Your next big hop will be to Dawne Prochilo ~ http://dawneprochilo.blogspot.com/ ~
No, I’ve never met Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander, up close and personal, except in my fantasies. Nor, have I ever met Adrian Paul, except in my dreams, the dreams in slumber-landia, which are usually the type that feel utterly real, even once I’m fully awake.
Here’s a fanfic piece. I’ve never written one before, except as a young teenager for the Beatles way before fanfic was a term.
I’m going free-form. I’m just going to let this written fantasy rip or pull the rip cord on my imagination and see what happens. I have no preconceived ideas, no plot... only the Highlander and me...
April 2024 ~
Night swelters around me as I wait, hidden in the shadow of the fallen Statue of Liberty, a recent victim of laser strikes. Two of the teenaged Privileged flying in their sport jets battled over prostitute territory. In prior times they would have been labeled juvenile delinquents. I know I lived in those times. However, not as I am now.
Above me the three-quarters moon remains hidden behind a blanket of black clouds. Her white pristine glow peeked out as I arrived, stealthily moving over the bridge built for urban tank patrols. One of the Transformed I travel through the silent dark streets of the decaying city killing who I must for the survival of humanity and for my own survival.
Only the lure of finding the ET drug, Pexsatasi, or the neon-radiant underground parties, draw anyone into the domain of the night creatures, escaped horror experiments that were supposed to be the New Protectors, the super soldiers that would keep all of us safe from the terrorists and from the sudden influx of interplanetary scum descending onto Earth. Now I hunt the worst of the night creatures to protect us all.
Tonight I wait for a man I am told is an ally. Why do I trust this meeting? I don’t. But I am desperate. I am like everyone else inside this city that has become no more than a sprawling prison. Barricades, watchtowers and an electronic grid prevent escape for most. And like most, I seek the smallest glimmer of hope, even though hope has become the enemy in the constant bleakness of our lives.
Though my enhanced physique and mental powers remain exceptionally vigorous, I need help. Those like me, there are too few of us to continue the fight. Too few of us to win a decisive victory over the night creatures. We are overwhelmed by the multiplying numbers. They feed, not only on the humans they capture, treats to be slowly dissected and savored, but on the remaining animals. The rats stampede from them, hurling themselves against the electronic fence, crashing pops similar to the sounds of a vicious hailstorm.
An unstoppable army, the night creatures also feed on any kind of death ... yes, their own ... and garbage. The old landfills are their havens, and where I do most of my killing. In an irony few appreciate New York City has never been cleaner, despite the overall decline of the buildings and infrastructure. Even a wad of chewing gum doesn’t last the night.
A flutter of wings has me whirling around, on guard, my lightsword drawn ... however it is only a small flock of pigeons, who have learned how to avoid the feeding night creatures. No, not the brilliantly gleaming lightsword of Stars Wars, but a dark energy that looks like oil residue on asphalt after a rain. The shimmer of prism colors formed into any shape of blade, slices through the several layers of hide that is the gruesome, greenish flesh of the night creatures.
Hearing another whisper of sound, I jump whipping around in midair. The glimmering edge of a long blade catches my eye, a real metal blade formed from the extreme heat of diamond lasers.
“Fire Witch,” a smoky deep voice emanates from the night’s blackness.
“From the court of the crimson king,” I respond, my voice hushed. I do not lower my lightsword. Not yet. The night creatures can imitate human voices perfectly.
“You know me.” The man’s low timber does things to my insides I ignore, and sounds slightly amused.
“We’ve only met in your dreams. Long ago in your dreams.” His voice is a seductive tease and intentionally mysterious.
A tiny rustle alerts me. I swing around in one fluid motion, arcing my sword to counter his. Our blades meet and hold, a press of strength against strength.
“Enemy,” I snarl.
He laughs, only a quick rumble of sound, and lowers his blade. “Take my head. I give it to you.”
To say shock streaks through my limbs like branched lightning is an understatement. Persistent rumors of real Immortals have circulated for years now. And not merely rumors, but grainy out-of-focus vids and pictures ... plus the testimonials of those who are trusted, who swear on what they have witnessed.
“I don’t want your head. I want the truth.” I stand ready to strike again, even as he emerges from the night. The moon’s rays suddenly illuminate his features. I gasp and step back, then immediately recover my balance. Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander, stands before me.
“You can’t be real,” I whisper.
“That’s what you said to me often, when I stepped into your dimension. Into your bedroom. Has it been fifteen years now since my last visit?” He smiles with such knowing, my stomach tightens against my spine and I remember those times, long ago, before my transformation, when his presence inside my bedroom felt so vivid and real it confused me, and frightened me. Because I knew it wasn’t a dream. I was always awake.
“What the damn hell are you talking about?” My temper is aroused. I need proof. I need something besides what I am seeing and hearing. I need to stop this stupid silly rush of desire that threatens to turn me into a panting wanton.
“Reality is in the eye of the beholder.” He shrugs slightly, elegantly, then leans one palm on his sword, a casual posture.
“Great. That answers my question.” My readied sword begins to feel useless in this bizarre situation. Bizarre, big fat hell, all things weird have become the norm in this era of time.
“Did you know that every media show, TV or movie, is merely a reflection of what occurs in another dimension?” His eyes flash powerfully over my face, and his gaze seeks to penetrate mine.
“So you skipped dimensions just to visit me. Gee, I’m touched all the way down to my soul.”
“Touched,” he rasps, his tone velvet. I quiver inside and hope it doesn’t show in my gaze. “I do plan to touch you all the way down to your soul.”
“Not in my dreams,” I quip, thinking I’m all too clever. One thing I do know whoever he is, he’s not a night creature. Lust, passion, desire, it doesn’t exist for them. They can’t even imitate its expression.
“No, not in your dreams...” He grins gradually, a wicked glint to his gaze. “Do you recall the dance scene on the rooftop where my lovely partner ends up dying in an air raid?” I know my eyes give me away. I feel their brief widening. “I felt your woman’s deepest wish to be inside my arms dancing with me.” He takes a step toward me, all athletic prowess – his dark gaze compelling, passionate.
“Mine? What about every other woman...” His head is slowly shaking as if my words matter not to the ultimate outcome. Maybe they don’t. I notice my own rapid breath, the weakening of my knees.
“I felt each of your heart’s desires ... yours were always the fiercest ...”
Suddenly I am flush against him. His arm is an uncompromising band around my waist. He lifts me bringing our lips together.
If you are a fan of the egg-citing Adrian Paul or his alter ego, the Highlander, tell the Kougar one of your fave moments or episodes.
Bonus pic from the TV show ~ Tracker ~
HAVE A JOYOUS EASTER!