WIP amnesty
so I hear from keerawa that it's
wip_amnesty time again. Which reminds me, most of the stuff on my harddrive is a WIP of some form or another. My writing seems perpetually lost in WIP limbo. Well.
This one is almost guarenteed never to be continued. It's a HL/X-Files thingy. Fox Mulder meets a scary stranger in an alley. No, it's not that kind of alley story. So. Here goes... Originally it was maybe gonna be part of the Occam's Razor series, but it just didn't fit.
Fox Mulder shrugged down deeper into his overcoat and trudged on, cursing his own wanderlust for stranding him in an unfamiliar city in the rain. When he made it back to the hotel he was going to tell Scully to remind him of this night if he ever got the urge to return to the Pacific Northwest. Icy sleet trickled down the back of his neck and he swiped at it in annoyance. His jaunt through the empty Seacouver streets had gotten him no closer to understanding the Redecorator, but just may have given him a nasty head cold.
Mulder paused, glanced around the street in annoyance. He didn’t recognize the intersection at all. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side of the street, dark windows mostly shattered. Seacouver’s forgotten factory district. Shit. Mulder felt for his cel phone. At least he knew the name of the road; hopefully he could convince a cab to come pick him up.
He was fumbling for the power button when a strange metallic clanking caught his attention. Too irregular to be mechanical despite the industrial location, the sounds were oddly familiar nonetheless. Mulder frowned and wandered towards the clanking. He could just hear muffled voices but they were too far away to make out the words. The clash of metal on metal increased in tempo, frenzied, then abruptly broke off. Silence fell over the deserted street.
Mulder halted, unsure exactly what direction the sounds had come from. A low moan echoed off of the brick buildings, then a brilliant white light flashed a block over to his left. The moan rose to a guttural scream as the light built in intensity, a wild strobe in the dingy darkness. Like lightning but oddly localized, the light left dancing spots behind Mulder’s eyelids.
The scream rose in pitch, twisted into a keening wail of agony. Mulder took off in a sprint, certain that someone was meeting a horrible death. The voice grew strangled, cracked, and then broke off and the light vanished just as suddenly. Mulder slowed to a jog, uncertain (as to what he would find). His hand automatically slipped under his jacket to his gun as he neared the mouth of the alley.
Most of the streetlights here had blown out -shards of glass from the lamps twinkled dully in the city’s ambient glow. The glare from the street penetrated the alley a few feet and then faded to pitch black. Mulder took a tentative step into the alley, squinted into the darkness. At first he could make out little, then slight movement registered in the periphery of the alley. Mulder unlatched his holster and crept toward the movement.
“Who’s there?” he called.
There was no answer, but he could hear harsh breathing from the shadows, pained gasps for air. Something moved again and Mulder drew his weapon.
“Show yourself!” he demanded.
A sliver of silver light gleamed in the darkness and Mulder froze. He heard a rustle of cloth and the reflected light disappeared. Breathless muttering drifted to him, a low voice that slid between English and another language Mulder felt he should recognize but didn’t. Mulder kept his gun trained on the amorphous shape, struggled to keep his own breathing under control.
“Federal agent. Come out into the light,” Mulder ordered.
“Easier said than done,” a strained voice snapped back. Mulder heard shuffling, then more low profanity, this time in French.
“Are you injured?” Mulder asked, lowering the gun slightly and cursing his lack of a flashlight.
“Not…exactly.”
Mulder stepped into the shadows, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. A man sat hunched against the brick wall that formed one side of the alley, curled around himself as if in pain. Mulder could make out nothing about the man’s dress except that he was wrapped in a long dark overcoat that looked soaked through.
The face that turned to peer up at Mulder was luminously pale in the dim light. The sharp planes of nose and cheekbones cast hard-edged shadows that threw the face into mask-like relief. The man was younger than Mulder, skin smooth and not yet marked by time or care. Rain glittered on his eyelashes, plastered dark hair to his skull and ran in rivulets down his forehead and into his eyes. Despite this the man never blinked. He stared up at Mulder with an intense, measuring gaze.
Mulder took a step forward and the young man scrambled backward, his movements stiff and clumsy. Mulder reached for him and in a flashing blur a knife materialized in the man’s hand. Mulder froze, staring at the weapon in shock. It wasn’t anything like a hoodlum’s weapon, not a switchblade or even a Bowie knife but instead something out of a museum display. His mind skittered after the name of the weapon even as he backed away. Like a dagger, but not…stiletto? The streetlight glittered off of the tapered blade and the man gave him a gentle smile. Remembering himself Mulder raised his gun but the smile only gained an ironic twist.
“I suppose you win. Gun beats Knife. Like in Rock-Paper-Scissors.”
The knife vanished somewhere in the voluminous coat.
“What do you want?” the man asked. His offhand tone was jarringly at odds with the coiled tension of his body.
Mulder just stared at him, speechless. How exactly had he lost control of this confrontation? He straightened and dared another step closer. The man pulled himself into a crouch, still leaning heavily against the wall as if he needed it for support. The smile broadened, teeth bared in a strangely animalistic gesture that raised the hairs on Mulder’s arms.
“I heard a scream,” Mulder admitted finally.
“Another bloody boy scout,” the man grated bitterly, “How very Good Samaritan of you.”
The peculiar young man relaxed slightly and for some reason this made Mulder more nervous. The voice had grown steadier, the formerly blurred and indistinct accent solidifying into a clipped British baritone. Despite the stranger’s flippant words his eyes tracked every shift in Mulder’s stance and darted around the alley, anticipating some unseen threat. His chest still heaved unevenly as if he had run a marathon.
“Is there someone else here with you?” Mulder asked finally.
“No,” the man answered, “FBI, are you?”
