This is a little three-part oneshot I made during the last week or so...hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed...but I do own a particular assassin in this story...

Miles From Home

Part One: Once Upon A Time

…there was a moment when I tried to remember. It scared me, and I didn't want to remember what I saw. I was still under the impression that I was a lonely bartender from the city, and I didn't have a clue what was going on. I had no one to talk to, no friends, no father-figure, no family. As far as I was concerned, there was only three people in the entire universe. Me, Lucy, and Vidic.

Life was whittled down to a couple of eight-hour sessions in the machine, and after that, I would fall straight asleep, exhausted. I didn't even have time to shower for that time, and I was beginning to smell. I was sure the machine had to be sanitized after each session, but I couldn't get the smell of my own self out of my head wherever I walked. I had once tried to take a shower, but I had all too soon found the seven cameras and three microphone bugs surrounding me. I felt entirely self-conscious and just went to sleep.

Then there were the dreams. The flashes of blinding red light all around me, the confusing characters and diagrams.

I had hardly any sleep, especially when Vidic once left me in the machine for almost twice the normally allotted time. Lucy was not happy about this, and I could barely walk afterwards, let alone make it to the bed. Exhaustion was racing through my veins, and I felt like I was losing bits and pieces of myself. My vision would black out in one eye, recover, and resume in the other eye. My arms felt like weights, and they were ultimately numb. My legs moved on their own, as if controlled by a remote. Breathing was hard to do, and my lungs felt heavy. I was so, so dizzy. I made it to the bed, but my satisfaction came too soon. The only part of my body that had actually made it to the bed was my left arm, the rest of me pitching forward onto the floor. My head cracked against the strange glass tile, and my vision finally faded to black. I could feel the hands tugging me onto the bed, hear Lucy's worried and upset tone as she accused Vidic of this entire mess. Vidic shrugged her off, bringing in the fact that she wasn't there at all that day, and where had she been. Lucy was quiet, and I couldn't hear her answer before slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Desmond, it's time to go." She said, covered in blood, and obviously preoccupied. I was so confused, with the outcome of Altaïr, and the new ability I had gained. The signs all over the walls and floor, the blood of Subject 16 and Leila Marino. I didn't want to sleep in the bed he had died in; it was haunted. At least the strange dreams' meanings were coming into view, and I was given a bit of insight to what was going on.

Lucy had practically shoved me into the machine, the one thing I didn't want to do, but I had shrugged it off like I was okay, like I was just fine. Fear was gripping me like a baseball bat. As the glass screen encased my head, the dreaded familiarity of the slight shock into hypnosis coursed through my body before I went limp, sucked into the machine yet again. I felt my eyes close, but I was in third person, nonresponsive.

Just being there is like running from the cops. You have no idea what's going on, but you do. You wish to be anywhere but there, and you can't. We realize this at the last minute, and we don't realize our consequences of running away until we want to go back.

Blurred images, screams, worried words and whispers, and a shout of triumph passed through me. I felt so confused. Where was Altaïr? This was…Ezio? Was that the name? Ezio?

Then I was pulled out. The shortest session I've ever been in, but I was sure that this wasn't just for research. Lucy ordered me to follow her, and I started jabbering nervously as we walked outside the Animus room. Very bland and tasteless, interior decorating was obviously not in the future of Abstergo. The windows we passed had more machines and I found them both interesting and confusing. Where was this place?

Lucy took me down to what looked like a parking lot, and we encountered about seven guards. Lucy took on five easily, while I struggled with two. Between them beating me with sticks and punching me, I could make out the bumblebee-yellow Porche 911 Turbo in one of the nearby spaces. Who did that belong to? A Ducati motorbike rested in one corner, and I felt my heart surge with nostalgia as I shoved a man's nose into his brain. The words on the walls were most definitely in Italian, directing people left and right, up and out. With the dead men on the floor, although some were most definitely still alive, Lucy ordered me to get into the car. I started going around to the passenger side, but the trunk opened. She had to be kidding. I asked why, and she merely stated, "Security measures." And I was in the trunk.

