Five Times Methos Met the Doctor by Kesomon
Five Times Methos Met the Doctor (and one time that has yet to occur)
1. Rome, AD 64, in which Methos runs in to an unusual foursome.
The summer day was bright and hot when Remus Antonius made his way dutifully up the steps towards the villa on the hill. He had been charged with its upkeep while the proprietors of the estate were away. While Remus — a slave borrowed from the many such that Senator Valerius Petronius owned - had taken this task with humble and honoured thanks, the former Horseman Methos was greedily looking forward to the pleasures of a private bathhouse and living in lavish luxury for a few weeks.
Near the edge of the villa he paused. Voices drifted up from the plaza, certainly not expected to be there. Methos’ hand found its way under his belt, grasping the dagger he had stowed away. A sword was far too risky for a slave to carry, and was one of his regrets in allowing himself to be captured and sold off. The metal of the blade glinting in the sun, he crept up the steps. He kept to the shadows of the garden as he peered in on the scene. He expected bandits, or thieves, or ill-wishers come for blood, Gaius Marcus being of such good standing with the Senator himself.
There were four of them, and not bandits. Methos could tell that from the presence of the old man and the child, a young girl with her hair pleated up in proper fashion and dressed in pristine cloth. She was the only one who looked as if she belonged. The old man leaned heavily upon a blackened, curved cane of wood, and was dressed in many layers of strange dark clothes. His companions were equally odd; a dark-haired woman with her toga half-folded was helping a young man struggle out of a wool garment that looked drenched.
Something buzzed in the back of Methos’ head that irritated him, as if they were speaking softly and he could not hear them clearly. Their Latin sounded odd, rolling too smoothly off foreign tongues.
“Honestly Ian, you have worse luck than anyone else in the world.”
“If the Doctor could park the TARDIS properly I wouldn’t have fallen into the pond, now, would I?”
The two shared a laugh, the girl joining in with giggles and the old man looking flustered.
Whatever they were, they didn’t belong. He stepped from the shadows, knife held warily at the ready. “Who are you, and what do you mean by coming here without invitation?”
The reaction was as he expected. The young girl gave a frightened gasp. The woman and young man gave a jerk of surprise; protectively he stepped in front of her, and said something with quiet alarm to the elder man. It was his reaction that gave Methos puzzlement.
The old man glanced up, clearly startled. Startled was followed in succession by surprise, a fleeting look of disgust, revulsion, and finally became simple weariness. He stood up with some difficulty, assisted by the cane.
“Hm, what do you mean?” He tried to evade, cocking his head like a bird considering a speck to be food or worth no fuss. “Did Marcus not send word to the Senator that we would be staying here in the duration of his absence?”
His Latin was flawless. His accent and clothing were not. Methos was not fooled.
“He did not,” Methos said, narrowing his eyes. “And you are not Roman citizens.”
“You are not human, and yet you wear the clothes and speak the language of their culture,” the old man spat. “Be a good boy and leave us be.”
Methos rocked back, startled. The young man called Ian glanced furtively between his elder and the Immortal and frowned. “Doctor, are you sure…”
“Of course I am Chesterton, don’t be silly,” the man called Doctor sniffed, glaring now at Methos. “He’s one of the Immortals. I’d recognize one anywhere.”
Behind him, Methos heard the woman exclaim in surprise, but he had already spun on his heels and fled. He didn’t know who, what, or where the strange foursome was or had appeared from, but anyone who knew about Immortals and who was not immortal in turn was someone to be avoided.
2. Pompeii, AD 79, in which Armageddon is prophesized.
Never again, Methos vowed, would he get involved in politics. His wrists still ached with phantom pain from the spikes that had been driven through the bone and left to rust as he baked in the sun. Of course, it hadn’t been his fault the Senator’s wife had been a lecherous, homely old bat whose husband couldn’t get it up. One false cry of ‘rape’ and Remus had met his end at the cross. By the time Methos had been cut down and his body had been sent to the pyre, he was thoroughly sick of Rome and in desperate want of ale.
Pompeii was a pleasant little seaport to mingle in, until he could find a boat willing to take him across the Mediterranean for a few gold coins. He was heading back into Egypt; Tak’ne would put him up for a few weeks while he forged a new identity. The Egyptian peacock would probably relish the tale of his latest unfortunate demise.
