Chapter Text
V.
On the last day of his old life Brian Newhouse had just finished breakfast and
wasn't in a rush to clear the table. It was Sunday, even more importantly the
first Sunday in weeks where he could be sure he wouldn't be needed by his
employer, so he indulged himself by dragging breakfast out. He wished his wife
could be here, but Mr. Maxwell had made it absolutely clear that he didn't want
anyone to bring their family along. The chances that a careless word now and
then could leak out were simply not to be risked, not with this, the most
fascinating thing Brian had ever worked with. Not that he was at top level,
Doctors Maryatt, Travis and Carnell were; he hadn't had yet the opportunity to
make tests on the subjects themselves. But he did analyse blood and tissue
samples. It was incredible. Never mind Travis with his ideas about the perfect
soldier, here was the chance to defeat AIDS, if they could decrypt the DNA
sequence that caused this incredibly adaptive immune system. To say nothing of
cell regeneration.
Eternal youth was just around the corner. Brian had spoken with Maryatt about
this; they were both sure this was the discovery of the century, if not the
millennium. What a pity they had not more then two living subjects anymore,
though. Carnell was working on a method to find them, based on his theory that
the electric fields they obviously generated were what permitted them to
recognise each other and could be reproduced or at least identified on an
artificial level, but that could take years, and they needed them now. According
to Maryatt who had talked with them the most, it seemed they were everywhere on
the planet. Which meant anyone could stumble on this, at any moment. Brian
wouldn't be surprised if there were some Japanese scientists right now working
on it. Or the Chinese. Since they had the largest population on earth, it stood
to reason they had more than their share of immortals as well. Typical, Brian,
who didn't believe in political correctness, thought. Bloody Asians have to get
everywhere first. Well, not this time, hopefully.
The security guard Maxwell had provided him with announced there was someone
from the facility to see him, and Brian groaned. Taken up with the Lazarus
Project as he was, he still thought everyone had the right to a free day every
now and then. But he did not dare to protest. After all, it could be important,
a breakthrough, and if he missed that simply because he wasn't a morning person,
Maryatt might drop him, not just from his circle but also from the entire
Project.
So he hastily wiped his mouth, went to the living room and waited for the guard
to escort whomever it was in. It turned out to be a couple in large coats, X-
Files-style, and his last free thought was that they looked a bit like Scully
and Mulder, only the woman was much taller than Gillian Anderson. Then she spoke
his name, and, with every word she added, his urge to tell her everything, to
obey her in every detail, grew until it was almost unbearable. When she finally
gestured to him to speak, he nearly sobbed with relief.
Brian Newhouse's office away from office, Methos thought, was hardly stylish,
but eminently practical, and it suited their purpose. He had chosen Newhouse as
the ideal member of the Lazarus Project to get them inside, important, but not
too important. The security guard had not been a problem; one sentence from
Cassandra and he was convinced they truly were authorised messengers. What she
did with Brian Newhouse was more thorough, but still not the complete mindwipe
she held in reserve. After all, they needed Newhouse with memory intact - yet.
Still, in this case the man wasn't just convinced Cassandra and Methos were
members of the Project, he believed they were the key people, his personal
guarantee for the Nobel Prize, his best friends and his salvation. If he had
given himself time to feel, Methos would have been awed. Fleetingly, he
reflected that with powers like these, it must have taken incredible strength of
character of Cassandra not to end up as a megalomaniac herself. He remembered
Amy asking him, on their way to see Lanart, why Cassandra didn't use her Voice
in Bosnia, or Israel, or any country torn with strife to ensure peace. It was
something a mortal would ask, or, to be fair, something someone would ask who
had never felt the temptation of power. Methos, who was all too familiar with
it, knew the answer without having to ask Cassandra herself.
He gave her a glance while Newhouse eagerly told him the codes to get from his
terminal into the Lazarus Computer system. She was pale, but so far did not look
actually stressed. Good. If she broke down too soon, they still could end up as
research subjects themselves. It was, of course, incomprehensible why he had let
himself get involved in this lunacy in the first place. Though now that he had
become more visible, and a Watcher-documented immortal again, it was a bit more
difficult to summon up the nonchalance with which he had faced public exposure
of the immortals during the Kalas showdown some years ago.
