#Altaïr gets desperate to see or hear Desmond again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

esamastation · 5 years ago

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Because i am writing it and wanna see what people think

Sneak preview of hithertho unnamed sequel to “True” Reality

Nothing is True.

Nothing is there.

Desmond doesn't so much float in the nothingness as he… just… is. He doesn't know how long it's been, he's kind of lost the sense of why of it, too. He thinks he minded it, way back when, an eternity ago, he wanted to leave, maybe? It doesn't really matter. Nothing matters. There's nothing.

Well, that's not exactly true. Not True true, just true. There's something – just enough of a something for him to still be sticking around. It's like a string inside him, a cord frayed to its last sliver, gently waving in the nonexistent wind, just enough to remind him that, that he's still there. He's not gone yet. He's here, here is nothing, and he's in the nothing.

No one would ever see him here. No one would find him. And no one would care.

The Lonely savours him slowly, digesting his slowly ebbing, flowing misery like a tasty morsel. He's a candy on it's tongue, and it's wearing him out slowly, so slowly, tasting every aspect of his Aloneness and humming with the drawn out enjoyment.

The knowledge that he was always alone. Surrounded by what amounted to paper cutouts of people, rather than real individuals. They stand up in his memories now like stand-ins, all hollow and two-dimensional, repeating the same hollow, meaningless words.

Get up, Desmond, the words echo, sharp enough to cut, to bring forth a reaction, to make him twitch. Dad, calling him across the training ring. Get up, Desmond, he says, and never holds out his hand, never helps him up, never does anything. Get up, Desmond, he snaps, impatient enough for Desmond to hear it in his voice, but also distracted, like he's looking elsewhere, his attention on something else, like whether Desmond actually gets up or not doesn't actually matter. Get up, Desmond.

And the Loneliness whispers, No one ever asked if you needed help. No one offered a hand to pull you up. Did anyone ever give you their arm, their shoulder to lean on? Did anyone ever lift you to your feet? Did they hold you?

His mother's hands, cool and perfunctory on his cheek as she dabs stinging antiseptic on a cut. Her fingernails feel like paper cuts, and her disapproving tutting sounds like distant static. "It's just a cut, and you're a big boy, Desmond, you don't need my help."

Desmond knows, theoretically, that his mother helped him. He remembers it. But he also remembers the holes in those memories, the parts where they don't exist. Dad is easier, Bill Miles actually made an appearance in his life, such as it was, but his Mother is only a voice. Voice, and vast holes of absence, where the game creators hadn't bothered to fill up his background. Seventeen years worth of memories.

The Lonely has filled them, bit by bit, with cold shoulders from her, with dismissal, with distracted disregard as she turns away. Just enough care to make him feel it, a hand on his shoulder, a band aid on his lip, just enough to make him long for more – and then the Lonely takes the image and turns her away from him, leaves him at the mercies of a father, who turns more and more callous and cold as the memories twist and turn and...

You were a thing they raised, a fruit of labour, the culmination of a bloodline. They married for lineage, not love, they didn't love each other, they didn't love you – you were just a thing they made, an Assassin of Assassins, the Assassin, their Chosen One, alone and strange and…

Desmond drifts. He thinks he might be floating. He has enough will left to know that this is kind of – not wrong, exactly, though it's that too. The Lonely wants his suffering, his slow anguish, his Loneliness, his Aloneness, his Solitude – and his knowledge of it, too. Wants to make him feel it.

But it doesn't come naturally for him. He can feel it, but it's artificial, in the end. Those people never existed, and those experiences never happened, and he knows it. He knows what he is. The Lonely can't take that away from him – it's the main thing it's feeding on.

He's a Solitary Existence, artificial, hollow, fake, empty, the Lonely can digest him forever. So it won't make him think he's human, not all the way. Whenever he threatens to tip over the edge of that knowledge and into delusion of humanity, it reminds him – he's just code, code, code, nothing but symbols on a screen, unloved and unreal, a thing no one knew, a thing that shouldn't be – and that breaks the illusion of suffering.

Desmond sighs, and the Lonely drinks it up all the while breathing in on it, like blowing on a hot coal, making it blaze in his chest. Alone, alone, alone, and unknown.

