher 'Y' for a sword. She had declared herself the Immortal branch of the Watchers, giving Mary Ryan the idea that made her one of the most influential and famous Watchers of all time. With the backing of Joe Dawson and several other high placed allies, she had converted Liza's impulsive action into a reality.

>From there, Duncan MacLeod had been persuaded to join the new Immortal branch. His reasoning was logical, and simple. He wanted to prevent another war between Watchers and Immortals. Following MacLeod's example, the elusive Methos re-joined, this time as himself. Liza had pitied him. As the oldest Immortal, he was naturally isolated. In a place where everyone knew who he was, they either praised his "wisdom" and trapped him on a pedestal, or despised him for what he had been and done. Both left him even more isolated. She remembered her first meeting with him vividly.

New York, 2016

Liza knocked on the door, anxious in spite of herself. Methos, by reputation, was not the easiest researcher to work with. His acid sarcasm and aloofness tended to drive prospective partners away within a week. He opened the door, his expression deceptively mild. He had know she was there before she knocked, courtesy of the spine numbing presence that alerted all Immortals. At least he had been polite enough to wait for the knock first before opening the door, and he hadn't met her with a drawn sword. <Perhaps this would work,> she thought hopefully.

"So you're the new one," he said with an ever-patient sigh. She revised her judgment quickly. <Maybe this won't be so easy.>

"I'm here for my trial by fire," she said blandly, meeting his gaze with a firm directness. She surprised him, although the only evidence was the flicker of his eyes. She knew his reputation quite well, and had no intention of making herself an easy target.

"Trial by fire?" he questioned, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, yes," she said, allowing her tone to become a little droll. "Everyone who's worked with you has sworn you're really here to make our lives a living hell and weed out the weak ones. But I know that's not true, of course." Her tone was mild, but she allowed a hint of sarcasm to enter in the end.

"Are you trying to impress me?" he asked nonchalantly

"What could I possibly do to impress a five thousand year old man?" The irony in her voice was undisguised, and to her surprise it made him laugh.

"You were warned about me, weren't you." It wasn't a question.

"*Oh* yes. Fight fire with fire," she said, referring to his legendary wit and sarcastic repertoire as the the earlier mentioned trial by fire. He understood immediately, and mock-bowed in her direction.

"Come in; let's get started. I don't want to baby-sit any longer that I have to," he invited, opening the door farther.

"No more than I do," she retorted, one eyebrow raised in eloquent challenge. He nodded, acknowledging the hit. "We're stuck together, it might as well be fun," she commented facetiously.

==================================== New York, 2115

The flashback faded, and she realized how far her thoughts had wandered. She resolutely turned her thoughts back to where they should be, her impending Correction. If she did go back, she'd leave behind her friends and everything she knew. Most likely she'd end up with them again--but not for another hundred years or more. The only person she *knew* back then was Methos, and he wouldn't have a clue who she was. Even Joe was just a half-faded memory. Could she give up her life for a Correction?

It was time to look at it from a different perspective, she decided. How many lives would be saved by sending *her* back? Could she allow someone else to go in her place--someone with a worse chance of success and a lesser understanding of what must be done? Could she risk that Darius wouldn't be saved, or even that MacLeod would be killed? She couldn't. Being sent back wasn't dying; she could make a new life for herself out of Time. If she could save lives by doing so, then there was no choice.

She flagged down a skimmer bus and transferred the fare charged to reach Time Guard from her comidac. <How did people ever get along without the convenient identifying communications bracelets?> They were so much smaller and harder to steal than the wallets and purses she remembered in her childhood. She watched the city pass by from the skimmer bus window and tried not to think. The tasteful architecture of Time Guard with it's huge arches and wide windows appeared. She navigated the familiar corridors until she reached Mark Dawson's office where she announced herself to his harried assistant. The man showed her in immediately, then left.

"Mark," she said warmly, giving him a hug. Mark's "auntie" Liza had sponsored him into Time Guard. He had risen high and fast, taking over Corrections faster than anyone had in the history of Time Guard Administration. She didn't begrudge him the position and its difficult ethics; he was far more suited to it than she was.

"Liza," he replied just as warmly. "You know why you're here?" He eased back into his leather chair, his lank form far too thin for Liza's comfort and his dark brown hair needed to be cut. The hint of shadows under his eyes spoke eloquently of his sleepless nights. Liza sighed. He drove himself too hard.

"I have a fairly good idea," she assured the young man, taking a seat in front of the mahogany desk. "I'm Correcting?" She made no comment on his appearance. He wouldn't appreciate it, and he *was* her superior.

He nodded, relaxing in the plush chair across from her. "You're . . . uniquely qualified."

She grinned at the tactful way he put it. "I'm the only one you trust."

"That's about it," he admitted. "This is a three for one, as well. We've linked Melville to the killing of Tessa Noel and we also want a witness for the Ahriman encounter."

She sat up abruptly and stared at him, shocked. "Tessa's murder was just a freak mugging by a punk kid," she protested.

"So we thought," he said with a grimace. It made him look even more haggard. "But there was definitely some contact between Melville and that kid. We aren't sure--you know how tenuous most of our evidence is--but I think it's too much of a coincidence for Melville to have connections to Tessa's killer. Melville always has targeted MacLeod. Sometimes," he added bitterly, "I wonder if Melville is just playing a twisted game with us. He gives us clues to exactly what he's done. He's incredibly intelligent, Liza. He wouldn't make this many mistakes without a reason."

She simply shook her head and settled back into her seat again. She had given up trying to out-think Melville long ago. "Be glad," she suggested. "It would be much worse if he *weren't* playing with us."

"That doesn't make being manipulated any easier," he argued, his expression pained.

"No," she agreed, "but it's better than the alternative." He met her gaze seriously.

"I hate it when you're right," he joked, breaking the tension.

"It's even worse when Methos is right," she reminded him caustically, "He finds a thousand ways to say 'I told you so' without ever coming out and saying it."

"That's because you never respect your elders," he teased, wagging a finger at her.

"Elders, ha! He may have lived longer, but he has the maturity level of a five year old at times."

They grinned at that. For all their teasing, they were both fond of the oldest Immortal. They were well aware of how complex he was. He may play the immature, sarcastic, uncaring jerk on occasion, but when it counted, he backed his friends with selfless devotion. They'd never get him to admit that, however. Mark became serious again.

"Back to business," his tone was regretful. "I want you to stop the Hunters from killing Darius. Preferably with proof to keep them from killing again. If you can, kill James Horton. You know as well as I do how resilient and resourceful he is. Keep an eye on things, play the Watcher, and keep Tessa Noel from being killed. Richie as well, if you can, but he isn't a priority. He'll revive. As for the Ahriman battle, a new break through in the Ahriman research has pinpointed another relevant person. Cassandra's recently recovered prophecies refer to the 'deliverer' who's job is to aid the champion. Our reports strongly suggest this was supposed to have been Darius. With Darius back in the picture, we want to know how the Ahriman event changes. Stay close, and keep an eye out for Melville. If he tries anything, stop him. Try to maintain Time Guard secrecy, but if you can't . . ." he shrugged. "Use your judgment. We'll give you a laptop, complete with current Chronicles, funds to set you up, a list of contacts, and clothes. Take your sword. Other than that, you're on your own."

She nodded, and stood. He mirrored the action and she pulled him into a hug. "I'll see you in a hundred years," she whispered in his ear.

"Fortunately it won't be that long for me, Auntie," he said dryly. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," she wished, leaving the office.

Her good-byes took a surprisingly short time to finish. Most of her friends were in Time Guard and knew how this worked. They said good-bye for her, not for themselves. After all, they would see her tomorrow, after her copy had been sent back. She was ready to start, to get on with this Correction. The responsibility was heavy and strange. She was more used to taking orders than having the autonomy to decide the fate of Time itself. It was heady and depressing at the same time. She handed over her comidac to the waiting technician with a twinge of regret. Her life was written in there. It was both ending and beginning. How strange to think that in few minutes, one of her would take that identity back and the other would be lost to Time. She accepted the papers and identification that was handed over in and packed them in her bags after a cursory scan. She took her place in the center of the room, surrounded by the concentric circles that made up the machinery.

The machinery that would launch her out of Time and into the past was surprisingly simple. The energy loops and twists the machinery produced were nothing of the sort. The technology had been developed around 2030, and fear of further misuse had led to the creation of Time Guard. There were those who had foreseen "Back to the Future"-like paradoxes, but fortunately the future was safe. Trying to move forward in Time took more energy than Time Guard--or anyone else, for that matter--could produce, as well as technology more impossible than the awe-inspiring energy loops that would send her back. Moving forward was like trying to paddle up a hundred-foot waterfall. No, it was the past they worried about, and who better to tell about the past than the Watchers and Immortals? Liza herself had been one of the first Immortal Watchers recruited into Time Guard.

She shook the memories away, wondering how Methos and the other older Immortals could stand being trapped in their pasts all the time. <Aren't they overcome by memories and flashbacks sparked by anything and everything around them?> She was directed into the center of an energy field, where her equipment had been stacked. The field was priming, the white energy hummed and flickered. Her Quickening responded, sending thrilling tingles of pseudo-electricity down her spine. She checked one last time to ensure everything she needed was there, and that nothing could identify her. Her sword was available through a reassuring, cleverly hid Velcro slit in her pants leg. The sword made her smile. When she was going, they wouldn't recognize it as a sword. It was more 'impossible' technology, like Time travel. It was made of an extremely strong not-metal alloy that compacted into a cylinder about the length of her hand and the width of two fingers. The small sensor on the hilt was attuned to her, and ensured that she was the only one who could activate it. It was the new way for Immortals to defend themselves, and much easier to hide than a conventional sword. It was possible to re-tune the modern swords to a new bearer in the event that the original owner was killed, or lost the sword. <After all, for everything that can be done, there's a way to undo it.> Holding the sword during a Quickening would re-tune it, or if there was no convenient decapitated enemy, one could simply run a large amount of regular electricity through one's body while holding it. Painful, but worth it.

The hum of the energy field picked up suddenly. Liza met the gaze of the technician and nodded. The technician acknowledged Liza, and her fingers flew across the board. The field became blinding, sliding along the spectrum until there was blackness. It went beyond black, beyond dark. It was absolute nothingness. An eternity of that abyss and she was slammed against an unseen barrier. It resisted for another eternal moment, then she snapped into a small, deserted park at midnight. Paris, 1993.

She had made it.

Part 2: Paris 1993

The first thing Liza did after checking out of the cheap, run down hotel the next morning was start establishing her contacts and using them to set up a new identity. She gave up the name Ryan regretfully, realizing it would set off alarm bells for everyone who knew Richie, and that any background check would link her to the eight-year-old adopted daughter of a Watcher. She didn't need a history for this job. <Correction,> she thought wryly,

Later that day, Liza Johnson, college dropout and waitress, purchased several high quality surveillance cameras, recording equipment, bugs, a 9mm semi-automatic gun, and a .45 handgun via her black market contacts. Setting the cameras up in Darius' church without getting caught tested the limits of her Watcher training. She firmly resisted the temptation to talk to the legendary Darius, and set up a stakeout in one of the nearby apartments. By all accounts, she had two days until Horton attacked.

With some regret and no little pain, she burned off her Immortal Watcher tattoo. The burn faded to nothing, gratifying evidence that this part of her Immortal heritage, at least, was still intact. She called Parisian customs and verified that both Duncan MacLeod and Joe Dawson were in Paris. It was pointless, but she thought it was better to be certain now then be in for a nasty surprise later when she called for back up. She didn't *think* her presence had disrupted the Timestream yet, but Time was not fully understood. She wasn't positive how much effect she *could* have. Could she stop a war? Or were some events inevitable? She ignored the idle concerns and concentrated on the details she would need to pull this off. She didn't want to be recognized on the camera in the church; that tape would end up with the Watchers if everything went right. Being recognized would make any further contact with Joe impossible, and since Joe stayed near Duncan that would make her job much harder. Better to be anonymous.

She went over every detail of the Correction with nervous care. Everything had to be as perfectly planned as it could be, every move executed with astute precision. Even the most minute mistake or miscalculation could cause this Correction to fail. She spent her two-day leeway time anxiously re-thinking every aspect of her entry, confrontation, and escape. Failure was not an option. Everything had to move perfectly, instinctively. If she had to improvise, the chances increased she'd make a mistake. This entire situation had to be dealt with calmly and completely. Nothing, *nothing* could be left to chance.

She took great care with her outfit. Baggy black jeans and a black sweater made a deadly impression. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and her face blackened. She wished briefly for contacts to change her light brown eyes, but there wasn't enough time to get ahold of a pair. <Green eyes would be nice. Or red . . .> As it was, she would be very hard to miss if someone was looking for her, which was the point. She cleaned and loaded the guns with careful efficiency and packed the spare clips into her pocket. The .45 was her backup; she planned to use only the 9mm. She hid a backpack for the semi-automatic and sweater just outside her escape door. She didn't want to risk leaving anything behind that could lead back to her. For the same reason, she would keep what she said to a disguised minimum. What would happen was being recorded, and the less the Watchers had to work with, the better.

When the time finally arrived, Liza took up a position across from the church and began scanning the crowd for the faces she'd memorized. Her first glimpse of Horton and his renegade Watchers sparked a rage that made it hard to breath. To the Watchers, Horton was infamous; his face was more recognizable than Hitler's. For thirty precious seconds she was immobilized by her rage. As they disappeared into the church, she forced herself to breath calmly and let go of her anger. It wouldn't help her now, she needed to be calm. This was a job, like any other, and she needed to deal with it calmly, rationally, and ruthlessly. She followed them swiftly into the church, and then into the sanctuary. She walked into chaos.

Darius was not going quietly, despite being outnumbered six to one and hampered by his robes, but even he couldn't fight them all off. He flung chairs into his attackers and attempted to reach one of the doors. The six Watchers swarmed angrily around him, their faces livid with disgust, anger, and hate. Liza scanned the room for one loathsome face and found him standing a little to one side, glaring into the battle with a contemptuous sneer. She aimed quickly and fired. The chatter of gun fire the fight. All attention riveted on Liza as Horton collapsed gracelessly to the floor, his head and neck nearly destroyed by the shots. Liza had aimed the attack very carefully. She knew only too well the story of Joe's failed attempt to kill his brother-in-law. A bullet-proof vest didn't stop bullets aimed at the head.

"You have two choices," she growled, while she had them stunned. "You can step away from him, or I can shoot you now. It makes no difference to me." For one second, she thought she might have to shoot them, but apparently their will to live was stronger than their hatred, because they moved reluctantly away.

"Darius," she snapped. The priest started. "Get some rope, tie them up," she ordered, keeping her voice gruff and, hopefully, unrecognizable. The Immortal priest left without arguing, and fortunately returned almost immediately. She prayed they would be faster than the police as Darius secured the men. She gestured for the men to move into the basement. The chill gray stone pressed in on her like a tomb. <Figures,> she snorted at her own gloom. <It *is* a tomb.> Liza hearded them, reluctantly, into one of the empty cells. She closed the distance between herself and the men with grim resolve. Several sharp blows knocked them unconscious despite their protests and Darius'. Hopefully that would keep them from getting any ideas about getting away. She nodded back up the stairs curtly, and Darius trailed her to the Sanctuary.

"Let's wrap up the body and get up the blood stains," she suggested hoarsely. Darius remained silent as he left to grab a spare alter cloth. She and Darius wrapped up Horton's body and hid it in another of the empty monk's cells. Liza's casual disrespect for the body seemed to bother Darius, but she didn't have time to explain, in carefully chosen words, that Horton was a bastard who deserved far worse then a quick death and having his body scuffed around and dropped. Almost, she regretted killing him so quickly. She disregarded that childish thought. <It's safer that he's dead. Be content with that,> she told herself firmly. A hurried scrubbing of the floor and a frenzied straightening of the wooden chairs, benches, and scattered objects made the church appear like nothing had happened, at least to the casual inspection. With luck, the police wouldn't do a thorough inspection. She turned to Darius, knowing they were running out of time, and handed him the piece of paper she had written out earlier.

"Call this number. Ask for Joe Dawson and tell him what's happened here. He'll know what to do about the men. If you let them go," she warned, "I'll hunt them down and kill them." Her calmly grim expression reinforced Darius's opinion that she would do exactly what she claimed. He shivered imperceptibly, remembering his own lost dedication to such final justice. Liza explained firmly, "They will stand trial for what they've done."

"And that is?" Darius asked, trepidation in his voice. <Do I want to know?>

"Killing Immortals," she said grimly.

His eyes widened slightly. He was surprised that she knew about Immortals, but she didn't explain. She could hear the sirens shrilling quietly, but getting closer.

"I'll take care of the police," he offered quickly, following her unspoken train of thought. He worried what she might do to the innocent cops.

"Thank you." Would he also keep silent if he recognized her? No matter, that was tomorrow's problem.

"No, thank you. And I promise," he insisted, with a hint of self-depreciating humor, "no misguided attempts at mercy."

"Good," she said shortly, "because your friend Duncan MacLeod was their next target."

His expression darkened at that. <Even better. He cares for MacLeod's safety, if not his own.> She retrieved the tape from the cameras and pressed them into his hands, ignoring his slightly shell-shocked look. <Those cameras will certainly be removed by the end of the day,> she thought, resigned.

"Give these to Joe Dawson when he shows up," she ordered forcefully, meeting his eyes. "He has two prosthetic legs, gray hair, and a Y-shaped tattoo inside his left wrist." He nodded his acquiesce, too shaken to speak. Liza made her escape through the back as the first of the police showed up. Seconds after leaving the church, the sweater came off, revealing a garish yellow tourist T-shirt. She pulled off the baggy black pants which covered a tighter pair of blue sports pants. She kicked off her shoes in favor of the sandals in the bag. Then she quickly scrubbed the face paint off with the black shirt and shoved it deep into the bag she had left by the door. A gaudy pair of plastic sunglasses disguised her face farther, and she pulled her hair out from its binding. It haloed her face to her shoulders, and she ran her hands through it to tangle it slightly. She slipped around to the front of the building and became just one more person in the gathering crowd of people. Anonymous. No one paid any attention to the wide-eyed American tourist, certainly not to connect her with anyone who had been in the church. She left obediently when the cops ordered the crowd to disperse, and slipped back to her apartment hideaway.

Liza settled in to wait for her second Correction, content to watch events as they happened. She was, after all, a Watcher. Through a few unfound bugs she overheard, and was grimly satisfied, that the renegade Watchers had been found guilty and executed. As many in her Time had suspected, Darius did indeed know about the Watchers. She watched in satisfaction as a tentative friendship developed between Joe Dawson and the kindly Immortal priest. It was far easier, she realized, for Joe to be friends with Darius than it was for him to be friends with Duncan. While being friends with Darius was breaking his oath, Darius didn't put him through the same moral dilemmas that Duncan had in the alternate past. Of course, with Darius as a mutual friend, it was inevitable that Duncan and Joe would meet.

Liza laughed at Joe's discomfort when Darius invited them both for tea. Joe's strict adherence to his oath had already been shattered by his first Immortal friendship; one more wasn't too great a leap. Especially since MacLeod had no idea what he was. It was also the perfect opportunity for him to talk with his assignment without being obvious about it. The charismatic Highlander won Joe over in under an hour. It was the lure of the forbidden. That same lure pulled at Liza, and she fought her temptation to join them. She watched them joke, and talk, and knew that she wanted to be there with them more than anything. The intensity of the emotion surprised her; she had thought she was content to watch. Loneliness was her enemy, and it eroded her will. She had no friends in this time. It was unsettling to live her whole life for someone else. Was this how mortal Watchers felt?

Her attention was attracted by a sudden ruckus in Darius' room. Duncan was holding Joe's wrist, looking accusatory and angry. He'd seen the tattoo, that was the only explanation. He had seen the tattoos before, she knew. It was how he had found Joe Dawson, in the past that wasn't. She worried for Joe, and half-rose to find *some* way to interfere, but Darius was there, conciliatory and explaining. She eased back in her chair, as the anger gradually left Duncan's face. It was replaced by an intrigued expression she found much preferable and less dangerous. She wished to be there, and the fierceness of that desire hurt. *She* wanted to be the one to convince him the Watchers weren't his enemy. *She* wanted to soothe his fears and answer his questions. Her nails dug into her palms. She concentrated on the dull physical pain, willing the isolation to retreat. It didn't. <The infamous loneliness of Out Time Immortals,> she realized. The realization didn't help her deal with it any easier.

She pulled out her sword desperately and locked open the blade. She needed a distraction before the unwanted emotions overwhelmed her. She started a kata, wishing the exercise didn't remind her of MacLeod. The memories slowly receded under the intense focus the blade work required. she thought as she stilled her movements. The suddenness of the desolation in that thought caused her to drop her sword. It clattered loudly as it hit the ground.

"I can't keep this up," she realized aloud. "I'm no good to anyone like this. I have to have my own life."

'Never one to walk the safe path;' Richie Ryan's Watcher had used those words to describe him. Right now they fit her mood perfectly. Joe and Duncan were in for some rough times now that Duncan knew what Joe was. She couldn't see him just sitting back with Darius' calm acceptance. There would be trouble, she was certain of it. Research into Corrections had shown that the past tried to repeat itself, to a point. No one knew when the future became free-floating, but it did. She didn't think they were at 'free-floating' yet. The past moved in the direction of least change, which usually made large events repeat if it was possible. <Old habits die hard,> she thought grimly. In this case, the habits hadn't even been born yet. She was confidant that Duncan would stay true to *her* past, and make Joe's a regular stop. <Coincidentally turning it into Immortal central,> she thought with a wry smile. If she got a job at Joe's, she could insinuate herself into their lives. <God, that sounds so cold.> Harsh it might be, but the temptation was too sweet to resist. Maybe she could even get recruited into the Watchers. After all, Methos had managed it.

She admitted to herself it wasn't just a need to be with other people that was driving her. It was also a need to be with familiar people like her "Uncle" Joe and Methos. Methos was. . . unavailable now, but Joe was easily accessible.

Liza managed to make it on the same flight back to that the States that Duncan and Joe did. She gave Joe a week to settle in before showing up looking for a job. Luckily Joe was understaffed, and she was hired. Joe considered her a godsend, and told her so in his kind, amused, familiar voice. She'd been young when he died--only twenty eight--and his death had hit her hard. Having him back was like drifting back into a blissful dream that had shattered before she'd ever realized how precious it was. Now that he was so impossibly back in her life, she had to restrain herself from being overly familiar. He would neither appreciate it, nor understand it.

The next part of her Correction--preventing Tessa's death--she hoped to deal with alone. What they didn't see, they couldn't question. If she prevented Melville from contacting the young punk, it was possible Melville would find someone else to do it. Boys like that were more common than flies in the cities. Her best bet was to intercept the man before he reached Tessa and Richie. The date and time of the attack was almost certain. The Timestream resisted major changes, and history was repeating almost exactly. There were small discrepancies, but they became fewer the farther away from the Correction Time progressed. She expected the next Correction to have a bigger impact. Tessa was an integral part of Duncan's life. Richie's new Immortality had had a definite effect on the distraught Highlander in the alternate past. With both of those factors removed, Duncan MacLeod would be changed. Strange how it would change him, to change the past. It would, in effect, kill him. What he was before, he would no longer be, would maybe never be again. Whether that change was for the best, who could judge? She knew he would make the sacrifice in a heartbeat, to keep Tessa alive and spare his friends pain. The galling thing was that she couldn't ask him to make the sacrifice, she had to force it on him unknowingly. <C'est la vie. I will act as I must and live with what I do.> It felt strange to think of philosophy. She had never paid much attention to it before. Her life had been filled with Time Guard business and she'd had little time or inclination to question the unsolved mysteries of the universe. The hours of solitude made her think, and question, what she had never cared to before. It changed her, and that was terrifying. <How much will this change me?> Liza wondered. <When I reach my Time, will I even recognize myself?>

That particular line of thought brought up the unsettling question of what truly made up a person. Was Duncan--or she herself, for that matter--no more and no less than a product of what he had lived through? In that case, she'd kill him if she changed the past. Not forever, but the Duncan in the new future was not the same as the Duncan in the old. They would have different experiences, motivation, possibly even desires. By that logic, he was already dead, and by Melville's hand, not hers. In a way, her actions might be considered a resurrection, but it didn't feel that way to her. It was easier for her to think that the soul was immortal, removed from what happened to the person. Shaped, yet unchanged. There was less guilt that way. She recalled Methos's words: 'I haven't felt guilt since the eleventh century.' Maybe he had it right. <Do what you have to do, and don't agonize over it. What's done is done.> She smiled a little at that. Methos wasn't as far removed from guilt as he liked to pretend.

