Day of Judgement

"What you're saying," the man behind the bar said, slowly, "is that you have reason to believe he was killed by…"

"A virus. They never bothered to check the body for signs of any other damage…the fact that he was torched was enough for them."

"But they never wondered why the place went up?"

I looked into his eyes with my most sincere look. This was difficult, as I had used almost my full range of sincere looks during this exchange. It was like talking to my old man about how my job was going. He reminded me a little of my dad-same age, salt-and-pepper gray hair, same way of looking at me like I was a kid. "Didn't any of your people?"

The look he gave me was indecipherable. I went on.

"Did you know the Immortal he was assigned to was supposed to have…" I trailed off as the unmistakable "buzz" of another neared. I tried to keep myself from looking in the direction of the presence-surely this Dawson would pick up on the look when the other entered, even if nothing else gave me away. Even as I heard the door, I maintained my gaze. "Are you familiar with his assignment?"

Dawson broke the gaze as he turned towards the person who had entered the bar, and then, briefly, turned to me.

"It might be better if we didn't continue this conversation just now."

I looked up to see the face of the person who had just disturbed our chat…a tall, lean figure with fascinating features. Brown hair, beautiful hazel eyes-almost golden. He was striking. Where had I seen that face before? He was dressed in a heather-gray Henley, jeans and the obligatory long coat, and he was fine! I have long been of the impression that our kind was some kind of experiment, and if this was the case, the Great Experimenter knocked himself out with this creation!

I noticed at once that I was also getting the once-over, but, of course, this was the customary, "How easy would it be to knock off this one?" look. I might flatter myself, but not on this score.

"This is Adam Pierson. Pierson, this is Ms.-"

"Renarde. Genevieve Renarde," I responded. It was as much my name as any other, I supposed, and the one that seemed the least probable. (Lousy aliases actually are a good cover. Who knew?)

"Interesting," he said, taking my hand.

I'm sure he meant something else. His face had a wary look. It passed, but I caught it.

"I certainly hope it is," I replied, attempting maximum good-natured twinkle while simultaneously racking my brain. I knew I had seen this face before, but where? If I had met him before, I would have remembered. No way in the world that I wouldn't-I have a gift for faces, and he had a gifted face. Was it before I was Immortal? No…

"I, um," he began, realizing what he had said, and smiled, "I meant charmed."

"Well, I can be 'interesting' and, I hope, 'charming' after all, if you say so," I said, off-the-cuff. Oh, Jesus, no, I groaned inwardly, don't flirt with him-stop that! That little voice never seems to kick in before I've said something stupid. After all, he was a complete if incredibly good-looking stranger and he did happen to be Immortal. I simply retracted my hand, before it started sweating, and nodded with a smile.

"Well, what brings you here…" Pierson started.

Dawson looked at me, quizzically. It dawned on me that my telling of the story had completely left out one very important detail! I had completely failed to mention that I had been the Immortal assignment, and before I could say anything, he was saying the most seriously unfortunate thing I could imagine.

"You might be interested in what she has to say."

And then my memory was jogged, and I remembered where I saw that face before! The picture Kronos showed me, shadowy, as if taken by a concealed spy camera! This was that profile I had joked about!

This was Methos. I did a quick run-down in my head-the Oldest, I was supposed to hate him, he was gorgeous-(stop that, Genevieve, you whore)-he was a betraying bastard and Kronos didn't think he could screw up the world without him. And he was probably as dangerous as all get out and not at all in my league.

Okay, I thought, dizzily. I can figure my way out of this.

Not that I had time to figure my way out of it. Overwhelmed, I simply sank to the floor. I suppose I could have eaten something or slept in the last two days, but I hadn't really gotten around to it. My bad.

Although-honestly-I have never done that before-pass out, I mean. It still bothers me that I did, and in front of him, too.

But there is a good thing about being unconscious-you don't screw anything up further by speaking. Also-it made me look vulnerable. I'm not a particularly vulnerable person-but I can fake it on a good day. Realizing this wasn't a bad thing, I kept mum even as I was coming to, and, wisely enough for me-and I have no track-record to speak of-I listened to them speak as Methos knelt to bring me around.

"So, what was the interesting thing she had to say?"

"It involves a dead Watcher, and a virus."

"Was the Watcher hers?"

Who was more staggered, me, to realize that Methos is well aware of the Watchers, or Dawson, to find out that I'm an Immortal who happens to know their little secret? Perfectly fantastic job of keeping it secret from us, if both Methos and I knew!

