Encounter In A Small Town: The Walking Man
SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!
Ah do not own Methos.
That would be Panzer Davis Productions. Likewise Ah do not own Smallville nor
Clark Kent. That would be DC Comics and the WB:):) This is a fanfic for
entertainment purposes only and not intended to infringe upon copyrights held by
the above nor anyone else! So don't sue moi:):)
Rated G for absolute
purity of content: No sex, no drugs, no Rock and Roll:):) Only a tiny mention of
any possible naughtiness:):)
The poem/song "Tammuz" rightfully belongs to
John Myers Myers and his wonderful fantasy novel "Silverlock":):) It is used
without permission, although NOT without many thanks and a great deal of
Now - on with the fic!
man was odd.
No question about that. Tall and rangy, dressed in study
flannel and jeans, he strode confidently along the gravel road leading into
Smallville, Kansas. His stride was measured, though his long legs ate the
distance quickly. He could keep up this pace for hours on end one felt, if
necessary. This was a man used to walking, that was plain. Hatless, his dark
hair tickled his ears and the nape of his neck. His feet were shod in heavy,
well worn English hiking boots that seemed to hug his feet like a lover. But
this was no aimless wanderer, one felt. No. This one had a destination; a
purpose. A detination shrouded in mystery, perhaps. A purpose cloaked and
hidden, true ...
But, a destination and a purpose, nonetheless, for all
The lonely young man, tottering on the precipace of burgeoning
manhood, watched him as he strode along and narrowed his eyes. Picking up
strangers was not a good idea. He knew that. Pa would not approve. And yet ...
something about this walking man called to him. Some air of ... uniqueness,
perhaps. Or, then again, maybe it was only the troubled set of his shoulders,
the almost palpable air of loneliness that clung to him like a second skin that
spoke to the observant, compassionate youth.
Perhaps simply that and
nothing more ...
He could relate.
Not even his clothes, the boy
realized, explained all the strangeness The long trenchcoat that leant the
stranger protection from the chill evening air of a brisk Kansas Fall day was
Luthor Corporation all weather wear, he knew. Capable of keeping a man warm at
either Pole or equally so on a blustery day like this one in Smallville, Kansas.
Very expensive. And he recalled seeing that blue flannel shirt in an on-line
Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue: Price? $89.95. And those stone washed soft
denim jeans? $300, if they were a penny.
By Smallville standards, he
realized, the stranger was wearing a small fortune on his back.
Kent brought his foot down slowly on the brake, bringing the aged Ford pick-up
to a halt on the dusty road.
Seemingly torn between simply walking away
and stopping, the walking man abruptly halted after a moment's indecision. Clark
could see the other man's shoulders tense, as if for some possibly unpleasant
encounter and then relax.
"Could I give you a lift, Mister?" smiled the
small town teenager.
The green-gold eyes that peered at him from beneath
hooded lids with long, smoke colored lashes were shields beyond which few men
were allowed to gaze, young Clark suspected. Ageless and wary, they were
impenetrable, glittering like fine polished jade. But in those endless depths
something ancient and primal slept, boiling like lava, searching for release,
mirroring great pain and aching aloneness just behind the irises where all the
For long moments Clark Kent lost himself in those
With lithe movements the older man folded himself into the truck's
small cab. Clark did not miss the way he walked, though. Forward on the balls of
his feet, as if he never wanted to be caught off guard or taken unaware. He
moved, Clark decided, like Martha Kent's battered old vertern tom cat
With a groan of grateful relief the other man unlaced his boots
and stretched his stocking feet. "Blast and damn!" he muttered in a strong
British accent, "You'd think that after 300 years in the business they'd know
how to craft a decent pair of hiking boots, but ...nooooooo ... "
a lot of walking?" inquired Clark. As good an icebreaker as any, he
The flecks of gold in the center of those strange eyes gathered
in the iris' and regarded him smoothly. Then came the disarming
"Everything's within walking distance, sooner or later," the other
quipped, making Clark chuckle. "If you walk far enough ... "
you headed?" the boy asked, curious.
The hitchiker pointed forward, out
the window of the battered vehicle.
Clark frowned, a
bit wary himself now at the seeming evasion. "And where are you
Silently, the older man pointed behind them, out the back window
through the small dust cloud of their progress down the country
"O - kayyyy ... "
Again the disarming
smile flashed forth to work its magic. A hand extended itself in
innocent friendship. Carefully, keeping his eyes on the road,
Clark shook the proffered hand. It had a strange feel to it, he noted. Calluses
in unexpected places. Suddenly, Clark recalled exactly where he'd shaken a hand
like that before.
