The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.
So in this story, I set out to write a character who was me - not an idealized version, like these alleged Mary Sues - but a clone with my reactions, my tastes and a few bits of my background. A character who would act like me (or a good many other ordinary women) upon meeting Duncan MacLeod, Immortal hunk!
As I said, previously - and as the first part of the story indicates - I intended it to be a satire, but it took on a life of its own - as stories are inclined to do - and it ended up quite another species entirely.
This story was also an exercise to see if I could write in the first person/present tense (not an easy task - for me anyway). I meant only to share it with a few friends, but I decided to send it to the Duncan Flag Wavers faction of HIGHLA-L, and it got such a favorable reaction that I decided to offer it here as well.
I hope you enjoy the story and if you do, I'd love to hear your comments.
Move over Mary Sue - Chapter 1
Of all the gin joints in all the world, he had to walk into mine.
Okay, okay - so it's not an exact quote, sue me. It's not even my gin joint.
The gin joint belongs to some guy named, Joe - unless of course there is no Joe, like there is no Sara Lee making the cheesecakes. It's not even my regular hang out. Dara and Lisa dragged me down here because they were in the mood to hear some Blues, and we'd heard this was the place to do it. But let's get back to the guy who just walked in the door - talk about a hunk and a half! Bogie had style; he had panache, but he didn't have much in the looks department. This guy has all of the above, plus stupendous looks, and the deadly grace of a panther as he saunters toward the bar. I hear fingers snap. The chorus starts up, and that song from the musical Sweet Charity fills my head. The minute you walked in the joint, I could see you were a man of distinction. Ah yes, a man of distinction - this is him all right.
Oh, jeeze - he's coming this way! Please, brain - if he talks to me, don't turn to mush. Dazzle him with brilliance and witty repartee. And whatever you do, don't let me blither.
I glance over my shoulder at Dara and Lisa. They're sitting at a table across the room, pointing and gesturing wildly. Of course, I see him - do they think I'm blind. I hope they don't get too thirsty waiting for me to come back with the beers, 'cause I'm glued to this spot. I'm not movin' as long I can feast my eyes on Mr. Gorgeous up close and personal.
Brushing my arm, he edges into the small space next to me. He's got long dark hair, pulled back into a very sexy ponytail - I love a guy who's man enough to wear his hair long. Black coat, black jeans, black t-shirt all add to his mystique. He smiles as he sweeps a glance around the bar. A slow sliding smile that's to die for. Right now, I'm hoping the band doesn't take a break because everyone in the joint will hear the Ginger Baker drum solo my heart is performing on my ribs. I think I'd win a battle of the bands hands down.
Pain suddenly shoots up my leg from the vicinity of my right foot. I gasp, and he turns at the sound.
"Did you say something?" he asks in a dark chocolate voice.
As I work through the pain, my brain registers the trace of an intriguing accent. "Ah ... no," I manage, "but could you move your foot. It seems to have landed in the same place as mine." I work up a smile. "And mine was there first."
He recoils, lifting the offending foot. His sinfully delicious brown eyes fill with sincere apology. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, reaching out to touch my arm.
Warm tingles dance up and down from my wrist to my shoulder. I don't think my legs will hold. A smile is all I can manage.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks.
Well, I can't tell him my big toe is mostly numb, the other toes have vanished and I think my metatarsal bone is broken in three places.
"I'll live," I say, smiling. "It's not like I've got only one. And the broken bones will heal in no time ... though I may never dance Swan Lake, again. But, you know how it is - that ballet life was getting old anyway. Perhaps, it's time for a new career."
An odd, but fleeting expression stirs his shaggy dark brows as it crinkles the tiny lines between them. I'm blithering, I just know it. He thinks I'm an idiot. The look fades as the sunlight of his smile slides out from behind the passing cloud. A soft chuckle bubbles up from deep within his well-muscled chest. My hand itches to touch those nicely sculpted ridges, but I stuff it into the pocket of my jeans to keep it out of trouble.
Then it dawns on me - I said something funny! Hey Dara ... Lisa - eat your hearts out - I said something funny, and Mr. Gorgeous laughed. "Let me buy you a drink to make up for it," he says. That smile sends heat-seeking spirals rocketing around inside my body.
Say yes, my brain screams. "Thanks, but I'm-ah ... I'm with friends," I answer. Dumb! Dumb! I couldn't have said that. I suspect, Dara and Lisa transported those words into my mouth.
He turns his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. I follow the direction of his glance and can see their smug smiles from here. They want me to share. They wave - I scowl. He catches me and lifts one of those naughty eyebrows slightly. I turn the scowl into a smile.
"Those your friends?" he asks nodding at the pair.
"Mmm," I say, but it comes out sounding faintly like a snarl. At that precise moment the bartender returns to plunk three bottles of Bass Ale down in front of me.
"That'll be $9.75," he says.
Before I can move my hand to the small purse dangling from my left shoulder, Mr. Gorgeous whips a twenty out of thin air. He holds it folded lengthwise between two fingers and extends it toward the bartender.
"I've got that," he says, checking the labels on the bottles with glimmer of approval in his eyes.
His accent sounds European, I'm thinking British, maybe ... or Scottish. Probably thinks American beer is inferior. I bristle slightly at the imagined putdown, but in the end I'm quite glad we prefer Bass to Bud.
"And I'll have a single malt, please," he says.
He turns to smile at me again, and my brain turns to creamed spinach. I can't think of a single thing to say. I hate when that happens.
The bartender returns with his drink and his change. "Is Joe around?" he asks as he drops a few singles on the bar for a tip.
"He left about an hour ago," the bartender answers with a shrug.
