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Highlander: The Awakening

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  • Highlander: The Awakening

    Adapted from screenplays by Gregory Widen, Larry Ferguson, Peter Bellwood, and Brad Mirman.

    Prologue: Ashes

    Sirens screamed into the air around Hudson Street as the fire truck converged on Nash Antiques. The truck stopped in front of the blazing inferno, and the firefighters prepared their hoses while the police moved in to hold back the crowds. At the front of the crowd stood Rachel Ellenstein, with tears in her eyes and a silver picture frame in her hands. She moved back into the crowd as cascades of sparks flew forward from the splitting beams of the old building. The crowd expanded back across the street, encompassing police cars and anything else at ground level. The gawkers did not stop there: windows from all floors across the street were open to allow for a bit of voyeurism from the curious. On one of the nearby rooftops, yet more viewers of the blaze watched with morbid interest as the antique shop across the street began to implode in flames before them. Some of them cheered on the fire, while others let out prayers or wails of lament. Only one figure stood silent and stony among them: a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, wearing a light tan trench coat. If he had been down at the scene, someone might have recognized him as the owner of the shop, Russell Nash. But this was not the first time he had seen his home in flames. The last time, nearly 470 years ago, he was known as—

    --Connor MacLeod watched the straw go up in flames before him. The home that had been his…and Heather’s…was his no more. His wife’s grave rested behind him, marked only by his clan claymore. The soft crackling of the fire offered him a mild touch of relief in its finality.

    “Farewell, my bonnie Heather,” Connor whispered softly in his Scottish brogue. He looked down at the sword in his hand: a priceless dragon-hilted katana that represented for its original owner a love who was even more priceless to him. Connor addressed the inherited blade as if it were his old friend Ramirez himself: “You were right, Haggis. There will never be another.” His eyes returned to the blaze—


    --And the fire blazed on above the cobblestone street as the crowds continued to watch the firefighters at work. Lieutenant Moran watched the fire alongside the crowd, too distracted to see forensics expert Brenda Wyatt hiding herself in plain sight several yards away. The anonymity of the crowd allowed her to see the end of Russell Nash’s world without worrying that her co-workers in the department would spot her. As the façade of the building fell away to expose the interior of Nash’s loft, she thought she could see the bed she had stayed in only one night earlier—

    --Russell and Brenda shared the bed together. She looked into his centuries-old eyes with fearful excitement.

    “I’ve got a million questions,” she said. “I don’t know what to ask first.

    “I have all the time in the world,” he replied with a sparkle in those eyes.

    Brenda tried to think of a worthwhile first question. “You were with Napoleon at Waterloo.” As Russell nodded, she inquired, “What was he like?”

    Russell chuckled and replied, “Short. French. Wore his hat sideways.” He gently changed the subject before she could continue her game of Seven Degrees of Immortal Separation by retrieving his katana from the floor and placing it on the bed before her. “This was forged in 593 B.C. Metal folded over 200 times. ‘Like finding a 747 a thousand years before the Wright Brothers ever flew,’ right?”

    Brenda eyed it with awe. She knew it existed, of course. This bizarre relic had led her on this journey in the first place. But to see it in person… Russell enjoyed her amazement. She couldn’t resist any longer. She ran her fingers over the blade and felt a chill. Reality hit her like a bolt. She was alone with an immortal, holding a sword forged half a century before Christ.

    “This belonged to Ramirez?” she finally uttered. As Russell confirmed her statement, she continued, “How many men have you killed with this?”

    “Too many,” he responded with a slight undercurrent of grief. “They’re all gone.”

    Realizing that she had brought up a painful subject, she turned her attention to a silver-framed photo of Russell with a twelve-year-old girl on a nearby nightstand.

    “Is this your daughter?” she asked.

    “Yes,” he replied simply.

    “What’s her name?” Brenda requested, hoping not to trigger any more painful memories with her curiosity.

    “Rachel,” Russell responded.

    Brenda frowned for a moment, then slowly realized who he meant. She gestured down toward the first floor, approximating where Russell’s secretary sat. “You mean that Rachel?”

    “Yes,” Russell said, nodding. “She was an orphan. I can’t have children. I adopted her.” He drolly added, “Over the years, our relationship has gone through quite a few changes.”

    “She’s old enough to be your mother,” Brenda noted.

    Russell laughed again. “Sometimes she thinks she is.” He took the picture frame in hand--


    --But now it was firmly in Rachel Ellenstein’s hand as she watched another home burn, just as she had as a child in the war. Moran suddenly noticed her and walked past the TV crews filming the blaze to take her arm and offer his condolences.

    “I’m sorry,” the gray-haired lieutenant said. “We couldn’t get him out.”

    Rachel solemnly replied, “I know.”

    Moran eyed her and continued, “The head-hunter got another one tonight.”

