Gundam Wing: The Highlander
CHAPTER 1 - Conflict at the Gardens
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Author: Ravena Kaiou
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com
Genre: Sci-fi/Action
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xR.
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Gretsky steals the puck and streaks across the ice...two defenders down, he shoots, HE SCORES!"
Immediately, the fans of the Edmonton Oilers that were watching the game that day jumped to their feet, bellowing wildly with approval. The scoreboard hanging over the ice changed to read 'Oilers 6, Rangers 0,' causing those cheering for the New York Rangers that day to let out a collective sigh of disappointment.
But one spectator stood out from the rest.
Clad in a palette of black, the silent man adjusted his overcoat and fidgeted with his scarf, seemingly unmoved by the din around him. Perhaps it was the aura of power and charisma that seemed to surround him which set him apart, or even the hypnotic gaze he cast with his Prussian blue eyes as the defenders for the Rangers slammed Gretsky to the wall, punching and kicking the hockey player.
Shouting players of each team stormed their way onto the ice, the metal blades of their skates clacking and reflecting the arena's lights as they swung their sticks in a brutal free-for-all.
The silent man merely remained composed and collected as the rest of the crowd leapt to their feet, cheering madly at the scene below them on the ice.
"Helluva fight, ain't it? Yeah, helluva fight," a slurred voice said in his ear. "Lotta fun, ain't it?"
The man just slightly recoiled at the smell of alcohol that wafted from his neighbour's breath and clothing. He was too busy watching the fight to worry about his environment.
In his mind, the brawling players became fifteenth-century highlanders, their hockey sticks transforming into broadswords clashing in a vicious battle. To him, the arena was now a field of rocks and heather set in the shadow of towering mountains, and the cheers of the crowd the sounds of whinnying horses, agonized cries, ringing steel, and the frantic skirling of the bagpipes.
A familiar voice cut into the man's thoughts. "Let's go belt the shit out of somebody, then I'll buy you a drink. Whaddya say?" the drunk slurred.
The scene that had played through the stranger's mind once again became a twentieth century hockey riot. He scanned the crowd briefly, then like a predator catching a scent, he walked off, his pace quickening with each step taken.
The drunk was not going to stand for this. "Hey! Where ya goin', buddy?" he called to the retreating figure. The silent man did not even look back.
After a short while, the man found himself striding swiftly past row after row of cars, his footsteps echoing in the Garden's underground garage. He could sense a presence very close to him...
Suddenly a man's silhouette appeared in one of the tunnels, his hot breath making weird ghosts in the arctic air.
"MacLeod," the man's voice boomed.
Without any warning, a huge sword appeared in the shadowy stranger's hands. He swung once, but MacLeod deftly sidestepped the blow, instead drawing his own weapon from inside his coat.
A Samurai sword with carved handguard, its blade sharp as a razor and light as a feather.
The other man raised his sword above his head, the blade of it slamming into the concrete ceiling, causing chunks of stone to rain down from above him. MacLeod fanned his blade and struck like lightning.
But his opponent was quicker, as the two swords clanged in the tunnel, pulverizing cars and gouging columns in impossibly brilliant showers of sparks. In the distance was the sound of running feet, shouting voices, and far-off sirens.
It seemed that this was enough to distract the second man, as he soon fell to his knees thanks to a kick from MacLeod. Seeing his chance, MacLeod surged forward and dropped the sword's blade down onto the man's neck.
There was a faint swish as the blade sliced through his flesh easily, followed by the thunk of his head on the cold cement floor...and then silence.
But only for a moment.
A shimmering energy, like a sudden electrical storm, surged between the corpse and MacLeod. Macleod leaned his head back, screaming as it surrounded his body, his voice lost in the explosion of windshields and cacophony of sirens that were closing in on him.
As quickly as it had begun, the energy disappeared, and MacLeod dropped to his knees, panting heavily and soaked with sweat.
"Over here--!" a voice called.
MacLeod looked up sharply and got to his feet, Samurai sword in one hand, then sprinted off in the direction opposite the voice.
He raced through the garage, ignoring the scream of a woman that came from somewhere behind him. Desparate to find an escape, he hid his weapon in a roof duct hidden by the tiles, driving it out of sight.
The arena was oblivious to the drama that was taking place beneath it. New York had just scored a goal, raising the fans into a wild cheer. To MacLeod, the sound distorted itself to become the voices of so many cheering villages lining a road at Loch Shiel in the Scottish Highlands. The stone giant known as Glamis Castle towered over the thatched huts that dotted the shore of the Loch.
