Crowe v. Dark, Part III
[After this.]
He had a chance, but only if he--. (Anna--.)
No! Dammit, keep him out of your head and think. Dark's got to have a weak point. Just a question of where…
"Scheming and plotting, Dr. Crowe?" Dark's voice seems to coil round his brain stem. Inspiring ancient fears…
"Still hoping to find a way to survive?"
Ancient legends...
"Perhaps you hope to play the Hero."
Ancient... ('The Hero?')
...Archetypes?
Archetypes.
Wait, hang on to that! Archetypes are key. But why?
...Because that’s what Dark trades in.
Malcolm forces himself to look away from the master of the carnival. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, but now Malcolm can see the others. At least a dozen of the carnival people, ranged in a circle around him. They've probably been there all along, but they keep their distance out of deference to their master. And all the while, they patiently sup on the overspill, those extra drops of pain and misery that Dark's nightmares had been drawing out of him. They're waiting for Malcolm to panic, to run for it. So when he does, they can grapple with him, drag him screaming to the cold earth and drink their fill of him until Dark manages to pull them off again. And who knows what would be left of Malcolm after that?
"You see them, don't you?" Dark's eyes are shining. "I'll hand you over to them in the end, of course. You must know that now."
Ignore him, Malcolm thinks. Just trying to distract you. Think, dammit. That’s what you do. Observe. Analyze. Diagnose.
Archetypes. Dark deals in archetypes. But what does that mean? Why does that matter?
--Oooh. That's what it means. Oh, bad luck for them.
Because Malcolm has read his Jung. But he doubts very much that Dark has.
"Is that...hope? A spark of hope within your breast, Dr. Crowe? Perhaps you think you understand us. That you've uncovered our fatal flaw. Really, Dr. Crowe, this will go so much easier for you if you just give yourself--."
"Bullshit," Malcolm growls.
Dark smirks. They both know how close Malcolm is to collapse. "I beg your--?"
"Bull. Shit."
Dark is indulgent, as with a stubborn child before his inevitable punishment. "Bravado then? Very well. So what is your gifted insight telling you?"
Malcolm has to catch his breath, but when he speaks, he's relieved to hear most of the desperation has left his voice. "Archetypes."
"How fascinating. I think, Dr. Crowe, it’s time we end thi--."
"It is actually. I’ve read a lot about archetypes--."
"I see. Your dusty tomes will save you. I'm afraid Charles Halloway believed that too, and you know now how far that got him."
"Halloway didn't have my books. But, actually, you're right. They weren't enough. I never really understood archetypes until I got to Milliways."
Dark tries to hide it, but that got him, and Malcolm knows it. He's spent his entire adult life reading people’s reactions, and it's obvious that Dark has never had much practice in concealing his. Dark may want to get to 'Milliways'--if only to please his own Masters--but he doesn't know exactly what it is, and for someone accustomed to complete control, that's a serious problem.
Malcolm knows what he has to do. Of course, he has no idea if it will work. But he knows something about crazy bravery--that comes with being a friend of Jack Bauer. Having some of Peter Venkman's knack as a con-artist would have helped right now too. But a man's got to run with whatever 'plus X' he has.
Jack. Peter. I hope you’d approve.
Careful to keep his eyes locked on Dark, Malcolm moves his arm to point at each of the carnival people around the circle.
"Archetypes. All of you. There’s a Strong Man. And there's a Femme Fatale. An Outsider. A Man-Child..."
"And behind them all stands Death, Dr. Crowe. You must not forget Death."
Malcolm bursts out laughing before he can stop himself. Startled, Dark takes a step backward.
"I guess you only had time to read the executive summary on me, huh, pal? Death and I are old friends."
With a growl, Dark strides forward. "You think my threats empty? We are the Hungry Ones you ignorant--."
Malcolm shrugs. "And I'm a dead psychiatrist from the End of the Universe. Top that, if you can. But here's your real problem: My archetypes are better than yours. You want Death? I'll show you Death."
Malcolm concentrates. The seconds pass like hours, but slowly, steadily, a shape begins to appear beside him. She's beautiful in her way, and as her face lights up with a grin, the shrouded figure at Dark's side seems faded and gray.
"Now, how about a Hero?" Malcolm asks. "And a Trickster. A Mother Goddess. And a Good-Hearted Farmboy."
They all appear as Malcolm summons them, each archetype another patron from the bar. This is still Malcolm's dream, after all, and he's taught far too many patients about lucid dreaming not to have the power himself. As Malcolm's archetypes spread out to face the carnival people, even Dark can see they have a solidity his own followers lack. Each one has presence, character, personality. An exactness down to the smallest detail. As if drawn by an artist.
Or, more precisely, sculpted from life with a clinician's eye.
And now it's Malcolm's turn to take a step toward Dark. "And that is how this ends."
Dark gazes steadily at him for a long moment, and then ever so subtly, the master and his carnival begin to fade into the night.
"Cherish your newfound heroics while you can, Doctor. This will not be our final meeting."
Malcolm smirks, and for some unfathomable reason, replies to Dark's final glare with a wry: "Yippie-ki-yay."
