This is the second of the “OMG—Adrian Paul is leaving—let’s find a female spin-off character for Highlander” episodes. Alex Raven laid an egg (pun alert!) with the fans. I didn’t think she was terrible but we all know the final prize was awarded to another Raven. Now we have Kyra—a feisty, gorgeous, female Immortal whose hobby through the ages is protecting mortals. In short—a bodyguard. This rough and tough babe folds like a soggy Kleenex when her lover is killed. Too much stress leads her to amnesia. Yeah, right! Well, at least she learned proper respect for a Scotsman’s claymore. New Characters: KYRA — Beautiful, blonde Immortal who, like Warren Cochrane develops amnesia. Mac helps her regain her memory, including one particular one of a night they shared a room at an inn. RICHARD ALBRIGHT — her mortal lover, the chief judge at the genocide trial of General Milos Vladic. GENERAL MILOS VLADIC — Immortal, genocidal killer, killed his judge and now out to take Kyra’s head. ZEP and LAZLO — Vladic’s thugs, otherwise known as “Dumb and Dumber”. TOVIC — Another thug, Lazlo’s replacement...I guess we can call him, “Dumbest”. JOCKO — Male nurse who likes to fondle his catatonic patients. Played by Emile Ambossolo M’bo, who played Luther, Rebecca’s killer. Central Hospital for the Criminally Insane Room Number Seven In the hospital room, Padded, sterile and white, Lies a lovely Immortal. Oh, pity her plight! Kyra’s catatonic, Her eyes stare unseeing, She’s divorced from the world, An emotionless being. Only her fingers— That clutch at the air— Attest to the spirit— Inside her, somewhere. When Jocko comes in, Sees her lying that way— He loosens her straps— Now this pervert can play. He reminds us of Luther, Oily and slick— A narcissistic streak— A mile wide and thick. His fingers commence— To stroke and caress her. In lewd fantasies— He’d love to undress her. While his thoughts follow— Where his fingers crawl, He’s ignorant of— Events in the hall. Lazlo and Zep— Closing fast, yard by yard, No staff is around— When they shoot the guard. Kyra’s immune— To Jocko’s transgression, Till Lazlo and Zep— Cut short his grope session... By shooting him down... With a blast from Zep’s gun. That sound pulls her back— From oblivion. Her eyes track the men— With focus now strong. They walk to her bed, Lazlo says, “Something’s wrong. She doesn’t move.” “So much the better.” She’s easy to kill, And they’ve come to get her. But, before he was killed— Jocko helped her a bit— By undoing her straps— And she’s no easy hit. With hands and feet flying— She packs heavy clout, Leaping over the guard— She flees till she’s out. Outside, she seeks cover— As the cops hunt her down. She’s running bare-footed— In her hospital gown. But the darkness is kind, She can stay out of sight, At the base of an overpass, She’ll spend the night. Next Morning, Under the Overpass Someone pokes her awake, From her bed of concrete, A curious girl, Very timid and sweet. “What’s your name?” asks the child. Kyra says, “I don’t know.” “If you’re sick,” the girl says— “Then home you should go.” Home! Where is home? All blank, a nightmare. She can’t walk around— Without something to wear. She’ll start on her search, Her past, she must find Where she belongs, Why was she confined? Vladic’s Place The General enjoys— Stuffing his kills, Taxidermy reminds him— Of bloodthirsty thrills. He prefers the big cats, Whose lives he once took, Now works on restoring— Their once life-like look. He tells Zep and Lazlo— “The hard part’s the eyes, They show where the beast’s— Intelligence lies. But how would you know?” He growls at his goons, That girl made you look— Like a pair of buffoons.” “My orders were simple, The objective was clear.” On Vladic’s scarred face— A contemptuous leer, “She was medicated, In horrible shape, From a hospital bed— You let her escape!” “But General Vladic.... She ran!” Zep is fumbling. “What did you expect?” Vladic curses their bumbling. “You’re supposed to be soldiers! Both of you, I should bury— In a lime pit—No bullets... Would be necessary!” “I want the girl dead! Bring me her body. My orders were clear, So far, you’ve been shoddy. Start using your eyes, To find her before— I decide you don’t need— Those eyes, anymore.” “But General Vladic...” Zep