Disclaimer: I do not own "Highlander" or Q from the "Star Trek" Universe. I'm only borrowing them for my twisted imagination. The name Snow's Cat comes from the show "Early Edition" and I really liked it, so I stole it. Christina and all other members of the band are mine. If you want to use them, ask. Hugh MacGregor, is my tribute to the late and awesome Trevor Goddard, may he rest in peace.
Chapter 1: It's All Because of Q
It was a sunny June morning. I woke slowly from my sleep and stared at the ceiling. Gradually, my sleepy brain began to work. "Wait a minute. That ceiling is higher up than I remember," I told the world.
"Yes, and I'm sure you can see it better, too," a familiar voice said from my right.
I sat up abruptly and turned my head toward the intruder. "Q?!" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Correct, as usual. My, you are as intelligent as I thought." Q was smiling smugly.
"What are you doing here? Where is here? Why am I here?" I asked all these questions in quick succession.
"Well, you could be polite enough to pose one question at a time, but I think I can answer them all to your satisfaction. I am here to explain to you what you're supposed to do. We are in your apartment in Seacover, Washington. You are here to do the Q a favor." Q created a chair for himself and sat down.
"What kind of a favor?" I was very wary of the Ultimate Being in front of me.
"Let's see, where should I start . . ." Q crossed his legs and then continued, "It began a long time ago . . ."
Half an hour later Q had explained to me the existence of immortals and the Continuum's role in their creation. I sat slightly dazed for a minute, then finally found the words to ask, "So, what does all this have to do with me?"
"That's simple. You know all about immortals, so we brought you here to help us with a problem," Q said evasively.
"You've said that. What's the problem?" I folded my arms and glared at the man.
"Methos is the problem," Q stated.
"Methos? Why?"
Q sighed. "Why couldn't you have asked the easy questions first, like: 'What about my family?' and 'What about my life at home?'"
I stared at Q. I hadn't even thought about home. "Those are good questions. Do you mind answering them?"
"Not at all. Your family will not be missing you because you are still at home, safe and sound."
"What?"
"Christina, you have been doubled. You are here and at home."
"Doubled? You mean, like John Crichton on Farscape?"
"Yes!" Q stood. "Exactly like that. You are an intelligent girl."
"Thank you. Now, what about Methos?" I inquired again; I wasn't going to be put off.
"We want you to help him," Q said.
"Help him? How? What on Earth could I possibly do for him?" I was confused.
"Methos was the very first born of the Q, so naturally he is the most important. But ever since that little encounter with the Horsemen a few years ago, he hasn't been the same. He needs something to live for again."
"I thought Joe, Amanda and Duncan were his reasons for living."
"They were, but they don't seem to be enough anymore. We—that is, all the members of the Q Continuum—are afraid that, sooner or later, he'll end up doing something stupid and get himself killed. That's where you come in. We want you to become Methos' reason for living."
I snorted. "And what am I supposed to do exactly? Yes, I'm totally infatuated with the guy; but that doesn't mean I'm going to be able to make him fall in love with me. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly a beauty queen. Besides, how would I start a conversation with him? 'Hello, my name is Christina Johnson. I know you're immortal, and I'm in love with you.' That'll go over real well."
"Mock if you like, but you're stuck here; and sooner or later you'll want to see Methos. For now, everything you need to know is sitting on that table. Good luck." With a wink of his eye, Q was gone.
After Q left, I found my closet and got dressed. Then I commenced to look through the stuff on the table. It was full of all the necessary documents one should have if one is going to function in the United States. It had a driver's license, a birth certificate (which did not have my real parents' names on it), my high school diploma, my Social Security card, and my associate's degree from Western Wyoming Community College.
On the table I also found a check book and card . . . and . . . cat food? I ran out of the room and looked through the rest of the apartment. In the middle of the kitchen, sitting on the floor, was a little orange and white striped kitten.
"Hello, honey," I said sweetly, kneeling close by the kitten. I picked it up, kissing it on the head. "What should I call you, sweetie?" I asked, looking at the small, orange ball of fluff in my hands. "'Snow's Cat'—that's what I'll name you; and for short, I'll call ya Snow."
I put the cat down and took care of all of its needs, then got around to my own breakfast. It had become clear to me very early on that Q had fixed my vision. I wasn't quite sure why, but life was much easier without having to wear glasses.
