Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Die to Live Another Day

Chapter One

A New Hope

"TOD: December 21st, 2012, at four-thirty-seven PM."

Weightless.

Numb.

Free.

Desmond felt like he was floating, but he couldn't feel his body. He didn't have to. For the first time in his entire life, he didn't care that he wasn't in control. He could stay here, in this endless white void that reminded him so much of the Animus — and yet there would be no assassins. No faraway cities or ancient wars or magical alien artifacts that turned the whole world upside down.

"Desmond."

And he wasn't alone.

Lucy was here. Standing right in front of him. Huh, maybe he still had a body after all. She looked up at him, a soft smile on her face. Desmond smiled back, and something yanked tight within him — he'd forgotten what her smile looked like. She looked just as she had on the day they first met: blue jeans and a silver top. Innocuous, yet unforgettable.

"Lucy, you're here," his voice echoed in his own ears, cracked and broken. "I missed you. I-I didn't know — I mean, I can't —-"

"Shh, it's alright," she said, bringing up her hands to cup his face. She swept her thumbs across his cheeks, wiping away the tears that had sprang up so suddenly. "I'm not angry at you. I understand. You did what you had to do. You're an Assassin, Desmond. It's your destiny."

"Born Miles, Desmond, Thirteenth of March, 1987."

"Destiny," he repeated, but with a hard edge. He remembered what "destiny" meant. It meant friends dying, it meant hopeless causes, it meant sacrifice after sacrifice taken unwillingly from him. "Load of good that did me."

"You were brave." She said, almost admonishing. "So brave."

"I know." Desmond said, resting his hands on her arms, her hands still around his face. She felt so real, he could scarcely believe it. He never thought he could do this again. "But nothing's changed, Lucy. The Assassins are still losing. The Templars are still in control. Killing Vidic — it barely slowed them down."

"You saved the world," Lucy reminded him. "You saved your friends."

"I couldn't save you."

"Cause of death appears to be electrocution."

"I didn't need saving, Desmond," her laugh was rueful as she shook her head. "I made my choices. I knew what I was doing, and it was still a mistake. I was wrong. And I paid the price."

"Lucy, I just — I never got to tell you," Desmond said, his voice starting to shake again. He had been waiting for this moment for so long, never thought he'd get it. "Before we went to Rome. I wanted to tell you how I felt —"

But she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I know."

Desmond smiled under her touch, leaned into it. Their foreheads connected and Desmond could feel a strange pulsating warmth coming from her. He closed his eyes and relished the moment. Lucy was here. Lucy was safe.

"Will be referred to from this point on as Subject Seventeen, as designated by his files."

"Is it over?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Can I...can I rest now?"

Lucy pulled back and he mimicked her movement, meeting her eyes again. She tilted her head, smiling softly.

"No."

Desmond blinked, taking a step back. "W-what?"

That wasn't expected. Like, at all.

"The fight isn't over yet," said a voice from behind, making Desmond yelp and whip around. He was stunned to see a white-robed man standing before him - an Assassin with his hood up, thick leather belt and red sash around his waist, armed with a hidden blade and missing one finger.

Even without the face, Desmond recognized him immediately. "Altaïr?" He threw a look at Lucy, astonished and feeling a little betrayed. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Lucy just said, "I asked him to come."

"What? Why?"

"Because your mission isn't over yet," Altaïr replied before Lucy could say anything. Desmond faced him again, matching scowl for scowl. Under the shadow of the hood, he could see that Altaïr had the same scar splitting his lips. "We are messengers, Desmond Miles, to tell you of what lies ahead, of the dangers you face. The seen... and the unseen."

"Do you mean the Templars?" Desmond asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because I know all about them. Sure, they're sneaky bastards, but that doesn't mean —"

"No, not the Templars." Altaïr cut him off, sniffing with impatience. "Something far worse."

Desmond went silent as he tried to think of what that could be. What the hell was worse than world-dominating Templars that want to brainwash the entire human race? And even if they could be stopped, what could he do about it?

He was dead. Desmond couldn't fathom it, but somewhere deep inside he knew it was the truth. That Lucy couldn't be here otherwise. That the Altaïr ibn La'Ahad standing before him was not just an illusion. That they had reached the ultimate freedom — freedom from the confines of their puny bodies, free of the responsibilities of life and creed. Desmond was so free, in fact, he felt lost, empty. What was he going to do now? Where could he go? What was left in store for him?

"Known prominent ancestors include Altaïr ibn La'Ahad of the Tenth Century from the Levant; Ezio Auditore from Renaissance Italy; Edward Kenway of the Early Seventeen Hundreds, as well as son and grandson Haytham and Connor Kenway, active during most of the American Revolution. His blood has an unusually high percentage of Precursor DNA, but Subject Seventeen does not appear to be a Sage. He lacks the distinct heterochromia and anisocoria."

Desmond looked at his hands. He wasn't wearing his hidden blade like he should. His wrists were bare, his sleeves drawn up to his elbows. It was Lucy who convinced him to start wearing the iconic Assassin weapon after they escaped Abstergo's facility in Rome. He did, of course, but complained about it the entire time.

Turns out she was right to be safe. Less than two weeks of setting base in their new hide-out, Abstergo tracked them down and attacked. If Desmond didn't have his hidden blade on hand, their team would either be dead or captured.

It was hard to say which one was worse.

But he just shook his head. "The hell could that be?"

"Juno," Lucy said, coming up to stand beside him. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her face now very serious, blue eyes boring into his. "Do you remember? You released her from her prison when you saved Earth. Now she's out and she has a plan. While the Templars and Assassins are busy fighting each other, she gains power. She finds followers and acolytes to do her bidding."

"And you're blaming me?"

Lucy hesitated before answering that. "Well, you're the one who released her."

Desmond sputtered, insulted, and shook his head in disbelief. He wrung his hands, saying, "I didn't have much of a choice to begin with! It was either let the world die and start over, or save everyone and let Juno free. And sorry if that makes me the bad guy, but I'm not going to put humans on the endangered species list because one Precursor thinks she can fuck us up!"

"Well, it's not over yet," Lucy remained ever-diplomatic, looking unperturbed by his yelling. Her gaze upon him remained even. "Juno's still out there."

"What is she gonna to do?"

"Destroy the world," Altaïr said, his golden eyes flashing bright enough to see. There was clear hatred in his voice, and he spat out her name like a curse. "Juno seeks to undo all that humanity has achieved within the last six millennia. The bad...and the good. She will raze cities, kill billions, and throw the world into darkness. All so that we may worship her again, her mindless slaves to rebuild her Civilization. The Third Civilization."

For a moment, Desmond was speechless. Then he recollected his thoughts and compressed his entire opinion into one word: "...Huh."

Altaïr twisted his head to the side, annoyed. "I believe this situation requires a greater response from you, Desmond Miles. Juno is not to be underestimated."

"What the hell do you want me to do about it?" Desmond demanded, throwing out his arms. He didn't appreciate Altaïr's criticism, or that this was somehow his responsibility. His fault. "I'm already dead! We're all dead! I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here to hear this, man, but it's true! I can't do anything."

But Altaïr only blinked. "What is the Creed?"

"The Creed?"

"Yes, idiot. Repeat it to me."

Desmond threw him a strange look, but the words fell of his tongue as easy as a prayer. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

"Exactly. Nothing is true."

"...I don't get it."

"Desmond," Lucy said, starting to sound a little reproachful. She gave him an expectant look, planting her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows like the answer was obvious. "You are not dead. Not yet, at least. Your body is, but your mind isn't. Where do you think we are right now?"

"Um, m-my head?" Desmond looked around uncertainly. He had to admit, if this was what the inside of his head was supposed to look like, he was seriously unimpressed. Wouldn't Shaun be pleased to know his 'guesses' about Desmond's brain were proven right. "It's kind of, um, empty."

"Your mind works like the Animus." Lucy said. "It constructs an image to help you better understand information being given to you. We're here because you hold the deepest connection to our identities."

"We are neither living nor dead," Altaïr explained, which didn't make any sense at all. He gestured to Desmond with his four-fingered hand. "Juno attempted to kill you, but your blood is strong. Stronger than she or anyone else could know. Now, you are the only one who knows her plans. You are the only one who can stop her."

"But how?" Desmond pleaded, his breathing coming in a little hard. He didn't even know he could breathe, but he was definitely aware of it now. What they were asking him just felt too impossible. How could they even expect him to do any of this? To succeed? "How am I supposed to stop Juno if I can't even see her?"

"That is for you to find out." Altaïr said, unsympathetic, crossing his arms.

"Nu-uh, no way, not doing this," Desmond was already shaking his head, throwing up his hands and backing away from the both of them. "You're both crazy. If you're even real, if I'm not imagining you...whatever it is you think I can do, I can't. I'm just one guy — one guy in a league of, what, less than a thousand Assassins still alive? The Templars are huge, and Juno's nuttier than a squirrel — I can't handle both of them at once. It can't be me. I can't keep doing this. It–it's too hard."

He turned away from them, clutching his head. Not even death would accept him so easily — what the hell was wrong with his life that Desmond couldn't even have the peace of an afterlife? Or none at all, he didn't care at this point. He just wanted it to be over.

"Subject Seventeen was discovered, dead and abandoned, in an ancient Precursor temple. No clues were found as to the whereabouts of his allies, but it appeared as though they had been there recently. The only items found on his body were his clothes, an earpiece and watch, a backpack containing tools and a phone, and his wrist blade mechanism."

"Desmond." A hand at his shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder. Altaïr was there, but now his hood was down. He looked no older than Desmond, but his eyes betrayed the age of years beyond. Desmond was surprised they actually didn't look identical as they had in the Animus - Altaïr was a smidge taller, his skin darker, and hair a dusty blond. Desmond realized with a jolt he had never know what Altaïr's hair looked like. It must've been from his mother, a Christian from Europe.

Desmond expected him to look angry, but Altaïr didn't. He seemed...sad. It was such an unfitting expression that Desmond couldn't say anything for a moment, allowing the other Assassin to speak.

"I know you have suffered many sacrifices," Altaïr said, his voice soft. Kind, even. Desmond stared at him, feeling utterly hopeless. "Yours, as well as mine, and many others. No Assassin has ever had an easy life — least of all, yours. I would never ask any of my brothers and sisters to endure what you had to experience. I would not expect them to take on another's pain wholecloth. To step into the shoes of a stranger and be forced to live out every moment of their life. But you weren't given a choice, Desmond. You were chosen. And it is unfair for us now to choose you again."

"But while you bear unimaginable pain," Altaïr continued, clasping both hands on Desmond's shoulders as the man slowly turned back around. "You also wield irrepressible strength. You know better than anyone else the fight we fight — and what we fight for. Not just for peace and freedom — but for love. For happiness. For the families we protect and the friends we defend."

"Your family still needs you, Desmond." Lucy appeared beside Altaïr, her eyes soft and somehow, hopeful. "Not just your parents, but Shaun and Rebecca, too."

"Malik. Kadar." Desmond added, surprising himself. Altaïr jolted a little, his eyes widening. Desmond's mouth kept moving, speaking automatically. "Maria. Claudia. Bartolomeo. Leonardo. Cristina. Yusuf. Sofia. Flavia. Marcello. Ziio. Kanen'tó:kon. Oià:ner. Achilles. Haytham."

"Yes. We are strong not because of the weapons we use or the secrets we keep." Lucy nodded, accepting each name with a wisdom that seemed so much older than her. "We are strong because of our families. Of the people who love us, who support us, and we in turn love and support them. Without them, we've lost every reason to fight. To live."

"And the Assassins will grow once more," Altaïr assured him, the ghost of a smile on his thin lips. "Recruits are just waiting to be found. You know Juno's plan, and you have both the power and the will to stop it. Do not give up now, Desmond. The fight is only getting started."

Strangely, Desmond felt inspired by these words. He didn't think Altaïr could be so...so earnest or sympathetic. He felt a smile pull at his lips. "You think...you think we can win?"

"The battle with the Templars is an ageless one," Altaïr admitted, his eyes casting downwards. He pulled his hands away from Desmond's shoulders, flexing his wrist and testing his blade. "But Juno is a new threat that must be dealt with. Her machinations have bled through history, and she intends to destroy it entirely, so that we may forget what it means to be human."

"We need you, Desmond," Lucy added. "We all need you. You're not alone in this fight, not now. Not again. You just need to find the right people."

"Juno has left the imprints of her plan in your mind; the purpose of her followers, and the ones she intends to draft to her cause." Altaïr held up a hand in warning. "Beware her Instruments, Desmond. They may appear to be your allies, and they are no friends of the Templars, but they seek only to help their mistress. Anyone who stands in their way, guilty or innocent, will be killed without mercy."

"My preliminary analysis shows extensive third-degree burns on his right hand, done premortem. The skin has been rendered black and heavily scarred, and the veins have been exposed. Strangely, while the skin appears charred, it still retains moisture. Further dissection is in order..."

"If she finds out you're still alive," Lucy added. "Then you'll have other things to worry about than the Templars."

"Okay," Desmond said, frowning. So Juno was not crazy - she was bat-shit insane, but apparently some people thought she was pretty cool. Enough to do whatever she said. "So I have to stop Juno, but also stay away from her and her minions? How the hell am I supposed to do that if I can't even see her? Where the hell is she?"

"She lives in the Grey," Lucy said, which was about as vague as you could get. "The space between spaces. Electric pulses carried between synapses and the code in your computer. She lives through text and pixels, and can be anywhere, see everything, at the same time...as long as they have IP address."

"So, she's in the Internet, is what you're saying," Desmond summed up, not quite able to fathom just how weird and scary that was. "Great. Guess I'm never going to check my email again."

"Why would people send mail to a dead man?" Altaïr asked, scowling again. Ah, there's the familiar face everyone loved.

Desmond gave him a frustrated look, about to argue when he realized Altaïr had a point. He held up a hand, waving it off. "...You know what, never mind. You guys got any other words of wisdom to impart?"

"Don't die," Lucy offered. "Again."

"Amazing, thank you."

Desmond noticed that they were starting to look a little pale, and it took him a moment to realize they were fading. In a second, he panicked, not ready to see them go. "W-wait! Where am I? What happened to my friends? What are the Templars doing now?"

"Sorry, Desmond. Those are things you must learn for yourself." Lucy said, shrugging helplessly. She raised a hand to touch his cheek again, but Desmond was horrified to find that he couldn't feel her anymore. "You're smart, no matter what Shaun says about you behind your back."

"He says stuff behind my back?" Desmond asked, affronted, but when he reached out to touch Altaïr and Lucy, his hands went right through them. In fact, the whole world was becoming less solid — himself included. The white void was turning gray. "Will I — will I ever see you again?"

"Maybe," Lucy smiled, but it was bittersweet. "When the fight is finally over."

"Please note: Subject Seventeen has a higher than average body temperature. Although he has been dead for over twenty-four hours, my thermometer is indicating that his body has maintained a 97.8 degree Fahrenheit of temperature. The cause of this is yet unknown..."

"You'll meet us again," Altaïr said with a curt nod, pulling his hood back over his head. "Safety and peace be upon you, Desmond Miles."

And with that, he was gone.

Now all that was left was Lucy, in the ever-growing darkness. Desmond tried to approach her, but she was so transparent already he was afraid he'd lose her if he took his eyes off her for even a single second. "Lucy, I just wanted you to know, if things had gone different, I —"

"What? Wouldn't have sacrificed yourself?" Lucy asked with a wry smirk. "I know you better than that, Desmond. I would've still ended up here, one way or another. And so would you. But now you have a second chance. Make it right. Whatever you do, don't lose hope."

Her hand disappeared from his chest. "Don't forget love."

Then Lucy, too, disappeared, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

The mortician shuffled around the metal table, reaching for his scalpel as he held up the recorder to his mouth.

"I am about to begin the autopsy. Berg has requested that his major organs be preserved and all blood stored away. My goal is to learn what killed him, how it killed him, and then dispose what is left of his body."

A white sheet covered Subject Seventeen's lower half, to keep it clean as the mortician began his dissection. The former Assassin was well-built and handsome, and the mortician would've pitied his young age if he had been paid a little less. But as it was, the mortician was more interested in learning why this man's skin was still warm.

He set the small blade against the man's chest below him. The mortician was about to press down when he noticed a twitch of movement in Seventeen's face. A flickering behind the eyelids. The lips opening ever so slightly.

A cold chill went down the mortician's back. While he never had the misfortune of discovering that a previously-thought-dead body actually wasn't, it bothered him how unusual this one was. Then again, bodies tended to move even after the brain died, known as rigor mortis — relaxing muscles, stiffening of the tendons could open eyes, clench hands, and sometimes cause the entire body to sit straight up.

The mortician's had a few scares in his life, but all of them had been false alarms. The Assassins were clever. But not that clever.

He shook his head and went back to the task at hand. He was letting his paranoia getting to him. Too many lonely nights in a dark morgue made you think that the bodies themselves might be more interesting than they really were.

The mortician sighed and pressed the blade into Seventeen's chest.

Desmond's eyes flew open.

Before the mortician could even open his mouth, a hand found his throat and wrenched him upwards. The mortician cried out as the Assassin launched forward, gasping for breath as blood dribbled down his bare chest. He seemed completely unaware that he had a man in his grip.

The mortician gasped, clawing at the blackened hand — the heat of Seventeen's skin skyrocketed incredibly fast, from strangely clammy to soft warmth to blistering hot. The veins across his right hand were a faint glowing orange.

When Desmond finally noticed him, his face drew into a scowl.

"Where am I?" Desmond demanded, his voice hoarse and gravelly. He didn't realize he was shouting in Arabic. "Who are you?"

The mortician yelped as the man's startlingly golden glare fell on his face. He spluttered, trying to breathe through the clamp around his neck. "P-please...I-I can't..."

Desmond dropped him and the mortician slumped to the floor, coughing and spluttering as air returned to his lungs. As he recovered, Desmond threw himself off the cold metal surface, his mind scattered, his legs unsteady. Wondering why the hell he was so cold, Desmond looked down and shouted (still in Arabic), "What the fuck? Where the hell are my clothes?"

He scanned the room, marking all the exit points on instinct — the door to his left, and the small windows high up on the wall. The room was dark with only one light shining on the ceiling. It looked more like a serial killer's lair than a professional's workspace. It was even night out, because apparently this guy was going to hit every cliché in the book.

Desmond knew all he needed to know when he saw the Abstergo logo on a nearby computer's desktop. English returned to him in a sudden blow. "God damn it!"

Of course it was Abstergo. Desmond shouldn't have been so surprised. Who the hell else would put him on a metal slab and cut him open like a lab rat? Crazy sons of bitches thought they can have the last laugh, stealing his body to...what? Preserve his body? Well, probably not, since he was about to turn into the next CSI: Miami victim this week. Maybe they'd just keep his head in a jar, take his blood and dump the rest. Use what they needed to continue their project; all the better now that their favorite Subject couldn't fight back now, right?

Well, weren't they in for a surprise?

Behind him, he heard the table grind against the tile, then silence. The mortician was no longer coughing.

A piercing screech that only Desmond could hear, then he was spinning around and grabbing the wrist of the mortician, in his fist the scalpel, just as it was about to come down on Desmond's back.

The mortician let out a half-angry, half-terrified shout when Desmond blocked his attack. Desmond jolted, panicked by the noise, and wrenched the man's hand down and inward. The mortician's yell turned into a gurgle as his own scalpel was buried into his neck.

Blood spurted everywhere — on the mortician, on Desmond, and onto the floor and ceiling. A veritable Jackson Pollock piece, Desmond marveled at the sight, still half-delirious, as the mortician sagged in his arms. Revolted, Desmond dropped the body. It hit the ground with an unceremonious thump.

He stumbled away and fell against a nearby desk, watching as a pool of blood formed around the mortician's head, his skin getting paler and paler by the second.

Desmond pressed a hand to his face, wiping away the still-warm blood. His breath was still coming out in harsh gasps. "H-holy shit!"

He glanced at the door, worried that Abstergo guards would come bursting in at any minute, but nothing happened. Desmond stood there, shivering and naked and utterly freaked out, for an excruciatingly long time, before finally realizing that no one was going to come.

Shaking himself over, Desmond tried to recollect his thoughts and made himself move again. He looked around, trying to find something to wear or wrap himself up in.

On one wall was a furnace, empty and dark. Arranged nearby were two large, human-sized boxes. Beside them on the floor was a pile of kindling and a large barrel full of what looked like fabric.

Desmond approached it carefully, not wanting to glance inside the boxes. Not that he'd never seen a dead body before, just that the ones inside the box probably didn't deserve it.

The barrel was filled with clothes. As Desmond started digging through it, he realized with a sense of disgust and horror that these used to belong to people, probably the ones still in the room with him. Swallowing down a wave of nausea, Desmond kept looking until he found some jeans and a sweatshirt that were about his size. Pulling them on, Desmond felt a little better, but not by much.

He decided not to bother with underwear or shoes for now. That was just a little too creepy for him.

He went to a nearby sink and cleaned himself up, wiping away the blood from his hands and face, as well as the inked-in lines on the exposed skin. It sickened Desmond to feel like a cut-out project for second-graders, and desperately wanted to leave this place and go home.

Home...

He had no home.

Desmond sighed, hanging his head. He had no idea where he was. No one knew he was alive — for now. Eventually, Abstergo was going to find their employee dead and a body missing. The search for Desmond Miles would multiply tenfold, perhaps even worse than it was before, in his previous life.

Holy fuck, had he really been dead?

Desmond didn't feel dead. At least, not until he looked at his ruined hand.

The hand he used to touch the Apple back in Juno's temple. The searing pain, the bright light as it coursed through him. What even was that?

A part of him wondered if it was still there. Desmond examined his hand, twisting this way and that, wondering just how bad the damage was. It definitely looked burned, the limb dead...but it wasn't. The veins in his right hand glowed strangely, like there was lava flowing through them. It faded the farther up his arm it traveled, disappearing in the divide between burnt and normal skin. Desmond could still move his hand and fingers, thankfully, but he couldn't feel it anymore.

It was weird. It felt like it had been amputated only...not.

Juno had destroyed his hand and left something else behind. This one didn't belong to him anymore.

Lucy and Altaïr's words echoed in his head. Desmond winced, pressing his good hand to his temple. Oh, right, Juno, crazy bitch extraordinaire. Just another thing to add to his list of problems.

Man, he really needed to get out of here.

Desmond prioritized his needs; unfortunately, Juno was not the first — food was, and so were his stuff, which Desmond would really like back, thank you. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank as much as he could take. He felt parched and his throat still hurt; being dead hadn't done him a lot of favors.

Shutting off the water, Desmond looked around for something he could use as a weapon. The scalpel was his first idea, but it was buried somewhere in the mess that was the mortician's neck, and he decided he didn't want to touch that again.

Desmond suppose it wouldn't matter anyways. A scalpel was too fragile for his needs — it probably broke off in the man's neck anyways.

The mortician had an array of other tools, though, and Desmond perused them quickly before he found a long pair of thin scissors that could prove handy. Not so much if he got into a fight, but Desmond was planning on using stealth to get out of this hellhole.

Improvised weapon in hand, Desmond opened the door and peeked out. The hallway was even darker than the workroom, and there was absolutely no one about.

Perfect.

Taking one last glance behind him at the dead mortician, Desmond took a deep breath, steeling his nerves.

And then he was gone.

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Chapter Text

Chapter Two
Cannon Fodder

The Abstergo basement was a labyrinth of dead ends and circuitous halls.

“The fuck is this M.C. Escher shit,” Desmond muttered under his breath as he once more found himself at the door of the Morgue, although he had been wandering around for fifteen minutes. Who designed this place? He couldn’t even find a map, or an exit sign.

It was incredible he hadn’t run into any security yet, but so far had managed to avoid being spotted by security cameras. He’d run around enough times to know their placements by heart now.

If you can navigate the Atlantic Ocean on a wood boat, you can find your way through this goddamn basement, Desmond told himself as he set off once more.

Keeping to a crouch like this was seriously working his quads, which were already getting sore. He couldn’t ignore the stark reality of muscular atrophy having an effect on him — how long had he been dead? Desmond felt like he hadn’t moved in a whole week. He hoped he found a way out of here soon, because he wasn’t sure how long he could hang around here before wearing himself out.

This time, Desmond went down a hallway he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone through yet. Everything looked the same here; white walls, white floors, white ceilings, all in a shade of muted blue thanks to the night and dim lighting. He had found a few doors, but one was a janitor’s closet, another a break room with a vending machine (Desmond was extremely tempted to break into it, even though it was filled with bland granola bars), and the last was what appeared to be a storeroom at first; it was freezing inside, and it took Desmond a moment to recognize what those creepy-ass metal drawer cabinets really were.

It was an extension of the Morgue. A freezer where they stored all the bodies, like in a forensic lab. Desmond closed the door promptly on that last one. No way was he doing any extra ‘exploring’ today. Just no.

His tolerance of bad juju officially capped out, Desmond decided to focus solely on finding a way to get out of here and, oh yeah, find his stuff, which was still missing. He really hoped Abstergo didn’t stash it away somewhere else, like in a different city or something. Hidden blades were really hard to come by these days. And that was his favorite hoodie.

When he peered around another doorway and found a dark room filled with computer monitors, Desmond thought he’d collapse with relief. Ducking inside, he was pleased to find that the resident security guard had vacated his post, leaving only ten screens and a steaming cup of coffee.

Pushing aside the rolling chair, Desmond leaned over the desk, scanning each screen separately, looking for anything familiar or dangerous. He counted three guards on this floor, all on their leisurely patrol throughout the halls. None of them looked particularly threatening, nor did they appear on alert — good, they hadn’t found the dead mortician yet. Desmond imagined they didn’t run into too much trouble here. Which meant he had the element of surprise in case this whole night went south. Well, further south.

One of the cameras showed a room that looked like another lab, or maybe a library. Long tables with lamps and plenty of chairs, and shelves lining the walls, filled with boxes and books. On one of the tables, someone had left an open box out, with items scattered around it.

His hidden blade. The backpack, and his cell phone. Wait, no one took his cell phone after he died? Desmond scowled. Well, so much for Assassins, if they couldn’t even do the most basic to protect his privacy.

Thanks a lot, Rebecca. Desmond thought sourly, stepping back from the desk. Kind of an oversight, don’t you think?

At least there was a floor map taped to a wall. Matching the camera ID to the one marked on the paper, Desmond figured out where he had to go next.

Grabbing the mug of coffee, Desmond was seriously tempted to down it all, but he’d rather not consume the spit of some random security guard. Instead, he held it over the computer monitors and tipped the cup.

Hot brown liquid poured over the plastic shells and seeped into the vents — the computer hissed and crackled, and Desmond watched as one by one the screens went black. A bitter scent filled the air as the CPU died and the fan came to a stop; it smelled like a combination between toast and barbecue, and despite himself, Desmond’s stomach started to growl.

A hand went to his stomach, and Desmond decided to include an addendum to his list of priorities: Need to eat, pronto.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” a voice suddenly shouted behind him, making Desmond jump and drop the mug. It shattered across the floor, next to the ruined computer.

He spun around, facing the security guard that had just walked into the little control room — the two stared at each other in shock, neither knowing quite what to make of each other.

It took the security guard two whole seconds to recognize him. Holding up a shaking finger, the man stumbled back, his eyes going wide as he spluttered, “N-no, you — you’re supposed to be dead. I saw you! You were dead!”

“Uh,” Desmond said, then put up his hands. “Surprise?”

The security guard snapped to, scrambling for the radio attached to his soldier. Before Desmond could stop him, the man shouted, “Red alert! All units to the main surveillance room! We have an intrud — auughhkk!”

His voice died in a gargled cry as Desmond launched forward and buried the end of his scissors into the man’s neck. Desmond ripped it out before the man could drop and take the weapon with him, and he winced in silent disgust as the security guard collapsed to the floor, body twitching as he bled out.

“Shitshitshitshitshit!” Desmond muttered under his breath as he tore out of the security room, making a hard turn right. He didn’t have time to wallow on the meaning of life — now that the entirety of Abstergo’s army of guards were descending on him right at this moment, he really didn’t have a lot of time to fuck around. This time, they were going to make sure he was dead. For good.

Luckily, he knew where his stuff was now.

Two lefts, a right, and another left. The path was clear in his mind (Desmond wasn’t going to get himself lost again), and as he took the first turn, he saw his next target. A man running in the opposite direction, wearing a guard uniform and with his electric baton out. The guard saw Desmond and opened his mouth to shout, reaching for his radio, but Desmond was already on top of him.

In one smooth move — just like Ezio taught him — Desmond jumped forward, leaping onto the man, catching his collar, and throwing them both to the ground. The scissor blades sunk into the man’s throat before he could speak, and Desmond felt his arm shudder as the end of the scissors came out on the other side of the man’s neck and jammed into the tiled floor.

Not waiting to see the man die, Desmond was already up and running again. He could hear the guard making his last desperate attempt to warn the others through his radio, but his voice was barely comprehendible now.

Desmond spun around the next corner, which was gladly free of any hostiles. He kept going, chest heaving and legs pumping as his mind tried to think of an escape plan. There had to be an elevator somewhere, or stairs. This would all be so much easier once he got his stuff back...

But when Desmond made to go right, an arm suddenly appeared in his vision at neck height. Before he could figure out what it was or stop himself, Desmond rammed right into it. The force of the blow sent him on his back. Stars flashed in front of Desmond’s eyes as his head cracked against the floor.

It took him a moment to come to and realize he had just been clothslined by another guard, who had been waiting for him behind the corner. The man was now talking into his radio, saying, “...truder is down and out. I’ll have him subdued and brought back into custody. Berg is gonna want to see — woah!”

The man’s feet went flying out from underneath him when Desmond swiped his legs, knocking this one to the ground as well. Still a little dazed, Desmond scrambled up to silence the guard, but wasn’t expecting the stun baton to jab him in the side.

“Gah!” the electric shock nearly sent Desmond into the fetal position, but he fisted his hand into the man’s shirt and brought the scissors down.

He missed the heart due to the electric current going through his system., instead catching against the radio and breaking off a chunk of the plastic, before sliding into the man’s shoulder. The guard cried out, but Desmond could barely keep his grip on them as the guard continued to hit him repeatedly with the stun baton!

“God dammit!” Desmond said through gritted teeth, trying to steady his arm so he could make a clean kill. This was almost embarrassing for an Assassin — his dad was not going to be happy when he heard about this mess of a job. “Cut it out!”

Desmond swiped with the point of the scissors, aiming for the throat, but missed and cut the man’s cheek instead. Not even a papercut, really. But it was all he could do before the electric shocks finally won out and Desmond had to throw himself off the man before he passed out from the pain.

On his chest and elbows, muscles sore and spasming, Desmond could barely remember  to breathe. Ears ringing with the same noise of television static, Desmond shook his head and could barely hear the guard getting up and speaking into his radio: “...Roger. I’ll take care of him now.”

Then he heard the click of a gun being loaded.

Oh, shit. Desmond rolled on his back, staring up at the barrel of the semi-automatic now pointed at his head. Abstergo did not fuck around when it came to arming their security.

The guard was standing strangely, and it took Desmond a second to remember he had incapacitated one arm, which was why the guard was also using only one hand to hold the gun.

Seeing opportunity, Desmond snapped out his right arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and jerking it away a second before he pulled the trigger.

Three bullets exploded from the gun a little too close for comfort; bright flashes and great noise that once more left Desmond’s head ringing. But he refused to lose focus — instead, he held on tighter, even as the recoil threatened to lose his grip, slowly twisting the guard’s arm away from his head.

The guard grimaced as he used his wounded arm to regain control, blood flowing down his cheek from Desmond’s cut, but it didn’t amount to much. Desmond was still stronger (as he was pleased to find out), and as the tendons in his hand strained, he noticed a sudden difference in his arm.

Specifically, that the yellow veins beneath that charred black skin was starting to glow.

“What the…” Desmond stared, unable to find words as he felt a strange heat travel from his chest down his right arm, pulsating and almost painful as it finally reached his hand and to his fingertips. Before he could figure out what it meant, the guard started yelling, dropping the gun instantly and trying unsuccessfully to wrench his arm away from Desmond’s grip.

Desmond was momentarily distracted by the fallen semi, so he didn’t quite understand why the guard was acting like he’d just been burned. Desmond was strong, but he wasn’t that strong. So what was this guy’s problem?

When he finally glanced back, Desmond realized what it was.

The man’s skin was burning. Because of Desmond.

He watched in silent, frozen horror as the skin around the man’s arm started to smoke and blacken underneath Desmond’s hand. It grew, like a disease, up the man’s arm and down to his hand, which was open and flexing as the man writhed. The guard’s skin cracked beneath the char, a soft golden glow beneath it, lining the folds of skin and wrinkles, and consuming the entire hand.

Then the guard’s hand suddenly stopped moving. At first, Desmond thought that meant it was over — until it turned to ash and fell off.

The guard’s dead hand hit the floor and disintegrated into a pile of black ash.

“H-holy shit!” Desmond panicked, not understanding what he was doing — or how — and tried to let go, only to find he couldn’t. His hand refused to unclench, and he could feel whatever power this was traveling from his body to the guard’s, spreading this strange disease with alarming speed. And no matter what he did, Desmond couldn’t stop it.

The disintegrating effect continued up the guard's wrist, beneath Desmond’s hand, and his hand suddenly crunched around nothing. He gasped and scrambled back, finally free, and continued to watch as the guard screamed louder, his arm literally turning to dust right before their eyes.

The guard crashed to his knees, eyes wild and clutching what was left of his arm in agony. But even though Desmond had let go, the burning effect still kept going, spreading across the man’s shoulder and around his neck.

The man’s entire forearm was gone by the time Desmond realized he should give him a quick death. This was too awful, too cruel for even some Abstergo mook to endure. The Assassins rarely partook in torture, and never in something as meaningless in this.

That was why Desmond took his scissors and drove them into the eye of the guard. His screams suddenly died and the body fell back, slumping against the wall as all the life left him in one swift move. Desmond was panting a little, still freaking out, and he noticed that the black charring hadn’t stopped with the man’s death — no, it was still going, bit by bit turning this man’s body to ash.

Stomach doing backflips, Desmond stumbled back and covered his mouth, feeling suddenly nauseous. He turned his head away, unable to stand the sight any longer.

What. The. Fuck. Was that? Did he do this? His hand, the one Juno ruined, it...it was contagious? It could just kill people like that…

What the hell did Juno do to him?

Desmond had no idea. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to get out of here. Now.

Taking one last glance at the body of the guard, its chest now collapsing into dust, Desmond took a deep breath, grabbed the semi-automatic off the floor, and started to run. The scissors were practically dripping with blood, leaving a trail wherever Desmond went.

Two more turns and he found the lab containing his stuff. He peered into the doorway, into the dimly lit room — there they were, just as he saw them last. For the first time in what felt like forever, Desmond felt a small smile pull at his face as he went over and grabbed his hidden blade.

Strapping it to his wrist, Desmond suddenly felt calm again, the familiar pressure reassuring. Glancing down at his scissors, Desmond considered discarding them, but decided against it. His fingerprints were all over them, and he’d rather not give Abstergo any more help in trying to find him after this.

Instead, he cleaned them off and stuffed them into his backpack (for safekeeping), along with the gun, its safety on, and whatever else he couldn’t carry in his hands. A little bit of scavenging actually helped Desmond find his old sneakers, which apparently Abstergo thought important enough to store, and quickly stuffed his feet into them.

Finally, he reached for his white hoodie. The cloth was soft and warm — it even smelled like his old cologne. With a small sigh, he shrugged it on, a shadow falling over his eyes as he pulled the hood over his head.

It felt so normal now. So old, so good. Desmond Miles was an Assassin, and there was nothing Juno could do to him that would change that.

Desmond slung his backpack on, two seconds before he heard running footsteps and a shout: “Stop right there! Put your hands up!”

Turning around slowly, Desmond saw two guards come in through the door, their guns up. As they drew nearer, he put up his hands, as requested. His hidden blade was in view to them, but not the dagger he held in his other sleeve. Ever since relieving Connor’s memories, Desmond had took to dual-wielding blades. Of course, this was no sword or tomahawk — the little dagger was all he felt comfortable with carrying when surrounded by the massive surveillance Abstergo had on the world. They were easy to conceal than, say, a large semi-automatic gun like the one in his backpack.

The guards seemed to think he was surrendering, and put away their guns to reach for their handcuffs and batons. As one reached out to cuff his upraised hand, Desmond struck.

His left arm went down, his palm pulling back to release the hidden blade. It sunk into the guard’s jugular at the same time his right hand, the charred one, pulled up his other dagger and stabbed it into the second guard’s throat. They both gasped and recoiled, clawing at their necks as Desmond withdrew his blades.

They collapsed to the floor in unison and Desmond jumped forward, over their sprawled bodies and out the door. The weight of his backpack was a comforting presence, along with his old hoodie and hidden blade, and in that moment, Desmond felt unstoppable.

...Well, not nearly as unstoppable as he had been with the Apple, but still. Pretty damn tough.

In the halls, he could hear shouting now, echoing back and forth across the cold white walls. Someone had called reinforcement, probably after finding the trail of bodies Desmond left in his wake. That was the one thing about being an Assassin — you tended to leave a mess.

Finding his way out of this hellhole was going to be a problem, though. His cursory scan of the security footage hadn’t given Desmond much to work with, and he still hadn’t spotted any exit signs. Did this place just exist in a lifeless void or something?

As he sprinted through the halls, he came across another guard who didn’t see him coming. Not slowing down for even a second, Desmond raised his arm, dagger in hand, and slashed it across the man’s throat, continuing to run without a second look back even as the man spurted blood across the walls and ceiling, before falling.

The next guard he killed, Desmond managed to sneak up from behind, although sneak was kind of a strong word for it. Technically, he was still running, and the guard had been really slow to turn, but in essence he was quite stealthy. The man never saw what hit him as Desmond jumped and slammed his hidden blade into the back of the guard’s neck, between two vertebrae under the skull. It was the kind of precision he learned from Altair, who never, ever missed a target.

 But instead of running away from that one, too, Desmond stopped and reached for the guard’s radio. Speaking with a low growl to hide the identity of his voice (in case any Abstergo higher-ups were listening in), Desmond said, “Intruder heading for emergency exit. All units converge there immediatly!”

And then he crouched by the wall and waited.

Not one other guard in this whole facility questioned the order — instead, Desmond heard a stampede of feet and watched as what looked like a dozen or more men charge down one of the halls ahead, going so fast they didn’t even notice their fallen comrade or the white-hooded figure over it.

Desmond smiled as he stood up, rather pleased with himself. Even Shaun would have to admit, that was pretty clever.

Then he remembered that Shaun wasn’t here, and all those good feelings disappeared. Man, Desmond couldn’t just have this one thing, could he?

To distract himself from those saddening thoughts, he took off after the security force, keeping just far enough behind that they wouldn’t notice a tailgater. At least these guys knew where the hell they were.

And just like Desmond hoped, they led him straight towards a door marked with a bright red exit sign, a set of stairs seen through the glass on the other side. He skidded to a stop short, though, ducking behind a corner as the guards came upon the door and looked around, trying to figure out where the Assassin went.

One took charge, ordering two guards to double-back, while the rest charged up the stairs, where they believed the Assassin to have already gone. Desmond waited with barely contained anticipation as one by one, the guards disappeared, leaving two very vulnerable guards left to take care of.

They were dead before the exit door even shut after the last man went up the stairs. Not even a single cry gave away Desmond’s position, and he decided not to revel in the moment — if there was one thing he learned from all those lives lived, it was to not get too proud of himself. He really didn’t want to pull and Altair and end up at rock bottom again.

...Although this was kind of a new low for even the great Altair. Desmond was pretty sure the guy never had to experience coming back to life in a world where the Assassins were all but dead now.

Well, live and learn.

He burst through the door and took the stairs two at a time. The sign at the base of the steps told him that this was Sublevel 1, so he didn’t have far to go to reach ground level.

Too bad that by the time he reached the next floor, several guards were just opening the door. They gaped when they saw the Assassin appearing at the landing, Desmond coming to a sudden halt — before they shouted, raised their batons, and Desmond put the pedal to the metal.

Instead of making the turn around the landing to the next set of stairs, Desmond jumped onto the banister and grabbed the bars across the stairwell, pulling himself up like a kid on monkey bars. The guards were already clamoring after him, but Desmond pushed away from the banister again, turning in midair to catch the next level of rail — up and up he went, shoulder muscles screaming with the effort of hauling up his body back and forth over an ever-greater fall.

He was only slightly ahead of the guards, one of which caught his foot while Desmond was hanging off the fifth floor landing — and almost lost his grip because the idiot yanked so hard. His right hand slipped and suddenly Desmond was hanging just by his fingertips, while the second guard caught up and grabbed his other foot.

Shit! Desmond struggled for several long seconds in that position before finally pulling one foot back long enough to shove it back into the guard’s chest. The man cried out, surprised when he stumbled back, only to find that instead of floor behind, it was stairs, and he went head over heels down the steps.

The second one paused to watch his comrade fall, which was just enough time for Desmond to get his right hand back up, and rock back, putting his feet together and slamming them into the man’s chest, letting go of the floor above him to land at the fourth floor escape door.

The man grunted when his chest took the brunt of Desmond’s fall. He tried reaching for his gun, but not before Desmond sunk his blade into the man’s throat.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned around just in time to see the second guard come back up, gun already in hand. He didn’t have time to aim, though, because Desmond pulled his arm back, and whipped his dagger at the guard. A flash of metal spinning in the air, before the guard looked down, surprised to find the knife buried to the hilt in his chest, blood blooming across his shirt like a violent flower. He mouthed silently, unable to speak, before crumpling against the wall and falling still.

Desmond got up to retrieve his dagger (cleaning it on the man’s pants first before storing it back in his sleeve), then started back up the stairs again. This time, there was no one there to stop him, and he finally found a door to the outside world on the thirteenth floor — a door that led him to what was the roof of the Abstergo building he was in.

The sky was utterly dark above him, so Desmond didn’t immediately recognize he was outside until he smelled the air, fresh and cold, and heard the sound of traffic below. He took in a deep breath as the door closed behind him, taking in the…the freedom of finally being out of there. Of the urban world. Cars honking, tires screeching, gunshots, drunk people singing. The most beautiful sounds he ever heard.

All around him, even taller buildings stood. He seemed to be in the center of a city…a familiar city. But before Desmond could figure out which one, a distance noise nearly made him jump out of his pants.

Phssseeewww… Kra-KOW!

He looked up, startled by the loud booms. Only instead of cannon fire and bombs, Desmond was met with the sight of hundreds of brilliant starbursts filling the night sky, a myriad of golds, pinks, and blues.

Desmond gazed at the fireworks in awe, as the sound of faraway cheering and singing swept in on a breeze.

It was January 1^st, 2013.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Barfly

A shout behind him reminded Desmond he wasn't alone.

"Hey, it's him!"

"God dammit," Desmond muttered, hanging his head before turning around to face the six (dammit again) guards charging at him. They must've been searching the roof, which spanned across several levels, before their flashlights landed on him.

The first one he dismantled easily. Hidden blade to the throat, then a quick toss aside. Ezio had done it so smoothly, but Desmond nearly fell over, because that guy was a lot heavy than he looked.

He righted himself just in time to get tackled by the second one, who got him like a Giants' linebacker, head down and arms wrapping around Desmond's middle. He didn't get to slam Desmond down, though, because Desmond slammed both of his blades down into the guard's back, blades slipping through the back of his ribcage, puncturing both lungs at once.

Guard #2 dropped like a rock, wheezing as blood bubbled up to his lips. Desmond wriggled out of his arms, stepping further onto the roof. The other four guards circled around him, reaching for their guns and batons.

Realizing that he was going to get a lot deader as soon as those bullets started flying, Desmond took the initiative and launched himself at the closest guard, who was still fumbling with his gun. The guy was an amateur, probably a recent hire, and could do nothing but shout when Desmond landed on him.

Each blade armed, both entered the soft skin between the clavicle and trapezius muscles on either side of the man's neck. Easier than cutting warm butter.

He went down, and Guard #4 was next. Desmond, already in a crouched position from the recent kill, swung out his right arm and buried his knife into the back of the knee of Guard #5. He screamed, leg collapsing, and giving Desmond quick access to the throat.

The fifth body joined the rest and by then the last one had his gun out.

Bang! Bang!

Desmond heard that shrill screech in his ear again, a second before the shots rang out. He barely had time to act on that strange warning silent to everyone else; he threw himself forward in sideways somersault, rolling out of the way before the bullets embedded themselves into the gravelly surface of the roof.

He turned on his heel, rising out of his crouch, glancing at the spot where he was last. Had Desmond acted a second later, he'd be missing critical brain matter.

His back was turned towards the guard upon standing. Desmond knew, in that split-second between bullets Two and Three, that he didn't have enough time to reach the guard before he was hit. Instead, he pivoted on his heel, swing his arm over his head like he was pitching a baseball.

...If baseball was a deadly game, and instead of balls pitchers threw knives, like Desmond did.

His aim was slightly off - Altair would hit him for missing the head, instead hitting the hand. But Desmond figured he had an excuse, being that he didn't exactly look first before throwing.

His guess was still pretty good, though. Considering that Guard #6 was less than three meters away, it wasn't like Desmond was going to hit anything else anyways.

The blade found the guard's hand, right where it connected to the wrist. The guard cried out as his flexor tendons were suddenly severed all at once. It immediately disabled his ability to pull the trigger, and before the man could even think to switch hands, Desmond had already darted over and stabbed him with his hidden blade, up underneath the man's jaw, simultaneously retrieving his knife from the guard's hand and jabbing it into the man's heart. He pulled back, the blades sliding out at the same time, and let the man drop, gagging and flailing helplessly, already growing weak.

It would be a quick death.

Desmond paused to survey the six bodies lying at his feet. He felt a twinge of regret in his gut; he wasn't sure how much these guards really knew about Abstergo or the Templars, how much they really cared, or if it was just about the money. Did they all really deserve to die like this, simply because Desmond was on a different side?

The obvious answer was 'yes'. In the end, these guards answered to Abstergo, and these guards had seen his face. One could only guess where that was headed. The fact of the matter was, they knew too much, saw too much, and there was nothing short of death to assure Desmond that they wouldn't tell the Templars everything that happened.

At least he disabled the security system and cameras. There'd be nothing left to recover once Abstergo came back online the next morning.

Desmond glanced over his shoulder, back at the door leading inside. He knew there were still guards running around on high alert, but none that had seen him. He preferred it that way, and decided he'd rather not go on a rat hunt to finish off what was left of them. Why take the risk?

Instead, he walked towards the edge of the roof, glancing down. Okay, Modern World Assassin Problem #1: Leap of Faiths weren't exactly the most feasible nowadays, since people didn't typically leave piles of hay just lying around in the street. Desmond wasn't sure how he was going to get down, since building was made out of sheer glass; there was nothing to hold onto, unless he had those crazy spy wall-climber suction-cup things. Modern World Assassin Problem #2.

Ugh, so lame.

Desmond had to walked around the perimeter, searching for a viable exit route. He wasn't going back inside, that's for sure. And the building wasn't tall enough to parachute down...if Desmond even had a parachute, which he did not.

That's when he saw it, on the back end of a building.

An open Dumpster filled with trash.

Desmond grinned at the sight of it. Bingo.

A noise behind him made Desmond glance over his shoulder. Footsteps in the stairwell, muffled by the door, but definitely recognizable. More Abstergo goons coming, great. Desmond would like to not be here when that happened, thank you.

The Dumpster was on the other side of the alley - Desmond would have to run to make it.

He had just backed up when the roof door burst open. Flashlight beams strobed through the air, first falling upon the circle of dead bodies before exploding out again, shouting filling the air.

Desmond's foot had just landed on the edge of the roof when the first beam found him, casting his shadow across the wall of the opposite building. Desmond saw his silhouette, body straight, arms out, spread-eagle - the darkness grew starker as the other beams landed on his back, seconds before he jumped.

The shouts turned to cries of shock and horror, right before they were swallowed by the wind whistling past Desmond's ears.

He had done this hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. Okay, not in real life, but he'd done enough times in the Animus to know the technique by heart now. He wasn't even scared - this was hardly the highest he'd ever been, in or out of the Animus.

Just like the old masters, Desmond flipped in mid-air, so he'd land on his back onto the pile of trashbags.

FWUHMP!

The plastic ballooned out upon impact, providing excellent cushioning. They swallowed Desmond whole, effectively hiding him from sight when the unit of guards came to the edge to see where the crazy Assassin turned himself into a grease spot onto the pavement - only to find exactly nothing at all.

The trashbags turned the night entirely dark for Desmond, but he could still hear their shouts - of confusion, of alarm.

"What the fuck?"

"Holy shit, did you see that?"

"I can't believe he just jumped!"

"Where is he? He's gone!"

"Like a goddamn ghost!"

"I told you this place was bad fucking news, man! I'm cashing in my pink slip as soon as I take this uniform off…"

Desmond waited until the voices drifted and faded. He waited before getting out of the Dumpster first, making sure the coast was clear before jumping out. It was then that his senses finally calmed down long enough for him to take in the absolutely atrocious stench, and he nearly gagged.

"Aw man, that reeks!" he coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he stumbled away from the trash. Only his sleeve smelled like trash, too, and Desmond recoiled, horrified at his own mistake.

Note to self: Do not do a Leap of Faith into a Dumpster. Templars will probably catch you from the smell alone.

It was so bad that Desmond seriously considered taking off his hoodie - but decided against it when he heard sirens in the distance; eventually, some would arrive here.

But Desmond would be long gone by then.

Immediately after escaping an Abstergo facility, Desmond knew exactly where he had to go.

A bar.

Unfortunately, he had to take a detour at late-nite Laundromat, first. There was no way anyone was letting him in smelling like death and moldy cheese - not a good combination for New Year's celebrations.

Lucky for Desmond, he found a few extra quarters at the bottom of his backpack, and was able to afford to pay for the exorbitantly high cost of 75 cents per load. The place was kind of dingy, with flickering yellow lights and a sleep attendant who didn't even give Desmond a second glance upon entering. He wasn't the only customer there, surprisingly. There was an old woman loading her own laundry into a washing machine, and a college kid reading a textbook by the dryers with two loads next to him. Was he studying? Why was he studying? It had to be Winter Break, right?

Desmond shook his head, just thanking whatever deities were out there (no wait, never mind) that the kid wasn't paying attention when Desmond snatched a pair of boxers from the kid's basket of clean clothes.

Some might call Desmond a hypocrite for stealing from living people, when he could've done the same from dead people, who'd probably care a lot less.

But Desmond didn't think those people would realize just how much less creepy it is to wear clothes that belonged to someone alive, rather than the clothes someone died in. He already had that covered, thanks. At least this hoodie was already his.

Because it was a light load, Desmond only spent a fraction the time at both the washing machine and dryers for his clothes to be finished. The feeling of soft, warm cotton against his skin was like heaven - it made Desmond kind of nostalgic, and he couldn't believe how sucky his life must be at this moment if he was really missing domestic pleasures of fresh-out-the-dryer clothes at this point and time.

He decided to let it go, especially since he no longer smelled, and quickly departed the late-nite Laundromat without a second glance.

The next step was some good-old-fashioned pick-pocketing, because Desmond still did not have money, and he didn't want to hack an ATM for it. Those had cameras, and on the off chance that either Juno or Abstergo was watching, he'd rather not make it super easy for them.

Thankfully, Desmond lucked out at this time of night. There were plenty of drunk, celebratory people roaming around the area, which was alive with bars and nightclubs, just prime for the picking. Desmond did his best to at least steal from those who looked like they could afford it - guys in fancy suits and shiny leather shoes, women who wore diamonds and rubies as hair accessories. There were enough regular people suffering out there that Desmond didn't want to add to the pain, especially considering the fact that he was supposed to helping them, being an Assassin and all.

Finally, finally Desmond could finally head into the bar. It was after midnight now, but the party scene was still going strong. He was uptown from the business district, and far enough away from the Abstergo facility to feel comfortable enough to take off his hood. He'd have to, anyways, to get in anywhere.

Desmond chose a small bar - a sports bar, where there wouldn't be any sports playing tonight. His hunch that this was New York City was confirmed when he saw the Giants and Yankees banners and jerseys across the walls upon entering. The colors were a little too patriotic, but after coming out of the Revolutionary War just a few weeks ago, Desmond was kind of used to it by now.

At least half of the tables were filled, mostly what looked like low-level office workers and regular civilians, middle-aged people in jean vests and smoked, looking like the kind that went skydiving or something. An easy crowd at least, and no one gave Desmond a second look, even if he was probably the youngest guy in here.

It was dark in here, with warm lighting and atmosphere. Wooden bar, a healthy clientele that Desmond easily blended into...it reminded of the place he used to work at, right before Abstergo kidnapped him. In fact, it felt so familiar that Desmond nearly walked behind the bar itself, as if he was going to go back to his bartending duties like nothing happened.

Muscle memory was kind of funny, sometimes.

Instead, he took a seat at the bar, practically slumping over it in exhaustion. The adrenalin had long worn off by now, and Desmond was feeling every bump and bruise he earned escaping from Abstergo. The taser strikes were especially painful. His chest muscles were stiff, making it a little hard to breathe.

Letting his head fall into his arms, Desmond raised a single finger and mumbled, "Can I have a-a Scotch, please? O-on the rocks."

"Coming right up," the bartender replied, somehow managing to hear him from several feet away. A skill all in the profession learned, it seemed.

Desmond drifted a little, nearly ready to fall dead (ha-ha) asleep right then and there. He almost did, too, until he heard the clink of glass and ice by his ear and picked his head up, blinking blearily at the glass of warm russet liquid.

"You look like you had a rough night," the bartender said, eyeing Desmond with mild interest. He was an older man with a greying beard, but there was a spark in his eye that said he enjoyed a little bit of conversation. Maybe Desmond could do with some. "Too much partying?"

"A little," Desmond muttered, taking the glass and straightening up a little. He knocked his head back, downing the dram of Scotch like it was shot of liquor. It burned his throat, but Desmond was no stranger to alcohol, and had one many a drinking competition before. The Scotch settled in his stomach, a warm buzz that lightened up the tension in his muscles a little.

The bartender's eyes shot up on his forehead at the sight of this, looking more than a little concerned now. "That's, uh, quite a shiner you got there, kid. It's not a good way starting off the New Year by making enemies, you know."

"Eh, they didn't like me anyways," Desmond replied, setting the glass back down on the counter. He glanced into the mirror behind the bar, startled by his own reflection. This Desmond was alien in appearance, gaunt and gray-skinned, looking a lot more dead than he would've liked. And, holy shit, he did have a black eye. When the hell did he get that? "Ugh. Another, please."

The bartender complied, filling the cup half-way. Desmond had the urge to just take the bottle and submerge the cup in Scotch or, hell, just drink straight from the bottle itself, but resisted the urge and took his dram with small sniff. It was pretty good stuff, considering this bar was definitely commercial level, but at this point Desmond could drink moonshine and probably call it excellent.

He downed it again, this time to the warning of, "Hey, hey, slow down there, champ. I appreciate the business but I don't want there to be any accidents. Just what the hell happened to you?"

"Nothing you want to know."

"Hey, I'm always up for a good story."

"Trust me, you really don't want to know." Desmond said, hoping the guy would get a clue and drop it. Desmond did not have the mental capacity to make up lies at the moment; he just wanted to sit and have his first Scotch in four months. He gestured to the glass again, and smiled as it filled once more.

"At least tell me if you won or not," The bartender said good-naturedly, putting the bottle back, as if to say that Desmond should consider stopping now.

"Heh. I sure did." This time, Desmond sipped. The burning in his throat was a little more than he could take, and he was starting to see the wisdom in the bartender's words. Why was Desmond even pushing himself like this? Was because he used to be dead and now he wasn't? Is this how people acted when they got a second chance at life?

He didn't think so. You were supposed to be careful, you were supposed to appreciate the things you overlooked the last time.

...Well, Desmond had definitely overlooked his intake of alcohol, and decided to make up for it now. He set the glass down, adding, "But they'll probably come after me. They don't like being embarrassed, and they got plenty of back-up to call on. Me...not so much."

"Like I said." the bartender shrugged, not the least bit surprised as he started walking away to take care of another customer. "Bad time to make enemies. Maybe your New Year's Resolution should be making some new friends."

"Hmph," Desmond frowned into his drink. "Yeah, friends. Sure."

Friends that Abstergo would hunt down. Friends that were liabilities, that were leverage, that would just die, because Desmond wasn't strong enough to protect them.

He didn't even know how to contact his old friends. Rebecca and Shaun. His dad. How the hell was he supposed to reach them if he couldn't use the Internet? No doubt Juno was watching their correspondence. Maybe the Assassins didn't know; or they did and didn't care. Maybe they still thought the Templars were their biggest problem.

Desmond hissed under his breath, wincing at the taste of Scotch. Downing it all at once tended to skip that whole savoring bit, but now that Desmond was taking his time, he realized that Scotch was also an acquired taste. And he hadn't had it for a while.

A voice made him glance up. Up on the wall in a corner was a large TV, playing some 24 hour news station. Tilting his head curiously, Desmond peered at the reporter, standing in front of a neon parade in the middle of the street, with music so loud you could barely hear him speak. Desmond couldn't understand him at all, in fact, had it not been for the captions underneath.

"...Turning out to be a great New Year's Day, considering the recent events." The reporter said, having to shout with one hand over his ear. "Economists were afraid that the market might crash again after the Solar Event on December 21st, 2012, with the predicted power outages and loss of half the Earth's satellites. Internet, cell service, and power is still down in several neighborhoods across New York state, but it seems that the City that Never Sleeps, well, never sleeps! As you can see, the citizens are already getting back on their feet and celebrating the good things in life. Their positive attitude in the face of hard changes is certainly inspiring, Kathy!"

"It certainly is, Dan!" The camera switched back to a blond anchorwoman in her studio, but her smile quickly faded as she moved on to new topics. "In other news, there are more reports of the strange flower symbol that's been popping up all over Manhattan and surrounding areas," the camera cut to a series of images, mostly of building walls and subways, where the image of a rather rudimentary-looking flower made of criss-crossing straight lines was spray-painted across brick and tile. "Police aren't sure what to make of this, although our sources tell us that these symbols are noted to be painted in places where people still have power…"

Desmond stared at the images, a sharp pain suddenly jolting behind his eyes. He grunted, wincing and closing his eyes, bringing a hand to his forehead, just as he felt the world sway beneath him. Desmond caught the counter, but it was too late - he lost his balance, and fell off the stool.

He didn't even feel the landing, mostly because his mind was too busy filled with images and words that Desmond didn't remember creating at all.

It was the flower symbol again, only now it was made of coding, bright numbers flashing down in endless streams, a complex matrix of incomprehensible values.

Then Juno's face, flashing right in front of his eyes like he was right there in the Temple again. Her cruel, charming smile, those black eyes, shimmering skin that was less human and more...alien.

Her laughter. He could hear her laughing.

A map. A building, multiple levels, but this floor was important. One large room and an elevator, a set of stairs. Boxes, representing a piece of furniture or something, set in neat rows and columns, equidistant. No windows, but plenty of vents.

Then images - video images, famous photography. People marching. Saluting. Heiling. Nazis, all in line, marching in perfect, creepy synchronization. The flower image flashed over them, superimposed on the close-up of the soldiers' faces, blank and obedient as they appeared to honor this strange symbol.

Desmond gasped, a migraine blooming into his head, as he felt a sense of vertigo, like he missed a step on the stairs, before jolting back into reality. He blinked furiously, looking around, startled to find the bartender's face in his, two hands on his arm.

Desmond recoiled, horrified to be touched. He remembered the guard he killed, the one that fell to ash, and couldn't bear the thought of letting it happen again. He struggled, pulling away from the bartender's grip, breathing hard, "N-no, don't! You'll get infected!"

"What? What're you talking about?" the bartender stared at Desmond bewildered, but he withdrew his hands anyways. He stood up over Desmond, and that was when he realized he was still sitting on the floor, and it took him a moment to remember how he got there. "I think you've had enough for tonight, kid. You're kind of a lightweight, to be honest. How about I call you a cab and send you home?"

"N-no, I'll be fine," Desmond was still shaking from the experience of the images flashing in his head. What the fuck was that? He glanced at the TV, but the anchorwoman had already moved on to another topic, something about a missing girl. He shook his head, glanced back at the bartender. Behind him, Desmond could see he had attracted the attention of almost everyone else in the bar, thanks to his manic behavior. "Sorry about, um the mess. Here's your tab. I, uh, I gotta go."

Leaving behind a pile of bills that Desmond wasn't sure was even the right amount, he quickly headed out the bar, ducking his head and pulling on the hood. Well, that was embarrassing.

But as he started walking along the streets again, the buzz of alcohol keeping him warm the the bustling crowds keeping him hidden, Desmond realized what those images were.

They were a message. Juno's plans, the ones implanted in his brain that Altair told him about. Had they been triggered by the images on TV? Could other things do that, too? Why couldn't he just access it himself?

Whatever it was, Desmond knew that it would prove useful. Because now he knew one thing.

Juno had followers, and they already had a sigil to mark with, making it all the easier for Desmond to find them.

Now all he had to do was figure out what that map meant. What was Juno going to do?