Lex Luthor ... who liked to fence
And wasn't that a rather queer tattoo on the inside of the guy's left
wrist? Clark was sure he'd never see one quite like it before.
Pierson," his passenger introduced himself in a smooth, cheerful voice. "I'm a
... researcher ... odd phenomena. Fascinating things. You people seem to have
had more than your share of that, here in Smallville, I must say."
frowned. Visions of Chloe's "wall of weird" almost overwhelmed him.
all my fault,' he heard his own despairing voice confessing once again to
Jonathan Kent, ' ... all my fault ... '
"Pretty far from home, aren't
you?" Clark opined, biting his lip. On the inside where no one could see it. He
did not, of course, bleed. Anything to take his mind off his crushing guilt.
The eyebrow that arched itself above the prominent aquailine
nose was eloquent. "You ask a lot of questions, kid. That could get you into a
quite a bit of trouble some day." Taken a bit aback, Clark held his
"Welsh, actually," Adam Pierson admitted, finally, keeping a
merry tone of levity upper most in his finely modulated voice. "You'd be
appalled at the difference." He sprawled back in the seat, gusting a deep sigh,
seeminly the world's first entirely boneless man.
"God, what I wouldn't
give for a cold beer right now," he murmured piteously. He reluctantly pried
open one shuttered eye and regarded Clark with a baleful glance, yet still
brimming with hope. "I don't suppose you've got one, have you?"
blinked. "I don't drink." he said.
The other man's answering sigh was
redolent of disappointment and no small dollop of frustration.
rotten luck to run into the only teenager in the Western world not attempting to
pickle themselves in alchohol," he cursed.
"Hey!" Clark hissed, setting
"Sorry kid," came the quick, contrite apology. "Just chalk it up
to being old and peekish, okay?"
Clark snorted his disbelief. "Old? You
don't look all that old to me."
This time that ready smile reeked of self
mockery. The green-gold eyes danced with it merrily. "You'd be amazed, kid.
You'd be amazed."
It all happened much too fast for even Clark to stop
it. One moment he glanced askence at his silent mysterious passenger, wondering
if he'd been been very foolish to pick him up after all, and the next
The next ...
The next, he was slamming the brakes to avoid the
startled deer suddenly caught in the middle of the road. And then he was flying
through the windshield, over the hood of the truck, to land with a bone jarring
thud in the verge on the side of the road.
Right behind his
In an instant, Clark leapt to his feet, brushing broken glass
from his hair and clothing. He knew, of course, that he was completely
uninjured, not a scratch on him. Naturally. But ... Adam Pierson? What of --
That was when he saw the other. Folded in a bloody heap about ten feet
away, his arms and legs twisted at odd impossible angles beneath his torn body.
He looked, Clark would later decide, like a child's carelessly discarded rag
doll, abandoned and long forgotten in some dusty playroom corner, cast aside for
newer, more intriging toys.
"Oh God!" Clark cried, not wanting to believe
the evidence of his eyes. "God, no .... Please God, no ... "
desperation the youth scrambled to the other's side and began applying CPR to
the prone man, breathing life into his lungs, probing for a fluttering
"Come onnnn ... " Clark hissed, all prayerful
insistence, " ... stay with me here! Don't do this to me, okay? Don't you dare
die on me ...!"
Clark gasped. Before his very eyes Adam Pierson's ugly,
ragged wounds were ...
Were ... were ...
Closing ... healing
themselves. He watched shattered bones grow and reknit themselves, becoming
whole once more.
With an inarticulate cry of alarm, Clark snatched his
hands, still stained with Adam Pierson's crimson life's blood away, as if
instinctively reluctant to touch flesh so strange and ... and ... alien
Dear God! What was happenning here?
He stared at his hands; at
the blood still marring his long, supple fingers. Stared down at the rapidly
closing wounds that only seconds before were great gaping holes torn in a
bleeding, dying body. With a great starving gasp of inhaled air that made
Clark's spine tingle and his nerves jump, Adam Pieson's green-gold eyes popped
open wide and Clark fell into those ancient depths, as if into a raging river.
With a small cry of revulsion, he jumped back and his flesh crawled. His fingers
tingled where he'd touched the other. Horrified, Clark watched as the no longer
dying man sat up with a groan and coughed up thick spittle the color of dark,
Lying his head on his knees for a moment, Pierson muttered,
"I'm getting too old for this ..."
