From v4s@FKFANFIC.COMFri Nov 29 23:53:12 1996 Date: Fri, 29 Nov 1996 17:16:54 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: The Outcast State (06/10) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #3 Episode Title: "The Outcast State" "Air" Date: November 28, 1996 Author: Tigon Diana Hooker Part 6 of 10 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Tigon Diana Hooker -------------------------- Nat frowned and finished another report. Her successor was rising from within the ME Office, so there was actually very little training necessary. So little, in fact, that she was basically doing her usual job. A deal was a deal, and however much Nat wanted to take a little time off before her move, she had promised to work up to two weeks before the new school term started. Sighing, she reached for another report. If nothing else, she could mop up the backlog she was responsible for. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to deal with many 'clients,' but even if she did, knowing that it was only for a little while longer gave her a certain fortitude. Perhaps it was that fortitude which prompted her to curiously pick up the 'Poison Ivy' file...to see if her newfound temporary strength could withstand the very thing that had indirectly caused her impending change of address. She skimmed quickly over the crime scene photos, but rather than waste time digesting all the stats, she looked at the woman studying a slide. "Grace?" "Hmmm?" Grace looked up. She was one of Natalie's more fervent supporters in favor of the move, and both had promised to do a great deal of corresponding and visiting. "Can you give me a nutshell rundown on the Poison Ivy stats?" Before Grace could answer, another voice said, "I can..." and Nat looked up to see Thomas Westwood. **** Thomas Westwood stood just inside the door, obviously having slipped quietly in as the two women were distracted by their work. Hands in pockets, he said to Nat, "So... what's this I hear about you moving to my old stomping grounds?" Slightly annoyed at his sudden silent appearance, whether it was intentional or not, Nat replied tersely, "Well, if you've heard that much, you probably don't need me to fill you in on the rest of the details." Both Westwood and Grace stared in vague startlement at Nat's tone. "I think I'll take these samples up to the lab," Grace, living up to her name, said as she exited. Westwood examined the tops of his shoes and burrowed his hands deeper in his pockets. "Ah...I was just going to wish you luck, and maybe suggest some good restaurants I know of." Feeling more than a little chastened, Nat stammered, "I'm sorry...I'm just drowning in paperwork." "And chomping at the bit to get on with your new life?" he intuited with a slight grin. He was, Nat realized, a handsome enough looking man, an inch or two shorter than Nick...it was hard to tell because he had a habit of slumping into his pockets, as he was doing now. Where Nick was stylishly neat, he was pleasantly rumpled...preferring browns and blues, jackets with elbow patches and dockers. Brown was actually a good color for the man, working well with his brown hair and eyes. Realizing that she had just methodically dissected and compared Westwood to Nick, she felt another tinge of embarrassment. "Um," she said, "what were you saying about the Poison Ivy case?" Deciding that it was now safe enough to move further into the lab, Westwood drew near her desk, "I said I could fill you in on whatever you need to catch-up on. That's why I'm here, actually. I'm working on the psych profile on this one, and I thought we should put our minds together." Suspicions flared in Nat. This wasn't the first profile he had done on a case of hers...was it coincidence that he had a sudden desire to collaborate now that she was moving out of his reach? She knew that he had never been satisfied with her answers about her attack, and braced herself for more of his not-so-subtle probings into her knowledge of vampires. "Fill me in," she said simply. "Let's see," he began, gazing upward as though he were accessing an invisible file above his head. "Three murders, one by sledgehammer, two by pick. The poison ivy is the killer's calling card, though we haven't been able to figure out the symbolism yet. The victims are all in their early twenties, yet there are no other links between them. Two Caucasian, one East Indian...two female, one male. Victims went to different schools, were raised in different parts of the city, had no common jobs or friends." "But it can't be completely random," Nat stated. "No," agreed Westwood. "There's too much method, too much pent-up rage in the murders. Somewhere, there's a link." They mulled over that maddening thought for a moment, then Westwood asked, a touch too casually, "This is the case that, um...you had problems with?" Able to laugh about it now, Nat confirmed, "Yup, dropped like a sack of potatoes." "Is that why you're leaving?" Realizing that Mr. Subtlety was launching his attack, Nat became more cautious. "That's part of it. Actually, I had been considering leaving before that." It *was* true, she *had* packed up her desk after Laura's suicide. Seeming somewhat surprised, he asked, "So it doesn't have anything to do with your attack?" "Of course it does," Nat answered, deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible. "You can't expect that not to have a part in my decision." Like a hound hitting scent, Westwood pressed on, "So, at the first scene, what made you pass out? It wasn't as though you hadn't seen worse. In fact, didn't you have to deal with a week-old corpse found in a dumpster earlier that day?" He had done his homework, Nat realized. She couldn't explain why the rotting corpse hadn't affected her...that would be taking it *too* close to the truth Westwood was looking for. "I don't know," she replied vaguely. "It was the blood, wasn't it?" he sprang the question at her eagerly. "The fresh blood bothers you now?" Unbidden, his questions invoked the strange flashes she felt around blood...the hunger, the horror. She stared up at him, unsure how to answer and angry that he could be so insensitive to her feelings in his quest for a knowledge that would probably get him killed. Opening her mouth to tell him that it was none of his damned business, she was interrupted by the simultaneous ringing of her phone and beeping of his pager. **** Nat sat in uncomfortable silence as Westwood drove them to the latest Poison Ivy scene. She