The Grand Illusion (1/1)

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Archive info:
Title: The Grand Illusion
Author: Carin Lamontagne
Rating: PG for Quickening-style violence
Characters: M, OFC Brooke Langtry, OMC Ed Frasier
Summary: An afternoon outing turns ugly when Methos is challenged
at a rock concert.
Notes: Submitted for the Quickening Lyric Wheel
Archive:  Seventh-DImension, please.  All others inquire with me
first
Feedback to: carinrl@swbell.net

All standard disclaimers apply.  Submitted for the Quickening
Wheel, with lyrics to "A Man Alone" provided by Merrie Gail.
Written mostly at (go figure) an outdoor concert on a hot
Sunday.  It came to me in a flash of light (and a smoke machine)
that a Quickening might resemble a light show.  Blame it on the
heat.  Blame it on Styx.  Pick one!  :-)  Unbeta-ed, so feel free
to blame me, if you like.


The Grand Illusion
By Carin Lamontagne

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

His knees knocked hard against the blacktop, sending spears of
pain through every nerve.  The sword suddenly became heavy in his
hand.  Holding on to it required every ounce of strength the
Quickening hadn't already sapped.  The pounding of his pulse kept
time with the heavy bass of the drums on the stage.  Idly he
realized Styx must have gone on during the fight.  The audience
was chanting the chorus to "Renegade" as the last sparks
dissolved around the body.

<><><><><>     <><><><><>

"You ready for another beer?"

Brooke flashed him a smile brighter than the spotlight.  With a
wink that would have made any rascal proud she drained the cup
and held it out to him.  "I am now.  Beer me, big boy!"

Methos laughed and took the cup, dropping it down inside his own
empty one.  There was never enough legroom between the rows of
seats, so it took him a minute to stand.  Once he did, he shook
some feeling back into his feet and began what Brooke had dubbed
"The Stadium Shuffle."  The awkward mincing steps carried him
slowly, and not without incident, to the aisle.

Brooke applauded wildly, cheering and whistling as loud for him
as she had for Bad Company.  Her giddiness was contagious.
Several other fans seated on the row joined in.  He made a low
bow, only managing to smack a couple people with his sweeping
arms.  Mumbling apologies, Methos wove his way through the crowd
toward the concession stand.

The line for beer was, as expected, long and slow.  Humming a
little, he took his place at the end, hoping he'd be back before
Styx took the stage.

The classic rock festival was his fourth date with Brooke
Langtry.  The previous three had been similar in media, if not in
musical style.  She was the music critic for a local alternative
newspaper, and managed to get complimentary tickets to almost
every show that passed through town.  They'd discovered a shared
eclectic musical taste and had been to a glam metal show, the
symphony, and to a country music festival in the past few weeks.

He realized with a chuckle that he was having fun.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and the air pressure
dropped suddenly.  A tingling began in his fingers and toes.
Methos hoped the cork soles of his sandals would ground him, but
the first rush of the Quickening drove all coherent thought away.

Pain and power drove through him, straight down from his head to
the soles of his feet.  The brick wall that was the back of the
stage was no longer visible, as every sense turned inward to
absorb the other man's essence.

The first wave was the most painful.  The frustrated desire to
live, the defeated Immortal's last fleeting emotion, flooded into
his mind.  Rage and the frenzy of the fight followed.  Methos
waited for them to subside before allowing himself to slip into
the silent meditation that would assimilate the Quickening.

The anger ebbed, and he let the process take him over.  Colors
swirled behind his eyes; reds and yellows that flashed then
dimmed, leaving only a sad, ashy gray.  The gray spread through
his consciousness, filing him with a deep loneliness.  He
recognized it as the last vestiges of his opponent, a man held by
the habit of being alone.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

"By the pricking of my thumbs…" The uniformed man left the
remainder of the quote hanging in the humidity.

Methos glanced down at the thin plastic cups in his hands.  Beer
had sloshed over the rims, leaving his hands slippery.  With a
sigh he passed the beer to a biker standing in the line.  He
ignored the puzzled look on the biker's bearded face and turned
back to the security guard.

With a gesture, the guard called him over to a gate in a corner,
a few steps away from the milling crowds.  "I don't suppose this
could wait?"  Methos asked as he joined the guard by the fence.

"I'm Ed Frasier."  He gave Methos a quick inspection.  "And no.
It can't wait."

"I'm unarmed."  Methos crossed his arms over his chest, annoyance
and resignation battling for supremacy.

"I know.  Everyone was checked at the gates."  Frasier's smile
was humorless.  "Have you got a name?"

In that moment, Methos knew there was no way to avoid the fight.
He could run, but Ed Frasier could summon other guards with a
shout.  It was obvious his only choice was to accept the
challenge and hope he found something to use as a weapon before
losing his head.  "Jason Adams."  Reluctantly he followed Frasier
through the gate.

They walked a path around the perimeter of the amphitheater in
silence.  Methos used the time to plan.  He had known he'd never
be able to sneak a sword into an outdoor concert in mid-summer.
A long coat had been out of the question, and most venues had
metal detectors or security at the entrances looking for
weapons.  He'd taken the risk, hoping for the best.

His eyes scanned everything he passed, searching for something to
use.  He made a point of staying behind Frasier, not wanting to
be surprised by an attack.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

The next thing that crept back into his consciousness was the
vomit-sweet smell of marijuana.  A piercing pain from the smell
spiked into his forehead, already throbbing with the cheers of
the crowd.  Methos dropped the sword and pressed the heels of his
hands to his eyes, willing the pain away.  It seemed to ease
after a minute, especially as the band headed into a ballad.

