Date: Mon, 19 Jun 1995 21:59:47 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 1 of 17 This is being posted for the author, who currently doesn't have internet access. Please direct all comments you want to be passed on to the author or requests for missing parts to nhayashi@sfsu.edu X-File: #A274-D33 Part 1 of 17 by Albert Low Please note: Highlander is a copyright of Rysher Entertainment and Gaumont Television and X-Files is a copyright of Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. The following story is written for pure pleasure and is not meant to infringe on any preexisting copyrights that may be violated. Author's note: This story takes place sometime in the third season of Highlander between the episodes "They Also Serve" and "Song of the Executioner." In terms of the X-Files continuity, it takes place directly after the second season episode, "Fresh Bones." For obvious reasons this story is set in an universe that differs from both shows, thus accounting for any mistakes in continuity and the like. *************************** Christopher Franklin sighed deeply as he drove up the road leading to his small estate. It had been one hell of a day. To begin with, it had begun raining early in the morning and hadn't let up at all during the day. The heavy rain had slowed down traffic even more than usual, resulting in his being nearly an hour late for work. Then, when he had finally arrived, his secretary had informed him that his latest clients wanted to see his presentation _today_ instead of on Monday, so he had had to work through lunch to finish everything. And, when they saw his work, the clients archly informed Franklin that it did not suit their needs even though they had already seen and approved earlier drafts of the ad campaign. And after that, his boss had called him into his office and assigned him to rework some earlier campaigns by next week. So he had had to work late and would probably have to work through the weekend as well. And when he had finally left work, he got stuck in a traffic jam that held him up for over an hour. All in all, it had been one of the worst days he'd had in a long time. *It's your own fault,* Franklin told himself. After all, he didn't have to work. He had enough money in various banks to last him for quite a while. No, he worked because he wanted to, because it made him feel like he belonged. As he turned onto the long driveway of his estate, he sighed again; only this sigh was more one of contentment. *It's been a good life,* he told himself. After all, he had a good job, respect from his peers, and the most wonderful wife a man could ask for. Franklin thought of Margaret and smiled. She was so beautiful, so understanding, so loving. Their five years together had been the happiest of his life. The only thing missing was a child. Margaret was so disappointed that they couldn't conceive. But even that problem wasn't insurmountable. They could always adopt. *Yes,* he reflected silently, as he stopped in front of the mansion, *it is a good life.* It was almost enough to make him feel human again. He savored the feeling as he walked into his house. "Margaret!" There was no reply. He could see a light on in the back of the house, perhaps in the dining room. He put his portfolio on a table and walked towards the light. "Margaret, I'm home!" Still no reply. Franklin began to worry. When Margaret hadn't answered when he had called to tell her he would be late, he had assumed she had been out back or in the shower or something like that. But now... "Margaret?" he said loudly, as he walked into the dining room. The room was empty; the lights were on, but the table hadn't been set. He was heading for the kitchen when he felt it. Immediately, he stopped, reached into his overcoat, and slowly turned around in a circle, scanning the room. When his hand emerged from the folds of his overcoat, it was gripping a sword. Franklin finished scanning the room. He didn't see anyone, but he knew he wasn't alone. "Your wife's not home. She believes she's supposed to meet you in the city for dinner." Franklin whirled about, his sword raised in a defensive position. A tall blond man stood in the doorway to the hall. His handsome features had a vaguely teutonic cast. He casually held a sword in his right hand. Franklin recognized him instantly. "Stocker," he said, his expression one of fury, mixed with distaste. The other man smiled. "I'm flattered that you remember me. It's been a long time." "It's hard to forget someone who tried to kill you." Stocker stepped into the room. "As I said, it was a long time ago. And it wasn't personal." Franklin fought the urge to wipe the smug expression off Stocker's face. It wasn't easy. "It was for me," he said in a hard, flat voice. "Are you