had reluctantly accepted his offer to drive her over, unsure of why she didn't insist on taking her own car. Finally, she admitted to herself that she was scared of having to face another bloody crime scene alone. At least Westwood had backed off on his interrogation of her. After a few more minutes of heavy quiet had passed, Westwood awkwardly cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry...I was out of line back there. Call it an occupational hazard, but I can get a little dogmatic about things." Grateful for the apology and already feeling much of the tension leaving the car, Nat smiled slightly, "I'm familiar with the feeling myself." "Yeah, not really that much difference between our jobs, is there?" he commented. "Just that I dissect the minds while you dissect the bodies." Suddenly realizing that he might have pushed another bad button, he shot her a sideways look and said, "Sorry, that probably didn't come out well." Laughing, Nat assured him, "No, that didn't bother me. You're right though." She then stiffened, seeing the flashing lights ahead that pinpointed the murder scene. Noticing her sudden withdrawal into herself, Westwood said in a concerned tone, "Hey...if this is going to be too much for you, you *don't* have to be here." "No." Nat clenched the arm rest tightly. "No, I think I can handle it." She began telling herself to expect the worst and firmly told herself that she could deal with it... it was only for a little while longer. Westwood parked the car, then looked at her, gently patting the hand gripping the armrest. "Okay, I understand ...but if you need to, just say the word and I'll get you out of here." She gave him a small smile in appreciation of his kindness, and they exited the car. Adam Sakai met them at the perimeter, taking the time to greet Natalie before briefing them. "Hello, Doctor. I just wanted to congratulate you on your new job." He flicked his gaze towards his partner, questioning a hysterical young woman, and added, "It sounds like a good move for you." There was a sincerity in his deep brown eyes, and Nat was grateful for yet another show of support. Returning to his usual business-like mode, Adam said, "Marc Stefan, age 22. Wanted to be an actor, but was employed as a waiter. His girlfriend is a waitress at the same place, and when he didn't show up tonight or answer his phone, she became concerned and came over on her break." He indicated with a tilt of his head the woman Nick was questioning. "She found him in his living room. It's another pick job, pretty messy, I'm afraid." Adam eyed Nat with vague worry, which she tried to ignore. "It looks like he put up a bit of a fight, though none of the neighbors claimed to have heard anything." "Typical," commented Westwood. Both Adam and Nat nodded in agreement. Adam then led them back to a small garage apartment. Inside was chaos...Stefan had indeed put up a fight. Furniture was overturned and blood splashed obscenely everywhere. Nat felt the familiar churning begin in her stomach at the sour-iron smell of the blood, and suddenly understood why Nick was outside questioning witnesses. Unthinkingly, she clutched Westwood's arm. Almost immediately, she felt him support her elbow and heard his whisper, "Do you want me to get you out of here?" "Just give me a moment," she said, concentrating on controlling the wave of conflicting feelings and desires that coursed through her. ~Accept it,~ she told herself, ~don't fight it, accept it and move on~ Finally, she was able to open her eyes and once more gaze around at the bloody mess. This time, she observed it with mild clinical detachment, having managed to categorize her own internal feelings and put them in their respective places. They were still there, but rather than waste her energy denying them, she simply kept them under tight control. "Okay," she said, releasing Westwood's arm. "Let's take a look." Hesitating slightly, Adam turned back the tarp, exposing the body of a black man. As with the second and third victims, his head was split and punctured with triangular wounds, but unlike the others, he obviously had not been taken by surprise, bearing bloody gouges on his forearms as well. Nat and Westwood perused the scene for a few minutes, until Nat realized that her iron control had reached its limit. "I think I've seen enough," she said, trying to sound professional. "I'll go over things more thoroughly at the morgue." Westwood instantly ceased his careful examination of the placement of the poison ivy sprig, and came over to take her by the arm. "Okay, I'll drive you back and we can compare notes." His tone, too, was professional, but his eyes were concerned. He led her quickly outside into the cold night air, and she felt immediately better. She was about to reclaim her arm from him, when Nick materialized in front of them. His blue eyes looked from Nat and Westwood's linked arms, to Westwood, and finally to Nat. "Are you all right?" he asked through a dry mouth. Suddenly too tired to deal with Nick, Nat instinctively took a tighter grip on the surprised Westwood's arm. "Fine," she answered tersely. "We were just going back to the lab to discuss the case." Recognizing a cue when he heard it, Westwood promptly marched her past Nick and to the car. Nick felt an indescribable mix of rage, despair, and anguish flow through him as he watched the car drive away. It was bad enough to be losing Nat to another job and city, but was he going to have to lose her to another man as well? Unbidden, his fangs dropped as the instinctive fury welled up within him. "Nick?" It was Adam. Nick clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together in frustration, but by the time he turned to face his partner, his fangs had receded along with the red tinge to his vision. "What?" he bit off sharply. Becoming used to his partner's moods, Adam scarcely blinked, and asked, "I was wondering if you were able to get anything more from the girlfriend?" "Nothing useful. I had a patrolman take her home; she's going to come by the station tomorrow to sign a statement." Adam narrowed his eyes at the obviously distracted man and shrugged, hoping that once Dr. Lambert had moved on, Nick would give up his eternal funk. "Anyway, we're about wrapped up here for now..." "Can you get a ride back to the station?" Nick suddenly asked him. "I have to go somewhere." "If it's a lead, I'm coming along," Adam firmly stated. "It's personal." He didn't know his partner well enough yet to