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

King of the Castle

"What do you mean, it's gone?"

Dr. Caire blinked, looked up from his tablet. He squinted at the man before him — at only 27 years old, Juhani Otso Berg was built like a bear, with pale eyes that looked too old on his face. If Berg was afraid of punishment, he didn't show it.

He seemed to take up a lot of space in the small observation room. Dr. Caire remained seated on the pristine white couch while Berg stood off to the side, giving Dr. Caire enough room to still look out the glass to see the floor below. A grid-work of blue and dark gray cubicles were outlined below, each with their own team of occupants: one in the Animus, and the other an analyst that ensured their longevity.

These were the 'recruits' of Rikken's latest scheme, an extension of the old Animus Project run by Warren Vidic. Rikken didn't seem to have one imaginative cell in his whole body, it seemed; always stealing everyone else's ideas and pretending they're his own. Dr. Caire had no idea why he was resurrecting such an outdated idea, but so long as it actually got him results this time (and didn't get them killed), Dr. Caire could overlook his personal distaste about it all. There were more efficient ways to find the right gene, but it was not Dr. Caire's place to tell his superiors what to do.

"Subject Seventeen, sir," Berg said, in a low Finnish accent. His left eye was still half-closed, but noticeably working, considering the recently-healed scar tissue that crawled across one half of Berg's face. "The intruders took nothing else aside from him and his personal effects. Anyone who witnessed them were killed."

"What about security footage?" Dr. Caire asked, although he was starting to think it was a moot point by now. If they still had security footage, Berg and Sigma team would be hunting them down right now, not reporting their failures.

"Gone. The computer was destroyed shortly before they escaped."

"How did they even get inside in the first place?

"We aren't sure, sir. My team and I are still investigating."

"How many dead?" Dr. Caire refused to let anger or frustration taint his voice; his grip tightened around his tablet nonetheless.

"Nineteen, sir."

"God dammit," Dr. Caire muttered, grimacing. The last time he showed this much emotion was two weeks ago when he lost all power in his house, despite the fact that Laetitia promised him none of the Templars would be effected by the Flare.

He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose behind his glasses, closing his eyes to think for a moment. "Who knew the Assassins could be so audacious. Why would they come for just the body? Our servers are a more prominent target."

"From my guess," Berg offered with a shrug, placing his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. Always the soldier. "They knew what we were planning to do. I met Subject Seventeen's father last month — he had a lot to say about what we did to his son. I'm not surprised they retaliated."

Dr. Caire threw a withering look at Berg. "Oh, really? Well, if only your insights could've been more helpful..."

This time it was Berg's turn to scowl. He turned away, perhaps to hide the fact he just rolled his eyes. "The Assassins of the modern age are too sentimental. That's their weakness, and I will exploit it like any other."

"I can't wait to hear how you'll accomplish that," Dr. Caire said with an edge of sarcasm, eliciting a disgruntled sniff before leaving Dr. Caire to go stand in front of the window. He was silent for while Dr. Caire went back to his work.

Dr. Caire had just gotten a pop-up warning him of a subject's increased heart rate, when Berg asked out of the blue, "What is Rikken looking for? Another artifact?"

"No," Dr. Caire gave Berg an annoyed look (which went unregistered because Berg's back was still to him), as he addressed the pop-up with a typed reply to continue pushing the subject. "We are seeking a replacement to our failed EyeAbstergo project."

"You need memories to build another satellite?"

It took a bit of effort to keep Dr. Caire from losing his patience with this man. Berg may be an excellent killer and a sharp tactician, but he did not have a mind for science. "Of course not, idiot. Our research team uncovered documents from the early Eighteenth century — the Golden Age of Piracy — speaking of some ancient temple in the Caribbean Islands, with smooth walls and glowing lines. We have reason to believe that it is a site built by the Ones Who Came Before — but not just any old temple, like the one we found here in New York. No, this one allowed them infinite sight. Unfortunately, only those known as Sages knew the location of the Observatory, and we have been unable to identify any from this age. So we will have to look for them in the Seventeen-Hundreds."

He knew his answer would create more questions than answers for an ignoramus like Berg, but surprisingly the blond man didn't ask about Sages or the First Civilization. Instead, he said, "...but why do are you using children?"

"No one will miss them. They are orphans, taken from various places across the country. They won't be connected to us." Dr. Caire said with a wave of his hand. It took him a moment to figure out why this particular detail bothered Berg so much. Glancing up from his tablet, Dr. Caire squinted at him. "I hope you're not getting sentimental on me, Juhani. Science and progress has no place for paternal instincts."

Berg cast him a cold look, his face impassive. "I know that. It just seems... unnecessary."

"Well, after the disaster that was Subject Seventeen and his Assassin brethren," Dr. Caire said with raised eyebrows. "We've taken care to divert our attention to less interesting people. Besides, children's minds are easier to mould — they will adapt better to the synchronization process as they get older and their brains adjust to the exercise."

Berg still didn't look convinced; in fact, Dr. Caire might've made it worse by saying that, so he deftly added, "It's for the best, Juhani. Please consider. Would you prefer if it was your own daughter down there, rather than the other children?"

Dr. Caire smiled as he watched Berg stiffen, eyes widen; it wasn't necessarily a threat, but Berg's buttons were easy to push, and Dr. Caire was the kind of man who knew just how and when to push them. It was easy to keep him in line this way. Without waiting for Berg to reply, he said, "Of course not. Your daughter is special; she doesn't deserve this. She'll thank you in the future one day, Juhani, for saving her from this. Isn't that worth it?"

Berg didn't say anything. He just continued to glower out the window. Then, after a minute of quiet, he muttered, "I see your point."

"Good," Dr. Caire said, settling back into his seat. That was easy. "Now I want you to go find Subject Seventeen's body. His DNA is crucial to our next task. He had an ancestor alive during that period, an Edward Kenway. Father of our very own Haytham Kenway, one of the pioneers in Modern Templar leadership. If we can get Seventeen back, we will be able to explore Edward Kenway's life in depth."

"Just how many ancestors does Seventeen have?" Juhani cast Dr. Caire a surprised look. Even he only had a few Assassins in his lineage; Desmond Miles was born and bred from an entire legacy.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," Dr. Caire admitted with a shrug. He set his tablet down. "Dozens, it seems, an endless supply of information that would be invaluable to the Templars. So please, go and do your job."

Berg scowled, stalking towards the door. "I don't take orders from you."

Dr. Caire smirked. "That's not up for you to decide.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Silence, Fool!

Five days later, Desmond found himself sitting in the New York Public Library, and somehow made it this far without killing anyone else.

He was hunched over a computer, typing away at the keyboard, going through dozens and dozens of pages at one time. His browser was full of open tabs. Desmond had spent his first few hours of freedom trying to understand everything that had happened since he died.

For one: The world is still safe, and the solar flare did not in fact render human civilization as we know it to ashes. Which was pretty great, considering everything Desmond had to do to get to this point. Four months, three lives, and one Apple led to this.

The library was quite busy despite the fact it was still the holidays. A lot of kids here, even though school was out. Desmond blended in well enough with the college students and other Millennials trying to keep their fill of social media and worldwide electronic connection. He kept his hood up, though, to protect his identity not only from the security cameras, but also from the webcams attached to the computers.

The Earth was still kind of freaking out about it, though. No one was completely sure just how much the solar flare (and by extension, the giant First Civilization tech that fended it off) did to the planet. Reports from NASA said that about 63% of Earth's satellites are just gone — something about electromagnetic radiation that Desmond didn't really understand. What he did understand, though, was that wireless connection around the world had been cut off, including large parts of the Internet.

Well, the Internet itself was fine, just people's access to it. New York City was one of the first places to get it back, and social media sites were flooded with people's personal experiences of the End of the World. Some were a little melodramatic for Desmond's taste (Surprisingly, lack of wi-fi did not mean you were going to die), but he was impressed by how many were banding together, putting together pieces of their collective knowledge.

Plenty had seen the faint golden shield that had gone up after Desmond activated the Temple — and now they were rightly starting to think that it had something to do with the solar flare, that it was protection of some sort. But was it government? Did the UN plan this? Or maybe NASA? And if so, why didn't they say anything? Wasn't the solar flare supposed to be harmless?

Others were leaning more to the spiritual side. A few were obsessed with conspiracies. Desmond refused to join the conversation, but he was glad to see that not everyone was brainwashed by Abstergo.

Speaking of.

It left a sour taste in Desmond's mouth that he had the Templars to thank for his Internet access right now. After all, it was through Abstergo's tireless efforts that the world's major cities got their Internet and radio back just a day after the solar flare event. Of course, how hard could it be, when the Templars owned every type of major corporate branch in existence? Their IP, AbstergoEye, skyrocketed in the stock markets thanks to their "reliability". (That was, of course, after the stock markets came back online).

Their new satellite, though, had been cancelled, much to Desmond's relief. He was pretty sure they didn't have the Apple anyways to arm it with, but a part of him was unsure. He had no idea how much the Templars recovered when they came for his body in the Temple. Had the Apple still been there? Did Juno hide it? Or did she just not care?

Hard to say. It wasn't like Desmond could just hack into their servers and find out for himself. Say what you will about Abstergo, but their security was unlike anything Desmond had ever seen. Desmond was a better killer than he was a hacker, and he was not about to test his skills now.

He'd just have to wait and see, keep an eye on the news for anything suspicious. Abstergo were careful, but even under their watch, something always slipped through.

Desmond was used to living life off the grid. In fact, he learned pretty quick that living life after you've died is kind of like being a regular Assassin in modern day — no cell phones, no credit cards, no (traceable) online accounts, and certainly no licenses or vehicles registered in his name.

That last one was probably why Desmond got kidnapped by Abstergo in the first place. Yes, Idiot Desmond of Yore just had to have that classic Ducati he found in the junkyard, he couldn't just take the subway like a normal person…

But the Desmond of the previous year didn't have to worry about being chased by Templars or Assassins. He thought he had been safe, after years on his own, and of course having no idea of his true ancestry, didn't think the Templars would have any reason to hunt him down.

He also hadn't thought they were real, but hey. Live and learn.

Desmond wasn't too interested in who the Templars were in particular, but he had already picked out a few he considered uber dangerous. The first, of course, the head of Abstergo Industries himself: Alan Rikkin. Desmond remembered the man's face shortly after he completed Altaïr's memories when he was under Vidic's control. Rikkin, who had been standing in an observation room, waiting for news about where to find the next Apple. Vidic had been terrible enough, but seeing Rikkin's face on that computer screen made Desmond's hands clench involuntarily.

If Desmond ever got a chance to kill him, he'd use it.

But the Templars were not his first concern, and it took some effort for Desmond to close out of that tab and make himself focus on Juno and her secret plan. Images of the map were still in his mind, but Desmond wasn't having much luck figuring out where they were from. He had made a sketch of it soon after receiving the 'vision', if you could call it that, and continued to study it for more clues.

Much like the Templars, Juno's presence forced Desmond to live under the radar.

The night Desmond woke up, he dared go back to his old home, the one he lived in hiding from the Assassins, right before Abstergo ruined everything.

It was an old warehouse in the Meatpacking district, one of those rundown buildings no one wanted to renovate. Before, Desmond had stayed there, half-squatter half-owner, with a bed and kitchen and everything. He even had electricity and TV, thanks to a local friend named Elliot, an aspiring mechanical engineer and a bored hacker in his off-time.

It had started to snow by the time Desmond had found the location again. He was pleased to see that the windows were still boarded up — no one had come back to this place since he had been kidnapped. And Abstergo wouldn't come looking here, would they? They figured he'd be too smart to go back to one of his old haunts — that no Assassin would be so stupid enough to do such a thing.

But maybe that was one of Desmond's virtues, his stupidity. It truly boggled the mind sometimes. Abstergo would never suspect him living right under their noses.

Climbing up to the right spot had been easier this time around than in the summer; although he had spent a week or so being dead, Desmond had all the skills of the greatest Assassins, and climbing buildings, even modern ones, were a piece of cake now. Before, he had to take the fire escape to sneak into his little hideaway, and that had been a pain in the ass. Not to mention slow as hell.

Everything was right where he had left it. Plain mattress on a wrought-iron bedframe, a pile of sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows, all in a mess. The TV, an old thing from the 90's, sat on some milk crates across from the bed. It was giant and caked with dust. Hell, everything was caked with dust. It drifted through the air like algae in water. It fell from the high rafters, which had been nice in the summer, but didn't do much to conserve heat in the winter.

Desmond would have to find a way to kick-start the heating system somehow, without alerting the power company to his presence. Awesome.

For the time being, he settled with what he had. The kitchen was bare — there was still some dirty dishes left, but someone had taken all his food. Who the hell did that? Desmond needed to eat, yo.

(Of course, had anything remained, it'd be expired and rotting at this point. But still. Who takes a guy's food like that?)

This apartment, more or less, took up about a quarter of the third floor of the warehouse. Outside the door was a hallway of offices — and the floor below was the work floor, which may have once contained a menagerie of massive machines, but was now empty space and creaky rafters.

Surprisingly, the light switch worked when Desmond tried it, but he immediately turned it off again. He didn't need anyone spotting some weird light coming up here and deciding to investigate.

At least the bathroom still worked.

Overall, Desmond was glad to have something familiar back, even if it was kind of a shithole. He had a place to hide now, to recuperate as he planned his next move...whatever that would be.

"Whoa, dude, what happened to your hand?"

The voice jolted Desmond out of his reverie. He looked up at the guy who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, staring down at him with wide eyes. He pointed at Desmond's black hand, resting on the desk, right out in the open. "That's a nasty-looking burn, dude."

"Uh, yeah," Desmond's face drained of color and he snapped his hand back, stuffing it against his stomach. God, he was an idiot. "Fire accident. Tried to flambé a pancake."

Right now, Desmond was just praying that this guy would leave. He was stupid enough to be so obvious in public with his abnormal limb, but Desmond didn't want to blow his cover before he had a chance to do anything.

Two rows in front of him was a blonde girl at another computer. Desmond had been keeping an eye on her ever since he first showed up in the library. He'd appreciate it if she didn't spot him and immediately peg Desmond for being a creeper.

It was a lame lie, and Desmond cringed after hearing himself, but surprisingly the guy just nodded. "I feel you, dude. You should probably get that checked out, though. That doesn't look healthy."

If I wanted to stay healthy, I wouldn't kill people for a living. Desmond just shook his head. "It's not as bad as it looks," he mumbled.

Beside him, the guy just shrugged and said, "Whatever you say, dude." And walked away.

Desmond heaved a sigh, bowing his head. Thank god for the unaffected youth of this generation.

Going back to his screen, Desmond too care to hide his hand in his pocket. He was mentally kicking himself for forgetting about it in the first place - his hand didn't feel different, so the fact that it looked like barbecue sometimes escaped his mind. Assassins already stuck out because of their stupid hoods, Desmond didn't want to paint a more obvious target on himself.

Ahead of him, the blond girl took a sip of her coffee. This was her third refill in an hour - at some point, she'd have to go to the bathroom. The body cannot contain such a high concentration of macchiatos for a long period of time, but this girl must have a high tolerance, because Desmond was getting impatient. Just leave already!

Ten minutes later, she finally pushed her chair back and left the terminal in a quick walk towards the bathrooms. Desmond perked up as soon as he saw her move, but didn't get out of his own seat until she was a good twenty feet away. Making sure her back was to him, and that no one else was watching, Desmond quietly got up from his seat and strolled over to her spot, still marked by her backpack and drink.

Sitting down, Desmond peered at the computer, and smiled when he saw that one of the tabs revealed her email inbox. After glancing up one last time at the bathrooms and checking his peripherals, Desmond opened a new message box and snapped out a harried message, before entering the recipient in the address box…then added a few more, just to be sure.

He hit send.

The girl was just walking out of the bathroom when Desmond deleted the 'message sent' icon in her inbox. She had just turned her head to locate her spot, just as Desmond was turning away from her terminal. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and kept his head down, walking away at a brisk pace as though he hadn't just been looking through her personal files.

Desmond wasn't quite sure if he got away without arising suspicion, but he made it to the doors without someone shouting behind him, so that had to be good. He made it to the streets without being stopped once. He was a little ill-suited for the cold, with only jeans and a black jacket over his hoodie, but he'd be fine once he hit the subway.

Of course, getting there would be quite a trip. Walking through New York City was a surreal experience.

Desmond saw ghosts everywhere. Whitish-blue translucent figures that drifted in and out of his field of view, men in coattails and women in petticoats. Connor's memories, it seemed, of New York back when it was hardly more than a strategically-placed port town with some nice churches. Half the island had still been trees and farmland back then, so sometimes Desmond would see someone standing in the middle of an intersection, harvesting corn, and each time Desmond had to overcome his initial panic at the sight of someone in blind danger, to remind himself that none of these people were real. Anymore.

It was a constant reminder of how he ended his latest ancestor's memories. Desmond had seen through to the end of both Altaïr and Ezio, but not of Connor, who couldn't have even been in his thirties before he finished off Charles Lee and buried Achilles. What happened to him afterwards? Did he continue the fight against Templairs, or seclude himself away like his old mentor? Did he go looking for his people, the Kanien'kehá:ka, after they were forced out of the valley? Who did he fall in love with? Did he get to raise his kids?

Desmond knew it was a moot point. They were all long dead and gone. But he couldn't help but wonder if Connor at least had a peaceful death like his other ancestors.

He sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders as he ducked down a flight of stairs into the roaring cavern below. While subways weren't always the fastest or most convenient for a freerunning Assassin, Desmond at least didn't have to worry about seeing anymore ghosts down here.

Desmond also appreciated the crowds and the noise, which allowed him to blend in easily. He might never be as good as Altaïr, but he sometimes felt connected to his ancestor, taking a seat between two strangers and acting like he wasn't one of the most wanted men on Earth.

He always chose cars that were filled, which was pretty much the opposite of what any sane person would want. But as much as Desmond liked subways, he knew they were littered with cameras, and this way he could make himself as obscure as possible. So long as he didn't show his face directly to the lens, he'd be fine.

As he settled in for the ten minute ride, Desmond took stock of his fellow passengers. Most of them were reading, as one does; a man to his left was sleeping, while a woman to his right was pregnant and holding on to the hand of her young son, who liked to bounce in his seat and jabber about trains. The mother just smiled and spoke softly to him, somehow managing to show better parenting in one moment than Desmond's father did in his entire life.

...Okay, maybe he was getting a little bitter. Last Desmond remembered, he and his father were on good terms. Sort of. Right?

Another passenger got Desmond's attention, mostly because he was the only one that was actively moving throughout the car. A man in a long trenchcoat that had seen better days, a completely shaved head, and dark bags under his eyes. As if his appearance wasn't enough to ward away others, he kept staring and getting into other people's space.

The skinhead kept approaching other people, apparently trying to talk to them, but whatever he had to say, other people weren't interested. Desmond felt kind of sorry for the guy, who was so persistent yet didn't get the clue that no one wanted to talk to him.

After receiving an elbow to the gut, the man slumped in the seat next to Desmond (who inched away a little), and continued to rant in a low mumble.

"...Being that life is both sacred and profane..." the man said, clasping his hands together in front of his face, leaning forward in his seat. "... priceless and worthless...fleeting and eternal we submit..."

Oh, that explains it. No one liked a proselytizer, especially not in a subway car where you couldn't escape them. Desmond kept his head turned away, in case the guy got any funny ideas, but found himself listening in to the man's ravings anyways. He might've appreciated headphones and music, but Desmond's senses were on full alert these days, and he refused to deafen himself to the world.

"Being that life can be as easily construed from primordial swamps..." the man kept going, seemingly oblivious to the strange looks he was getting from everyone else as he started to rock in his seat. "...as from a stinking Petri dish we submit..."

There was something morbidly fascinating in how passionate the man spoke, reverently, although these words didn't sound like any scripture Desmond recognized.

"Dude, are you all right?" Desmond cast the skinhead a wary look, wondering if maybe he should do something. He felt kind of bad, just acting like he was ignoring the guy, when he definitely needed help.

But the skinhead either didn't hear him, or didn't care enough to respond. He continued to rock and mutter. Desmond slowly shifted around, raising a hand to get the skinhead's attention.

And that's when the man said: "Being that Those Who Came Before imbued us with life and may remove it as readily should we defy or deny their original plan we submit..."

Desmond spluttered, recoiling in shock. "W-whoa, what?"

The skinhead likewise brought his gaze up to glare at Desmond. In a gravelly voice that said he needed a drink or two, he whispered, "Do you submit?"

"S-submit?" Desmond choked on the word, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of some random guy knowing about the First Civilization. Surely it had to be a coincidence. There is no way... "Submit to what?"

"The beloved Juno!" the man snarled, getting up in Desmond's face, grabbing fistfuls of his hoodie and jerking Desmond back. Desmond tried to shove him off, but the man had a grip of steel. "We must submit, so she may guide us into the Grey!"

Desmond was literal seconds away of sinking his blade into this man's chest (or face) when a hand landed on the skinhead's shoulder. "Hey, man, back off — oof!"

"Do not touch me, vile creature!" the skinhead lashed out, letting go of Desmond to strike the intervener, catching them across the chin and sending them sprawling to the cold metal floor of the subway. The skinhead leapt to his feet, delivering a swift kick to the guy on the floor, who gasped and curled in to protect himself.

"Hey!" Desmond launched himself at the skinhead, realizing now that this wasn't some harmless evangelist with a few issues. "Leave him alone!"

He grabbed the back of the guy's coat and threw him — the skinhead, unbalanced, head knocking into one of the poles and nearly collapsed had he not caught it. The other passengers gasped and backed off, crowded into the corners, as the skinhead scrambled back up, a little tipsy from the hit, and rounded on Desmond.

With spit flying from his mouth, the skinhead jabbed a finger at everyone in the car. "You shall all face her judgment! No one but the favored will be spared her wrath! The end of human civilization is coming, and only the Instruments of the First Will can save you!"

The skinhead decided to finish his little crazy speech by swinging a left hook at Desmond; the swing was wild and amateur. Desmond saw it coming from a mile away and caught it before the knuckles could land on his face. He was about to jerk the arm down and force the skinhead to his knees, when he noticed something on the back of the man's hand.

A black marking. At first, Desmond thought it was a tattoo, but then realized with a sort of fascinated horror it was a brand, the kind made with a hot iron. He recognized the symbol instantly.

Five criss-crossing lines that made a flower.

"You..." The skinhead stared at Desmond as if just seeing him for the first time. He raised his other hand, pointing a shaking finger at Desmond's face. "It's you! You're supposed to be dead. The lady told us of her prophet's great sacrifice. The prophet! The prophet has ret—"

Desmond panicked and slammed his fist into the skinhead's chest, bringing him up and close to hide the glint of silver as his blade sunk into the man's heart. The man gasped and wheezed as Desmond gently set him back in the seat; he proceeded to slump over, like a sleeping man, his layers of clothing hiding the growing blood enough so that no one would know the wiser.

People were still staring as Desmond turned around. He raised his hands and shrugged, saying, "Sorry, the guy's a bit winded. Probably just let him sleep it off..."

Just then, the train slowed, coming to a stop. Desmond couldn't get off the train fast enough. He thought he heard someone shout something behind him, and the sound made him skittish, and he almost considered running right then and there.

No, what are you, stupid? Way to look extra guilty. Desmond shook his head and kept it low as he made his way towards the exit.

"Hey, wait!"

Aw, shit. Desmond was about to throw away all reason and book it, when a hand landed on his shoulder, and someone said in a too-loud voice: "Hey! Hey! Desmond! Is that you?"

He whipped around, startled. There before him was a man his age in black hoodie and puffer jacket, with an impressive shiner on his jaw. Desmond realized with a jolt that he was the one who intervened on his behalf with the skinhead — Juno's acolyte. What were the fucking odds?

He never thought he'd know that face, too. Elliot, that quiet college kid from what felt like ages ago, grinning from ear to ear. "Holy shit, Desmond! You're alive!"

Desmond was frozen to the spot, speechless. This was not good.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Employee of the Month

Shaun squinted at his phone. “The bloody hell is that supposed to say?”

Rebecca sipped her coffee, made a face, then glanced over at him. She had just come by, delivering a message to Melanie Lemay about something-or-other. Shawn had no interest in the bureaucracy of gaming companies.

He was just a simple barista, after all, working in the middle of Abstergo’s largest brainwashing facility. She hadn’t seemed to notice that the cup said ‘Rhianna’ which was a good joke wasted, in Shaun’s opinion. She asked, “What is it? Someone forgot to put their ‘u’ in ‘color’ again?”

 Shaun threw her a sour look. “No, smarty-pants, I’m talking about this email I got yesterday. It looks like spam, if spam was written by a monkey haphazardly slapping its meaty paws across on a keyboard.”

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca took the phone, going over the message. “Britneyrox834? Hm, could be a Templar whose very enthusiastic about Nineties teen pop.”

Shaun saw John from IT pass by and waved at him, and got a short salute back. He said to Rebecca, “Colorful blokes, them.”

The atrium of Montréal’s very own Abstergo Entertainment’s headquarters was huge and airy and green. Taking after the nearby Biodôme, the skyscraper was half-workspace, half-greenhouse, with large leafy plants filling in between walkways and automatic sprinklers keeping everything sparkling fresh. You could even hear birdsong, as small sparrows darted to and from the walls high over their heads, nesting in the small vents and crannies that hid amongst the multiple floors.

The atrium continued up and up, its ceiling reaching the very top of the building in a narrow tunnel that funneled sunlight all the way down here. It was almost ethereal, how serene it all was. Shaun sometimes forgot he was working right under the nose of the world’s most powerful Templars here.

“Certainly looks like spam,” Rebecca said, handing back the phone. As Shaun took it back, analyzing the message again, she took out her own device. “Whoa, hey, I got the same message.”

They stopped and glanced at each other. Rebecca’s smile slipped off her face. Neither said a word, and a sense of gravity fell upon them as they realized the same thing at once. Was it just a coincidence that they both received the same message the same day? Their emails were encrypted, no one could access them unless they already knew the right address, and very few did. Certainly not anyone who’d pick a username like Britneyrox834.

Shaun went over the email again. It read:

Subject: ~MASSIVE GAIN!!~~

~~~Ssave Thousands!!! wIthh our% nuwLy enhhanced formuLA ev*n yu!!! can hav the msaavie gains of huLk hogin and hIs aw#some VErilty!!! ~~~~