With some struggle, he lurched to his feet.  He forced his eyes
open, grateful for the power ballad like he'd never been before.
The stage lights had been dimmed for "Lady," and there was
minimal light behind the stage.  It only took a moment for his
eyes to adjust.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

The stage was blocked from view by a brick wall several stories
high.  Frasier paused beside a cart stacked sloppily with boxes
and crates.  He pulled a sword out from among the chaos and
saluted Methos with a military flourish.

Eyes still wildly searching for something to use as a weapon,
Methos circled Frasier, staying just out of reach.  Frasier
turned patiently with him, waiting for the right moment to
strike.

His first thrust was deliberate and cautious, and Methos got the
impression he was being weighed.  He stepped back beyond the blow
and continued walking.  The second attack was faster and less
controlled.  Methos ducked it as well.

He considered making a grab for the sword, but that might simply
serve to give Frasier the opening he waited for.  Methos made his
way behind the cart, hoping to spot something useful.

The pause behind the cart was Frasier's cue.  With a low growl,
he began an overhand sweep, sending the sword arching down
diagonally toward Methos's head.  Desperation fueling the search,
Methos ran his hands blindly over the cart.  He didn't dare take
his eyes off the blade.  His hand closed around a piece of wood,
and he swung it up to meet the sword.

The wood had more weight than he'd expected.  As it came up to
meet the sword, he realized it was a guitar.  Quickly extending
his reach, he slammed the body of the instrument into Frasier's
hand.  There was a crunch that might have been wood or bone -- or
both.  It had the desired effect, and Frasier's hand came open,
releasing the sword.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

Methos took a couple experimental steps.  His legs seemed steady
enough to carry him.  He spotted a dumpster nearby and disposed
of the sword, wiping it carefully clean on Frasier's shirt
first.  A second trip to the dumpster disposed of the splintered
remains of the guitar.  He debated trying to hide the body, but
the point was moot.  He doubted he'd be able to carry it, never
mind heave it into the metal bin.  He could only hope his Watcher
would call in a clean-up crew before anybody noticed.

A crash of cymbals jarred his senses, reminding him that Brooke
was sitting out in the audience, waiting for him to return with
beer.  He had no way of knowing how long he'd been gone.  The
fight itself had been short, but recovery from a Quickening had a
way of causing time to compress or stretch, leaving him with no
sense of it's passage.  Hoping for the best again, he found the
footpath and followed it back to the gate.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>

It was easier to maneuver through the aisle now the fans were on
their feet.  Methos held the beer over his head, trying to avoid
flailing arms and gyrating bodies.  He reached the seat
designated as his by the ticket stub, but Brooke was nowhere to
be found.

He didn't think she was the type to ditch him, but then again, he
had no idea how long he'd been gone.  He set the beer in the cup
holders and tapped the shoulder of the nearest bystander.  He had
to repeat himself twice before the man understood the question.

"Dunno!  Ladies' room, I think!"  He yelled to be heard over the
music.  "You missed a cool light show a couple songs back!"

Methos bit back a sarcastic comment.  He hoped the guy was right,
and that Brooke was in the restroom.  He wondered if he should go
looking for her but was intimidated by the scope of the search.
There were easily twenty thousand people in the amphitheater, and
she could be anywhere.

"Jason!"

Methos jumped at the sound of his name.  Brooke grinned up at
him, brandishing two beers.  She'd managed to come right up next
to him under the cover of the music.  He stepped back against the
seat so she could pass in front of him, then took the cup she
offered.  "Where'd you go?"

"I got tired of waiting!"  Brooke gulped down a quarter of her
over-priced brew.  "So I went and got my own damn beer!"

He draped an arm across her shoulder and shouted beside her ear,
"I thought you'd run off on me!"

"I tried!  But Tommy Shaw said I'm too much woman for him!"  She
kissed his cheek.  "You're fired, by the way!  You'll never work
as a Beer Boy in this town again!"

"You can't fire me!"  He squeezed her shoulders.  "I quit!"

<><><><><>    <><><><><>

Brooke booted up her laptop, needing to write the review while
the show was fresh in her mind.  Her fingers sped over the
keyboard as she wrote up the earlier acts: the guitar whiz kid
with the purple feather boa, Blue Oyster Cult, Survivor, Billy
Squier, Bad Company.  She got the easy ones out of the way.

The hard part, she knew, would be writing a believable review of
the Styx performance.  The second half of the set wouldn't be a
problem.  The first half, though, would have to be reconstructed
from the set list and basically faked.  She doubted the readers
of the Current would want to hear about men beheading each other
behind the stage.  No, she told herself, best to save that story
for the Chronicle.

  <><><><><>    <><><><><>
A Man Alone
Performed by Frank Sinatra
Written by Rod McKuen, Arranged by Don Costa

In me, you see a man alone
Held by the habit of living alone
A man who listens to the trembling of the trees
With sentimental ease

In me, you see a man alone
Behind the wall he's learned to call his home
A man who still goes walkin' in the rain
Expecting love again

 A man not lonely except when the dark comes on
 A man learning to live with mem'ries of midnights that fell
apart at dawn

In me, you see a man alone
Drinking up Sundays and spending them alone
A man who knows that love is seldom what it seems
Only other people's dreams

 A man learning to live with mem'ries of midnights that fell
apart at dawn

In me, you see a man alone
Drinking up Sundays and spending them alone
A man who knows that love is seldom what it seems
Just other people's dreams

<><><><><>  <><><><><>
Finis





--
One of life’s certainties is that there is generally a last
chocolate hidden in all those
empty wrappers.
-- Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time

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