want to go on personal errands with him, Adam instantly realized, particularly when they probably involved a certain soon-to- be-ex-ME. "No problem...I'll meet you back at the station." Adam watched as his partner stalked over to the Caddie and took off, reflecting that he might *never* know his partner well enough. There were times when he wasn't sure he wanted to. ****** (to be continued) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@FKFANFIC.COMFri Nov 29 23:53:40 1996 Date: Fri, 29 Nov 1996 17:17:05 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: The Outcast State (07/10) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #3 Episode Title: "The Outcast State" "Air" Date: November 28, 1996 Author: Tigon Diana Hooker Part 7 of 10 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Tigon Diana Hooker -------------------------- If nothing else, Adam's untimely interruption had given Nick ample time to get control of himself, long enough to realize that ripping out Westwood's jugular was *not* going to endear him to Nat. Still, he had planned on parking the Caddie on some side street so that he could take to the air as soon as possible, not to harm, but to at least 'chaperone' whatever was going on between the two. Natalie was, after all, in an obviously fragile state, and he wasn't going to allow anyone to take advantage of her. Once behind the wheel, however, Nick fell into the almost meditative state that he so enjoyed while driving the nearly empty city streets at night. With this state came a semblance of reason. Nat had all but banished him from her life...to the point that *she* was moving to get away from him. What right had he to presume to be her protector? After all, he had nearly killed her. He drove on morosely, with seeming aimlessness, yet somehow was not surprised at the letters 'CERK' reflecting off his windshield. Blinking, he parked the car and went inside. LaCroix wasn't yet on the air, but was rather sorting through CD's and checking equipment. As usual, he didn't look up as his 'son' entered, but merely said, "Nicholas... to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" "LaCroix." In that one word, Nick put all his anguish and confusion. This time, the tall vampire did look up, concern crossing his his placid visage. "What is it now, Nicholas?" His words were a mixture a resigned cynicism and genuine concern. "She..." Nick tried to swallow the clogging emotions in his throat. "She's leaving." "By 'she,' I assume you mean the good doctor?" The worry left LaCroix's face now that he had ascertained there was no immediate threat to him or his. "Yes," confirmed Nick. "She's taken a job in Vancouver so that she can be closer to her family." "And," suggested LaCroix coyly, "further from you, perhaps?" Nick clenched his fists, wanting to flail out at his master, and wanting his father to somehow make things *right*. LaCroix let Nick's emotions wash through their bond, tasting every aspect of them, before finally saying, "Ah, Nicholas. What did you expect?" Nick didn't answer, only clenching his fists ever- tighter, until blood began to drip from them, splashing on the floor like tears. "I see. Well, as that idiot Shakespeare once said... 'All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances.'" LaCroix arched an eyebrow. "Even fools can make an occasional good point...which in this case is that it is simply the good doctor's time to exit." Putting a hand on Nick's shoulder, he whispered into his son's ear, "Don't worry, Nicholas. Somebody else will make her entrance into your life and take her place...someone always does." Nick glared at him, jerking his shoulder from LaCroix's grasp and exiting angrily. LaCroix watched him go with patient resignation, then knelt to run a finger through the blood droplets on the floor. Licking the blood from his finger, LaCroix savored the taste. **** Nick flung open the elevator door hard enough that it jammed on its tracks. Ignoring the stuck-open door, he beelined for the kitchen and refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle, biting the cork so fiercely that he ripped it in two, the lower half still barring him from the blood. Furious, Nick flung it across the loft, where it shattered against one of the windows with enough force to crack even the industrial strength pane. As the blood streamed like raindrops down the glass, Nick grabbed another bottle. This time, forgoing the cork altogether, he simply crunched through the neck of the bottle, perversely enjoying the pain of glass ripping through his lips and mouth, the tiny splinters of glass burrowing into the delicate gums between his teeth, and the taste of his own blood. Within a few seconds, he had drained the bottle dry, flinging the empty randomly aside. He wasn't satisfied. Snarling, he returned to the refrigerator, digging behind his bottled cow blood until he found a different, *special* bottle. It was from LaCroix, of course, a little something special his master had brought by, ostensibly for his own use. Nick had blindly shoved it into the back of the refrigerator, fulling intending to dump it out later in accordance with the promises that he had made to himself. Somehow, he had never gotten around to it. This time Nick *carefully* pulled the cork out, then took a deeply satisfying swallow. It was old, almost too old, and the blood was obviously collected from several different sources. Still, it was human...and filled the void within Nick. Savoring it, he closed his eyes and let the few vague remnants of the people within the blood wash over him. There was an old man, who tasted of booze and sickness, yet remembered once being a young field hand, spending his days in sunshine and fresh air. There was another man, much younger, addicted to drugs. Nick experienced one of his hallucinations. Finally, there was a woman, not old, but not young. He could sense very little of her, save that she once had children, and had loved them very much. Sinking to his knees, Nick dropped the empty bottle and wept. -{-{-{@ After fleeing from Fleur's house, Nicholas sought out the graveyard, and his mother's grave. He studied her name carved in the stone, and wondered what advice she might offer her son now. Would she embrace him, knowing what he was? It was an empty question, and he knew it. She was dead and could never soothe the troubled thoughts from her melancholy son again. Kneeling before her marker, he pressed his forehead to the damp ground and wished with