Date: Fri, 16 Sep 1994 09:17:56 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: Dark of Knight 1 and 2--rewrites with some revisions ************************************************************************ D A R K O F K N I G H T ************************************************************************ Jason R. Tippitt, 1994 A Highlander/Batman Crossover Warning: Contains a bit of violence Continuity Note: Occurs between "Under Color Of Authority" and "Unholy Alliance," in an alternate reality Part 1 ******* Duncan was in no mood for this. Shaking hands, making small talk. Never all that enjoyable in the best of times, even worse since Tessa's death. People offered their sympathies over and over, some of them old friends of hers. And ex-boyfriend or two. As if they understood. He tried not to let it bother him, tried to remind himself that each moment with these bores was a moment closer to the time he could leave this city and go to his cabin. He might stay there a week. Or a year. Or a hundred. Turning down this benefit showing of Tessa's work was not even an option, and Duncan hated all of this even more, he supposed, because he hadn't felt he could say no. The backer of this event was a world-wide celebrity, a philanthropist who had put this event together to raise money for a number of battered women's shelters, children's clubs, and anti-violence groups. Tessa's murder had made her a celebrity, gotten her face in _Time_ and _Newsweek_, and suddenly everyone loved her work. It would have been very difficult for her sole heir, her executor, to either refuse to let her work be featured or not put in a personal appearance. He agreed, begrudgingly, to come, after they agreed that he would not have to be photographed. Duncan was in the middle of pleading with whatever Higher Power that had dominion over such things, asking for a peaceful evening, asking to be left alone while he was in this city. This was no place to take a Quickening; he didn't know of a signle beheading here that was a part of the Game. Immortals were used to having the police give them wary looks on a regular basis, but this town's police were the least of the problems he might face were he to spill blood and reap thunder in the streets of Gotham. There were things more determined than even the Kurgan here, and Duncan was far from sure he could protect himself were he to do anything stupid. Then he felt it, his mind seeming to ignite as he Sensed an Immortal whose aura of power (or madness) might have floored an inexperienced one. [Thank God Richie's not with me.] He set his martini aside and scanned the crowd. His eyes settled upon a tall, familiar-looking man conversing to one side with a butler. After a moment, he recognized the stranger as his benefactor, with whom he had conversed only over the telephone. The man looked at him, eyes flashing with recognition. His benefactor strolled over and extended a hand. "Mr. MacLeod, I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm very glad to see you were able to make it in person. I'm ashamed to admit, your name didn't ring any bells until I saw you; our fathers were friends once. Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblence to your father?" ******* The boys, at least, never saw the truck coming, and if the girl had any clue, there was no time to say anything. Dirk and Phil had gone into the evening with no loftier goals than getting drunk and picking up a couple of chicks. Maybe they'd get laid, or maybe not. If Tana and Sheryl had been up front there in the club, before they ever left, and told them they got their kicks from having sex inside graveyards, the boys probably would have had second thoughts; if they'd known they would end up on grave-digging duty, they would have just stayed home with a couple of six-packs, shot a couple rounds of pool, watched _Beavis and Butthead_, and called it a night. That's not how it went, though; more's the pity. Tana had been twirling around in the damp grass, wearing only her long, see-through tie-dyed skirt when Dirk and Phil first heard the noises. They'd been digging for two hours when they first heard the thumping, the voice of someone yelling, "Thank God! You heard me!" "Shit, I didn't sign on for no _Night of the Living Dead_," Dirk said, backing away from the grave. "Let's get the hell outta here." Tana wouldn't hear of it. She pouted, begged, pleaded, rubbed her mostly nude body against the boys. Offered to make them scream loudly enough to wake every other body in the cemetary if they only kept digging. Said to them, "The danger makes me hot... Doesn't it you?" Sheryl joined in on the pleading and the boys, eager to hold them to their word, kept working. "Besides," Phil said, "this is all probably just someone's idea of a joke. Someone's going to jump out of the trees and we'll be on _America's Funniest People_." Dirk frowned and looked back at Sheryl, who had stripped naked and was chanting prayers to the Goddess. "I dunno, they usually wear a lot more clothing on that show..." They unearthed the casket at about three a.m. They dug around it until the lid could be pulled open. As the two young he-men strained against the sealed lid, Dirk looked to his comrade and whispered, "Those sluts *better* not be leading us on." Then the lid swung open. Inside, a boy of no more than 15 years sat up, wearing the decayed remnants of what had once been a very fine silk suit. He was pale--as one would expect to be after over five years' repose. Dirk and Phil screamed and clambered out of the hole, running for Dirk's convertible. Jason Todd climbed out of the casket. "Wait--" If Dirk and Phil heard him, they didn't heed him. The climbed into the car, shoving Tana into the backseat from where she lay on the trunk, and sped away. "I need help..." A man emerged from the shadows, unaware of the drama unfolding. He jumped on the awakening Sheryl, who was looking around woozily to see what had her friends so freaked. Jason heard her cry for help from under the would-be rapist, and climbed out of the hole. He grabbed the cast-aside shovel and covered the fifty yards between himself and the attempted-rape-in-progress in near-record time. He smashed the shovel against the side of the man's head, knocking him unconscious. Sheryl looked up at the resurrected knight in rotting silk. "Who??" "Are you okay?" Sheryl looked around for her friends, who were out of sight, then at Jason. "You're dead?" Jason had an idea she was about to lose it. "Can you tell me what year this is?" He