About an hour into the drive, I was hit with a wave of realization so hard I almost stopped breathing. I killed two people without thinking. What was that machine doing to me? I had been a pacifist all my life, never wanting to kill anyone. That's why I ran away from—no, I couldn't call it home. I breathed slowly, my eyes open, in case the trunk opens suddenly. Lucy hung a sharp right, crashing my head into the side of the trunk. I groaned in pain, and I heard a slight "sorry" from the front. What was so bad with the back seat?

I tried to lull myself into an indifference, but my mind kept screaming at me, "YOU KILLED THEM, YOU KILLED THEM, YOU KILLED THEM," like vultures circling above their prey. The car horn honked twice, and Lucy swerved the car out of the way. I braced myself against the front and back walls that held me in. I closed my eyes, but opened them quickly. I didn't want to fall asleep. I didn't want to dream.

But eventually, raw exhaustion got the best of me, and I slept.

And I remembered.

Part Two: Down the Rabbit Hole

…I went, down, down, down. Falling past memories and events I had blocked out of my mind since I was a teenager. My dream started at the beginning, like all good stories do.

The beginning was when I first recalled ever living. Unfortunately, it was almost dying. I was standing atop an impossible structure, with about five other boys my age. "Jump, Des! Are you a chicken?" I was about eight, as I recall. We were over ten stories in the air, and I was looking down at the miniscule pit of foam we were supposed to jump into. A man with a megaphone, Mr. K, shouted, "Jump, Miles!"

I became extremely nauseous, and I started swaying on the spot. This cannot be happening. Why were we even up here? "Desmond, just go." Someone from behind me said. Another voice replied, "He's not gonna do it. Just like last week." Last week, I had passed out from looking at the sea-green foam too long. The first voice, the calmer one, said, "I'll count to three for you. Okay?" I didn't look back, only nodded. "One…" I nudged my toes out to the edge. A rock fell down beneath me, and my breath hitched in my throat. The wind whipped at my face, my eyes squinting in the desert sun. What was I doing? "Two…" the boy said, his voice growing in volume over the wind.

"Three!" another said, and a split second before I was going to do it, perfectly, a pair of tough hands shoved me off, and I spun around as I pitched forward. They were all smirking, except for one. His eyes showed worry, and shock, and fear.

Falling is like winning a card game. You don't know you've done anything right until the last second, when everyone shows their hand or, in this case, when Fate allows you to live another day.

Okay, I screamed like a girl all the way to the bottom. I blacked out a second before I hit the pit of foam, and I woke up a couple of minutes later, surrounded by the worried faces of my parents and peers. I was supremely embarrassed, and I couldn't just stay home and do my work there. No. This was a prison, for children of my age. Although they didn't know it, I did. We were forced to do things like this every day, and I was the only one out of the seven of us who didn't want to do it. I learned the word "inhumane" and I started using it more and more until it was my nickname. Inhumane, why don't you go fall off the climbing wall? Oh wait, you already did that. Inhumane, go throw up in Anatomy. You already did that. Inhumane. Inhumane. Inhumane. I was the shadow on the wall, the ghost in the room.

Age ten. We watch a selection of videos of people getting killed: John F. Kennedy, a reenactment of Abraham Lincoln. I couldn't take it. I passed out when I saw my own parents on the screen, they were stabbing this poor man to death, and he was screaming, screaming, screaming.

The memories of the screams lasted well into the night, and I had the worst nightmares for years after that. I didn't let my mother into my room, or my father, after that night. They would stab me to death, like they had that other man.

My father would roar through the barricaded door, "Desmond Miles, you are an assassin! You will learn this sooner or later, but you cannot change your destiny!" he screamed as I cowered in my closet, shaking and sobbing with fear. Everything I knew had been shattered in a couple of moments. "If you do not kill, you will be killed, do you understand me?!" he yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting. I just curled up into a ball and shouted that maybe I did want to die after all.