Once inside the system, Methos first created an appointment and clearance that
would permit him and Cassandra to enter the central building tomorrow so
Cassandra wouldn't have to bother with too many security guards there. Then, he
down loaded the addresses of everyone involved in the Lazarus Project, something
he had not done before when he had hacked his way into some of the data, out of
fear it would alert everyone too soon. Finally, he left them a virus that would
activate tomorrow as well, as soon as someone opened a file connected with one
of Brian Newhouse's blood analysis. Ideally, it should destroy every speck of
data available, but there was always the chance of some independent systems
Newhouse simply did not have access to. He would have to do this again, though
other channels.
Something he had not found, neither through his own efforts from Paris nor
through Brian Newhouse now, were the names of those immortals still held as test
subjects. There weren't any photos, either, not of their faces. Of arms, hands
and other body parts yes, in order to document the speed of the healing process,
but not of the faces. The only one fully documented in this regard had to be
Cassandra's old acquaintance, Prokne. They had done a complete pathological
report on her, of course.
Asked after the immortals, Brian Newhouse could only, regretfully, affirm he
had never seen or spoken to one of them. Only Maryatt, Travis and Carnell had.
And Maxwell, their employer, who financed all of this. No, he didn't know their
names: they were subject Beta and Gamma; the dead woman who had been mad enough
to decapitate herself had been the first, subject Alpha. As for the question
whether they were cooperating; in the beginning, one of them had, believing he
could use the researchers to get other immortals for him to behead, which was
obviously a perverse urge of the whole race, but when Travis had let it slip
that they wouldn't permit that, since dead bodies, previously immortal or not,
were of no use to Mr. Maxwell without whose money they could not do, the man in
question had sullenly refused further cooperation.
"So they are prisoners?"
"It's for their own salvation," Brian replied, slightly offended. "We can't
permit these people to go on committing genocide against each other. Clearly,
they are not sane, and such cases must be contained for their own good. Besides,
their bodies might help save the entire human race."
"This," Methos remarked to Cassandra, switching to the bastardised Greek they
had spoken in lower Italy long after the Romans had taken over, "is why I prefer
villains. Fate preserve me from self-righteous believers."
She did not reply, studying instead the list of addresses Newhouse's printer
ratted out now. They had a long day ahead of them.
***
Putting your job on the line for your immortal, Amy thought uneasily,
definitely wasn't a trait she had planned to adapt from Joe. Besides, Joe at
least thought the world of MacLeod and was reasonably sure the man would do the
right thing most of the time. Whereas she was settled with a professional liar,
a seemingly reformed mass murderer, an infiltrator in the Organisation she had
sworn to protect, and the most irritating man she knew to boot. What on earth
had she been thinking of?
Okay, so she owed him something. Not because he had saved her life; that had
been accidental, and he had done it for Joe, not for her. Because he had helped
her to give a tortured man some peace at the expense of his own. It still didn't
completely reassure her. Yet she couldn't bring herself to break her word and
follow him, or send others after him. Finally, she decided on a compromise, and
checked the flights to Edinburgh or Glasgow for passengers using Methos' or
Cassandra's known aliases. Nothing. This wasn't too disconcerting. They
certainly had a bunch of identities she didn't know about, and besides, they
could have gone by car, as she and Methos had when visiting Lanart, or taken the
ferry. And thanks to the European Union, they didn't even necessarily need to
present a passport anymore, these days. An identity card would suffice.
Still, her disquiet grew and grew, until she decided on another compromise. She
told herself this could be seen as background research, but was aware this was
rather a quaint way of describing breaking into someone's flat. Not that it was
too difficult, which was the first thing to alarm her. Even during a relatively
short acquaintance, she had noticed Methos was a bit paranoid. It wasn't like
him to leave his apartment with so little security.
Once she was inside, she noticed two things. The main room was still a mess,
but it lacked some books that had previously been there, and this made her
instantly suspicious. A pilgrimage to a grave in Scotland for a few days did not
necessitate bringing some books with you. Heavy books at that. Old books. The
other thing she noticed was there was an envelope on the table. She wandered
closer and saw, with a sinking heart, that it was addressed to her. This wasn't
good. This definitely wasn't good. Numbly, she sat down before opening the
envelope. The letter inside wasn't long, but she stared at it for five minutes,
silent. Then, she carefully folded it again, and pushed it in her handbag. "I'll
kill him," she said to no one in particular.