"That would-"

Before Dawson could get out the "makes sense," which it doesn't, I elected truthfulness. It's kind of underrated, but sometimes it even works.

"He was," I said, struggling up a bit, and then I made a fatal error. I looked into Methos' eyes. Very human eyes, he has. They were warm, alive. He didn't seem like the killer I imagined-the one Kronos seemed so obsessed by. But then, I realized that might just be what made him deadly-that he doesn't seem the type. No more than I seem like someone who could destroy the world. I reminded myself that I couldn't trust him, shook off the momentary return of dizziness, and continued. "I was his assignment, and I'm partially to blame for his death."

"How the hell could that be?" Dawson asked. I guessed it wasn't as obvious to him as it was to me.

"I said he died of a virus?" I began. Nothing. "And then the place was torched?" Zip. I was getting a little frustrated. I cop to murder, and I get nothing but blank looks. "Look, didn't Richardson report to you or something? Do you know what I did?"

A look of recognition registered on Dawson's face, as if he couldn't quite match my face to the story before, but now he certainly did. He looked at the notebook I had placed on the bar.

"That…was yours? We thought Richardson was crazy. You didn't seem to be…"

"Imagine I could have," I replied. "Imagine that I did develop it, and that I could give it to someone else to use as he saw fit. Now, imagine that it's coming back to haunt me." I braced myself. This was the most horrible thing I could say about myself, after all. That I was weak enough to let the world burn.

"She isn't talking about…" Methos' voice was tense, as if somebody was holding a sword to him.

Dawson nodded. "Kronos' virus. It was her creation. Or that was what Richardson thought. I guess it's true."

I sat on the floor, hugging my knees and waiting for the outcome. I'm usually more together than I was at that point-maybe it was the fact that I was worn out. It sounded absurd when it was said out loud. I'm really not the "cause the end of the world" type. I'm more the, "stuff happens, then you deal with it" type. But, all things considered, the stuff I made happen was pretty tough to deal with. I had every reason to believe it meant something to Methos, as well, and I watched his face.

And then he did the most extraordinary thing-he laughed. Not a "this is funny" laugh, but the kind of laugh you might make if you just heard the saddest, most pathetic thing ever. I buried my head in my knees. That did it.

Part of me just wanted to burst into tears. How could I make anyone understand what that was like-knowing this was something I could do? I can't, that's just the point. And it didn't help that this was the one thing Kronos wanted off of me-he wanted to wreak havoc-and I enabled that. And maybe giving him that helped him along to his own death. It is sad. It is pathetic. It also happens to be true. But I didn't have any interest in crying in front of anyone. I got up, and felt wobbly, but I had to explain, or at least, try to.

"Look, I've only just found out that Kronos was dead, from Richardson. When I tried to get more information, he was dead. And I knew my virus was the cause. I couldn't just let that go, so I torched the place…after I got some of his notes." It was coming out of me in such a rush. I had never told anyone about anything-not my husband, not my mom, no one--about being Immortal, or creating the virus, or letting Kronos have it. Now that he was dead, and the virus had been used, I felt like I was going super-nova!

"I need to find out what is going on, and how it happened! I knew Kronos would never use it this way, and now…" And, like something kept under huge pressure, this sound came out of me, a sob. I covered my mouth with my hands, terrified that there would be another.

Methos looked at me in total shock, and Dawson simply looked somber. I then realized that it would be impossible for them to see things from my point of view. I had entrusted the virus to Kronos willingly, and now my big grief was that someone else had their hands on it?

Look, folks, I never claimed to be normal, whatever that is.

I got over myself. "Watchers, correction-some kind of splinter-group of the Watchers-they were trying to recruit Richardson. He wasn't fond of me, and so they thought he was like-minded."

I looked at Dawson, hating every word, since he seemed like a decent enough guy. Do you want to tell somebody he belongs to an organization that is rotten at the roots? "They want to wipe us out. Can you believe that?" How was I to know he could?

"I know," Dawson said, simply. Methos shrugged in a way that told me not to ask. "Go on."

I shook my head. "I don't have enough of the details. It must go back to-whatever it was Kronos did to get himself killed. That's the only way I imagine anyone else could have gotten their hands on it-the virus, I mean." I looked down. "Watchers must have been part of the clean-up crew. His body, the sample if he ever bothered to synthesize it…" I could feel my eyes welling up, speaking of his body like that. I knew that body intimately, and I couldn't imagine him dead. None of us leave pretty corpses.

"If he ever bothered?" Methos spat, temper coloring his voice. Now, I saw it. Just a glimpse of what he had been. I realized, a bit late, that he was there. He had to have been. It was for his benefit, after all. And then, knowing he was there made me wonder how much he had to do with Kronos' death.

