Yeah. This is a DesmondxOC fic. It's set in the time before he's kidnapped by Abstergo. This is my version of what his life prior to his abduction. LJAKSHDLAKJSHD DESHMOND IS SO CUTE. Y U NO ENUF FANFICS OF HIM? hahahah Enjoy guys!

"Do not be afraid; our fate

Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."

― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

SEQUENCE 00. IDENTIFICATION

There were two types of people in life. There were drifters and there were swimmers. Clara can still recount the afternoon when her mother had told her, 'life is nothing but a river. It flows, strong and unstoppable. If there are rocks in the water, they are eroded away by the strong currents. What I'm trying to say is that you can either allow life to choose its destiny for you, or you can swim and make your own. But always remember, you have the choice.'

It wasn't until Clara was dawning on twenty-five did she realize that many more people knew what her mother was talking about. She had heard so many alterations of it. There were doers and there were thinkers. There were painters and there were writers. There were sleepers and there were workers. There were givers and there were takers. At the end of the day, she figured that it really just came down to one thing: people that do things and people that don't.

It wasn't based on the values of laziness within a person, but the matter of how one consciously wanted to stay within the herd or become the shepherd. Like many of the citizens of New York City, staying in line with the law was comfortable and safe. They continued with their lives, under the rule of a higher power because they are content with being told what to do. They did this because that is what they know, Clara had decided. People continued with the familiar because the unfamiliar frightened them. Change was such a dream-like notion that scared many people off.

And the talk of revolution still terrifies them, she reminded herself as she walked to outside. Protests. War. Famine. The world was speeding forwards to change and those who weren't ready, drifted back away out of its reach…

Here, in New York, the city where dreams happened, Clara spent most of her nights leaning against the balcony of her apartment, eyes dazing around the towering buildings around her. She enjoyed the distant sounds of the world around her – the traffic below her feet as morning came. She was never one that basked in the silence. Was she ready for change? Was anyone ready for it?

Her russet eyes danced along the shadows of the darkening buildings, watching as the sky became murky and light. The chilly morning air prickled against her skin: her exposed neck, face and hands as she watched the first ray peek over the horizon. Sleep did not come well last night. She had been up and ready since two in the morning. Dressed in a cotton grey singlet, a half zipped up white hoodie and dark jeans, she tore her gaze off of the sky and plodded barefoot back inside the apartment. She lifted her hands and nestled the bundle of her closed hoodie to the back of her neck.

The apartment was quiet. She had been living alone here for almost a month – a lot longer than she had originally planned. It was dark and cold, almost unwelcoming. If it wasn't for the very few things she possessed, she was sure she might have walked into someone else's home. She had a few sets of clothes hanging orderly in her wardrobe, cleaned and ironed. A hotel ornament of a brass human figure sat on the hallway mantel. Hanging off one of its outstretched hands was a small necklace. It was a gift from her mother when she had passed away from cancer eight years ago. The apartment was spotless. Nothing was out of order. Her hand dragged against the wall lightly, guiding her to the bedroom on the right. Everything looked like it was in shades of grey now. The world seemed to have paled its vibrancy these coming days. It's August 3, 2012.

A hand slips into her back pocket and she pulls out a folded and worn photo. The edges are torn and smoothed over the years of use. She folds it open and leans against the doorway, allowing the morning light slip in through the balcony and down the hall onto her back. It was a photo dated back in 2001. Six familiar faces gazed up at her stoically. It was a soldier's photo: arms crossed over their chests and legs together. They were young, around the age of fourteen. There were two girls and four boys, all standing side by side, their height and faces setting them apart. They wore the same clothes: a hooded sweatshirt with pockets, training pants and sneakers. All the clothes were in shades of grey, except for the red lining inside the hood.

She can remember the day the photo was taken. Staring back up at her was a younger version of herself. Her dark hair was tucked back into a low-lying braid that snaked its way shortly over her shoulder. A ghost of a smile tugged on her lips, barely there and barely noticed. Clara can recall how awkward she felt that day. They had finished their training and one of the others had been given a camera for their birthday. It was rare to receive gifts back then, so presents were thoroughly enjoyed and shared. Clara mirrored her photo's expression unconsciously. Her eyes fell on her form briefly until they wandered off to a certain boy standing last in line. They lingered on his tanned face, the arrogant smirk on his lips with his chest puffed out slightly. A memory flashed.

