Date: Fri, 2 Jun 1995 13:56:25 -600 Reply-To: "Jason R. Tippitt" Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: "Gothic" ("In The End..." Pt.2) Ch.10 ****************************************************************************** " I N T H E E N D . . . " ****************************************************************************** A Highlander/Batman Tale of the Future Jason R. Tippitt, 1994-95 http://www.utm.edu/~jtippitt/j.shtml Warning: Violence and Profanities Comments, suggestions, questions, back-chapter requests to JTippitt@Utm.Edu (I wear asbestos boxers, so don't bother flaming me.) Book 2: "Gothic" Chapter 10 ******* Carl walked out into the stormy Washington night, fuming. Grayson had told him he didn't want him to leave the Capitol building, but Carl had told him to stuff it, he was going back to his townhouse for some rest. "I'm my own man, dammit," Carl murmured to himself. Then he froze as he Sensed another. "Oh, *are* you?" a voice called from the shadows. "Seems to me a temper like yours might make you a prisoner." There was a clatter as a metal canister fell to the ground at Carl's feet and began to hiss. Carl jumped aside, pulling the silk handkerchief from his coat and covering his mouth and nose. "Who the hell are you?" He laid his other hand on his scimitar and drew it. "Come out and let's get this over with. Or are you afraid to fight me like a man?" "You're your own ma, eh?" the unseen assailant taunted. "So why are you running off? Sure you're not making a phone call to Ra's al Ghul?" The voice seemed to be coming from everywhere. "Or maybe you're calling Connor MacLeod--I mean you and his kinsman Duncan *are* big buddies, after all." The gas seemed to be completely discharged now, the near-hurricane winds having blown most of it away. "I'm not working for either of them. I just don't want Grayson thinking he can jerk my chain around. Are you one of his people?" "I work for myself. In this case, I work against MacLeod and al Ghul." Carl saw the attack, a flying leap from behind and to the left, and turned just in time to block what would have cut the Achilles' tendon of his left leg. A cut to cripple then--not to kill. At least not instantly. Carl stepped back to get a better look at the other ma. He wore a suit of dark blue chainmail, with orange gloves and boots. His mask was half orange, half-navy, with only one eyehole. "Nice Halloween costume," Carl joked. "Who are you supposed to be? Zorro?" "Name's Deathstroke." He took another swing, which Carl barely blocked; his strength and speed seemed superhuman. "Those with a tabloid mentality call me the Terminator. Not to be confused with those Schwarzeneggar movies." "Are you supposed to be the field commander of this Suicide Squad, then?" Carl looked at the man. "I heard the name, just never seen the photos. All this superhero stuff's a bit too much for me." "Funny for you to be saying that," Deathstroke responded. "I mean, seeing as we're neither of us quite human." "I think of myself as one; I don't know about you." "I think of myself as a businessman." "Then how do I know *you* aren't in league with the enemy?" "Oh, he came to me, all right. Wanted me to be an assassin for him. I told him no...I figured he'd just have me collect Quickenings for him, then behead me in m sleep after he figured I'd served my purpose." Deathstroke circled Carl, sword still extended. Carl kept pace with him. "Besides, Senator, it's *your* loyalty under scrutiny here. Where are you going on such a stormy night?" "To say goodbye to my wife." "Bzzzt, wrong. You're not married; I've read your record. Try again, why don't you?" "Okay--Grayson told me I had to spend the night there. That pissed me off, him giving me orders. It's like he's blackmailing me. I was a slave once; I won't stand for being treated like one again." Deathstroke stopped, looked at Carl for a moment, then laughed and sheathed his sword. "You know what, Senator? I believe that. You know why? It's so stupid that there's no way you'd make that up and hope I'd believe it. No, that's too pathetic *not* to be true. You let paranoia rule you like that, and you'll make *yourself* a slave." Carl took a swing at Deathstroke then, slicing through the mask under his right eye. The Terminator stepped back. "That was pretty good. I had let my guard down. Touche." He pulled off his mask, showing the face of a man who looked to be about forty, with a patch over his right eye. His hair was solid white, worn to mid-neck; he also had a moustache and goatee. "The name is Slade Wilson," he said, extending a hand. Carl took it, gripping hard to match the mercenary's viselike hold. "I never dressed up in Spandex, but I'll carry my weight just like the others." Deathstroke touched the already-healing slice on his cheek and nodded. "You're won my respect, Senator. Oh, true, it was a sneaky attack, but that's how battles are won. Now let's get back inside...just because we can't catch a cold, that doesn't make roughing it any more fun. And I anticipate we'll be doing plenty of that in what time we have left." They started back to the Capitol. "You're thinking it's the end, then?" Carl asked as lightning struck a tree a few yards away. "Does it look like we're getting ready for a banquet?" The mercenary stopped, looking over Carl's rain-drenched suit. "If so, you might want to change suits, Senator." ******* to be continued... =========================================================================