The castle's drawbridge crashed down like a peal of thunder, the skirling of bagpipes and drums soon drowning out the resonating sound as two hundred strong men swarmed out to battle in tartan cloaks. This was the Clan MacLeod, with their bronze shields and claymores flashing in the sunlight.
A hatchet-faced man, Father Dermail, began to chant prayers for the clan. "God bless our brave heroes," he intoned. "May this year of Our Lord 1536 bring victory to the Clan MacLeod."
The villagers cheered loudly. "Death and damnation to the Fraziers!" they cried. "Long live the Clan MacLeod!"
Going along with the rest of the warriors was the ice hockey spectator, 466 years before his visit to Madison Square Garden, yet apparently of the same age. Here he was the rough-hewn Quatre, with eyes alight yet not possessing the quiet strength they would in his later years. His huge claymore sword was strapped to his side, the sunlight dancing across the single word "MACLEOD" that was carved into its blade.
With him were two older clansmen; Trowa was his cousin, short with arms thick like trees, and Rashid, bulky and bearded.
"Are ye scared, Quatre?" Trowa shouted over the din.
Quatre was indeed scared, but he would rather have submitted to a Frazier dog than looked like a coward in front of the others. "Nay, Cousin Trowa, I'm not!" he called back. It was a lie, and all three of them knew it.
Rashid laughed. "Don't talk rubbish, lad. I peed my kilt the first time I rode to battle."
"Ah, but Rashid pees his kilt all the time," joked Trowa.
MacLeod laughed in an attempt to hide his nervousness.
A pretty girl named Relena raced down the column of warriors, holding a bouquet of wildflowers high above her head. Quatre swept her up in a kiss, and she planted the flowers in his hat and then jumped back down excitedly, walking alongside the rest of the clan.
Trowa smiled. "A girl like that can wound a soldier more than a Frazier's sword, my friend," he continued to his cousin.
Relena playfully frowned at the man. "Rashid, you and Trowa bring him back in one piece. D'ye hear?" she ordered.
"Aye, we know which piece ye want, lassie," Trowa laughed.
Rashid roared with laughter as the drums and bagpipes continued playing their rousing melodies.
On a nearby hill, a shadowy hulk astride a massive black stallion watched the Clan MacLeod advance into the gathering moorish fog below. This was the Khushrenada, a frightening man with flashing eyes and a cruel mouth.
Frazier chief Milliardo galloped up to the man.
"Is the one called Quatre among them?" Khushrenada asked quietly.
"Aye."
Khushrenada let out a low chuckle. "Remember our pact. The boy is mine."
Milliardo nodded, his fear of the giant flashing across his eyes for just one moment.
The battle cries and frenzied pipes of the MacLeod and Frazier clans rose up from the valley below.
"It's begun!" Millardo cried. "Death to the MacLeods!"
With that, the Khushrenada and his kinsman charged.
And so was the battle of Loch Shiel.
The MacLeods and the Fraziers collided in fury. Raging carnage swept across the battlefield, fog slowly moving in and licking at the ankles of the warriors.
Quatre, Trowa, and Rashid were in the thick of the fight. Even though he made several attempts to engage the enemy, each time they avoided Quatre.
Trowa found himself helplessly trapped beneath three Fraziers. Acting quickly, Rashid flew down from his saddle and killed two of them, leaving the third to run with his tail between his legs.
The fog that was so unimportant before now was beginning to make it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Each man's battle now became his own, hopelessly separated from the help of his kinsmen battling around him.
A wild-eyed Quatre leapt off of his horse and straight to his cousin Trowa. "Nobody will fight me!" he cried. "They all run away!"
Trowa grinned. "Great, laddie. Stay by me."
Suddenly, a hulking giant on a black stallion came thundering down on them, sword wheeling as an unstoppable blade, butchering everything in its path.
Quatre was transfixed by the scene. "Mother of God--!" he cried, feeling dizziness overcome him as Trowa was knocked senseless and his own shield disintegrated.
With a snarl, the Khushrenada leapt from his horse and drove the cruel blade into Quatre's stomach. Mortally wounded, Quatre dropped to his knees, vainly swinging at the ghastly spectre. The Khushrenada merely swatted away his sword as if it were a toothpick.
Relishing the moment, the Khushrenada raised his blade high, his voice grating in triumph.
"There can be only one," he says quietly to his helpless victim.
To Quatre, time hung suspended. Lost in the blackness of the Khushrenada's eyes, he prepared to meet his maker.
But at the last second, Trowa, Rashid, and the others appeared, pile-driving the Khushrenada back over dying clansmen that littered the field.
"Another time, Highlander," the Khushrenada laughed. "Another time."
