Methos is disinterested in Duncan, at least in the romantic sense.  But he's fairly well-anchored in his Adam Pierson personality at that point (and yes, that's the personality he constructed for Adam, not his real one, although more of his behavior/attitudes regarding his involvement in the Game/developed over time are close to his real ones than the rest of his attitudes because he hadn't bothered to manufacture attitudes for Adam because he expected to be taken as, at most, a new Immortal), and Adam's a lot more willing to be convinced to be interested in Duncan than Methos is, so there's Duncan/Methos.

But then one day, Joe dies or something, and he decides it's time to move on.  So he turns to Duncan and he goes, "Well, it's been fun.  You can buy me a beer in a couple of centuries."  And Duncan's all confused, because he thought it was True Love, and Adam was Methos's real personality, and Methos has to explain it in small words.

John Watson is a hallucination/a ghost that only Sherlock can see.  People notice that he talks to thin air, but how is that any more bizarre than anything else he does?  And as time goes by, he starts to be...not more normal.  Maybe more accommodating of all of the people who aren't as brilliant as he is?

Highlander- a new immortal learns about the Game and says "dammit, I just lost the game."

A devoutly religious person, who has built most of their life around their religion, is turned into a vampire.  Now they literally cannot do anything having to do with religion- crosses burn them, an invisible force field keeps them from entering churches, etc..  How do they reconcile the two?

Deaged Harry, Ron, and Hermione (like in Trio but younger) are found by Mal, Zoe, and whatever crew they have at the time (none?). At first Mal plans to get rid of them ASAP, but he comes around, at least partly because of Harry's terror of being sent to an orphanage. As in Trio, Harry's not all there, so it's not exactly shocking that he and River get along like two peas in a pod once the Tams come aboard. All three of them act childish most of the time, because except for Ron they didn't when they were young the first time; Ron acts the most mature most of the time.

[River freaks out about Book's hair]
Harry: Don't worry, it only attacks his enemies.

AFS network

AFS is majorly into communication both anonymous and otherwise, since before they become AFS.
Anonymous discussion fora (anon.[whatever]) assign a unique alphanumeric to each account for each thread, so you can see that the same person's been posting over and over in one thread but you have no idea if the same person has posted at all in another thread unless you recognize the writing style; public fora (public.[whatever]) use real names.  Posts can be flagged as unproductive and hide/disappear after they're flagged too much (disagreeing posts aren't flagged, posts like "first" or "ur gay" are).  Mostly it's as horrifying as the internet, just without that kind of unproductive posts.

sites/virtual discussion areas/fora:

• anon.vote (for voting only, no discussion or anything)
• anon.debate (anonymous debate about anything)
• anon.nsfw (several subfora)
• public.announcements (tends to be a mix of official announcements and stuff like "I lost my [whatever], if you see it return it to [person] at [place]" and "Japanese lessons, Fridays at 2 in the mess hall")

Gotham Honest

It's impossible to be a cop in Gotham and respect the law too much. No matter how honest a man (or woman) you are, there's no way to avoid the ethical compromises Gotham forces on you. You might not take bribes, like the rest of the force, but that's little more than a symbolic gesture.

In this city, there's nobody who'd prosecute a crooked cop- and if they did, there wouldn't be any left. You're forced to choose between looking the other way and watching and doing nothing. And as bad as being on the take is, it's better than what some of them get up to. Errand boys for the mob, excessive force, drugs…you've seen it all. In any other city, it wouldn't be tolerated, but here it's expected. You're the one who stands out, what seems like the only honest cop in Gotham- and how honest are you, when you don't do a damned thing about any of it?

Cops who try to follow the rules end up dead early in their careers. You may be a more-or-less honest man, but you're still alive when more honest men aren't; you've had to make compromises. If nothing else, Gotham has taught you when to throw away the rules.

If you were an honest cop in any other city, you'd never work with a vigilante- vigilantism is illegal, after all- but this isn't any other city. This is Gotham, and you're the closest thing Gotham has to an honest cop.

What if House was young?  As in pulled a Doogie Howser young.  By the time he becomes head of Diagnostics, he's old enough that people don't look at him funny when he says he's a doctor, but he's still younger than the ducklings.

Unhappy Batman/Superman sex pollen story.  They have sex until it wears off, and then Batman snaps back to being all business while Clark's still trying to bask in the afterglow.
Bruce: "We were affected by some form of pollenated aphrodesiac."
Clark: "...Did you just say sex pollen?!"
And Clark's way confused by Bruce because he can hear that Bruce's heartrate is elevated from still being turned on, but Bruce is acting like it's all just business (he halfway thinks it's Bruce being traumatized, but he literally does not act any different than any other day on the job, either positively or negatively).  And of course he can't get Bruce to talk about it, and works himself up about it because he thinks Bruce is traumatized from the sex (he isn't), and then...something happens, and Clark realizes it's not about him, it's about Bruce's issues and his devotion to the Mission to the exclusion of everything else, and it ends up unhappily but at least they can still work together.

Somebody invents something to make insane people sane.  Bruce gets dosed by accident, and quits being Batman, drops the act in public, gets over his parents' death.  But the effects are only temporary, if relatively long-lasting.

While Bruce Wayne's traveling the world after Chill's trial, he runs into Lily (and James?) Potter, and saves her life.  She puts him in her will to take over guardianship of Harry if she and everybody else die, because he's away from the war and presumably safe from it.  But that's at the beginning of the 7 years he's gone, and obviously she dies before he returns, so the Dursleys get Harry until he returns and learns about it.

Leverage takes a case in Gotham, and there's some issues when it turns out they're using the same frequencies as Gotham's superheroes.

Challenge

Sam's current assignment was both tricky and volatile, one of the ones who didn't think twice before killing any mortals who saw something they shouldn't- exactly the kind of Immortal that Watchers tried to keep their distance from, observing only from a distance. But today he hadn't had a choice. The Butcher had chosen to take his most recent victim into the alley that Sam had been in, barely giving him enough warning to conceal himself. It wasn't the first time it had happened to Sam, and if it had been nearly any other Immortal Sam would have been glad of the opportunity to watch their fight from so close- he was an unabashed geek about sword fighting, which was why he had this assignment in the first place- but that didn't do anything to make him less afraid.

The Butcher had a reputation. He was a headhunter, but only the oldest and most obscure Immortals were "good enough" for him, the ones who'd survived for a minimum of a thousand years. Something like 90% of his victims didn't have a Watcher when they ran into the Butcher, and the remainder all had a history of losing their Watchers for long periods of time. There were always Immortals who managed to slip away from the Watchers' notice, but those who did it to such an extent were few and far between, and a lot of those had the same feelings about killing Watchers that the Butcher did, along with more of a tendency to notice Watchers than he did.

Fuck, Sam hoped he wouldn't get noticed.

The Butcher's victim didn't look like much. No matter how long he was in this business, Sam kept half-expecting Immortals to look different, somehow. More muscular, taller, that sort of thing. But then, that was the point, wasn't it? You really couldn't tell unless you were an Immortal yourself. The victim- okay, okay, he might not be the one who would lose today, but the Butcher had killed the rest of the Immortals he'd fought, so Sam felt justified calling the guy a victim until proven otherwise- looked more like a grad student than anything else, all scruffiness and cheap, baggy clothes, but Sam knew how much those kind of clothes could conceal, in terms of both weapons and the condition of an Immortal's body. Immortals couldn't change their features, but they could and did rely on misdirection- like con artists, the way they presented themselves almost did more to convince mortals (and possibly other Immortals) than words alone could. A change of clothes and hair, and an Immortal who looked like he could win the Game was transformed into one who looked like he couldn't even pick up a sword, much less fight well. You learned quickly not to judge from appearances, in this business.

The Butcher wasn't good about cleaning up his victims' bodies, so Sam would probably have plenty of time to take note of identifying information from the body, but just in case he set in to memorize the victim's features. The nose would be a good place to start the search; there weren't many people, Immortal or otherwise, with noses that impressive.

"I don't suppose we could talk this out?" The victim asked, the note of humor in his voice showing what he thought the likelihood of that was. As a (presumably) older Immortal, he surely had enough experience with headhunters to know which ones wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. His eyes were already scanning the alley, calculation in them: learning the territory. They lingered for a little bit too long on Sam's hiding spot, and his breath caught in his throat. Had he been spotted? But the victim's eyes slid past to the only entrance to the alley again, behind the Butcher.

In reply the Butcher growled and pulled out his sword. He wasn't really one for conversation…or other Immortals.

"Well then," the victim said, his eyes snapping back to the Butcher. "I suppose that's my answer." Accepting that he wasn't going to get out of it, he drew his own sword. A hand and a half sword, maybe an Ivanhoe?

It wasn't boasting to say that Sam was one of the best Watchers at identifying sword fighting techniques, maybe even the best- just simple fact. It was why he had this assignment. There was always an element of uncertainty to it, especially with Immortals- it was more of an art than a science- but Sam could identify when and where Immortals had learned their fighting styles, and through that and their skill, how old they were. The more he saw of a particular Immortal's fighting style, the better he could pinpoint it, but even the first few seconds told him something, and based on this victim's initial stance at first he thought that the Butcher had made a mistake. With a stance like that, the victim couldn't be older than a century- no older Immortal would possibly…oh!

They engaged for the first time, the Butcher attacking first, and the victim's style slid effortlessly into another; Sam revised his estimate upwards. There was no way the victim was anything less than 500 years old, and now Sam was pretty sure that the Butcher hadn't made a mistake after all. Sure, some people were naturally better than others, and sometimes it was hard to tell if skill came from natural ability or simply lots of practice, but there were some things that needed a lot of practice, and that right there- that effortless transition- was one of them. And the victim had started out pretending he was less skilled than he actually was- probably still was, for that matter. It took a while for most Immortals to learn that kind of subtlety, and to be confident enough in their ability that they weren't afraid to do less than their best. It only took one error to lose the Game, after all, and downplaying one's ability meant making errors deliberately.

