Light flickers on rain-soaked streets, while the low sussurus of rain blends with the occasional wash from a passing car into a dull roar. A lone figure huddled against the rain approaches, hands plunged deep into pockets and shoulders hunched against the rain. Methos' dark eyes flick nervously into the inky shadows cast by yellow street lights. He pauses imperceptibly as he feels the long familiar wall of vertigo strike him. Stepping into the shadow of an alley he casts around for the unseen Immortal. His hand slips into the folds of his voluminous coat to settle on the well worn hilt of his sword. The welcoming neon of a bar beckons across the street, but that was too obvious. Slipping cautiously into the alley he sees a figure emerge from behind a fire escape.

"Adam Pearson?" a young man in shapeless grey clothes peers cautiously, almost nervously at the older Immortal. His hand is in his jacket, but no sword is drawn. He moves easily with practised ease. The rain runs down the cold hard lines of his face, the deep brow eyes deepened by too much death, cold, detached.

"Do I know you?" the ancient Immortal edges round keeping his back to the rough wall of the run-down tenement. The man appears to be alone but Methos hadn't lived for 5,000 years without learning caution...

The stranger looks down at his feet and then cocks his head up on one side with a faint smile, "No, but I know you." Suddenly he springs into action, pulling a bulky handgun from his jacket, he fires a three round burst into the other man, "Goodnight, Methos!"

The tall man with short dark hair steps out into the rainy night, turning his collar up against the cold, he dashes to the black Citroen. As his hand reaches for the handle, he hears three shots ring out. MacLeod looks around in time to see light flashing off a blade in a nearby alleyway. As he skirts around the car, he sees an eerie luminescence spiral up into the night sky. A low buzzing on the edge of hearing builds slowly into a thunderous crescendo as the first tongues of lightning crackle out of the alley. Fighting against the roaring whirlwind, he runs to the blind side of the wall bordering the sporadically lit passage, pressing his back hard against it, sword in hand. Tendrils of fire whip out forming strange figure eight patterns. Windows in the warehouse above him explode, showering him with shards of glass. The street lights flicker like strobes, before exploding one by one. Slowly the winds begin to die and a muffled thud can be heard from the alley.