You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to
So that when they turn their backs on you,
You'll get the chance to put the knife in
You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder
You know it's going to get harder,
And harder, and harder as you get older
And in the end you'll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand, just another sad old man,
All alone and dying of cancer
—Pink Floyd - Dogs
The times were different, MacLeod. I was different. The whole bloody world was different, okay? Duncan:
Did you kill all those people? Methos: (hesitates)
Yes. Is that what you want to hear? Killing was all I knew. Is that
what you want to hear? I killed, but I didn't just kill fifty, I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand. And I was good at it.
And it wasn't for vengeance, it wasn't for greed. It was because I liked it. Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing
. Do you know who I was? I was Death
! Death on a horse! When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me
! I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR?! (calms himself)
The answer is yes. Oh yes.
You think I'm unaffected by what I did? That I don't hear them screaming every time I close my eyes? It would be so much simpler if I was just one thing, wouldn't it? The mad scientist who made that killing machine, or the physician who's dedicated his life to serving this town. The fact that I'm both bewilders you.
What do you wish to hear? That I once believed in the code of the Jedi? That I felt the call of the Sith, that perhaps, once, I held the galaxy by its throat? That for every good work that I did, I brought equal harm upon the galaxy? That perhaps what the greatest of the Sith Lords knew of evil, they learned from me?"
Truth and beauty are wonderful words, but shrapnel is shrapnel, and at the end of the day, I am alone with what I have done. (alt text: "We buried truth under playgrounds.")
Meier did something terrible
in a war he tries to forget. He did it over and over, and at the time he’d freely admit he enjoyed it. His side lost, though, and the victors, along with his own ashamed people, have hunted his fellow soldiers down one by one. Through the years since, he’s heard people talk about how terrible it was, he’s seen them put up monuments to the dead and the martyrs, and his desire to escape justice has become a backwards kind of guilt. His conscience tugs at him not so much for his sins, but for anything that reminds him of the man who committed them. He’s gradually conflated this with his fear of capture, coming to believe that any trace of the man he was will somehow alert those who (he imagines) pursue him for his crimes. Yet he can’t let go of his memories... or his souvenirs