all his might that he could be buried in the oblivion beneath it. "Mother," he cried over and over in despair. "Mother..." Finally, his weeping ended and a strange lassitude stole over him. Nicholas gazed upward at the still starry night, yet sensed that dawn was but a short time away. "Shall we watch the sunrise together, you and I?" he asked of the tombstone. "Yes," he answered his own question lightly. "Yes, I think we shall, mother." He reached a gentle hand forward to trace the letters of her name, his fingers brushing the carved cross above them. Pain flared up his arm and in his eyes as the cross spat bright fire at him. Howling in agonized astonishment, Nicholas reeled back on his heels, sprawling in the mossy dirt. His burnt hand clutched to his chest, he snarled at the stars. Was even the peace of death to be denied him? Nicholas leapt to his feet, enraged. Venting his anger, he uprooted a nearby marker, causing yet another cross to flare at him, and another resonating burst of anger within him. Soon he had ripped half of the graveyard apart, carefully avoiding only his mother's grave. "What in God's name?!" Nicholas turned to see a watchman holding a torch aloft, having been attracted by the sounds of Nicholas' rage. Suddenly, Nicholas realized that the sun was very close at hand, and that he needed to feed. Nicholas smiled. The watchman stared at the bloody and burnt demon with glowing eyes and crossed himself, murmuring a desperate prayer. The prayer never was finished. -{-{-{@ (to be continued) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@FKFANFIC.COMFri Nov 29 23:53:45 1996 Date: Fri, 29 Nov 1996 17:17:23 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: The Outcast State (08/10) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #3 Episode Title: "The Outcast State" "Air" Date: November 28, 1996 Author: Tigon Diana Hooker Part 8 of 10 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Tigon Diana Hooker -------------------------- "We're going to lose him if we don't find whatever is linking these victims soon." "What makes you so sure it's a 'him?'" Nat asked Westwood wryly, not bothering to look up from the latest test results. "A woman can swing a pick just as well as a man." Westwood, having long since abandoned his jacket and pushed up his sleeves, perused his own copy of the report. "No arguments there...but women tend to be a little neater about murder. Tidy...poison, a pocket pistol, that sort of thing." Pausing thoughtfully, he amended, "Maybe...*maybe* ...if the victims were all men, I could see a woman doing it in retaliation for rape or something similar. After all, the way the pick punctures the body is very symbolic of penetration." Shuddering slightly, Nat said, "Yeah, well, they aren't all male, and the first victim was sledgehammered." "Uh huhn," Westwood groaned. "I think that the first murder was almost spur of the moment. All the other victims were murdered at their homes with a pick. Glynnson was at his place of business with a sledge. Glynnson is the key...something about him set off the killer." Asking the question of the hour, Nat said with frustration, "But *what?*" "I don't know." Sinking into the chair he had dragged near Nat's desk, he stated, "But we're running out of time...there's a definite end in sight to this thing, and I think our boy is running out of steam. He wants this over almost as much as we do...that's why he got sloppy last night with Stefan." "Does he *want* to get caught?" she asked curiously. Pondering for a moment, Westwood replied, "No, I don't think so. With the exception of the poison ivy, he's very careful about not leaving clues. Heck! he even leaves the weapon behind, probably so he won't get caught with it. By the way, do you have *any* idea how many picks are sold in Toronto every day?" Shaking his head, Westwood rifled aimlessly through reports. "And what for? That's what I want to know? Why would anyone need a pick in the city?" "Okay, let's try this again," sighed Nat. "Four victims, two male and two female. All are age 21 to 23 and are found with poison ivy tossed by them. Where does somebody get poison ivy in the city?" "Just about any heavily wooded park or area." "Okay. So, two Caucasian, one East Indian, one black ...an equal opportunity killer." Nat frowned. "Aren't serial killers supposed to kill within their own ethnic group?" "Generally," agreed Westwood, "though that's not a hard and fast rule. I don't think this is random, though. There *has* to be a link!" "They've checked records back as far as nursery school ...they can't find anything," Nat pointed out. "We're missing something...probably right in front of our noses," he insisted. He rose and began pacing, continuing the litany of known factors. "With the exception of Glynnson, all are killed at home with picks...that means the killer stalked them, tracked them down. He wanted something *specifically* with them." Nat sighed again, and laid out the four reports side by side to do a minute comparison of them all. A few minutes later, Grace entered and handed Natalie more files. "Here's those x-rays you wanted," she told her. "Hi, Tom," smiled Grace at Westwood. Westwood did a slow sort of painful grimace, then somewhat stiffly said, "Thomas." "Oops, sorry," Grace responded with slight chagrin. "I'll try not to forget that." She beat a hasty retreat out the door. Nat laughed. Looking faintly pink himself, Westwood asked defensively, "What?" "You remind me of my brother Richard," she explained between guffaws. "He *hated*, just *despised* being called 'Richie,' which is, of course, what I insisted on calling him." "Ah," Westwood grinned, "sibling torture. Maybe he and I should get together and form an anti-nickname club." Seeing the laughter suddenly fade from Nat's face, he asked in dismay, "Oh no...what have I put my foot into now?" "Richard was...killed...three years ago," Nat cleared her throat painfully. "He was with the Crown Prosecutor and was here to interview a witness. A man somehow got hold of a gun at the station, and Richard, being Richard, just had to try and help." "I'm sorry," Westwood contritely said. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories." Surprisingly, Nat smiled. "You didn't...