Date:         Thu, 28 Sep 1995 11:30:03 EDT
Reply-To:     Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Subject:      Dark Side, Part 11 of 16

        The Dark Side of the Mirror, Part 11
        by Russet McMillan
        mcmillan@astro.psu.edu

        Joe stopped the car outside a darkened warehouse.  As soon as
Duncan got out, he could sense the presence of another Immortal -- no,
two.  He had to steel himself against the inner chorus of raging,
greedy voices.  He should be glad neither of them was Connor, he told
himself, or Methos.  Both those two had quickenings so powerful and
strange that they would have put him right over the edge.
        "Mac," Joe called from the other side of the car.  "Your
sword."
        "You bring it," he returned.  He didn't dare look at his
friend, couldn't face the concern in Joe's eyes or the recognition
that he shouldn't be trusted with weapons.
        He walked toward the warehouse slowly, carefully, as if he
were walking on eggshells or carrying a hot drink -- except that the
broken shells and scalding spills were all in his mind.  The rhythm of
his thoughts kept blurring into religious chant -- My God, my God, why
have you abandoned me? -- or opera -- As' Tod from Peer Gynt.  All he
could do was cling to his sense of reality and self, and hope that
this ordeal would soon be over, one way or the other.
        Amanda met them inside the warehouse.  She carried two swords,
her coat was rent, and blood seeped from her hip.  Duncan was so busy
tamping down the vengeful fury aroused by the sight that he had no
energy left to ask what had happened.
        "Did you get him to come?" Joe asked.
        "He's right over there."  Amanda pointed to the wall.
        "Good, because there's more at stake here than you think."
        Duncan looked where Amanda had pointed, realizing that was
where the second buzz was originating.  When he made out the pale face
that showed through the darkness, a wave of dizziness overcame him for
a moment.  He found himself standing just a few feet from Melander
with his katana in his hand, with Joe beside him looking startled.  He
wrenched himself around so that his back was to Melander.  "What the
hell are you trying to do?" he gasped hoarsely.  "Do you _want_ to
drive me crazy?"
        "Go ahead," Amanda urged.  "That's why I caught him for you!"
        "WHAT?" Duncan shouted.  "No!  Keep him away from me -- keep
me away from him!"  He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control.
        "Duncan, he deserves to die.  He killed --"
        "Don't say it!" Duncan growled.  Carlo Sendaro roared for
freedom within him.
        "-- Cassandra.  He carries her quickening.  If you take his
head, you'll get her knowledge and power along with all the rest.
Maybe it will help you deal with . . . what's been troubling you."
        Duncan stared at her.  "This is your solution?"  He turned to
Joe incredulously.  "This is what you made me promise?"
        "It's your best hope, Mac.  You said yourself, you don't have
time to learn Cassandra's techniques the hard way.  Maybe a good shock
will --"
        "Maybe it'll send me right over the edge!" Duncan finished.
"I can't believe you expected me to consent to this.  Even -- even
with . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence.
        "Your friends are right," said a silken voice behind him.  "It
is your best chance."
        "Silence!" Duncan bellowed, in a voice not entirely his own.
"Not one word from you."  He held himself rigidly facing away,
refusing to look at Melander.
        "Duncan, he has to die.  He knows about the Watchers!"
        "What?" Joe exclaimed.
        "He had a chronicle in his hotel room.  From someone named
Francois --"  Amanda frowned.
        "-- Duhamel," Joe finished.  "Mac, you hear that?  Melander
killed Francois, not you!"
        Duncan wasn't listening.  He knew he would go irretrievably
mad if he allowed himself to kill Melander.  Carlo Sendaro would take
over, perhaps forever.  Duncan Macleod would be lost amid the throng
of more ancient personalities inhabiting this body.