The Butcher was good, though; he wasn't going to be beaten by an Immortal pretending to have that little experience. There was a reason he went after older Immortals, after all: they were a better challenge. He pressed his advantage to back the victim deeper into the alley, almost to the back wall, but he was still playing, trying to draw the victim out and ignoring some fairly large holes in his defense. "Fight, damn you!" he finally growled in frustration; the victim had cut clothing and random patches of blood but was still pretending he was only 500 years old.

"All you had to do was ask." Sam would have thought the tone was playful if he hadn't seen those eyes. They were…feral was the only word he could think of to describe it. As if a switch had been flipped, a fire lit, and now the victim was the hunter on the prowl. He paused to shrug off his jacket, and the Butcher let him, glad that his prey was finally taking him seriously. Beneath the jacket he had on a T-shirt reading Si hoc legere nimium eruditiones habes. He'd probably learned Latin before it had become a dead language.

The first pass was fast-paced and furious, the victim's style closer to the ones Sam only knew because he'd been the Butcher's Watcher for so long. Most Watchers didn't get the chance to see the older styles even once in their lifetime- there weren't many Immortals old enough still alive, and those who were tended to be good at avoiding Challenges. Coming out of it, the Butcher was grinning; this was what he lived for, challenging his skills against the best and oldest. "Now that's more like it!" he said as they paused briefly, both of them untouched.

The victim rolled his eyes. "I have stuff to do today. Can we hurry this up?"

The Butcher growled and attacked again, but they were evenly matched. Here and there an attack made it through the other's guard, but they were all minor nicks and cuts, nothing major. They separated again, their cuts already healed, and circled, sizing each other up again.

The victim had apparently given up on escaping from this Challenge, not even glancing at the mouth of the alley even as his eyes swept the rest of it, again lingering on Sam's position. Shit! Sam was almost certain he'd been spotted, and if he had, his chances of living much past the end of this Challenge weren't very good. But the victim's attention was only on him for a moment before he made a move that was a combination of a shrug, rolling his head on his neck, and shaking himself all over to loosen up. When he finished, his style was different again, this time something that even Sam hadn't seen before. He didn't pretend to have seen every style ever, but he'd seen enough over the course of his career to make at least a guess, and this…this he couldn't even guess where or when it came from, it was so different.

If you could get over the violence, Challenges were beautiful to watch: two extremely skilled athletes doing what they did best, engaged in a deadly dance full of give and take. The more skilled the fighters, the more beautiful it was, but the victim took it a step further, elevating it to an art form all by himself. He'd shed his carefully-constructed guise of posture and movement. Never mind what his hair and clothes said about him, it was impossible to see him as anything other than an apex predator when he moved like that. He wasn't anything like the Butcher's usual victims, who might be able to match him for a time but inevitably fell before him; this Immortal danced around the Butcher's blade with ease, playing with him like the Butcher had done to him when he'd been downplaying his skill. He didn't even have to parry; wherever the Butcher's blade was, he simply wasn't, and the Butcher was gaining new wounds faster than the old ones could heal.

It was the first time Sam had seen fear on the Butcher's face, and it would be the last. In the blink of an eye, his sword went flying into the trash bags piled in the dumpster and he fell to his knees, the victim standing above him with his sword raised.

"Sure you wouldn't like to talk this out?" he asked, the sword flashing down without waiting for an answer. The Quickening was amazing, and Sam was in the perfect position to watch it and not get hurt, but he couldn't pay any attention to it, his mind stuck on what he'd seen when the victim held his sword up. There, clearly visible from Sam's hiding place, was the telltale round blue tattoo of a Watcher, twin to his own. His mind was gibbering at the implications of it- the victim was a Watcher! An Immortal was in the Watchers! How? Why? How could they be sure that any of their information was accurate?

Maybe he should have run away while he had the chance, while the victim was still recovering from the Quickening- he could lose himself for long enough to let the Watchers know that there was an Immortal among them, at least, and do some good with the last few minutes of his life since he didn't think he'd live long either way- but his window of opportunity was closed before he could break out of the stupor the revelation had put him into.

"Bugger," the victim- not such a victim anymore, but he didn't have another name for the Immortal- said, the mild curse seeming strangely out-of-place coming from his lips, and got back to his feet. "I don't suppose there's any chance you slept through all that?" he asked, looking straight at Sam's hiding place. Terrified, Sam didn't dare reply, but the Immortal didn't seem to care. "Didn't think so," he answered himself, sounding suddenly tired. "You can come out now. I don't bite." He frowned at the Butcher's body. "…That's not too believable after this little scene, is it?" No, it really wasn't. But the Immortal turned his back on Sam to root around in the dumpster, giving him at least the illusion of being able to walk away without consequence. Damn him. Sam had always been too curious for his own good; it was what had gotten him into the Watchers in the first place, and he might as well spend his last few minutes doing something other than running for his life.

He crept out of his hiding place as the Immortal found what he was looking for- the Butcher's sword. A trophy? But he took it back to the Butcher's body and laid it between his hands, the tip of it pointing towards the body's feet, before picking up the head and positioning it as best he could on the neck. For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out what the Immortal was doing. Sure, some Immortals cleaned up after Challenges they'd won, but that wasn't what this was.

He couldn't help himself. "What are you doing?" he asked, and his hand flew to his mouth to keep from asking any more stupid questions- and they were all stupid, at this point. Don't annoy the Immortal, and maybe he'll let you live a few more minutes.

"Funeral," the Immortal replied, though, apparently not having a problem with questions, or at least that question. He paused and looked at Sam. "You've been his Watcher for a while, right? Would you like to say a few words?"

"…I'd rather not speak ill of the dead at their own funeral," he admitted reluctantly.

The Immortal snorted. "Yeah, somehow I didn't think he'd gotten any better since the last time I ran into him. Well then." He straightened up, suddenly not the same person the same way he'd switched earlier. Sam hadn't known it was possible to imply priest with merely a change of posture and expression, while everything else about him screamed student, but somehow it was. Maybe it was the way he stood, straight-backed and with his shoulders back, or his expression- wiped clean of the cynicism and weariness of earlier, his eyes somehow clear, hopeful, and kind. However he did it, he somehow managed to convey priest so well that Sam could almost see the regalia that wasn't there. He had no doubt that somewhere along the way the Immortal had been a priest.

He wasn't a linguist, so he didn't even try to place the language that the Immortal spoke in, much less understand it, but the Immortal translated for his benefit. "We consign to thee, O Gods, this man, known to me as Mnestis. In death let him find the peace he never accepted in life." A moment of silence, and the Immortal shrugged off the priest persona, returning to the tired one- the real one? Was it even possible to tell, with Immortals?

"Mnestis?" Crap, he was asking questions again.

Again, the Immortal wasn't upset at him. "No idea if it's his real name, but it's the only one I know of. Somebody in the Watchers didn't realize it was a name, so they translated it like a nickname or title- the Butcher. But at the time it was more like one of the names like Rose or May now- just a name that you're not supposed to actually translate."

"And…the funeral?" Well, if he was going to die anyway, might as well satisfy his curiosity before then.

"Just something from my first life," the Immortal dismissed, and then looked Sam straight in the eyes for the first time. "Damn, I was hoping I remembered wrong and somebody else was his Watcher. You're something Myerson, right? Stan?"

"Sam," Sam corrected automatically.

"Sorry. Sam. They don't make us memorize names in Research like they do in Field- we can always double-check them if we need to." He sighed. "Of course I had to get caught by one of the unbribable Field Watchers. Couldn't make things easy for me for once…" he muttered to himself, tilting his head back to look at the sky. "I know I dedicated myself to you, but is this really necessary? Really?" Or maybe those gods of his. "You are unbribable, right?" he asked Sam.

The smart thing to do would be to lie, but being smart wasn't something Sam was accused of a lot. He nodded.

"And you weren't nodding off, which means you saw enough that I can't convince you I'm young, not with your skills." The Immortal dismissed the possibilities at breakneck speed, narrowing them down to just one. Sam tensed, knowing what was coming. "Damn it. I'd hoped to be a Watcher for a while longer."

"What?" Sam blurted out. Even if the Immortal was in Research- and it was hard to imagine how he could have been a Field Watcher- he had to know that if he killed Sam there wouldn't be any way to trace it back to him; why would he have to stop being a Watcher?

"I'm not going to kill you for doing your job," the Immortal said. "If I didn't believe in what the Watchers are doing, I wouldn't have joined them."

"But you're an Immortal!"

"Immortals aren't allowed to care about their own history now?" he snapped, then rubbed his hands down his face and sighed. "Don't mind me; it's the Quickening. Do what you want. I'm going to Joe's, if you want to talk. Or avoid me." He put the jacket back on. With it buttoned up, he looked like just another person, not an Immortal covered in his own blood, but he hadn't switched back to the student persona he'd walked into the alley wearing; he still looked dangerous, just not suspicious. A side effect of the Quickening? The Watchers only knew what they could observe, and unfortunately that meant there were a lot of gaps in their knowledge. Immortals didn't tend to talk about how Quickenings affected them with even their closest mortal friends, and the observed effects changed from Immortal to Immortal and Quickening to Quickening.

Sam couldn't help but stare at the Immortal's back as he walked out of the alley, leaving Sam alive behind him. It was the strangest thing he'd ever seen an Immortal do, and he still didn't know the Immortal's name.

Everything You Never Wanted to Know

Jim pulls to a stop as close to Wayne Manor as he can get with the convertible parked haphazardly in the way. He's been out to the Manor before; Bruce Wayne has held a number of charity events for the police out here which he was expected to attend as the police commissioner. Even after all the times he's been here it's difficult not to be awed by the sheer size of the place, but he manages. The officers who'd followed in the squad car have no such experience and gape at the Manor while he looks around and notes that the convertible's top is down and apparently had been down for some time. The upholstery is ruined by the rain which had last swept through Gotham a week ago. Wayne hasn't used this car in at least a week. Is he out of town or has he just not gone anywhere? Has he not even stepped foot outside or given a single thought to his car which probably cost more than Jim makes in a year?

He might be an idiot, but he didn't strike Jim as quite the sort of person to do something like this, even if he can afford a dozen cars, identical to this one, to replace it, without making anything like a dent in his bank account. No, Bruce Wayne only did that kind of thing when he had an audience- preferably one with plenty of reporters in it.