One thing you had to understand was that they never stayed in one place for long.

Clara was five years old when her mother Sophie told her why they moved around a lot. She had asked the question and her mother didn't hesitate to tell her the truth. She had a right to know, just like the rest of them. They were assassins. There was a war. Templars were the bad guys and they had to keep moving to different places – deserted, far away places – to avoid being caught. But the rest of the details was dealt with secrecy. Was it because they weren't strong enough to fight off the Templars? Clara didn't know. She didn't ask. What she did figure out was that it was probably the reason why she didn't have a father.

The children would tease her about it. They would ask her questions why she didn't have a dad. They were kids back then. They didn't know what was right or wrong and what was rude or kind. They were curious and sometimes their curiosity led to Clara becoming confused or frustrated. How was she to know what happened to her father? He died before she was born. Her mother never said anything about how he died. Because Clara never knew him, it wasn't a sensitive subject. The conversations between children flowed like they were talking about the weather. The older kids knew, the ones who were thirteen and fifteen and older. They were usually the ones that told them to stop talking about it because they didn't know what they were talking about. Just because it wasn't a sympathetic subject for Clara didn't mean it wasn't for the others.

She was shepherded in with the words 'insensitive' and 'too naïve' in many of the conversations by the older kids. So much so it made her aggravated. Was her dad such a great man? She began growing a sense of hate towards her father – why did he have to die? Why did he leave mom and her behind? Was he really that selfish that he didn't want to be with his family anymore? So many questions – she wanted to pull her hair out in frustration. At the age of six, she became uncannily aware of her mothers quiet suffering for him.

Clara can remember the day when she met William Miles and his son. She was seven, the year that they had just barely begun their training. She was watching her mother's hand holding hers staring in wonder at the faint scar across her knuckles. Morning light streamed down through the narrow, high placed windows and lined the corridor with its husky glow. They had moved several times in two years. Clara wasn't sure where they were, somewhere in Mississippi, but she knew the reason why they had left the last place. They were down one less assassin this month and only forty three of them remained.

Her mother was humming a quiet melody, the one that she sings to Clara when she goes to bed with her on the blow-up mattress. They lived a nomadic lifestyle and Clara was used to them moving about. She thought it was normal. Everyone shared everything together and they all slept under the same roof. Her thumb grazed comforting circles on the back on Clara's tiny hand as they swayed gently with each step. Sophie wanted Clara to look pretty that morning. What effort lacked in the standard grey uniform-like clothes, had been doubled with her hair. Her dark wavy hair was pulled up in a neat plat and tied with a satin red ribbon. "Absolutely dashing, my princess," she whispered, kissing her cheeks lovingly.

Sophie and the man began exchanging greetings. He was a handsome looking man, with cropped dark hair and itchy looking stubble across his jaw. He reminded Clara of the prince in the only fairy-tale book her mother kept with them. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. William Miles was very tall – taller than most of the adults in the convent and he towered over both of them. He was a very kind man, but Clara knew all too well that he could be very scary when he wanted to be.

"Ah, so you must be Clara." He lowered himself down to her eye level and smiled warmly. She felt her cheeks heat up nervously as she gave a little, silent bow to him. All the children, even the adults bowed to William in a sign of respect. He chuckled sensing how uncomfortable she had grown and tucked back a piece of loose hair on Clara's cheek behind her ear. "That's a very pretty ribbon you have in your hair."

Clara's cheeks reddened even more but she stayed silent. She gave a slow nod, her wide eyes mesmerized by his. She could picture herself drowning in those orbs. Sophie squeezed Clara's hand gently. "Thank you," she squeaked out and bowed a little too rushed. They knocked heads lightly.