~~~oNly for $394 a mont% can Yuu!!! see grate gaainns!! in just 1 day& see results! C@n you resist? i repete onlt $395 a month, JUst oNe day, and yur life!!! will **change ~~~

~~~dOnt w@it fOrever!! limited t3me offer!!~ order Now %nd yo wiLl see INstant rEsults!!~ Deadly gainz r yOurs to claim ~~ act Now !! Three days limited offer!! CONTACT us now! reply to eMail in nExt hour w%th your creDit informat#on and Earn another package ~~free~~ of ch@rge!! Save 50.99$ or MONey back guaranteeD. ¡!!

“See what I mean?” Shaun asked when Rebecca was done. He reached for his phone. “Complete rubbish.”

“No wait,” Rebecca pulled away and Shaun’s hand closed around empty air. As he whined in complaint, she held up her finger and brought the screen to her nose, squinting. “I think there’s a message here.”

Shaun rolled his eyes. “Of course there’s a message, it’s just meant to prey on people over the age of eighty who don’t know how to use the Internet!”

“No, not that kind of message!” Rebecca snapped, smacking his hand away when Shaun tried to reach for his phone age. “I mean a secret message! You’re not supposed to read the whole thing, just the right parts...just the capital letters.”

Shaun frowned at her, withdrawing his shunned hand with a pout. “What, like how Erudito does it? We haven’t received a message from them in ages. What could they want?”

“Get a pen, dummy, and let’s find out!” Rebecca said, and went back to the phone. “Let’s see...S-T-I-L-L-A...”

Realizing she wasn’t going to slow down, Shaun regained his senses and scrambled for something to write with. Grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser and the sharpie he used to deliberately misspell people’s names with, he began scribbling down each letter as Rebecca reported it, forming a strange but coherent message.

S-T-I-L-L-A-L-I-V-E-N-Y-C-J-U-N-O-O-N-L-I-N-E-D-O-N-T-C-O-N-

“Juno?” Shaun blurted when he recognized the word. “Erudito knows about her?”

“Shut up! I’m still reading. T ..A ..C ..T ..M ..E ...D.. E ..S—”

“Mond.” Shaun interrupted her, his eyes going wide as he stared at the message written in wet black ink across the wrinkled napkins. His throat went dry as he repeated, softer, “Desmond.”

“No...” Rebecca shook her head, her shoulders hunching up. She set the phone down, shoved it away from her like it was covered in acid. Shaun inched away from it, too. Neither of them wanted to look at it again. “That’s not...that’s not possible. D-Desmond didn’t write this. H-he’s...”

“Dead.” Shaun finished when her sentence drifted. He fell against the counter, arms supporting his sudden very shaky weight. “I know.”

They were silent for a very long time.

It had been less than a month since Desmond died, and not once did either of them talk about it. Shaun didn’t really see a problem with that; he was British, after all, and that’s just not how it was done. But even his own pride couldn’t hide the fact that maybe he was just bad at talking about his emotions, and maybe they shouldn’t have waited so long to confront this.

After leaving the Temple, the three of them — Shaun, Rebecca, and William Miles — took the van and made a beeline to Canada. They didn’t stop until they reached Montreal, and it was then that Shaun realized they should’ve gone back into the Temple to at least bury Desmond. To at least honor his sacrifice. They shouldn’t have just left him there, alone and forgotten. He deserved better than that.

But it was too late. There was no turning back.

Shaun had been dealing with that regret ever since.

He had tried to convince himself (with a side of gin) that it wouldn’t have made a difference. Funerals are just all show and no substance. What would he have even gotten out of it, except dirt on his favorite vest? Shaun was an intellectual; he was a man of reason and logic, and he didn’t waste his time coddling sentiments. But for once he wished he had given in to them.

Now he didn’t have a choice.

He never asked Rebecca how she felt because, to be honest, it was only going to make it worse. Being a barista for Templars was a mind-numbingly awful as it already was, Shaun didn’t need to be burdened with extra guilt on top of it all.

“Maybe...” Rebecca eventually broke the silence, a tint of hope in her voice. She sniffed a little — not a good idea to lose composure in the middle of a public atrium. “Maybe it’s just a trick. The Templars trying to-to mess with us.”

But Shaun was doubtful. “They have our personal emails, and all they send us is some cruel joke about our friend? That’s a little weaksauce, Rebecca, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Well!” Rebecca threw up her hands, glaring at him. “What else could it be, Shaun? Erudito wouldn’t do this! The Templars aren’t this petty. So what does that leave us with?”

Shaun frowned, staring at the counter. His eyes drifted back to the abandoned phone. Something tickled in the back of his mind, but Shaun was almost too afraid to say it out loud. “I don’t know. Maybe...”

“Maybe what, four-eyes?” Rebecca demanded, her voice still tense. Her sadness manifesting as anger and frustration, Shaun’s rationale told him. Nothing personal.

But Shaun, strangely, didn’t feel as sad as before. It had been a heavy weight in his chest, in his lungs, that made him sigh and slump. Now it was gone. Replaced by something else. A tentative lightness, that almost made him want to smile. One that he couldn’t help but nurture.

“Well, it’s as the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle say,” Shaun said slowly, reaching out and dragging the phone back into his palms. “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

But Shaun just looked at her, his eyes wide. “What if it’s true, Rebecca? What if Desmond really did send that message? I mean, it makes sense! He knows our emails, he knows the secret code, he knows we know the secret code, that we could decipher it...what if he made it out of that Temple?”

“That’s impossible.” Rebecca just shook her head, scowling. “I can’t believe it’s you whose falling for this. You’re supposed to be the smart one, the-the logical one! There’s no way Desmond’s still alive! Y-you’re just in denial.”

Shaun straightened, pocketing his phone. The matter was settled, even if Rebecca was not. “Well, maybe I am. But you can’t deny that there’s something strange about that message. Who else would know about Juno, what she could do? That she’s...online? In the Internet?”

“Yeah, that’s, uh, weird,” Rebecca admitted with a huff. She crossed her arms. “Doesn’t mean anything, though. What if she sent the message, then? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, is it?”

“...No.” Shaun realized she had a point. But did Juno even care about them anymore? Assassins must be small bananas to her now that she was gaining power. “Wait, if Juno’s online, then that means she must be watching us. Watching everyone. I think Desmond must be trying to warn us about her. And really, why would Juno give us a heads-up about her evil masterplan? It has to be Desmond.”

“Desmond didn’t — okay, never mind,” Rebecca just threw up her hands. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, Desmond somehow didn’t die and managed to send us this message. Why did it take him this long? What is he doing? What does he expect us to do?”

“Be careful,” Shaun said. That seemed like the obvious answer. He leaned over the counter, keeping his voice low as a group of execs walked past. “If Juno’s somehow accessed the Internet — which I don’t doubt she has — then Desmond will have to stay out of her way. She certainly seemed to think that he would die, so I imagine he doesn’t want to tip her off. Maybe the encryption wasn’t to hide from the Templars, but from her.”

“You don’t think she’d pick up on it?”

“She must be going through massive amounts of data every second,” Shaun added. “One spam email written in terrible English out of thousands isn’t going to ping on her radar.”

Rebecca nodded slowly, her brow drawing together. “I-I suppose...but she’ll pick up on it sooner or later. If she’s become part-computer or whatever, she’ll learn to pick up on certain patterns. She’ll recognize the kind of messages sent to us, ones we don’t usually get. She might get suspicious. She might figure it out.”

“We’ll just make sure she doesn’t.”

“You know, when you say stuff like that, it makes me think you don’t actually know how computers and AI work.”

“Call me an optimist.”

“Unbelievable.”

They shared a smile, laughing incredulously. This situation was just so...so bizarre that Shaun didn’t know what to make of it. Was Desmond really alive? Did he really contact them? He wanted to believe it. He had to believe it. He didn’t come this far to give up so soon.

“There’s just one problem, though,” Rebecca said, taking her coffee and sipping it. Again, she made a face. If she didn’t like his coffee, then she should switch to tea; nothing was better than tea. “What do we tell William?”

“Uh,” Shaun winced at the very thought of presenting the secret message to the former Assassin mentor. “Good question.”

“There’s no way he’ll take it seriously.” Rebecca said, which was a wise insight. “He’ll think its Templars, trying to threaten us or something.”

“If this is a threat, the Templars are sure being obtuse about it.”

“Yeah, they’re usually more honest about how much they want to kill you.” Rebecca shook her head, as though disappointed. “Anyways, I don’t think we should tell him. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Shaun raised an eyebrow. “What are you hoping for?”

“More proof,” Rebecca said. “That Desmond...that he’s alive. If he is, he’ll find us. I’m sure of it.”

“Now you’re the one who’s starting to sound a little mad.”

She whapped him across the arm, but smiled good-naturedly. “Oh, shut up. I’m just...being realistic. Keeping my options open. If Desmond’s alive, and he’s still in New York, then we should keep an eye out for anything interesting. He’s bound to make do something right.”

“Or stupid.”

“Sometimes those are the same exact thing.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Sharing is Caring

“...Elliott?” Desmond croaked.

“Yeah, man, it’s me!” Elliott laughed, tapping his chest with his hands. He was shorter than Desmond, but his voice made it sound like he was the biggest guy in the room. “Don’t tell me you forgot already. Where the hell you been, man? You walked right off the planet!”

“Uh, yeah,” Desmond blinked, shook his head. Get a hold of yourself man. Act casual. He has no idea. “I, uh, went to see my family. Just got back here last week. Right before the Flare.”

“Yeah, nasty stuff, right?” Elliott nodded, still smiling. His hair was shorter than Desmond remembered. A little thinner, too. The grin was the same, though, bright and innocent, unmarred by the dark bags under his eyes. Elliott always looked a little tired, whether he pulled an all-nighter or slept for twelve hours.

Desmond jumped when Elliott clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, you should come over to my place! It’s not far. We gotta catch up, Des. So much shit happened since you were gone.”

Desmond threw up his hands, trying to step away. “Uh, no thanks, man. I, uh, don’t wanna impose…”

“Nah, man, it’s fine! Seriously, it's less than a block away. Come on! We can catch up, and I’ll show you how to make a martini.”

“I already know how to make a martini.”

“I know, but when’s the last time you made one, dude?”

Desmond appraised Elliott for a second, considering the offer. He wasn’t anywhere near the warehouse, and after just killing a man, he didn’t feel safe leading the authorities to his hide-out, if they could figure out where he went. He was already wasting time as it was, just standing here and talking. He needed to get out of the subway.

And besides, he really did want to know if Elliott was okay. He wanted to know what happened since he’d been gone.

So with a sigh, Desmond relented. “Okay, fine. Just for a few minutes. I can’t hang around for long.”

“Alright, man!” Elliott clapped his hand on Desmond’s shoulder, making Desmond wince a little. Physical contact made him antsy for some reason. Even Elliott noticed, withdrawing his hand with a bit of hesitancy. He must’ve seen something in Desmond’s face, because he asked, “Des, are you okay? I don’t mean to be an asshole, I just -- you are okay, right?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” Desmond shrugged off the concern, turning away so he didn’t have to keep looking Elliott in the eye. “Let’s, uh, just get going. I’m not getting any warmer here.”

And just like that, Elliott was already off, another grin on his face. “Yeah, no shit. I heard that this was going to be the coldest winter in New York on record. Un-fucking-believable, man. School’s been closed three days in a row. Well, not uni, that’s still winter break, but I mean, like, regular schools, the little kids, lucky bastards. I never got three days off here in the city…”

Desmond followed Elliott silently as they left the metro station. He thanked Minerva or whatever’s in charge of this fate stuff that Elliott was easily distracted, because Desmond was not in the mood to be talking about himself. He was really humble like that.

He wondered how much Elliott knew. They hadn’t seen each other in months, not since Desmond was kidnapped by Abstergo. He didn’t think the Templars would hunt his friends, the normal ones; it honestly hadn’t occurred to him until now. But then again, why would they? Desmond wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone about his upbringing, his past. The Farm, the stories, the conspiracy theories that were, for all intents and purposes, the truth.

Except Assassins didn’t believe in truth.

Desmond had lived three lives and he still didn’t know what ‘Nothing is True’ really meant, especially in this day and age.

“...Des? Yo, Desmond, you there?” Elliott’s voice jarred Desmond out of his reverie, and he stopped before running into the hand waving in front of his face. “Hey, man, welcome back to Earth. My place is on the fifth floor - the elevator’s broken, but those stairs really work your quads.”

Desmond looked up, finding himself in an entirely different place than he last remembered. He couldn’t remember how he got here from the metro...it was all just a blur. He could see ghosts flitting at the edge of his vision.

But the building they stood in front of was familiar. Desmond had been here before; the red brick walls and the barred windows -- Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t the nicest place in New York, but considering the places he’s been in, it looked like heaven. He even recognized the unreadable graffiti tag on the left from the door.

“Damn, this place hasn’t changed a bit,” Desmond said, more to himself than anyone else.

It earned him a strange look nonetheless. “Well...yeah.” Elliott snorted. “I mean, it's only been a couple months. You make it sound it's been years.”

“Oh,” Desmond made a face, realizing his mistake. He felt so off-kilter, like he was walking in a world with gravity too light. He didn’t move right, think right; he didn’t quite fit in it anymore. He spent so much time in the animus -- years in Syria, Italy, Turkey, it was startling to think that he had done it all in a span of weeks, on a table, in his head. “Yeah, um, I guess it just feels like I’ve been away for forever.”

"So you finally went to school, huh?” Elliott smiled, opening the front door and allowing them inside the foyer. Snow and mud soaked the floor mat, and made squishy noises as they crossed. “I knew you could do it, dude!”

“Uh, school?” Desmond had no idea what he was on about.

“Yeah, man. That’s why you were away from the whole semester? You always said you wanted to get out and learn a trade or something, and not be a bartender for the rest of your life.” Elliott said, reminding him of a conversation that Desmond could barely remember.

He had said that? Desmond had completely forgotten having any other dreams outside of running away and being free. He pressed a hand to his head, muttering, “Oh, right. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”

It was certainly a much better excuse than whatever Desmond might’ve come up with, which probably would’ve been something stupid like: I got kidnapped by a crazy world-dominating secret society who want my DNA to help them in their dastardly plans.

Yeah, that’d go over well.

As they started climbing up the narrow staircase, yellow-stained wallpaper and the smell of nicotine permeating the air, Desmond felt as though he took a step back in time. After being here a few times before, it seemed so wrong to see that nothing had changed. Desmond’s like had been turned upside down, inside out; he’d lost friends, he’d fought wars, the world almost ended...and it seemed to affect almost no one else.

He supposed it was a good thing, in the end. The Assassins were silent, unseen, while their actions spoke for them. Elliott was no doubt plenty aware of the solar flare and all it did to the world. He just moved on it from it, like everyone else. The world doesn’t just stop so you can think and ponder at the meaning of life. There were jobs to do, money to pay, families to take care of.

It was a little discouraging, but Desmond had to remind himself that this was what he was fighting for. Peace. Happiness. A sense of contentment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the planet ablaze and humanity turned extinct.

They came to the final landing, where Elliott led to the door of his apartment. They passed an elderly woman just as she opened her door to get out; when she saw them, her eyes widened and she quickly stepped back into her apartment, slamming the door shut.

To any naive mind, it may have seemed that she had forgotten something, but Desmond’s suspicions were confirmed when Elliott said, “Don’t mind Mrs. B. She’s been acting all antsy around me ever since she learned my parents are from Egypt. She’s completely harmless.”

“Yeah, sure,” Desmond replied, keeping an eye on the door as Elliott unlocked his own. He sincerely hoped that was the case, and that the woman wasn’t suspicious of him, perhaps recognizing a wanted poster or something. Had the police already found the body of the Follower? Had they found footage of Desmond in the subway, started posting it on the local news?

…Hm, probably not. It had been less than an hour. Not even the NYPD could assemble something that fast for a simple murder case.

As he fiddled with the keys and turned the knob, Elliott pushed open the door with a grand gesture, grinning. “Mi casa es su casa. Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Miles.”

The theatrics had Desmond cracking a smile, such a bizarre feeling. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel happy. Damn, I really need to lighten up, Desmond thought to himself, running a hand over his head and pushing off the hood. He tried to relax his shoulders as he crossed the threshold, sneakers scuffing on the welcome mat, a warm blast of heat bombarding him. “You still haven’t fixed your radiator, man.”

“Yeah, well,” Elliott shrugged casually. “What’re you gonna do? I’m not exactly a handyman, and the landlord’s on vacation. At least it's winter, when I actually need it,you know?”

Elliott’s apartment was rather cramped; although what could you expect from a college kid in New York City? The kitchen and the dining room were one and the same, with a round table against the far wall with an assortment of chairs, none of which matched. In the other room was the bed, which unlike Desmond’s actually had a boxframe and, you know, clean sheets. The desk with the massive computer array was mashed right next to it, underneath the window. It all looked as Desmond remembered it, but for one thing.

“What happened to your TV?” He asked, stepping further into the apartment. Desmond felt a bit like a stranger, unwanted, even if Elliott’s behavior said everything otherwise.

“Oh, I sold it,” Elliott said with a wave of his hand, checking his fridge. He pulled out two beer bottles, handing one to Desmond, who took it gladly. “It’s no martini, but its better than nothing. Hey, I got some leftover Thai, you want some? Nah? Well, anyways, I got rid of the TV ‘cause I already got, like, Netflix and shit on my computer, and I don’t watch the news anymore, so I figured might as well get some extra cash and sell it.”

Uncapping the bottle, Desmond took a sip as he stared at the blank space on the shelves were the TV, something that had been old, boxy, now occupied by a toolbox and what looked like a small drone with propellers. As he knelt down to check it out, he asked absent-mindedly, “You don’t watch the news?”

“Well, you know,” Elliot said, waving around a fork he pulled from the sink. It seemed clean. “Not cable news. I use the Internet, like the terrible Millennial I am. It's too biased now, man, you can’t get the truth without someone covering it in political bullshit. It doesn’t help that Abstergo owns, like, half of the media new stations, either.”

Desmond jerked his head up, surprised. Elliott knew that? You usually didn’t hear that kind of talk outside of conspiracy theorists. He decided to play dumb. “Really? That sounds kinda crazy, Elliott. Are you sure?”

“Hey, I may be a slacker,” Elliott said through a mouthful of noodles, walking to his desk and slumping into the seat. With Styrofoam plate in his lap, he reached over and turned on his computer. It whirred to life, four screens blinking on in sync. “But I do my research. I’m not kidding, though, when I say you can’t trust them. Abstergo’s into some weird shit.”

Desmond was about to comment on that, too (just how much did Elliott know? What had him on this road for truth? Desmond didn’t remember him being so concerned about it in August), when Elliott jerked his chin and said, “Like the drone, huh? I just got it. I’ve been using it to send messages to my friend a couple blocks down. We’re testing to see if we can get remote navigation to work, so we don’t have to use the controller anymore.”

“What? For class?”

“Nah, just for fun.”

Somehow, Desmond wasn’t surprised. He just smiled as he spun one of the propellers with his finger. “And how’s that going for you?”

“Well, the first three crashed, if that tells you anything. I’m not flying it over cars again until I’m sure I get it right first.” Elliott said, utterly a huff of annoyance. “And if I can find a frequency that Abstergo isn’t watching. They keep cutting power from the drone, with their crazy remote satellites.”

“They can do that?”

Elliott nodded, then made a face. “Well, probably not anymore. The Flare kind of fucked up their satellites, but I’m sure sending up some new ones is their top priority now. Either way, right now they’re in the blind, and I’m not going to waste that kind of opportunity.”

Desmond couldn't help but smirk at that. It was nice to share this sense of rebellion with the Templars, even if Elliott had no idea what was really going on. It would probably be best if Desmond kept an eye on him, just to make sure he didn’t attract any unwanted attention. Templars were really good at finding those that stuck out from the norm. And Elliott wasn’t exactly normal. Not dangerous, particularly, but Desmond couldn’t deny, he saw potential.

“God, I just feel so stupid now.” Elliott just started laughing, earning a questioning look from Desmond. Elliott just closed his eyes, shaking his head, smiling. “When you left, I actually thought you were kidnapped. Ha, fucking nuts, right? I mean, it seemed sane at the time, you basically dropped off the planet for all I knew. You should’ve given me a warning, Desmond. So I didn’t make a dumbass out of myself for putting up missing person signs for someone who wasn’t even missing.”

“Sorry,” Desmond ducked his head, feeling a little ashamed even though he knew it wasn’t his fault. But had Elliott really tried looking for him? Desmond didn’t think anyone besides the Assassins really cared when he was taken. “And thanks for defending me, by the way. From that weirdo on the subway.”

Granted, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Staying off the grid also meant not having any friends. It seemed worth it, at the time; that Desmond would give up anything to keep his freedom, or whatever version of it he thought he had.

But now? Desmond was starting to think this time could be...different.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Elliott shrugged, looking a little smug. “I can take a hit. Why didn’t you try to stay in touch? An email would’ve been nice.”

His excuse, though, was kind of lame. “I’m not, uh, very tech savvy.”

“Dude, if you can’t figure out email, there is no hope for you.” Elliott snorted, twirling his fork full of noodles.  “After the Flare, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Anything happen? Did you ever talk to your dad again?”

“Oh,” Desmond blinked, surprised by the question, and even more surprised by his answer. “Uh, yeah, I-I did. Back in October.”

“And?” Elliott raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“And...we talked.” Desmond turned his attention back to the drone. It was hard to look at Elliott. It was still hard to think about sometimes. “I understand him better now. And he knows why I did what I did. I think.”

This last part was uncertain. To Elliott, it might seem that Desmond was talking about running away; for Desmond, it was his choice to sacrifice himself in the Temple. While Desmond didn’t regret either decision, he knew that both were rushed, and while the first had been settled, the second had not. There just hadn’t been enough time...Desmond wished he had longer to talk to his dad, to explain himself, to at least say good-bye before he died.

His personal feelings about his father were still a tangle of anger and resentment, but it wasn’t as strong as it used to be. It was still there, obviously, but not as overwhelming, and it didn’t pound at Desmond’s head like a thousand unspoken words.

But those words had been said. Well, more like shouted. And some fists had been thrown. Catharsis had been reached. It wasn’t perfect by a long shot, and William Miles was still a total asshole, but Desmond didn’t feel so alienated from him anymore. His dad didn’t feel like this aloof man impossible to please, impossible to fully know.

They were on equal footing now. And there was an undercurrent of love there now, a sense of family, of belonging, that Desmond couldn’t deny. It even made him smile, a little bit.

Speaking of family...his dad was going to be so pissed when he found out Desmond was alive this whole time and never told him.

“And that’s...good?” Elliott guessed.

Desmond paused to think about it, before nodding. “I think so. It’s better than it was before. Not great, but better.”

“Where’s your dad now?”

Desmond frowned, standing up. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since I left for New York in December.”

That was one of the problems Desmond still had to solve. He had no idea where his team went after the Flare happened. There was no way they were still in New York, that’s for sure. And not to the Farm, either; he was pretty sure the Assassins had relocated a few years ago. Would they have left the country?

He hoped to find answers soon. It was partly the reason he sent that email to Shawn and Rebecca in the first place; he hoped they’d try to reach him, find him somehow, because he was barely treading water at the moment. Desmond had no idea how long he could last in New York on his own now, especially considering the tense air between Templars and Assassins now.

“What? How can you lose track of your own dad?”

Desmond went over and flopped on the futon, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “He’s not exactly your average, stay-at-home soccer dad, Elliot. He…he moves around a lot, you know. For his job.”

“What does he do, exactly? You never told me.”

“Insurance recovery,” Desmond popped off another lie. He wasn’t even sure what that was, only that he heard it on the radio earlier today. It seemed like a good cover; insurance was always a boring, unremarkable office job, right?

“So he finds expensive stuff people stole?” Elliott looked mildly impressed, and didn’t seem to notice the brief look of panic that crossed Desmond’s face. “That’s pretty sick, bro.”

“Yep,” Desmond muttered, sinking further into the sofa. He really hoped none of his lies came back to bite him in the ass. “Pretty sick.”

Desmond ended up hanging out there longer than he meant to; the two of them spent most of their time talking, catching up, with Desmond walking the tightrope between telling lies and the truth, just the right mix to keep it believable — Desmond tried to steer the topic away from himself, which was mostly successful since Elliott had his own stories to share. He showed Desmond some of the work he did the previous semester on his computer, coding and software that didn’t quite seem like electrical engineering to Desmond…although he didn’t know much about engineering to begin with.

Along with the drone, there were other personal projects Elliott was working on, like converting old tapes onto .mpgs; turning a Roomba into a personal butler (it even had a voice command); and fitting a snorkel with an air-filter, for infinite underwater breathing time. The last one was still in the testing process, and none of these had anything to do with Elliott's classes, but all impressed Desmond nonetheless.

“Dude,” Desmond remembered saying at one point, punching Elliott in the shoulder. “You’re, like, a modern day Leonardo Da Vinci.”

“What? Isn’t he a painter?”

“Yeah, but he did a ton of other stuff, too,” Desmond nodded, grinning. He knew all too well what Leonardo was capable off, all the things he could make. “Did you know he made like a proto-airplane flying machine? It’s so cool.”

“But it couldn’t actually fly,” Elliott reminded him.

Desmond blinked, slightly taken aback. He had been so caught up in his memories of flying over Venice in that rickety little thing, avoiding flaming arrows and coasting over terracotta roofs that he’d forgotten it wasn’t actually a part of the history books. He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to say something without sounding like an idiot. “Oh…right. Well, I still think it’s cool. His other inventions actually worked, you know. He made an armored car, like a precursor to the modern tank, which shot canons and everything!”

But Elliott just shook his head, throwing Desmond a weird look. “How do you even know all this stuff? I didn’t think you cared about history.”

“I, uh, picked up an interest.” Desmond glanced at the computer screens, a little embarrassed. He was starting to sound like a fanboy, the way he was going. But he couldn’t help it; meeting Leonardo had been one of the best experiences in his life. “At school. They offered a lot of good history classes.”

“You like history and you can’t do email?” Elliott snorted. “You sound like you’re from another time period.”

“It kind of feels like it, sometimes.” Desmond said with a smirk. When he glanced out the window, he was startled to see that it was completely dark out. “Oh, shit, I gotta go.”

“What? Why?” Elliott looked disappointed.

Desmond wasn’t a fan of being outside at night, especially when the Bleeding Effect had him seeing ghosts everywhere. He got up, dropped the empty beer bottle in the recyclables, and grabbed his cast-aside jacket. “’Cuz it’s cold, man, I don’t want to be out there forever. And it’s just gonna get colder when the storm rolls in.”

“Oh, yeah. I heard we might lose power again. Hey, be careful out there, Des! I can’t protect you if you get attacked by another weirdo again.”

“Right,” Desmond smirked, almost wanting to show off his blades just to prove a point. Instead, he made for the door, pulling his hood back on and casting one last wave. “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the beer!”

Chapter Text

 Chapter Eight

Help A Brother Out

“I’m telling you, Melanie, crazy shit’s going on here in New York,” said Angela Belmont, 31, accountant for Abstergo Entertainment, into her phone. “First a security breach, then drone theft, now someone’s tagging our goddamn dumpsters…”

Desmond pretended to be focused on his laptop while the woman in the booth in front of him continued ranting. He had been sitting in this cafe for nearly an hour and a half, and his ass was starting to go numb in stupid plastic chair. He was in a cafe downtown with some weird 60’s chic. He so far had not garnered any attention for himself, and had so far avoided any annoying casual chatter by the pair of headphones over his head.

It was near full-proof, really. If only Desmond wasn’t just mindlessly tapping at his keyboard, typing random gibberish into an open Word doc.

No one ever said enough times just how boring being an Assassin could be.

Desmond had been tailing this woman for three days, after first learning about her through a wild trip through Abstergo Entertainment’s customer service line, pretending to have a problem with his beta Animus home console that Desmond did not actually have (yet).

The very concept that Abstergo was selling this shit was truly mind-boggling. Making unwitting civilians — kids, even — do their dirty work for them? The fact that they managed to advance the Animus machine to the point that memories could be played by other people was quite honestly a revolution, not just in gaming, but in the very exploration of history itself.

Still, Desmond couldn’t shake the thought that, had he not survived the Temple, Abstergo wouldn’t have been hindered at all. Who knows, maybe right now there would’ve been a bunch of strangers swimming through his own memories, memories of his ancestors, feeding the Templars the truth they’d only manipulate and help serve their goals. He shuddered at the thought.

This was the kind of business Angela Belmont worked in, although how much she actually knew, Desmond wasn’t sure. She definitely didn’t seem  like your typical Templar, taking discrete sips of vodka from her water bottle every few minutes or so — a smell Desmond recognized easily, and he almost sympathized with her, if Angela’s voice wasn’t starting to grate on his nerves.

That’s why he was here - no, not about her voice. If she was a Templar. Desmond needed her phone, find how what she knew, and if he was really lucky, where Abstergo was putting their money.

“No, we couldn’t send you the DNA samples,” Angela said into her phone. “Remember what I said about the break-in? Yeah, well, according to my boss, they took whatever was supposed to go to Québec. No, I don’t know why. Maybe they’re just a bunch of sick freaks who like blood or something. These aren’t the questions I want to ask.”

Well, that explained that. Desmond grit his teeth, annoyed to learn he was right about Abstergo’s intentions. So they were going to use his body to continue their plans. Unbelievable.

“Whatever’s going on here, it ain’t kosher, I can tell you that,” Angela snapped at what was apparently not an encouraging comment. “I think my boss knows more than he’s letting on. I mean, sure, maybe we’ve got some shady stuff going on, but what multi-billion company doesn’t?”

Perhaps she didn’t know much after all. Desmond was doubtful, but he had a feeling she just didn’t know who she was working for. The Templars had a strong tradition of using unknowing underlings to do their dirty work under false pretenses.

As Angela continued to talk, Desmond reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper. Unfolding it, he studied the map that had been stuck in his head since the incident in the bar. It had been bothering him so much that Desmond felt compelled to put it down to paper, and felt a little better having a solid version of it in front of him. Despite how much time had passed, the image still remained clear in his mind, unforgettable like the lyrics to your favorite song or the names of your family.

It still didn’t make much sense; Desmond had sketched it five times already, and was a little unsettled by how each reproduction turned out entirely identical — without him referring back to the older versions. It was like Juno had stamped the image right onto his brain; Desmond dreaded having another experience like that again.

Perhaps it was the design itself throwing him off. Was it a street map? A building? Desmond was leaning towards the last one, but he didn’t know what kind of architect in their right mind would create a building in the shape of a cross — unless this was a church, this was extremely inefficient use of ground space.

Now that Desmond thought of it, a church would make sense. Maybe those boxes he drew were pews. Or support columns? And that circle in the middle must be the pulpit or altar or something. It must be important, because Juno’s plan had the flower symbol inside the circle, like it a marker.

It seemed appropriate, at least. Maybe Juno was interested in some old Templar project, or she was already planning the temples to be built and used to worship her. She was a real go-getter, that one.

Finally, Angela put down her phone, muttering under her breath as she finished her donut and checked her emails. Desmond perked up a little, stuffing the paper back in his pocket, ducking his head before she could see his face. He kept a closer eye on Angela as she got up, dropped her phone in her bag, before walking out the door.

Desmond waited ten seconds before he packed up his stuff and followed her onto the street. The sun was almost blinding in its brightness, and the reflection upon the snow, but it didn’t keep Desmond from following the faint glow of Angela’s footsteps she left in her wake. He kept his arms at his sides, flexing his fingers as she appeared out of the crowd, standing at a busstop. Stealing from purses was a little harder than from pockets.

Both of his hands were gloved, but only one remained so at all times. As it turned out, it wasn’t so weird to wear them indoors so long as it was winter out, and Desmond got less weird looks while hiding his burnt hand than when he just left it lying around exposed. It made typing a little difficult, and his fine motor skills were diminished, but the gloves were thin enough that he could slip a hand into Angela Beaumont’s bag, after dropping his keys at her feet and distracting her long enough so she wouldn’t notice the errant movements.

She gave him his keys back, unaware of both the fact these were not his keys (he took them from a janitor on 57th street), and that her bag was now a couple ounces lighter. By the time she picked up on the rouse, Desmond would be long gone, and she would never recognize the face under the white hood.

With his newly acquired loot, Desmond smiled to himself as he headed back to his apartment.

***

As it turned out, Angela had locked her phone with a passcode Desmond couldn’t figure out.

Thanks to his repeated efforts, the phone was now permanently inaccessible for the next 372 hours.

Desmond scowled at it, lying uselessly on the floor in front of him. If his Eagle Vision had been any stronger, the stupid thing would unlock itself. He wished for the days when people still used letters to communicate; Ezio never had to deal with this kind of bullshit.

He sighed, hanging his head in defeat. What could he do now? It wasn’t like Desmond knew how to jailbreak a phone. He also wasn’t in the mood to find someone else’s phone to nick, on the off chance that the schmuck who owned it just happened to forget to lock it. Desmond had the phone, and it contained information he needed — all he required was someone with the ability to open it.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Desmond muttered under his breath. “But I could really use your help, Shaun.”

Then he realized he should probably be asking Rebecca for this kind of job. Oh well. He missed both of them.

Well, fuck. Now Desmond got himself all depressed, thinking about his friends. Another thing people might not know about Assassins: it was lonely. They were lone wolves, acting mostly on their own, connections rare and dangerous at the same time. At least Connor and Ezio had family and friends to fall back on, wherever they went — but did Altair ever feel like this, the Great Eagle of Masyaf?

Did he ever doubt himself like Desmond did now, on his own with no one to guide him? Had this been what it was like after Al Mualim died and the Brotherhood in disarray? It was probably a fair assumption to say that Altair didn’t have many friends — maybe Malik, but their relation always seemed belligerent at best and homicidal at worst. Altair ibn La-Ahad was perhaps the greatest Assassin that ever lived, but not the most liked Assassin. He must’ve had a hell of a time trying to reform the Brotherhood, to become the leader they needed him to be, and a man that wouldn’t abandon them simply because he was better off on his own.

Desmond shook his head, both awed and terrified for his ancestor. At least Desmond didn’t have to worry about running a Brotherhood. It was kind of a bitter thought, considering the state of the Assassins in the 21st century.

He wished he could ask advice from Altair.  What would he have to say to the loneliest Assassin that lived?

Plink!

The sound made Desmond jump, and he picked his head up, eyes narrowing down at the source of the noise.

Plink Plink!

At the window, hovering outside, was a little drone. On top of it, a flat white box, apparently ducktaped to the machine.

A little bewildered, Desmond got up and opened the window. He reached out, grabbed the box, and pulled it all inside. The drone’s propellers died upon entering the building. The box was warm, and the smell of cheese and pepperoni made Desmond’s mouth water.

“Thank you, Elliott,” He grinned, ripping the box off the drone and opening it. Steam rose from the pie waiting inside, one slice already gone — apparently Elliott hadn’t been able to resist. But that hardly registered to Desmond, who grabbed two at once, stacked them on top of each other, and ate them at once.

The drone delivery was a new thing in Desmond’s life, and a very convenient one at that. While he had other ideas of what to do with them, Elliott had so far only used them for food deliveries and other random stuff that a college kid did when he was bored. Obviously, since he had classes and Desmond had people to kill, they didn’t exactly had a lot of time to chat. The use of drones had made up for that.

In the two weeks since meeting Elliott, Desmond had gone to work. He started gathering intel from all around the city; keeping track of news, collecting stories that may or may not be related (the Solar Flare, human disasters, social changes and uprisings, terrorist attacks, weird corporate business, etc); radio shows, getting a feel for the public’s state of mind; and making contact with Erudito, which was still a work in progress. He remembered the email contact he had back in Italy, but he wasn’t sure if it was still active or not. It had been five days since he sent a message, and so far, silence.

Desmond didn’t let it slow him down, though. He aided Elliott’s search for the perfect bandwidth by stealing some Abstergo drones — little ones that delivered packages around the city. Considering they flew way over the rooftops, one might assume they’d be difficult to catch. But after watching some questionable YouTube videos, Desmond “borrowed” one of Elliott’s drones, attached a net to it, and used said contraption to essentially ensnare a passing Abstergo drone and boom — new drone to add to his growing fleet.

Elliott, of course, had no idea they were stolen (Desmond scraped off the logo first), and already was sending Desmond pizza to the warehouse with the newly acquired machines. Desmond wondered how the Templars might feel about that, their precious drones being stolen and retrofitted into pizza delivery guys.

Stealing drones had also provided another boon Desmond hadn’t considered; of the five he took, three had packages; one with an Animus console hard drive; another with printed copy of a chain of emails from Erudito feeding some low-level employees inaccurate data about UFOs; and cupcakes, because it was Frank’s birthday.

Desmond felt bad about the last one, but only for five minutes, until he ate said cupcakes and called it an evening.

Either way, he had a full stomach, and a peek into Abstergo’s inner workings.

Chewing on the pizza, Desmond considered the drone for a long moment. If Elliott could reconfigure the radio frequency of the stolen drones, could he hack into a smartphone?

It was worth a shot. Maybe Desmond wasn’t alone as he thought.

With daylight still providing a meager amount of warmth in the city, Desmond decided to head out after finishing the pizza (all of it).  Then, stuffing the phone in his backpack and tucking the now pizza-free drone under his arm, Desmond opened the window again and ducked out, bracing himself against the cold wind. He had since switched out his sneakers for much more snow-and-ice friendly boots, which provided him better grip when trying not to fall to his death on slippery roofs.

Perched on the thin metal railing of the fire escape, Desmond waited for a truck to pass underneath him before leaping off.

He landed in a roll across the top of the storage container, a thunderous noise muted by the roar of the truck’s engine, and perhaps saved Desmond of an uncomfortable situation of where the truck stopped and the driver got out to give him a piece of his mind. It happened only a few days ago, and Desmond was loath to get caught like that again.

Keeping low on top of the truck, hoping not to be seen by other drivers, Desmond was carried several blocks before he considered the mark overshot. When the truck came to a stop at an intersection several minutes later, Desmond jumped off, swinging off a lamp post and propelling himself towards some scaffolding. Below, pedestrians cried out in shock, but Desmond paid them no mind, continuing up the scaffolding until he was running along the top.

From there, it was only a few short blocks, a startled flock of pigeons, and one angry old woman, to Elliott’s apartment. The closest window Desmond could reach was locked, but that was a factor easily fixed by sliding his hidden blade between the upper and lower window panes and flicking open the latch holding them together.

With a snikt, Desmond sheathed the blade, popped the window open, and slipped inside before anyone could see him.

It wasn’t until later did Desmond consider maybe knocking like, you know, a normal person would when using a window for a door. But as it turned out, Elliott wasn’t home yet, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Parched from the journey and still tasting pizza on his tongue, Desmond helped himself to a beer in the fridge before plopping down on the couch. Flicking the cap off the bottle with his thumb, Desmond took a swig and pulled out Angela Belmont’s phone.

All there was left to do was wait.

The sun had set by the time Desmond heard the rattling of keys and the door knob clicking open. He turned his head, watching as Elliott shlumped inside, cracking a loud yawn before dumping his bag on the floor by his shoes. Looking more tired than ever, Elliott made a beeline to the fridge, the light inside casting long shadows across the apartment (Desmond hadn’t turned on the lights).

“What the…” It wasn’t until Elliott realized he had one less beer than usual did he turn around. When he saw Desmond, he cried out, jumping backwards in surprise.

“Holy shit!” Elliott yelped, nearly falling over had he not caught the counter at the last second. His hand was knotted in his sweater, twisted and panicked. “Desmond! What the fuck!”

“Uh, hi.” Desmond winced, giving Elliott a half-assed wave.

Elliott was still letting off a string of swears, taking a deep breath and leaning on his knee for a second before recovering. “Jesus, man, I thought you were some guy here to kill me! You could’ve given me a warning or something!”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Probably should’ve thought this one through, right?”

Elliott straightened, giving Desmond a disgruntled look, owlish eyes blinking long and slow at him. “What’re you doing here? How the hell did you get inside?”

Desmond gestured vaguely to the window. “It was unlocked. Thought I’d drop by.”

“Well, not that I don’t want you here,” Elliott made a face, going over to check the window to see if Desmond was telling the truth. “But I’m kind of swamped in work right now, I’ve got two tests tomorrow and I don’t think I’ve slept for more than three hours at a time — not to mention you could’ve, like, called first...”

Doubt coiled in Desmond’s gut. He didn’t want to inconvenience Elliott; considering he was here to ask for help, he felt like he was really overstepping their bounds of friendship. “Well, um, that’s why I’m here. I got locked out of my phone. I was hoping you could, er, fix it for me.”

Elliott threw him a look over his shoulder, and Desmond was relieved to see the smirk on his face. “Finally got a phone, huh? I guess your inner grandpa just can’t keep up.”

“Shut up.” Desmond withdrew the phone from his backpack and tossed it on the coffee table — which was just plank of unvarnished wood propped up on two plastic crates. “Can you fix it or what?”

Elliott shrugged his shoulders, bending down to pick up the phone, flipping it around in his hand. “I mean, sure. Though, fair warning, it’s not exactly legal…”

The very notion just made Desmond snort, and he waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll have to plug it in,” Elliott swung himself into his computer chair, sliding over to his desk and turning on his system with a flick of a switch. Once more that familiar whirr of the hard drive coming to life, monitors blinking on, as Elliott plugged the smartphone to the computer. As they waited, Elliott spun around to face him, hands on his knees, and said, “So, did you get my pizza? I couldn’t remember if you liked pepperoni or not.”

“Yeah, man, it was great,” Desmond smiled in thanks, then nudged the drone on the floor with his toe. “I take it you finally figured out how to fly it without a controller?”

“Well, with the new ones you got me, I managed to cross-reference and figure out what frequencies Abstergo wasn’t watching.” Elliott crossed his arms behind his head, nodding with pride. “Was a piece of cake, really. Where’d you say you got them again?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Desmond said, glancing away, before quickly changing the subject. “You said you got two tests? I didn’t know you started school so soon.”

Elliott just shrugged, making a face and kicking against the desk. He spun absent-mindedly. “Yeah, major bummer. I was getting real used to not having responsibilities. But C’est la vie, or however it goes. Ugh, it’s literally only two weeks in and I want to die. How ‘bout you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Elliott blinked at him, frowning. “You’re going to uni here in the city, right? Don’t tell me you quit after one semester!”

“Uh, no, of course not,” Desmond laughed nervously, rubbing the side of his face with his hand, looking at everything but Elliott. He was an idiot for going with that stupid school idea. “Classes have been kicking my ass, too. Kind of why you haven’t seen me lately.”

“Where you going?”

Where was he going? Desmond didn’t know diddly squat about the colleges in New York. So he said the first thing that came to his head. “Uh, NYU. I’m majoring in, er…”

That took a second longer to figure out. “Anthropology.”

Sure, why the fuck not.

He almost expected Elliott to call out on his bullshit, but instead Elliott just nodded that this made sense. “Cool. Of course you study dead things. What else are you going to do?”

The computer beeped and Elliott turned around to attend to the task at hand — which meant he didn’t get to see Desmond wincing at his statement. Normally Desmond wouldn’t be bothered by such a statement — he was trained almost from birth to be an Assassin, had to kill the enemies of his ancestors in what was, for all intents and purposes, a very real simulator. Still, it felt wrong that this was the only thing Desmond was good at. Surely he knew more than just to kill people?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have many other skills, unless you counted bartending (Shaun didn’t). If he wasn’t an Assassin, he would be entirely useless. Desmond scowled at the bottle in his hand for a second, before downing the rest of the beer.

Well, he was good at drinking, too.

It settled in his stomach, a warm buzz. Desmond was far from drunk, but he almost wanted to be —- being an Assassin didn’t give one much opportunity to get wasted.

“Uh, Des,” Elliott’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. “I don’t mean to be rude but, uh, your girlfriend’s got a lot of cats.”

“What?” Desmond shook his head, utterly bemused. His eyes narrowed down on Elliott, who had turned back to him, phone held in the air. It was unlocked, and on the background was a group photo of Angela Belmont and what looked to be her three pet cats.

Desmond felt the blood drain out of his face. Elliott continued to stare at him, unsmiling. “She’s not your girlfriend, is she?”

“Um. No.”

The phone smacked against the table, bounced off, and cracked on the floor. “Desmond, what the hell? You stole someone’s phone? Why?”

“Hey, be careful!” Desmond ducked down to retrieve the phone, and he took a second to examine it. There was now a large crack bisecting the screen from where Elliott had thrown it, but otherwise it seemed in good condition. Despite his embarrassment, Desmond didn’t pause to reconsider as he started swiping into Belmont’s apps, looking at her appointments and contacts. “It’s important!”

“What? Why?” Elliott sounded accusing. Which was fair, since this was not Desmond’s phone. “You realize you just made me break into someone else’s phone, right? I could get into trouble for this!”

Biting his lip, Desmond glanced at his friend, trying to decide if it was really a good idea to tell the truth. He doubted any lie he could come up with would be anywhere near as convincing. So he said, “I’m sorry, really. I didn’t want to lie to you. But I need it, Elliott. I need it because... well, because it belongs to someone in Abstergo.”

“Abstergo?” Elliott had stood up in his anger, started to pace, but now paused to give Desmond a bewildered look. “You got beef with them now?”

For a long time, actually. But Desmond decided not to mention that. He, too, slowly stood up, taking a second to find the right words. Elliott looked like he might actually punch him, so Desmond tried to be as careful as possible. “Um. Well, when you said you thought they were into shady business, I, uh, I decided to look into it myself. And I think you’re right, Elliott." This earned him a look of surprise.  "Like that flouride incident last year in Prince George — Abstergo funded it, and it got swept under the rug a month later. Then there was the failed Eye-Abstergo project in 2011, the satellite crash that killed a bunch of people. We still don’t know how many. A whole building just vaporized. Stuff like this doesn’t just happen, Elliott. There’s gotta be something bigger going on. So I stole an employee’s phone. It’s risky, I know, but I had to see where their money is going.”

Elliott stared at Desmond, then glanced away, starting to pace again. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Desmond was afraid he might’ve said something wrong, that maybe Elliott caught him in a lie, but he was surprised when Elliott finally said, “You’re not going to find their billing statements in some lady’s phone. The only way you can know for sure is if you have access to their system itself.”

Considering he was expecting more accusations, and maybe some follow-through on that punch he still felt was coming, Desmond was a little surprised that this was the first thing Elliott had to say on the matter. “W-what?”

“Are you planning on hacking into Abstergo?” Elliott stopped to look Desmond right in the eye, jaw set.

“I mean,” He didn’t fail to notice how Elliott’s fists clenched, and inched back a little. “I would if I knew how. Wait, you’re not going to turn me in, are you?”

“Pff, no,” Elliott snorted, tossing his head, and at once all the tension seemed to diffuse. Elliott held out his arms, letting them drop at his sides. “And incriminate myself on top of it all? No thanks. Besides, you’re my friend, and I ain’t a snitch. And I knew I was right. I’m just glad you checked first.”

“Oh, good,” Desmond sighed, his shoulders drooping with relief.

“So, are you going to ask me for help or what?”

“I — what?”

“Well, you can’t just hack into Abstergo,” Elliott crossed his arms and gave Desmond a look like he was questioning his sanity. “They run on a closed-circuit system. Old-school intranet. The only way a computer gets access to their servers is if it’s already connected, you know, inside the building. It’s every hacker's dream to get into there and see what Abstergo’s hiding. Of course, none of us are dumb enough to try. Except maybe you. No offence.”

“Uh, none taken.” Desmond rubbed the back of his head, still a little amazed that they were having this conversation. Did that mean that Elliott wanted to help Desmond? “Are you serious right now? Because if you are —”

“Hey, I’m staying right here,” Elliott pointed at the floor beneath his feet. “But if you know how to get into Abstergo on your own, if you can really do it, I know how to help. But on two conditions.”

“What?” Desmond hoped none of them involved explaining what he really was.

“One,” Elliott held up a finger. “No implanting viruses, or worms, trojans, none of that shit. I’m no black hat, I’m not trying to put a target on my head by trying to fuck with Abstergo, or the feds, for that matter. We do this, its intel gathering only. Besides, there are good people working for Abstergo, who don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not here to fuck up their lives, okay?”

Desmond hadn’t even thought of putting a virus in Abstergo’s systems, and was a little disappointed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Oh, well, didn’t matter now. “Yeah, sure, whatever you want. What’s two?”

“Two,” Elliott raised another finger, now grinning. “You gotta help me move my parents into their new house.”

There wasn’t even a second’s hesitation. “Deal.”

***

“Be careful, boys,” an accented voice called out behind them, as Desmond and Elliott climbed into the back of the truck. “Don’t strain yourselves! We can always hire some guys so you don’t —”

“Don’t worry, Dad!” Elliott called back, rounding on one end of the couch while Desmond went to the other side. They shared a nod and grabbed the bottom, lifting at the same time. Elliott, considerably skinnier than Desmond, wobbled as they stood, grunting with the effort. “W-we got this!”

Desmond, not wanting to embarrass Elliott in front of his parents but also not wanting Elliott to pop a vein, whispered, “You okay, dude?”

“I’m f-fine! Just move already!”

“Okie-dokie.”

Desmond led the way, walking backwards with the couch and trying not to make it too obvious he was carrying most of the weight, out of the truck and into the house. It was a fairly mild day in Brooklyn, sunny sky and only a small breeze, and the Nazaris had already been greeted by a couple of friendly neighbors. Mrs. Nazari was chatting with a blonde soccer-mom type woman, sharing the cookies she made while watching them cart boxes from the van to the townhouse.

“It’s so nice of your boys to help,” the blonde woman sighed, looking mildly frustrated. “I have all girls and lemme tell you, they’d turn up their noses at this sort of work. Then again, if I had three boys, I’m not sure what I’d do, either.”

Mrs. Nazari laughed while Zach, Elliott’s younger brother, ran around with his toy trucks and making engine noises. Her headscarf billowed in the wind. “Oh, Desmond’s not ours! He’s just a friend of Elliott’s. And I must admit, I’m not sure how I could handle another boy, either, the two I already have are a handful already…”

“Love you, too, Mom!” Elliott called back before they entered the house. He flashed Desmond a grin as they set the couch down in the empty living room. It was the only thing that didn’t need to be unpacked. The house was nice, wood floors and brocade wall-paper, almost too fancy for a middle-income family. It would certainly feel less empty once everything was unpacked. Desmond wondered what it would be like to grow up in a house like this, with a normal family that didn’t wake you up at 4 AM to go run a mile in the woods.

Elliott was out of breath, red-faced and panting as he asked, “Do you lift weights or something? I had no idea you were so jacked.”

“Jacked?” Desmond laughed at the word, then flexed to show off. “Check out these guns!”

“What, come on! That’s not fair!” Elliott complained, but when he didn’t stop, Desmond earned a punch to the shoulder — not a hard one, but enough to get the two into a wrestling match. Elliott had heart, that’s for sure, but it didn’t stand a chance against Desmond’s half-nelson.

Mr. Nazari walked inside to find his son trapped in a headlock, squirming helplessly as Desmond grounded his knuckles into his head. The man smile lines, nearly identical to Elliott’s. He let out a laugh, hand on his portly stomach at the torment of his eldest son. “Ah, Elliott, your humor never ceases to amaze me.”

“Dad! Help me!” Elliott gasped, head twisting around as he hammered Desmond’s back with useless punches. “He’s too powerful!”

“Why, and save you from the consequences of your decisions?” Mr. Nazari asked, walking past them into the kitchen. He called back, “You must know when to pick your fights, my son!”

“Thanks a lot!” Elliott grunted, before finally relenting, “Okay, okay, Des, I give! Please, if I die, I won’t be the favorite anymore!”

Laughing, Desmond released him, letting Elliott clutch his head and collapse on the couch, groaning. “I think your dad’s onto something —”

“No!” Elliott held up a finger, not even deigning to look at Desmond. “The only one allowed to spill the wise bullshit is my parents! I don’t need it from you, too.”

“Well,” Desmond flopped onto the couch next to him. “I think maybe you’re just a sore loser.”

“I think maybe you should fuck off —”

“Language, Elliott!” Mrs. Nazari called as the front door slammed. Her entrance was preceded by Zach, who swooped in, now making explosion noises as the firetruck t-boned the Jeep. “You’re a grown man now, act like it!”

“Yes, Mom!” Elliott said as she disappeared into the kitchen to join his father. With their backs turned, Desmond nudged Elliott with his elbow — Elliott refused to look at him, so Desmond kept prodding until it inevitably invoked another wrestling match, which once more ended with Elliott bent to the side, head trapped under Desmond’s arm.

“Ugh,” he groaned, arms flopping in defeat. “Not again! Zach, Mini-Me, help a brother out!”

Zach, at only 8 years old, already knew it was a lost cause. He was sitting on the floor, playing with his trucks, back turned to them. He said, “No.”

“Please!”

“No.” Zach said again, raising his nose in contempt, and added in Arabic, “You keep getting stuck because your dumb head is too big for your body.”

“What? Hey, that’s not nice!” Elliott gasped, scandalized, while Desmond just threw his head back and laughed. Elliott raised his arms, flailed them uselessly at his brother, too far away to reach. “Get over here, you little gremlin!”

“Oh, Elliott,” came Mrs. Nazari’s sigh as she returned to the living to see the current state of her eldest. She almost sounded disappointed, but the barely contained smile said she was more amused than anything else. She came over, a mug in each hand. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Mom!” Elliott whined, trying to pry Desmond’s arm off his neck. “Tell him to let go!”

Meanwhile, Desmond started petting his head like a cat. “Whoa, your hair is really fluffy. What kind of conditioner do you use?”

“I hate you.” Elliott muttered, just low enough that his mother couldn’t hear, sitting down in the rocking chair across from them. Apparently, he had just given up, not even bothering to stop Desmond from petting his hair. “You’re such an asshole.”

Desmond just took it in stride, taking the mug she handed him a cup of tea. “Thanks, Mrs. Nazari.”

“You’re welcome, Desmond,” she smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. Desmond could see where Elliott got them. “It’s nice to see Elliott has at least one friend who knows their manners.”

“Mom!” Elliott groaned, his feet kicking helplessly. “Hasn’t your beloved son been humiliated enough in one day?”

“No,” Mrs. Nazari said as she sipped her own tea. Zach scooted over to her feet, running his jeep over the tops of her shoes. “So, tell me Desmond, what’re you studying again?”

“Anthropology,” Elliott chimed in before he could answer. Desmond had a feeling this was revenge. “Because he’s secretly an old man hiding in the body of a young god.”

“Guilty as charged.” Desmond said, finally letting Elliott go. He let out a whoosh of breath, all flushed cheeks and frowning, and delivered a quick jab into Desmond’s gut before settling back onto the couch. “I spent last semester abroad, in Rome.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Mrs. Nazari smiled sweetly. “We always wanted to go to Rome! Of course, it would’ve been closer before, back when we lived in Cairo. But the climate at the time...well, I was pregnant, and me and my husband decided it was best to raise Elliott elsewhere. I’m glad to see he gets along so well here in America.”

“Yeah, when I’m not being choked to death,” Elliott said lightly, crossing his arms. “You guys aren’t moving here just to be closer to me, are you? Because I can take care of myself, you know —”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Nazari just waved a hand, shaking her head. “You do just fine on your own, Elliott, I’m not worried about that. “But we felt that the house in Jersey just wasn’t suitable anymore. And your father saw the house market improving, and we decided to move to a better neighborhood. And yes, partly because it was closer to you. Does it bother you?”

Elliott considered it for a second, then shrugged. “Not really. Just seems very suspicious, that’s all.”

“Suspicious, ha!” They heard from the kitchen, Mr. Nazari snorting. He shouted back at his wife in Arabic, saying, “He couldn’t tie his shoes without us!”

“I tried explaining it!” Mrs. Nazari replied. “But he just won’t listen! You think it may have something do with the fact that we pay for his apartment?”

“And his school?”

“And his food?”

“And his clothes?”

“Mom! Dad! Stop talking like I’m not here!” Elliott finally rejoined, while Mrs. Nazari smiled smugly. “Also kind of rude to do this in front of, you know, guests!”

“Maybe they just think you’re ungrateful,” Desmond said to Elliott, taking a sip of tea. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was a part of this conversation, but he wanted to add his own two cents.

However, he didn’t expect the look of surprise everyone flashed him. Even Mr. Nazari peered in from the kitchen to make sure he heard right. At first, Desmond wondered if he said something terribly wrong, before Elliott said, “You understood that?”

Mrs. Nazari looked both bewildered and excited. She leaned forward in her seat, said, “Well, isn’t that a surprise! You don’t meet a lot of people who can speak Arabic around here, much less those willing to learn. Did your parents teach you?”

“Uh, no,” now it was Desmond’s turn to feel embarrassed. Mr. Nazari came over with his own tea, coming to stand beside his wife in the chair. Desmond felt awkward, all these eyes on him. This was not a happy spot for an Assassin. “I, uh, took classes in Rome. I was studying a lot of, er, Syrian texts. History stuff.”

It sounded so lame, but he couldn’t help but smile awkwardly when Mr. Nazari said, “See? I told you Elliott can make good friends. He just has to put himself out there first!”

“I love how you guys find a lesson in everything,” Elliott muttered, casting Desmond one last look before getting up. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna get the rest of the boxes before you can find something else to lecture me about.”

Desmond watched at Elliott ducked back outside, a sense of guilt filling his gut. Did he do something wrong? Had he overdone it with the headlock? Desmond was only having fun, but maybe it just made Elliott angry. Considering what they were going to be doing this weekend, Desmond didn’t want Elliott upset with him. And, you know, because Elliott was his friend and Desmond had so few of those lately.

Figuring he needed to nip this in the bud before it was too late, Desmond too got up, setting down the cup before saying to the Nazaris, “I’m, uh, gonna go see if he needs any help.”

Then he made a quick exit before he could be cornered in probing conversation of what were essentially strangers to Desmond. Of course the Nazaris cared about their son, but Desmond wasn’t used to the limelight, and he wasn’t sure if he could hold up on the friendship-worthiness interrogation.

Elliott was already in the van, moving boxes around when Desmond arrived. The air puffed around their faces, but if Elliott was cold, he didn’t show it. He did, however, jump when Desmond spoke, “Hey, man, sorry about that in there. I didn’t mean to, uh, embarrass you or anything —”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Elliott just shook his head, flashing Desmond a quick smile before picking up a box that wasn’t too heavy for him. “My parents are always like that, you know? Ha, it’s funny, I was afraid you’d, like, totally hate my guts after meeting them. They’re kind of judgy, you know? They’re afraid I might join a gang or something.”

“You? A gang? Nah.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised!” Elliott dropped the box on the street by Desmond’s feet, holding a finger and adding, “Right before I started college, I got this huge lecture about drugs and sex and shit. Like they might disown me or something. If I somehow ended up in prison, they weren’t paying bail. They’re big on the whole suffer-the-consequences thing. I know I’m not the picture-perfect son or anything, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job.”

“They wouldn’t disown you,” Desmond said, a little surprised by the tone in Elliott’s voice. He leaned against the side of the truck, tucking his bad hand into his pocket. Luckily no one had commented on it, even when he was inside the house. The glove was still doing its trick. “Your parents really care about you. And they’re not afraid to show it. Which is a lot, speaking as someone with a dad like mine.”

“I dunno, man, if they knew what you got me into,” Elliott said, going back into the van, looking through boxes labeled ‘Zach’. “They’d definitely reconsider how well I can choose my friends. Whether or not they can speak Arabic like them. Which, uh, major plot twist, dude. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Say what? That I learned a language while in another country?” Desmond said, making a face. The fact that he understood Arabic hadn’t really occurred to him until today, and he still wasn’t sure if he was pleased at the revelation or not. There had been moments before like in Monteriggioni, where Desmond may have let slip a bit of Italian, but that felt different somehow. That needed conscious effort. Not this time. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“But how good are you?” Elliott asked, throwing Desmond a skeptical look. Then he said, “Only idiots think they can break into Abstergo and not get caught.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not idiots,” Desmond replied smoothly, smirking.

“Ah! Shit, you can!” Elliott threw up his arms, then came over and gave Desmond a high-five before jumping out of the truck. “Fucking A, dude! You’re even better than I thought. Hell, my parents are probably going to want to adopt you after today.”

Seeing Elliott’s enthusiasm was a relief. Desmond knew he probably wouldn’t get that kind of reaction from his dad or the rest of the team had it happened with them — they’d get all serious, label it as a symptom of the Bleeding Effect, and perhaps attribute it to Desmond losing his mind again.

But Desmond felt fine. Sure, he still saw the ghosts, but they weren’t so bad here. He wasn’t slipping into Altair’s memories or identity. He still knew who he was.

Clay was to thank for that.

“What’s this?” Elliott bent down, picking something off the ground. A folded piece of paper. Oh, shit. Desmond tried to stop him, but Elliott had already opened it, saw the map. “Is this yours? Looks like a church plan.”

“Um, yeah,” Desmond went rigid. The paper must’ve fallen out of his pocket — after all this moving stuff around and messing with Elliott, he should’ve been more careful. “It’s for, um, school. Yeah.”

“A temple of Juno, huh?”

Desmond did a double-take, staring at Elliott open-mouthed. “H-how did you know?”

“That thing, duh,” Elliott rolled his eyes, pointed at the symbol in the center of the image. “Haven’t you ever taken astronomy class? Hell, I think the ancient Romans would’ve had you covered. That’s the symbol of Juno — scientists use it to represent one of the largest asteroids in our solar system, named Juno, obviously. It supposed to be, like, a scepter or staff or something. At least that’s what it looks like.”

“Oh.” Desmond felt his cheeks go red. Well, talk about an overreaction. For a second, he was terrified that Elliott was actually a Follower, or something. He took the paper, hangdog. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Why? What did you think it was?” Elliott threw him a skeptical look.

“Uh.” Desmond didn’t want to admit it. “A flower.”

Elliott stared at him for a second, before sniggering. “Man, I thought you’d be better at this history stuff.”

“Shut up! I am.”

“Whatever you say, dude.” Elliott finger-gunned. Behind him, the front door opened, Zach peeking out at them. Elliott glanced over his shoulder, waved, then said to Desmond in an undertone, “So, we still on for tomorrow night? I was thinking, you know, maybe I could get some buddies to help, make it easier —”

“No, no one else,” Desmond said almost immediately. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Elliott’s friends (he didn’t), but because he didn’t want to put anyone else in danger, and a part of him still thought this might be a bad idea. “Sorry, man, I don’t know how hard it’s going to be, but no one else can get involved. You’re the only guy I trust for this.”

A little bit of flattery seemed to work on Elliott, like it did during their argument at his place. Elliott pursed his lips, nodded as he considered, “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”

Still, Desmond thought he heard a hint of doubt in Elliott’s voice. What they were going to do was no easy task, and for Desmond, possibly get him killed. That was not something he’d easily let an innocent friend get involved in. “Look, Elliott, if you don’t want to do this —”

“Of course I want to do this!” Elliott cut him off, throwing him an earnest look. “Fuck Abstergo! They had this coming for years! I hope I get to see those fatcat’s faces when we dump all their secrets out to the public.”

Exposing Abstergo wasn’t Desmond’s idea — he was hoping to use said secrets to aid the Assassins, since it was unlikely that the dismantling of Abstergo would ever get rid of the Templars. Still, if he could get the human populace to distrust the Templar’s public face, then all the better.

“Oh, good,” Desmond sighed in relief. “For a moment there, you got me worried.”

“Worried? No way, Miles, I got your back!” Elliott punched him on the shoulder. “This’ll be a piece of cake!”

Desmond is such an artist <3

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

Routine Hacking

“So, you gonna let me in on your master plan or what?” Elliott’s voice rattled, tinny, in Desmond’s ear.

“Master plan?” He squinted up at the dark mauve sky. Snow fell in soft flurries, picked up on an erratic wind that occasionally tossed Desmond’s hood. It stayed on, though, and Desmond had to flinch through the cold, traipsing through the two inches of snow. “I don’t have a master plan. The plan I have is the plan you know.”

“Well, no offense, dude, but it's not a very good one.”

“Just shut up and hang on.” Desmond muttered as he drew closer to his target. Thanks for the vote of confidence. “I’m almost there.”

Although it was nine at night, the streets were lit up, orange and green and blue, and there were plenty of people on the streets. Dressed heavier than Desmond, they walked in groups, off to party or a restaurant or a bar, enjoying themselves as they laughed together, entirely unaware of the lone man using their presence as a cover until he reached Abstergo HQ.

It was a tall, almost lonely silver building, and although there were surely no one left working inside, there were still guards out front, security cameras flicking back and forth. It wasn’t like Desmond was going to go in through the front anyways, but the sight of them made him antsy. The last time he snuck into Abstergo, back in Rome, had not gone according to plan.

No one paid him any mind, though, and Desmond passed the building without notice. He kept going until he rounded the corner of the block, before he broke away from his group, ducking into an alleyway behind a large brick building — perhaps the town hall, or the police station, although he hadn’t thought to check the sign.

It didn’t particularly matter, anyways. The alleyways were particularly spacious downtown, not nearly as dangerous as it was further north.

Luckily, the backside of Abstergo was much less well-guarded than the front. The second building had a camera in the way, which Desmond promptly too out with a well-aimed rock he picked off the ground. The plastic box shot off, pieces scattering as it disappeared into the snowbank below.

He had approximately three minutes before someone came around to check on that.

The maintenance door was easy to find, right next to the loading bay and two dumpsters. A single flickering light illuminated the area, falling on the mounds of snow piling up around it.

“Okay, I’m at the door,” Desmond said, keeping his voice low even though there was no one around to hear him. He saw another camera in the corner and, before it could capture him, covered it with black paint from a spray can. “What do I do now?”

“Well, if you don’t see a metal box on the wall near you,” Elliott replied over the earpiece. “Then it must be inside. I can’t get into the power grid if you don’t plug me in first.”

There were indeed no boxes near him. Desmond tried the door, completely unsurprised to find that it wouldn’t budge. It didn’t ease his frustration any, though. “Damn, it’s locked.”

“Uh, maybe find another way in?”

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Desmond said, bending down to one knee and peering at the keyhole. While lockpicking wasn’t exactly his forte, Ezio and Connor had done it enough times that Desmond got the gist of it. Pulling a set of lockpicks from his pocket, he got to work.

“A-are you picking the lock?” Elliott sounded surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.” Desmond sighed, forgetting he was being watched. He could hear the distant whirr of the drone flying above him, nearly invisible against the sky. It was his idea to use the drones as Elliott’s eyes, who otherwise had no idea what was going on stuck in his apartment, apart from what he could hear.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” Desmond made a face, felt a tumbler flick into place.

“Hmm, no, not really.” said Elliott. Desmond was relieved he didn’t push the matter further. “But when you do get in, just remember, I won’t be able to see you. I don’t think it’s very stealthy to have a drone flying around inside a building.”

He just smiled, and with a click the last tumbler fell into place, and testing the handle led to a smooth, swinging door. Keeping to a crouch, Desmond ducked inside, huffing, “I’m in. Now I just have to find the breaker box.”

“It’ll probably be in the basement. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