I sighed. "He never made it clear to me what he intended to do with it." I lied, and went no further. Maybe that was worse, making it seem like I didn't know why-he just wanted to destroy the world. Whatever, you know?

But what I said had pissed him off, and Methos continued. "He was mad. He wanted to bring the world to its knees. Do you know what he was? Do you have any idea?"

"Of course I knew what he was! Anybody could have seen what he was." And at this point I could give a rat's ass what the Watcher knew! "I know what you are, too, Methos. Not too different. Or at least, you weren't, once. But you better understand, what he was, past tense, never mattered to me. What mattered was…."

And then the steel-trap of the stupidity of it all closed in on me. What mattered was that I fell for him. I felt something for him I couldn't explain. I had been thinking with the wrong body-part, and what had mattered to me was making him happy. In the cold light of day, that was pretty stupid. Especially when what would have made him happiest was destruction. I breathed deeply, and wondered whether or not I would break down into tears.

"She's young, Methos," Dawson eventually said. "Give it a rest."

I almost lost the little fact that the name came naturally to him-but I didn't-it just didn't, at the moment, seem as important to me as the slight-he called me "young." I might be a little sensitive-some women might think looking twenty forever is great-but try running a business when you're sitting across from somebody who thinks you should be baby-sitting.

That word irked me-"young." What was that supposed to mean? But it must be true in context-"young". Not 5,000, not even fifty. I am young-er. It doesn't change my experiences. I am still what I am. It's easier to chalk my failures up to my stupidity than my youth-I'll get older (whether I show it or not), but I'll always be stupid, unless I somehow learn how to think before I act.

I didn't think before I acted while I stood there feeling ridiculous. I simply couldn't take it anymore. I needed to bolt.

"I'm out of here. I said what I had to say," and I started for the door. It wasn't true. I had a thousand other things to say, but I couldn't. Words were beyond me.

"Don't," Dawson began, and Methos was already after me, but it didn't matter. I was out, gone, around the corner and down the alley. Then I felt it and stopped running. It wasn't Methos. I still felt his presence, but this was another, no, two. I felt so sick I couldn't stand myself-green, unprepared, horrible. What the hell was this, a convention? I reached behind me and pulled my sword, knowing this definitely had the feel of a challenge.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. They had set looks on their faces as if they were, I don't know, zombies, or people in a cult. They were reaching even as they strode towards me. Two, I thought hopelessly. My sword was ready but I wasn't, I was beginning to back-pedal, and then, my savior, Methos, rounded the corner. When I realized he was on my side, I was pretty damn glad to see him. For the moment, at least.

The battle was engaged. The man actually went for me, and Methos took care of the other. They didn't even speak. They didn't announce who they were, or why they were there. I didn't care at the moment; it was more important that they were taken.

The man was good. He circled me, trying to figure out where to begin, and then, carefully, I thought, offered a thrust, just a bit high-a wake-up move. I caught it against my own sword, but weakly. I realized I wouldn't fool him with the weak gambit. I needed a different tack. I did a retreating step, and then realized he was keeping the sword high. My gut told me to do a strange thing-I dropped, put a scissor-kick to his knees, and flipped him down.

I realized that this was going to be ugly. I didn't have a heck of a lot of time, as he was larger than I was, and would get up quickly. I got to my feet, and placed a good kick to his head. He was just about to get himself up as I did, and that move sent him back down. Then, I placed another few sweet kicks to his sword hand and more to his head. Kicking a man when he's down is perfectly fair in a battle to the death. He rolled out of the way, never letting go of the sword. I realized that this was bad. I sliced, wildly.

There was so much blood. I had lucked onto the inside of his wrist, and I recoiled, shocked at the wilting hand. But the bastard was going to heal if I didn't continue. Another swipe, and he lost the sword. I realized that I must have dazed him with the kick to the head, because he was very still, and so I thanked my stars. I took his throat as he instinctively went for the fallen sword with his other hand. It was an ugly beheading, rough. I cut him once, and then righted myself to do the actual deed, even as I heard the explosion behind me.

I didn't need to look. I knew it was the Quickening released when Methos sliced the woman's neck. He didn't make it to 5,000 by being a pushover. In a way I was curious. I had never seen one. The only Quickenings I ever experienced were my own. The air crackled-it was like all hell breaking loose.

I was transfixed, but only for a moment-his face seemed even more beautiful back-lit by sparks and streaks of electricity-and I thought I should be enthralled-but I had a job to do-and so I did it.