[To be epilogued.]
He had a chance, but only if he--. (Anna--.)
No! Dammit, keep him out of your head and think. Dark's got to have a weak point. Just a question of where…
"Scheming and plotting, Dr. Crowe?" Dark's voice seems to coil round his brain stem. Inspiring ancient fears…
"Still hoping to find a way to survive?"
Ancient legends...
"Perhaps you hope to play the Hero."
Ancient... ('The Hero?')
...Archetypes?
Archetypes.
Wait, hang on to that! Archetypes are key. But why?
...Because that’s what Dark trades in.
Malcolm forces himself to look away from the master of the carnival. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, but now Malcolm can see the others. At least a dozen of the carnival people, ranged in a circle around him. They've probably been there all along, but they keep their distance out of deference to their master. And all the while, they patiently sup on the overspill, those extra drops of pain and misery that Dark's nightmares had been drawing out of him. They're waiting for Malcolm to panic, to run for it. So when he does, they can grapple with him, drag him screaming to the cold earth and drink their fill of him until Dark manages to pull them off again. And who knows what would be left of Malcolm after that?
"You see them, don't you?" Dark's eyes are shining. "I'll hand you over to them in the end, of course. You must know that now."
Ignore him, Malcolm thinks. Just trying to distract you. Think, dammit. That’s what you do. Observe. Analyze. Diagnose.
Archetypes. Dark deals in archetypes. But what does that mean? Why does that matter?
--Oooh. That's what it means. Oh, bad luck for them.
Because Malcolm has read his Jung. But he doubts very much that Dark has.
"Is that...hope? A spark of hope within your breast, Dr. Crowe? Perhaps you think you understand us. That you've uncovered our fatal flaw. Really, Dr. Crowe, this will go so much easier for you if you just give yourself--."
"Bullshit," Malcolm growls.
Dark smirks. They both know how close Malcolm is to collapse. "I beg your--?"
"Bull. Shit."
Dark is indulgent, as with a stubborn child before his inevitable punishment. "Bravado then? Very well. So what is your gifted insight telling you?"
Malcolm has to catch his breath, but when he speaks, he's relieved to hear most of the desperation has left his voice. "Archetypes."
"How fascinating. I think, Dr. Crowe, it’s time we end thi--."
"It is actually. I’ve read a lot about archetypes--."
"I see. Your dusty tomes will save you. I'm afraid Charles Halloway believed that too, and you know now how far that got him."
"Halloway didn't have my books. But, actually, you're right. They weren't enough. I never really understood archetypes until I got to Milliways."
Dark tries to hide it, but that got him, and Malcolm knows it. He's spent his entire adult life reading people’s reactions, and it's obvious that Dark has never had much practice in concealing his. Dark may want to get to 'Milliways'--if only to please his own Masters--but he doesn't know exactly what it is, and for someone accustomed to complete control, that's a serious problem.
Malcolm knows what he has to do. Of course, he has no idea if it will work. But he knows something about crazy bravery--that comes with being a friend of Jack Bauer. Having some of Peter Venkman's knack as a con-artist would have helped right now too. But a man's got to run with whatever 'plus X' he has.
Jack. Peter. I hope you’d approve.
Careful to keep his eyes locked on Dark, Malcolm moves his arm to point at each of the carnival people around the circle.
"Archetypes. All of you. There’s a Strong Man. And there's a Femme Fatale. An Outsider. A Man-Child..."
"And behind them all stands Death, Dr. Crowe. You must not forget Death."
Malcolm bursts out laughing before he can stop himself. Startled, Dark takes a step backward.
"I guess you only had time to read the executive summary on me, huh, pal? Death and I are old friends."
With a growl, Dark strides forward. "You think my threats empty? We are the Hungry Ones you ignorant--."
Malcolm shrugs. "And I'm a dead psychiatrist from the End of the Universe. Top that, if you can. But here's your real problem: My archetypes are better than yours. You want Death? I'll show you Death."
Malcolm concentrates. The seconds pass like hours, but slowly, steadily, a shape begins to appear beside him. She's beautiful in her way, and as her face lights up with a grin, the shrouded figure at Dark's side seems faded and gray.
"Now, how about a Hero?" Malcolm asks. "And a Trickster. A Mother Goddess. And a Good-Hearted Farmboy."
They all appear as Malcolm summons them, each archetype another patron from the bar. This is still Malcolm's dream, after all, and he's taught far too many patients about lucid dreaming not to have the power himself. As Malcolm's archetypes spread out to face the carnival people, even Dark can see they have a solidity his own followers lack. Each one has presence, character, personality. An exactness down to the smallest detail. As if drawn by an artist.
Or, more precisely, sculpted from life with a clinician's eye.
And now it's Malcolm's turn to take a step toward Dark. "And that is how this ends."
Dark gazes steadily at him for a long moment, and then ever so subtly, the master and his carnival begin to fade into the night.
"Cherish your newfound heroics while you can, Doctor. This will not be our final meeting."
Malcolm smirks, and for some unfathomable reason, replies to Dark's final glare with a wry: "Yippie-ki-yay."
[To be epilogued.]