Quicksilver by Karen Galarneault Disclaimer: Highlander: the Series and all related concepts, events, and characters are the property of Rysher Television, Gauamont, Panzer/Davis Productions; they do not belong to me, and no money is made off of this. You know the drill. Disclaimer: Gargoyles: the Animated Series and all related characters, events, and themes are the property of Disney Studios and Buena Vista Television; and are the creation of Greg Weisman, they do not belong to me. They are only being borrowed for entertainment purposes, and will be returned intact once I'm done with them. Note: An answer, of sorts, to a story challenge posted by Desdemona at the Seventh Dimension Highlander Fanfiction Archive's message board. Belated, but better later than never. Gunthar Norman and Bryce Whitlock are characters of my own creation. "Quicksilver" by Karen Prologue The museum's long gallery of British Isles Antiquities soaked up shadows created by moonlight filtered in through the lead-paned floor to ceiling windows. The stately old building felt cold and empty without the lights that were normally turned on during visiting hours, and the sporadic times when the board of directors closed up to rotate exhibits, or to renovate the various wings. A tall, big-boned man, the hood of his jacket pulled down to cover his face, weaved through the hallways and rooms. He held a flashlight in one hand, pausing to recall the map museum's layout he had committed to memory. He hoped he had also bypassed the security system. He did not want to be tripped up by the silent alarms and security video cameras. Dealing with the security guard proved to be far easier than he had anticipated; simply holding a rag soaked in poppy seeds to his nose. Gunthar Norman shook his head in reflection, it had not taken as much as the substance as he'd anticipated. The guard had his eyes closed, already nodding off in his chair by the time he had crept up behind him. After a few moments of mental inventory, Gunthar nodded in satisfaction, and continued on his way. **** Interlude Unknown to Gunthar Norman ensconced under an accumulating pile of books, manila file folders, and assorted documents, a research associate by the name of Bryce Whitlock was working late on translating a manuscript written in Latin, determined he would finish it before he left the museum. In the back of his mind Gunthar Norman contemplated the events of several centuries ago, seeing these relics of the past, that might as well have been his present. “I can feel it,” he whispered to himself under his breath. “It’s almost within reach. All these centuries of searching, of running into one dead end after another; I’m finally close to achieving my goal, and the ghost of my ancestor, Hakon, will at long last have his long deserved revenge against those Gods be cursed-gargoyles who killed him.” Gunthar chuckled, a low rumble at the base of his throat. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if all those urban myths I’ve been hearing about since I arrived in Manhattan were true? Real live gargoyles protecting the city.” Gunthar paused to admire a sword in glass-fronted display case, while with his free hand he patted his own blade, safely hidden underneath the folds of his cloak. He was distracted a moment later by the sound of shuffling footsteps and a dry cough. ** "Who the hell are ye?" the man snarled, irritated that this insignificant person would show up at just the wrong moment to ruin his perfect plan as he whirled around in alarm, mentally kicking himself for not having sensing the approach of someone else in the room with him. "Nobody," the nervous and dead-tired research associate gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his skinny chest. Bryce back pedaled as far as he could go until he backed into his own desk. Bryce hedged around the stranger careful to maintain eye contact with him. Bryce did not have to see hard physical evidence of a gun, or another weapon, he instinctively knew that that this man could be considered armed and dangerous. Bryce stumbled and almost fell over. He was able to recover in time to hit the silent alarm, and sighed in relief, as the intruder momentarily seemed oblivious of his presence. It didn't last very long. Bryce fell into his desk chair, trying to hide his movements from the other man, reaching into the drawer where he kept a .38 caliber gun, which he told himself he had only bought for the last leg of the commute to his grungy apartment in the Bronx. New York wasn't actually the safest in the world, so he’d bought a gun to be on the safe side. He hadn't expected to actually have a need to use it at work. The intruder lunged forward, a nasty looking knife in hand; a dark coiled fury in his dark eyes, making a stab at Bryce where he hid behind the desk. In the split second of that would have seen the glittering silver blade plunged into his