It was after breakfast that I decided to take a jog (which, from that point on, became a habit); and it was during that first jog that I found my new place of employment. It was called "The Hangout." I wouldn't have stopped there, but Q was standing outside the entrance. "Let me guess," I began as I jogged to the door, "you want me to work here."
"Of course; it's the perfect place for you." Q gave me a toothy grin.
"And what am I supposed to do? Wait tables?"
"No, you are supposed to sing."
"Sing? Q, I hate singing in front of people; you know that," I whined.
"Well, it's time you got past this silly lack of self-confidence. Now, go in there and show 'em what you've got." Q then pushed me through the door.
I looked around "The Hangout." It was . . . well, huge! At the very back of the room was a gigantic bandstand. On the left was a dance floor; and on the right, a bar and a group of tables. Leaning against the bandstand were a dozen or so people talking and laughing. A couple of people saw me and signaled to one of the others; he looked up, spied me, and then started walking toward me.
"Can I help you with something?" a Trevor Goddard look-alike asked me with that actor's typical Australian accent.
"I'd like to talk to the manager."
"That'd be me," the man replied, smiling affably.
"You need a singer?"
"Maybe. What can you sing?"
"Anything you want me to."
"Your music interests are that varied, huh?" asked one of the girls in the group.
"Try me," I replied, with much more confidence than I felt.
The band got on stage and I followed them. They began to play songs that ranged from the 1950s to more modern music, and somehow I managed to remember all the lyrics to every song. Not only that, but I wasn't nervous, either. I felt calm, and my voice came out clear and loud. No fear or tension could be heard in it. After about half an hour, the Trevor Goddard look-alike stopped us.
"You've got talent, sweetheart. You're hired." He grinned. "If you keep up that sound when the crowds start pouring in, they'll want you to do a CD. I'm Hugh MacGregor," he told me, holding out his hand. "My granddad was a Scotsman, if you're wondering about the name."
"I'm Jessica Bryant," the girl who had spoken earlier said. "I'll be your back-up; but I guess you already figured that out."
"I'm James Bloom," the main guitarist told me in a British accent
"Alan Dean," the drummer—an American—added.
"Timothy Anderson," supplied the Canadian bass player.
"I'm Derek Shield," the pianist—another American—added.
"I'm Mark Ford and this is Clark Nelson," said the tallest member of the group, indicating himself and his nerdy-looking friend. "We play all the other instruments in the band, and we're both Americans as well . . . if you noticed the accents Tim and James are sporting."
I grinned. "Oh yes, I noticed. My name is Christina Johnson."
"Well, now that the introductions are out of the way, let's get down to business, shall we?" Hugh asked. Then he told me my pay and gave me all the necessary paperwork to fill out for work. Once he was sure I had everything I needed, he told all of us, "Okay, I want you here tonight at seven for practice. We only have three days until this place opens and we want to knock 'em dead."
"Amen to that," James added.
"Fine. Everyone get out of here; I have other things to worry about," Hugh said, waving them off.
"Hey, Christina, you wanna go out to lunch?" Jessica asked.
"Sure, I'd love to." Jessica and I were headed for the door when it opened and a very familiar man walked in.
"Joe!" Jessica said happily. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking in on my new business, wha'd'ya think, Jess?" Joe smiled at my new friend.
"What's up, boss?" Hugh asked.
"You found a singer yet?" Joe asked, looking slightly concerned.
"The best," Tim told him, "and you're looking right at her."
I smiled, which was really hard considering how fast my mind was racing. Everything was starting to make sense now. Q had sent me to this place because Joe owned it; and if Joe owned it, Methos would probably come to it. Also, I was sort of stunned. I hadn't actually expected to meet anyone involved in Highlander for at least a couple of weeks, and now I was staring at my hero.
"So, you can sing pretty good?" Joe asked.
"I'm okay," I replied modestly.
"'Okay'? The girl is better than 'okay.' She's great. She makes Britney Spears sound like an eleven-year-old," Derek told Joe.
"Derek, it doesn't take much to make Britney Spears sound like an eleven- year-old," Joe said dubiously.
"Still," put in Clark, "she's good."
"You want a demonstration, Joe?" Jessica asked.
