Date: Mon, 11 Jul 1994 18:59:47 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: Dark of Knight (1 of ???) This story is the result of the thread on HIGHLA-L that's been dubbed "Batlander." Any credit or blame lies there; I am merely the receptacle, but feel free to tell me what you think, anyway. ;) ************************************************************************ D A R K O F K N I G H T Part I (Note: this story occurs before "Unholy Alliance.") ************************************************************************ 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. An ex-boyfriend or two. As if they understood. He tried to let it not 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 the event was a world-wide celebrity, a philanthropist who had put this even 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 single beheading here that was because 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 sow thunder in the streets of this city. There were things worse than even the Kurgan at loose 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 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, dark-haired man conversing at one side with a butler. He recognized the man after a moment, and knew this was his benefactor, with whom he had conversed only by telephone. The host looked up at him and his eyes flashed recognition. [Him?] The benefactor strolled up to him and extended a hand. "Mr. MacLeod, I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm very glad to see that you were able to come in person. I'm surprised that your name didn't ring any bells when I first heard it; 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 it 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 told them right there in the club, before they ever left, that they got their kicks from having sex inside cemetaries, the boys probably would have had second thoughts; if they'd known they were going to end up on grave-digging duty, they probably would have stayed home, just shot a couple games of pool, drunk a few beers, and watched "Ren And Stimpy." They didn't though; more's the pity. Tana was twirling circles in the damp grass, wearing nothing but a see-through tie-dyed skirt when Dirk and Phil first heard the noise. They'd been digging for two hours when they first heard the thumping, the voice of someone yelling, "Thank God, someone 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 pout, begged, pleaded, rubbed her mostly-nude body against the boys'. Offered to make them scream like they'd never screamed before, if they only kept digging. Said to them, "The danger makes me feel really wild... Doesn't it you?" Sheryl joined in, and the boys, eager to hold the girls to their word, kept digging. "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 'Candid Camera.'" 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 uncovered the casket at about three in the morning. They dug around it, clearing an area big enough for the lid to open. As the two young he-men strained against the sealed lid, Dirk looked to his friend and said, "Those girls *better* not be leading us on." Then the casket swung open. And inside it, a boy of no more than 16 years sat up, wearing the decayed remnants of what once was a very fine silk suit. His skin was pale--as one would expect after over five years' repose. Dirk and Phil screamed and climbed 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. They climbed in the car, shoving Tana into the backseat from where she lay on the trunk, and sped away. "I need help..." He heard Sheryl's screams and looked over to where the thin blonde witch-wannabe stood screaming, hands trying to cover herself. He made the climb out of the hole and walked toward her. "What year is it?" Sheryl ran away, stopping to scoop up her clothes from the ground. (If I run, I can catch her, let her know I won't hurt her--) The thought was cut off by the sound of a horn blaring and metal shredding. Jason's head spun around and he saw the convertible launched skyward by the impact of the semi the late Dirk Lewis had pulled out in front of. Any hope of saving the teens was similarly squelched a moment later as the convertible exploded. Jason heard Sheryl's screams resume. She looked on in terror, black silk blouse half-thrown around one shoulder. There was no explaining this to the police; he didn't even know what was going on for himself. How he was still alive after the Joker, and the crowbar, and the bomb in the mission building in Ethiopia. There was only one thing he could do right now -- hide. And then find Bruce. To be continued, obviously... ======================================================================= "Trust me -- I'm a necromancer." Jason R. Tippitt (little-heard comment in WA81@UTMARTN.BITNET fantasy novels) English major, hopeful future novelist ======================================================================= =========================================================================