Clark felt a brief flush of shame
claim him as his hands curled into fists at his side rather than reach out and
touch Adam Pierson once more.
'Is - is *this* how others might feel about
me ...if they knew the truth? Oh, God ... '
"Who - who are you, Mister?"
he breathed. "*What* are you?"
The walking man's gaze snapped around to
meet Clark's and his ancient eyes narrowed. Like a scapel he looked the teen up
"What I am ..." he began softly, "... isn't important right
now. *You*, on the other hand ... " A small predatory grin spread slowly accross
his formerly pleasant features. The green-gold eyes glittered hard as
Quickly, before the other could see his blue eyes widen in fear,
Clark Kent looked away.
"I don't know what you mean," he
Adam Pierson towered to his feet, looming over the much
younger man like a gathering storm cloud. Clark closed his eyes. He surprised
himself that he did not flinch when the walking man touched him. Slowly, gently
as a feather, Adam Pierson cupped the young boy's chin and turned him to face
"What I mean, kid, is this: I *know* why I'm not dead. But why
aren't *you*?" he hissed.
Clark rallied himself. He had to pull together,
here. "Should I be?" he questioned coolly. "Dead, that is?"
proverbial mackeral!" Adam insisted, equally chill. "Cut the crap, boy. I saw
you go through the windshield. I *saw*!"
Clark swallowed hard. Panic
began to spread outward from his belly, cold and icy.
"What the hell are
you, kid?" the mysterious man inquired in a deceptively soft voice.
hurried whisper was his only answer.
"I ... don't know what I
am ... "
Tasting the youths fear, Adam Pierson's eyes softened. Maybe he
was going about this the wrong way? More flies with honey than vinegar and all
that. Kneeling once more, he lay a comforting hand on the boys shoulder and
"I won't tell if you won't," he grinned.
Clark ran his
fingers through his dark locks in relief, nodding imperceptively.
did you learn to drive, anyway?" Pierson cracked rolling his neck and
Clark's smile was wan. "On a farm," he replied,
The Immortal stood up, bushing off the seat of his trousers
automatically. Spying the wrecked Chevy Blazer, he sighed.
"Well, I hope
you're a better mechanic than you are a chauffer, boy," he muttered. Leaving the
youth to his own devices for the moment, the stranger circled the vehicle,
lending an appraising eye. He pulled a long face, accenting his acquiline
"I think it's dead, Jim," he opined sadly.
He wrinkled his
nose at the look of confusion slowly spreading on the boy's smooth
"Star Trek?" he demanded. "'Where no man has gone before'? Bones
McCoy? Mr. Spock? Captain Kirk? The Enterprise? Is any of this ringing a
Flushing a deep becoming red, Clark Kent shook his fifteen year
"Ummmmm ... "
The ancient threw up his hands in quiet
despair. "How soon they forget ... " he accused. Gusting another deep heartfelt
sigh, Pierson cleared his throat.
"What I meant to imply is that I don't
think that lorry is going anywhere, kid."
The boy scratched his night
dark head. "It may not be as bad as it looks," the farm boy replied with
"It couldn't be," the other man snapped peckishly, patting his
trenchcoat coat pocket, then cursing luridly when he withdrew a broken cell
"May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your lover's privates!"
he swore in Aramaic, grinding the broken peices of the cell phone beneath his
The boy turned the most vivid shade of startling crimson,
he'd seen in well over a thou ... well, a very long time.
"I - I -
haven't got a lover," Clark stammered. Pierson had to smile. The boy certainly
didn't sound any too happy about that ...
The Immortal chuckled, looking
the boy up and down with care. "How old did you say you were?" he
"Fifteen," came the soft, defensive reply.
This time the
laughter was open and full bodied. "That old?" the Immortal snorted. "No
offense, child, but would you know what to *do* with a lover if you had
Clark looked downright glum for an instant. "No, I guess not," he
admitted, stuffing his hands deep into his jeans pockets, "but I sure would like
to find out ... "
The laughter died stillborn on the Immortal's tongue.
"I'm sorry," he apologised. "Believe me, I wasn't laughing at *you*, Clark," he
addressed the youth by name for the first time. "I was laughting at *me* ... "
The devilment in his green-gold eyes danced like fire. "It's been a very, very
... very ... long time ... " the older man sighed. "But not even *I'm* old
enough to have forgotten what being so young was like. The dreams ... the
*wanting* ... "
"Yeah," Clark agreed in a wistfull voice. "It pretty much
The Immortal took a step toward the overtuned vehicle, pasused,
and then turned slowly to face the startled teen once more, his remarkable eyes
narrowing in quick suspicion.