Mulder frowned at the man’s easy shift from interrogated to interrogator. He nodded.
“Lovely,” the man smiled again and shifted slightly, perched on the balls of his feet as if ready to spring.
“Why don’t you come out into the light?” Mulder said, voice firmer than he felt. He couldn’t understand what it was about this man that so unnerved him.
“I don’t think so,” the man answered, tone faintly mocking, “Don’t you have some dastardly crime to investigate, agent? Anything else to do with your evening besides hang around in a dark alley waving a gun around?”
“I saw lights. Lightning. It was you screaming, wasn’t it?” Mulder insisted stubbornly.
The man just blinked up at him impassively, his odd bronze eyes gleaming faintly in the ambient light.
“Lightning,” he said dryly, “Imagine that. And during a rainstorm to boot.”
Mulder rocked back on his heels, frustrated. He couldn’t just leave now, after what he had seen and heard. There had been someone else in the alley before he got there. He was certain of that. There was no sign of another person now, though. Had this man with the young face and gently mocking eyes killed them? He was armed, that was for sure. But so far he hadn’t made a move to get away, and that puzzled Mulder. His reactions were evasive but guilt-free, not behaviour Mulder could expect from a man caught red-handed in murder.
Mulder fumbled in his coat pocket for his cel phone, aware that the man’s intense gaze followed his movements with an eerie focus. Something was definitely not right here. Mulder’s instincts screamed at him to get a better look at the rest of the alley. If he got Scully here one of them could watch the man while the other searched the scene. He’d apologize to the man if there was nothing here, but he couldn’t just let him go without knowing.
“Mexican standoff,” the other man murmured, echoing Mulder’s own thoughts.
Mulder pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. The man’s eyes narrowed, the smile instantly extinguished.
“You are a persistent bastard, aren’t you?” the man said lowly.
Mulder had the time to hear Scully’s groggy hello before the young man launched into action. A long gloved hand whipped out of the dark coat, something glittering in the dim light. Mulder jerked back instinctively but he wasn’t quick enough. His gun went flying and clattered to the pavement yards away. He shook his head, stunned, his hand stinging like he’d tried to catch a fastball barehanded. Scully’s voice was high and anxious in his ear but he didn’t get the chance to answer her. A black figure shoved him off balance and leaped past him to sweep up the gun, then whirled to face him again. All of this took less than a dozen heartbeats. The disbelief must have registered on his face for the young man smiled again with an almost sympathetic expression.
“I’ve no quarrel with you,” the man said quietly, “But I really cannot afford to let you call in the cavalry.”
Mulder remained silent, forced himself into stillness. Something in the man’s loose stance told him he might not let Mulder walk away from this encounter. The man held Mulder’s gun in a comfortable grip in his left hand. The short blade Mulder had seen earlier dangled idly from his right. Mulder swallowed, abruptly realizing just how he’d been disarmed. The man had thrown the knife - hit Mulder’s gun with such precision that the blade had never touched flesh.
“The gun at your ankle,” the man said, holding out his hand, “Slowly.”
The knife disappeared again but Mulder had no doubt it would reappear in a breath. Mulder tossed the little gun to the other man. He caught it easily.
“Your spare clip,” the man ordered. Mulder obeyed without hesitation, oddly unsurprised that the man knew what to ask for.
The man studied him with a chilly, impersonal gaze. An assassin’s gaze. It reminded him suddenly of Krycek. Mulder shivered, knowing instinctively that any wrong move would get him killed. Then the man shrugged as if he had come to a decision. Without removing his eyes from Mulder he released the clip from the smaller gun and pocketed the ammunition. He cocked his head and seemed to reconsider, then let out a resigned sigh and backed away another step toward the mouth of the alley.
“You seem like a smart man, agent. Do the smart thing and leave this alone,” the man said slowly, as if compelled to speak but reluctant to say too much, “It’s not what it will look like to you and it’s definitely none of your concern.”
With that the man’s arm shot out and he fired the gun. Mulder flinched instinctively but the weapon hadn’t been aimed at him. The last streetlight exploded with a sharp pop and the rest of the alley plunged into blackness. Mulder heard the unmistakable click of a clip ejecting and then a clatter at his feet. He bent cautiously to find his two guns inches apart on the pavement, both empty of ammunition.
Mulder gathered up his useless weapons and sprinted for the mouth of the alley. He turned a slow circle once he reached the street but here was no sign of the young man. Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration and dialed Scully’s number again. She was going to kill him for this.
***
insert Entropy (Occam's Razor II)
***
A minute sound behind him jerked Methos out of his murderous musings. He slid a hand under his coat, his fingertips brushing the incised pommel of his sword. Damn - he had left the knife in its wrist sheath under the mattress in his apartment. He should really get another gun. This was America, after all. Land of the free, home of the handgun. Yeah, hindsight was 20/20 and all that jazz.
Methos ducked into a narrow space between two looming husks of brick and steel. He pressed his back against one of the buildings and pulled his body fully into the shadows. Steady footsteps echoed behind him, dress shoes crunching on gravel. He tensed and wished again for his knife. Mortals in this century didn’t react well to the sight of a bared broadsword and Methos had no desire to be that memorable. The only other option that immediately sprung to mind was to kill whoever it was before they got a chance to be surprised by the sword; but there had been entirely too much of that lately, hadn’t there? Caspian devouring the little Romanian psychiatrist while Methos listened, his turned back his only protest… no. He’d come up with something.
The footsteps faltered. Methos waited, barely allowing himself to breathe. Without conscious thought he slid into a hyperawareness of his surroundings, every sound slightly amplified. He inhaled silently, tasting the air in a way he didn’t remember learning how to do. If anyone else left living could still do these things he hadn’t met them. Lingering skills from his long vanished first life, he supposed. He rarely took the time to think about it. They were survival techniques, no more and no less.