*I* did. Remember? Besides," she realized suddenly, "this is the first time I've been able to think about him and laugh since he died." Westwood looked pained, and turned away. "Uh," Natalie began, unsure how to address him. He once had told her to call him Thomas, but then both of them had slipped into that professional mode where no form of direct address was used. "Um...Thomas?" She stood up and put a careful hand on his arm. "Are you okay? Did *I* say something wrong?" Finally he faced her, eyes murky, and said, "No, you didn't say anything. It's just..." He paced away from her again and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Only once he had placed the bulking autopsy table between them did her face Nat again. "You've been through a lot, haven't you? I mean, your brother, the attack, your friends that you've lost in the past year, and your godchild." "How do you know about Cynthia?" Suspicion flared in Nat that he was probing into her past. "I'm a forensic psychologist, remember?" he shrugged. "I generally study most of the high profile cases...you were quite prominent in the effort to find her, not to mention the scandal with that other ME afterwards. It took me a bit to remember why you seemed so familiar when I first met you, but I eventually placed you." "Oh." Nat studied his slumping demeanor and downcast eyes, and a different sort of suspicion dawned on her. "Who did you lose, Thomas?" she gently asked. He winced in pain, the quietly answered, "My wife." "I'm sorry," Nat empathized. "Do you want to talk about it?" "I've never really talked about it to anyone. I don't even know why I brought it up." He shrugged again, digging his hands even deeper into his pockets. Slowly, Nat began moving around the table towards him. "Maybe because you needed to find someone who would really understand what it was like to lose someone that important." He looked at her and nodded, "Yes, I suppose that's why." Nat was at his side now. "I'm afraid I'd understand." "I'm sorry," Thomas said sincerely. "Nobody should have to understand." "I know," agreed Nat. "*Do* you want to tell me?" "I'm not sure what to tell. She was my childhood sweetheart, we got married right out of high school and went to college together...ironically where you will soon be teaching. She wanted to be a journalist. We were in our first year of grad school when she was killed in a car wreck." Knowing that there was very little else she could say, Nat merely said, "I'm sorry." "So am I." They were silent for a moment, then Thomas said, "Thanks...for listening." "Hey," she squeezed his arm. "I know what it's like to keep these things bottled up. They don't go away when ignored, believe me, I've tried it." Nat walked back to her desk and pick up the x-rays, putting them on a light board. "I guess it's not working for me either," he agreed solemnly. Studying the x-rays, she asked with a sense of deja vu, "Have you tried joining a support group?" Thomas's snort of derision was her answer. "Yeah, well...I'm thinking about going to one with my sister after the move." "That's really what this move is all about, isn't it?" Thomas reflected. "Trying to deal with all the stuff you've ignored, and get a new start?" Nat nodded. "Then I really hope it works out for you. Like Sakai said last night...it sounds like a good move for you." Another supporter. Nat smiled, "Thanks...you know, *your* move could work out to your advantage too." Laughing, he replied, "I see. We swap cities!" Then he sobered after a moment. "I guess it could..." "Thomas!" "What?" He was at her side in an instant. Nat was excitedly comparing two x-rays...one of a shin and one of an ulna. Both had obviously had bad breaks set with pins. "I'm going to have to go in to be certain, but I think these were broken and set about the same time." "So?" Thomas was having difficulty shifting his mind gears from emotional back to logical. "Whoever's these are was in some sort of accident..." "They're not from the same person. The arm is from Stefan, but the leg is from Patel." "And if they were in some sort of accident together..." began Thomas. "...we may have found our link." Nat finished. She grabbed up a scalpel and headed for the cold locker. "I've already gotten a good look at Stefan's, thanks to all the wounds on his arm. It's about ten years old, set with pins ...a *very* bad break that looked like it had healed for a few days before being properly set." She pulled back the sheet on Patel's body, and sank her scalpel into the leg in question, quickly peeling back the layers of skin and muscles to reveal another pinned break beneath it. Nat studied it and the x-ray for a moment, then said, "Bingo! We have a link...about ten years as well, very bad break. Both of them look like something *fell* on them." She took a deep breath to calm her excitement at the discovery. "I probably couldn't swear to this in court, but I'd say that they were even set by the same person." They left the locker, and Thomas commented, "It's a start...but two of the victims *don't* have breaks." Nat continued scanning the x-rays and muttered, "Maybe not *bad* breaks, but without going into their bodies, I can see an old skull fracture on Glynnson, and a few cracked ribs on Bethany." "So somewhere, somehow, when they were all around twelve or so...they were in some sort of accident together that *doesn't* show up on school records," Thomas mused. "School bus accident maybe?" suggested Nat. "No, they were from different parts of the city...unless it was some mass field trip. Besides, the injuries aren't consistent with an auto accident." "What did you say?" he barked at her. "Huhn...?" she frowned, then thinking he was upset about the mention of an automobile accident, Nat said, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking." "No," he waved off her apology. "No...about a mass field trip." Thomas picked up a bagged poison ivy sprig and waved it in front of her face. "Quick! What do you think of when you think of poison ivy?" "Uh..." stammered Nat. "Itching? Summer? Camping...?" "Summer Camp!" they shouted together in unison. **** (to be continued) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@FKFANFIC.COMFri Nov 29 23:53:51 1996 Date: Fri, 29 Nov 1996 17:17:40 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: The Outcast State (09/10) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #3 Episode Title: "The Outcast State" "Air" Date: November 28, 1996 Author: Tigon Diana Hooker Part 9 of 10 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Tigon Diana Hooker -------------------------- Nick stood outside the morgue door and listened to the happy voices of Nat and Westwood. Unable to bear it any longer, he entered the lab. They