now adds a “sir.” There’s something that’s very— Wrong about her.” Vladic looks at her chart, “Seems she has amnesia, Smile, Zep. Your job— Has just become easier.” “She’ll revert to her instincts— Like a scared wounded prey, In a place, she feels safe— She’ll be hiding away.” (We watch Kyra’s progress, She snags from a clothesline— Sneakers, some clothing, Darts away, like a feline.) “She’ll go to ground, Confused in her fright.” (Kyra hides from police, Slips out of sight.) “I know where she’ll go.” Vladic points at his map, “Here is the place— We will set up our trap.” Paris, Outdoors In her stolen clothes, White blouse and blue jeans— She doesn’t resemble— A woman of means, Disheveled, bewildered— With a hesitant stride, She does not know why— But she must hitch a ride. She’s directed the driver— Where she wants to go. Why this place, no other? Kyra does not know. An urge deep within her— That she must obey— Says ‘go where stone maidens— Flank a doorway.’ The sight of these statues— (Greek, Romanesque?) Triggers a flashback— To a horror, grotesque. A man fires a gun— Kills another, close range. Was it real? Or a dream? All hazy and strange. She walks a bit further. That man! What’s he doing? By instinct alone— She reacts by Kung fu-ing. Kyra smashes his gun— Then pulls back shamefaced... Just an innocent cell phone— She trashed in her haste. She continues to wander, Stopping by a newsstand. The vendor has come— From some foreign land, He’s speaking in Arabic, Kyra does too, He asks, “You speak Arabic?” She replies, “Guess I do.” Mac’s taking a stroll, As he often does, He’s skimming the paper— When he feels the Buzz, Beyond the next corner— She feels it too. But this headache, to her— Is a feeling quite new. She walks a few steps, Then the two Immies meet, “Kyra!” Mac smiles— He’s delighted to greet— This beautiful woman, An old friend of his— But, she doesn’t recall— Who this tall stranger is. “Kyra, it’s me... MacLeod!” he is prodding. Her eyes don’t light up, No greeting or nodding, “Behind you!” she yells, In a moment, she’s gone. He runs after her— What the hell’s going on? As fortune would have it— A warehouse is near. Unoccupied— Just the right atmosphere, Sandbags piled high— One can hide easily, “Kyra?” Mac calls, “Come talk to me.” She waits with a pole, Unaware of their nexus— She rams it right into— MacLeod’s solar plexus, As he gasps for air, “What was that for?” Like a spooked alley cat— She runs toward the door. By now, any man— Would have taken enough. But, the Highlander’s made— Of much sterner stuff. Firmly against— The piled bags, he backs her. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He soothes, to relax her. “Why did you chase me?” “Because you ran... I thought we were friends— I’ll help, if I can... What happened to you?” Gives her hair a caress, “I don’t know,” she murmurs, Voice weary with stress. A siren! Police! Mac: “What did you do? They’re not after me... Must be after you. Your choice—them or me...” He urges, “Come on!” Kyra may have amnesia— But, she’s no moron. Underpass Near the Seine “Kyra!” she says, Reciting her name. It triggers no memory— Or reference frame. Mac prods, “Think harder,” She remembers a room. White walls...a bed— Then a feeling of doom. Gunfire! And Jocko— Dead on the floor! “Forget it!” she yells, Cannot take any more. Mac warns, “If you run— You can’t get too far, No money, ID— Not a clue who you are.” Now she turns on Mac! “To me, you’re a stranger, Why should I trust you— To shield me from danger. Give me one reason!” Mac answers, “Because— There is no one else.” That remark gives her pause. Vladic’s Place Vladic is toying— With his sniper’s rifle, Zep says, “Forget her!” Intending to stifle— Vladic’s obsession— With Kyra’s demise, But with an Immortal— Vladic knows that’s unwise. “She’ll remember it all. Then come here one day, Better track as the hunter— Than hide as the prey. Ask any of them—” His trophies stand mute. Zep and Lazlo depart— They’ve a lady to shoot. The Barge Dinner al fresco, On the deck, under stars. All that is lacking— Are strumming guitars, She swallows her wine— Then downs Mac’s as well, He’s amused as he watches— Her shed that hard shell. Her interest is drawn— To a clay serving bowl, “Tenth century...Moorish— Nice