snippet
working title : Disaster
This is a fragment, I don't particularly have a plot in mind yet. No promises that it will be finished any time soon...
He turned the corner and-
the Presence hit him a second before the bullet whistled by his ear.
“That was a warning,” a voice from the darkness called, clear and even and too calm. A voice he knew, but like everything in this devastated place, it was made strange by circumstance.
MacLeod lowered the katana but didn’t sheath it. Not yet. He needed to not get shot here. And he really didn’t want a friend taking his head. Especially not a friend he hadn’t seen in five years. So he used the only sure defense he had.
“Is Joe with you?” He’d come as soon as he heard about the destruction, charming his way through the streets when he could, using force if he had to. It had taken him a week to reach the city.
Silence. The voice, when it came again, was much closer. He hadn’t heard any movement. Then he heard the cock of a shotgun, much too close, concealed by the darkness.
“I gave you fair warning.” Not familiar at all, that voice.
“Adam?” He called, sure the name was outdated but lacking an alternative.
“Adam’s been dead for three years,” the changed voice of his friend said, “You’d know that if you ever ventured out of your monastery.”
Then all at once there was light, bright and in his face, a shock after the endless darkness of his journey.
“Is Joe safe?” He demanded, throwing up a hand to block his eyes.
A snort. “He’s alive.”
The light dropped. Methos stood five paces to MacLeod’s right. He seemed to blur in the darkness, recognizable mostly by his silhouette. A heavy flashlight was in one hand and a shotgun balanced in his other. The gun was still aimed at MacLeod’s head.
“Do you mind?” MacLeod growled. The Methos he’d last seen in Paris five years ago would have smirked and put the gun away. This man just stared at him. After another tense minute he shrugged and lowered the weapon, keeping it ready.
“What do you want, MacLeod?”
That seemed obvious. He was getting sick of this game.
“I came for Joe,” he said.
“Nice of you to drop by.” Methos gestured with the flashlight, the powerful beam picking out the wreckage of Seacouver’s bar district. He hadn’t told MacLeod his new name.
“Methos-"
The gun was up in a flash, and Methos’ face hardened in the dimness.
“What.Are.You.Doing.Here.” It wasn’t a question so much as an order. Methos wouldn’t think twice about shooting him, but he wouldn’t take MacLeod’s head while he was down. At least the man he’d known five years ago wouldn’t have. This man...
“I just told you,” MacLeod forced himself into calmness. This place had been like a war zone for weeks. Methos had more reason than usual to be cautious.
“You think you can get Joe out.” There was distrust in the other man’s voice. The muzzle didn’t move.
It hit him then, with a cold sinking, that his hand was still clenched around the katana’s hilt. Did Methos think he’d come for the head of the world’s oldest man, here in hell? He swallowed down his own sense of danger and slowly sheathed the sword.
“Yes.”
Methos lowered the gun again and hefted the flashlight. There was a twisted smirk on his face.
“Best of luck.”
And with that he turned and started to vanish back into the darkness. The beam of the light went out as if doused. MacLeod hurried after him, following the barely visible movement, the soft sound of footsteps.
The black on black hulk of a building loomed before them and Methos halted. He didn’t turn the light on but this close MacLeod could make out the pale oval of his face.
“Go ahead. Joe’s inside.” He held a door open. MacLeod could see the low glimmer of candlelight inside.
“Aren’t you-“
“No. Before you came we caught sniper fire.” And without further explanation he turned and moved silently away.
Another surprise awaited MacLeod inside. The small room was stuffy and close and filled with bodies. At least twenty pairs of eyes stared back at him. Eyes widened in fear or curiosity, eyes narrowed in suspicion and anger, eyes heavy with dispair.
“Who are you?” a thin teenaged boy demanded, a knife clenched in one hand.
MacLeod made certain his empty hands were clearly visible.
“I’m looking for Joe. Joe Dawson.”
The kid didn’t give an inch. “What do you want with him?”
Biting down on frustration, MacLeod scanned the room but saw no sign of Joe.
“He’s my friend. Is he here?” Damn Methos for leaving him without an introduction to these scared people.
A woman appeared behind the kid, her greying hair pulled back in a bandana.
“Matthew let him in, Eric. He wouldn’t have done that if this man meant any harm.”
MacLeod filed away the name as he tried to project an air of reassurance. He could easily take the kid down, but that would only turn the others against him. The kid scowled, but he stepped aside.
“My name is Marie. I’ll take you to Joe.”
The others parted to let Marie lead him through the front room to another smaller room in the back. The former office was piled with hastily stacked supplies of one kind or another - canned goods, toiletries, clothes, gallons of water. Marie knelt down next to a younger woman who was perched on the floor next to an air mattress.
“It’s okay,” Marie told her, when the woman turned a panicked frown on MacLeod. “He’s a friend of Joe’s. Matthew brought him.”
There were two bodies under the blankets on the mattress. One ended before the other, truncated. Fear shot up MacLeod’s spine. Then the young woman shifted and he saw Joe’s head against a pillow, not covered with the blanket like a corpse. The young woman must have read the fear in MacLeod’s face. She stood and took his hand in hers.
“His arm’s broken, and he’s got an infection. Matthew says he’ll be alright.”
