Date: Fri, 29 Jul 1994 10:31:05 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: Dark of Knight, Part 8 ************************************************************************ D A R K O F K N I G H T ************************************************************************ Jason R. Tippitt, 1994 ** Note: This story occurs between "Under Color of Authority" and "Unholy Alliance" (and I'm about to prove it). Part Eight Richie asked Duncan if he had a car so they could carry Mako for medical help. "What? He's an Immortal, like us, Richie--he'll be fine in a few minutes." Richie looked at him quizzically. "I don't know what you're talking about, mac--Batman needs help." Duncan snorted. "Batman? He's a fabrication of the press. That's Mako. I never would have figured him for a joker, but there's the proof of it--finding the two of you here having a laugh over me thinking you'd actually had the skill to kill him." Their forms wavered, and for a moment he seemed to see a younger- looking boy in Richie's place, a dark-clad figure in Mako's. [Duncan, you're hallucinating. Go to sleep for a while, and let me try to handle things. I know what we're up against.| [Michael?] |Quentin Barnes certainly wasn't an M.D. Let me do the talking.| Duncan's facial expression seemed to change. "Let me take a look at him," he said, climbing up onto the fire escape and kneeling beside Batman's unconcious form. Jason eyed him warily. "Um, sure." Michael/Duncan looked up at the boy. "He really *is* in trouble, unless we get him help fast. Amazing he could still fight with his left lung deflated like this." "Willpower, I guess." Jason reached a hand behind himself to make sure Garrett's sword was still within reach. "There's no need for your sword," Michael said gently. "I'm just like you, like your dead friend. He lives on inside you now--I live on in Duncan's body. My name is Michael Moore, and I'm a physician. More specifically, a psychiatrist, but I can do in a pinch." He smiled, gaining Jason's partial trust. A black Firebird screamed to a stop in the alley beneath them. A tall, lanky man dressed all in black stepped out. "Dawson sent me to give you guys a lift. Actually, the car's yours--I'm under rules not to follow, figuring a guy like Batman would have some secret place he might not want me knowing about." He hopped out of the car and handed the keys to Duncan/Michael. "Thank your boss for me," Michael said, helping Jason push Batman into the back seat. |Good, the windows are tinted. Less chance of anyone spotting him.| Jason climbed into the passenger seat and looked at Michael. "Tell me you won't think I'm crazy if I tell you to drive into what looks like a brick wall." Michael looked really confused, then smiled. "Well, it's not going to kill us, regardless, so I'll trust you." **** As the car zoomed down Finger Alley, Jason reached for the CB. He looked at Michael and said, "Better hope the computers still take my voice commands." He pressed down the button. "Kane 8056 Miller 9354." What appeared to be a solid concrete wall, at the end of the Alley, began to open in the middle, both sides sliding away. The car rushed toward the opening. "It's not going to be wide enough." Michael had just the time to speak these words before the side windows were ripped off. The car tried to spin, but Michael held it in control. Jason looked at Michael. "Sorry. It's been a little while since I did that." **** Horton looked at the pitiful figure on the slab in front of him. His men had dragged the river for the Joker's body and brought it here, to the warehouse Horton had rented in case he ever needed to do anything in Gotham. The Joker's head was nearly facing his back, and his limbs lay with too many bends in them. "Maybe I should kill you now, Joker." He reached under his coat, felt the axe there. "You couldn't even finish off a wasted bum on a binge. Any warrior worth his salt would have finished him long before Batman got anywhere near the alley to intervene. Maybe I should..." The Joker's legs began to straighten. Horton placed a hand on the axe. "Maybe--No. Let things happen as they may. Maybe when MacLeod takes his head, it will drive him mad." He walked out of the warehouse, leaving the Joker alone with only an envelope containing $50,000 and a picture of MacLeod to greet him when he awoke. Gotham's early flight to Paris was leaving soon. Time to get away from this city, from devils in gray and blue-black suits driving cars at high speeds down alleys. Maybe the Hunters should find Batman and learn whether he was one of those monsters. Maybe the devil he was going to Paris to find, St. Cloud, could help him after MacLeod was out of the picture. **** Duncan dreamed, adrift in the depths of his own mind. He was Michael. He remembered a time when he owed some loan sharks a lot of money, and he'd taken up a career as a gangland doctor to keep them at least non-violent until he could find a way to repay them. The men brought in one of their buddies. It was 1:30 in the morning when they arrived, and he operated until dawn, trying to undo the damage from the chemicals this poor fool had taken a dive in. His heart had nearly stopped. His face was frozen in a death's head grin; there was no way Michael could do a thing for *that*, even if he'd had the most expensive equipment available. He was no neurosurgeon. "He'd be better off dead," he told the gangsters. "There's no way I can do a thing for his face, and he'll have to wear makeup and dye his hair for the rest of his life if--" Tony "The Kneecap" Carlin pointed a beefy finger at Michael. "No way he dies. He's in too deep; we lose a major contract if he goes. He dies, your bill becomes due immediately." From the next room, he felt the appearance of a very tiny Buzz. He looked at the gang and told them, "Why don't you go home and get some sleep. I'll call you if anything happens." They left, and Michael walked into the makeshift operating room. The thin man was beginning to stir. "Where am I?" he asked from underneath his bandages. "Batman--" Michael walked over to his patient. "You are Immortal. You died, and have returned from the dead. Any wounds you suffer now will heal themselves almost immediately." "So stuffy--" The luckless thief began pulling at his bandages. "Face feels funny." "You should leave those on." "Dying would be a favor." "You cannot die." "Well, then, we have nothing to worry about." He pulled the last of the gauze off his face. "My face feels different. Do you have a mirror I could look at?" Michael backed up to his cabinet and pulled out a mirror. "You've got to understand something. The damage that occured before you 'died' is permanent, as far as I know, unless it was the wound that killed you. Any tattoos or lost limbs stay that way. If you died of damage to your lungs or heart, on the other hand..." "Just give me the fucking mirror." Michael handed it to the disfigured man. "I'm sorry..." "You say you're another Immortal. There's no way I can die, eh?" "Not unless another Immortal--" The disfigured thief closed his hands around Michael's throat. "I *hoped* you'd say that!" He strangled Michael to "death," then left him lying on the floor. When Michael awoke an hour later, he packed his few belongings in a bag and fled Gotham. He never returned, afraid the Joker might have learned the part of the statement he had been unable to finish. **** To be continued, but not for a while, I'm afraid. I have to leave school for break, but as soon as I return in two weeks... Sorry for the lag on this part and the next. Jason =========================================================================