He pulled back, laughter rumbling off his chest as Clara scolded herself, wishing that the ground could swallow her up. How stupid of her! She felt the tears prickling behind her eyes until a kind hand on her shoulder brought her gaze back to his.

"Its alright, Clara. I have a thick head so it didn't hurt," he chuckled. He tapped his forehead with his finger and gave her a goofy grin. Clara pressed her lips together to stop the giggles coming out. He looked quite silly with a smile like that! She broke into an ear splitting grin. William chuckled, patting her cheek tenderly and standing back up.

"I'd like you to meet someone." He said to both Clara and Sophie. He called quietly over his shoulder.

A boy with dark hair and gold eyes stepped out from behind his father cautiously. William brought his son to stand on front of him and placed both his hands on either side of Desmond's shoulders. The pride for his son basked in the warm smile he gave him. Clara had seen this boy a few times around the convent playing with the other children. The two children stared at each other. "Clara, this is my son Desmond. Desmond, this is Sophie's daughter, Clara."

Clara snuck a glance at her mother. Sophie smiled down warmly and encouragingly. It's all right, Clara. She squeezed her hand again comfortingly. Clara looked back at the boy, blushing a little. "Hello Desmond," she said quietly.

"Hello," he replied calmly back.

"Clara, why don't you go and play with Desmond?" Sophie asked her. She leant down and kissed her cheek. Clara nodded and dropped her hand from her mothers. She stepped up to Desmond and motioned him to follow her silently before turning around and racing off. Desmond glanced up at his father. "Go son," he offered quietly. He ruffled his hair and smiled warmly. Desmond hurried off after Clara.

Clara made her way across her bedroom to the desk in the corner. It was a large desk, made out of some cheap factory-made material. She sat down and thought to herself quietly. Desmond. That was a name to a face she hadn't seen for a while. The only memories she had of him were back in the convent. He was the one that escaped many years later, and actually got away.

I wonder what life he is having at the moment.

Clara propped an elbow on the table and cupped her chin with her hand. She flipped open the small silver laptop and allowed the cold glow of the loading screen wash over her features. Back then we were all friends, she mused to herself. They were close friends. Desmond and Clara would spend their time together whenever they had a spare chance. When they didn't, they would make up for it by sneaking out of the compound. They would hang about, outside and talk. About the world. About training. Tomorrow and yesterday. They hid in the branches of trees, huddled on the banks of a stream. One time they had sat on the edge of a rock-like cliff, overlooking a midnight forest. Their legs would dangle off the side as they lay side by side looking at the stars. They would never stray too far from the others. Clara made sure.

Just when Clara was beginning to finally trust him, Desmond had left.

She had helped him escape on his sixteenth birthday. He had told her that he wanted to go see the world, to no longer be an assassin. It broke her heart to hear him finally voice his hatred to the brotherhood. As his friend she vowed to help in any way she could. Desmond had told her that he would take her with him, that she didn't have to be an assassin and she could be free. They could take on the world together – be unstoppable and start their own future. Clara knew she couldn't. She wouldn't betray the brotherhood herself.

They were still young but they were trained. They barely fought off the other assassins outside. In the mud and the rain that night. Desmond had struggled free and climbed over the wire fence. She had been caught, just outside the back door of the compound, pinned to the ground by two others. Through the fence Desmond promised he would come back for her. Then the others came and Desmond retreated. She watched as her best friend abandoned her through the rain.

"Nine years," she murmured, staring at the screen. Nine years of waiting and she had heard nothing from him. Occasionally she would wonder if he had gotten past the Bad Lands. Did the Templars capture him? Did they kill him like they did to her father? The thought made Clara sick. It made her want to kill a Templar if there were any around. No. No, Desmond was special. He was built to survive.

She stared at the screen for a moment, contemplating whether she should email the others of her findings. A finger drummed on the mouse pad as a hand went over a grasped the almost cold mug of tea. A satellite image overlooked a block of buildings. Check point. She zoomed into the picture and clicked on the link beside the image. Another web site popped up. It was hosted for a popular night bar, right here, in New York.

One year ago she was told the news that changed her life. Desmond Miles was alive, living in New York under the alias of Blake Dawson.