Methos picked through the myriad of scents from the street, focusing on anomalies. Sweat with the tang of adrenalin. Faint aftershave. Gunpowder. Shit - gunpowder. The flat clomp of dress shoes and the smell of gunpowder. He groaned inwardly. FBI. He almost wished his tail had been another Immortal. Easier to deal with than the damn FBI.
The footsteps drew nearer and Methos held perfectly still. A shadow fell across the opening to his hiding place. Methos smiled grimly when the footsteps ceased altogether, prepared to spring. A sudden rasp of sound further down the street and the shadow hesitated. The snap of a holster failed to be followed with the unmistakable sound of a gun being drawn. The FBI agent stepped into view, his gaze focused straight down the street, away from Methos. The agent’s hand rested loosely on his weapon, coat thrust back at a jaunty angle that clashed with his intense expression. The agent turned abruptly and seemed to stare into Methos’ eyes before continuing on down the street.
Methos let out a slow breath. He waited until the FBI’s footsteps told him the man was a good five yards down the street then slipped out of his hiding place. Methos kept to the shadows as he silently trailed the agent, leaving a generous distance between he and his prey. The agent paused toward the end of the street, peering up at something Methos couldn’t see.
The Immortal crept closer, curious. Something about this man had intrigued him the other night. He had seemed so… collected, even in the face of what must have looked like a knife-wielding madman. Why had Mr. FBI been following him tonight? How had the agent found him? Did the man know about Adam Pierson or was this just dumb luck? Why the hell hadn’t Methos left Seacouver after that little confrontation last night?
Too late he realized he’d gotten closer to the FBI agent than was wise. The other man whirled, eyes wide as they focused on him. Methos halted as the FBI man’s hand tightened on his gun. Bloody fucking hell. A lot of good his vaunted survival instincts were doing him now. What the hell was he thinking?
“Freeze!” the agent shouted.
Methos had the time to choke back a hysterical laugh of disbelief that cops actually said things like ‘Freeze!’ before he lost what little control over the situation he still held. A flicker of movement and a flash of red light from the shadows behind the agent caught Methos’ eye. The FBI agent launched himself toward Methos before he could identify what he’d seen. A staccato burst followed a heartbeat later. Methos staggered back, slammed into the wall of the building behind him. For a confused moment he was convinced the FBI man had shoved him. Methos watched, detached, as the agent’s face twisted in horror. He wasn’t sure why until the pain hit.
“Dumb fucking luck,” Methos managed before his knees gave up on him and he sat down, hard.
He was vaguely aware that Mr. FBI had finally drawn his gun and was intently searching the shadows. He stood over Methos with a wide-legged, absurdly protective stance. Textbook macho bodyguard pose. A giggle ripped through Methos before he could prevent it, eating up his remaining breath. It came out wet and choked, hardly any sound at all.
His hands were already shaking. He pulled at his coat, cursing his choice of another Pierson special that morning. Sweaters were so fucking hard to maneuver, especially during massive blood loss. He couldn’t lift the damn thing, couldn’t see the damage. From the way his brain’s demand for air was being ignored by his lungs it couldn’t be pretty. The grey knit was already nearly black in the dim light, a grotesque Rorschach blotch spreading across his chest. The nasty burn of blood at the back of his throat triggered a weak cough. He knew it would do no good but he couldn’t quell the reflex. It bloody well hurt. He fucking hated this.
The FBI agent dropped to his knees in front of Methos. A pale face swam into his view, lined with concern. The agent shoved aside his hands and yanked up the ruined sweater with a practiced smoothness that Methos recognized. This mortal was too young to have lived through battle triage but the way he briskly inspected Methos’ injuries revealed improbable experience.
“Shit,” the man said inanely, “Your lung was hit.”
“Oh…” Methos wheezed sarcastically, “Is that why…it’s so hard… to breathe?”
The FBI gave him a puzzled frown but was too busy playing junior medic to really pay attention. Methos was losing too much blood, too quickly. The familiar sense of disconnection, the smothering heaviness of impending death enveloped him and he struggled against it desperately. It would not be good to die in front of this man. The agent pressed a hand to one of the holes in Methos’ chest and the Immortal couldn’t stop a grunt of pain.
“Sorry,” the agent said distractedly as he dug in his pocket with his free hand.
The cellular phone again. Methos was starting to loathe the tiny things. Used to be a guy could die in peace without every Good Samaritan within earshot making some well-intentioned call for help. Dammit, at times like this he hated the twentieth century.
“Don’t,” Methos managed, gripping the agent’s sleeve before he could dial. He left a smeared red handprint on the khaki coat. Adrenalin made a belated appearance, flooding his limbs with a queasy sort of drive. He tightened his hold on the agent, grimacing at the sharp protest from his shattered chest. He had to get away. Had to get out of here before his body shut down completely. Adam Pierson might be annoying but he couldn’t meet his maker quite yet. Methos hadn’t yet constructed a replacement for him. He hated creating identities on the fly.
The FBI agent stared at him incredulously, half panicked.
“Let me call for help,” the agent cried urgently.
Methos shook his head. An ambulance was not a good idea. Movement again, behind the FBI. How much time had passed? Five minutes? Where was the sniper? If it was another Immortal they were too far away to be sensed. Even if the sniper wasn’t another Immortal… he needed to leave. Now. The only question was what to do with Mr. FBI. Methos doubted he could overpower the man, not with two or three bullet holes in his chest. He wrestled against panic and lethargy both, ignored the animal instinct that screamed that he was trapped.
“Adam?! Adam Pierson?” a new voice cried, high and on the edge of hysteria.
