Title: Pearl of Great Price Author: Kat Solano Email: orchydd@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Action, Clan Denial admirer Characters: DM, M, J, RR, lots of OFC's Summary & Disclaimer in 0/5 ***************************************** Jean, his mind still wrapped up in the steps they should execute in order to complete the mission, smacked right into Noel in mid-stride of their jog. “Oomph!” He rubbed his nose; Noel was built like a tank. “Something wrong?” “Immortal.” The elder Xeno scanned the passers-by. There were a dozen people jogging along the seawall and a dozen more strolling or playing on the grass. A couple individuals sat on the benches that dotted the lawn, looking out into the receding tide. Noel’s senses focused on a dark-haired man to the right. “Let’s go, Jetblayd.” The use of their Underground fighting names signalled the severity of the situation. He nodded jerkily. He and Noel jogged faster than before, using an alternate route. Noel’s back burned, a phantom sword being buried between his shoulder blades, but he didn’t dare look back. He was here as a Xeno, not as Immortal. He had to interfere as little as possible in the latter context unless the former required it. As of now, nothing in the plan said anything about joining the Game. ~*~*~ Methos stood, watching the duo disappear into Stanton Park’s wooded trails. His heart thudded like the Energizer Bunny on Prozac. That couldn’t have been--could it-- but it wasn’t possible for-- He was at Joe’s in no time flat. “Come in,” the Watcher said a bit sardonically considering Methos had already entered the apartment and was making a beeline for the fridge. The contents of a longneck disappeared with frightening alacrity before Methos, a new bottle in hand, sat on the couch. The fact that he sat --torso only slightly slouched forward, knees no more than six inches apart, elbows on knees-- instead of sprawled was a wordless indicator of Methos’ dark mood. As swiftly as he could, Joe sat on the chair across from the Immortal and leaned forward to listen. Methos’ throat worked for a few seconds. He looked like a kid, a college student who’d been caught photocopying the answers to an exam. When he finally said, “I saw Richie,” his voice was so subdued and his message so incredulous that Joe could only reply with, “I beg your pardon?” “I saw Richie,” Methos confirmed, louder but no less shaky. “In Stanton Park. With another guy, the Immortal who gave off that bizarre buzz. He looked pretty good. Richie, not the new Immortal.” When Joe finally picked his jaw up from the floor, he demanded, “Are you sure it was Richie? Not just a new one who looked like--" “Look, I helped you bury the kid, all right?” snapped Methos, “I know what he looks like and I’m telling you, this guy was Richie. His song was off but it was him.” “Off like his friend’s was off?” “No.” Methos sat back to think about his response. “He didn’t feel as strong; I’d’ve guessed he took very few heads even as compared to before--" “Then it couldn’t have been Richie!” “It was him!” Methos ran his long fingers through his ragged black hair. “Look, I went through my haunted phase back in the tenth century. I was not hallucinating, not about this, nor was I overcome with grief--I barely knew the kid. I just... when I felt his presence, I just _knew_ it. He was a lot harder, felt a lot older but it was him.” “You could tell all of this by his buzz?” “No.” Methos didn’t bother to explain; he couldn’t, not any more than he could describe colour to someone who’d always been blind or a concerto to a deaf person. “You should have seen him, Joe.” He rubbed his burning eyes and Joe knew that the new Immortal had fled his mind. “Gods, the last time I saw that look was on a beaten brass mirror three thousand years ago.” ~*~*~ Mikala was just cooling off from her aerobics when the boys came in a bit breathless. To anyone else, their expression was nothing more than weariness from a rigorous workout but Mikala recognized it for what it was. Something had been thrown off kilter. Jean hated anything going off-kilter-- that explained him. But Noel... Mikala had seen him walk away from a civilian town burned by Hel-fire without a twitch. Her hands readied her weapons before she even realised it. “What?” she asked sharply. “Trouble.” Noel’s red-gold hair was standing straight up, his side braid loosened by the wind or the repeated mussing of his hands. “Immortals,” Jean elaborated. Bewilderment made up a greater portion of his disquieted