Desmond has no idea how long it's been going on. Doesn't know if there's time in this place. There probably isn't. The Lonely can and will feed off on him forever, and he's more or less… fine with that. Would be nice if it wouldn't try and fake it, though – it doesn't feel right. He knows loneliness and isolation, and it can be so nice. So much nicer than fake social isolation. He's never minded social isolation, it's never done that much for him. Sure, he was sad, at times, but true isolation, the feeling of being properly removed from everyone and everything…

That's sweet.

Desmond jerks in the Nothing and in the Emptiness, and around him the Lonely shifts and breathes. There's – something. Like a tug in Desmond's chest, in his soul – in his code screen, or whatever it is he has. The empty space that's his body is feeling a drag, though. It kind of feels like he's -

Gasping, Desmond convulses and grabs at his chest, as the Lonely disperses like so much mist around him, and the faked illusions of social isolation and dismissal fade. There's a tether – Desmond can almost see it, and he can definitely feel it. Someone's got a hand around his story and is tugging at his words, at the strings of his code, and he's -

Out there, someone Knows him.

He's Known.

He's Seen.

The string is tugged – and then released. Desmond stares in dismay as it goes taut and then snaps, withering away like smoke in the wind – the mist of the Lonely eats it up, wears it out, until Desmond is left holding just a – a bit of it, hanging from his chest. It's – thin, and black, plastic.

A… tape? It's thin and flimsy and takes Desmond a bit to actually remember what it is, but… yeah, it's tape. Cassette tape. "Huh," he says out loud, as the thin flimsy string of it loops loosely over his fingers, almost too light to be felt. Been – never, since he's seen this stuff, actually.

"Statement of Desmond Miles," the cassette tape announces into his fingers in a firm, brisk male voice. "Regarding his… existence…"

Desmond's skin crawls and he knows, instinctively, that it's Another. Another what, he's not sure, but it's Another. It feels like – like sandpaper against his senses, like anathema, but also like kin. It's a weird mixture of sensations, not entirely pleasant nor unpleasant. Kind of… tingly, like an itch that's satisfying to scratch.

It has to be the story, the one he made to the Eye, just like that old guy said – that has to be – someone out there, someone with power, just did something with his story. Recorded it on tape maybe? He isn't sure, but…

He has his hands again. And legs. So that's kind of nice.

Slowly, shakily, Desmond finds his feet enough to stand on them, peering around curiously. The Nothingness hasn't changed, the Lonely is still there, looming upon him, wishing to smother him, but – he's Known now, and that changes things.

"You're hungry," he says, which – is probably a weird thing to say, but it's what he feels. "I'm sorry, I'm not that kind of meal. I don't fear being lonely – it's all I've ever been. Can't fear the only thing you've ever known."

The Lonely doesn't answer, of course not, but it leans in, hungry and withering, whimpering and savouring. No one loves you. it whispers in his own voice, which is right enough. No one wants you. You're safe here. No one can hurt you here.

They're not really things it's saying, though, more like stuff his mind is saying at himself, as a placeholder for the things it craves. It kind of – it has the feel of a petulant, lonely child, mumbling into its knees, bitter and unintelligible.

The weird thing is, though it's been slowly digesting Desmond for eons, now, Desmond kind of feels bad for the thing. It's pitiful. Lonely things usually are… at least until they learn to live with it. And Desmond did, a long time ago… given the value of living, maybe, but… still.

"Here," Desmond murmurs, and gives the Lonely not his sadness, because he doesn't really have any to give, but his… serenity, the masochistic, drawn out edge of it – the moments spent alone in his flat, feeling self-righteously bitter about having to turn down an invitation to a party because someone was filming there. He feeds the Lonely the moments in abandoned gas stations when he was at his most desperate, his most alone, and with no one to turn to he turned inward instead, and felt worse for it. The moments of dissociation just after using the Animus, when he felt disconnected from everything, body and soul…

The Lonely flexes around him, and Desmond draws a shuddering, shocked breath. "Yeah," he croaks, shaky. "Now you get it." His mouth feels like dry parchment and tastes like mothballs at the end of a cabinet that hasn't been opened in decades – like an empty tomb in an abandoned castle, where Altaïr sat alone for centuries. "Isn't that better?"

The Lonely lets him go, and Desmond grips the shredded cassette tape in hand, and turns to follow it out.

So, Desmond the avatar of the Lonely? Taking place somewhere early on season 4 of the Magnus Archives. Yeah.