“Me? Nah.” The cement floors and walls didn’t do much to retain heat, and Desmond crept down the dimly lit hallway. There was no one here, at least not yet, and he didn’t spot any cameras. He was sure to find more somewhere in this building. There was staircase to his right and, as luck should have it, led downwards. Peering over the railing to make sure there wasn’t another camera, Desmond spotted below.

Flipping over on the other side of the banister, he hung onto the metal bar as he bent down and covered that camera lens with spray paint as well. It wasn’t as clean as Desmond would’ve liked (having control of the cameras themselves would be preferred), but this was all he could manage for now.

Once that was done, he let go of the banister and dropped to the floor below. He landed softly on two feet, keeping low to the ground in case he ran into any guards. There was a door head, what appeared to be a dark room beyond.

He blinked once, and the world turned blue and gray. Beyond the door, Desmond could see a cabinet on one wall, marked in gold. He saw no red figures inside, and deemed it clear.

Yet, when he raised his hand to open the door, a sudden jolt made him gasp and snap his hand back. “What the hell…!”

“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Elliott said in his ear, alerted by his voice. “Did something bad happen?”

“N-no, it’s nothing,” Desmond worked his jaw, frowning at his hand. Although it was covered with the glove, he swore he could see the veins pulsating beneath, red hot against black skin. It had never hurt before, so why now? He certainly couldn’t explain it to Elliott, who had no idea.

But then the pain was gone, as soon as it came. Desmond shook out his arm, waiting a second to make sure it was all right, before reaching for the door again and opening it.

Nothing remarkable happened. Then, making sure there were no cameras, he darted over and opened the cover. Inside revealed a complex mixture of switches and plugs. It was by far the fanciest breaker panel Desmond had ever seen, with a small screen detailing info and blinking lights.

Of course it meant nothing to Desmond. “Okay, Elliott, I’m at the box. Tell me what I’m looking at. How do I get you in?”

“You remember those wires I gave you? Take the one with the metal clamps attached to that little box, and hook them around either end of the red wire. At least I’m pretty sure it’s red…”

“How sure?” Desmond asked as he pulled it out of his bag.

“Like...sixty-seven percent sure.”

“Elliott! C’mon, we can’t fuck around here. Is it the red one or not?”

“Okay, yes, yes, it’s the red one!” Elliott replied, his voice rising a little at Desmond’s annoyance. He let out a long breath. “I hope.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Desmond just rolled his eyes, grit his teeth, and without waiting to reconsider, he just jammed the clamps on the wire. If this didn’t work, then their little mission would be over before it even begun. “This better fucking work.”

He checked the box which the clamps were attached to. Two lights and one button, and no label to say what any of them meant. Desmond couldn’t remember what the thing was called, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t meant to be its intended use. Actually, he was starting to think this thing might be one of Elliott’s new inventions, and that did not make him feel much better. “Okay, the light on the whatchamacallit turned from red to green. Is that good?”

“First of all, it’s called a System Bypass and secondly, yes, all you have to do now is press the middle button and you’re good to go.” Elliott said matter-of-factly, and as Desmond did so, he continued. “There, that’s dismantled Abstergo’s alarm system for the next thirty seconds, before it reboots. Now you just have to flick off all the right switches, which will turn off all power and prevent said reboot. Just avoid the ones that say ‘server room’. You think you can do that?”

“Don’t mock me,” Desmond huffed, swiping his hand across the board. Behind him, somewhere in the building, a low groan emanated, the sound of several power generators winding down, followed by a dull clunk sound as all the lights in the building went off at once.  “There, everything’s shut down.”

“Good. Now you don’t have to worry about cameras or heat sensors or whatever the hell Abstergo’s got to catch intruders. I bet they have flies with miniature cameras on their backs, watching our every move.”

“Let’s not ride the crazy train, okay?” Desmond suggested, shaking his head as he removed the System Bypass or whatever and closed the panel to the breaker box. A cold shiver went up his back as he said, “Abstergo’s weird, but they can’t do that. Yet. I think.”

“Oh shit, I just realized, the server room’s on the 48th floor. And we just turned off the elevator. Think you can make the climb?”

Desmond left the darkness of the basement and found himself in the new darkness of the stairwell. Although there were a few windows at regular intervals, the ceiling stretched up and up into darkness, so high that Desmond couldn’t see it. The spiral of stairs was almost dizzying to take in. “Well, nothing gets the blood pumping like some cardio.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Climbing those steps was a hell of an experience. Desmond started at a light jog of sorts, taking two steps at a time. It was more tiring this way, but he didn’t have a lot of time to waste. He was sure there was manned security around here, investigating the blackout.

As he swung around another flight of steps, Desmond thought there was something wrong to all of this, like he was missing something, and it took him three flights to figure out what it was. A little breathless as he ran, he said, “Hey, Elliott, you think you can make me, like, a grappling hook or something? This is taking way too long.”

“You watch too much Mission Impossible. And this coming from a guy who loves Mission Impossible.”

“I’m just saying. Could be useful,” Desmond replied, looking up as he took in how many floors he had left to go. He missed his ancestor’s memories, where they could climb the outside of buildings that were not made entirely of sheer glass and metal.  “I didn’t realize how much more exciting sneaking around is when you’re not doing it on a bunch of stairs.”

“What do you mean? Just how much sneaking around do you actually do?” Elliott asked, and Desmond actually considered the question for a long moment.

He decided Elliott deserved at least a little nugget of truth; they were partners in crime, after all, and if this all went south, Elliott should at least have an idea of what for. “So you know about that farm I told you I grew up on?”

“Regular Luke Skywalker, yeah.”

“Well, uh, did I ever tell you about the other families? The kids?”

“Wait, other families? Where did you say this farm was again?”

Desmond remembered quite clearly he had never told Elliott where he grew up, but decided to humor him anyways. “South Dakota. It didn’t have electricity or anything but, uh...they taught us stuff.”

“No electricity? Don’t tell me you grew up in a cult.”

Desmond made a face, pausing at a landing to catch his breath. He leaned against the railing, taking a second to ask himself: Are you fucking nuts? What the hell are you doing? Before he answered with, “N-no, but I mean...it was more of a survival thing. They taught us wilderness skills, I guess. How to climb, how to take care of yourself. How to get around without people noticing you.”

“Des...that’s kind of weird.”

Desmond let out a short, harsh laugh. If only he knew. He took off again, ready to take down the last five flights of stairs. “Well, when you’re ten years old, it’s hard to tell that when you don’t know anything else. I didn’t even know about TV’s until I got out.”

“You’re just saying these things to make me feel bad, aren’t you?”

That was actually the last thing Desmond wanted, and he was a little unhappy that that was what Elliott took from this. Desmond had never spoken about his childhood to anyone before, at least not to anyone who didn’t experience themselves. And yeah, sure, he left out the part about the massive wall encircling the compound, and the fact that he still woke up at 4:30 AM because of the training routines, as well as the fact that his father had interesting ideas on corporeal punishment, and his mother did almost nothing to stop it —

It was a little hard to have it just brushed aside like that by a friend.

“You know what, just forget it,” Desmond couldn’t hide the edge in his voice, the resentment that boiled in his gut. He hated how his father’s words echoed in his head: don’t make friends you aren’t willing to lose. You can’t trust anyone out there. How infuriatingly correct they felt in this moment. “It’s stupid.”

“Wait, what?” Elliott seemed to sense that he said something wrong. “Oh, no, shit. Bro, that’s not what I meant. I just —”

“I said, forget it,” Desmond said through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low as he finally reached the 48th floor. He thought he saw the beam of a flashlight swing around inside the glass. “I’m here. I need you to be quiet.”

He heard Elliott inhale through his nose, like he still wanted to say something. But thankfully, Elliott held back, and allowed Desmond to concentrate as he quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

The hallway was very silent, and Desmond was all too aware of his heavy breathing. After going up those stairs, he had gotten used to the sound of the blood in his ears, the echoing footsteps bouncing up and down the stairwell. Now they were the absolute worse things, and he found it hard to hear anything else outside the excruciatingly loud sounds he made. How Abstergo didn’t know he was here already, he had no idea.

He had to pause, take a breath. Calm his nerves, clear his thoughts.

With a blink, the world turned blue and gray. Something gold flickered ahead, behind a corner only ten feet away. Dropping to a crouch, Desmond snuck closer.

The guard had his back to him, speaking into his radio, flashing his light down the hall ahead of him. “No, no, I don’t see anything. Floor Forty-Eight is clear, over.”

“Copy that.”

The guard tilted his head and opened his mouth to add something else, but before he could do so, two arms wrapped around his neck. The guard gasped, kicking as Desmond pulled him down into a chokehold, covering the man’s mouth to prevent him from crying out.

He pulled the guard around the corner, pressing gently around the man’s jugular until the loss of blood to his head rendered him unconscious. It would be a while before he woke up again. Desmond released the guard, setting him down gently, before taking the flashlight for himself.  

The takedown was almost completely silent, and Desmond was pleased that he had made it this far without killing anyone.

He hoped it might stay that way.

“What was that?” Elliott whispered into the microphone, as though he was there in the hallway with Desmond as he navigated his way to what was apparently the only other door here. “I thought I heard someone choking. Is everything all right?”

He winced a little, but responded curtly, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“I really hope we don’t run into any guards.” Elliott said, the worry in his voice plain to hear. Desmond was relieved that there were no cameras for him to spy with. “The last thing we need is getting you arrested.”

Desmond approached the closed door, had just rested his hand on the knob when he actually snorted at that, despite himself. “Trust me, dude, getting arrested will be the least of our problems if we get caught.”

“What do you mean?” Elliott asked, just as Desmond opened the door and entered the server room.

Desmond completely forgot to answer him when he saw just what the server room actually was.

“Holy shit,” Desmond breathed, taking in the expanse before him. “It’s huge.”

“Hell yeah it is,” Elliott sounded amused, perhaps forgetting Desmond’s earlier comment for this one. That was just fine by him. “What did you think it’d be, a little computer in a closet?”

“Well, no, but...damn.”

The room took up the entire floor of the building — server tower after server tower lined up in a massive grid, humming ominously in the darkness. Desmond could only make out their flickering lights and the silhouettes they left against the backdrop of the windows and the yellow glow of the city beyond.

The room was almost steamy thanks to the collective heat rising off these machines. As Desmond stepped through the aisles, he asked, “Is it supposed to be so warm in here?”

“Uh,” Elliott paused, the background typing coming to a halt. “No. Servers have to be maintained — if they overheat, stuff melts and catches on fire. Which, I mean, it’s Abstergo, so who gives a fuck, but I guess we still need to get in the system. We must have cut off the A/C along with the lights. It’s okay, though — once you plug me in, I can fix it all before it’s too late.”

“Awesome,” Desmond said under his breath, more to himself as he started down the aisle. The air was filled with a low hum, and he could feel a faint vibration through the floor from all these machines running at the same time.

He picked a tower at random, stepping in front of it so he now faced the doorway. If someone were to come along, Desmond would see them first.

Without a word, he withdrew the other cord, a phone jack, from his backpack, along with Angela Beaumont's cell. Elliott had already explained to him how it worked, and Desmond was reasonably familiar with basic computer terminology, and plugged the USB into the appropriate slot. The phone beeped in his hand, the screen flashing with a loading symbol. “All right, got you plugged in. Can you really access it remotely through the phone?”

“It’s called the Cloud for a reason,” Elliott sounded a little smug. “You just gotta know how to use it, that’s all.”

“I see that college degree is really working out for you,” Desmond muttered, a little underwhelmed by Elliott’s explanation. All this tech stuff was more Rebecca’s field of work, and Desmond was really only good at killing people. The phone beeped again, the loading icon disappearing, before returning to the regular lock-in screen. “Damn, it works.”

“Of course it works. It’s Abstergo’s fault that they got such a weak-ass system.” Elliott said, his voice joined by the tapping of keys. “I’m accessing their data now. It’s gonna take some time, though, for me to get through the other firewalls, but we’re in, dude. We’re in like Flynn.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Just...never mind.” Elliott sighed. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll if I can find anything juicy.”

Ten minutes, okay. Ten minutes was good. So far, Desmond had run into minimal trouble, and no one seemed to know he was here.

A light gust of air brushed against his shoulders, followed by the sound of the A/C being turned on — Elliott’s handiwork, apparently. “Okay, I’m in their building systems. A/C should be on. I also made sure to allocate the generator’s power to everything except lighting and security.”

“You can do that?” Desmond had to admit, he was a little impressed. He didn’t even realize he was hot until then, and pulled at the collar of his hoodie.

“The magic of technology, my man.”

Elliott continued to work silently, and Desmond took respite, watching the time passed on Angela’s phone and trying not to get himself worked up as the time dragged.

Shifting on his feet, Desmond itched to do something. There was always a lot of waiting when you’re an Assassin, watching marks, counting down to the right moment to strike… but not usually just standing around and letting other people do the work. Especially when you were trespassing. The longer he stayed, the riskier this got.

Honestly, Desmond was a little bored. Again.

Then, a twinge in his right arm.

It was faint at first, more like a little pinch than anything distracting. But after flexing his fingers and waiting a few moments, the pain grew,sharply, like someone just held a lighter to his skin. He shook his hand and hissed, “Ow, fuck.”

“What? What was that?”

“I-it’s nothing,” Desmond said, although it had become clear that this was probably not nothing at all. “My hand hurts, that’s all.”

It was still hidden in the glove, which was starting to feel too thick and tight. Desmond wanted to take it off, wanted his hand to stop hurting, but the ache didn’t let up. Rubbing his wrist with his other hand, Desmond’s voice was strained when he asked, “So, how’s it going, Elliott? Are you getting anywhere?”

“Hold on, I got one last thing to get through…”

Just then, Desmond heard a door-slam. His head shot up, his attention switching from his arm to the sound of someone getting closer. There was a low shout, then crackle of radio chatter. Quick footsteps, and then a beam of flashlight swept into the room, accompanied by a shout, “Smith here, we got an intruder. Lights still out, but servers are on. I think someone’s in here. I’ll check it out.”

“Dude, you should see this,” Elliott laughed, apparently catching none of this. “Man, I always knew Abstergo was fucked up, but holy shit...We hit the fucking jackpot.”

“Shit,” Desmond dropped low, taking the phone with him, quickly unplugging and packing things away. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Elliott, I don’t mean to rain on the parade, but we have go to. Now.”

“Fuck, they found you already?”

“Not yet,” Desmond carefully backed himself around the corner of a tower, putting distance between himself and the guards as the flashlight flicked down each aisle. The beam of light fell across the floor just as Desmond hid himself behind the machine. “Please tell me there’s another way out of this room.”

“On it. You came in from the north entrance, right? Well, there should be one to your right, it leads down the main hallway. I’ll try to jam their comms.”

“All right, I’m getting out — fuck!” suddenly, another wave of pain shot down Desmond’s arm, taking him by surprise. He had to bite his tongue to keep his voice from carrying, clutching his hand to his chest as he curled around it.

Burning, singing pain. Desmond couldn’t make it stop. He had no idea why it started in the first place, but now he couldn’t think of anything else at all.

He panted, a little out of breath. He could feel the dead skin pulsing, and it made his stomach roil. Desmond knew he had to get out of here before things got worse.

Because they always did.

It took a surprising amount of effort to push himself to his feet. The pain made Desmond just want to curl up and die, but he made himself think, made himself act. As the guard continued walking down to the farhter end of the server room, Desmond ducked out of his hiding spot and started creeping down the other way, searching for the door Elliott told him about.

It was dark, but he could make out the outline of the door against the wall. He was almost there. He could just slip out, take the stairs, and be out of here before anyone saw —

Angela’s phone started to ring.

“Who’s there!” the flashlight swung in his direction just as Desmond dove to the ground. He just barely managed to get out of the way before two bullets found themselves in the grates of a server.

He scrambled to remove the phone from his backpack, chucking it away from him without bothering to break it first. The phone continued to ring it’s stupid cheerful jingle, while Desmond carefully rounded several towers, remaining hidden in the darkness as the sound of the phone drew the guard’s attention away from him.

Desmond grit his teeth, unable to keep himself from groaning as he pressed his shoulder against a tower, clutching his arm as the pain continued to grow, as the guard drew nearer, gun raised.

Shit, he forgot they were armed. How the fuck was he going to get out here now?

“What the hell was that?” Elliott’s voice was sharp in his ear, too loud. Desmond feared that the guard might hear it, too. “Was that gunshots? Desmond, are you okay?”

Desmond didn’t respond. Instead, he waited until the guard drew up to the phone lying lonely on the ground, its screen flickering, demanding to be answered — the man’s head was literally right next to his. Desmond remained absolutely still, holding his breath. Blood pounded in his ears.

The guard paused, then slowly looked to his right, to the hooded Assassin standing there in the darkness. Desmond flicked his wrist. Shing.

“Intrud —!” the guard only managed to get half the message into his radio before the hidden blade entered his throat.

The guard dropped, going limp as a ragdoll, gun and flashlight clattering to the ground.

“Oh, great,” Desmond muttered, grimacing at his own stupidity. There was already chatter on the radio as the rest of Abstergo’s security force responded. He backed away, starting to sweat as his hand grew hotter, along with the pain. “Elliott, how’s that jammer coming along?”

“I just did it — why, what happened? Did they see you?”

Desmond had turned around, heading towards the right door, when he threw one last glance at the dead body. The pooling blood glittered under the flashlight’s beam. “Don’t worry about it, just get me out of here in one piece. Gah!”

He nearly fell to his knees this time, his hand hurt so bad. It felt like his palm was being stabbed a dozen times, searing hot blades slicing through his skin. He couldn’t hear Elliott speaking in his ear, the pain was too much. It even made his vision flicker a little, pressing black spots in the corner of his eyes.

No, no, get up! Have to get out of here, can’t stay here. Go!

Desmond once more forced himself to stand, even though it was starting to hurt the rest of him, too. He had no idea why the hand was hurting, the hand that before couldn’t feel anything at all; he was pretty sure Juno had something to do with it. If only he could make it stop.

The sound of pounding boot steps and slamming doors had Desmond going again. He had just made it to the exit when a spatter of bullets hit the wall over his head.

He gasped, dove for the floor. Eyes level with the floor, he saw half a dozen pairs of boots charge into the server room.

The back-up was here.

[ Aesthetic post by me :) ]

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Roped In

All right. Ten guys, all armed with rifles, all wearing armor. All he had to do was get out of here alive without being spotted.

Piece of cake.

You know, if his arm wasn’t totally killing him right now.

Desmond got up on his elbows, army-crawled over behind a server tower. There was nothing else to hide behind in this room. No desks, no counters, nothing. Eventually, someone was going to see him, and then he’d be dead.

The pain was making his breath ragged, his throat sore. Elliott was still talking, not that Desmond had the mental space to make sense of any of it.

He peered around the corner of the tower, trying to see in the darkness. His Eagle Vision, usually very helpful in these situations, kept blinking in and out — Desmond couldn’t hold it more for ten seconds at a time. Each time his arm pulsed, he lost it. He couldn’t concentrate with this kind of distraction.

Desmond’s gaze was met with two glowing dots. When they swept in his direction, he seized backwards, ducking behind cover again. Shit! They had night vision goggles. How the hell was he going to get around freaking night vision goggles?

Damn, he shouldn’t have gotten in here alone. He should’ve come up with a better plan. Something a little better than: Get in, get the info, don’t get seen, get out .

Admittedly, it had been a work in progress.

The guards were rounding corners, checking every aisle. Desmond was still too far from the door, and he wondered if he could make it, open the door, and get out without being seen. It was just right there, out in the open. And now not even the darkness could protect him.

That’s when Desmond got an idea.

“Elliott,” he breathed, just as he saw one guard coming up at the far end of the room, checking the corner. Desmond slowly edged around the tower, keeping an eye on everyone so he didn’t cross their paths. But the body had already been found, the areas cleared, and it would be less than a minute before he’d be spotted. “Elliott, I need you to turn on the lights.”

“What? Why?”

“ Just do it!” He hissed. The little red laser dots were getting uncomfortably close to his feet. He tucked them in, readying himself into a crouch. “Now!”

“You better close your eyes, cuz’ this is gonna hurt.” Elliott warned. “All right. Three, two, one —”

WHOOM.

Desmond squeezed his eyes shut, then threw himself in what he thought was the direction of the door.

Ten men cried out as they were suddenly blinded, and Desmond’s shoulder smashed into wood — the door gave immediately, and Desmond tumbled out, falling into a lit hallway.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get very far. His hand was searing with pain and when he tried to pick himself up, his hand gave out. Desmond could smell something burning, a gnarly stench, and when he opened his eyes to see, he was instantly blinded.

He pressed his back against the far wall, trying to scoot himself away from the server room as best as he could. His hand was throbbing beneath the glove, and Desmond could hardly breathe through what was now utter agony.

What was happening to him? Was this like with the guard, where Desmond lost control of himself, turned that guard to ash? His hand hadn’t hurt then, though. Was it the...the disease? Was it finally getting him?

Make it stop make it stop just please make it stop

How the hell was he supposed to get out of here when he couldn’t even think straight? It was bad enough Abstergo knew he was here, but now he had to deal with this crazy Juno shit.

Thankfully, his eyes quickly adjusted to the light. Not so thankfully, Desmond wouldn’t like what he saw.

“Jesus, fuck!” Desmond recoiled, staring in horror as the glove started smoking, smoldering — he tried to rip it off, but the fabric was already too hot for his other hand to touch. Desmond just burned himself in the process. All he could do was grip his right elbow, breathing hard as his hand burned right through the glove .

It just disintegrated, ash crumbling to the floor as the veins in Desmond’s hand flashed in time to his quickening pulse. He knew he was only making this worse, his panic getting the better of him but Desmond’s excuse was kind of a good one:

What the shit is happening?

He watched his hand clench, and although it was just an instinctual reaction to the pain, Desmond felt like he was watching someone else’s hand move. Before, he had felt nothing at all from this hand, and now it was only serving him torment, so awful that Desmond could hardly breathe, much less think.

Back pressed against the wall, Desmond tried to blink through the stars pressing against his eyes. A million nerves were on fire and he couldn’t turn them off, couldn’t work past them in his mind to act.

He could still hear gunfire and shouting — both from the guards and Elliott, poor guy, who wouldn’t have a clue why Desmond had cried out in pain.

“Oh my god! Des, are you okay? I heard gunshots! Did they get you? Talk to me, man! ”

“N-no,” Desmond managed to choke out, sucking in air through his teeth. He was hyperventilating, he knew, tried to calm himself long enough to do something. “Just slow them down! A-anything t-t-to slow them down.”

“I already jammed their comms and activated the locks on all exits.” The sound of keyboard tapping filled Desmond’s ear. A welcome distraction. “But I can’t do anything about the guys that already found you.”

“Well, they haven’t gotten me yet.” Desmond muttered. Like hell they’d catch him. He could see them swarming through the server room again, having recovering from the blinding attack. Giving them full lighting sure wasn’t going to help him in the long run, so he ordered, “I need you to turn off the lights again.”

“Again? Desmond, what the hell are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Desmond said through gritted teeth, finding a measured breath again. A plan formed in his head. Not a good one. But one that was going to work. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

Even though his chances were growing smaller with each wasted second.

The lights went out again with a flicker, another loud hum, and Desmond had only a second of Eagle Vision to decide where he was going next before that cut out, too. The air was still, the tile cold beneath Desmond’s feet. He pressed his hand against the floor, found small relief before his hand started burning through it. “Aw, shit!”

Fucking great. How could he stop this? Desmond didn’t even care how it was happening so long as it wasn’t permanent.

Thoughts raced through his head, erratic and illogical. Was Juno doing this? Was this part of her master plan? What had the First Civilization done to him?

Unfortunately, none of those questions could be faced right now.

Sweat beaded on his brow. The stench of smoke quickly filled the air. He could see thin red beams of light flash through the room as the Abstergo guards slowly worked their way out of the maze of servers. Then one man shouted, “I see something! Over here!”

Thunderous footsteps, a call to arms. The red beams converged on the exit.

Alarmed, Desmond scrambled to his feet, grimacing past the pain and pushing himself off the wall — leaving behind a scorched handprint — and took off running.

He took a sharp turn to the left before any of the guards could see them, but they were already hot on his trail. Desmond had to keep himself from pressing his arm to his chest out of pain. If he did so, it’d ruin his hoodie, and he’d probably just end up burning himself further.

Not a good idea.

The pain was so sharp, in fact, that Desmond couldn’t concentrate long enough to use his Eagle Vision. It flickered and faded every time he tried, becoming weaker with each successive attempt.

Which sucked, because racing through dark corridors wasn’t a great idea if you can’t see shit.

He kept bumping into things. Shoulder knocking against a doorframe. Knee tossing aside a metal trashcan, sending trash all across the floor. Then Desmond crashed headlong into a chair, nearly ate shit, before landing in a somersault and propelling himself forward.

Banged and bruised up, Desmond now had plenty of new injuries to distract himself from his arm. Yippee.

It all just meant he was leaving a clear trail for the guards to follow. Stupid stupid stupid. How the hell was he going to shake these guys?

Desmond didn’t think it could get any worse, until he rounded one last corner and came to a set of closed doors. This normally wouldn’t be a problem, until he tried the handle and found it was locked. He bashed his shoulder into the door, yelling, “God dammit! Elliott, unlock the doors!”

“What? All of them?” Elliott sounded surprised, even reluctant.

Desmond opened his mouth to argue, but then the handle suddenly snapped off in his grip. Looking down, Desmond stared as his burnt hand just ate through the metal knob. “You know what, never mind!”

It took a few more seconds, but digging his fist against the lock turned it into a giant hole. Desmond kicked the door open, not wasting a second to explain to Elliott what just happened.

At least the hand was good for something .

He burst into another stairwell. Desmond started going downstairs, but jumped back when he saw another team of armed guards marching up the steps. Desmond did a double-take, stumbling back. “Uh, nope. Wrong way.”

He managed to throw himself out of the way as a spray of bullets came his way. Desmond instead went upstairs, gripping the handrail to propel himself forward. His hand left it a smoldering mess in his wake.

Desmond swung around the next landing. He was faster than his pursuers, and managed to get up two floors in the same time it took them one.

Three floors later, Desmond heard footsteps coming down , and knew this was his stop. Hoping he didn’t find himself in a dead end, he pushed through the door and prayed for another way out.

He found himself in a large room — a cafeteria, if the bar and grouped tables were any indication. Chairs were stacked away, leaving the floor clear. Beyond, floor-to-ceiling Windows would’ve shown a lovely view of the New York skyline, but now just showed dark buildings and a worsening storm. Snow was plastered against the glass as the wind whistled, long and low, pushing to get in.

Desmond’s chest rose and fell rapidly, scanning the room for an escape. He felt too hot under his hoodie, which was already too thin for weather outside.

Outside.

Luckily, there was a balcony less than ten yards away.

Hearing thundering footsteps behind him, Desmond vaulted over a table and tore across the room. He heard the clicking of guns being readied, and zigzagged to throw off their aim — a lesson his father taught him, and one Desmond didn’t really appreciate until now — and the bullets zinged passed him, into the glass, and shattering it.

“Ha!” Desmond leapt through the now-broken windows onto the balcony beyond. He skidded to a stop at the metal railing — there was a plastic shield to protect people, or stop jumpers. Unfortunately, Desmond was going to be one of them.

He scanned below. The streets were dark, and snow blustered down. The air was sharp and bitter, biting through his clothes, whipping at him and trying to yank his hood off. While an unpleasant change, Desmond could feel the cold on his burned skin and it was a great relief. It didn’t stop the pain, but it gave him a jolt to the system, a burst of clarity that allowed him to think for longer than five seconds at a time.

“Uh, Desmond?” Elliott said, at the same time he heard a low buzzing sound through the shrieking wind. Looking up, Desmond spotted the little drone, circling up over his head. “I don’t mean to be a downer, but how are you going to get out? There’s nowhere to go!”

Damn, he had a point.

“Uh,” Desmond made a face, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Abstergo guards coming after him. Well, they saw him now. “I’ll th-think of something.”

He turned back to the open air. It wasn't as high as when he BASE-jumped here back in October, but it was still too great a height to survive, even if there was something below to land in. If Desmond took a jump from here, he’d just be another grease spot on the streets of New York.

Then he heard something strange. A singing noise, like that of a high-tuned string, a guitar being scraped. That’s when Desmond looked down and saw the cable.

It was made of wrapped steel, strung up between Abstergo tower and another across the street. It wobbled in the wind, like waves rippling along its length.

Like the final puzzle piece sliding into place, a plan formed in Desmond’s mind. It wasn’t fully-formed; nor was it particularly clever. But it’d get the job done.

“Stop right there!” One guard shouted as Desmond hauled himself up on the plastic barrier. He was surprised they didn’t shoot him down right then and there.

At the same time, Elliott cried, “Desmond, what the hell are you doing? You’re not seriously going to jump, are you?”

“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice.” Desmond said, slowly standing up, his arms held out to keep himself balanced on the very thin edge. Looking down, Desmond was overwhelmed by the dizzying height, and vertigo made his stomach do flips, launching his heart into his throat.

But he forced it down, fixed his eyes not on the ground, but on the cable. Damn, could really use a hookblade right about now.

In fact, Desmond could almost hear Yusuf shouting in his ear: Don’t be afraid, old man! When an Assassin is tired, he must take to the air!

There came a rush of footsteps as the rest of the guards catch up, the sound of their shock at what appeared to be a suicidal thief, ready to take the plunge. One gasped, “What the —”

“Is he going to jump?” another demanded, awed.

“Get down from there!” A third shouted as Desmond fiddled with his belt buckle. “You’re under arrest for trespassing!”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Elliott’s shout crackled in his ears and Desmond saw the drone swoop down, as though Elliott thought he could somehow stop him. He seemed to have a hard time controlling it through the weather. “It’s not worth it, man! Don’t do this! I swear to god, if you —”

Desmond jumped.

No thought, no choice. Just instinct.

The air rushed past his ears, the sudden release of leaving solid ground, of entering flight. He threw himself forward, stretching out his arms. For a moment, everything seemed to slow. Desmond could see every individual snowflake drifting in front of his face, twirling slowly in their dance,

Then his belt snapped around the cable, and he caught the other end.

The cable recoiled, bouncing, throwing Desmond forward until he was suddenly rocketing down the wire, so fast he could barely hear his own pounding heartbeat.

“Holy shit !” Elliott cried, his voice cracking an octave when Desmond caught the cable instead of immediately falling to his death. There came the sound of something hitting the floor in a great crash, as if Elliott had just fallen out of his chair.

Desmond had to fight to keep hold of the belt so he didn’t slip off. His hands were almost immediately frozen in the wind, and his speed wasn’t helping.

Still, there was a fire in his blood, a terrifying glee going at this speed. Desmond hadn’t realized he missed Istanbul (or was it Constantinople?) this much. He’d definitely need something better than his belt if he ever planned on doing something like this again, though.

He glanced over his shoulder, and grinned at the sight of the guards throwing up their hands, staring in shock and awe as the Assassin made his grand escape.

In less than three seconds, he was already across the street. The end of this improvised zipline was coming in close — bolted to the roof of a building below. The slant of the wire just meant Desmond was going faster and faster, and his belt didn’t exactly have any brakes added.

“Ooooh, man,” Desmond made a face, wincing as the building rushed to meet his feet. “This is gonna suck.”

Deciding that eating shit at fifty miles an hour was a lot less fun than it sounded, Desmond let go of the cable.

“Whoa!” Desmond’s momentum threw him forward, across the roof. He hit it shoulder first, and managed to propel himself into a roll to soften the landing. The six inches of snow also helped.

After making sure nothing was broken, Desmond stood up — belt smoking and ruined, he threw it aside. He patted himself, as if to make sure he wasn’t completely riffled with bullets. “Heh! I’m still alive.”

Desmond faced Abstergo tower. The balcony which he had jumped off of was now a tiny thing in the distance — but he could still see the guards watching him. Sucking in a deep breath, Desmond smirked, raised his hand, and gave them a quick salute.

Then he ran to the far end of the building, and disappeared over the side.

“That was literally the coolest shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

Elliott had been pacing back and forth in room for the past fifteen minutes since Desmond showed up. They’d lost track of the drone in the storm, but Elliott didn’t need the footage to back up what he had already seen.

“I can’t believe it! You just — you just jumped ! I thought that was it!” Elliott said, wringing his hands at Desmond. The horror in his voice was belied by the grin on his face, and Desmond couldn’t help but laugh in return. “I thought you were done for, man! But then you pull off that James Bond move like it was nothing! You are officially the craziest motherfucker that ever walked this earth!”

As much fun as Desmond was having with all of this, he knew his actions weren’t nearly as important as Elliott’s role in this. “I don’t know, maybe I am. Did you get the data you were looking for? Please tell me you got something.”

By the time he had returned to the apartment, his hand had stopped freaking out. While convenient and giving him time to find another glove to cover it with, Desmond was still a little concerned about it. Well, more than a little concerned. What if it came back? How would he be able to tell? How could he make it stop?

But he decided to put it aside for now. The taste of victory was just that sweet.

“Oh, right,” Elliott blinked, shaking his head as though he’d forgotten he had a role in this at all. He turned around, went to his desk, and brought up over two dozen files. “Check this shit out! It’s a fucking goldmine, Des. We got financial details, foreign benefactors, offshore accounts, even stuff on their Animus project! Now all I have to do is compile all of these, back them up, and upload them to the Internet. I’m thinking an anonymous message to The New York Times .”

“I can’t believe it,” Desmond said softly, a bewildered smile on his face. Something about this just felt so unreal. He didn’t think it’d be so fast. So easy. “This is happening.”

“We did it, man! Mission accomplished.” Elliott raised his hand. They high-fived, and Elliott added, “You know what this deserves?”

“If you say ‘a toast’, I’m all in.”

“Woo! Yes, I’m so hyped!” Elliott jumped out of his chair again, bouncing around like he just had a triple-shot of espresso. Usually when Desmond was that excited, he was being chased by Abstergo. He went over to the fridge, pulled out two beers, and threw one at Desmond. “Wait, what do we toast to?”

Desmond managed to uncap his with a quick flick of his hidden blade, just enough to keep it out of sight. Then he thrust the bottle in the air, said, “Fuck Abstergo?”

“Yeah!” Elliott grinned, and clinked his bottle with Desmond’s. Together, they crowed, “Fuck Abstergo!”

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Hungover

Desmond woke up in Masyaf.

“What the…” Desmond spun around, gaping at the castle walls enclosed around him. He was standing by a desk covered in scrolls and maps, a large window overlooking a garden below. It took him a second to recognize it Al Mualim’s office — or it was, until he was killed. “How am I here?”

An Assassin scribe, wearing the traditional dark blue robes of the 10th century, strolled past with an armload of books. Desmond reached out to grab the scribe, but his hand just went right through the man’s shoulder, like a ghost.

Pulling his hand back, Desmond stumbled away, shocked. He looked around again, noticed how the faces of the scribes were just blurs, shifting images like a mirage, not really there. A wave of déjà vu washed over him, and Desmond felt his heart skip a beat. “Oh man, I’m not in the Animus again, am I?”

“About time you showed up.”

Desmond spun around, not expecting his question to be answered. There, standing behind Al Mualim’s desk, was a very familiar Rafiq, scowling at him. “Whoa. Wait, can you see me?”

“You’re standing here, aren’t you?” Malik scowled at him.

Desmond was too surprised at first to respond. Then he held a hand to his head, muttering, “Oh, man, I must be dreaming again.”

Malik just rolled his eyes, but it was a different male voice that said, “Yes and no,” and Desmond jumped to see Altaïr standing right next to him, appearing out of thin air, or so it seemed. As usual, the Assassin has his hood up. “That was a daring move, sneaking into a Templar stronghold. Were you successful?”

“I — yeah,” Desmond said, then did a double-take. “Wait, how'd you hear about that? News must travel fast in the afterlife.”

“We have our ways, as you might expect.” Altaïr offered a small smirk.

“So,” Desmond held out his arms, gesturing at the interior. Another scribe passed by, going right through Desmond and making him feel a little self-conscious about his weight. “Uh, how am I here? Is this real?”

“More or less,” Altaïr shrugged. “It was built from our collective memories. My memories, really. And you, having relived them, of course.”

Another scribe passed by, and Desmond held out his arm. The white robed figure phased through him again. He frowned as the scribe kept going, passing through Altaïr as well. “And, uh, what’s up with these guys? They aren’t real.”

“Just another construction of the memory,” Altaïr shrugged, not even turning his head, completely disregarding almost everyone else in the room. It was a little disconcerting, being stared at by the Assassin, and Desmond had to keep himself from shifting in nervousness. “You remember the people as much as you remember the place. Sometimes, they are one and the same.”

Desmond pointed at Malik. “So, is he fake, too?”

Malik did not look up when he sniffed. “You said he was a little slow, Altaïr. I did not think he was stupid.”

“Hey!” Desmond bristled, then glared at Altaïr. “Why is he here?”

“I wanted to meet you, obviously,” Malik answered just as Altaïr opened his mouth. “I wanted to see what our great legacy has become. Frankly, I’m disappointed, although it’s no less than what I expected from a descendent of the great Altaïr, Eagle of Masyaf.”

He said that last bit with a sarcastic drawl, which had Altaïr and Desmond sharing looks of annoyance. Desmond was tempted to start an argument, just for the sake of it, but Altaïr grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away. “Ignore him. He is always in a bad mood. Death has done him no favors.”

“I wonder why!” Malik called after them, but at that point the two had already disappeared behind some bookshelves to speak in private.

Desmond jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Again, why’s he here? What happened to Lucy? I thought I was only supposed to see people I actually connected to or something.”

Altaïr just shrugged, so casual a gesture that Desmond wasn’t quite sure an Assassin as serious as him could make. “I never said that those were hard and fast rules. You’ve walked between worlds, Desmond Miles, and you have left a trail for the rest of us to follow. I myself do not know how it works, exactly. All I know is that I am speaking to you now; this is as close to reality as your dreams will become.”

“Wait, so where did you come from? Heaven?” Desmond asked, at once intrigued by the idea. Before, he had been more or less convinced that his last vision had been some weird out-of-body experience, his mind trying to rationalize being dead for a few minutes or hours or whatever. But if what Altaïr said was true, then it meant…”Is it real? What does it look like?”

Altaïr blinked slowly, his face remaining as still as marble. “I cannot tell you that, and even if I could, you lack the capability to fully comprehend it. But do not worry yourself over where we come from; what I tell you may not be the truth for someone else, and I refuse to give you false ideas of what all this might be. What it might mean. That is not why we are here, Desmond. I wanted to speak to you about your friend, Elliott.”

“Elliott?” The name caught him by surprise, and the blood drained from Desmond’s face. Why would Altaïr be concerned about him? “He’s not a Templar, is he?”

“No, he is not,” Altaïr said, although he must’ve thought the look on Desmond’s face was funny, because he smirked a little bit. “Did you fear you would have to kill him?”

“I mean, it’s kind of an occupational hazard, isn’t it?”

Altaïr just shook his head. “It is a great responsibility, but for once not one you have to bear. No, what I am concerned of is what your presence in his life will do to him. Elliott knows more than you realize, although I doubt he’s fully aware of what he has stumbled upon. He now knows of the Templars, but not the war, and it blinds him to the danger that he is in. If the Templars weren’t aware of him before, they soon will be.”

“Why? Because he wanted to help me?”

“Even the purest of motives can lead to disaster,” Altaïr reminded him. He glanced away, a line forming between his brows. “Some of us learn the hard way. I am warning you now, so you do not repeat the mistakes of our past.”

“Do you mean…” Desmond started to say, but Altaïr turned his head, eyes flashing over his shoulder. The assassin turned away, a line forming between the brow, as if he already knew what name Desmond would say, and it was enough for Desmond to quickly backtrack and rethink what he was about to say. “...Uh, er, never mind.”

“You won’t fail him,” Altaïr said, his attention shifting to a corner of the room. “Or should I say, you can’t fail him.”

Desmond blinked. “You’re talking about Elliott, right?”

“You have put the entire Brotherhood in jeopardy because of your actions,” Altaïr said sharply, fixing Desmond with a rather cold look. “As well as your friend Elliott, and his family. Do you think the Templars will stop at only him?” Altaïr just scoffed at the idea, his face hard before brushing past Desmond with a rather impolite bump of the shoulder. “Just do your job. And remember the tenets.”

“Dude,” Desmond held out his arms, turning to watch Altaïr disappear around a corner. He hadn’t expected such a cold reaction from the Assassin, and went after him, only to come across an empty hallway. Altaïr, as per usual, had disappeared into thin air. “Well, nice to see you, too, pal!”

It wasn’t like Desmond expected a real heart-to-heart with Altaïr, but he had hoped that perhaps, after all these years, maybe the Eagle would’ve chilled out a bit or something. But clearly Altaïr was dealing with some problem, and Desmond was pretty sure it might be related to Kadar, Adha, Maria, or anyone else he watched die. People Desmond had to watch die, too. And Desmond was starting to wonder if he was dealing, not with the souls of the departed, but the haunting ghosts of the distant past.

He was so not prepared for this. Desmond just knew how to make people dead, but he had no idea how to solve the dead’s problems.

It was the past. It was over. What was there to worry about?

“He feels responsible for you,” said a voice behind Desmond. He turned around, surprised to see Malik standing there, fixing him with a hard, dark look. Malik cleared his throat, then rectified, “Altaïr doesn’t want you to go through what he went through...which is pointless, considering how and why you’re here. But I imagine he sees some of himself in you. I know I do.”

There was less venom in those words than Desmond expected. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Malik wasn’t as angry about this as Altaïr — which would be a first. Especially considering the undisclosed topic, the dead brother and missing arm (Desmond had some trouble not staring at it like an idiot).

But he could still hear the warning in Malik’s voice, the challenge. Maybe he wasn’t so sure of Desmond, either.

“I can protect Elliott.” Desmond said, his voice hard. His fists clenched at his side. A part of him couldn’t believe that Elliott could be in trouble, but he would be damned if he let it happen. “I won’t let anyone else sacrifice themselves for me.”

“Well, if Altaïr is anyone to go by,” Malik said, raising his chin, giving Desmond an appraising look. His eyes squinted slightly. “The odds are not in your favor. Be warned, Desmond Miles, your friends are in danger. And Elliott won’t be the only one.”

“And why do you care?” Desmond asked sharply. Something about the idea of the rest of his friends being threatened just didn’t sit too well with him.

The answer he got was a slap to the face. Desmond yelped, clutching his stinging cheek and surprised by how much it hurt. Yep, this was definitely the real Malik.

The Real Malik snapped, “Because I am an Assassin. We are all Assassins, and while I may not approve of everything you’ve done, I will be loathe to keep you from achieving your goals. Now, you need to wake up.”

“W-what?”

“I said,” Malik once more struck him across the face. “Wake up!”

And with the crack of his hand, the walls collapsed around them.   

“Ow, fuck!” Desmond flinched, suddenly launching forward in his bed. A hand went to his face, wondering how he could hurt from a dream, while trying to take in the blankets tangled around his legs. His breath puffed in front of him and he shivered in the apartment, dark and cold. It was startling to find himself back here, in New York, when Masyaf felt so real. The warmth of the desert was swallowed by the sharp winter here.

It took him a second to remember why his heart was racing.

Elliott.

The chill sent a jolt through his system, and Desmond scrambled out of bed, nearly falling out face first until he caught himself and kicked himself out of the blankets. “Shitshitshitshit.”

Finding his things in the dark was infuriating. It took Desmond five long seconds to find his shirt and hoodie in the mass of dirty laundry on the floor, then another five to stare at his bare wrist before remembering he put his hidden blade on the bedside table. Normally, he’d keep it on at all times because, you know, prerequisite paranoia; but Desmond remembered a story his mom told him, about an uncle who used to wear his hidden blade to bed as well — and ended up sliding his own ear off.

So no, Desmond was not prepared. His thoughts were scattered, and he could only think of Elliott, how to get to him, what might've happened, how Altaïr or anyone else could’ve known…

They had been careful. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since the break-in, and Desmond could still feel the hangover from their victory party. Even now, his head pounded a little, and Desmond cursed himself for being so slow, so stupid.

His head still pounded from the shots of vodka he had earlier that night. Elliott had challenged him, but how many did Desmond actually take…? All he remembered was winning. Desmond clutched his head, trying to fight through the ache so he could think straight, figure out a plan of action.  

There was no way Desmond could just call to find out if Elliott was okay or not. He didn’t have his cell phone, Angela's was still in the Tower somewhere, and he wasn’t going to waste time finding a phone booth. No, the fastest way to make sure Elliott was alright was to go to his apartment himself.

It was the dead of night. There would be fewer cars out, which meant Desmond would have to hoof it on his own. It would only take that much longer to reach Elliott.

Did Abstergo really find out about them so fast? How was that even possible?

Stuffing on his boots, Desmond decided that wasn’t important. Hefting open his window, he ducked out into the night, vanishing into the snowstorm.

*        *        *

The window was dark when he got there.

Desmond knocked first, because it was polite. And because if Elliott responded, then he had nothing to worry about. “Come on, Elliott, please be here…”

But nothing moved inside. When Desmond used his Eagle Vision, he saw no glowing form in the bed where it should be. Not on the couch, not in the kitchen.

The apartment was empty.

“Shit.” Desmond breathed, right before he discovered the window unlocked and ducked inside.

His feet landed on something crunchy, loose on the floor, Desmond nearly slipped. He grunted, caught the edge of the desk for support, before noticing it had been completely cleared. What he stepped on was the remains of the computer, plastic, glass, and computer bits all scattered across the floor. He toed the remains with his shoe, pushing them away to make a path. There was more debris as he looked to the couch; books, papers, Elliott’s backpack ripped open like a piñata. The bed was a mess, all the blankets on the floor. The lamp was knocked over, now a pile of shattered porcelain and a broken shade by the bed.

The door, left ominously open. A thin wedge of orange light fell across the room, highlighting the mess in stark shadows.

The place was ransacked.

He was too late.

No no no no.

Breath loud in his ears, Desmond scanned the room, using his Eagle Vision again, hoping for clues. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing, all the worst memories coming back to him. Altaïr returning to Masyaf to find it under attack, to find the entire fortress under mind control. Ezio racing to save Sofia, only to find Yusuf dead. Connor, witnessing his entire village — and Ziio, his mother, with it — burn to the ground.

No, not again, please not again.

Desmond wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not that he didn’t find a body.

Then his eyes picked up on a glimmer of gold on the floor. He bent down, brushed aside some loose note paper, what was once advanced calculus — to find it wet, stained red.

Blood.

“They came for him.”

The small voice made Desmond jerk his head up in surprise. Under the veil of his hood, Desmond stared at the little old woman peering into the open doorway, casting a shadow over the light.

“The men in black,” she whispered, and Desmond recognized her. Mrs. B, Elliott’s neighbor. Desmond stood slowly as she continued to speak. “They were looking for something...but the boy wouldn’t give it to them. I could hear it through the walls, the shouting, the noise. It was...awful. I saw them carry him out.”

“Elliott? Was he alive?” There was undeniable urgency, desperation in his voice, and Desmond could barely hide it behind a brusque tone. He had no time for coddling.

“Unconscious, I think. His head was bleeding. I think…” Mrs. B trembled, took a step back from the door, shaking her head and clutching her hands together. “He fought back, and they hurt him.”

“Where were they taking him?” He demanded, leaning forward in earnest. He was glad for a witness, but what good would it do if he didn’t have enough information.

But Mrs. B just shook her head again, receding further back into the hallway. Desmond went after her, stepping forward and pushing the door open. Mrs. B flinched, perhaps intimidated by this tall man in a white hood, staring her down. “I-I don’t know. They didn’t wear any badges. They didn’t look like police.”

Desmond hissed through his teeth, tossing his head in frustration. Not that he expected a little old woman to have all the answers, but still. “Doesn’t matter. I have a pretty good idea who’s behind this, anyways.”

Mrs. B blinked owlishly at him behind her glasses. “Who?”

“Trust me, ma’am, you don’t want to know.” Desmond said, throwing one last glance at Elliott’s apartment before back at her again. “Is that all you have?”

“I think so,” Mrs. B shrugged helplessly. “What’re you going to do? The boy is gone. The people who took them, I don’t think they’re very nice…will you get the police?”

“Pfft, no.” Desmond’s scoff was probably more worrisome than assuring. What good would the cops do here? Abstergo didn’t leave behind any traces except for one scared witness, and that wasn’t much to go on for your average detective. And that was only if the police weren’t already in the pockets of the Templars. “They can’t help here.”

Deciding that his time here was done, Desmond brushed past the woman, ready to leave. But Mrs. B called after him, “Wait, I remember something else.”

Desmond paused, glanced over his shoulder, doubtful she had more to give. But Mrs. B continued with one raised, shaky finger. “Y-yes, I remember, one of them made a phone call. I don’t remember everything they said, but there was a name.”

“A name?” Desmond’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. Yes, a name, he needed a name. He needed someone to blame for this.

“Yes, a Dr. Caire,” Mrs. B said, and it was like the name was burned into Desmond’s mind. It sounded vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he had come across it before in his research. “He wanted the boy in person. I-I don’t know why. To interrogate him, maybe? Dr. Caire wanted him brought to ‘the Tower’, whatever that means. I don’t know — wait, where are you going?”

Desmond didn’t hang around to answer her question. He was already running for the fire escape.

Desmond wasn't surprised when he found Abstergo Tower lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was swarming with security now, on high-alert after the recent break-in. Guards walked every floor, or at least the ones he could see, and Desmond had a good feeling he wasn't going in the same way as last time. So they got their power back on, but Desmond had no way to know just how secure they really were.

Luckily, he already had a plan.

Desmond wasn't sure if it was a good one, or if it would even work at all, but he'd come up with it on the way here. The night sky was still a broiling gray-purple; Desmond swore he saw a flash of lightning when he looked up one time. Using a water tower to leap over a wide gap between apartment buildings, Desmond made a beeline for Abstergo tower in the distance.

He didn't even feel the cold as he gripped frozen brick and leapt over slippery drops. It was, perhaps, the adrenalin, or maybe the hangover that still had a grip on his head. He couldn't shake it, and was perhaps getting worse thanks to the stress.

Well, aside from his right hand, which felt nothing at all. It hadn't ached or twinged since he left Abstergo earlier, and he still had no idea how or why his hand started hurting as terribly as it did.

A part of him hoped it didn't happen again, so he didn't have to find out.

At least it was quiet.

It wouldn't be for very long.

Wincing internally as what was about to happen, Desmond reached into his backpack and pulled out the semi-automatic he pulled from an Abstergo guard several weeks ago. He wasn't sure how far it's accuracy went, but Desmond didn't have anything else, and he'd rather not get up close and personal until he leveled the playing field a little bit.

He got down to a crouch, resting one elbow on the lip of the building he was on. Desmond faced the front of Abstergo Tower, it's light casting a soft glow over him, but he would be too far away for anyone to see clearly, and the low wall he was next to provided good cover if he needed it. The building he was on was closer in height compared to the office complex he landed on previously; connected between them was another cable, this one flat instead of angled, and waved a large banner about Abstergo Entertainment's new Helix project, ready to be released.

Desmond had half a mind to burn it, but decided to hold onto the urge for later.

The gun felt too small in his hands, too light. Could it even do the job Desmond needed it to do? He hadn't fired a real gun in some time, and his last experience had been with a flintlock pistol in the Revolutionary War.

It wasn't quite the same as the one in his hand now. Desmond hoped his aim hadn't gone down the drain since he died.

But he knew it didn't matter. Elliott was in there somewhere. And Desmond was going to get him, no matter what.

There were guards pacing the balcony at about the thirtieth floor, roughly equal in height to Desmond. There were multiple balconies throughout the building, but this one in particular was easiest to get to without touching the ground. Desmond sure as hell couldn't jump down from anywhere else, and he had no intention of braving the bottom floors to reach the top — it may be a cliche, but bad guys and important people always like to have their offices on the top floors, didn't they?

There were three total that Desmond could reach — two that took post on either corner of the balcony, and a third that walked in and out of the doorway. The distance between Desmond and his targets was about fifteen or twenty meters. A bit of a stretch, but doable.

He'd have to time this just right.

Taking aim, Desmond tensed his finger around the trigger. The head of the first guard entered his line of sight.

Bang!

The recoil reverberated through Desmond's hands and down his arms. The guard jerked once and dropped out of sight.

The gunshot was swallowed by the storm and wind, but echoes of it could still be heard. Desmond ducked down before he or the flash of his gun could be located, and peered over the edge of the low wall to make sure he wasn't seen. The second guard didn't notice the loss of his compatriot as he leaned over the balcony, looking for the source of the noise.

He waited five seconds before raising the gun again, and firing off another shot.

He missed.

"Dammit!" Desmond cursed as the bullet ricocheted off the wall behind the second guard's head. The man whipped around, startled, and Desmond took aim again, this time lining up the shot and hitting the back of the guard's head. He fell forward, not to be seen again.

Desmond huffed, a little pissed at himself. This was why people didn't sixteen shots of vodka.

(He was pretty sure it was sixteen).

The third guard had yet to return, and Desmond's butt was starting to get cold. He was nervous, shaking all over, his hands shaking with anticipation. He just wanted to get over there as quickly as possible. All this waiting meant Elliott got closer and closer to getting killed.

Still, he made himself wait. If there was one thing Desmond learned after reliving three different Assassin lives, he knew it was best to be patient.

If he got too antsy, he made mistakes.

Like that shot he missed.

Finally, the third guard came back to the balcony, and this time Desmond's work did not go unnoticed. The man whipped his head back and forth, alarmed. Still unseen, Desmond raised the gun again, taking aim.

Bang!

The guard turned at the last second. The bullet hit the glass, shattering it, making the man jump, then face Desmond.

"Oh, shit." Desmond ducked his head before he could be spotted. Luckily, Assassin white blended easily in the wintry weather. But the flash of a gun did not. If the guard saw him and raised the alarm, then it would be all over before it even began.

Desmond counted under his breath. Unlike the Animus, these guards wouldn't go back to business as usual after finding one of their buddies dead.

Whether or not he would be seen, sooner or later the Templars would know he was here.

And he'd rather it'd be later.

Desmond peeked over the wall. The third guard had bent down to check the body of the first guard. Shit, was he reporting it in already?

He waited for the third guard to stand again.

Bang!

He missed.

"For fuck's sake…!" This time Desmond didn't duck down when the guard turned around — the guard shouted something, too distant to be heard, but no doubt about the lone white figure on the roof across the street. This time, he wouldn't miss.

The next bullet found its home in the third guard's face, just as he was reaching for his radio.

"About time," Desmond muttered, tucking away the gun. How many bullets was that? Six? For just three guards? Unbelievable. Maybe he was even rustier than he thought.

With that part of the building completely unaccounted for, Desmond had free reign to approach. Stepping onto the low wall, he crept down, holding onto the brick as he stepped onto the cable. It wobbled beneath him, a metallic ringing in the air. It wasn't like the thin rope bridges he's had in past lives. This was longer, thinner, and much, much higher than he was used to.

Like a tightrope walker, Desmond held out his arms, found his balance before taking the first step. His heart caught in his throat as he looked down and took in the dizzying height. The hangover headache quickly switched to nausea in that moment.

Desmond had to close his eyes, look up at the building instead. No, no, don't look down. Just focus on what's ahead.

Still, it was hard to think that there were daredevils out here who did this for a living. Not even an Assassin would try something like this without some amount of hesitation first. He had mad respect for those crazy sons of bitches.

One step at a time, Desmond made his way across the cable. It probably went faster than he thought, but each moment on that wire felt like Desmond was flipping the bird to Death himself.

He was perhaps half-way across when he felt the cable start to shake. And it wasn't the wind.

"What the…" Desmond's eyes narrowed down on the balcony — spotting the fourth guard he hadn't seen before, who was now trying to unhook the cable he was attached to. "Hey!"

Shouting did nothing helpful at all, to no one's surprise. In one swift go, Desmond's balance was shaken and he swayed too far to the left. He cried out, managing to catch the cable with his hands before falling off completely. His legs swung freely underneath him, but Desmond didn't have time to think of what to do next when he heard gunshots.

"You have got to be kidding me." Desmond muttered through gritted teeth as bullets ripped through the banner in front of him. Luckily, the guard was a bad shot, and the cable was swinging so wildly from Desmond's hanging weight that he was too difficult a target.

But the guard couldn't do both at the same time. And the cable was quickly settling itself again. One bullet came sickeningly close to Desmond's face — he felt the heat as it went past his cheekbone, ruffled the hem of his hood, before disappearing into the night beyond.

"Jesus," Desmond breathed, before finally letting go with one hand — hanging by just his right — as he scrambled to undo the zipper in his backpack, legs kicking beneath him as he pulled out the semi-automatic, and swung the muzzle at the guard. His aim swept back and forth as the cable continued back and forth. He closed one eye, timing the shot.

And, between two beats of his heart, Desmond pulled the trigger, and the guard fell back. "Fuck off!"

Glad to be rid of him, Desmond grimaced and stuffed the gun into his waistband, too rushed to put it back in his backpack. Considering the way this was going, he was going to need it again.

He grasped the wire with both hands again, trying to pull himself up. But he couldn't get up, his balance too unstable, and for a second he thought the wind picked up.

Until he looked back to the building he came from, and saw someone else.

Another guard. And this one had a saw.

"Oh no…" Desmond blood pounded in his ears, seeing the sparks fly. The third guard must've alerted someone, who came around the long way. And now Desmond was caught between a rock and a hard place. "That's not good."

To his credit, Desmond tried his best to get closer to Abstergo Tower, sidling along the cable as quickly as he could. But he didn't stand a chance.

A loud crack filled the air. Desmond didn't even get a chance to look back at the rope-cutting guard before all tension in the cable went slack.

And then he was falling.

The cable dropped, and Desmond went with it, clinging on for dear life. A terrified cry left his lips, and Desmond could only watch in horror as instead of falling to his death, the cable swung, like a pendulum.

Straight for Abstergo Tower.

This was Death's way of laughing at him. It had to be. Desmond was going to die as George of the Jungle.

"Fuck!" Was all Desmond could shout in the face of demise.

Then he crashed into the glass.

And fell through.

His shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he barely remembered to land in a roll. It was only partially successful — at the momentum Desmond was going, he ended up head-over-heels, tumbling a magnificent ten feet before finally skidding to a stop. His limbs flopped to the ground, sprawled. Desmond's temple smacked the floor and he blacked out.

The next thing he knew, his head was head hurting. Which meant he wasn't dead, which was good news.

The bad news arrived soon after.

Groaning, he peeled his face off metal, wincing and looking up. He was lying face-first on a cold floor, surrounded by pale blue and white light. All around him was shattered glass from the window. Snowflakes filtered in from the busted window. He could hear the wire whipping about in the wind outside, smacking against the side of the building in cracking booms.

Desmond could taste blood in his mouth, from where he bit his tongue. Broken shards cut into his palms.

But he didn't notice any of that.

No, his gaze was solely focused on the eyes staring back at him.

Five faces, pressed against glass, staring at him. Different heights, genders, ethnicity, but all had one thing in common. They were young.

"...kids?" Desmond couldn't believe his eyes. Neither could they, apparently, staring at Desmond with open mouths, staring silently as he slowly picked himself off the ground, grunting with the effort. Every part of him hurt with that landing. At least it hadn't been a long drop from the window to the floor.

Oh, there was another thing, too. The kids were all locked in their own little cubicles, complete with an Animus, just like the set-up in Rome. Because Desmond really needed a reminder of that.

"Who are you?" One of the kids asked. A boy, maybe seventeen.

"Are you here to save us?" Another asked. No older than thirteen. He watched Desmond with wide eyes, a bewildered smile on his face. "You're an Assassin, aren't you?"

"How did you — ?" Desmond started to say, but was interrupted by a girl behind him.

"Assassins aren't real!" She snorted, fixing Desmond with a look of suspicion as she crossed her arms. "That's just a myth Abstergo tells to scare us."

"And yet!" The older boy held out his hands at Desmond standing between them. "Here he is. He's even got a hood."

"Whoa, wait, what's going on?" Desmond held up his hands, blinking rapidly. He was so not prepared for this. "What're you guys doing here? Is Abstergo using the Animus —"

"To look through our memories?" The older boy said. "Uh, yeah."

"They just kidnapped a bunch of kids? What, and no one knows you're missing?"

"I've been here for three weeks," the girl said, shrugging her shoulders. "I ran away from home before they found me."

"I've been here for six," the older boy said. "They didn't say what they needed us for. Just that we're 'helping a greater cause' whatever that means. But we learn stuff in those, um, memories or whatever. Stuff about Assassins and Templars."

"They said they'd let us go once we gave them what they wanted," The girl said. "But I haven't seen anyone leave. They just get more and more kids. I don't think they're ever letting us go."

"I just want to go home," the younger boy said.

"This is so messed up," Desmond said, which was probably the understatement of the year. He bent over his knees, pausing to catch a breath. If there were any guards on this level, they hadn't found him yet. Desmond wasn't sure how much time he had, but now he knew he had a lot less, and now a lot more to do.

He had to do something about this. Elliott was still top priority, of course, but Desmond couldn't just leave all these kids here. Had the Templars really stooped so low as to use helpless minors to do their dirty work? It was bad enough they used adults like Desmond. It must be easier to control someone who's smaller than you.

"Don't worry," Desmond straightened, finding his best 'adult' voice, or something similar. His dad used a similar tone when he was being bossy. "I'll get you guys out. How many more are you?"

"Twenty, maybe?" The older boy said, making a face and shrugging helplessly. "As far as I know. There might be more."

"Fantastic." Desmond muttered, as he approached one glass door and analyzed the electronic lock. There was a keypad, which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't also require a card. Which he didn't have. "I don't suppose there's a master key for all these cells, is there?"

"I don't know, but there's a control panel up there," the girl said, pointing. Desmond followed her finger to the windows on the other side of the room, high above the cells, like a watchtower. He could see movement inside. "That's where they monitor us. Are you really an Assassin?"

Desmond didn't get a chance to answer before someone shouted behind him. "Hey, you! You're not supposed to be out of your cell!"

Turning, Desmond faced the guard that had just come around the corner. The man had a hand on his gun, looking mad, but it quickly turned to surprise when he realized Desmond wasn't an escapee. He did a double-take, trying to pull out his gun. "Oh, shit —"

He didn't get a chance to finish before Desmond lunged forward and unsheathed his hidden blade, burrowing it into the guard's throat.

The guard dropped, Desmond on top of him, while the kids behind him screamed in shock.

Standing up, Desmond faced the stunned kids, and held out his arms. "Does that answer your question?"

He didn't wait to hear their reply before taking off. No doubt more security would be arriving to inspect the damage, and Desmond needed to reach that control room before things got really hairy in here.

This Animus room, whatever it was, had to be about the size of a football field. It occurred to Desmond, as he was racing down the narrow halls between cells, that he'd never played football before — or any normal sport, really. The sort of thing that was usually a rite of passage for normal people growing up never happened for him. Desmond wondered if he was missing out.

After blitzing another guard, who just appeared around the corner, without stopping, Desmond decided it wasn't. Somehow, he doubted throwing a pigskin would be anywhere nearly as exhilarating as it was to be an Assassin.

The windows of the control room had no glass, perhaps to better utilize weapons in case of an emergency. The wall leading up to his was flat, sheer, with no feasible handholds. But the ceiling was high, and Desmond knew how to get up there. More kids, as well as adults, were woken by the ruckus, and stared as Desmond raced past — before directing himself at a wall and jumped. He angled his body to the side just as his heels touched the glass, and with another leap he bounced off the wall and launched himself upwards on top of the cells, then into the rafters.

The guard manning the station didn't stand a chance. He only saw Desmond at the last second, was still fumbling for his weapon when Desmond dropped down on the windowsill. Before the man could even cry out, Desmond hidden blade was in his neck.

Letting the man drop dead to the floor, Desmond slipped inside and stood up. The control room was small, and the array of computer screens and camera footage at first had Desmond so overwhelmed he wasn't sure what he was looking at. The older boy had been right about there being a lot — Desmond counted at least twenty-five. He sincerely hoped that there weren't more Abstergo was holding in this building.

"Goddamn," he muttered, leaning on the panel as he perused the buttons and keyboard. This was not what he came here for.

He had to get to Elliott, he had to kill Dr. Caire. He couldn't waste time on all of this.

But then again, how could he not?

"Ah-ha!" Desmond smiled, lifting a finger and bringing it down on a red button conveniently marked 'Emergency Release'.

Immediately, all the lights on the board started to flash, followed by a piercing siren that made Desmond wince. More lights flashed into the Animus room beyond, blue turning to red, and there was a great whoosh as all the cell doors opened at once.

As everyone started rushing out and making for the exits, Desmond realized they still weren't safe. Quickly perusing the buttons again, it took him a moment to lock down the exit doors in which security was approaching — if the Templars didn't know he was here before, they certainly would now.

The computer was already logged in, and Desmond smiled when he saw he could pull up an Internet browser. Bending over the keyboard, he opened up an email client and typed out a message. Not sure how much time he had, Desmond made it brief, but he was careful to ensure the right addresses were in place.

He had to make sure these kids were safe.

Desmond had just hit 'send' when all the lights went out. At the same time, he heard the soft squeak of hinges behind him. Desmond went still. "Oh, shit."

He'd forgotten about the door.

Before he could react, two large hands suddenly clamped down on his shoulders. Desmond cried out as he was thrown up and over, lifted clean off his feet, and into the next room. His shoulder hit the door he forgot to check, before he fell into a chair. Knocking it over, Desmond tumbled to the floor in a heap.

It created a mighty crash, a change in the suddenly silent walls. The sirens had been cut off, leaving Desmond's ears ringing, and it was nearly completely dark except for a series of emergency floodlights in the corner of the room.

There were tables, chairs, a carpet, even a couch — Desmond at first thought it was a lobby, until he saw the large windows and realized that, no, it was an observation room. One built for the ease and comfort of Templars reveling in the exploitation of innocent people.

But Desmond didn't have time to think of the horridness of it all. By the time he picked his head up, his attention was quickly stolen by the towering form standing in the doorway before him.