Methos raised his head clumsily and blinked. A young man emerged from a recessed doorway behind the FBI agent, a wicked looking automatic rifle dangling forgotten in his hand. Methos’ oxygen deprived brain sluggishly tried to place the face. Watcher. Oh hell… a Watcher. And this one knew Adam Pierson.
“Luke,” Methos groaned.
Great. Beautiful. Not only was an FBI agent who had apparently been following him going to witness his little death and reincarnation trick; now a Watcher had joined the audience as well. A Watcher who had fucking played poker with Adam Pierson at the Academy.
“Oh God… Oh God, Adam - what are you doing here?” Luke Cook moaned.
Mr. FBI whirled, gun out again in that picture-perfect stance he must have practiced in a mirror. If he hadn’t felt so trapped Methos might have been amused. The FBI’s face was deadly, his voice cold.
“Stop right there. Drop your weapon.”
It was time for a vacation, Methos thought with a panicked giddiness. The FBI was defending an Immortal from a Watcher. A Watcher with a really big gun. Did Luke have a sword in there as well? Not Luke… goofy shy Luke. Luke couldn’t be one of Horton’s Hunters. Besides, Luke didn’t know Adam was Immortal. Yet. Right? Then what the hell was Luke doing with a sniper’s rifle?
Methos glanced from the FBI agent to the Watcher. The two men were locked together, the dying man at their feet temporarily forgotten. The look of hatred Luke aimed at the FBI was unexpected. Methos filed it away for later contemplation. If he got out of this, he and Joe were going to have a long chat. Right now he needed to act. Yes. Now.
Methos bit his lip hard and surged off the ground. Luke just stared at him in dumb shock as he kicked out in a move he’d picked up from MacLeod. His boot caught Mr. FBI in the soft place under the sternum and the man crumpled with a sharp grunt of surprise. Methos yanked the gun from the man’s lax fingers and swung the weapon in a wobbly backhanded arc that nearly toppled him. The butt of the gun smashed into the side of the FBI’s head. The man fell into a limp heap and didn’t move. Methos reversed his hold on the gun and faced the Watcher, swaying slightly, his breaths coming in shallow spasms.
“Adam?” Luke squeaked.
The boy’s eyes were saucer wide. He’d apparently forgotten about his rifle. Bad move, that.
“Adam, I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to-“
“I know,” Methos interrupted gently, panting.
There was no decision to be made here. His injury was too severe to explain away. The Watcher would figure out Adam Pierson’s dirty secret. Cook knew what he looked like, knew him. Well, knew Adam anyway. Leaving the country, creating a new life, nothing would change that simple fact.
The Watcher would assume Pierson was a new Immortal but there were others above him who could connect the dots, who had the resources to unearth the inevitable holes in Pierson’s dossier. And when they figured it out he doubted they would pull the beheading stroke as Stern had done. At the very least they would try to hang a Watcher on him, on Pierson. Methos couldn’t allow any of this to happen. He had been free of Watchers for nine hundred years. He didn’t want to go into hiding now.
“I’m sorry,” Methos breathed, raising the gun.
The Watcher backed away a step, his face utterly confused, painfully young. He still didn’t lift his own weapon. No matter. It wasn’t as if Methos had to worry about sullying his honor this late in the game.
“Adam?” Cook cried, finally realizing he should be terrified.
“I’m not Adam,” Methos said, his voice a hoarse rasp.
The shot hit the Watcher neatly between the eyes. The body struck the pavement with a thud and Methos staggered forward. Two more rapid shots into the kid’s heart just to be sure. Covering all the bases. The Watcher’s expression of frozen disbelief turned Methos’ stomach. He swallowed blood and bile and let his eyes close briefly.
“Merde,” he swore thinly.
After a moment he turned back to the FBI agent. Blood trickled down the man’s temple but he was still taking even breaths. Instinct demanded that Methos dispatch the agent as he had the Watcher but he couldn’t raise the gun. He needed to find out what the man knew. Why he was being followed. Why a mid-level field Watcher tried to assassinate a FBI agent. Methos blinked at the latter thought. Cook hadn’t been after Pierson at all. The look in the kid’s eyes when he’d faced the FBI… Methos didn’t have time for this now. He had very little time, in fact.
After very carefully wiping down the gun Methos dropped it next to the agent’s head. He glanced around furtively, in too much agony to stretch his other senses. The street remained dark and quiet; his quick gasps for air the only sounds. There were no Immortals around, none that he could feel anyway. Even so he felt exposed. He needed to find a safe place to die. Someplace where neither a head-hunter nor an unsuspecting mortal was going stumble across his senseless corpse.
The memory of waking to Nathan Stern’s shocked loathing, to Kronos’ gleeful leer prodded him into movement despite his body’s protests. He had held on through injuries worse than this. Centuries of battle in lands where corpses were routinely beheaded had conditioned him to push himself beyond his own imminent mortality. The brief adrenalin rush of escape was quickly fading, leaving him barely coherent. He stumbled and steadied himself against a graffiti clad wall, left a wide daub of crimson over the neon letters.
Methos felt his pulse skip and stutter. He swung his head wildly from side to side, searching for a place to hole up. Somehow he’d ended up in an alley. It looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t… quite… recall why. He fell against a door and pulled at it with the last of his strength. To his shock the door gave and he almost wept at the darkness inside. It felt like he was in a closet but he didn’t care, he was off the street.
The metal floor seemed to move under him. Unable to keep his balance he collapsed, scrabbling futilely at smooth walls. There was… there was another Immortal nearby. He knew it was too late even as he fumbled for his sword. If he died and the other found him he probably wouldn’t wake this time.
