Chapter Text
Methos stood idly in the open space, projecting an ease he didn’t really feel. This location for the duel had once been a park of sorts, a long time ago. But whatever money had been put to maintaining the artificial environment had long ago vanished, leaving only sad, dead plants and dirt. But it wasn’t the symbolism that discomfited Methos.
The last time he’d borrowed a clone’s armor, he’d been on Coruscant, too. Only that time, they’d been sweeping through the Jedi Temple, seeing all the bodies, hoping against hope that someone - anyone - had escaped the slaughter. All they escaped with on that day was the satisfaction of completing Jocasta Nu’s last, desperate mission to keep the Jedi Archives out of the hands of the Sith.
This wasn’t GAR gear, at least; this was the armor Sever had earned through his own blood, sweat, and tears from their time on Concord Dawn - genuine Mandalorian beskar’gam. The armor’s natural dull gray sheen had long since been covered up by mostly abstract designs and patterns. There were some new ones since the last time Methos had seen the armor, with the most recent design (vaguely resembling some sort of bird) done in white. Methos had his own beskar’gam , of course, with actual beskar rather than the more common durasteel, but it wasn’t exactly accessible at the moment. Too bad.
“Well, well, well. Here we are again.”
The armored figure stepped out of the gloom, even as the Buzz tingled warningly in Methos’s head.
“I was half-expecting that you’d try to run again. Did you rob a second-hand thrift store on Mandalore for that armor?”
“Stole it off of Jango Fett’s decapitated corpse, actually,” Methos retorted with black humor. “Where’d you get yours, a gift shop on Canto Bight?”
“I trust you came alone,” his opponent sneered in derision, almost jokingly.
“As alone as you did.”
Three shots rang out in quick succession. Methos could almost swear that he could feel the whiz of displaced air as the projectiles passed by him, followed in less than a heartbeat by the unmistakable sound of bullets connecting with soft flesh. And that followed by the thump of bodies collapsing to the dirt somewhere in the darkness. Sever still had it, that was for sure. Too bad his weapon wouldn’t work on the heavily-armored Immortal.
“Was that-”
“-an actual slugthrower? Yes, actually. Not as flashy as a blaster, requires more skill, but potentially just as deadly in the right hands. With the added value of not immediately giving away your location.” Methos smirked sardonically at his opponent. Not that he could see it behind the helmet, but he could certainly hear it.
“You brought backup.”
“So did you. Afraid you couldn’t take me in a fair fight?” Methos kept his eyes and mind focused, even as their verbal sparring continued. They began circling each other, each almost daring the other to make the first strike. They were evenly matched in terms of height, and both wielded beskade. Methos wasn’t as heavily-muscled or armored as his opponent, but he made up for it with speed and agility. In a game like this, all too often the winner was whoever scored the first blow.
“Oh, they were going to try to kill me as soon as I finished with you. I’m almost disappointed that I won’t get the chance to return the favor. I planned to send their heads back to Surat Nuat by parcel post. Now they’ll have some company as soon as I track down your friend with the slugthrower.”
“I suppose you have to be confident if you go out in public dressed like that,” Methos jabbed relentlessly.
“I defeated you once, Horseman. This time, I’ll finish the job and take your head. Just you and me, steel to steel. No fancy Force powers. The way it’s meant to be!”
With that, the fight was on.
The other Immortal opened aggressively, with a series of hacking blows that Methos barely avoided.
The last time they fought, narrow corridors and heavy bulkheads restricted their movement. This time, not so much. This time, Methos took advantage of the extra space to make full use of his ability to duck and dodge the other man’s heavy strikes.
One blow from a beskad could easily sever a limb. Or remove his head. Fortunately, Mandalorian armor offered a strong balance between protection and flexibility, playing into Methos’s superior speed.
His opponent seemed to expect him to parry and block, as had happened in their first encounter. Different terrain, different weapons. Different time.
A quick feint, then sidestepping out of range. His feet kicked up dust from an old path as he skirted across it. With each strike, Methos looked for his opening.
Under ordinary circumstances, a duel between two Force-users would either end very quickly or become an extraordinarily dramatic affair. With the Emperor so close, neither Methos nor his opponent dared call upon the Force in this fight. Or maybe the other man was just so confident in his ability to beat Methos mano a mano, as he had in their first encounter. Either way, he wasn't drawing on the Force, either. As Methos twisted away from a hack that would have taken off his left arm, he felt almost as if he were trying to tango in treacle. Had he really become so dependent on the Force in combat over the years? He was bloody rusty fighting like this.