When he saw the man's face, Desmond's blood ran cold. He recognized him.

Juhani Otso Berg.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Owned

Dr. Caire studied the boy kneeling before him. “Did you really think you could cross Abstergo and get away with it?”

“W-what?” He was even younger than Dr. Caire expected. Smaller, too. “Who the hell are you, man? And where am I? Is this Abstergo Tower? ”

“My name is Dr. Caire. I’m responsible for the New York branch of Abstergo.” He replied, not too surprised that the boy didn’t know — although how he managed to get so deep into Templar data and couldn’t figure that out for himself, Dr. Caire had no idea. He took a second appraisal of this boy caused them so much trouble.

When Berg carried in the hacker, Caire expected someone a bit more...formidable. He expected an experienced Assassin, someone hard-boiled and stony-eyed, someone who fought harder than this. Instead, the Assassin before him looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, bags under his eyes, with short, unruly hair and probably not weighing more than 150 pounds. The black hoodie looked slept in. Dried blood crusted on his brow from the cut on his head, and the boy looked confused, glancing about back and forth as if this were some bad acid trip rather than reality. “Ugh, this can’t be happening…”

Dr. Caire wrinkled his now. He was used to be taken more seriously than this. “Oh, but it is, Mr. Nazari. Or may I call you Elliott?”

The boy stiffened, blue eyes going wide. “H-how do you know my name?”

“Oh, I know many things about you, Elliott,” Dr. Caire smiled, enjoying the repetitive use of the name. Names had power, after all. He set his hands on the papers resting before him, picking them up and tapping them against the ink mat, straightening them. It was a casual, business-like gesture as he said, “Like the fact your parents live in Jersey, and you have a younger brother named Zach. Cute boy. How old is he now? Nine, ten?”

“Eight.” Elliott croaked, looking a little dazed, his eyes wide and staring.

Dr. Caire glanced at Elliott to gauge his level of fear — scared, but not as scared as he liked. He set the papers aside in a marked bin. “Ah, so young. But we’re not here to discuss you or your family, Elliott. I want to talk about your recent actions against Abstergo Industries. We had a recent security leak about eighteen hours ago, and I am quite certain you have something to do about it.”

The boy trembled under Berg’s grip keeping him in place. Elliott was silent for a moment, before he set his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Squinting slightly, Dr. Caire sat back in his seat. He raised a single eyebrow. “Oh, is that so? Then I suppose this isn’t your drone you used to spy on us?” With that, he picked up the small hovercraft from the floor and set it on his desk for the boy to see. The drone was broken, one propellor missing and its shell cracked in several places. The boy went still at the sight of it, and Dr. Caire smirked. “Well, we found this two blocks down the street; did you know this was one of ours? We’ve had a recent hash of missing drones, but I’m glad we recovered this one. We wanted to find out who took it, so we traced its radio frequency. And, funny thing, it just happened to lead us to your apartment. Now, how could that be, Elliott? Why were you flying one of our drones so close to Abstergo Tower?”

“I swear, I didn’t know it was yours,” the boy shook his head frantically. “A-a friend gave it to me! I was just experimenting with flight controls!”

“Ah, and who is this friend of yours?” Dr. Caire tilted his head. He laced his fingers together, set his elbows on his desk and smiled. “Is he the one who recruited you into the Assassins?”

“The what?” Elliott’s look of fear was momentarily replaced by bewilderment. “Did you say Assassins? I’ve never heard of anything like that!”

“Don’t play dumb, young man.” Dr. Caire, finding the boy’s reaction rather jarring. Of course, they’d plead innocence, but it was strange. The boy sounded like he was telling the truth. But how could that be? Who else but an Assassin would be so daring as to sneak in here? “I know it was your silly little Brotherhood that was behind this attack. Why else would you kill two guards for our financial records?”

“Look, man, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone!” Elliott protested, trying to rise to his feet, but Berg just shoved him down again. He winced, grimacing, before looking up at Dr. Caire with a most earnest expression. “You gotta believe me, man, this is all some big mistake. I’m not who you think I am —”

“I think you’re just wasting my time, by continuing to deny the truth,” Dr. Caire snapped, the muscle under his eye twitching. He flattened his hands across his desk, examined his nails as he reminded himself to remain calm. This boy would be easy to break. No need to lose control now. “And frankly, I’m losing my patience. You tell me everything you know, right now, and I’ll consider not bringing your family into this. That sounds fair to me. Does that sound fair to you, Elliott? Because I promise you, I can be far less charitable.”

“Look, I don’t know what you want —”

“You already know what I want,” Dr. Caire fixed a cold glare upon the boy. “The name of your Assassin contact. This so-called friend of yours.”

“Who?” Elliott blinked dumbly at him. “Are you talking about Desmond?”

“Desmond?” Dr. Caire leaned forward in his seat, repeating the name he wished he hadn’t heard. It couldn’t possibly be… “As in, Desmond Miles?”

“Uh, yeah,” Elliott jerked his head back, surprised. He returned Dr. Caire’s incredulous expression with one of his own. “You know him?”

Earlier, he found it hard to believe that Elliott Nazari could be capable of breaking in here on his own. Of course, he had a partner. But that partner, Desmond Miles? He had been a pain in the backside of the Templars for about a few months, but had never reached an infamous status. He doubted that the Miles of the previous year could be the same Assassin that so deftly infiltrated Abstergo last night. Miles wasn’t that good. He most certainly wasn’t alive.

“Know him?” Dr. Caire snorted, falling back into his seat. This had to be some sort of joke. A joke the Assassins were playing on him. Did they think Dr. Caire a fool? A man who fell prey to superstition and myth? “I know Desmond Miles is dead, Mr. Nazari. Whoever you think is Desmond Miles is clearly an imposter.”

“Really?” Elliott screwed up his face, apparently deep in thought. After a moment, he scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “Nah, man, I think it’s definitely him. I’d know Desmond’s face anywhere.”

Dr. Caire could only let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing up at Berg in a Can-you-believe-this-guy manner. But Berg just scowled in return; the Finnish man never had much of a sense of humor. As it was, Dr. Caire was starting to think Elliott was serious. “You...you actually believe this? Desmond Miles is dead.”

“I dunno, man, he looked pretty spry the last time I saw him. Pretty wasted, though.”

Spry, Dr. Caire repeated the word in his head, thinking it an accurate description — a ridiculous word for this ridiculous situation. For a moment, the boy almost had Dr. Caire actually entertaining the idea that Miles was still alive. But it was impossible. He started tapping the desk, his mind trying to find some reasonable answer that could make sense of all of this. “Boy, I’ve seen his dead body with my own two eyes. And if you think you can seed a fear of ghosts into my mind, think again, because I’m not a fool. The Assassins can steal a body, but they can’t bring the dead back to life.”

“Well, maybe you should get your eyes checked, dude,” Elliott retorted, starting to look a little frustrated himself. He wriggled under Berg’s grip, attempting to shrug. “I saw Desmond. I’ve been talking to him for weeks. Who do you think broke into here in the first place? He’s real, man.”

“Ugh, I don’t care.” Dr. Caire hissed, his fingers ceasing their tapping instantly. He was tired of this line of thought; it wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anywhere Dr. Caire considered worthwhile. “Clearly your grasp of reality leaves much to be desired, Elliott, but I hope your memory is strong enough to recall where you put our stolen data.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” In a surprising move, Elliott set his jaw, gaze hardening on Dr. Caire as soon as his protests to Miles’ death were ignored. Apparently, he was not as weak-willed as Dr. Caire anticipated.

“There is no plausible deniability here, Elliott.” But Dr. Caire had dealt with more difficult patients. His hand wandered to the phone on his desk. “May I remind you that your family is only a call away? You’ve seen what my men are capable of. I can only imagine what would happen if I happened to...loosen their leash a little.”

There was a brief silence as Dr. Caire let that sink in. Elliott Nazari went quite still for a moment, his facade of defiance wavering for a moment, his eyes flickering, before that wall returned in full force.

“I always knew you guys were evil,” Elliott spat, jerking forward as if he wanted to attack. “But I had no idea you were fucking psycho.”

Dr. Caire merely smirked, lifting the phone off its cradle. “This is just business, Elliott. You can believe whatever fantasies you want, but let me assure you, my power is very real. Are you really willing to sacrifice your own family for a false creed?”

“Creed?” Elliott repeated cluelessly, but panicked as soon as Dr. Caire starting punching in numbers. “No, wait! Please, leave my family out of this! They don’t know anything!”

“Why, of course,” Dr. Caire dropped the phone, just a little. He cast Elliott a smile, but it only contained sharp teeth. “Tell me where you hid the data, Elliott.”

“It’s…” Elliott winced, making a face as he clearly struggled against whatever inner loyalties he had to the mysterious Assassin, and the love of his own family. How noble of him. When Dr. Caire prompted him again, Elliott heaved a sigh, his head dropping in defeat. “It’s in the microwave. I heard you guys coming, and fried my hard-drive. There’s nothing left, I promise.”

“And you didn’t post anything online?”

“Nothing that wasn’t already there.”

“Hm.” Dr. Caire raised a single eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. This went far better than he expected. “Good to know.”

And with that, he lifted the phone to his ear again.

The first ring went through just as Elliott cried, “No, you can’t! You promised —”

“I never promised anything,” Dr. Caire said lightly as the phone continued to ring. “I said I would consider it if you told me the truth. And you did, Elliott, I commend you for that. Unfortunately, it is not enough.”

There was something so pure, so deliciously cruel in watching all hope leave a man’s eye. To see despair come crashing down over their shoulders, render them into some lesser creature, pitiable, not even human. Of course, it would’ve been just as easy to threaten Elliott’s own life, but taking what a man loves is so much more effective and rewarding.

Dr. Caire was in the middle of revelling (and the third ring of his call), when Elliott muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Dr. Caire tilted his free ear in the boy’s direction.

“I said,” Elliott took a breath, raised his chin to meet Dr. Caire’s gaze. “Desmond Miles will save me.”

There was a strange glint in those blue eyes that, had Dr. Caire been honest with himself, sent a chill down his back. Something must have finally clicked in that boy’s head. Maybe he finally understood the gravity of the situation he was in. Maybe he realized the truth behind the Assassins; or his own fate, already sealed. It was the look of a man with nothing left to lose.

And those men were always the most dangerous.

It took Dr. Caire a second to recover, to hide that inner doubt with a quick laugh. “Oh, yes, I’m sure that a dead Assassin will be showing up at any second now —”

That’s when a piercing siren rang out.

Dr. Caire dropped his phone out of surprise, looking up as the emergency lights in the corners of the room started flashing red.

“ — the hell?” He snapped, shooting out of his chair (call entirely forgotten), as a burst of radio chatter erupted from Berg’s hip. The man glanced down, taking one hand off of Elliott’s shoulder to address whatever the problem was. But Dr. Caire didn’t need to listen to know what the siren meant. Someone had pulled the emergency switch, the one command that would release all of the subjects under Abstergo’s control.

And there was only one person who’d use it.

Outside, a snowstorm was raging. The occasional crack of lightning pierced the sky. Wind rattled the glass, and Dr. Caire was met with the rather dreadful realization that he couldn’t see beyond a few feet outside.

It was perfect cover for those white-clothed Assassins.

“No…” Dr. Caire spun back around, his eyes traveling down to Elliott. The flashing lights made it difficult to tell, but for a second, he swore the boy was smiling. Not about to let some punk win, he jabbed a finger at Berg, “Go handle it! I want whoever’s responsible taken care of!”

Berg blinked at him, expression stoic. “You mean —”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Dr. Caire snarled, having lost all patience with this. Someone had released those under his control; Rikken had specifically asked Caire to watch over this project, and now suddenly it was all spinning out of control. First a security breach, dead guards, stolen Intel — what next, was the whole building going to crumble down? If the Assassins didn’t kill him, then Rikken certainly would. “Eliminate them, if you have to! Now, go!”

Without another word, Berg released Elliott and stalked out of the room, his footsteps carrying out the room. The door slammed, and then it was just Elliott and Dr. Caire in that office, staring each other down. Elliott didn’t try to rise and fight; although his hands were still bound, his feet were free to move.

Dr. Caire thought he would attempt it, but seconds passed where neither of them moved. A stalemate, of sorts. Who would win would be determined by the outcome of whatever commotion was occurring below.

Not a man to play fair, Dr. Caire decided to pull his last card; he reached for a left-hand drawer. From inside, he pulled out a revolver — technically an antique from WWII, but it's bullets were quite real, and it had the same effect as any other firearm when the boy saw it.

That dread, that fear. How Dr. Caire missed it. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he set himself back down in his chair, pulling back to his desk. He set the gun down next to his forgotten phone. He didn’t take his hand off of it, raising at the boy who, for the moment, remained obediently still.

No longer smiling, Dr. Caire kept his gaze on Elliott, and said, “No matter what happens next, this won’t end well for you, Mr. Nazari.”

“Yeah? Go fuck yourself.”

*          *          *

“Holy shit,” Desmond said, his eyes traveling up and down this giant bear of a man. “You’re huge.”

Juhani Otso Berg lived up to William Miles’ account of being the tall, dark, and silent type. He was a good four inches taller than Desmond, blond hair to match the cold blue eyes that would make any sane man run in the opposite direction. As Desmond expected, Berg said nothing in reply; instead, he launched himself at Desmond, who was in the process of getting up again.

Desmond had just gotten to his feet when Berg tackled him. He grunted when his back met the floor again, this time with an extra two hundred pounds (and then some) on top of him. Breath rightly punched out of his lungs, Desmond gasped helplessly — a situation not helped by the massive hands wrapped around his throat.

Instinctively, Desmond wrapped his hands around Berg’s wrists, trying to pull them off. While he struggled for breath, Desmond struggled under Berg’s weight. Berg was already expertly straddling him, and Desmond wondered how he could screw up so badly that he was losing five seconds into this fight.

Trying to push off Berg around him was like trying to bench-press a mountain — not gonna happen.

As it was, Desmond didn’t have to rely on his (unsatisfactory) strength to get him out of this.

As soon as Berg saw his right hand, it's blackened skin and glowing veins, he recoiled. Berg, disgusted, cursed in a foreign language. “Perkele?!”

He pulled back just enough that he lifted Desmond’s head off the ground. He didn’t notice the slid of fabric as his hood fell off, only the distance between his hands and Berg’s head.

The backwards momentum took his palms off Desmond’s trachea. Desmond sucked in a breath instinctively, only to cough as his throat protested.

But the distance gave him just enough leverage to break the stranglehold.

His arm wasn’t long enough to reach Berg’s neck alone, but the extended hidden blade could.  Letting go of Berg’s wrists, he struck out with his left palm. Snikt!

Berg, however, saw it coming. The blade came inches from his neck, before he jerked back, finally releasing Desmond’s neck and scrambling backwards to avoid the blade.

Desmond surged forward into a crouch, only to fall back as he was overcome with rough coughing, his lungs struggling to intake oxygen again. For a second, Templar and Assassin remained at a distance, eyeing each other warily.

Berg’s eyes still on Desmond’s blade, he hissed in heavily-accented English, “You Assassins, so damn old-fashioned —”

He stopped again when his eyes finally traveled from the blade to Desmond’s face — exposed, his hood having fallen off from the throttling. Desmond only realized too late, but by the time he was pulling it back over his head, Berg was already cursing again. “H-how the f — You.”  

The tone was almost as accusatory as it was surprised, and Desmond wondered if he should be flattered that he was recognized. Berg’s face just shook his head in disbelief, stumbling back as his skin blanched. “The boy was right! It’s not possible! I saw your body. You should be dead!”

“Well, don’t know what to tell you, pal,” Desmond said, his voice still rasping a little. He wiped at his mouth, following Berg’s movement as the man stood up straight again. Desmond remained slightly hunched, this time ready for the next attack. “I was never good at dying.”

Berg scowled, apparently acclimating to this revelation rather well. He leaned forward with fists raised, snarling, “Then it’s just another thing I have to fix.”

Desmond only grinned, feeling a strange, morbid delight at the challenge. It was the smile of Altaïr, a man who sneered in the face of any man foolish enough to think himself superior to the Eagle of Masyaf. Maybe it was arrogant of Desmond to react — to think — this way, but it didn’t felt quite a part of him, either. Perhaps he’d absorbed more from his ancestors than he thought. In the back of his mind, he could practically hear Altaïr egging him on:

Just kill him already! You are wasting time, novice!

His expression only served as an indication for Berg to attack — which he did, with a furious, guttural roar at Desmond’s flippancy. While Berg outweighed Desmond by a good fifty pounds or more, Desmond was far lither, and had the knowledge of a thousand ancient battles before this moment.

At the last second did Desmond see the flash of metal. He ducked out of the way just in time, the blade skimming by his nose a hair’s breadth away. The gasp of air that left his lips was sliced clean through, and his skin tingled as he spun away from Berg again.

He huffed, a little annoyed at the sight of the combat knife in Berg’s fist. “Who’s the old-fashioned one now?”

“I prefer an even playing field.” Was Berg’s flat reply.

“Really? Because to me it looks like you forgot your gun.” And that taunting side was definitely from Ezio.

“You talk too much!” Berg snapped. He went at Desmond again, but only met air again as Desmond danced away. He uttered another growl of frustration, swinging around again and launching in another attack without so much as a pause for breath.

The knife came at Desmond. He raised his left arm over his face, and metal screeched against metal as he blocked the blow with the hidden blade. Modern steel was tough and held even under Berg’s substantial strength as he tried to force Desmond’s arm down.

Berg broke the lock by diverting his knife to the left — Desmond had barely time to pull his arm back before Berg could slice it, but that only left him open to the following blow. As soon as his arm was down, Berg slammed his shoulder into Desmond’s chest.

Desmond went falling back — again. This time, he knocked over a vase on a nearby side table as he went down.

It shattered with a terrible noise, and Desmond’s elbows dug into the broken ceramic shards as he quickly rolled out of the way of Berg’s pounce. His knife sparked against the floor where Desmond’s head had been only a split-second before.

Berg still crouched was a perfect opportunity to kick him in the head. Which was exactly what Desmond did.

Heel connected to jaw and Berg fell on his side. Desmond was already on his knees at this point and close enough for the kill.

Launching himself at Berg, hidden blade still out, Desmond prepared to burrow it into Berg’s neck. But as was about to land, Berg brought up his legs and caught Desmond around the middle, carrying him up and over, before throwing him across the floor away to the other side. Desmond’s head cracked against the corner of the couch.

“You can’t save him, you know,” Berg said, as Desmond’s ears rang. He stumbled slightly in his attempt to get up, turning his head to see Berg already standing, wiping blood from his mouth. Desmond hoped he’d knocked out a tooth or two.

For some reason, Berg was taking the time to gloat a little instead of using the advantage to kill Desmond right away. “You’ll never reach him. Nazari is good as dead.”

Hearing the name sent electricity through Desmond’s veins, such a jolt that it had him to his feet faster than he could think. There was a sudden overwhelming anger coursing through him, a pressure so tight in his head that it almost felt like it would explode.

All these Templars. All they did was take and take.

“Not today.”

He was playing defense here, trying to last long enough and not die. Desmond was having a hell of a time looking for an opening on Berg — a feat that much harder now that Berg had a blade of his own. Desmond’s right hand tingled, as if reminding him that he still had some tricks up his sleeve; but Desmond held it aloft and to the side, deciding not to use it just yet.

Berg’s energy seemed to stem from anger, maybe even fear; perhaps he was more shaken by Desmond’s presence than initially thought. There was so much weight and momentum behind each of Berg’s attacks that most of the time, Desmond couldn’t afford to block them without injury to himself. At a certain point, Desmond’s blade was mere centimeters from Berg’s throat, held back only because Berg had him pinned to a wall, and his own knife tracing Desmond’s jaw.

They were breathing hard, each weapon trembling with their minute struggles, trying to kill and not be killed.

Berg practically spat as he demanded, “How many friends have you already lost to this senseless war, Desmond? How much longer will you keep fighting? You’ve already lost your own life once. I wonder just what it will take to stop you.”

Desmond grit his teeth, images of Lucy flashing through his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying not to dwell on the memory of her voice, her smile, her last words to him. Now was not the time to get distracted.

“Nothing,” He could only breathe, finally opening his eyes again, gold-brown meeting ice blue. His words were a hiss. “I’ll just find more reasons to fight. I won’t stop. I won’t stop until I kill every last one of you.”

Berg’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the challenge, but he didn’t get the chance to retort because Desmond decided to emphasize his words with a head-butt.

Forehead met nose, and Berg was sent reeling back, blood now pouring down his face. Desmond’s own head was feeling a little sore, but he supposed having a thick skull was good for something after all (eat your heart out, Shaun).

Taking the advantage, Desmond surged forward, ready to land another blow, this time with his blade. But Berg swung wildly, with a fist as meaty as a leg of ham.

Desmond rerouted, ducking under Berg’s swing, he twisted his torso around to deliver the blade into Berg’s side, eliciting a grunt from Berg. But the blade only glanced away, tearing through cloth instead of skin and bone — Desmond’s momentum working in the opposite direction of the blow.

The couch was directly in front of him, and he rolled over it before he could crash. As he came back up again, Desmond noticed blood on his hand. Then to Berg, who was clutching his side, where Desmond had struck — pulling his hand away revealed a growing dark stain. When Berg met Desmond’s gaze, his hand covered in his own blood, there was murder in his eyes.

Desmond’s smile grew a little wider. A part of him wondered if he lost his mind.

He knew he was in for one hell of a fight.

With only basic furniture between them, Desmond didn’t have a lot of space to maneuver is as Berg came after him. He attempted to escape to the control room and jump out the open window, but Berg cut him off before he could reach it. One swing of his weapon and Desmond was suddenly in the midst of a very not-fun knife fight.

Blades clashed as the two wrestled for dominance. The thing about knife fights was how close the combatants had to be to land a shot, and was a dance back and forth of trying to hit and avoiding strikes.

Berg, of course, was aggressive as all get out. Desmond was one near miss after another, and he earned three new cuts to thank for it: one across his cheek and two on his arm. Luckily, it was across his scorched skin, so he didn’t really feel it, but that was kind of a problem in and of itself.

Things were getting tight. Desmond couldn’t let himself get cornered again, and he could feel his muscles starting to tire. He wasn’t sure how much longer Berg could last either, but he didn’t have time to exhaust this man — Elliott didn’t have that kind of time.

Desmond just needed time to think, a second to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t formulate a plan when there was knife coming for his throat or his chest or his face at every other second. Berg nearly took out his knee earlier. And Desmond really needed his knee.

Berg’s knife ended up in the cushion of the sofa as Desmond rolled away again, looking for a way out. There were only two doors in the room – one from the control deck he’d came in from, and the exit Berg probably used, and was now defending with absurd dedication. Desmond was sure he could just outrun the guy if given the chance.

The knife ripped through the upholstery as Berg kept coming after him, knocking over another lamp in the process. It was hard to see in the darkness, but periodic use of Eagle Vision helped Desmond keep track of things. How long had they been at this now? A minute? Two? It felt like an age.

Desmond and Berg faced each other off once more. They circled each other, not even risking a glance away, as they huffed and twitched and waited for the other to act first.

Disarm him, fratello mio.

Ezio’s voice. It came from nowhere, and Desmond automatically muttered, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Berg looked at him like he was crazy. “What’re you talking about?”

“Ugh, never mind,” Desmond rolled his eyes, but the annoyance was mostly at himself. “Just come at me, you dumb son of a bitch.”

Desmond didn’t actually think that would work.

But apparently Berg couldn’t resist an as obvious a taunt as that. He sneered and launched himself at Desmond, but this time he was ready.

Although it felt like the worst idea ever, Desmond sheathed his hidden blade, a simple flick of the hand. When he brought his arms up in defense, nothing blocked Desmond’s hand when he slipped it around Berg’s wrist and yanked down, twisting hard. At the same time, he maneuvered around Berg until he was shoulder-to-shoulder. There was a loud crraaack as something in Berg’s arm snapped under the strain, and the man dropped his weapon instantly.

Berg let out a furious roar, knocking him away. Still, Desmond caught the blade with his other hand, and as Berg shoved him away, he held it aloft, like a torch. Berg, clutching his broken arm, stared at Desmond, backing away warily. But the look on his face, the set of his shoulders said that Berg still wanted to fight.

Well, Desmond could fix that.

Knife still aloft, Desmond clenched his fist as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure how this worked, but he could do nothing but grin as he felt the heat travel up his arm and to his hand, and into the hilt of the blade.

His hand started to smoke. Then, right before his eyes, the knife turned to ash.

Berg’s eyes went wide, his eyes travelling down as the ash fell from Desmond’s hand. He started to curse, spitting, “What mad sorcery is this?”

Desmond closed his fist over the burning slag still left in his hand, a wicked smile on his face.

“Mine.”

And he threw the ash into Berg’s face.

Berg recoiled, crying out as hot embers dashed across his eyes. He fell back, hands flying to his face.

Completely blind, Berg was entirely helpless as Desmond lunged forward.

Maybe it was revenge for getting thrown around so much. Or maybe Desmond just needed to get out of that room. Either way, he achieved both when he tackled Berg and sent him crashing into the glass window behind him.

It broke instantly.

They fell through.

The landing knocked Desmond’s breath out. Luckily, he had Berg to cushion his fall. Impact sent him rolling off of the Templar, over broken glass before he came to a stop. He groaned at his own pain and stupidity. Bourne Identity made that move look way cooler than it actually was.

Desmond was pretty sure that every inch of his chest was bruised now as he slowly picked himself up, wincing. He was almost surprised he wasn’t attacked right away, but a glance to his right revealed Berg, lying entirely still. Blood seeped from the wound in his side and from his ears.

He wasn’t moving.

Desmond let out a huge breath he didn’t know he was holding. Thank God that was over.

“Berg?” a small, tinny voice rang out, making Desmond jump. It took him a second to locate the source, a radio clasped to Berg’s hip. Reaching down, he picked it up as the male voice continued to speak. “Berg, this is Caire, do you read me? Respond, dammit! Have you eliminated the Assassin? I repeat, have you eliminated the Assassin?”

Desmond pressed down on the receiver button, sucking in a breath as he was about to say something. The radio clicked, but Desmond suddenly drew a blank as to what he should say.

Well, he supposed he didn’t have to say anything at all.

Releasing the button, Desmond tucked the radio to his belt, as more demanding words started flowing through the crackling speaker. So this was Dr. Caire. It was time to put a face to that voice.

A little rattled, he looked around. He was back in the enormous Animus (Animi?) room. It was entirely silent, aside from the wind whistling in through the broken window. It sent freezing air throughout, but Desmond welcomed the chill. It cleared his mind after the hectic fight. Now, he could focus on his true task.

Elliott.

Trying not to think about what Berg said about him, Desmond made a beeline back to his original entrance. The hole in the wall was like a jagged black maw, flecks of white swirling in and lacing the floor nearby in a thin sheen of soft ice. Desmond’s footsteps were muffled by the snow as he treaded closer.

It was easy enough to climb up and out. He just had to be careful not to cut himself on the jagged glass. Sticking his head outside, Desmond looked up — he was pleased to find the building entirely dark. Well, entirely, except for the very top, where an array of blinking red lights shot to the overhanging clouds.

Desmond wasn’t fond of the idea of reaching the top from the inside. Too many guards to deal with, and too slow to save Elliott. No, he had to get to Caire before he realized what had happened and either killed Elliott or escaped. Or both.

He didn’t really have a lot of options, though. The side of Abstergo Tower was sheer glass and metal. What could he possibly use to get up there if he didn’t have a way —

That’s when Desmond saw the scaffolding.

He smiled.

*          *          *

Dr. Caire stared at the radio. Berg never replied.

That could only mean one thing.

The Assassin was still alive.

He set down the radio, trying to keep his breathing even as he came upon the conclusion of what was to happen next.

Well, he couldn’t possibly get through the rest of Abstergo’s defenses, could he? There were a dozen different security measures on each floor, still activated even without power. Once the emergency generators were started, then the Assassin would never make it Caire’s door.

He settled himself back in his chair, reassured in his place in this world. Dr. Caire, and the men and women like him, belonged at the top, where they could rule objectively, while lesser beings, like this Elliott Nazari kneeling in front of his desk, had no right to be here.

Elliott’s eyes were wide as he blinked between Caire and the radio, perhaps piecing it together as well. In the back of Dr. Caire’s mind, he thought Elliott reminded him of a bug, with those too-big eyes, and found it very fitting. A bug had no place amongst gods. Him and his ‘hacktivist’ kind would surely see their just desserts someday. Dr. Caire would just be too busy with other things to deal with it.

“We’re perfectly safe up here,” Dr. Caire assured the boy with a thin-lipped smile, tapping the ends of his fingers together. “Your Assassin friend will never reach us here. Abstergo has the highest security in the entire country, maybe even the world.”

“High security, huh?” Elliott’s smirk was not the reaction Caire expected. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got broken in twice in one day.”

The smile slipped off Caire’s face. He went quite still for a moment, before placing his hands down against the desk. His left hand hovered over the gun. Its muzzle was still directed at Nazari. “Except you’re not standing at all, are you, Elliott? No, you’re not. I’m going to tell you something most men in your position don’t receive the luxury of knowing. You’re going to die on your knees, Elliott. You could have lived a long, happy life, you could have been a helpful contributor to society. But no. Instead, you choose to put your lot with those who seek to tear down the very foundations of civilization. I will shoot you like a dog, because that’s all you are, a mangy runt who overstepped his place.

“So tell me,” Dr. Caire said, leaning forward, a sneer pulling at his lips. “How does that look from where you stand?”

Elliott visibly swallowed, his eyes drifting up Dr. Caire’s face with a look of utter fear. The fear Dr. Caire had been looking for this entire time, the one he drunk in like an elixir. The boy remained silent, however, and Dr. Caire tilted his head, “Well? All out of you clever comebacks?”

It wasn’t until the last word left his lips did Dr. Caire realized Elliott wasn’t looking at him anymore. No, he was looking at something behind Caire.

A chill went down Caire’s back, horrible dread. He tilted his chin up, eyes following up past Elliott’s head to the wall opposite — to the silhouette of a man illuminated in a flash of lightning.

“Gah!” Dr. Caire spun around, swinging the gun at the window behind him.

But no one was there. Nothing in front of his windows. Nothing behind them. Just a dark, raging storm beyond.

The man, gone. A ghost.

“N-not possible,” he hissed under his breath, searching the air for what he was sure was still there somehow. But no one could’ve entered the room. Where had the figure come from? How could he have been there?

There were no answers. Except for one. “The Assassin. He’s here.”

Caire had to get out. Now.

Standing abruptly, Caire shoved his chair aside, coming around the desk and grabbing Elliott’s collar as he passed. The boy uttered a sound of complaint, but Caire only backhanded him with the butt of his gun. “Shut up! You’re coming with me, and if you want to live, you’ll keep your mouth shut!”

His rage and violence was only to hide the shaking in his hands, the way his heart pounded far too hard in his own chest. Dr. Caire had never once considered his death at the hands of an Assassin, something he never thought could happen in the 21^st century, after the Purge.

But now it was all he could think about. An Assassin, in his own building, hunting him down like an eagle and its prey.

And Dr. Caire was not used to being prey.

“Come on!” He snarled, hauling Elliott along as he charged out of his room. In the hall, he ran into a patrol of surprised security guards, to whom he demanded, “The intruder is still here! Shoot anything you see moving that shouldn’t be!”

The halls were lined with windows on the right. Another flash of lightning, and for a second Dr. Caine swore he saw that figure again, the faceless white hood somehow hovering in thin air, just outside the window.

“There!” Dr. Caine pointed, gasping and stumbling back, the boy stumbling with him.

The guards spun around, but the figure was gone just as quickly. “Where, sir? I don’t see anyone!”

“You didn’t see him?” Dr. Caire stared at the two guards, who just gave him helpless shrugs in return. Then, with a snarl, he shoved past them, “Idiots! Radio the chopper, tell the pilot I’m leaving immediately!”

“But, sir —” One of the guards said, catching himself against the wall.

“NOW!”

“You’re losing it, man!” Elliott said as Dr. Caire dragged him around a corner and towards the emergency stairway. “No one’s there!”

“Oh, don’t you start with me,” Caire snapped, slinging the boy against the wall and pinning him there. He got right into Elliott’s face, refusing to let some punk get the better of him. “I know, I know you saw him, too! Miles or not, he’s not gonna be walking again after taking a dozen bullets to the chest. You’re never gonna see him again, Mr. Nazari. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, you’ll never be seeing anyone ever again. You, and everything you know, every ancestor in your blood, belongs to the Templars now.”

“Holy shit, you are losing it,” Elliott said, but now he was smirking, despite the two blows to the head and the new blood spilling into his eye. It was like he didn’t even care.

Dr. Caire just stared into those blue eyes, wondering how people like this could possibly exist. How they found nothing to fear, so close to the end of their lives.

But then, he knew. Assassins. It was the very nature of their being.

Unable to come up with a decent response, or indeed form any coherent sound at all, Dr. Caire just slammed his fist into the boy’s gut, doubling him over. Not waiting for Elliott to recover, he just grabbed the boy’s hood and half-dragged, half-careened up those steps, to the roof. At least now Elliott was too winded to fight him.

Caire wasn’t sure why he was keeping him alive, only that the Assassin wanted him, and in that way Elliott was still useful to him. If anything, he’d be a last ditch playing chip, one thing Caire could use to trade for his life. Right now, reason was becoming very difficult to find, and he found it difficult to think past his own heaving breath, the blood rushing in his ears, and the utter panic coursing through his system.

The panic of a Templar. The panic of a dead man.

But Caire knew. He knew that as soon as he reached the helicopter, he would be safe. The Assassins were skilled. They were mad. But they could not stop a helicopter. One man could not bring that entire thing down, not when he was stuck on the ground. Once Caire was in flight, he would be safe.

And he would have Elliott Nazari. An endless font of information of the Assassins. Caire would win. He always won.

He couldn’t reach the roof fast enough.

With a half-conscious boy in his possession, Caire burst into the blustering wind of the Tower’s rooftop. The sheer force of the gales threatened to knock him right off his feet. But Caire held his ground, and when he saw the helicopter waiting on the pad only a fifty feet away, he grinned a wild, manic grin.

Then, somewhere below, Caire heard the rattle of gunfire. It echoed, and Caire felt Elliott falter beside him, a wordless groan leaving him. Caire only smiled. Another victory. “You see?” he said to the boy, jostling him before Elliott could fall to his knees. “We Templars always win.”

The co-pilot was already ducking out of the cockpit, cutting across the snow-covered ravel to reach him. Caire shoved Elliott into the man’s arms, shouting over the wind, “Extra passenger! Make sure he’s secure!”

As the co-pilot struggled to drag Elliott away, who seemed to have gained a new burst of energy in the change of hands, Caire reached for his radio. “Status on the intruder!”

“Not sure, sir!” came the reply. Caire felt his stomach drop. “We saw him on the scaffolding, and we opened fire, but we can’t seem to find the body!”

“Well, keep looking!” Caire snapped, before casting his gaze about the rooftop. If there wasn’t a body, then the Assassin wasn’t dead. So where could he have gone? There was no place for the Assassin to hide here. The rooftop had no places to hide beside the small stairwell entrance, which Caire was already too far away from to be used for any effect; not to mention the line of guards tracing the perimeter of the rooftop, all armed. If the Assassin somehow managed to get up this high, there was nowhere for him to escape the aim of Abstergo’s bullets.

It was then he finally felt the chill of the night, that bone-freezing cold that could stop a man right in his tracks. It seeped into his lungs, scraped at his throat, and Caire strode forward, wondering who would truly be crazy enough to even attempt killing him here and now. The only way he could be attacked now was if the Assassin managed to find a…a high…vantage…point…

Dr. Caire looked up.

Up, behind him, to the radio tower with its blinking red lights shooting into the dark sky. It’s peak, hidden in the clouds.

To the shadow descending upon him.

The sensation of the cold metal blade piercing his throat was so smooth, so quick that Dr. Caire didn’t even feel it until after he’d been thrown to the ground. The weight on top of him was crushing — even without the blade, Dr. Caire would’ve been seriously injured by the falling blow alone.

As it was, he was gasping for breath, but only sucking in the blood pumping from his veins and into his throat. He could feel it, warm, thick, sticky liquid spreading across his neck, his skin, his shirt, the ground beneath his head. His blood. All his blood.

His eyes drifted to the face over his. The dark hair, the scar over his lips, the golden eyes. Caire could only whisper hoarsely in surprise as the blood bubbled to his lips. “S-so it’s true. Desmond Miles lives again. T-tell me…h-how did you…do it?”

The Assassin tilted his head, perhaps surprised by the question. Caire marveled at the youth in his face, the sharpness in his eyes. There was something not quite…human there. “You’ve heard of them. The Ones Who Came Before.”

“Marvelous.” Caire whispered. “How truly spectacular. Death itself rendered… obsolete.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Caire wondered how a voice could sound so calm, so reassuring in the last moments of his life. He certainly couldn’t fathom how it could come from his own killer. “You didn’t find it, did you?”

The Assassin blinked, said nothing, as Caire expected. He only smiled, laughed, but all that came out was another choke. “What you’re looking for isn’t in New York, Desmond Miles. I thought you Assassins already knew we kept our most valuable research in Montreal. How…how silly of you. You came all this way…to kill me…save your friend…stop our plans…but now, you’ve just made it that much harder for yourself. You got lucky this time, Miles. But now, they’ll…they’ll see you coming. Y-you failed b-before…you even got started.”

“All that effort.” Caire blinked, and found it to be the most difficult thing he ever did to open his eyes again. He could only rue all the potential lost. “W-what…what a waste.”

The Assassin’s face became unfocused, a blur. Caire’s eyes drifted up towards the sky, but it could’ve just as easily been the sea, endless and black, spinning and overwhelming. He looked up, and fell.

Then it was still.

Desmond dipped his head, letting out a soft sigh. He reached up, and closed Dr. Caire’s eyes. The words fell of his lips, as easy as a prayer.

“Requiescat in Pace.”

And then, a piercing shout.

“Desmond!”

Desmond’s head snapped up, alarmed at the sound of Elliott’s voice. Ahead of him, the chopper, it’s rotors starting, the feet starting to lift off the ground. And Elliott, inside, calling out for him as the goon inside wrestled him into his seat.

“Oh, shit!” Jumping to his feet, Desmond wanted to kick himself for so quickly forgetting about his friend in need, instead listening to the dying words of a Templar. Unbelievable.

Without wasting a second, Desmond was already tearing across the rooftop.

But the helicopter was already so high, too high, by the time Desmond reached the landing pad. The vortex it created whipped ice into Desmond’s eyes, but he barely thought of protecting his face before he took in the large gap between the edge of the roof and helicopter, already drifting away.

Elliott, reaching out for him. Shouts from behind, as the rest of Abstergo’s guards realized their boss was dead, and Desmond not so much. The first bullet landed at his heels.

Desmond didn’t even think to stop running.

He didn’t even hesitate as he kept right on to the edge of the building.

Didn’t even pause to consider his life before he placed his foot on the lip of metal, before leaping off. Time seemed to slow.

Thin air.

Tarmac, over a thousand feet below.

Little lights of cars, like bugs, darting between the tiny streets.

The snapping blades of the helicopter.

Elliott’s wide eyes.

And the metal bar.

Desmond’s hand caught the landing skid just before it could slip past his fingers.

He didn’t even realize he was shouting before gravity caught him and dragged him down.

The pain in his left shoulder was enough to send time spinning back into action again. The helicopter swayed with the sudden unbalancing weight, Desmond’s legs hanging over thin air — a lot of thin air — as he struggled to get his other hand up on the bar. He could hear more shouting beyond the wind and the chopper’s engine, but none of that registered as he managed to swing himself aboard.

“What the —” The Abstergo goon that had Elliott in his mitts gaped at Desmond, for a second rendered speechless.

The next second, he was reaching for his gun, but Desmond was already there, hidden blade in his throat. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the man from pulling the trigger.

The gun went off. Elliott cried out, and for a second Desmond feared he’d been hit, but turned out Elliott was just freaking out over the sudden loss of stability — Desmond wasn’t even aware of the helicopter suddenly banking to the right until his shoulder slammed into the opposite wall and he nearly fell out of the open door again.

“Fuck!” Desmond shouted, only realizing too late that the pilot had been shot through the back of his seat. The floor of the helicopter shifted threateningly beneath him as the pilot tried to maintain control of the aircraft, but he was already slumped, half-dead.

Buildings, glass, metal, snow, spun outside the windows. The g-force alone nearly rendered Desmond unconscious. He couldn’t tell if they were even right side up anymore.

But somehow, the copter righted itself again. Desmond’s head snapped back, hitting the metal behind him, but the pain barely registered as he saw the glittering lights of the city, suddenly at a distance, and realized that the helicopter had drifted out over the river. Which river? He couldn’t even remember his own name.

But he did remember Elliott.

Elliott, passed out, and bleeding way too much than Desmond was ready to deal with at the moment. He could already feel the helicopter starting to descent, the tilt as it was about to go into another death spiral.

He lunged forward, snapping Elliott’s seatbelts with a quick flick of his hand, not even thinking about how crazy this plan of his was. Desmond had no time to right the helicopter; he didn’t even know how to fly one, and it was too late to learn now.

“Desmond, what’s…” Elliott came to, head lolling as Desmond tried to pick him up, drag him over to the open door. Elliott blinked dreamily over the waves. “What’re we doing?”

“We’re going to jump, okay?” Desmond asked, although it really wasn’t up for debate. It was happening, whether Elliott liked it or not.

“That’s — I don’t like that!” Elliott said, suddenly shaking his head, apparently catching on a lot faster than Desmond thought. “You’re gonna kill us!”

“We’re gonna die anyways!” Desmond shouted back, just as a loud beeping behind him indicated the chopper dashboard recognizing its own doom. In response, he wrapped an arm around Elliott’s shoulder, said, “On the count of three!”

“Desmond, I swear to fucking—”

 “One!”

“— Oh my God, please no —”

 “Two —”

“— Desmond, please —”

“Three!”

“Wait, no —!” Elliott’s last words were drowned out by his terrified cry as Desmond threw themselves out, just as the helicopter pitched itself on its side, falling after them.

The blades came within inches off Desmond’s back, shrieking.

Then they fell away.

And the black, churning waters rushed up to greet them.

My F/C for Elliott :D Rami Malek is an amazing actor.

I just felt like sharing this :3

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Adrift

Hitting the water was like falling into frozen concrete.

Desmond couldn’t even remember if it hurt because the river numbed him instantly. His feet were first, then his hands, up his limbs to his shuddering lungs and pounding heart. Head gone under, all Desmond could hear was the blood rushing to his head, the silent shout still trapped in his chest.

Bubbles exploded from his nose and mouth, the pressure from his landing slamming the air right out of him. Light flickered behind his eyelids — light in the water? That long dark tunnel Desmond never remembered seeing? He wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to die again. He couldn’t even remember the first time. All Desmond knew was that he had touched the Apple placed upon the pedestal, Minerva and Juno pacing around him, their glowing eyes watching him like two lionesses stalking their prey. Then, the pain, the electricity dancing upon his skin like an exposed nerve.

And then the darkness. That drifting feeling, like he was floating across an ocean. Right before he woke up in that white room, and spoke to the dead.

Then Desmond opened his eyes, saw Elliott’s face.

No, can’t let it happen again.

The water was a dark and murky green, and he saw nothing through the haze aside from Elliott, only a few feet away — his eyes closed, limbs unmoving, air bubbling unbidden from his lips.

Not today.

Galvanized, Desmond felt that same lightning that killed him surge through his veins. Sensation returned to his arms and legs, enough that he could move them, swim forward. Reaching out, he wrapped his unfeeling fingers around Elliott’s arms, slipped it under, took on his weight as Desmond kicked his legs.

His lungs were already straining for air. Elliott was entirely dead weight; Desmond never had to swim with a bag of bricks tied to him, but he imagined this would be a similar experience. Come on, Elliott, wake the hell up!

Frustration was an easy replacement for the fear Desmond actually felt. Was Elliott okay? Had that fall been too high? Desmond hadn’t even considered how far they’d have to fall before jumping — he was so used to Leaps of Faiths that it didn’t occur to him that not only did normal people like Elliott not only had no experience, but it could also kill him.

Lungs screaming for air, Desmond forced his legs to work harder. One arm was occupied with Elliott, so he tried to make the best of his other one, reaching up to push himself upward. The water seemed to go on forever — how deep were they? Desmond felt like they’d fallen to the very bottom of the river.

The pressure building in his head from lack of air was starting flash in front of his eyes, painful flashes of light — the oxygen left in Desmond’s lungs was barely a handful, yet he held onto it just the same.

And then, just as Desmond felt his mind flicker, about to pass out — he broke the surface.

Air pierced his skin like a tiny thousand daggers, and Desmond gasped, his arm flailing and creating discordant splashing in the hectic attempt to stay afloat. He barely remembered, as a rush of air filled his head and sent him on a temporary high, to haul Elliott up with him, bring his head above water as well.

It nearly sent him under again. Desmond gasped as his nose dove into the water again, and he snapped his head back, coughing up the water he accidentally sucked in.

“Elliott!” He gasped, barely treading water. The sky was dark, the whole world was dark, and he could smell seawater and smoke. “Elliott, wake up! Stay with me, man!”

But Elliott remained comatose next to him, head lolling.

Well, there was no way to wake him up here. Desmond spun in place, legs and arms frantically moving until he found the shore. The glittering towers, golden and green lights, the flakes falling from the sky. Desmond’s breath puffed out in front of him — the air, the water, was so cold that his breath nearly turned to a solid bloke of ice right in front of him.

He didn’t have long. Desmond had a few scant experiences as Connor swimming in during the winter, in subzero temperatures, and doing it then was just as risky as doing it now. Cold water could kill a man faster than a stab to the heart. It could shut the whole body down, bit by bit, and send a man into a deep sleep he’d never wake up from. Considering the type of deaths Desmond had seen, cold water drowning was hardly the worst way to go — although Desmond held his reservations on the whole drowning part. Even if he made it out of the water, the cold could still kill him and Elliott.

Shore was probably fifty meters away. In the summer, that was hardly a task; in the middle  of winter, with over a hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight on him, Desmond was hard pressed to get anywhere quickly.

But the desire to live — the will to survive — was a strong motivator. His heart pounded, up in his throat, as he forced himself and his load forward. To his left was a pillar of smoke, remains of the helicopter bobbing in the water. To his right, the river went on into a wide, dark bay, glittering lights in the distance. Desmond would’ve thought it was pretty if he wasn’t currently on the verge of death.

The shore, rocky and barren, too far away from any dock or port, slowly pulled closer and closer. Desmond didn’t take his eyes off it, as if afraid that if he looked away, just once, that it would all slip away from him.

His vision shifted. Blue-grey ghosts flitted in and out of sight. Despite himself, Desmond let himself get distracted, flicked his gaze to the right again. A massive ship, it's painted hull and billowing sails carving easily through the water as if it weighed nothing at all.

The Aquila, it's eagle figurehead soaring overhead. Desmond craned his neck up, hoping to see the captain at its helm, but was too low to catch a glimpse.

The ship passed, a ghost in the night. Desmond continued onward.

Ice brushed against his shoulders. Desmond blinked, found the shore covered in frozen blocks of ice. Of course, freshwater froze much faster than salt water. He had to fight through this maze, his breath ragged in his throat. But Desmond took this as a good sign; he was less than twenty feet away.

How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? More? He didn’t have much longer if he wanted to make it out alive. He’d already lost all feeling below his knees, his shoes like extra weight. His fingers had lost all fine motor skills, frozen together.

Then, rocks. Sand, gravel, brushing against his knees. Desmond let out a gasp of relief as he brought his legs down, felt the rock bed come up startlingly fast. He’d been in walking distance for longer than he realized. He put his weight down, stumbled forward when his knees buckled, but found his footing again, and stepped forward. Elliott drooped in his arms, and Desmond had to walk backwards just to keep a hold of him. His entire body was shaking so hard that he could barely maintain a grip, while Elliott remained completely unmoving.

“We’re almost there, buddy,” he rasped, dragging him along until the water became shallow, lapped at his feet. “Just hang on.”

In the distance, sirens. Flashing red and blue lights. Drawn to the crash.

Desmond noticed none of it when he finally dropped Elliott, setting him down on the pebbled ground. Wet, half-frozen, his clothes already starting to frost in the chilled air.

Elliott still hadn’t moved.

Dropping to his knees, Desmond looked over Elliott, smacking his face, trying to wake him up. “Elliott? Elliott, can you hear me? You gotta wake up, dude, we gotta go. I didn’t jump out of a fucking helicopter just to let you die.”

But Elliott didn’t stir, and it occurred to Desmond — finally, as his sluggish, frozen mind caught up with the situation — that Elliott must have water in his lungs. Which meant — shit, what was it called again?

Oh, right, CPR. CPR, CPR, See Pee Ar... what did that even stand for, anyways?

Desmond was taught CPR by his mother, back at the Farm. All the kids had to learn it, him included, and it was one of the few lessons that he had considered actually useful to learn at the time. The only thing that worried Desmond was his rusty skills — he hadn’t practiced in, jeez, how many years? He hoped he still remembered how to do it right.

His hands found the center of Elliott’s chest, one on top of the other. Desmond started compressions immediately while he scoured his brains for the next step. Compressions, airway, breathing. Thirty compressions, stop, check airway, perform rescue breathing if no sign of breathing occurs. Easy as.

Easy as, his mom used to say.

Thirty compressions came and went before Desmond realized it. He might’ve moved on to fifty, forgetting to count. Panicked, he tilted Elliott’s chin up, put his ear to Elliott’s mouth. Please please please…

Nothing.

“Shit,” Desmond breathed, drawing back. Water dripped off his chin, his nose, got into his eyes, but he just blinked it away. Desmond was rather disconcerted to remember he never actually performed CPR on a real person, and he quaked at the idea of having to do so now. This was really not a good time to screw up.

His hands trembled. He couldn’t think straight. What if this didn’t work? What if Elliott was already dead?

Do it. Just do it.

Desmond closed his eyes. The lull of sleep, sweet senseless sleep, pulled at him. He swayed for a second, before sucking in a deep breath. Then he pinched Elliott’s nose and bent down.

Elliott choked.

He seized, chest heaving as water suddenly spewed from his mouth. Desmond swung backwards, wiping at his face, trying to convince himself the new warmth on his face wasn’t tears.  Elliott tried to say something, raising a hand, but then he, too, started to shake, and couldn’t speak as more water came rushing up. He rolled over on his side, spitting and gasping.

“Elliott,” Desmond said, leaning over him. The flashing lights were brighter now, the sirens louder. Tires screeching, voices. Something moved at the edge of his vision. “Elliott, can you hear me?”

“D-Desmond…?” Elliott rasped, eyes fluttering. His teeth chattered. “W-what — what’s going on? A-are we d-dead?”

“Nah, man,” Desmond could only laugh in relief, although it was more of a wheeze. “E-everything’s okay. Y-you’re gonna be ok-k-kay.”

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

The voices echoed behind him. A hand on his shoulder. A man in a white shirt coming around the other side, bending over Elliott. The world blurred and rocked around Desmond. He blinked, wondering if it was real. It felt like an invisible rug had been ripped out from underneath him. He felt himself pulled back. Desmond got to his feet, although his legs didn’t quite feel attached to his body.

“Is he okay?” Desmond’s voice echoed as another paramedic bent down over Elliott, who shifted sluggishly. “He...he needs to be okay.”

“We’re taking him to the hospital, sir,” a woman, stepping in front of him. Desmond whipped his head around, saw the ambulance. More flashing lights in the distance. The woman spoke again, and his eyes flicked back to her. “Were you in the crash, sir? Was there anyone else?”

Desmond opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, turning his head back to the water, to the ruins of the helicopter already sinking to the bottom of the river. He couldn’t remember what had happened.

“Sir, your lips are blue, please stop moving.” The woman grabbed either of his arms, tried to get him to sit.

But Desmond just shook her away. “N-no, I’m fine. I-I have to go…”

He turned around.

And the ground rushed to meet his face.

Darkness.

*          *          *

“Desmond? Desmond. Fratello mio, you must wake.”

“Mm?” Desmond mumbled, eyes flickering. The pebbles were smooth under his face. A golden glow seeped under his eyelids.

The first thing he felt was dry clothes. This was important, because just moments ago they were practically hanging off him, sopping wet and dripping, and half-way to freezing themselves solid on his body.

Next were the lapping waves, the soft roar of a distant ocean. The smell of sea salt. The screech of seagulls.

The finger repeatedly poking him in the shoulder.

“What?” He grimaced, annoyed, finally opening his eyes. A shadow drifted over him, in front of his line of vision. A man, crouched, soft blue-grey robes sweeping across the rocky shore. A kind face peered into his eyes, a salt-and-pepper beard revealing a brilliant smile.

“Ah, Desmond, buon giorno,” Ezio said, holding out a hand. Desmond craned his head up, wondering if he really had died this time, before taking the hand hesitantly. He was surprised by how rough Ezio’s palm was as he pulled Desmond to his feet. “I finally meet the man I first learned of in Rome. You are well, I take it?”

“I…” Desmond peered around, surprised to find himself still on the shores of Manhattan. Only it was different now. No towering skyscrapers, no massive bridges — just a tight collection of buildings and churches, with farmland stretching across the next two miles of island. “I think so? I remember falling into the water. And then there was Elliott. He was...I had to get the water out of his lungs. And then there were paramedics…”

He pressed a hand to his head, wincing. He still felt a little unbalanced. “I killed Dr. Caire. A Templar.”

“Si, and a foul one, too,” Ezio nodded his head, the smile fading into a more somber expression. Desmond had to take a second to fully appreciate the Assassin he’d spent so many weeks with. They were about the same height, but Ezio appeared far older, as he had when he traveled to Constantinople. “You’ve done well, Desmond, in rescuing your friend. And the others as well. You saved many lives today.”

“Well, I got a little help. Thanks for the advice, by the way, about disarming Berg.”

“Ah, it is no problem,” Ezio chuckled, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. Then he turned and began walking. Desmond hesitated before he followed. “I am glad that you have learned much from me and my life. Things that I myself wish I had learned. If only I knew how often a man tends to make the same mistakes.”

“What do you mean?” Desmond frowned. He understood now that this was another one of his dreams, a visit from an ancestor. He was starting to think each one came with a message now, a warning, and he was dreading what this one might contain. “You’ve helped so many people. You liberated nearly all of Italy, and you protected Constantinople.”

“Si, but at what cost?” Ezio sighed, then shook his head. He offered Desmond a rueful smile, gesturing forward with his hand. “It seems pointless now to brood, when all you know, all you have known, is dead and gone...but that doesn’t make it hurt less. But I should not lecture you on the meaning of sacrifice, when you already understand all too well. And I am not the only one who wishes to speak with you.”

At that, Ezio pointed across the way, towards a small inlet, where stood a lone figure. Another white-robed man, with a bow strapped to his back, and a tomahawk swinging from his hip. Ezio made a face, said, “Connor, I believe. His real name, I cannot pronounce. He, err, he doesn’t speak very much.”

“Yeah, he’s like that,” Desmond said, but his shoulders drooped a little. He had hoped to see Lucy again.

Ezio, probably reading his mind, nudged him. “You wished for your amore?”

“What? No,” Desmond spluttered, recoiling at the idea of calling Lucy his amore or whatever. God, that make him sound like an idiot. But the twinkle in Ezio’s eye said Desmond wasn’t fooling anyone, and he just huffed, crossed his arms, and looked away. “Okay, yeah, sure. I just...I haven’t seen her in a while. I-I miss her.”

“She feels the same, Desmond, trust me,” Ezio said. “If it makes you feel any better, know that the Signorina is always watching you.”

Surprisingly, that did make Desmond feel better, and he felt a small smile pull at his lips. “Thanks, man. That helps.”

“Bene. Now, go to him,” Ezio tilted his head in Connor’s direction. The other Assassin had turned to watch them, his arms crossed, face unreadable. Ezio shifted on his feet, looking a little uncomfortable for a man in his fifties. “He seems impatient.”

“That also  sounds like him,” Desmond sighed, taking a step forward. Then a thought occurred to him, and he turned to say good-bye, only to find Ezio gone, the air he once stood in now empty. Disappointed (and a little creeped out), Desmond just shook his head and made his way to Connor, who watched him in utter silence.

It wasn’t until Desmond got close did he understand Ezio’s wariness around Connor Kenway. Firstly, the guy was tall — a fact Desmond didn’t really appreciate inside Connor’s memories. He had to be at least four inches taller than Desmond, with shoulders even broader than Berg’s. One look at him and Desmond felt as though Connor could curb-stomp him without a second thought.

And the silence was really starting to freak him out.

Desmond came to a stop before this imposing figure, suddenly feeling like a child again. It took him a second to remember his thoughts, clear his throat, and be the first to break the silence. “So, uh...hey.”

He winced at how bad those words sounded.

Connor tilted his head, looking Desmond up and down with those dark eyes. Desmond was immediately wishing for Ezio back, with the old man’s easy, friendly presence and good humor. He could really use a guy like him to help out here.

At length, Connor finally spoke. “I hope my memories have served you well. Did you find what you were looking for?”

His voice was slow and measured, and despite the fact that Connor looked big enough to take on Berg and win in a second, Desmond felt a sense of calm wash over him. He’d forgotten how gentle Connor’s voice could be.

“Sort of,” Desmond could only shrug, glancing down at his arm. He twisted his burnt hand around before tucking it behind his back, self-conscious. “Not really what I was expecting, though.”

“I see,” was all Connor said, before he switched his head, gazing over the river. In the distance, Staten Island peeked out over the water — where the Statue of Liberty would eventually stand. Desmond tried to figure out just what those words could mean, but found Connor’s demeanor hard to grasp.

After a moment of silence, Desmond opened his mouth again to speak, but Connor suddenly beat him to it. Still looking away, he said, “I’m sorry for what Juno has done to you. I wish I had realized her manipulations sooner, so that you could see as well. Instead, I was too distracted with my own problems.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t have much of a choice,” Desmond shrugged, tried not to twitch when Connor’s gaze shifted back to him. The man moved like a force of nature, deliberate, unpredictable, and powerful all at once. “It was either let humanity die or...let Juno free. I guess she must be something worse than the Templars, according to Minerva. Maybe we’re all still doomed.”

“I think you made the right choice,” Connor said, with a slight deferential nod. High praise, all things considered. His expression was distracted, almost ponderous, as he continued, “Humanity still has a chance to recover, and Juno to be defeated. She has yet to reach full strength, and she underestimates our power of free will.”

Desmond smiled at that. It wasn’t often you heard words of encouragement or optimism from Connor. But the good feelings were quickly dashed away by Connor’s next words. “But Juno follows your shadow, Desmond. She knows what you’ve done, what you’re planning to do, and she’ll stop at nothing to keep you from it. I believe she’ll retaliate, and soon, so be cautious.”

“Great,” Desmond muttered, casting his eyes to the ground and kicking at a rock. It was sent flying into the water. To think he was home free after killing a Templar. “More trouble. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Connor looked away again. These silences were really starting to bug Desmond; he wasn’t sure if they were on purpose, of if it was just Connor’s lack of social skill, but either way it always left Desmond feeling off-kilter. But then a thought occured to him, and after a moment, he added, “I wish I got to see more of it. Your life, I mean.”

For once, Connor actually looked surprised when he turned back on Desmond again. Utterly baffled, Connor asked, “Why?”

“Why?” Desmond repeated, not quite understanding it. He’d seen the lives of both Altaïr and Ezio, seen them to the end, seen all of it, because he had to. But it wasn’t just a matter of necessity to him — it also felt like he had to, out of respect. “Because, well, I should have. I should’ve seen all of it, like the others.”

But Connor just shook his head. “My life isn’t — wasn’t an easy one. It would’ve only brought you more pain, as it had me. You wouldn’t have learned anything of value.”

“That doesn’t make it any less important.”

Connor blinked at him, his mouth pressing into a thin line, before he bowed his head. “Your words humble me, but I’m afraid that you’ve seen all there is to see in my life. But I suppose if you still seek closure, then you must look further in the past, because that is where you’ll go.”

“What do you mean?” Desmond asked, confused. Go further in the past? How was that gonna solve any of his questions?

“Edward Kenway, my...grandfather,” Connor seemed to have a little difficulty admitting the word. His gaze grew distant again as he said, “He’s the next part of your journey, in all of this. The Templars of your age seek to find a hidden knowledge from his life. A place called the Observatory. Have you heard of it?”

Desmond only shook his head, and Connor sighed. “Well, neither have I. But apparently it contains great power, if the Templars are looking for it. Juno, no doubt, has her hands in this as well, so it's important that you get to it first. We can’t let either side to win, but if it comes down to a choice, where you must fight one or the other… Choose to fight Juno, Desmond. Even a Templar can be your ally, for a time.”

“Are you talking about —”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh-kay, then.” Desmond leaned back a little, jerking his head back and glancing to the river. It seemed that Altaïr wasn’t the only ghost who didn’t like discussing his past. “So you know what I’m doing next.”

Connor pointed up the Hudson, inland. “Yes. Go north, and you will find your friends eagerly waiting for you. Take control of your past, before its stolen from you.”

  *          *          *

Desmond had woken up in enough strange beds to know he really didn’t like it.

At least this time, it was a hospital gurney. The last time a mortician’s slab. The time before that...Vidic’s lab.

“Hey, man,” a voice to his left. Desmond turned, surprised to find Elliott in the gurney next to him. His head had been bandaged, and there was bruising under his right eye, but the way Elliott grinned at him, he seemed entirely oblivious to this. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

That’s when Desmond took stock of the room they were in. There were two more gurneys on Desmond’s right, the one on the far end occupied by an old woman. Definitely a hospital, with its weird pale green walls and tile floor, that antiseptic-bleach smell, the faint aroma of death… along with the sounds of the hustle and bustle outside the room, doctors and nurses going left and right, the intercom system in regular use. Sunlight filtered in through a window over Elliott’s gurney, and Desmond wondered just how much time had passed since the helicopter crashed. A part of him still couldn’t believe they’d survived that.

“Thanks,” Desmond found it a little difficult to speak, and noticed the IV plugged into his arm. His left arm, that is, because his right arm was bandaged like a club. Apparently the doctors took burn victims pretty serious here. He frowned, then glanced back at Elliott, who continued to grin like a loon. “How’re you feelin’, El?”

“Totally copasetic, man,” Elliott said, raising a hand to gesture, only to find it stuck under his covers. He seemed to struggle with it for a moment, before giving up. “I haven’t felt this good since…well, ever. Oh! The doctor’s told me what happened, how you saved me? That you gave me the Kiss of Life — how was it, man?”

Elliott apparently thought this joke was hilarious, because he just started laughing, falling back against his pillow and repeating the word ‘kiss’ under his breath, and devolving into more giggles. Desmond just rolled his eyes, rubbing his face with his hand, “Oh, god, you’re so high right now.”

“You gotta try it, man!”

He had just opened his mouth to retort when another voice cut in: “Desmond Miles?”

Desmond blinked, looking around towards the doorway. A woman stood there, short dark hair with blue eyes, wearing a leather jacket. At first, Desmond thought it was Rebecca, but the face wasn’t right; it was too sharp, the hair too short, and this was all the more concerning because some woman Desmond didn’t know knew his name.

Like an idiot, he said, “Yeah?”

“Good, you’re up,” she said, and without further preamble ducked into the room, coming up to the side of his gurney, and pulling out her phone. “It appears the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated, Miles. We didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. You’re the one who sent us that email last night, correct?”

“Email?” Desmond frowned, trying to search through the blur of memories. His pain meds weren’t as strong as Elliott’s, but they still had an effect on him. When he finally got it, he opened his mouth to confirm, before pausing and staring at the woman. “Yeah, I did — w-wait a second, are you — you’re Erudito?”

“A part of it,” The woman nodded, not even registering Desmond’s shock as she scrolled through something on her phone. He’d never met Erudito in real life before. He’d always known it had been a conglomerate of different people, but even then they weren’t stupid enough to risk an in-person arrangement. “You can call me Bishop. I’ll be your liaison between the Assassins and my people. Sound good? Good. Because that was rhetorical.”

Before Desmond could even get a word in edgewise, she stuck her phone in his face, showing him the message that he’d typed. “You think you could’ve given us a little bit of warning before you sent over two dozen imprisoned subjects on the loose? I thought you Assassins were smarter than this.”

“Hey, sorry,” Desmond could only shrug helplessly. “It was kind of a ‘spur of the moment’ sort of thing.”

“Yeah, well,” Bishop made a face. “It sucked. We barely had enough resources to relocate that family.”

“The Nazaris?” Desmond nearly launched out of bed, having entirely forgotten about them until this moment. “Are they all right? Are they safe?”

“In the process,” Bishop said, giving him a wary look before reaching out into her back pocket and withdrawing another phone. This time, an old Nokia flip phone, dropped into his palm. “In six hours, this should ring. When it does, pick it up. That means his family is safe.”

At this, Bishop glanced at Elliott, who was completely off in his own world on the other side of the room. She frowned. “So that’s the guy you tore apart half of Abstergo for?”

“Yeah.” Desmond said, not without a little bit of defensiveness. He didn’t like the judging tone of her voice. Sure, Elliott didn’t appear to be worth the time of the Assassins or Erudito, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worth saving. Wasn’t the whole idea of being an Assassin to protect people? “Is that a problem?”

Bishop stared at him for a moment, apparently guessing that this was a bad topic to be exploring, and dutifully returned her attention to her phone. “Uh…look, point is, you’ve got us working double-time, but on the bright side, we just got hit with a bunch of new info from Abstergo online, so I suppose we can make do.”

“That’s thanks to him, by the way,” Desmond said, jerking a shoulder at Elliott, still glaring at Bishop. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked her, and he definitely didn’t appreciate her doubt. “He helped me break in and get it. He knows just as much as you do.”

Bishop pursed her lips, glancing at Elliott again before meeting Desmond’s eyes again. “Does he actually know anything about the Assassins or Templars?”

Now Desmond hesitated. “Not yet.”

“Well, you better fix that soon, because I don’t think there’s any way out of this for him,” Bishop replied, then tapped the edge of his gurney with her finger. “Get out of here while you still can. Abstergo is still hunting you down — I saw one of their agents earlier, snooping around. Tall, thin, wears Terminator shades. The Templars still don’t know that you’re alive, Desmond, but if he finds you, he’ll be able to confirm it. And then he’ll probably kill you.”

“Gee whiz, never would’ve guessed that.”

Bishop just shrugged her shoulders, putting her phone back into her pocket and backing off, hands raised. “Just trying to help. I’ll keep in touch. We’ve got its eyes out for you, Miles.”

“Wait, one question!” Desmond pushed himself up on his elbows, getting Bishop’s attention again just as she was about to walk of the room. She paused, looked over her shoulder at him. Desmond tilted his head and asked, “Erudito doesn’t know you’re here, do they?”

Bishop blinked, eyebrows going up in surprise. But then she smoothed her features and muttered, “Just keep your head down, Assassin. And don’t get caught.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

Seeds of Independence

Shaun and Rebecca couldn't take their eyes off the TV screen.

Morning light filtered in through the frosted windows, and their breaths formed small clouds in the still cold air. Rebecca could hear the sound of clanking and thunking and William Miles stuffed logs into the woodstove, followed by the clicking of matches being lit.

But she paid attention to none of that, only to the news broadcast.

"I'm here in New York City, at the foot of Abstergo Tower, where last night the company experienced a break-in." The anchorwoman said into her microphone, trying to speak above the scarf that bundled her up. "Police confirmed that this is the location the helicopter took off from, before it crashed into the Hudson late last night. We still have no word yet as to who or what is responsible for the multiple homicide. No confirmed reports as of yet if it's a terrorist attack, or something more personally motivated."

