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11:45 P.M., Pacific Standard Time, Nov. 8, 2016:
"I'm sorry."
Duncan MacLeod clutched the phone like a lifeline. "Thanks for calling. It's...good to hear your voice, Adam."
Methos, of course, understood why he'd used that name. "You're in a public place? Joe's bar in San Francisco, I'm guessing? But it's awfully quiet -"
"Yes. It's quiet because everyone's...like, shell-shocked. We came here to celebrate a victory! And damn it, it should be a victory! A big win for Clinton in the popular vote - probably by more than a million votes, when they're all counted. And because of the damn 'electoral college' - a relic from the 18th century - the U.S. will be stuck with a 'President' who hopes to be a fascist dictator. And is so irresponsible that he may get us blown to smithereens!"
By the time he'd blurted all that out, MacLeod was being anything but "quiet." And dozens of other voices were chiming in.
But he'd cooled off enough to remember that Methos was in London. So he asked, "Did you just get the news when you woke up this morning?"
"Nope. I never went to bed. I was following the results all night. But..." After a long hesitation, Methos continued, "I'm sorry about more than the election outcome. You probably know what I mean. I've been thinking of mentioning it for a year or more. But I hoped the guy would somehow just fade away, stop making headlines...
"Hell. It's bad enough that you know your father was one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!"
MacLeod thought for a minute, then said slowly, "No. I'm not sorry I learned the truth about all my kin.
"Maybe an umpteenth cousin...
"But, hey...I think a lot of people will get out of the U.S. now! Head up to Canada."
Other voices began repeating that.
"You'd move again, this soon?" MacLeod had been living in San Francisco for less than a decade. Not as the person who'd last lived in Seacouver and Paris, but as a thirtysomething namesake descendant of a "Duncan MacLeod" who'd lived in San Francisco in the 19th century. "Would Joe move with you again? He's not getting any younger!"
This time, MacLeod lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't know about Joe. But I've always intended that when he retires or dies, I'll shake the Watchers. Won't let myself be constantly spied on by someone who's not a close friend.
"I value their mission. But I think it can only work - an Immortal they're Watching can only lead what is, for him, a normal life - if he either knows nothing about them, or counts his Watcher as that kind of friend.
"So whether or not Joe moves with me now, what I'll be doing is something I would've done a few years down the road, anyway.
"I'll finally begin using a different name."
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The End