piece, on the whole.” Says Mac, “Yes, it is— But how did you know?” Now she must wonder— What amuses him so. “I must teach history— A museum...or the arts.” “Maybe...maybe not,” Mac hopes he jump-starts— Her memory. He tried— To open that portal, Now she scoffs, “Oh, right— You said I’m immortal.” “According to you— My name is Kyra, We met, and were friends— In a previous era. Four hundred years?” “More like three fifty.” He remembers her style— Unique, very nifty. Flashback, France, 1640 A Country Inn, Winter Evening It’s been fifteen years— Since the Highlander learned— What he is, from the hermit, Now in France, he’s sojourned. With a moustache, goatee, Far from his birthplace, Not looking for trouble, But alert, just in case. He now sits alone— Calmly eating his meal, Other men in the tavern— Do likewise with zeal— The Buzz tells him that— The newest arrival— Is the kind that might want— His head, for survival. She’s dressed as a man— But her long hair and curves— Stop all conversation. Any woman deserves— Politeness, respect. Since these upstarts are bored— MacLeod licks his fingers, He might need his sword. Her manner is brusque, Some wine, she requests, When she says, “Leave the bottle,”— They commence making jests, The off-color kind, “A man’s job she’ll do? She’ll be flat on her ass— Before the night’s through!” “Or flat on her back!” Thinking this will distress her— Mac gets to his feet, “Careful, how you address her!” She darts him a look, “The lady’s quite able— To fend for herself,” Mac returns to his table. He watches with glee, As she parries their goads, She sneers, “All that I see— Are some miserable toads— That work for that bastard— No-balls, Richelieu,” “The Cardinal,” they retort— Works for Notre Dieu.” “I hear,” she continues— “Richelieu’s syphilitic...” They gasp at the cheek— Of this feminine critic. “And his member, I’m told— Is remarkably dinky, Not even the size— Of my little pinky!” Now Mac can see— That... lady or not, These lackeys will run— Her through on the spot, He stands back to marvel— As indeed he is shown— That the lady, indeed— Is holding her own. Only once, Mac intrudes, When the odds seem unfair, Saving Kyra from being— Cold-cocked by a chair. These jerks must bestow— Before saying “adieu,” Praises on their Queen Anne, Curses on Richelieu. As they turn tail and run— Mortified, in defeat— She slams the door shut— Only then does she meet— Duncan MacLeod, Will she toast to their flight? But all she desires— Is a room for the night. “Mac smiles, “It’s been taken, But I’d gladly share... In an honorable way,” (In response to her glare) “Of course,” she agrees, In no mood for play, She flips him a coin, She’ll pay her own way. Later She’s warming the bed, As he gets undressed, His physique now exposed, The lady’s impressed, “Are Scotsmen well-armed?” “What do you mean?” “Their swords,” she explains, Her thoughts pure and clean. “Oh, the French style toad-stabbers, Are puny and small. But a true Scotsman’s weapon— No resemblance at all! Once it gets going, It cannot be stopped.” “Really?” she marvels, As her jaw quickly drops. “You need two hands”— He shows, illustrating, “Just to hold it,” he smiles, Its weight, demonstrating. “I doubt you could lift it.” “Surely, you do embellish.” “Come to Scotland, I’ll show you!” He provokes her with relish. “Scotland?” she queries Now Kyra’s confused, “Wouldn’t fit through this door,” He banters, amused. “Oh, the sword.” She’s relieved. Now she grasps his intent, “The claymore, of course, What did you think I meant” As they turn back to back— He feels a point thrust him, He’s rolled on her knife, Guess she didn’t trust him. She takes it away, But neither is weary, They’ve flipped side by side, Says MacLeod, “I’ve a theory.” “Shall I tell you?” he asks, “Is it strictly honorable?” He cautions, “Uh-uh, With a grin wide and comical, “Show me,” smiles Kyra— She awaits education, He eagerly offers— Hands-on demonstration. Present Day, The Barge She doesn’t believe him, She’s ready to bolt. He remembers a fact— Stopping her with a jolt. “You have a birthmark— Inside your left thigh, Shaped remarkably like— A small butterfly.” She insists, he not look, Then she checks and discovers... “Oh my God! You and me— We really were lovers? “Once. Friends... for