He pulled the Ivanhoe free of his coat and waited for one of his deaths to catch him.
wip_amnesty time again. Which reminds me, most of the stuff on my harddrive is a WIP of some form or another. My writing seems perpetually lost in WIP limbo. Well.
This one is almost guarenteed never to be continued. It's a HL/X-Files thingy. Fox Mulder meets a scary stranger in an alley. No, it's not that kind of alley story. So. Here goes... Originally it was maybe gonna be part of the Occam's Razor series, but it just didn't fit.
Fox Mulder shrugged down deeper into his overcoat and trudged on, cursing his own wanderlust for stranding him in an unfamiliar city in the rain. When he made it back to the hotel he was going to tell Scully to remind him of this night if he ever got the urge to return to the Pacific Northwest. Icy sleet trickled down the back of his neck and he swiped at it in annoyance. His jaunt through the empty Seacouver streets had gotten him no closer to understanding the Redecorator, but just may have given him a nasty head cold.
Mulder paused, glanced around the street in annoyance. He didn’t recognize the intersection at all. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side of the street, dark windows mostly shattered. Seacouver’s forgotten factory district. Shit. Mulder felt for his cel phone. At least he knew the name of the road; hopefully he could convince a cab to come pick him up.
He was fumbling for the power button when a strange metallic clanking caught his attention. Too irregular to be mechanical despite the industrial location, the sounds were oddly familiar nonetheless. Mulder frowned and wandered towards the clanking. He could just hear muffled voices but they were too far away to make out the words. The clash of metal on metal increased in tempo, frenzied, then abruptly broke off. Silence fell over the deserted street.
Mulder halted, unsure exactly what direction the sounds had come from. A low moan echoed off of the brick buildings, then a brilliant white light flashed a block over to his left. The moan rose to a guttural scream as the light built in intensity, a wild strobe in the dingy darkness. Like lightning but oddly localized, the light left dancing spots behind Mulder’s eyelids.
The scream rose in pitch, twisted into a keening wail of agony. Mulder took off in a sprint, certain that someone was meeting a horrible death. The voice grew strangled, cracked, and then broke off and the light vanished just as suddenly. Mulder slowed to a jog, uncertain (as to what he would find). His hand automatically slipped under his jacket to his gun as he neared the mouth of the alley.
Most of the streetlights here had blown out -shards of glass from the lamps twinkled dully in the city’s ambient glow. The glare from the street penetrated the alley a few feet and then faded to pitch black. Mulder took a tentative step into the alley, squinted into the darkness. At first he could make out little, then slight movement registered in the periphery of the alley. Mulder unlatched his holster and crept toward the movement.
“Who’s there?” he called.
There was no answer, but he could hear harsh breathing from the shadows, pained gasps for air. Something moved again and Mulder drew his weapon.
“Show yourself!” he demanded.
A sliver of silver light gleamed in the darkness and Mulder froze. He heard a rustle of cloth and the reflected light disappeared. Breathless muttering drifted to him, a low voice that slid between English and another language Mulder felt he should recognize but didn’t. Mulder kept his gun trained on the amorphous shape, struggled to keep his own breathing under control.
“Federal agent. Come out into the light,” Mulder ordered.
“Easier said than done,” a strained voice snapped back. Mulder heard shuffling, then more low profanity, this time in French.
“Are you injured?” Mulder asked, lowering the gun slightly and cursing his lack of a flashlight.
“Not…exactly.”
Mulder stepped into the shadows, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. A man sat hunched against the brick wall that formed one side of the alley, curled around himself as if in pain. Mulder could make out nothing about the man’s dress except that he was wrapped in a long dark overcoat that looked soaked through.
The face that turned to peer up at Mulder was luminously pale in the dim light. The sharp planes of nose and cheekbones cast hard-edged shadows that threw the face into mask-like relief. The man was younger than Mulder, skin smooth and not yet marked by time or care. Rain glittered on his eyelashes, plastered dark hair to his skull and ran in rivulets down his forehead and into his eyes. Despite this the man never blinked. He stared up at Mulder with an intense, measuring gaze.
Mulder took a step forward and the young man scrambled backward, his movements stiff and clumsy. Mulder reached for him and in a flashing blur a knife materialized in the man’s hand. Mulder froze, staring at the weapon in shock. It wasn’t anything like a hoodlum’s weapon, not a switchblade or even a Bowie knife but instead something out of a museum display. His mind skittered after the name of the weapon even as he backed away. Like a dagger, but not…stiletto? The streetlight glittered off of the tapered blade and the man gave him a gentle smile. Remembering himself Mulder raised his gun but the smile only gained an ironic twist.
“I suppose you win. Gun beats Knife. Like in Rock-Paper-Scissors.”
The knife vanished somewhere in the voluminous coat.
“What do you want?” the man asked. His offhand tone was jarringly at odds with the coiled tension of his body.
Mulder just stared at him, speechless. How exactly had he lost control of this confrontation? He straightened and dared another step closer. The man pulled himself into a crouch, still leaning heavily against the wall as if he needed it for support. The smile broadened, teeth bared in a strangely animalistic gesture that raised the hairs on Mulder’s arms.
“I heard a scream,” Mulder admitted finally.
“Another bloody boy scout,” the man grated bitterly, “How very Good Samaritan of you.”
The peculiar young man relaxed slightly and for some reason this made Mulder more nervous. The voice had grown steadier, the formerly blurred and indistinct accent solidifying into a clipped British baritone. Despite the stranger’s flippant words his eyes tracked every shift in Mulder’s stance and darted around the alley, anticipating some unseen threat. His chest still heaved unevenly as if he had run a marathon.
“Is there someone else here with you?” Mulder asked finally.
“No,” the man answered, “FBI, are you?”