Things never happened smoothly when Methos died. He was the first to spot an anomaly in the crowd, a red-haired young woman in a shockingly striped pink tunic that ruffled out at the sleeves and tight white pants that no native would even dare to wear. He ducked under an overhang and waited until she passed by, accompanied by a lady of the brothels. He let out a slow breath in a silent curse. The last time he’d run into folk dressed so strangely, it had been that foursome in Gaius Marcus’ villa.
“Hello again,” came a voice at his elbow, and the Immortal jumped, whirling to face the threat with his dagger drawn. A short little man in pale clothes, gray eyes gazing into Methos’ soul, regarded the knife with disinterest. “I seem to recall you’ve threatened me with a knife several times before. Put it away, Adam.”
Against his better judgment, Methos slipped the knife back into its sheath and regarded the small man with trepidation. “Do I know you?”
“I imagine it’s only been a few decades for you. Several lifetimes for me, I assure you. I’m surprised to run into you here; I would’ve thought you’d remained at the Senator’s estate.” The little man’s eyes twinkled. “You didn’t stick around long enough for introductions.”
“I got crucified and decided Rome wasn’t my scene. And as I recall, you insulted me,” Methos replied slowly. There, a quiver of a coy smirk. “Doctor.”
“I don’t know who Adam is,” the Immortal scowled. “I don’t understand. Explain to me how you were old then and young now? Some sort of magic?”
“A trick of my trades,” the little man replied. “We’ll meet again in a few centuries, from your perspective. It’s already happened for me. I won’t remember this, though.” His eyes slid past Methos and into the crowd. “There’ll be trouble today, Adam. I suggest you leave Pompeii.”
Methos furrowed his brow. “What sort of trouble?”
“Localized Armageddon sort of trouble,” the Doctor looked grim. Without another word he slipped out into the crowd and vanished.
Methos put as much distance between him and the Doctor as Pompeii would permit, after that. He didn’t stop until the thoroughly disturbing thrum that had invaded his mind had subsided. Stopping to catch his breath, the Immortal glanced around. He’d wound up near the temple of Mars, near the base of Vesuvius. Holy Ground; he breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against a stone pillar.
He had only a moment to relax before the grating buzz of another Immortal shivered up his spine and set his teeth on edge. He moaned under his breath, a hand twitching to his sword hilt. There was no-one else about on the road. He narrowed his eyes. Was he being stalked? Suddenly, the clash of sword on sword echoed through the halls, coming from within the temple precinct. Any thought of danger was abandoned as his eyes widened. The temple was Holy Ground! What did the fools think they were doing?
“For the sake of the gods, stop!” He cried out, racing in, too late; the killing stroke had come down, and he recoiled in horror as the lifeless head bounced across the dirt, coming to a stop at his feet.
A beheading on Holy Ground.
The victor was panting heavily, wounded in many places, and there was a shell-shocked look in his eyes.
“What have you done?” Methos cried, clutching his head in disbelief.
“He gave me no choice,” the Immortal whispered, shaking badly. “He just wouldn’t stop.”
The mists of the Quickening were rising from the body, flashing with fire and lightning, swirling round in a vortex of light and wind. A bolt of energy lashed out, driving itself into the victor’s chest. As the receiver screamed in agony, Methos turned tail and ran for his life.
The ground beneath his feet began to pitch and tremble. All around him people were in a panic, screaming and stumbling over each other. He staggered, clutching a pillar to keep his balance, and looked back towards the temple. The maelstrom of energy had darkened the sky, assisted by nature’s wrath. Vesuvius was pouring out deadly clouds of black smoke and ash. A thick gray powder was beginning to fall, looking as gossamer as snow but burning like acid on his skin.
“Ye Gods on Mount Olympus; have mercy,” Methos whispered.
In the end, through theft of a horse and the sheer will to survive, he was one of the few who made it out before the town was swallowed up.
3. England, AD 1275, in which the Doctor is accosted in a hallway.
Working under Irongrod reminded William Matthews of a dirtier, stupider Kronos. The man had no tact in battle, but his followers seemed to like his roughshod ways. Methos had quietly stepped into the shadows this time around; he had no desires to be some warlord’s right hand man again, especially when this was a temporary stopover on his way to Darius in Paris.