#fanfiction #crossover #the Magnus Archives #assassin's creed #tma #ac #desmond miles #the lonely

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annaisu · 5 years ago

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Silent Invasion - Chapter 8

This story was last updated back in 2015, so here’s a quick recap: Ann anxious little SI just woke up in the body of Desmond Miles, with no clue of what in the world was going on. She-turned-he was captured and brought to Abstergo, and put through the Animus. Things have basically gone according to the game so far, and she just finished living through the siege of Masyaf. Now it’s time for her to get up and begin the dance of prisoner and sympathetic captor.

—

I couldn’t move.

Images, thoughts, feelings, emotions, pains – everything was racing through my mind, too quick and chaotic for me to grasp ahold of. All that I could capture was the feeling of hurt, betrayal, agony- I tried to anchor myself in the physical world, but there was only the overwhelming stench of blood and death of battle, the sticky sensation of sweat, the pain of being gutted through-

Agonizingly slowly, I dragged a hand up to my abdomen, feeling the unbroken flesh and fabric beneath my hand as words slowly broke through my haze. “He’s experiencing a far better adoption rate than the other subjects!” That voice didn’t match with what I was feeling, wasn’t the master I had disappointed…

“I’m still pulling him out; he’s been in their way too long.” Another voice, this time too soft for the pain I could feel. Slowly, too slowly, I began to recollect myself. That was Lucy, which meant the other voice must be Vidic… which meant I was just coming out of the animus. God, my head was spinning, and I could still hear the cries of battle…

“No, not yet!” Vidic exclaimed. “We’re still so far from where we need to be!” I needed to wake up to my own skin – no matter how unfamiliar it was, Desmond’s body was still far more real and present than Altaïr’s. I sucked in a slow breath, focusing on my diaphragm, feeling the way my stomach rose and yet didn’t pull against any broken skin.

“We shouldn’t risk it.” Lucy-lu, the angel of reason. We were just starting, and I needed to at least get used to coming out of the Animus and back into my own skin. This was only day one. I could feel my mind starting to settle back into normal, back into my own head, but I still felt vaguely trippy. Like I had just climbed a set of stairs back into my own head and I had reached the landing, only I was still trying to take an extra step that wasn’t there and falling through empty air.

“What’s another hour or two?” Vidic said, a frustrated tone to his voice. He didn’t sound desperate yet, though, so that was good. I wasn’t doing too badly then, otherwise he probably would have sounded worse.

“Why don’t we discuss this in the conference room?” Lucy offered. “Give Desmond a minute to stretch his legs.” I blinked slowly at the sound of ‘my’ name, and the blurry figure above me resolved itself into a stern old man. Ugh. Could that face go back to being blurry, please?

The man turned back towards me, pointedly muttering. “I really don’t see the need-” The screen above me went blank as it turned off, and it slowly started retracting.

“Warren! Please.” Lucy clearly did see the need, and I could hear the clicking of her heels as she walked away.

“Fine,” Vidic added curtly as he began to follow Lucy. I watched his back as the screen was fully retracted and dropped my hand back to my side. I slowly levered myself up into a sitting position, holding a hand up to my forehead as the room seemed to sway. Still, I didn’t have time to waste. I stood up, my legs surprisingly steady, just in time to see Warren walk through the conference room door.

As I walked over to the room, I could see through the glass wall that Lucy was leading Warren into a corner of the room, far from any door. It just so happened that the corner she chose was nearest my bathroom, and had a handy vent just above her that led directly into a room I had easy access to. I paused for a moment by the window, just out of sight, trying to hear anything they were saying. I caught muffled bits of speech, but nothing else, so I pulled back and went through the open door to the side.

I barely paid any attention to the room first room, following the source of the voice, pausing at the door only long enough to give it a quick once over. Lock, cabinet, door to bathroom, camera, exposed piping, bed, desk and chair, all drab and grey. I resumed walking on the tiled floor, noting how their voices were slowly becoming more distinct as I headed to the bathroom. Finally, I reached the sink counter – and the vent connected to the conference room.

I quietly clambered up onto the counter, standing tall and getting my ear as close to the air vent as I could. The air was cold, just like the rest of this sterile facility. The wall was even colder when I braced myself against it, but it was worth it when I could finally hear the two of my prison guards speaking. “I don’t appreciate you questioning my authority in front of the prisoner!” Way to drive the point home, Warren. “There’s a word for that – I believe it’s called insubordination.”