Fortunately, the beskar’gam did its job, though the glancing blow left his arm tingling and chipped some paint. Sever would never let him hear the end of it, if he lived through this.
“First hit is mine!” crowed his opponent. Methos didn’t waste his breath with witty repartee. Instead, he stepped lightly backwards and assumed a mocking Soresu ready stance. The combination of his Mando gear with an obviously Jedi fighting position seemed to confuse the other man momentarily.
So when he charged at Methos again, Methos was ready. Instead of following through with the sort of defensive dance associated with Soresu, however, he launched into a much more brutal and straightforward Mandalorian attack. Before the other Immortal could recover from the sudden change in tactics, Methos shoved his way inside his guard, forcing his opponent’s back against the trunk of a dead tree and tangling the beskade between their armored torsos.
In a moment, Methos released the vibroblade hidden in his gauntlet into his left hand. He stabbed upward underneath the other Immortal’s armor at the narrow vulnerable point at the waist. Even as his opponent registered the sudden shock and pain, Methos twisted the blade viciously. A debilitating wound, even temporarily fatal, for an Immortal, as he yanked the weapon out.
The other Immortal collapsed to his knees, beskad falling limply to the powdery dirt and dead grass. Methos stepped on it and shoved it several yards away with his boot. There was only one thing left to do. He reached over and pulled off his opponent’s helmet.
The defeated man blinked up at him, as if surprised or dazed.
“You… cheated…” he gasped, wavering as his fate stared him in the face.
“Hardly,” replied Methos. Then with one brutal slash, he removed the other man’s head from his body. The old familiar white glow rose from the corpse and settled into Methos even as a harsh electric tang filled the air.
Methos spread his arms in welcome as lightning struck.
Sever was waiting for him, his rifle leaning comfortably against his shoulder.
“So. That happened. You weren’t kidding when you said it’d be dramatic. What’d you call it, a Quickening?”
“Now imagine that electrical spectacle on a colony ship carrying ten thousand civilians. I know I did when we fought the first time. I’m not sure it even occurred to that idiot.”
“But if you lost the first fight, why didn’t he, y’know, cut off your head back then?”
Methos sighed heavily. Remembering.
“He tried. I don’t remember word-for-word what he said right before it happened, probably something stupid and pretentious, but I do remember the sword at my neck. I was about to die. I should’ve died. But I didn’t. To this day, Sever, I don’t understand what happened. I was there, about to die… and then I was elsewhere.”
“Last time I checked, Jedi can’t teleport,” Sever noted sardonically after a long moment. “Kriff, Sith can’t teleport. Wait a minute, you can’t teleport, can you?!”
“Don’t I wish.” Teleportation powers would have been useful on a couple occasions in his life. “And I wasn’t even a Jedi back then. Just an Immortal. An old Immortal, to be fair, but still just Immortal. Some of us had some pretty unusual powers, but not me. Just a fair hand with a sword and not getting myself killed. So I wish I could give you a better answer for what happened. Wish I could give myself a better answer.”
That… place he had found himself without explanation still haunted him on occasion. Even in memory, it seemed simultaneously both illusory and more real than the world around him. The unfathomable dark infinity surrounding him, punctuated by tiny points of light like a sea of stars, sprawled by impossible physics-defying paths that rippled under his feet. But it wasn’t what he saw, so much, but the feeling. It was as if the very eternity in which he stood was alive, buzzing with overwhelming energy and life and time as much as-
He gave his head a quick shake, as if such a simple physical gesture could free him from the indescribably intense memory.
“Seen that look before,” Sever remarked in an oddly sympathetic tone. “I get it. You don’t need to try to put it into words if you don’t want to.”
Methos finally met Sever’s eyes, his expression slipping into an altogether too habitual wry smile.
“See? I think you finally realized that I’m just a guy. Take away the Force powers and Immortality, and I’m no wiser or better than anyone else.”
“Just a miserable old bastard.”
Methos offered a dry chuckle, not bothering to argue the point.
“Well, then, you wouldn’t mind if I crashed at your place for a few days? One miserable old bastard deserves another.”
Sever laughed, the unadulterated amusement lighting up his already too-old face.
“I’ve got bills to pay and a bar to run, you cheapskate!”
“As it so happens, I recently came into possession of a particularly excellent recipe for Fambaa Delight…”