Oh rats - his friend isn't here, so he'll drink his drink, then leave. I hold back the sigh of disappointment as I wrap my fingers around the cold slippery bottle necks.
"Here, let me help you with that," he says, taking two of the three in his. He has great hands - strong hands with fingers that are a perfect length - not too long, not too short. Just right, as Goldilocks would say. He starts to walk toward our table, then he pauses waiting for me to snap out of my trance.
What can I do? He leads; I follow. "So there really is a Joe," I say.
"Pardon?"
"Joe ... there really is a person called Joe. I mean it's not like Sara Lee, Betty Crocker or Mrs. Paul. There really is a Joe behind Joe's." I'm blithering again. I bite my tongue to stop it from wandering aimlessly.
He smiles and I'm nearly blinded by the brilliant display of teeth. Gad, what a great smile. This guy can't be real. I bite my tongue again to make sure I'm not dreaming. I hurts, but I wonder if you bite your tongue in a dream, doesn't it still hurt?
Dara and Lisa sit motionless as we approach. Their mouths hang open wide enough to drive a tractor trailer truck through. I smirk. They look utterly charming. At least I don't have to worry about competition from Dumb and Dumber - not for the moment anyway.
"This is Dara and Lisa," I begin my introductions with a smug smile for their benefit. I - Kate, manhunter extraordinaire - have brought home the biggest prize in the bar, and don't you forget it, ladies. Won't this trophy look just grand hanging over my headboard ... er, I mean mantel?
Mr. Gorgeous sets the bottles down on the table, then he swabs the moisture off his hand with a swipe over his sleeve. He reaches out to shake hands with my erstwhile friends. They should be grateful for my generosity. You do not introduce a guy like this to female friends until you've got a ring on your finger and one through his nose, as well. Unless of course, they are lesbians and/or truly ugly. Dara and Lisa don't fall into either category. They've managed to transform the truck tunnels they were using for mouths into brilliant smiles. The light is so blinding I can't tell if they are batting their eyelashes at him. Please, someone assure me they are not batting their eyelashes at him.
There is a lull in the simpering noises they have been making, and I suddenly realize that everyone is waiting for me to finish the introductions. Houston, we have a problem - I'm missing some very important information - like his name. I could just introduce him as Mr. Gorgeous, but that would be tipping my hand. I can't let him know I'm in cardiac arrest and have already named our first child between palpitations.
"This is--" I turn to him, hoping he will fill in the blank.
"Duncan MacLeod," he says, riding to my rescue as he tries to extract his hand from Lisa's death grip. He will need the jaws of life if he ever hopes to see his fingers again.
I pin Lisa with a laser beam stare, and she releases his hand before I have to call in the swat team and the hostage negotiators. He turns and extends his hand to me. He smiles. Oh please - not the smile, that's not fair. I'm no match for the equatorial heat of that smile. The limp noodles I used to consider legs fail. I'm mel-ting! Like the Witch in the Wizard of Oz, I dissolve into a puddle of goo at his feet.
"Kate," I say in the most amazingly steady voice considering the liquefied state of every other square inch of my body. I glance around. Who said that? It certainly wasn't me - I'm not here. Having lost possession of my body, I'm floating somewhere in space.
"Kate Halloran," the disembodied voice continues. It sounds vaguely like my voice. Yes! It is. It is my voice! Thank you - oh Great High Protector of not-so-innocent women who find themselves in the presence of the most gorgeous man who ever lived. You say you want a human sacrifice? I can do that.
I eye Dara and Lisa who are ogling Duncan MacLeod in a bold and most unbecoming manner. I have two candidates. Does it matter if they're not virgins?
My hand is suddenly cold, and I realize that he has withdrawn his. I sigh. Bring that back. I want it - it's mine. That lovely hand felt so nice and toasty in mine, and I didn't even get to enjoy it because I wasn't sufficiently recovered from the nuclear meltdown. He pulls out the two unoccupied chairs from the table, and he waits.
Oh, heh-heh - he's waiting for me. I'm expected to actually do something - like sit down. I sit - not an easy task when your leg muscles have abandoned ship. Actually, I sort of drop into the chair and hope he doesn't notice the lack of grace in the action.
Dara and Lisa commence talking at once. They jabber on and I haven't the vaguest idea what they are saying. They could be inviting him to go along with them to Timbuktu. They could be telling him I'm an alien invader from the planet Mungo. Deciphering their gibberish requires too much concentration and mine is otherwise occupied.
The bar is crowded and the tables have barely a chair's breadth between them, so Duncan and I are sitting very close to each other. In fact, his arm is touching mine from shoulder to elbow. We're soldered together. Joined like Siamese twins - and I want to keep it that way. Every now and then he turns to me and smiles, starting the melting process anew each time. Off in a distance, I hear a voice that sounds like mine. I hope it's not saying anything I wouldn't say - unless it's outstandingly brilliant, of course.
Time passes quickly in the far reaches of space, and suddenly everyone is standing. The music has stopped and the lights have been turned up. Oh, don't do this to me. I'm not ready to leave this halcyon spot. This Shangri La. This Eden. I may never get to sit next to such perfection again - not in this lifetime, anyway.
He is looking at me and his lips are moving. I shake my head to wake my ears up.
"I'd like to see you again," he is saying.
Huh? See me? Again? I stand so I can hear him better.
"Maybe we could have dinner, sometime," he says.
"I'd love to," says that stranger with my voice. How can she remain so calm while he is looking at her with those melt-in-your-mouth chocolate eyes? The strange woman reaches into my purse. Her hands don't even quiver as she extracts one of my business cards and passes it to him. "Call me," she says.
He smiles back. "I will."
