Date: Sun, 25 Feb 1996 09:05:41 -0700 Reply-To: Hank Wyckoff Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hank Wyckoff Subject: (27A/30) Reading the Endtrails -- HL Posting This chapter has been split for posting reasons. The Cycle of Axer Carrick, Part 4 Reading the Endtrails (27A/30) A continuation of: When the Veil is Lifted The Duplicity Frostmelt Powys put the cat figurine back in the bag, and walked the ceiling beams back to the pillar that he had climbed to get up there. When he almost reached it, a single figure emerged from the shadows. It was Heimdall, and he didn't look pleased at all, but he looked like he was in a talkative mood. "Would you mind telling me what's going on here? And what you did back at the Raven? I was there, you know." "I know," he smiled. "Do you really need to ask what I'm doing here?" He produced the cat. Heimdall frowned, a little mollified, "You're walking a fine line, boy. I don't like this." "You don't have to like this -- you just have to like the popcorn." He brought out a prepackaged bag of popcorn from his side-pack. "Enjoy the show -- it's about all you can do." Heimdall nodded glumly, grabbing for the bag. "I still don't have to like it." "Don't look at it that way -- just think of it as stirring the pot. That way, you can be sure you've got a full mix of potential. Can't have any residuals hanging around, can we? You know about the dangers of hidden powderkegs as much as I do." Heimdall nodded again. They both sat on the beams, watching the show that took place below... ...Nick looked up from the dead body of LaCroix. He was dead for sure this time, or as dead as he could see. Janette was shaking him, trying to bring him back to reality, while the two FBI agents made sure their guns were loaded. They already were, but it never hurt to check. The man in the loudspeaker hadn't said anything more -- that was thirty seconds ago. The faint echoes of his last word had finally died. The sounds of door opening up all over the warehouse was deafening. Then, they shut, one by one. Then they came -- the men with black boxes. Heimdall almost threw up his popcorn. "I can't bear to watch this." Powys almost laughed in glee, "Just wait. Here comes the best part!" **************************************************** Kermit walked through the front door, mist coming through the door with him. "Joe? What the hell is so urgent?" Joe waved him over to the table. "It's all here! I was afraid to touch anything, but I figured you'd be able to get a look at it and work it out." Kermit raised his ever-present sunglasses, so he looked at Joe from underneath them, "So you want me to be the guinea pig? How considerate of you." "Stop your bitching and check this out!" Kermit sat down and examined the black box. "I've never seen this material before," he whistled. "This stuff is better than Teflon -- nothing'll stick to it -- ever." He examined all the controls carefully. "No markers... No seams... No screws... I don't like this, Joe." "Can you do anything with it?" "How much of a gambler are you?" "Hmm... You have a point." They sat there, staring at the box. ********************************************************** Just as the twenty black-box men began to turn their dials, Mulder started firing his shotgun, which turned out to be semi-automatic. Even though the barrel was extended, the spray was wide enough to cause some considerable damage in the ranks. As men began to fly back or grab themselves, howling in pain (the latter were the ones caught at the fringes of the shot spray), they became less concerned about switching dials on the boxes. Those who weren't hit by the shot spray didn't have the luxury of using their weapons either, because the folks in front were flying or stumbling back into them, distracting them at the very least. The boxes that hit the ground were also making matters were, because they would spray sparks like a downed power line. Scully was using her handgun to shoot the folks that Mulder didn't hit so hard with his shotgun -- it's pretty hard to miss someone with a shotgun spray. She fired just as fast, her adrenalin pumping so fast she didn't care about the fact that she was shooting to kill. Every few shots, she would pop out a clip and have another one replaced so fast that she didn't miss a beat. The overall effect was pretty spectacular. It looked like this: Mulder fired, and five of them would fall back, except for one person right in the center of the two spreads, and he would get hit by Scully. By now, the firing had jolted Nick out of his catatonic state. Rage had instantly filled his whole being, and he charged the crowd in a blurry rush -- not caring that half the shot was now hitting him. Even Scully accentually hit him once or twice, but he didn't care -- and once he reached the middle of the crowd of black-box men, it didn't matter anymore. It was a good thing too that he'd done that, because one of them in the back had almost managed to ready and fire his weapon -- but now the chaos spread back there as well, and they became too occupied to adjust knobs and dials... ...High above, Powys had just swallowed a mouthful of popcorn. "You see?" he asked in silent triumph. "They might have seemed to be outmatched, but as I hoped, it's a true dice roll." "It's going to be close," said Heimdall "But that's part of the fun, just like gambling..." ...The floor was a total madhouse. What had looked like the beginning of an orderly little slaughter on the part of the black-box men had become nothing short of utter pandemonium. Somebody making commands must have become impatient, because thirty more men in riot gear carrying shotguns and clubs emerged from the stairways. Their appearance only added more confusion, as friend hit friend as well as foe. To make matters worse, some stray shots -- aimed upwards for one reason or another -- hit the lights and plunged the area in near-darkness. Mulder and Scully had used up all their ammo, and were now using their firearms as effective clubbing implements, as well as kicking and punching their way through the mob. Janette and Nick did an efficient job of tearing their way through, picking at the individuals that the others were missing. They also kept an eye out for new arrivals. In the middle of all this, a tension was rising -- a tension that nobody seemed to feel. Its epicenter was LaCroix, who suddenly began to breathe once more, a single wood splinter resting inexplicably on his chest, next to the now-healed heart wound. Weakly, he opened his eyes and sat up, observing the pandemonium. He felt a presence, much like Axer's and Coleen's, but it was much weaker. "What-?" he asked aloud weakly, in confusion. This had happened once before, but this time, there was no mystic experience or vision. There had been only pain, then blackness, only to be followed by confusion. The presence pulled at him much more strongly, and he took to the air, leaving the battle behind him. For all the centuries that had passed, he was still a General at heart - - and it was the General who decided how a battle would turn. His gut told him that the true battle was not taking place here, but rather at the source of the presence... ...Powys chuckled, "Look at so many possibilities taking place at once! So many potentials made real." "There is such a thing as critical mass." "This isn't a nuclear reactor." "No, but the principle is the same. You can't play with the laws of probability and not pay the price." Powys' look was more sober, "I know, and I've accounted for that..." ...LaCroix flew down the empty corridor, following his nerves, until he reached a solid German door. He slammed the door above the handle, and it burst open, squeaking a little. Halscombe remained bound and gagged as he was in the Raven, but at least did it in the relative comfort of a Quaker- style chair. Another man sat in the room, behind a large desk where two swords lay. He had the appearance of a high-powered executive -- and a proper French gentleman in the old sense. "You're stronger than you look," smiled the old man lightly. He spoke in genuine Provencal. It startled LaCroix -- he understood it in a fashion -- but it had been such a long time that he spoke it that he was rusty. He answered in the northern French, "It's in the blood." "No pun intended? I take it you're here to 'rescue' Halscombe." "No. He could live or die and I wouldn't care." "Then why are you here?" the old man was confused. "Why don't you tell me?" He nodded, "Now I understand. You want understanding..." He stood up and stretched his legs. "I'm afraid you won't get it here." He drew a sword, "There can be only one." Confusion flooded through LaCroix until realization came. //He thinks I'm an immortal?!// He reflexively grabbed for one of the swords on the table, and blocked the sword thrust that almost skewered him. --------------------------------------------------------- Henry Wyckoff -- wyckoff@ag.arizona.edu Q: Want to know how to conserve bandwitdth? A: We all stay off the web and watch the servers shut down. =========================================================================