        But if Melander killed him, what then?  Would his quickening
overcome Melander as well?  Whether it did or not, either Connor or
Amanda, or both, would try to avenge him.  They would run the same
risk of insanity by taking Melander's head.  He couldn't let that
happen to Amanda.  But Connor . . . perhaps, with Connor's strange new
skills and the change that had come over him since he lost to Miranda
Kelly, perhaps here was someone who could quell the fire consuming
Duncan.  Connor would never be persuaded to take Duncan's head, but he
would be eager to have Melander's.
        But Connor was not here.  Or was he?  Duncan could feel the
beginnings of a buzz at the very edge of his senses, too faint to
pinpoint.  If that was Connor approaching, he would be here in
minutes.  And Duncan doubted he could stop himself from trying to take
his clansman's head.
        "I'll do it," he said abruptly, cutting off Joe's words.  "But
I won't kill an unarmed man.  Let him loose and give him back his
sword.  We'll fight properly."
        "I knew that Duncan Macleod's sense of honor would demand no
less," said Melander, with a tinge of satisfaction in his tone.
        "He's already had his fight, and lost it!" Amanda protested.
"His head is forfeit."
        Duncan's face contorted.  "Do it, Amanda," he choked out.
"Let him free, or I won't raise my sword against him."
        Furious, but knowing how stubborn Duncan could be, Amanda
tossed her captive his sword and the keys to the handcuffs.
        Duncan moved out into the open area and waited for his
opponent.  He held his katana hilt up in salute and closed his eyes
for concentration.  Surely the pressure of a fight would help him to
focus, to push the other voices aside, if only for a little while.
        But when he opened his eyes and saw Melander standing before
him, the dizziness rose again and he ceased to be Duncan Macleod.


        LeBrun saw Duncan Macleod arrive, accompanied by a bearded man
who looked too old to be an operative, but wore the trademark long
coat and carried a sword nonetheless.  LeBrun wondered sourly if this
man was also called Macleod.  Was this warehouse some sort of meeting
place for their organization?
        The two of them joined Amanda and continued on to where
Melander had been secured.  LeBrun could hear voices raised in anger,
but he couldn't see what was going on.  He started to creep around the
crates for a better view.  He glanced in passing at the body of the
second Macleod and froze as he realized the man wasn't really dead.
His eyelids fluttered and his hand twitched weakly toward the dagger
standing out from his chest.
        LeBrun swallowed hard and reach out to feel for a pulse at the
man's neck.  Blood pooled on the floor from the cuts on his legs and
the dagger wound in his chest.  If by some miracle he was still alive,
it wouldn't be for long.
        Connor Macleod's eyes opened fully at the touch of LeBrun's
hand.  He focused on the detective's face with apparent difficulty.
His hand twitched again, creeping up his stomach toward the dagger.
His mouth moved.
        LeBrun bent closer to hear the words.
        "Pull it out," Connor breathed.  "Get it out."
        Pulling the dagger out would allow the wound to bleed freely;
clearly the man didn't know what he was asking for.  But he had
already lost so much blood that he would undoubtedly be dead before
any help could arrive.  Perhaps there was no harm in humoring the
wishes of a dying man.
        LeBrun wrapped his good hand around the hilt of the dagger and
tried to look reassuring.  He pulled the knife up and out of Connor's
chest, feeling it grate against his ribs.
        Connor groaned thinly and fell limp as the blade came free.
LeBrun bit his lip and checked again for a pulse, sure that he would
find none this time.  But it was there, and Connor's color grew
stronger as he watched.  His chest rose and fell almost normally with
his breathing.  The wounded man's eyes opened again.
        "Thanks," he said in a voice that was audible, if hoarse.  He
turned his head to look at the crates stacked around them.  "How long
was I out?"
        "Er -- five or ten minutes," LeBrun managed to say.  "Are
you --" He didn't even know how to finish the question.
        "I'll be fine."  Connor pushed himself to a sitting position.
The bloodstain on his chest seemed smaller, somehow.  "Are you here to
watch Amanda, or Melander?"  His voice was getting stronger by the
minute.
        LeBrun was baffled by this question.  "I was following you,"
he replied uncertainly.  Who did Connor take him for?