    Rachel responded anxiously, “What was his name?”

    “Some guy named Kruger.”

    For a brief moment, Rachel closed her eyes in relief, now knowing that MacLeod had won.

    Moran’s curiosity was piqued. “Why do you ask, Miss Ellenstein?”

    “You can call me Rachel if you want,” she said with an unexpected smile.

    “Rachel’s a nice name,” Moran said, returning the smile. His eyes diverted to the photo frame in her hand. “What’s that?” When she showed it to him, he audibly identified the man in the photo: “Nash.” As Rachel nodded, he asked, “Who’s the pretty girl?”

    Rachel smiled again and said, “Would you like to get some coffee?”

    Puzzled, Moran looked at the photo, then at her. Rachel took his arm this time and walked him off down the street as the inferno slowly subsided behind them.
    __________________________________________________

    "Really? We are trapped in a room with a machine that can cut off my head. Now that's a longshot."
    --Connor MacLeod in Peter Bellwood's original Highlander II script

  • #2
    Oh, that's not half bad. I would have liked the last part being in the movie. Not to mention the drinking together in the bar. And of course the lost scenes.

    Comment


    • Tootsie Bee
      Tootsie Bee commented
      Editing a comment
      I hope to mine the scripts for scenes that didn't make the final cuts of the three movies, but I'll also be adding original material (for instance, I had to throw in a sweeping crane shot of Connor in a crowd, a la the opening scenes of the first two films).

  • #3
    "Highlander: The Missing Pieces"? Nice.
    Highlander: Dark Places

    Comment


    • #4
      The Next Day

      In full medieval tartan, Connor stood against a forceful wind. Before him, crooked tombstones were strewn across the bleached ground of a place not belonging to reality. Cracks ran the length plain, spewing forth steam and staggering skeletons—dozens of them, all carrying their skulls under one arm. A blood-stained hand suddenly grabbed Connor’s shoulder. The headless body of the Kurgan stood beside him, cradling his head. The eyes opened and the face pulled into a smile.

      “And now you know,” the Kurgan uttered mockingly. His eyes then rolled up into his skull, and the face slackened. The hulking mass of his body collapsed to the ground. The skeletons pressed forward and trapped Connor against the trunk of a dead oak. Their heads broke into harsh, demonic laughter. Connor put his hands over his ears in pain as the bodies pushed forward. Screaming, he disappeared under a mass of gleaming bones—


      --Connor awoke, crying. Not from the wounds he no longer felt, but from something else. Brenda was lying beside him in the hotel room bed, and his night terrors awoke her.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked.

      Connor screamed into his hands, “I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! The scream of your blood. The shriek of trees. Stop it! Stop it!”

      Brenda reached out for him, sobbing. “What is it?”

      Connor doubled over in pain, the pain of the whole world trying to force itself into him. “I’m the last. I’m the last one!” he cried. Brenda tried to hold him, but he pushed her savagely away. “Get out.”

      “No!” Brenda insisted.

      “I’ll destroy you,” he replied. “I’ve destroyed everything I’ve ever touched!” He doubled over again and this time passed out from the pain. Brenda sat in the dark, not sure what to do. She finally decided to collect her things and leave for the police station.

      At the station, she went to speak with her uncle Joe Cartwright, the district attorney. He was currently participating in a police lineup. They sat in the dark as several men, all dressed in Santa Claus outfits with bare legs, were paraded for a small old lady. An officer informed the lady that she should tell them when she saw the one who had flashed her.

      “You’ve met my niece, Brenda,” the DA said to his assistant.

      “Hi, Brenda,” the assistant said politely.

      The officer in front of them continued. “Number five, lift up your coat more.”

      “Quitting your job?” Joe whispered to Brenda. “Aren’t you getting a little old for this? You flunked out of law school.”

      Brenda rolled her eyes. “Now there’s a new topic.” She wasn’t sure if she should even be doing this after her last encounter with MacLeod. She didn’t really know him, did she? And his behavior might be indicative of abusive tendencies. After all, the guy was over four centuries old. Maybe he wasn’t the most progressive man she could find in 1985, to put it mildly. Still, she felt she couldn’t give up on him, even if it meant giving up on her career for now. She was hardly the poster child for the strong, independent feminist at the moment, but how often do you fall in love with an immortal?

      Joe sighed. “I can’t talk you out of it, can I? But call your mother. You never call her.”

      The officer turned to the old lady. “Well?”

      “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’d have to see his thing.”