Then the superstitious old fools had witnessed a star fall in the nearby meadow, and his plans were held back by Linx, the strange silver-clad warrior who promised weapons that could fell their enemies from afar. Methos had been through China; gunpowder was nothing new to him, but there was something about Linx that made his skin just crawl. The fact that the armoured spaceman never removed his helmet, for example; he didn’t like it when he couldn’t read his enemy’s emotions.
Speaking of emotions, his temper was starting to reach boiling point. The inside of his skull itched something fierce, in the way that can drive one mad, unable to scratch it away. It was infuriatingly familiar too, and was becoming as easy to pinpoint as the buzz of an Immortal.
He only had to wait for the fool to slink past the alcove he’d chosen to shadow in.
His hand shot out and found a plethora of velvet and ruffles. The owner was yanked out of the hall, slammed against the wall, and his sword was at his throat.
“Localized Armageddon?!” He hissed, his eyes sparking angry gold. “Were you out of your bloody mind? You couldn’t have TOLD me the mountain was going to explode?! No, you had to have a little fun about it!”
“What on Gallifrey-Unhand me!” The tall, white-haired gentlemen knocked his hands away, looking furious. “Who do you think you are you-...wait, Adam?” He stilled. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you before, Doctor, my name isn’t Adam!” Methos scowled. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Pompeii, you idiot; I nearly became part of the scenery because of you!”
“I can quite honestly say I don’t,” the white-haired man hissed back, “I’ve never been to Pompeii. And don’t point that thing at me; you could poke someone’s eye out.” He shoved the blade of Methos’ sword away from his neck and tugged his velvet jacket straight.
“Don’t play games with me, Doctor, I’ve got a pretty good memory.” A flicker of realization crossed the ancient’s face. “But you don’t…necessarily…damn.” With a scowl he stepped back and sheathed his blade, raking a hand through hair he’d chopped short. “You said you wouldn’t remember; Gods above, I hate time travel.” His head fell back to hit the wall.
“Plays havoc with your perceptions. My last memory of you and your last memory of me haven’t happened for the other of us,” the Doctor said sympathetically, patting the ancient on the shoulder. “I think it best we probably part company, in any case; I already know too much about my future.”
“Fair enough,” Methos rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Tell me, though, Doctor. Whenever I meet you, a sensation...a very weird feeling arises in my head, like bees buzzing in the back of my mind. It makes me want to escape my skin. What under heaven is it?"
The Doctor actually looked faintly surprised. “Really? I hadn’t realized the TARDIS was stretching her telepathic circuits to you as well. She gets inside your head and translates languages, so anyone travelling with me can understand and speak the local dialects. It’s usually companions only, very curious.” He was looking at Methos quite strangely.
A look of confusion crossed Methos’ face. “TARDIS?”
“Ah, an acronym; it stands for time-and-relative-dimension-in-space; my space-time ship.” The Doctor puffed up with pride. “I got her working again quite recently, and with good timing; something has been stealing scientists from the 1970’s and bringing them back here.”
Space-time ship. Right. The Immortal rubbed the back of his neck. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I think you’re looking for the one who calls himself Linx. He showed up about a fortnight ago and wrapped Irongrod around his little finger. He keeps pretty secretive quarters in the west wing of the castle. Short guy, silver armour, weird helmet; you can’t miss him.”
“Thank you,” the Doctor said with relief. “Till we meet again?”
“If we must,” Methos replied, watching him slink away. Without hesitation he then turned around and walked out of the castle, fetched his horse from the stables and set off for Paris. Irongrod be damned; he wasn’t sticking around for this one. With his luck, the Doctor would blow up the castle itself - with Methos inside.
4. Tibet, AD 1935, in which Methos realises when ‘Adam’ came from.
The furry beasts with the mechanical brains growled and snuffled and drooled as real as anything flesh and blood, but Adam had learned by now that appearances weren’t always what they seemed, especially when the Doctor was involved. This incarnation was a short little man with a floppy haircut and oversized clothes that were definitely out of place among the monks in the monastery, travelling with a young Scot and a girl named Victoria. Where the Doctor and Victoria had vanished to, Methos wasn’t sure, but it was with tense anticipation that he and Jamie McCrimmon crouched in hiding.
The metallic smell of blood and oil and damp fur emanated from the Yeti’s hulking figure, choking the air in cramped quarters already heavy with the smell of death. Methos could feel the cold winter air in stark contrast against his skin, the blood from the healed claw marks itching as it dried. He really hated dying. He’d grabbed Jamie on impulse and shoved him into the priest-hole but had been too slow himself to avoid the rake of the Yeti’s claws across his back. He’d died in the boy’s arms, after somehow closing the door between them and the beast.
