Plot Bunny Release part 2
Nov. 14th, 2004 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kerravonsenHere is one more of my released plot bunnies.
The following one I wrote quite a bit of, but could never get it to go any further.
#7.
This is set in the first season of Highlander...
A Sword in the Hand
(Highlander/Champions)
...
"Can I help you?" asked Richie. The sun drew patterns of shadow on the wooden floor of the antique store, and gleamed on the glass display cabinets.
The man - the potential customer - looked up from the case he was examining. At first glance, he seemed quite ordinary; mid-brown hair, conservative brown suit, regular but not astonishing physiognomy - apart from his eyes, droopily lidded like a Chinaman in reverse.
"I am Richard Barrett," he said, betraying his English origins. He gave Richie a piercing stare, as if his eyes were gimlets.
"Richard Ryan," Richie said, attempting to ignore his unease. "My card," he proffered his card. The man was a potential customer after all.
"Your card," Barrett echoed puzzledly, as if he had been expecting something else. He took the card, glanced at it, then at Richie, and nodded to himself. "Of course," he said to himself, as if some mystery were solved. He met Richie's eyes again, and this time Richie did not feel impaled by his gaze. "I am seeking a sword," Barrett said.
"Well this is a fine example of a -"
"Fourteenth century French broadsword," Barrett finished for him. "I have done my homework. I am not so much interested in lineage as mettle."
"It's in excellent condition -"
"I would prefer to have the assessment of an expert," interrupted Barrett, dismissing Richie's words. "When will Mr. MacLeod be back?" The piercing stare had returned.
"MacLeod? He'll be back on Thursday," Richie found himself saying. The man made him uneasy in his gut, as if he were a tiger disguised as a Labrador. And asking about swords and MacLeod?
Barrett took a card out of his wallet, and wrote on it. "Ask Mr. MacLeod to call me when he returns," he said, handing the card to Richie.
Then Barrett froze, and his eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that MacLeod won't be back until Thursday?" he asked, and turned to face the door.
The man who entered was handsome, with dark curly locks tumbling loose around his shoulders, complemented by a long black leather coat that he wore like a fashion model.
"Hoffmann!" Barrett exclaimed.
"Well, well, what have we here? Barrett. What a bonus!"
"I thought I eluded you in Vegas," Barrett said.
"As much as I hate to admit it, you did," Hoffmann replied. "I was coming for MacLeod."
Richie didn't like the sound of this at all. *Two* immortals, and both of them after MacLeod. "Can I help you?" he asked with a false smile. Both of them ignored him.
"He isn't here," Barrett said.
"Then I'll just have to make do with you," Hoffmann sneered, and pulled out a glittering blade from beneath his fancy coat.
I wonder how they do that, thought Richie, while the rest of him froze in indecision between calling the police or just getting the hell out of the way.
"Some other time, perhaps," Barrett said, mock-regretfully. "Without witnesses."
"Who said I was intending on leaving any?" Hoffmann returned, making a swipe at Barrett. Though it seemed as if he could not miss, the sword met nothing but air.
Richie ducked behind a display case. Discretion was definitely the better part of valour in this case.
"Hardly gentlemanly," Barrett quipped, then his face hardened. "Leave the boy alone," he demanded. "He has no part in this."
"And how are you going to stop me?" Hoffmann asked tauntingly. He took another swipe at Barrett, and again Barrett was not there. Hoffmann's sword connected with a display case and the glass shattered, scattering like an explosion of ice.
Richie scrambled further away, wondering if he could make it to a phone, or even out the door, before he was skewered by one of these escapees from the Round Table. Though Barrett had yet to brandish one of those deadly lengths of steel that immortals favoured.
"You haven't replaced your sword yet, have you?" Hoffmann realized, laughing. "This will be child's play."
Barrett smiled thinly. "I think not," he said. "I don't need a sword to stop you, Hoffmann." Barrett darted under Hoffmann's guard even as he spoke. It was almost too fast to see; Barrett grabbed Hoffmann's wrist, there was a sickening crack of breaking bones, Hoffmann's sword clattered to the floor, and Hoffmann staggered back, cradling his broken wrist to his chest. Before Hoffmann could do more than straighten up, Barrett had picked up Hoffmann's sword and pointed it at Hoffmann. "This is not the time or place," Barrett said grimly. "Do you understand yet, Hoffmann? Or do I have to break something else?"
"That's my sword!" Hoffmann protested idiotically.