Lucy’s voice was tinny and distorted when she spoke. “And I don’t appreciate you trying to kill him! There’s a word for that too – I believe it’s called stupid.” Lucy sounded so indignant and I had to muffle a snort. Questionable loyalties aside, Lucy was pretty awesome and very quick on the draw. I felt a burst of affection for her warm in my chest, despite knowing what I did.

“Lucy.” Vidic’s voice was sharp, and I couldn’t hide a wince. “This isn’t my decision; I don’t set the deadlines, but I’m smart enough not to challenge them.” Who did make the decisions? Who was the Templar Grandmaster in this time? I couldn’t remember, if I had ever known. “Do you want to end up like Leila?”

I bit my lip as Lucy responded, “I know the accident has everyone on edge.” The accident had been an Apple blowing up one of Abstergo’s facilities, right? That was why they were so desperate to find more apples, and any other First Civ technology.

“Which is why there’s no time to coddle him,” Vidic said. I grimaced, uncomfortable at my position. If this was coddling, I didn’t want to know what Warren’s idea of strenuous pacing was.

“If you push him too hard, he’ll shut down, and then we’ll have nothing.” Oh yeah, I actually did know. It was Animus sessions until you went absolutely insane and started painting the walls with your blood. I let my head rest against the wall for a moment, savoring the support and the cool sensation, before lifting it to listen again.

“We have nothing now!” Thanks, Vidic. I appreciate your ego boost so much, how could I ever feel worthless with you around.

“But we do,” Lucy said, voice suddenly coy and conspiring. She continued on, softly. “We just need to have a little faith.” Dang it, Lucy, how come you have to be so likeable? Seeing her and hearing her in person was so different than watching and listening to cutscenes, so much more real. She seemed so genuine, and I had to wonder how much of this was really her, and how much of this was just playing a role for me to sympathize with and rely on. God, I wish I knew how much of Lucy in the coming days would be real, how much was really her and how much was just a ploy.

“Fine! But I want you thinking of ways to improve his staying power. We can’t afford to stop every time the man breaks a sweat.” Oh for the love of – I had just been stabbed! Give me a freaking break about being a sweaty mess over that. I’d like to see him recover so quickly from betrayal and a gutting – and I wouldn’t mind being on the delivering side of the gutting!

…okay, no, I actually would mind, I admitted to myself. Killing in the animus had already been hard enough, I didn’t want to think about murdering people in real life. Then again, I might be changing my tune about killing Warren after all that he would put me through, and after countless time in the Animus. “Bad enough we already have to trace through these useless memories.” Yeah, no, I was super grateful for the memories Warren deemed worthless, so he could just put up with them for as long as I could drag them out.

“I’ll do what I can,” Lucy promised. With that, their conversation ended, and I slid off the counter. I faux-causally hurried out of the bathroom and back to the main room, trying to be back in there before the two could make it out of the room. I didn’t know how much the cameras caught of me spying on them in the bathroom, but I had to assume Abstergo could see everything and tailor my movements towards that.

How aware should I act? I would try to be as circumspect as possible, but I didn’t want to look completely useless. But then, I didn’t want to be too blatant either – despite having run away for years, Desmond had been trained as an Assassin. Ugh – I needed to stop thinking about the ideal version of what I should do, and focus on what I could actually do instead. I may be in Desmond’s body now, but that didn’t mean I had access to his training or knowhow.

I stayed away from the doors, instead going to inspect the animus servers in the corner. Air was drifting up from the floor in wisps of steam, visible despite it being barely what I would consider ‘room temperature’. The rest of the air was absolutely freezing, no doubt to keep the hordes of computer equipment running at peak efficiency. Good Lord above, was there a lot of electronics. How in the world had Rebecca managed to compress all of this into her relatively tiny workstation in comparison? There was circuitry in the walls and the floor below me, all intended to keep the Animus running at peak proficiency – I assumed, at least, but then what else could it be for?

I felt a presence come up behind me and turned around to see the sullen face of Warren Vidic. “We’re done for today, Mr. Miles.” Lucy passed behind him on the way to her work station as he spoke. “I suggest you return to your room and get some rest.” I snorted quietly as he began walking towards me and the door. Quality rest was certainly not something I expected to be getting tonight.