Mulder frowned at the man’s easy shift from interrogated to interrogator. He nodded.
“Lovely,” the man smiled again and shifted slightly, perched on the balls of his feet as if ready to spring.
“Why don’t you come out into the light?” Mulder said, voice firmer than he felt. He couldn’t understand what it was about this man that so unnerved him.
“I don’t think so,” the man answered, tone faintly mocking, “Don’t you have some dastardly crime to investigate, agent? Anything else to do with your evening besides hang around in a dark alley waving a gun around?”
“I saw lights. Lightning. It was you screaming, wasn’t it?” Mulder insisted stubbornly.
The man just blinked up at him impassively, his odd bronze eyes gleaming faintly in the ambient light.
“Lightning,” he said dryly, “Imagine that. And during a rainstorm to boot.”
Mulder rocked back on his heels, frustrated. He couldn’t just leave now, after what he had seen and heard. There had been someone else in the alley before he got there. He was certain of that. There was no sign of another person now, though. Had this man with the young face and gently mocking eyes killed them? He was armed, that was for sure. But so far he hadn’t made a move to get away, and that puzzled Mulder. His reactions were evasive but guilt-free, not behaviour Mulder could expect from a man caught red-handed in murder.
Mulder fumbled in his coat pocket for his cel phone, aware that the man’s intense gaze followed his movements with an eerie focus. Something was definitely not right here. Mulder’s instincts screamed at him to get a better look at the rest of the alley. If he got Scully here one of them could watch the man while the other searched the scene. He’d apologize to the man if there was nothing here, but he couldn’t just let him go without knowing.
“Mexican standoff,” the other man murmured, echoing Mulder’s own thoughts.
Mulder pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. The man’s eyes narrowed, the smile instantly extinguished.
“You are a persistent bastard, aren’t you?” the man said lowly.
Mulder had the time to hear Scully’s groggy hello before the young man launched into action. A long gloved hand whipped out of the dark coat, something glittering in the dim light. Mulder jerked back instinctively but he wasn’t quick enough. His gun went flying and clattered to the pavement yards away. He shook his head, stunned, his hand stinging like he’d tried to catch a fastball barehanded. Scully’s voice was high and anxious in his ear but he didn’t get the chance to answer her. A black figure shoved him off balance and leaped past him to sweep up the gun, then whirled to face him again. All of this took less than a dozen heartbeats. The disbelief must have registered on his face for the young man smiled again with an almost sympathetic expression.
“I’ve no quarrel with you,” the man said quietly, “But I really cannot afford to let you call in the cavalry.”
Mulder remained silent, forced himself into stillness. Something in the man’s loose stance told him he might not let Mulder walk away from this encounter. The man held Mulder’s gun in a comfortable grip in his left hand. The short blade Mulder had seen earlier dangled idly from his right. Mulder swallowed, abruptly realizing just how he’d been disarmed. The man had thrown the knife - hit Mulder’s gun with such precision that the blade had never touched flesh.
“The gun at your ankle,” the man said, holding out his hand, “Slowly.”
The knife disappeared again but Mulder had no doubt it would reappear in a breath. Mulder tossed the little gun to the other man. He caught it easily.
“Your spare clip,” the man ordered. Mulder obeyed without hesitation, oddly unsurprised that the man knew what to ask for.
The man studied him with a chilly, impersonal gaze. An assassin’s gaze. It reminded him suddenly of Krycek. Mulder shivered, knowing instinctively that any wrong move would get him killed. Then the man shrugged as if he had come to a decision. Without removing his eyes from Mulder he released the clip from the smaller gun and pocketed the ammunition. He cocked his head and seemed to reconsider, then let out a resigned sigh and backed away another step toward the mouth of the alley.
“You seem like a smart man, agent. Do the smart thing and leave this alone,” the man said slowly, as if compelled to speak but reluctant to say too much, “It’s not what it will look like to you and it’s definitely none of your concern.”
With that the man’s arm shot out and he fired the gun. Mulder flinched instinctively but the weapon hadn’t been aimed at him. The last streetlight exploded with a sharp pop and the rest of the alley plunged into blackness. Mulder heard the unmistakable click of a clip ejecting and then a clatter at his feet. He bent cautiously to find his two guns inches apart on the pavement, both empty of ammunition.
Mulder gathered up his useless weapons and sprinted for the mouth of the alley. He turned a slow circle once he reached the street but here was no sign of the young man. Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration and dialed Scully’s number again. She was going to kill him for this.
***
insert Entropy (Occam's Razor II)
***
A minute sound behind him jerked Methos out of his murderous musings. He slid a hand under his coat, his fingertips brushing the incised pommel of his sword. Damn - he had left the knife in its wrist sheath under the mattress in his apartment. He should really get another gun. This was America, after all. Land of the free, home of the handgun. Yeah, hindsight was 20/20 and all that jazz.
Methos ducked into a narrow space between two looming husks of brick and steel. He pressed his back against one of the buildings and pulled his body fully into the shadows. Steady footsteps echoed behind him, dress shoes crunching on gravel. He tensed and wished again for his knife. Mortals in this century didn’t react well to the sight of a bared broadsword and Methos had no desire to be that memorable. The only other option that immediately sprung to mind was to kill whoever it was before they got a chance to be surprised by the sword; but there had been entirely too much of that lately, hadn’t there? Caspian devouring the little Romanian psychiatrist while Methos listened, his turned back his only protest… no. He’d come up with something.
The footsteps faltered. Methos waited, barely allowing himself to breathe. Without conscious thought he slid into a hyperawareness of his surroundings, every sound slightly amplified. He inhaled silently, tasting the air in a way he didn’t remember learning how to do. If anyone else left living could still do these things he hadn’t met them. Lingering skills from his long vanished first life, he supposed. He rarely took the time to think about it. They were survival techniques, no more and no less.