With a professional bad feeling in the pit of his stomach (as opposed to the highly personal bad feeling he'd felt when he'd stopped by Barbara's place and found her body room temperature), Jim rings the doorbell. Nobody comes to the door, but it's a large house. He rings the bell a few more times, but nobody comes to the door. Maybe the bell is broken. Not likely; Wayne probably gets everything repaired the day it breaks, no matter how long other people have to wait for the repairmen to come out. Still, it's possible. The officers start fidgeting when he tries the knocker; they think it's a lost cause. To be honest, so does he. But he isn't about to do less than what procedure says to do, not when there's a slight chance somebody might be in trouble. Nobody answers the knock either.

He tries the doorknob as he turns away, knowing it won't be unlocked. But it is. It turns easily in his hand, and the door swings open. He wasn't expecting this. It's one thing for Wayne to leave his car's top down, to leave the car out in the open, but leaving the door unlocked? The Manor's security might be elegantly disguised, but there's enough of it to classify as paranoid if Wayne didn't live in Gotham. He doesn't hear an alarm, either; Wayne must not have set it. Even Wayne isn't enough of a ditz to leave his house open and unprotected. The bad feeling grows.

"Mr. Wayne?" he calls, doubting Wayne will be able to hear him if he's anywhere other than the nearest few rooms in this mansion. "Bruce Wayne? We're here to check up on you." As he'd expected, there's no reply. "All right, spread out. We need to find out if he's here or if he's gone off to Tahiti or somewhere," he tells the men. If Wayne's here, he doesn't expect him to be alive- the man hasn't been seen in months, and a thick layer of dust covers everything. Wayne's butler goes everywhere with him- if he'd been here, the butler wouldn't have tolerated the dust, no matter what Wayne thought.

They start walking through the house, calling out Wayne's name. Jim, at least, feels out of place among the rich furnishings and knickknacks, any one of which probably costs more than his house, never mind what he makes in a year. It doesn't matter how many times he's forced to go to parties and crime scenes at places like this- the feeling's always there. He doesn't expect for them to find Wayne, open door and parked car aside. Wayne is known for traveling the globe, for disappearing and turning up in Switzerland or Aruba. Still, they have to follow procedure. He wanders through the mansion, calling out occasionally, but mostly just takes the opportunity to admire the art. On the whole, he prefers dogs playing poker. There's a reason he's the police commissioner and not an art critic, but at least he can afford the kind of art he likes.

Eventually he finds himself in the kitchen, which is as large and well-furnished as the rest of the place. As in the rest of the house, the dust is thick, but unlike everywhere else, the kitchen has a path cut through the dust on the floor- straight from the other door to the refrigerator. Has somebody actually been there? Jim can't stop himself from reaching out and opening the refrigerator, expecting to find it either empty or full of rotten food. But there's no smell. It's full of food- homemade food which requires no further preparation, fresher than what's in Jim's rarely-seen fridge at home. Well, somebody's been in here, and recently, which makes him a little more optimistic about what they might find in this house- a months-old corpse is much less likely if somebody's been visiting. Even the criminals usually find a way to notify the police about those.

He shuts the fridge and follows the dust-free trail out of the room. Whoever made it never made any side trips, or if they had it was long enough ago that dust has covered them up again. It's not the chain of footprints that Jim's leaving behind, but a path which somebody has walked so much that individual footprints can't be made out, a trail of gleaming wood among the dust.

Down the hallway, and the path splits in two. One way leads to what Jim remembers is a bathroom. The other he would have called a living room if it had been in his house. In this mansion, it was a drawing room. Seized by the urge to put off finding what's at the end of his search for as long as he can, Jim checks the bathroom first. The path leads to the toilet, free of dust everywhere needed for its use. The other fixtures are as dusty as the rest of the house. As he expected, there's nobody in the room. Reluctantly, he follows the path to the drawing room, wary of what he'll find. A corpse might be less likely than he'd initially thought, but everything he's seen here does not point to somebody sane living here- whether that somebody is a squatter or Wayne himself.

In front of the drawing room, the dust is cleared from more than just that one neat path. There isn't much call for knowing how to track in Gotham- or at least not that kind of tracking- but even Jim's inexperienced eyes can tell that a scuffle happened there. There's only one path, and no other sets of footprints, leading up to it.

The door to the drawing room is open. From the hallway he can see into the room. Like the rest of the mansion, it's covered in dust, but here, at least, the floor is thick carpet. The dust is not yet thick enough to be visible on it. By the windows, seated in a wing chair, is Bruce Wayne. The smell is overpowering, and for a moment Jim thinks they're too late, that Wayne has finally given up and died, but then he sees Wayne breathe. Not dead, then. He enters the room, talking to Wayne all the while, but Wayne doesn't respond, just stares into space. Jim calls the rest of his people to tell them he's found Wayne, and they gather in the room, their feet clearing away the evidence of the mysterious scuffle in the hall on the way in. Jim doesn't say a word; there's no sign of foul play, so there's no reason to preserve whatever evidence there might be.

The officers are all full of thoughts, opinions, and ideas, which they all feel the need to share immediately. Leaving Wayne here, alone and in this condition, is out of the question, but their chatter isn't helping anything. Wayne doesn't even blink at it. After seeing the signs of a struggle in the hallway, Jim wants to avoid doing anything to set Wayne off, if that's even possible.

"Can you stand up?" he cuts through the chatter and asks Wayne, not really expecting a response. Five seconds pass, then ten. The chatter starts again, but stops abruptly as Wayne rises from the chair. Jim shoos his officers outside and reaches to lead Wayne outside by the arm; it doesn't seem like he's in any condition to manage it himself. Wayne flinches away before his hand lands, though. Jim lets his hand fall to his side, and instead asks Wayne to follow him.

Walking with Wayne behind him is like leading Eurydice out of the underworld (and just what does it say about his life that he knows that because of a case rather than an interest in mythology?), though at least there are no consequences to looking at Wayne. Wayne, who usually has the stealth of an elephant, follows behind him with footsteps as quiet as a ghost's, only the barest brush of fabric making noise even though with the mansion this empty you could hear a pin drop. But then, Wayne's about as close to a ghost as it's possible to get while still living.

When they leave the mansion, Jim realizes that the door's still unlocked, and Wayne's in no condition to lock it himself, so he delegates somebody to find a key to lock it up. Hopefully there is one in an obvious place- if they're all hidden, it could take weeks of searching to find a key. Fortunately, only a few seconds pass before he returns and locks the door before giving the key to Jim.

The squad car's back door is open already, waiting for Wayne, but even if Jim doesn't like the politics of his job he can see clearly that treating a man with high-priced lawyers who hasn't done anything wrong except retreat into his own head like a criminal is a bad idea. It takes a little arguing to get everybody else to see that, though; all they see is a rich man getting preferential treatment. But in the end Jim gets his way and opens the back door of his own car for Wayne.

Jim gestures for Wayne to get in the car, and he starts to. Without thinking, Jim puts his hand on Wayne's head to keep him from bumping it. It's a reflex- how many times has he done the same thing? Before he can remember that it's a bad idea, he finds out firsthand. With a fluidity that Bruce Wayne should never show while attacking somebody, Wayne knocks Jim's hand off of his head and punches him in the nose hard enough that he stumbles back and falls on the ground. It takes a second for his brain to kick in and tell him it was his own fault, but that isn't what makes Jim stare at Wayne.

He knows that style. He isn't a martial artist, able to see that sort of thing easily, but he's known Batman for a long time, and for too much of that time he's had more pieces of the puzzle than he needs buried unexamined deep in his mind. But this is one piece too many. He may not know the details- and with Wayne the way he is, probably never will- but he can no longer deny that Bruce Wayne is Batman. Or was, anyway.

Wayne holds his eyes for a second. Even when he wasn't able to see more than that damned mask, Jim had always felt the personality behind Wayne's eyes, but now…it's gone, like Wayne is some empty, soulless husk. He's been face to face with the worst criminals this city has seen and not been afraid, but looking into Wayne's eyes he feels a chill down his spine. Then Wayne breaks his gaze and enters the car like nothing's happened.

The officers want to cuff Wayne, of course- or more accurately, take him out of Jim's car, cuff him, and put him in the squad car. He understands the desire, and if these were almost any other circumstances…but they aren't. He'd wager everything he has that Wayne hadn't done that on purpose and that whatever state of mind he's in he doesn't have a clue what he did. Batman's damage- to people, at least- has always been calculated, only as much as necessary. His fellow vigilantes haven't always been so careful, but Batman always had been. Wayne doesn't need to be cuffed, he needs to be not touched. He's shaking like a leaf in reaction to Jim's touch- or what he did out of reflex- and that's something Jim's never seen on Wayne or Batman, a reaction that can't be faked.

Jim hands the keys to one of the officers and gets in the back seat with Wayne. He's pretty sure that nothing he does will break through Wayne's shell- hell, he doesn't even have a clue why the man's in this condition- but at least he'll be making the effort. It's the only thing he can do for the man. However much Wayne needs help, Jim wouldn't call locking him up with his worst enemies something he's doing for him.

He talks to Wayne about everything that comes to mind except the elephant in the living room. Everything he knows about Wayne's life. The news. His own life- though that's a topic soon exhausted, since he's not going to talk to Wayne about open cases when the officer's able to hear every word, and what else is there in his life? He probably sounds like an idiot- strike that, he knows he sounds like an idiot. He'd happily take the humiliation- and a great deal more- if only it meant seeing some reaction from Wayne, some small sign that he was still in there, somewhere, not just a collection of reflexes that stares into space and follows orders. But he gets nothing for his efforts. Wayne might as well be back in his chair at the mansion, alone and staring into space, for all the reaction he gets by the time they reach the police station.