one night.” Then MacLeod volunteers, But I haven’t seen you— For one hundred years. “Can’t have been much— Of a night,” she supposes, “Oh, I remember it— Well,” Mac discloses “Okay, so you knew me— But that other stuff— About being immortal, I don’t buy that bluff.” Mac picks up a pipe, Unscrews it in half, Gives one piece to Kyra, It’s like a small staff. He lunges at her, She wards off his blows, When she goes for his neck, She finally knows. He’s gentle with her, Understanding and calm, Explaining her state, His voice, soothing balm. “Your amnesia’s called, The hysterical kind, Some type of overload— Shut down your mind.” “What if I don’t— Want my memory back? If I killed those people....?” No answer has Mac. She stares at the river, Some mem’ries flood in, A man she loved dearly, Caressing her skin. Rooms, full of treasures— Antiques and art, A place that she loved— With all of her heart, Those statues of stone— So familiar, that she— Must go there again, Through that door, lies the key. Kyra’s Old Street In front of the statues— Zep and Lazlo, the jerks— Blast their rock music, Their faces wear smirks. Announcing their presence— Not at all surreptitious, If Kyra returns— She won’t be suspicious. She begins to recall, Seeing Zep, she mouthes, “You.” Sneaking closer, she knows— What it is, she must do. While they’re convinced— How clever they’ve been, She climbs up a drainpipe— To let herself in. Inside the Apartment Through the window, she climbs, It’s as she visualized, But something’s amiss— In this room, she’s surmised. The garish police tape— Denotes a crime scene. She walks to a door, What does it all mean? The next room contains— The piano, she played. After his warm caresses— They danced and they swayed. So lost in his arms— That nothing else mattered, Faces in a framed photo— By bullet holes shattered! Richard!!! He’s saying— “It’s time we were going.” She’s fooling around— On their balcony, showing— Her balancing skills— As the railing, she mounts. “If you fall?” he inquires, “You know I’ll just bounce.” “You’re finished with Court, Now we are free, No threats or reporters, Just you and me. The countryside beckons.” “It was worth the long trial— Knowing Vladic’s in prison— For a very long while.” “If I’d had my way...” “You’d have taken his head, But, he had to be punished— By humanity, instead— For crimes against them, Justice was served. Let’s forget about him, Take the rest we’ve deserved.” “No guns,” he declares. “Not even one gun!” He never liked— That she carried one. Now Richard’s secure— From fear and alarm, Vladic’s behind bars— Her love’s safe from harm. Now, clutching the photo— She cries, as it all— Comes back in a rush— With that telephone call. She answered its ring— Just as someone knocked. The news that she heard— Left her dazed and shocked. “Vladic’s escaped.” Richard’s poised at the door. She senses a presence— She cannot ignore. “RICHARD!!” she screams, But, the door’s opened wide— To the man Richard sentenced— For mass genocide! Vladic and Zep— Shooting till Richard falls. In a pool of his blood— Her dead lover sprawls. Vladic now comes for her, Through the window, she smashes. Down, far below— On the pavement, she crashes. Now holding the photo— With desolate yearning... “I should have been ready.” She sobs, her eyes burning. She goes where her guns— Have been kept, out of sight. The most powerful one, She will need for tonight. The Street Down below, in their car “Dumb and dumber” bug-eyed— When Kyra pops up Near the car’s drivers’ side. “Mine’s a .44, she states, It’ll go right through you. And it probably will— Take your partner down too.” “But I’m only a girl, I might miss the shot,” Lazlo’s gun’s in his lap— A fool Kyra’s not, Zep nods to Lazlo, Signaling...go ahead. Then a blast rips the door, Kyra’s shot Lazlo dead. “Not this time,” she says— Indicating Lazlo, “Take that back to Vladic, Tell him, ‘See me’...Now go! Zep need no prodding, He’ll be quick to toss, What’s left of Lazlo— In front of his boss. Vladic’s Place Over Lazlo’s remains— Zep continues to shout. But, Vladic seems pleased— At how things turned out. “Now she’ll come to me, My terms, territory, Tell her we’ll meet— At the observatory.” The Barge She picked up some clothes, Ditching those that