As his life ebbed away, Quatre groaned and stared up at the sky, which was oddly blue in contrast to his own blood that stained the field below.
The sound of police cruisers screeching to a halt chased away these images. Sirens died as the exit tunnel was blocked. Police officers piled out of their cars, guns drawn.
Headlights appeared as a BMW crested the ramp at 60, saw the block, and squealed to a smoking stop. The officers took aim.
"Get out of the car! Put your hands on the hood!" commanding officer Wu Fei Chang yelled. When he got no response from the driver, he became even more agitated. "Move, dammit!"
Quatre hesitated for a moment before obeying the officer's order. As he stepped out of the car he was overtaken and thrust against the hood as he was frisked by several of the police.
Officer Septum was the one to find the wallet. He opened it to reveal Quatre's photo, name and address.
"Quatre Raberba-Winner, 1182 Hudson Street, New York, New York, 10013." He closed the wallet and shone a light into the suspects eyes, noting how bottomless and unafraid they seemed to be.
"Well, Mr. Winner, suppose you tell me where you were going in such a hurry?" Septum asked, grabbing his arm and attempting to handcuff him.
Bad idea.
Quatre hurled him away, causing the officer to fall flat on his ass.
A swarm of officers swept over Quatre, slamming his face into the windshield. An enraged Septum staggered to his feet, jamming his .45 into the suspect's neck.
"Don't move, asshole," he hissed angrily. "Don't even breathe."
Another cruiser arrived, its dying siren becoming the sound of a lone piper on the turret of Glamis Castle, his mournful lament rising to the stars above.
Inside a small nearby hut, Quatre MacLeod lay on his trestle bed, his torso rising and falling heavily as he breathed his last. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across Relena's face as she kneeled by the bed, making her look so much older than she was. The battle-scarred Trowa and Rashid stood nearby.
Father Dermail bent over Quatre's quivering body and made the sign of the cross. "In nomine patri, et fili et spiritus sancti. Amen," he chanted as he got up to leave. "It is over. Other men are dying this day, and I must attend to them."
Relena, who had been keeping her emotions tightly bottled up inside of her, collapsed to the floor, weeping pitifully. Trowa and Rashid gently led her away.
"He's a Highlander, by God," Rashid said quietly. "The last sound he hears shall not be a wailing woman."
As they left, flickering shadows played over Quatre's body, whose laboured breaths finally faded away into the night air.
CHAPTER 1 - Conflict at the Gardens
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Author: Ravena Kaiou
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com
Genre: Sci-fi/Action
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xR.
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Gretsky steals the puck and streaks across the ice...two defenders down, he shoots, HE SCORES!"
Immediately, the fans of the Edmonton Oilers that were watching the game that day jumped to their feet, bellowing wildly with approval. The scoreboard hanging over the ice changed to read 'Oilers 6, Rangers 0,' causing those cheering for the New York Rangers that day to let out a collective sigh of disappointment.
But one spectator stood out from the rest.
Clad in a palette of black, the silent man adjusted his overcoat and fidgeted with his scarf, seemingly unmoved by the din around him. Perhaps it was the aura of power and charisma that seemed to surround him which set him apart, or even the hypnotic gaze he cast with his Prussian blue eyes as the defenders for the Rangers slammed Gretsky to the wall, punching and kicking the hockey player.
Shouting players of each team stormed their way onto the ice, the metal blades of their skates clacking and reflecting the arena's lights as they swung their sticks in a brutal free-for-all.
The silent man merely remained composed and collected as the rest of the crowd leapt to their feet, cheering madly at the scene below them on the ice.
"Helluva fight, ain't it? Yeah, helluva fight," a slurred voice said in his ear. "Lotta fun, ain't it?"
The man just slightly recoiled at the smell of alcohol that wafted from his neighbour's breath and clothing. He was too busy watching the fight to worry about his environment.
In his mind, the brawling players became fifteenth-century highlanders, their hockey sticks transforming into broadswords clashing in a vicious battle. To him, the arena was now a field of rocks and heather set in the shadow of towering mountains, and the cheers of the crowd the sounds of whinnying horses, agonized cries, ringing steel, and the frantic skirling of the bagpipes.
A familiar voice cut into the man's thoughts. "Let's go belt the shit out of somebody, then I'll buy you a drink. Whaddya say?" the drunk slurred.
The scene that had played through the stranger's mind once again became a twentieth century hockey riot. He scanned the crowd briefly, then like a predator catching a scent, he walked off, his pace quickening with each step taken.
The drunk was not going to stand for this. "Hey! Where ya goin', buddy?" he called to the retreating figure. The silent man did not even look back.
