This is just a strange little idea I got the other day. Actually, I'm a little surprised there weren't any crossover stories in this category already; I'd checked in case anyone had already covered this idea. I'm not sure when I might continue this, but I do have an inkling of what future chapters will hold.
I, of course, do not own Pulp Fiction (thank you, Mr Tarantino), the Highlander franchise (thank you, Mr Widen, etc), or any recognisable characters from such (or any other worlds that happen to cross paths with this); the person helping Vince deal with his "awful lot" is my own creation.
Everything was darkness. Everything was pain. With that first strangled breath, he felt as though he were on fire.
"Well, I was wondering when you'd wake up," a voice echoed from somewhere near him; it sounded vaguely familiar. Somewhat European. "That's an awful lot of bullets for one man; who'd you piss off?"
He grunted. 'Oh, that was a mistake,' he lamented as the fire spread anew from his lungs to his abdomen. The fog was clearing from his mind. "Wh- *cough* Wh- Gr- Wh- Wha- h-"
"What happened? Is that what you want to ask?"
He moved his head slightly in something resembling a nod. It was then that he noticed he was lying flat on some cool, smooth surface. Metal, he surmised. Hadn't he stumbled backwards into the tub?
"Try to relax. I know it's difficult, but keep breathing. Your memory will return soon enough. No, don't try to move; you're still healing," the Voice cautioned.
"H-healing? Th-the bullets . . . I was shot."
The other person huffed, or maybe he imagined it. "Yes, you were shot. You were dead . . . for several hours, I think. And, now, you are not dead."
Dead . . . now . . . not dead.
"How?" he asked, curious yet incredulous.
The Other Person took a deep breath and sighed. "You are Immortal. So am I. That . . . strange sensation you feel - somewhere between a headache and feeling like there is a breeze going through you . . . that's how we recognise each other. Can you tell me your name?"
"V-Vince. Vega."
"Well, Mr Vega, you're going to need a new identity; we can take care of that later. Once night falls, we'll have to leave town."
"We?" How could this person think he'd go along with whatever - Was this a man or a woman? His head was swimming from . . . well, everything.
"I will help you . . . get set up somewhere new. You certainly can't stay here. Or anywhere near here. Or, for that matter, anywhere people know you."
"Why?" He had an inkling why, but he needed to hear it.
"You are dead, Mr Vega. You don't really think a dead man can continue walking these streets, do you?"
"Who knows I'm dead?" Breathing was getting easier.
"The medical examiner, for one. He's an old friend of mine; he'll bury you under an alias."
"Bury?!"
"Heh. Not you, not physically. An obituary will run. He's waiting to fill out the death certificate."
"Why do I have to . . . Why can't I . . ."
"You were all over the news when the police collected your body. People saw your face. Do you have any family who might come to pay their last respects?"
He shook his head. "Nah, my parents died years ago; even before that, we hadn't spoken in . . . and my brother died a few years back." A thought struck him. "W- Is my brother . . . like me?"
The Other Person hesitated before answering. "I don't know. I might be able to find out, but it would take some time. Since you have no family . . . What about friends? How big a funeral should we count on?"
"Oh. Yeah, I'd want to know about him. And . . . A funeral. My boss might take care of that. If he comes to identify me, but I kinda doubt he will. His wife might, though, unless he convinces her not to."
"Right, then. If no one does come by for you, he could put a different name on the forms if you like."
He tried opening his eyes; the light didn't burn them as much as before. "I'm in the morgue?" he whispered.
"In an unused part of it, yes. No one ever comes down here but for this sort of thing."
"This happen often?" He tried moving his hands and adjusted the sheet draped across his body.
The Other Person chuckled briefly. "Often enough. Not so often that the rest of the staff notice; the ones who have figure we're just down here for a few minutes alone. You hungry? We got burgers from Big Kahuna, but I could get you something else, if you like."
"Maybe in a bit. I'm still . . . processing all of this." He pushed himself up gingerly into a sitting position and finally got a look at his . . . guide. It was a rather pretty woman with reddish-brown hair; she looked to be in her early twenties, with eyes that had clearly seen far more years than that.
"Of course. There's some clothes for you here; Lucas had to get a size larger than what you were wearing. The bathroom's through there if you'd like to freshen up." She pointed to a door off to his right, then jerked her thumb behind her. "I'll be down that corridor if you need anything else. Come and join us when you're ready."
Before she could head through the wooden door, he called out, "Wait! Uh . . . Thank you. For all of this. And, um, what is your name?"
"Laura. Take your time, Vince. You're safe here."