========================================================================= Date: Sat, 6 Apr 1996 20:53:53 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: When Immortals Gather 1/2 Author's note: All standard disclaimers apply . . . consider this a gift from the Easter Bunny. When Immortals Gather by Sandra McDonald sandra1012@aol.com Maryland, 1996 Duncan MacLeod studied the well-worn program in his hand. Crowds pushed and shoved their way through the lower level of the hotel's convention suites amid a clamor of conversations, announcements, music, the moving escalator, the arriving elevators. He was impressed with the hotel - all shiny brass, warm dark woods, a thick carpet perfect for sprawling out on, expensive plants and flowers - but indecision weighed heavily across his face. "Lighten up, Mac," Richie Ryan said at his elbow. "It's not that hard. Just pick one and go." "There's too many choices," the Highlander said. He turned to his protege. "What did you buy?" Richie hefted his latest prize with a grin. "First season videotapes. Got a free T-shirt and game card, too." "Why the first season?" Methos asked, from where he sat cross- legged on the floor with a pile of fanzines. "I'm not even in the first season." "Yeah, but I am," Richie said. "Not like two, three and four - geesh, I can hardly be called a regular character anymore. People said if I'm in the credits, you should be too." Methos nodded wisely. "I read that on the mailing list a few weeks ago. I have to agree." "Of course you would," MacLeod said. He squinted at his program choices. "Which one are you going to next, Methos?" "I think it's called, 'DOM or ROG? Picking An Appropriate Acronym for Methos,'" came the answer. Richie sat down on the carpet. In addition to the first season videotapes he'd bought several Highlander pins and was wearing them across the front of his favorite pink Polo shirt. "Don't you ever get tired of being self-absorbed?" he asked Methos. Methos lifted his eyebrows in surprise, as if he'd never really considered the idea. "Not really. Mac, you should read this story. I hope you don't mind what I just did all over your sofa . . . " Richie leaned over and took a look at the page. "Kind of horny, aren't you? Well, at least the writer gave you a really big - " "Not now," Methos chided. "Or Sandra will have to put a warning at the top of this story." "Hey, guys," Amanda called out. She and Rebecca, both toting large bags of merchandise, stepped off the escalator. Amanda had put on a Forever Knight sweatshirt over her normal pair of ripped jeans and well-worn sneakers. Rebecca had donned a Bajoran earring and Starfleet comm badge, in the hopes someone who throw her into a Trek crossover. "Hi, Mom," Richie said cheekily to Rebecca. "If I had a son," the older Immortal said fondly, "I'd at least forbid him from riding those dangerous motorbikes." MacLeod snickered. "It's not his riding. It's that he keeps falling off. Three times now? Four? You're the loose cannon, remember?" "Don't get me started about the writers," Richie warned. MacLeod turned to the ladies. "Which programs are you going to next?" "'Amanda: Our Lady Of the Light Fingers,'" Amanda announced. Methos snorted. "Talk about the self-absorbed." Amanda kicked lightly at him. "And darn proud of it. I'm just glad I got to dress down for this convention, instead of all those ridiculously tight black outfits they squeeze me into." "Squeeze is right," Richie muttered. "Shut up, you," Amanda said. "We got it on pretty well together last week, didn't we? Although bearing your child is not really my idea of a good time." "I'm going to stand in line to get Gillian Horvath and Donna Lettow's autographs," Rebecca announced. "Then Annie Devlin and I are going off to the petting zoo. I hear the weasels and ferrets are exceptionally affectionate." "Don't miss the flag waving parade," Amanda warned. "Right down the center of the dealer's room at one o'clock." "Have they figured out how to keep the cavalries and factions from fighting?" MacLeod asked. "I think they're still trying to figure out how to sign on multiple times to the People Magazine poll and swing the votes," Richie said. "Hey, there's Connor." The older Highlander came over with a dozen poster tubes slipping from his grasp. "They've got a whole dealer's table set up on just the movies," he said cheerfully. "You can even buy a life-size stand up cardboard figure of me." The posters fell in a shower to the carpet beside Richie. "You know, you could have asked them to put these all in one tube," Richie complained. "They're not all for me," Connor said, in his European accent which defied definition. "I'm giving them out autographed to my biggest fans." "Talk about the self-absorbed," Methos said, leafing through another fanzine. "Connor, which program are you going to next?" MacLeod asked. "Actually, the Kurgan and I were going to check out the gym and do a little practicing. He keeps getting stopped for Earth 2 autographs, and he's getting temperamental about it." "Remember