I eyed him as he approached the wide double doors, not moving any closer, but not moving away either. What were the chances that I could rush past him and fight my way out? I flexed my hand, hearing my knuckled crack quietly. Warren didn’t pause, didn’t even stop to look at me as he continued on his way out. The metal doors slid open automatically with a quiet hiss of hydraulics, and I caught a slight glimpse of people standing guard outside before they slid closed once more.

I grit my teeth and walked over to the exit, knowing it was futile to try, but still wanting to see anything that might help me escape. The doors were solidly shut, and there was no real window to peer through. There was a weird pattern of glass perforating the door in a cross shaped pattern, but it was too small and thing to really see through. There was no visible keypad or anything to signal how the doors were opened for Vidic. I knew that the little glowing pen he carried was basically a password for his computer; was it also keyed into this door? That seemed pretty careless, as it was well within pickpocketing range – once I gained the skill, that was.

Temporarily giving up getting out as a bad job, I turned back towards the main room. Lucy had stayed behind, and she was industriously working at her computer in front of the Animus. Her tapping at the keyboard became louder as I walked over, but she stopped at about the same time as I reached her. She looked down at her tablet for a moment, but then she turned her focus on me.

I didn’t know what I should say, but Lucy only hesitated a moment longer before starting up the conversation. “So, you’re really an assassin?” She asked cautiously “Like Altaïr?” I desperately grasped at my memories of how this conversation was supposed to go – no way this wasn’t an important talk, and I really didn’t want to screw it up.

She was looking up at me expectantly, her face hopeful, yet carefully guarded. It was hard to refuse that face. “Yes and no,” I began slowly, trailing off and focusing on not biting my lip in nervousness. I flexed my hands again instead, and sent out a quick prayer.

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked, seemingly taken off guard by my noncommittal answer.

“Well, I was supposed to be one,” I began slowly. Aaand that was about as far as my memory of this conversation extended. “That’s what my parents were training me to be, before I ran away from the Farm.” Curse it, I was supposed to mention being a teen somewhere in there.

Lucy responded quietly, leadingly. “The Farm?”

I took in a deep breath. I needed to give her enough info that I seemed like a good mark, but not enough that I could possibly endanger any Assassins. “That’s where I grew up, the Farm. It was a small community – kinda like Masyaf, I guess, only less… creepy.” I didn’t get what was so creepy about Masyaf, but I did remember Desmond calling it that. “We all lived out in the middle of nowhere, off of the grid.” Was I doing alright?

Lucy’s calm tone was reassuring, even though it probably shouldn’t be. “Why?”

Why what? Live off the grid? “I didn’t know what was going on back then. I thought my parents were just crazy, constantly on the lookout for attacks that weren’t there. My father was always going on about our enemies, how they were looking for us. He kept telling me to be prepared – but no one ever came. Nothing ever happened.” That felt… far more accurate to the script than I thought I had remembered.

She didn’t look like she understood – or at least, she pretended not to. She had met Bill Miles after all. “Why’d you run away?”

This, I knew. “I could never leave the compound.” I gestured to the room around me, aware of the irony in my present circumstances mirroring Desmond’s past situation. “I was trapped, kept in my father’s little world. Do you know what it’s like being stuck, knowing there’s a whole world full of things you’ll never be able to see?” I looked at her somewhat pleadingly, hoping for understanding.

She didn’t give it. “Don’t you miss your parents?”

I went still, thinking of my own family. My mother, my sister and brother, even my father- “No,” I lied. Damnit. I drew in a breath and centered myself, remembering my own fractured relationship with my father, remembered watching Desmond’s and his father’s interaction, remembered looking for any mention of Desmond’s mom and never actually finding anything. “They had another job that came long before being my parents – being my wardens.”

“It sounds like the only wanted to protect you.” Lucy was very carefully trying not to sound judging, but I still read censure into her words. I turned and took several steps away, keeping Lucy in my sights but not focusing on her.

The walls of my prison were cold and harsh. “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted slowly. “With all of this…” I trailed off and shrugged, not sure how to continue. “I don’t know.”

Finally, Lucy softened again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up the past.”

I turned back to face her properly and tried to offer her a smile. It came out a bit weaker than I intended, but that was alright. “It’s fine. I guess it gives me something to think about tonight – more than whatever the hell went on in that thing.” I nodded towards the Animus.