By night, Cassandra had ensured that Monday would find the Lazarus Project
buildings with a minimum staff, both scientific and security. The missing
personnel, all of whom had excused themselves officially, would not be
discovered until it was too late, and then with a complete lack of memory. She
felt sick and completely exhausted, but they had to take Maxwell himself before
resting. After the inferno tomorrow, she probably wouldn't be in any condition
to do it, and while Maxwell was no scientist, he would have copies of the data,
being the instigator of the whole project. And as long as he remembered
immortals, he would try again.
The headache that plagued her was indescribable. This was the nearest thing to
mortal pain she had felt since slowly recovering from being burned around 1000.
To her horror, she could not remember what they were supposed to do next.
"Which of them," she said to Methos, without noticing her hand shook like an
old woman's, "which of them shall I make take us to Maxwell?"
The look he gave her warned her a second before he struck, but she was too
drained to react in time. When Cassandra became conscious again, she was lying
in the bed of the hotel room they had rented. Judging from the way she felt, he
had not been content with simply knocking her out. He must have killed her as
well, keeping her dead until now; she could sense the last tingling of healing
flesh above her heart. She also could sense she wasn't alone. He was in the
bathroom, and when he came back she could see he had just washed his hands and
face.
"Taking up old habits?" she said coldly.
"In as much as common sense is my very oldest habit. You needed the rest. If
you had gone on without stopping, you would have ended up as a talking vegetable
long before we could finish this."
She couldn't deny she felt better now, but she knew there was more to it. What
was it they had discussed before he had knocked her out?
"Maxwell", she exclaimed and sat up. "How..." Her voice halted. The way Methos
regarded her was all too familiar.
"You killed him," Cassandra said tonelessly.
"He won't be discovered for a long time, and I could destroy what data he had.
You knew it would be unavoidable, sooner or later."
Yes, she had known. Had been prepared to kill, as a last resort. But she had
imagined it would have been her decision to make. Still, it would be hypocrisy
not to admit that she had accepted something like this happening when she'd
asked Methos to come with her. After all, she knew what he was capable of.
So she said nothing. Instead, she rose and went into the bathroom, feeling the
need to clean up herself. Strange, how the sensation of water always kept its
psychological effect, through all the millennia. Harry Maxwell, millionnaire,
twice divorced, funding several research projects, one of which had turned out
to be his death warrant. In a way, she supposed she could blame Maxwell for
Prokne's death, but that would have been hypocrisy as well. Maxwell had not
wanted Prokne to die; she was too precious to him. As they all were. Precious
lab rats. Whether he had genuinely wanted to use the research to help the human
race, or just himself, whether he was more driven by power or by what Methos had
called self-righteous belief in Brian Newhouse, she did not and would never
know. She definitely did not feel morally superior to him. After all, she had
treated all those men and women today not much better than lab rats, destroying
their memories.
The hot water of the shower, running down her body, was still soothing. A
wonder of the twentieth century, this easy availability of hot water everywhere.
If she survived all of this somehow, survived even for another century, she
would hardly remember Maxwell anymore. She still could see the face of her
father bowing over her, could name every member of her tribe who were long gone
and dust since millennia, but she could not recall what the last mortal she had
killed had looked like. She knew what he had done, she remembered the situation
and why she had thought it necessary, but the face was gone, and Maxwell did not
even have a face for her. Would she remember any of the people whose memories
she had taken today? *Not sane*, Newhouse had said. In a way, it was true. When
she came out of the bathroom, Methos, who had been fiddling with the radio,
looked up.
"There's something to eat on the table," he said, gesturing to the small desk
where he had deposed several items which, on closer investigation, proved to be
everything which did not benefit the mortal body. Chocolate, more chocolate,
chips and other junk food you could get in the middle of the night at a petrol
station. Since she was hungry, she started eating and soon wolfed it down. He
joined her.
"Do you sometimes wonder whether we are still human?" she asked, in between
cookies.
"Some of us are," Methos replied very seriously, "mostly among the young ones.
I don't think there's much human left in me. Though sometimes I fool myself and
believe differently."
