Present (Wednesday)...
Out on afternoon patrol, scouring the streets for prowling slave-vandals, Detective Jones spotted the smoke at the same instant as David exclaimed,
"Over there!"
He pointed at the plume, which seemed to be rising from a farm situated just within Storybrooke's borders, its property edged with forest. A frantic flock of birds winged their coordinated retreat in pink-tinged contrast to the billowing black smoke. Nodding, Jones flipped on his siren and light, hauling on the wheel and sending the car into a skidding right angle at the next intersection. David grabbed the radio to communicate with Emma the need for backup and a fire truck. Alert for other vehicles and stray pedestrians, Jones pushed the Chevelle to speeds bordering on reckless. If they could catch the vandals before they returned to their Master, they would provide that much more opportunity for Dr. Whale and his team to cure the ghastly ailment leading to so many deaths.
Five minutes later, the car screeched to a stop, sending gravel and dust clouds spraying in all directions. Both men leapt from the vehicle, armed with stun guns: they had yet to meet a slave that would respond to threats with a normal handgun. It was stun, wound, or kill with these guys, never surrender. Tom Swift of the Land of Untold Stories had therefore provided his expertise in perfecting electroshock cartridges that could be fired from a distance… and take care of more than one target without having to reload each time, unlike many traditional taser weapons.
Eager flames climbed one side of a barn, spreading rapidly in the early autumn drought. The thick smoke stung eyes and tickled throats, and waves of searing heat radiated even as far back as Jones' selected parking spot. Of the perpetrators or the farm's owners, there was no sign. The detective raised his weapon and shouted over the steady roar of the flames.
"Cover me; I'm going to check if anyone is inside."
David fell into step an appropriate distance behind Jones, keeping his own gun at the ready. With suitable caution, the duo jogged toward the as-yet-unaffected barn door.
Jones peered around the corner, stun gun pointing into the dark, smoke-filled interior of the building. "Police! Anyone in here?"
His question was met with silence. Just as he was searching for a light switch, there came a warning grunt from David.
"Look out!"
The detective whirled to the quick snap of David's stun gun discharging. A ragged group of four slaves were staggering around the opposite corner of the barn. Jones aimed at the nearest threat and fired. The skeletal man collapsed to the dirt, joining his stunned comrade. But the remaining two merely sidestepped the twitching bodies and continued their disorderly attack. A short burst of gunfire was enough to bring them to a spasmodic halt: all culprits subdued. Or so they thought.
"Killian."
Busy cuffing a stunned slave, Jones looked up to see David gesturing at the barn behind him. The detective glanced over his shoulder and saw what his companion wanted to warn him about: six - no, seven - slaves were stumbling around the corner toward their fallen comrades. Some carried weapons: axes, bats, even one rusted sword. Knowing that neither he nor David had enough stun projectiles to take on that many opponents, Jones drew his regular pistol and stood.
"Back to the car," he decided. "We'll wait for backup."
"Stay on them; I've got these guys."
Jones checked in the direction of the Chevelle. Sure enough, five more slaves guarded the vehicle in hopes of cutting off their escape route. He sighed. "Just… try not to hit the car?"
David pulled out his own gun, and both men opened fire, moving steadily toward cover. Jones aimed low, trying to cripple but not kill. He winced at the unmistakable ping of a ricochet sounding behind him. Two of the seven lay groaning in the dust; the rest marched doggedly onward. Then three more materialized from around the corner. Bloody hell; just how many were there? At least none of them seemed to have ranged weapons.
"How's it coming, David?"
"Two more," came the grunted reply. Another shot, and he added, "Charge him?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth." Still firing, Jones mentally counted, knowing he'd be out of bullets soon. "On three? One… two…"
"Killian?!"
David's tone of surprise jarred the detective out of his state of concentration. He half turned, searching for a new threat. But David had not been addressing him.
His missing counterpart leaned against the Chevelle's bumper, his expression blank. He must have been hiding behind the car and only now chose to reveal himself. Jones barely recognized him. He wore the collar and burlap of all the others, with arms, feet, and legs bare. His hair was long and wild, and he looked withered and weak. Even from 20 yards away, Jones could see the angry scars and healing injuries scrawled over his limbs and face. And what the hell had been done to his wrist? Some sort of metal handle dangled in place of the hook, apparently burrowing directly into the scarred flesh. The detective quailed at the thought.