"Since *when* does a small town Kansas
teenager speak Aramaic?" he hissed through his teeth.
took a step back. With a flash and the singing of drawn, tempered steel, the
youthful alien suddenly found himself confronted with a five foot broadsword no
longer hidden beneath the long concealing trenchcoat and a man in whose hand it
was, apparently, very comfortable.
"Whoa!" cried Clark, standing his
ground, now, but raising his hands, displaying his unarmed status. "Easy,
Mister! You don't want to do anything rash, okay?"
The sword never
wavered. The hard, glittering eyes never softened. "I haven't lived this long by
being a fool, boy," Pierson replied calmly. "You have exactly five seconds to
explain yourself before I get up close and personal on your neck with this
Taking a deep breath, Clark Kent smiled affiably. "You can
*try*," he said. "That is *if* you really want to break your sword." He frowned.
"What kind of a headcase carries a sword around in their over coat
"A very cautious one," came the terse answer. "I'm still waiting
for that explaination ... "
Clark looked rueful. "I don't speak Aramaic,"
he admitted. "Well, not really... Just a little bit." He thought fleetingly of
the mysterious disc retrieved from the craft that brought him to Earth and the
enigmatic writing on its casing. "I - I just have an interest in weird
languages, is all." He blushed bright crimson. "And - uh - well, I found some
really great -ah - erotic poetry in Aramaic ... " The sentence trailed off with
another fierce blush.
Adam Pierson blinked. Mother of God! This .... this
was just too artless and entirely too bizarre to be anything but the truth. He
shook his smiling head and lowered his sword.
"Did you read 'The Pleasure
Houses Of Ur' by any chance?"
The return smile was blinding in its
intensity and virtually instaneous.
"Oh, yeah!" enthused Clark. "That's
one of my favorites!"
"Mine, too," the walking man assured him and
sheathed his sword.
"None of which," Pierson reminded his new young
friend, "comes anywhere near solving our problem of how to get out of here. I
don't suppose you've got a cell phone, do you?"
Clark shook his
Taking a deep breath, the walking man frowned. "Any place about
here with a phone?"
Another negative shake of the dark
Sighing, the man who was born with the name Methos lifted his
booted foot in resignation.
"Bloody Hell! Shoe Leather Express, then ...
"Ummm ... maybe not ... " Clark informed him.
"How do you figure that, kid?" he wanted to know. He
pointed. "That lorry is most sincerely dead. And even if it isn't how can we get
it back onto its wheels and on the road? Not likely without a tow truck or a few
The boy bit his bottom lip. Hard, if the Immortal was any
judge. Pierson paused for an instant to wonder why the youth wasn't bleeding
before he recalled clearly the youths remark about breaking his
"Did you mean that? About not telling, I mean?" Clark
Intrigued, the oldest man in the world,
Whereupon, the lanky boy walked over, causally picked up the half
ton vehicle, carried it onto the road and set it upright.
eyes widened until it was almost an actual physical pain. It was several moments
before he noticed the look in the boy's blue eyes. That wide eyed look of
And the fear of rejection.
The man who was born five
thousand years ago with the name Methos closed his eyes. It never got any
easier, did it? No, it most certainly did not. The revelation of such
strangeness ... the waiting ... the hoping for acceptenace ...
he knew those feelings struggling their way across the boy's open, guileless
face. How very well he knew them. How many times had he done this, he wondered
idely? A hundred? A thousand? He didn't even remember any more.
run away, Old Man,' he could feel the urge rising within him. 'After all, that's
what you do best, isn't it? Run away? Where to this time? China? Bora-Bora?
"Yak butter plays hell with the digestion,"
He spied the look of confusion clawing its way to the
surface of that smooth young face and swallowed hard.
For an instant in
his mind's eye he saw another face. Long dark hair, black eyes full of pain and
determination. A deep.soothing voice redolent with the sound of the Highlands
like the smell of heather and green growing things ... saying goodbye
<I have to leave, Methos ...>
'Where are you, Duncan
MacLeod? Are you happy? Are you safe? I hope so. If it weren't so tragic, I
might laugh. You. Running away. Picking up MY bad habits, you bloody brooding
Scots Boy Scout.'