Lucy smiled in return. “Just don’t think to hard – take a few minutes to rest. Food should be here soon.”

I couldn’t help it – I immediately perked up. “Food?”

Laughing softly, she responded. “Don’t get too excited – it’ll probably just be sandwiches or something else that’s easy to put together and deliver. Go wait over there somewhere; I need to get back to work.” She gestured to the room at large, already turning back to her computer. Moments later, she was typing once more.

I lingered by her side instead, peering over her shoulder to see the screen. I needn’t have bothered – she was flashing through tabs and windows at a ridiculously fast pace, pausing to type in nonsense code, and then lingering over seemingly random images of maps, coordinates, memory fragments, and DNA strands. Lucy didn’t wave me off or impede my view in any way, so I just stood there awkwardly, trying to understand what was going on without interrupting her.

I made sure there was enough distance between us to be less uncomfortable and to make sure we both had our personal bubbles intact, but that made it harder to view the screen. Eventually I gave it up as a bad job, but by that point, I guessed that this might have something to do with the flags that popped up in the Animus? Or at least, part of what she was doing was related. Vidic did ask her to increase my ‘Staying Power’, after all.

It was about then that the exit beeped, opening to let a tray be pushed in, before closing again. It happened far to fast for me to do anything, and I barely caught a glimpse of the hallway outside before my view was cut off once more. Abstergo certainly had no plans to make escape easy for me – at least, not yet.

Though at least they did seem to plan to feed me. I eyed the tray dubiously, but there wasn’t really that much to take in. There was a plate of sandwiches, a carton of milk, and an apple. “Did I go back to being on the free lunch program when I wasn’t looking?” I muttered to myself. The sandwiches were even wrapped up in plastic, with little condiment packets to the side. I ignored the undesired mayo and mustard and left them on the trolley, but took the tray with me as I thought about where to sit.

My first instinct was to just plop down on the stairs elevating the machinery, but then I had a more devious idea. Why sit on the floor when there was a perfectly good chair with a fantastic view? I was only a few feet into my plan to spite Vidic when I finally noticed the two chairs on either side of the Animus. One was clearly for Lucy, being placed right next to her computer – and hadn’t she sat there when the two were first explaining things? – and I decided to claim the other seat as my own.

Lucy looked up as I plopped down, but she quickly returned to her work as I began to eat. I paused only long enough to say a quick, silent grace before I was tearing off the plastic packet. Several minutes passed in relative silence, only the quiet tap-tap-tapping of Lucy’s pen and keyboard and my chewing breaking the quiet. If I concentrated, I could hear the fans gently whirring, pumping out freezing air.

By the time I’d finished my first sandwich – on white bread, ugh – I was finally ready to speak. “So, Lucy,” I began. “I’ve got a question for you.”

She paused her work and looked up with a smile. “Sure.”

“How did Abstergo find me?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but really – it was utterly ridiculous. “I haven’t been anywhere near the assassins in years.”

Lucy didn’t even pause before she started reeling off options. “Did you use your real name?”

The misleading and lying driver’s license that I was still sore over very clearly stated, “Nope. Not before today.”

“Credit cards?” Now that I’d proven I wasn’t a complete moron, Lucy looked a little more invested in the conversation.

Recent receipts said no, even if I hadn’t remembered as much from the game. “Cash only,” I said in a somewhat pleased tone. How did Desmond even manage that, in today’s society?”

“Telephone number?” Lucy rapidly responded , as if reading from a mental list.

I wryly shrugged this suggestion off as well. “No one to call.”

“Driver’s license?” Was her next guess, and I closed my eyes. Yup, there we go.

I let the answer drag out of me. “Motorcycle.” I opened my eyes and looked back at Lucy with a sheepish smile. “Guilty pleasure.”

She nodded, pointed and satisfied. “There’s your answer. Photo, fingerprints.”

“Oh, come on,” I complained disbelievingly. “This is a drug company! What does Abstergo have to do with the DMV?”

The teasing look fell away from Lucy’s face. “Desmond, these guys are everywhere. They-“ She cut herself off, making a slight motion with her head. “I… I’m sorry,” she stuttered, nervously darting her gaze towards one of the numerous cameras recording us before hastily looking back down at her work. “I really can’t talk about it.”