In his hand, Killian clutched a tarnished sword, although it currently rested point-down on the road, as if too heavy to hold aloft. He stared vacantly, eyes flicking between the two men. Jones caught a fleeting hint of what may have been recognition, but it vanished before he could be certain.
"What now?" murmured Jones, realizing that neither of them were capable of pulling the trigger on their friend. David sheathed both empty stun gun and pistol, then took a step closer, hands raised.
"It's good to see you, buddy. We've been worried."
Jones cast a wary glance toward the barn to see the remaining slaves continuing their advance with mindless dedication. He looked back just in time to see Killian push himself upright, stumble to the rear right corner of the vehicle, and drive the point of the blade into the tire. The detective hissed a curse: so much for escape.
The brief distraction gave enough coverage for the slaves behind them to begin a plodding jog forward; Jones could hear their heavy footfalls and ragged breathing growing nearer. Reluctantly, he returned to his role as rear guard, allowing David the task of confronting his son-in-law.
"Killian, stop," David's voice sounded between gunshots. "We're here to help."
Jones could tell that the prince was continuing to move toward the car, and took a few backward steps in that direction as well, but he knew he had to keep the group of slaves busy. David would be too focused on the other Killian to notice a threat from behind.
Jones felled four more assailants before his pistol clicked empty. That left four, each wielding a different weapon: an axe, a sword, a dagger... and a pitchfork, of all things. Transferring the depleted gun to his mechanical hand - it could be used as a club if nothing else - Jones fumbled for the shock prod at his side. Where was that backup?
The fastest of the slaves hurled himself at Jones, who easily stepped closer than practical for pitchfork use, then brought his weapon up under the man's chin and activated its electricity. The thump of the twitching body was accompanied by David's continued pleas:
"Let us take you home. Emma misses you; she's been worried sick…"
The axe and dagger wielders arrived almost simultaneously, swinging and slashing wildly without strategy, though they did manage to come at him from opposite sides. Jones deflected the axe blow without too much difficulty, turning to use the slave's body as a shield against the threatening dagger. But by then, the long reach of the sword had become a threat, and the detective just barely avoided a serious slice through the midsection. Desperately, he thrust the stun gun at the nearest patch of flesh and discharged. The axe wielder stiffened in his grasp and then fell, colliding with his compatriot behind.
As he faced off with the sword slave, Jones vaguely heard a scuffle near the car, stifled exclamations and grunts of exertion mimicking his own as he dodged another swipe from the blade. Clearly unused to the weapon, the slave let the swing go wide, which twisted him and put him off balance. Jones sprang forward, eager to capitalize. He shoved the prod at his opponent, depressed the switch… and nothing happened. Damn thing was out of juice.
In desperation, Jones slammed the butt of his pistol into the slave's temple. The man staggered but did not go down. Despite his reeling, the slave had the presence of mind to switch the sword to his other hand, giving himself more maneuverability. Jones dropped the useless stun weapon and clawed for the other man's wrist. His own arm, in turn, was quickly grasped to prevent further strikes with the pistol.
The ensuing wrestling match did not last long: the recovered dagger slave, having disentangled himself from the stunned body of the axe slave, now stumbled into range. Jones saw him coming out of the corner of his eye and again tried to use the body of the other as a shield... except, with their current stalemate, the man was already tensed and resistant to any sort of manipulation. Jones managed to move his arm perhaps three inches. The dagger skittered along his straining forearm, scored the glove over his mechanical hand, and then sliced into the sword wielder's bicep. The injured slave howled and released his grip on Jones' wrist; in a flash, the detective had repeated his blow to the temple, and this time, the man did fall.
Panting, Jones snatched up the sword from the unconscious slave's grasp: better to be armed somehow, even if he didn't have the goal of running anyone through. He flexed his prosthesis carefully around the pistol to check for damage, feeling as he did so the burning trail along his arm left by the slashing dagger. But the hand seemed to be functioning normally.
The dagger wielder came at him with relentless determination. But even using an unfamiliar weapon, Killian Jones is a master swordsman. He easily disarmed the slave, stopped his advance with a carefully judged gash to the thigh, and then moved in to secure him. Just as he was deciding whether a knockout blow would be necessary, he heard a grunt behind him, followed by an emphatic thud: a body meeting dirt. He spun, sword at the ready.
David was down. Prone on the road, facing away, his limbs sprawled and motionless. And Killian was pulling his sword point from his father-in-law's back.