The camera cut to a shot of the frozen gray river next to Manhattan; first, at night, with floodlights fixed on the rising cloud of smoke in the sky. Then, a live stream of NYPD pulling out the wreckage.

"Police say they do have a suspect," The anchorwoman continued when the shot returned to her. In the corner of the screen appeared a small rectangle, a grainy image of a man walking down a hall. "A man dressed in a white hood, around six feet tall and a hundred and ninety pounds, with an apparent injury on his right hand. This man is still at large, and the police warn, armed and dangerous. If you see this man, or someone who fits this description, do not approach him, and please alert your local authorities immediately…"

"What the hell?" Shaun muttered under his breath, blowing at the steam of his tea as he scowled at the screen. "That's not us. That can't be us. I thought the Assassins were done with this big and bold bullshit. I didn't think we even had Assassins in New York…"

Then he paused, frowned, and glanced at her. Rebecca met his look but said nothing, only dropped her gaze to her toast. Neither of them had spoken of the email since the day they received it, but it would be naïve to assume neither of them had been keeping track of events in New York, on the lookout for anything suspicious.

Of course, they saw nothing. Until today.

Shaun and Rebecca were both wondering the same thing. Could this be Desmond? Unfortunately, the image on the TV didn't give much to work with. The Assassins' face was kept hidden, and as far as Rebecca could recall, Desmond's right hand was completely fine.

"Did someone authorize this?" Rebecca called over her shoulder to William, who was no doubt listening in.

"No," was the reply she got, right before William walked into the kitchen, smelling like smoke as he clapped his hands off on his jeans. He frowned at the report, looking bewildered and annoyed (although he kind of always looked annoyed). "I heard about it last night, and sent Liz over to investigate. She should be calling me at any minute with an update."

"Liz?" Shaun raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I didn't know you two were still on speaking terms," Rebecca added, and it would've been cheeky had it not been for the glare that William sent their way. She flushed, embarrassed, and looked down at her toast. "It's just, uh, you haven't been in contact with…well, anyone, lately."

William's face was an enigma, usually scowly, but not really much else. Rebecca didn't want to believe this man was just a chemical formation of Bitter Old Dude compiled into one being, but there were certainly times she questioned it. Shaun seemed to be in the same mindset, the two younger Assassins staring at William Miles, waiting for an answer. Not even his patented laser-eye-glare could ward off their curiosity.

Eventually, their silent barrage broke William down, and he sunk into a nearby seat with a heavy sigh. "You're right, Rebecca, I haven't. Old wounds, I suppose. She never forgave me for making him run away. And after he… when he…"

For a second, William Miles couldn't speak. He just stared at his hands, hanging in his lap, eyes suddenly shining. Shaun and Rebecca looked away, at each other, suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable. Oh, god, they just made an old man cry.

But if William Miles were to shed a tear, the sentiment was gone a moment later as he cleared his throat, and spoke with a rough voice. "Well, I didn't want to call her, but duty comes first. And she's the only person I could trust with this, outside of this room. Luckily she was willing. And didn't bite my head off."

William paused, his mouth still open as if he had more to say, but then he shook his head and turned his attention to the screen. Rebecca and Shaun, however, shared a look of confusion. It was Shaun who prodded, "Uh, is there something else going on? Something we don't know about?"

There was a silent agreement between the three not to keep secrets. Not that they kept much from each other to begin with, but since Desmond's death a certain atmosphere had fallen between them, a distance that no one seemed to be able to cross again. Times when each of them spent alone, away from the others, purposefully not speaking. Not out of rudeness, but just because…well, they weren't ready.

To be honest, Rebecca didn't any of them would be. Assassins didn't really have great therapy plans.

William glanced back at them, apparently reluctant to continue. Then he shifted back, setting his hands on the table. Another moment of silence, then:

"I'm going to resign being the Mentor."

Shaun and Rebecca gaped at him.

It took Rebecca a second to overcome her speechlessness. "Wait, what? You did not just say that."

"If you're not the Mentor, then who?" Shaun demanded, leaning over the table. His voice was intense, worried, alarmed. "We don't have anyone else in the Assassins as experienced as you. The last one we had was killed by Cross!"

"Yes, and the one before that, killed by another Templar," William nodded, a line forming between his brow. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, looking rather aggrieved to be caught in the middle of this interrogation. Now Rebecca understood why he was so hesitant before. "To be honest, kids, I'm tired. I can't…I don't think I'm capable anymore. Not after what happened in New York."

"Oh, you mean Desmond's death?" Shaun snapped, suddenly severe. Rebecca stared at him, horrified. Even William looked shocked. Just because William wanted to quit didn't mean you could just talk to him like that.

And yet it seemed Shaun had stopped caring. He stood up from his seat, fists clenched, teeth grit. "You can say it; you know? It's not like none of us can't remember! Pretending it didn't happen, pretending Desmond never happened, isn't going to make this easier."

"Shaun!" Rebecca hissed over the table, glancing warily at William, who she was sure might kill Shaun for just saying this. "Shut. Up!"

"Oh, what, you two, Rebecca?" Shaun scowled down at her, and she pulled back, affronted and self-conscious. He flicked a hand at her, said, "And I thought you were better than this! Are we never going to talk about what happened? About the fact that the only reason Desmond isn't still alive is because his own father didn't take his place?"

"Shaun, you know that's not fair —"

"Well, how would I know?" Shaun didn't let her finish, just snorted and cast a derisive glance at William. It was nothing short of amazing that he was still breathing right now. "It's not like we ever really got an opinion from the man, have we?"

And yet William Miles said nothing. He didn't look at Rebecca. He didn't look at Shaun. His eyes were unfocused, somewhere over Rebecca's head, and it was then she noticed the bags under his eyes, the crevices of his wrinkles and the gray in his hair. William Miles didn't just look tired. He looked old.

Five long seconds stretched out. Shaun didn't take his eyes off of William, still waiting for an answer that would never come. His steam wore off quickly after that realization, his breathing evening out and hands unclenching. He just stared at William, a forlorn look on his face. His next words were soft. "Do you even miss him?"

Something flickered in William's face. Something haunted, akin to the looks of soldiers who'd seen too much.

William Miles had lost his son. Twice. And this time Desmond wasn't coming back.

Shaun planted his hands on the table, hung his head in resignation. William Miles shifted ever so slightly, opened his mouth to speak.

Then his cell phone started to ring.

Pulling it out of his pocket, William stared at the phone's screen, gloomy surprise on his face as it continued to buzz.

His tone was dull. "It's my wife."

A swipe of the thumb, and the speaker came to life. "Liz, you're on speaker."

"Ugh, well, hello to you, too, Will," came the slightly breathy voice of a woman on the other side. William tossed the phone so it rested at the center of the table so everyone could hear. Elizabeth continued to speak, "It's pretty damn cold here in New York, and unfortunately the same can be said for the trail. Me and my guys can't figure out who this rogue Assassin is, or where he came from. As far as I can tell, not one of ours."

"Is it possible he's not even affiliated with us?" Shaun asked; his tone was curious, speculative now, a sudden change from the anger and accusations from earlier. He sat himself down back in his chair, taking back his tea with an almost prim attitude. It was like his little rant never even happened. "Some nut inspired by conspiracy theories to attack Abstergo? It's not like the Assassins are the only ones with beef against them."

"Can't say for sure," Liz replied, her voice a little scratchy on the receiver, perhaps due to wind. "Although I'm considering it a possibility. From what Erudito told us a few hours ago, the agent that went inside only stole financial data, which is…not the best sort of stuff we're looking for, but I guess they uncovered more than they expected. I've yet to get the full details, not that I'm an expert at finances or anything…Did you guys hear about the helicopter crash?"

"Yes, it was on the news," William replied, his voice strangely clear again. Rebecca could only shake her head, wondering how anyone could just switch gears so easily. "Police don't think its related yet, although we have difficult feelings, obviously. Were there two attacks or just one?"

"Two, one being the theft, the second one being murder," Liz replied, and Rebecca swore the woman almost sounded impressed. "You know, if this guy isn't an Assassin, I'd sure like to recruit him, because the way he killed Dr. Caire was nothing short of professional. He also released a bunch of Abstergo inmates — Will, they're taking kids, now. Fucking kids, not even eighteen years old. I think we got them all in our custody, thank Erudito again, but goddamn…the things they've seen. I don't think they'll ever be the same again."

"Will we be able to help them?" Rebecca asked. The escaped subjects was news to them, and even though it wasn't necessarily the Assassins' problem, she wanted to help. "I can craft new identities for them, get in contact with Erudito. They don't like to talk much, but I'm sure we can get more information out of them."

"Way ahead of you," Liz replied. "I got about two dozen new recruits now, all pretty psyched to get back at the Templars. Most of them have Assassins in their bloodlines. A few have Templars. This could be valuable to us, and I most especially want your expertise on the Animus technology, Rebecca. They're going to need it."

"Yeah, no problem,"

Will leaned in. "Liz, did you get anything about the Assassin out of the kids? Did they see him?"

"A few…I talked to them, and they gave a few varying details," There was a change in Liz's voice, a new uncertainty. It sounded like she was biting her lip as she said, "Tall, male, tanned skin. Couldn't see his face because of the hood, obviously. They said his right hand was all messed up, but I don't really understand that part. They didn't get it either, so no help there…he had a hidden blade, though. Knew how to use it, too. I seriously doubt that its some random kid with a grudge against Abstergo. Actually, now that I think about it…"

There was an unusually long pause in the call, and for a second Rebecca thought they'd lost connection. She was about to say something, but Will got to it first. He frowned, called out, "Hello? Liz, you still there?"

"Oh, I-I'm sorry. It's just…it's so weird, Will," Elizabeth said, sounding distracted. "The way they described him — the tattoos, the scar on his mouth — it almost seems like…it sounds like Desmond."

Shaun choked on his tea.

"No," he said immediately after he recovered, shaking his head. Shaun almost seemed frantic, as if he didn't want to believe it. Or wanted William to think it had never crossed his mind before. "No, it's not possible. We saw him. Desmond — h-he's dead."

It would've been less strange had he not just announced the fact that Desmond was dead only a few minutes ago. A strange chill went up Rebecca's back; to her, this felt like karma or something. Was it just a coincidence? Perhaps all the weird clues and coincidences were just jiving with her the wrong way; in a moment of clarity, Rebecca finally understood what had upset Shaun earlier.

Shaun didn't want to believe anymore. He just wanted it to be over.

There came a long sigh from the phone. "I know. Probably just wishful thinking from a tired old woman. Whoever it is, I want to shake their hand, because they accomplished everything in one night what we've been trying to do for years. And then I want to punch him, because god damn things are tense here. Idiot."

"How tense are we talking about?" Rebecca asked, glancing at Shaun, who seemed to be searching for something in his tea. His soul, perhaps?

"Like, explosive," Liz said, grave. "I'm not kidding. I see their agents everywhere, plainclothes, and police are all over downtown Manhattan. The helicopter crash got them riled up…they pulled three bodies out of the water, but there are rumors were survivors. None that I can find, though, which is strange. I hope Abstergo hasn't gotten to them yet. And, of course, the death of the lovely Dr. Caire has the entire city freaking out. One of my sources just told me that there's rumor of religious zealots hanging around, tagging and proselytizing some weird Pagan stuff. Helenic, maybe? Either way, domestic terrorism seems to be what everyone else is agreeing on."

"Well, let's not worry about that for right now," William said, leaning one elbow on the table. "I want to know more about these survivors. Figure out where they went. They might know more about what happened last night." He hesitated. "And Elizabeth?"

"Yeah?"

"Please be careful."

Her words were heavy, a sigh. "I'll try. Safety and peace."

Rebecca, Shaun, and Will recited the prayer in their own hushed tones. "Safety and peace."

x

"Yo, Des," Elliott said, his voice still slurring a little as Desmond dragged him along. "…What're we doing?"

"We're leaving."

"What? Now?"

"Yes, now." Desmond said, getting annoyed. Now was not the time to be caught sneaking through hallways, whispering at each other, and escaping the custody of their doctors without officially signing out. As it was, both of them had been put under as 'John Doe', which was probably why they hadn't been discovered yet by whatever Abstergo agent was in here currently looking for them.

It probably would've been easier if Desmond had been doing this alone, but there was no way in hell he was leaving Elliott behind. As it was, Elliott wasn't exactly the most helpful person at the moment; although no longer attached to an IV, he still drifted and swayed under the effects of morphine. Desmond had to keep a hold of his forearm to keep the guy from keeling over or wandering in the wrong direction — like he almost had when they passed the cafeteria, and the intoxicating smell of chicken nuggets wafted over them.

But they were in their normal clothes now, which made their escape a little easier. Shortly after Bishop left, Desmond had carefully pulled out his IV before slipping out of bed — his belongings, stripped, had been kept in a nearby room, a supply room of sorts, along with Elliott's stuff. Taking it was cake. Helping Elliott get dressed was not.

Right now, Elliott was pulling at his shirt collar, of which had been put on backwards because Desmond had lost all patience. "So, uh, where are we going?"

"Down," Desmond said, as they finally made it to the elevators. He would've taken the emergency stairs with less traffic had he not been worried that Elliott might go tumbling head over heels down the steps. Pressing the button, he added, "To the basement. It's not safe here."

"Safe?" Elliott repeated, squinting oddly at Desmond as he leaned heavily against the wall. The elevator was taking forever to get here. "Safe from what?"

Desmond threw him a frown. "Elliott, do you remember anything that happened last night?"

"Uh." Elliott paused to purse his lips. His eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought, but then his face went blank, and Desmond had to snap his fingers in Elliott's face for him to focus again. "Oh, um, no. No, what happened?"

Aw, man. Desmond wasn't sure how he was going to break the news to Elliott that they both almost died last night, or the fact that Desmond was an Assassin, fighting a secret war that would not sit well with a guy still high on meds. Shaking his head, Desmond just sighed under his breath. "Never mind. It's gonna go right over your head. I'll tell you later."

"We didn't, uh, we didn't do anything bad, did we?" Elliott bowed his head, brow furrowing. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes, and was currently studying Desmond's shoes. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being, er, 'drunk karaoke night' and ten being 'We robbed a bank', how bad did it go?"

"Um," Desmond said, glad to have something else to look at when the elevator doors finally opened. Pulling Elliott inside (empty, thank God), he pressed the 'B' button. When the doors slid shut, he added, "I'd say it's a solid four."

"A four?" Elliott considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh, had worse."

That's when Desmond realized Elliott still had that bandaged wrapped around his head, and realized that could, you know, kind of give them away. He raised his hand, at first wanting to take off the bandage, but the gauze was a little bloody. The only thing worse than an injured patient was a bleeding patient. Instead, Desmond just grabbed the hood of Elliott's black hoodie and yanked it up over Elliott's head, who made a sound of complaint.

"What's this for?"

"Just keep your head down, okay? The doctors don't want us to leave."

"I mean…we probably shouldn't leave, then?"

"It's not safe here," Desmond frowned at the number over the elevator door, thinking that dropping six floors shouldn't take this long. Every lie off his tongue felt like he was swallowing a hot coal.

Elliott, of course, didn't buy it. Desmond's lies were so bad that not even a man high on opium would believe him. "Des, it's a hospital. Isn't that, like, supposed to be the safest place on the planet?"

"Not right now it isn't," Desmond muttered, taking Elliott's arm again as the elevator finally shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open to let in the cold, stale air of the parking garage below. He peered out, making sure the place was clear, before stepping out with Elliott in tow.

Bishop's words echoed in his head: I don't think there's any way out of this for him. Could she be right? Desmond didn't want her to be. Right now, he wanted to get Elliott to his family, safe and hidden, never to be hunted by Abstergo again. That was the goal, and Desmond hoped he could make it this time. He really didn't want to take Elliott to Quebec with him: there would be no more secrets then. Would Elliott even be ready for that kind of news, of the secret war, of Assassins and Templars? Did Desmond have to explain everything now? Could he afford not to?

"Dude, dude, you gotta…you gotta slow down," Elliott stumbled in his wake, yawning so wide his jaw cracked. He shook his head, blinking several times, pupils refocusing. Desmond was praying that the drugs were finally starting to wear off. How long would that take? He didn't expect Elliott to be completely compliant when fully alert, but he'd certainly be the most useful then.

Desmond didn't really pay much attention to Elliott, too busy keeping his eyes out. The garage was quite full, at least on this level, but Desmond was relieved to see they were already close to the street; there was an exit about three hundred meters away, a cool breeze blowing in. He could smell the exhaust from here. A few flakes of snow drifted in, and he idly wondered how much snowfall the city got since last night. Luckily, there didn't seem to be anyone else here —

Movement to the right.

Desmond's eyes flicked over, spotting the tall, blond man a second before the man saw him. The man had just gotten out of his car, a black sedan, wearing a dark suit and darker sunglasses. The first thing Desmond thought upon seeing him was how much he resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Then the man saw him. Frowned.

Reached under his coat.

Desmond's reaction was immediate.

He struck out with his hand, slamming it into Elliott's shoulder and effectively knocking him out of the way.

The Abstergo agent yanked out his gun.

Elliott cried out as he fell into the side of a van, tumbling to the ground — right before two bullets embedded into the metal where his head had been a split-second ago.

When the third bullet fired, Desmond was already closing the distance between him and the agent.

The gun swung in his direction, but Desmond darted to the left, then feinted right - two bullets whizzing past harmlessly. The agent grit his teeth in frustration, stumbling back at Desmond's speed. But the agent's back hit his car door, and looked behind him, caught by surprise.

That was his mistake.

When the agent looked around again, Desmond's hidden blade was in his neck.

Desmond collided into the agent so hard he rammed the man over the hood of his car. The agent gurgled helplessly, torso sprawled across the still-warm metal, his arms going limp. The gun clattered to the floor, echoing in the otherwise empty concrete cavern.

Panting a little, Desmond withdrew, blade slipping out of the agent's throat with a rather unpleasant Shlock!

Well, this must have been the agent Bishop was talking about. Who else dressed like that would pull out a gun at the sight of them? Desmond was just glad there wasn't more of them.

It wasn't until he was reaching for the gun did Desmond remember his audience.

"What the fuck!"

Oops.

Desmond picked his head up, meeting Elliott's eyes. Elliott was still on the ground, gaping at Desmond and the now-dead agent. His eyes flicked down to the gun in Desmond's hand, and before Desmond could think to drop it, Elliott was already shaking his head, scrambling to his feet.

Knowing the sight of a man about to run, Desmond jumped to his feet, "Elliot, wait!"

Elliott froze when Desmond came back to him, apparently startled by the movement. Desmond paused when he saw how white Elliott's face got, his eyes wide, like a deer in headlights. He seemed to be having difficulty looking away from the dead body, not responding immediately when Desmond tried to step around him, but flinched when Desmond grabbed his arm.

Seeing that, Desmond felt a wash of guilt, but not enough to let Elliott go. Fuck, he's afraid of me now. Good job, Desmond, way to go. What a good friend you are.

Elliott, seeming to have gone into shock, didn't resist when Desmond started dragging him away from the scene, towards the garage exit and the sunlight of the open street. Breaking out into a run, Desmond kept hold of Elliott as he ducked under the gate and slipped into the busy streets of New York City. The heavy pedestrian traffic was a drastic change from the hollowness of the garage, but Desmond barely let it slow him down.

He was already looking up, analyzing the buildings, trying to orient himself on his mental map. They were still in Manhattan, midtown, only a block from Times Square. The thought of a heavy crowd was quite endearing right now, and Desmond didn't pause to think about what he was doing before he started at a fast pace down the sidewalk.

People, so many people. The crowd seemed twice as thick thanks to the heavy clothes everyone was wearing, and Desmond suddenly became away how cold it was. His toes were frozen almost instantly when he accidentally stepped into a snowbank on the side of the road. Piles of it were everywhere, too cold to melt, the rest turned to brown mush underneath boots and tires. The sky was a heavy gray, as if threatening another storm. Not like the city wasn't frozen over already.

Neither he nor Elliott were dressed for this kind of weather. But Desmond wasn't going to slow down or figure out a way to fix that. They had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep warm, keep safe. Gotta get outta here…

Desmond was listening to a hundred conversations at once. People on phones, people eating, people pausing to take in the day. All of them, a distraction. All of them, slowing him down. But Desmond couldn't tune them out.

Behind him, someone muttered, "Huh? I lost all my bars."

Another said, "Hey, me, too. That's weird."

"Probably the weather," the first person said, before their voices faded into the hubbub of the crowd.

"D-Desmond, slow down!" Elliott huffed, out of breath, yanking on Desmond when he accidentally got caught behind two people and had to squeeze through.

Desmond barely even glanced over his shoulder. "Come on, man, it's not safe —"

"What do you mean?" Elliott demanded as Desmond continued to weave through the crowd. His eyes were everywhere, tracking everything, Eagle Vision on and off, trying to find the path of least resistance. His mind raced to figure out a plan of action. How could they get out of the city? Take a bus? No, too slow. The subway? No, too easy to get trapped. A car? How would they get one?

"Please, just tell me what's going!"

"We don't have time —"

"Desmond, what the hell — why did you — you just killed someone—"

"Elliott, shut up!"

"No!" It was then Elliott finally seemed to have finally conceptualized everything that happened — and yanked out of Desmond's grip, pulling both of them to a stop. Desmond whipped around to face him, and was a little taken aback by the panic and anger in Elliott's face.

"You tell me what the fuck is going on, Desmond!" Elliott snapped, jabbing a finger to the ground. He was breathing hard and shivering, but his voice didn't waver or slur - guess watching a murder finally burned up the rest of the drugs in his system. "I just saw you fucking stab a guy in the throat with a knife out of your fucking wrist! I've been beat up and kidnapped! Some white guy held a gun to my head! I fell out of a helicopter! And somehow I'm not dead! I feel like I'm losing my mind!"

"El, Elliott, slow down, okay?" Desmond held up his hands in a placating gesture, switching his tone to a more apologetic one, worried now. Okay, the drugs wore off, but now Elliott was freaking out. Not good. Elliott was breathing so hard that Desmond feared he might pass out from hyperventilation, so he clapped hands on Elliott's shoulders and said, "Just breathe, okay? I'm sorry, man, this is all my fault. I know I should've told you earlier, but then Caire happened and I —"

"Yeah, Caire, that guy!" Elliott nodded vehemently, holding up a hand to his temple. "He had a gun to my head, Desmond! Abstergo's CEO was going to kill me. Talked about some crazy conspiracy theory shit. Called me an Assassin, whatever the fuck that is — and said you were dead. Why the fuck did he think you were dead, Des? How does he even know you? Have you met him before?"

"N-no, no, not since last night, when I —" Desmond realized he was breathing too hard as well, a rising anxiety in being in one place for too long. They were in the middle of Times Square, people swarming around them, neon lights flashing, engines revving, cars honking, TV screens with a hundred flickering images, noise noise noise —

"When you what?" Elliott demanded, leaning in, scowling in a combination of anger, then dawning realization. "Oh, my god, did you kill him, too?"

"He said he was going to take you away. He was going to kill your family!"

"Oh, my god," Elliott said again, this time taking a step back, hands flying to his face, fingers trembling. "Oh my god, oh my god! I forgot, I completely forgot — Mom, Dad, Zach, they have no idea, Caire said he'd called — he sent someone to kill them! What have I done? Are they dead? Did I get them killed? Is this my fault?"

Sensing another panic attack, Desmond grabbed Elliott, tried to bring him back to the present. "No, they're fine! Trust me, Elliott, I took care of it. Look, you can see them again, okay? We just have to get out of this goddamn city first —"

"Who are they?" Elliott interrupted, staring at him with probing eyes.

The question pierced Desmond's mind, sharp and ringing, like church bells. Elliott's voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Caire. Abstergo. Who are they, Desmond? How can they do this?"

Desmond could only return Elliott's gaze helplessly. His opened his mouth, but found himself bereft of a suitable answer. What could he say? What could he say that would fix this? There was nothing he could do now. He could only shrug, finally choking out: "...I don't know, Elliott. That's just what they are."

"What are they?"

It was at this point that Desmond realized: this is it. There was no turning back. Elliott had to know.

He opened his mouth. He knew what to say. Templars.

Until Desmond saw a flower.

Cross-crossed black lines, burned into skin. Passing by, a bald head, a side glance, the marred forehead marked like an ancient monk. Only it wasn't a monk; it was a woman, dressed in dark, loose-fitting clothes. Bags under her eyes, a gauntness in her cheeks.

Her eyes, too pale, met his.

Knowing.

Then she was gone.

Desmond froze, then stumbled back, looking around. Another bald head, turned away, disappearing into the crowd. "What the…?"

"Desmond?" Elliott frowned at him, following his gaze but too late to catch the sight of the strange figures. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

"I-I...I don't know," Desmond stuttered, raising a hand to rub his cheek. His face was numb from the cold, but now every nerve felt like it was on fire. Was he seeing things? A bald woman with Juno's symbol branded on her forehead, like the weird zealot in the subway. Another head just like hers, pale and uncovered, in weather too cold for it. "I thought I just saw —"

A sudden chorus of car honking behind him caught Desmond's attention, and he spun around just in time to see a utility van t-boned a truck in the middle of an intersection, followed by a slew of other cars screeching to a stop. All heads turned as well to watch the accident with morbid fascination.

It wasn't uncommon for cars to crash in bad weather, on slippery, snowy roads. But then Desmond's eyes drew up to the traffic lights.

They were all red.

Something wasn't right.

People were already taking out their phones to record the scene, because of course they were. But the mass streaming was interrupted by a series of blinking error screens and groans, annoyance at what appeared to be a sudden and widespread loss of wi-fi.

Then, overhead, the massive TV screens started going out, one by one. Desmond watching, in growing trepidation, as every light and sound in the area just seemed to drop. Consequently, the human noise around him rose, as more people began to notice the strange events occurring. People pointed at the black screens, at the red lights, standing still and looking around in bemused wonder.

Something definitely wasn't right.

"What the hell?" Elliott, too, looked around, caught off guard. "What's wrong will at the screens?"

"Elliott," Desmond didn't look at him when he reached for his sleeve. He grabbed a chunk, pulled at it a couple times. He didn't take his eyes off of the van. The glowing red figures inside. "Elliott, I think we need to leave. Right now."

Two more bald heads in the crowd. Red silhouettes passing by, blending in with the innocent blue. Were they the same two he saw before? Desmond couldn't keep track of them. Where the hell did they go?

His eyes drew back to the van just as the doors all opened at once.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. Desmond didn't know what to make of the sight of eight bald men and women, dressed in heavy black, ill-fitting clothes, piling out of a single vehicle, like some sort of deranged clown car. Each one, with a brand on their skin, in the center of their foreheads.

Then, a whisper, behind him: "Being that life is both sacred and profane - priceless and worthless…"

Then another, chanting: "…Fleeting and eternal we submit."

In unison, their voices, circling around Desmond, too fast to see, but just loud enough to hear: "Being that life can be as easily construed from primordial swamps as from a stinking Petri dish we submit…"

"What?" Elliott spun around, even less succesfful than Desmond at trying to figure out who they were. "Who's saying that? Desmond —?"

Desmond came to a sudden stop, facing Elliott. Over his head, the screens started to flicker again. Blue, purple, white. A face appeared. A woman. Black eyes. An insidious smile.

Juno.

And then, booming over their heads: "Being that THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE imbued us with life and may remove it as readily should we defy or deny their original plan we submit!"

"Agh!" Elliott clasped hands over his ears in pain at the thunderous voice, so loud that Desmond could barely even hear himself think. It shook the ground, and everyone doubled over, covering their heads, crying out, startled and frightened as Juno's face, lit up on the screen, opened her mouth and laughed.

That, too, shook the ground, but nothing chilled Desmond's veins more than hearing her voice, loud and clear. "I know you're here, my little Prophet. Once dead, now returned, a miracle! How you continue to amaze me — and inspire my Instruments! Lead them! Bring fear and awe to the hearts of these men around you! Hear me now, mortals, you weak vessels of flesh, and know my name! Know my face! Bow down to receive my Prophet, and you will be welcomed to the Grey with open arms."

"Bow to Her!" cried several voices in the crowd, synchronized. Desmond didn't see them until they started to raise their arms, apparently in rapture at the visage on the screens displayed all over Times Square. "Bow to our Beloved Lady! Bow and repent!"

But no one bowed. Pedestrians were still confused as to what was happening. Some people were moving, but most were standing still, watching in a mixture of horror and amazement. Drivers were even getting out of their cars to watch what may just appear to be a show in the middle of Manhattan.

But it was far from entertainment.

Because Juno's Instruments weren't raising their hands in prayer — no, they were raising their guns.

The zealots from the bus, coming around the other end, cutting off access to the street. Pulling out metal from beneath their clothes. Automatic rifles, brought to bear.

A rattle of gunshots.

Screams. Someone fell. Then another. Out of sight.

"Holy shit!" Elliott threw his arms into the air, staring at the followers of Juno, now swarming through the crowd, pulling masks over their faces. "What the hell do we do?"

Desmond turned to him, looked Elliott dead in the eye.

"Run."

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

Just Like Starting Over

Desmond didn’t have to say it twice.

In less than a second, a plan formed in his head. The hyper vigilance of an Assassin on high alert turned out to work in his favor, because Desmond knew exactly what to do when Times Square exploded into chaos.

All at once, everyone around them decided to panic. Desmond and Elliott were already running, tearing through the crowd when a chorus of screams and more gunshots sent civilians moving every which way. They reminded Desmond of mice scattering, helpless and confused, not knowing where to go.

The zealots were everywhere, or at least it felt like it --- no matter where Desmond looked, he just spotted another bald head, another freak with a gun, trying to corral innocent people back into Times Square.

And above them, Juno. Laughing.

Vile bitch.

Her voice, an electronic amalgam of hundreds of voices, was by far the loudest thing in the square, bar none. “Yes, run, little mortals! Run all you want, but I will find you. I will always find you…”

“Who is that?” Elliott called over the mass cacophony of the square. He kept glancing over his shoulder as they ducked and weaved through the crowd. He didn’t even flinch when Desmond ran into a Follower and slammed his blade into the man’s chest. “Th-that woman! She’s knows your name!”

At first, Desmond had no idea what Elliott was talking about, he was too busy trying to find the next Follower and navigate a way out of here. But as soon as he focused on his hearing, he realized that Juno was still talking.

“I know you’re here, my little Prophet!” Juno trilled, a playful smile on her digital face. Desmond only granted her a quick glance before throwing himself back into the throng. She called out in sing-song: “Come out, come out, wherever you are! Oh, Deeessmoooond, you can’t hide from me forever!”

More annoyed than creeped out now (but certainly at least 42% creeped out), Desmond raised his head, spun towards the street, where half-a-dozen cars had been abandoned in the panic and directionless traffic jam. That would be the fastest way out of here.

“Nobody we want to meet,” he said quickly. That’s when he spotted the white van that the Followers had first showed up in. It was now unmanned, still idling in the middle of the intersection.

Grabbing Elliott’s shoulder, Desmond pointed. “The van! Go!”

“Find the Prophet!” Juno called to her disciples as the two made their mad dash to the vehicle. “And bring him to me! Do not let him escape!”

Desmond, not too keen on finding out what Juno wanted with him, reached the van first — jumping up to slide over the hood and slam his blade into the chest of a Follower who’d just come around from the other side. Landing on his feet, Desmond took a quick scan of the area, and could already see those bald heads converging on their spot.

He didn’t have a lot of time.

The sound of a car door slamming had Desmond looking into the van, pleased to find Elliott already in the driver’s seat, struggling to kick the vehicle into gear.

Elliott was breathing hard, wild-eyed, but seemed to know it was the wise decision to drive and let Desmond be free to do...well, whatever he needed to do.

“Can you drive?” Desmond had the gall to ask at this crucial moment — and was met with an admittedly deserved look of bewilderment and annoyance from Elliott.

“If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s not funny!” Elliott snapped, throwing the van into gear and slamming on the gas so hard that Desmond’s arm was nearly ripped off holding onto the door.

“Whoa!” Desmond had just picked his feet up when the van took off. He was now hanging precariously on the outside of the passenger door, one arm clinging inside the open window. His toes found the foothold just underneath, but it was hardly reassuring when Elliott clipped the bumper of sedan and nearly knocked Desmond loose again.

But it wasn’t fast enough. As Elliott tried to force the van around towards the one clear street, the Followers were catching up, and they were only on foot.

No, scratch that. Motorcycle engines roared somewhere on the other side of the van, where Desmond couldn’t see, but already he could feel his stomach dropping. Oh, great, bikers. This was gonna be fun.

With a sharp squeal of rubber on asphalt, Elliott spun the wheel and broke through the first wall of cars — the van jolted forward, practically leaping across the road in a sudden burst of speed. This time Desmond managed to cling on without losing his footing, but that concern wasn’t really in mind at the moment.

Right now, he was more focused on the Follower that had managed to climb onto the back of the van.

“Aw, shit,” Desmond muttered under his breath, wind whipping his hood right off his head. It was blistering cold and numbed his ears instantly — another non-issue at the moment.

He glanced at Elliott, whose eyes were flashing back and forth between the road and the rear view mirrors. “Uh, Desmond? We got hitchhiker!”

“Got it!” Desmond shouted back over the wind, reaching up with one hand to grab the rack on top of the car and pulling himself up onto the roof of the van. The rack was so thin he could feel the plastic bending under his grip — Desmond prayed it held out long enough for them to get out of this alive.

The metal roof was cold and a little slick, but Desmond managed to slide on over to the back end of the van, feet first. His heel made direct contact with the Follower’s head, which snapped back with a grunt.

But the Follower held on; a big guy, he threw out a meaty hand and snatched Desmond’s ankle.

His heart leapt into his throat as the Follower gave one good yank and nearly slung Desmond off the van. Yelping, he grabbed hold of the rack again, which was fortunate as Elliott had just smashed into the side of a UPS truck and nearly launched him off again.

The van kept going in a squeal of metal-on-metal, sparks flying. Desmond ducked, pressing his face into his arm to protect his eyes. The van rocked side to side as the Follower pulled himself up further.

Screaming wind and blaring horns filled the air. Then there was the stench of burning rubber and exhaust. Picking his head up again, Desmond found that the Follower was almost entirely on the roof now. One hand on Desmond’s ankle, the other reaching into his waistband. Desmond didn’t waste a second to react.

In what felt like a nearly suicidal move, Desmond let go of the rack and threw himself into the Follower, grappling for the gun. The Follower fell back, unbalanced, letting go of both Desmond and the gun in his surprise.

Desmond rammed his shoulder into the Follower’s torso, sending the man back over the edge of the van. But it didn’t quite do the trick — the Follower hung on to the very edge of the door, clinging for dear life.

Until Desmond ended it with a bullet to the head.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, mostly in awe of the situation. Here they were, an Assassin and a friend being chased through the streets of New York by crazy-ass bald psychos on motorcycles. The only thing missing was a briefcase full of cash and a ticking time bomb, and he’d have a regular Hollywood blockbuster on his hands.

Elliott only picked up more speed the farther they got from Times Square. The gang of bikers kept up, keeping tight formation as the van veered wildly around cars and through intersections. Three times they nearly got hit by another car or truck, and each time Desmond felt another ten years lost from his life.

Picking off the remaining six Followers was a pain in the ass. Luckily, Desmond didn’t have to leave his spot off the roof thanks to his newly acquired firearm.

But actually using it? Hitting his targets? Not so easy.

The Followers swerved left and right, dodging bullets. It was really starting to piss Desmond off, and that was before they took out guns of their own.

He yelped when one pulled out a pistol and fired over Desmond’s head. The bullet went wide, and Desmond was starting to think the Follower hadn’t been aiming at him at all.

That theory, of course, was proven when one motorcycle came up along the left and fired directly into the side of the van.

Elliott’s cry was so loud even Desmond could hear it from his position, and it spurred him to action.

Not knowing whether or not Elliott had been hit, but guessing well enough that he was their target, Desmond slid over to the left edge of the van and aimed directly downwards.

Blam. Blam. Two straight to the noggin, right through the helmet. The front wheel of the bike skittered to and fro before toppling and falling away.

Pulling back up, Desmond just saw another one coming up on the right, coming right up to the passenger window and raising his gun. Elliott glanced over only once to see the muzzle and cried out, “Desmond!”

He flinched at the muzzle flash, but the bullet never landed. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the Follower had disappeared, and Desmond’s head peeking in from the top of the passenger window. “Thanks!”

Desmond gave a little wave. “Just keep driving, bro, you’re doing great!”

Elliott just gave him a shaky thumbs-up before Desmond pulled himself back onto the roof and faced the next problem.

Namely, the police.

About time.

He heard the sirens earlier, but now Desmond spotted them coming in from all sides, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing at the edge of his vision. The bigger problem, however, was still the Followers on their bikes. They turned their heads in unison as three cops came in close behind.

Desmond thought he might actually get an upper hand on these goons until one pulled out what looked like a black CD player from his coat — then threw it like a Frisbee at the closest cruiser.

And exploded.

“Fuck!” Desmond fell back as the fireball rocketed into the sky. The car flipped on its rear bumper before falling on its side — the two cruisers behind ramming into it, going too fast and effectively blocking traffic.

His face still flushed from the heat, Desmond could only watch in horror as they left the scene of carnage behind. No way those cops could’ve survived something like that. What the hell even was that, a grenade? A bomb? Where did these psychos get that sort of shit?

Maybe this was starting to be more like a Hollywood movie than he thought.

Things did not get any better when Elliott turned onto a one-way street — going in the wrong direction. To say it got a little hairy would be an understatement.

Cars swerved to either side, people shouting and screaming as a van and a gang of motorcycles came barreling through. The van jerked from side to side, Elliott overcorrecting to avoid in the incoming vehicles — and inadvertently crushing two bikers against the side of a sedan and a truck. They fell away in cries of squealing rubber and metal.

“Yeah!” Desmond thrust his fist in the air, then slapped the roof, as if he could somehow convey congratulations through wild noise-making.

He knew where Elliott was headed, at least — Lincoln Tunnel. Maybe not the fastest way out of here, but Desmond preferred tunnels to bridges. He’d watched too many movies where the car chases ended with falling off bridges into water. Not fun.

But once they got out, they’d be home free.

Desmond just had to get rid of these losers first.

Despite the opposing traffic, they crossed that block in what felt like in the blink of an eye. The van swerved as Elliott turned into the right lane, now back in the flow.

With the pistol, Desmond popped off two more rounds at a biker directly behind them. The first one missed but the second one landed in the tire, deflating it. The biker lost control and crashed, run over by the biker that had been too close behind him.

Three bikers left. They weren’t trying to kill him; Desmond had figured that much. Each biker had a gun of their own but they didn’t aim it at him. No, they pointed it at the van, trying to get at Elliott.

So far they hadn’t gotten that close, but Desmond didn’t want to think about that possibility right now.

The Followers were fast on their motorcycles, their reflexes too quick --- Desmond couldn’t hit them if they saw it coming, and was mostly relying on luck and traffic to take care of them.

Missing another five shots between them, the gun was starting to feel a little light in his hands. If he used up all his ammo, then there was nothing he could do. Desmond could only growl in frustration; he needed a different tactic. But what?

Cars and people raced past. It was just a blur at the edge of Desmond’s vision, and he had to squint against the wind to see where they were heading. He could see the tunnel now, the stoplights and stopped traffic.

Aw, man. This was gonna suck.

A bang behind him. Desmond looked around, startled to see one of bikes falling behind on the road, abandoned - and its rider now climbing onto the back of the van, clawing up to the roof.

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Desmond said under his breath, just as the Follower lunged for him.

Desmond tried kicking him, an instinctual reaction, but the Follower feinted to the right. It was a dangerous move, considering how little room there was on the van, but Follower was nimble, grabbing the rack — then tackled Desmond.

The force of the attack nearly had the both of them rolling over the side of the van. Desmond cried out as he came within inches of a very nasty death.

But he hung on, while the Follower’s hands found its way to his throat. The black helmet looked down at him, and although Desmond couldn’t see a face, he could still hear their voice.

“Our Lady of the Grey is in need of you, Desmond Miles!” The Follower shouted, and in the back of Desmond’s mind he was mildly surprised, to hear that it was a female voice. Not that he could tell, the Followers all seemed to wear the same nondescript clothing. “How long will you refuse the call? How long will you deny your glorious destiny?”

Woman or not, Desmond did not appreciate being throttled like tonight’s chicken dinner.

One hand went up against the Follower’s chest, trying to push her away, while his right hand gripped her wrist, trying to yank it off.  “Get the fuck off me, you crazy bi —!”

Desmond’s curse was cut off by a sudden scream. The Follower recoiled, writhing against his grip on her wrist. Startled, Desmond didn’t see until then how her hand was turning to ash right in front of his eyes. His own hand, the burned one, was alight with glowing veins and fingertips. Desmond hadn’t even realized he’d been using his powers.

Clearly, his panic had gotten the better of him. Oops.

The Follower continued to scream, clutching her disintegrating hand. It came to a stop when Desmond slashed her throat with the hidden blade and kicked her off the van.

Then it went dark

They were in the tunnel.

Desmond hadn’t even felt the swerve of the van, how it nearly rolled on two wheels, or the mass of panicked faces in the intersection as a white van being chased by two motorcycles just bulldozed through like nobody’s business. All he was aware of was the sudden muteness of the hollowed space, the flashing strobe lights on either side. He felt like he’d just entered some sort of space-age launch pad.

Thankfully, the Lincoln Tunnel had more than two lanes, and they hit it before rush hour, so there was plenty of room to maneuver in now. Desmond felt the kick in the van as Elliott pushed down on the gas pedal.

The van leapt forward, swerving around two sedans that made the right decision in pulling out of the way.

Unfortunately, more space for them meant more space for the Followers, too, who were far lighter and far defter on their bikes. The two remaining Followers split up, going wide on either side of the van. Desmond scrambled for the gun, already guessing what these two maniacs were about to do.

As if on a timer, the two bikers came shooting back, before slamming into the sides of the van. Elliott, terrified and perhaps unable to figure out the ploy, allowed the bikers to corral them to the left side of the tunnel, against the wall. Desmond fumbled in the midst of aiming for the one on the left, trying to decide if he should shoot or tell Elliott not to fall for the trap and get them cornered.

But he didn’t have to worry. The Follower’s trick only worked too well.

The biker on the left, between the van and the wall, wasn’t fast enough when Elliott suddenly veered directly at the wall.

The Follower cried out, caught off guard when the white walls of the van slammed right into him, smashing him against the wall. Desmond could only grin as what remained disappeared behind them into dark traffic.

Guess Elliott knew what he was doing after all.

One down, one left to go.

The lone biker was now on his own, and he seemed highly aware of this, because he suddenly picked up speed so he was now in front of the van, to the right. Desmond spun around on the roof, pulling himself up to the front on his stomach and aligning the sights of the gun on the Follower — at the same time, the Follower was pulling something out of his jacket.

Another one of those CD-player-shaped bombs. Oh, good.

The gun was too light in Desmond’s hands. He hadn’t been counting the bullets he’d been using, but he knew he didn’t have enough to waste. Not now.

He couldn’t miss.

The Follower raised the bomb over his head. He wound his arm back.

Desmond closed one eye.

And threw.

Desmond fired.

WHOOM.

The bullet pierced the bomb. It exploded, and the Follower disappeared in a plume of flames.

The van swerved to avoid the mess, and Desmond felt the heat as it passed, nearly burning off his eyebrows. He winced, ducking his head down into his arm and waiting for the moment to pass.

Cold air returned, ice like daggers into his too-thin hoodie. When Desmond looked up, he saw the white hole of the tunnel exit ahead. He almost started crying with relief.

Two seconds later, he was slipping into the passenger seat through the window. Desmond flopped back, all energy drained, although his hands were still shaking from the adrenalin. Or maybe the freezing-ass weather.

“I-is it over?” Elliott asked next to him, teeth chattering.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s all of them.” Desmond said, half-way laughing thanks to a combination of exhaustion and complete and utter denial of the shock he was going through at this moment. He ran a hand over his face, coming up to prop his elbows on his knees and inhaling deeply. He couldn’t remember how he even remembered to breathe that entire time, because it felt like his heart was about to explode due to lack of oxygen. “Thank god that’s over.”

Beside him, Elliott chuckled, although it sounded a little frantic. “What the fuck, man. What the fuck.”

Looking over, however, Desmond realized that he had it easy. Next to him, Elliott was positively vibrating, a wound-up spring of stress and fear. The fact that he still had control of the wheel was impressive in and of itself.

Getting up, Desmond leaned against the door, frowned at him. “Are you okay, El?”

“What? Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” Elliott snorted, waving a hand in dismissal, although he was trembling so badly the effect was lost. “I mean, I was so scared I almost pissed myself, but you know. First car chase or whatever. But the way you shot that bomb in mid-air? That was a great shot!”

“Oh,” Desmond flushed, giving a sheepish smile. “I was aiming for his head.”

Elliott threw a quick glance at him, staring at Desmond in disbelief. They held this gaze for a split-second, before the both of them started to crack up. The van, which less than a minute before was being shot at and nearly exploded, was now filled with the laughter of two hapless idiots who just survived one of the most harrowing experiences of their lives.

Considering last night’s harrowing experience, Desmond was really in need of a nap. But he knew from the look on Elliott’s face that he wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon.

Emerging from the tunnel, they blinked blearily into the foggy daylight. Elliott had slowed the van down at this point — no other enemies had emerged since Desmond had taken care of the last Follower, and no police had arrived either. Desmond didn’t want to say it, but he was pretty sure they were safe now.

Elliott pointed up to the signs over the freeway. “So, which way are we heading now? Cuz I sure as hell ain’t going back into the city.”

“Yeah, no, Manhattan is old news,” Desmond shook his head, then pointed to the right sign. “Go on the New Jersey Turnpike, head north. We’re going to Montréal.”

“Canada?” Elliott threw him a bewildered look. “What the hell is in Canada?”

“Aside from the closest border? My friends.”

“Your friends…” Elliott repeated slowly, as he turned the wheel and merged right. “As in, the Assassins?”

“Uh, yep,” Desmond replied, throwing a side-ways glance at him, swallowing his nervousness. Here it was, the big question. The one Elliott had ever since he got kidnapped. This was gonna be a doozy. “That’s them.”

“Who the hell are the Assassins?” Elliott demanded. “Are you an Assassin? Like, what, you kill people for a living?”

“Well, as you saw earlier, I’m pretty good at it.” Desmond said. When he realized how Altaïr that sounded, he quickly added, “Not to brag, or anything.”

“Okay.” Elliott said, nodding his head, but his eyes were hard, and focused only on the road.

Desmond watched him out of the corner of his eye, his foot starting to tap nervously. What if this was the deal breaker? What if Elliott wanted none of this, none of Desmond or the journey? What if he abandoned Desmond? Not that he’d blame Elliott, and Desmond was sure he could make it on his own — hell, he made it from South Dakota to New York all on his own at just fifteen years old, getting from New York to Canada would be a piece of cake.  He just hated the thought of losing Elliott, his trust; it was so hard to find friends when you were an Assassin.

But no one joined the Assassins to make friends.

(Not that Desmond ever had a choice, but still.)

He had already settled with this idea, that he was losing Elliott, when Elliott said, “Well, you better starting talking. Explain it to me. I want to know. Tell me everything.”

“Everything?” Desmond started at him, too scared to be hopeful but feeling it nonetheless. God, he was such a sap.

Elliott returned the look, his jaw set. “Everything.”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“We got time,” Elliott gestured to the road. “It’s going to take us at least five hours to get to the border. You think you can explain everything by then?”

“I can try.” Desmond considered it for a moment, studying Elliott’s face, and knew Elliott was sincere. He was ready, if nothing else. And, Desmond supposed, they had to fill up the time with something, and he wasn’t in the mood for USA’s Top One Hundred Radio Hits.

So Desmond sat back in his seat, sighing. “Well, it all started back when I got kidnapped by Abstergo…”

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

All Aboard!

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up,” Elliott said three hours later, holding up a hand. “So when you say Ezio fought the Pope, you mean they actually went all mano-e-mano?”

“That’s the part you’re hung up on?” Desmond asked, bewildered. He had been sure it was the First Civilization that would’ve been by far the most unbelievable part of his tale. “The whole thing with Juno doesn’t freak you out?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but c’mon, Desmond. It’s the motherfucking Pope.”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate to call the Pope that. It’s, like, blasphemous, or something.”

“Still! Did your ancestor really have beef with the holy dude?”

“Yeah,” Desmond snorted. “Ezio kicked the living shit out of him, too.”

Elliott grinned. “Awesome. And this Apple thing you had, that everyone’s been fighting over...it mind-controls people?”

“It’ll also make you go crazy from over-exposure,” Desmond added, nodding his head. They still had some ways to go, but he was glad that Elliott was jiving with everything he said so far. Hell knows, it took Desmond months to really absorb it all. “That’s sort of what happened to Altaïr. He had the Apple for so long he started seeing his dead wife, son, friends...it warps your perception of reality. It wasn’t meant for humans to use, even people like...well, people like me.”

“You mean weirdos with alien DNA?”

“The First Civilization weren’t aliens,” Desmond said, a little offended, even though his favorite nickname for Juno was Evil Space Bitch. “They’re just Precursors to humans, like Neanderthals but super advanced. They had whole cities, science so incredible it’s basically just magic, at least as far as anyone can understand. They created humans to be slaves, a living machine. Our brains are hard wired to obey things like the Apple, and other Pieces of Eden. Except people like me who have a First Civ ancestor in our bloodline. Ancient, over thousands of years old.”

“So you’re saying that a human and a Precursor did the nasty,” Elliott said slowly, squinting a little. “Then fast-forward a couple thousand generations and now you’re here.”

Desmond had to restrain a groan. The way Elliott said it made it sound so...inelegant. And yet: “Pretty much, yeah.”

The road stretched out before them, long and winding through the cold white Appalachian Mountains. Desmond felt safe now, knowing it unlikely that the Templars (or Juno) would be able to catch up to them right now. The Templars couldn’t because they had no idea who they were looking for. And Juno, well, she didn’t quite have the resources as the Templars did, and her Followers didn’t seem to be the type to stick trackers on their stuff.

But the peace and quiet was only a small reprieve. The border crossing might be trouble, but Desmond had already decided to circumvent it by going on foot, through the woods, and stealing a car on the other side to get to Montréal. It sounded safer than dealing with Homeland Security, who may or may not have Desmond’s picture after that business of tearing up New York’s streets. He’d also like them to not have his face captured on any camera at all, and then there was the small matter that he had no ID card or passport.

So yeah. Illegal immigration it was.

And then there was Elliott, who finally asked the question Desmond had been anticipating this entire time.

“So all this Templar and Assassin business…what does it have to do with me? And my family?” Elliott demanded, his tone taking a turn for the serious. He wasn’t freaking out about it like before, but Desmond knew that could change if he wasn’t careful. “Are they okay? Caire didn’t get to them, did he?”

“No, Erudito’s got your family,” Desmond said, pulling out the phone Bishop had given him in the hospital. “A woman gave me this in the hospital. Bishop, I guess she’s called. We’ll know they’re safe when they call, no later than noon.”

“O-okay,” Elliott nodded his head, eyes flicking between him and the road. “And Erudito, they’re real, too? I almost thought they were a legend, like Anonymous.”

Desmond could tell Elliott wasn’t as confident about this, and even Desmond wasn’t sure if he could trust Bishop. Who the hell was she, and how had she found him so quickly? Was she really Erudito? “No, they’re definitely real. Bishop’s the first one I met in person, though. They’re allies to the Assassins, but they don’t care so much about freedom as much as they do about truth and information. They want the world to know about what Abstergo’s up to, all the stuff they’re responsible for. They’re just hackers, though. They don’t really seem the type to have field agents.”

“Which is why you don’t like Bishop,” Elliott wisely surmised.

“How did you know?” Desmond blinked in surprise.

“The look on your face, like you smelled bad cheese. I don’t blame you, dude. She sounds kinda sketchy to me, too.”

“Yeah, well, I hope she pulls through.” Desmond muttered, clutching the phone in his hand. “I don’t really have much of a choice.”

A silence fell between them. First a minute, then five, then ten. The entire time, he’d been keeping his eyes on the clock. Waited as, second by second, they drew closer to noon (and the border). Elliott was focused on the road, but Desmond didn't fail to notice the nervous tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel, the frequent huffs and sighs. Considering what they had recently been through and everything Desmond had said, Elliott could be doing a lot worse.

It was still a possibility.

The phone Bishop gave him was like a burning coal in Desmond’s pocket. As the clock rounded to five before noon, he suddenly felt a wave of panic, wondering if the phone wouldn’t ring. What would he do? What would he say to Elliott?

“It’s going to ring,” Desmond said under his breath, after pulling out the phone. His grip tightened as the clock ticked 12:57. “It’s going to ring.”

Elliott threw him a side glance. “I know, you already told me that.”

“I was talking to myself.”

“Oh.”

It sounded lame, but at least Elliott didn’t make fun of him for it. To be honest, both of them were wound up like a pair of springs, tension vibrating as the clock ticked down. Desmond continued to dread all the worst possibilities he could think of, although the worst may be the phone not ringing at all.

There was something truly maddening about not knowing.

Desmond’s heart skipped a beat when he looked at the clock again.

Noon. A minute past.

Oh, shit. Was it too late? Was Bishop still going to call? Maybe he should wait five more minutes before pushing the panic button —

The phone started to buzz.

Desmond nearly dropped it in his attempt to answer, and it was only when he gave a breathless, “Hello?” did he realize he had been holding his breath.

“Miles,” Bishop’s voice came through the receiver, her voice flat. “Good, you’re still alive. And your friend?”

“He’s fine,” Desmond said, sharing a look with Elliott, who had gone wide-eyed with anticipation. He didn’t have to ask to know what this was really about, and just said, “What about his family? Are they okay?”

“We moved them out of state. All I can say right now is they’re in South Carolina.” Bishop replied. “Not a lot of Templars there, but we might move them again, just to be safe. None of our agents were compromised, thankfully.”

Desmond wasn’t too concerned about this last part, and was about to say something when Elliott extended his hand and said, “Can I talk to them? I have to know, I need to hear them.”

“You hear that?” Desmond added, tilting his head into the phone.

“Ugh, yeah, I got it, hold on,” Bishop sounded annoyed, which just made Desmond annoyed, but he was glad she at least didn’t argue the point. He was ready to fight on Elliott’s behalf, but just handed the phone to him when Bishop said, “I did not volunteer to be a glorified babysitter…”

Then, handing the phone to Elliott, it was nearly snatched out of his hand, and Elliott, too, sounded a little breathless, “Hello, Mom? Dad?”

Upon getting a reply (garbled to Desmond’s ears), Elliott let out shaky laughter, heaving a long sigh. In fact, he looked just about ready to cry in relief, before starting to speak, too fast, in Arabic. “...yes, yes, I’m safe, don’t worry, I’m with Desmond. It’s not his fault, he saved my life, and his friends are gonna keep you safe, okay?”

Elliott’s mom asked something, but Desmond only caught the end of the sentence. “...to be here?”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Elliott stammered, and it was easy to see he was starting to crack. Desmond looked away to the right, pretending to be interested in something outside the window as Elliott continued to speak past the frantic questions of his mother. “But I can’t right now. I’m not going to South Carolina. I’m not...I can’t tell you where I’m going, I’m — no, I’m not in trouble, I just — it’s just to protect you, okay? I don’t know when I’ll see you again. It’s going, it’ll be awhile before things die down again. Tell Dad and Zach I love them, okay? That I miss them. I miss all of you, okay? But it’s going to be all right, I promise.”

It got quiet for a little bit, what Desmond assumed to be a prolonged good-bye, before Elliott handed the phone to him again. “It’s Bishop,” he said in a quiet, half-choked voice.

Desmond took it without comment, deciding that to be the safer route, before speaking into the phone. “Bishop?”

“Yeah. I’m assuming you’re getting the hell out of Dodge, right? Well, if you’re wondering, your team is in —

“Montreal, I know.”

“What?” Bishop sounded surprised. “How?”

“Lucky guess,” Desmond said shortly. Divulging Bishop of his vision-dreams didn’t really sound like a good idea right now. “But I’d appreciate a specific address, if you’ve got one.”

“Unfortunately,” she huffed, sounding a little miffed that Desmond had already gotten her intel. It made him smile a little. “Their hideout is need-to-know only, and I don’t need to know. You know how it works, obviously. But I do know that your buddy Hastings is working undercover at Abstergo Entertainment, that big New Age building with the terrarium inside.”

“You’re telling me that, after killing a Templar agent and stealing their data, with the others most definitely out looking for an Assassin, you want me to walk right into another Abstergo building? Just like that?”

“Well, you can always wait outside until his shift is done.”

“Wait, did you say Shaun’s undercover? But he’s not a field agent!”

“Hey, I’m not in charge here, I’m just telling you what I know. Go there, find your friends, make the world a better place...or something. And good luck.”

Click.

Desmond dropped the phone and heaved a sigh. So, returning to Abstergo, that sounded great. “Well, I guess that settles that. No turning back now.” He glanced at Elliott. “You okay with that?”

“I made my choice,” Elliott said quietly, nodding his head but hesitated before he met Desmond’s gaze. “When I agreed to help you get into Abstergo. But hey, it’s just Canada.”

“Yeah,” Desmond shrugged. “Besides, nothing interesting ever happens in Canada.”

 x

“Since when did we have this many security guards in the main lobby?” Rebecca asked Shaun, leaning against the counter of his kiosk as he served a line of customers. She had just delivered a package and was now taking a warm break. She never imagined how awful it was to be a courier until she had to do in the middle of a Canadian winter.

“Well, you know, ever since the good doctor kicked the bucket down in New York,” Shaun said with a shrug of his shoulders, handing a latte macchiato to Melanie Lemay (his boss’s boss), who gave Shaun a slightly disapproving look before paying him and darting off. “Abstergo’s been rather stingy with their hospitality. Though the street agents are a bit much, I admit.”

“That’s gonna be a bitch to get through on my deliveries,” Rebecca muttered into the lip of her coffee, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Shaun’s coffee skills had only gotten marginally better since he started working here. At least it warmed her up a little. “How long you think its gonna stay this way?”

It had been two days after the incident in New York. Things had remained relatively normal here, and so far, Elizabeth hadn’t sent them any more news on the rogue assassin, or whatever he was. The security in Abstergo Entertainment had doubled, and from what Rebecca had noticed, they sent out feelers in the streets, guys in plainclothes on the lookout. They were probably nervous for another attack, and had the insane idea that they could possibly stop it before it happened. If it happened.

“I imagine it’s going to be a lot like this until they catch the guy who killed Caire,” Shaun shrugged. “They won’t, fingers crossed. Oh, did I tell you what happened with John the other day?”

“John from IT? No, what about him?”

“Well, there’s this thing with the Helix machines, they tend to get interface problems after about five hours of continuous use —”

“Ha. Noobs.” Rebecca snorted. As someone who made her own Animus machine (her beloved Baby), and had it operating for as long as twenty-four hours in one go, it was sort of ridiculous the kind of problems Abstergo still faced with some of their newer tech.

“Indeed,” Shaun nodded primly, before continuing. “Well, John contacted me through the bluetooth, and he had some issues with this one guy, who’s going through Aveline de Grandpré’s memories, and I guess he kept getting shocked every time he desynchronized…”

Rebecca pulled out her phone as Shaun continued, following his story easily enough as she went through her messages and task list. She still had three more packages to deliver today, maybe more if she wanted some extra cash. The thought of going back outside into the blistering cold did not sound like fun to her, but at least it was sunny out…

“And then I said to him — oh my god.”

“Oh my god?” Rebecca looked up at him from her phone, confused. “Why would you say ‘oh my god’ to John? That doesn’t make any sense.”

But Shaun didn’t reply. It took her a second to notice that he’d gone stock-still, eyes wide, gaping at something over her shoulder. Then, in a choked whisper, he said, “Rebecca, look.”

“What? What is it?” Rebecca frowned, turning around to follow his gaze. And then she, too, went very still.

Because standing in front of the doorway was a man in a familiar white hood, red stripe down the center. It hid his face, but that didn’t hinder them from being able to recognize the man.

A man that shouldn’t be here right now.

“Oh my god,” Rebecca repeated, finally appreciating the gravity of Shaun’s words. Her mouth went dry, her hands suddenly tingly and cold. She stared at him, at this awful ghost standing less than fifty feet away, walking around as if he were still alive, still breathing. “Is that…?”

Rebecca thought she was dreaming. She wondered if this was like the Bleeding Effect, only with PTSD or something, all her pain and grief manifesting in this hallucination of something she wanted so dreadfully back. But Shaun could see him, too, couldn’t he? And since when were shared hallucinations were ever a thing?

But it wasn’t possible. She shouldn’t be seeing this. Desmond Miles was dead.

“I-it can’t be…” Shaun said, jolting back, raising his hands to rub his eyes behind his glasses. “No, no, I didn’t see his face, it’s not him. It’s definitely not —”

That’s when he turned, and they finally saw his face.

“Desmond!” they said at once.

Then he saw them.

A pair of gold eyes fell on Rebecca and Shaun. Those scarred lip, pulling into a grin.

At the same time, another voice shouted, “Hey! You shouldn’t be here!”

A guard came swooping in from the left, jabbing a finger at the white-hooded man, who bolted at the sight of him. In one swift movement, the man — Desmond?! — turned on his heel and burst out the doors.

“No, wait!”

“Bex! Go after him!” Shaun ordered, as people cried out at the sudden commotion and influx of guards into the lobby.

Rebecca didn’t need to be told twice. She was already off running before she could hear Shaun add, “Hey, wait for me!”

“Can’t do both, slowpoke!” She shouted back, crossing the long distance between the kiosk and the front doors in a matter of seconds. Dodging around the converging guards, she slipped out the doors and was met with a face-full of cold, bitter morning air.

She hesitated out on the quad, her eyes scanning the area. The Assassin, ghost —Desmond — whatever he was, he had disappeared from her line of sight, and just like any good Assassin, had seemingly vanished into thin air.

But he wouldn’t hide. Not now. Not when there were cameras and guards everywhere, not when there were so little places to hide. The morning crowd on the streets were thick, however, and although Rebecca didn’t have Eagle Vision, she could still spot the white hood peeking out from a herd of pedestrians about fifty feet ahead of her — and he was still running.

Rebecca jolted forward, thrusting herself into a full-tilt sprint as she tore after him, deciding not to waste her breath on a shout. It wasn’t going to stop him anyways, and she had a better chance of catching up with him.

And she was making steady progress. Dressed lightly, even for winter, Rebecca was far faster than the big, heavily-armored Abstergo security guards or anyone dressed weather-appropriate. Her target was also lightly dressed, and as she shoved her way through a thick knot of people, Rebecca just caught a glimpse of him disappearing down an alleyway across the street.

Heeding no caution, she drew herself directly into traffic, nearly getting winged by a truck before sliding over the hood of a taxi, which blared its horn — but she was already on the other side, ducking into the alleyway as people turned and stared at two crazy idiots cutting through traffic like it was nothing.

Definitely an Assassin, Rebecca thought, as she saw him at the end of the alleyway — a dead end — scaling the brick building so fluidly he might’ve been Spider-Man’s cousin.

He still had a good ten meters on her, and Rebecca was far slower getting up that building. She heaved herself onto the fire escape, pulling herself up one landing after the other, bypassing the stairs entirely.

Her arms screamed in protest, and the added weight of her backpack and its contents was not helping. She should’ve dumped it when she had the chance.

But she didn’t have a choice. She had to catch him.

On the rooftops, the chase continued. Rebecca, slightly out of breath from the climb, only paused for a split second before gaining a second wind and tearing after the Assassin, who didn’t even seem tired.

“What the hell, man? Are you a freakin’ Terminator?” Rebecca panted under her breath as she leapt over an air duct and dropped ten feet onto the roof of the adjacent building. Landing in a roll, she gained a burst of speed as she pushed off the balls of her feet, pushed herself to cross another five meters closer.

She was close enough to see the details his backpack now. It sent a chill through her blood, and Rebecca could suddenly feel the season again, the snow slipping under her too-thin sneakers, the cloud of breath in front of her face, disappearing faster than she could register.

It was his backpack. The exact same.

Then the ghost disappeared behind the next wall.

And that’s when she knew. She couldn’t keep running anymore.

“Desmond!”

Her cry pierced through the air, but she had no idea what effect it had until she mantled up the edge of the last building and hauled herself up.

And there he was, standing there.

Rebecca straightened, her shoulders heaving as she caught her breath. Her eyes traveled up and down this utter mirage, what couldn’t be anymore than some awful dream.

But it was him. Her breath wasn’t more than a shaky whisper. “Desmond?”

It was strange — Rebecca felt like she was looking at a stranger, although that may be her mind just being unwilling to take in the sight before her. He stood tall as ever, with that same white hoodie, that crooked smile growing on his face. The same scarred lip, the brown-gold eyes that seemed sharper than she’d ever seen them before. His hair was longer, too, and in the back of her mind Rebecca was surprised that he actually had curly hair. Before, it had been too short to tell.

And he looked so bright, so healthy, so alive. A little red-faced even, out of breath from that mad chase.

“Rebecca?” Hearing her name, from his mouth, in his voice, was the best thing she heard in her entire life. “Man, you never told me you were this fast.”

A bewildered grin bloomed across Rebecca’s face, which broke only a few seconds later by the sudden swell of tears reaching her eyes. She could only shake her head, wiping at her face in frustration. No, this wasn’t real. This couldn’t possibly be real. “I-I thought I was dreaming…”

But she couldn’t finish her sentence. As it was, she didn’t have to, because a voice behind her diverted their attention.

“— I swear to God, Rebecca, you’re gonna be the death of me,” came Shaun’s whine, as he clambered up the side of the building, one limb at a time. Rebecca was too stunned by the situation to help him, which only made Shaun sound more annoyed. “You know, you could help —”

But then he stood, and saw Desmond.

Shaun’s jaw dropped, and for a second his mouth just worked soundlessly, rendered absolutely speechless. When Rebecca laid a hand on Shaun’s shoulder, more to support herself than anything else, Shaun finally found his voice, a tiny croak. “Desmond. O-oh my god, it’s really you.  Y-you’re here…”

He could only shake his head, taking one weak step towards Desmond, then another. Desmond stepped back, looking apprehensive, until Shaun made a move that not even Rebecca could’ve predicted.

Shaun took one close look at Desmond’s face, peering as if to make sure he was the real thing — then Shaun hugged him.

“Whoa, hey, buddy,” Desmond stumbled back as he was suddenly carrying the full weight of a suddenly very teary British historian. He let out a bewildered laugh, returning the hug with a pat on the back. “What’s this about? Don’t tell me you’re actually happy to see me.”

“Shut up,” came Shaun’s muffled reply, buried somewhere in Desmond’s shoulder.

He was quickly joined by Rebecca, who had to stand on her tiptoes to add her arms around Desmond’s neck. He had to bow his head just to accommodate both of them. “You son of a bitch! We thought you were dead!”