Methos picked through the myriad of scents from the street, focusing on anomalies. Sweat with the tang of adrenalin. Faint aftershave. Gunpowder. Shit - gunpowder. The flat clomp of dress shoes and the smell of gunpowder. He groaned inwardly. FBI. He almost wished his tail had been another Immortal. Easier to deal with than the damn FBI.
The footsteps drew nearer and Methos held perfectly still. A shadow fell across the opening to his hiding place. Methos smiled grimly when the footsteps ceased altogether, prepared to spring. A sudden rasp of sound further down the street and the shadow hesitated. The snap of a holster failed to be followed with the unmistakable sound of a gun being drawn. The FBI agent stepped into view, his gaze focused straight down the street, away from Methos. The agent’s hand rested loosely on his weapon, coat thrust back at a jaunty angle that clashed with his intense expression. The agent turned abruptly and seemed to stare into Methos’ eyes before continuing on down the street.
Methos let out a slow breath. He waited until the FBI’s footsteps told him the man was a good five yards down the street then slipped out of his hiding place. Methos kept to the shadows as he silently trailed the agent, leaving a generous distance between he and his prey. The agent paused toward the end of the street, peering up at something Methos couldn’t see.
The Immortal crept closer, curious. Something about this man had intrigued him the other night. He had seemed so… collected, even in the face of what must have looked like a knife-wielding madman. Why had Mr. FBI been following him tonight? How had the agent found him? Did the man know about Adam Pierson or was this just dumb luck? Why the hell hadn’t Methos left Seacouver after that little confrontation last night?
Too late he realized he’d gotten closer to the FBI agent than was wise. The other man whirled, eyes wide as they focused on him. Methos halted as the FBI man’s hand tightened on his gun. Bloody fucking hell. A lot of good his vaunted survival instincts were doing him now. What the hell was he thinking?
“Freeze!” the agent shouted.
Methos had the time to choke back a hysterical laugh of disbelief that cops actually said things like ‘Freeze!’ before he lost what little control over the situation he still held. A flicker of movement and a flash of red light from the shadows behind the agent caught Methos’ eye. The FBI agent launched himself toward Methos before he could identify what he’d seen. A staccato burst followed a heartbeat later. Methos staggered back, slammed into the wall of the building behind him. For a confused moment he was convinced the FBI man had shoved him. Methos watched, detached, as the agent’s face twisted in horror. He wasn’t sure why until the pain hit.
“Dumb fucking luck,” Methos managed before his knees gave up on him and he sat down, hard.
He was vaguely aware that Mr. FBI had finally drawn his gun and was intently searching the shadows. He stood over Methos with a wide-legged, absurdly protective stance. Textbook macho bodyguard pose. A giggle ripped through Methos before he could prevent it, eating up his remaining breath. It came out wet and choked, hardly any sound at all.
His hands were already shaking. He pulled at his coat, cursing his choice of another Pierson special that morning. Sweaters were so fucking hard to maneuver, especially during massive blood loss. He couldn’t lift the damn thing, couldn’t see the damage. From the way his brain’s demand for air was being ignored by his lungs it couldn’t be pretty. The grey knit was already nearly black in the dim light, a grotesque Rorschach blotch spreading across his chest. The nasty burn of blood at the back of his throat triggered a weak cough. He knew it would do no good but he couldn’t quell the reflex. It bloody well hurt. He fucking hated this.
The FBI agent dropped to his knees in front of Methos. A pale face swam into his view, lined with concern. The agent shoved aside his hands and yanked up the ruined sweater with a practiced smoothness that Methos recognized. This mortal was too young to have lived through battle triage but the way he briskly inspected Methos’ injuries revealed improbable experience.
“Shit,” the man said inanely, “Your lung was hit.”
“Oh…” Methos wheezed sarcastically, “Is that why…it’s so hard… to breathe?”
The FBI gave him a puzzled frown but was too busy playing junior medic to really pay attention. Methos was losing too much blood, too quickly. The familiar sense of disconnection, the smothering heaviness of impending death enveloped him and he struggled against it desperately. It would not be good to die in front of this man. The agent pressed a hand to one of the holes in Methos’ chest and the Immortal couldn’t stop a grunt of pain.
“Sorry,” the agent said distractedly as he dug in his pocket with his free hand.
The cellular phone again. Methos was starting to loathe the tiny things. Used to be a guy could die in peace without every Good Samaritan within earshot making some well-intentioned call for help. Dammit, at times like this he hated the twentieth century.
“Don’t,” Methos managed, gripping the agent’s sleeve before he could dial. He left a smeared red handprint on the khaki coat. Adrenalin made a belated appearance, flooding his limbs with a queasy sort of drive. He tightened his hold on the agent, grimacing at the sharp protest from his shattered chest. He had to get away. Had to get out of here before his body shut down completely. Adam Pierson might be annoying but he couldn’t meet his maker quite yet. Methos hadn’t yet constructed a replacement for him. He hated creating identities on the fly.
The FBI agent stared at him incredulously, half panicked.
“Let me call for help,” the agent cried urgently.
Methos shook his head. An ambulance was not a good idea. Movement again, behind the FBI. How much time had passed? Five minutes? Where was the sniper? If it was another Immortal they were too far away to be sensed. Even if the sniper wasn’t another Immortal… he needed to leave. Now. The only question was what to do with Mr. FBI. Methos doubted he could overpower the man, not with two or three bullet holes in his chest. He wrestled against panic and lethargy both, ignored the animal instinct that screamed that he was trapped.
“Adam?! Adam Pierson?” a new voice cried, high and on the edge of hysteria.