Joe's hand on her arm interrupted her thoughts.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, bemused.

"Payment up front?" Her mischievous smile showed him she was joking. She tilted her head and decided to answer honestly--up to a point. "I was debating the immortality of the soul." She surprised him, though he tried to hide it.

"Heavy," he commented with a smile. She grinned back. A twenty year old barmaid who thought through philosophy in her spare time. It was worth taking on a strange line of thought to see the expression on his face. She grinned broader as she recalled her phrasing. *Immortality* of the human soul. It was true in more ways than one, but that wasn't how she had meant it.

She turned back to her sweeping, but was aware of Joe's curious gaze trailing her. Maybe the comment hadn't been a great idea for keeping her cover, but it was fun to grab his attention. She was relieved when Joe turned back to play with the band. The new singer was good, and she hummed along softly, harmonizing to his clear tenor. It was a habit that kept her from going insane out of boredom. She kept half a mind on her sweeping and yet again thought through her plan to save Tessa and Richie.

Part 3: Seacouver 1993

It took Liza two months to track down the boy who killed Tessa and Richie, Mark Rosca. He lived in the elusive outskirts of the slums, never managing to hold down the minimum wage jobs for longer than a week and supporting his drug habit on what he could steal. His victims were the only ones he mattered to, and they hardly cared about him. She could have pitied him if she didn't hate him.

She stood across the street from the dilapidated, ancient building. The front was covered with graffiti no one had bothered to remove. Several windows were boarded up. Cheap, dollar store blinds hung from the widows that still managed to cling to their frames. Faded yellow paint, which attempted to brighten the building, peeled to reveal the decrepit graying wood. The uncared-for effect was mirrored everywhere she looked. The hopelessness of the area smothered her, and at the same time heightened her every reaction. She was only too aware that she didn't belong here. This place was dangerous, and foreign to her. She was the stranger, the one with no idea how to react. Her Immortality and vaunted prowess with weapons were of little comfort now. Even if they couldn't kill her permanently, they could still hurt her badly enough to kill her temporarily. If they saw her revive . . . She wasn't sure who her overactive imagination had declared 'them' <but whoever 'they' are, they still terrify me.> It was irrational and stupid, but she couldn't completely suppress the emotion.

Her wary survey of the area showed that nothing had changed. He was still holed up in his apartment, depleting his stash of crack. When he was sober again, he would leave, either to find his supplier or to make some money. Two weeks of watching him--and having him watched--had given her a good idea of his routine. To her fortune, he was predictable. Maybe that was why Melville chose him.

The door across the street opened slowly, the conceiled man reluctant to leave his dubious sanctuary. The baggy, drug-hazed eyes of her target peered blearily around before he swaggered into the street. He was a desperate predator, and knew it. <A hyena, looking for a windfall or an easy kill.> She winced at her mind's analogy. 'Kill' was only too appropriate, and it was that she'd come here to stop. It was hardly difficult to trail him as he wove through the streets. He slowed and stopped at his frequented corner. He argued earnestly with his supplier, but the man appeared to be turning him down. Liza tried to work her way in closer, cursing the fact that she didn't have super-human hearing. <Like Superman. How much easier it would be for the Watchers if we could just hear what we needed,> she lamented, trying to be humorous about the situation. Her nagging unease returned too quickly. Ahead of her, the punk became more adamant. The supplier firmly shook his head and looked pointedly away. The boy's shoulders fell in disappointment and he came back towards Liza.

Something stopped him, and he turned toward the alley he was passing, suspicion dark on his face. He moved closer, and talked to someone she couldn't quite distinguish. Liza slipped through the crowd in time to see a small needle plunge into the punk's neck. He was dragged into the alley and Liza followed as quickly as caution allowed, her mental alarms shrieking at her to be careful. She saw him pulled into a van but didn't have time to memorize the license plate before it pulled away. She cursed her luck, certain that Melville had something to do with this. <Why would Melville kidnap the boy? I thought he was just getting paid. This reeks of coercion. Are these the 'ties' Mark was talking about? Somehow I don't see kidnapping as a minor interaction.> She hurried through the streets, determined to take this time to search the boy's apartment, since she'd lost him. <Know your enemy.>

<Nothing,> she realized in disgust as she finished searching the two-room apartment. <Clothes. Drug paraphanelia. Old food. Nothing of who he is. Are drugs his entire life?> There was nothing at all to personalize the apartment. <It's as bare as mine, and as easy to leave behind.> She left in disgust and decided to have the place watched. Three days later he still hadn't returned. It was like he had vanished from the city. It was getting alarmingly close to the day Tessa was supposed to die and she had lost her one contact to the killer. <Where the hell is he? What's Melville doing to him?> She felt a reluctant sympathy for the boy. She wouldn't wish anyone to be in Melville's hands. She thought through several plans, but discarded them all. Nothing would work if she didn't have her contact. The only place she could be reasonable sure he would show up was where Richie and Tessa were. It was risky, but it was also her only chance of finding--and stopping--Rosca.

So she found herself on the night streets, her heart beating frantically in her chest as she kept to the shadows. The black ski mask irritated her face, but it kept her identity cautiously anonymous. She needed that anonymity, and the mask was much easier to remove than face paint. She wished she had thought of it before. Her gun was cool in her hand despite the gloves she wore. She was taking as few chances as she could. She froze into the shadows as Duncan, then Richie, traveled toward the house. She couldn't see Joe, but he was undoubtedly around somewhere. A nondescript blue car parked, nearly soundless, four blocks away. It was the only motion on the street. The front passenger door opened and a figure stepped out. The almost recognizable form moved forward, dazedly shaking his head. She knew him. She was here because of him. She moved to intercept, protectively determined that Mark Rosca would get nowhere near Tessa or Richie.

As she moved toward him, she saw a slight movement in the car. Without further warning, the silenced bullet slammed into her chest, dropping her. <Shit!> she thought, panicked, as the punk went by her. Who could have known she was there? Melville couldn't have anticipated this Correction. <Could he?> The boy moved past her as she lay bleeding on the ground, a strange, nervously dazed look about him. As his eyes focused on the car, they cleared and sharpened. Liza shivered as she died. There was something very weird and unnerving about him.

She revived several minutes later. She forced herself up too quickly, and winced in pain. She glanced toward where the car had been. Unsurprisingly, it was gone. Melville--or whoever he sent--wouldn't risk a Quickening interrupting their assassination. She *was* surprised they hadn't taken her away to deal with her away from witnesses. Maybe they were too hurried to stay. The last thing they needed was to be around when Tessa was killed. <Tessa. Shit!>

She stood dizzily, shaking off the after effects of her death. Her only chance now was to cut him off before he reached Tessa and Richie. She turned toward the T-bird, and the shadow form lurking there across the street. She ran lightly and silently, coming up behind him. He was watching the house and the path too intently to notice her approach. His expression was unnerving in it's blank intensity. She slowed and moved up soundlessly. Richie's hushed voice carried in the night, barely audible. The punk heard him, too, and jerked into motion, pulling his gun clumsily from inside his coat. Tessa and Richie came into view. They didn't see the young man in the shadows until he spoke.

"Can I get a ride?" Rosca asked in a strangely hollow voice. Liza began moving. Richie looked the punk over dismissively.

"Some other time, pal," he said curtly, ushering Tessa toward the car.

"Stop, man," Rosca suggested nervously, arresting their travel by jerking the gun in their direction. The pair jerked to a stop, staring at the stranger in nervous apprehension. Rosca started to speak again, but it was too late. Liza pressed the muzzle of her gun against his neck, praying *his* gun didn't go off when she startled him. He froze, and she breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

"Congratulations, asshole," she growled, "you've pissed me off. I should shoot you for that. Now set the gun on the ground. Slowly." He cautiously moved to obey her, his fear overriding his confidant arrogance. She kept her voice purposefully gruff, hoping Richie or Joe wouldn't recognize it. Richie had stopped by the bar a couple times to meet up with Duncan, and it was possible, if unlikely, that he would know her voice. It was far more likely that Joe, a trained observer, would find her out. She was doubly glad now for the precautionary dark ski mask. Instead of preventing the punk from recognizing her, Joe and Richie would be fooled.

She knocked the punk out with one sharp blow to the head, and thought wryly that threatening people with a gun and knocking them out was becoming her modus operandi. She nodded at Richie, then turned away.

"Wait," the impulsive pre-Immortal called out. She didn't stop, hoping he'd let matters be. <Of course not.> She could hear his steps as he hurried after her. He grabbed for her arm, but she anticipated the predictable move. She spun smoothly, knocking his arm out wide with the arm he'd attempted to grab and using her momentum to land a vicious punch in his stomach with her other fist. She winced imperceptibly at his pained grunt. She didn't want to hurt him, just make him stop following her. Persuasion wouldn't work; she didn't have the time. She spoke coldly as he bent over, gasping for air.

"Let it go, boy. Take care of *her* now."

Some of Richie's resolve faded at the reference to Tessa, but he wasn't going to give up. "You can't just show up like some white knight, stop that punk, and *leave*! Who are you?" he gasped out, confused.

"A friend," she answered shortly, backing slowly away.

"Right," he said skeptically, standing straighter. "Not good enough." He stared at her daringly. She pointed the gun at him, desperate to get out of there before MacLeod showed up.

"Leave now, child," she said with icy harshness. "I was here for one reason, to ensure Tessa Noel didn't die. I could care less if *you* do." With those cruel words, she turned on her heel and left. This time he didn't follow.

Liza ducked into a nearby alley and collapsed. Her nerves screamed at her, and she couldn't stop trembling. So many things could have gone wrong. Had the punk shot, it would have been for nothing. Had Richie pushed it, he could have found out who she was. <Richie.> The memory of what she said made her sick. she thought desperately, <no matter how much I had to get away. He's such a tough little punk, but I know how incredibly insecure he is. His Chronicle makes that very clear, especially when he's been with MacLeod and Tessa such a short amount of time.> She wished she could go back and change what had happened, correct it. <How ironic, a time traveler trapped in time,> she thought scathingly.

"No guilt," she whispered, hoping it would help. It didn't. <I'll find a way to make it up to him,> she vowed, <if I can.> At least he didn't know that she, Liza, had said those hateful things. With the way she talked, they were sure to think she was Immortal, or at least a much older person. Liza the barmaid was safe. She was guiltily grateful for that.

She could hear the T-bird's engine start up. She listened carefully for the second, quieter engine as Joe followed his subject. Only then did she return to the would-be killer. He lay collapsed on the sidewalk five feet away from where she had dropped him. <Lucky,> she thought, relieved. <MacLeod must have been more concerned with getting Tessa and Richie out of there than dealing with a drugged-up mugger.> She knelt down beside him and slapped him awake. He stared at her in insensible terror and pain.

"Get up," she ordered coldly. She wanted answers, and he was her only link now to Melville. <Damned if I'll give him a second shot at me.> The punk didn't move. She reached down and ruthlessly dragged him to his feet. She marched him back to her car, holding the gun warningly against his skull. He obeyed, fear making him malleable. She immobilized him with sturdy rope from her trunk and sat him in the passenger seat where she could keep an eye on him. His docility was starting to worry her. Why was he so passive?

She drove the nearly deserted night streets to her apartment. She would probably have to move after she finished interrogating him. She would give him no links back to her. She 'helped' him out of the car, using his residual groggy pain as a ruse to make him lean against her. This late at night, a pair of 'drunks' staggering into her apartment were a cause for disapproval, but not concern. She locked the door behind her and pushed him roughly down onto the couch. She turned off the light quickly. She wanted to interrogate him now, tonight, but that wasn't an option. Her exhaustion could make her miss important clues, and without light she couldn't accurately read his expression and posture. Leaving the light *on* would make people talk faster than coming home drunk. <What am I going to do with him, then? I can't trust him not to escape. I can't sleep if he doesn't sleep.>

She looked around the moonlit room, searching for inspiration. <The closet,> she decided. She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed some duct tape from under the sink, using touch and memory to compensate for the near total blackness where she searched. Liza came back out to see his shadowed form frantically working at the ropes, trying to loosen them enough to get free. He stopped when he noticed her and sagged back with a low moan of disappointment. She went through his pockets blindly for anything he could possibly use to free himself and found a knife and several keys along with his wallet. She wrapped his hands with quick proficiency, then his feet. She secured his knees together next, and his arms to his body. His hands were tied to his knees and then she re-taped everything. She gagged him quickly, making sure he could breathe first--a dead mortal was no use to her--before dragging him to the closet.

She turned the light on and stared at the cluttered closet in dismay. She had not intention of giving him any way to free himself. She cleared the closet of everything and maneuvered the uncooperative body in. After the door was closed firmly on him, she relaxed. She wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. She started toward her bedroom, then froze in sudden realization. If he miraculously worked his way loose during the night, he could walk out of the apartment. She would lose him; there was no guarantee she'd hear enough to wake up. Or he might kill her. Maybe not permanently, but she wouldn't bet on it. Not if he'd been with Melville. <Although that's an assumption. I'm positive Melville's behind this, and I don't *think* he'd leave something this important to an underling, but it's always possible. I can't take anything at face value.>

She grabbed the blankets and pillow off her bed and made a makeshift mat on the floor in front of the closet door. The door opened outward, so any attempt to open it would wake her. She could hear him shift restlessly, trying to get free. <Between the rope and the tape, he should hold until morning. I hope.> She dozed off, uneasily restless, with both gun and sword close to hand. When she woke at seven, she wasn't sure who slept worse, her or her prisoner. <Him,> she grudgingly admitted. <Why is it I wake earliest when I don't get enough sleep?> she wondered rhetorically. <Because you slept so miserably, dummy,> she answered herself.

She forced herself to move and deposit the rumpled blankets in her bedroom. <To be dealt with *much* later, when I have both the time and the energy.> She didn't dare risk the time it would cost to take a shower, despite how grimy she felt, and the filthy feeling only added to her discomfort. She did take the time to change her clothes. The bullet hole might not have been visible last night, but here in the light of day it was very noticeable. She selfishly grabbed a quick breakfast, eaten with a careful eye on the closet door, before even thinking about dealing with him.

She picked up her .45 from were she'd absently left it on the table during breakfast. She cautiously cracked the door, weapon ready. He glared up at her, red eyed, rumpled, and sullenly angry. His brown hair was grimy and tangled and the rest of him was in little better condition. His binding showed obvious signs of wear. <He probably spent a good portion of the night trying to get free,> she concluded. He'd managed to free his hands from where she'd secured them to his legs, but the wrapping around his hands and wrists had held. <Most likely the ropes restricted his movement enough to keep him trapped.> The bindings on his legs were twisted and distorted but they, too, held. <The ropes on his ankles.> She dragged him out despite his weak struggles and shoved him onto the couch. <And here we come full circle. From the couch to the closet, and back to the couch.> He glared up at her, sullen fear replacing sullen anger, as she jerked off his gag. He winced as the tape pulled at his cracked lips.

"Now," she said with malicious pleasantness, "you and I are going to have a little talk. What were you doing on the streets last night?"

"Nothing," he lied.

"Then you are no use to me," she replied nonchalantly, pressing the gun to his temple.

"If you were going to kill me you would have done it last night, on the street," he said with blithe certainty and a hint of bravado.

"I thought you might know something," she shrugged, bluffing. "If you don't know anything, I don't give a damn about you. Except you threatened my friends, and you know where I live. That makes you a danger. I have no reason to keep you alive and every reason to kill you." She very deliberately added a hint of pressure on the trigger.

"No!" He tried to pull away, shrinking into the couch, convinced by her casual brutality. She halted the depression on the gun.

"Why shouldn't I?" she asked with a cruel little smile.

"I . . . I don't know what I was doing there," he admitted, resentfully bitter. "I was drugged out of my mind. Is that what you wanted to hear? I needed some cash to get a fix."

"So you decided to kill my friends?" she snapped, pressing the gun more insistently into his temple.

"I wasn't going to kill them!" he protested, horrified. "I couldn't kill someone." She eased off a little, releasing the trigger back to where it rested normally. No sense tempting an accident.

"Oh?" she said with sardonic disbelief. "Then why were you armed?"

"Armed?" he faltered, staring at her with widened eyes.

"Your gun, stupid," she hissed. "If you weren't going to kill them, why were you carrying a gun?"

"I wasn't. I use a knife," he insisted, irritated and a trace desperate. "I don't carry a piece. Swear to God I don't." She retreated a step and silently pulled out the gun he was carrying last night with her free hand.

"Last night you pulled this on Tessa Noel and Richie Ryan," she stated flatly, daring him to deny the truth.

"Who?" he asked in genuine confusion.

"The people last night, the ones you tried to rob and kill," she clarified, grinding her teeth in agitation. Was he truly so stupid?

"I don't know what you're talking about," he demanded, confused. "The only people I went after last night were some old drunks."

"Tessa Noel and Richie Ryan," she yelled in frustration, bringing the gun to his forehead to emphasize her point. "You tried to hot-wire their car. I watched you do it!" He glared at her, fury overwhelming his terror.

"Are you insane?! I didn't hot-wire anything last night!" he shouted back, admirably ignoring the muzzle pressed to his temple.

"Don't lie to me!" Liza raged, nearly out of control with incoherent fury.

"I'm not!" he screamed, defiant. "I don't carry a piece! I don't kill people! I didn't go after your friends! I might have been drugged, but I remember that much!"

She froze at the way he said that, her anger banished by her shock. She controlled herself and re-evaluated her assumptions. Something in what he said, an unconscious slip . . . Not 'I was on drugs.' "I was drugged," she repeated.

"Yeah," he snapped, "on drugs."

"No," she corrected, staring piercingly at him. "You said 'I was drugged.'"

"No. I said 'on drugs.' No one drugged me," he denied, traces of fear showing on his face. Why should he be afraid?

Her anger slipped further away as she calculated what he said. <Is it possible? What if I was wrong? What if Melville isn't paying him off or blackmailing him? What if he *was* drugged?>

She questioned him carefully, almost kindly, but his memories were hazy and fading. The longer they spoke, the less he remembered. It was unnerving. His memory of last night was already lost in a drug-like haze. <Why can't he remember? He's not lying, not now. It makes no sense. Something must be forcing him to forget. What? What could Melville have done to him?> The key to the answer was there, right in her last thought, she realized.

She moved abruptly to retrieve the laptop with her Chronicles on it, impatient with her own stupidity. <Melville.> She pulled up Melville's entry, enlarged the photograph, and set the screen down in front of Mark.

"Do you know this man?"

He gaped in shock, his pallor ashen with the recognition as his memory overrode the implanted commands. "Oh, God," he moaned insensibly.

"Do you know him?" Liza hissed intently, the need to know driving her back into an impassioned intensity.

"Yes," he cried, collapsing back, his defiant control gone.

"Rosca," she spoke sharply, trying to grab his attention from the onslaught of memory as she would an Immortal who was caught in a flashback. "Mark, who is he? Do you know who he is?"

"He was there," Mark whimpered, unable to answer he question or maybe incapable of hearing her.

"Where, Mark? Stay with me. Where was he?" She forced her tone to stay mellow and calmingly detached, imitating a psychologist's.

"He was always there. They took me . . . He was there," Mark mumbled, shaking.

"Who took you?" she pressed.

"Them!" he cried.

"What did they do to you? Mark! What did they make you do?" she demanded.

"I was supposed to kill them. Please! Tell me I didn't kill them," he begged brokenly, caught in his memories.

"No," she soothed as she attempted to draw his focus back to the present. She needed to calm him down. She couldn't afford for this conversation to be overheard. <Anymore than it already has been.> "They're fine. No one was hurt." His childlike horror at what he hadn't done moved her to pity.

"Thank God," he whispered. She impulsively tucked away the guns and sat next to him, sympathy banishing any anger she felt toward him. His relief convinced her. He allowed her to take his hand and she held it tightly.

"Shh," she comforted awkwardly. "You're safe. They're safe. Nothing came of it. It wasn't your choice."

"It could have been," he sobbed, breaking down.

"No," she declared with certainty, trying to convince them both. "It doesn't have to be like that."

"I don't want to live like this," he cried, self-loathing anguish evident in his rigid, trembling body.

"You don't have to," she vowed. "I'll help you." <Pathetic,> one part of her mind sneered. <One sob story and you're committed to helping a worthless hoodlem.> She firmly ordered that voice silent.

"Why would you help me?" Mark wondered bitterly. "I'm a worthless punk." Liza flinched as he echoed her unkind thoughts.

"I owe you," she temporized, working furiously to order her thoughts. "It was my enemy who programmed you. It was my friends he was after."

"He didn't make me what I am now," he pointed out cynically. "I did a fine job myself."

"Everyone needs help occasionally," she argued, trying to hold her temper. <I've been out of control enough today. Fine mess I'm making of this Correction.>

"So now you're my guardian angel?" he asked skeptically, and laughed shortly. He hunched his shoulder slightly, clearly expecting a negative reaction.

"Hardly," she retorted dryly, moving away, refusing to get physical with him again. "I help you, you help me."

"Help you do what?" he asked apprehensively. <He's as paranoid as an Immortal,> she realized.

"I need some work done. Nothing illegal," <Nothing much illegal,> she amended. She kept her voice light and free of sarcasm. "And I expect you to make an effort. I can't do this for you." He stared at her, suspicion still lurking behind his wounded chestnut eyes.

"All right," he agreed eventually. <Like he wouldn't agree to anything you asked with him tied up and those guns in your hand,> the cynical voice returned. "Can you untie me now?" he asked plaintively, half raising his bound hands. She smiled slightly, banished the voice of her good sense yet again, and pulled her knife. She sliced efficiently through the tape and rope bindings. The mess was tossed on the floor with the same casual disregard she'd shown her clothes earlier.

"I need a shower," she said, standing and stretching languidly. It was a calculated show of trust. Not only was she leaving him alone, she would be unarmed. "There's food in the kitchen, help yourself. My house is yours." She reached over and shut down the laptop. "You can have the shower next, or you can take a nap. I don't imagine you slept well last night." She grinned at the dirty look he threw at her. He echoed her stretch and winced at his rebellious cramped muscles.

"You can have the bed for a few hours if you want it," she suggested as she closed the bathroom door. She stripped out of the clothes and stepped into the shower. She turned the water on hot and briskly scrubbed off last night's effort. Blood and dirt cascaded down the drain and she allowed herself to relax for the first time as the success of her second Correction sunk in.

She came out of the shower half an hour later and stepped into her room, gently toweling her hair. Mark stood there in the center of the room, holding her shirt in horror. She stopped, her mute horror echoing his. A chill, tight sickness closed in around her chest and sunk into her abdomen.