She wasn't sure if she felt extremely elated or extremely betrayed. Clara remembers staring at the screen for a good hour, reading the lines over and over again. Everything else didn't matter anymore. Her years of self-preservation to be calm and levelheaded flew out the window. He was alive. Her fingers shook lightly over the keyboard as the rage over took her. That asshole was alive.

Clara leant back in the silence of her room, fumbling around the desk for a switch. Her fingers brushed against a small button and she pressed it down. The room was suddenly enveloped in a warm glow by the desk lamp. On the space above the desk was a large printed map of New York City pinned into the drywall. Handwritten notes and printed documents littered around the poster. A complicated web system of red string darted around the map, more than a hundred points contacted against the street names. Names, phone numbers, addresses and store locations. Newspaper clippings were scattered over the desk. Photos and papers littered the floor of the room, covering the made sheets of the double bed. It was a collection of information, composed by her.

She was an informant for the Brotherhood. One year had passed since she started searching for Desmond Miles. And she finally found him.

The clock's alarm activated.

At first Desmond Miles didn't react. When the shrill ring continued to a point where his dreamless state couldn't ignore it anymore, he stirred. Groaning he rolled over onto his stomach, sliding his arms under his pillow as he sank his face into the feather-down sack. He inhaled sharply. The afternoon sun from the large open window spilled onto his unkempt bed: the white sheets were crumpled and draped loosely over his naked form. The muscles in his back tensed and released with every breath he took. Groggily, and with an expression to show one's annoyance, he fumbled blindly for the stupid thing with one hand and slammed on the snooze button with his fist. The alarm halted and peace and tranquility settled once again. He sighed, clearly not ready for the day and began to drift off as a hand began to stroke his back.

Wait. What the fuck…

Desmond finally turned his head to the side and opened his eyes. Lying next to him naked like the day she was born was a very attractive woman. Desmond's eyes flickered down to her body as quick as lightening. Her breasts were exposed shamelessly, heavy mounds with mulberry nipples. Her skin was pale and curved in such a way that was sin itself. Ah. So I did get a little carried away last night. The lower half of her body was tangled in the sheets just as his was and memories of last night slowly came back to his still half-asleep mind. He didn't need a visual reminder of the rest of her body. He spent half the night being in between her legs.

A small smile tugged on her pouty lips and just like that his eyes refocused on her face. She propped herself up on one shoulder and cradled the side of her head with her hand. She continued to touch his back, which Desmond was beginning to dislike rather quickly. He rolled over onto his side and her hand dropped to the space between them.

"You were so good last night," she purred. A tight smile tugged on his lips. She leaned over, her dark hair and breasts spilling onto the sheets in a way to be seductive. She dropped her voice fairly low, so the immanent purr of pleasure still tingled with her words. "Just to let you know. I've never had a man make me scream like that."

He chuckled, rubbing his eyes with the edge of his palm. How much did he drink last night... "Good morning to you too."

It took him a moment longer in his grogginess to realize she had leant over and started kissing him. Whoa. He complied slowly. Her hot tongue ran over his bottom lip before prodding against his teeth. He broke the kiss off suddenly and pulled back so they were a breath away from each other. "As amazing as it was last night, I need to go to work." And away from you.

She pouted a little and watched with dancing eyes as he slipped out of bed and began searching the room for his clothes. Her eyes practically raped him as he hurried around the open apartment. She licked her lips at the sight. He started throwing clothes at her. She sat up and caught them, noticing that he was finding her clothes instead. Confusion flickered. "Wait-"

He pulled the lacy red bra hanging limply off the shades of his window and tossed it at her. "The door is that way," he told her as she stared at him wide eyed and confused. Not bothering to give any more explanation, Desmond walked to the bathroom and locked the door; effectively cutting off any argument the slut was capable to producing.

He turned on the tap in the sink and leant over the banister, staring at his reflection dully. He really shouldn't have drunk last night. He shouldn't have picked her up and taken her home. He could hear her muttering to herself before the sound of his front door slamming shut resonated through the apartment. He gave a long sigh and stretched his sore limbs. He walked over to the door, unlocked it and turned to the shower.