Methos raised his head clumsily and blinked. A young man emerged from a recessed doorway behind the FBI agent, a wicked looking automatic rifle dangling forgotten in his hand. Methos’ oxygen deprived brain sluggishly tried to place the face. Watcher. Oh hell… a Watcher. And this one knew Adam Pierson.
“Luke,” Methos groaned.
Great. Beautiful. Not only was an FBI agent who had apparently been following him going to witness his little death and reincarnation trick; now a Watcher had joined the audience as well. A Watcher who had fucking played poker with Adam Pierson at the Academy.
“Oh God… Oh God, Adam - what are you doing here?” Luke Cook moaned.
Mr. FBI whirled, gun out again in that picture-perfect stance he must have practiced in a mirror. If he hadn’t felt so trapped Methos might have been amused. The FBI’s face was deadly, his voice cold.
“Stop right there. Drop your weapon.”
It was time for a vacation, Methos thought with a panicked giddiness. The FBI was defending an Immortal from a Watcher. A Watcher with a really big gun. Did Luke have a sword in there as well? Not Luke… goofy shy Luke. Luke couldn’t be one of Horton’s Hunters. Besides, Luke didn’t know Adam was Immortal. Yet. Right? Then what the hell was Luke doing with a sniper’s rifle?
Methos glanced from the FBI agent to the Watcher. The two men were locked together, the dying man at their feet temporarily forgotten. The look of hatred Luke aimed at the FBI was unexpected. Methos filed it away for later contemplation. If he got out of this, he and Joe were going to have a long chat. Right now he needed to act. Yes. Now.
Methos bit his lip hard and surged off the ground. Luke just stared at him in dumb shock as he kicked out in a move he’d picked up from MacLeod. His boot caught Mr. FBI in the soft place under the sternum and the man crumpled with a sharp grunt of surprise. Methos yanked the gun from the man’s lax fingers and swung the weapon in a wobbly backhanded arc that nearly toppled him. The butt of the gun smashed into the side of the FBI’s head. The man fell into a limp heap and didn’t move. Methos reversed his hold on the gun and faced the Watcher, swaying slightly, his breaths coming in shallow spasms.
“Adam?” Luke squeaked.
The boy’s eyes were saucer wide. He’d apparently forgotten about his rifle. Bad move, that.
“Adam, I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to-“
“I know,” Methos interrupted gently, panting.
There was no decision to be made here. His injury was too severe to explain away. The Watcher would figure out Adam Pierson’s dirty secret. Cook knew what he looked like, knew him. Well, knew Adam anyway. Leaving the country, creating a new life, nothing would change that simple fact.
The Watcher would assume Pierson was a new Immortal but there were others above him who could connect the dots, who had the resources to unearth the inevitable holes in Pierson’s dossier. And when they figured it out he doubted they would pull the beheading stroke as Stern had done. At the very least they would try to hang a Watcher on him, on Pierson. Methos couldn’t allow any of this to happen. He had been free of Watchers for nine hundred years. He didn’t want to go into hiding now.
“I’m sorry,” Methos breathed, raising the gun.
The Watcher backed away a step, his face utterly confused, painfully young. He still didn’t lift his own weapon. No matter. It wasn’t as if Methos had to worry about sullying his honor this late in the game.
“Adam?” Cook cried, finally realizing he should be terrified.
“I’m not Adam,” Methos said, his voice a hoarse rasp.
The shot hit the Watcher neatly between the eyes. The body struck the pavement with a thud and Methos staggered forward. Two more rapid shots into the kid’s heart just to be sure. Covering all the bases. The Watcher’s expression of frozen disbelief turned Methos’ stomach. He swallowed blood and bile and let his eyes close briefly.
“Merde,” he swore thinly.
After a moment he turned back to the FBI agent. Blood trickled down the man’s temple but he was still taking even breaths. Instinct demanded that Methos dispatch the agent as he had the Watcher but he couldn’t raise the gun. He needed to find out what the man knew. Why he was being followed. Why a mid-level field Watcher tried to assassinate a FBI agent. Methos blinked at the latter thought. Cook hadn’t been after Pierson at all. The look in the kid’s eyes when he’d faced the FBI… Methos didn’t have time for this now. He had very little time, in fact.
After very carefully wiping down the gun Methos dropped it next to the agent’s head. He glanced around furtively, in too much agony to stretch his other senses. The street remained dark and quiet; his quick gasps for air the only sounds. There were no Immortals around, none that he could feel anyway. Even so he felt exposed. He needed to find a safe place to die. Someplace where neither a head-hunter nor an unsuspecting mortal was going stumble across his senseless corpse.
The memory of waking to Nathan Stern’s shocked loathing, to Kronos’ gleeful leer prodded him into movement despite his body’s protests. He had held on through injuries worse than this. Centuries of battle in lands where corpses were routinely beheaded had conditioned him to push himself beyond his own imminent mortality. The brief adrenalin rush of escape was quickly fading, leaving him barely coherent. He stumbled and steadied himself against a graffiti clad wall, left a wide daub of crimson over the neon letters.
Methos felt his pulse skip and stutter. He swung his head wildly from side to side, searching for a place to hole up. Somehow he’d ended up in an alley. It looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t… quite… recall why. He fell against a door and pulled at it with the last of his strength. To his shock the door gave and he almost wept at the darkness inside. It felt like he was in a closet but he didn’t care, he was off the street.
The metal floor seemed to move under him. Unable to keep his balance he collapsed, scrabbling futilely at smooth walls. There was… there was another Immortal nearby. He knew it was too late even as he fumbled for his sword. If he died and the other found him he probably wouldn’t wake this time.
He pulled the Ivanhoe free of his coat and waited for one of his deaths to catch him.