I made my own sweep across the neck of the name less bastard who came after me-and I, too, was seized.

I turned as I was forced to my knees under the strength of it. I was in a trance, literally transfixed at what I was seeing. Quickenings are exhilarating, but I can't explain this. I was lightning. I looked on in rapt wonder at the same thing happening to Methos, his face contorted (for it is almost painful) and it was exquisite. This is what we are! I thought, madly. Lightning.

The rapture fades, of course, and then I just knelt there, spent, with my whole body feeling strained and used-up. Dawson had come around the corner. He obviously was no stranger to this sight.

"The two of you had best clear out of here," he said. I looked at him, quizzically. He caught my look. "We do…clean up after these things…it's our mutual secret."

Mutual in a one-sided, you-know-about-us, we-don't-know-about-you kind of way, I thought to myself.

"You're a friend, Joe," Methos said, by way of thanks, and then turned to me. "Come on."

"What?" I asked, still feeling spacey.

He sighed, as if he was just now realizing how dense I was. "That was a set-up, and I believe they were after you. So you are coming with me."

I was a little irritated that he felt the need to be protective of me. I guess I'm an idiot: I should have felt profoundly grateful. I glared, but knew he was right. I followed, wondering what the heck I had done to peeve off the welcoming committee. Okay, if renegade Watchers want a piece of me, fine. But what did I ever do to these guys?

I got into his-what are they? One of those big, awful, gas-guzzling SUV things everybody has these days. I sat. He drove. I felt sullen.

"You know about me, you know about Kronos, you know about the Horsemen," Methos said, suddenly. "Just what is your game?"

That certainly caught me off-guard. What, did he think I was here with some "there can be only one" crap? Pretty damn egotistical, that. Notwithstanding that his head is probably worth a lot-to someone who's into that sort of thing.

"Game?" I asked, incredulous. "I don't have one."

"Do you mean to tell me that Kronos told you everything?"

"He told me what he could. He told me the truth, as far as I know." And it was the truth. I only really knew what Kronos told me, and then, there was the little message from the diskette-I knew enough. I thought about one of my particular suspicions as I turned to look at Methos. Just what had he done? Just what was he?

"But, why would he have done that?" Why the hell didn't this feel like he was grilling me when he obviously was? Why did I feel like I was breaking some news to him? He asked as if he cared, and it bugged me. Did he care because he thought I was in the Game-or did he care because I knew Kronos, and cared for him? If he had a conscience, I would feel like shit for hating him so.

"Why wouldn't he have?"

I knew that had him thinking. Maybe Methos felt guilt about what he was, but Kronos never did. He spoke of the killing with pride. The only thing he hadn't really been open about was what Methos had done to end their association-and I had wondered about that. But I already knew I'd never ask him about that-it was for the best I didn't know.

"And why did you---damn," he commented. We rode in silence. He had a lot of questions for me. I wasn't going to keep him in suspense. I just answered the question I figured I would ask me.

"Why did I let him have it?" I paused. "I believed him. I cared for him. And he would have killed me if I didn't give the plan to him. That's why. I bought myself some time. And I thought-I thought he wouldn't use it-"

"He would have killed you anyway-" and then he paused in thought. "Why didn't he?"

I lied. "I don't know." But I did know. I had made a promise. If anyone got in his way-if he was whacked-I looked out the window in silence. Or, maybe a part of him cared for me. Maybe I didn't know. Seacouver-gray. The sky looked like it might rain. I bit my lip.

"He didn't ask you to-he wouldn't," Methos sputtered.

"Watch the road, " I cautioned, as we were about to swerve into a truck. Damn elderly drivers. Then, I turned to him. "Maybe he did ask me to."

Maybe I swore, and I meant it, and nothing meant more to me. Maybe that was the whole reason why I was here. Maybe it was hopeless, and completely irrelevant, and I knew I couldn't carry it out. What a question!

"And?"

"You're the oldest. MacLeod's one of the best. And I'm too young to die."

"You and me both," he commented, dryly.

"I wouldn't, you know," I said, suddenly. I don't know why I cared what he thought. "Any more than I could kill a brother or stab a friend in the back."

He looked steadily ahead. I wasn't getting to him. I knew he had been there. I knew he was in part responsible. I continued. "You know, they say when a person dies, it's like a library has been destroyed."

He was silent, so I went on. "If someone took your head, it would be like torching a world." On one hand, I guess I wanted him to know I couldn't imagine doing it. Just knowing he was alive-that he knew Kronos, that one of the Horsemen was still here, meant something to me.