        Connor looked surprised.  "I didn't think they would have
anyone assigned to me so soon."
        Before LeBrun he could think of some response that wouldn't
betray his ignorance, Connor grabbed the edge of one of the crates and
pulled himself to his feet.  LeBrun stared incredulously as a man who
had been hamstrung not a quarter of an hour ago walked several easy
steps.  When Connor bent to pick up his sword, LeBrun caught a brief
glimpse of new pink skin through the rents in his pants.
        _You'll be safer dead,_ Amanda had said when she knifed her
companion.  _I'll come back for you later._  Somehow, for this man,
death truly was nothing but a temporary inconvenience.  Was it the
same for Amanda?  For Duncan Macleod?  For all these operatives?  What
kind of training or medical technology could allow a man to rise from
the dead and heal crippling wounds within minutes?
        A sound came from behind the crates that LeBrun recognized at
once.  It would remain imprinted on his mind for the rest of his life.
Swords were clashing together in a deadly swift syncope.
        Connor's head whipped around.  "Dammit!  Amanda!" he snapped,
and rushed toward the source of the noise.


        Standing next to Amanda, Joe watched Duncan's fight with one
hand clasped white-knuckled on his cane.  As an inveterate armchair
swordsman he was well-versed in the moves, and he had seen more of
Duncan Macleod's style than any man alive.  Tonight, something was
wrong.  Duncan struck with short, hard chops instead of the long
flowing moves that suited him best.  His stance was not as low as
usual, and he shifted his feet too often.
        A figure appeared from around one of the crates, and Joe gave
a start.  It was Connor, evidently a late arrival.  He stared hard at
the two figures.
        "What the hell is going on here?" Connor growled in a low
voice.
        "I thought Cassandra's quickening would be more useful to
Duncan than to you," Amanda replied warily.
        "So you killed me?"
        She shrugged.  "I didn't think I could talk you out of
fighting him."
        "You were right.  Melander is mine!"
        "Too late.  Duncan is fighting him now."
        Connor shook his head.  "That isn't Duncan.  Who is it?"
        Joe cleared his throat.  "I think it may be Sendaro."
        Connor grabbed Amanda's arm and shook her.  "Do you realize
what you've done?  Even if he doesn't lose his head, he may have lost
his mind already!"
        "He was losing it anyway," Amanda snapped back, pulling her
arm from his grasp.  She pinched her lip between her teeth as she
watched Duncan evade a nasty blow by a hair's breadth.  "This is his
best chance."
        "You fool!"  Connor raised his katana.
        "You want to take my head?" Amanda challenged.  Her sword was
in her hand, but held well back.  She stepped forward so the point of
the katana lay just under her breastbone.  "You want to kill me?  Go
ahead!  I dare you."
        "Shouldn't I cut your hamstrings first?" Connor spat back.
        Joe poked his cane at Connor's chest; the Immortal swept it
aside and down reflexively.  "Not here!" he growled at them both.
"You want to give Duncan something _else_ to worry about?"
        All three of them cast sudden, worried glances at the two
combatants.  Duncan had the upper hand and was driving Melander back,
despite his altered style.  Connor snarled wordlessly, grabbed Amanda,
and dragged her behind the crates to finish their argument.
        The tension coiled in Joe's shoulders began to ease as he saw
that Melander was out of breath and out of rhythm, barely blocking
Duncan's sword in time.  Duncan delivered three swift blows, and with
the third one Melander's saber broke.  He gritted his teeth and threw
the jagged stump at Duncan's face.  Duncan merely dodged and pulled
his katana back for the killing blow.
        As his shoulders came around, Duncan faltered, then stopped.
His sword swept inches short of Melander's throat and then clattered
to the floor.  He bent over and clutched at his head, face contorted
with anguish.
        Melander snatched the katana off the floor and turned toward
Duncan.
        "Mac!" Joe cried in warning.
        Duncan fell to the floor and rolled away, but whether it was
evasion or collapse, Joe couldn't tell.  Alerted by the shout, Amanda
and Connor appeared around the far end of the line of crates.