"They killed you last night," he mumbled, fear back in his eyes. "I remember they shot you. What are you?!" She flinched at the loathing in his voice. <Murphy, you asshole,> she cursed bitterly as she tried to think of a way out of this. She recalculated her earlier decisions. He was involved in Immortality now, one way or another. Unless she killed him, which was no longer an option, if it ever had been.

"Immortal," she answered honestly. There was no lie he'd believe that she could think of.

"That's not possible!" he insisted, panicked, waving the shirt around for emphasis. "*This* is not possible!"

"Calm down," she advised him, wishing she could take that advice herself. She had to try to salvage the situation. "It is possible."

"You're Immortal," he breathed, trying to comprehend what she'd told him.

"Yes." She closed the distance between them, reached out, took the shirt from his unresisting grip, and set it to one side. She grabbed his arm gently and steered him toward the door. "Let me get dressed and I'll explain, I swear."

He nodded, numb. <It's too much for him,> she realized. <Too much, too quickly.> She closed the door firmly and hurried into clean clothes. She gathered up all her clothes from the night before and shoved them into a duffle bag. She'd need to get rid of them later, but she had other worries now. He was sitting on her couch again, staring at nothing. His dazed face roused her sympathy again. <When did I start liking him? When did I start thinking of him as a friend?> She sat down next to him, staring off into that same empty patch of space he was.

"I don't know who my parents are. None of us do. All Immortals are foundlings, as far as I know. I've never heard of one who wasn't, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened." She forced herself to stop babbling. <It's the stress. Calm down.> "We are very hard to kill. Shooting, stabbing, poison, all of that will send us into a temporary death. We heal and revive. That's what happened last night, after I was shot." How much should she tell him? <If he's around me, chances are he'll find out about MacLeod, at least. Not to mention Darius and probably Richie. Not to mention the other Immortals who parade through Seacouver and Paris. Plus it would be nice to have someone to talk to about this.> Maybe it was irrational, but she wanted to trust him. <A drug-addicted liar, petty thief, and God knows what else, whom I've known for less than a day, and I want to trust him. I must be *insane.*> She kept explaining anyway.

"Immortals fight and kill each other in a mythological battle they call the 'Game.' It's a bloody, pointless waste of life," she spat.

"I thought they couldn't die?" Mark managed to force out, confusion overriding his stunned acceptance.

"Decapitation," she said flatly, running two fingers across her throat graphically. "It's the only way to kill us. They fight with swords or axes, one on one, except on Holy Ground, their sanctuary. Any Holy Ground, no matter what religion, is sacred. None of them will fight there."

"I . . . thought you were Immortal," he faltered. "You said decapitation is the only way to kill you, but . . . 'they' fight? Not you?"

"I'm different," she admitted. "Immortals can sense each other. I can't sense them, they can't sense me. If no one knows I'm Immortal, they won't challenge me and I don't have to fight." He nodded at the logic.

"Why can't they sense you?" he asked.

Liza considered his honest bewilderment carefully. She didn't want to lie, but she had no intention of telling him about Time Guard. Immortality he could find out about from watching Duncan. There was no reason he should ever have to know about Time Guard. <Yeah, a no-reason called 'Melville.'> She ignored that thought away from long practice. He knew too many secrets already. <You're getting damn good at not thinking about what you don't *want* to think about,> her conscience goaded. <Like how you consider what's good for Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod before you consider what's good for Time Guard.> She ignored the nagging of her conscience as well.

"There's a procedure," she hedged hesitantly, trying not to lie. Lies tended to catch up to her at the most inconvenient time. "An incredible amount of energy is passed through an Immortal. It short circuits the ability to sense Immortals." <Yeah, while it's catapulting a person back in Time.>

"What does the electricity have to do with anything?" <Brilliant, Liza, forget to tell him about the Quickening,> she though scathingly. She rubbed a hand roughly over her face.

"When an Immortal is killed--er, killed permanently--" she amended, "a force is released we call the Quickening. It's the life-force of the Immortal, what gives us our healing and our long lives. It's in everything, but in Immortals it's concentrated enough to keep us alive for long beyond what a mortal can live. Most believe that's forever, but there's no proof of that. The oldest of us is supposed to be five thousand years old, but he's a myth. Anyway, the Quickening manifests as a huge electrical storm when one Immortal is killed. The Quickening passes from the dead Immortal to be absorbed into the still living opponent. The interaction between the Quickenings of two Immortals is like a nerve wracking 'buzz' at close range and it works like an early warning system. Actually," she mused, "the electricity probably changes the Quickening more than it short circuits it."

"I don't think I can take this in," Mark said shakily. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "I have to think."

"Do you still want to stay here?" Liza asked flatly. "Do you still want my help?" He nodded without hesitation. "Then don't worry about it. We have time, this Immortal stuff can wait. There are things that can't." He opened his eyes quickly and sat up rigidly. "First," she listed, "as long as you stay with me, you will not use drugs of any kind, not even alcohol." He nodded. "You'll probably be going through withdrawal soon, if you aren't now . . ." she trailed off when he shook his head.

"I've already been through it. Whatever it was they gave me, it wasn't crack. I'm clean." He met her gaze briefly, then looked away.

"So no physical addiction, but a mental one?" He refused to meet her eyes again. "I think getting you work would help," she decided. "Working would give you something else to focus on, instead of the drugs." He nodded, cautiously agreeing with her. <Maybe I can even get him Watching my subjects for me when they go to Paris and I can't get off work.> She rather liked that idea.

"So, Mark," she asked casually, "Do you want to learn French?"

He flushed. "I didn't graduate," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"What?" Liza asked, unsure how learning French was related to graduating.

"I didn't finish school. I'm dumb. You don't want to teach me." He flushed, ashamed by his ignorance. Education had never seemed important to him before.

"You are *not* dumb," she stated flatly. <If he thinks he's stupid, he'll never learn anything.> "Education is not intelligence. Education I can give you, intelligence I can't. Besides, how will you get along in France if you don't speak the language?"

"France?" he repeated, disbelieving. She almost laughed at the amazement in those wide eyes.

"France," she affirmed.

Over the next two years, Liza ran Mark ragged. When he wasn't working, he was learning, or out with Liza at some social event. She brought him to the movies, the theater, museums, and out to expensive restaurants. She tried to distract him from his addiction and show him at the same time how much more life had to offer than a mindless addiction. He confessed to her once that her efforts both helped him resist the temptation and yet failed almost entirely to distract him.

"It's like the urge is always there," he explained. "It never stops."

"I don't know that it ever will," Liza told him soberly.

"I'm not giving in," he insistently assured her.

"No," she agreed, and not just to placate him.

He started out working minimum wage loading boxes at a warehouse. It was frustrating, pointless work, but there was nothing else available for him, not with his record and without a higher education. Liza was working to remedy that, but it was a slow process. He was unused to learning, and she had to repeat every lesson until he understood it and remembered. She held her patience with an iron grip. She didn't want to destroy his fragile confidence with her frustration. It was an arduous time, with success measured in increments more often than not, but they worked through it. Without the drugs, poverty and hunger, Mark became a man worth knowing. She trusted him eventually with the secret of the Watchers, something he accepted far more easily than he accepted Immortals. <After all,> she reasoned with her conscience, <if he was going to keep an eye on MacLeod's clan for her, he'd learn about Joe soon enough.>

"If you're an Immortal," he asked, "how do you know about these Watchers?"

"I was one, once," she admitted.

"Once?" he grinned and pried shamelessly. "How long ago was 'once?'"

"I'm not *that* old," she protested in exasperation, lightly slapping him. "I'm a little baby Immortal."

"How old is old?" he teased, ducking her next swat. She didn't dignify him by attempting it.

"Not old enough," she said evasively, but firmly.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" he asked. She grinned and shook her head.

"It's even more impolite to ask an Immortal's age than it is it ask a lady. And I happen to be both," she explained primly.

He stared at her in mock disbelief. "Immortal I'll give you, but a *lady*?!"

"A lady," she declared snootily, playing it up even more.

"Okay, lady, so the Watchers watch. You want *me* to watch this Watcher, his watchee, Duncan MacLeod, plus affiliated family members. And you want me to do it in France."

"Yep, that pretty much covers it. I'll be there for the first week unless . . . I wonder if I could get Joe to take me with him. France is confusing your first time. Between the two of us, we should be able to cover them most of the time."

"Works for me," he shrugged amenably.

Part 4: Seacouver, 1995

"Come on, Joe," Liza wheedled, "take me. I've never been to Paris." She was lying though her teeth, but her urgency was convincing Joe, much as he it.

"Liza . . ." he protested wearily, but she didn't give him a chance to continue.

"You're going to open a new bar. You're going to need help! I know how you do things. Come *on*, Joe!"

Joe sighed, won over in spite of himself by the earnest yearning in her eyes and voice. <She *could* be useful.>

"All right," he gave in, "but you have to buy your own ticket." She gave him an exultant smile and an exuberant hug. There was no way in hell she was missing this trip. If the Time stream had moved back again this securely after she saved Tessa, then something big had to be coming up eventually. It amazed her that the disruption hadn't been as bad as she thought it would be. <Will it be so much worse when things finally do change?> Now, this trouble with Kalas had convinced Duncan to move Tessa and Richie to Paris. That made her think. Once before, when Slan had hunted Duncan and his kinsman, Duncan had refused to flee merely because of the danger to Tessa and Richie. Why would he do so now?

It made her wonder how much of what they did was really free will. Did they truly have a choice in their actions? Were they destined to follow the same path? Did Duncan have no choice in going to Paris and meeting Methos? Maybe it was an echo of the past that wasn't? <You're rationalizing,> she told herself cynically. She disliked the idea that they didn't have a choice, that there was no free will. Maybe this past only set because it *was* the past, she considered. That didn't make sense, because the past was the present now. But because she was out of Time, was she the only one in this time who had free will? She rejected the arrogance of that thought. Maybe she was as caught up by Time and fate as everyone else. She refused to think about it any more; it depressed her. It was better to act as if she had free will. If she had no free will, it would make no difference what her choices were. Everything would happen as it should regardless. Since she had no way of knowing the truth of it, she would do her damnedest. The only option worth planning for was the one she believed. If Time inevitably repeated, and she had no reason to believe it wouldn't--yet--then MacLeod would meet Methos in Paris. The famous meeting. She had *no* intention of missing this.

Joe got them both tickets, but he did make her pay for hers. She shrugged philosophically at that, and thought about her investments in several companies she *knew* would do well. There were some perks to coming from the future. She had a fine financial base, but Joe didn't need to know that. She arranged for Mark's seat several rows back. She didn't think Joe would recognize him. He wasn't the scruffy, drugged-up punk Joe had glimpsed so briefly. His confident, sharp appearance and cultured sophistication made him unrecognizable.

"Why are you so anxious to go to Paris?" Joe asked casually. He settled into the seat as they waited for the plane to take off. Liza's alarm bells went off. Had she made him suspicious? Was he just trying to pass the time?

"Like I said, I've never been there," she said cautiously, but trying to act casual.

"Shouldn't you save your money? You don't make a lot," Joe suggested with kind humor. She relaxed. He was just passing the time.

"So give me a raise," she joked, gesturing flamboyantly. "Anyway, you only live once."

Joe thought that was hilarious.

The plane touched down in Paris late that night. Liza caught one glimpse of Mark as they disembarked. She stayed close to Joe, not wanting to lose him. He touched her arm lightly to get her attention.

"Where are you staying?" Joe asked, concerned. She shrugged and smiled wryly.

"Haven't got that part figured out yet. I'd planned to stay in a hotel."

"You can crash at my place," her companion suggested generously. Her smile became more genuine but she shook her head.

"Thanks Joe, but I don't want to impose."

"No imposition," he assured her. He was serious, she realized, not just offering because he felt compelled to. <What about Mark?> She hated to leave Mark alone, but it would look suspicious for her to turn down Joe now.

"Sure, all right. I'll take the couch or something," she agreed.

"You can have the bed," he offered graciously.

"No," she disagreed firmly. Kicking an elderly, crippled mortal out of his bed was *not* an option. "The couch is fine."

"If you insist." He winked, letting her know she wasn't fooling him as to why she didn't want the bed.

"Ah, Joe?" she asked, feigning discomfort.

"What?"

"I have to use the rest room," she lied with a sheepish smile.

"Can it wait?" he asked tiredly, sounding for all the world like the father of a young child. <And me twice his age.>

"No, dad, it can't," she said with a wry grin.

"All right. Make it fast." He waved resignedly in the direction of the bathrooms.

She ducked off in that direction and was reassured when Mark met her out of Joe's sight range. <Quick thinking,> she thought approvingly.

"Joe's insisting I spend the night at his apartment. I'm going to get you a hotel room for tonight, we can see about something permanent tomorrow." He assured her that was fine. She found a pay phone and made the call, talking in rapid French. She got the answer she needed to hear, hung up, and turned back to Mark.

"You got enough money for the room?"

"Yes, lady mother," he assented cheerfully. "I have enough money."

"Catch a cab, You're staying in the Hotel de Seze, Paris. Just ask the cabby to take you there."

"No problem. Are you going to catch up with me tomorrow?"

"Yep. I have to get back to Joe before he gets suspicious."

He shooed her away with the assurance, "I'll be fine."

"What is it with the men in my life ordering me around like I was five?" she griped under her breath as she made her way back to Joe. "Do I *look* five?"

Joe waved to her as she came back. She smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Joe."

"No problem. Let's catch a cab to my apartment," he suggested, leading her away.

The couch wasn't comfortable, but she'd slept in far worse places. That first night with Mark came immediately to mind. She slept lightly--she always did in strange places--and awoke well before Joe. She showered quickly, not wanting to cause futher inconvenience. Joe wasn't awake yet when she got out, so she started a pot of coffee and scrambled eggs for breakfast. she decided.

A sleepy-eyed Joe wandered it. He took one look at her handiwork and grumbled, "Great. Another morning person."

She grinned, though she wasn't supposed to know the joke. MacLeod was notorious for his early mornings.

"Cheer up, Joe," she said jovially, playing up his discomfort, "your coffee's done for you."

"Thanks," he commented wryly.

"No problem," she announced, chipper. "What's your plan today?"

"Legal stuff, nothing interesting. Why don't you take today to see Paris?" <In other words, 'go away so I can Watch MacLeod in peace,'> she translated.

"Sure," she agreed, turning her thoughts to where she planned to go. Mark had to be given a brief tour of Paris and then would probably do better on his own. He had an appalling knack for cities.

"Call my cell phone if you get lost," Joe ordered conscientiously.

"All right. Later, Joe," she waved, heading for the door.

"You're leaving? This early?" he asked, surprised. She paused only long enough to answer him.

"Early? Joe, it's eight-thirty already," she pointed out with a wicked grin.

Joe sighed. "Go on, have fun."

"Oh, I will," she assured him.

She caught up with Mark at the Hotel de Seze. It's companion hotel in Bordeaux was famous--among the Watchers, at least. In four hours, Mark could find his way around Paris better than she could. She gave him a disgusted look, which he took in stride, and left him on his own.

It took her another hour to find Shakespeare and Company Bookstore. She knew the Watchers--and Methos even more so than them--kept a low profile, but this was ridiculous. Liza opened the door, and heard the light chime of the bell. How quaint. No one was there, that she could see. Maybe he was in the back room. She began to browse as if she were a normal customer. Someone had to come, hopefully 'Adam Pierson.'

"Can I help you?" The familiar voice made her heart jump. Luck was with her, it seemed. She turned to face him with a warm, unthreatening smile. He looked the same--raven-haired, chameleon eyed, and cheerfully lanky--but that went without saying. He was Immortal, after all. He seemed quieter, more subdued, then she remembered. Definitely Adam Pierson instead of the mythical Methos.

"I'm looking for a book," she baited him, waiting for his predictable response.

"You've found one, miss," he informed her patiently. A quirk in her grin told him he'd been had. <Very funny,> he thought drolly.

"What book are you looking for?" he asked patiently, deciding to ignore the joke at his expense. Regrettably, it was what Adam Pierson would do.

"Are you sure you want to know?" she taunted cheerfully, determined to resurrect the caustic Methos she knew.

"Quite sure," he insisted dryly, relenting a bit.

"Oh, all right. If you don't want to be teased, I'll leave you alone," she mock-conceeded. Methos would know it for the challenge it was. Whether his 'Adam Pierson' persona would allow him to retaliate was another story.

"You're sense of humor is appalling," he murmured, glancing away. She grinned again, delighted.

"Of course it is, but the look on your face was worth it." He wanted to smile, but repressed the urge and blushed instead. It was a more 'Adam' reaction. <Damn,> she thought, <he's going to be recalcitrant. There had to be a way to draw him out of hiding.>

"Bad jokes aside, I was looking for a copy of Macbeth. My copy was destroyed by an over-enthusiastic rainstorm." She grimaced, looking for sympathy. "Where else to look for Shakespeare's books that at his bookstore?"

Adam almost lost control of the smile that time, and instead nodded wisely. "I believe we have a copy."

"Do you now?" she said amiably. She was sorely testing his self control, and he had to ruthlessly suppress his instinctive grin at her subtle sarcasm. She had his sense of humor, dammit, it wasn't fair that he had to be Adam Pierson.

"Here's the copy," he said hurriedly, pulling it off the shelf and putting it into her hands.

"Come on," she coaxed. "One smile, and I'll leave you alone." She held up her hand, one finger up.

"If I believed you, I'd smile," he said wryly, slipping from his character even more.

"Guilty," she said cheerily. One corner of his mouth turned up.

"Almost!" she crowed triumphantly. "I have an idea. . . ."

"Heaven help us," he interjected sardonically before he could stop himself. She pretended to glare at him, then continued.

"As long as I'm going to torment you until you smile, it might as well be over a beer. A reward for putting up with me." Her crooked grin was very inviting, and she had said the magic word, after all. <Even 'Adam Pierson' likes beer,> Methos reasoned.

"It'll have to wait until I'm finished here," he warned.

"*Do* you get finished here?" she asked.

"Don't push your luck."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she insisted innocently. "When do you want me back?"

"Five minutes," he said, pretending to be serious.

"Ok," she agreed, playing along, "I'll be back, but I have to warn you, I like being five minutes early when I get to a place."

He gave in and smiled. "Let's get out of here." Spontaneity was not 'Adam's' strong point, but right now Methos was wishing Adam Pierson cheerfully to hell. He was going to have a little fun.

She couldn't take him to Joe's new place, even if he had one already. She didn't want Joe to know she knew Methos; it was too much of a coincidence. Maybe later she could find out they knew each other and be suitably 'shocked,' but not yet. She wanted to re-establish her friendship with Methos first. They walked down the street together, casually searching for a bar open at one thirty in the afternoon.

"Do you live in Paris?" she asked. He looked at her sharply before deciding she was making conversation.

"Yes. Lucky me." She raised an eyebrow eloquently at his dry sarcasm.

"Forgive the naive tourist in me, but I think it's an interesting city," she retorted.

"Interesting isn't the way *I'd* put it . . ."

"I'm sure you'd say something along the lines of 'even the French don't like Paris.'" He looked at her, startled. She hid her grin, knowing very well that he *had* said exactly that to Alexa in her past . . . his future. <Was that in one of the Journals he gave to the Watchers or something he told me? The Journals, I think.> Either way, she was echoing his thoughts unnervingly. It wasn't very nice of her, but she needed every advantage in a verbal sparring match with a man fifty times her age and ten times her wit.

"I'm too young to be that cynical," he temporized.

"Right," she snorted skeptically. "You're never too young to be cynical." He shrugged, unwilling to compromise himself to someone he just met.

"Naivete' has it's benefits," he argued, falling back on Adam's response.

"No," she disagreed somberly, "that can get you killed. Like honor and trust, it's charming in children and knights, but dangerous for survival."

He snorted. "And honor should be sacrificed to survival?" he asked skeptically.

"I'm not a student of Mencius. Death before dishonor? Hardly." She smiled grimly. He had taught her that lesson. Survival was the most important thing. Live, learn, grow stronger. Fight another day.

"Did you eat lunch?" she asked, changing the depressingly serious subject.

"Yes, but I'm up for a coffee break," he suggested. Liza agreed, and they tentatively renewed their friendship in companionable silence.

Liza left him at three o'clock after hurriedly exchanging numbers and promising to call. He needed to get back to the store; she needed to check in with both Mark and Joe. When she called, they both insisted they were fine, and didn't need her. Feeling particularly useless, she got out her computer and began to run casual searches for the first Immortal who came to mind, Hugh Fitzcairn. As his current address came up on the screen, she cursed the idle interest that had caused her to track him down. He was in Paris, like Kalas. She knew now why he was in the back of her mind. He would meet Kalas soon, and he would die. She never knew Fitz, but many of the Immortals she called friend *had* known him. By her oath, she had to let him die. <Dammit, it's not fair. A bastard like Kalas shouldn't just get away with whacking a guy who's made so many people's lives better.> She was tempted, sorely tempted, to interfere. <But if I'm caught, they'll Correct it.> The idea that she was actually considering interfering in Time scared her. It was a violation of the very oath she lived by.

she thought, sick. <But he kills people, I want to save them. I could do it if I didn't get caught.> She stared at the screen and an idea came to her. Fitz was in love with a mortal woman. <If she was in danger, he would save her.> If he had to leave Paris to save her, Kalas couldn't kill him. <Who can I trust? I can't go. There can't be any connection between me and Fitz if this is going to work. If I'm in Paris, but don't record the meeting between Duncan and Methos, alarm bells will go off at Time Guard. There's no one I trust . . . no one but Mark. Would he do it? It could get him killed. Do I dare risk it?>

She called Mark and asked him to meet her at his hotel room. He arrived twenty minutes later, concerned but not frantic.

"What's up?"

"There's a man named Kalas in Paris," she said gravely. "He's an old enemy of MacLeod's. One of Duncan's oldest friends is in town as well, a man named Hugh Fitzcairn. Fitz is a decent swordsman, but no match for Kalas, and I believe Kalas will hunt him down to hurt MacLeod."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked gravely. She gave him a grateful smile.

"Fitz has an girlfriend, Naiomi Camdessus, whom he cares for very much. If she were threatened, brought out of Paris, Fitz would leave Paris to save her."

"You want me to threaten this girl?" he asked, paling.

"No," she assured him quickly. "I want you to make her *think* she's being threatened. You don't have to hurt her. Kidnap her, get her out of Paris, leave enough clues for Fitz to follow. Can you do that? If you can't, tell me now and I'll think of something else."

"You can count on me," he promised, still pale but resolved as well. He would do anything for her.

"Thank you," she breathed, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Mark? Please don't tell anyone about this. Ever. It will get me killed if you do."

"I'll take it to my grave," he promised somberly. "Now don't worry, I can handle it. It will all work out fine." He re-packed his bags quickly and gave her a small smile.

"I'd better get going."

She nodded, "Good luck."

"Good luck yourself. You're the one who has to keep track of Joe and MacLeod's little clan."

She trailed him out and they parted on the street. She walked slowly back toward Joe's apartment, wondering if she'd done the right thing. <Fitz would have died. There is no reason he should have to die.> She stopped, horrified by the realization that there *had* been a reason for Fitz's death. It had warned Duncan that Kalas was in Paris. Now, Kalas was hunting MacLeod, and the unsuspecting Highlander thought he'd left the psycho back in the states. Not only was Duncan vulnerable, but so were Tessa and Richie. she thought as she ran down the streets to Joe's apartment. She thundered up the stairs and opened the door. Joe wasn't home. <Good.> She plugged in her laptop and used her cell phone to go on line. She began carefully re-routing the call through satellites and mainland phones.