Even if it was Methos.

Sometimes I get sappy like that. On the other hand-my only weapons were my words and memory.

"Any time one of you old guys bites it, it's like that."

****

I don't know what his idea had been-I gave him the wrong hotel to drop me off at, placed a call in the lobby, and took a cab back to my hotel. I was going to get my gear together and clear out. Better to disappear, after all, than persist in getting answers when all I seemed to be doing was attracting attention. I had too much to think about, anyway. I had never put it all into perspective-maybe I'm not that deep a person. But if this was about Watchers and Immortals being wiped out in some kind of existential grudge-match, and people dying for what I saw as no good reason, this wasn't a field I could play on. All I had wanted to do was find out why Kronos had died, not work my way to the center of a shit-storm.

I looked at the phone, but I couldn't call home. Let them think whatever they would. Let them think I had died. My head ached, and all I wanted to do was sink into sleep. Out of habit, I laid myself out on the couch, and somehow, brushing thoughts aside, slept.

Big mistake, going to sleep all sober like that.

****

I dreamed I was at St. Anselm's, but it was larger, and littered with corpses. I stared at them, knowing full well how they got here. And then, on my mind as always, Kronos was behind me, only I didn't sense his presence. I only heard his voice.

"How do you like our legacy?" His arms were around me, holding me as if he was comforting me, but this was anything but safe or sane.

"The world is dead?" I asked, but I knew the answer.

"Yes," he breathed into my ear, and I could really feel his breath, warm, as if he were alive. "And now you must let it burn."

*****

I awoke with a start, sensing an Immortal presence in the room with me. It was dark, but I knew who it was. A light went on. A sword was at my throat.

"Do it, Methos," I said, not caring about the catch in my voice.

"Do you know you screamed his name?"

"It wouldn't have been the first time. Do it. Take my head. I've meant nothing but violence…I've owed the world a death since coming into it, and I'm not afraid to pay up." I was rambling, not exactly the death scene I've always imagined for myself. But I figured I had it coming-if Methos wanted to take me out, he had his chance.

Given what I was planning, he had every right.

He lowered the sword, and his eyes were sad for a moment, but then his face changed.

"Don't be stupid," he sneered. "It's better to live and face the consequences of what you've done, whatever it is." He tried to look hard, but I realized he was being patient with me. What a strange man he was. "Come on, we're going to see someone."

"Who?" I asked, getting up automatically without really wondering who, or much caring.

"A friend. MacLeod."

I blinked. Duncan MacLeod? This was beginning to get interesting.

****

Methos cast a bemused eye on me as I got myself ready-brushing my teeth, getting myself presentable. I couldn't help but notice the way he draped himself on a chair, completely comfortable in his own skin. I wondered if I would ever feel that way-you know, comfortable.

"What the hell do you have to get all…dressed…for?"

I glared. I was going to meet the man who whacked Kronos, someone whom I've never met, but swore I would kill, once, in a moment of deep feeling. Maybe I wasn't seriously still thinking of killing him, but damn it! It's only right to look nice for such things! (I, sensibly, did not inform Methos of my line of reasoning. I suppose now I didn't have to. He was on to me.)

And he was most amused at my getting my "things" together (left boot, Bowie, right boot, switchblade-I decided to forgo the thigh-strap and 8" Bowie, as it does stand out a bit.). And then he handed me my coat, but not before hefting it up and down a few times for the weight. I caught his drift.

"A girl can't be too careful."

"Well, it's a rough world out there," he responded.

Armed to the teeth, I was ready to go. But once I was in the car again, the thoughts came. Face the consequences of what you have done. Could I? I'd like to think I might be able to move on. But even so, I was reminded of the promise I had made. I had no excuse for still dwelling on what Kronos wanted me to do.

I can pretend it's possible to be redeemed. I can pretend that a person can change, and not be a monster-even if this was how it always was. Methos seemed to have gotten beyond his past. Would I ever get beyond mine? I only created the means to destroy the world, after all, never actually attempted it. But then again, I am honest with myself. I can't think I'm out of the woods-ever. I think I might always be a screw-up-and that might be what saves me. Makes me human-if I can still call myself that.

In the end, though, I still have to accept that I am damned by what I have done. You can't erase the past by thinking good thoughts.

The last weapon I had secreted about my person was a loaded .45-hollow points. I might not have designs on Methos' head, but that didn't rule out MacLeod's.

These bad boys would blow his head off.

It's a rough world out there.

On to "A Picnic at Bordeaux"

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