Doubled Edge: by Katt Solano Disclaimers & further hoopla in part 0. I should probably mention that this will make more sense if you've read "Pearl of Great Price." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* New York City, USA... Still not fully awake, Duncan leapt out of bed, katana in hand. He couldn't see a thing, not even his hand as he brought his sword close to a fighting stance. The darkness was so thick, it seemed to enfold him in its eternity, suffocating. To his left, he heard faint sounds of struggle-- Methos fighting his own opponent. He couldn't tell which way the battle was going; the darkness muffled sound as well. "Methos!" he called out. Before he could finish, something swooped down at him from above. He struck out. And hit nothing. Again he heard rustling, this time at ground level right behind his back. Twirling on his heel, Duncan swung again, thrusting the sword as far as it would go. His blade embedded into the floor. Then the somethings started coming at him in small groups like B-movie poltergeists or spiteful winds, teasing him, keeping just outside of his reach, whispering static in his ear, keeping him twisting and turning and bumping into furniture until he didn't know where he was and didn't care who he hit as long as he struck _something_. "Methos!" he yelled once more. This time, he thought he heard a faint reply. "Methos!" "Here!" said a faint, British-tinged voice. Duncan stepped towards it. "Here!" came the echo from the other side of the room. "MacLeod!" Duncan half-turned, straining to decipher the true Methos. "Here!" "Here!" "Mac!" "Ye putrid whoreson, _show yuirself_!_" Whirling from left to right, Duncan shook his katana at his unseen foe and wished he had the more satisfying weight of his father's claymore. "MacLeod!" "Here!" "Mac!" Another something flew out of the darkness, hurtling into Duncan's midsection. The katana clattered out of sight, out of reach. This time, the intruder felt warm and smooth, damp in some places, cloth-like in another. Duncan took a handful of the cottony part and gave the area beside it a hard blow with his elbow. The something grunted, twisted and delivered its own terrific punch. Two hands grappled with him, clamping down on his arms. An infinite number of legs tangled up his own, trapped them so that he couldn't even get the leverage to wriggle. "That'll learn you," said the something in Methos' voice. "_Pog mo thon_!" (1) snarled Duncan. The something chuckled. "Ah-ah-ah, potty mouth. I don't think MacLeod even knows that phrase much less sputter it out." Duncan bucked and twisted. At least, he tried to; he still had the dexterity of a dry twig in this hold. "I know tha' phrase an' plenty others, ye wee--" "MacLeod, is that you?" He thought perhaps the arms and legs loosened for a moment. It was foolish, of course, he still felt trapped. But the something holding him down didn't seem quite as fierce. "Of course, it's me." "How do I know that you're you?" The arm across his windpipe _definitely_ tightened. "I could as you the same question." The person/thing holding him, muttered, "Oh, hell," then released him. Duncan surged to his knees, coughing. "God, Methos," he said when his vocal chords ceased to spasm, "Where'd you learn to wrestle?" The voice that answered him had the smugness that was the trademark of the real Methos. "I _did_ have you pinned rather well, didn't I?" Duncan could almost see him studying his cuticles or sipping a frosted mug full of lager that way he always did before imparting a repartee, witty or otherwise. "I'll have you know, I invented wrestling." Yep, that clinched it. No one but the Old Man himself. "Can you see anything yet?" Duncan asked. "Not even my nose." "Bloody great thing that it is." "That doesn't count, MacLeod. I left myself wide open for that shot to make sure that you were really you." Duncan snorted, holding back a chuckle. "And? Did I pass the test?" "With flying colours. It was rather pathetic as insults go." "_Methos_." "And that growl--" "_Methos_!" Methos ran a hand through his hair. "All right, I know: 'shut up, Old Man.' I understand Duncanese very well, thank you." "Will ye just--" ::Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. You can cream him later, Duncan.:: "We have to find the Pearl." Methos let out a growl of his own, almost leonine in its pitch and depth. "That bloody Pearl. If we ever meet Jetblayd again, remind me to beat him severely about the head and shoulders with a sterling silver soup spoon." Before Duncan could do his Celtic barbarian imitation again, Methos set off to find a wall. Holding his arms out at waist level, he began walking in even steps in the direction he was facing, counting as he did so. Duncan seemed to be doing the same, counting in a deeply accented English. He really was taking this quest too seriously. Granted, having deathly pale inhuman creatures coming after you at all sides was a good reason to take a quest seriously but if he hadn't been so set on _starting_ the damned thing-- Methos sighed. He knew a few things about quests; some from his personal experiences but mostly from those of people the called friends. It was never pretty and, more often than not, the prize at the end was worth less than half of the trouble you went about to get it in the first place. Still, that was the Boy Scout for you. Methos wondered if people