His hand trembled and so he hid it in a convenient
'Just in time to teach me to hold my ground ... Imagine
So many, many goodbyes ...
So very, very many.
not *this* time. Time to say hello instead.
He opened his eyes and
smiled, chuckling bright mirth.
"Gods! I haven''t seen anything like that
since Gilgamesh, kid! Think you could be related?"
Clark blinked. But his
return smile threatened to outshine the sun. "That's - that's as good a theory
as any," he allowed. "Better than being from another planet, anyway," he
Now it was Methos turn to be bewildered. "Another
Clark took a shallow breath. "Yeah. Big meteor shower hit
Smallville about twelve years ago. My foster parents found me in a spaceship
that crashed in their cornfield." He ran his hands through his dark hair. "It's
a long story."
Methos snorted. "Not as long as mine, I'll wager." He
shook his head. "Kid, I can truthfully say that not even in five thousand years
have I ever heard a story quite like that one. And, believe me, I've heard some
tall tales in my day. I started most of them, in point of fact."
stared. "*Five thousand years*? You're five thousand years old??" The astonished
youth's jaw dropped.
Grinning, Methos threw up his hands. "I know, I
know," he smirked. "I don't look a day over three thousand. I have good skin."
His face drained itself of all expression as he gazed off into the rapidly
approaching sunset and the few bright stars peeking over the purple and gold
"The *stars* have changed position since I was born," he
whispered. "Everything changes. Everything ... dies ... Everything except me ...
He never heard the boy draw closer, for which he castigated himself
'That's a good way to lose your head, you fool! What is it about
this boy that makes you so stupid, I wonder?'
No, his first sign that the
young man had invaded his space only came when he felt that broad hand on his
shoulder. For a moment, no more, their was silence and the warm feeling of
compassion that passed between the two, the fifteen year old nascent Superman,
lost and alone on a world not quite his own and the five thousand year old
Immortal, crushed under the weight of his years.
And then the silence was
"Did you really know Gilgamesh?" Clark's voice resounded with
wonder. "I thought he was just a legend!"
Methos grinned. "A legend in
his own mind and that's a fact! Oh, Gilly was real enough. Most legends have
some basis in reality, actually. Yes, quite real. And a crankier, more nasty
tempered bastard you're never likely to meet, trust me on that." He slapped the
farmboy on the back. Not too hard , of course. A broken hand would heal quickly
enough, no doubt of that, but Methos had long ago learned to avoid pain when
ever possible. Of course, once you'd been burned at the stake as a witch, or
crucified as a "pervert" there wasn't much to excite one in that area was
He winced inwardly at the thought. 'Damned puritanical Romans!'
the thought was bitter. 'It wasn' my fault that little bastard couldn't keep his
hands off me. I was his slave at the time! What was I supposed to do?
should have killed him when I had the bloody chance. At least then they'd have
had a good reason for crucifing me. Lousy way to die ... and believe me, in five
thousand years I've experienced most of them."
"Hey!" the ancient
enthused, pushing such morose thoughts aside with firm hands. "Do you like
songs? I wrote a song about Gilly, once. Want to hear
Methos slipped an arm around the boy's shoulder and
felt him relax into the comradely gesture. "While we walk, then." He gestured
the boy forward with a sweeping motion of his free hand. "Lay on McDuff! And
curst be he who first cries hold enow!"
Stepping obediently forward,
Clark groaned in a loud theatrical voice. "Gak! Shakespeare! I get enough of
that in Lit class! PLEASE don't try and tell me you knew William Shakespeare,
Methos chortled. "Well, of *course* I knew Willy-Boy! Like a
brother, I swear! Why, I'm the one who actually wrote 'Coriolanus', if the truth
be known. Willy had a bad case of writers block, see, and he was dsperate for
money, so ... "
Clark's eyes narrowed in friendly suspicion. "No way!" he
"Way." insisted Methos, enjoying himself
The boy deflated almost like a balloon pricked with a sharp pin,
his guileless eyes wide.
"No." Methos snickered,
tightening his grip on the boy's broad shoulder. The grin broadened. "Actually
that was Francis Bacon who ghost-wrote for Willy. We've got to work on this
gullibility thing you've got going there, kid."
'Careful, you ass!' he
thought when he felt the boy respond to the touch. 'Things haven't changed
*that* much in five thousand years. Periclean Athens this is *not*. Smallville
Bloody Kansas and don't you forget it!'
Clark manged to look skeptical,
though it wasn't easy. "The song?" he reminded his new friend.