she stole, Now attired in black— To suit her new role— As avenger of Richard. She informs Mac the she— Didn’t kill all those people, “It was Vladic, not me.” “Milos Vladic?” asks Mac, Like it’s some bad disease, “He called genocide— Military victories.” Mac recalls, “The chief judge— Albright—was killed.” “Richard was his name.” Her eyes now tear-filled. Her voice fills with longing, “MacLeod, have you met— Someone so good, You could never forget? Not desirous of power— Wealth, glorification, Immune to corruption— Beyond all temptation? “You were his guard.” She holds back a sob. “Yeah, and I did— A hell of a job.” “There’s more,” Mac elicits, Though it pains him to hear, He wants her to know, His compassion’s sincere. “G-d, how I loved him He was like a warm glow, Justice, compassion... He believed in them so. Ten years it has been, I prayed it would last.” Mac’s stabbed with the pain— Of his own recent past. “But somebody stopped it,” Turns to Mac, asks: “Do you— Know how that feels?” He gulps, “Yeah, I do.” Tessa, his soul mate— And Richie, his friend. Only two of the many— Whose lives he saw end. Kyra asks a big favor, “If I don’t come back....” “I’ll make it a point,” Promises Mac. Vladic will die, Mac vows, come what may, But he hopes Kyra’s better— Than Vladic, today. The Observatory Tovic and Zep— Walk the roof, looking bored, Below Vladic waits— Calmly buffing his sword. Kyra climbed up— Peering over to see— How incredibly easy— It’s going to be. She plays cat and mouse, With some francs for a lure. That she placed on the stairs— For the moron du jour— Tovic falls for the ruse, No way he can leave it. She kicks his face in— When he bends to retrieve it. She drags him away, Then Zep sees her hide. Zep shoots at the place— That she was beside. He sees a hand reaching— To get a firm grip... He assumes it is Kyra— Not wanting to slip. So Zep opens fire— Where Kyra should be, But the hand is connected— To that SOB.... Tovic! He’s now— Officially dead, And Kyra is holding— A gun to Zep’s head. With Kyra behind him— Zep can’t resist gloating— How he murdered “her judge,” (Such lousy emoting) Zep deserves to be killed— For no other crime— Than his horrendous acting— And wasting our time. But he’s able to kick— Kyra’s gun from her hand. Then she twists out his leg— So the fool cannot stand. She pushes him over— The edge. His last shout— “What are you doing?” Doh! Guess he found out! Vladic’s receiver— Yields nothing but static. “Zep! Tovic! Report!” His orders emphatic. Then Kyra’s voice— Full of cheer, unassailable, “I’m sorry, all scumbags... Are unavailable.” She mocks Vladic further— With belittling tone— “There’s no one home, Vladic— You’re lost, and alone.” Then she appears, An avenger is she— “No more guns, psychopaths.... Just you and me!” “And this!” The sharp sword— Makes her heart ache, She had let him live, For her Richard’s sake, Now she is here— To correct that grave error. He must not survive— To foster more terror. “Your mistake, was in coming,” He’s ever the snob— “A woman, who tries— Doing a soldier’s job!” “A soldier!” she scoffs, “You call yourself that?” What he thought was a mouse— Becomes a hellcat. They thrust at each other, But despite Vladic’s tricks— He cannot defend— Against powerful kicks, She soon has him down— On his knees in submission, She lets him know— He was no competition. “I was a soldier— For one thousand years, You are no soldier,” Scorn rings in his ears, “You are a butcher!” Down swipes her sword, For his victims, some justice— At last is restored. Her Quickening’s reflected— In the glint of her blade, Vladic wasn’t worth much— Most killings he made— Were mortals. He was— A coward at heart, Killing the helpless, Playing a part. The Barge Mac smiles at Kyra— “It’s good to see you.” “It’s not Richard’s justice— But it will do.” She’ll be on her way. “There’s always someone— In need of protection, And fights to be won.” If ever she needs him, Mac tells her he’s there— “But the lady takes care— Of herself.” He’s aware. She kisses him sweetly, “I remember,” he’s smiling “So do I.,” she admits, Her last look beguiling. Peace, Emit © 2002 Under the Kilt, from Highlander: The Official Site: Ken Gord, Producer “With Alice Evans who is now in ‘102 Dalmatians’.” Home ~ Black Tower