"It *was* your sword," Barrett said, and calmly broke it across his knee, as if it were no more than a twig. The sharp edges had cut into one hand, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. He tossed the pieces towards Hoffmann. "Terribly sorry," he said dryly.
Hoffmann picked up the pieces gingerly and silently and retreated.
"There's a church a couple of blocks away," Barrett added with a grim smile. "If you would feel safer on Holy Ground..."
Hoffmann made a quick exit out the door.
When Richie scrambled up from where he had been crouching, Hoffmann was out of sight, and Barrett had bound a handkerchief around his hand.
"Sorry about the damage," Barrett said with a rueful smile, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a wad of money. "Will this cover it?"
"Uh, sure," Richie spluttered, and then Barrett caught his eyes. It was as though he had been frozen in place.
"There was not a fight," Barrett droned at him. "There was no one here but me. There was an accident. An accident with the case. There was no trouble."
"No trouble," Richie echoed.
"Good," Barrett smiled, and deliberately blinked. Richie stirred. "Be sure to tell Mr. MacLeod to call when he returns."
"Uh, yeah, sure," Richie said, a little bemused. Hadn't Barrett just said that twice? "Have a nice day."
"Thank you," Barrett nodded, and left.
***
"I'm afraid there was an accident with one of the display cases," Richie said to Duncan when he returned. "Luckily the fellow offered to pay for the damage."
"What fellow?" Duncan asked.
Richie dug the card from his pocket. "This fellow. Wanted to see you particularly. Was looking for a sword, wanted the opinion of an *expert*."
"Do you think it was an immortal?" Tessa asked.
Richie wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. "I don't know."
Duncan said at the same time, "An interest in swords doesn't mean that someone *must* be an immortal."
"Well, he wasn't exactly normal," Richie added. "He was English -"
"Oh, and everyone who isn't American isn't normal?" Tessa said tartly in her accented voice.
"Oh, y'know I didn't mean it like that!" Richie protested.
"Do I?" Tessa teased.
"It wasn't that he was English," Richie said. "It's just that there was something odd about him. I don't know. Something about his eyes..." Richie shrugged. "It's probably nothing." He gestured at the card that Duncan was holding. "Are you going to give him a call?"
Duncan shrugged. 'Why not?"
The following one I wrote quite a bit of, but could never get it to go any further.
#7.
This is set in the first season of Highlander...
A Sword in the Hand
(Highlander/Champions)
...
"Can I help you?" asked Richie. The sun drew patterns of shadow on the wooden floor of the antique store, and gleamed on the glass display cabinets.
The man - the potential customer - looked up from the case he was examining. At first glance, he seemed quite ordinary; mid-brown hair, conservative brown suit, regular but not astonishing physiognomy - apart from his eyes, droopily lidded like a Chinaman in reverse.
"I am Richard Barrett," he said, betraying his English origins. He gave Richie a piercing stare, as if his eyes were gimlets.
"Richard Ryan," Richie said, attempting to ignore his unease. "My card," he proffered his card. The man was a potential customer after all.
"Your card," Barrett echoed puzzledly, as if he had been expecting something else. He took the card, glanced at it, then at Richie, and nodded to himself. "Of course," he said to himself, as if some mystery were solved. He met Richie's eyes again, and this time Richie did not feel impaled by his gaze. "I am seeking a sword," Barrett said.
"Well this is a fine example of a -"
"Fourteenth century French broadsword," Barrett finished for him. "I have done my homework. I am not so much interested in lineage as mettle."
"It's in excellent condition -"
"I would prefer to have the assessment of an expert," interrupted Barrett, dismissing Richie's words. "When will Mr. MacLeod be back?" The piercing stare had returned.
"MacLeod? He'll be back on Thursday," Richie found himself saying. The man made him uneasy in his gut, as if he were a tiger disguised as a Labrador. And asking about swords and MacLeod?
Barrett took a card out of his wallet, and wrote on it. "Ask Mr. MacLeod to call me when he returns," he said, handing the card to Richie.
Then Barrett froze, and his eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that MacLeod won't be back until Thursday?" he asked, and turned to face the door.
The man who entered was handsome, with dark curly locks tumbling loose around his shoulders, complemented by a long black leather coat that he wore like a fashion model.
"Hoffmann!" Barrett exclaimed.
"Well, well, what have we here? Barrett. What a bonus!"
"I thought I eluded you in Vegas," Barrett said.