“Oh, I was,” Desmond said, nodding matter-of-factly as he put an arm around her, while continuing to pat Shaun’s back. Shaun seemed determined to squeeze the life out of Desmond’s body again. “I was definitely dead, at least for a little bit. But now I’m back.”

“And you still sound like a goddamn fool,” Shaun muttered, his glasses having been dislodged from his nose at this point. Rebecca was marveling at the fact that Desmond felt so solid, that he even smelled the same. She didn’t bother to hide her tears as Shaun did, could only grin as Desmond laughed right back.

“Aw,” he said, not sounding so much offended as amused. “I missed you, too, Shaun. I missed all of you. Even Dad, a little bit.”

“Oh, my god,” Shaun jerked back, suddenly wide-eyed. “Bill is gonna kill us.”

“Oh, shit,” Rebecca said a second later, when she finally understood what Shaun was talking about.

“What? What’s wrong?” Desmond frowned, his eyes flicking between the two of them.

“We didn’t tell him,” Rebecca explained, while Shaun started looking a little pale. It could’ve been the emotional weight of the situation, or the fact that when William Miles found out his own agents were keeping secrets from them, he was not going to be happy. “About the email you sent us.”

“So you got it!” Desmond said with a pleased smile, focusing on the wrong detail, as per usual.

Shaun just shook his head. “Yes, but we didn’t know it was really you. So we didn’t tell William because, well, we didn’t want to get him worked up over something that may or may not have been a trick.”

“Which means we should’ve told him anyways,” Rebecca summed up. Already dread was filling her stomach at the thought. “He’s gonna be so pissed when he finds out.”

Desmond nodded, finally understanding the gravity of the situation. They had all stepped back now, but he had a hand on either of their shoulders as he assessed the arising conundrum. He could only shrug helplessly. “Well, I guess he was gonna find out anyways. Maybe he’ll be less pissed when he sees me?”

Rebecca and Shaun shared a glance, then looked back at Desmond and said in unison, “Nah.”

“Oh,” Desmond made a face, then sighed. “Well, I guess he’s not gonna be happy when I tell him about Elliott, either.”

Rebecca and Shaun frowned, speaking again in unison. “Who?”

Desmond just finger-gunned them. “Hey, double jinx! Elliott’s waiting in a car about a block from here. I think you guys are gonna like him.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

Committed to the Cause

“So how are you not dead, again?” Rebecca asked for the third time.

“I don’t know,” Desmond replied, also for the third time. While heading towards the stolen sedan, Desmond had decided to fill in Shaun and Rebecca with what had happened in New York — something he was starting to regret, as the number of questions only continued to mount (and be repeated). “I swear, I have no idea. Maybe Juno just didn’t kill me all the way, or some part of my brain just refused to die. It’s probably got something to do with being a First Civ descendant, but I don’t think Juno planned for this to happen.”

“And you just decided to kill the head honcho of the New York Rite for, what, shits and giggles?” Shaun demanded.

“No, he kidnapped Elliott,” Desmond shot back, frowning a little. He understood their concern, Rebecca had told him all about the news coverage; it had been risky, but it was only now Desmond was starting to understand the full effect of his choices. Who knew the whole Brotherhood were on alert for a so-called ‘rogue’ Assassin? “If it had been you guys, I would’ve done the same. Caire was causing too many problems, anyways.”

“Well, at least you didn’t muck it up too badly,” Shaun sniffed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “I hope this friend of yours was worth it.”

They were street-level now, although Desmond could still see the shiny tower of Abstergo Entertainment from here. It briefly vanished from sight as they rounded the block, and Desmond pointed out the silver car parked on the curb. “I think he is. So go hi already.”

As they approached, the car door opened, and out popped Elliott, his breath clouding in the cold. He spotted Desmond and gave a big wave, shouting, “Hey, man, how’d it go? These your buddies?”

All three collectively winced, and Shaun threw Desmond a judgy look. Desmond could only shrug helplessly, offering a half-assed smile. “He’s still learning the whole stealth thing.”

“You guys must be Shaun and Rebecca,” Elliott said as they approached, hands stuffed in his pockets. Then, as if remembering himself, stuck a hand out to them. “I’m Elliott, er, obviously. Desmond told me all about you on the way here. Couldn’t shut up about it, actually.”

“All good things, right?” Rebecca said, smirking as she elbowed Desmond in the side. She was the first to take Elliott’s hand, while Shaun wrinkled his nose in suspicion. “Not to toot my own horn or anything, but we’re probably one of the best Assassin teams in the entire continent, maybe the world.”

“Toot, toot,” Shaun said.

“I thought he could help,” Desmond said, feeling slightly redundant. At this point he didn’t think he’d need to explain things to three people who could be called geniuses in their own regard — but he had to say something. “I mean, not that he had much of a choice, but Elliott’s still a pretty good hacker —"

“Pretty good?” Elliott said, looking offended. He pressed a mocking hand to his chest, grinning as he said, “Only pretty good? I mean, I know I’m new to this whole secret war conspiracy shit, but c’mon, man, you gotta give me more credit than that. I’m at least a hacker of mildly terrifying proportions.”

“Okay, fine, you’re mildly terrifying,” Desmond conceded, throwing him a half-serious snide look.

“Hey, hold on now, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Shaun said, jerking a thumb at his chest. “If anyone’s going to be the judge of what is terrifying and what is not, it's going to be me. The Master of Terror.”

“You?” Rebecca snorted, before taking Desmond’s black hand and holding it up between them like it was a dead Muppet. “I think Captain Barbecue here would know what real terror is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that my personal experiences with pain and trauma are completely invalid compared to that of the Assassin Chosen One,” Shaun snapped back, waving his hands in the air sarcastically. “Forgive me if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities —”

“Oh my god you’re such a drama queen. Don’t you ever have anything nice to say —”

“As a matter of fact, I do not —”

“Are they always like this?” Elliott asked in a low whisper to Desmond as Rebecca and Shaun continued to argue between them.

“More or less,” Desmond whispered back with a shrug, as Rebecca continued gesture with his hand in her grip. “This is pretty normal for them. You’ll get used to it.”

Desmond had explained the situation of his hand to Shaun and Rebecca, and he was glad to see that at least Rebecca wasn’t bothered too much (Shaun, on the other hand, shuddered away from Desmond’s hand when Rebecca shook it at him, like a little kid squirming away from gross worms). They had seemed largely unsurprised that Juno had managed to damage him this way, although Rebecca was intrigued how the hand could still be “alive” at this point — it should’ve definitely have become infected with gangrene or something.

The argument was getting a little out of hand now (pun not intended), and Desmond was tired of being used as a prop. When Shaun made some lewd allegations towards Rebecca’s use of recreational drugs, and she called him out on his secret late night binges, which seemed really out of left field.

“Guys!” Desmond yanked his hand back into his own possession before things could get any worse. The two silenced, throwing slightly guilty looks in his direction. “I know you’re all happy to see me and everything, but I really don’t think its a good idea for us to just be standing around here all day. Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, head back to HQ? You know, wherever that is.”

“Mm, fine,” Shaun relented finally, throwing one last squinty look at Rebecca before sweeping his arm towards the sedan. “Ladies first.”

“Oh, how gentlemanly of you, Shaun,” Rebecca drawled.

“Actually, I was talking to Desmond.”

“Thanks, pal,” Desmond punched Shaun’s shoulder, deciding to find the good-natured humor in the moment rather than feeling aggrieved. This was just Shaun’s way of showing affection — or anything akin to softness, which he was sure Shaun would kill him if he ever said such a thing out loud. He ducked into the back seat just as he added, “Love you, too!”

He slammed the door shut before Shaun could make a snappy retort, leaving the man to fume in helpless indignation. (Desmond would later regret this as Rebecca called shotgun and, with Elliott driving, relegated Shaun to the backseat next to him).

It was an interesting drive, to say the least. Shaun had numerous complaints to Elliott’s driving, which Elliott returned with just as many complaints about Shaun’s accent — which, coupled with a rather bad, but still hilarious impression on Rebecca’s part, left Shaun mortally wounded and pouting for the rest of the trip.

Desmond, although often the butt of jokes, couldn’t help but grin goofily as he took it all in for yet another time. The feeling of being reunited with his friends again was something he just couldn’t get over.

Eventually, they came to a stop outside an old house in the river district. The bottom half was made of grey and red stone, with three large wide doors, all locked with chains. The windows were dark, most either frosted glass or covered in paper. The second floor, with its little tower, was wood. Once the slats had been painted white, but that had long since faded away, leaving only papery flecks of white over pale gray. The gables were a nice touch. The place looked ancient, like it had been standing there since before the city walls had been built.

It wasn't until they reached this rather derelict-looking hideout did Desmond consider the possibility that Shaun and Rebecca's argument may not have stemmed from typical personality clashing, but rather as a stall tactic. They had both shown a combination of horror/dread/existential crisis when they remembered William Miles and apparently the secret they kept from him.

He even asked them that, as they hopped out of the car and headed towards the red brick building that smelled like fish. Both Shaun and Rebecca waffled about for a bit before finally 'fessing up.

"We didn't want to upset him," Rebecca admitted, her hands playing nervously together. "He's been, uh…"

"The term 'emotionally compromised' comes to mind," Shaun said baldly, then winced when Desmond frowned at him. "In the nicest way possible. William's been a bit distant lately, not that I blame him, but I don't think he's going to appreciate the truth very much, especially considering our last argument."

"What did you argue about?"

"Oh, nothing," Rebecca sighed with a roll of her eyes. "Just Shaun accusing you dad that he never really cared for you and he should've died instead."

Elliott let out a long, low whistle, leaning against the car with his arms crossed. "Yikes."

Desmond stared at Shaun, his eyebrows shooting up. "Dude. Seriously?"

Shaun had the decency to look ashamed, rubbing the back of his head before tucking his hands under his arms in a guarded manner that was certainly not typical for a guy with a high opinion of himself. "I just...I got really worked up over recent events. And the fact that we never really discussed your death. It sounds stupid but...it made sense at the time."

"Not that I have any idea of what's going on or anything," Elliott said. "But you, like, gave him a warning before bringing Desmond here, right?"

Shaun shook his head, and everyone turned to look at Rebecca, who was suddenly very interested with the ground. "Um."

"Bex?" Shaun prompted, frowning a little. "You did text him, right? I told you to text him!"

"And I-I did!" Rebecca threw out her hands in protest, but still looked rather stricken. "I just, uh, told him that there was an incident at work, and we were coming back right away, and it's kinda-sorta an emergency?"

"Oh, my god," Shaun slapped a hand to his forehead.

"You make it sound like someone died," Elliott made a face. "You didn't mention Desmond? Or me?"

"I thought it'd be easier to explain if that happened, you know, face-to-face," Rebecca said. "Did you really think I would text, 'Hey, Bill, your son's not actually dead, here's a selfie' to him?"

"I mean," Desmond raised a hand. "I would."

"I see your point," Shaun said, throwing a side-glance in Desmond's direction, rubbing his chin in thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose we don't have a choice now, do we? Time to go in and face the music."

Shaun turned on his heel, going for the door, Rebecca right behind him. Desmond and Elliott followed, with Elliott asking, "Your dad's not gonna kill us, right?"

"What? No!" Desmond exclaimed, surprised the question was even asked. "Of course not! ...I mean, I'm pretty sure."

Desmond's doubts only grew as they slipped inside, past the heavy small wooden door that Rebecca had hooked up with motion sensors and other alarms — seeming to cover every other conceivable entrance in the building as well — before entering the deep, echoing brick cavern of the defunct building. It wasn't a home - the bottom floor was divided into several stalls, although a kitchen had been set up at one end of the building. The place smelled musty, vaguely of...animal? It still smelled like a barn, although this place probably hadn't been used in a century. It was going to be one of those things he was just going to have to get used to.

It wasn't so bad, really. It actually reminded him of their hideout in Rome, before his coma. Underused, musty, with softy lighting and an earthy smell. Aside from the chest-hide brick walls, they still had the basic amenities and workstations — all retrofitted, of course. There was Rebecca's Baby, as expected, although unused and pushed inside one of the stalls, along with a stockpile of logs. Desmond easily picked out Shaun's desk, littered with papers and a few odd artifacts, and a tack-board covered with notes and red string. A cursory glance as they passed said Shaun had been looking into the murder of Dr. Caire.

Well, mystery solved.

Dusty golden sunlight filtered in through the paned windows, casting warm light across them and stretching out their shadows across the hardwood floor. Desmond was momentarily distracted by this until a new voice broke into his thoughts.

"So what's the problem, Rebecca?" William's voice echoed from another room, bouncing off the airy walls and high ceiling. Footsteps reverberated as he walked into in the room, looking mildly irritated. "You weren't clear when you said what —"

William Miles came to a sudden stop when his eyes fell on Desmond, standing between Shaun and Rebecca.

Desmond wasn't sure if he should smile or not. If he could smile, because there was an unexpected burning behind his eyes. He inhaled through his nose, catching himself by surprise. Desmond had underestimated how much he'd missed his dad.

And he hated it. He was still angry at William, a resentment that didn't fade in the face of his own mortality. And yet Desmond couldn't deny that he was happy to see his dad again.

It was even worse, watching the emotions play on the old man's face.

It was striking, how old William Miles looked now, although his physical appearance hadn't changed in the month that Desmond had been gone. It was more subtle than that — the slump in his shoulders, the tired shuffle of his movements, the bags under his eyes.

"Desmond," he said, as though he'd seen a ghost. William blinked three times in rapid succession, shaking his head. "No, no, this isn't real, it's just another one of those damn dreams…"

That struck Desmond, although he didn't know why. He knew he could make a really dumbass comment right now, really stick it to his dad, but that lump was still in his throat, and he couldn't make himself say anything else other than: "Dad, it's real. I'm here. It's real."

The look William gave him was a man hurt, betrayed. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

It wasn't clear who William was talking to — Shaun, Rebecca, or perhaps at the Universe in general?

"It's not a joke, sir," Shaun said, sounding oddly reticent as Desmond took a few steps towards his father.

"It's me, Dad." He was a little hesitant, afraid that William might attack him. Instead, William only stumbled back, his eyes drawing down to Desmond's hand when he raised it — then paled significantly when he noticed how black it was, the golden veins. Desmond, realizing his mistake, snapped his arm back, before tucking it behind him. He gave his dad an uncertain smile, "Well, mostly."

William remained very still as Desmond drew closer; his dad looked him up and down as Desmond came to a stop just a few feet away, and Desmond could've sworn he saw something break in his father's eyes — but he wouldn't have enough time to comprehend it, before he was caught in a sudden embrace.

"I'm sorry," William said, voice rasping against Desmond's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Surprised, Desmond just stood there, unable to move for a moment, as his mind blue-screened. He was momentarily distracted, trying to remember the last time his dad hugged him. It sounded lame, but he legitimately could not think of a single occurrence.

By the time he could think to hug back, William was already pulling away. There was a dazed look on his face. "I don't understand," he said softly. "How are you here?"

"It's kind of a long story," Desmond shrugged. "Short answer: I don't know. I just knew I had to find you guys again."

William Miles nodded silently, heaving a sigh through his nose as he held Desmond at arm's length, and, eyes still shining, offered a very rare smile. "Well, its good to see you make your way back to us."

"Love you, too, Dad,"

"Don't push your luck," William replied, giving Desmond a wry but surprisingly good-humored look, before his gaze fell over to Elliott. "Who's this? A new recruit?"

"That's Elliott," Desmond said, while Elliott gave a little wave. "He helped get me here. I think he can be a lot of help to us."

"Is that so?" William squinted slightly, glancing between him before looking back to Elliott again. "You ever killed a man?"

Elliott paled slightly, and Desmond wanted to roll his eyes. The nice moment just had to be ruined by his dad's weird judgy interrogation. Of course, this was entirely typical of the man, and it wasn't like Elliott was going to surprise him, as Elliott said: "Uh, no."

"Do you know how to use a gun? A knife?"

"That's a negatory."

"Any weapon? Any at all?"

"Nope."

William was starting to look a little aggrieved and Desmond was tempted to intervene when he asked, "Is there anything you can do?"

Elliott just shrugged, made a face. "I'm a pretty good hacker."

"Oh, good," William sighed, planting his hands on his hips and bowing his head. "Not like I don't have enough of those."

"Dad, it's fine," Desmond finally said, just as Rebecca and Shaun swelled in preparation to protest. If there was one thing his dad was good at, it was offending everyone in as few words as possible. He held up his hands between them, adding, "I think we're better off keeping a low profile for now, especially after what happened in New York."

"Hmm, I suppose," William said, although he sounded a little reluctant as he backed off, turned towards Shaun's desk to study his board.

Elliott stepped forward, raising a tentative finger. "Uh, not to be rude or anything, but what exactly are we going to do? I mean, I know we're here to stop the Templars, but how? From everything Des has told me, its sounds, well, kind of impossible."

"For the past century it's been an arms race," William said, stepping back from the desk and waving a hand in the air. Without a word, Shaun and Rebecca headed to their stations, started opening up computers and powering on systems. If Desmond didn't know any better, he's say they were prepared . The two of them stood there as William paced around the dinner table, continuing, "The Assassins have been making a concentrated effort in retrieving any and all Pieces of Eden that the Templars might be after. We are of the opinion that no man should have all the power, especially power like this, and so far we've only succeeded in destroying a few in what may be hundreds, possibly thousands of existing artifacts."

That's when Shaun piped in. "Right now, we know the Templars are looking for something called the Observatory — not a thing, but a place. William has placed Rebecca and I in undercover, low-level positions within and around Abstergo Entertainment, here in Quebec, as we have evidence to suggest that this is where their head of Animus research is now taking place. They are developing Helix machines — essentially commercial-grade Animus machines — for public consumption, all the while searching the ancestry of unsuspecting civilians. Currently, they seem to have an interest in the 18th century, what with their recent release of Aveline de Grandpré's 'game'," he made air quotes here, "if you can call it that."

"Who's Aveline?" Elliott asked, glancing at Desmond with confusion. "Is she another one of your ancestors?"

"For once, no," Rebecca said from the back. Her voice was partially drowned out by the loud grating noises as she dragged Baby out from its retirement home. Desmond went over to help. "Aveline is from a different subject, who we're still trying to locate. Anyways, according to Abstergo, she's a wayward Assassin who realizes the error of her ways and joins the Templars. In truth, she was a spy, who infiltrated their ranks to kill the Grand Master of the New Orleans Rite. In history, it turned out well. Not so much in Abstergo's version. In their game, the Templars are the nice good guys who just want everything to be clean and tidy, while the Assassins are crazy terrorists bent on worldwide anarchy."

"They're really subtle about it," Shaun said with a smirk.

"And this Observatory thing, how are we going to find it before them?" Elliott asked, pointing to the Animus. "With that thing?"

"Exactly," Rebecca said with a smug smile, patting her machine. "Baby's our reliable time machine, and Desmond's our adorable guinea pig."

"Desmond's bloodline is full of interesting characters," William said, wandering over to the coffee machine, as if they were discussing the weather and not mind-bending subjects such as past-life-reliving. "Who have a tendency to run into First Civilization artifacts. Maybe Connor, later in his life, ran into the Observatory once. If not, it might take some time to analyze, but we'll find someone."

"Edward Kenway," Desmond cut in, and earning triple looks of surprise from Shaun, Rebecca, and his father. "He found the Observatory in the early seventeen-hundreds."

Shaun just scowled. "And how the bloody hell did you know that?"

Desmond got the feeling Shaun didn't appreciate being one-upped, even by Desmond. Or rather, especially Desmond. He just shrugged. "Connor told me."

Rebecca just nodded like this made sense. "Oh, right, I remember when he learned about his grandfather —"

"What do you mean," William cut in. " Connor told you?"

"I had a dream," Desmond said, and he didn't realize how stupid that sounded until he heard Shaun's derisive snort.

"You're tell us that you're seeing your dead ancestors in your sleep?" Shaun demanded, sounding utterly disbelieving as he turned around halfway in his chair to give Desmond one raised eyebrow. "And that they speak to you? Like prophetic messages?"

Well, it was nice to know things were going back to normal. To think this nerd was crying for him just a few hours ago, ha.

"'Prophetic' is kind of a strong word," Desmond said, making a face, although none of them would really understand his distaste of the phrase came from Juno's current nickname for him. "I think it might be something to do with me dying."

"Huh." Rebecca seemed more intrigued by this than horrified, as Shaun's expression seemed to indicate. She tapped her chin, eyes flicking over to the Animus machine pushed into the far corner of the room. It looked nearly forgotten. "That's interesting. Maybe a lack of oxygen to your brain, combined with exposure to First Civ technology may have altered your neurons and allow you to enter another realm of consciousness —"

Before Desmond could make any sense of that, William interrupted with a raised hand, "We can work on that later. Unless it's causing you problems, Desmond?"

Aside from some weird nights? Desmond shook his head. "No, not yet, at least."

"Good. We'll keep an eye on that," William replied. "How soon do you think you'll be able to start? In the Animus, I mean. I don't want to impose, but this is the first time we've been ahead of the Templars for a while. Years, even. They can't find this Observatory without your memories, or someone similar. We may be able to get a head start."

Desmond appreciated his father's hesitance, and was glad that he at least asked first before making an order. Strangely, Desmond felt detached from all of this, and he had the distinct feeling that if his father tried use his authority against Desmond, then Desmond would likely rebel.

But he didn't want to rebel.

"As soon as you're ready."

Not with Juno looming in the distance.

"In that case," William just raised a hand, gesturing to the Animus. "We better get started right away."

Desmond didn't fail to notice how his dad's hand shook as he took his full mug from the machine, coffee sloshing at the edges as he brought the mug to his lips. Seemed almost reluctant to let Desmond step into the Animus again.

It confounded Desmond. What was William worried about? It wasn't like the Animus could kill him. It had saved his life once, in fact.

But he knew something was wrong. Shaun was write. William Miles was different after Desmond died, and that didn't change with him coming back.

"Question," Elliott raised a hand. "What do I do?"

"You, Hackerman," Rebecca pointed at him, then at the Animus. "Are going to use that big brain of yours to make sure Baby doesn't fry Desmond's brain while he's hooked up, at least until we can find you something more useful to do."

"Awesome." Elliott replied with a grin, looking as happy as a clam as he went over and started helping Rebecca with wires and wrenches.

"Back to old job, then?" Shaun said to Desmond with an expectant look on his face.

Desmond smiled, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Might even be fun this time around."

Shaun just made a disbelieving sound, but didn't offer any more remarks, instead turning back to his computer in what Desmond assumed to be a data dive into seventeenth century history. He couldn't help but feel as if Shaun was trying to avoid him, in a manner similar to William and the Animus…

Maybe things weren't back to normal, as he had thought before.

"All right, Des, we're ready," Rebecca would say twenty minutes later, her face now stained in grease and looking mighty proud. When she looked to him, however, a shadow of doubt fell across her face. "I mean, we don't have to start now, do we? Desmond just got here. Maybe he should, I don't know, acclimate or something."

William, who'd shown hesitance before, didn't say anything now. Everyone just looked to Desmond, and for the first time he realized who was really in charge now.

Himself.

Damn.

In the back of his mind, he was almost hoping someone might pipe up and agree with Rebecca, so he could too and it would be a majority vote. But no one said anything, and Desmond knew it would just be immature of him now to back out after already pressing the idea.

"No, no, it's fine," He just shook his head, tried to sound light-hearted in order to ease any dread. "We'll just do a few hours, right, to make sure everything is still good up in here," at this, he tapped his skull. "And then we can have, like, spaghetti dinner or something, and really catch up."

"Sounds like a plan," Elliott said, and a wave of relief passed over the group.

"Spaghetti does sound good," Shaun said absent-mindedly. "So long as Rebecca doesn't cook."

And with that, everyone was in agreement. When Rebecca gestured to the Animus, Desmond felt a wave of nostalgia (of all things) as he went over and lied down on the soft red cushion. Did he actually miss this? Or maybe he just missed being surrounded by the people he trusted, the knowledge that as bad as it got in the Animus, everything was (mostly) fine in the real world.

He didn't even flinch when Rebecca plucked the needle into his arm, and offered one last smile to William, who sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, watching the process like a hawk. The man didn't smile back, only nodded, and gripped his mug tighter.

"What we know of Edward Kenway is that he was a Welshman-turned-sailor in his early twenties," Shaun explained to Desmond as Rebecca started uploading the first sequence. "From what it looks like, he's somewhere in the Caribbean during the summer of 1715. Oh, lovely, its a regular Disney movie. He wasn't born into the Assassins, but recruited into it. He may have served under a captain with the aims of finding the Observatory for his Brotherhood, but I suppose we'll see."

"Beware all ye who enter here," Rebecca joked. "For there be pirates!"

Then Desmond's vision started to blur, the ground disappearing at his feet. The warehouse disappeared around him — Elliott, William, Shaun, and Rebecca disintegrating into fractals, dispersing, replaced by empty space. All noise funneled out of his field of reality, like water down a drain. Desmond could feel himself falling, falling in that cool green void…

***

Cape Bonavista

June 1715

Wind and Rain and Sea.

“Hold fast!”

The deck rocked beneath his feet, swaying left and right, back and forth, as if the World itself wanted to cast off the mortals who conquered her Seas.

A mighty crash and wood splintered the air. He ignored it, the stinging pain in his hands and feet, as he threw his shoulder into the Cannon and push it to the railing. Through the Rain, he could see sparks of red and clouds of black, the smell of gunpowder stronger than the Ocean.

Thunder and cannon fire were so frequent one could nary tell them apart. He could hardly see the opposing ship, although it couldn’t have been more than three Hundred meters away.

“She’s on us!”

Cannon balls soared out of the fog and every man scattered as metal smashed into the ship. One made its home near the foremast. He lost his footing on the slick surface of the deck, falling as it bucked beneath him. Debris littered the deck, broken wood and barrels and dead bodies.

Picking himself up, Edward Kenway wiped the rain from his eyes, squinting into the storm. “Can you see her?”

He got no reply, but didn’t need it. Out of the raging storm and swirling mist appeared the enemy ship, like a ghost from the waters. Its sails billowed in the wind, its own crew at a merry scramble to return fire, but that was not who Edward saw first.

A Man, his body illuminated by a strike of lightning. He stood, perched by the shrouds, relying nothing but his own Skill to remain balanced upon the rocking waves. His head was covered by a white Hood, throwing his face into further shadow.  He was still and calm, maintaining a Tranquility in this infernal Madness. The Man seemed to show no fear, even as cannon fire raged all around him, and their ships drawing ever nearer.

A chill went down his back at the sight of this Man. Edward, unsettled, would have pointed him out, but another shout took his gaze away.

“The Helmsman's dead! Someone take the Wheel!” Called a Man to his right. Edward thought it might’ve been Wallace, the Cook, but he couldn’t tell for sure in this Chaos.

When Edward looked back towards the other ship, the Hooded Man was gone.

As lightning hit the waves behind the enemy ship, Edward turned his head to abandoned Wheel. It spun aimlessly as the Ship’s hull was bombarded by both iron and water; the loss of the Helmsman meant that the Captain should now be in charge, but said Captain had disappeared soon after the battle began — Edward was not interested in finding the bloody coward, and made way for the Quarterdeck.

In any other situation, it would be inappropriate, perhaps downright illegal, for a simple Crewman like Edward Kenway to take the Wheel of a Ship that did not belong to him. He could be hanged for this.

...Well, he would be dead anyways, if he didn’t do something.

Wrapping his hands around the Wheel’s handles, Edward didn’t have time to revel in the moment before another wave of cannon-fire hit port-side and nearly knocked him off his feet again. Grunting with the effort to stay standing, as well as wresting control of the Wheel, which threatened to throw him off and spin wildly at any moment — Edward forced the Ship to remain steady, sending back against the waves that had already forced them miles off course.

“Kenway!” a Man shouted to his left. It was the Master Gunner, Mr. Green,  his hands black with gunpowder and face smeared with blood. “What do we do?”

Edward stared at him blankly for a moment. What the Hell was Mr. Green asking him for? This was a Man who made twice Edward’s salary on less work, who made Edward clean the Cannons when he was in the a bad mood — and here he was, with a most Desperate Look upon his face, as though Edward were their last possible Hope on this Godforsaken sea.

Well, luckily for the both of them, Edward was of sound Mind and Body, and had been in enough skirmishes to know what to do now. Heaving the Wheel around to the right, the ship banked hard, and he shouted, “We hit ‘em broadside! Aim for the Powder Magazine! We’ll blow them sky high!”

“You’re mad! You’ll get us all killed!”

“You got any better ideas, then?” Edward snapped, shifting nervously as Mr. Green stepped forward, looking mighty fierce. While a Master Gunner was not fit to captain a Ship, Mr. Green certainly had more right to it than an average Fellow like Edward.

“As a matter of fact, I do!” Mr. Green snarled, lunging for the Wheel. “I’ll be getting us out of this mess! We’re retreating — Gah!”

One second he was there, the next Mr. Green was gone, taken away by another Cannonball that sent him scattering into the ocean. Edward had seen it coming, but it had been too fast, and he too slow to warn him; all he could was close his eyes and brace himself against the wheel as the ship rocked once more.

As soon as the air was clear, Edward looked up again, scanning the decks and trying to make out some decent solution to this mess. There were still men alive, at least half the crew, scrambling all across the Gun Deck trying to load the Cannons as fast as they could. Their ship was little more than a glorified merchant vessel, while the enemy — an English flag waving atop its masts — was a battle-hardened brig, surrounded by smaller gunships that provided excellent distraction for Edward’s overextended crew.

Several looked to Edward, fear and hopelessness in their eyes. This was not a battle they could win. From such insurmountable odds, one could assume that God Himself wanted them all to drown.

Well, Edward wasn’t having any of that. “Oi! Get those Cannons in line! Aim your sights on the smaller ships!”

With no one else to criticize his tactics, everyone followed Edward’s word without question, and Edward watched with a bemused smile as the rest of the crew ordered themselves and set Cannons on both sides of the ship. English Gunships swarmed around them, like sharks circling a wounded fish; but then one got too close and —

BOOM!

It was gone, fire and screams swallowed by the waves.

Their aim remained true, and a single volley each downed another two Gunships. The Men cheered with each victory, their spirits heightened as Edward’s direction led them closer and closer out of this hellhole.

Edward himself couldn’t quite believe it. Less than an hour before, this ship had been chaos, caught off guard by the English envoy, their leadership dismantled in minutes, and everyone else just scrambling to survive.

And somehow, they were winning. Edward was Captain. He could lead these Men. They trusted him. And Edward knew Victory was within his grasp.

Never before had he felt like this. Never before had he considered he was capable of this.

So when the Brig came back ‘round, ready to finish the fight, Edward just grinned and turned the Wheel, ready to face them on. Come at me, you bloody sons of bitches, and see what you’re made of.

The Men were wary, but not reluctant as they fired another volley at the incoming brig. The cannon-fire seemed to bounce harmlessly off its sides, and as Edward spun the ship around so the starboard cannons could have a go, he was starting to think perhaps different tactics were in order. A Brig had thicker sides than a little gunship. He would waste time and ammunition trying to rip it apart that way.

Instead, he shouted, “Aim for the masts! Bring down their sails!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

Just hearing that made Edward grin a little bigger. He knew that as soon as this was over, he would only continue to crave hearing those words to be shouted at him again.

The Brig came back within their sights. Cannon-fire came their way, but flew over their heads, the falling waves saving Edward’s ship from being annihilated. Then, as soon as they crested over another, he shouted, “FIRE!”

“Fire all!”

Metal ripped through the sails and masts of the English brig. He could hear shouting and screaming, even over this torrent, as the crew on the brig panicked and died, fire raining down on them and igniting their gunpowder charges. The sky lit up like it was Daytime again as the brig blew sky high, a plume of fire, wood, and smoke.

His crew cheered, and Edward couldn’t help but slump in relief as the sounds of battle faded; no more cannon-fire, no more screaming, no more explosions; just the sound of the wind and the rain and the ocean, taking them away from the aftermath.

Edward came down from the Quarter Deck, clapping shoulders and exchanging gratitude with his fellow crew-mates, when a panicked cry rang out, “The Magazines! It’s going up!”

Only too late did Edward notice the fire starting over the barrels of powder. Men scattered, and while Edward and a few others attempted to approach it, the barrels started exploding, knocking them back. Wallace, the Cook, who did manage to survive, started shoving the others forward, shouting, “Douse the flames! Get in there, you mongrel — urgh!”

Edward whipped around, startled, as Wallace collapsed, Death’s Rattle in his throat. Behind him stood the white Hooded Man from the English Brig, blade from his wrist, and eyes glinting in the shadow of his hood.

Jaysus. It wasn’t possible.

The Brig had exploded — Edward saw Men die. How could this one have survived?

No mere Man could simply escape Death like that.

This creature’s cold gaze turned to Edward, and he felt his blood run cold, as if he were staring into the eyes of the very Devil Himself.

At that moment, Edward realized it didn’t matter. All he knew was that this Man, this impossible ghost of a Man, was now stepping towards him, looking ready to do to Edward what he did to Wallace. Edward needed to do something, and fast.

He took a hesitant step backwards, reaching for his dagger, as measly as it was, only to find it wasn’t there. Edward cursed under his breath, fingers grasping helplessly at his hip. He must’ve lost it in the storm. None of the other men had noticed the Murder of Wallace, or their unwelcome new guest. Edward glanced this way and that, before opening his mouth to shout. At the same time, the Hooded Man lunged at him.

But he never reached Edward, for the barrels had exploded.

Edward was only aware of a bright flash of light — intense heat the seared off all the water from his body — and deck leaving his feet. His last sight of the Hooded Man was of him being knocked back and disappearing into the darkness.

Then Edward hit water, and his world went dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

His Full Attention

Two Hours Later

"Well, aside from the rough start," Rebecca's voice filtered into Desmond's ears as the Animus started collapsing the memory around him. Beautiful tropical vistas faded to a dark green void, and Desmond, standing in the form of Edward Kenway, looked around. "That went great! You're pretty spry for a dead guy, Des."

"Thanks," he replied, wondering how long it would take for the bad jokes to die out (pun not intended...dammit). "Appreciate that."

Desmond had just finished the first sequence of Edward's DNA — memories of being trapped on a near-deserted island. Then chasing a man — an Assassin — named Duncan Walpole before killing him and stealing his robes and effects. Now Edward was onboard with a boisterous man by the name of Stede Bonnet, who was probably the worst excuse of a pirate Desmond had ever heard of.

And they were heading to Havana, to find its governor, Torres. Desmond didn't know what any of this meant, if Edward had any idea what kind of mess he was starting, stealing the identity of an Assassin (granted, Walpole was an asshole, but still). How could Edward have survived such a crime once the Brotherhood had found out?

Because he had no doubt they would.

"I'll pull you out of the Animus now," Rebecca said, and he could hear the clacking of her keyboard. "I know it probably feels too soon, but let's call this a test run. And I don't know if you can smell it, but dinner's almost ready."

Desmond could, in fact, smell dinner - the savory, garlic-and-parsley infected smell of spaghetti, making his mouth water before he was even detached from the machine yet.

Opening his eyes, Desmond was a little startled by the seemingly-sudden darkness outside the windows. It felt like it had only been a few minutes, but in reality Animus trips lasted hours. Like dreams, the Animus warped time in unpredictable ways.

But his stomach never lied, and it grumbled again as Desmond unplugged himself from the machine and stood up. He wobbled a little, light-headed, before Rebecca patted him on the shoulder and said, "Easy there, champ. Try not to pass out on me, okay?"

"You got it, Doc."

"Attaboy."

Shaun and Elliott were already sitting at the table, chatting; Bill was nowhere in sight. Probably in another room, brooding.

"Ah, Desmond, glad you could join us!" Shaun said, raising his fork in welcome as Desmond ambled over. "For a second, I was afraid you wouldn't show; think you're getting too good for us, being immortal and all."

Desmond just snorted, sitting down next to him and reaching for the Parmesan cheese. "I'm not immortal. I'm just, you know, very difficult to kill. Speaking of not dying, when I was Edward Kenway, back in the Animus...I mean, is it just me, or is he just some random guy who killed an Assassin and just stole his identity? It doesn't seem like he's even in the Order yet."

"Not like you guys seem to have normal recruitment policies," Elliott pointed out. "Although I think that Walpole guy had it coming."

"Hmm," Shaun tapped his fork to his lips, frowning. "While I agree, it is odd. Duncan Walpole sounds vaguely familiar, but considering how soon he died, I'm not quite sure what he was known for. At least to us. And as for Mr. Kenway, well, we already know from his grandson that the Assassins welcome those from any walk of life."

"He's definitely the oldest, though," Rebecca said. "Edward Kenway was born in 1693, which makes him twenty-two years old by 1715."

"Twenty-two?!" Desmond shook his head, disbelieving. The man he was reliving was currently younger than Desmond? Compared to Edward, Desmond was practically had baby-face. "No way. He does not look twenty-two, at all."

It wasn't just the fact that Edward looked older than he really was, but the fact he was so old to begin with. By the time Altair was 22, he was nearly a Master Assassin. At the same age, Ezio was working with the Assassins (although without fully understanding their nature), but he had the legacy of his father to follow. Connor was a similar story, and he had more training by that age. But Edward didn't have that. He wasn't born into the Order, or had any ties to it. He just sort of...happened upon the secret war, almost entirely by accident.

What a strange, strange twist of fate.

Rebecca just shrugged, making a face before taking a bite of spaghetti. "I dunno, man. Those were rough times. You'd age pretty fast, especially with a life on the sea."

"And considering the average lifespan at the time," Elliott added. "Edward's practically middle-aged."

"Well, that inspires confidence," Desmond muttered. Obviously Edward lived long enough to have children (where at least one of whom was an asshole, so apparently that was genetic), but Desmond couldn't imagine the man having an easy time either pretending to be an Assassin, or actually becoming one. "Anyways, any other updates I should know about?"

"A few," Shaun said.

"So, we have an idea of what to do with Elliott," Rebecca said, just as Desmond shoved his mouth full of spaghetti. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she continued, glancing at the others, "We're gonna put him in Abstergo."

Desmond nearly choked, and as he struggled to swallow it all down, Shaun quickly added, "Nothing bad, we swear! Abstergo's looking for Helix recruits, people who can search memories on their new machines. As far as we know, its legit."

"They're just sending me in to make sure," Elliott said with a shrug. Despite the craziness of this idea, Elliott seemed pretty chill about it. "I guess we already have a guy inside? Someone from I.T. He can help us gain access to more restricted areas. Just some illicit data mining, nothing serious."

Desmond had no idea what that meant, but hoped they weren't trying to downplay it for his sake. Finally able to speak, he said, "Okay, so...while you work with Abstergo, you're also hacking their files?"

"Exactly." Rebecca nodded sharply. "Not everyone involved in the Helix project knows what's really going on, but we think Olivier Garneau, head of Abstergo Entertainment, might be a Templar. We see what he knows, what he's been doing, and decide if it's feasible to take him out."

"If it's worth killing him at all," Bill added, sitting down at the table. "Depends on how high up in the food chain he is. If we can get someone powerful, we might have other uses for them."

Desmond slurped up a noodle, then frowned. "Uses like what?"

Bill hesitated, then said, "Anything we might need them for."

Yeah, like that was going to fool him. Desmond had a top-notch bullshit-detector, thank you, but he didn't know why his dad was tip-toeing around the matter with him. Desmond wasn't a stranger to killing Templars. He hated them as much as the next person. He also wasn't a stranger to his dad's vague answers, which Desmond had gotten used to, growing up on the Farm.

Unfortunately, he'd grown tired of them. Fortunately, he was clever enough to pretend he hadn't.

"Uh-huh," Desmond said, making a face, then turning his gaze to Rebecca. He'd talk to Bill about this later. "So how soon is this happening?"

"Tomorrow," Rebecca replied. "Abstergo's interviewing already. Elliott's already got extensive experience with computers and gaming, which is what the company is advertising the job as. We'll create a new identity for him, spruce up a resumé and stick in a few fake references and numbers. Your dad's gonna answer them, of course."

"Apparently, I have a very trustworthy voice," Bill said. Desmond swore he almost smiled.

"You're giving Abstergo the number to the Assassin's Mentor?" Desmond asked. "Ballsy."

"Ah," Shaun raised a finger, then dropped it immediately. When Desmond looked to him, Shaun didn't meet his gaze, only pursed his lips and cut a glance at Bill. "There's a bit of an update on that, actually. Bill, care to share?"

"Dad?" Desmond frowned, confused. He knew he'd been out of the loop, but he thought he'd been brought up to speed earlier that day. Bill seemed oddly fascinated with his dinner. "Dad? What's going on? What's Shaun talking about?"

"Well," Bill leaned back a little, clearing his throat. His fingers tapped against the tabletop, the only sign that he might've been a little anxious. "I've been considering...the idea of possibly resigning from Mentor."

Desmond gaped at him, not entirely sure he heard right. "Wait, what? You're quitting?"

He didn't even know that was a thing, and surely never with his dad. Bill was as dutiful as they come, and for the longest time Desmond was sure would die, serving as Mentor. It was kind of tradition. Once you were a Mentor, you were one for life. And William Miles had always been a stickler for tradition.

"I'm not quitting," Bill snorted, a little annoyed. "I'm still an Assassin, Desmond, that's not going to change. I've just decided to hang up the mantle as Mentor."

"But...but why?"

His father wouldn't quite look him in the eye. "Ever since what happened at the Temple… I don't think I've been leading as competently as I used to, when I was younger. That right now, there are more capable people who can be in charge, and I've come to realize that I have more important things I should be focusing on. While I still can."

"Oh." Desmond said, all he could say while mulling over those words. For nearly as long as he could remember, Desmond had always known the Mentor to be his father. Of all the uncertainties in this world, that wasn't one of them. And now it was changing. Just like everything else.

The table was quiet between them, the room filled only with the sound of awkward eating, no one looking the other in the eye. Rebecca kept checking her watch, Elliott was nearly done with his food, and Shaun was just staring at his plate, scowling and twisting his empty fork round and around. Clearly Desmond was not the only one bothered by this, which made him feel a little bit better.

Deciding not to freak out about it, Desmond took another bite, then swallowed. "So who will be the new Mentor, then?"

"I'm not sure yet," Bill said with a sigh. He seemed relieved; perhaps he was expecting a more negative reaction out of Desmond. "It's something I'm going to discuss with your mother, and the other leaders of the cells. A transition may be difficult, especially considering how tight communication is. For now, I'll remain as Mentor, until we can find a suitable replacement."

Desmond just nodded silently. Well, that didn't sound so bad. An upheaval in leadership could certainly cause problems, but it was clear there was no rush to make changes. At least that would give everyone time to adjust. "So you...you talked to Mom recently? How is she?"

"She's fine. She's in New York. Looking for you, actually, although we never realized until now," Bill chuckled softly at the irony, and just like that some of the tension eased. Rebecca and Shaun began to eat again, while Elliott quickly ducked away, taking his empty plate with him. "You two just missed each other."

"Damn." Desmond said softly, smiling a little. He hadn't seen his mother in ages. Hadn't heard her voice, or seen any pictures...he wondered what she looked like now. Or what he looked like to her. If she'd even recognize him from the angry fifteen-year-old boy who ran away so long ago.

"I'll call her again soon," William said, perhaps reading the look on Desmond's face, and knowing what he needed to hear. "Timeframe for phone calls are small and few between, but we manage. Just enough to keep each other updated."

"Will she come here?" He hated how hopeful he sounded.

"Maybe. If it's safe."

That was good enough for Desmond.

~o~

Desmond flopped down in the seat next to Shaun. "Hey, dude."

"As much as I appreciate you're home, I'm busy, Desmond," Shaun said, not looking up from his computer. From the looks of it, he was currently filling in the Assassin database, with books opened up about the Caribbean colonies. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Aww," Desmond said, nudging Shaun with his elbow. It was after dinner, but everyone was still working. It seemed his arrival had jumpstarted everyone into overdrive. "It's okay, you're allowed to say you missed me."

"I have a cup of hot tea in my hand and its two seconds away from being poured onto your lap."

Desmond quickly rolled away out of pouring distance, hands raised. "All right, all right! I'm just kidding. I actually had a serious question to ask you."

"Really?" Shaun rounded on him with a surprised look, and Desmond almost believed it until he caught Shaun's mocking tone. "I bet pigs will start flying any minute now!"

Desmond glared at him, and Shaun smirked, shrugging one shoulder. "No, no, I appreciate it, I really do. What's the question?"

"I was going to ask you about Duncan Walpole. Who is this guy? What's his connection to Torres?"

"I'm not entirely sure, to be honest," Shaun admitted, adjusting his glasses in a moment of doubt. What a rarity — Shaun Hastings actually didn't know something! "The Assassins used to keep extensive records about this sort of thing, but it was all analog, books and ledgers. They never got the chance to be digitized before the Purge, and the Templars burned all those books. Or kept them for themselves. It seems Mr. Walpole's information is among what's lost.

"What I can tell you, however, is that he's British nobleman, about twenty years Edward's senior, and pretty high up on the food chain as far as the Brotherhood was concerned. It seems he was on his way to Havana to seal a deal with the governor, perhaps to ensure safe waters for the Assassins. Apparently they've been having a bit of a pirating problem. Who knew?

"Torres has quite a thin file himself. His full name is Laureano José de Torres Ayala a Daudros Castellanos, marqués de Casa Torres — a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. But that's the Spanish for you, why use one word when you can use ten? Anyways, before Torres was governor of Havana, he ruled Florida for about seven years, between 1693 to 1699. Quite the man of power, I can certainly see why the Assassins would be interested in him. I have no records of him after 1722, so I assume he either vanished or died. Most assume lost at sea, somewhere around Cuba. Probably attacked by pirates."

"It's always pirates, isn't it?"

"They're a wily bunch," Shaun agreed. "Templar influence in the West Indies was strong at the time, but due to fluctuating powers and the distance between them and the more civilized Europe, the members of that particular Rite are unknown — but I happen to know that they had operations in Havana, so I'm betting Edward will be running into them soon enough."

"Oh, good, just when I thought months at sea couldn't get more interesting."

"Please, months for Edward is minutes for you," Shaun said with a roll of his eyes. "How hard it must be to live the life of a failed privateer. Woe is you."

"You're still mad that I died, aren't you?"

"Right now I'm mad you didn't stay dead."

"Boo, you whore." Desmond looked up at the ceiling, quickly thinking of a new topic before Shaun could weaponize his tea. "What is this building, anyways? Looks like no one's used it in centuries."

Shaun, who had just inhaled through his nose to fire off an angry retort, paused, then said, "It's a carriage house. People used them back before the automobile was invented. They were used for, well, storing carriages."

"A carriage house?" Desmond repeated, taking in the dirt floor. "So it's a garage for horses."

Rebecca, who apparently had been eavesdropping from her stall across the aisle, snorted Pepsi up her nose. Meanwhile, Shaun just face-palmed, muttering a prayer: "Please, God, give me strength enough not to throttle this meat-for-brains idiot."

Desmond vacated his seat seconds before it was covered in Earl Grey.

He went further down the hall between stalls, checking each one. They were big enough to, well, hold carriages, like big brick cubicles. Most were empty, with the kitchen and fireplace on one end of the building and a staircase at the other. Desmond was tempted to go see what was up there when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

He found Elliot tinkering in one corner of the carriage house, in one of the secluded stalls. In the short time that Elliott had been here, he'd already made himself at home with his own workplace. It appeared he had fashioned his own desk, using stacked milk crates and a stripped door set flat on top. Across its surface were scattered bits and pieces of machinery and computer parts, small tools for delicate work. Elliott was currently digging into the guts of a busted drone.

Desmond clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, El, what're you up to?"

Elliott jumped, dropping the screwdriver her was holding with a loud clatter and a yelp. "Shit, man, you scared me. I didn't hear you coming."

"Ah, sorry," Desmond smiled in apology, removing his hand from Elliott's shoulder. "Still a little jumpy? There's nothing to worry about here. You can trust these guys, you know?"

"No, no, I know," Elliott nodded, taking a deep breath. "I'm just...adjusting, that's all. Working undercover for the people that's trying to kill us, that's hunting my family, it's a little nerve-wracking, that's all."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Desmond said, crossing his arms and leaning against the desk. "You'll know it's bad when they decide to take you hostage, but I doubt that'll happen again. So, what're you doing? Fixing drones again?"

"Well, I figured we could do the same thing as before," Elliott replied, resting his hand on one propellor. "Just, you know, better, without getting caught. We can use them as scouts and recorders — I'm going to connect each camera to a remote hard drive, so even if we lose the drone, we still keep the data."

"Smart," Desmond said, because he honestly never would have thought of that. This was why he was not allowed to play with tech stuff. "How soon will they be operational?"

"A day or two," Elliott said. "May take longer, since I've got that interview slash Helix test-run tomorrow."

Desmond sensed uncertainty in his voice, looked down at Elliott. "You nervous?"

"About the interview or using the Helix machine?" Elliott replied, throwing Desmond a raised eyebrow, smirking a little. He just shook his head, holding out open hands. "I don't know, both, I guess. The Helix a little more, though. I've never been in an Animus before. I heard it can mess with your head, if you stay in them for too long."

"That won't happen to you," Desmond said, almost immediately. He wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure more — himself or Elliott. He continued after a deep breath to calm himself. "It's not...it doesn't hurt, or at least it shouldn't. I think the average time going under is about five hours at a time?"

"Rebecca said your average was twelve hours," Elliott threw him a bewildered look.

"I've had a lot of practice." Desmond said, tapping his temple with his finger. "And apparently my noggin's got some interesting chemistry going on. You get more hours the longer you practice. It's like exercise. You'll feel tired afterwards, but you probably won't get any nasty side effects."

"There are side effects?" Elliott said in a manner that made Desmond cringe. He really didn't like explaining this stuff. It was better if Rebecca did it.

"A few," Desmond admitted. "The biggest one is called the Bleeding Effect. Essentially you absorb some of the memories of your ancestors, and you see ghosts if you go to places they've been before. If it's really bad, you start reliving their memories without even being in the Animus. But I don't know if that can happen with the Helix. It's not the same as an Animus, and you're reliving someone else's ancestors, not your own. And I have no idea how it affects people without Precursor DNA. You'll have to ask Rebecca."

"So...aside from all of that, I'll be okay?"

"Probably. We'll keep an eye out for anything suspicious. And if there's any problems, Shaun's always on the ground floor, and Rebecca's somewhere outside. You're not going to be alone."

Elliott's relief was palpable as he slumped in his seat, hanging his head. "Thank God. It's bad enough I can't see my family, now I have to apply for a job reliving the memories of dead people. It's fantastic."

"They'll be safe," Desmond frowned. Maybe he was an idiot for saying it like that, making a promise. But it was the best he could offer. "Abstergo won't find them. I won't let that happen."

"I know," Elliott said, although he didn't sound convinced. "I just...I want to talk to them again."

Around ten o'clock, everyone was tired and ready to go to bed. Shaun complained that he was going to have sore quads tomorrow, from having to chase Desmond around the city.

The upper floor of the hide-out was divided into several smaller rooms. Perhaps offices and storage supply way back, now excellent private bunking for a bunch of people already pretty irritated with the fact that there was only one bathroom and not enough hot water (Rebecca always hogged the shower). Elliott and Desmond, due to lack of forewarning, had to make do with sleeping bags on the floor for the time being. It wasn't necessarily comfortable, and the only form of internal heating here was a mantle on the bottom floor — not really something Desmond felt in the middle of the night.

But it was the first time he got a good night's sleep in what felt like ages. He realized he missed the sounds of everyone else snoring, and was glad to have it back again. He was home again. He was safe again.

Desmond, huddled inside his flannel sleeping bag, hidden blade lying next to him, drifted off to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing on the rooftop Monteriggioni, the night sky overhead, blazing with thousands of stars and a glorious full moon.

And there, beneath the moonlight, stood Lucy, waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

Excavator

"Lucy!" Desmond said with an embarrassing amount of glee. "You're here!"

Despite the fact that he sounded like a complete idiot, Lucy grinned, rosy cheeks around a beautiful smile. It almost hurt his eyes to look at her - like staring at the sun for too long, too brilliant, too much.

"It's nice to see you, too, Desmond." she said with a small laugh.

"I just," Desmond took a deep breath, recollecting himself before he could say anything else that might come off too strong. He looked around, and realized they were standing on the roof of the Auditore mansion in Monteriggioni. The night sky stretched overhead, and a full moon shone silver light over them. Lucy's hair turned white under its glow, her eyes glimmering like the stars above. His hand wandered to the back of his head as he flushed, realized he was staring, and averted his eyes. "I just, uh, missed you, that's all."

"Aww," she said in that way that made him turn even redder. God, this was a dream, wasn't it? Why was he blushing like a schoolboy right now? So not fair. "What, you don't like talking to your ancestors very much?"

"I mean," Desmond threw out a shrug. "Altair's not much of a conversationalist, that's all. And Malik hit me. And it really hurt."

"Oh, poor thing. Do you want me to go talk to him?"

Desmond fixed her with a peeved look, not appreciating her humor as much as she clearly was. "Very funny. I prefer to keep my dignity, thanks."

"I'm sorry," Lucy tilted her head in chagrin, although she was still smiling a little. She came up beside him, their shoulders bumping. "I know it hasn't been easy on you these past few days. Escaping New York couldn't have been easy. No one else but you could've pulled off something as crazy and stupid as that."

"Well, you know me." Desmond said, dropping down to a crouch, then leaning back to sit on the slanted terracotta roof. The air was warm, like summer. He didn't know if this was from his memory or Ezio's - but he couldn't help but think how perfect it was. Just where he'd want to be with Lucy. "Crazy and stupid is what I'm best at."

Lucy sat down next to him, stretching out her legs. "I mean it in the best way possible."

"Of course you do." Desmond said. "You Templars always had a way with words."

Her smile faltered. Lucy glanced at him, then away. Desmond had meant it as a joke, but clearly she had taken it to heart. He was about to open his mouth, take it back, when she said, "I'm sorry, Desmond. For lying to you. Betraying you. It's just...it's a long story."

"I've got time," Desmond said, not unreasonably. Yes, the fact that Lucy was a Templar (in life, in death, whatever) was still a nagging thought in the back of his mind. But he wasn't so angry that he wouldn't hear what she'd have to say. He jerked his chin to the air around them. "Got all the time in the world."

Lucy cast him a wan smile, but it was weighed down by guilt, exhaustion. She brought up her arm, leaned her chin on her hand. Her gaze cast over the Italian countryside, expression reticent, contemplative. She bit her lip, the way Desmond had always thought was kind of cute. "I started out as an Assassin. You know that. Your dad recruited me. He put me in Abstergo because of you. Or, well, to watch over the other Assassins, the descendents that Vidic was interested in. It was all right at first. I could handle being undercover, of not having direct contact for long periods of time. I was on my own. If something went bad, I'd have no one else to fall back on. But I was prepared for that."

She sighed. "But I wasn't prepared for Clay."

"What happened to him," Lucy squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head. "What we did to him...it was just too much. And the way he died? It was awful, Desmond. I know what you saw, but you weren't there when it happened. You didn't see the blood when it was still on the walls. You weren't the one who discovered Clay, on the floor. You didn't have to try CPR on him, in some last ditch, hopeless attempt to bring him back."

Her voice trembled, and Desmond reached out, laid his hand on top of hers that rested between them. Lucy covered her face, still shaking her head. "Afterwards, it just felt like I had it coming. I watched him, you know, I watched as Clay's mind just unraveled. I tried to help him. But there was nothing I could do. Vidic pushed him too far, too fast. And I lost him. I was supposed to protect him, Desmond. Your father promised me we wouldn't be abandoned. But when it came down to it...no one was there. Clay died, and I was left to clean up the mess."

"But what made you think the Templars were better?" Desmond asked softly.

"I don't know," Lucy sighed, shrugging helplessly. She pulled her hand back down, looked back out over Monteriggioni again. "Maybe it was just… at least the Templars thought Clay was worth something. They valued him. Not in the same way I did, but at least he wasn't just collateral damage, like he was to the Assassins. And Clay was an Assassin. Heart and mind. But did that matter? No. When he died, I just didn't understand why I was even in Abstergo at all. What was I doing, if not helping my fellow brothers and sisters? How could I call myself an Assassin, if I couldn't do anything?"

"It wasn't your fault." Desmond said. A part of this he knew, partly from what Clay had told him when he had been trapped in the Animus. "You already said Clay was losing his mind. And there was no way you could've stopped Vidic."

"Do you know how much time I spent with that man, alone in the same room?" Lucy demanded, throwing Desmond a sharp look. Clearly his attempt at empathy wasn't working. "How many hours I worked with the man? All the opportunities I had to kill him, but never did? I don't even know what stopped me, after Clay. After you. Maybe I started to understand him, too. I knew what Vidic wanted. I started to understand that maybe it wasn't so bad, the end goal. The Apple, the control, the protection. Clay died, but so did so many others. It just...stopped mattering after a while.

"I'm not proud of what I did," Lucy continued after a moment. She sniffed. "I'll never forgive myself for what happened to Clay. I just wanted to fix what I couldn't do before. And I did that, with you. God, you have no idea how happy you made me, Desmond. How glad I am that you proved me wrong."

At this, she gave him a smile, but it was tight, and her eyes were too bright, tears just on the brink of falling. Desmond felt his own throat lock up a little bit, and he glanced away, remembering to catch his breath. Dream or not, this all felt so real. Talking to Lucy. Touching her skin. Hearing her voice.

Even if what they were talking about hurt him, he didn't care. He didn't want it to stop.

"If you could go back, do things over," Desmond took a deep breath. "Would you still have chosen the Templars?"

"I'm not sure it even matters anymore," Lucy admitted, pursing her lips. She looked down at the terracotta roof, tracing her finger along the edge of a tile. "Death gives your a certain perspective - at least for me. If you squint just right, there isn't much different about the Templars and Assassins. After a while, they start to blend in with each other. But had I known back then, what you would do, what you were capable of," Lucy nodded to herself. "I think I would've stayed with the Assassins. I know you have this give-no-shit attitude, Desmond, but I swear, out of any Assassin I've met, you've cared the most."

"I'm just not a fan of destiny."

"No, no, neither am I," Lucy agreed, and she seemed to deflate, her confession finally freed. She leaned into him, head coming to rest on his shoulder. "But I'm glad it brought us together. Again and again. That's one thing I don't regret."

Desmond looked down at her, and she up at him. There were still tears on her face, but Lucy's expression wasn't trapped in torment anymore. Desmond never noticed the flecks of green in her blue eyes before. He wished he had, before.

"I missed this," she whispered. "I missed you."

His head dropped lower, tilting a little. They were so close now. Desmond could feel her breath, warm, on his face. Lucy was here. Lucy was real.

And they were here, together. Alone. Finally.

Their noses grazed. Lucy closed her eyes. Her lips parted -

"Ah, Desmond, bon giorno!"

Desmond and Lucy jerked back from each other, started. Blinking furiously, Desmond whipped around to stare at none other than Ezio climbing up to the roof of the estate, waving ecstatically at them. "I thought I would find you here!"

Scowling, Desmond had to restrain a groan. Lucy had already pulled away from him, was suddenly fascinated with her hands, clasped in her lap. He couldn't help the frustration slipping into his tone when he muttered, "Perfect timing."

Then, louder, he replied, "Ezio! I didn't know you were here."

"What do you mean, fratello mio?" Ezio laughed, coming to a stand, holding out his arms. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he just interrupted Desmond and Lucy when they were in the middle of something. "This is my home! Where else would I be?"

"You know what, never mind," Desmond had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Of course, his stupid dream-kiss with Lucy had to be interrupted by the best and worst ladies' man the Assassin Brotherhood had ever seen. Deciding that maybe it didn't really matter anyways (were dream-kisses even real? Lucy was still dead, after all. Desmond had no idea how this sort of thing actually worked), Desmond heaved a long sigh, before picking himself up, facing Ezio. "You have a message for me or something?"

Ezio gave him a blank look, which was especially funny-looking considering this was old Ezio, with the face of a wise man. "Why would I have a message for you?"

A muscle under Desmond's eye twitched. Moment killed for nothing! "Well, isn't that why I usually see you guys in my dreams?"

"I don't know," Ezio said, with a tilt of his head. "The manner of our meetings is not something I quite understand myself. All I know is that I appreciate your company, Desmond. Is that not enough?"

"I...guess," Desmond ducked his head, now feeling a little guilty. Great, Ezio actually liked Desmond, and here he was feeling all ungrateful about being here. "It just wouldn't have hurt if you found us a little later. You know."

"Oh," Ezio said, frowning. He looked confused for a second, before his gaze drew to Lucy, then back to Desmond - then comprehension finally dawned on his face. "Oh. I see. My apologies, Desmond. Perhaps I'll leave you to your amore for a moment, si?"

"Much obliged," Desmond said. Then Ezio threw him a ridiculous wink, a thumbs-up, before jumping over the side of mansion, and disappearing into the night.

Worst. Wingman. Ever.

"I have to go," Lucy said abruptly, pulling herself to her feet.

"What?" Desmond whirled around, disappointment taking him by surprise. He had just gotten here. Everything had been perfect, at least until Ezio showed up. "Why? If its about Ezio, I'm sorry -"

"No, no, it's not that," Lucy said, chuckling a little. Clearly the exhange between ancestor and descendant had proven more amusing to her than to Desmond. "It's just time for you to leave again, Desmond. You have another life to live."

"But I still - there's stuff I want to talk about -" The words came out all rushed and flustered. Already he could see the world around him started to fade. Lucy was becoming transparent. She stepped closer, pressing a finger to his lips to calm him. Desmond's shoulders sagged in defeat as he went silent.

She gave him an encouraging look. "It's okay, Des. We'll see each other again. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world, remember? Just have a little patience."

Desmond pouted against her touch, crossing his arms. "The afterlife is seriously testing the definition of being patient."

"You'll live," Lucy replied with a knowing smirk, before vanishing.

[SEQUENCE 2: MEMORY 3]

— Havana, Cuba —

— July, 1715 —

When Edward finally stepped through the arch into Torres' mansion estate, he knew his plan had gone terribly wrong.

Bodies. Everywhere.

It was supposed to be simple. Edward, with his grand plans for wealth and a good life with Caroline — all he had to do was sneak onto Torres estate and speak to Roberts, the Sage he met earlier that day. From him, learn the location of the Observatory, and sell it to the highest bidder. Sure, Torres had the crystal cube with the blood drop, the so-called key, but Edward didn't need the key to know where the Observatory was. He didn't care for the power it held inside, the price men like Torres would pay to have it.

That was it. It was so simple, it couldn't go wrong. And yet... Edward had no recourse for what he saw before him.

Had the Sage killed all these guards? Earlier that day, Edward had witnessed the scruffy man kill an Assassin with his own hidden blade, then try to escape the Templars. Clearly, the Sage was no friend to either side of this mysterious war (of which Edward had no interest in partaking in). What was this man willing to do to earn his freedom? What was he capable of?

The Sage had struck Edward to be an odd sort from the moment he'd laid eyes on the man. Beaten and bloodied, the Sage, known only as Roberts, said not a word to anyone. His clothes were threadbare, with only a kerchief to keep his greasy hair out of his eyes. Iron manacles to keep his hands from wandering. But it was his eyes that Edward thought most striking.

The Sage's eyes were two different colors. One brown, one blue, both as cold and pitiless as the sea.

Yes, a man with eyes like that would have no issue with the slaughter Edward witnessed now.

One of the guards groaned, not yet dead. Edward looked around, opening his mouth to speak. Perhaps he can find out —

The thought wasn't even finished before a metal fist slammed into his jaw.

Edward went down, hard. Dropping to his hands and knees, the world spun, his ears rang, and beyond it, he heard Torres' Spanish lilt.

"¡Basta!" Torres called, bring his guard to heel before he could deliver another crippling blow onto the downed pirate. Edward saw finely polished boots with pointed toes enter his field of vision. A hand yanked off his hood, jerking Edward's head up. Torres spat: "What is your true name, Rogue?"

"It's, ah..." Edward licked his lips, tasting blood on his tongue. He spit. "Captain Pissoff."

The guard raised his fist to strike again for that offense, but Torres raised his hand. Du Casse said something in French that Edward did not care to translate. Torres merely fixed Edward with a hard look. "Where is the Sage? Did you set him free?"

"I had nothing to do with that," Edward replied, falling back on his knees. He did not like being in this position, in front of a prick like Torres and an idiot like du Casse. He supposed there was an irony on this. The one thing he was being punished for, he was actually innocent of. "Much as I wish I did."

Torres sneered, tossing his head with impatience and turning on his heel. Clearly, he was done with Edward. To his guards, he snapped, "Take him to the Ports! Send him to Seville with the Treasure Fleet."

"Wait now!" Edward felt a strike of panic, as a guard and du Casse hauled him up, pinning his arms behind his back. "I delivered your Treasures, didn't I?"

"You did, yes," Torres said as Edward was shoved past, with more guards gathering to escort him. No escape now. "But you robbed us of Duncan Walpole."

Edward threw the man a ghoulish grin over his shoulder. "What, I wasn't convincing enough for you?"

He received a blow to the head for that one. Edward got one last look at Torres' enraged expression before the world went black.

And now, days later, he lied in the belly of a slave ship with even less money than when he started. None at all, in fact. Fantastic! But after the first week, Edward was starting to appreciate being chained to the floor — it gave him time to recollect, and plan his next move.

For starters: he had no idea what a Sage, an Assassin, or a Templar really were, but he had clearly stepped into something far deeper than he anticipated. Some secret war? From the way Torres had gone on about it when they first met, Edward got the impression that this rivalry had gone on for centuries. But how could Edward only be hearing of it now?

Perhaps this was his just deserts. Letting his arrogance and greed get to him like that. Edward should have known he was pushing his luck when he pickpocketed the Templar council. Even now, he wondered how long it took for them to discover their wallets a little bit lighter.

Edward had thought this was some strange conspiracy of fools when Julien du Casse started talking about assassins, as if Edward would somehow be previously associated with murderers for hire. But he was starting to think the people du Casse was talking about were of an entirely different kind of assassins. For starters, they liked to capitalize the word — Assassins, as if they were some sort of ancient creed. Edward had never heard of such malarkey.

Then he saw them with his own eyes.

Men and women, clad in white, darting from shadows and hidden places with the speed and grace of an eagle. Footsteps utterly silent, as though they were walking on air. What Edward had improvised on Torres' estate, they accomplished with a skill and speed he could never fake. These Assassins were not just any hitmen. They were of another breed entirely.

But they were still mortal. They died as any other man would, when a blade or bullet entered their heart. Edward had killed a few himself when they attacked Torres and his group. Had he known now what a prick Torres was, Edward would've let them succeed. Hell, he might have even helped them.

The Templars, whoever they were, clearly knew less about Assassins than they claimed. Despite the fact that Edward had never heard of either sect before in his life, he was able to successfully play those Templars for fools for an surprisingly long time, masquerading himself as a former Assassin with the requisite skills through just sheer force of improvisation.

But Edward had underestimated them as well. He cursed himself for his impatience — perhaps if he kept up the charade a bit longer, he could earned more from working under Torres. He didn't particularly care for the morality behind it. Who cared what side he as on, so long as he got his money?