The station- any place with a lot of people, really- is a horrible place for Wayne to be right now. Jim doesn't know what's going on inside his head, but it's probably not very pretty, and made worse every time he's touched- and nobody here knows not to touch him. In this state, he's not in control of himself. It's like taking the safety off a gun and giving it to a kindergarten class: they don't know any better, but sooner or later somebody's going to get hurt, and all you can do is hope it won't be fatal. At least they've had experience treating some of the prisoners with more caution than most of them need, which keeps today from becoming a painful experience for anybody else. It's not what the prisoner isolation protocols were designed for- Wayne doesn't have poisonous skin, even if he does hurt anybody who touches him- but the officers can just think of it as a drill if they have a problem with it. Isn't one overdue, anyway…?

He'll have to call Wayne's lawyer to find out who's responsible for Wayne now- or rather, once he's done being evaluated. Not family, he doesn't think- everybody knows about Wayne's parents, and a year ago the only thing the papers had talked about had been the death of his adopted son. But with a man like Wayne, there'd be a living will. Even if he'd been as shallow as his public persona, his lawyers would have forced him to make one. Judging by his work at night, he was more than smart enough to figure out he needed one without any urging.

His work at night. Batman. Did his…colleagues…know, or did they think he was simply spending more time in Gotham or on vacation? He has no idea how much they keep track of each other, or even if they know more about each other than just anybody can find out. But it's irrelevant, anyway, unless one of them comes to him and asks. He has no way to contact any of them, short of shouting "Superman!" like anybody else, or somehow catching a glimpse of one of the remaining local vigilantes and flagging them down. And he hasn't seen any of the other Gotham vigilantes recently. Not that he sees any of them as often as Batman- and even that has always been sporadic- but the fact that he hasn't seen them lately opens the possibility that they're dead and that's what set Wayne off.

Gotham's future if that's true flashes through his mind, each possibility worse than the last. The GCPD has always denied the existence of Batman and his people, but he's uniquely positioned to know everything they do for Gotham. Sure, the bulk of the police work in this city is done by the actual police, but Batman's always worked the hardest cases, and some criminals are so afraid of him that they'd rather be locked up than in his sights. Losing Batman alone is going to be a hard blow; if the rest of them are gone as well, Jim isn't sure the city will be able to remain more livable than it had been while it was a No Man's Land.

Number seven or eight on his to-do list at the station (because some things just can't- or shouldn't- wait, and he's been gone long enough for things to pile up) is calling Wayne's lawyer, who's quick to pull out Wayne's living will. What he hears only confirms what his gut has been telling him all along. The first person on the list of people designated to handle Wayne's affairs, Alfred Pennyworth, passed away a few months ago. Richard Grayson had predeceased Pennyworth by about a month. Barbara, his Barbara- he'd already known she died six months ago. But the fourth person on the list, Clark Kent, is still alive and (presumably) well. No need to ask what kind of connection Wayne could have to a reporter in Metropolis that's strong enough to place him on that list. It's information he'd never wanted to know- has spent a lifetime trying to avoid being forced to learn- but there's no way to forget, now that he does know. He wonders if Kent's the one Wayne scuffled with in the mansion. It would make sense, considering the evidence. And Kent had been the one to ask the GCPD to check on Wayne.

A call to Kent elicits a promise to be there the next day. No traveling faster than a bullet for Kent, even if his alter ego does so on a regular basis.

This day has been too long- he'd had a full day's worth of work before he decided it might be more tactful for the group checking up on Wayne to include him. He's worked for longer before, but something about this day tires him more than usual. Tomorrow won't be a walk in the park, either. Well, maybe a walk in the park with Isley on the loose. He holds no illusions about the department being leak-proof, especially when the news involves Bruce Wayne, who the press are always eager to hear about.

***

By all rights, a new day should mean that the worries of the previous day were swept away, or at the least a new and more optimistic view of them. Maybe it is that way in other cities, but Gotham takes and takes and never gives anything in return except more problems. Things never look better in the mornings in Gotham, merely illuminate more disturbing possibilities.

Jim's always had his suspicions about Batman's sanity. After all, dressing up like a bat wasn't exactly a good sign. But aside from the bat theme and vigilantism, he'd always acted as sane as anybody else in Gotham- though there are days that Jim thinks that isn't saying very much. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he'd never thought that the man would lose himself like this. It seemed like insanity was always a risk in Gotham, but he'd always thought that if Batman went it would be down the same path other vigilantes went, and no few cops: taking things too far. They're bailing the ocean out with teaspoons; even working together it's impossible to see if their efforts make any difference. No, Jim doesn't wonder why Wayne snapped, just why it happened this way.

Wayne hasn't snapped out of it yet. Surveillance of his cell shows that he's moved only to eat and use the toilet. Aside from disturbing everybody within earshot of him with his screams when he had a nightmare, he hasn't made a peep. If Jim had dared to hope that a change of scenery would do Wayne any good, he'd be disappointed, but it merely confirms what he already suspected. Batman- and, in his own way, Wayne in the persona he presented to the public- has always done things his own way. There's no doubt in his mind that this will be the same way.

Somehow- completely contrary to the way things usually work- the press has yet to catch wind of Wayne's condition, so Jim's spared the clamor of reporters for the morning at least. He takes advantage of that to get some work done, since god knows it'll be impossible to get anything done once the press get started. They remind him of piranhas, able to strip the flesh from the bones of anybody unlucky enough to get caught in their feeding frenzy for a few seconds.

Kent shows up precisely on time. Despite the fact that his disguise is nothing more than a change of clothes and a pair of glasses, it's difficult to see Superman in him. But at the same time, it's hard to pinpoint the differences, especially as Jim's acquaintance with Superman had been fleeting and rare- he'd always gotten the sense that Batman kept out everybody but the true Gothamites. The glasses, yes, and hair and clothing- but that shouldn't be enough to fool anybody, and Kent was a reporter. His coworkers should have seen through him in an instant. But there was something…posture, maybe? Kent seemed all too human and grounded. Superman, the few times he'd met the superhero, had seemed almost unreal, too powerful. Too bright, especially against a backdrop of Gotham. And yet, Kent doesn't seem like merely a dimmed-down version of Superman, or a cover story, but like a real person in his own right. Even before he knew about Wayne, the man had never seemed…genuine? Whole? Either worked; there'd just been something missing, something that Jim now knows was Bat-shaped.

In all of his years of working with Batman, the vigilante has never been less than aggravating, disappearing into the night while Jim's in the middle of a sentence and rarely telling him everything- even though he'd trusted Jim enough to offer his identity. Maybe he's different with the caped crowd, more willing to compromise and open up, but Jim wouldn't bet money on it, even if Kent does know his identity. Some behaviors are simply too deeply set to change that easily. But Kent's unable to hide the concern in his eyes, concern that Jim would swear is genuine, and not solely professional, despite Batman's difficult personality.

Seeing Wayne in the cell seems to shake Kent. Jim couldn't begin to guess which part of it's the worst for him, but god knows there's enough to choose from- the cell, Wayne's behavior, the fact that it's all too real and not merely a nightmare. On top of that, Kent's in a position to know if Jim's guesses about the rest of Gotham's vigilantes are true.

"Has he been like this the whole time?" Kent asks, sounding like he doesn't expect anything else but still hopeful.

"Unless he's touched," Jim replies. He'd give anything to have another answer to give, but neither of them can change the facts.

"And if he's touched?"

"He gave me a bloody nose, but not because it was the worst he could do."

"That doesn't sound like Bruce. He doesn't like violence."

Yeah, and Gotham's the safest city in the world, Jim thinks sarcastically. But Kent knows the truth, he's just trying to keep Wayne's secret. And Jim doesn't know Wayne as well as Kent surely does; maybe he does hate violence, despite his night job. "Maybe he took martial arts when he was younger and the reflexes just kicked in.  I've heard stranger things," Jim offers as an excuse. Not knowing has worked for years; he's got nothing against helping Wayne maintain his cover, even if he's in no condition to appreciate it.

"I suppose that's possible," Kent says. You'd think he'd be better at maintaining cover stories- but maybe he's just too shaken at the moment to do it as well as he usually does. Jim refuses to believe that he's remained undiscovered all this time if this is the extent of his usual acting skills.

"Come on, you have to fill out some paperwork," he says, since it looks like otherwise they'll spend the whole day standing there and staring at Wayne.

***

Kent fills out the paperwork easily, reading it thoroughly but never having to consult anything other than his own memory to fill out even the medical information that Jim wouldn't have expected him to be privy to under usual circumstances- and, considering the fact that Batman had rarely said anything more than absolutely necessary, wouldn't have expected Wayne to share. Maybe he really was more open with the other capes than he ever had been with Jim. Jim can only speculate at this point, and he isn't about to ask.

"He's going to be sedated for transport to Arkham," Jim explains.

"Arkham? Isn't that for criminals?" Kent frowns.

Arkham is infamous. Kent, of course, has more reason than others to know about it, but everybody knows at least a little: the asylum for the criminally insane with a revolving door. Jim had expected a protest. "That's what it's best known for, yes.  But it also has normal patients, and all of the best psychiatrists in Gotham work there." Because what other choice is there? As horrible as it is to lock the man up with people who have repeatedly tried to kill him, Arkham is the best place in Gotham for him. Jim doesn't think anybody short of the best will be able to do anything to help Wayne, and if leaving him in the mansion with or without a caretaker had been a good option Jim doesn't think the GCPD would have been called to check up on him.

"I see," Kent said. "How is he going to be sedated, anyway?  Since he reacts so violently to being touched."

"We never even thought of that." The usual procedure is to hold them down and sedate them if it's necessary, but if nothing else Wayne's fighting skills seem to be intact- not a situation he wants to put his officers into, especially since he's not sure Wayne will be as gentle with them as he was with Jim. Not that you can call giving somebody a bloody nose being gentle, but considering how much damage Wayne could have done… They have tranquilizer guns, he supposes, but it just doesn't seem right.

"Can I try?" Kent asks.

Well, if nothing else, Wayne won't be able to hurt Kent. It's something, at least, and maybe the Midas touch of Kent's alter ego will be able to make this transfer something other than a complete disaster. "It's against procedure…but yes.  He obviously trusts you.  Maybe he won't attack you."

