The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.
This story is mine as are characters of Dallas Delany, Sukhe Khan and various minor players - so please don't take them anywhere without letting me know. I hope you enjoy the story and if you do, I'd love to hear your comments.
A Splash of Color
Grey has a way of sneaking up on you, Duncan thought, as he stood by the window with his hands in his pockets. One day your life is filled with vibrant colors. They dance and sing and fill your heart with joy. But while you are distracted by the process of living, sometimes the colors seep away, and before you know it only the grey remains.
Black he could deal with. Black was a dragon that sunk its fangs in deep and gave you something to fight. A man couldn't do battle with grey. It was illusive, difficult to define - a wraith at the edge of the forest.
He rolled a few loose coins and a bit of lint through his fingers as he watched dime-sized clumps of sodden snow dribble listlessly to the ground. The storm had dredged up grey clouds and a light grey mist. Together they washed all the color from the scene, like the rigors of Immortality had washed the color from his life.
Below his window, two cars crept along the slushy street. The blare of a horn penetrated the glass when one driver honked at the slowpoke ahead of them. A fourth car rounded the corner, then skidded as its driver braked to avoid running into the tail end of the column. Duncan took a deep breath and shook his head at the antics. He let the pressure of the breath out slowly in a long exhale that felt very much like a sigh.
A snowfall - even a wet sloppy one - the week before Christmas, should have put him in a more festive mood. Should have added a spot of colorful joy to the muted palette that surrounded him. But even his favorite holiday couldn't defeat the grey.
A faint squeak of rubber soles on the wood floor disturbed his reverie, but he didn't turn until the owner of the sneakers spoke. "Hey, Mac." The familiar voice drew his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder.
"Yeah, Rich, what do you want?"
"You got a visitor," Richie said, with a smirk of amusement. Apparently, he didn't sense the pervasive greyness of the day. His eyes twinkled as he stepped through the dojo office door, then he moved to one side and revealed a child. She stood behind him shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
A pair of scuffed in-line skates swung from one hand, and in the other she clutched a hockey stick. Her yellow rain slicker pleaded for a good scrubbing, and the dark brown hair that dusted her shoulders desperately needed a trim. Fat snow flakes clung to shaggy bangs that fell from beneath a blue knit cap to cover her eyebrows, and she looked to be about nine or ten. Old tear tracks had left pale etchings in the dirt smudging her cheeks, yet she regarded Duncan with an insolent glare.
"You MacLeod?" she asked, lifting her chin to a defiant angle.
"Who wants to know?" he answered her question with one of his own.
"Dallas Delaney," she said as though that should mean something to him.
He moved to the desk and slid one leg onto the corner. "And what can I do for you, Miss Delaney?"
Her shoulders lifted as she inhaled deeply, and she sucked the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth. "If you are really Duncan MacLeod," she said, sweeping a look of doubt over him. "You can help me find the guy who killed my father. He said if anything happened to him, I should go to Duncan MacLeod and--"
She dropped the skates. They clattered as they hit the floor digging a small but noticeable nick in the highly polished oak. Duncan winced. She shrugged off her dingy red backpack, searched through the pockets for a moment, then pulled out a crumpled envelope.
"Give him this," she finished. Her dark blue eyes flickered from side to side as she glanced around the office, then she stepped forward to hand him the envelope.
Richie stood beside the doorway with his hands angled onto his hips. His eyes widened as she passed in front of him. "Hey, Mac, is she--" he began.
Duncan held his hand up to silence his young friend, as he met his inquiring gaze, then he nodded. He, too, sensed the faint, but definite pre-Immortal buzz that radiated from the girl.
He didn't want Richie blurting it out. She was too young. She couldn't know. She shouldn't know. He leaned toward her as he reached to take the envelope from her hand, but suddenly she stepped back. Her eyes widened and her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the hockey stick. She stared at something on the wall behind him, and he turned to see what had caught her attention.
It couldn't be the perfectly innocent black and white Harley Davidson poster, so it had to be the set of ancient katanas mounted in the rack next to the poster.
"Jake didn't tell me," she said. Clutching the envelope to her chest, she took another step back. "Y-you - you're one of us. You're like Jake ... like me." She spun on her heel, and raced for the door.
When she tried to run past him, Richie grabbed the hood of her coat. "Hey, what's your hurry, short stuff?" he asked, holding her shoulder as she squirmed.
She jerked free of his grip, dropped the hockey stick and the envelope, then pulled a short sword out from under her coat as she turned to face them. "Don't come any closer," she said. Moving into a fighting stance, she held the sword before her.
Richie jumped back away from the point of her blade. "Whoa, chill," he said grinning.