expression. “MacLeod, this is a G Flip,” the witch said slowly, “All G Flips have Immortals. You come from a G Flip. I’m not seeing the panic unless--" Mikala’s body snapped into attention. “You didn’t encounter an flip-self, did you?” “No, no, no.” Noel was still pacing, jerky, hyper strides back and forth across the cream coloured carpet. “I left the Game. I can’t fight Immortals.” “Then why did you join this mission?” snapped Jean. “I came because you asked me, you effin’ idiot!” Noel barked back, his eyes savage. Energy crackled around his eyes, his body seeming to grow bigger but less substantial with each ragged pant. “Uh... MacLeod?” Mikala had backed away behind the counter. “What the hell happened to your accent?” “Christ!” Noel sank into the couch. “This wasnae a good idea. I told the Sovereigns I couldna come back yet but they... Terken, ye still need tae be watched, dammit!” Jean laughed. It was a hysterical little chortle. “So Mother and Father sent you here to be my babysitter?” The guttural tones of Neo-Russian began to colour his voice. “No.” Word out by the sudden decline in adrenaline, Noel let his head go limp against the back of the couch. “The last thing ye need during this mission is someone tae hold yuir hand. It’s... I...” He rubbed his eyes again. “It’ll pass. I haven’t been in the Game for decades; not since the early days of Xeno Core.” “Of course. You panicked?” Jean’s brow quirked up, an expression unto itself conveying an amalgamation of emotions such as disbelief, anger, pity, annoyance, and betrayal. Noel sent his young friend a glance that told him he received all those messages loud and clear. “Aye. I panicked. I’m more comfortable with firearms nowadays, ye know that. Better range than a really, really long knife an’ much easier tae hide.” Mikala snorted to the sound of “Bullshit,” but only said, “So what do we do?” “Train?” Jean suggested. “Pray tae God I dinna meet any more Immortals,” Noel corrected. ::I don’t know what scares me more,:: he added silently, ::Losing a challenge or winning it.:: ~*~*~ “We have to tell Mac.” “No way, Joe. I didn’t spend six months playing Freud to have MacLeod break down on me again.” “Oh, real sensitive, Old Man.” “Damn straight!” Adam finished off his beer and slid the bottle home to the corner of the bar. “ The mental state that Mac’s in right now, if he finds out that this guy’s a fraud, he’ll either kill him or kill himself.” “Hah!” Agitation making him hobble, Joe retreated behind the kitchen counter. “Mac would never--" Methos cut him off. “You didn’t see him, Joe. You know the way he is right now? That’s a hundred times better than how he was when I found him in Malaysia. Far better smelling, too.” He really should have stayed in France. Joe massaged his temples, finding the muscles there snapping with tension. “So what do you want me to do? Give the guy a Watcher?” “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Methos said with a smile, “I’d really much rather do it myself but seeing as how they would probably sense me...” He shrugged. “Look, believe it or not, I want the stubborn Scot around for a while longer.” “Yeah, someone’s got to cover your ass.” “Right again, Joe. You’re clearly on a winning streak today.” After a moment’s pause, the Immortal added, “I was thinking of calling the elder MacLeod over.” “Connor?” Joe shook his head. “He’s travelling light right now. Last I heard, he was somewhere in North Africa.” “Does he know about Duncan?” “Hmph. Probably knows more than we do about him. Joe found himself in front of the refrigerator. It was starting to feel like a five Eggo day. Snatching the freezer-burnt package from its shelf, he slapped it on the counter before scrounging around for the toaster. It had to be somewhere behind the papers, folders, and beer bottles. Ah, there it was. “Connor’s left exactly sixty-three messages on Duncan’s machine since he disappeared last year. It’s all pretty much the same: ‘Duncan, call me, kinsman.’ Slam.” “Quite a way with words, doesn’t he? I’ve got to meet this man some day.” Joe grimaced, not only because syrup couldn’t hide the fact that his Eggos were burnt but also since the mental image of Connor MacLeod and Methos facing off--verbally, physically or otherwise--sent chills down his spine. Like watching a train wreck coming straight at you. “So,” the Watcher said, swallowing another bite, “Where’s Duncan now?” “I’ll give you a hint: it starts with dusty and ends with renovation.” _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.