chest, Bryce lifted his hand holding the gun in a white-knuckled grip and he pulled the trigger. The bullet speeds through the air and found itself lodged in the intruder's collarbone. The resulting shock, and recoil of the gun's firing, was finally too much for Bryce to take and he fainted. *** When he came to, Bryce discovered that the security guard had responded to the silent alarm. "Is he dead?" Bryce Whitlock stammered his face pale and his heart hammering like a blacksmith striking the metal of his anvil. The security guard bent down next to the prone body, his hand shaking as well. He reached out a hand by increments to feel for a pulse. The bullet had entered at an angle, and apparently lodged itself in the clavicle. The man he had shot was tall, dark-haired, and wore equally dark clothing. A small crimson stain extended out from his shoulder blades. The guard folded back the hood of the cloak the man had worn, the flesh already going cold in rigor mortis. For a few tense seconds, the body seemed to move, but he dismissed that as his mind playing tricks on him, and pressed his suddenly clammy fingers to the man’s neck feeling for a pulse. Nothing. The guard wiped his hand off on his denim jeans, and stood up again to answer the obviously shaken academic. "Yup, he's dead. We'd better call the authorities." "Of course, there's a phone in my office," Bryce said. "I'll go make the call." "Uh, what do we do with the body?" He was anxious to get away from the man he had killed. "Dunno," the guard replied. "Somehow," Bryce grimly replied, "That does not do much to reassure me," He tossed over his shoulder as he walked over to his office, the door he had left ajar. **** Somewhere in mid-town The lights were turned down to a bare flicker, except for the lamp mounted in its bracket over the metal slab. The doctor whose duty rotation meant he had to stand the graveyard shift in the morgue, arched his back, shifting around to get gain a more comfortable position in his metal swivel chair, filling the last of many of forms following the conclusion of his autopsy on the latest body to be delivered to the morgue. Despite, this one being a John Doe, he had some information gleaned from the autopsy. ‘White Male, approximate age30-35, 220 pounds; black hair worn shoulder length, apparent nationality Western European, big-boned. Cause of death, a bullet wound lodged in the clavicle, and pierced all the way through with enough force to shock the victim into severe blood loss, the resulting internal bleeding indicates that death occurred at approximately 10pm the previous evening.’ Doctor Hamilton rattled off all in one breath as he filled in the corresponding blanks on the medical form. ** Gunthar awoke with the taste of rusty nails in a dry mouth along with a throbbing headache. He wondered how his flawless plan of obtaining the documents pertaining to the Stone of Destiny’s whereabouts, along with the key to unlock its power, could have gone so horribly wrong. Shifting position on the chilly metal surface he had a least some evidence to go on: He finger-combed his lank black hair, and after a few moments gave it up as an exercise in futility. Rubbing the sleep grit out of his blue eyes. Just then the body resting on the metal gurney twitched and began moving. Minutes later the ‘deceased’ sat up and glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings. The white sheet fell to the floor, unnoticed. “What the hell?” How? You’re dead!” Hamilton stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. “I was dead, I got better,” Gunthar grimly replied. “That’s all you need to know. “Do us both a favor, you fill out that death certificate, file the report, and then ‘continently’ forget that you ever saw me come back, or that any of this ever happened.” Unable to speak, Hamilton simply nodded. Gunthar grinned, and scooped up the bag containing all the possessions he had on him when he was killed and brought into the morgue, methodically dressing, and leaving behind one very confused doctor, having decided against killing him, Gunthar slammed the door behind him as he walked out into the night. ***** Meanwhile The red and white classic car pulled up in front of the front entrance of the Eyrie Building, a large marble block with the stark black letters bigger than life, Xanatos Enterprises, on its surface. “They used to say that the real estate agent retained by Steven Spielberg’s production studios remarked once that his house with its high ceilings wouldn’t be big enough to contain his ego,” Matt Bluestone observed to no one in particular. “This takes the cake.” “We’re here,” Elisa announced. She turned the key in the car’s ignition and unbuckled her seatbelt. That done she turned to her partner and fellow detective, holding up a hand a few inches from his mouth. “Not another word, Matt. Unless it has do with the case at hand?” She