Lucy kept her head ducked down and applied her full focus back onto her work, clearly signaling the end of our conversation. I finished off the last of my meal in complete silence, the food weighing heavy in my stomach. This was going to be my new life now, huh?

As I brought my empty plate back to the cart, I gave the room another lookover. There were cameras freaking everywhere, leaving no square inch unwatched. “Why don’t you go on ahead to bed?” Lucy called out from across the room.

What time even was it? The light outside seemed a little dim but not dark – maybe a bit before dusk? Even if I wasn’t sure of the time, I did know that I was tired, and in far more ways than just one. “…Alright,” I called back. I gave one last look around the main room before heading deeper into my prison cell – I mean, into my bedroom.

As soon as I entered, the door slid shut behind me and locked itself with a beep and a whir. I turned around to see that the light above it was now glowing a soft red, matching the keypad on the nearby wall. “Damn, they locked the door,” I muttered facetiously. Turning back around, I counted at least 2 obvious cameras in my room. Did they record audio as well as visuals?

The bathroom wasn’t any better. One camera was aimed at the sink, and had no doubt caught my earlier eavesdropping. The other… was getting a front row view of the toilet and the shower. Ugh.

Repressing a shiver of revulsion, I began to scan the room in greater detail. A sink with a water glass and towels folded neatly to the side… a toilet with unused toilet paper rolls hung beside it… and an open glass shower, right in prime view of the camera.

“Abstergo really doesn’t understand the concept of privacy, do they?” I bitterly commented. Curse it, I wasn’t comfortable with my new mode of releasing myself, and now I’d have to do it on camera. Talk about performance anxiety.

Trying desperately not to think of all the people who would review these tapes at one time or another, I relieved myself, and instantly tried to forget it ever happened while I went to wash my hands. At least I could do… it… with my back facing the camera, which was something I wouldn’t have been able to do before, as someone of the female persuasion. “What the heck even is my life.”

But it wasn’t my life that was important, now was it? It was Desmond’s, and Altaïr’s, and Ezio’s, and Connor’s – but mostly Desmond’s. I wasn’t anywhere on that list. I felt tears start to well up in the corner of my eyes, and I bowed my head over the sink so that the cameras wouldn’t see.

I was exhausted, emotionally overwhelmed, in physical pain from being knocked out earlier, feeling the phantom ache of a lethal stabbing, and stressed out beyond belief from worry and anxiety. I let the emotions roil through me, not fighting them as they escaped. I don’t know how long I stayed there, painful thoughts and feelings whirring away until I was more exhausted than emotional.

Finally, I wiped my eyes, washed my face, and stood up. I felt drained and wrung out, but I still needed to think. I had somehow managed to make it through this first day, but I still had at least five more that I needed to get through. Or was it six? Groaning, I dragged myself back into the bedroom and plopped down at the desk, pulling the book on it over to me.

I didn’t actually plan on writing anything real down, but desks just made everything feel a bit more productive. I also didn’t want to risk sitting down on the bed and falling asleep before I figured things out. I pulled the three-ring binder properly before me and flipped it open. The book was full of empty pages, and several pens were tucked inside an inner pocket.

I went ahead and pulled out a pen, hovered above the blank page, and… began idly scribbling as I thought. Wobbly, criss-crossing circles formed on the page as I brought my attention to bear.

Was it possible to glean any recollections of the real Desmond’s memories? Futilely I reached back through my mind, struggling to prod up recollections that weren’t mine. I concentrated on whatever I thought he would remember most clearly – the bar, the farm, escaping… and yet all I could get were vague shadows and hints of feelings.

The bar was the most recent, and I had actually been there, so I could even properly picture the place. Desmond had been… content there, if stifled. He enjoyed the freedom it offered, but as time passed, he wanted something… more. More real? More exciting, more lasting, more meaningful? I couldn’t tell.

I discovered even less about the farm. It just made me feel small inside, trapped and berated and weak. I imagined a tall man standing over me, angry and terrifying with it, but I couldn’t tell if that was William Miles or my own father. The escape and what followed was no more clear, and all I could sense was Desmond’s terror and excitement.

Giving up remembering Desmond’s past as a bad job, I flipped to the next empty page. This time, I drew a continuous line, all sharp angles and jagged edges. I would have to rely on my own memories. I grimaced as I focused – my memory wasn’t exactly something I was well known for, except for in very specific scenarios.

