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It was early November in South Edmonton; the air was crisp and clear, the ground miraculously free of snow. It was a perfect day to go shopping; Deb had planned to tour the trendy shops on Whyte, but when the air went from "crisp" to "biting" she reluctantly retreated to the shelter of one of the city’s smaller malls. Besides, it was hard to walk the avenue with all the women stopped to admire the author’s two handsome companions. The gentlemen in question were tall, dark and Immortal.
When Duncan and Methos realised that the stakes had been raised from window-shopping to a full mall browsing, they resigned themselves to an afternoon of packhorse duties. Hardly more than a few steps from the door, Deb discovered, much to her delight, a Fall Fashion Clearance and disappeared inside the store to try on sweaters. The gentlemen were left to their own devices. A young man in a Cadet’s uniform patrolled the mall, carrying a tray of red felt poppies. Duncan flagged down the boy and made a sizeable donation, accepting the Remembrance Day poppy in return; the scholarly "Adam Pierson" did the same.
As the Cadet walked away, the two Immortals noticed a scowling man, not much older than the Cadet, who had seen the whole exchange. They watched the sneering teen stride boldly toward the nearest security guard and loudly complain about "those kinds of people" asking for money in the mall. With calm and patient professionalism, the guard explained that the veteran’s associations were perfectly within their rights to trade poppies for donations in any public place. To everyone’s surprise, the teen launched into a rant about how unfair it was that in Canada everyone was being "forced" to wear poppies. From the expression in his eyes, it was clear that the guard was a veteran himself, but the protesting teen was too self-centred to notice. Still holding on to the last of his patience, the guard stated plainly that no one was being forced to do anything, but most people wore the poppies as a gesture of respect to veteran soldiers living and dead. That was when the young man made his biggest mistake. "I don’t give a damn about the veterans," he sneered, "they haven’t done any good for Canada anyway." The last shreds of the guard’s cool professionalism fell away, but even then the teen had no idea the thin ice on which he stood. "It is those veterans that allow you the freedom to be the prick you are today!"
The two Immortals were both shocked by what they had heard; didn’t anyone have any respect for the warrior, for the soldier in battle, anymore? "Did you hear what that thrice-damned fool said, MacLeod?" hissed Methos angrily. "That I did," whispered the Scot in return, "but there’s not much we can do about it." The Elder snorted annoyance at the thought; "That’s where we two are different. You talk your morality; I’m willing to do something about it!"
Methos intercepted the loudmouth within his first few steps, blocking his path without seeming overtly threatening—yet. "Excuse me, Young Man," spoke Adam Pierson’s calm pedantic tone, "I couldn’t help but overhear. You seem to be sadly misinformed; I have an interest in history myself, so I may be able to help."
The teen bristled; as Methos had suspected, he was just the right age to find the term "young man" insulting. It took a moment for him to decide if it was worth the effort to answer at all. "I don’t need any help, and I certainly don’t need to listen to some fossilised library-geek." He tried to walk away, but Methos smoothly blocked him at every turn.
Adam Pierson was a small, unimposing person; meant to be able to blend into a crowd. No one was quite sure how he did it—something in the posture, or the mannerisms. When Methos chose to drop the persona, however, the results could be quite dramatic. He seemed to gain several inches in height and a palpable aura of menace gathered around him. His voice remained perfectly calm, a lecturer’s voice, and the lesson had begun. "Oh, but you should listen to me, Young Man. I know exactly what your problem is. You complain about being "forced" to wear a poppy, but you haven’t the faintest idea what it is like to be truly forced to do anything. You don’t appreciate the freedom you live in today, because you can’t imagine a world without those freedoms. And you don’t believe that a soldier ever did anything important because you’ve never seen a war that wasn’t sanitised, dehumanised and televised."
The Immortal looked down at the boy he had been eye to eye with mere seconds before and was truly disgusted by what he saw. "You’re the poster boy for apathy: you don’t know and you don’t care. But I might—just might—be able to make you understand. Let me give you an example…." One arm struck out with startling speed; his fingers knotted themselves in the boy’s collar as he lifted the poor fool a couple inches off the floor. "You see, if it wasn’t for the efforts of soldiers, Canadian or otherwise, I could do something like this and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. In fact, no one would even try to stop me. Do you know why? Because there’s a very good chance that I’d belong to an organisation that encourages me to do things like this, to people with opinions like yours." He gave a little shake for emphasis, watching the boy’s face turn pale. "You might be arrested; taken to a place where you’d be made to have another opinion. Or you could just disappear and no one would even notice you’re gone."
Methos dropped his victim, abruptly; the teen staggered, trying to keep his balance. His mind and senses were reeling, but the lesson wasn’t over yet. "But we don’t live in a world like that. Canadians fought and died to make certain that your generation wouldn’t live in a world like that. And that means you have the right to any opinion you want, up to and including being an ignorant ass." The cool, emotionless tone seemed to emphasise the harsh words more than a shout ever could. "The red poppy is all about remembrance, and respect. So I suggest that the next time you see one, you remember."
The former loudmouth looked visibly deflated, trembling with a mix of fear and anger. Noticing the security guard, who had stayed on the sidelines with MacLeod during the whole incident, the teen protested long and loud about this physical assault. This was the same guard he had insulted minutes ago, and he found no sympathy at all. "There wasn’t any assault here that I could see," drawled the guard. "All I saw was this gentleman providing you with a graphic demonstration of what society would be like without Freedom of Expression." Seeing no way that he could salvage either his ego or his reputation, the boy fled into the crowded mall. Watching him go, the guard broke into a wide grin that was completely out of place while he was in uniform. He offered Methos a warmly enthusiastic handshake. "You have no idea, Mister, how many times I’ve wanted to do something like that to someone who truly deserves it!"
At that exact moment, Deb stepped out of the clothing store, bags in hand. A single glance registered the presence of the guard, Methos’ smug body language, and the expression on Duncan’s face. "Did anything happen while I was gone? Any problems?" The security guard spoke first; "No trouble at all Ma’am. Just a well-timed history lesson." Deb gave Methos a harsh glare and Duncan a questioning frown, but neither one was volunteering any information. As the guard returned to his duties, she decided that the subject wasn’t worth pursuing.
To avoid having to look at the cat-and-canary expression on Methos’ face, she glanced down the mall in the direction the guard had gone. She immediately noticed a young high school punk jogging down the hall, trying his best not to look like he was running away from something…or someone. He was keeping a pretty good pace too, until an old man thrust out a cane, tripping him flat onto his face. Another man was physically keeping the grey-haired gentleman from doing anything rash; when he wasn’t stifling near-hysterical laughter. Both of the men looked familiar. Dawson Deb thought to herself, and Savage. Two trained Watchers, who also happen to both be Veterans. Coincidence? No way.
Deb turned her attention back to her
two companions; she got a tiny nod of confirmation from Duncan and a broad
shrug from Methos. "A history lesson, eh? I can just imagine…"
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