the rules," Rebecca said. "No Quickenings within six square blocks. They had the arch-diocese of Baltimore sprinkle three hundred gallons of holy water to protect everyone." "I don't know," Richie said, with a deadpan expression. "Connor here needs the practice." "Oh, like you did a lot to help out the situation, Mr. "Amnesia- Jason Sanger-I'm-really-holy-now-poor me at Versailles,"" Connor retorted. "At least I died a good death." "If you call having your butt whipped a good death," Methos remarked. "I remember the time you had your neck blown off by a collar of explosives. That was interesting." "You weren't even around then," Connor said. "Didn't even get into the Camelot crossover." "I've been around for five thousand years," Methos said. Connor shook his head. "Just remember who started this fandom off, before you start getting too old and too wise for the rest of us." "Will you two stop bickering?" MacLeod said. "You're not helping me make a decision." "Just pick something," Amanda advised. She snatched the program from his hands. "Here, go to this one. "Who Wants to Date Forever? An examination of the hopelessness of Duncan MacLeod's social life."" "Tessa would like that one," Connor said. "Where is she, anyway?" MacLeod took his program back. "Stayed back in Seacouver. She doesn't come to conventions ever since they killed her off. Besides, the kids both have colds." "That's what you get for adopting mortals," Connor nodded. "How are the kids? I haven't seen little Kip and Debbie in a long time." "They're fine," MacLeod said, "but we had to sell the antique store last month. They were breaking everything, rolling around in their strollers. Now we own a science fiction and fantasy bookstore." An announcement for a lost Claymore came over the p.a. system. MacLeod glanced towards the convention suites, where metal scanners installed by hotel security screened out weapons and ensured program debates didn't become too volatile. To pass into the suites, all con members had to roll up their sleeves. No Watchers or Hunters were allowed. "Maybe I'll just go the dealer's room," MacLeod mused. He could see, at the fringe of the room, Slan Quince trying on extra-extra- large T-shirts, James Horton buying color stills of himself, Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez examining a rack of jewelry, and Anne Lindsey buying baby Mary a "Who Wants to Drool Forever?" bib. "If you run," Methos said, "you could still catch Darius giving Mass on the fourth floor." "And there's always the Joe Dawson/Kalas jam after the flag- waving parade," Rebecca suggested. "Nice of the Duty Fanfic Writers to give Kalas his voice back," Connor said. "Don't get me started about the writers," Richie said. A dark-haired Immortal with a tye-dye T-shirt , moccasins and purple sunglasses sauntered over. "Hey, everyone!" "Hi, Gregor," MacLeod said, as the others welcomed him. "What program are you going to next?" "Actually, Richie and I have lunch dates with a pair of very lovely ladies named Marina and Celli," Gregor said, pulling the younger Immortal up. "But you could always go to my photography exhibit on the second floor. Everyone says it's great." "Talk about the self-absorbed," Methos muttered. "We still on for dinner?" Richie asked MacLeod. "Yes. But it will have to be late, after the Masquerade." "I don't get it," Richie complained. "How can they have a Masquerade when we all dress like the rest of the twentieth century?" "Flashbacks, dummy," Gregor said, wrapping his arm affectionately around Richie's neck. "Careful," Methos said. "This is not slash." "If we had some hurt/comfort going on it would be better," Amanda agreed. "Is that foreshadowing?" Richie asked. "Because don't even get me started on the writers . . . "I think male bonding gestures of affection are allowed without having to resort to hurt/comfort," Connor offered. A look of longful wistfulness crossed his face. "Mac, give me a hug, will you?" "Actually," Amanda said as the two Highlanders embraced, "I thought the masquerade would involve male fans parading down a runway and demonstrating katana space." "In your dreams," MacLeod said, breaking loose from Connor and watching Gregor drag Richie and his first season tapes off towards the elevator. Rebecca went to get autographs, Amanda to get adulation, and Connor started giving away poster tubes to giggling fans. MacLeod put his program in his pocket. "Maybe I'll just wander around for awhile, see what there is to see. A little serendipity is as good thing, you know?" "It's as good a reason as any," Methos said. MacLeod winced. "You don't have to throw that in my face. Besides, it's a non-sequitor. It doesn't make sense right now." Methos climbed to his feet with his stack of fanzines. "I know, but Sandra wanted to use this as the end of part one, and she couldn't think of a way to seque out . . . " "Evil Duncan MacLeod, my foot," MacLeod muttered, heading for the dealer's room. Methos shook his head with a fond smile and said, "Talk about the self-absorbed." end of part one