***

After Wayne's transferred to Arkham, Jim doesn't get another spare minute to think about him. The Joker's escaped from Arkham- again; why does it seem like the more dangerous the criminal, the easier it is to escape from Arkham? And if Wayne ever recovers enough to think about escaping, will he be able to because he's dangerous, or not be able to because he's not a criminal? Fortunately, no matter how much it might seem that way, that's not actually the way Arkham works. In actuality, most of the worst offenders go into Arkham and never come back out; guys like the Joker are just an anomaly. It's not like they bribe their way out, for the most part- Joker's latest killing spree had started with his latest psychologist.

If there's one good thing about this whole mess, it's that it's the Joker who escaped. Not that he isn't bad enough, because he is, but at least he's easy to find, not like some of the other criminals locked up in Arkham. Much as he'd prefer not to rely on the vigilante, Batman's usually the only one who can figure out Riddler's riddles or the Mad Hatter's crimes' connection to Alice in Wonderland, and at the moment they're down one Batman, and no replacement Bats have popped up. Maybe when they turn on the signal…

Not even a minute after the light's turned on, Superman swoops in from the sky. It's dark, but not so dark that Jim can't see him coming from a long way away. Maybe he's just too used to getting the living daylights scared out of him by vigilantes popping out of the shadows rather than using more conventional methods of transportation, but it just seems wrong to see his approach. As if, since Jim's able to see him approach, he won't be fast enough to do what needs to be done. Jim's stomach churns with irrational fear. This isn't an omen; Batman had always been only human, so why shouldn't Superman be able to handle it? But he remembers the damage the Joker can do, and the all-too-human expression in Kent's eyes earlier that day.

When Superman lands, the detectives automatically look into the shadows for Batman. They've never caught him, but it's almost a reflex to look. Superman never comes to this city without accompaniment. "It's just me," Superman says. "Batman is…indisposed." Well, at least he's better at maintaining a cover story like this; that could mean anything, but the implication's clear: he'd be here if what he's doing wasn't more important, but he sent me in his stead. None of them, except Jim, even knows if the other Gotham vigilantes are still around, or what happened to them if they aren't. Even Jim doesn't know about Robin, whoever that is or was.

There's no time for wondering now. Jim pulls himself back together with an effort. "Joker's on the loose," he says. "He kidnapped a busload of kids going home from school and is demanding that Batman show." And of course Joker's the one who's the most fanatical about fighting Batman and not anybody else, just when he can't come. The first of many, Jim supposes, resigning himself to months- if not longer- of similar demands and retaliation when he can't acquiesce, until news finally makes its way through the loose community these criminals have made for themselves in Arkham. But it's not like they've got a choice; all they can do is hope that the Joker will be willing to accept a substitute.

"Where?"

"The Happy Time Factory on 5^th and Loeb." Christ, companies should just stop encouraging these madmen with names like that. Doesn't doing blatantly stupid things like that drive their insurance premiums through the roof? Jim hesitates, then adds, "Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Yes," Superman replies. It's obvious that he thinks he can handle it, and he does have a lot of experience with this kind of thing…

Jim nods, giving his permission for Superman to operate in Gotham- however useless that is since there's nothing Jim could do to stop him. Maybe Superman's simply seeking his permission as the next best thing to Batman for permission to operate in the city. And then Superman's gone and the feeling in the pit of Jim's stomach only gets worse. Well, at least he'll survive whatever happens. I don't think Wayne could stand to lose another friend.

The explosion only proves his gut feeling right, and when he sees Superman fly away soon afterward, without staying for rescue efforts or to hand the Joker over to the GCPD Jim knows that none of those parents are getting their children back alive. The only thing he can do now is hope that Gotham hasn't broken another hero. They're running low on them, these days.

***

The situation's as bad as he'd expected: a bus full of schoolchildren…no longer a bus full of schoolchildren, thanks to the Joker. It takes a lot to turn Jim's stomach after all the crime scenes he's been to, but this scene's enough to do it, and he's not alone. He's one of the few who manage to avoid throwing up, but it's by virtue of not eating dinner rather than the cast-iron stomach a couple of the MEs and CSIs have. It's a bad scene, even for Gotham. The puddle of vomit in the corner attests to the fact that even Superman has his limits. The CSIs know to lose that particular piece of evidence; none of them particularly want to find out who any of the vigilantes are and maybe have them stop helping. Not before they cross the line, anyway, and Superman's about as far from crossing the line as it's possible to get when you've got as much as power as he does.

Damn. He'd hoped that maybe, just this once, Joker would accept a substitute for Batman. Not that he relies on Batman to catch the criminals for him, but things always seem to go more smoothly when Batman's involved. Without him, there tend to be a lot more casualties, and his body count isn't exactly low in the first place. The Joker's always had more of a fixation on Batman than even the rest of Arkham's inmates. He doesn't blame Superman for the Joker's actions; the killer clown would have done the same thing if the GCPD had moved in on him rather than Superman. It doesn't make things any easier, though.

In Gotham, news crews gather as soon as there's something to report; some of the best reporters are on at night, ready to report everything as soon as it happens. It seems like everything interesting happens at night, but maybe that's just a trick of his perception. At least they respect Superman enough that they won't blame him for not being able to stop the Joker, not like they would if it had been Batman or the GCPD who had gone in. Judging from the tone of the crowd, there's not even going to be the usual nasty articles about the GCPD relying on vigilantes. It's a nice change, even though there's nothing else nice about this situation.

Jim can't be certain, but based on the evidence he can reasonably assume that all but one of Gotham's vigilantes are dead. He already knows that the remaining one is unable to help. Joker's just as bad as ever, won't accept a substitute, and they've once again lost track of him. And Superman's just seen the Joker kill a busload of children, while completely unable to stop him.

Gotham's survived a lot over the years. Sometimes in the past it's seemed like more than one city could endure, but Gotham's always survived.

But here in the dark, with no comforting presence in the shadows or movement on rooftops for his eyes to catch, it's hard to see any way for Gotham to survive this.

***

The next day is anything but calm. All anybody can talk about is the Joker, Superman, and Batman's absence, and Jim has to meet with the Mayor to reassure him that the GCPD is still doing their jobs. The Joker might not make a peep all day (probably just waiting for night, Jim thinks; it would be nice if the Joker would just give up his life of crime, but he didn't expect it to actually happen), but the same didn't hold true with the rest of Gotham's criminals. It's just another day on the job, but in Gotham that doesn't mean it's easy.

In the evening, he catches a glimpse of the local news, which covers Wayne's condition with little fanfare. Well, at least the Joker's taken the spotlight off of that situation. By the time the press moves on from the Joker, Wayne will be old news, not worth their time. As far as he's concerned, anything that makes things a little bit easier for Kent is a good thing, especially since- to be perfectly honest- the man looks like shit at the press conference.

He wishes they could quit picking at the open wound that is the lack of Batman, but there's no way out of turning the signal light on that night without admitting what he knows. His detectives are detectives- no matter how little he tells them, they'll figure out everything he has. Even though he trusts them, he wouldn't do that to Wayne or Kent, not without their permission- and that's one thing he won't be getting. At least he keeps the crowd down to just himself. He's not even sure if Superman will show up tonight.

"Commissioner." Jim almost leaps out of his skin. It's bad enough when he's expecting it, but he'd thought this was impossible. Or…was it? Had he gotten it wrong? Was Batman somebody other than Bruce Wayne? But no. The voice was a deep growl that sounded like it hurt to use, but it wasn't- quite- right. And what he can see of Batman's face looks wrong, but familiar.

"You're not him," he says, unable to keep the question out of his voice. Maybe his memory's playing tricks on him, and this really is the Batman he knows. It's hard to be sure with so little evidence.

It takes a while for Batman to reply, and when he does the voice is off even more than it was before. "No. How did you know?"

"When he gave me a bloody nose it all just fell into place.  I've only seen one person make that move before." He knows who's behind that mask, now. It's not too hard to figure out when you have all the clues.  "You're his friend, then?" Batman groaned a little. "Members of the GCPD are hardly incompetent, despite what the papers may claim." He can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; he doesn't get the opportunity to one-up superheroes very often, and it's surprisingly fun.

"I never thought you were," Batman says. "He's always had the highest respect for you, even if he isn't the best at displaying it."

"That's the understatement of the century," Jim snorts. Batman had- occasionally- said things along those lines to Jim, but they'd been rare. He'd always thought that was the best he was ever going to get. He's never dreamed about validation of Batman's respect for him, but if he had, learning that Batman had told Superman about it would have been beyond even the wildest dreams he could have had. Batman had never been the most demonstrative of people. It had always seemed to take a great deal of effort on his part to express any positive emotion.

"So did you only figure it out because you know where he is, or can my acting use some work?" Batman asks.  "I need to convince the Joker."

"You can't be seriously thinking about going after him after what happened last night!" Please, let him leave this one to us, Jim begged mentally. They needed his help, but at what cost was that help coming? Maybe they wouldn't manage as well without his help, but Jim wasn't sure he could stand to see Gotham chew up and spit out another person who was just trying to help.

"I have to." Determination is written in every line of his body.  "I don't think he'll play any nicer with the police than he did with Superman."

For the first time, Jim can see the possibility of this working. That determination's the same thing he's seen in every one of the vigilantes who have graced his rooftop. They might have died too soon, but for a time they'd all done what needed to be done, for Gotham and for themselves. "First of all, you should get rid of that expression, or any expression which can be seen through the mask."

If a year ago somebody had told him that he'd stand on the rooftop of the MCU and coach Superman through a perfect imitation of Batman, he would have thought they were crazy. Why would Superman ever pretend to be Batman? How could somebody so different possibly expect to succeed at that task? He would have sworn that Superman couldn't act, and especially not well enough to fool the Joker. He would have been wrong.

Jim Gordon doesn't believe in a lot of things, but this is one thing he does believe in: that together, they can pull this off.

***

It's not an easy decision to make. Even after the cat's out of the bag on both sides, breaking all of the illusions they've so carefully maintained all around, it's still hard to break out of the habits he's formed. He's so used to keeping Batman and Bruce Wayne separated in his mind- even if he hadn't allowed himself to consciously acknowledge that he was doing so- that he doesn't even realize that he's thinking of Clark Kent and Superman and the new Batman as three different people until it suddenly strikes him. But that kind of separation is ridiculous. They're all the same person, who knows that he knows, even. Maybe he can't shout that little fact from the rooftops, but he's allowed to know, now, at least in his own head.

