Date: Tue, 12 Jul 1994 18:16:09 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: Dark of Knight (Part 2) ************************************************************************ D A R K O F K N I G H T ************************************************************************ Pt. II Jason R. Tippitt ***Note: This story occurs between "Under Color Of Authority" and "Unholy Alliance." Duncan chatted uneasily with Bruce. Bruce told him that he really appreciated Duncan 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 were his movements; there was little doubt, this must be the Immortal he felt. Wayne's build, the haunted look in his eyes [like a man who's gone too the edge one too many times and not come all the way back... Get out of my head, Charlie] -- all cried warrior. Not so his father... His poor, dead father, gone like Tessa. ======================================================================= 1963. A very bad year, in a lot of ways. The one President Duncan had ever met, gone before his eyes on television as he and the rest of the world stood by in horror. But a few good things happened alongside the rest. That's life, after all. Thomas Wayne reclined in his large leather chair and took a draw on his pipe. He was a tall man, nearly six and a half feet tall, muscular. His hair had begun to gray but showed no signs of falling out. "I agree that the mental health care we have is not up to par -- but what makes you think *we* can do anything about it?" Duncan stared across the table at the doctor. "Oh, not you, too. I thought you were the one who always said there were no such things as problems, only solutions." "We have Arkham--" "And every man who's ever tried to run the place has gone insane and ended up a patient there himself." Duncan shook his head. "Don't tell me you've given up hope, too. Things are changing; in thirty years we may have eliminated racism. Surely you've got to admit we can change the barbaric treatment of the mentally ill." Wayne stood up and looked out the window. "I watched a personal friend die on national television. You do that, and try not to become a cynic. I don't want my son to inherit a world of violence. He says he wants to be a doctor, to help people." Thomas turned slowly and gave MacLeoda long, weary look. "All right, I'll help with the remodeling of the building. Do you have a director in mind?" "I have a friend named Michael..." ======================================================================= Bruce looked at him. "Duncan, are you quite all right?" Duncan shook his head. "Lost in memories." He smiled sadly and looked at the taller man. "Your father would be quite proud of you." "I never thought I'd be anything more than a doctor, you know. But sometimes fate puts you in interesting situations." **** Jason's every cell hated what he was about to do. He looked at the window of the clothing store, at the brick in his hand. It was nearly daylight. If he was going to have clothing to wear, he had to get it now. Bruce hadn't thought to put a wallet on his corpse full of money in case he needed to get a change of clothes. (I swore to myself I'd never be a thief again.) A car ran the red light of an intersection a few yards up the street and Jason jumped at the sound and the sight of its lights. (People will be going to work. Do it now, or hide out all day.) He threw the brick through the window and jumped into the store. Flannel shirts, ripped jeans. (I used to *have* to wear this stuff. Now people wear them by choice? Coming back from the dead makes a lot more sense, now that I put it in perspective.) He shut out the sound of the ringing bell and found an outfit in his sizes: a pair of black jeans, red t-shirt, baseball cap. He ran out of the shop and didn't stop running for several blocks, sticking to the alleys as much as possible. He changed, then looked around for street signs. (Kane Avenue. Damn, ten or twenty miles to the mansion. Find Finger Alley, see if I can get into the Cave.) **** Duncan first began to wonder if Bruce might not be his Immortal after all when one of the guests, an elderly woman with a blatantly fake British accent, began laughing like the people in the sweepstakes ads sometimes do when someone's just arrived on their doorstep and told them they've won ten million dollars. The people around her joined in. He thought it was in terribly bad taste, and was about to march over there and tell them so, but then the lady fell over dead, into the punch bowl, a hideous smile on her face. And others began coughing. Bruce looked at him, then at the photographer, Vicki Something-Or-Other, with a look of terror, but not surprise. [St. Cloud?] He saw the green gas now, coming from a fountain that had been brought in and put in the middle of the room. [Damn, get these people out of here. People charaged the doors. The doors were locked. Bruce, holding a handkerchief to his face, grabbed Duncan and pushed him and the girl up against a bookshelf which turned, opening to a passage. "Keep an eye on Mrs. Vale," he said, running down the corridor. The sound of coughing and laughing reached them through the wall, but both Duncan and the photographer, who looked enough like Tessa to make Duncan shiver, were unaffected. "I've got to do something," he finally said, handing his handkerchief to her. "Wait here." "You can't go out there, you'll be killed!" "I'm going to try to break open a window or something." He pushed against the shelf until it spun, carrying him out into the room. A few of the party-goers still survived, crouched low to the floor, mouths and noses covered. Duncan looked around for something heavy to throw... ...and found himself staring down the muzzle of a machine gun. The gunman was a common-order thug, wearing a gas mask, but his eyes were caught by the ghoulish apparition standing beside him: tall, thin, with skin the color of chalk, lips the color of roses [or blood], and a shock of green hair. The monster laughed at him. "My, *someone* has a strong constitution. Why aren't you laughing up a lung, Mr. Tall Dark And Ponytailed? Did someone start giving out booster shots that make you immune to death--or were you born with a natural immunity to death?" ************************************************************************ That's it for now... Thanks to my friend Sarah Smith for a piece of advice that made it all click together for me, and to everyone who's written with kind words... More as soon as humanly possible, I promise. =========================================================================