A/N: Samuel Colt was in England in 1835, and I’ve done my research on the man and the weapon, but if there are any historical inaccuracies I apologise sincerely.
Disclaimer:Buffy, Highlander and Supernatural all belong to other people, none of it's mine, not one little bit of it.
London, August 1835
Rwpyrt entered the dining room of Mivart’s and, after spotting his dining companion, crossed to join him.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Colt,” he said, holding out his hand. His guest stood and shook the hand firmly, a large smile on his face.
“My pleasure, Mr. Aeron. I could hardly refuse an offer of dinner in such swanky surroundings nor the promise of a commission,” Colt replied. Rwpyrt nodded then seated himself opposite Colt and, after attracting the attention of a waiter, ordered wine and luncheon for them both.
“You don’t mind, of course, but I know that the veal here is excellent,” Rwpyrt explained. “Now, to business. I do indeed have a commission for you. I’ve heard of your new firearms, Mr. Colt; of their unerring accuracy compared with others.”
“Well, now, they’re good, but I wouldn’t call them unerring, sir.”
“I have also heard that you believe in the supernatural,” Rwpyrt continued, ignoring Colt’s interruption. Colt grew serious, his smile falling from his face.
“If you call seeing a whole bunch of people I care about slaughtered by…” Colt looked about the room before saying the next word in a whisper. “…vampires
, believing, then yeah, I believe,” he said defiantly. He stared at Rwpyrt, as though willing Rwpyrt to laugh or challenge him. Rwpyrt nodded sympathetically.
“I had heard something along those lines, but one can’t always trust rumour. I’m sorry I did that, but I needed to hear it from you. I believe you, and that’s why I need your help,” Rwpyrt explained. “Will you come to my rooms after we’ve eaten? I have some plans I need to show you.”
Colt thought about it for a moment, still clearly dumbfounded that someone would believe him, and then he nodded.
Rwpyrt unrolled several pieces of paper and held them flat by placing books at each corner, then stepped back to allow Colt to examine the designs.
“It is critically important that you follow these designs as closely as possible. The engravings are vital to the function of the weapon,” Rwpyrt instructed. Colt nodded thoughtfully, and then pointed to the barrel design.
“The barrel’s gonna be a unique gauge, I’ll have to make the bullets especially.”
“I’d suspected as much. You must make thirteen. No more, no less, and each must be inscribed with its number. I’ll provide the metal for both the gun and the ammunition. It must be finished exactly on the 16th of November; can you finish it by then?” Rwpyrt asked.
“Sure, but why then?”
“Halley’s Comet reaches its perihelion that night. It also occurs in conjunction with other significant planetary alignments that will make the protective spells and sigils more effective. If this goes according to plan, Mr. Colt, your gun will kill anything.”
Rwpyrt dropped and rolled, the fire narrowly missing him. He was relieved; recovering from burns was never pleasant. This demon was really starting to irritate him, the damned thing wouldn’t die.
He’d tried all the usual attacks – various holy weapons, beheading, every incantation and potion he could think of, but nothing had sent the beast back to the hell dimension that spawned it.
It seemed he had only one option left to him, but he was loath to use the Colt. He had already been forced to use four of the precious bullets, this would leave only eight and he’d only had the weapon thirty years. Halley’s Comet would pass overhead at least five more times before the proper alignments would allow the creation of another weapon like the Colt; he had to be careful with it.
He knew though, this was one time he had to use it, or this demon would ravage the Midwest unchecked. With a sigh, he drew the Colt, aimed and fired.
*-*Somewhere in Kansas, 1884
It had been a long night; the Washet demon was a nasty blighter and taking out an entire nest was never easy, even with a Slayer. Rupert had lost his second best sword in the process, breaking the centuries old blade against a stone door lintel. He was annoyed and tired, so the last thing he needed was to feel the Buzz of another Immortal. He let out a little groan and fervently hoped that whoever this was would either be friendly or decent enough to let him get another sword.
His heart sank as the Immortal came into view and he realised it was Frederick Gothenberg, an Immortal who Rupert knew by reputation and one previous encounter on Holy Ground.
“I have no sword, Gothenberg,” he called out.
“Really? That is a shame, Rwpyrt. I had heard much of your reputation; I was hoping for a good fight. Oh well, I’ll settle for your Quickening,” sneered the other Immortal. Rupert sighed and pulled his gun.
“Not today,” he said and fired. Too late he remembered that he had the Colt. Damn
, he thought. He couldn’t believe he’d wasted a precious bullet on an Immortal. Now he was really pissed. He’d go home, get his sword and be back before Gothenberg woke up. He started to walk away, but stopped as he heard the familiar crackle of electricity. “It can’t be…” he stammered. He turned, shocked, to see the fog and electricity of a Quickening rolling from Gothenberg’s body toward him. “No!” he cried. He tried to outrun the Quickening, but he was too late, and it slammed into him, forcing him to his knees.
When he had recovered, he was shocked and appalled. He had known the Colt could theoretically kill anything, but he had never even considered counting Immortals in that number. He knew that there were too many Immortals out there who would use the Colt, if word ever got out. It was too important to mankind for some unscrupulous Immortal to waste it on the Game. In a moment of clarity he knew there was only one course of action that would keep the weapon safe; he would bury it until it was really needed.
Giles hesitated, his hand poised on the handle of Buffy’s door. He had gone to Kansas, to retrieve the Colt from its hiding place, but it had vanished. Without that, he had no idea how they could hope to beat the First. He could only hope that it was the side of good that had found the weapon; that and have faith that the Slayers would find the strength to win this war.