It was a few days since the world was supposed to end, and Desmond's death. William Miles had left Rebecca and I in search of his wife to alert her of their son's death, with a promise to get in contact with us soon with further orders of what to do. With not much of an option, we found a small hotel relatively near by to stay in in New York City.

For the first couple of days the two of us stayed in our respective rooms and barely interacted with each other. After all, what was there to say? Earlier that afternoon, however, Rebecca had come knocking on my hotel bedroom door, suggesting that we go out later that night and drink in Desmond's honor.

I wasn't particularly in any mood to drink; I didn't fancy the feeling of being drunk, and was appalled that some people spent their whole lives drunk. However, I could see in Rebecca's eyes, which were bloodshot from crying, that she was serious. So I reluctantly agreed and found a small bar within walking distance.

The two of us stepped into the bar, finding the bar not too crowded, but not empty either. Rebecca and I managed to find two stools at the bar next to each other. The bartender, who seemed to be mixing a cocktail for someone else, gestured that he would see to us in a moment.

"This is mad." I sighed, having a gander at the bar around us.

There were several groups of intoxicated people around the bar. There seemed to be a small shelf at the end of the bar with some sort of memorial on it. A bunch of shitfaced morons were chatting up some women and getting irritated when they were told to clear off. Several people were dancing on an open dance floor, and I could feel the vibrations of the too loud music through the bar stool.

"I know, but still." Rebecca sighed, "But I feel like we need to do something. We can't just..." she paused and took a shaky breath, "We can't just pretend the last few months didn't happen, and that he didn't exist."

"What can I get you two?" asked the bartender, finally coming over to the two of us.

"Your best scotch." said Rebecca immediately.

I pondered for a moment before ordering a red wine and some chips. After a few minutes of waiting, the bartender brought us what we ordered. Rebecca downed her scotch immediately and ordered another one. I sipped my wine thoughtfully, mostly ignoring the basket of chips that was sitting next to me.

Out of the team of four we had been a few months ago, we were now down to two. Lucy is dead. Desmond is dead. Our number had been decreased by half, all because of this stupid war against the Templars. I scowled down at my drink, swishing it around a bit in my glass before taking another sip. I may not have been overly fond of the two of them, but they had been good people (for the most part, at least) and they had been a couple of the only people I had interacted with lately, other than Rebecca and William Miles.

"So," the bartender began, sliding back over to Rebecca and I, as apparently the other denizens of the nightclub could fend for themselves for a while. "Are you two together?"

Rebecca, who's face was flushed and her eyes glazed, opened her mouth to respond, but released a belch instead. She had been ordering drink after drink while I had been lost in my own thoughts. I wrinkled my nose at her.

"Lovely." I said disdainfully, "And no. Thankfully, we're just coworkers."

"I haven't seen you guys before." said the bartender, "Are you from out of town?"

"I suppose you could say that." I said tactfully.

"We're from California." Rebecca lied.

"Taking a brief business trip." I added, shooting a glance at the other assassin.

"Oh, so you're from way across the country." the bartender said brightly, "How're you enjoying New York so far?"

"It's alright." I said, taking another careful sip of my wine, "A bit loud for my tastes."

The bartender laughed. "Yeah, well, you're in the city that never sleeps."

New York. Wasn't that where Desmond lived before he was kidnapped by Abstergo? Not that I cared, of course.

"What's your most popular drink?" Rebecca asked suddenly.

"I think you have had enough, Rebecca." I said, a note of warning in my voice. What if she got so drunk she blabbed about what we actually did?

"Well, unfortunately our most popular drink was a special made by another bartender here, but he stopped working here a few months ago, and I never quite got the hang of making it." the bartender said as I took a sip of my wine, "He called it the 'Shirley Templar.'"

I nearly choked on my drink. I exchanged a glance with Rebecca, who's eyes were wide.

"The what?" I asked. Surely I misheard.

The bartender, however, seemed not to take notice. "He mixed a Shirley Temple cocktail with gin. We still get requests for it. Unfortunately, the bartender who made it disappeared a couple of months ago."

My lips thinned. What were the odds? A bartender who lived in New York that disappeared a couple of months ago. Now where have I heard that before?

Rebecca seemed to have jumped to the conclusion that I did. "What was his name?"

"Desmond Miles." said the bartender.

I grimaced slightly to myself. "Desmond, you prat. You used your real name? It's a miracle the Templars didn't catch you sooner."

"He was a good guy." continued the bartender, a somewhat sad expression on his face, "He seemed to have just disappeared after work one day. His motorcycle was still outside an' everything."

The bartender took my wineglass and refilled it. Rebecca bit her lip and took another sip of her scotch. "You don't say." she said weakly.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. We set up a little memorial at the end of the bar for him." the bartender jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the memorial I saw earlier, "I hope that he's okay, but I'm pretty sure the police have given up. Something about 'lack of evidence.' It sucks. Desmond was a good guy."

"That's so sad." Rebecca said quietly, tears welling in her eyes.

"Yeah." the bartender agreed sadly.

"Oh, hang on a mo." said the bartender, sliding over to tend to a couple of other people.

I slid off my stool to look at the tiny memorial. There was the missing poster with a piss-poor picture of Desmond on it. There were also several other photographs of Desmond. there he was, standing behind the bar, mixing a drink. There he was, leaning against what I assume was his motorcycle. There he was laughing at with a couple of other people in a booth at some restaurant somewhere. There he is sitting on a couch playing video games with one of the guys from the previous picture. There he was with his arm slung around the shoulders of some brunette woman, a drink held loosely in her hand.

That's when it strikes me, really strikes me that Desmond had a life before his kidnapping. He had a job. He had a job. He had a home. He has friends. He may have even had a girlfriend.

I sat back down on my bar stool next to Rebecca. I watched her for a moment before lifting up my wineglass and saying, "To Desmond."

"To Desmond." Rebecca said, lifting her own glass and clinking it against my own.

My dad was a bartender for a while (amusingly enough, he even has the same name as our narrator here), and he said that he liked to talk to the new people he didn't recognize when he was bartending.

I thought of this when I was supposed to be asleep the other night.