were embracing. A primitive bellow burst from him and he felt his fangs drop instantly in response. Through the blood-red haze obscuring his vision, he saw the two turn to regard him in startled horror. "NICK!" shrieked Nat. "NO!" He ignored her pleas and was immediately upon Westwood, ripping his offending hands from Natalie. Not wanting to taste the blood of a man who would dare take her from him, he contented himself with flinging Westwood like a ragdoll against the wall, where the man slid into a limp pile on the floor. Nick turned to Nat, who stood like a rabbit caught in the beam of a flashlight. He would have her...no one else would. She was HIS! Pulling her relentlessly into his arms, he ignored her desperate squirming and whimpers and bared her neck. He sunk his fangs deeply in and her entire essence gushed into his mouth...just as her remembered her. He filled himself with that which had haunted his every dream since *that* night. His forever, now...Nat's dying shrieks ringing in his ears. He woke up screaming on the couch, empty and shattered bottles everywhere, his phone ringing. "Knight," he croaked into the offending object. He listened, then said, "I'll be right in." He quickly took a shower to clean the blood sweat from his skin, but it did little to remove the nightmarish images from his mind. His dreams had been filled with them...Nat as an old and withered woman at his feet, crying bitterly about her wasted life...Nat's grave...Nat as a vampire, as warped and twisted as LaCroix...Nat as a vampire, hating him for taking her into the darkness...Nat drained on the floor of his loft, but this time not miraculously recovering. Nick shuddered, heading for the near empty refrigerator and pulling out a bottle. Ripping out the cork, Nick tilted the bottle back...then stopped. He examined the bottle for a moment, then dumped its contents into the sink. He had let Natalie be his talisman too long, Nick realized. But his desire to regain humanity long predated her...he couldn't let all his dreams die because one of them had. Solemnly, he pulled a blender out of a cabinet and plugged it in. Shortly thereafter, he walked into the station with the protein shake still sitting uneasily like a brick in his stomach. Seeing the Captain, Adam, Nat, and Westwood gathered around the twin desks which he and his partner shared, Nick carefully schooled his features and joined them. "Knight! There you are," said Reese. He studied the detective closely, noticing the resigned looks Knight shot the doc, but also noticing that there was a new strength there as well. Relieved that he wasn't going to have to deal with a lovesick detective anymore, Reese said, "Listen up...we have our link, thanks to the docs here." Both Nat and Westwood grinned, causing Nick to wince internally, though outward he showed little sign. "Actually," pointed out Westwood, "we found the link... Detective Sakai here did all the legwork." Nodding at the acknowledgment, Adam took over. "All the victims attended summer camp together and had formed an elite little clique which they called, get this, the Poison Ivy Itchers. They were the cool kids that everybody wanted to be, and they had little hazing rituals that they liked to hold in an abandoned mine shaft." Reese interjected, "It took a lot of doing, but we were able to finally find and open the sealed juvy records on these kids, so we have all the details now." "Right. Most of the hazings were fake," continued Sakai. "You know, just to rattle and tease other kids... but not let them into the clique. Well, near the end of the summer of '86, one of the hazings went too far. Their mineshaft collapsed and they were all buried...it took them nearly a day to dig them out." "And they never were able to dig out the boy they were 'hazing,'" finished Reese. "They all got charged with voluntary manslaughter, but of course it was plea-bargained down to a slap on the wrist. They were given counseling and sealed records." Reese shrugged irritably at the mild miscarriage of justice. "The dead boy's mother died within a year of the accident," Adam added. "It was ruled an accidental overdose. The only other surviving relatives are a father and younger brother." "The father probably walked into the camping store and recognized Glynnson," hypothesized Westwood. "It set him off, or maybe they exchanged words, but he came back with the sledge...which probably was the closest thing to a mining tool he could find on such short notice. After that, he switched to the more appropriate symbolic pick, and was able to track down the others through the phone book...they were all listed." "Are there anymore of these Poison Ivy Itchers?" Nick asked. "One, the leader of the group who was actually a junior counselor. Guess he couldn't cut it with kids his own age," answered Adam. "Ironically, he's a lawyer...which is why he's probably the only one who *didn't* have a home listing in the phone book." "We haven't been able to get ahold of him yet," interjected Reese. "You and Sakai get out and pick up the father." **** It was a modest house, with a postage stamp sized lawn badly in need of mowing. Nick and Adam gingerly stepped onto a sagging porch and, forgoing the doorbell with its exposed wires, knocked authoritatively on the door. There was a long pause, then Adam knocked again, saying, "Police!" After another minute, Adam reached for his gun, eyeing Nick for the sign to knock in the door. "Wait," said Nick, restraining Adam's gunhand. "I hear him coming." Adam cocked an eyebrow at him, but complied. The shuffling gait that Nick's sensitive hearing picked up was slow and methodical...but without threat. Soon a doorchain rattled and a bolt was slid back. The front door creaked open to expose an average sized man made smaller by an arthritic stoop. "Can I help you?" he asked. "Mr. MacDonald?" Adam queried. "Yes, that's me." Nick and Adam exchanged looks as they examined MacDonald. He obviously had led a hard life; his skin was weather-beaten and his hands gnarled and knotted. Dimly, Nick recalled that the court files listed the deceased boy's father as a longshoreman, and obviously the constant damp and cold had taken their toll on the man in the form of crippling arthritis. There was no way MacDonald could heft a pick. He could barely open his own front door. "Where's your son, Mr. MacDonald?" Nick gently asked. "Justin?" the father frowned. "He said he had an important errand. Why?" Alarm crossed the lined features, and