He stood under the cold water, inspecting his body. Damn, she was a biter. Several bite marks tormented his biceps and chest and one was shamelessly exposed on his neck. He frowned and scrubbed the soap harder into his skin. He had to be more careful next time – and he didn't mean just the sex. People would ask questions and questions about Desmond in general, he liked to avoid. 'So no strings attached' was a good way to explain Desmond's sex life. He worked as a bartender for Bad Weather under the name of Blake Dawson, a name he cleverly came up by himself.

He allowed the soapsuds to wash down his body before turning the hot water off completely. The shower turned instantly icy and he shuddered a little. Desmond had been called Blake for almost nine years and he had been running along with his own act for almost a decade. Born in South Dakota and raised in a strict family, he had taken some time away to travel. He would leave it as simple as that. In a way, he new life still held some of the truths from his old life. He was born into a cult lead by his two conspiracy freaked parents. He left when he was sixteen and fled to the crowds of New York in hope not to be found. He didn't want to go back. He never wanted to see that place again.

Some days Desmond would have to remind himself of who he really is. His parents had told him that he was an assassin – he was born into it. He didn't choose it. It was like… a birthright. You are an assassin, they told him. What did that even mean? Ever since he was young. They never stopped saying it. He believed them for a while, but he never understood it. That's the trouble when you're born into something. Belief without understanding. He remembered that everyone was so serious. Scared too. All that talk of Assassins and Templars. The end of the world.

Every man had his limit. Desmond can't remember when he stopped believing. But when he did, he stopped caring too. To him, it sounded so stupid. He couldn't hear the word 'Templar' without laughing. He never cared. And Assassin? Forget it. An ancient war, they said. An endless struggle. Who knew it was possible to bore a kid with war stories?

The water turned off and Desmond stepped out of the shower and onto the cold tiles. Water beads dribbled down the planes of his back, sliding down the contours of his chest and abs as he reached out for the towel hanging on the towel rack. He dried himself quickly and wrapped it around his waist loosely. Opening the door, he walked back into the lounge/bedroom/kitchen area to search for some clothes. He kept his body in shape by working out constantly. I guess that was a trait that stayed with him from the compound. He wasn't a gym junkie, but his built was athletic and slim. He plodded over to the kitchen and searched for something to eat. There was left over pizza from yesterday's lunch. He pulled the box out and threw it carelessly on the counter, lifting the lid and grabbing a cold slice. He kicked the fridge door close and headed over to the plasma TV, switching it on.

An Abstergo ad was midway through playing. The first time he saw that name was on the side of a bottle of ibuprofen. He remembers his mom laughing at him when he asked her what it was about. She told him the average American household contains three dozen Abstergo owned products at any given moment. So that was it. The global conspiracy, Abstergo. Fingers in every pie. Governments. Corporations. Universities. His parents had made it sound so terrifying, but Desmond didn't find it intimidating. They were crazy. He didn't believe them. An enemy has to have a face. He ignored it and flipped over to another channel. A music channel. He left it on and wandered over to where his double bed was, dropping the towel and finishing his pizza.

He dressed in the clothes for work, the memories of last night slowly coming back with a vengeance. There was a twenty-first birthday party. They were the typical rich kids of New York, the type that weren't satisfied until they had the most ridiculous parties ever. And they were booked out for the entire night – making Desmond, Elliot and Sasha work their asses off.

God. He regretted sleeping with her. She was the birthday girl. Dressed in a black expensive boob-tube dress that barely covered the places that the dress was designed to cover. She was pretty though. Desmond would give her that. But with every pretty face came a vain personality. She was into him all night. She had waited for him to finish his shift. They drank. They danced. He brought her to his apartment. He told her to leave.

A knock on the front door resonated as Desmond slipped his tight dark shirt over his head. He hesitated a chanced step to the sound. She didn't come back again? Did she leave her phone or something? His eyes scanned around the bed quickly, hoping that she was smart enough to collect all her belongings. Awkward…

The knocking grew impatient. "Blake, open up the fucking door you pussy."