was right. She began to scream. Her scream was drowned out by the sounds of a horn blaring and metal shredding. Jason and Sheryl spun to see the convertible launched into the air by the impact of the semi the late Dirk Lewis had pulled out in front of. The car landed atop the tanks in front of an all-night convenience store, resulting in a fireball that seemed to light up the entire night. Sheryl stopped screaming and began whimpering. She snatched up her clothes and ran for the woods. Jason watched her run away, realizing no amount of explanation would take away this night's memories. He didn't even know what was going on for himself. How was still alive after the Joker and the crowbar and the bomb in Ethiopia was a complete mystery. There was only one thing he could do right now--hide. And then go to the one man who could solve any mystery. He had to find Bruce. ******* Part 2 ******* Duncan chatted uneasily with Bruce. Bruce told him that he really appreciated Duncan's agreeing to let the Wayne Foundation use Tessa's work for this anti-violence fundraiser. Every move Bruce made was like that of a ghost, so graceful yet ominous was he; there was little doubt that this was the Immortal Duncan had felt. Wayne's build, the haunted look in his eyes-- ("Like a man who's gone too close to the edge one too many times and not come all the way back...") [Oh, shut up, Charlie.] --all cried out that Bruce Wayne was a warrior. Not so his father--his poor, dead father--gone, like Tessa. ======== 1963. A very bad year, in a lot of ways. The one U.S. President Duncan had ever met, shot before his very eyes on television as he and the rest of the nation stood by in horror. But a few good things happened along with the rest. That's life, after all. Thomas Wayne recline in his large leather chair and took a draw on his pipe. He was a tall man, nearly six and a half feet, muscular. His hair had begun to grey but showed no signs of going extinct. "Duncan, I *agree* that the mental health care we have is not up to par--but what makes you think *we* are the ones who could do anything about it?" Duncan stared across the desk at the doctor. "Oh, no, not you, too. I thought you were the one who always said there were no such things as problems, only solutions waiting to be found." "We have Arkham--" "And every single man who's ever tried to run the place has ended up a patient there withing a matter of years." Duncan shook his head. "I won't believe you've given up hope, too. Things are changing, friend; they say that in thirty years' time we may be able to eliminate racism. You know as well as I do that one man can make a tremendous difference." Wayne stood up and looked out the window. "I watched a very good friend die on national television, Duncan. *You* do that, then tell me it's easy to keep hoping. But I guess it's true what they say about every father wanting the world to be better for his son--I had to fight in Korea. I don't want Bruce to live in a world of violence." Thomas turned to look at Duncan, eyes full of pride. "He told me the other day that he wants to become a doctor, to 'Help people like you do, Daddy.' "This is your chance," Duncan said gently. "Yeah. It's amazing what our kids can teach us about ourselves, isn't it?" He sat back down in his chair. "You ever thought about starting a family, Duncan?" Duncan shifted. "Um, maybe someday. So, do you want to help me on this? We can get more backers with your name attached--" "I said I would, didn't I? Well, at least I meant to. I'll help. Do you have a director in mind?" "I have a friend who could use a good job. His name is Michael..." ======= Bruce looked at Duncan. "Duncan, are you quite all right? Would you like to sit down?" Duncan shook his head. "Lost in memories." He smiled sadly and looked at the taller man. "Your father would be quite proud of you, even if you never did become a doctor." Bruce gave him a curious look. "Well, there's a Chinese curse that says, 'May you live in interesting times.' Sometimes things turn out differently than anyone could have planned." ******* Duncan realized Bruce was a mere mortal after the end of the party. One of the guests, an elderly woman whose blatantly fake British accent had greatly annoyed Duncan earlier in the evening, began laughing like the sweepstakes winners in those TV ads. Withing moments, she fell dead into the punchbowl, causing quite a chuckle from those around her. Bruce looked from Duncan to the photographer who'd been trying to convince them to pose for a photo, Vicki Something-or-Other, with a look of terror, but not surprise. Duncan saw the green gas now, slowly rising from the fountain that had been brought in and set in the middle of the room. [St. Cloud? Damn it, have to get these people out of here...] The crowd charged the doors that left the penthouse. The doors were barred. Bruce held a handkerchief to Vicki's face and dragged her and MacLeod toward a bookcase which slid back to reveal a small room. Bruce touched his watch, causing a door to slide open in the wall opposite the bookshelf. "Wait here." Bruce stepped through the doorway, which resealed instantly. The mixed sounds of coughing and laughing and screeching reached the two through the wall, but both Duncan and Vicki seemed unaffected. She looked like Tessa, enough so to make Duncan shiver. "Wait in here," he said moments later. "I have to go back out there and help." "You can't go out there, you'll be killed!" "I'll break open a window or something. I have to at least *try.*" He put the handkerchief across her face and opened the "door" long enough to jump back into the other room. A few party-goers still survived, crouched low to the floor, covering their faces. Duncan looked around for a fire extinguisher, anything heavy enough to throw... ...And found himself staring down the barrel of a machine gun. The gunman was the garden-variety henchman, wearing a gas mask. Duncan's eyes fell upon the ghoulish apparition standing beside the gunsel: tall, thin, with skin the color of chalk, hair the color of grass, lips the color of roses-- [blood] --and a smile covering his face. The stranger laughed at MacLeod. "My, *someone* has a strong constitution. Why aren't you laughing up a lung, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Ponytailed? Did someone start handing out an antidote for my little pick-me-upper--or were you just born with a natural immunity to death?" ******* To be continued... =========================================================================