Nick felt a pang of impotent guilt that the man was about to lose his last son. Adam was already heading for the scanner, to put out an APB on Justin MacDonald, age 17. Nick could only shake his head and say, "I'm sorry, Mr. MacDonald, but I'm afraid Justin may be in trouble. You might want to contact a lawyer." Nick left the old man, ignoring his cried, "Wait...!" Jumping into the Caddie, he threw it into gear as Adam said, "I called it in. The captain wants us to get over to that lawyer's place, just in case." **** Justin narrowed his eyes and waited for Lane to get home. He had followed him home earlier, but before he could park his own battered car, the lawyer had left for someplace else. He wished this was over. When he had walked into that camping store, he was looking for some lantern mantles, not a vendetta. It had even taken him a few minutes to *remember* where he had seen Craig before. When he did finally remember, it had hit him in the stomach like...like... Like a sledgehammer. But Craig hadn't remembered him. Justin could almost accept that, after all, he'd been one of the baby-campers... a seven-year-old on his first trip from home, who followed around his big brother like a shadow. That's what the other kids had called him...Josh's shadow. He hadn't minded, and neither had Josh. What Justin couldn't accept was that Craig didn't remember Josh. Even when Justin had finally reminded him, there'd been a reaction more of inconvenient mild embarrassment...a desire for Justin to go on his way so Craig could go about forgetting again. Justin couldn't allow that. His father had always promised him that the Poison Ivy Itchers had paid for Josh's death. He had said the same thing when Justin's mother had died, accidentally or not. Justin had seen the truth, however. After he had beaten Craig to death, he had realized that the others probably were living normal happy lives too. They should have been locked away, they should have had everything they loved ripped from them, they should have *paid*. Just like Justin had. And his mother. And his father. And Josh. It had been so *easy*. Their names, if not their faces had long since been branded upon his memory. Except for Lane, they were all listed. All he had to do was wait for them to come to him. It was as though he were *meant* to sit in judgment on them. Now there was only Lane, and then he could go home, where somehow things would be better now that he had righted the wrongs. Lights lit up the driveway, and Justin peeked out of the bushes to see Lane's car. It wasn't an expensive car... not yet. Lane had only recently passed the bar, though his take-no-prisoners style was already winning him notice. It seemed right, somehow, to Justin that the ringleader of the Itchers, the boy who was always a little older and better than all the others, would be the last one to die. Justin's body tensed at the approaching clip-clop of loafers, and once they had passed his hiding spot, he leapt out, swinging the pick aloft...only to be tackled. **** Nick tried to be as gentle as possible, but the boy fought him with desperation. Finally, Nick exerted his vampiric strength upon him, pinning him until Adam could clap cuffs around Justin's wrists...wrists that bore perhaps the worst case of poison ivy ever known. Standing the boy up, Nick looked at the Poison Ivy Killer, a boy whose few years of growing left would never take him past 68 inches, with a tears and dirt-smeared face and haunted eyes pinned desperately on Lane Charles. "Please...he's gotta pay," Justin begged. "What a nutcase," observed Charles with distaste. Feeling justifiable irritation rise up in him, Nick turned to Charles, only to have Adam beat him to it. His partner shoved Charles up against the front door, not gently ...but not hard enough to prompt a law-savvy man to waste time filing a complaint. "Take a good long look at that nutcase," Adam hissed, "because *you* made him." Adam stared at the man they had just saved and shook his head, releasing him. Walking over to Nick, he gently took Justin's other arm and said, "Kid, someday you're going to realize he wasn't worth it." ****** (to be continued) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@FKFANFIC.COMFri Nov 29 23:53:57 1996 Date: Fri, 29 Nov 1996 17:17:49 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: The Outcast State (10/10) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #3 Episode Title: "The Outcast State" "Air" Date: November 28, 1996 Author: Tigon Diana Hooker Part 10 of 10 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Tigon Diana Hooker -------------------------- A few hours later, and Justin had been processed and the preliminary reports filed. Nobody was exactly celebrating...their psycho had turned out to be a confused young man with more than a little justification, not that any of that would be taken into account at his trial. Sometimes, Nick wondered if he really *was* atoning for his sins by being an officer of the law. Sighing, he left for the morgue to put the rotting cherry on his putrid sundae of a day. Nat was blessedly alone when he arrived, and so animated that he could only stop and enjoy her tangible pleasure at a job well done. It had been a very long time since Nick had seen her so...too long. She looked up and saw him and *smiled*. His heart throbbed once in mute pain. "Nat..." he began. "Nick!" she exclaimed. "You're just the vampire I wanted to see." Wishing that it were true, Nick closed his eyes and plowed into his speech, before he lost his nerve. "Nat...I, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for the way I've acted about your move and...and..." He opened his eyes, not able to mention Westwood, "...everything." She gaped at him, and he continued, wanting desperately to know how much he meant the next part. "I've been selfish, thinking only of me." Unable to face her, he turned away. "But I want you to know that I *do* want what's best for you...and if this move is what you want, I wish you well in it." ~The world may be ending,~ thought Nat in shock. Shaking off the intense sense of unreality, Nat tried to interrupt, "Nick..." "No," Nick turned to face her again, his face as vulnerable as a small boy's. "And Nat...I do want to keep working on a cure, even if only by long distance." ~The world *has* ended!