"I'm not sure myself. Certainly we are abnormal."
"Perhaps the definition of normality will change now. With all the genetic
engineering. One day it will be possible to create artificial immortals, and who
knows, without the Quickenings driving them, they might stay more human than we
did. A mixture between us and them."
He passed some wine to her. Strange, how something of this continent could
taste so very much like a wine she had been offered by a Roman general, when
negotiating for the Iceni she had then ruled as Queen. The name of the general
eluded her for the moment, but she knew exactly how his wine had tasted, and she
could recall his voice, quoting Latin poetry to her to prove that Rome had
produced more than military might.
"If you truly believe that - that this is inevitable - why did you come with
me?"
She did not add, and why did you kill, for which he was grateful.
"Because I also believe that before we could reach this stage, they would
destroy what semblance of normality we have left. What life we have left. Call
it species loyalty. It's irrational, but it is there. I don't want us to end
yet."
We are not made to be imprisoned and studied, he wanted to say, none of us are.
No matter whether we are impossible heroes like MacLeod or self-destructive
ruins like Byron in the end, there's something we all share, and that is the
necessity of freedom. But before he could pronounce the words, the memory of
imprisoning Cassandra returned, full-force, and he swallowed the comment.
"If will become possible to artificially create immortals," Cassandra mused,
"then it might become possible to resequence our DNA as well. To make us
mortal."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Would you want that?" he asked, before she could ask him the same thing,
because he wasn't certain about the answer. The urge to survive burned as strong
as ever in him, but sometimes... sometimes, he wondered what it would be like.
To change. To mark the passing time with your body. Not having to fight anymore,
or to kill, to be free of that burden.
To age with your mortal lover, and have the prospect of finding her again in
whatever awaited mortals whose soul became free with death instead of being
absorbed.
The trouble was, he truly could not recall what it had been like, and when such
questions plagued him, he usually went into a hospital or a so-called "home for
the aged" to be cured of sentimentalising something tantalisingly beyond his
experience. Cassandra, though, who could remember a mortal life to grieve for,
might think differently. To his surprise, she shook her head and gave him a
tired smile.
"Once out of nature," she said, picking up their game of Yeats quotes again, "I
shall never take/ My bodily form from any natural thing.' But," she continued,
"I think this is why we fall so often in love with mortals, despite better
knowledge. We reach out for normality that way, for what we have lost and can't
have again. Yet only if we stop reaching out we have truly become inhuman." She
had been thinking of Reiner, the last mortal man she had fallen in love with,
but seeing Methos flinch reminded her of what MacLeod had told her, about Methos
having loved a dying mortal woman only a few years ago. There had been a time
when she would have scoffed at the mere idea, but not now, not anymore. It did
not change the past, but it added to the present. The present which would soon
come to an end, one way or another. For a moment, she almost said she was sorry;
then, reconsidering, she said nothing. He would feel exposed by her having this
knowledge. Instead, she rose.
"I think I'll try to sleep now," she said. "If you have set the alarm clock."
"Oh, don't worry."
He stayed where he was, though, staring at his hands. Was it the thought of his
lost mortal love that haunted him, or the mortal he had killed tonight? The
concern she felt, she told herself, was due to the fact that he needed to be
alert in the morning just as much as she did. More so, if he had to kill her. It
was a miracle that she could think clearly now. Or maybe she couldn't. Maybe
this whole tendency to have philosophical discussions with Methos, of all
people, was a sign of decaying mental facilities.
"You should sleep as well," she heard herself say. He shrugged but started to
undress while she got rid of the hotel bathrobe. It should have been an awkward
moment, but it wasn't. They both knew very well what they looked like. Being
stabbed again had been a much more disconcerting physical reminder of the past.
Having to share the same bed might have overdone it, but the Americans, bless
them, had more twin rooms than double rooms anyway. There was something to be
said for the Puritan tradition if you travelled in the company of someone you
just knew a bit too well in the biblical sense, and in some other ways not at
all.
Sometime later, after trying for sleep in vain for at least an hour and
settling for drowsing, at least, she heard him whisper:
"We could leave it here, you know. Your attempt to be a martyr for the immortal
cause. With their sponsor dead, the virus active and over half of their staff
incapacitated, it might buy some years anyway. And if not, let someone else
worry about it."
