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 ****************************************** Evening, Oldside Seacouver, USA... :~:You gonna be able to handle the fireworks, hon?:~: Kay wanted to know. Her mind-touch was both probing and comforting. :~:As long as I can manage to keep all sharp objects out of reach, I think we’ll be safe enough.:~: Jean stretched his arms up and behind him, popping some joints. :~:I really don’t want to worry about it until Rydr and Ffayz come back. The whereabouts of the Pearl will dictate the mission from now on.:~: :~:Just remember, sometimes words are said in anger.:~: Jean shifted, uncomfortable in his seat. :~:I know better than to let them affect me.:~: :~:That’s what I’m afraid of.:~: Someone, probably Mikala, had put up wind chimes above the door. When he heard them tinkling, Jean’s claws came halfway out even as he dug in his pocket for a few throwing marbles. “It’s just us!” Noel’s voiced called out. Rather drunkenly, noted Jean, and eyebrow going up. Noel drank for two reasons: a mission gone smashingly well or a mission gone horribly wrong. “There’s nae need tae panic! _We_ are in the building!” Mikala’s laughter joined in and she peeped around the corner. “C’mon, deMi, help me help this muscle-bound lush to find his feet.” Jean stood up, closing the thick tome of botany he’d been perusing before Kay “called”. “When did he lose them?” “I think it was between that fifth gulp of 151 and the beer chaser.” Swinging around the threshold, Jean leaned against the wall and stared at his teammate. Noel was looking goofily at him. “Helloooooo, Jetblayd.” Noel hiccoughed. “Top o’ the mornin’ t’ye.” “You’re mixing up your accents.” Slinging one arm around his friend’s shoulders, he said, “Noel, you’ve really got to find a better way of celebrating. Do you have any idea how repetitive you get when you’re inebriated?” “Nope.” Mikala, having decided to abandon the boys and let them bond, threw the alcohol on the counter. “Doesn’t anyone want to know if we can even access this giant volleyball?” “Och, aye,” Noel said, trying to sound serious, “Verra guid idea. Abso-fuckin’-lutely guid. Verra guid.” He dragged an arm around the glowing matte sac that held their prize. “If ye’ll do the honours, Jean?” Leaping to his feet, Jean went into one of the bedrooms. He emerged with the cylindrical tank that the Pearl was to be stored in. “Stand back and prepare to be awed at my computing magick.” Mikala snorted over her glass but settled into the easy chair beside Jean, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He was carefully filling the tank with a viscous green liquid as opposed to the red stuff which nullified the Pearl’s powers. Easing the Pearl in, Jean waited for a reaction and, seeing none, he locked the lid back on. Then he started to connect some cubes and pyramids around the top and the bottom of the case, muttering to himself in Underground Speech. Mikala recognized the words as spells and wards. “Done yet?” muttered Noel. His Immortal physiology had gotten rid of all the alcohol in his bloodstream. He was now as coherent as Jean but far more excited. Balancing missions always gave him a thrill. “Almost,” replied Jean. He picked up his vidrod and entered a few commands. Immediately, the Pearl began to shudder and glow. The vidrod spat information faster than Jean could follow. “We have access,” he said, “Limited access but access nevertheless.” He let the vidrod take as much information as it could hold. Mikala toasted them high and Noel let out a war whoop. “Damn, I’m good!” “You?” Mikala punched his stomach no too lightly. “Watch it, MacLeod, or I’m gonna have to bean you.” “This calls for a celebration.” Diving towards his pack, Noel drew out a small radio. He flicked it on and tuned it to the nearest rock station. Finding the fast, hard beats of the drums and the guitars and the booming lyrics to his liking, he turned the volume up. Loud. At once, Mikala jumped up to join him, jumping and shaking her head to the beat. Jean sat back and watched them, shaking his head. “Children,” he sighed. “Ah, bite me,” Noel retorted. Mikala tugged on his hand. “C’mon, Jean. Jumping up and down is a good thing.” To demonstrate, she freed her hair from its headband and started to wag it up and down and side to side quite violently, howling like a wolf. Jean smiled. “I’ll pass, thanks. I’d like to keep my grey matter relatively unbruised.” He stood to grab his own drink and was about to peruse the contents of the vidrod once more when the door slammed open. Duncan MacLeod and Methos shot into the room, swords out but at ease. Jean blinked, took a sip of his milk, and ambled back to the couch. He reached over to the coffee table and shut the radio off. Mikala stopped in midjump. Noel stiffened, sensing two Immortal presences and cursing that his sword was beside the couch. He whirled to meet his opponents, a hand at his waist already unhooking a Brakka. “We have visitors,” Jean said. He took another sip of milk. Leaned back to watch the show. Everyone had ignored him. Methos stayed a step behind Duncan, his lean body tense as a stretched wire. Mikala had dropped onto the table, placing herself closer to her targets should she need to fire off any spells. Duncan and Noel stared at each other. Just stared. Finally, Jean decided to cut the smothering tension. “Duncan, this is Rydr. Rydr, this is--“ “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” whispered Noel. His lips barely moved. His body seemed frozen in its hunched position, as though he had just received a blow to his solar plexus. “I know.” “How did you find us?” Mikala wanted to know. She looked to Methos for the answer knowing that the two other Immortals were not going to be of any help. Methos gestured his chin towards Jean. “We drove around until we sensed him. His buzz is rather unique.” In the mean time, Duncan’s mouth had been opening and closing, his voice having decided to fail him. “This cannae be true,” he finally managed to blurt out, “Ye cannae be--“ He reached out for the uncannily familiar young man, not knowing that he had raised his sword arm. With a heart-torn cry, Noel drew out his Brakka and slashed at the katana. The blade clattered to the floor. “Who do you think I am?” he demanded, his voice shrill. Duncan didn’t speak, didn’t even pick his sword up. Just stared. Noel advanced, his arms and shoulders shaking with tension. “Who do you think _I_ am?” he asked again. Mikala jerked her head at Jean, getting alarmed. Her commander just shook his head curtly. Noel took another step closer, raising his sabre. Just then, Methos slammed his blade down between them. “I think you’ve gotten close enough.” “No!” Duncan pushed his friend’s arm away, not taking his eyes off of Noel who was now in the throes of a full body shudder. “Who. Do. You. Think. I am.” The young Immortal’s voice was now deadly calm despite his body’s condition. The named worked its way past Duncan’s tight chest, past that lump in his throat. “Richie...” he whispered raggedly. “_NO!