Momentary silence spread over the auditorium where Duncan MacLeod was holding his seminar. His glare cut through the room like the lightning of a quickening and bore itself into the figure of Adam Pierson a.k.a. Methos, who at least had enough sense to look slightly sheepish.
"So, I was bored. Sue me," Methos grumbled. "Aren't I allowed to get bored at my age," he whined. "Really...there is a limit to how many things you can do on this planet so I have to take what little offerings I can get," he finished sulkily.
"Adam...," MacLeod growled dangerously, still too furious with his friend to construct a complete sentence.
"Yep?"
"Adam!..."
"That's me, as you said. I think we have already determined that," Methos replied innocently, in an annoyingly matter-of-fact voice.
Another silence filled the auditorium, as slowly, MacLeod's expression twisted into a wicked grin. Methos, noticing this, reflexively adopted a more defensive manner, then tried for the 'You wouldn't hurt a poor innocent, fragile, little immortal like me...would you?' look. This only resulted in MacLeod's grin widening to a terrifying degree.
"Adam..." Duncan said with an evil grin, then turned to face the rest of the audience. "Everyone, I'd like to introduce you to Adam Pierson, my good friend, who will join me up on stage now to give a talk on his thoughts of hair through the centuries as he seems to be so vocally passionate about the subject."
Loud clapping and cheers echoed through the auditorium, to the smug pleasure of MacLeod, and the mortifying embarrassment of Methos.
Rising slowly from his slouched position, which had become more of a continental drift towards the under-side of the seats in front since MacLeod started humiliating him, Methos gathered 5000 years of learned composure, tilted his head up, threw his shoulders back, and almost strutted up to the stage.
//Damn him!// thought MacLeod. //Can't he just fall in a quivering humiliated mess for once, just to satisfy me! Can't I get the upper hand on him for *once*?..
As though reading MacLeod's thoughts, Methos composed a smug grin and strode smoothly across the stage, nudging MacLeod slightly out of the way of the microphone with his hip. He started speaking in what MacLeod silently thought was a deliberately overdone, slightly over-confident tone of voice.
//He's doing this just to annoy me// MacLeod thought. //He can't help but steal my hard-earned fame. He is jealous, isn't he?...Yeesss...He always tries to best me at everything. God I hate that!...// A pause interjected his thoughts, then... "Damn I wish he wouldn't succeed for once," he muttered under his breath in jealous fury.
Meanwhile, Methos had begun his lecture on the in's and out's of possibly the worst haircut of his life.
"It was terrible. Shocking. Disastrous. Don't know what I was thinking. Then again, that was a rather bad stage in my life. I even had blue face paint to go with it, you know," he winced at the memory.
The entire audience shuddered in sympathy. A few cards offering psychiatric help fluttered up on stage. Methos smiled weakly in thanks, suggesting that he might just need them.
"You know it's funny," he continued on bravely. "Not long after, I thought, wow, that was preetttty eye-watering as haircuts go...but I'm glad the human race got through that phase early on when there were no photos or cameras of any kind to immortalise that shocking, shocking stage. Then you know what was one of the biggest traumas of my life? It was when, only a decade ago, I saw the rebirth of...that stage. I couldn't believe it! My head could have fallen off my neck in shock!"
He stared wide-eyed into the audience, reliving the moment.
"Just after I started coming to terms with the horror of its resurrection, I saw a band. They had very eccentric appearances. I can't quite remember what their name was as it has been buried deep, deep down with all the other traumas in my subconscious. I recall that it had something to do with something that a facial feature can do...Sneeze?...Nooo...Cough?...Nooo...Oh, I don't remember and I'd rather not think about it. They were around in a certain era...a very, very unfortunate, distressing era to take its place in mankind's history. This era was known as..." Methos shuddered in fear... "The Eighties," he finished in a harsh monotone voice that dropped two octaves lower that his usual soft voice.
//Hey// MacLeod thought suddenly. //That's exactly the same voice he used when he told me that HE WAS DEATH. Whoa!// Duncan thought, shocked, //That must have been traumatising for him. I never realised. Poor Methos. I never realised he was repressing such horrific memories// his inner-voice full of emotional sincerity. //Poor, poor boy// he added, momentarily oblivious to the fact that the 'boy' was 4600 years older than him.
