Title: Phoenix
Author: knightshade
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Knight Rider or it's characters.
Summary: Devon finds a piece of the past while cleaning out his files.
Author's Notes: Thank you to Mitch Knights for the beta!
Phoenix
Devon pulled a handful of folders out of the file cabinet in front of him and dumped them unceremoniously atop the growing pile on the floor. It was frightening just how much one could accumulate if one wasn't meticulous about cleaning out one's files. The 'one' in this case, of course, being him. Devon's office had only a couple of small cabinets – it was hard to find anything tasteful. Long ago he had appropriated a large closet to store the bulk of his files. But now he'd run out of room. Being out of sight and mind, he'd let the closet get away from him, and the day of reckoning was finally here.
Devon had left his jacket in his office, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. His fingers were covered with grayish dust and he was enveloped by the old, stale smell of aging paper. He tried not to breathe too deeply – it led to fits of sneezing.
He pulled out another stack of files, glanced at them quickly and tossed them on the pile. But something caught his attention. The words on the top tab of one of the files sputtered in his mind and then caught, causing him to stop. Devon glanced down at the pile with a bit of a frown. He stooped and fished though the papers until he found the folder. Written across the top were the words, "Project Indigo."
What the devil was that doing here, he wondered. He thought all the files from the early days had been sent out for storage or destroyed.
Absentmindedly, Devon swept the folders off the lone chair in the room and sank down onto its corner, leafing through his find. The musty yellow pages were covered with ancient pencil scrawl -- drawings and sketches, notes and formulas, all in shaky handwriting.
Wilton's handwriting.
'Project Indigo.' Wilton Knight's first grand plan. His airplane.
Devon ran a hand over the smeared scribble of a cockpit drawing. Wilton had worked so hard, had been so driven only to see his hard work stolen. When Cameron Zachary's group swept in and absconded with Wilton's cockpit design, it'd seemed that all was lost. Wilton had done everything in his power to get the designs returned to him. He'd tried filing complaint after complaint with the authorities. He'd hired private investigators and had finally sent a whole army of lawyers after Zachary's crew. But to no avail. Wilton had been crushed when he'd seen the patent in Zachary's name. Devon had worried that Wilton was going to lose faith completely and retire.
But Wilton had surprised him.
One night, perhaps a month after they'd finally given up on Indigo, Devon had found Wilton in his office scribbling away with a spark of irrepressible optimism. Framed by a single small lamp, alone in his spartan office, Wilton was practically glowing with creative vigor.
And what energy it had been. It had carried Wilton through years of ups and downs, setbacks and triumphs. Devon was convinced that it was this spark that had sustained him through his long illness. It had only been after his dream had safely reached a point where it could stand on its own, that he had finally succumbed.
The plane had been a small step, creating an onboard computer that would pull together all the relevant data - navigation, avionics, instrumentation, and weather. Wilton wanted to give the pilots one convenient place to get a total picture of their aircraft. He called it a glass cockpit. What an insult that they'd even stolen the phrase he'd coined. But the glass cockpit had been a relatively simple innovation. It was nothing compared to the idea that had set him off on those late night, frenetic scribbling sessions.
The idea of a car controlled by a thinking, sentient computer, dedicated to the protection of its driver, able to do astounding things, was revolutionary. And all in the name of bringing justice to people who'd been wronged as Wilton had -- with no hope of redress, no hope of a resolution. In the ashes of a good idea was borne a beautiful, fiery dream. It had taken flight with a majesty that none of them had anticipated.
In the molting of the dull, damaged feathers of Indigo, beautiful iridescent blue plumes had flourished in their stead.
The task of cleaning forgotten, Devon reverently closed the folder, and tucked it under his arm. He decided he'd keep the file in his office. It would serve as a reminder.
Sometimes it took the death of something good to achieve something great.