      Brenda did not stay for the rest of the show. Instead, she said her goodbyes to Moran and Bedsoe. Moran was suspicious, but he was also distracted by the prospect of his next date with Rachel. Bedsoe, on the other hand, was devastated, and he tried to keep himself buried in his paperwork on the head hunter case. As she left, he turned to a photograph on his desk of the man who had been following her: Russell Nash. He remembered his last encounter with the man before the antique shop fire—

      --The Dug Out Bar was a steel-and-neon Greenwich Village hangout. Sawdust covered the floor. Russell and a man named Sunda Kastagir were drinking and talking. Bedsoe was alone in a nearby booth, spying on them from behind a New York Post. Unexpectedly, Nash and Kastagir appeared at his table and sat down.

      “Mind if we join you?” Russell asked.

      Bedsoe folded his paper and gathered his wits. His cover was blown, but this seemed like the opportunity he’d been waiting for, so he decided to play along.

      Russell gestured over to his friend. “Sunda Kastagir, meet…what’s your name?”

      “Walter Bedsoe,” he replied shyly.

      “He’s a cop,” Russell explained. “He questioned me after Fasil lost his head. He’s trying to pin a murder on me.” He winked and said, “If I’m guilty, they’ll give me the death penalty.”

      Nash and Kastagir roared with laughter. Bedsoe’s eyes narrowed as he made mental notes. A waitress in a pirate costume appeared and asked Bedsoe if he wanted anything.

      “I’ll have what they’re having,” Bedsoe replied.

      Kastagir’s voice boomed, “Bring more!”

      The waitress left and returned several times, bringing endless rounds of drinks. Amidst laughter, the trio got drunk. Bedsoe started to have fun, finally going to work on Kastagir’s flask of Boom-Boom. Eventually, the three were completely potted. Their table was a forest of bottles.

      Kastagir turned to Nash and said, “Do you remember the night Washington lost his teeth at Valley Forge?”

      Bedsoe replied, “I was in Washington once.”

      Russell ignored the remark and answered Kastagir, “Freezing our butts off, crawling around in the snow looking for a set of wooden dentures.”

      Bedsoe shook his head and asked, “Which Washington are we talking about?”

      “Ever fight a duel, Bedstead?” Kastagir asked.

      “Bedsoe,” he corrected.

      “Me neither,” Kastagir replied. He gestured toward Nash. “He has.”

      Bedsoe tried to focus on Nash as he began the story of his duel on Boston Common: “In 1783, I was using the name of Adrian Montague. I insulted the wife of a pompous Boston lawyer…”

      As Nash concluded the story, Kastagir howled with laughter. Bedsoe staggered up, knocking over bottles. He blinked at them and slurred out the words, “I wanna thank,” before realizing he couldn’t remember anybody’s name. Hiccupping, he wove off, mumbling, “Wonderful evening.”

      Behind him, the two immortals haven’t yet noticed that he has wandered from the table. The pirate-waitress loomed over the table, and they squinted up at her.

      Imagining that he’s in another century, Kastagir remarked, “Avast, ye bonny wench.”

      Russell added, “Bring us two barrels of scurvy and a bucket of cleats.”

      “Okay, that’s it, guys,” she responded. “You’re history.”

      As he moved toward the exit, Nash noticed Bedsoe scrutinizing a replica of a tapestry in the room: mermaids frolicking with sea monsters. By the door, Russell paused at Bedsoe’s elbow, contemplating the garish creation.

      “Do you like fish?” Russell asked.

      Bedsoe turned and replied, “To eat, you mean?” But Nash was gone--


      --Early on the morning after Brenda’s resignation, three UPS workers unloaded Nash’s aquarium off a truck. Reeling under its weight, they staggered up the steps of a brownstone and rang the bell repeatedly. After an eternity, Bedsoe appeared in striped pajamas, rubbing his eyes.

      One UPS guy asked, “You Bedsoe?”

      “Yeah,” he replied sleepily.

      “Delivery,” the UPS worker responded. “Fish. Heavy. Get out of the way.” They rushed past Bedsoe with the tank and disappeared through the doorway. “Where do you want it?” the voice continued from inside Bedsoe’s home.

      “Wait a minute,” Bedsoe said. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t order any fish!”
      __________________________________________________

      "Really? We are trapped in a room with a machine that can cut off my head. Now that's a longshot."
      --Connor MacLeod in Peter Bellwood's original Highlander II script

      Comment


      • #5
        What is the significance of the text being white, or gray?

        Comment


        • Tootsie Bee
          Tootsie Bee commented
          Editing a comment
          Flashback or dream sequence. Anything that's not set in the actual present.

        • dubiousbystander
          dubiousbystander commented
          Editing a comment
          Thank you!

        • Tootsie Bee
          Tootsie Bee commented
          Editing a comment
          In this case, it's also a defacto indicator of when I shifted from the original Gregory Widen material (the dream sequence, Connor's hostile words toward Brenda, and the Santa lineup) to the Larry Ferguson/ Peter Bellwood scenes (the bar scene and the aquarium delivery).

      • #6
        I'm waiting for more, Tootsie Bee! I may eventually start writing another story myself.

        Comment

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