2016

As an old man of 55, MacGyver was disappointed, almost, that he was still alone. All the women in his life had equaled to nothing; he hadn't seen Nikki Carpenter or Penny Parker in years and his string of lovers had abruptly ended at 40. He was sure that the only thing that kept him going was work.

Formerly a Phoenix Foundation troubleshooter, when Mac had been injured on the job in 1994, he had been placed in a comfy desk job, and now planned for field ops. His work kept his minds off things, but sometimes he even found himself reminiscing back to the good old days of him and Murdoc playing cat-and-mouse.

He glared around his empty house, filled with memorabilia of years gone by; his hockey days. He saw light dancing across the walls and the yells of some pissed off Indians. Someone was in the Den, watching TV.

But I live alone, MacGyver thought to himself, and the last time I checked, Jack Dalton was in Syria helping several undisclosed parties smuggle national treasures out of the country.

He heard someone chuckle and his blood froze. He reached for his Swiss Army Knife knowing full well that it wouldn't defend him from his unwanted guest. That guest was sitting in his favorite chair, watching one of MacGyver's old westerns on his new HD LCD TV.

"Ah, MacGyver," Murdoc looked up at him with a sparkle in his dark eyes, "Miss me?"