And why should he stick to the old patterns? The past few days have seen a tidal change- from the outside everything looks the same, but to him the world is completely different.

Before he can stop himself, Jim finds himself in his car driving to Wayne's mansion.

Those who don't learn from history are condemned to repeat it. Maybe there was nothing Jim could have done to change any of this, but there's no way to find out now. And maybe, just maybe, changing this one thing- forming a relationship not based entirely around meeting on rooftops and talking about crime- can make a difference for the future.

What if Bruce Wayne was deaf?

Batman Begins' Bruce Wayne (and Terry?) find themselves in the past, close to when Batman is still new.

Non-Nolanverse Batman (comics?  DCAU?  The Batman?  Other?) finds himself in the Nolanverse post-TDK.

A story with very relevant POV which keeps switching- eventually the reader learns that the true POV is of an alien hopping from one mind to another, or a mindreader.  And possibly that they're actually the bad guy everybody's been talking about.

God of Life

Character: personification/god of Life.  Very creepy.  Sees it as a game between humans and himself, which he always wins (as in, they die).  "Whenever the gods are playing chess, the only human move is to change the rules. Everything else is defeat."

Something with Xander and Rambo- not, I think, as his costume.
BtVS timeshifted back- after high school, Xander gets drafted (why the name change?).  By the time he gets back, Sunnydale's a crater and he has flashbacks.  Explains the apparent preference for bow and arrow.

Xander is Jack Carter

Xander took on the name of Jack Carter as his alias for when he wanted to pretend to be normal.  He's obviously actually a US Marshall, so maybe that's what demon-fighting falls under or he liaises or something (to be figured out).  And he gets married, has Zoe, and gets divorced.  Then he gets sent to Eureka, which is the same old thing except with science instead of magic and demons.  Eventually a supernatural problem comes up, and he solves it easily while everybody else is still panicking over violations of the laws of physics.  Nobody in Eureka knew about his other life, even Zoe.

Criminals after the apocalypse

After an apocalypse, the survivors band together and don't make a big deal about who did what beforehand- and some of them were Bad People, before.  But it's not worldwide/somebody somewhere has the resources to help, and when the aid starts coming in the outsiders get all "criminals!" about some of them.

Changes

Although you expected the Great Reveal to happen sometime soon, it still comes as a surprise. Every Immortal you know has been bracing for it for years, knowing that it was inevitable, but there is a difference between being prepared for it in theory and being prepared for it in practice. This isn't just a minor, easily predictable change, but one which changes everything. You don't know the forms that change will take, much like Immortals couldn't have predicted the Game when the Bronze Age began, simply that they will be profound.

Oh, you can predict some of the immediate consequences of the Great Reveal: a good deal of talk and debate about Immortality by people who know very little about it, followed by responses by the various governments in the form of laws and legislation. Some responses will be reasonable, but others will be intolerable. The most you can do is hope that your family and friends will be able to withstand the initial storm; eventually you will all become accustomed to the new world, but that will take a while, and the beginning is usually the most dangerous.

Immortals tend to follow the laws in the same way that a man with a body in his trunk will drive under the speed limit: not for any inherent respect for the law, but because being suspected of anything could easily lead to worse crimes being discovered. On the whole, Immortals are law-abiding, but few- if any- of them believe that any government should have anything to do with the Game, whereas governments will no doubt feel it is their duty to end the Game- or at least regulate it.

Thanks to a large number of Immortal politicians and journalists in America, it's one of the first to give an official response to the Great Reveal, behind only a few dictatorships which don't have to wait for their response to pass through the slow workings of Democracy, and is the first to respond in a way that Immortals like.

Oh, there aren't enough Immortals in Congress to make Immortals entirely happy; they have to compromise on some things. But a policy of non-discrimination towards Immortals and not interfering with the Game so long as the rules are adhered to are more than most Immortals had dared to hope for, especially since the United States wields so much influence on other countries. The only thing any of them have to complain about is the Visible Weaponry Law- the law which will come into effect on the New Year mandating that Immortals must not conceal their primary weapon whenever they're carrying one. After lifetimes of hiding what they are, showing the world what they are feels like walking around naked and vulnerable, but it's a small price to pay. Anybody who doesn't like it can leave; the world is a big place, and Immortals are skilled at finding places to hide- there are always places with no real government in which to hide, deserted islands and deep in the wilderness. And from the beginning America institutes a policy of offering asylum to Immortals from countries with less enlightened policies.

Canada is, unfortunately, one of those countries, much as you'd predicted. A string of beheadings twenty years ago- ironically, by a mortal serial killer who had been stopped using his own methods by an Immortal headhunter- is the first thing to spring to the minds of the politicians, and unfortunately sets the tone of Canada's new Immortal laws- they don't want any Immortals in the country, and are willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that the country is comprised of only mortals, short of execution.

The day the announcement is made, you turn in your resignation before Inspector Thatcher can begin the official tests for Immortality, dressed in civilian clothes with your sword at your hip. The VWL hasn't taken effect yet, but already it's become the style for Immortals to wear their swords visibly in America. You're soon to be American; you might as well adapt now. And it helps prevent questions; Inspector Thatcher looks shocked and upset, but she doesn't ask any questions or try to talk you out of leaving. How could she? This time you've been declared persona non grata not just by the RCMP, but by Canada herself.

The Saucy Job

AU as of The Inside Job

"Rebecca was happy before all this. She had plans- medical school to become a pediatrician, but she threw it all away to join this SWCI, hang out with people who wear enough leather that you'd swear they're a biker gang. I tried to convince her not to, but I'd never been able to convince her to do anything she didn't want to do. It just made no sense; she had such a bright future." Their latest client took a shaky drink. "For a year she just kept sounding more and more beat down, but she wouldn't tell me why she sounded so bad. Then she called and told me she was going to go to college. I thought everything was going to be all right, but a week after that call she was dead. They claimed it was a car accident, but I've been a medical examiner for twenty years. Those were knife wounds, and the scars on her body weren't there a year ago. She was only eighteen."

"Did you go to the police?"

"They didn't do anything. The Cleveland Police stopped listening the second I said SWCI, the state police and FBI dropped it after a day each."

"What do you want out of this? We can't bring your daughter back…"

"I just want you to make sure they can't do that to another girl."

***

The team went upstairs to Nate's apartment. Eliot was first in the door, and when he stopped suddenly they were too close behind him to avoid running into him.

"Eliot, what?" Nate asked.

"Company," Eliot grunted. The team fanned out to see a man with an eyepatch sitting in a chair facing the door, whittling something with a large knife. He looked up at them and made the knife and wood disappear into thin air as well as any of them could. Nate glanced at Eliot, silently signaling for him to take the man down before he tried anything, but Eliot was staring at the man without even a glance at Nate.

"The security alarm wasn't tripped," Hardison said. "Why wasn't the alarm tripped?"

"'Cause he didn't want to trip it," Eliot growled at Hardison. "What are you doing here?" he asked the intruder.

"I heard that you were taking a job from Becka's mom. Don't," the man said. When he stood up, they could see that he leaned heavily on a cane, his left leg bandaged and in a brace. "Eliot will tell you why. Parker? Marcie's waiting for you to call her. Good to see you, man," he said to Eliot, giving him a one-armed back-slapping hug and not seeming to care that he didn't reciprocate. Then he slipped out the door before any of the rest of them could react.

"Eliot?" Nate prompted, the team turning to him for answers.

"You know why the cops didn't do anything? He's a white hat, as white as they get."

"That doesn't excuse him for that girl's treatment and death."

"Look, I've met the guy twice. The first time, we were after the same item and fought. He won, and he was holding back. If he'd wanted to kill me, he could have. The second time, he threatened to bludgeon me to death with a shovel if I hurt one of his girls. I believed him. If there are people getting hurt and killed in his organization, it's necessary. I won't take a job against him."

"He knows Marcie," Parker blurted out. They all turned to look at her. "I don't want Marcie to assassinate you." They stared, trying to make sense of it.

"Why would Marcie assassinate us?" Hardison asked her. "And why not you?"

"Marcie likes me. If you con an assassin's friend, you shouldn't expect to live."

"How do you know an assassin?"

"She taught me how to be a better thief even if she only steals when she's really bored and she usually puts it back. I asked her why and she said she didn't want to lose her day job." Parker's face was confused, but she shook it off. "I have to go call Marcie."

"Nate, we can't run a con on somebody who knows who we are, with only three of us," Sophie said.

"Make that two of you," Hardison said. "If that guy beat Eliot I don't want to go up against him and get killed."

Nate sighed. "I guess I'll go tell the client we can't take her case, and explain what I can," he said.

"A shovel, really?" Hardison asked Eliot.

"For easy disposal of the body," Eliot said, and took some measure of pleasure in Hardison's shudder.

Contest

Of the five of them, Hardison was the least fucked-up. Yeah, he was a criminal, and some people might say that's a little bit fucked-up right there, but they were all criminals so it didn't really count. And besides that, he seemed to be well-adjusted. The rest of them? Not so much.
He wasn't sure Sophie even knew who she was anymore, her aliases and cons bleeding together and overwriting who she really was. Whoever the real Sophie Devereaux was, she was lost in the sea of personalities she'd assumed in her life.
Nate had been normal once, a normal guy with a normal life. He only got fucked-up because his son died. If he didn't cling to his grief so tightly, letting it rule his life, he could have been a normal citizen again. But he was as fucked-up as he wanted to be.
There was something wrong with Parker, but he didn't think it was something that could be "fixed"; whatever it was, it had been there for a long time, if not her whole life.
And him. He knew they thought he wasn't too fucked-up. Maybe a little angry, but other than that normal. They probably thought Eliot Spencer was his real name, too.

Trust

Eliot didn't trust anybody anymore. Yeah, people were predictable most of the time, but most of the time didn't mean all of the time, and the difference between the two wasn't something he could ignore. When you trusted people, you got hurt, and it didn't tend to be the kind of hurt that a couple of ibuprofen could make go away.
He'd thought he'd never work with a team again. Working with a team meant trusting them, to do their jobs if nothing else, and it had a tendency to force you to get close to them. The only kind of close he wanted to get to people these days was physical- fighting and sex. Anything else was too risky. But the offer had been too good for him to refuse working with a crew for one job, and one job wasn't enough to make him let his guard down.