It was half a statement, half a question. As a statement, it was, of course,
nonsense. As long as the other immortals were still there to be investigated,
all the remaining researchers had to do was to find a new sponsor and new staff,
and with such a discovery, it wouldn't be too difficult. He had to know she
would realise this, so why did he bother?
"Go on," she said, as he had done in the church.
"Before MacLeod found me," Methos murmured, "I was living in that Paris
apartment and the libraries at the HQ like in an ivory tower. Not involved with
any other immortals, and not really involved with mortals. Keeping a distance.
It wasn't very exciting, but safe, for me and everyone else. Then he dragged me
out of my tower, as someone always does, and eventually all hell broke loose. I
think I'm ready for that tower again, Cassandra."
"Why?"
"All sort of reasons, starting with the Gathering taking up speed, and ending
with the eminent foolishness of my present behaviour. My two closest friends
right now are both heading towards death. I saw MacLeod practically ready to
commit suicide, Cassandra. Twice. And it will happen again. He might be the best
fighter we have, but as long as the guilt thing isn't knocked out of him, he
will end up getting his penance by dying very soon. And as if it wasn't stupid
enough to get involved with someone like this, I had to get close with another
candidate for death as well. Joe has ten, twenty years left tops, and at his
present lifestyle probably much less. There are times when I can practically
feel him dying."
"So you want to get away from it all," she said, without condemnation; somewhat
wistfully, as a matter of fact. Suddenly Methos was struck by one of the most
lunatic ideas he had ever had. And since the events of the day had left him
somewhat shaken, and they were hurtling towards doom anyway, he pronounced it
aloud.
"Yes. But not alone. That was my previous mistake, the reason why I was so
eager to get caught up with the boyscout of the immortals. Being alone can do
that to you. Why not come with me?"
"This is crazy," Cassandra said, struck to the core. "Precisely. So is what
we're doing at the moment. So is losing your mind. Let's run away instead. To
somewhere in the Himalaya. Somewhere incredibly high. No mortals to attach
yourself to who die with each breath they take. No immortals who are prone to do
good deeds either, for they couldn't do them there."
She took a breath. "Just you and me, and the urge to kill you the first time I
have a nightmare of your glory days. Or if you're just more obnoxious than
usual."
"I'm not asking you for an eternity," he said, sounding slightly offended.
"Frankly, I don't think I could bear *you* that long. But", he grew serious
again, "you know the worst I can be. I know you at your weakest. There is
nothing to hide. It might even be a relief, for some years."
Belatedly, it occurred to her she should have said that she could not trust him
enough in the first place. Instead, she found herself actually contemplating it.
Running away, from mortal and immortal concerns alike, being together with
someone who was, when all was said and done, in some ways more like herself than
anyone else left on this earth, and in others so different that it would be an
unending intriguing puzzle to figure him out.
But even while she thought this, she knew it was just a fantasy. She could not
break her oath. She could not ignore the danger, the havoc the discovery would
create for immortals and mortals alike; she could not let this simply be someone
else's concern. And while she did not want to kill Methos any longer, she could
not forgive him anymore than she could forgive herself. What happened to her
emotions three thousand years ago had been understandable. After he had
destroyed the world she had lived in, killed everyone she had ever known and had
robbed her even of the conviction that her body and her life were her own, she
had at some point been forced to build a new world where he was the centre and
the only certainty. A god who gave life and death to her and whose cruel
protection against the others who were even worse than him was the only
semblance of affection left to experience. So she had been brainwashed and
traumatised enough to start loving him, betraying in the process her father, her
people and herself. While she still felt shame and self-loathing for this, she
had finally begun to absolve herself. There was not much else anyone could have
done differently, she told herself, and started to accept it.
However, if she went with him now, of her own free will, without Becky or
MacLeod's demon or this present horror to force her to be with him, there could
be no excuse. No pretext, no evasion. No absolution.
"I can't," she said, tears glistening and blurring her sight until she closed
her eyes again. Thankfully, he didn't speak until the morning, and only then,
when she heard the desperate echoes of Prokne's final plea in her mind did she
realise this particular torment had been silent ever since Methos had knocked
her out and killed her again.