After a short while, the man found himself striding swiftly past row after row of cars, his footsteps echoing in the Garden's underground garage. He could sense a presence very close to him...
Suddenly a man's silhouette appeared in one of the tunnels, his hot breath making weird ghosts in the arctic air.
"MacLeod," the man's voice boomed.
Without any warning, a huge sword appeared in the shadowy stranger's hands. He swung once, but MacLeod deftly sidestepped the blow, instead drawing his own weapon from inside his coat.
A Samurai sword with carved handguard, its blade sharp as a razor and light as a feather.
The other man raised his sword above his head, the blade of it slamming into the concrete ceiling, causing chunks of stone to rain down from above him. MacLeod fanned his blade and struck like lightning.
But his opponent was quicker, as the two swords clanged in the tunnel, pulverizing cars and gouging columns in impossibly brilliant showers of sparks. In the distance was the sound of running feet, shouting voices, and far-off sirens.
It seemed that this was enough to distract the second man, as he soon fell to his knees thanks to a kick from MacLeod. Seeing his chance, MacLeod surged forward and dropped the sword's blade down onto the man's neck.
There was a faint swish as the blade sliced through his flesh easily, followed by the thunk of his head on the cold cement floor...and then silence.
But only for a moment.
A shimmering energy, like a sudden electrical storm, surged between the corpse and MacLeod. Macleod leaned his head back, screaming as it surrounded his body, his voice lost in the explosion of windshields and cacophony of sirens that were closing in on him.
As quickly as it had begun, the energy disappeared, and MacLeod dropped to his knees, panting heavily and soaked with sweat.
"Over here--!" a voice called.
MacLeod looked up sharply and got to his feet, Samurai sword in one hand, then sprinted off in the direction opposite the voice.
He raced through the garage, ignoring the scream of a woman that came from somewhere behind him. Desparate to find an escape, he hid his weapon in a roof duct hidden by the tiles, driving it out of sight.
The arena was oblivious to the drama that was taking place beneath it. New York had just scored a goal, raising the fans into a wild cheer. To MacLeod, the sound distorted itself to become the voices of so many cheering villages lining a road at Loch Shiel in the Scottish Highlands. The stone giant known as Glamis Castle towered over the thatched huts that dotted the shore of the Loch.
The castle's drawbridge crashed down like a peal of thunder, the skirling of bagpipes and drums soon drowning out the resonating sound as two hundred strong men swarmed out to battle in tartan cloaks. This was the Clan MacLeod, with their bronze shields and claymores flashing in the sunlight.
A hatchet-faced man, Father Dermail, began to chant prayers for the clan. "God bless our brave heroes," he intoned. "May this year of Our Lord 1536 bring victory to the Clan MacLeod."
The villagers cheered loudly. "Death and damnation to the Fraziers!" they cried. "Long live the Clan MacLeod!"
Going along with the rest of the warriors was the ice hockey spectator, 466 years before his visit to Madison Square Garden, yet apparently of the same age. Here he was the rough-hewn Quatre, with eyes alight yet not possessing the quiet strength they would in his later years. His huge claymore sword was strapped to his side, the sunlight dancing across the single word "MACLEOD" that was carved into its blade.
With him were two older clansmen; Trowa was his cousin, short with arms thick like trees, and Rashid, bulky and bearded.
"Are ye scared, Quatre?" Trowa shouted over the din.
Quatre was indeed scared, but he would rather have submitted to a Frazier dog than looked like a coward in front of the others. "Nay, Cousin Trowa, I'm not!" he called back. It was a lie, and all three of them knew it.
Rashid laughed. "Don't talk rubbish, lad. I peed my kilt the first time I rode to battle."
"Ah, but Rashid pees his kilt all the time," joked Trowa.
MacLeod laughed in an attempt to hide his nervousness.
A pretty girl named Relena raced down the column of warriors, holding a bouquet of wildflowers high above her head. Quatre swept her up in a kiss, and she planted the flowers in his hat and then jumped back down excitedly, walking alongside the rest of the clan.
Trowa smiled. "A girl like that can wound a soldier more than a Frazier's sword, my friend," he continued to his cousin.
Relena playfully frowned at the man. "Rashid, you and Trowa bring him back in one piece. D'ye hear?" she ordered.
"Aye, we know which piece ye want, lassie," Trowa laughed.
Rashid roared with laughter as the drums and bagpipes continued playing their rousing melodies.
On a nearby hill, a shadowy hulk astride a massive black stallion watched the Clan MacLeod advance into the gathering moorish fog below. This was the Khushrenada, a frightening man with flashing eyes and a cruel mouth.
Frazier chief Milliardo galloped up to the man.