smiled, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and a mischievous grin curving her lips. “I’ve just had all I can take for one night.” Matt Bluestone, his red hair plastered to his face from the light drizzle that had been falling all night, returned her grin, and nodded. "Okay, okay. I get it So, if our conversational topics are limited to the case or the weather; how do you suppose a John Doe managed to get up off its slab, check itself out of the morgue, and walk out the hospital and make its way all the way across town, and then return to the scene of the crime?” “I really don’t know,” Elisa replied, finger-combing the snarls out of her waist-length black hair, and then zipping up her red-leather coat to provide more protection against the cold and dampness of the rain. “Maybe talking to the guys will provide a fresher perspective on the case.” Entering the sky-scrapper, they tried to avoid appearing overwhelmed by the monument to exuberant wealth possessed by Xanatos and his uninhibited arrogance and in the extravagant way he had of showing it off. Being unimpressed was easier said then done. Moving over to the bank of elevators that led to the upper stories, by mutual agreement they both took long, deep breaths preparing for the even longer climb up the stone stairs to the roof, and from there the ruins of the Dark Ages fortress that Xanatos had air-lifted by helicopter lock, stock, and gargoyle when he had constructed The Eyrie Building and taken possession of the crumbling fortress in Scotland. Legend had it, that a clan of real-life gargoyles had been spent the last 10,000 years in enchanted sleep that rendered them stone by and by night. He had been skeptical, of course. He had an interest in the old castle for its economic and architectural value,’ a welcome surprise had been to learn that local legends were true; that the gargoyles were living, vibrant, and feeling beings. Xanatos had once believed he could exploit the gargoyles to serve his own ends; and for a while they had been enemies. Until recently, when they had been forced to work together to save the life of his son, Alexander. That incident showed Xanatos that he they had so much more to gain be working together instead of at cross-purposes. A truce had been agreed to, and now he and the Manhattan Clan of Gargoyles were at least on speaking terms. Goliath, bless his noble heart, believed in Xanatos’ promise, but somehow Elisa firmly believed that old saying that a leopard never truly changed his spots, and she would trust Xanatos any further than she could throw him. With those thoughts running through her head, Elisa stopped on the threshold of the old castle’s double doors, curling her hand around the metal door knocker, gasping for breath. Ever since she had befriended the gargoyles when they had awakened after a ten thousand year stone sleep, she was certain of one thing, being their friend and ally was certainly good for keeping in shape. “Goliath!” she called out, as she swung wide the doors and entered the entry hall, Matt treading on her heels. “Elisa!” Goliath called out to her, his bass voice rumbling, threatening to chip loose ever more of the crumbling masonry surrounding them. Hudson glided forward, his old joints creaking, Bronx on his heels. A wrinkly smile on his wide, expressive face, he enveloped first Elisa and then Matt in his wings, and gave them a smothering hug. “Aye, tis a sight for these old eyes of mine to see the both of ye again.” “You old fuddy-duddy, a century hasn’t passed by,” Matt laughed, when he had recovered his breath. “Still, it’s nice to be remembered.” “Hudson, stop it,“ Elisa. “If you’re not careful you’ll having him believing that you’re going soft and senile. Which is obviously not true.” “What’s going on?” Broadway yelled from the open door of the kitchen that branched off from the main hall, holding Angela’s hand, and a large submarine sandwich in the other, on his heels were the other members of the Trio: Brooklyn and Lexington. “Elisa and Matt are here!” Goliath yelled back. “As much as I enjoy seeing you, is something wrong?” “Nothing wrong, as much as it’s puzzling as hell. We’re in the midst of investigation. On the surface, it is pretty straight forward. A standard breaking and entry at the Museum of Medieval Antiquities. The prep was shot and killed by a .38 caliber gun carried by a young research associate working late on translating a few manuscripts, “ Matt launched ahead with his explanation. “We’ve been trying to get a lead in this case, and so far it’s getting us nowhere. It doesn’t help matters that the body in question managed to get up under its own power, walk out of the morgue, and make another stab at stealing something called the Scepter of Alba and the Stone of Destiny,” Elisa added. “This walking corpse have a name?” Broadway asked. “Nope,” Elisa replied, “Which makes it all that more frustrating.” “We thought