"That would be nice."
"Come on, Christina, let's show him what you've got," Mark said, leading me back toward the stage.
"Sounds good," said Joe, taking a seat, "and I think I know the perfect song..."
Chapter 1: It's All Because of Q
It was a sunny June morning. I woke slowly from my sleep and stared at the ceiling. Gradually, my sleepy brain began to work. "Wait a minute. That ceiling is higher up than I remember," I told the world.
"Yes, and I'm sure you can see it better, too," a familiar voice said from my right.
I sat up abruptly and turned my head toward the intruder. "Q?!" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Correct, as usual. My, you are as intelligent as I thought." Q was smiling smugly.
"What are you doing here? Where is here? Why am I here?" I asked all these questions in quick succession.
"Well, you could be polite enough to pose one question at a time, but I think I can answer them all to your satisfaction. I am here to explain to you what you're supposed to do. We are in your apartment in Seacover, Washington. You are here to do the Q a favor." Q created a chair for himself and sat down.
"What kind of a favor?" I was very wary of the Ultimate Being in front of me.
"Let's see, where should I start . . ." Q crossed his legs and then continued, "It began a long time ago . . ."
Half an hour later Q had explained to me the existence of immortals and the Continuum's role in their creation. I sat slightly dazed for a minute, then finally found the words to ask, "So, what does all this have to do with me?"
"That's simple. You know all about immortals, so we brought you here to help us with a problem," Q said evasively.
"You've said that. What's the problem?" I folded my arms and glared at the man.
"Methos is the problem," Q stated.
"Methos? Why?"
Q sighed. "Why couldn't you have asked the easy questions first, like: 'What about my family?' and 'What about my life at home?'"
I stared at Q. I hadn't even thought about home. "Those are good questions. Do you mind answering them?"
"Not at all. Your family will not be missing you because you are still at home, safe and sound."
"What?"
"Christina, you have been doubled. You are here and at home."
"Doubled? You mean, like John Crichton on Farscape?"
"Yes!" Q stood. "Exactly like that. You are an intelligent girl."
"Thank you. Now, what about Methos?" I inquired again; I wasn't going to be put off.
"We want you to help him," Q said.
"Help him? How? What on Earth could I possibly do for him?" I was confused.
"Methos was the very first born of the Q, so naturally he is the most important. But ever since that little encounter with the Horsemen a few years ago, he hasn't been the same. He needs something to live for again."
"I thought Joe, Amanda and Duncan were his reasons for living."
"They were, but they don't seem to be enough anymore. We—that is, all the members of the Q Continuum—are afraid that, sooner or later, he'll end up doing something stupid and get himself killed. That's where you come in. We want you to become Methos' reason for living."
I snorted. "And what am I supposed to do exactly? Yes, I'm totally infatuated with the guy; but that doesn't mean I'm going to be able to make him fall in love with me. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly a beauty queen. Besides, how would I start a conversation with him? 'Hello, my name is Christina Johnson. I know you're immortal, and I'm in love with you.' That'll go over real well."
"Mock if you like, but you're stuck here; and sooner or later you'll want to see Methos. For now, everything you need to know is sitting on that table. Good luck." With a wink of his eye, Q was gone.
After Q left, I found my closet and got dressed. Then I commenced to look through the stuff on the table. It was full of all the necessary documents one should have if one is going to function in the United States. It had a driver's license, a birth certificate (which did not have my real parents' names on it), my high school diploma, my Social Security card, and my associate's degree from Western Wyoming Community College.
On the table I also found a check book and card . . . and . . . cat food? I ran out of the room and looked through the rest of the apartment. In the middle of the kitchen, sitting on the floor, was a little orange and white striped kitten.
"Hello, honey," I said sweetly, kneeling close by the kitten. I picked it up, kissing it on the head. "What should I call you, sweetie?" I asked, looking at the small, orange ball of fluff in my hands. "'Snow's Cat'—that's what I'll name you; and for short, I'll call ya Snow."
I put the cat down and took care of all of its needs, then got around to my own breakfast. It had become clear to me very early on that Q had fixed my vision. I wasn't quite sure why, but life was much easier without having to wear glasses.