here to try to finish the job?" Stocker smiled broadly. "Not at all, Christopher. You don't mind if I call you that, do you?" As matter of fact Franklin did mind, but Stocker didn't give him a chance to speak. "Actually, I had hoped we could become friends. And, in return for my friendship, I only want one thing from you." "And that would be?" "The Highlander." Stocker's smile vanished as his expression hardened. "I know he's in the area. Just tell me where he is, and I promise I'll leave you alone." "Go to hell." Franklin adjusted his position to present a smaller target. Stocker sighed. "I thought that would be your answer. You really should reconsider the matter. I'll find MacLeod sooner or later, you know. Your death would merely...inconvenience me a little." "I won't betray Duncan to you." He took off his overcoat and tossed it on a chair. "Let's get this over with." The other man shrugged. "Whatever you want. I suppose it's better this way. After you're gone, I'll be able to spend some time with your wife." He leered suggestively. "I really must compliment you on your taste in women. She's quite attractive." "You bastard!" Franklin charged Stocker, his anger overriding his better judgment. His sword flashed towards Stocker's neck. Stocker reacted with blinding speed, taking a step backwards while simultaneously bringing his sword up to block the other man's blow. Franklin pressed his attack furiously, his rage lending power to his blows. As he drove his opponent back, a voice in his head told him to calm down, to think things through. But he didn't listen. All he cared about was making Stocker pay for his remarks. Stocker, for his part, seemed unruffled by the furious onslaught. In fact, he was actually smiling as he slowly backed off. "You should really watch your temper," he said conversationally as he cut off a swing before it could build up much momentum. "After all," he hit Franklin in the face with an open handed blow with his free hand, "you don't want to lose your head." Franklin was momentarily staggered, but Stocker didn't attack. Instead he stepped through the open French doors and onto the terrace. Franklin followed slowly, deliberately taking his time. He made a conscious effort to curb his anger. Losing one's temper was a mistake. And mistakes could be deadly. Stocker seemed pleased by his enemy's newfound restraint. "That's better. Don't make this too easy." Then he stepped forward and attacked. The assault overwhelmed Franklin. Despite his best efforts, he was forced to retreat across the length of the terrace. Yet, astoundingly, his opponent seemed relaxed, even casual. Franklin gathered his strength and launched a counterattack. The two matched blades evenly for a few moments before Stocker backed off. "Very good," he said, flashing a smile. Then he leapt over the railing, into the courtyard fifteen feet below. Franklin immediately followed, landing on the wet grass only a second later. Both men attacked simultaneously, their swords moving faster than the eye could follow. Franklin was perspiring heavily. Stocker's breathing was heavy but even. Franklin was in trouble, and he knew it. *I've been out of the game too long.* Once he might have been able to take Stocker, but he had virtually no chance now. It was only a matter of time before the other man gained the upper hand. He could only think of one thing to do. It was risky, but he didn't see that he had a choice. When Stocker next attacked, Franklin blocked the blow high. Then, moving as quickly as he could, he grabbed the other man's sword arm by the wrist and forced it down and to his right, using both his left hand and sword to keep it pinned there. The two man struggled for a long moment, then Franklin released his grip and spun away to his right, turning in a full circle, his sword slashing through the air at shoulder level. Even as he moved, Franklin knew he had performed the maneuver flawlessly. When he finished his spin, his sword would cut through Stocker's neck like a hot knife through butter. Only it didn't work out that way. Stocker had taken a step backward, giving himself the time and space to bring his sword up to deflect the blow. Then, before Franklin could react, he engaged his sword in a hard and fast twirl, sending it flying out of Franklin's grasp. It was the only countermove, and Stocker had executed it perfectly. Franklin merely stood there, stunned. Stocker smiled. "Not bad, but not quite good enough." He raised his sword to shoulder level. "There can be only one." *Only one chance.* Franklin leapt forward, trying desperately to catch Stocker's sword arm. His last image was of the sword descending towards him. His last thought was of his wife. =========================================================================