She carefully set up a new e-mail account and sent one, brief message.

Duncan MacLeod-

Kalas is in Paris. He still hates you for exposing him and the monastery and for ruining his voice. He'll target those you care about, as he did with Maria. Be careful, and watch your back.

-One Who Knows

She severed the connection. <No one can ever know. I'll take this to my grave, but I couldn't let them die.>

Liza had to force casual disinterest when Joe came home. She gushed over Paris, and mourned aloud the fact that she didn't speak the language. It would have been amusing if not for the strain of her new secret and worrying how everything would work out. The next few days only heightened the tension. She overheard one tense conversation between Fitz and Duncan that nearly stopped her heart. Fitz wanted MacLeod's help. The only thing keeping Duncan in Paris was her e-mail. He doubted it's legitimacy, but the information it had on his past reeked of Watcher influence. In spite of his suspicions, he was unwilling to risk Tessa and Richie's safety if Kalas was in Paris while he was off playing the hero. It tore at his sense of duty, but he cared for his 'family' more. Fitz left alone, furious, and Liza worried that she'd broken up the old friendship permanently.

Her luck had held so far, but Joe was starting to notice her anxious preoccupation. She spent less time with him because she didn't want to raise his suspicions. Being with Methos was wonderful, but he couldn't be with her all the time. Le Blues Bar was a welcome distraction but despite the amount of work she couldn't stay there all the time either. Don Salzer's death was almost a relief, when it came. The waiting was over, and MacLeod was justified in staying in Paris.

She trailed MacLeod to 'Adam's' house and snuck in. She could get close enough to hear them, but if she could see them then most likely they could hear her.

"Adam Pierson?" she hear Duncan call out. She listened carefully as Methos's nonchalant, amused voice responded.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Have a beer. Mi casa es su casa."

She heard, barely audible, Duncan's stunned realization. "Methos?!"

This conversation had been covered by both Methos and Duncan in the personal journals they allowed the Watcher to read. It was history, and *she* was here. The thrill and awe made the week of nervous, strained anticipation worth it. When Duncan and Methos parted on the beach, she shadowed Methos. He was supposed to meet Kalas first, and Time didn't disappoint her. She watched the two Immortals fight, hardly daring to breath. Methos, rusty and outmatched, dove off the bridge. She had no chance of finding him when he came out, but she knew where the next confrontation should be, under one of the huge tunnels in Paris.

She sped through the dark streets in her rented Parisian car. She peered into the tunnel and watched the tense, pointless fight between Methos and Duncan. She watched Duncan pull the final stroke. When they parted under the bridge, Liza followed Methos. Perhaps taking one liberty with Time had lessened her resolve. She wasn't about to let Methos break up the fight between Kalas and MacLeod. This had to be finished, before more people died. He started to turn as she came up behind him, but wasn't fast enough. She slammed her compressed sword over his head, dropping him where he stood.

She dragged him to one of the seedy no-questions-asked motels and tied him securely. She pulled her ever near-by duffle bag out of her trunk and put on the clothes she had started to think of as her super hero's costume. <Exactly how old are you?> she asked herself as she changed into the concealing clothes. She set up her laptop up in her room and waited for Joe to make the closing report on Kalas. <It's all over when that final stroke falls.>

Methos woke on the bed, the cut on his skull already healed. He kept his face unreadable and wary, but his eyes never stopped moving. She made a mental note to switch her duffle bag. He'd seen this one, and she doubted he'd forget it. For five hours they kept that silent vigil. He refused to speak, and she didn't dare risk it. Even disguising her voice, she was sure his perceptive, paranoid mind would realize who she was. The screen blipped at her. The report had been filed. She bit her lip as she read. MacLeod had won, but it had been a very near thing. Perhaps if she had waited . . . No. He had won. That was what mattered.

Liza shut down the computer and placed it in the duffle bag. Among the other things she kept in there, she had a compact cooling unit that held several poisons, sedatives, and other drugs. After interrogating Mark, she had decided it was more convenient to keep several useful drugs at hand. In this case, it let her put Methos under without resorting to violence again. She went to him with jilted, stiff movements. She didn't even want to risk him recognizing her from the way she moved. He realized what she planned to do, and his eyes went wide. He started to protest, but she plunged the needle in his neck. He succumbed quickly to the powerful drug and she hurriedly untied him. She carefully arranged his released limbs and covered him gently with the blankets.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She changed back out of her clothes, grabbed her bag and used her key to lock the door on her way out. She carefully slid the key under the door. He should be safe until he came around. She glanced at the desk, relieved to see the person had changed. <If fortune smiles, even *he* won't be able to trace me. Please let the first man forget me. The name I signed in as isn't even one of my aliases, but if he gets a good description . . .>

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Mark.

"Hello," Mark answered politely.

"Come on home, dear. Game's over."

"Sure thing, lady mother," he replied, relieved.

"See you in a day or so."

"Yep," he acknowledged and hung up.

<One last loose end,> she thought as she broke into Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore. <Sorry again, old man.> She grabbed the first copy of the Watcher Database from where it was hidden in the picture frame, then grabbed the second disk from its hiding place on the shelves. <No loose ends,> she thought in satisfaction.

She didn't realize how wrong she'd been until the next day when she listened to the recording of Methos's frantic conversation with Joe. <Stupid! Of course he'd worry about the disks being stolen!> she raged at herself. <He's half a thought away from telling the Watchers about the missing disks.> Liza considered her almost non-existant options, then went on line and carefully rerouted her trail as she had before. Her account was still active, and she sent one last e-mail.

Adam Pierson-

The disks were dangerous, and needed to be destroyed. It has been done.

-One Who Knows

Methos would have to take the message on faith, because there was no way he could trace her or the disks. Now maybe she could just relax and be normal until they went back to Seacouver.

Part 5: Seacouver 1995

Liza deposited her tray on the counter of Joe's bar. She wished Mark was still working with her, but she wished him luck with his new lady love. He had been reluctant to leave her, but he was happier with his girlfriend. He had called her last night with the news they were engaged.

"Three beers, Mike," she said cheerfully. She looked over as the door opened and her curiosity turned to honest shock.

"Adam?!" she asked, amazed. His head jerked up in shock. She dropped the tray onto the counter again and flew into his arms. She kissed him on the cheek, playing the sisterly role to the hilt. "God, I haven't seen you since Paris. How have you been?" She pulled him over to the bar and sat him down imperiously. His almost imperceptible tension when he had opened the door eased.

"I'm fine, Liza," he assured her, his amusement apparent.

"This is one hell of a coincidence," she commented, setting a beer in front of him and handing her tray to the other waitress--Alexa, wasn't it?--to deal with.

"No kidding," he commented wryly. "I'm here to see Joe Dawson."

"Joe? He's on stage. I'll tell him you're here." She made her way to the stage where Joe played. It was near the end of the set, and she flagged him down.

"What can I do for you, Liza?"

"Adam Pierson's here to see you."

"Adam?" Joe asked. His eyes went immediately to the oldest Immortal.

"I didn't know you knew Adam," she said curiously. He would find out they knew each other soon enough, and he would be less suspicious if *she* questioned *him*.

"You know Adam?" Joe mimicked.

"Yeah, I met him in Paris," she explained.

"We've . . . worked together," Joe sidestepped lamely. She smiled, and pretended to accept the explanation.

Joe dismounted from the stage and motioned Adam toward the office. Adam nodded and joined Joe. The door closed resolutely behind them and Liza sighed in frustration. *Why* did they have to be so private? Why would Adam be here? She tried to remember her Chronicles. She hadn't checked them in awhile; it was easier just to live what happened. <Kristin Gilles,> she recalled suddenly. So why was he talking to Joe? A friendly hello? It must be, because she didn't remember Joe having much to do with the whole Kristin debacle besides keeping *Methos's* involvement out of the Chronicles. She kept a wary eye on the door they left through, and to her relief they came out smiling.

Liza made a note of where Methos sat down, at a table this time instead of the bar, and set her tentatively thought out plan into motion. Joe hadn't even hinted to her that he was considering her for the Watchers, and he probably wouldn't unless she forced his hand. Or more correctly, Methos's hand. She hadn't thought to put it in motion so soon. It would be tricky to pull off, maybe impossible, but she needed to get in to their inner circle. The way things worked now, she could miss something important without ever realizing it.

She brought Methos' beer over to him, moving rapidly though the room. One of the patrons had a tendency to push his chair far back. This time was no different. The 'problem' was in the chair *she* had left out too far, right behind that particular patron's. As she tried to maneuver swiftly between the two chairs she 'tripped' and went sprawling. The glass shattered loudly right beside Methos. She stood up hastily, her face red with embarrassment that wasn't entirely feigned. She hadn't counted on *so* many people staring at her.

"Oh God, Adam. I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'll pick it up."

"Let me help," he insisted. So much for his denial of chivalry. He wouldn't let a little mortal girl pick up the glass by herself and risk injury, especially not one he called a friend. In trying to keep up with Liza's deft, practiced speed, he sliced open his finger. He immediately cursed and stuck the finger in his mouth. It was an assumed habit of his, a way to blend in with mortals. It had annoyed Liza before, and it annoyed her now.

"Stop it," she insisted in irritation, pulling the resisting hand of his mouth in one sharp jerk. The move was familiar, and for a half second she forgot she was acting. Then Methos's eyes moved involuntarily toward the now healing finger. He retracted the hand as if he'd been burned and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. She stared at him, a wide-eyed, slightly horrified stare. His panicked, half shake of his head gave her the excuse to look down and pretend to have seen nothing. They piled the glass on the tray and she brought it over to the garbage. He wanted to run, she could see it in the suddenly tense, expressionless poise. Few things held him here now. That she was a friend, that Duncan and Joe were his friends, and that if he left, he didn't know if she'd keep quiet--these were the only reasons he wasn't already out the door. She mopped up the spilled beer quickly and pulled him to a corner to demand an explanation.

"What the hell was that, Adam?" she insisted, putting the slightest trace of fear into her voice. She had to make this believable. She felt terrible as soon as she saw the quickly masked apprehension on his face. How well she knew the uncertainty of trying to explain Immortality. Mark had been a revelation about that particular Immortal rite of passage. She was sickly ashamed of herself, and she shook her head. <It's not worth causing him pain. Assignment be damned, I won't do that to him,> "Never mind," she said vehemently. "You don't owe me an explanation. I shouldn't have tried to force you." She kissed him quickly on the forehead. "Whatever it is, consider it forgotten." She turned to go, but he caught her hand.

"Wait," he asked. He inhaled deeply, convincing himself that he wasn't making a mistake. "I'm Immortal." She blinked, honestly expecting him to have dropped it, but unwilling to let the opportunity slide now that it was there.

"Immortal?" she asked, incredulous, slipping into her role. "As in, you can't die?"

"Anyone can die. It's just a lot harder to kill an Immortal. Decapitation is the traditional way."

She searched his face intently, as if trying to see if he was joking. She nodded, appreciating his candor. <It takes guts to tell someone how to kill you, even a friend.>

"Decapitation?" she asked unsteadily. He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant. His uncertainty was painfully obvious.

"Decapitation releases the Quickening, our life-force. Some say it's our very soul. The winner absorbs the loser's Quickening."

"Absorbs his soul?" she repeated, horrified. Methos winced.

"That's one way to think of it," he muttered, looking away.

"And you do this too?" she questioned, sounding nauseous.

"If I have to. It's not like we have much choice. We fight, we hide on holy ground, or we die," he snapped, irritated by her reaction. It was always the same reaction, but he was disappointed anyway. Liza flushed at his comment.

"All right, I believe you," she spoke, biting her lip lightly in anxiety. "I can cope, I promise." Methos nodded in relief.

"You should talk to Joe about this, " he suggested.

"Joe's Immortal?" she asked, deliberately drawing the wrong conclusion.

"No. He's mortal," Methos corrected with a fleeting, amused smile. "I'll let him explain exactly what he does. It might appeal to you."

"All right. I'll talk to him," she agreed meekly. <Gotcha.>

"Liza," he said hesitantly, "would you please not tell *anyone* I'm Immortal? Joe knows, but he's the only mortal who does. For his people to find out could cost me my life. It *will* cost me my safety."

"I promise," she assured him unhesitatingly. "Why would it cost you your life?"

"It's . . . complicated. I'm a Watcher, like Joe."

"Joe said you worked together," she mused. "What's a Watcher?"

"What Joe is. He really should explain it . . ."

"All right. Let's go talk to him," she said decisively, flagging down the bar keeper. "We need to talk, Joe," she insisted firmly.

"Sure, Liza, what's up?" Joe asked, putting down the rag he'd been wiping the bar with.

"Not where we can be heard," she clarified seriously.

Joe studied her face, then Methos's, before gesturing toward his office. They relaxed into the few chairs.

"What's this about, Liza?" Joe asked, concerned.

"Actually, Joe, it's about me," Methos interjected.

"You haven't even been in town for two hours and already you're in trouble?" Joe asked, amused.

"Very funny, Joe," Methos retorted in irritation. "I cut my hand on a piece of glass. Liza saw it heal."

"So you told her," Joe surmised.

"Yes."

"At least she didn't run out screaming," he smiled at her. Liza decided he was getting way too much amusement out of this.

"Adam said you were a Watcher. What's a Watcher?" she grilled him. She tried to project impatient curiosity.

"You told her about us?" Joe asked Methos, appalled. "What were you thinking? And don't tell me you were improvising."

"I thought you might want her in the Watchers," Methos said scathingly.

"And you didn't think to ask me this first?" Joe demanded angrily.

"I trust her, Joe. I *thought* you did," Methos sniped, his expression tight. The narrowly restrained tension made him seem more dangerous than his usual 'Adam Pierson' persona.

"I do," Joe growled, not backing down. "I don't want her dragged into this. You know how the Watchers are about non-members knowing about them."

Methos glared at him. "Sorry, Joe. I didn't realize Immortal meant infallible."

"Joe, it's okay," Liza interjected hastily, worried by the sudden animosity between the two men. Watcher policy was much more relaxed when she joined. She'd forgotten how anal retentive they could be about it. "I won't say another word about it if you don't want me to," she insisted earnestly.

"No use locking the barn after the horse has been stolen." Joe shook his head, resigned. "The Watchers are mortals who keep track of Immortals," he explained.

"But if Adam is Immortal, how can he be a Watcher?" she asked, feigning confusion.

Methos coughed self consciously. "They don't exactly know I'm Immortal."

"I see," Liza commented with a crooked smile.

"It was a way out of the Game," he explained, a bit defensively.

"The Game?" she echoed dutifully.

"Immortals fight--and kill--each other in one on one battles. It's how we take the Quickenings." She listened, wide-eyed, as he explained everything she had grown up knowing. Joe watched her reactions carefully, and she found herself playing up to her audience of two. She was careful not to cross the line into melodramatic, but she certainly enjoyed the performance.

"Well?" Joe asked, when Methos finished. "What do you think?"

"This is fucking weird," she exhaled. "It's . . . I don't know. Can I think about all this? Really have time to think about it?"

"Of course," Joe agreed immediately. Liza stood and left the office. She took to the city streets, wandering. Now that she had the chance, did she want to be a Watcher again? Would she dedicate her life to the same cause? It would be so easy to walk away, to live mortal life after mortal life, to never worry about ending the Game or correcting Time. It would be so easy just to be normal.

<Can I do it? Can I, in good conscience, walk away when I know I can help? How many lives have I saved? The future is better because of me. The cost, the dedication, is little price to pay for that.> She turned and walked slowly back. Joe and Methos hadn't moved, that she could see.

"I can deal with it," she said as she sat back down.

"That's great," Joe said, relieved, settling back into his chair.

"What about . . ." Methos hinted, waving slightly with one hand.

"Right," Joe agreed. "Liza, would you consider being a Watcher? Would you like to be one?"

She looked at him, weighing her answer, knowing everything depended on it's believability. "No."

"It's your choice," Joe stated, resigned. "We're not going to force you to join." How he was ever going to explain this to the Watchers . . . or maybe it would become yet one more secret to keep. Liza examined his expression, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she followed his train of thought. She half smiled wryly.

"No," she repeated herself almost compassionately, "I wouldn't *like* to be a Watcher. But I'll do it."

Joe stared at her in bewilderment, at a loss for words.

"I believe it's necessary," Liza continued vehemently.

"Necessary?" Joe managed to cough out, raising an amazed eyebrow.

"Necessary," she affirmed. "For myself, you, the One, whatever. I feel it's necessary, so I will do it. It that good enough?"

"Yes," Joe breathed. "It's enough. I'll get you into the Academy."

Part 6: Seacouver 1996

"Hey, Mac." Richie looked up from the counter where he was busily making a sandwich, concerned for his mentor. "You're home. How'd it go? Could you help Coltec?"

"Oh, yes," Duncan breathed, a strange inflection in his voice. "It went *much* better than I expected." Richie looked at him strangely.

"So, he's okay now? He's over this Dark Quickening thing?" Duncan looked at him with that unsettling stare.

"Under it would be more accurate," Duncan corrected with a secretive smile. "I'd say about a foot under it." Richie stared at him in horror.

"You had to kill him?"

"Oh, no," Duncan corrected, "I *wanted* to kill him." He could have been discussing what was for dinner. A small, cruel smile pulled at his lips. His malicious stillness was freaking Richie out.

"What, what's going on, Mac?" Richie stammered, uncertain.

"You're a bright boy, you figure it out," he sneered. The katana was in his hands. Richie never even saw him draw it. The blade flashed out, and fire hissed along his side. He cried out in pain and sudden fear. He met his mentor's merciless, implacable stare with disbelieving betrayal.

"Mac?" he questioned. A thousand remembered betrayals slammed into the young pre-Immortal. He had thought he was safe now. Somehow, this betrayal ached worse than any of the others.

The katana blurred again, liquid steel, and Richie collapsed to his knees, his wounded leg unable to support him. Duncan stepped forward and buried the sword savagely into the boy's chest.

"Duncan!" Tessa screamed from the door. "What have you done? Richie!" She ran forward, heedless of any danger to herself, as her lover twisted the bloody blade loose. Richie tried to speak, confusion and betrayal haunting his face, and he died in her arms. Tessa turned on Mac, enraged.

"What have you done?!" she shouted, outraged.

He backhanded her into a cabinet. She stormed back to her feet and glared at him, disbelieving. "What are you doing?! Duncan!" He enjoyed the outrage on her face, the struggle as he kissed her. The blood on her lips tasted so sweet. And the power . . . One shot rang out, then a second one. Duncan stiffened, convulsively tightened his grip on her, and then died. Tessa pushed his body away with a shudder. She looked up tearfully to see Joe Dawson standing there, a melancholy expression on his face and the gun still held loosely in his hand.

"Will you be all right?" he asked gently, coming to help her up.

She nodded, and accepted the hand although she was courteously careful not to pull on his hand hard enough to bring him down on top of her. "Richie . . ." She started to sob as she reached his body.

"Shh," Joe soothed. "He'll come around. When he does, I want you both to get out of here."

"Richie's Immortal?" she faltered, dazed. She reached out hesitantly to touch the still warm skin.

"So Mac said," Joe told her wryly. Tessa didn't reply. She clutched his head gently to her chest and rocked him gently--under Joe's protective watch--until he revived with the tell-tale sharp intake of breath. He moaned from the residual pain, and Tessa placed one hand soothingly on his cheek.

"What happened?" he mumbled, frightened. He reached hesitantly for where the sword had pierced him.

"He killed you," Tessa growled.

"Killed me? I'm like him?" Richie demanded.

"Immortal," Tessa affirmed. Richie pushed himself up and immediately saw where Mac had fallen.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "How long has he been there?"

"Too long," Joe said grimly. "You need to get out of here before he comes around." Richie nodded and laboriously got to his feet with Tessa's help. He winced from the pain of half-healed wounds. Joe shook his head.

"You can't go on the street like that. Change your clothes. Both of you pack. I think you should go to the island. He can't hurt you there."

Tessa agreed, and helped a limping Richie up the stairs. MacLeod stirred. Joe considered him for a minute, then put another two bullets in him. It was easier the second time. Three minutes later, Tessa and Richie rushed back down the stairs. Tessa only paused long enough to whisper thanks and kiss his cheek gently. Richie, burdened by their bags, stood there awkwardly. Tessa knelt by Duncan's body and went thought his pockets. She pulled out his cell phone and his wallet. She took out several hundreds, then replaced the wallet in his pocket. She held the cell phone up to Joe.

"You have the number for this?" she asked, necessity making her calmly calculating. She had to be strong for Richie.

"Yes."

"Call us when you know something," she ordered, tucking the phone into one of the bags.

"I will," he promised.

"Can you help him?" She allowed herself the one moment of anxiety.

"I don't know. No one does. Dark Quickenings . . . they're legends. I'll try," he shrugged helplessly.

"Thank you," Tessa said again, and left. Richie followed her, leaving Joe alone with the body. Several minutes later, Mac revived again. He stumbled to his feet, enraged.

"Bastard," he snarled, stepping forward. He stopped just as quickly, and a horrified confusion crept over his face. "Joe?" He took in the trashed kitchen. "Joe," he pleaded, whether for help or to be told this was only a nightmare, Joe wasn't sure.

"Mac," Joe managed to say, worry and shock momentarily freezing his tongue. His friend looked at him, bestial self-loathing in his eyes, then turned and ran out. "Mac!" Joe cried. There was no answer. His friend was gone.

================================== Paris, two weeks later

Duncan MacLeod arrived in Paris with a snarl on his lips and a stalking, predatory walk. He fought his way off the ship, reveling in his former crew mates' fear and disgust. The not-so-tiny voice in the back of his mind shuddered and protested. He laughed silently and told it to shut up. He began wandering the streets, looking for trouble. He glared challengingly at a young tough guy. The punk blanched, and looked away. As he walked, the surrounding neighborhood became annoyingly familiar.

When a church came into sight, he rebelled, trying to change the path his dual nature had set. The lighter side held on with desperate tenacity, forcing each shuddering step to the church. The dark side focused all his will power on stopping the slow motion. He raged at the carelessness that had allowed his lighter side to gain control. He passed the iron bars of the gate and his strength decreased sharply. This was his enemy's strength, his enemy's goal and focus. He relinquished the battle for now, impatiently biding his time. His alter ego had to leave this place some time. When he did, the dark one would be ready.

Duncan MacLeod staggered into the sanctuary of the church. The peace there momentarily pushed down his domineering darker side, giving him a moment of respite from the constant battle. Darius' presence sang through him. His haunted eyes scanned the sanctuary and found the priest ambling toward him.

"Darius!" he gasped in relief. Darius was at his side in a moment, concern clear on his ever young face.

"Duncan, what's wrong?" The priest reached out to him, and Duncan sank into that support.

"Oh, God. It's in me, Darius. I can't s-stop it. I-it's *in* m-me," Duncan stammered incoherently. Darius frowned at his friend in growing alarm.

"*What's* in you Duncan?" he insisted urgently.

"The Quickening . . ." Duncan shuddered.

"A bad Quickening?" he guessed. "Duncan!" Darius called sharply, attracting Duncan's fading attention. "Did you take a Dark Quickening?"

Duncan nodded helplessly, fighting against the sudden onslaught of his dark personality. Darius repressed his foreboding. He knew from personal experience how hard it could be to fight a personality altering Quickening. He hadn't wanted to, not after those first few minutes. Now his friend faced the opposite circumstances.

"Stay with me, Duncan. You can fight this." Darius kept up the calm litany as he led Duncan into his rooms. He picked up the phone quickly and dialed.

"Sean? This is Darius. I need to ask you a question. Have you heard of a Dark Quickening?"

"I've heard of them, yes; I've never had any experience with one," Sean replied, concerned.