He surfaced from his thoughts in time to see Methos being supported off stage by a worried crowd of fussing women, murmuring comforting words to sooth his nerves. He began to feel another wave of sympathy for Methos, when suddenly he met his friends gaze, which had a blissful, glazed look to it, followed by a quick - though still slightly weak from the real part of his trauma - attempt at a conspiring wink.
//The little imp!// MacLeod thought indignantly. 'I can't believe he could actually take advantage of those woman like that// MacLeod's sense of chivalry was jumping up and down behind his eyes, frantically trying to get its thoughts turned to action. Too late though, as Methos had already been escorted gently back to his seat to recover.
"Well...If you could all give Adam a round of applause for his bravery and courage in revealing to us that obviously painful memory," started MacLeod after gaining control of the microphone once again. //not that he deserves it, the little rat...// he muttered under his breath, with a quick glare directed at Methos, whose ego was now basking in the attention the women were paying him. Slightly annoyed by the fact that the applause still hadn't died down, MacLeod opted for aiming another glare at Methos to suggest that he better get them to shut up or he would really regret it later. In response, Methos sent him a innocent blank look, suggesting that he did not understand at all what MacLeod was trying to tell him. He then proceeded to rise, slowly and dramatically from his chair, one hand resting on the back as if to support himself in his weak state. He then gave a slight wave of gratitude around the audience, who, much to MacLeod's annoyance, responded by cheering louder.
//How could they not know he's faking? I mean, really, he's not half overdoing it! I'm going to kill him! I'm really going to kill him!// thought MacLeod furiously.
Finally, when the applause died down, MacLeod cleared his throat and composed his thoughts. //Now, where was I up to?// he thought. //That's right, I'd just finished haircare and fashion, which means I'm up to...quickenings. Yeeessss! Another one of my favourite topics! God, they're fun!'
"OK, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to move on to my next topic: Quickenings. Where to start?" MacLeod grinned and breathed out loudly in a sigh of exasperation, which was joined by his hands being raised and then dropped suddenly to his sides. "Really, quickenings are, in a way, the purpose in our immortality as they are what we are all pulled towards achieving." MacLeod paused momentarity, wondering if he could possibly tie one of his other favourite subjects in with this topic. A contented smile broke out on his face, as he continued on: "Just a quick note on hair in regards to quickenings - If you wear your hair out during a quickening, you can get a pretty impressive blow wave going. Though I recommend you don't do it with wet hair, as it'll create a very similar look to what sleeping on wet hair has in the morning." A chorus of agreement echoed around the auditorium. Glad to see that the audience was back on his side, MacLeod continued on:
"Now onto the art of quickenings. My first comment is possibly the most relevant to a highlander's life. It is not debatable. Listen carefully, as it is imperative that you understand this." MacLeod paused for dramatic effect... "It is essential," Another pause... "absolutely essential, that when taking a quickening, you are somewhere there is an extreme number of objects that are breakable."
He let his dramatic pause spin out for a few moments longer.
"I repeat once more... BREAKABLE. This includes glass, windows, lights, and lamps, to name but a few of the more typical ones. Do not...I repeat...DO NOT, EVER, try to bring around a quickening in a non-fragile, unbreakable area. This is definitely frowned upon by the immortal community. It is very unsporting to do so. Really, you will be letting down the whole immortal image if you are seen attempting such a stunt." MacLeod finished this outburst with a flustered, though serious composure and the nagging thought that maybe he was being a little too harsh on the young ones. Or maybe a little too ridiculously rigid in his beliefs.
"By the way," he added a little more calmly, "your quickening should easily destroy at least the equivalent of one abandoned warehouse, though the amount of damage and attention you should realistically be creating, will, surprisingly enough, not be enough to warrant even the most casual of police inquiries." MacLeod paused long enough to allow the significance of his words to sink in, then continued on.
"Now I'll move onto dramatic license in regards to the actual quickening experience," MacLeod started.