This is a fragment, I don't particularly have a plot in mind yet. No promises that it will be finished any time soon...
He turned the corner and-
the Presence hit him a second before the bullet whistled by his ear.
“That was a warning,” a voice from the darkness called, clear and even and too calm. A voice he knew, but like everything in this devastated place, it was made strange by circumstance.
MacLeod lowered the katana but didn’t sheath it. Not yet. He needed to not get shot here. And he really didn’t want a friend taking his head. Especially not a friend he hadn’t seen in five years. So he used the only sure defense he had.
“Is Joe with you?” He’d come as soon as he heard about the destruction, charming his way through the streets when he could, using force if he had to. It had taken him a week to reach the city.
Silence. The voice, when it came again, was much closer. He hadn’t heard any movement. Then he heard the cock of a shotgun, much too close, concealed by the darkness.
“I gave you fair warning.” Not familiar at all, that voice.
“Adam?” He called, sure the name was outdated but lacking an alternative.
“Adam’s been dead for three years,” the changed voice of his friend said, “You’d know that if you ever ventured out of your monastery.”
Then all at once there was light, bright and in his face, a shock after the endless darkness of his journey.
“Is Joe safe?” He demanded, throwing up a hand to block his eyes.
A snort. “He’s alive.”
The light dropped. Methos stood five paces to MacLeod’s right. He seemed to blur in the darkness, recognizable mostly by his silhouette. A heavy flashlight was in one hand and a shotgun balanced in his other. The gun was still aimed at MacLeod’s head.
“Do you mind?” MacLeod growled. The Methos he’d last seen in Paris five years ago would have smirked and put the gun away. This man just stared at him. After another tense minute he shrugged and lowered the weapon, keeping it ready.
“What do you want, MacLeod?”
That seemed obvious. He was getting sick of this game.
“I came for Joe,” he said.
“Nice of you to drop by.” Methos gestured with the flashlight, the powerful beam picking out the wreckage of Seacouver’s bar district. He hadn’t told MacLeod his new name.
“Methos-"
The gun was up in a flash, and Methos’ face hardened in the dimness.
“What.Are.You.Doing.Here.” It wasn’t a question so much as an order. Methos wouldn’t think twice about shooting him, but he wouldn’t take MacLeod’s head while he was down. At least the man he’d known five years ago wouldn’t have. This man...
“I just told you,” MacLeod forced himself into calmness. This place had been like a war zone for weeks. Methos had more reason than usual to be cautious.
“You think you can get Joe out.” There was distrust in the other man’s voice. The muzzle didn’t move.
It hit him then, with a cold sinking, that his hand was still clenched around the katana’s hilt. Did Methos think he’d come for the head of the world’s oldest man, here in hell? He swallowed down his own sense of danger and slowly sheathed the sword.
“Yes.”
Methos lowered the gun again and hefted the flashlight. There was a twisted smirk on his face.
“Best of luck.”
And with that he turned and started to vanish back into the darkness. The beam of the light went out as if doused. MacLeod hurried after him, following the barely visible movement, the soft sound of footsteps.
The black on black hulk of a building loomed before them and Methos halted. He didn’t turn the light on but this close MacLeod could make out the pale oval of his face.
“Go ahead. Joe’s inside.” He held a door open. MacLeod could see the low glimmer of candlelight inside.
“Aren’t you-“
“No. Before you came we caught sniper fire.” And without further explanation he turned and moved silently away.
Another surprise awaited MacLeod inside. The small room was stuffy and close and filled with bodies. At least twenty pairs of eyes stared back at him. Eyes widened in fear or curiosity, eyes narrowed in suspicion and anger, eyes heavy with dispair.
“Who are you?” a thin teenaged boy demanded, a knife clenched in one hand.
MacLeod made certain his empty hands were clearly visible.
“I’m looking for Joe. Joe Dawson.”
The kid didn’t give an inch. “What do you want with him?”
Biting down on frustration, MacLeod scanned the room but saw no sign of Joe.
“He’s my friend. Is he here?” Damn Methos for leaving him without an introduction to these scared people.
A woman appeared behind the kid, her greying hair pulled back in a bandana.
“Matthew let him in, Eric. He wouldn’t have done that if this man meant any harm.”
MacLeod filed away the name as he tried to project an air of reassurance. He could easily take the kid down, but that would only turn the others against him. The kid scowled, but he stepped aside.
“My name is Marie. I’ll take you to Joe.”
The others parted to let Marie lead him through the front room to another smaller room in the back. The former office was piled with hastily stacked supplies of one kind or another - canned goods, toiletries, clothes, gallons of water. Marie knelt down next to a younger woman who was perched on the floor next to an air mattress.
“It’s okay,” Marie told her, when the woman turned a panicked frown on MacLeod. “He’s a friend of Joe’s. Matthew brought him.”
There were two bodies under the blankets on the mattress. One ended before the other, truncated. Fear shot up MacLeod’s spine. Then the young woman shifted and he saw Joe’s head against a pillow, not covered with the blanket like a corpse. The young woman must have read the fear in MacLeod’s face. She stood and took his hand in hers.
“His arm’s broken, and he’s got an infection. Matthew says he’ll be alright.”