who could see silver linings were blessed or cursed. His smallest toe smashed into a hard object. Methos bit down an oath that would have made the Phoenicians cringe as he bent over to feel. Smooth, plastic-like cylinder. Cold, metallic ends. "I found it," he said wearily. "Good," Duncan said as the lights started to flicker on, "then we can--" He stopped on a gasp. Methos didn't blame him. The room looked like it had been hit by a nuclear warhead in the middle of a hurricane. The furniture had been rendered into toothpicks. The glass in the windows and the television was nothing more than slivers embedded on all the walls; a peek in the bathroom showed that the mirror was in the same condition. The carpet was bald, the curtains were broken down to threads, and the bed sheets had been ripped into pieces the size of fingernail clippings. Methos looked upward. The ceiling was the only thing left undamaged if one didn't count the light. "There goes our security deposit." Duncan managed to keep his fist clenched at his side instead of slamming it through the plaster wall. Barely. "I am getting tired o' this." "I don't want to say I told you so..." Methos turned to look for his luggage. Gods be merciful, he still have some clothing. When he found some scraps of wool and denim where the underside of his bed used to be, he had to sadly deduce that his clothing hadn't survived the attack either. Unless by the miracle the Highlander had any clothes-- "_Dammit_!" came from what used to be Duncan's bed. Ah, no, he didn't. And since Methos hated wearing anything to bed, he was going to have to run around bollock starkers. In New York. Then in Scotland. Absolutely brilliant. "I am _this_ close," Methos pinched four millimetres of air between in thumb and forefinger, "to shoving that over-rated cue ball up your hairy highland arse and shoving _you_ to the damned Caelum." Duncan gave the bag in his hand a baleful glare. "I'm starting to agree with you." Eyes to the heaven, Methos intoned solemnly, "Take me now; my life is complete." "But if I want to see Richie again..." He lifted the tank to his chest. Looked up with those damnable chocolate eyes with the glistening, kicked-puppy expression and-- "Gods, MacLeod!" Jerkily, Methos began to pace. "You really are impossible. I don't know why I put up with you." If that was a smirk on the Highlander's lips, he was going to cut them off. "We go to Scotland on the first flight out." "Fine idea," Methos conceded, "One problem." Sighing exasperatedly, Duncan inquired with thinly veiled impatience, "What now?" Methos stared pointedly at Duncan's boxers. And laughed when the Highlander turned seven shades of purple. * * * * * Hilo, Hawaii... Filing was, in Zilla Santos' opinion, the single most fulfilling duty one could undertake. There was a coherent, unchanging order for all things under the sun. And _she_ was the one in charge of arranging things, a place for everything and everything in its place, just the way it should be. She was sure that the nearest shrink would tell her that this need for organization was a result of travelling all over the States with a mother who was trying to make it as an actor or a singer, whichever came first. The fact that her father was either a travelling salesman or a sailor in the US Navy probably added to her neuroses. Yes, she was a fine candidate for Sally Jesse or Montel. She hadn't lived long enough to be worthy of Jerry Springer. "Zilla." She looked up from her work. Mr. Jonathan "Call Me Jack" Montgomery had opened the door to the office and stuck his head in. It was just after noon, too early for any of the classes to start. He'd probably been doing some exercises; his dirty blonde hair was plastered on his skull. "Yes, sir... er... Jack?" she corrected when he gave her a disapproving frown. "I was going to grab something from the Japanese place down the street. Did you want something?" "Uh, no, sir, I've eaten." She squirmed at the lie. Mr. Montgomery-- Jack-- always seemed to know when she was lying. "I'll get you some maki anyway. I think they're having a special. Do you have any favourites?" "Um... anything but cucumbers." Zilla twisted a black lock of hair. "You really don't have to bother, Jack--" "No bother." His head disappeared and the door closed. Zilla let out the breath she'd been holding. Most girls her age had crushes: actors, singers, captains of football teams. Zilla had to be different; she was in love with Jack Montgomery. _Not_ a crush, but _in love_: she knew the difference. She also knew that he was married. Actually, the fact that he absolutely adored his wife and his kid made her love him more. Zilla sighed dreamily as she put the folder for "Osaka, Robert" after the one for "Norwood, Kelly." Of course, it helped that he had fantastic blue-green eyes framed by his stylish glasses. And filled out his jeans so scrumptiously. And had an adorable accent that was a touch of French, a touch of British and a touch of something else that she could never figure out. "Zilla." She jerked up. The papers in the "Davids, Leo" folder spilled partway out of their folder. "Y-yes, Jack?" He gave her a little smile, nothing more than a small twist of a corner of his mouth, really. "Promise me you'll take a break and eat with me when I get back." ::Godohgodohgod.:: "Sure thing, Jack." _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp