Where You End, I Begin
A/N: Please don't shoot me. I love starting new stories then never finishing them. Haa, sorry. Though, I'm pretty darn sure this will get finished... It's... well, it's been stirring around in my head for a long time - so I had to write it. Enjoy! (:
Oh, and a side note - I haven't forgotten No One Knows or anything else, I'm just doing each project very slowly. ^^;
Prologue
In all the years he had endured, Desmond had never felt the bitter twist of true betrayal.
A lie here and there – cheating, and manipulation, but he had never held himself open long enough for anyone to stab him in the back. Not once. Even back in the desert, he kept himself guarded, managing a wall that kept him away from the malign of those who tried to know him but failed. His family, mother and father, were the only people he had ever grown to trust. They had raised him, after all, and when you can't trust your own parents, you know things have gotten bad.
Lucy Stillman was the first person he had met since he left the Assassin's farm that he could trust. Not fully – never fully, but there was a part of him that knew she would be on his side. In Abstergo, he felt as if he had been alone. Forsaken, but when he heard the cries of his brothers attempting to rescue him – he felt guilt. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. They were giving their lives up for one man, one who hadn't attempted to build bridges to connect with them. One that thought highly of himself - not as highly as Altair, he gave himself that - and never tried to know those who attempted to help him. He was independent – and he would be. For the rest of his cowering life.
But she had rescued him – against all odds, what he had presumed was a Templar, rescued him.
She had taken him away from the personal hell he thought he would rot in. Far away – someone safe, a stronghold. Running away together, he couldn't believe that he was finally free. Though, freedom for Desmond always came at a price. And it never lasted as long as he thought it would.
He met Rebecca Crane, a short, black haired petite woman who instantly struck him as a funky and unique individual. She ran the Animus 2.0, or as she liked to call it, "Baby". She had passion for what she did – motivation, something he had run short of after his third fake name. They seemed content, almost happy, with the sheltered lifestyle they lead. Or at least, Rebecca did. The way she hugged Lucy, a sweet reunion, proved to him that Lucy could be one to be trusted. He wanted to trust her, so badly, but it was hard. He was like a tiger, probed many times in its captive cell. It could never lick or eat from the hand that so cruelly punished it for no blatant reason.
Then there was Shaun Hastings – the sarcastic, cynical British man who never gave up the chance to throw an insult at Desmond. He juggled them like knives, each one more sharp than the last. The man never gave reasoning to why he had taken such an irrational disliking to the younger man, but Desmond automatically assumed it was because of his ranking. A novice, as many times as Shaun stated it, was not worthy of the aid from Lucy, who was regarded so much higher in the rankings. The whole Assassin thing was like a hierarchy, traced back all the way to the twelfth century. Who was their Master Assassin now?
With the four of them in hiding from the Templars, they knew they didn't have much time. Desmond slept only once over a period of three days. He was constantly in the Animus, always pulled out every few hours – much to Shaun's protest – to take a breather. In those breaks, Desmond found himself talking to Lucy, learning more about Rebecca or being ignored or affronted by the historian. It was a constant cycle that Desmond had grown accustomed to easily.
It had been too good to be true when Shaun said they could all retire to bed, that all the work was done for that day. Reluctantly, Desmond had gone to bed with goodnights to Lucy and Rebecca, a silent thank you to Shaun. Though he would never voice it – he didn't need Shaun rubbing it in his face the next day.
He slept well, better than he thought he would.
It was all too good to be true.
Desmond woke the next morning to find himself staring up at the barrel of a gun.
"Good morning, cupcake." In all the years he had endured, Desmond had never felt the bitter twist of true betrayal.
Until now.