"What's that?" a very familiar Welsh accent suddenly interjected. "A fancy way of saying: 'The different ways you can make an utter fool out of yourself while experiencing a quickening?'"
MacLeod shot an alarmingly well-directed glare into the dim of the chuckling audience, surprising even Methos into looking the slightest bit shocked.
"Adam...," MacLeod said through clenched teeth. "Don't even try to pretend that wasn't you." MacLeod paused for a split second, then once again focused his attention in the direction of his tormentor. "If you would like to demonstrate those ways to us up on stage right now, you are quite welcome. If not...please refrain from uttering even the slightest noise, for if you do...trust me...you won't know what hit you...," he finished dangerously.
"Yeah, I will. It'd be you, you daft highlander," Methos mumbled under his breath - extremely quietly. Then, to emphasise his feelings as he suddenly remembered a Buddhist monk teaching him the necessity to express what he felt in his heart, he proceeded to mutter an ancient curse at MacLeod which had something to do with hair loss, bunions, and boils. Wisely it was not loud enough for MacLeod to hear, then he sensibly shut up after a suspicious glare came from the stage.
"As I was saying," MacLeod continued on, after calming down once again, "you all have to learn how to impressively experience a quickening. It's no use just to stand stock still, maybe scream a bit, then fall over, which, as much as I hate to admit it, is really all that is minimally required. But any self-respecting immortal would not stop there. You really need to do a full scale show. Now, I'm talking about arms being waved, head thrown back, ear-piercing screams, and wobbling knees before falling to the ground in one final breathtaking finale. Yesss... Everyone should know to make a big deal out of such an momentous event."
"Big deal?" Methos interrupted again in his now familiar suicidal manner. "You sure 'overdone', or maybe the term 'drama-queen', are not the words you're looking for?"
Five minutes later, the outburst of laughter from the audience at MacLeod's expense faded into very sudden silence as MacLeod, without warning, released an ancient Scottish battle cry and hurtled at a dangerous speed towards the last known location of Methos. Methos, grinning like a true idiot, had meanwhile ducked under the rows of seats and was slowly making his way under people's legs to the hopeful safety of the far side of the auditorium.
On reaching what had been Methos' general seating area, MacLeod halted surprisingly gracefully for such a neck-breaking speed, then began grabbing random people by the scruff of the neck and pulling them closer to him to find the specific one who better have already written his will. Grunting primeval noises, the suddenly transformed neanderthal man became more and more agitated as his search turned up nothing. In a sudden resurrection of primal nature, MacLeod expelled an ear-shattering, deep-bellied, guttural roar, pounding his puffed chest with his fists. His lips were pulled far back away from the teeth of his open mouth in a threatening gesture as he scanned the stunned room for his prey.
"Hey man, are you OK?" a woman from the midst of the audience tentatively asked. The sound of her voice seemed painfully loud, and she suddenly regretted speaking when the crazed MacLeod suddenly twisted around and gazed at her with spinning eyes. Abruptly, his eyes stopped still, glazed over momentarily, then began to blink as he snapped out of his private little universe. A look of confusion covered his features as he turned around slowly, taking in his bearings and the gazes of the stunned, speechless audience. Even Methos, far over the other side of the auditorium, was staring like a stunned mullet, mouth wide open at witnessing a rarely seen spectacle by his usually more composed friend.
"Wooooaaahh..." Methos whispered quietly under his breath.
A series of nervous coughs and whispers followed MacLeod, who, feeling extremely self-conscious, made his was sheepishly back to the stage, stubbornly refusing to meet anyone's gaze. On reaching the microphone after what seemed like an eternity to him, MacLeod turned and reluctantly met the stares of numerous, impressionable immortals.
"Wow!" a young one suddenly yelled out. "That was soooo cool! Do we get to do that when we're your age?" A few lone sounds around the room joined this inquiry, until MacLeod, in shocked silence thought: "My God...They want to do that? They actually liked that?... Wow, they must worship me!" His ego started to become extremely smug with itself, and MacLeod gathered himself together enough to introduce his next topic: Flashbacks.
CONTINUED IN...
CHAPTER TWO: THE ART OF FLASHBACKS