AN 1: Knight Rider and all related characters are property of Glen Larson and Universal.
Guardian
By The Lady Razorsharp
He hadn't told KITT that Wilton was dead.
Really, he thought, what would KITT care? It was a machine. A machine that could talk, and reason, and learn, and...
He sighed. KITT was Wilton's creation. It deserved to know the fate of its creator, whether it was capable of caring or not.
To his dismay, Devon found that such a line of reasoning begged the question: How exactly did one give condolences to an artificial intelligence?
The point was that he liked the infernal thing. He'd tried so hard not to care about the thing that had stolen Wilton's life, his health--
No. KITT hadn't stolen Wilton's health; that had been Garthe's doing. When Elizabeth poisoned the child against him, Wilton's heart had broken. The day Wilton had received word that Garthe had been thrown into a South African hellhole with no chance of seeing daylight again--that had been the real beginning of the end. The doctors' diagnosis hadn't been much of a surprise, after that.
This one shining thing, this one flawless diamond that Wilton had left behind--that would be his legacy. The car and the man, if God was on their side.
The man...such a fragile life, yet. Devon had seen the results of war. He knew the stench of blood and how bullets could make an utter ruin of skin and bone, and yet when he'd caught an ill-timed glimpse of Michael Long's face--oh, he'd felt his knees turn to water.
Devon had sat with the young man on occasion over the last few weeks, and had listened as Michael muttered about the jungles of Vietnam, his partner Muntsy, and his lovely young fiancée.
"Mom?" Michael had asked once, in a very small voice. "Mom..."
After that, Devon had nearly marched into Wilton's room and demanded that he put a stop to the whole bloody business.
Ultimately, he hadn't said anything, which was as good as giving consent. Now it was done. Wilton was dead, Michael had accepted the Knight name and legacy, and there was nothing Devon could do about it now.
Damn it all, anyway.
He sighed again, the words of an old, old game he and Wilton had played over the years rolling back to him with particular poignancy. Wilton had used it in the past to remind Devon that the work they did was for the good of future generations. He had used it again just twenty-four hours ago, though he could barely get the words out past the pain that wracked his wasted frame. As usual, Devon had given the well-remembered responses, feeling each word like a dagger in his heart.
Whose was it?
His who is gone.
Who shall have it?
He who will come.
What shall we give for it?
All that is ours.
Why should we give it?
For the sake of the trust.
Now he stood before the machine, looking down at the curves and lines that Wilton had sculpted with his own hand. Wilton's genius had brought forth this strange child of steel and iron as surely as he had sired his own children. A true son of Knight lived under that hood, and Devon had sworn to nurture it, to protect it, to guard and guide it.
"KITT," he said finally.
The scanner bar flared to life. "Yes, Mr. Miles?"
He laid a hand on the warm metal. "I have something to tell you."
--END—
AN 2: Wilton and Devon's word game is taken from "The Musgrave Ritual" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.