"Is it possible to reverse one, to restore the core personality?" There was silence as Sean thought.

"Theoretically, yes," he decided. "Who is it, Darius? This isn't idle curiosity, is it?"

"Duncan MacLeod," Darius said softly.

"Damn," Sean said. "Are you in your church?"

"Yes."

"Don't let him leave holy ground. I'll be there."

Twenty anxious minutes later, Sean's buzz filled the room. He knocked on the door rapidly. Darius opened it and ushered him in.

"He's over here," Darius said softly. Duncan crouched by a wall, head down. He was breathing slowly and seemed calm.

"I've had him meditating," Darius explained softly. "Trying to help him find his center, and not allow his darker side to take over."

"Good. Is he fighting this?"

"Yes. Holy ground is helping as well, he said."

Sean approached the Highlander slowly. "Duncan?" he called, keeping his voice calm and even. Duncan's head snapped up, and his smile became distinctly nasty.

"Ah, if it isn't Sean Burns," he sneered. "The almighty shrink, come to help the fallen hero. I don't want your help."

"Duncan, this isn't you," Sean insisted kindly.

"It's who I want to be! Go away, meddler. Play God with some other fool's soul. Or better yet, step off holy ground with me, and I'll take care of that worthless head for you."

Sean turned sharply, refusing to rise to the violent challenge, and pulled a confused Darius to one side.

"Is this how he was before?" Sean asked, concerned.

"No. He was confused, scared, but not violent. Not like this," Darius reported, baffled by his friend's behavior.

"I was afraid this might be a problem. His mind is targeting certain people, and unfortunately I happen to be one of them," Sean shrugged wryly. "Has he attacked anyone else?"

"His student, Richard," Darius confided.

"I've seen a picture of the lad. Duncan mentioned once that he wanted me to talk to the kid. Maybe it has something to do with red hair?" he suggested, half in jest.

"Can you help him?" Darius asked.

"I'm making things worse," Sean admitted candidly. "He trusts you. Keep him here, reinforce that he's not his dark side. Try to get him to talk through it. I'm not sure it will do any good, but it's a chance, at least. I'll check in tomorrow. If it gets to the point where he can stay in control when he's talking to me, I'll come to help. Until then, there's not much I can do."

Darius' worried gaze met Sean's sorrowful one. "I wish I could help him, but I simply don't know what to do," Sean admitted. He clasped Darius' arm briefly, then walked out the door. Duncan lost his antagonism as soon as Sean left.

"God, Darius," he shuddered.

"It's all right, Duncan, we'll beat this," Darius insisted reassuringly.

"I couldn't control him. This happened with Richie. If Tessa hadn't been there I would have killed him. I would have killed Sean. Why is this happening?" The confused anguish in his voice tore at Darius.

"I don't know," Darius admitted helplessly, then became thoughtful. "But I know who might."

He picked up the phone again, dialing quickly.

"Adam Pierson," the voice answered.

"Adam, this is Darius."

"Darius," he said is surprise. "What can I do for you?"

"Have you heard of a dark Quickening?" he asked, tension in his voice.

"Yes," Methos answered, a trace apprehensively.

"Have you ever seen one?" Darius queried, tapping the desk in agitation. His gaze wandered over to where Duncan was desperately trying to maintain control.

"Several times, why?" he asked, alarmed.

"Do you know how to cure one?" Darius pressed.

Methos was quiet for a long moment. "It doesn't always work," he said at last.

"Any hope, Adam."

"There's a holy spring. It's supposed to cleanse the soul. It worked once, that I know of. Who is it, Darius?"

"Duncan MacLeod." Methos nearly stopped breathing at the answer.

"God, no," he spat softly. "I'll there as soon as I can, Darius. Don't try this without me. I think I know what can help."

"We'll wait," the priest promised as he hung up.

Methos touched Alexa's forehead gently. Her pale skin was nearly translucent. The sallow, tired woman lying in the hospital bed opened her eyes.

"Adam?" she murmured, questioning.

"Hush, love. I have to go." He kissed her regretfully.

"Go where? Adam?" Her confusion and uncertainty was heartbreaking.

"I . . ." Words failed him. He couldn't tell her that he was leaving her here to save the soul of a friend. It would kill her to know he was abandoning her; he didn't want her to think she meant so little to him. But he couldn't abandon the friend he had a chance to save for the one who had no such hope. As brave as she was, he couldn't sacrifice Duncan for her. He kissed her again, trying to say in actions what he couldn't in words. She stared at him lovingly.

"Go," she whispered. He nodded his thanks and fled. When she was sure he was gone, Alexa turned her head to the wall. At least he hadn't seen her cry.

Duncan refused to sleep. He kept a grueling vigil until Darius threatened to sedate him. He dozed restlessly, shaken by nightmares. Darius watched him for a time, then slept lightly in front of the door. Duncan would have to go through him to leave. The sharp, ringing presence of another Immortal snapped Darius out of his light doze. Duncan stirred, then shot up in panic. His expression shifted dramatically between fear and rage. A half-second later his control slammed into place and his expression became ice. Darius stood slowly and cracked the door. Methos's worried form stood there, his normally wry calm replaced with tense anxiety.

"Methos," Darius said, relieved.

"Methos?" Duncan repeated from the bed. He stood in sudden hope.

"Come in," Darius invited, opening the door farther. Methos stepped in and closed the door firmly behind him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Duncan nodded hesitantly. "We will beat this thing," Methos reassured them, successfully keeping his uncertainty out of his voice.

"Yes," Duncan vowed.

"Come on, I have a car waiting. Can you stay in control or do I need to sedate you?" He smiled slightly, but the suggestion was only half in jest.

"I can do this," Duncan said shakily, walking toward his friend.

"Good. Let's go. The faster we get there, the faster this is over."

The first two hours of the trip, Duncan kept himself rigidly controlled. His darker side had launched its war for dominance the moment he left holy ground. He remained in control, but it was a grueling battle of willpower. Methos watched him with those narrowed, too perceptive eyes, and quietly talked about better times. Tessa and Richie. Joe, Darius, and Liza. Quiet evenings listening to the blues and easy conversations about what life was like 'back then.' Chess games between Methos and Darius that became subtle war grounds as the two devious strategists battled it out. He talked of peaceful days and old friends, anything to distract Duncan from the insidious evil twisting in his soul.

Duncan's control was slipping even as they came to a stop near the holy spring. He looked at Methos in panic and the old man pulled his trump card. The MacLeod claymore hissed from the sheath where Methos had hidden it. He held it up briefly, letting Mac recognize it, then offered it, hilt first. The sword slid into Duncan's hand with the casual ease of old familiarity. A piece of his home settled into his soul and he felt the same peace he had felt on holy ground settle into him again.

"Live, Highlander," Methos whispered. "For Tessa, for Richie. For all of us. We need you too much to lose you."

Duncan nodded, speechless.

"The good in you is stronger than the evil you have taken in," Darius affirmed certainly. "We believe in you."

They lowered him down into the cave and followed as Duncan approached the glowing pool. He stepped into the peacefully glowing pool, the warm water caressing his legs silkily. He moved farther in, feeling the water heat around him almost to boiling as the light intensified to blinding fury. The pressure in his mind increased and in desperation he brought the sword down into the water. Abruptly, the cloying filth in his Quickening was ripped away. It separated and condensed across from him, a cruel mirror to what he was. The water churned and a frothy mist rose up around them, whirling clockwise furiously. He locked eyes with his adversary and the spinning mist halted with dizzying swiftness. The brightly lit, dry caves stood as an open invitation to battle.

Snarling, his double rushed him, katana twirling with expert ease. Duncan blocked perfectly, mirroring every action exactly. His double sneered.

"You can't beat me. I'm inside you. I *am* you," he gloated, measured attacks pounding away at Duncan's defenses.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan spat back, "and you do *not* control me."

He conjured the images of Tessa and Richie, reminding himself of the price *they* paid for his failure. His love and concern for them fueled his attacks with a passion his dark enemy couldn't hope to match. He flipped the katana from his opponent's hand and drove the man to his knees. He didn't hesitate. The sword snapped back, killing the thing in front of him in the traditional Immortal way. No Quickening came from the body. The only effect was the mist, rising and surrounding him in a triumphant hurricane. As it settled again, the concerned faces of Darius and Methos appeared.

"Duncan?" Methos asked, worry hovering behind his tranquil eyes.

"It's over." Duncan shuddered, exhausted, as the physical world returned around him. Darius reached out to pull him from the pool, taking the sword from his trembling fingers in the same move. Methos casually wrapped his black trench coat around his soaked friend, and offered a supporting arm.

"Thank you," Duncan managed to say, not meaning the thanks for the coat alone.

"Any time," Methos said, typical cool amusement back in his voice.

"Tessa and Richie?" Duncan asked apprehensively.

"They'll be fine. You're who I'm worried about now. Sean is willing to talk, and Darius and I are here for you as well." Methos voice lost its habitual sarcasm and he made the offer with concerned honesty. They navigated the ancient caves.

"I'd like that," Duncan admitted.

"It might help Tessa and Richie as well," Darius suggested calmly. "Sean could do a great deal for all of you."

"If he's forgiven me," Duncan brooded, rigging the harness to ascend the narrow passage out.

"There is nothing to forgive," Darius said lightly, raising Duncan up out of the cave. "We all know that."

Seacouver, that same time

Liza opened the bar's door and slipped in. She looked around for Joe, but the bar was empty. <This is not going to be easy,> she thought, resigned, as she grabbed a bottle of scotch from behind the bar. She moved toward the door to his office and hovered outside. She could hear Joe's voice inside. It sounded tense and angry. <Not a good sign.> She could almost hear what he said, but she didn't really need to. Duncan's Dark Quickening was covered thoroughly in her Chronicles, and the news that he'd been forced to take Jim Coltec's head had set off her mental alarms. She knocked gently to let Joe know she was there, then waited patiently as he finished the call. He opened the door, his normally cheerful face haggard.

"You look like hell," she commented, pushing the bottle of scotch into his hands. "Is it Duncan?"

"I can't really talk about it," Joe said warily.

"Of course not," she commented, making no attempt to hide the irony in her voice. "That's why you sent me to the Academy. So you could keep more secrets." She pointed insistently at the chair behind his desk, and Joe obediently sat down. She took the chair across from him and stared levelly at him until he answered.

"I don't want to put you into a position where you have to break your oath," he admitted. It was a dangerous admission. She laughed.

"Joe, my loyalty is always to you and Adam first, and *then* to the Watchers. The only reason I went to the academy was to be able to help you. If you won't tell me how to help, it's pointless." It was a half-truth. They needed to trust her, and this was the easiest way to gain that trust. She wanted to be back with the Watchers, and in her mind, Joe Dawson *was* the Watchers. <Or at least has become 'the Watchers' for your convenient rationalization,> her cynical conscience piped up.

"You're here to help me?" Joe asked, surprised, unaware that her thoughts had wandered.

"Yeah," she confirmed, drawing her thoughts back to the conversation. "I told them I'd rather stay here. I thought they were going to give me a research position, but they made me your assistant instead." She shrugged. "It works for me. I like working with you and Mike."

She didn't mention that she'd intentionally done poorly in her field work to insure they wouldn't risk assigning her to an Immortal.

"So what's wrong?" she asked again, leaning forward.

"Duncan's taken a Dark Quickening. From Coltec."

"Shit," she whispered, appalled despite her foreknowledge. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know. Duncan made it to Darius' church, but it's been hell trying to keep him there. Darius called Adam, hopefully he'll know what to do." He looked almost defeated, sitting there.

"It'll be okay," she assured Joe, leaning forward and touching his arm slightly in reassurance. "Adam can help him. Have faith."

She waited silently with him in the tense and claustrophobic office for Methos's call. At midnight, Liza insisted that Joe go to bed. "You need your sleep," she insisted. "There's nothing more you can do tonight. I'll wake you in a few hours and you take over for me." She studied his ragged features critically. There was no way she was going to wake him up before noon.

Joe nodded. "Wake me if you hear anything."

"I doubt anything will come in before tomorrow," she laughed self-depreciatingly.

"Humor me," Joe insisted.

"I am." Her attempt at levity fell flat, and she winced at how old he looked. "Sleep, Joe," she urged. He nodded, and walked out. She stared after him for a moment before curling up on the floor of the office. She set the phone next to her ear and settled in for yet another miserable night.

Joe found her there in the morning, dozing restlessly. She shrugged unrepentantly at his outraged expression and stretched her abominably stiff muscles.

"What?" she asked, exasperated. "It was the only way to stay close to the phone."

"You didn't have to sleep on the floor. You didn't even have a blanket. You were supposed to wake me," he added accusingly.

"We couldn't afford to miss the call, if it came," she rationalized, standing up. "It was easier for me to sleep by the phone than to make you keep a vigil. Don't you feel better?" She forced herself to sound chipper, awake, and as relaxed as possible. It must have worked because he shot her a grudgingly admiring smile and told her to go get cleaned up.

"I'll watch the phone," he admonished her when she protested.

"Answer it, too," she said cheekily before hurrying out.

Twenty minutes later she was back in the chair across from a dumbfounded Joe. "I didn't know you could *move* that fast," he teased wryly.

"Sometimes I *do* get ready on time," she returned, equally ironic.

They resumed their tense vigil from the night before. Liza was sure Duncan would be okay. He was before, in her time . . . but an insidious little doubt wouldn't be resolved. <What if I changed things just enough to make this impossible? What if *this* is the even that snaps Time free of its sluggish hold on past history? It wasn't Darius' death, it wasn't Tessa's rescue. I thought it was Ahriman, but what if I'm wrong?> Her feeling of foreboding increased the longer they sat there. Correcting Time wasn't an exact science. If she was wrong . . .

The telephone heightened the grim mood. Joe picked it up with a quick jerk.

"Dawson," he snapped. He listened for a second, and then collapsed into his chair again in relief. She released the breath she'd inadvertently held. <Stupid,> she growled to herself. <You knew it would be okay.> She kissed Dawson's cheek before slipping out. Tessa and Richie would be in Paris soon enough, to reunite with Duncan and finish their healing. For now, she had work to do and people to Watch.

Part 7: Paris 1996

Liza stared pensively at Methos's hunched figure. He was slouched in the far corner and seemed grimly determined to drink himself under a table. It was understandable, if not excusable. MacLeod had not taken the whole Horsemen fiasco well. For the past three weeks, he had flatly refused to admit he had a problem with Methos's past. Instead he had treated Methos with a wary, aloof condescension since Bordeaux. It caused his target unnecessary pain. MacLeod simply couldn't understand that Methos had changed. He professed quite emphatically otherwise, but that was the truth. Methos wasn't forcing the issue either. He'd confessed to Joe--though neither knew she'd been listening at the time--that things were touchy enough with MacLeod, he wouldn't risk alienating the judgmental man.

Two days ago, Duncan had given up the effort of pretending that everything was fine and had fled to Paris, leaving behind a bewildered Tessa and a half-trained Richie. Liza hoped Darius could make Duncan see sense, because right now he was acting like an irresponsible idiot. Methos was a mess, he was in no condition to protect the fledgling Immortal, Joe, or Tessa. Richie, tough as he was, was still a newborn. Tessa and Joe were capable, but mortal, and she couldn't sense Immortals. If any Immortals came after them now... In her version of the past there had been no one that needed defending after Bordeaux. There had been no one for MacLeod to run to. In this Time they were vulnerable, and Liza feared Melville would sic an Immortal on the Highlander's extended clan while MacLeod was distracted in Paris. He had tried to kill Tessa once; this was an opportune time for him to try again.

This situation needed to be dealt with. Methos needed to lay his ghosts to rest, and she was the only one who could help him. It would be risky, since she wasn't supposed to know about the Four Horsemen. Bluffing him could blow her cover. On the other hand, if she didn't, they could all end up dead. She met Joe's eyes and nodded toward Methos. His brow wrinkled in confusion, then eased in understanding. She made her way over to his table and pulled out a chair. She plopped down across from him. His expression was unwelcoming, but she refused to be driven off. She had seen him sulk before.

"Brooding isn't productive," she suggested gently.

"MacLeod broods," he insisted darkly, "I do not."

"Of course not," she said, patronizingly. "You just sulk, or stare morosely into a glass of beer, or glare contemplatively, or . . ."

"All right," he cut her off, irritation in his voice. "You've made your point. Leave me alone."

"Now, you sound like you're five," she pointed out. "Leave me alone," she imitated in her best whine, screwing up her face to aid the imitation. "Mommy, he won't play with me. They're telling secrets!"

Methos reluctantly smiled. "You're incorrigible."

"I wouldn't have to be incorrigible if you weren't impossible," she informed him logically.

"*I'm* not the impossible one," Methos snapped, setting down his beer with an emphatic clunk.

"No, that would be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who can't see past his own betrayal to see how much he's hurting his friend." Her quiet, clinical observation startled him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said roughly, taking back up the discarded beer.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," she snapped, fed up with his self-pity. "What happened between you was bad, yes, but not impossible to deal with. Your friendship is stronger than this. He is wrong to judge you, but you didn't help either with how you reacted."

"Hindsight is ever perfect," he interjected bitterly, throwing one arm out widely.

"Yes," she admitted blandly, <hindsight I have.> "And you have to live with the mistakes you make. There's more to life than merely surviving. There's living and there's learning. I'm sure Darius is telling MacLeod much the same thing while trying to coax him out of his vaunted Scottish brood."

"He's with Darius?" The hope in his voice broke her heart.

"Yes," she affirmed blandly.

"Do you think Darius can help him come to terms with this?" His eyes pleaded with her.

"Does he know about your past?" Methos nodded reluctantly. "Then yes, he can help Duncan. As I can help you." She winced imperceptibly at the arrogance of that last statement. "I hope I can help you," she amended quietly.

His relieved expression turned to panic briefly before it became impassive. He shook his head emphatically.

"No. You don't want to know what I was." The certain denial in that statement made her wince.

"I already do," she admitted softly.

"That's not possible," he insisted flatly.

"It is. I talked to Cassandra." A half-lie, but he didn't know that, she hoped. She *did* talk to Cassandra, in her Time.

"So why are you still here?" He asked nonchalantly, becoming even more remote. It was a defense tactic; he was too good at keeping his pain hidden when he wanted to.

"Because you have *changed*. Because you're my friend. Because I believe in you. So does Joe." She met his gaze firmly as she answered him, letting him know that she spoke the truth. "What you did was terrible," she continued, "but not irredeemable."

"Tell that to the boy scout," he interjected bitterly.

"I tried," she admitted. "He was incredulous, then insisted it didn't matter. I think taking advice from someone twenty times younger than him was a little difficult to swallow. But you don't have that problem," she finished sweetly. She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. She rested her chin on her folded hand and stared uncompromisingly at him.

"You are a very dangerous woman," he growled, looking away.

"Nice of you to notice, but flattery will get you nowhere. Neither will changing the subject. I'm here to help, Adam."

"Why?" he asked irritably. "Why do you care?"

"First, because you are my friend. More importantly, with MacLeod gone, everyone here is vulnerable." He looked up sharply at that.

"Vulnerable?" he demanded quietly.

"You can't fight like this," she said, remotely, leaning back in a casual sprawl. She continued, her tone objectively calculating. "Richie can hardly fight at all, he's certainly no match for an Immortal who's coming after his head. Joe, Tessa and I aren't going to be any help, and none of you has the sense to hide on holy ground until we get this settled." She shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "Vulnerable," she concluded.

"Why should it matter?" Methos asked, worried by her grim certainty. "No one's hunting us."

"That we know of," she retorted grimly. "Murphy's law, remember? If something can go wrong it will. We're open to attack, therefore one will come."

"That's twisted logic," he said, a little admiringly.

"That's necessary logic," she corrected. "I don't want you dead."

"I don't want me dead either. Isn't this breaking your oath?" He asked wryly.

"Don't push me. The Watchers don't know you're Immortal, and it's a stupid law anyway. I joined the Watchers so Joe would feel more comfortable talking about this stuff with me. As far as the 'us-versus-them, Immortals-aren't-human' theory, fuck it." He started at her vehemence. The rule was obsolete by the time she had joined the Watchers, and she was Immortal anyway. She saw no reason to pay lip service to the rule.

"Does Joe know this?" Methos wondered.

"He knows I'm here to help him. He's more worried about me keeping my oath than I am." <Devoted Watcher that he is, he believes in it even though it galls him to do so.>

"He would be," Methos said fondly. "So what all did Cassandra tell you?"

"What you did to her. What you were," Liza admitted.

"Who I was?" Methos pried, seemingly nonchalant.

"She said you were Death."

"Did she tell you my name?" he continued persistently.

"Only Death," she answered levelly. "Adam, I know you're older than you pretending to be. I also know it's dangerous for you to say who you are, so I'm not asking. Cassandra took MacLeod very seriously, you know. She honored the spirit of his request as well as the letter. He wants you to live, so she'll let you live. That includes keeping your name and who you are a secret."

"So why'd she tell you?" he demanded, challenging.

"I didn't give her a choice. It was a debt she owed me," Liza shrugged. "I agreed not to reveal what I knew about her in exchange for her telling me what she knew about your past. I also swore it wouldn't go farther than between the two of us. Adam, I don't blame you for what you were, or what you did. I can't imagine what it was like three thousand years ago."

He started to interrupt, but she held up a hand. "Hear me out. The actual physical conditions are easy enough to describe, I'm sure, but what it was like to actually live it, to be influenced by the way their thoughts work, to believe what they believed, I can't imagine that. I don't pretend I can understand, but I can live with that. Three thousand years ago, you were a different person. Two thousand years ago, you were a different person. Five hundred years ago you were a different person. And three weeks ago you were a different person."

She stared at him levelly, daring him to deny the truth of it. When he stayed silent, she continued. "What we experience can change what we are. You changed; Kronos, Silas, and Caspian did not. They were essentially the same people they were when you rode as the Horsemen. More sophisticated, more advanced, certainly, but they still reacted the same way. They still valued human life as next to nothing, a little entertainment while they terrorized the world. They still craved the blood, death, and pain that personified what you were. I'm not necessarily saying you don't. Human nature has it's dark side." She met his gaze unflinchingly. "But what you were does not control you *now*. It's not the entirety of who you are. It's one side of you, as it is in every person. A little more developed, but also more controlled. You would not willingly become Death again."

Methos stared at her, slightly stunned. "For someone who claims not to understand what I was, you came damn close." she replied silently. < You told me most of those truths over many bottles of beer during those late nights of research. I'm more than glad to repay the favor, my friend.>

"What I can think through intellectually and what I actually know are two different things," she said aloud instead. "I'm glad not to have the personal experience with these particular truths." He returned her wry smile. <Good. Maybe he's snapped out of this depressed mood.> The music in the background changed to an upbeat piece.

"Come on," she suggested with a more cheerful, natural grin. "Let's dance." The trace of moodiness left his face as he allowed her to drag him up from his chair. They danced recklessly between the tables, lost in the movements and the music. There were no Horsemen, no betrayals, no worries about the next Correction. There was only the two of them, spinning and maneuvering the complex obstacle course of tables and chairs. His enthusiastic, relaxed expression as his spun her out at the end of the song made the entire diversion precious.

"Thank you," he whispered inaudibly. She read his lips, and nodded. Moments like this made everything worth it. All the pain of leaving her friends and adopted mortal 'family,' all the isolation, all the secrecy, didn't press as hard on her spirit. They ended the dance at peace.