There was silence, and my ears rang. I had no idea what I had just said, but in that moment, the door came crashing down, along with everything I had piled up against it. I started screaming in terror, the look on my father's face was murderous. I screamed louder and louder as he took the quick steps near me and yanked me up by my arm, so I was dangling in the air like a squirming doll. I started kicking and thrashing around, my voice interrupted by breaths. I felt a strangling feeling around my neck and lungs as I was forced to look into my father's eyes. I kept sobbing, my face slick with tears. I could barely hear him, but my father went on to say the most important things I'd ever hear in my life.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to hurt you. It's right of you to think that I will, and I'm sorry. You shouldn't have seen those things, but it's necessary that you do. Desmond, nothing is true. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to kill you. Everything is permitted. I know I did those things, and I agreed to let you see them. I'm sorry, Desmond, I'm so sorry." He wrapped his burly arms around my small, withered frame, and I hugged him back. "I love you, Desmond." He said into my chest. I kept crying into his shoulder.

Age twelve. I had started a journal, and one day I wrote, 'On the eastern wall, there is a hole big enough for me to get through.' I had maneuvered my head and shoulders out of the facility, but all I saw was more and more sand, leading into the desert horizon of plateaus and mountains in the distance, the ranges of the mountains foggy with clouds and rain that never hit us. I breathed in the air like a fish in water, and I felt like there was so much more for me to see. Most of my training now was just physical activities, and I had finally mastered my fear of the climbing wall, the jumping tower, and the foam pit. I was more confident now that I was breathing new air, air that no one else could breathe.

Eventually I had dug a hole in the three-foot deep cement that was too big to be inconspicuous, so I had dyed a tarp the color of the cement and hung it up over the hole. It was perfect. No one knew where I was for three hours a day, and no one liked to venture too close to the walls besides me.

There were only six families or so, all of them with five people in their families. I had a mother, a father, and my mother was pregnant with twins for a long while, and when my two sisters were born, I was thirteen. The hole could fit me and a table, chair, and I would spend hours by myself, playing cards or doing chemistry or history homework. The homework made me feel alone, and I loved doing it. I was extremely bright, and I would constantly annoy my teacher about the "outside world". I was branded as a freethinker, and shunned by most of the people, albeit unofficially. My parents encouraged conformity, but I would snap back with the usual "why don't you just let me go" and I would be grounded. The windows were easy to unlock, and every night, I would sneak out to my little cove with my journal and a flashlight, recollecting on past thoughts and memories. Remembering was so easy back then because I hadn't done anything of note. But I kept notes anyways.

I read the entries aloud to myself, as if someone listening would understand what was going through my head. "…today was okay. I dug about three inches out, and I could touch the sand outside. I brought some to my room as well, and the smell of freedom is amazing. All this history, all of the world…it's just waiting for me to go out there. Ready to welcome me back. I wonder if there are some nice people out there that would like me. People that would let me just go to school, and not have to jump off of towers or climb impossible walls or rifle around dead bodies or have contests to see who could withstand more pain inflicted by a knife stolen from the kitchen. That's mostly what I want. Just to get out." I would hear a patroller coming around and I would cover the flashlight with my palm, and I held my breath. I started counting to ten. When that failed to calm me down, I started reciting the periodic table, and years and dates. By the time I got to the death or King Louis XIII, the air was turning red and I dashed home to change and resume my life.

I was introduced to the dirtbike that year, and I was immediately engrossed in it. I would spend all of my time on the bike, and I excelled against all of the other kids in the class. The rush of the air coming towards me, displacing on all sides of my face, was like a drug. The power between my legs and under my hands shook my very soul to its core. I was alive. I had a pulse. I understood life.

Age fifteen. My birthday was the next day. I was now a master of the bike, and I had saved up enough gasoline and supplies so I could leave through the hole. I had the hole dug to the size of the table's surface, and I could most definitely fit a bike through there, let alone myself. I didn't dare leave yet, only when the time was right. On my sixteenth birthday. That was my present to myself.

I slept in my bed that night, my backpack and helmet under the bed. There was a knock on the door at around ten at night. My watch was on my wrist. It would take too long to put it on as I was leaving. I kept quiet, and I hoped the person would go away.

It was my father. He opened the door, and I faced away from the light from the hall, the desert moon bathing my room in white and shadows. "Hey, son." He sat on the edge of the bed, but not on my feet, thankfully. They had my white slip-ons on them. A large hand rested on my shoulder. "Desmond? I know you're awake."