you have some more insights to share with us,” Matt said. "It is worth, what is the expression," Goliath grimly said, his dark wings folded around his massive shoulders so that it draped down to the stone floor of the castle parapet like a cloak. "Oh, yes, staking out again. If there is one thing I have learned since our 'awakening' in Manhattan, is that criminals often return to the scene of the crime." "You'll get no argument from me," Elisa replied. “This might interest you, apparently the thief was after something the museum curator referred to as the Scottish Stone of Destiny, along with the Scepter of Alba, both originating from the late Dark Ages in Cumbria, what’s now Scotland. Ring any bells?” “Indeed,” Goliath replied, “although the pivotal times where the Stone of Destiny played a pivotal role came after our time. It was reputed to possess magical powers.” “Then I’d lay odds who was after it,” Elisa replied. “You know how obsessed Xanatos has been about securing immortality for himself. “Agreed. Send the Trio," Hudson rumbled from his seated position in front of the television along with the garg-dog, Bronx curled up at his feet, big dark, intelligent eyes staring up at him, for all that he was the only one who could not speak in words. Meanwhile "Macleod," Bryce greeted the older Scottish man, the fine lines around his eyes formed by genuine good will and an over tendency to smile at the oddest moments. He enjoyed being surrounded by things of the past. He had always been a firm believer that the past, as dry and dusty and it sometimes seemed to him; there were lessons to be learned, and he enjoyed digging them up, discussing with those of like minds. It didn't hurt to get now and then and enjoy the company of his small circle of friends. Even though, Macleod lived on the other side of the country in Seattle, it was nice that they corresponded on various matters, including the subject of his research. "Bryce," Duncan Macleod returned the smile and pumped the smaller man's hand up and down in a firm handshake for all he was worth. "It's good to see you again." "Likewise, Mac," Bryce replied, rubbing his hand once Duncan released it, and stuffing into the jacket pocket of his corduroy pants. Richie, standing to one side, tightened his mouth, trying to hold his laughter in, having had experience of being on the receiving end of an equal forceful handshake. Mac just didn't realize his own strength sometimes. He waited while they exchanged pleasantries; and news of something or other that Mac was having Bryce research for him; and waited to be introduced. He hadn't been paying attention, and tugged at the black silk tie Macleod insisted he wear to the unveiling event. He glanced at his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall across the way from him. In the back of his mind, some wayward part of him knew he looked good in a suit, but another part.-- How many parts of me are there? He wondered how anyone in their right mind would where one of these constricting torture devices disguised as neckties. Richie inspected the exhibits, noting the suits of armor set upright as if they really were knights about to sally forth on parade; halberds raised at parade rest, swords hanging from their belt notches. Individual blades were displayed in glass-fronted cases; some pulled halfway out of their sheaths. Others were bared completely out, and gleamed in the light of the fluorescent lights. “Richie,” Duncan began. Richie could practically see the pained_expression on Duncan’s face. “Huh?” Richie replied, distracted from his thoughts. “I’d like to introduce you to Bryce Whitlock, an old friend of mine.” Richie, winning smile plastered on his face, turned around and firmly shook hands with the other man. “A pleasure.” Bryce laughed and returned the hand shake, “You’ve done wonders with this one, Macleod, if I didn’t you know any better I’d say he was born to smooze with the rich and famous.” Richie silently cursed the double curse of blushing and a fair complexion. “Hey, enough with the laughs at my expense!” “I suppose, it’s only fair,” Duncan laughed. “Bryce, did you find those manuscripts I asked for last summer?” “Actually, I did,” Bryce replied, gesturing with his hand to the open door of his office. “Why don’t we look them over? Since I’m only an associate, I’m not responsible for organizing the events, the parties, and security. That headache’s been left up to the director.” “And here I thought your ambitions were much higher than that,” Duncan nodded agreeably, following him into his office, Richie bringing up the rear. ** “The origin of this famous Stone is shrouded in myth. According to legend it came from the Holy Land were Jacob supposedly used it as a pillow in Biblical times. Transported through Egypt, Sicily, and Spain, it was taken to Ireland, where St. Patrick himself blessed this rock for use in the crowing of