Duncan swallowed the hearty laugh that rumbled up from deep within him. It took a great restraining effort to hold it in, but the child looked so fierce he couldn't help smiling at her bravado. He joined Richie at the door, taking care not to make any sudden moves that might startle her. "We won't hurt you," he said, keeping his voice gentle.
"Jake told me never trust any of our kind," she said, holding her ground.
Duncan crouched down before her, but out of the range of her sword. No sense in taking foolish chances - he hadn't forgotten his run in with Kenny. He rested his forearms on his knees and kept his hands clearly in her sight. "But Jake also told you to find me, didn't he?"
She relaxed her stance a trifle as she considered his question. "Yeah ... but how do I know you're really Duncan MacLeod?"
She inched back, watching him intently as he stood to take out his wallet. He opened it to his driver's license, and held it out to her. She inspected it in silence for a moment, then she lowered her sword.
"Is that enough proof?" he asked.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I guess."
He crouched down to her level again, then picked up the envelope. With more than a hint of distrust in her eyes, she glanced over his shoulder at Richie.
"It's okay," Duncan said, quietly. "Richie's a friend. He won't hurt you either." He reached out to place a reassuring hand on her arm, but she edged away from him.
"Does he know," she whispered, suddenly concerned about revealing secrets.
Duncan smiled as he nodded. "He's one of us."
Dallas frowned, but she didn't comment. Duncan ripped the envelope open, then removed the two folded sheets of yellow-ruled paper. He blinked as he recognized the blue scrawl that covered the first page.
Hey buddy, it began. Bad news ... If you're reading, this I'm dead.
Duncan sighed. Leave to Jake Pendleton to come right to the point. His old friend had never mastered the art of diplomacy - except where the ladies were concerned.
The messenger who has delivered this letter to you is my daughter, Dallas - at least I hope she's the one delivering it. Unfortunately, she's not my flesh and blood daughter - as you well know - but she's the closest I'll ever come to having a child, MacLeod - so treat her right. She's one tough cookie, but she has the soul of an angel, and she's smart as a whip, too.
I married her mother seven years ago - and stop snickering, MacLeod - yes, the great Casanova Pendleton finally settled down with one woman after 500 years of chasing skirts. You and Tessa were an inspiration, and I never hoped to find the same happiness. I did with Claire. She was a very special lady, but I lost her to an enemy far more dangerous than any we'll ever cross swords with - she died of cancer last year.
I was sorry to hear you lost Tessa, too - but I guess that means I don't have to explain the grief. At least, I had Dallas. I don't know how I would have made it through without her. She's a real trooper. Now the poor kid has no one, so I'm sending her to you because you're the only one of our kind I trust enough to look out for her.
You know what she is, and why I can't just let the mortal bureaucracy get a hold of her. She needs special care. I've done what I can. I told her what she is, and I've been teaching her how to fight with a sword. The rest is up to you. Do whatever you think is best for her.
Though I never did have your knack with money, I've done okay, so I set up a trust fund for her. The key with this letter is for a safe deposit box that has all the papers you'll need. Dallas knows which bank.
So that's the whole of it, good buddy. Try and remember me now and then - we had some great times together, you and me. One last thing ... I know you're fond of that single malt poison you drink, but do me a favor - since I'm beyond imbibing at this point - have a nice tall frosty one for me and toss down a couple of shots of Jack Daniels to chase it.
It was signed, simply - Jake.
An oppressive lassitude seeped into Duncan as he folded the sheets, then slipped them back into the envelope. Another friend lost to the Game. He let the key fall into his hand, stared at it for a moment, then closed his fingers around the cold brass. He looked at the child. She was watching him with a mix of suspicion and hope in her eyes. Now what? He stood.
"Bad news?" Richie asked.
"Yeah," he said, without turning. "Her father was a friend of mine - a very old friend. He's dead."
"I'm sorry," Richie said.
"Yeah," Duncan said without thinking. He couldn't think, yet he had to decide what to do about the child. First things, first. She looked tired and cold, and she was probably hungry. That he could handle.
"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked her.
She shook her head.
"Well, come on upstairs. I'll fix you something, then we'll talk about what needs to be done."
He smiled as she tucked the sword under her coat with practiced ease, then he waited by the elevator while she retrieved her skates and the hockey stick. At least, she'd had a good teacher, he thought with a sigh.
"So are you going to help me find the guy who got Jake," she asked looking up at him with a spark of vengeance gleaming in her eyes.
He looked away. The intense emotion was way too dark for one so young. "We'll talk about it after you eat," he said, resting his hand on her shoulder as he guided her into the elevator.
Richie pulled the gate down as he stepped in after them. "You've already had lunch," Duncan said.
"So is there a law against eating again?" Richie asked with a smirk.
"There ought to be," Duncan replied, shaking his head as he reached for the control.