~ Nat saw Nick turn to leave, and grabbed his arm. "Nick...I'm not leaving," she half- laughed. He looked utterly confused. "I'm serious. Solving this case was like...rediscovering myself." "But...but your family...the new job..." "I know, I know," she replied. "But I realized that I was just running again. It's time for me to take a stand and face past ghosts. I *have* a job. I'm finally remembering why I love it for the first time in a long time. And I can face my 'other' demons just as well here. I've already started to get a grip on my problem with blood." Hope flared in Nick as he struggled to realign his thinking. Nat was staying! After a minute, he tentatively suggested, "Um...would you like to come over to the loft and celebrate your decision? We could order out and watch videos...I might even try some raw hamburger." Instead of happy acceptance, however, he saw an uncomfortable look of embarrassment slip across her face. "Uh, I'm afraid I have other plans, Nick. I have to talk with a friend about dealing with the past." It didn't sound plausible to Nick, and his every suspicion was justified when Westwood walked in a scant second later, saying, "Nat, are you ready to...?" The last word died on his lips as he took in the cold eyes of Detective Knight flicking over him. Nick studied Westwood, feeling the beast rise up within him, but also feeling Natalie's worried eyes. After a second, he looked at Nat, knowing that he had to let her go ...for both their sakes, but hoping that somehow, someway they could be together. Carefully avoiding contact with Westwood, Nick slipped out of the morgue silently. Nat watched him go with an enigmatic expression, almost disappointed that Nick didn't make more of a scene. She found his sudden laissez-faire attitude somehow... disconcerting. "Was it just me, or was that *very* uncomfortable?" asked Thomas. Smiling slightly, Nat nodded, "Yes...a little." She forced herself to shrug off her strange mood...after all, this was the first day of the rest of her life, to be horribly cliched. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asked him, half-hoping he'd say no. "No," he said. "But somehow I doubt anybody ever is... if they were, they wouldn't need to go." Laughing, Nat agreed, "I suppose that's true. It *is* one of the better grief support groups, I'm told." Taking her by the hand, Thomas said, "I guess there's only one way to find out." **** Nick was trying to distract his mind from whatever might be happening between Westwood and Nat by dumping out the remainder of his cow blood. As he watched the dark ruby liquid swirl down the drain of his stainless steel sink, Nick felt a prickling of his own life's blood. "LaCroix," he said, not bothering to turn around. "Nicholas," came the smooth voice, "I see that you're doing some much-needed housecleaning." Nick glanced over to see the tall vampire examining the remnants of last night's binge with obvious disdain. Strolling over with arms clasped firmly behind his back, LaCroix sniffed at the blood -odor rising from the sink. "Though I must agree with your disposal of *that* slop. No great loss, as I have brought you a gift of an *excellent* vintage." With a flourish, LaCroix pulled a beautifully wrapped bottle from behind his back. "Come, leave that mess to your maid...or do you have one? No matter, I'll lend you mine. Let us drink to your newfound freedom." Searching for the sink cleanser that he *knew* had to be somewhere, Nick simply said, "No thank you, LaCroix." Looking vaguely annoyed, LaCroix chastised, "Come, Nicholas! As you yourself said so recently, am I not your 'closest friend?' Who else can you talk to if not to me?" The older vampire arched his eyebrows, yet his voice was serious. "You know I have always been, and will always be here for you, Nicholas." Nick, crouching on the floor to peer into the darkness of the cabinet under the sink, could only close his eyes with memories. -{-{-{@ For the month or so after Nicholas had destroyed the graveyard and killed the watchman, he had drifted aimlessly from town to town, not knowing where he was. Not that he cared. Nicholas had given himself utterly to his vampiric nature, reveling in the hunt, rejoicing in the kill, and all but bathing in the blood of his victims. It was thus when he felt an uncomfortably familiar tingle in his blood, and looked up to see LaCroix and Janette standing in the doorway of the inn where he currently roomed. He remained seated, arm around the vivacious wench whom he planned to dine on that evening, making *them* come to *him*. They did, the inn's patrons parting before them nervously. Janette fixed a haughty glance on Nicholas' wench and said, "I believe you are needed elsewhere." The girl did not need to be told twice, and quickly vacated the bench as Nicholas glowered up at the two vampires. "Nicholas, I'm pleased to see how well you've survived," LaCroix began. "You've learned this lesson well." Nicholas felt confusion bubbling away at his sullen demeanor as LaCroix and Janette sat down on either side of him, Janette pressing especially close to him. "Ah, poor Nicholas...you didn't realize this was merely another teaching, did you?" LaCroix surmised, then explained. "You *had* to know you could survive alone." Janette squeezed his arm and continued, "As powerful as we are, Nicolas, there are times when we may find ourselves separated and alone." Seeing the blatant hurt and confusion now plainly displayed on his son's face, LaCroix sought to reassure him, "You have my word, Nicholas. From this day forth, I shall never abandon you again." -{-{-{@ Nick found the cleanser, shutting the cabinet and rising. As he began to scrub the sink, he could feel LaCroix's vague annoyance become confusion. "Nicholas?" Without looking up, Nick remarked, "As a radio personality I occasionally listen to recently said, 'In the end, your friends will abandon you and love will fail...in the end, you *must* stand alone.'" He could feel the thrum of LaCroix's wince through their bond, but kept at the sink, though it was far shinier than it had ever been. Finally, he both heard and felt his 'father' leave the loft. Sighing, he rinsed the remainder of the suds out of the sink, and began making another protein shake. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Author's Notes: Many thanks to Lizbet, for whapping me and making me do this, not to mention pre-Alpha reading it; TJ, for saying 'Don't panic...' at all the right times; Leslie, for Alpha reading and educating me on the finer points of the UF; and everybody else involved in getting this out. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com.