kings of the emerald isle,” Bryce said. “On November 15, 1996 the Stone of Destiny, which Scottish kings were crowned since time immemorial, was brought back to Scotland 700 years after the army of King Edward, the first of England, carted it off to Westminster Abbey in London.” Macleod took up the story. “I know where that is,” Richie said. “Sounds like they were trying to get away with the logic that possession is nine tenths of the law.” “Okay, wise guy,” Macleod continued, not missing a beat. “But do you know this? It was safely ensconced in Edinburgh Castle, and it weights approximately 152kg, the rock is known in places other than Scotland as the “Stone of Scone” and has joined other Scottish regalia -crown, scepter, sword, and jewels-as a collection.” “Conflicts abound still about whether the stone that rests secure in Edinburgh Castle is the genuine article,” Bryce said. “After so many centuries, it is hard to be sure anymore. Most of what we know is based on recorded legend and oral tradition. In other words, stories passed down from generation to generation, and only now written down.” “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Duncan encouraged. “I’m dry. I don’t supposed you have any gin in here?” “No,” Bryce replied, “but when we’re through here, I’ll take you both out, on me.” He looked at Richie, you are old enough to drink? “Urgh,” Richie replied. “Yeah, I’m old enough to drink.” “Yes, well,” Bryce cleared his throat. “Other legend suggests that the original Stone of Destiny was white marble instead of sandstone and carved with decorative figures- in no way resembling the plain slab of yellow sandstone with its single Latin cross carved into it.” “To make matters more confusing, “Duncan continued. “ There may have been several copies, including the one that figured so largely in the fortunes of Bonnie Prince Charlie during the Battle of Culloden in 1783.” “He was the last of the Stuart Monarchs,” Richie said. “It is entirely within the realm of possibility that some canny Scots fobbed off a fake on Edward the first seven hundred years ago, hiding the original coronation stone where it would never be found.” “Even if the fabled Stone of Destiny is fake, “Bryce said, “it qualifies as a historical relic in its own right.” "What's that?" Richie cocked his head, completing a 180-degree turn, his red hair plastered to his face. "I thought I heard something." "You hear odd things now and again in this place," Bryce soothed, "It's probably nothing." He paused to reconsider “Then again, it's probably the crewmen from the contractors we're using to renovate the east wing." Scene 6 On the roof Brooklyn glided to a stop on the tiled roof of the museum, trying to maintain his balance, as Lexington bumped into him from behind. Broadway and Angela were still behind them by several yards, being more engaged in making lovey-dovey eyes at each other, and rising and swooping on the rising thermal air currents, then they were on investigating criminal activity on medieval antiquities. I guess, Brooklyn thought to himself, he couldn’t blame them. He probably would have acted the same way, “Hell even though I’ve haven’t found the “One” If I could find a reasonably attractive female gargoyle that would return my love. Listen to yourself, Brook, you’re getting maudlin in your old age. Keep your mind on business. We’’re here to keep the Stone of Destiny from falling into the wrong hands. “ Angela and Broadway broke off from what they were doing, and joined Lexington and himself on the rooftop. “Now what,” Lexington asked, looking up at Brooklyn, “You’re the second in command, what’s the plan?” “I’m working on it,” Brooklyn cheerfully replied, smiling down at the smallest of his rookery brothers. Lexington just gaped at him, and shook his head, trying to recall the layout of the museum’s interior he had memorized when he’d brought it up on his laptop computer back at the castle. “I just hope it isn’t a plan that translates: he thought to himself, levering up a portion of the roof, making the sure the resulting opening was large enough for them to pass through. “Okay, guys, down to business. We have an in,” Brooklyn whispered to his companions and dropped through the gap to land on the floor of the gallery, his black wings folded spread to control his descent, as Angela, Broadway, and Lexington followed along in his wake. ** Scene 7 Inside Brooklyn shook himself, checking by hearing rather than with his eyes to be sure of the others whereabouts relative to his own. When he recovered, he learned that they were not alone in the art gallery. Three humans, one short and blond, and very skinny, wearing wire-frame glasses; the second taller and red-haired, wearing a leather jacket, looked like he could put a good fight. The last was taller, and more muscular, he also looked he’d been spoiling for a fight his entire life. “Not bad odds,” Brooklyn