One job became two, then more. It was hard to see how this team could make him drop his guard. Parker was insane- completely untrustable. Sophie was a grifter- she could lie and he'd never know the difference. Nate was an honest man, and he made a point of never trusting those, especially since he'd been forcibly reminded that sometimes they weren't as honest as they seemed. The drinking only made it worse. Hardison was probably the most trustworthy of all of them, and who knew what he did with those computers? Why would he ever trust people like those four? Even a citizen would know not to trust them.

His distrust slipped away so silently that he never noticed it leaving until it was too late. First it was trusting them on the job, to work together and get them all out and not just themselves. Hardison might snoop (Eliot had no proof, but it's what he would do if he was a hacker), but whatever he found out he kept to himself, and what could he find out about Eliot online, anyway? Parker was crazy, but at least her unpredictability was predictable; she didn't lull him into a sense of false security. Nate and Sophie at least seemed to be on the same side as him, and even if he kept telling himself it was stupid to trust them, he couldn't help it.

All this trust was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday, he just knew it.

Strength

Xander Harris had been driven away for (supposedly) being too weak and incapable to fight. They'd just wanted to keep him safe, and never mind that he'd proven himself time after time.

Nobody would drive Eliot Spencer away because they thought he couldn't fight. He was a retrieval specialist; his job was fighting people, people who weren't pushovers by any stretch of the imagination, and he was good at it. He wasn't an assassin. He never took jobs to kill people. But a lot of the time, he killed people anyway. It was the only way to make absolutely certain that there weren't any enemies at his back, and a lot of the time it was easier than trying to keep them alive after beating them into submission. By now, he'd killed a lot of people, and he didn't really care. Alive, dead, the only difference was that people who were dead couldn't come after him for revenge. But the only hard and fast rule he had was to kill anybody who tracked him down to take their revenge. They'd shown that they were actively coming after him; he couldn’t afford that kind of risk. He had enough threats that he didn't know were coming after him.

Maybe the strength Xander had lacked was the strength Eliot possessed in spades: the strength to kill and never look back.

Becoming Eliot Spencer (v2)

Xander had thought Buffy and Willow were over trying to make him quit Slaying, but after graduation they'd made it really fucking clear that they were grateful for his help with this one last battle (help? Who exactly planned the battle and made the bombs that killed the Mayor?), but he wasn't going to be "helping" anymore. But they could still hang out. Like he was their pet, to be taken out and played with when they felt like it but left behind whenever anything interesting was going on.

And they thought he'd come back to Sunnydale after that little speech? What did he have to come back for? There were dead-end jobs everywhere, and he sure as hell didn't have any friends to come back to. He took cash from Uncle Rory rather than the car he tried to give him, and Uncle Rory was so happy to see the last of Xander that he didn't even protest. Willow and Buffy wouldn't know he wasn't coming back for months.

Nobody wanted Xander Harris, not family, not friends, not women, so he wouldn't be Xander Harris anymore. Fake IDs were good for more than buying beer and avoiding any hacking Willow might feel tempted to do to "keep an eye on him"; they were a stepping-stone to reinventing himself. In one fell swoop he changed his name, hometown, and birthdate. Eliot Spencer might have the same body as Xander Harris, but he was a completely different person. He had the accent down; now he just had to decide everything else about himself.

It was freeing. There wasn't anybody else to tell him who he was, to try to make him act like had always acted before. He was free to be anybody he wanted to make himself. In a way it was terrifying, that first time, like homemade witness protection, but he'd always done best under pressure.

He'd thrown away all the rules of his old life. Why not throw away the laws while he was at it, and do something he was good at and could make a lot of money doing?

Becoming Eliot Spencer

If there's one thing Xander knew about the criminal underworld, it was that people who had a lot of ties to the law-abiding world didn't tend to join it. People with friends and family who followed the law and worked 9-to-5 jobs didn't just give it all up to break the law. They had reasons not to do anything too bad. No, the people who got deep into crime either had ties to criminals or didn't have close ties to anybody.

Granted, from the time Xander had first started dusting vampires, he'd been breaking the law- if nothing else, stealing that rocket launcher hadn't exactly been legal. But there had always been a line in his mind: you broke the law only as much as you had to for Slaying. Dawn stealing was wrong in a way that stealing the rocket launcher hadn't been because she hadn't been stealing for Slaying purposes.
But he'd lost his anchors to the more-or-less legal world one by one, as Sunnydale fell and after. By the time he returned to the Council after his time in Africa, he's been all but forgotten by the baby Slayers, who were worse about forcing him to stop Slaying than Buffy and Willow ever had been. Wood hadn't wanted him involved in the first place. Willow was the last of the Scoobies, her last present to him before her death his eye back. And then he was alone, kicked out of the Council and with no friends remaining alive.

He didn't legally exist outside of the Council, every form of identification he'd had lost when Sunnydale had gone down and no way to get new ones. He couldn't legally buy a drink or get a job. And he didn’t have much money to start with.

Xander stumbled his way into the underworld, using the skills he'd gained fighting vampires and demons (which were…fighting. Not much use for reading dead languages on the streets) to make enough money for his first fake ID. He went for the deluxe model, costly as all hell but the next best thing to real. Eliot Spencer was his new name; he could even do an accent well enough that people believed he was really from Kentucky.

He'd planned for that to be the end of it: no more than was absolutely necessary to survive. With his new ID he went out and got a new job…he quit after a week, returning to busting heads and working his way up the ladder. Nothing too dirty- he wasn't an assassin- but if people died when he did his job, he didn’t really care. Why should he care? He'd lost his moral compass when he'd lost the people he lived for. At least in this job he got the adrenaline rush he'd gotten addicted to.

Slowly he fleshed out Eliot Spencer as a person separate from Xander Harris. Eliot Spencer had never fought demons (okay, maybe a couple, but never on a regular basis, just when they got in his way). He was charming and Southern, kept his hair long, didn't like guns, and liked to cook. And he always worked alone. He wouldn't allow himself to get attached to anybody else. That rule came along after Aimee-

It was a role, like any of the others he played to get his job done. Maybe more fleshed out than the rest, but still, it was a role, something to keep him insulated from the life he led.

Vocation

At first, the furthest thing from Mulan's mind had been enjoyment of her time in the army, or fitting in. She was a woman in the army; she would never fit in. And as for enjoyment, she hadn't joined out of choice, she had joined because it was the only option she had. Her father couldn't have served again, she'd known it then and her opinion didn't change once she was actually in the army. But somewhere along the way, she'd started to fit in. And once she'd started to get better, along with the rest of the new recruits, it was like something had snapped into place in her, like something broken had been made right.

She'd always been the failure, the girl who wasn't girlish enough, who couldn't manage to do anything right. When she'd joined the army, it had been the same: she'd been a failure at being a man. She hadn't been able to do anything right, but that was how it had been for her entire life, nothing out of the ordinary. She'd had her whole life to practice being a woman and she'd failed at that; why shouldn't she have failed at being a man when she'd started with only a few minutes' practice under her belt? But then she'd gotten it right. Somehow. And it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, her whole life being wrong suddenly set right.

She wanted to do this for the rest of her life.

Eliot Spencer was a cook in Atlantis.

Immortals' Daemons

Highlander with daemons. Immortals' daemons are weird in some way- they change if the Immortal changes enough?

No guns

Eliot Spencer and Benton Fraser are surrounded by people who try to make them give up their guns. Which, obviously, they aren't carrying.

Firefly/Leverage

What if it was the Leverage team who got River out of the Academy? Because you know they'd do a better job of making sure she and Simon were safe from the Alliance.

Leverage apocalypse

The apocalypse or at least a very large disaster strikes. Nate and somebody else are separated from the remaining team, doing a job that only needs/allows two of them, and that's supposed to be easy so they didn't bring nearby backup. The two are trapped and maybe separated from each other, but mobile within where they're trapped.

The other three are together. Parker initially falls apart, wanting to go after Nate, but Hardison tells her Nate would want them to help the people they knew they could, rather than throw that away on a rescue that might not be needed or possible. That they're down a couple of people, and this isn't the kind of jobs they're used to, but they can come up with plans to help people with only the three of them. As their home base they have a place where the employees idolize their aliases for whatever they did on a job.

Hardison and Hunting

Hardison's Nana and/or her family was/is involved in Hunting, whether actively or in a support capacity, and that's how Hardison got his start.

Saucy backstory- somebody goes to Leverage because they're very unhappy with the fact that their daughter died either as an Agent of Saucy or simply during one of their cases, and it got covered up without a trial or anything. So they go in to con Saucy, and along the way learn that security is tight, both low-tech and high, and that Saucy aren't the bad guys.

Saucy backstory- Fawkes runs into Marcie while they're both on the job and invisible and is completely outclassed. Hobbes recognizes her code name.

Highlander/Leverage crossover

When he was still with IYS, Nate chased Amanda from Highlander and got close enough that she knows him. Later, after Leverage has been started, they're running a con on somebody and run into Amanda. He thinks Amanda's going to blow their cover, Amanda thinks he's still straight. Panic! But nobody quits, and eventually everybody gets what they want.

Orange

A drabble from the pov of an orange which gets orders from the Wraith to kill Rodney.

SGA prison crack!AU

In a prison. John's there to start with and i have no idea why. Rodney comes and becomes a new inmate
...and then it delves into crack.
Rodney has this power where everything around him slowly changes to fulfill its purpose better. He can direct it a little bit, especially if the object has more than one purpose, so slowly things start to change and Rodney's all "I tried to push the prison towards rehabilitation rather than confinement, because if it went to confinement we'd never get out."
The law lets him be punished for the consequences of his powers and he's in jail because one of his neighbors had something to do with drugs and his powers inadvertently made them more druggy or something.
Also the powers work on people but more slowly, especially when they don't really feel they have a purpose, which is how Rodney got to be so smart, because he felt it was his purpose and he's certainly around himself enough to be changed. And then one day john gains the ability to fly and possibly sprouts wings.