I could nearly recite the scene that surrounded Desmond’s awakening in Abstergo nearly word for word, but I couldn’t remember the actual number of days he was in there. I could remember a guard calling out to Altaïr in gratitude, but I couldn’t remember which side of the library the flag would be on. I could remember meeting Shawn and Rebecca, their strong reactions to certain stuff – “This stuff Desmond, oh, this stuff is nothing special really, this stuff is just the stuff that keeps our organization from falling apart, really.” A smile cracked across my face as Shaun’s British tones sarcasmed their way through my mind.

“…sitting in a hospital ward, drooling and chewing on your tongue.” My pencil and smile dropped, and I buried my face in my hands. Damnit. Damn it, damn this, what even was happening with me. I wasn’t actually insane, right? This was real, wasn’t it? Would all this being real even be preferable to being a psychotic mess of a breakdown?

FOCUS.

It didn’t matter.

But the quote from Clay and breakdowns did lead me to another thought – my room, and it’s charming décor. I spun around in my chair, furrowing my brow as I strained to see what wasn’t actually there. I focused above the headboard, knowing what I should see, what I would one day see –

My eyes started to burn and blur, and I gave up for the moment. No eagle vision for me yet. So, what else was there for me to do? A horrible, awful, no good evil thought hit me. Exercise.

I needed to train, to get stronger, to prepare for the future trials ahead of me. And that meant exercising. Grumbling to myself, I scanned the room, trying to find the least observed spot. Nowhere really seemed to stand out, so I decided to just go ahead and work out on the other side of the bed from where I was.

Stretching came first, then body weight exercises, then cooling down. I started out with just my memories of failed exercise programs, but slowly muscle memory and more vague recollections that weren’t my own kicked in. There was no way it was Altaïr’s routine, not with so little time spent in his head yet, so it had to be Desmond’s.

It was easier working out in Desmond’s body than it was in my own. He was stronger, more flexible, and the body responded more quickly than my own sometimes did. He even had muscle memory built up that assisted in my workout, so I guessed that Desmond had kept up at least a little of his fitness regime.

Working out made me more viscerally aware of Desmond’s body. The muscles shifting and moving, each limb stretching and extending, tension ebbing and flowing… It was odd. In my own life, I’d never been really… attached to my body. I had a poor sense of spatial awareness, frequently bumping into walls and objects without realizing I was too close to them, and tripping when I moved to fast. I never felt truly attached to my body, as if my awareness was merely loosely anchored to a physical being under my control.

Maybe that was why it wasn’t so bad being in Desmond’s body? In a horrible way, he almost felt more real than I did. This wasn’t my body originally, but I had been anchored into it quite firmly. I might have been sharing this body with someone else, and other bodies would be projected into my mind, but… this really wasn’t that bad a fit.

Speaking of fitting, now that I was done exercising, I went over to try out the wardrobe. I’d worked up a decent sweat, and I hoped that Abstergo might have provided me with some pjs or something.

Nope. “I can’t even change my clothes.” Instead, I went into the bathroom and used one of the towels to get up as much sweat as I could. I wasn’t taking a shower – I wasn’t that desperate, yet. I went ahead and took off my hoodie, and then after some trepidation, my shirt as well. I looked down to see a flat chest, with a light sprinkling of hair and muscles.

My head spun, and I immediately jerked my gaze back up. Nope, what the hell, that was weird, nope. I shuddered, and the feeling of dysphoria finally hit me. This really wasn’t my body.

Awkwardly and uncomfortably, I used the washcloth and sink to rinse off a little bit. As soon as I could, I slid Desmond’s admittedly kinda gross shirt back on, but I left the sweater off. Instead, I took it with me, and headed to bed.

I slid under the covers on the side of the bed nearest the bathroom, and placed my hoodie on top of the sheets beside me. I didn’t even bother trying to find and turn off the lights after not noticing it earlier – the exhaustion was back and hitting me full force now that I’d given in and laid down.

Earlier, I hadn’t thought I would be able to fall asleep, but within moments

I was out.

#my writing #my stuff #Assassin's Creed #Silent Invasion #Lucy Stillman #I'll add the links tonight #and post it on AO3 and ffnet #but I also need to go back and fix older chapters at least a little bit #the first third of this is actually from at least 2 years ago

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