It was after breakfast that I decided to take a jog (which, from that point on, became a habit); and it was during that first jog that I found my new place of employment. It was called "The Hangout." I wouldn't have stopped there, but Q was standing outside the entrance. "Let me guess," I began as I jogged to the door, "you want me to work here."
"Of course; it's the perfect place for you." Q gave me a toothy grin.
"And what am I supposed to do? Wait tables?"
"No, you are supposed to sing."
"Sing? Q, I hate singing in front of people; you know that," I whined.
"Well, it's time you got past this silly lack of self-confidence. Now, go in there and show 'em what you've got." Q then pushed me through the door.
I looked around "The Hangout." It was . . . well, huge! At the very back of the room was a gigantic bandstand. On the left was a dance floor; and on the right, a bar and a group of tables. Leaning against the bandstand were a dozen or so people talking and laughing. A couple of people saw me and signaled to one of the others; he looked up, spied me, and then started walking toward me.
"Can I help you with something?" a Trevor Goddard look-alike asked me with that actor's typical Australian accent.
"I'd like to talk to the manager."
"That'd be me," the man replied, smiling affably.
"You need a singer?"
"Maybe. What can you sing?"
"Anything you want me to."
"Your music interests are that varied, huh?" asked one of the girls in the group.
"Try me," I replied, with much more confidence than I felt.
The band got on stage and I followed them. They began to play songs that ranged from the 1950s to more modern music, and somehow I managed to remember all the lyrics to every song. Not only that, but I wasn't nervous, either. I felt calm, and my voice came out clear and loud. No fear or tension could be heard in it. After about half an hour, the Trevor Goddard look-alike stopped us.
"You've got talent, sweetheart. You're hired." He grinned. "If you keep up that sound when the crowds start pouring in, they'll want you to do a CD. I'm Hugh MacGregor," he told me, holding out his hand. "My granddad was a Scotsman, if you're wondering about the name."
"I'm Jessica Bryant," the girl who had spoken earlier said. "I'll be your back-up; but I guess you already figured that out."
"I'm James Bloom," the main guitarist told me in a British accent
"Alan Dean," the drummer—an American—added.
"Timothy Anderson," supplied the Canadian bass player.
"I'm Derek Shield," the pianist—another American—added.
"I'm Mark Ford and this is Clark Nelson," said the tallest member of the group, indicating himself and his nerdy-looking friend. "We play all the other instruments in the band, and we're both Americans as well . . . if you noticed the accents Tim and James are sporting."
I grinned. "Oh yes, I noticed. My name is Christina Johnson."
"Well, now that the introductions are out of the way, let's get down to business, shall we?" Hugh asked. Then he told me my pay and gave me all the necessary paperwork to fill out for work. Once he was sure I had everything I needed, he told all of us, "Okay, I want you here tonight at seven for practice. We only have three days until this place opens and we want to knock 'em dead."
"Amen to that," James added.
"Fine. Everyone get out of here; I have other things to worry about," Hugh said, waving them off.
"Hey, Christina, you wanna go out to lunch?" Jessica asked.
"Sure, I'd love to." Jessica and I were headed for the door when it opened and a very familiar man walked in.
"Joe!" Jessica said happily. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking in on my new business, wha'd'ya think, Jess?" Joe smiled at my new friend.
"What's up, boss?" Hugh asked.
"You found a singer yet?" Joe asked, looking slightly concerned.
"The best," Tim told him, "and you're looking right at her."
I smiled, which was really hard considering how fast my mind was racing. Everything was starting to make sense now. Q had sent me to this place because Joe owned it; and if Joe owned it, Methos would probably come to it. Also, I was sort of stunned. I hadn't actually expected to meet anyone involved in Highlander for at least a couple of weeks, and now I was staring at my hero.
"So, you can sing pretty good?" Joe asked.
"I'm okay," I replied modestly.
"'Okay'? The girl is better than 'okay.' She's great. She makes Britney Spears sound like an eleven-year-old," Derek told Joe.
"Derek, it doesn't take much to make Britney Spears sound like an eleven- year-old," Joe said dubiously.
"Still," put in Clark, "she's good."
"You want a demonstration, Joe?" Jessica asked.
"That would be nice."
"Come on, Christina, let's show him what you've got," Mark said, leading me back toward the stage.
"Sounds good," said Joe, taking a seat, "and I think I know the perfect song..."