Methos began to sing in a pleasnt enough baritone.
"I remember guady days
when the year was springing-
Tammuz, Gilgamesh and I clicking cups and
Then in sauntered Inini, skimpy garments clinging -
her hips -- and things like that ...
Tammuz left us
Clark colored like flame, but the smile that claimed his
features moments later was lascivous enough. Pleased, the Immortal
"Then we welcomed Enkidu when he came to Erech!
rough as hickory bark -- nothing of a cleric!
But his taste in beer and
ale ... THAT was esoteric!
And he used a drinking cup that would strain a
"Here comes my favorite verse," chuckled Pierson, and sang more
loudly at Clark's answering smile.
"Tammuz would have joined us, then,
but he just been wedded!
But Inini - BlAST THE WENCH! - hacked him as
Damn such honeymoon's as this - just the sort I've
For a drinking man is spoiled ... once he's been
At this point Clark was laughing so hard he stumbled and
almost fell. "I don't believe you!" he said. "Wasn't Gilgamesh supposed to be
famous for his drinking and carousing? A real party animal kind of
Methos rolled his eyes. "Don't believe everything you hear, kid,"
he advised. "Carosuing - yes. After a few lessons in the art from my humble
self, Gilly was off and raising merry hell in the pleaure house like you
wouldn't believe. The man had stamina, I'll give him that. Not much technique,
mind you, but stamina to burn. But drinking? No. Like the song says; that was
Enkidu." He hung his head in shame. "I failed there. Gilly couldn't hold his
liquor worth a damn. One flagon of beer and he was three sheets wasted. It was
"YOU taught Gilgamesh to - to - ah - carouse? Could you
- well, could you - um - tea -" Then the blue eyes narrowed once more when he
saw the twinkle dancing in the Immortal's green-gold eyes. "You are such a
"Aboslutely!" Methos averred, laughing heartily. "I'm a famous
liar. In fact, almost everything I tell you is probably a lie. Remember that,
Clark clutched his temples as if in pain. "But if you're lying when
you say that anything you tell me is a lie, then you must be telling the truth
... but if you're lying then how can you be telling the truth? GAH! My head
hurts," he moaned.
Methos hand reached out and squeezed the wide young
shoulder again. His mein grew solomn and quite serious, as if this next were
"But I'll never lie to you about anything important. I
promise you that." He lowered his hand and proffered it to be shaken.
"Deal," agreed Clark with an open smile. After a moment of silent
walking the boy cleared his throat. "So," he inquied, "what should I call
"The name I was born with is Methos. But in five thousand yers I've
had more names than even I can remember. At the moment I'm Adam Pierson. That
will do, I suppose. It doesn't really matter what you call me. " He leveled a
severe gaze at the boy. "But if you call me Grandfather Time, I *will* find a
way to hurt you, kid. My word on that. Be warned." he said
Clark snorted. "You wish!" he crowed.
"Don't get cocky,
kid," Methos warned.
Clark glanced at the Immortal from the corner of his
eye. "Um - about this carousing thing ... " he began in a hopeful
How to explain Methos? Utterly impossible. To
begin with Methos is 5,000 years old. And he didn't survive that long by being a
good guy. On the surface of it Methos is a cunnin, lying, manipulative bastard.
And those are his *good* points:):) Highlander style Immortals hunt and kill one
another. Decapitate one another with big swords. It's what they do. "There can
be only one!" And Methos is determined it isn't going to happen to
Methos is my choice for The One:):) Why? Simple. Because he's
always about two steps ahead of any one else:):) One of the first things that we
find out about Methos/"Adam Pierson" is that he has infiltrated The Wathers. The
Watcher, as their name implies, watch. They watch and keep tabs on Immortals.
The have a vast, secret organization to help them do this. They always know
which Immortals are hunting who and where they are. Can you imagine a better
place to hide? <VBEG> And it gets better:):) The Oldest Immortal is a
coveted prize in The Game. Most Immortals think he's a myth:):) A fairy tale.
But the Watchers aren't so sure. They have a special postion within the Watcher
organization for the express purpose of tracking down Methos. The Keeper of the
guessed it! Adam Pierson is the Keeper of the Methos Chronicle:):) Methos is in
charge of locating himself!:):) And he makes sure, of course, that never
As dedicated as he is to his own survival, Methos has a soft
spot for big brooding boy scouts. He saved Duncan MacLeod more than once at risk
of his own life. Thus this fic:):)