Paris, that same time

Duncan hesitated outside Darius' church. Could his friend help him? He wanted to forgive Methos, but how could he reconcile the man Methos was two thousand years ago with the one who appeared unannounced, teased Richie mercilessly, jokingly flirted with Tessa and challenged how Duncan thought? It was harsh duality, no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise. Darius must have known he was there, because the Immortal priest came to stand in the doorway. Duncan took that as an invitation to come in. Darius' kind face welcomed him.

"Duncan, my friend, how are you?" Darius asked, grasping Duncan into a hug.

"Not good," Duncan admitted wearily. "Can we talk?"

"Of course," Darius agreed, leading Duncan into the familiar cell. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked taking a seat in front of the chess board. Duncan sat in the other, long familiarity dictating the arrangement. He moved his first piece absently.

"How much do you know of Methos's past?" Duncan asked abruptly.

"Quite a bit," Darius said softly, countering Duncan's mood. "It weighs his soul." Duncan ignored that comment and studied the board. He moved his knight.

"Kronos came to Seacouver," he muttered, watching the board intently to avoid Darius' keen gaze.

"Ah, the Horseman," Darius recalled, unsurprised. He placed the next piece with care.

"He wanted to reunite the Four Horsemen." Duncan countered the move, and stared absently out the window.

"Apparently he didn't succeed," Darius concluded.

"It was too close," Duncan said harshly.

"But it didn't happen," Darius reminded him, setting his next piece down emphatically.

"Methos played along with what Kronos wanted. He tried to set up Kronos, and very nearly failed," Duncan growled.

"But he didn't," Darius said peacefully. Duncan considered his next move, moodily avoiding looking in Darius' direction.

"No," he admitted.

"None of this is what's bothering you, is it?" Darius guessed shrewdly. He absently plotted his counter move.

"No," Duncan spoke quietly. "It bothers me that he was one of them. That he was a . . . a . . ."

"Killer?" Darius suggested, moving his next chess piece.

"Murderer," Duncan corrected, setting his next piece down sharply. "Merciless. He enjoyed killing. He raped, killed, and tortured for longer than I've been alive."

"I was like that once as well," Darius reminded him, maneuvering his rook into position. "Check."

"But you've changed!" Duncan protested, moving his king and trying to lure Darius' queen into a vulnerable position.

"So has he," Darius retorted, moving his bishop. "Check again. How many times has he saved your life? How many times has he come to help you despite the risk to himself?"

Duncan was silent, remembering. //Methos under a bridge, offering Duncan his head. Methos killing Kristin, because Duncan could not. Methos helping him through the Dark Quickening. Methos pretending to challenge Robert de Valincourt to help Duncan's friends. Methos getting him the file on Brian Cullen, despite the fact that the Watchers could kill him for it. Methos, breaking his anonymity because Duncan asked it. Methos, trying to drive Duncan away so Kronos wouldn't kill him. Methos breaking up the fight between Duncan and Kronos, because he couldn't risk Duncan losing. Methos betraying his brotherhood for a friendship.//

He faced the memories, shame and guilt twisting them. <What have I given him but pain and mistrust?> He moved his knight between Darius' bishop and his own king.

Darius followed his friend's silent thoughts, then took the knight with his bishop.

"He does it because he is your friend, Duncan. Because you make him live again," he said quietly. "Check."

"I haven't been his friend," Duncan whispered, ashamed, "not like I should have been." He pulled his king back out of harm's way.

"He never blamed you for that," Darius contradicted, moving his queen forward. "It never occurred to him. He doesn't judge you, any more than I do. If you feel you should have been a better friend, then *be* a better friend. Check, and mate." Duncan stood, firm and resolved.

"I will," he said with finality. "Thank you."

"Any time, my friend. Any time."

Duncan left the church and Paris. He had unfinished business with Methos. The familiar neon sign heralded his arrival at Joe's. Liza looked up as he entered.

"About damn time you got back," she commented. "You here to see Adam?"

He nodded.

"Good." She watched him approach his friend. He hadn't needed her to tell him Methos was here, but appearances were appearances.

"MacLeod," Methos said, aloof, "have a seat."

Duncan obligingly sat.

"So you talked to Darius?" Methos asked warily.

Duncan nodded, not willing to fence around the subject. "I did. I understand you've changed, Methos. Darius helped me understand that. But I won't apologize for killing the other Horsemen. They needed to be stopped. You said judging them is like judging yourself, but I disagree. There is more to you than Death."

"And if I hadn't changed?" Methos asked, sounding almost bored. The tension in his complacent sprawl belied the supposed casualness of the question. "Would you have killed me as well?"

"Yes," Duncan answered with finality. "They lived to kill, to cause pain. Whatever they could have been, what they were was evil. I could not allow that to continue. Think of how much pain would have been spared if someone had stopped you three thousand years ago."

"So now you want me dead?" Methos asked bitterly, staring into his beer glass.

"No," Duncan protested. "I didn't mean that. What you are now is not what you were. If someone had killed Death three thousand years ago the world would have been better off. If someone killed you now, I would hunt them down myself."

Methos stared at Duncan, his face unreadable. Truth to tell, he was taken aback by the angry vehemence in his friend's convictions. <He cares so much? To hunt down my killer?> Methos slowly extended his hand. Duncan looked at it, confused, for a moment, then clasped Methos's forearm in the old warrior's way.

Liza saw the meaningful movement from across the room. "About damn time," she muttered again. "One more Correction. Just Ahriman, then I'm home free. Only Ahriman."

She turned back to her job, broodily considering the past to come.

Part 8: Paris, 1997

"So this Ahriman thing is real?" Richie asked disbelievingly.

"Apparently so," Methos acknowledged. "Darius is taking it seriously. He's had Mac at his church all day, since Mac told him about that weird red fog, and the visions of Kronos and Horton. Darius flat out told me to stay away, and to keep everyone else out of there as well. He thinks Mac may be tricked into attacking or killing one of us if we stay near him. I don't know where he got that idea," Methos added with a frown, making a few notations on the paper in front of him.

Liza stayed silent. They didn't need to know about her warning to the Immortal priest. It could be considered interference beyond the Correction,--<One more interference,> her conscience hissed angrily--but she wasn't taking any chances with Richie's life. She had moved to save Fitz, she could do no less for Richie. <Funny, how it gets easier after the first time,> she thought wryly.

Her discussion with Darius had been unsettling. She got the impression that he knew who she was, what she had done three years ago to Horton and his men. He had given her a narrow eyed, thoughtful look, and offered her some of his tea. She hoped it meant that if he did know who she was, he would keep it a secret. That uncertainty was why she had avoided him for the past three years. He had accepted her warning, and her belief that Ahriman was real, with serious courtesy. He had assured her he would think carefully about what she said, and see what he could find. Apparently what he found worried him, because when Duncan started seeing visions, he secreted the Highlander away on holy ground. Hopefully he was telling Mac how to defeat the demon. She had faith that they could do it. <Mac fumbled through it before alone, after all.>

"Whether it's the truth or it's just a hallucination, Darius will help him through it," she said decisively. "I, for one, don't care to think about it. Anyone up for a distraction? I mean, poker?"

Methos looked at her, amused. "I haven't played poker in awhile," he agreed.

"What, since you invented it?" she asked innocently.

"Ha, ha." He shot her a dirty look, but sat up from his languid sprawl.

"What about you, Rich? You in?" The young Immortal nodded from where he was programming the jukebox.

"Joe," she wheedled, "I *know* you play poker." Behind the bar, Joe looked up at her.

"Yeah, I'm in, wench," he said affectionately, putting aside the glasses he was cleaning.

"I may work in a bar, but I am not a wench," she insisted, mock glaring at the barkeeper. Methos snickered.

"Laugh it up, old man," she shifted the glare at him. Liza dropped the glare and turned to the last occupant in the room. "You in, Tessa? We need a fifth." The mortal looked up from the table she'd been staring intently at. Her worry for Duncan was evident. <She definitely needs distracting,> Liza thought, meeting Richie's equally concerned glance.

"I think I'll pass," Tessa declined softly.

"You think this is optional?" Liza asked jauntily. "I said we needed a fifth. Count the people in the room now. One, two, three, four," she gasped dramatically, "five!" Tessa grudgingly chuckled. Liza, sensing a weakness, moved in. "Come on, Tess," she pleaded engagingly. "We have our hearts set on poker. Please? I'll be your *bestest* friend for ever and ever and ever!" Liza finished her plea by batting her eyes and doing her best impression of an adorable five-year-old. Tessa collapsed laughing.

"All right, all right, I'll play," she agreed, the low French lilt to her voice still evident after all the time she'd spent in the States.

"Oh, good. I was going to have to bring out the big guns next," Liza advised her wisely.

"What's that?" Richie asked, sauntering over and taking a seat.

"Opera music and tickle torture," she answered deadpan. Joe sat the last glass down and ambled toward them. The group surrounded the table and Joe shuffled and dealt the cards with brisk precision.

Richie shuddered. "Sounds like something Mac would go for." He winced as he realized who he'd brought up. He sent an apologetic look at Liza.

"Probably. Of course, to torture *him*, you'd have to play something written this century," she insulted, rolling her eyes expressively. The damage was done, she'd do her best to salvage it. "Tessa, I don't know where you went wrong, but you went wrong somewhere. Have you *seen* his music? Of course you have, what am I thinking? It's probably been inflicted on you any number of times. Now Adam, here, he comes closer," she said, deftly changing topic and target as she picked up her cards. "At least *his* music is within the last half century or so. I suppose remembering opera as a radical new form of music must have warped him. Really, oh ye of olden times, are you *always* going to be behind by forty years? Now Joe," she continued mercilessly, "listens to music even more outdated than Adam, which is amazing considering who's older. Two cards please, Joe. The only one who does listen to modern music is Richie, but that's all crap anyway. These hip hop dance, rap, heavy metal distortions of perfectly good melodies. Ugh."

"I think the only thing you haven't hit is country," Methos commented, amused. "Three, Joe."

"God, don't get me started. The music would be fairly decent if they didn't twist their intonation out of key with over dramatized twangs and if they actually sang about something except their failing relationships and the good old south. Hush, I have not even begun to rant," she insisted, cutting off Joe's attempted interjection. It wasn't hard, they were all laughing too hard to get a word in. "Then there's Christian music, rehashing old hymns using music styles borrowed from everywhere else and sung in simpering goodness. Or how about show tunes, which pretend to tell a story. Or even bluegrass, which is country music plus a banjo and sung by old men. Oh, and Heaven forbid we forget new age. Yanni is terrifying," she finished with a pseudo-shudder.

"Do you even *like* music?" Richie gasped out as she paused to regroup.

"Oh, yeah," she said with a grin. "I like it all, baby. Two pair." Joe stared at the cards she placed on the table with evident amusement. "Straight flush," Richie smirked, showing his cards.

"No fair," Liza pouted dramatically. It took considerable effort, but Liza managed to keep the topic off Duncan, Darius, or millennium demons throughout several games of poker and a late dinner. She even diverted them into a game of 'Name that Tune' with a small radio Joe pulled out. It was fairly simple. Find a station and try to name the song and the artist. Whoever got it won a point. Methos and Richie kept making up answers to songs they didn't know, trying outrageously to out-do each other and keeping the mortals in stitches. The answer to every male artist singing a country song was, apparently, Randy Travis. If it was a woman, the inevitable answer seemed to be Patsy Cline. Thought the contest had initially seemed unfair--Methos *had* lived through much more music than Richie had--it was balanced by Methos's indifference to pop culture. Liza left her chair at the table and perched for a second on an out of the way tabletop, grateful for the distraction that gave her a second to relax. She wasn't sure she could handle any more stress tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ end 19/27

Reply-To: Verin Haley <lunalarea@HOTMAIL.COM> Subject: ADULT: To Undo Time (20/27) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door chose that opportune moment to open. Liza blinked, as her vision doubled. The door seemed to open and stay closed at the same time. Every head in the room turned toward it in anxious anticipation. A familiar figure walked in, to the relief of those sitting around the table. Liza shook her head and blinked, trying to clear her eyes of the strange blur through which she saw Duncan. It was unnerving to an Immortal who had always had perfect vision. He seemed surreal, almost ghostlike. Staring at him made her dizzy. He didn't glance in her direction as his attention immediately focused on the table. To her relief, the door closed behind him. Unfortunately, the distortion seemed to center on Duncan himself. The chill anticipation in his slight smile made her uneasy. <Something is wrong here.> She breathed deeply, trying to pinpoint the source of her uneasiness. <Your nerves are shot because of this Ahriman confrontation,> she rationalized. <It's over. He's fine.>

Tessa rose from the table, mirrored by the others.

"Duncan!" she exclaimed, moving toward him. She attempted to embrace him, but he held her stiffly, his welcome kiss perfunctory. "Are you all right?" Tessa wondered, concerned.

"Fine," he said with a tight smile. Liza started at the sound of his voice. It sounded distant, like she remembered hearing voices become when she still mortal and fell ill. She could have been fifty feet away from him instead of ten. The volume rose and fell in wave-like, nauseating tones. If she hadn't been sitting, she would have fallen. "I'll be even better when we get out of here," he continued. Tessa stared at his uncharacteristic statement.

"Duncan?" she queried. Richie, Methos, and Joe watched their friend, worry evident on their faces. Liza could feel the nausea twisting in her stomach. The heavy feel of premonition pressed down on her.

"Mac, is something up? What happened?" Joe asked, perplexed.

"Happened? Nothing 'happened,'" Duncan denied blithely. Liza began to frown. She sat up straighter as she became accustomed to the way he was speaking. Something was seriously wrong. Why didn't any one else see it?

"That whole Ahriman thing . . ." Joe persisted.

"Ahriman is a myth," Duncan laughed. "It was all in my mind. Garrick did the same thing to me." A hint of red fog appeared at the corner of Liza's eye. She turned to look at it, but it had vanished. She blinked, unsure if she had truly seen it. That red fog, it was very familiar . . . Realization came to her and she jumped off the table.

"Liar," she snapped angrily. Duncan staggered as her voice affected him exactly as his had affected her. He tried to shake off the dizziness as he turned to look at her. It was a bad move. Her faded, disorienting image combined with the effect of her voice made him clutch his head with an agonized moan. He stared at her in fear, trying to focus on her and failing.

"You are not Duncan," she spat. "What are you, monster?" The form flinched under the renewed attack of her voice. His image slipped and blurred worse for an instant before he regained control of it. That instant was enough to cause the unenlightened members of the group to flinch back with varying degrees of disgust.

The Duncan form glared at her, adapting to her presence. She ruthlessly submerged her rising terror. "What are you?" it forced out, stepping toward her. Liza held her ground.

"You have no right to be here," Liza stated, ignoring the demand and pressing her advantage. "Your fight is with the Champion."

"You have no idea what you are dealing with," it sneered.

"I know exactly what I'm dealing with. Leave, Ahriman," she ordered, knowing there was no way in hell she could back up the ultimatum. To her shock, he did. His form held for a brief instant longer, and then dissolved into the demonic mist. Maybe there was power in naming him, or maybe he couldn't work when his true identity and purpose was known. As long as he was gone, she didn't give a damn.

"What was that?" demanded Tessa, a hysterical edge to her voice.

"I think that was Ahriman," Liza said shakily, staggering the two steps to her chair and collapsing. She rigidly controlled the trembling that threatened to overwhelm her and tucked her knees up under her chin, her arms wrapped around them. It was what she had done whenever something scared her as a child. It helped now as well.

"You think?" Methos demanded.

"How am I supposed to know?" she shot back. "Do I *look* like the resident expert in demonology?!"

"You did well enough just then," he snarled. "Just what exactly was that about?" Liza's face turned ashen. Why *hadn't* she fallen for Ahriman's image? What was so different about her? But she knew. She was out of Time. That must have protected her. <How can you damn a copy?> She saw him as blurry and distorted, the way her own soul was. But how could she tell them that? How could she face their disbelief--or worse, revulsion? She shivered, and thought quickly.

"It wasn't concentrating on me," she mumbled. That was the truth, and now for the lie. "It wasn't trying to project its form at me, I guess, because he--it--looked weird as soon as it came through the door, kind of blurry and out of focus. I thought something was wrong with my eyes. Then he started talking, it made me sick to hear him. It didn't act like Duncan, and I thought maybe it wasn't. Didn't Darius say it could take any form? It occurred to me that here was Duncan's weak spot. If it hurt you, it hurt him." It was a good explanation, she knew. There was enough truth to disguise the lies. She *really* wished they would stop looking at her like that. Ahriman's words haunted her. 'What are you?'

No one felt like talking, or returning to the distracting games. They waited in silence, the tension slowly growing. Liza's stare moved from Tessa, to Richie, to Methos, to Joe, to Tessa again. Methos and Joe's eyes, too, moved repeatedly around the table where they waited. Tessa stared off at a spot on the ceiling, lost to her dark thoughts. Richie's eyes never left the table, and his thoughts didn't appear to be any cheerier. Methos's face was chilly, aloof, and unreadable. His slouch was wary, and his constant watch seemed to rest more often on her than on any of the others. She wished she knew what he was thinking, then that it was probably a good thing she didn't. They weren't likely to be very flattering towards her. Joe monitored each expression carefully. He seemed realize how close the tension was coming to breaking them. The atmosphere felt the way it did just before a fight, and Liza worried briefly that it might come to swords.

Someone knocked violently on the door at the same time the telltale Immortal presence alerted Richie and Methos that someone was here. Everyone in the room jumped and their heads turned unerringly toward the door in anxious apprehension. What was happening now? Liza hid her apprehension and went to open it, her hand casually by the slit in her jeans. If it was an unfriendly Immortal, better she open the door. She wouldn't be challenged, and any Immortal who attacked her would be in for a surprise. She realized belatedly that somehow Ahriman must have duplicated the Immortal early warning system, or Methos and Richie would have known immediately that he was a fake. The thought was not reassuring. She pulled the door open warily.

A very exhausted Duncan stood there, leaning against and equally exhausted Darius.

"What are you doing here? Never mind, sit down before you fall down." She grabbed Darius' arm and steered him to a hastily emptied chair, aware that Richie and Tessa had risen and were doing the same for Duncan. Darius collapsed with a weary smile.

"Are you stupid or just crazy?" Liza hissed angrily. "Two exhausted Immortals leaving holy ground? You're lucky no one took your heads. A phone call would have worked just as well. 'Hi, we're fine. Tired, but everything's okay. I'll be home tomorrow after I sleep this off,'" she mimicked viciously.

"Were you that worried we wouldn't succeed?" Darius asked softly, perceiving the reason behind her anger. Liza turned away, undone by his kind understanding and ashamed of taking her frustration and tension out on him. "Liza," he caught her arm. "It's okay. We won. We beat it."

"I know," she acknowledged. "But I hate that we couldn't help."

"You're the one who told me it was too dangerous," he reminded her.

"Yes," she agreed reluctantly. "Ahriman was supposed to be able to take any form. Why not one of us? And when the sword comes down, who dies? Us, or the demon?"

"But not me?" he probed gently. She smiled warmly and answered him.

"Not you. 'The deliverer to guide and guard the way. Stand watch until the dawn of day.'"

"What you quoted before, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah. 'Champion, slay the crimson night, drive it out with fire bright. Deliverer, guide and guard the way, stand watch until the dawn of day. Witness, hide the story dear, to tell again when end is near. Three and three the power holds, binding 'til the time foretold,'" she recited, falling into the rhythm of Cassandra's poetry.

"So who is the witness?" he asked urgently.

"Not who, what," she correcting, holding up the wrist with the Watcher tattoo. She was aware suddenly of how quiet the room was. She looked up from Darius' mesmerizing eyes to find every person in the room staring at her.

"Shit, Darius," she snarled, furious again. <How did I forget they were there? Darius,> she knew.

"You knew," Methos said softly, dangerously. The aloof shadows in his eyes terrified her.

"She suspected," Darius corrected, interceding on her behalf.

"Cassandra's Watcher reported several prophecies," Liza admitted softly. "The one I just spoke, and several others. Including the one you know, Duncan. 'An evil one will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a highland child born on the winter solstice, who has seen both darkness and light can stop him.' Familiar? I told Darius because I thought he would believe me. When Duncan started seeing visions, I thought I might have been right. I wasn't going to tell you how I disregarded my oath to follow some mad idea."

"So why did you?" Joe asked softly.

"The prophecies creeped me out. Every time I thought about them, I'd get this horrible feeling that something was going wrong." <Even if that feeling was based on something that happened in a past that never existed.> "I couldn't *not* do anything." That last was honest enough. All but one person in the room slowly nodded acceptance of the story. Methos's eyes glinted suspiciously, but he held his peace. For now, that was enough. There was only the waiting game to play now, until Darius called Duncan to the Ageless Sanctuary.

Part 9: Paris 1999

"Thank you for coming," Darius said softly, studying the room. Joe and Methos sat on one side of the room. Joe sat, anyway. Methos sprawled indulgently on the other side of the couch and favored them all with his amused half-smile. Duncan and Tessa cuddled together across the room from them. Tessa leaned her head casually on his shoulder and interlaced her fingers with his. Richie had claimed one of the chairs. Amanda, who had breezed back into Duncan's life and conspired with Tessa to drive him crazy, took the other. Liza leaned against the far wall, sharp eyes tracking the room as restlessly as Methos's did. Perhaps she shouldn't be here, but her loyalty to her friends--and her curiosity--would allow her to do no less.

"What's this about, Darius?" Duncan asked. Darius didn't answer immediately. He looked around the room one more time, trying to anticipate ahead of time how each would react.

"I acquired a book several years ago that referred to a temple in Japan, the Ageless Sanctuary," he explained, forthright.

"The Ageless Sanctuary?" Methos scoffed. "That's a myth."

"Like Methos, my friend?" Darius pointed out, obliquely referring to the ancient's identity. It was rather ludicrous because everyone in the room knew who he was. Since Liza hadn't actually told anyone she knew who he was--just that she knew he was old--she had to appreciate his discretion.

"I'm confused," Richie interjected. "What's the Ageless Sanctuary?" His arms were crossed across his chest and he leaned back in the green chair.

"It was supposedly a refuge for our kind. It held records for Immortals. A lot like the Watcher database today, only done completely by Immortals. It was holy ground. Safe," Methos answered reluctantly.

"So what happened to it?" Duncan questioned, sitting up intently.

"Immortals were misusing it, hunting with what they learned and stalking Immortals who left. For the safety of the rest of Immortal kind, it was abandoned and forgotten," Methos answered.

"And it is rumored to hide the origins of the Game," Darius added.

"You know, Adam," Amanda snorted, "for something that doesn't exist you sure know quite a bit about it." She raised an eyebrow eloquently. Methos shrugged.

"My teacher told me about it," he explained nonchalantly.

"You had a teacher?" Duncan asked, fascinated. Methos almost never mentioned his early life.

"Yes, MacLeod, I did. We weren't complete barbarians," he retorted sardonically.

"Mac's hardly one to call someone else a barbarian," Richie interjected again with a snicker, diverting a possible argument with an insult to the Scot's heritage. Duncan glared good naturedly at his former student.

"What does this Ageless Sanctuary have to do with us? Isn't it lost?" Tessa pointed out logically.

"The book tells the general area the Sanctuary is in," Darius explained. "I've had people working to find it."

"Why?" Duncan asked the obvious question.

"I need to know if there's a reason for all this killing. If there truly can be only one. And I need your help." He met each person's gaze levelly.

"I'm not going to do you a whole lot of good mountain climbing with these," Joe pointed out, thumping his prosthetics.

"You're not going in, I'm afraid," Darius insisted gently. "I want you to come to Japan, and to record what we learn."

"And me?" Tessa asked levelly, depressingly sure she already knew his answer.

"Not into the temple," Darius said firmly. "We want you along, but in the temple we would have to worry about you."