"As much as I hate to admit it, you did," Hoffmann replied. "I was coming for MacLeod."
Richie didn't like the sound of this at all. *Two* immortals, and both of them after MacLeod. "Can I help you?" he asked with a false smile. Both of them ignored him.
"He isn't here," Barrett said.
"Then I'll just have to make do with you," Hoffmann sneered, and pulled out a glittering blade from beneath his fancy coat.
I wonder how they do that, thought Richie, while the rest of him froze in indecision between calling the police or just getting the hell out of the way.
"Some other time, perhaps," Barrett said, mock-regretfully. "Without witnesses."
"Who said I was intending on leaving any?" Hoffmann returned, making a swipe at Barrett. Though it seemed as if he could not miss, the sword met nothing but air.
Richie ducked behind a display case. Discretion was definitely the better part of valour in this case.
"Hardly gentlemanly," Barrett quipped, then his face hardened. "Leave the boy alone," he demanded. "He has no part in this."
"And how are you going to stop me?" Hoffmann asked tauntingly. He took another swipe at Barrett, and again Barrett was not there. Hoffmann's sword connected with a display case and the glass shattered, scattering like an explosion of ice.
Richie scrambled further away, wondering if he could make it to a phone, or even out the door, before he was skewered by one of these escapees from the Round Table. Though Barrett had yet to brandish one of those deadly lengths of steel that immortals favoured.
"You haven't replaced your sword yet, have you?" Hoffmann realized, laughing. "This will be child's play."
Barrett smiled thinly. "I think not," he said. "I don't need a sword to stop you, Hoffmann." Barrett darted under Hoffmann's guard even as he spoke. It was almost too fast to see; Barrett grabbed Hoffmann's wrist, there was a sickening crack of breaking bones, Hoffmann's sword clattered to the floor, and Hoffmann staggered back, cradling his broken wrist to his chest. Before Hoffmann could do more than straighten up, Barrett had picked up Hoffmann's sword and pointed it at Hoffmann. "This is not the time or place," Barrett said grimly. "Do you understand yet, Hoffmann? Or do I have to break something else?"
"That's my sword!" Hoffmann protested idiotically.
"It *was* your sword," Barrett said, and calmly broke it across his knee, as if it were no more than a twig. The sharp edges had cut into one hand, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. He tossed the pieces towards Hoffmann. "Terribly sorry," he said dryly.
Hoffmann picked up the pieces gingerly and silently and retreated.
"There's a church a couple of blocks away," Barrett added with a grim smile. "If you would feel safer on Holy Ground..."
Hoffmann made a quick exit out the door.
When Richie scrambled up from where he had been crouching, Hoffmann was out of sight, and Barrett had bound a handkerchief around his hand.
"Sorry about the damage," Barrett said with a rueful smile, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a wad of money. "Will this cover it?"
"Uh, sure," Richie spluttered, and then Barrett caught his eyes. It was as though he had been frozen in place.
"There was not a fight," Barrett droned at him. "There was no one here but me. There was an accident. An accident with the case. There was no trouble."
"No trouble," Richie echoed.
"Good," Barrett smiled, and deliberately blinked. Richie stirred. "Be sure to tell Mr. MacLeod to call when he returns."
"Uh, yeah, sure," Richie said, a little bemused. Hadn't Barrett just said that twice? "Have a nice day."
"Thank you," Barrett nodded, and left.
***
"I'm afraid there was an accident with one of the display cases," Richie said to Duncan when he returned. "Luckily the fellow offered to pay for the damage."
"What fellow?" Duncan asked.
Richie dug the card from his pocket. "This fellow. Wanted to see you particularly. Was looking for a sword, wanted the opinion of an *expert*."
"Do you think it was an immortal?" Tessa asked.
Richie wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. "I don't know."
Duncan said at the same time, "An interest in swords doesn't mean that someone *must* be an immortal."
"Well, he wasn't exactly normal," Richie added. "He was English -"
"Oh, and everyone who isn't American isn't normal?" Tessa said tartly in her accented voice.
"Oh, y'know I didn't mean it like that!" Richie protested.
"Do I?" Tessa teased.
"It wasn't that he was English," Richie said. "It's just that there was something odd about him. I don't know. Something about his eyes..." Richie shrugged. "It's probably nothing." He gestured at the card that Duncan was holding. "Are you going to give him a call?"
Duncan shrugged. 'Why not?"