I rolled my eyes and gave up, sitting up in my bed. I had taken precaution and worn a plain black shirt, made to look like a sleep shirt. I hoped it would do the trick. "What?" I asked, making it sound like I was tired and cranky.

"How are you, kid?" he asked. I bit my lip.

"Well, Dad, I'm just fine and dandy, given that I'm trying to sleep right now." I said in my most sarcastic tone, wanting him to get offended and leave.

"Desmond. Tell me what's going on. You barely eat, all you do is ride that stupid bike, you never talk to anyone, do you even know your sisters' names?" his eyes were filled with worry, and I realized that everything he said was true. But I lied anyway.

"Honestly, I'd rather not get into the components of Mom's cooking, it's not a stupid bike like you say, people just aren't interesting to me, and they're Mary and Myra, and why do you care anyway? I'm different from the kid I was, it's not like I'm going to do anything stupid." I stared him down, but he wouldn't waver. His calm eyes pinned me in place, but my defiance was obvious in my face.

"Desmond, that's exactly what I think you're going to do." I felt my face get hot and spikes of nerves prodded my cheeks. He couldn't know. Never. I was careful, and I covered my tracks. "Desmond, this isn't about me, is it? About gaining my approval?" he sighed after a minute of silence.

"No. God, no. Why would you think that?" I asked, leaning back into the bed. I buried my face in the cool wall.

"Desmond, when are you going to ever talk to me?" he asked softly.

"Tomorrow. Talk to me tomorrow." I said, and he got up and left the room. When I looked down at the pillow, I noticed the two wet stains. My watch said that it was only minutes to midnight. I must have fallen asleep for an hour or so, but it was hard to tell. I cursed myself and got up out of bed, silently pulling on a white sweatshirt and tugging my backpack and helmet out of the shadows. I had packed an extra pair of socks, my journal, a knife, a lighter, and a couple packages of food in the backpack, but I saw that there were two bundles of green paper that I recognized as money. There was a note on a white piece of paper, and it said 'just in case'. It didn't look like my father's handwriting, but it looked familiar. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and opened the window.

I looked around for about ten seconds, and I dashed to the hole, holding the keys in my pocket like a lifeline. I disappeared under the tarp, but was pinned against the wall by two phantom hands, one covering my mouth and the other holding my hands above my head. I lashed out with my legs instinctively, catching my captor in the shin. They grunted loudly, louder than I would have ever done in the hole. They let go of my mouth and I shushed them. They staggered back, and I picked up my dropped helmet. "Who are you?" I hissed, reaching for the keys in my pocket. Due to the enormous amount of room, I assumed they had taken the bike out.

"Really, Desmond?" they whispered, but I still couldn't make out who they were. The voice was familiar, though. I knew it… "It's me, Gabe." He whispered. Gabe was the one who had counted to three for me.

"Wha—why are you here?" I stuttered, trying to answer that question for myself.

"To make sure you don't do something stupid." He said, laughing. I heard him lean against the further wall. I stayed silent. "I followed you out here one night, and I listened to you read." He said. I felt my face get hot, and I wondered how fast it would take for me to crawl through the hole and start running. Better yet, how long it would take for him to catch up. Where was the bike? "Desmond, you don't belong here." He said abruptly.

"You just realized this?" I asked, scoffing lightly.

"Desmond, the bike is outside. You need to get out of here." He found my hand in the dark, and squeezed it once. It was warm, and soft. I felt like a small child being led to school, oblivious to the world. I could feel his eyes on me, though I couldn't see them. They were green, I think.

"Why do you think I'm here, Gabe?" I said sardonically.

He didn't respond, only led me through the hole to the other side. I felt the familiar rush of air, the rush of freedom, and I felt uncoordinated, like a newborn animal. The sky was inky blue-black. Gabe led me over to where the bike was, guiding my hand to the handles and the seat. "You feel it?" he asked.

"No, I don't." I said sarcastically. I started to swing my leg over, but it was caught in midair by one of Gabe's hands, and I was thrown off balance. "What are you doing?" I hissed as my back hit the sand.

