Disclaimer: I don't own SG-1 or Highlander, so don't sue for the lint in my oh so empty pockets.
The lightening subsided slowly and the air where it had struck smelled charred. There was a man lying on his back on the ground, staring up into the sky but not really looking at it. He gripped a sword in his right hand and could still feel the current running through him. The rush of the other he had killed was racing through him as well. It was overwhelming and it had knocked him for a loop, as it always did.
His grip on the sword tightened. He needed to get up, now. Slowly he levered his aching body into an upright position, most of his weight resting on his arms. With a low groan he slowly got to his feet. He staggered for a moment then his balance returned. He looked around the dark alley only able to make out the brick walls, trash pile and dumpster.
He walked slowly forward, his left hand placed on the wall for support. He stepped into the empty street, his sword held in almost limp fingertips and dragging along the ground. He was getting tired of this. All of the fighting and death, as if he didn't see enough of it for a living. But, technically, this was his living too; it guaranteed he lived after all. Yes, if he didn't fight then he would be dead, then he wouldn't be able to protect what was dear to him. He failed people close to him before and he didn't intend to fail these mortals that he found himself so attached to.
But somehow, he didn't think this was what Thor meant when he said he was 'advanced', no not at all.
AN: Well, this is my Highlander/SG-1 double drabble. It's part of a larger story that I'm currently working on. So tell me what ya think!