Hacker Giles

The BtVS empowerment spell ability sharing sticks, or is permanently reactivated with calling of all slayers. Giles as a hacker, crossover with hackers preferred.

John Crichton Peggy Sue

John Crichton post-PKW timetravels into his younger body right before he was originally shot through a wormhole, and has to decide between staying on an Earth that isn't home any more (and just doesn't fit), and going to the wormhole to strangers in friends bodies to try to change them into the friends he had had when he knows he can't do things the same. Either way, he's changed- he's not a naive scientist/pilot of Earth any more, but a hardened family man of the Uncharted Territories.

Mini-Jack is MacGyver

Mini-Jack timetravels and, to avoid messing up the timeline, sets himself up as somebody who's the complete opposite of Jack O'Neill- MacGyver.

Jeannieverse idea- cons

Jeannieverse AU in which she's a criminal and knows Neal Caffrey or someone in Leverage- or one of them is one of the Atlantis kids all growed up (Elliot?).
Or _Neal_'s one of the Atlantis kids and one day she comes strolling into the FBI and starts reaming him out for not keeping in contact and they've been worried sick and how could he be so stupid and etc. He edited the DNA and fingerprints in the SGC files so his wouldn't ping them. And everybody's like "WTF?" and Peter's like "Hands off, he's mine!" and Neal's...cowering, maybe? He knows charming her won't work. Maybe yelling back or something else. She might be there to work together on a case. If he's not really Neal Caffrey, but actually a Sheppard-McKay...that explains so much.

Saucy idea

Saucy's Jack O'Neill gives a very scary lecture on weapons safety to everybody allowed to have weapons on Saucy's grounds, whether he can give it directly or needs a translator- basically, telling them his past and treat their weapons like there are curious kids everywhere on the grounds: either secured on their person or locked up. Weapons lockers are not exactly scarce (locked by magic- in emergencies, anybody can access them) and he terrifies everybody. There are no accidents.
It's his first job there- people have been leaving weapons laying around, which is bad, but nobody can get them to stop, but when they steal him they realize he's perfect for the job.

Dinosaur ideas

Amanda Grayson was one of the mortals raised in the Dinosaur Family, who keep in contact with Spock. Sulu is totally an Immortal (not Family)- originally 18th century swashbuckler? POV Uhura, totally. Or the whole senior crew. *evil laughter*

Modern day- Methos gets the urge to celebrate one of his original holidays and drags everybody else in with him.

Adaptation

Methos was having a bad day. It was one of those bad days where nothing major went wrong, but it seemed like everything minor had. The minor frustrations had piled up on each other until all he wanted to do was get a drink in peace and go home to sleep. Of course, in keeping with the rest of his day, Joe was out of all of the good beers, the band that was playing was sub-par, and MacLeod had decided to extol the dubious virtues of chivalry to Joe and the kid at Methos's table. It was the last straw.

"That's the kind of attitude that gets Immortals killed," he said scathingly. "Chivalry is dead; adapt or die. Just ask any Immortal who was around before the Bronze Age. Oh wait, you can't! They're all dead!"

"What does that have to do with it?" MacLeod demanded.

"Yeah, I thought they didn't even have chivalry back then," Richie chimed in.

"Look, before the Bronze Age, you had to be very determined to kill another Immortal. Before there were bronze weapons, nothing was sharp enough to decapitate easily. So for Immortals things were very peaceful. No Game, no threat of death except for freak accidents. Mortals tended to worship Immortals as gods rather than hunt them down as demons or witches or what have you. A couple of idiots picked up swords and started killing Immortals, and that all ended. You can't even imagine the fear- they all thought they were truly Immortal until then. Immortals who didn't adapt quickly enough, who didn't get a sword and learn how to use it, who stayed where everybody knew how to find them? They died quickly. They were as stuck in their pattern of thinking as a lot of Immortals are now, unable or unwilling to change with the times. Things change. Deal with it, or you'll die quickly. It's ridiculous to leave your mind in the past while you're living in the present."

Predictably, MacLeod looked like he was about to explode, Richie looked confused, and Joe was fascinated. "Even the earliest Chronicles don't have any record of this," he said.

"Yes, well, I wasn't exactly around before the Bronze Age, but while I was a student Immortals got more and more suspicious of other Immortals, even if most everybody knew each other back then," Methos said, mollified by Joe's interest, which was purely his own- no way to add this tidbit of history to the Chronicles. "Things were…unstable. Everybody was panicking. Eventually it settled down to this." His gesture encompassed their table and the world. "The death toll would have been high no matter what. But a lot of Immortals died because they expected everybody to follow the same traditions they did. Even when they heard the news, they denied that it could be Immortals doing it- because that wasn't the way things were done and it would be dishonorable. Just like it would be wrong to get a bronze sword and learn to use it."

He could see that MacLeod still disagreed with him- how could somebody so young stand to be so bound? At his age, Methos had still been a student, sampling the ways of the world. Joe was still burning up with questions, but at least he was kind enough to hold them back. Richie was still young enough to think he knew all the answers, but flexible enough to learn if you didn't force him to. Ideas could sit dormant in the mind until one was ready to accept them, and even if Richie wasn't his student he had to do something to counteract MacLeod.

He drained his beer and pushed back his chair. "Perhaps I should leave before this turns into an argument. I'm in a bad enough mood that it wouldn't be pretty." He didn't wait for an answer, just stood up and left. He'd lose these friends to death too soon; he'd rather not lose them to careless words sooner than that. Tomorrow he'd be in a better mood, good enough not to lose a friendship to what shouldn't be a serious fight. And if he wasn't, he could always take a short vacation- the Watchers wouldn't care if his plane tickets said Hawaii so long as he returned with results.

He was feeling better already.

Gods of his Youth

Methos was young once.

 

In those days, mortal youth was short. Life was hard, and few mortals were blessed enough to live longer than a few decades. From the time he was old enough to obey, Methos worked. On festival days, he listened to the priests, enraptured by the tales they told of the gods. Nimet the god of summer, perpetually at war with Kallor, goddess of winter. Draray, who wove the world out of her own being. Ineet, goddess of death and love, who was very creative when seeking her revenge. But his favorite was Yemi, spoken of only in whispers, god of a host of scattered areas with no explanation for why: hunting and knowledge and doing what had to be done and the kind of luck that kept you alive when you should have died. He was a god who didn't want to be worshipped, for mortals to come to depend upon his aid: there were no festivals dedicated to him, no sacrifices given. Any prayers offered to him were furtive and hidden.

It hadn't taken the priests long to notice his interest and take him as their apprentice. Where his agemates' minds were firmly rooted to the ground, his seemed to reach for the heavens every chance it got, as was fitting for a priest. Farmers and hunters had no time to care for anything other than the physical; the higher world was the task of the priests, who had to be able to look towards it. He wasn't able to dedicate himself to Yemi, so he dedicated himself to all the gods, and none.

He died sheltering a boy from a half-starved lion with his body. It wasn't a priest's job to protect anybody's physical body, but he thought that Yemi would approve.

 

He awoke at a fireside and knew immediately that he must be in Irtai, the land of the dead. He hadn't survived the lion's attack, of course; he had known that he wouldn't, and now he was in no pain. But when he opened his eyes he didn't see Ineet, but a man with dark hair and only one eye who explained what he was.

In those days, Immortal youth was long. Bronze weapons were still new enough that few carried them, although new fear of permanent death had made them an increasingly popular trend among Immortals; never before had there been anything which could so easily kill an Immortal. Already, Immortals hundreds and thousands of years old had died at the hands of Immortals wielding bronze weapons. The age of Immortal suspicion had only just begun, and had not yet affected Immortal youth.

Immortals, so long-lived and having no reason to fear each other, kept their students until they had taught them all they could, the joys of life and secret knowledge they had accumulated over their lifetimes. There was no reason not to do so, and every reason to; what other purpose was there to their lives? Immortals were considered young for hundreds of years- free to roam, as nothing could harm them, but always attached to an older Immortal who taught them the ways of Immortality and the wider world.

It was a time of rapid change for Immortals. They either adapted quickly or not at all, killed by the bronze swords they refused to learn to use. To a people made static and pacifistic by never dying, the change was too great for many to adapt quickly enough. And for those who remained, suspicion was high. Swords meant protection and threat; the Buzz changed from joyous announcement of Immortal company to warning of possible death. Even students weren't safe from suspicion, young though they were. Weren't they Immortal, too? Rumors abounded about the horrors their kind had begun to perpetuate on each other, even the students. Perhaps especially the students, who after all had not been steeped in the traditions of Immortals as long as their elders had. Around them, the usual teaching period grew shorter and shorter, and the War became worse and worse. They hadn't called it the Game yet.

But through it all, his teacher remained the same, a solid if unusual rock for him to steady himself on. Even Methos, newly Immortal, could trace the changes in the world of Immortals, could see the suspicion and terror in the eyes of the Immortals they met, but his teacher showed none of it, though it seemed that every time they met another Immortal there was more news of his friends' deaths and worse suspicion.

As a priest, Methos had been taught how to observe. How to watch the world for signs from the gods, to better serve them and live in harmony with their desires. How to watch his people, to learn their characters and serve them best. How to watch outsiders, to see past their words to their hearts and discover if they were friends or enemies- protecting the tribe from human dangers was a spiritual duty. His tribe was limited now, only himself and his teacher, so he found himself often watching his teacher. He felt lost, unable to fulfill his duty. He couldn't even figure out his teacher, much less help him as he had helped his first people. But as time passed, he began to weave together the bits and pieces he knew into something resembling knowledge.

 

Time passed, and Methos grew in experience. Piecemeal, his youth slipped away, seeming to take his faith in the gods with it. His hands stained red with the blood of the first mortal he killed, a lover who tried to kill him, he lost his faith in Ineet. Nimet was lost in the icy north, snowy all year round. His faith in Draray just unraveled over time. But throughout it all, he kept his faith in Yemi- after all, even if he called himself by a different name now, wasn't he Methos's own teacher?