Melander threw one glance their way and abandoned his pursuit of
Duncan.  Instead he ran toward Joe and the door.
        For the second time in as many days, Joe raised his cane to
block Duncan's katana.  Melander mowed him down and continued his race
for the door.
        Another man stepped into his path.  "Lenoire, wait!" he cried,
aiming a gun at the Immortal.
        Melander swept the katana across his body as he ran.  The
sword clashed against the gun just as it fired, and the man fell down
with a cry.  This time Melander tripped over his victim.  As he
struggled to his feet, Duncan tackled him.
        They tumbled across the floor and fetched up against a crate.
Duncan pummeled his opponent with great force but not much science.
Melander kicked himself away and tried to bring the katana into play.
Duncan grabbed the blade in his bare hands and held it back from his
throat.  Blood ran down his wrists as he wrenched the katana free,
reversed it, and chopped at Melander's neck.  Melander fell back,
gurgling, one hand to his throat.  Duncan lurched to his feet and
struck again, harder.  Melander's body collapsed to the ground,
headless.
        Duncan stood panting over the body, frowning as if unsure what
he had just done.  A glow rose from the empty neck.  For a moment it
seemed to form a face, female, smiling -- then it rushed at Duncan and
blew him backwards.  Duncan was pinned, writhing, against a crate as
lightning struck him.  Most of the remaining windows of the warehouse
shattered.  The pipe Melander had been cuffed to burst open, releasing
a brief blast of steam.  Sparks popped from electrical outlets.
Duncan threw his head back and screamed.
        His cries lingered on the air several seconds after the last
explosion.  Then he sank to the ground, weeping, and curled into a
ball.
        Amanda started toward him at once, but Connor stopped her.
"Leave him alone," he warned.  "He needs time to adjust."
        Amanda frowned worriedly at Duncan's huddled form, but nodded
and turned instead to Joe.  "Dawson.  Are you all right?"
        Joe unwrapped his arms from his head and looked about
cautiously.  "Yeah," he rasped.  He opened the rent in his pants leg
to show the gashed plastic underneath.  The sword had scarred the
steel frame of his prosthetic leg, but not broken it.  Joe reached for
his cane to get up, then stopped.  The aluminum was sharply bent in
the middle, where the sword had struck it.  "Oh, not another one!" he
groaned, and threw the ruined cane across the floor.  He jerked his
head in the direction of Melander's other victim.  "Check on him."
        The man with the gun was sprawled against one of the crates,
his eyes wide and his hair standing on end.  He had been dangerously
close to the storm of the quickening.  His left hand was clamped
around his right forearm, and his face was drawn with pain.  He looked
familiar, but Joe couldn't quite make out his features in the dimness.
        "Let me see," said Connor, kneeling beside him.
        "The cut's not deep," the man said.  "I caught the blunt edge
of the blade."
        "He was more used to two-edged weapons," Connor pointed out as
he peeled the concealing hand away.
        "I think my elbow's shattered."  The man leaned his head back
and laughed with a touch of hysteria.  "It wasn't good for much
before, anyway."
        Connor looked up.  "We should get him to a hospital."
        "Go on," Joe said.  "I'll look after Duncan.  I need a few
minutes to get my leg on straight anyway."
        "I'll stay too," Amanda offered.
        "No, Connor may need help.  Go."
        Connor gave Joe a sharp glance, then looked at Duncan, still
curled on the floor.  "Dawson's right," he said slowly.  "Give me a
hand, will you?"
        Together they helped the wounded man to his feet and led him
out of the warehouse, Amanda casting frequent glances over her
shoulder as they went.
        When they were gone, Joe heaved an unhappy sigh and pulled
himself to his feet with the support of a nearby crate.  His leg was
not badly twisted; he tugged at it a little to straighten it, then
limped over to Duncan's side.  The Immortal lay silent and still, only
brief twitches showing that he was alive at all.
        Joe retrieved Duncan's katana and leaned on it, waiting.
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