Tessa looked like she wanted to argue, but held her tongue. Her glare at Duncan promised an argument later.

"So am I going, or is this an old Immortals only thing?" Richie asked dryly.

"You can come," Darius agreed with a slight smile.

"I'm going too," Amanda insisted uncompromisingly.

"Yes," Duncan agreed. "What if the door's locked?" Darius smiled at the good natured barb, but didn't comment.

"Duncan, Adam, Richie, Amanda, and I will go into the temple," Darius directed. "Joe, Tessa, Liza--you can come with us to Japan if you like, but going in is too dangerous. You only have one life."

"I'm going in," Liza spoke up flatly. Darius shook his head firmly.

"No. I'm not going to risk your life."

"You won't be." She could tell he planned to argue, and cut him off coldly. "You have two choices. You can let me tag along and keep an eye on me, or you can tie me up in a closet, because I *will* follow you. I'm betting I find the damn place before you, too."

"Liza . . ." he started.

"Stop," she said sharply. "Is it because I'm mortal? That's no excuse. It's my life and I will not be coddled. Most of the people on this earth live without Immortal protection. I think I can manage. It it because I'm so young? Richie's as young as I am." <Younger.> "Is it because I'm a girl? So's Amanda. What else?" She stared into him, fiercely insistent.

"You can't fight," Methos pointed out.

A half second later her .45 was aimed at him. "Try me," she challenged dangerously.

"Put it down, Liza," Joe said soothingly. He never even knew she carried a gun. Darius, of all the people in the room, was the only one *not* looking at her as if she'd grown horns.

"Don't push it, Joe," Liza snapped, "I'm making a point. I have no intention of letting my friends go into danger without backup. I'm not helpless. Joe needs a Watcher there. I'm a Watcher. I'm also young, in shape, and good with a gun. I won't slow you down."

"What if you get hurt?" Darius asked, concerned.

"Leave me behind and pull me out on the way back. But it won't happen," she said with certainty.

"All right," Darius gave in, not willing to argue with her. He knew she was capable. "You can go in."

"Thank you for your permission," she said dryly. "When's our flight?"

"Two weeks. Get packed."

Japan 1999, outside the Ageless Sanctuary

"Ready?" Amanda asked. "Just like we practiced. Richie, Duncan, and I first. Once we get inside, you three follow."

They followed the not-so-ex-thief's advice quickly and competently. The entrance to the Sanctuary ruins waited, a black gash in the hillside. The hole that doubled as an entrance gaped menacingly. Three ropes were effectively secured to metal posts driven into the stony soil. Duncan, Richie, and Amanda slid down the ropes with quick efficiency. Liza waited only long enough to secure her small backpack before following. To one side, Methos and Darius did the same. Darius had exchanged his priestly robes for jeans and a T-shirt more suited to what they would be doing. It was distinctly odd too see him in anything but the familiar brown robes.

Liza checked her weapons quickly. Her 9mm was hidden under her black sweatshirt where it bumped painfully against her ribs, despite the easily removable padding she'd surrounded it with, her .45 was holstered on her leg, and her sword secured on the other. Like all her pants, she could pull apart the cleverly designed Velcro seams to get at her weapons. Conventional throwing knives were strapped to her wrists; if Melville showed, he was in for a nasty shock. She landed soundlessly, and moved immediately to a defensive crouch. Duncan, Richie, and Amanda had already taken up point and guard positions.

Liza pulled her compact lamp out of her pack, reassured that Darius was doing the same. She and Darius both carried the compact backpacks with emergency supplies. Theoretically, they were non-combatants, so being pack horses wouldn't interfere too much with their movement. Light flared up in the cavern, augmenting what came in from the ceiling, revealing an intricately carved tunnel. If Liza reached up, her fingers just barely brushed the ceiling. It was wide enough for two men to walk side by side and still be able to fight, and it curved gently to the right, leading deeper into the mountain. Duncan motioned Darius up with him and whispered softly, "Let's go."

Duncan led, followed by Darius with the light. Amanda slipped along next to the priest, a moving shadow in her black, skin tight clothes and thief's stalk. Duncan echoed her slippery style, years of scouting through enemy territory and the forest reflected in every movement. After them came Liza, as the only 'mortal,' in the most protected place. Richie and Methos trailed after her, keeping a careful eye on the rear. Liza flawlessly copied the soundless walk the other Immortals used. It wasn't her first time hunting, either. She scanned forward restlessly, then switched her piercing gaze back, trying to watch everything and catch what the others might miss.

If Melville was here, he wasn't alone, and she doubted the man was armed with a sword. He was, after all, 'mortal.' And as far as she knew, she was the only one in this group carrying a gun. The skull-numbing presence of another Immortal brought her up short. The light from the entrance had disappeared long ago, and the only illumination was their lanterns. There was only one group of Immortals she could still sense, and she doubted this was a friendly Out Time Immortal who just happened to be here now. No, this was Melville.

"Wait," she whispered sharply. "Did you hear that?" Of course not. They couldn't hear something that didn't exist. On the other hand, she couldn't exactly say 'stop, I feel an Immortal, it's a trap.'

"Hear what?" Duncan asked, concerned.

'I thought I heard something ahead," she lied again.

"Are you sure it wasn't one of us?" Duncan asked.

"No. I think there's something up there," she gestured vaguely ahead of them.

"Maybe a rat," Methos suggested facetiously.

"There may be something ahead," Darius decided, looking thoughtful in the dim light. "Still, we haven't come this far to stop. Go carefully."

Liza thought frantically. <How to find out what was up there?> Inspiration came and she pulled a flare out of the side pocket of her pack. There was more then one way to see ahead. Without warning, she set it off and flung it into the tunnel ahead. It landed twenty feet away, right inside the doorway to a huge, crumbling room. The eerie red light lit the room demonically, revealing six men at the doorway, armed with automatic guns. Almost immediately, the room began filling with choking smoke that concealed almost as much as the light revealed. Liza scanned the room quickly, certain she'd be fighting there. Ten huge pillars once rose to the tall, arched ceiling, but only six still stood. The other four had crumbled, showering the room in rubble and dust, obstacles for easy travel. Lines still spiraled around the standing pillars, and circles and spirals were the dominant theme along the walls of the room. Unsurprising, since both were symbols for eternity and Immortality.

Even as she examined the room, Liza shouted a warning and dropped to the floor to avoid both the smoke and the gunfire. She rolled, despite the hampering backpack, and came up on one knee with a gun in either hand. She flipped the handgun to Duncan, who caught it in surprise. Methos snarled, and drew a gun of his own from some secret pocket. Seconds after she threw the flare, the room erupted in gunfire.

Liza winced as one of the bullets grazed her, but returned fire, systematically trying to take them down. She could hear Methos and Duncan firing as well. The waiting men realized their target was well armed and took cover. <Dogfight,> she thought angrily. <We'll be lucky to clear the room without someone getting killed. Hopefully they don't have backups, or another exit.> The flare sputtered and died, shrouding the cave in darkness again. The shooting died as well; no one wanted to be hit by friendly fire.

Liza mentally pictured the room and moved in the darkness. <Ten steps in, reach out and there's the doorway. Four steps ahead and to the right, and there should be a broken pillar.> She stumbled into the room, keeping low. A lone spatter of shots followed her, ricocheting off the rocks, but unsurprisingly missed her in the dark. Her foot twisted on the loose rubble and she stumbled. She caught her balance and kept moving. When she reached the place where she thought there was a collapsed pillar, she set off a second flare. She dodged quickly behind the wreckage, bullets chasing her, and crouched behind the dubious protection.

She fought the urge to collapse coughing and forced her body to react competently. She fired off at the one exposed man who had been trying to duplicate her feat. He cried out and fell, wounded but not killed. The mortals were pinned between her and the other Immortals, but her sense of Melville had faded. Richie hovered in the door for a moment, and, when she gestured to him, sprinted across the floor. She covered him, spraying the rocks with bullets. A cry of pain tallied a hit and Richie reached her unharmed. She paused to load another clip, eyes never wavering from the hidden men.

"What are you doing?" Richie hissed.

"Wishing I'd thought to pack a few grenades," she hissed back. "What does it look like?"

"When did you go Rambo?" She fired instead of answering, and was relieved to see her target hit the ground hard. He wasn't getting back up.

"Can you shoot this?" Liza demanded.

"Maybe," Richie answered, confused. She pushed it in his hands and handed him the extra clips.

"If you see one of them, shoot. Shoot to kill, Richie," she said seriously.

"What are you doing?" he demanded desperately.

"Killing the head," she replied and sprinted to the next pile of rocks. She saw Duncan's blurry form dodge behind a rock across from her, mirroring her earlier actions. The mortals' only way out was through a three way crossfire and Immortal swords. The only place they could move was deeper into the ruins, where she planned to cut them off. That's where Melville would be, behind his men, directing them. She spotted Methos dodging over to where Richie waited. Covering shots from the doorway showed he'd left his gun behind. That left Amanda and Darius holding the doors. The Immortal thief was ruthless enough to stop any escape attempt if Darius didn't intervene. Mercy was all well and good, but it had it's place. This life and death fight was not one of them.

She rolled to another crumbling structure. There was a body lying there, gasping with the hideous wet rattle that signified blood in the lungs. She met his terrified gaze with pity, and drove one of her throwing knives into his heart. He shuddered and died. <Perhaps there is a place for small mercies.> She put him out of her mind as she dashed for her next live target. She flung her second knife into him and took two bullets for it. She lay there in agony as her body expelled the bullets and healed. She stood shakily. <Two down for sure. How many were there? Six? More if they had men hiding in the other corridors.> The flare died and she set off a third. Thinking quickly, she tossed the remaining ones back to Richie and Methos. Methos caught the flares with a concise nod.

The presence knifed through her again, then retreated. She was immediately drawn to a shadowed alcove directly across from where she'd entered. Another corridor lurked there, where Melville waited. Adrenaline flared through her, and she crossed the open space to the corridor. The others could finish clearing the room. She needed to take out Melville. <The head.> She pulled her emergency flashlight out of her much-battered pack and followed the fading presence down the hall. A faint light shone ahead, beckoning her, and the air mercifully cleared. She flipped off her flashlight and stowed it in the backpack. She moved through the almost-dark corridor and came out into a dimly lit room. She dropped her pack absently on one side of the door and stepped in. Melville stood on the other side of the room, sword out and extended. He nodded to her congenially, a small smile in place.

"Thomas Melville," he introduced himself.

"Liza Ryan," she returned.

"A fellow Corrector, come to change the Past," he saluted her languidly with his broadsword.

"I'm not changing it, I'm righting it," she insisted uneasily. <Not changing it much,> the cynical voice mocked her.

"Of course," he said patronizingly. "Tell me, Miss Ryan, why would I allow you to undo all my hard work?" Liza had no answer to that; she had never thought of a reason. No one had. "Would you care to know why before you kill me?" Liza nodded, uncertain about listening to the serpent.

"I have not changed a thing that happened," he said conversationally. "Everything I 'changed' would have happened anyway within a year of my interference. Your precious Corrections changed the past far more than I ever did, and because they were authorized, they'll never be reversed."

"You're lying," she protested, feeling sick. <It can't be true. Richie was not supposed to die, Darius wasn't supposed to die. Tessa was not supposed to die. *None* of this was supposed to happen. It can't be true.>

"Am I?" he challenged. "Take my Quickening, and you'll know the truth. What will you do then? Tell them, and kill your cousin again? Let Tessa die, and Darius, and Sean Burns, and Hugh Fitzcairn?" She kept her face blank. <He can't know about Fitz. I covered my tracks too well. He can't know.>

"No," she protested, anguished. "This is not the truth."

"It is," he pronounced. "Join me." He held out his hand, palm up.

She shook her head violently, unwilling to accept what he said, the offer he made.

"You can save them. Some things in the past should never have happened. We can right it." His seductive, convincing words battered at her already compromised convictions. <Why should they die? I can save them. I know what's right.> She stopped, appalled by the arrogant megalomania of that line of thought. <What right have I to decide what's best? A trace of foreknowledge about a future that might not happen gives me the right to play God with their lives? This is the danger of time travel. This is why we never interfere. It's too easy to be trapped into thinking that I will always be right.>

"No," she refused, anguished. "No."

He gave no warning when he attacked, and Liza barely twisted out of the way of his strike. Her training took over, and she suppressed her indecision ruthlessly. She pulled her sword out from its holster and pressed the sensor. The blade glided out with a snap, and the swept hilt extended with liquid ease to protect her hand. She locked the rapier's blade so it wouldn't retract if her hand slipped off the sensor, each movement as automatic as her heartbeat. She parried his first furious blows, his strength jarring her mercilessly as their swords clashed. She used her speed as much as she could, dancing around him and trying to evade rather then meet his blows. She attacked his right side daringly and the rapier traced a slight hit along his ribs.

His vicious return made her scramble back, her sword working furiously to keep off his counter attack. She rolled under his blade, coming to her feet behind him and turning in time to parry his next move. She twisted her wrist and slipped the blade up along his sword. The tip caught on his arm, slicing it open to the muscle. He bit back a cry and grabbed his sword with his left hand before it could drop. She pressed her advantage, needing to finish this before his sword arm healed again. She struck with deliberate fury, ignoring the panic on Melville's face. She disarmed him with a quick snap of her blade, then brought it back for the final cut.

She glanced up to see Methos in the door, frozen in shock. She wanted to explain, to apologize, but the telltale blue glow had already haloed the body. She grabbed Melville's sword as the first bolt of the Quickening hit her. She screamed as the living power struck through her, glancing and rebounding off the walls to pierce her repeatedly. Tearing into her was the terrible realization that Melville had told the truth. His memories were of a past where Richie and Darius died. Tessa, killed by an Immortal. Everyone she had come to save ended up dead. She pushed that reality away ruthlessly as the last flickering strike caressed her, and she dropped to the ground. She had other issues to deal with.

She met Methos's stunned glare with a sick smile.

"Surprise," she said softly. "I'm not so mortal."

"So I see," he said, dangerously quiet. "And you didn't think to mention this before now? 'Oh, by the way, Adam. You don't need to explain Immortality to me. I know already. It's a little hard to miss, since I'm Immortal myself.'" She bit her lip and looked away, unwilling to face his accurate mockery.

"I said you didn't have to tell me," she whispered guiltily.

"After you tricked me. Dammit, did you manipulate the entire scene?!"

"No! Not the whole thing," she amended.

"Oh, just most of it," he sneered sarcastically, narrowing his eyes.

"You're one to talk," she retorted, wounded.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded. She took herself firmly in hand before she said something she regretted. She forced her anger down and met his glare evenly.

"I'm sorry I tricked you. It's not something I'm proud of. I regret not insisting you let it lie."

"Not regretful enough to actually do it," he sniped.

"Do you believe the end justifies the means?" She stayed calm only by force of will. He didn't answer her question. He knew as well as she did that often times his answer to that was yes. "You told me. Leave it at that." He looked away, then changed the subject.

"The rest of the mortals are dead. I was looking for you," he informed her in a chilly voice.

"You found me," she snapped, wiping down the blades now that she wasn't trying to convince him of anything. She turned her back on him to release their locks. "Couldn't you have waited ten minutes?" she demanded scathingly. The blades retracted into cylinders; her's went back into its holster, Melville's went into her bag.

"So you could keep your precious secret?" he sneered bitterly at her. She turned back again.

"So I wouldn't betray your trust." She tried to show her sincerity. Methos's expression gentled, but the hostility was still there.

"You've betrayed it already," he said softly, implacably. "The others are worried about you. Poor little mortal girl, caught in the crossfire." She ignored the cynicism.

"Not so mortal," she said, looking away.

"Not one of us," Methos guessed, tenaciously refusing to let it drop.

"Not exactly. I'll tell you later, Adam," she promised intently. "I have very good reasons for keeping this a secret."

He nodded, willing to let it go for now. "So when *did* you go Rambo?" he teased mockingly, quoting Richie back to her.

"Have you been talking to Richie?" she laughed, glad he'd regained some of his humor. His expression darkened imperceptibly. "Later," she promised again. He nodded, accepting that.

"I *will* get an explanation," he insisted soberly.

"Yes," she assured him yet again.

The sound of quiet voices and hushed steps drew their attention back to the corridor.

"Did they get bored waiting?" Liza asked sarcastically.

"Short attention spans," Methos returned with a conspirital half-smile. "And you might want to change your shirt. The bullet holes are a little obvious, even in this light." She flushed, and opened her backpack. She dug out a T-shirt and changed, modesty be damned. Her uninjured skin under the dried blood was mute testimony of her Immortality, and she shoved the bloodied shirt back into the bag.

"Were you expecting this?" Methos asked, that dangerous inflection back in his voice.

"It was a possibility," she admitted shortly.

"Why didn't you warn us?" She flinched at the accusation.

"I did. 'Did you hear that? I thought I heard something ahead.' Remember?" She jerked the backpack back on quickly, keeping her voice soft and hoping he'd take the hint.

"You could have told us what you knew, and not pretended it was just a suspicion," he criticized disapprovingly. He moved close to her and kept his voice as quiet as she did.

"What?" she asked skeptically. "'Hey, everyone, I sensed an Immortal you can't. You're walking into a trap?' I was ready for it; I bought you the time to take care of it. It worked, can we leave it at that?" she asked, frustrated.

"You put our lives in danger," he snapped.

"And what would you have done if I hadn't come with? I was here to help you. It's my job," she glowered.

"New job description for the Watchers?" he inquired sarcastically.

"Fuck you, Methos," she spat, "this is not *about* the Watchers."

He froze and she realized what she'd said. <Methos. I called him Methos. Oh, shit.> She backed away from him, fearfully apprehensive.

"I thought you didn't know my name," he commented fiercely, advancing on her.

"I said Cassandra didn't tell me your name. I never said I didn't know it," she explained levelly. She tried to hide her fear while still moving away from him. He matched her step for step, a stalking predator.

"What else do you know, Liza?" he paced her. "You knew about Ahriman. You know about me. Did you know about the temple too? Do you know what's here?" She didn't answer, but kept up the slow retreat. "You do, don't you?" he asked incredulously.

She hit the wall, and he cornered her there. "Do you?"

"Enough," Darius pronounced as he entered across the room. "What is the problem?"

"Later," Liza promised wearily, for his eyes only. "I swear, Adam. Methos. I'll tell you everything later."

"Yes, you will," he said ominously.

"Peace, my friends," Darius pleaded, unsure what this was about. "Fighting now will stop us sooner then those men would."

"Yes," Methos agreed, not liking it. He turned away from Liza. "So where to next?" he asked with forced interest.

"The other corridors dead ended in rooms," Duncan filled them in. "There was no writing that we saw. Or pictures. It was all spirals and circles. Abstract patterns. Tessa would love it."

"Which means we go ahead," Amanda interjected, before Duncan could go off on a Tessa tangent.

"Makes sense," Methos agreed. "This is the way that was guarded."

"Guarded?" Duncan asked, startled. Methos nodded at the body. "Did you . . .?"

"No. Liza did," Methos revealed, slightly malicious.

"Liza?" Duncan repeated, stunned. Liza was uncomfortably aware that everyone was staring at her. She flushed and looked away.

"She'll explain 'later,'" Methos mimicked childishly. His companions stared at him in astonishment. "What?" he snapped defensively. Duncan just shook his head, speechless.

"Come on," Darius chided. "Let's get started."

Liza took her lamp back from Amanda, who had brought it after Liza abandoned it. They settled into their positions again, Liza in the middle. She wished it felt a little less like they were trying to keep her from escaping. <It's your imagination,> she insisted uncertainly. She could feel Methos's eyes driving daggers into her back. She *really* wished he wasn't behind her. The lights flickered on the corroded walls, depressing her even further. <This was a bad idea. I should never have come.>

The corridor opened up into what was once a magnificent, vaulted chamber. The pillars had mostly crumbled, and rubble was strewn across the floor, making walking difficult. Intricate engraved writing covered the far wall. Darius' breath hastened in anticipation, and he hurried forward. Liza raised her lamp so he could read it. Methos snatched the lamp deftly out of her hands and brought it higher. She flashed an irritated look at him, which he ignored. She understood why when Darius asked for the paper and pens out of her bag. She handed them off hurriedly and turned back to Methos, who was studying the writing intently.

"Can you read it?" Darius asked.

"I think," Methos confirmed absently. "It's very similar to a language I *do* know. It appears to be the same message, repeated."

"What does it say?" Darius queried, anticipation making the normally patient priest anxious.

"It says, roughly, that the Game was started by power-hungry Immortals who wanted to have the ultimate power." Methos paused, translating. He ran his fingers lightly over the words, mouthing the translations. "They tricked other Immortals into fighting so the power was more concentrated. They invented the rules as safeguards, to protect themselves." He stopped again, struggling with the words. "One of the men, Kaiso, tired of the fighting and came here, to holy ground. He started this place to redeem what he had done." Darius tapped an impatient foot as Methos translated the last bit. "When other Immortals took advantage of what he'd created to protect them, he banished all Immortals from the Ageless Sanctuary. He left the story engraved in stone, so one day Immortals would remember." Methos went silent, thinking. <So many lost. So many dead. For what? Power. I am sick of power.>

"Damn," Richie whispered. "It's a lie."

"There will never be a one," Darius said wonderingly.

"How many have died because of this?" Duncan whispered to himself.

Liza studied each stunned face. Wonder and joy mixed with regret and loss. She pulled the camera out of her bag and held it out to Darius. Darius looked at it, uncomprehending, then accepted it with a nod of thanks. He began snapping pictures, jolting the other Immortals out of their stupor. He took several careful rolls of pictures, recording images the writing from every angle.

"Now we have to decide what to do with this," Darius said softly. No one disagreed. They searched the room carefully, but that wall was the only writing they found. Darius turned at last and left the room. The rest followed without protest. The hike back was quiet, each person locked in thought. When they reached the room where they had fought, they stopped.

"We shouldn't leave them here," Darius insisted reluctantly. Duncan nodded agreement.

"What do you plan to do with them?" Methos inquired sarcastically, "hold a funeral?"

"Burn the bodies," Amanda suggested.

"They'll have to be hauled out for that," Duncan objected.

"Then we'd better get started," Darius suggested cheerfully.

It took them two hours to drag all the bodies out of the cave. Richie and Duncan went back for Melville's body, and he joined the others. They stared into the stinking fire until it burned out, then buried the ashes. Since it was almost dark by the time they finished everything, they decided it was easier to camp than to struggle back in the dark. They camped with the gear they had left at the mouth of the cave. Duncan made a smaller fire to keep them warm. <Wise. I wouldn't particularly enjoy sleeping by a funeral pyre,> Liza thought. Duncan, ever the survivalist, directed them in creating a crude shelter. She was thankful the others were too exhausted to question her yet. Liza lay down on the outside of Richie, and as far from Methos as she could get. Richie smiled as Amanda laid down next to his other side.

"I could get used to this," he commented as they snuggled up. Liza moved long enough to punch him lightly.

"Behave," she warned, and he smirked. Methos watched as Darius, then Duncan, laid down as well. He disliked the arrangements. It was all too easy for Liza to slip away. She must have realized what he was thinking, because she winked at him.

"I'm not going anywhere in the cold night, Adam. I promise," she told him with a wry smile. Methos's answering smile was forced.

"Of course not," he returned dryly.

Liza resolutely closed her eyes on his incredulity. *She* knew she didn't plan to go anywhere. She slept fitfully, the chill, hard ground waking her every time she drifted off. She must have slept more than she thought, because she woke in the icy pre-dawn stiff, but not exhausted. She lay still, wondering what had woken her. A movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention to the fire. Methos's lanky form was hunched there, by the fire's last embers, and she realized that his movements had jolted her out of the light sleep. She slipped out of her bag and moved to join him. He started as she came up behind him.