"Is the one called Quatre among them?" Khushrenada asked quietly.
"Aye."
Khushrenada let out a low chuckle. "Remember our pact. The boy is mine."
Milliardo nodded, his fear of the giant flashing across his eyes for just one moment.
The battle cries and frenzied pipes of the MacLeod and Frazier clans rose up from the valley below.
"It's begun!" Millardo cried. "Death to the MacLeods!"
With that, the Khushrenada and his kinsman charged.
And so was the battle of Loch Shiel.
The MacLeods and the Fraziers collided in fury. Raging carnage swept across the battlefield, fog slowly moving in and licking at the ankles of the warriors.
Quatre, Trowa, and Rashid were in the thick of the fight. Even though he made several attempts to engage the enemy, each time they avoided Quatre.
Trowa found himself helplessly trapped beneath three Fraziers. Acting quickly, Rashid flew down from his saddle and killed two of them, leaving the third to run with his tail between his legs.
The fog that was so unimportant before now was beginning to make it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Each man's battle now became his own, hopelessly separated from the help of his kinsmen battling around him.
A wild-eyed Quatre leapt off of his horse and straight to his cousin Trowa. "Nobody will fight me!" he cried. "They all run away!"
Trowa grinned. "Great, laddie. Stay by me."
Suddenly, a hulking giant on a black stallion came thundering down on them, sword wheeling as an unstoppable blade, butchering everything in its path.
Quatre was transfixed by the scene. "Mother of God--!" he cried, feeling dizziness overcome him as Trowa was knocked senseless and his own shield disintegrated.
With a snarl, the Khushrenada leapt from his horse and drove the cruel blade into Quatre's stomach. Mortally wounded, Quatre dropped to his knees, vainly swinging at the ghastly spectre. The Khushrenada merely swatted away his sword as if it were a toothpick.
Relishing the moment, the Khushrenada raised his blade high, his voice grating in triumph.
"There can be only one," he says quietly to his helpless victim.
To Quatre, time hung suspended. Lost in the blackness of the Khushrenada's eyes, he prepared to meet his maker.
But at the last second, Trowa, Rashid, and the others appeared, pile-driving the Khushrenada back over dying clansmen that littered the field.
"Another time, Highlander," the Khushrenada laughed. "Another time."
As his life ebbed away, Quatre groaned and stared up at the sky, which was oddly blue in contrast to his own blood that stained the field below.
The sound of police cruisers screeching to a halt chased away these images. Sirens died as the exit tunnel was blocked. Police officers piled out of their cars, guns drawn.
Headlights appeared as a BMW crested the ramp at 60, saw the block, and squealed to a smoking stop. The officers took aim.
"Get out of the car! Put your hands on the hood!" commanding officer Wu Fei Chang yelled. When he got no response from the driver, he became even more agitated. "Move, dammit!"
Quatre hesitated for a moment before obeying the officer's order. As he stepped out of the car he was overtaken and thrust against the hood as he was frisked by several of the police.
Officer Septum was the one to find the wallet. He opened it to reveal Quatre's photo, name and address.
"Quatre Raberba-Winner, 1182 Hudson Street, New York, New York, 10013." He closed the wallet and shone a light into the suspects eyes, noting how bottomless and unafraid they seemed to be.
"Well, Mr. Winner, suppose you tell me where you were going in such a hurry?" Septum asked, grabbing his arm and attempting to handcuff him.
Bad idea.
Quatre hurled him away, causing the officer to fall flat on his ass.
A swarm of officers swept over Quatre, slamming his face into the windshield. An enraged Septum staggered to his feet, jamming his .45 into the suspect's neck.
"Don't move, asshole," he hissed angrily. "Don't even breathe."
Another cruiser arrived, its dying siren becoming the sound of a lone piper on the turret of Glamis Castle, his mournful lament rising to the stars above.
Inside a small nearby hut, Quatre MacLeod lay on his trestle bed, his torso rising and falling heavily as he breathed his last. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across Relena's face as she kneeled by the bed, making her look so much older than she was. The battle-scarred Trowa and Rashid stood nearby.
Father Dermail bent over Quatre's quivering body and made the sign of the cross. "In nomine patri, et fili et spiritus sancti. Amen," he chanted as he got up to leave. "It is over. Other men are dying this day, and I must attend to them."
Relena, who had been keeping her emotions tightly bottled up inside of her, collapsed to the floor, weeping pitifully. Trowa and Rashid gently led her away.
"He's a Highlander, by God," Rashid said quietly. "The last sound he hears shall not be a wailing woman."
As they left, flickering shadows played over Quatre's body, whose laboured breaths finally faded away into the night air.