He merely chuckled and said, "Do you know how adorably stupid you are?" he asked. I felt my ears get hot, and I was grateful for the dark, yet again. He led me by my hand, yet again, over to the wall, and I was pulled down into a sitting position.

"Well how stupid am I?" I asked, irritated that I was being denied my escape.

"Well, for one, if you didn't realize, you have over two thousand dollars in your backpack, there. Who do you think put that there? Your father?" how had he gotten into my room without my noticing? "You'd think that a guy like you would do some investigating. But no, you continued reading your life story to the world, letting us all know that you thought the world was great outside, and that life in here was hell. Your views on killing, and climbing, and your wonderful little fear of heights." I felt myself grow very, very hot and very, very cold at the same time. Why on earth did I ever write that? Let alone, read it? "Aww, don't be discouraged now. I've got the entire story down." I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Wh—why didn't you tell me that you…well, were there?" I asked, not knowing what to ask.

"For one, I'd rather not discuss why I even came back to listen again, but you are just so intriguing, Des." He slapped my leg lightly, and I felt like a small child again, like there was a joke I couldn't understand.

We talked well into the night, and I didn't realize it, but I was moving closer and closer to him. This was the most talking I'd ever done. My watch showed that it was 4:17 when the sky began to start to lighten. I could see the basic contours and lines in his face, his smile glued on the entire time. It was dazzling, and I felt entranced by his words.

"Desmond, it's time." He said at one point. The sky was a blue-pink color, and I could see the sun beginning to crawl up the mountains in the distance.

"What?" I asked, as he stood up. "But…" I realized that I was sixteen in that moment.

"Desmond, you had made this decision a long time ago. There's no backing out now." He shook his head to emphasize his point.

"But…you can go with me! I can get you out, and we can just leave, and never have to see this place again…" I tried to convince him. The glint off of the bike was shining into my face, and I couldn't see Gabe.

"I can't leave, Desmond. I belong here. As much as I'd like to, I can't." He put the keys in my hand, and pushed me towards the bike, his hands on my shoulders. I looked down at the keys in my hand. "You can do it. I know you can."

"Will I ever see you again? Out there, I mean?" I asked, a little nervously.

"If you look hard enough. Get going."

Slowly, I lifted one leg over the bike, sitting down slowly. The sun was raising slowly, a sliver of light over the silhouetted mountains. The hands left my shoulders, and I felt like a weight was lifted off of me. I put the key in the engine and started the bike. It roared to life. I only had a couple of minutes' head start once I got past the gate, I was told by the security engineer. I revved the engine, and looked back, but Gabe was gone.

Part Three: Happily Never After

…I opened my eyes to consciousness as the car was slowing to a stop. I touched the part of my head that was hit, and prodded it gently. There was nothing too bad about it, and I quickly pulled my hand away when I heard Lucy walk over to the trunk. I cleared my head, ready to go.

"Finally." I said once the trunk was open. I climbed out, stretched a little, and managed to make out the last of what Lucy was saying about where we were. I didn't care, as long as there was a bed I could collapse in. The windows said I was somewhere in Italy, but I couldn't see any landmarks that told me where in Italy, exactly.

"Desmond, are you sure you want to do this?"

"After what those Templar bastards did to me, I'm down with anything right now." I closed my eyes to the memories that came flooding back…shouts, loud sounds, breaking glass, fighting, anger…

The night was early, and there were only two people in the bar, both regulars. I did what I was supposed to do when I had a moment of peace: clean glasses. It was a Wednesday, and no one came in on Wednesdays. I was twenty-two, and I had been out of the facility for six years. The first town I had come across was pretty run-down and deserted, and I got a job as a floor-sweeper in a bar. When I was twenty, I became a bartender. I lived upstairs from the bar, in a one-room studio with an add-on bathroom. There was another girl that worked here, Harriet, but I wasn't interested in her whatsoever. Beside the fact that she was married, she was most likely the ugliest woman I'd ever seen, but I hadn't gotten out much. The world was being shut down. There would be no dream of Italy, or France, or anywhere. International communication was banned, along with international travels. The world was being taken over by a pharmaceutical company, Abstergo. Apparently they manufactured antidepressants, but their new product, New Fluoride, was on the FDA-banned list a couple years back. Apparently it poisoned an entire town in Ohio.