_” Noel hurled himself at Duncan, arms out as though he wanted to strangle other Immortal and trap the rest of the name inside, prevent him from voicing it. Methos rough-shouldered his way between them just as Mikala came up behind Noel. She hooked her arms around his waist and tried to drag him back but even with her strength spell, he kept going. “He’s _dead_!” screamed Noel, “Richie Ryan is dead!” Duncan was shaking his head, his lips forming the word “No.” Noel swiped at his eyes. “He’s _dead_.” All the strength seeped out of his body and he almost tumbled back into Mikala. Closing his eyes, he tried to collect himself. “I dinna know who ye’re talking about,” he said after a few minutes, his tone weary. “Bullshite.” Duncan shrugged his shoulders loose from Methos’ grasp. He wanted to get closer to the man who called himself Rydr but he was wary of what might happen. “How could ye know he’s dead if ye dinna know who I’m talking about?” “I...” Noel desperately searched for a lie but his usual skills seemed to have abandoned him. He turned his attention to Jean. Something had become glaringly obvious. “You did this,” he accused, his voice full of loathing. Jean shrugged, not saying a word, neither denying nor admitting to anything. “You son of a--“ Noel felt the adrenaline start to rise in him again. Just as quickly, as soon as Mikala put her hands on his shoulders, the rage left. “I’m going to kill you,” he said in a more monotone voice. He looked at Duncan MacLeod without raising his head. The older Immortal took a tentative step forward. Then another. Then another until Mikala put a hand up. He was a foot away from Rydr. “If Richie’s... dead,” he began, “who are you?” Dropping his head onto his heads, Noel rubbed at his burning eyes. His neck tingled, like a slight carpet burn or a tiny electrical shock. “They call me Rydr.” He peered at Jean from between his fingers. “My friends call me Noel.” “And you’re an Immortal.” Duncan slowly lowered himself to a crouch. “Are ye a friend of mine?” The younger Immortal shook his head. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. “If ye dinnae step back, God help me, I’m going tae take yuir head!” “Why?” “_I just have to_!” He clenched his hands into fists, dug them into his eyes sockets. “Please... go away.” Now it was Duncan’s turn to shake his head. Unconsciously, his head reached out. “Richie--“ Faster than his eye could follow, Noel had taken Duncan’s hand and gripped it until he could almost feel his bones give. The boy’s eyes were glittering with menace. “You won’t find who you’re looking for here,” he said softly, his gentle tone completely at odds with his actions, “Please, for your own good, leave and pretend you never saw me.” “How can I?” Duncan demanded, anguished, “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this day? How much I--“ “_Yes_.” Noel released his hand. “Get outta here, Mac.” Methos’ hand dropped on Duncan’s shoulder, tugging gently. “You heard him.” The ancient immortal’s voice was silk covered steel. “Let’s go, MacLeod.” Bewildered at his friend’s betrayal, Duncan said, “Methos, you would--“ “He asked nicely. Now let’s _go_.” He yanked the dazed Scotsman back up and towards the door. “Wait.” Jean stood up and chased after them as they were walking down the narrow corridor of the apartment building. He was carrying a sack. “Wait a tic.” He held his package out to them. “What is it?” Methos asked. “Something that needs guarding.” He pressed the heavy black sack into Duncan’s numb hands. “Hide it. Take it to the person you trust most. They’ll know what to do with it.” Duncan stared at the strange young man with the bright hazel eyes. He was still too much in shock to do anything but obediently hold on to the sack. Methos spoke for him. “We’ll get right on it.” Jean nodded once, sticking his hands in his pockets. He had turned and was headed back to the apartment when Duncan found his voice again. “Will he be all right?” Jean half-turned his head and cocked it to one side but didn’t stop walking. “Oh, he’ll be mad at me for a long time; might even try to kill me once or twice. Nothing serious.” Duncan reached out and snagged Jean’s arm. “Will he be back?” His brows furrowing slightly, Jean answered his question with one of his own. “Are you talking about Richie Ryan or Noel MacLeod?” Baffled, Duncan said, “Is there a difference?” “Oh, yes. A very big difference.” Gently, Jean pried the Scotsman’s fingers from his shirt. “When you figure out who you want back, maybe I can answer your question.” He smiled, a tiny smile, the smile his father rarely gave but never failed to impact. “Like I said: Watch your head, Mac.” Quickly, so that the Highlander wouldn’t be able to ask any more questions, he ducked into the apartment. The two Immortals heard a humming noise, like a cat purring or an engine rumbling. When it was gone, Methos knew that the three mysterious guests were no longer reachable. Duncan, of course, had to see for himself. The apartment looked as if no one have lived in it for weeks. The Highlander’s body slumped so low, Methos thought his shoulders almost reached his knees. “Let’s go home, MacLeod,” he said softly, deciding that jokes weren’t appropriate just yet. He slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders to lead him out into the Land Rover. _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.