Desmond could recognize that voice anywhere. Dressed, he plodded over to the door. He opened it, recognized the figure and opened it a little wider. Elliot, the other bartender was looking at Desmond with a goofy grin. He was dressed similar to the man, jeans and a black V-neck shirt. His blond hair was scruffy and short cropped around his attractive face. Desmond wasn't attracted to the guy, but he knew that Elliot's looks had been shown to get a lot of appreciated comments from patrons. As did Desmond.

When Elliot saw his friend's wary look, his grin widened even wider. "I was wondering where you went to last night," he started. "Rough night, brother?"

Desmond's eyes wandered to the empty hallway behind Elliot before the flickered back to his face. He was glad to see him, but at the same time, his smile fell. "Elliot. How the hell do you know where I live?"

Elliot's look darkened a little. "Did you just forget that you just slept with my younger sister?"

Desmond's face fell and his features paled. Holy shit! That was his younger sister? "Elliot – I didn't…I mean-"

Elliot raised his hand to silence him. Desmond stepped cautiously to the side, a million curses stringing through his mind as Elliot walked into the apartment. He closed the door, his eyes pleading, to see that Elliot was watching him with a mixture of dark humor.

"So I get this phone call half an hour ago," Elliot stated, crossing his arms over his chest. "And my little sister is telling me some asshole just kicked her out of the house." Desmond tried to speak but Elliot gave him a look to be quiet. "So she tells me to pick her up. And what do you know? It's Blake Dawson."

"El, I swear I didn't know-" Desmond started desperately but was instantly cut off by laughing.

Elliot's face broke into a grin, seeing Desmond's 'just-kicked-my-puppy' look turn into complete confusion. "Dude, don't worry about it. We're not close. In fact, that's the first time she's called me in years."

He went to the kitchen and leaned for a moment on the counter. He stiffened a little and looked at Desmond suspiciously. "You didn't fuck her here, right?"

Desmond wasn't sure whether he should be grateful his best friend wasn't trying to castrate him or whether to be appalled because he didn't care. His mind was whirling as he shook his head at his question. He slowly approached Elliot, wondering if he good mood was a trick. He shook his head slowly, a little exasperated. "Wait…so let me get this straight. You're not…mad that I slept with her?"

"Nope. I mean, I was surprised she even booked out the bar. We hate each other. But I guess she heard about you and decided that was enough."

Desmond swallowed his suspicions. "But she's your little sister," he tried to amend.

Elliot was suddenly thoughtful. He raised his hand to his chin in the classic 'now that I think of it' pose. "I mean, I guess a part of me wants to rip your dick off and shove a rusty nailed wooden plank so far up your as that you balls would tear through your mouth…but her being a complete bitch to me for years and seeing her grovel for me to come pick her up kindda makes up for it. You could say sleeping with my sister has brought us closer."

Desmond chuckled awkwardly. "Well, that was incredibly vivid."

Elliot grinned and punched his arm with enough force that made Desmond quietly rethink his motives. "Dude, like I said, don't worry about it." He turned around, taking it in for the first time. "Vivian sure seems to like you," he replied, clearly impressed. "What's the secret, Blake? Did you fuck her too?"

Desmond groaned. Yep. Elliot wasn't going to let him go gently with the whole 'oh, she's your sister' thing. "No, I didn't. She's our boss. That's just…wrong. This place is just temporary."

"It's pretty fancy," Elliot commented. His eyes roamed around the designer decorated apartment, to the large plasma TV and expensive furniture. Afternoon light flooded in through the large French styled windows, basking the studio in a brightly lit glow. "She didn't give us anything as close as this, dude. Are you sure you didn't suck her off or anything? Maybe I can move in with you."

"You're not moving in with me," Desmond replied slowly, going over to the counter and throwing the pizza in the bin.

"True. I don't want to see you fucking my sister first thing in the morning."

Desmond sighed again, wanting the awkward subject to just drop. "You're never going to let me forget it, are you?"

Elliot grinned. "Nope."

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