What did Edward get himself into? Assassins. Templars. Sages. What madness was all this? He was starting to think stealing Duncan Walpole's identity had been a grave mistake. It had brought him nothing but further pain and misery. Even worse, confusion and the knowledge of a hidden world that he could not shake from his mind. Who were these Assassins? What did they want? Why were the Templars so afraid of them?

What Edward did know were that these Templars were arrogant prats, and they had made a very grave mistake, choosing Edward Kenway as their enemy.

Next to him, a fellow prisoner sighed, bringing Edward back from his reverie. He glanced at the man sharing his chains. A mountain of a man, with dark skin and an even darker glare. He had spoken only a few words to Edward so far, and spat at every Spanish soldier that walked past — even if it earned him a kick or two for the trouble.

Edward decided he liked this man. Perhaps he should ask his name…

The Canadian air was brisk, as Desmond gazed over the city, atop of the Notre-Dame Basilica. It lied Montreal's old district, filled with cobblestone streets and stone walls left over from the old fort, the city walls and the St. Lawrence river beyond. It glittered underneath the clear blue sky, the sun sharp and gleaming.

Desmond brought his hands up to his mouth, breathed on them as he rubbed them together. He had gotten a bit of of an upgrade in gear to last the cold weather — really, just a red wool scarf and fingerless gloves that allowed him to keep his dexterity. Fur-lined boots kept his feet warm, even hours later and hundreds of feet in the air. He still had his own hoodie, but underneath he wore a two thermal layers. It was a little thick to get used to, especially considering the weather he was also experiencing in the Animus.

Let's just say a winter in the Caribbean was far more preferable than one in goddamn Canada. Desmond had been in Montreal for about four days now. He hoped he’d acclimate soon.

"Nice view up there?" Rebecca asked through his earpiece.

"Little chilly," Desmond replied, tucking his hands under his armpits, surveying the city below. This was not the highest he'd ever been, but he'd still get vertigo if he leaned a little too far out. "Kinda reminds me of Italy, though. A really frosty, non-Italian Italy."

"You're a true wordsmith, Desmond," Rebecca snorted.

"Actually," Shaun interjected, and Desmond had to restrain a groan for the lecture he knew that was coming. "The building you're standing on, the Notre-Dame Basillica, is an example of Gothic Revival, which first appeared during the mid-seventeen-hundreds in, where else, England, centuries after the time Ezio lived in Italy —"

"Oh my god, no one cares," Desmond groaned, wishing that clapping his hands over his ears would've had any effect. "Shaun, why don't you go back to obsessing over Barry Roberts or whatever his name was."

"It's Bartholomew Roberts, thank you very much!" Shaun snapped, and Desmond could hear Rebecca smothering her laughter in the background. None of them were in the same location; Desmond at the Basilica, Rebecca at HQ, and Shaun at Abstergo. Desmond could stay connected with them so long as he stayed within the mile-range. "You may laugh at me now, Desmond, but mark my words! Dread pirate Bartholomew Roberts, a man of infamy during the Golden Age of Piracy, is the very Sage Torres and Edward met that day. He is the man that will lead us to the Observatory!"

"This must just be a 'me' thing, I never had a 'Pirates' phase when I was a kid," Desmond remarked, mostly to himself. "Because I don't get you geeking out for this guy."

"Geeking out ?" Shaun said, affronted. "I'm not geeking out, this is relevant material! Bartholomew Roberts was known as Black Bart, he was so infamous. He was never called that at the time, but that's what people know him now. He developed the Pirate Code for other pirates to follow, so even in lawless seas they could have some semblance of order. He was truly a trendsetter of the era! He practically defined half the stereotypes of pirates that now live on today! The big hats, the fancy dress. Edward's memories, however, are truly eye-opening. It's never been recorded what Robert's eye color was like, but I never expected him to have heterochromia..."

"Hetero-what-now?"

"Heterochromia ," Shaun repeated. "A genetic condition where your eyes are two different colors. Homochromia is what most people, like us, have. From what my research about the Sages tell me, heterochromia is one of the defining features of a Sage. Before DNA was a thing, its how you can identify them. Sages are apparently reborn every century or so. Legend has it that they are reincarnations of the same soul. Whose soul that is, I have no clue. But I have a feeling it might be related to Precursor DNA — that might be the key to opening the Observatory, if what Torres said meant about that crystal cube anything. Of course, not everyone with heterochromia is a Sage, but its definitely something to look out for."

"Oooh!" Rebecca gasped. "Are you saying that David Bowie might possibly be the Sage of this century? "

"Well, it would certainly explain a lot..." Shaun muttered. "But I have a feeling we'd have a hard time convincing Bill to kidnap one of the world's greatest musical icons."

"As fascinating at this is," Desmond drawled with only a tiny edge of sarcasm. His butt was starting to get cold, listening to this history lesson. He'd much rather do this inside if they were going to talk about Edward's memories. "I think I'd rather focus on some real-world problems right now. How's Elliott doing?"

"Fine, for the most part," Rebecca said. "He's still being interviewed. No idea what's going on in there, but I think he's in the Helix machine. Probably reliving one of those other memories they have. Some Irish Assassin-turned-Templar."

"They're spinning it as a redemption arc, like Aveline," Shaun added. " Although I think this guy, Cormac or something, was the real deal. He was an associate of Haytham Kenway, in fact."

"No shit," Desmond was actually mildly impressed by this. "You think he might have anything to do with the Observatory?"

"Not yet, but we'll see," Rebecca said. "If it pans out, Elliott will probably end up living out Cormac's other memories. We'll see what pops up, and take it from there . Right now, I’m worried about the security measures across the city. Did you know Montreal’s power grid is running on a computer server? It’s called a ctOS, belonging to a company called Blume, and it controls everything. Electricity, cameras, radio waves, wi-fi, Internet, traffic lights, cameras, you name it. Even local cell service is all connected."

“Let me guess,” Desmond said dryly, gazing down at the traffic below. “It’s secretly owned by Abstergo?”

“Bingo.” Shaun replied. “They have a monopoly on the city. See, having ctOS is completely free --- you have to pay to have any other service here. So of course everyone has it. This would be great if we knew how to hack it. But according to Elliott, we don’t have the proper access. Maybe with him in Abstergo Entertainment, we’ll figure out a way.”

“I hope so,” Rebecca said. “Because we’re pretty screwed if we don’t. You’re gonna have a hell of a time avoiding all of that coverage if Abstergo is literally watching from every angle. But small steps. I’ll contact Erudito, I know they have ways around it. Until then, I’ll keep working on the Animus.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, not really. At least, nothing that can’t be fixed. Just need to upgrade the memory storage. The Animus needs an upgrade to recreate all that ocean Edward sails on. You’re good on synchronization, I just want to make sure Baby can keep up with you.” Rebecca laughed at this. “You should be proud, Desmond, you’re actually beating technology at its own game.”

"Eh, it’s what I do,” Desmond shrugged, trying not to sound too pleased.

"So we're...date the Animus...sure it'll be..."

"Bex?" Desmond frowned, raising his hand to his head, tapping the earpiece. "Bex, you're breaking up on me."

"Desmond? Des...hear me? I'm getting....ference..." Rebecca's voice kept breaking out, fading into white noise and crackle. Desmond backtracked, wondering if he walked into a bad spot, but the noise only got worse. "Hey...got a piggyback...what the f...Desmond, hold — "

ZZZT!

"Rebecca? Rebecca!" Desmond called, to no avail.

Instead, another voice responded. "Hullo, Desmond Miles."

Desmond came to an abrupt stop. "Who the fuck is this?"

"My name is Aiden Pearce," the voice said, male, a deep baritone. "Consider me a friend."

"My friends usually don't hack my radio frequencies."

"Sorry," Aiden Pearce said, actually sounding chagrined. "But I need to speak to you privately. I need you to do something for me, Desmond. I've seen what you've done in New York, and I need you to help us here in Chicago."

"Chicago? Dude, maybe you don't know this, but I'm —"

"In Canada, I know, don't worry about it," Aiden cut him off. His tone was curt, to the point, had a kind of Batman-y vibe to it. Desmond wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. "You don't have to leave Montreal for this. I can help reconnect you to your brothers here in my city.”

My brothers ? Desmond frowned to himself. Was he talking about the Assassin cell team in Chicago? They had lost contact with them months ago. “So you’re not one of us.”

“No, but I work for a group with goals like yours, ” Aiden replied. “ Freedom, privacy, whatever you like to call it. We’re just a little better equipped to handle the modern age. See, Montreal is like Chicago, they both run on ctOS. Heard of it?”

“Recently, yes. Why? You can help us?”

“I can. Abstergo monitors everything through it. People like you and yours, trapped in cities like this, tend to get trapped. They get caught, which something neither of us want. But ctOS isn’t perfect. It’s a bitch to get through, but I’ve got a way to bypass all that bullshit. I can share it with you and your weird little conspiracy group if you do a favor for me. Sound fair?”

“I guess.” Desmond said, not entirely sure what he was getting himself into, but deciding to take a bite. “What do you want me to do?”

“You Assassins operate on a physical level we can’t. There’s a warehouse in Montreal I need you to get into. Owned by Abstergo, of course. Mostly supplies, but there are data servers there, too. I need you to upload some files for me. Once I receive them, I’ll give you the ctOS hack. You any good with computers?”

“I’m better at taking care of the people guarding them,” Desmond replied. “You got a location for this warehouse?”

“Yes, its by the river, on Pier Three. Again, Abstergo territory. I don’t have to tell you to be careful.” 

Desmond just snorted, turning on the spot so he faced the St. Lawrence river. At least it was close by. Squinting, he summoned his Eagle Vision, and as the world turned grey, a golden spot appeared in the distance. “Just one warehouse? I can handle it. Who's this ‘we’, by the way? Are you with Erudito?”

“Erudito are a bunch of tin-foil-hat-wearing-truthers with a modem,” Aiden replied, and Desmond was almost offended by his derisive tone. “I’m with a less....high-brow group. We’re trying to expose Blume Corporation. People here have no idea what they’re capable of. The crimes they’ve gotten away with. I’m here to change that.”

“Huh,” Desmond said, as he started climbing down the Basilica. About halfway down, he dropped onto a metal wire and quickly darted to the apartment building across the street. Feet landing on solid roof, he added, “So what you’re saying is you’re hacktivists.”

“That’s....one way of putting it,” Aiden grudgingly admitted.

“Nice,” Desmond laughed a little as he leapt from one roof to another, crossing a pile of boards bridging the gap over an alleyway. The warehouse on Pier Three was about half a mile away. He’d make it in about a minute and a half. “How’d you get onto our frequency? Did our cell in Chicago tell you?”

“Your buddies have no idea what’s going on outside except for that shows on the news,” Aiden replied. Through the connection, Desmond could hear cars honking, tires screeching, metal crunching. Sounds like Aiden Pearce, whoever he was, just passed a car crash. “I’m helping them because one saved my life earlier. Almost got myself exposed to Abstergo. Apparently there’s this group call the Templars...like the Knights or something. I guess you’d know more about that than me. Some secret war or something.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not know. I’ve got enough to deal with as is, ancient conspiracies are not my thing,” Aiden said, and Desmond decided that he liked the guy, a little bit. He certainly couldn’t fault him for that attitude - who wanted to get up to their necks in an ancient war that could get you killed just for knowing about it?

“Fine by me, as long as you keep your end of the deal, we’re square.”

“I’m a man of my word. ”

Desmond cross another street, taking a mighty leap and landing on top of a heavy rig paused at a stoplight, before lunging forward again. He dropped down on a delivery truck below, before coming down to a roll in the street. People gasped and backed away at the sight of him barreling through the streets --- they were wise enough not to get in his way. There were no cops in sight.

That would soon change, however, the closer Desmond got to the pier. As soon as the river came into view, he took a sharp right, heading down the street towards the warehouse. He spotted the Abstergo logo first, on a passing truck, and ducked into a street market selling artwork.

It stretched into the streets back into the city, and Desmond took the bustle and crowd as cover to climb back to the rooftops. The streets here were narrow, cobblestone and walking space only. Some rode scooters at their own risk. No one cast him a second glance.

“Can you see me right now?” Desmond asked, a stray thought in his mind. Just how much could Aiden see of him right now? He knew Desmond was in Montreal, but what else?

“No. I can only hear you.”

“How did you know where I was, then? How did you find me?”

“It’s what I do. I find people. I cross-referenced images of you in New York to ctOS images in Montreal. Some of it is connected here in Chicago, but its limited.”

“But this hack you have, it works in all cities?”

“The ones with ctOS, yes, it should.”

"So, tell me, why did you kick out my friends? They’re Assassins, they can be trusted.”

“To be honest, I’d prefer if it’s just between us, Desmond ,” Aiden replied. “ I like my privacy, and I don’t need extra voices on this feed. I had enough trouble convincing a friend that contacting you guys was a good idea. You Assassins have a reputation, to say the least.”

“You mean, aside from killing people?”

“Yes. Your allies tend to get the short stick, in terms of lifespan.”

“Oh. Fair point.”

The warehouse was just a hundred feet away, protected only by a brick wall and metal security gate. Easily passable by other means. Desmond scanned the area before approaching closer along the rooftops. There was a blind corner to the east he could enter, and there was always the water if nothing else worked. The warehouse was surrounded by guards on the ground, but the top floor seemed clear. A window was cracked open.

“Any tips before I go in?” Desmond asked.

“You’re there already?” Aiden sounded surprised for a moment, before recollecting. “Well, you guys are faster than I thought. To answer your question: Yes, there is. Most private Abstergo property runs on its own power. This should be a generator. I recommend taking it out, so you don’t activate any security measures while inside.”

“Good idea, thanks.”

Getting into the pier was the first step. Using that blind spot he saw earlier, Desmond got as close as he could to the pier along the rooftops, until only a single-lane road seperated him and the brick wall. It was maybe twenty-feet high, with nothing nearby to scale it. On the rooftops, Desmond was above it, and could jump over, but he wasn’t quite sure if the warehouse, just on the other side, was close enough for him to reach…

“Well, won’t know till I try,” Desmond muttered to himself, taking a step back to get a headstart.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Desmond took a deep breath, then launched himself off the roof.

And down he went.

He landed both feet on top of the brick wall. It didn’t even have barbed wire. Taking his falling momentum and not hesitating for even a moment, Desmond pushed himself forward, throwing his chest and arms out, and grabbing the lip of a window on the outside of the warehouse.

He brought up his feet just in time to stop himself from body-slamming the side of the building. Desmond went still, hanging off the end of the window, balls of his feet pressed to the wall, and looked below.

A guard passed by underneath. He didn’t even look up. He never saw the shadow descending upon him.

Desmond landed with a grunt, hidden blade in the neck of the Abstergo guard, before picking himself up. The generator, a machine the size of a small car, painted a garish yellow was only ten feet away. Desmond didn’t know how generators worked, but how hard would it be to turn one off?

Taking care to make sure no other patrols were coming around, he darted over. The two cameras on this side were pointed away at the moment --- Desmond was lucky, he caught them in a blindspot. Opening one of the hatch doors on the generator, he peered inside. There were a series of knobs and switches. There was no time to figure out how to safely do this.

Instead, Desmond raised his right hand, placed it over the switchboard. Smoke rose in the air, along with the smell of melted plastic and molten metal, and Desmond’s burning hand slipped through the generator wall into the machine underneath.

There was a loud grinding noise. Wires split upon immediate contact with his blackened skin, golden veins. Metal sizzled, pipes burst. Desmond had no idea there were pipes in generators. Or oil. It all burned beneath his touch.

The generator gave one last gasp of power --- then all the lights went out.

It was still daytime, so it wasn’t immediately obvious, but Desmond could hear the low whooom as everything inside the warehouse powered down. Before anyone could see what he’d done, Desmond quickly withdrew his hand from inside the generator and pulled himself on top.

Made sure his hood was still up, before starting his climb.

He was on the roof in seconds, while the first round of guards came to inspect the generator below. Desmond wasn’t worried about them, there was no way they were fixing the generator after what he did to it. A little out of breath, fingers aching from climbing cold brick, Desmond took a second to warm his numb hands before finding that open window.

Like he’d seen earlier, the top floor of the warehouse was unguarded. Yet, just as Desmond slipped inside, he heard footsteps, and looked around some crates to see a guard come up the stairs, armed with a gun. Sucking on his teeth, Desmond pulled back sharply, pressing his back against the crates, right before the guard spotted him. Damn, that was close.

Desmond sucked in his breath, went still as he listened to the guard getting closer. Slow, measured footsteps. Had he been spotted after all?

Desmond’s instincts screamed at him to run, act now, move, but he made himself wait. Just wait. Just wait a second longer…

The guard walked past. Silent as a wraith, Desmond stepped forward, fell in line behind the guard. Slipped one hand over the man’s mouth and with the other, slit his throat.

The man gagged, thrashed, but was already half-way dead when Desmond set him quietly on the floor. He may not have to deal with modern security tech, but one shout would still be enough to raise the alarm.

Once assured that no one heard a thing, Desmond crept over to the railing, looked down. The inside of the warehouse was hollow, and Desmond could make out two balconies below his before the ground floor. Seemed doable.

Eagle Vision revealed at least two guards on each floor. Everyone was on alert with the power out. They’re radios still worked. None seemed to realize he was here.

Then, on the bottom floor, a guard passed. Desmond tensed, unblinking. When the guard appeared again, he leapt.

The rush of wind hid the sound of his blade releasing. The guard paused, as if sensing the shadow of death looming upon him.

He never saw it coming.

This time, Desmond’s landing garnered more attention. The guard hit the ground with a great thump, and behind him, someone cried out in alarm. Another guard, female, bringing her own gun to bear.

She reached for the trigger. Desmond was faster.

He spun on a dime, threw himself at her. Impact was hard. Desmond, taller, bowled her right over. He withdrew his blade from her gut before bringing it down again to her throat.

Coming to a stand, Desmond looked up. The warehouse was now abuzz with noise and confusion. Safely hidden in the shadows beneath the balcony, Desmond was not spotted when the other Abstergo agents looked over the railings. All they saw was the prone body of Desmond’s second victim, blood pooling around his head.

Shouts went up, followed by the thundering of bootsteps down the stairs. Desmond was already on the move.

The bottom floor was dark, windows blocked by huge crates. The only light came from the upper floors, golden sunlight angling down at hazy angles. Dust filtered through the air, leaving trails of movement in Desmond’s wake. They had dissipated long before the first of the incoming reinforcements came down the steps. They ran to their fallen comrades, bending down, checking pulses. Desmond watched and waited, crouched in a dark corner beneath the staircase.

He heard the last of the agents come down the steps over his head. Metal clanging like bells in his ears, loud and jolting. Six in all, the last of the three did not rush to the others’ aid. Instead, they hesitated, remaining on guard at the foot of the steps, scanning the area for the intruder.

Desmond leaned forward on the balls of his feet, flicked his wrist. From his hand flew a tiny metal ball. It bounced off the cement floor --- tink, tink, tink!

“Huh?” the agents looked down, bewildered, as the little ball rolled to a stop in front of them.

Fwoosh!

A collective shout rose up as the ball exploded, sparks and smoke billowing into the air. Thick and black, it hung like a heavy blanket, spreading out fast. The three agents caught in its midst were rendered into hacking fits.

Desmond, scarf over his mouth, pulled himself up and over the side of the stair railings. Jumping onto the last guard in the back, another female, blade between her shoulders, right between two ribs and straight to the heart. She went down. The second, hearing the noise, turned around, just in time to receive Desmond’s hidden blade to the throat.

The last had his back to Desmond. He calmly drew up to the man, raised his arm, and slammed the blade down onto the base of the guard’s neck. He let out a gurgle before collapsing.

The remaining agents, still standing over the first two bodies, had jumped back to their feet. Guns raised, they stared at the now-clearing gas cloud. They shifted restlessly as the limp forms of their fallen comrades appeared through the haze --- but their killer was nowhere to be seen.

Hushed mutters filled the air. The remaining agents, two men and one woman, exchanged gaunt looks. Only now did they understand just what, or rather, who they were dealing with. An Assassin. Trembling, they drew closer together, forming a tight circle. One reached for his radio, something he should’ve done a long time ago.

A small knife reached it first.

It flew from the darkness in front of them, a wicked flash of light. The throwing knife burrowed itself into the radio attached to the man’s chest, thrown hard enough to pass through into his skin. The agent let out a grunt of pain. Behind him, the female guard jerked. Then the third agent went rigid a split second later. They both dropped, knives embedded between their eyes.

The last guard standing whipped around, startled. Wrong move.

Desmond slipped past the last dregs of smoke, wisping off his white hood. He swept forward, an eagle diving for its prey. His blade found its way into the guard’s back. He went down with only a small gasp, gun clattering uselessly across the floor.

Standing under dusty rays of sunlight, Desmond looked around. The warehouse was finally quiet.

He blinked, sought out the basement entrance with his vision. It appeared to his right, some twenty feet away. A metal hatch in the floor, like an underground bunker. Walking over to the hatch, Desmond bent down, pulled up the metal door. He sensed no one inside.

“I made it,” Desmond said, dropping into the dark room below. Cool air chilled him. Server towers loomed like giants on either side, dark. Turning off the generator had also turned off the power to the system inside. At the far end of the room, a single computer rested on a plain work desk. It looked like someone’s humble office cubicle got misplaced in a creepy sci-fi basement. “But, uh, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get the files with the power off.”

“No need, the files aren’t digital,” Aiden replied, not sounding the least bit surprised. “Abstergo may be at the forefront of security technology, but they also know you can’t hack a file cabinet. I’m sure a metal lock won’t get in your way.”

“Please,” Desmond scoffed, bending down to one knee and reaching for the drawers on one side of the desk. None of them were locked, and the bottom drawer was filled with files. “What am I looking for?”

“Look for a file marked ‘the Fox’ or some variation,”  Aiden said. “Anything on a group called DedSec. ”

“Is that who you work for, this DedSec?” Desmond asked, as he started flicking through tabs. There had to be at least a hundred files here. He had to squint, even with his Eagle Vision, just to read the tiny handwriting.

“No,” Aiden replied, and there was an edge to his voice, as if he was opposed to the assumption. “I’m a free agent. I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Then what’s your deal with Blume and Abstergo? What did they do to you?”

“Long story. You’ve got more important things to deal with, Miles.”

“Oh, it’s personal, I get it,” Desmond said with a knowing smile. “Does it have anything to do with your voice? It sounds like you’re gargling marbles.”

"What, my dulcet tones don’t please you?” Aiden replied sarcastically. “Just tell me when you find the files.”

“Got ‘em,” Desmond said after a moment. He pulled up two files, each labeled with the names Aiden mentioned. Fox. DedSec. He was tempted to look inside, but was distracted by another question. “Wait, how am I supposed to get these to you? Snail mail?”

“I would rather you not,” Aiden said dryly. “Like I mentioned earlier, upload them to me. I sent your friend Crane a message. Go back to her, and she’ll take care of the rest.”

“Seriously? No one messes with Rebecca’s stuff. You’re lucky she hasn’t already fragged your system, buddy.”

Aiden sniffed. “You talk too much.”

Tucking the files into his backpack, Desmond was just about to get up, when he spotted another tab, far in the back. He frowned, pulled the drawer out further, squinting at the tab to make sure he read it correctly. In black sharpie were the words: SUBJECT 6: LYNCH, JOSEPH.

Subject 6? As in, part of Vidic's Animus Project? Desmond hadn't met anyone else a part of it, aside from Clay - and that had been a posthumous occasion. He had no idea who the other subjects were, or what happened to them. He wasn't sure if anyone else did, either. But it was the only file of its type here. And Desmond had to admit, the name Lynch sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe a family name from the Farm? He couldn't remember. He should ask Bill. If anyone would know, it'd be his dad. Whoever this Joseph Lynch was, he was still important to Abstergo.

Taking that file, too, Desmond finally decided to depart. He made a quick exit, stage left out of the warehouse. Its security force severely diminished, he had no problem slipping out the front door and scaling the brick wall, dropping down to the street on the other side.

Rubbing his hands on his jeans, Desmond was just about to step off the curb when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

White hood. Blue-tailored robes. Buckskin and leather. Steel tomahawk.

Desmond blinked, doing a double-take. “What the…?”

But he was still there. Standing on the opposite street corner, beside the gas station. Still, unmoving, watching.

Ratonhnhaké:ton.

Desmond stared, unable to believe his eyes. Because he knew right away that this wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t the Bleeding Effect. Connor wasn’t shadowed in the blue whisps of other old ghosts.

He was there.

He was real.

Although Connor’s face was hidden underneath his hood, Desmond still sought out his eyes, and felt a chill down his back when he sensed their gazes connecting.

This couldn’t be happening. Was this another one of his dreams? What the hell was going on?

Before Desmond could make any sense of this, Connor dipped his head, before turning away, heading down an alley. Watching him go, a jolt of panic went through Desmond’s chest. No, no . He couldn’t let Connor out of his sight. He had to know what this was.

But just as he stepped forward, a truck roared past, horn blaring. Desmond gasped, reeled back, shaken.

When he looked again, Connor was gone.

set by me :)

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

Saw That One Coming...

"Desmond! Where the hell have you been?" Rebecca demanded the first second he walked in.

"Your comms went dead," Elliott explained, slumping in his seat with relief, but his eyes were wide with concern. "Couldn't track you via GPS. Not even the drones could find you."

"We thought something bad happened!" Shaun said, throwing up his arms. Of the three he seemed the most frazzled, his hair a mess, glasses askew, like he'd been fiddling with them this entire time. "W-we thought maybe Abstergo caught you again! That maybe they, that they were going to send you back to Rome, or-or —"

"Guys, guys, everything's fine!" Desmond held up his hands, pulling a face. Least to say, everyone was a little concerned when he returned to the wheelhouse. "Nothing bad happened. I just, ah, picked up a call."

"Excuse me?" Rebecca planted her hands on her hips, starting to look pissed.

"Just let me explain," He said, flopping on one of the spare roller seats in the main room. His back and legs were sore from climbing all day, and he really needed a moment to just breathe. "While I was up on that church, I got a call from this guy. Said his name was Aiden Pearce. From Chicago. Heard I was an Assassin and wanted my help getting some files."

"Aiden Pearce?" Shaun repeated, throwing a baffled look at Rebecca. "Never heard of him. He's one of us?"

"Not exactly," Desmond scratched his chin. "I think he's just some...hacker vigilante. Works for these guys called DedSec?"

"Oh shit!" Elliott sat straight up, rocking forward in his seat. "DedSec? Yo, those guys are serious business. I heard they were responsible for that massive black-out in the Midwest last year. They're this underground team of hackers, anti-establishment, fighters to censorship… a big deal. You're telling me one of their guys contacted you?"

"Sure sounds like it," Desmond replied with a shrug. He was glad someone knew what was going on, because he sure didn't. "Anyways, this Pearce guy had me break into this Abstergo facility on the port. Data files, hard copies. You know. They had all these old documents on dead assassins. Other folks, too, I guess. Not sure. He wanted a file on someone codenamed Fox."

As he continued recounting his tale, Desmond noticed his father walking in from the corner of his eye. Desmond didn't acknowledge him, but was aware of the attention, as William leaned against the doorframe and listened silently, sipping a cup of coffee. He was afraid that William might interrupt at some point, chastise Desmond, but it never happened.

When he got around to the part where Pearce held up his end of the deal, Rebecca actually smiled.

"Hmm, that explains the backdoor I found in the ctOS," Rebecca mused, sitting back down in her seat. She seemed pleased at the discovery. "I thought it was just dumb luck, it seemed so obvious...I guess Blume must be working with Abstergo, then."

"Or they are Abstergo," Shaun muttered, pinching his brow behind his glasses. Of the three, he still seemed annoyed. "Can't imagine what it must be like if they get their hands on other cities like this. If Blume gets as big as Abstergo, then they'll have entire nations under their net…"

"Is that what we're doing now?" Elliott asked them. "Dismantling ctOS?"

"Blume is the central target," Shaun replied. "But the ctOS will definitely be the first thing we'll be dealing with if we head out to any other cities equipped with it. As much fun as it would be to take down an entire corporation, I'm not exactly sure it fits into our schedule…"

"We're still going to keep doing what we did before," Rebecca continued, gesturing to Desmond. "Using the Animus, uncover more memories. We still need to know what and where the Observatory is."

At the thought of the Animus, Desmond cringed. He didn't mean to, but it just… happened. And everyone noticed.

Shaun frowned. "What's wrong?"

"It's, ah, it's nothing," Desmond laughed, but it sounded a little frantic, a little awkward. Unable to hide his own discomfort, Desmond scratched the back of his head and shrugged, hoping he could play it off like no big deal. "Just, you know, might've maybe seen Connor today, on the way back."

"Connor?" Everyone repeated in shock, and it was Rebecca who added, "As in, the Bleeding Effect?"

"Uh, yeah, maybe," Desmond said, realizing his attempt to make this sound normal completely failed. Well, he tried. "Just, er, less ghost-y than usual."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shaun demanded. "For once I'd appreciate it if you used more technical terms, Desmond. You know, like an actual human being?"

Desmond's response to this was to flip him off, but before the discussion could continue, a new voice entered the conversation. "Connor was never recorded as ever traveling to Canada."

William.

Everyone turned to face him. The old man's face was indiscernible, as usual, but Desmond thought there might've been a curious hint to it. "I don't know. I'm just telling you guys what I saw. It was Connor, I know it was. And he didn't look… transparent. He looked real."

"First you start getting visions from Connor," William continued, walking into the room from wherever he came from. The Batcave, perhaps. "And now you're seeing him in the real world. You can understand why I'm concerned by this."

"You, concerned?" Desmond made an expression of mock surprise. "Say it ain't so, pops."

That earned him a Disapproving Look. "I'm serious, Desmond. I think you should take a break from the Animus for a while. Stay in our world."

"I'd like to remind all of you that these visions started before I went back into the Animus?" Desmond said, phrasing it as a question to the group at large. "And what else am I supposed to do? You guys all have, you know, jobs. You're not international fugitives from the law. And we need to find out where this damn Observatory is, and I'm the only one who can do it!"

"Des, I think your dad has a point," Elliott said from the back, wincing a little when Desmond scowled at him. "No offense but… it does sound a little crazy, dude."

"Just for a couple days, maybe?" Shaun suggested with one hand cupped towards the ceiling. "Can't hurt, right? We're still in the midst of dismantling Abstergo's tyranny of ctOS in Quebec. We still need you for that."

"I can't believe I'm the one arguing for Animus!" Desmond laughed. "I hate the Animus!"

He didn't expect things to turn out this way. Desmond had hoped this whole dealio with Pearce would be a net positive, but nope. Nothing could ever be easy for Desmond Idiot Miles. Should've kept his damn mouth shut. Now everyone was thinking he was off his rocker. Again.

Desmond knew he wasn't losing it. He knew this wasn't the Bleeding Effect, at least not in the same way. He'd never experienced it so terribly after his coma, and even this time around, he knew this was different. Firstly, no weird headaches or passing out. No out-of-body experience. Connor had just been there. Sure, that one time with the Aquila happened, but they didn't have to know about that. Desmond had already been pretty close to dying that time.

Nothing he could think of could turn this situation around. Desmond wasn't very good at talking his way out of situations; with good guys or bad guys, apparently. And you couldn't stab the good guys until they agreed with you (or were dead).

"Fantastic," Desmond scowled, folding his arms and leaning against a nearby pillar. Outvoted.

"On the bright side," Rebecca began on a hopeful tone. Delicate, but hopeful. She even offered Desmond a wary smile. "I might've discovered a cool new conspiracy for you to investigate."

Desmond fixed her with a curious look. He wasn't expecting this. "I love conspiracies. Continue."

"Well, its something I've been looking into for the past couple weeks, but I didn't hit anything good until a few days ago. And then, about an hour before you got back, I got something really good," Rebecca said, her face slowly pulling into a grin. "You wanna hear it?"

At this point, everyone in the room was focused on her. Shaun and Elliott and rolled in closed on their spinny chairs, and even William's interest looked piqued. Seeing that she was now center stage with rapt, unblinking attention, Rebecca flushed slightly and turned to her computer. "Okay!"

"We've — and by we, I mean myself and occasionally Shaun when he deigns to grace me with his presence — noted suspicious activity surrounding the Basilica; for the past month, it's been under renovation, and normally this wouldn't be strange, except for the fact that Abstergo is publicly funding the endeavor. They claim an interest in preserving history, so obviously that means they think they found something. Because of heavy security we've been unable to learn what's inside — until now. With the ctOS down, we have a chance to get inside and see for ourselves."

"Do you think its connected to the Observatory?"

"Possibly," It was Shaun's turn to speak, earning a disgruntled look from Rebecca. He just shrugged, a wry smirk on his face, before it got serious again, "but it's hard to say at this point when we don't know about the Observatory, either. And Abstergo runs multiple 'historical'," He made air-quotes, "operations at once, many unrelated to one another aside from being First Civ artifacts. This doesn't undermine the importance of the Basilica, however. In fact, I'd say it would make our efforts all the more urgent."

"We can't let our hunt for the Observatory blind us to the Templars' other machinations," William interjected in a low tone. Everyone looked at him in surprise, as he hadn't said a word before this point. "Nazari will continue his work in Abstergo. I'd like more information on this Melanie character, and her boss. He seems affable enough, but I believe he may be part of the inner circle. Melanie, I'm not so sure."

"She just seemed like an innocent employee to me," Elliott shrugged.

"An employee whose willing to play dirty for her boss," William countered. "Templar or no, that still makes her a threat. Don't trust a word she says, Nazari. Desmond, I know you hate being taken off the Animus (for once) but would you kindly look into the Basilica for us?"

Desmond grinned. "Add a 'pretty please with a cherry on top' and I just might."

William just stared at him.

Desmond threw up his hands, giving up. "Alright, fine! I'll do it."

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

Vault Raider

Night time fell on Montreal.

Desmond looked down upon the city from his perch, the bell-tower of City Hall. From there, just southwest of his position, lied the twin towers of the Notre-Dame Basilica.

And whatever lied beneath.

"How's the weather up there?" Rebecca asked brightly.

"I'm freezing my balls off," Desmond muttered, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "These extra layers are doing nothing."

"Toldya to go with the thermal underwear, bro," Elliott tsked.

"Shut it, hackerman,"

"Let's stay on task here, kids," came the aggrieved sigh of William Miles. Desmond could just see him running a hand down that old face. Least to say, having a group voice chat was not William's idea of a good time. "Hastings, you have anything helpful to add before we begin?"

"Oh, nothing," Came Shaun's voice, in a sing-song manner. "Just that I'm really enjoying my terminal by this warm fireside, with this cup of hot chocolate milk, and a nice fleece blanket around my shoulders. Unlike Desmond!"

"Oh, fuck you."

"Alright, now that we got all of that out of our systems, let's begin." William clipped on, as if nothing had been said.

As if Desmond needed the go-ahead — he was already on the move. As soon as Shaun started talking about warm firesides, he couldn't take the damn cold anymore. Exercise was the only way he was going to stay alive. In the most literal sense. In a series of three quick moves, Desmond had dropped down from his perch, flipped onto the roof below, and rolled back up into a light jog, slowly building speed. "Three steps ahead of you, pops."

Another deep sigh, which imbued three years on Desmond's lifespan. It was only a mild dig for calling them "kids".

The Basilica was only a few blocks away, and Desmond kept the flickering warm, golden lights in focus as he made it to the end of the roof. Began his way across a thin wire, iced over by the weather. "Elliott, give me a layout of the area. What do the drones see?"

"Only light security around the perimeter," Elliott replied. Somewhere in the distance, his little drone was hovering above the church, giving the team a full view of the area. The only one who couldn't see it was Desmond. "I'm counting six, maybe eight guards patrolling the area. Armed with what looks like stun batons and small firearms. No workmen or crew around. I count a few more guards inside, pacing in front of the windows. You should be able to avoid them if you stick above the second floor."

"Got it." Stealth was critical. Well, it always was, unless it was an emergency. Desmond decided that tonight would not be. Yet.

He slipped only once on the icy wire before recovering and hopping the last three feet to safety. From there, it was a series of racing across rooftops, scaling brick facades, and jumping from air duct to chimneys. Untouched snow crunched beneath his feet, the soft floury kind that didn't stick very well.

Nine at night, Desmond was hoping that "construction" at the Basilica would be closed by now. Not to mention it was below twenty degrees, which had to be a cause for unsafe working conditions. Was Abstergo really that evil?

Who was he kidding? Of course they were.

Up, down, and over. Desmond slid down a slanted roof covered in snow, which slowed his fall as he came to a stop at the took in the sight before him, the Basilica just across the street. Up close, it felt huge, stony and impenetrable. Elliott was right, there were surprisingly few guards on the ground. There were shifting shadows in the windows, but nothing that made Desmond uncertain. He already had an idea on how to get in without anyone spotting him.

"Notre Dame Basilica is what some consider to be the pinnacle of Gothic Revival architecture. Its interior design is considered to be some of the best, most dramatic examples of the style around the world."

As annoying as Shaun could be sometimes, Desmond had to admit (not aloud) that hearing him gush over historical stuff was kind of adorable, in a nerdy way. It was the only time Desmond could rely on his friend to be at his most genuine. And it had its own nostalgia, climbing the towers of Florence and Venice… that felt like ages ago.

As Shaun continued going over the basic history of the church, Desmond figured out a way to get in.

First problem: crossing the street without getting noticed. That was easily remedied. Desmond traveled along the buildings on his side of the street until he found the narrowest interval between rooftop and church. Below on the street, was a crane for window-washing. It's crane was conveniently turned towards Notre Dame, narrowing the stretch even further. Leaping off a gutter, Desmond landed on the thin metal bar, only about as wide as his hand — one foot in front of the other, he tight-roped his way across, taking care not to slip on the narrow, icy surface.

He dropped into the basket on the end, judging the last stretch. It was about ten feet across, but where could he catch hold. There was no light on the Notre Dame in this corner, which was excellent for cover and not so excellent for not wanting to die leaping into thin air.

Eagle vision provided a little help. Squinting into the darkness, he caught the glint of a ledge. Just big enough to grab onto.

Crouching on the railing, Desmond shifted from side to side, wriggling his haunches like a cat about to pounce — and jumped.

Stone met his fingertips.

One hand slipped.

"Shit!" Desmond gasped as all his weight fell onto his remaining hand, body slamming into the wall of the basilica. It knocked the breath out of him — the fall had to have been at least fifteen feet, and now his chest had taken the worst of it.

At least he was still alive.

Wincing slightly, he lifted his hand and grabbed a new hold, and began his climb.

"Hey, Dad," Desmond grunted as he leveled himself up past a window. "Does the name Lynch mean anything to you? Joseph Lynch?"

"Joseph — I — yes, it does," William sounded surprised, taken off guard. "Lynch was one of our agents in Ireland. I've spoken with him a few times but that was before I was Mentor. I think he eventually transferred to America — had a family here. Texas, I think. A wife and a son, a bit older than you. It took awhile to find out anything after the Purge."

"What happened to them?"

"From what I hear, Lynch killed his wife before he was captured by the Templars. I'm not sure of the reason, but I hope it was a good one. I don't know what happened to his son. Just disappeared. I think his name was Caleb or Collin, something like that… why do you ask?"

"Hm," Was all Desmond said, mentally chewing on that information. He wondered why Aiden Pearce would be interested in that. "Just curious. It's what our new friend was looking for."

"For a man not involved in the Assassins, he sure seems interested in us," William said.

"We might be hearing from him again, soon," Rebecca added. "I sent those files over like you asked, Des. The encrypted packet will keep it safe from Templar hands. And hopefully Juno's. Anyone who tries to force it open will trigger the self-destruct sequence, deleting all the information."

She sounded very proud of this clever trick, and Desmond couldn't help but smile. They were a small team, but he had some of the best on his side. "Thanks, Bex. You're the best."

"You know it!"

Scaling the tower was no easy feat but it felt… familiar. Desmond was familiar with the gothic architecture that Shaun had nutted over.

Continuing up along the east tower, Desmond kept an eye out for an open window, some place he could slip into. He could feel the warmth radiating from the glass; it was so tempting, but when he caught the glimmer of a red silhouette behind it, Desmond decided better of it and kept going up.

God, it was freezing. Wearing fingerless gloves may give him better motor control, but the fingers on his left hand were starting to go numb. The right hand, the burned one, seemed completely unaffected. Not that Desmond could really know, of course.

Noise on the comms was kept to a minimum as he concentrated. He occasionally heard a bit of background chatter as the team spoke to each other out of range; was Desmond envious of how all of them were nice, cozy, and safe in the firehouse? Maybe a little.

Okay, a lot.

But he was the only one for this job. No one else had three-and-counting ancestors in their brain.

Finally, finally he reached the rooftop of the tower. Just as he suspected, there was a hatch that led inside. A security guard, standing directly below it, keeping watch.

Slipping the hidden blade through the lock and breaking it with a tiny snap, Desmond carefully pulled the hatch open. The guard below didn't hear a thing, kept looking out the window. Turned on his heel. Faced the other direction.

Desmond almost felt bad for this guy. This was quite possibly the most boring post in the entire church.

Well, it'd be a short one.

Like a shadow, Desmond descended upon the guard, silencing him before he ever got a chance to speak. Two bodies hit the ground, one stood up again. "I'm in."

"Excellent," William replied. "We have eyes inside."

Desmond looked up in time to see Elliott's little drone come flying in. It tipped one wing at him in greeting before flying ahead down the steps. Startled at the speed, Desmond chased after it. "Hey, wait up!"

"Ha-ha, last one there is a rotten egg." Elliott laughed.

If there was one thing the drone provided, it was the element of surprise. There was another guard on the way down, who'd been so startled by the sudden arrival of the drone that he didn't see Desmond coming up behind him. The man had just been reaching for his radio when Desmond slammed his blade into the back of his neck.

There were two more security assets until Desmond reached the gallery. He initially cast a casual glance about the grand cathedral, before doing a double-take, and coming to a stop. For a moment, Desmond caught himself in a moment of awe.

"Whoa."

The interior of the cathedral was dimly lit, only with candles and wall lamps; the great cavernous ceiling was a deep blue, covered in a pattern of stars. Everything was painting in rich colors; royal purple, deep gold, robin's blue… there was a great rose window in the center of the ceiling that seemed to glow in the night-time, and the grand organ at the nave seemed to be a living structure entirely on its own. With its own mini gothic towers, fitted with alcoves for statues of saints and martyrs, and none other than ya boi Jesus in the center.

Sound echoed in here like a choir. The whispers of the security team on the ground floor carried all the way up to Desmond, on the third level. Every little sound seemed to be amplified, the sheer volume of room creating a deep, strange resonance, as though some greater being were residing here, watching them all.

Had Desmond been a different man, a place like this would have easily convinced him of the power of God.

"Desmond?" Elliott asked in his ear. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, uh, nothing," Desmond, catching himself in a moment of reverie, shook his head in embarrassment. "Sorry, just got distracted. Let's go."

In admiring the scenery, Desmond figured out pretty easy where he was supposed to go. The beauty of the church was marred only by the construction work on the bottom floor. Sawhorses, industrial lamps, a variety of tools and machines set about on the tile, the pews stacked and pushed aside as if they were an inconvenience.

Renovations, my ass. Desmond thought glumly. Abstergo had torn up the floor with little regard for the beauty there. Broken tile was strewn about, collected in random piles of debris. A ladder had been erected, leading down into the ten-foot hole they'd dug into the ground.

Shaun, too, was deeply offended. "That tile is over three hundred years old! Do they have any idea the intricacy of the handiwork they've destroyed!"

"I think whatever's underneath here is more valuable to them." Desmond muttered.

"I hate Abstergo." Shaun grumbled. "We can't let this go unpunished."

"I'm sure the church is glad you're here to advocate for it," Desmond couldn't help a little sarcasm slip into his voice. "Fighting the good fight."

He got only a scoff in return, and Desmond vaguely regretted the biting remark. Sure, a church wasn't the same thing as innocent lives, but he understood that Abstergo was reckless in its search for First Civ artifacts. There was a history here, a value that Desmond may not fully understand or appreciate, but the people who lived here did. The people who'd build this place did. This was a place that brought people together. It was a haven, a home. He couldn't imagine how unhappy the citizens of Montreal would be if and when they found out what Abstergo was doing to their beloved church.

Taking care of the ground crew took a hot minute to complete. Knowing he couldn't keep track of their movements underground, Desmond decided to take out as much of the security forces inside, so there was no one left alive to discover there was an intruder. Again, stealth was key. He couldn't allow a gun to be fired, or a radio call to be made. Elliott's drone proved to be useful, scanning the area quickly and allowing Desmond a good understanding of where everyone is. Sure, Eagle Vision could accomplish the same thing, but the one thing Desmond couldn't do was see behind him.

It was nice to have someone at his back, watching out for him.

Finally, once the interior was clear, Desmond made his way to the hole. He walked casually now, down the center aisle and coming to stop at the edge of the construction work. Peering down, he saw that Abstergo had dug right through a basement level, and seemed to have begun tunnel work underneath.

"Welp," he looked up at the drone, whose little camera lens winked back at him. "Time to go spelunking."

"That's not what spelunking is," Rebecca said, but it was too late. Desmond had already jumped in. "...You know, there was a ladder."

"Just let me have this," Desmond landed with a grunt, taking a quick look around before making sure he was alone. It seemed that work had paused for the night; either that, or there just wasn't anyone down this particular level. The tunnel he was not make of dirt and rock as he'd suspected — but rather of stonework, laid together and forming a kind of ancient sewer or pathway.

Guess Abstergo wasn't just randomly digging here after all.

Wall lamps had been hung up along the walls in order to light the way. Desmond, keeping his guard up, began to walk forward. "You guys seeing this?"

The drone went on ahead, but remained in his line of sight. Shaun replied, "Sure do. I'd say it was some kind of sewer system, but there's carvings along the walls here. Some kind of old French…"

"Wait, there's someone up ahead," Elliott warned, interrupted Shaun before he could translate.

Desmond saw the carved writing that Shaun had noticed, but paid it no heed. He had heard light, casual chatter of people up ahead. Dropping to a crouch, he slowly worked his way down the tunnel, around a corner. There were crates and boxes stacked here, mostly for carrying equipment, and Desmond ducked behind one as he spotted a guard just beyond it.

The guard was speaking to his compatriot standing just across from him. The second was looking the direction Desmond had come from, and it was a wonder Desmond hadn't been spotted. Desmond remained absolutely still, signing to the drone behind him to remain out of sight. He had to take care of these hooligans first.

They were speaking jovially, although Desmond didn't understand what they were saying. He waited a full two minutes before one of them finally moved away. The second one, who'd been looking in his direction, finally shifted from his spot and began walking further down the tunnel.

Peeking up over the boxes, Desmond reached out and grabbed the guard from behind. The man let out a yelp as he was flipped over backwards, before a blade sunk into his throat. The second guard, alerted by the noise, turned around — only to be met by Desmond, who charged up and tackled him. The man hit the ground, chest bleeding, dead.

"That looks to be it," Elliott said as the drone continued ahead, safe. "Oh, hey, a crypt!"

Desmond ran along after it until he came across the room in which the drone ended up in; low ceilings, it felt cramped, and more than a little creepy considering there was a big ol' tomb in the center of it. The walls were plain and lit with an eerie blue light from the lamps. They flickered ever so often, which did not instill any amount of confidence in Desmond.

Shaun gasped with glee. "That must be the architect of the Basilica, James O'Donnell. An Irish-American, he was actually Protestant, and only converted to Catholicism on his deathbed — he remains the only one interred in the Basilica's crypt. He's the reason why the Basilica was built in such a grand style. I wouldn't be surprised if he had something to do with whatever Abstergo found beneath the site. Hmm..."

Desmond, sensing a disturbance in the Force, asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's just… it's weird, this isn't where the crypt is marked on the official basilica map…" Shaun muttered, apparently to himself. Desmond could hear the crackle of pages being flipped as Shaun scanned a reference book. "According to the GPS tracker on the drone, this crypt is about a hundred feet off from where the crypt is located in the basilica. Why would they bury him someplace different…?"

"Maybe to protect his remains?" Desmond took a guess, pacing around the sarcophagus. He wasn't entirely sure that's what you'd call this, but it seemed appropriate, and he wasn't going to expose himself to being called a dumbass by Shaun for asking. "Or to hide something…"

"Ah, of course!" Shaun exclaimed, followed by a bang, like he'd just smacked the table. "How did I not see it before! You must be beneath the vaults of the Notre Dame Church!"

"Uh, explain, please, for the stupid people listening in?"

"Okay, SO," Shaun took a deep breath; Desmond could just hear him shaking with excitement. "For the uninformed, the Basilica was not the first Notre-Dame built. Back in 1682, the French built the Notre-Dame Church, a smaller parish that lasted until 1830. That building served as the first cathedral for the Diocese of Montreal. As the colony grew and became a city in its own right, the people quickly found out that the congregation had outgrown the church. So they began the construction of the Basilica, only a short ways away. It appears O'Donnel built this room underneath the old one, in which he was interred; the one in the Basilica must be some kind of decoy."

"Which Abstergo figured out."

"Yes, but the buck seems to stop here," Shaun replied, now returning to his usual frustration. "This room must have stumped them. There's only one way in here. Maybe there's something we're not seeing. Maybe you should open the tomb, see what's inside — delicately, of course! Please do not disturb the remains."

Desmond made a face. "Let's just hold on a second. At least let me take him to dinner first."

To be honest, looking at dead, desiccated bodies was not Desmond's idea of a good time and he didn't want to look inside the crypt until he was sure that's what he was supposed to do. But there wasn't anything else in this room to look at. And, to him, looking inside the tomb would've been the first thing Abstergo would do, and if they hadn't figured it out, then that clearly wasn't the answer.

Also, that stone slab looked really heavy.

His eyes picked up on a faint golden glimmer. The tomb was carved with a life-size replica of the architect in his sleep. On his chest, under folded hands, was a sword. The medieval kind. But this man was from the 1800s, why would he be depicted with that kind of weapon?

It was the sword that glowed faintly under Desmond's Eagle vision. So it was that he'd reached out, and touched with his right hand.

The pain was immediate.

He let out a hiss, snapping his hand back, the glowing veins seeping into his skin burning like lava was running through them. The reaction it had on the sword, however, instantly made him forget about his arm.

For the sword had begun to glow.

"Whoa." Four voices echoed the thought in Desmond's head, watching together as a series of circuit-like lightwork began tracing its way down the sword, over the tomb, and onto the floor, spreading like a nervous system until it was onto the walls — filling the entire room with pale white light, and casting a series of strange images and symbols into high relief.

Immediately, Shaun started to speak, rapid-fire as he was taking all this in. Clearly, the symbols on the wall meant something, but that wasn't what had caught Desmond's notice. Because the tomb had started to move.

It began sliding to the right, and Desmond had to duck aside to give it room. Coming around, he was surprised to find another hole beneath it, a set of stairs leading down into darkness.

And then, a voice: "Welcome, Prophet."

"What?" Desmond whirled around, startled. "Who was that?"

It wasn't Juno's voice, but it was definitely female and definitely First Civ. But that wasn't the worst part of it.

"What was what?" Elliott asked through the comms.

"You didn't hear that?" Desmond asked, dread filling his gut.

"No," came the collective reply.

He sighed, shoulders drooping. Great. "Never mind, then."

Well, whoever lived here definitely knew who Desmond was, which was… fantastic. He just hoped they weren't friends with Juno. As he began down those black steps — a completely different material from what the rest of the crypt was made of it, shiny black and glowing every so faintly — Desmond couldn't help but feel creeped out. He had this strange feeling that the First Civ had been expecting him.

That did not bode well.

The walls lit up with strange patterns as he passed, and faded again behind him. The glow only seemed to last in his direct vicinity. It allowed Desmond to see a few feet ahead, but gave him the distinct impression he was under a spotlight. That he was being watched.

He glanced at the walls as he went; the patterns looked like hieroglyphs, depicting people and scenes, but nothing he could really understand. First Civ language was beyond his comprehension, yet he could just barely make out a story — he recognized the Trinity: Juno, Minerva, and Jupiter, depicted within a giant circle. Perhaps the shield in which they promised to protect their people with.

Further scenes depicted people suffering, dying. Juno and another male, not Jupiter — this male had one gold eye and one blue — apparently in love. Her consort? Then she was weeping over a sarcophagus. Death. Later still, Juno interacting with another male, different in appearance but with those same eyes, one blue and one gold…

Aita. The name echoed in his head like a ghost. It sounded familiar. He was pretty sure Juno had mentioned it in the New York Temple. Desmond wondered why the story was being depicted here.

"Hey dad," Desmond spoke out loud, realizing his father had been silent this entire time. "Any thoughts on this?"

"Its… intriguing," William responded at length. He sounded distracted. "I hope whatever's down here, we'll be able to destroy it before Abstergo finds o — we're — low —"

"Dad?" Desmond frowned, coming to a stop. The tunnel seemed to continue forever, and he heard a faint buzzing behind him. He turned to see the drone faltering in the air, its rotors struggling. "Hello? Anyone copy?"

"Sor — bad connect — too deep —" Elliott's fractured voice broke through.

More garbled sounds. The drone darted back and forth, as static continued to buzz in his ear, before the drone finally dropped, crashing to the floor.

"Aww," Desmond pouted a little, then went over to pick up the fallen drone. It's engine was still going, but it was clear he'd ventured too deep for the radio signals to reach. "Don't worry, little buddy, we'll be out of here soon."

He wasn't sure why he was talking to the drone like it was a lost puppy. Desmond hoped no one heard that.

Tucking the drone under his arm, Desmond continued onwards. Now he felt truly alone. Utterly, completely alone.

At last, he came upon the vault.

That was the first word that came to him when he stepped inside. A small, compact room, with shelves on all sides. There was more hieroglyphs on the floor, but Desmond was far more fascinated with the items displayed all around him.

Hundreds upon hundreds of little glass cubes. In each one, a red center. A drop of blood.

Just like the one Edward found on the body of the Assassin he killed. Desmond couldn't help but gape in surprise. Had this been what the Caribbean Rite been looking for back then?

But no, this wasn't the Observatory. Desmond could tell that much, there wasn't a lot here to explore. It just seemed to be a kind of storage for these cubes… whatever they were.

Well, that, and the plinth in the center of the room. On top laid a metal hand.

The silver had tarnished with age, but that didn't hide the fine craftsmanship, or the jewels inlaid into its surface. A reliquary, Desmond realized, as he stepped closer to study it. There was a little window that revealed the bones of a hand inside. Yellowed with age, the bones appeared quite ancient, with leathery pieces of skin still attached. The metal had just the faintest smell of decay about it.

"Ew," Desmond said, and immediately picked it up.

This had once belonged to some kind of saint, or holy person. Someone had discovered this vault before, and perhaps sensing its great power, left the relic here to protect it. Maybe Abstergo was looking for this, too.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to leave it here for them to find. Wrinkling his nose slightly, Desmond tucked the metal hand into his backpack. Shaun would know more about it.

He almost expected a giant ball of rock to come descending down on him, ready to crush him beneath it, but no such thing happened. The room was eerily quiet, pulsing gently under faint light. The aesthetic was deceptively futuristic with its sharp, modern geometry and minimalism — this place was probably older than the colony itself. The very reason why the churches were built upon this location.

Returning to the cubes, Desmond plucked one off a shelf, examining it closer. He'd only seen one of these in Edward's memories, and still had no idea what they did. All he knew was that it had something to do with the Observatory. All Edward knew, at least. It would take more explorations into the old pirate's memories for him to find out for sure.

But they were valuable. And he couldn't let them into the hands of the Templars.

Something rustled at the edge of Desmond's hearing.

Speak of the Devil.

Desmond whirled around. There, standing in the doorway, silhouette illuminated by the light of the Vault, was none other than Juhani Otso Berg.

And he looked pissed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bunker Buddies

“E-easy, big guy,” Desmond spoke slowly, hands up as he quickly gauged the situation. Utterly cornered, only one exit, blocked by Berg, surrounded by thousands of special shiny things, and completely cut off from his friends that could help. 

Oh, and three more guys just joined in. Fantastic. Desmond was loving these odds. 

“Maybe we can talk this out?” Desmond suggested hopefully, hands going up. Berg gave him a look so cold, so contemptuous that would’ve frozen the Devil himself. He had healed up since their last clash together, but clearly hadn’t forgotten it. The three goons behind him looked equally as unfriendly, armed with batons. Desmond sighed, arms dropping. “I’ll take that as a no.”

And with that, all hell broke loose. 

Desmond only had a split second to tuck away the blood cube… thing into his backpack before Berg lunged for him. He smacked into Desmond head on, and Desmond prayed that when he hit the ground he didn’t damage the valuable artifacts inside his backpack. God, Shaun would be so pissed. 

There was no time to think of that now, Desmond had to get his ass back up or else Shaun wasn’t going to have anyone to rant to after this. Berg had already had his hands around Desmond’s throat, but when Desmond raised his blackened hand tauntingly, Berg recoiled almost at once. Apparently he still remembered what Desmond did with it the last time. However, that didn’t stop Berg from pulling out his gun. 

Desmond kicked it out of his hand first, flipping back to his feet and immediately taking a baton to the gut, then the back. Damn goons. He had no idea where the gun went off to, but now he had other problems. 

His right hand clenched around the baton of Goon #1 just as it was about to come back down on his shoulder. It instantly began to crumble beneath the dead skin, veins glowing ominously. Goon #1 gasped in horror, before Desmond delivered a punch — and a hidden blade — to his face. 

Berg was shouting something in Finnish that Desmond didn’t understand, but he could take a wild stab (haha) at it. Probably warning the remaining two to stay away from his ruined hand. And probably the other one, too. Assassin, and all that. 

Just as Desmond was about to deal with Goon #2, Berg grabbed him once again, coming up from behind while Desmond was distracted, wrapping his arms around Desmond’s neck and shoulders in an effective headlock — that also restrained him from using his ruined hand. His right arm pinned over his head, extended with no angle to move. His blade hand was no better, pinned behind his back, the flat of the blade clicking uselessly against Berg. Desmond seethed, writhing, trying to remember how to break out of this hold, while Goons #2 and #3 grinned savagely and had their fun with him. 

They went at him with their batons, and Desmond had to just take it, his big dumb head too slow. Until, of course, he realized he was fighting the wrong guy — and raised his legs, one foot slamming into either goon and sending both flying back, into a wall of cubes. The shelves broke upon impact and a dozen cubes came raining down, shattering onto the floor around the bodies. 

The move also successfully unbalanced Berg, who grunted in surprise, stumbling back to catch himself — only to hit the pedestal in the center of the room. They both went down, and as soon as Desmond hit the ground, Berg’s arms loosened around him and he was able to break free. 

Except when he turned on Berg again, he had another gun. 

“Aw, shit,” Desmond hurled himself out of the way, just as two gunshots rang through the air. 

The bullets smashed into the wall behind him — sending shattered glass cubes everywhere. One shelf collapsed upon another and the entire thing came crumbling down. Hundreds of First Civ whatever-the-fuck, ruined in moments. 

Desmond tried to take solace in the fact that Abstergo wouldn’t be able to use it now, either. It helped, just a little. 

But Berg and two of his goons were still alive. It was becoming increasingly clear to Desmond that this fight was not going to go his way. That his DNA (blood, brain matter, et cetera) was going to end up with the weird red goo now mixing with the broken glass.

The two nameless henchmen had already recovered; one pulled out a knife, the other a taser. Within their jackets, Desmond thought he spotted even more weapons. Extra ammo and was that — grenades?

He dodged the first swipe of the knife and ducked under the arm jabbing with the buzzing taser. Yikes!

“You know, if I didn’t know any better,” Desmond joked, as he slammed his arm down across the elbow of Knife Goon and delivered a punch to his throat. “I’d say you guys weren’t trying hard enough to kill me! Like Abstergo still wants me alive, even after all this time.”

It was hardly a joke if it was also true, which Berg confirmed with a spit as he rose to his feet. “They don’t need you alive anymore. Just your blood.”

“Oh?” Well, color Desmond fucking surprised. Of course Abstergo would develop a way to explore bloodlines without needing the inconvenience of keeping one alive and on the verge of complete madness. “So, what, you put other hapless guinea pigs running the endless maze of other people’s lives?”

Berg shrugged, seeming momentarily uninterested in joining the fight as Desmond wrestled with the one remaining goon (the other on his knees, clutching his throat and choking), who was a good hundred pounds and half a foot taller than him. A very big boy, who lifted Desmond off his feet. 

Just before Desmond could get his head smashed to pieces against the wall, he swiped under the goon’s armpit, where some very important muscles probably sat, and one arm went limp as the man cried out in pain. 

Desmond dropped, sliced the goon’s achilles’ heel, and looked up just in time to see Berg aiming at him again. “Seriously? It’s like you’re not even trying!”

Roll! Desmond tossed himself out of the way, as Berg seemed to be taking lazy potshots at him. He definitely didn’t seem to be trying to close the distance between them again, maybe to avoid the nasty side-effects of Desmond’s fucked up hand. Overall, good strategy. Very annoying. 

He nearly tripped over the body of the first dead goon, and in his haste, almost stepped on his gun. Then Desmond got the great idea to pick it up, and start giving Berg a taste of his own medicine.

Only it wasn’t Berg who took Desmond’s bullet. No, the choking man, with one hand raised, had suddenly stood up between them. Took the bullet straight to the chest. Both hands dropped to his side, a small object falling from one fist. The man dropped to his face just a second after Desmond heard a telltale clink-clink!

A grenade. 

Everyone stared at it. Desmond reacted first, and the fastest. He dove for the staircase. 

BOOM.

The explosion was smaller than Desmond expected, but thanks to the enclosed space, it went off like a pipebomb. The narrow walls reverberated the pressure wave so violently that it pounded his ears and eyes and brain and almost made him want to throw up. All the light in the room went out in an instant as the foundations cracked and the ceiling directly above crumbled with big chunks of rock.

The staircase, with the hollow beneath the steps, was all the cover that could be found in this little hole. It protected Desmond from the worst of the debris, though his head rang like the Liberty Bell. Small pieces of rock and glass had cut through his clothes, and part of the stairwell collapsed on top of him, knocking the breath from Desmond’s lungs. Smoke and dust filled the air, making it difficult to breathe — but the pain was how Desmond knew he was still alive, for better or worse.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before his head stopped hurting enough for him to move. The first attempts made him feel so sick and dizzy that he fell over just trying to get to his knees, and then finally shove off the broken plates of glass and metal that had been the last couple feet of stairs. 

He looked around, squinting in the darkness. For a normal set of eyes, one would’ve seen nothing at all. But Desmond could make out the pale, lifeless shapes of Abstergo’s little stooges, some in more pieces than others. 

Desmond could taste the blood misting on the air, metallic and heavy. Yeugh. Bad way to die. 

As he stood, dusting himself off and reaching around to check his backpack, make sure the contents were still in one piece — a glimmer appeared out of the corner of his eye. 

A flash of gold. Then he heard it. A groan.

Fuck. Berg was still alive. 

Desmond grimaced, clutching his bleeding head. As if hewasn’t brain damaged enough already. He really hoped when he opened his eyes again, that glow would be gone. But nope. That Scandinavian bastard was still clinging to life somehow. 

Of course, Desmond could solve that problem by just leaving him here to die. But somehow, he didn’t like his chances. He knew himself well enough that his luck was never that good.

What he should do, what his father would tell him to do, was to finish the job. This was the opportune moment.

Besides, Desmond told himself as he approached the pile of rubble, it would be a mercy kill. If Berg wasn’t dying, he sure as hell would be in a lot of pain right now. 

He moved aside some large pieces of rubble and debris. He found Berg, half concealed beneath a fallen shelf, perhaps what saved him from the worst of the blast. Even in the dimness, Desmond could tell the guy was pretty fucked up. Not exactly a diagnosis, but probably some broken ribs, a busted leg, not to mention all the little cuts and bruises everywhere.

A sitting duck.

But what glowed was not Berg’s body. It was tiny, something small, a medallion? Hanging from his neck. Curious, Desmond reached out.

Berg grunted, apparently still consciously. His fist reached up to grab Desmond’s wrist, but it was weak and didn’t stop him from analyzing the piece. The metal was cool to the touch, and a part of Desmond was not entirely surprised to see the Templar cross engraved across the otherwise simple piece of jewelry. 

Then he realized there was a latch, and it opened with the slight prying of his thumb. A locket.

His enhanced vision only went so far, but Desmond could make out enough of the photo within if he peered close enough. A face. A girl. 

“Bro,” Desmond groaned, already regretting having been so curious. “Don’t tell me you’re a dad.”

Berg groaned again, and went silent. Desmond listened for a heartbeat; still there. But the man had gone unconscious.

Impossible to say if this was a recent photo or if the girl was still alive, but safe to say this was someone important to Berg if he was wearing this shit on deadly missions. Sentimentality, from this cold-blooded motherfucker? Desmond could hardly believe it. 

And now he was finding it harder to kill him. 

Not. Good.

Desmond sat there on his haunches, thinking fast. He should just do it. Kill the guy now, get the fuck outta Dodge. Who knows if and when Abstergo would send reinforcements. It was most certainly a when, if these guys didn’t report back with Desmond’s head on a pike. Which would probably be soon.

Berg was his enemy. Desmond didn’t know what his deal was, why or how he got in with the Templars, or what part this girl had in all of this — only that it made the two of them diametrically opposed in every way. Mortal enemies. Like Michael and Lucifer. Like Holmes and Moriarty. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker.

He should kill Berg. Right now.

The blade was at his wrist. Clicking out. 

Clicked in. Clicked out again. 

“Fuck!” Desmond spat, and flicked the blade away. Then, without another word, he dropped the stupid locket and grabbed Berg from beneath his stupid armpits and lifted his stupid body out of the rubble.

If Berg had been anything less than 100% alive, Desmond told himself he wouldn’t have done this. Because, obviously, he’d just be wasting his time, trying to save the life of a dying man. Saving the life of a Templar, a Templar who wouldn’t hesitate to kill Desmond if he had been given this same chance, a Templar with his own family who may or may not be relying on this dumbass to keep them alive because with Abstergo! You never fucking know!

Desmond hefted and grunted and hauled with all his might, dragging Berg’s useless dead weight across the debris-ridden floor. 

And god. If there wasn’t a certain Templar Desmond wished he could’ve saved instead.

But noooo. It’s gotta be this fucking guy. 

With a great heave, he got Berg up the top half of the steps, jumped up, and dragged him up the rest of the way, letting his thick skull hit every step on the way up. 

The rest of the way out of the vault was clear, aside from dust and darkness. Desmond even managed to pick up the fallen drone he’d forgotten about, not wanting to leave behind anything for Abstergo to autopsy. Besides the obvious.

Desmond probably dragged Berg along a lot longer than he had to. Up until the last flight of stairs, until they were back out on the cathedral floor, where the air was clean and cold. There, that’s where Desmond let Berg’s body drop. He was still alive, and the Templars would no doubt be here soon. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Desmond said to the unconscious man. Not that he was ever gonna get a thank you, of course. 

Then the Assassin — with his drone, his reliquary, and the last remaining glass cube of blood — disappeared into the winter night.