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 ****************************************** Flip G-11: DeSalvo’s Dojo, Seacouver, USA... Curly--or Jetblayd or Xeno or whatever he called himself--was still out cold on his bare mattress. His arms and legs were rendered completely useless thanks to two rolls of duct tape; yet another use for the ever-so versatile product. Duncan had taped them together, his arms straight behind his back. He shook out the clothing the younger man been wearing, feeling no reserve about rooting through a stranger’s things. After all, he’d been the one who had bashed into Duncan’s apartment--or rather, his former apartment. And the guy was a one-man arsenal! Aside from the katana, various pockets and utility belts hidden all over his trenchcoat, shirt, pants, even taped to his skin yielded a barong-- a leaf-shaped blade from the Philippines that was fourteen inches long and two-and-a-half inches wide in the middle-- a half-dozen throwing knives, another half-dozen shiruken, and handfuls of marble-sized spheres in matte black, blue, and red. He had two guns, only one of which Duncan could readily identify as a compact Beretta semi-automatic. The other, the one he’d used downstairs, was like nothing Duncan had ever seen: lightweight, almost flat with three slits there the barrel should have been, and three flat buttons instead of a trigger covered by a round guard made of some sort of pink plastic. Two six-inch sticks of matte black metal roughly an inch and a half in diameter sat in his back pockets. To top it off, each boot had a little knife similar to a sgian dubh, wedged at the top. “Who the hell are you?” Duncan muttered to himself after taking a healthy swallow of juice. “Or maybe ‘what’ is a better question.” He eyed the young man curiously, analysing his body with scientific detachment. He didn’t heal quickly, a singular un-Immortal trait, and his body was covered in old scars and new bruises. He was lean, like Methos, but his muscles were more evident. The man called Casteciel had been at least six-foot-six and over two hundred pounds but this lightweight had met and blocked one of his downward thrusts with barely a grunt. He moved like he was double-jointed on every bone in his body. There were a few more interesting points about him, minor things that didn’t have anything to do with his strength but nagged at the back of Duncan’s head. Jetblayd’s ears were slightly pointed with light tufts of hair at the tips and behind. His nails were dark brown and thick, almost rounded. Duncan paused over his captive, staring at those hands. If they hadn’t been cut short, they would have made excellent claws. The man’s eyes fluttered. Duncan’s awareness sensed a shift in the song from Jetblyd’s body and he drew out his katana to lay the blade across the prone man’s throat. After a second or two, Jetblayd swallowed and opened his eyes. “A simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed,” he said, his voice scratchy from dehydration, “It was no problem, really. And, likewise, thank _you_ for sewing me up.” “I didn’t do it for you,” said Duncan. “I rather suspected that was the case.” He shifted, trying his bonds and apparently finding them too taxing in his weakened state. “I don’t suppose a little water would be too much to ask?” Without another word, Duncan tipped the nozzle of the juice bottle into Jetblayd’s mouth until he shook his head. Then he placed the katana back in on the younger man’s neck. Jetblayd’s eyes crossed as he tried to get a look at the fine Japanese specimen millimetres from his jugular artery. “Right then. You’ll be wanting some answers.” “Bright boy.” Duncan sipped at his juice. “And if the draft up my skivvies is any indication, you’ve stripped all my goodies from me, eh?” “Right again.” Jetblayd rolled his eyes. “Well, there was one place you forgot to look.” Duncan tensed, both hands on the hilt of his katana now. “Where?” “Inside me.” There was the sound of steel being unsheathed as Jetblayd released his knife-claws. He curled his body until he was belt double and kicked away Duncan’s blade with both taped-up legs. He then leapt up on his feet, finding no trouble with his balance though his arms and legs were still wrapped up tighter than a mummy. Rolling forward, he managed to dodge Duncan’s downward slash and contort his body so that his arms were now in front of him. “Oh, damn, that strained something,” said Jetblayd under his breath. His right hand, the one that Casteciel shot, throbbed like nothing on Earth and the Aerie when he’d unsheathed his knife-claws. He looked around for his goodies. The katana was out but sheathed. The throwing weapons were going to be useless as were the guns unless he wanted to barbeque himself a bit more-- his chest was still on the rare side. That left the barong, which was going to need some very fancy footwork-- not a fun thing when one was trussed up into a worm-like form whilst a blade-wielding Immortal was chasing one about a cluttered apartment. “I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to,” Duncan called out from behind him. “Pardon me if that doesn’t sound too plausible from this point of view, pun intended.” Jetblayd rolled again, this time coming up behind a stack of boxes. “I might consider it if you cross your heart and hope to die.” “Those kinds of promises are a bit unlucky in my world,” Duncan retorted. He took a few steps closer, his arms outstretched, the katana in ready position. “You see my dilemma.” Barong: two feet away at ten o’ clock. Immortal: two and a half feet away straight at twelve. Chances of performing an agile manoeuvre involving a lot of twisting and kicking and resulting in the barong being hurled upward point-over-pommel to come straight down between his arms: approximately one in thirty. Chances of immortal taking a swing at him: immense. Jetblayd licked his lips. “May I remind you that I saved your life?” “That’s why I sewed you up and got you up here.” Duncan relaxed a bit. “Look, if you let me put your weapons away, I’ll take off the tape around your arms.” “Deal.” Jetblayd stared glumly at the shiny tape. “Although as hairy as I am, I’m going to wish that you’d chopped my head off first.” ~*~*~ Abbotsford, USA... Abbotsford