Methos came to in a few minutes with a gasp and a rattling cough, expelling blood from his lungs, thoroughly freaking out the young Scot.
Now Jamie huddled against him, pressed close out of necessity to conserve space and limit movement, but he could hear and feel the boy’s ragged breathing. It was likely a shock to the lad’s system to be in the same quarters as a man who was dead but moments ago.
“You’ll get out of this, Jamie McCrimmon, I promise you that,” Methos whispered, trying to ease the youngster’s fears. “The Doc’ll get us out of this.”
Somewhere out there Jamie’s Immortal self was traversing the world, alive and well. He’d been found after First Death on the battlefields of Culloden by Connor MacLeod, at least according to the Watcher files the last time Methos had snooped into their records. The boy shaking against his chest only held the faint kiss of pre-Immortality, but he was not much older in appearance than the McCrimmon Methos had read about. What did fate have in store for the Scot so soon in life?
The growl of the Yeti grew closer, shadows blocked the cracks in the boards, and there was a crunch of wood splintering. There was a mechanical scream and then deathly silence. Methos and Jamie held their breath, the blood pounding in their ears. Suddenly the door was wrenched open; Jamie jumped, startled, hand flying to his dirk, and Methos followed suit to his own dagger, strapped to his leg. They were not greeted by animal claws, but by the Doctor, breathless and worried.
“Jamie! Thank goodness! Oh dear, are you alright?”
Methos was surprised to find the question directed at him as they climbed out of hiding, inspecting the jagged tears ripped in his former favorite leather parka. “You know me, Doc, I’m bloody hard to get rid of.”
A ripple of something crossed the Doctor’s face: recognition, apprehension, concern, the same revulsion as his white-haired self in Rome had displayed, to a lesser degree. It was gone as soon as it appeared as the small man turned to fuss over his companion, while Jamie erected his warrior’s mask and protested he was fine. All the while Jamie kept shooting uneasy glances towards Methos, who took it as his cue to leave.
“You know he’s one of us,” Methos said later, lingering in the door as the Doctor bid his last goodbyes. The small man hovered, wringing his hands in a gesture of unease, and nodded minutely. The ancient crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the frame with a mild smirk. “I think I get it now. We make you uncomfortable. Makes sense; lord of time, confronted by something that doesn’t conform to what you think the usual should be.”
“Yes,” the Doctor admitted quietly. “I can feel it in his timeline. Yours is much stronger,” he shivered, his eyes sliding over Methos as if the man were a blurred picture, difficult to make out. “You’ve been around a while. I remember you from Rome.”
“Which time?” Methos jested, but the words seem to startle the little man. So, he hadn’t been the short one with grey eyes from Pompeii yet. Filing the information away, Methos nodded, understanding.
“For future reference, my name’s Adam, since you keep insisting on calling me that in the past.” He pushed away from the wall and approached Jamie, offering out a hand to the lad. “It was nice to meet you Jamie McCrimmon. I hope one day we’ll meet again.”
“Aye,” Jamie said, an uneasy smile crossing his face. “An’ maybe ye’ll explain that trick of yours, how ye cannae die.”
Methos smiled enigmatically and turned to leave.
“Adam,” the Doctor said, and Methos looked over his shoulder. “Thank you.”
A smile parted the Immortal’s lips. “See you around, Doc.”
5. London, 1969, in which old faces make their appearance.
Ben Adams propped his foot up on an empty chair, slouched effortlessly back in the terrace seat, and unfolded the local newspaper across his lap. The headlines blared in enthusiastic capitals about the recent launch of Apollo 11 from Florida in the US, en route to the moon. Methos scoffed at it with an amazed smile. Who would’ve thought the human race would achieve so much in so little time?
His coat was in reach, draped over the back of the chair, and his sword within. The morning was bright and sunny, balmy and calm, a rare, beautiful day in London. He had a cup of coffee from the best baristas in the city, and hadn’t felt an Immortal soul for weeks. Methos was at peace.