Someone walked into the bar, but he was already loaded. On what, I wasn't too sure, but I got a bad vibe about him. He plopped himself down at the bar and sighed loudly. I set down my glass and walked over. "Anything I can get you?" I asked. He reeked of vodka and smelled like a trash can.

"Rum." He said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had dark rings under them. His breath made me want to hurl.

"You sure about that, buddy?" I said, motioning to his current state.

"Yeah, I'm sure about it." He rifled around in his pocket, and pulled out a gun. It was black, and scary. But I didn't show it. "My little friend here says to get a move on." None of the other bar patrons had noticed anything, seeing as his low, raspy voice only carried a few feet. I took a deep breath. This was the second gun-wielding guy I'd come across while alone on the shift. My boss was going to kill me for this…

I started making his drink, and I slid it to him across the slick countertop. "Thanks." He mumbled. I itched to get the gun that was hanging under the table, only a few feet away, but I didn't dare move while the gun was still aimed at me. I wanted to curl up under the bed in my room upstairs, I wanted to hide. But I couldn't move from my spot. I pleaded desperately in my mind for someone to walk in, someone—

The door opened again, and I almost let out a relieved sigh. It was only about five o'clock, and the sun was still setting, so I could only see the silhouette of the man that walked in. For some reason, my old bike came to mind. My old bike, with its rusty wheels and decaying tires. The man sat down at the bar, his oversized white hood covering his face. His forearms looked bulky, like he was hiding something in his sleeves. He had long black hair that hung in his eyes and face, making it impossible to see him. "Can I get you anything?" I asked, keeping one eye on the gunman.

"Something light, for the road." He said, his voice instantly familiar to me. I couldn't tell who it was, but it annoyed me to no end. I made him a gin and tonic, handing it over to him a second later. The gunman was standing up.

"Do I know you?" I asked, curiosity taking over. From what I could see, the man in front of me smiled, but only on one side of his face. He reached out for the glass with his left hand, and I noticed the tattoo that was there. It looked like a ring, but blue and it had a strange symbol on it. I had seen this symbol before; I knew it.

"You probably do." He said, every word increasing the nagging in the back of my head. "It's been a while, Desmond." He took a generous sip of the clear drink. I felt every hair in my body stand on end.

Almost automatically, I responded, "My name is Anthony, not Desmond." Anthony Green was the name I had assumed, though I had no ID, and no Social Security. I was paid in cash each week.

"Oh please, Desmond." The man scoffed. The gunman was going to the bathroom. He hadn't taken his gun. I quickly sidestepped over to his place, taking the gun. I dropped it in the trashcan without another word. The man in white went on. "It's not like six years can make you forget." His words stopped me in my tracks. They echoed over and over again. "Six years…" he whistled low. "You sure have made something of yourself, Desmond. Tell me, did you ever go to Paris? Italy? It looks like you didn't get very far."

"I told you, my name is Anthony." He played with the rim of the glass after I said this.

"Sure it is. Sure it is." He muttered. Standing up, he threw a ten down. "Well, if you ever do plan on coming back, you know where to find us." He began to turn around, but I stopped him.

"Wait," I said, reaching out to him slightly. A name flashed through my mind. "…Gabe?"

"The one and only." He said, chuckling a bit. "I—"

At that moment, there was a loud crash. I looked in the direction it came from. Standing in the doorway to the bathrooms was the gunman. "I'm done." He sobbed. "I'm just done."

Gabe stepped forward, grabbing his elbow and twisting the gun out of his hand. Stuffing it into his back pocket, he began to lead the man out the door. I took the ten on the counter, putting it in my pocket. Gabe disappeared through the door, and the bar seemed to get a little colder. The silence that followed was deafening.

I didn't see Gabe after that day.

Lucy interrupted my thoughts, once again. "Okay, that's wonderful." She walked away from me, determined, and I prayed that Gabe was safe wherever he was, watching over me and guiding me. Because he was the only thing that tied me to home, even though I was miles from it.

That little green button is waiting to be pressed :)