was a quiet farming community, a place most urban dwellers would call a “hick town.” Its city centre boasted of a movie theatre and a small strip mall as well as several established fast-food joints. That quickly gave way to miles and miles of wheat, corn, pasture and the occasional orchard. Twenty minutes’ drive from the city centre stood Jameson Orchards. It grew apples and pears. Presently, with spring at its climax, the scent of blossoms wafted all over the land. Combined with the white and pale pink blossoms that shed their petals at the slightest breeze, it rather resembled a child’s idea of Heaven with its fluffy white clouds and sweet smells. Noel stared, clucking his tongue. “It’s almost a sacrilege.” Mikala nodded then grinned. “But a damned good hide-out. Who’d suspect farmers from Arse-hole, Washington State of following quasi-religious fanatics who’re in turn following a secret order bent on world domination?” “Wait... wait... I think I saw this plot in an Indiana Jones movie. Or maybe it was ‘Days of Our Lives.’” They ditched the sedan just outside of the orchard’s perimeters, opting to take the rest of the mission on foot. Snapping his eye-piece in place, Noel dove over the short fence after giving Mika the signal for a split. “Ready, Ffayz, me lassie?” “Whenever you are, Rydr. Watch your head.” “Only if ye watch yuir ass.” Rydr spent a few minute re-checking his equipment: knives secured, goodies charged, bombs ticking, and sabre within easy reach. He sighted along the barrel of the hand-held Brakka, swinging his arm so that the farmhouse was between the crosshairs. “One Balancing act, coming up.” For a Sot’é base, it was a shade unusual. True, it was in a quiet, out of the way city but there were still too many things to duck behind, too many shadows and hidden nooks. Rydr gave a little bit of allowance for the neatly ordered orchards but it was a minor detail. Where were the walls and the steady line of guards? For that matter where were _any_ of the guards? Rydr didn’t see a single person. As soon as the thought came, Rydr realised his mistake just as his body was wise enough to take matter in its own hands and tumble away from the pointed tree branch that came whizzing down. It imbedded its point roughly where his spine had been a second ago. There was no time to really process information-- another killer branch swooped down, and another and another. Pink and white petals fluttered incongruously around him, dusting the pockmarked earth. From his prone position, Rydr searched for an exit. The trees surrounded him. The nearest gate was a good two hundred metres away. He rolled away from more two branches then parted his legs. A pear branch shivered inches from his groin, the blossoms winking at him merrily. “Now that was just a vile pot-shot!” he muttered. Flinging back his coat, his took out the other Brakka and started firing. He fancied the flowers were letting out death screams; then he realised it wasn’t his imagination. “Oh, fer Pete’s--I’ve landed in bloody Fantasia from Hell!” The sound coming from the flowers was just high enough to be irritating and loud enough to make it difficult to ignore. Combined with the killer branches, it made his concentration go off of centre. He barely jumped away from a branch; it gouged a good chunk out of his arm. He tightened his grip on the Brakkas as lightning bounced around the wound, knitting the muscles together. “If ye’re wantin’ me tae act badly.” He shrugged. He switched to the centre button. The Brakkas went wild. ~*~*~ Ffayz, opting to walk along the limits of the grounds a while longer, heard the sounds of the battle through her comme-link. Speaking a brief spell, she formed an image bubble. Rydr was taking a beating from-- the trees? “These guys are sooo weird,” she said with a shake of her head. Give her an Ethos follower any day; common mayhem, looting, and pillaging she could deal with. Attack trees were something she just did _not_ want to get into. Pinching off a lump of clay from a pouch, she shaped it into a rough human and inserted some simple movement instructions as well as a heat spell. She let it loose on the compound and watched. It was speared and ripped apart four feet into the tree line. “Hmm... not pretty.” Flicking her fingers once more, she activated an image spell. Unless they were warded against illusions, anyone who passed would see a German shepherd-like mutt and move right along. It was time to look for another entrance, preferably one lacking in killer trees. Five minutes’ jog later, she found the gate. It was a homey little thing, decorated in scrollwork and whitewashed. “Jameson’s Orchards. Est. 1955,” boasted the bright yellow paint, very quaint indeed. She flipped on her eyepiece. The detectors showed a fine web of lasers on both sides of the gates. A camera and a simple keyboard lay underground, to be activated when a vehicle pressed its weight on the sensors covered by a couple inches of dust and mud. Should the vehicle prove to be filled with hostiles, Ffayz’s eyepiece uncovered some very impressive firearms tucked in the fence posts and the two lilac bushes framing the gates. ::Yep, just the place to settle down and raise some young’uns.:: Ffayz looked up and down the road. The trees started again just two feet from the gravel road leading to the farmhouse. ::We could really use Hazzardd or Stiletto right around now.:: But the two resident thieves of the Xeno Core were off on their own adventures and thus couldn’t help with the security. ::Well, if I can’t go through, I wonder if I go over.:: She took a bit more clay, made another mannequin and launched it into the air. The trees didn’t get it but a fine red beam of heat did. ::All righty... scratch that idea. With Rydr merrily blasting his way through the flowers, I’m pretty sure whoever’s inside know there are intruders anyway.:: Ffayz sighed. ::And here I was so proud of being on the quiet team for once.:: She quickly brought up her ward--it prevented anything that could be considered an attack from coming within a foot of her-- and strengthened it just in case there were other spellcasters inside. Then she dropped the illusion spell and ran like the dickens. _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.