whispered to Broadway who stood on his left side. “Hello,” Duncan drawled, stalling for time. “Hey,” Broadway tried, breaking up the suddenly tense atmosphere. “A funny thing happened to me on the way to the museum. What to hear about it?” “Broadway,” Angela warned, “This is neither the time nor the place for jokes.” “Uh, you the welcoming committee?” Lexington said. “Usually criminals would be running away in fear by now,” Broadway added. “Wow!” Bryce Whitlock shouted, pointing a trembling index finger in the direction of the gargoyles. “What are those?” “Bryce,” Duncan began, a warning note in his voice. “Head for your office and lock the door,” he added, sending the smaller man stumbling back in the direction of his office. “Don’t argue with me; just do it.” “What you see, kiddo,” Angela replied. “We’re here to serve and protect the people of this city, including you. That is,” she shrugged. “Unless you’re the ones trying to harm people or steal the relics in the museum, than we’re here to stop you.” “Interesting,” Duncan replied, absently, distracted by the dull “Buzz’ that began at the base of spine and worked its way up to the back of his neck, causing all the dark short hairs to stand on end. He exchanged a glance with Richie, noting that he to felt the ‘Buzz, that signaled the presence of another Immortal. They both took a quick glance around in a 360 degree circumference, noting the locations of all possible entrances and exits; and trying to make the best guess of where the other Immortal would emerge. Duncan, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his leather coat, felt another sensation coming from where the creatures, who called themselves gargoyles, clustered in a tense semi-circle, he felt an itch, not unlike the one when Richie had first intruded into his four hundred year life; by breaking and entering his dojo. He shook his head to clear of the fogginess, and tried to convince himself that he must be mistaken; but the feeling persisted. “You are going to think this is crazy to begin with, then again it’s probably not the strangest thing that’s ever happened to you,“ Macleod said aloud. “Until almost three days ago, I wouldn’t have believed that gargoyles were anything more than Medieval water-spouts carved on religious edifices to educate and frighten the masses, then again…” “I understand where you’re coming from,” Goliath nodded encouragingly. “You were saying, about Brooklyn?” “It‘s like this, you see I am one of many others who have a very long life-line,’ Macleod said, feeling his way as he spoke the words. “We’re Immortal, and we can’t die unless some takes our heads, and with our power. We can die,” Duncan added, seeing the skeptical look form on Goliath’s head, his brow furrowing with tiny lines. “There are others like us, some good, some evil. We’re only safe on holy ground.” “As fascinating as all this is,” Goliath interrupted, raising a hand to stop him, “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I believe you. Trust me on this one, Mr. Macleod, I’m not stranger when it comes to sorcery and the supernatural. Are you familiar with someone called Demona? She’s Immortal to a degree, due to a spell cast by the Weird Sisters a thousand years ago.” “Never heard of her,” Duncan replied, wondering this was going. “All I am saying is, if Brooklyn is an Immortal, how come we haven’t seen it yet?” “He hasn’t had first death? Shown any signs of aging at a slower rate than is usual for your people?“ Duncan asked, waving a hand vaguely at Brooklyn’s fall of snow-white hair. “No, the white hair is natural for him,” Goliath laughed. “He’s had several close shaves, been caught in the crossfire of panicked criminals with guns, threatening to fire at hi. Other than that, nothing unusual.” “Well, If I could ask you for one favor,” Duncan said. “Name it,” Goliath nodded. “When Brooklyn does realize that’s he’s Immortal, call me,” Duncan added, handing a white card with his name and the address of his dojo in Seacouver, Washington, “He’ll need someone to help him through the growing pains. OH, and if I’m not available, please call the other name on the card. My kinsman, Connor Macleod. Same clan, different vintage.” “I believe that I understand,” Goliath grinned, and rustled his wings to remove the kinks from his shoulder muscles. “If it’s agreeable to you and Richie, I would like to say that we have made some excellent allies this evening.” He paused, “Scratch that, good friends.” “Good friends. While we’re on the subject: There are many rules, and the number one rule I want you to help reinforce in him:” Duncan stopped for breath, and continued. “Make absolutely sure he doesn’t lose his head.“ “You have my word,” Goliath promised, exchanging conspiratorial winks and a firm handshake. “Let us return to the party.” “As long as you have brandy stored somewhere in this rock of castle you call home,” Duncan agreed. END