Across the sidewalk, the sounds of children’s laughter drifted from the park. The ancient twitched the edge of his newspaper away to glance in their direction with a fondly reminiscent smile. A woman was helping her toddler climb the jungle gym constructs that had recently been installed. Nearby, a young man watched with affection from a park bench, relaxing in the shade. His rich laughter carried across the distance as he stood up to join his wife.
“You worry too much, Barbara,” he said lightheartedly, the rest of the conversation dropping to lower volumes as he looped an arm around her waist.
“You worry too much, Barbara.”
“If the Doctor could park the TARDIS properly I wouldn’t have fallen into the pond, now, would I?”
“Doctor, are you sure?”
Methos stilled. Slowly, he lowered the paper, and took a more careful look at the young couple. Sure, he could’ve been wrong. It might’ve been genetics, ancestors, a freak coincidence that this couple, this man and woman were the exact doubles of the people he had surprised in Gaius Marcus’ villa.
Methos didn’t believe in coincidences. His eidetic memory was good for something. It had been millennia since he’d seen the young man’s face, but here he was, in living, breathing colour.
Chesterton, the Doctor had called him. Ian Chesterton.
The old man watched the family play for an hour more before they left. His coffee had gone cold. He abandoned it and the paper in search of a phone directory.
There were five Chestertons listed in the London area. Of them, four were male, three were married, and one of them was within walking distance of the park. It was with a nervous flutter in his soul that Methos now stood outside the gate of the comely little house. The garden was in good upkeep, and the scent of jasmine and rose hung on the air. The Immortal shoved his hands deep into his pockets and sighed.
The door opened. Barbara stepped out onto the porch, book in hand and tea in the other. Her eyes met his. She hesitated. He stilled, tensing. Would she recognize…?
“Ian,” she called over her shoulder, watching Methos suspiciously. “Could you come out here for a moment? We have company.”
“I take it you recognize me, then,” Methos said with a smile, leaning against the fence, his coat falling lightly around his lanky frame.
“Hard to forget a man when he’s brandishing a dagger at you in the middle of ancient Rome,” Barbara replied with a wondering smile. “You don’t look a day older, you know. I guess the Doctor was really right, you being Immortal.”
“Guilty as charged,” Methos nodded sheepishly, his gaze flickering to Ian as the young man joined his wife. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hello.”
“Odd thing to do; we never caught your name. I’m surprised you know ours,” Ian said, staring in shock.
Methos tapped his temple. “Eidetic memory. I never forget a face, you know. Ben Adams.”
“Otherwise known as Adam, William, Matthew, Remus…” A lanky young man in a brown pinstriped suit popped up from behind Chesterton, a bright grin stretched across his features. “Been waiting for you, Benny.”
“One of these days I’m gonna find myself ahead of you, Doc,” Methos scolded in surprise. “And don’t call me Benny.”
“Don’t call me Doc and we’ll call it even,” the Doctor quipped. “Glad you’re here. I’m in need of your help, I’m afraid. Do come in.”
Methos was somewhat surprised. The pleasant attitude was an odd turn of the Doctor’s former emotions about the ancient Immortal. Something felt amiss, and it unsettled the man; he took a moment to assure his sword hung without hindrance in the event he needed it drawn. Then, taking his cue by the smile and nod that Barbara gave as it was the Chesterton’s abode, not the Doctor’s, he stepped inside the gate and walked up the sidewalk.
At the threshold of the house, the feeling of something amiss became full-blown realization and he jarred to a halt, his eyes widening. There was a distinct absence of the hum in his skull. “Doctor, I can’t hear the TARDIS in my head.”
The Doctor, seated on the couch across from a young black woman in a denim jacket, gave a nod, a sad smile on his face. “That’s what we need your help with, Ben. Have you ever heard the legends of the weeping angels?”
Ben had not, but a quick summary of events caught the Immortal up to speed. The Doctor was in possession of a purple folder filled with information that had been given to him by a young woman in 2005, Sally Sparrow. It detailed a predestined paradox to the letter, but there were bases the Doctor wanted to cover. The man known as Billy Shipton had yet to appear, and it was making the Doctor and his companion, Martha Jones, nervous.
“So you want me to make sure Miss Sparrow gets Mr. Shipton’s message, in case something goes wrong and he can’t?” Methos sat back, picking at the label of a beer Ian had graciously offered. “Sixty years is a long time, Doctor. I can’t guarantee I’ll be any more successful.”