"I am not your enemy, Methos. I had reasons for everything I've done," she told him softly, certainly.

"Reasons for lying?" he probed.

"Yes. Reasons for lying. Reasons for hiding my past and my Immortality."

"You don't act like an Immortal," he groused.

"This from mild mannered 'Adam Pierson,'" she returned with a short laugh.

"True," he conceded. "So how old are you?"

"Young. Only a hundred and thirty-two." She was glad the tension of their previous conversation had vanished.

Methos grinned at that. "Did you ever notice how Immortals are the only ones who can use 'only' in the same breath as 'centuries' when talking about their age?"

"Yeah."

"So you were born in . . . what, 1865?"

"1985," Liza admitted. She held her breath tensely, waiting for his response.

"Please explain that," Methos said carefully, controlling his skeptical uncertainty.

"My name isn't Liza Johnson, it's Liza Ryan. My foster mother, Mary Ryan, was Emily Ryan's sister," she admitted candidly.

"Who's Emily Ryan?" Methos wondered, confused.

"My foster mother," Richie said from his sleeping bag. Liza's head snapped up, and Methos mirrored her movement. The redheaded Immortal stood up and moved to the fire. He smiled sleepily at them. "Emily Ryan was the only mother I knew before Tessa," he said softly.

"Mary Ryan tried to get custody of you," Liza said gently, accepting this new development. "They wouldn't allow it. They wouldn't even tell her where you were, or how you were doing."

"But they let her adopt you," he remarked, a trace bitterly.

"She adopted me in 1993 after she had already been married for five years," Liza rationalized. "They wouldn't let her have you because she was single then."

Richie nodded in understanding, comforted that he hadn't simply been abandoned.

"Mary Ryan," Methos mused. "The name seems familiar."

"It should," Liza said. "She's a Watcher, and high in the administration too."

"A Watcher," Methos echoed sharply. "What did she do when she found out you would be Immortal? Or did she?"

"She knew before she adopted me," Lisa informed him with a crooked grin. "The Tribunal threw a fit, but she wouldn't be gainsaid. She wanted a child, and by God, she was going to have me! I'm surprised you didn't hear about it." She thought fondly about the iron-willed Watcher who raised her. "I grew up hearing about you, Richie," she continued. "She made me promise to look for you, if she failed. She said I had forever to find you." She smiled fondly.

"You have found me," he remarked.

"*Now* I have found you." <By the time I was old enough before, you were already gone.>

"Now?" he repeated, confused by the emphasis she placed on the word.

"Never mind. You're right, but this Time I knew where you'd be." She was being obscure, she knew. There was a devious kind of pleasure in it.

"How?" Methos asked the all-important question. <How did she know what she did?>

"In 2032 it became possible to break the Time barrier, to send people back in Time," Liza explained, trying to give them a little background and ignoring their skeptical expressions. "People were careless, changing Time as they saw fit. In order to keep Time flowing the way it should, Time Guard was created. It tracked down changes that had been made, and sent people back to Correct it. Who better to help them than Immortals and the Watchers? I was a member of Time Guard almost from the beginning."

"So you came back from the future?" Methos said in disbelief.

"I was sent to Correct, yes," she agreed.

"So that's how you knew I was Methos," he concluded.

"We were friends," she said firmly. "Most of what I knew about you, you told me yourself."

"So you didn't actually talk to Cassandra?" he concluded, resigned.

"Not for another forty years," she grinned.

"What were you sent back to change?" Methos questioned.

"Horton," Darius guessed from the shadows. Liza started again. Her head snapped around to where he stood.

"Darius," she acknowledged flatly. "How long have you been listening?"

"Since you got up," he said easily, coming up to the embers.

"All right, any *other* eavesdropping Immortals want to come join us?!" she demanded, exasperated.

Amanda giggled, and she and Duncan trailed Darius into the dim light.

"You really should be more quiet when you wake up," Duncan reproved her. "Can you blame us for being curious when you call Methos by his name?"

"No," she admitted reluctantly.

"Please continue," Methos invited blandly, "now that you have a true audience." Liza bit her lip, thinking, <This confession was so much easier when it was just to Methos and Richie.>

"I was sent back to stop Horton. It wasn't chance that led him to attack you, Darius. A man from the future, Thomas Melville, gave him the idea." The hatred in her voice when she said Melville's name took them aback.

"Who was this Melville?" Darius asked gently, his priest mode activated.

"He was an Immortal. He went back in Time, then went rogue. He went back again to kill everyone sent to Correct." There was no inflection in her carefully controlled voice. She was stating the facts, nothing more. She refused to let her personal bias color this confession.

"How did he go ahead in time if he didn't have a time machine?" Richie asked, confused.

"How did he . . . Oh. No, he didn't go ahead," she denied. "That's not possible to do. We can't generate the amount of energy you need, not to mention the technology. It's more complicated than simply 'he went back in Time.'" She breathed deeply, trying to clarify what she wanted to say. "When a person is sent back, a high amount of energy is run in a complicated field around that person. The energy . . . I guess 'duplicates' would be the best word. The energy duplicates everything being sent back. The copy is sent back, the original stays. If the person goes back again, another copy is made. Melville sent himself back twice before he was executed."

"So if the copy is sent back, that makes you a copy," Methos said shrewdly, watching for her reaction.

"Yes, Methos, a copy," she snarled angrily. "A fucking shadow. I am *nothing*! Not even a ghost. You can't sense me. I don't really exist. If you took my head, I'd give a Quickening, yes, but not one that you could take. No more than I could take yours. I'm a memory of a real person. The real Liza Ryan is still living in New York, doing research for Time Guard and the Watchers, visiting her friends and living her life. I'm an echo of that, no more. This *right* *here* is what I live for. Without this, without *you*, I might as well be dead. You wondered why I had that effect on Ahriman? Because I'm not real enough.. I'm not *natural*." <I'm a freak, an abomination. Even Horton would be right to condemn me.> She glowered at Methos, angry at him for bringing out this particular confession and raising her doubts. Methos looked away under her vehement tirade, ashamed.

"That's not true. You're real, Liza," Richie tried to comfort her.

"Yeah," she said bitterly. "Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. But do I have a soul, Richie? *Can* you copy a soul?" She half shrugged helplessly. She didn't know any more than he did. Times like this she wished Michelle was right, no matter how much she had scorned the other's theory before she went back.

"It could be argued that I have no soul as well," Methos reminded her blandly.

"Different circumstances," she snapped. "But in the end it makes no difference if I have a soul or not. If I do, fine. If I don't, it won't matter when I die anyway. It's hard to care about anything when you're nothing."

"God, that's depressing," Amanda said, shuddering. There was silence as they tried to take in what she'd told them.

"This Melville," Darius said, neatly sidetracking the subject and breaking the silence. "How did he convince Horton?"

"He pretended to be a Watcher. Since he'd been one, it wasn't that hard," she answered, almost monotonously. She disliked the direction this inquisition was going increasingly the longer she answered their questions.

"How did an Immortal become a Watcher?" Methos asked, frowning.

"You're not the last to do it," she reproved him sardonically. "The Watchers form an Immortal branch in 2003. It's the pet project of Mary Ryan and Joe Dawson. Protection and a hiding place for Immortals in return for an oath to aid the Watchers and not to kill other Immortals unless necessary. It's more complicated than that, but that's the gist of it."

"So Melville was an Immortal Watcher?" he verified.

"Yes. He was recruited into both the Watchers and Time Guard after me," she confirmed.

"Why would he want to kill Darius?" MacLeod asked.

"To keep him from helping you find this place. To keep the Game going. It didn't work permanently, but he kept you away for seventy-five years," she rationalized. <No need for anyone to know the real reason. Ever. How he toyed with us . . . No, that I will never tell.>

"So he makes one attempt to kill us, and then gives up?" Darius asked, slightly skeptical.

Liza stared into the coals. "No."

"What else did he do?" Methos pursued the question.

"He went after Tessa and Richie," she answered reluctantly.

"The punk that night," Richie realized. "*You* stopped him?" <Dammit, I wish they weren't so perceptive,> she thought wistfully.

"I stopped him," she spoke.

"Man, I hope I never piss you off," he said, whistling admiringly. He grinned to show there were no hard feelings.

"You're not . . . angry, about what I said?" she asked, disbelieving and a little worried.

"Not after I died," he shook his head. "I talked to Darius about it. He said you probably knew I'd be Immortal. That made more sense, especially with the bullet hole in your shirt at the time. We thought you might have been the same person who saved Darius from Horton's men."

"I didn't intend to be that cruel," she apologized softly. "I was desperate to get out of there before Duncan showed up and the two of you stopped me."

"Why did it matter?" Richie wondered.

"Because I was supposed to observe the Ahriman battle," she said matter-of-factly. There was a momentary silence as they thought.

"Who died?" Darius asked. She jerked upright before she could control the reaction. Stunned fear and astonishment warred on her face, confirming Darius' guess, before she regained control. <He can't know someone died!> she thought frantically.

"Who died?" Methos repeated darkly, certain this was important. "Why else would you warn us to stay away?" he rationalized. "Who did Mac kill?"

"Don't ask me this!" she begged desperately. "Bad enough he lived with it once! Would you make him live with the knowledge again?"

"Who?" Duncan demanded. The Immortals glared at her, implacable. She wavered, torn by her need to keep silent and the surety that they wouldn't allow it.

"Richie!" she gave in, anguished. "He walked into Duncan's blade. How do you fight a demon you don't know exists?" She spun away from the fire and the stunned, horrified faces. No one tried to stop her. She stalked into the woods, guilt and anger driving her steps. She drew her sword, flicked it open, and drove it into a near by tree, growling at her memories.

"Stupid idiots," she hissed, enraged. "Goddam motherfuckers don't know when the *hell* to leave well enough alone! *Dammit* all. I *told* them there was a fucking reason for everything I did. The was a *fucking* reason why I didn't tell them who was killed. *Dammit!*" She jerked the sword out and savagely wiped her tears away. A soft sound behind her alerted her and she turned back to see Methos watching her, his expression unreadable.

"*Now* is not the time to be anywhere near me, Methos," she informed him, voice deadly calm.

"We were worried about you," he said softly. She laughed humorlessly.

"I'm sure," she said sarcastically. "Worried about me or worried about what I couldn't tell you if I left?"

He winced at her cynicism. "About *you*. Come back to the fire."

"So you can interrogate me some more?" she asked bitterly.

"Yes," he snarled, angry now. "You told Duncan he killed his student. What do you think that's doing to him?"

"I told you to leave it be!" she retorted. "Why the hell didn't you listen to me? I knew what I was talking about."

"Stop being so damn smug," he glared. "I don't need you to be superior. I don't need you to preach to me about how right you were. I need you to help Duncan. Can you manage to put aside your selfish 'I told you so's' and come help him?"

She glared back, hating him for being right and ashamed that he was. She bit off a curse and stalked by him back toward the camp.

"Your sword," he reminded her sharply. She slashed childishly at a branch before secreting it away again. She paused a second in the ghostly trees, calming her expression. <Methos was right, damn him. MacLeod's going to kill himself over this one.> She stepped back into the camp site and was met immediately by anxious, watchful tension. The weight of it made her weary. She moved to Duncan and stared him down.

"It was *not* your fault," she insisted. "No one knew anything about a millennial demon. Ahriman took advantage of that. He exploited your weaknesses. He lured Richie to a race track in Paris at the same time he was taunting you with specters you couldn't kill. Ahriman tricked you into thinking Richie was one of his forms. Duncan, it was *not* your fault." He looked away, guilt darkening his features.

"Believe me," she pleaded. "Please, don't give Ahriman this victory." Trite, perhaps, but Duncan's gaze cleared a little anyway. She turned back to the fire, it was easier then meeting the judging eyes of the Immortals. The mottled, glowing orange and black soothed her, and distanced her from what she was saying.

"What else do you want to know?" she asked, voice remote.

"Who was the man you killed today?" Methos asked.

"Which one?" she evaded. He *looked* at her, and she relented. "That was Thomas Melville. The enemy who attacks when we are most vulnerable." She glanced up to meet Methos's comprehending shock as the barb landed. <*He* remembers how vulnerable we were after the Horsemen.>

"The Immortal who tried to have Darius killed?" Amanda questioned, peeved.

"Yes," Liza hedged. "The one who made the original alterations in Time."

"So the bastard who's killing you guys off is still out there?" Amanda's outrage was almost comic. Liza shook her head and clarified.

"The Melville that went back to kill the Correctors lost a challenge in 2010 to an Out Time Immortal, Jaks Martin. That was after most of the damage had been done."

"Wait a second," Methos said frowning. "It isn't 2010 yet. Can he still come after us?"

Liza cursed silently. <He *would* think of that.> "I was sent back after him, so he might not know about me. He *can* anticipate this Correction and come after you, but I doubt he would."

"Why not?" Methos queried.

"Because it's more likely that he'd go after me," she snapped. "In Time Immortals aren't his targets, Out Time ones are. He wouldn't target the Corrected, he'd target the Corrector."

"So you're a target?" he surmised.

"Don't worry, Methos," she reassured him bitterly, "I don't plan to stick around and put you in danger." Assuming they'd let her leave alive.

"So where will you go, if *we* are what you claim you live for?" Darius asked perceptively. "Do you have any friends besides us? Do you *know* anyone besides us?"

"Leave it be, Your Holiness. I'll be fine," she assured him, a trace sarcastically. <Mark. Only Mark,> the little voice reminded her.

"I take it that's a no," he translated with gentle humor. "You don't have to leave. We aren't angry with you."

"No," she shrugged, like it didn't matter, "only shocked and betrayed. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to get over that and be properly enraged later. There have been studies done on this. People in the past don't accept people like me. There is always the accusation: 'why didn't you know this?' or 'why didn't you do something?' or 'why *did* you do something?' It doesn't work."

"So tell us why," Darius soothed gently. "Help us understand."

Her thoughts flickered quickly. <They couldn't hate me any more than they already do . . .>

"We have rules," she started quietly. "Binding rules. Legally, under the laws my Time, breaking these rules are grounds for imprisonment or, more likely, execution. We don't interfere. Sound familiar? Certain Corrections are authorized, to return the past to how it was, but most of the time we *watch.* That was most of what I was supposed to do."

"Is this breaking your oath?" Methos guessed. "Talking to your subjects?"

She laughed. "The Watchers might be a part of Time Guard, but they don't make policy. Fraternization is allowed."

"And telling us this?"

"You shouldn't know," she said honestly. "It's harder for all of us if you do, more likely the future will be changed, either inadvertently or deliberately. But because you and MacLeod end up in Time Guard anyway I have permission to break the secrecy."

"What about the rest of us?" Richie asked.

"You're dead."

"All of us?"

Liza cursed silently. she decided. "You and Darius are dead, I told you that already," she hedged.

"And me?" Amanda asked sweetly, steel in her voice.

"Amanda, why would anyone in their right mind let you anywhere near a time machine?" she asked flippantly. "You stole enough your first time through time!" She projected cheerful humor desperately.

"But if Duncan was involved in this Time Guard, wouldn't I help him?" she demanded. "He's my friend."

"You would," she acknowledged.

"But not 'did'?" Methos jumped on the phrasing.

"What?" Liza asked, pretending to be confused.

"Not 'she did' but 'she would.' She would if she could? *Could* she help him, Liza?"

<Damn! *Why* is he so fucking perceptive? Everything I try to hide, he finds.> Liza thought, sickened.

"No," she admitted with ill grace. "It's hard to help when you're a foot shorter than you should be."

"Who killed me?" Amanda insisted, outraged.

"A headhunter," Liza dismissed. "Duncan MacLeod hunted him down."

"Who?!"

"Let it be, Amanda." Liza had no intention of backing down on this. <No more will die. Not Shakan, not for a crime he will never commit. And there's no way in hell I'm telling her that Mac didn't kill Shakan. She'd never understand the debt Duncan owed him, or the friendship he gave up because of her death.>

"I want to know who killed me!"

"Tough," she said shortly. "He was playing the Game. When what we learn today gets out, he stops killing. It's this evil, not him, that is responsible for killing you. I have no intention of allowing that to happen this Time."

"He was a friend, wasn't he?" Darius asked. She didn't deny it.

"You became friends with the man who killed me?" Amanda cried, outraged.

"Amanda!" she snapped. "Settle down! Yes, he was my friend. He carried the guilt of every needless death, just as Duncan did. Have you ever thought about it? The Game isn't real! Everyone who was lost has died in vain. Ramirez, Rebecca, a thousand others. A few power hungry megalomaniacs orchestrated the genocide of an entire race, and we played along. There can be only one," she sneered. "What the hell kind of power is there in loneliness? Personally, I don't consider insanity a strength."

"What now?" Duncan asked, voice heavy with grief and guilt. "We kill, knowing it's not necessary?"

"You know now that you will never be forced to face a friend because there must be only one," she reminded him. "Tell the Immortals you know. They tell the ones they know. Tell the Immortals who challenge you. Tell the Immortals you meet in passing. That is *exactly* what the Immortals who started the Game did. This will spread the same way. Do you think you are the only ones tired of fighting? Tired of death?" She reached out and stirred the embers absently with a nearby stick, pretending to be more focused on that than on the conversation. <Defense mechanism,> she derided herself.

"Will it work?" Duncan asked.

"It can, if you make it," she commented vaguely.

"Yes," Duncan said decisively, deciding to be satisfied with the answer.

"Ah, the boy scout has another pet project," Methos interjected caustically. "Pardon me for shooting you back to reality, but this will not stop the killing. Those who want power, who live for the Game, won't give it up so easily. Anyone who lays down the sword will be an easy target."

"I'm not suggesting you put down your sword," Liza retorted. "I'm saying the Immortal race doesn't have to cull itself to extinction. Some Immortals must be stopped, for the safety of everyone, and the only way to do that is--and will always be--the sword. You'll notice I'm still in practice."

"Yes, and for someone preaching the end of the Game, you're eager to finish it with your kind," Methos spat.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded angrily.

"How many Out Time Immortals are there? Melville killed most of them, didn't he? You said most of the damage had been done. There's one other, Jaks. Isn't that right? That's coming pretty close to 'there can be only one.' Tell me, if you two meet, will you fight to the death? It's the only Quickening you can take."

"I don't care about the Quickening," she insisted, anguished. "I don't want to kill."

"You are a merciless killer," Methos denied coldly. "Horton you shot down, and his men you left to be executed. Those men in the temple today you killed without thought. Melville you killed without thought."

"No! They were a threat; I had no choice," she protested, coming to her feet and meeting him in the eye. He glared uncompromisingly at her.

"There is *always* a choice," Methos retorted doggedly. "If I become a threat to you, will you kill me? Will you kill Mac? Or Darius? Or Amanda? Or Richie? What gives you the right to judge?" She flinched.

"Shouldn't you be asking 'why?'" she quipped bitterly.

"If I thought you'd answer me," Methos said intently. "Where were you when Joe was put on trial by the Watchers? Where was your precious Correction then?"

"Do you know the hardest thing about coming back? It's having to do nothing," she ground out harshly. "I would have given almost anything to spare you that. If I could have stopped the trial, I would have. It was necessary . . ."

"Necessary," Methos sneered, interrupting her.

"Yes, necessary!" she shouted. "I don't know what you remember about Watcher views toward Immortals--it *was* a long time ago, I realize--but their close-minded bigotry made it impossible for Watchers to even *talk* to their subjects, much less be friends with them. What Jack Shapiro did, and the misunderstanding of Jacob Galati, started a massive purge and re-education project in the Watchers. Because of how far the Tribunal was willing to go, not only violate the prime directive--Never Interfere--but also to execute two Immortals, one of whom was innocent, Watcher policy changed. The horrified backlash in both research and the field incited a more tolerant mindset that eventually allowed Joe Dawson and Mary Ryan to create the Immortal branch of the Watchers. It. Was. Necessary," she punctuated savagely. "*That* is why the non interference rules exist. Because often Correcting an event will cause more harm than anything Corrected!"

"You've told us about your rules, but not about why *you* have done this. Do you like to play God?!" Methos demanded incredulously.

<Manipulative bastard,> she realized, her anger leaving suddenly. <He's been testing me!>

"Because I can't do nothing," she said flatly. "If I refused the Correction, Mark would have sent someone back who was less qualified and experienced. Someone who didn't understand the situation as well as I did. Someone with less to lose by failing. You were my friend, Methos. You *are* my friend now. Joe was family. I was an aunt to his grandchildren! Richie was the cousin I never knew. You are the closest I've come to family. Is that the reason you're looking for?! I do it for love, Methos. I do it for friendship. I do it because I want to see you live, even if it costs me my own life."

"Why would it do that?" Methos asked quickly. She froze, realizing her slip.

"As you value my life," she whispered, "never ask me that again." <My sins are mine. Melville's secret goes to my grave. Whether he was a manipulative angel or an angelic villain, I can't let them die.>

Methos nodded, mercifully accepting that. "What do we tell Joe and Tessa?"

"The truth," she said immediately, knowing that was the only answer they would accept. "There is nothing else to tell."

"After we tell them? What will happen?"

"I don't know," she grinned lightly.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Methos asked irritably.

"I have no clue," she shrugged easily. "Events might follow the same path. They might not. Time is free flowing now. Can't you feel it? 'The future isn't set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves.' My fate is my own. Let the future sort itself out. I, for one, want a vacation."

"Trite," Methos teased.

"Truth," she challenged. "Will you come? I hear Bora Bora's nice this time of year."

"That's not fair. You know my lines," he complained. "Don't start," he warned, as she opened her mouth. "I know exactly what you plan to say, and I have no desire to hear your impression of a five year old. Again."

She grinned. "I'll promise not to impersonate you if you agree to come with me." Methos examined that statement for a second.

"I want a promise not to insult me too."

"No way, you're too easy," she denied.

"I've had a lot of practice. But we'll never get anywhere if we don't get off this mountain," he reminded her.

"Good point," she agreed amenably, standing up. "Let's get moving. I want to be back before dark."

~Finis~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author's Notes:

1. C'est la vie- (French) That's life.

2. Comidac- COMmunication and IDentification brACelet. It works like a pager, driver's license, id, passport, checkbook and credit card in one. It's locked onto the wrist but can be removed.

3. Liza's quote ("The future isn't set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves.") is from Terminator 2.

4. <Murphy, you asshole,> is a reference to Murphy's Law: If something can go wrong, it will.

5. A wench is an older term for a barmaid.

6. The US military uses magnesium flares to light battlefields at night.

6. Cogito ergo sum- (Latin) I think, therefore I am.

7. Janeen's Timeline can be found on her webpage: http://users.erols.com/darkpanther/

Time Line:

1985- Liza Ryan is born

1993- Liza (8 yrs old) is adopted by Mary Ryan, Richie Ryan (17) is taken in by Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel

2003- Liza (18) declares herself the Immortal branch of the Watchers, complete with tattoo

2007- Immortal branch of the Watchers is formed

2009- Liza's first death (24 yrs old)

2016- Liza (31) meets Methos while working for the Watchers

2032- Time travel technology developed.

2035- Time Guard founded

2037- Liza (52) joins Time Guard

2115- Liza (125) is sent back for a Correction

The next story is probably not coming any time soon. It took me over a year to write this one, and I haven't even begun the next. Never the less, it and the third are planned. All comments and suggestions can be directed to lunalarea@hotmail.com.

To Undo Time

Rating: M

DISCLAIMER

Author's Notes:

What's New? | Main Page | Title Index | Author Index | Fandom Index | Crossover Index | Webrings | Links | Submissions | Feedback