“You’ve lived this long, Methos. After five thousand years, I’m confident sixty will cause you no problems.” The Doctor smiled cheekily as the older man started, nearly spilling his beer as he stared at the Doctor wide-eyed with shock.
“Where did you learn that name?” he demanded.
“I can’t tell you. Timelines would be torn asunder.” The Doctor replied enigmatically over the rim of his teacup.
The Immortal muttered under his breath in a long-dead language and smiled wickedly as no alien translator deemed it necessary to convert the syllables into understandable speech. “You’re even more infuriating than you were in Pompeii.”
Weeks later, after Billy Shipton had arrived, the messages had been recorded, and the TARDIS had been recovered, the Doctor approached Methos. They had decided to take a few days to settle their affairs in 1969, but were eager to be off. The Time Lord, however, seemed to have something on his mind, and he stopped Methos just outside the doors of his strange blue box, once Martha had been ushered indoors.
“How’s Jamie?” he asked quietly, rocking lightly on his toes, his hands deep within his pockets. Methos was surprised at the question. The man was still uncomfortable around Immortals, for all the help Methos had given him over the centuries, and Jamie had been a companion long ago in the time-traveller’s timeline.
“He’s good, he’s fine. I haven’t seen him since Tibet, but the Watchers are everywhere. He did well by Connor MacLeod, he’s in good hands. I think he’s somewhere on the East Coast, America.” Methos wrapped his coat around his lanky frame and tilted his head. “You should look him up sometime, Doc. I’m sure he misses you.”
A ripple of pain and sadness that Methos knew well crossed the man’s eyes. “I can’t.” The pinstriped young man breathed in a deep sigh and stood up straighter, letting it out heavily. “When he left...it wasn’t by choice. They wiped his memories of our travels. He wouldn’t remember me. He wouldn’t remember you. It’s best I...it’s for the best.”
Methos remained silent.
“Anyways, I guess we’d best be off,” the Doctor said with false brightness, smiling. “Don’t forget to deliver that message, Ben. We’ll be counting on you.”
“See yah, Doc. Take care.” He stepped back, saluting with a finger as the Time Lord stepped inside the blue box and shut the door. Minutes later, a rasping, grating sound filled the air and time-space warped. The Immortal stumbled back, feeling the very air charge with ozone, the hairs rising on the back of his neck and arms as the box merely faded out of existence.
Methos let out a shaky breath, feeling the static tingle that danced against his Quickening. He’d never seen the Doctor’s craft before, let alone been present when it left. To think that such a small box could hold so much power.
6. Cardiff, 2000, in which there are Zombies.
“When you called me for help, Jack,” Methos panted, “you did not mention ZOMBIES.”
Jack Harkness flashed a sheepish grin over his shoulder at his teacher, his own face pale and drawn in the lighting of the tunnels. “I may have left some details out of my phone call, yes.”
“Some?” the third member of their party repeated incredulously in an ire-thickened Scots accent. “You said, and I quote, ‘Cardiff’s got a problem wit’ the Y-2-K bug, can ye help us out?’”
"Yes, Jack, this is not a problem! This is Evil Dead 4. Revenge of the Army of Darkness! I don't know about Jamie, but I'm no Bruce Campbell."
“Well, technically it is a bug, and it is a problem.” Jack winced. “Alien viruses that turn normal corpses into flesh-hungry brain-dead corpses count.”
“Ye forgot they be near impossible t’ kill!” Jamie McCrimmon snapped. “I cannae waste all nigh’ playin’ Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a graveyard with ye, Jack; we’ve tried guns, gas, stabbin’, bleedin ‘em dry. An’ we put in the call to the Doctah, but ‘e’s not a miracle worker, ye ken. How’re we s’posed to hold the buggers off till he gets the formulae finished?”
“Could always go for the classic approach,” Methos said, giving the Ivanhoe he wielded a weighted toss as he drew it from his coat. “Beheading seems to kill most things supernatural, mortal or alien.”
The two younger Immortals shared a glance and Harkness drew his own sword, a rapier that had been a gift from Matthew of Salisbury in the early 1900’s, when Matthew and Methos had found him newly Immortal in the streets of South Carolina. Jamie hefted the weight of his own sword, a bastardized claymore that suited his style better than the katana his teacher Connor MacLeod preferred. “Beheading works for me,” he shrugged, and laid in into the nearest shambling skeletal figure with an old Gaelic battle cry.
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