Hi, everyone! I wrote this one-shot a while ago when I was bored as plot bunny. When I realized I wasn't going to do anything with it, I decided it stands well enough on its own. I hope you guys enjoy!
Sand. All Layla saw was sand. It covered the ground, it filled the air, it blocked out the sky. It struck her face like pellets and stung her eyes, but she still ran forward.
"I need you! I need you!" a voice cried.
"Deanna!" Layla yelled, running faster. "I'm coming!"
Another voice, this one speaking Arabic, broken by static but still clear.
"Team one, we've located the secondary target. Extracting her now."
"No, no, no!"
Layla saw her. Her face, her smile.
Then there was a gunshot.
Layla violently started awake. She even threw a punch, only for her hand to collide with something solid. A wave of disorientation washed over her. What? Where was she?!
The woman suddenly recognized her surroundings as the inside of a car. The passenger side of her jeep, to be precise. How did she get here? Then the memories came flooding back.
"Bad dream?" William Miles inquired.
Layla pinned herself against the seat and gave him a sideways glare. The man had one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift, but instead of watching the road, he was watching her. The historian decided she didn't like those peering ice-blue eyes.
No shit, Sherlock, she wanted to say, but thought better of it.
"I'm fine," she grounded out, and pointedly turned to look out the window to watch the broken ground of the Sahara race by.
Oh, how she get here? A month ago, she was just an Abstergo employee trying to do her best for her company. She was so excited, to finally visit Egypt, home of her ancestors, and investigate a real tomb. Mummy included. But now her best friend was dead, she was a fugitive, and her new buddy was a terrorist. Or something like that.
She eyed William Miles, trying to see him as a cultist serial killer. At 70-years-old, age had finally caught up to him. His hair and beard were gray, and his wrinkled skin was pale. Crow's feet branched from the corner of his eyes. He was thin and healthy, but not having a good run in years, there were almost no muscles on him. His jacket even hung loosely on him. At first glance, he looked like a friendly, non-threatening grandpa. Nothing like the man Sophia Rikken described to her.
He was a master manipulator. He could convince anyone to do his bidding, without them even realizing. Of course, that made her wonder: was he manipulating her now? What he lacked physically he made up in intellect. He was cunning and ruthless, responsible for several plots against Abstergo Industries and even other companies.
Then again, Sophia said a lot of things.
Alexandria was breathtaking, but for whole a different reason than most. After reliving Beyak's memories, Layla had seen it in its prime. Grant sandstone buildings covered in hieroglyphics, tall palm trees, paved avenues filled with Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans.
Now modern buildings replaced ancient monuments. Cars filled asphalt roads. People mulled the sidewalks in crowds. Looking around the city, Layla found herself going "been there, seen it, climbed that" until she stopped and realized it was Bayek that did those things.
She was in the 21st century, not 40BC.
Layla expected William to take her to a super-secret underground bunker, armed with state-of-the-art technology, so imagine her surprise when they instead arrived at a café. She opted not to comment that Reda used to set up shop there. Instead, she asked what they were doing.
"There's some people I want you to meet," he merely said as he opened the door. He stepped aside, allowing her to go first. What a gentleman.
Layla slumped in a chair at a random table and cradled her head in her hands. Maybe some coffee would help her headache. William calmly sat across from her, menu in hand. It was only a minute when a waiter came by. Layla expected to hear baritone Egyptian, so was startled when she heard a far more nasally accent.
"What can I get for you?" a man's voice asked.
Layla glanced up and determined that her head wasn't playing tricks on her. He was definitely British. His skin was far too pale be a man living in Egypt and his dirty blonde hair was combed. His brown eyes peered down at her through thin glasses. Before Layla could comment, William spoke up.
"Just a black coffee, please," the man requested politely.
"Of course, person-I-have-never-met-before," the Brit replied, scribbling on his notepad. William audibly sighed.
"Oh, my God, you are not subtle," another woman groaned in another distinct accent. American.
Layla couldn't help but look over her shoulder. She saw a woman on a computer sitting at the table behind them. Despite she was inside, the black-haired woman wore a flashy hijab and sunglasses. The stranger flashed Layla a friendly smile and continued typing.
"I am a master of subtly, mind you," the man retorted. "See? Watch this." He turned his attention to Layla. "What would you like, imperious Templar agent?"
The woman choked on her macchiato. William facepalmed. Layla clenched and quickly corrected the Assassin.
"I just work for Abstergo," she hissed.
"Okay, what would you like, cheeky Abstergo agent?"
"To punch you."
"To drink?"
"Coffee, with lots of cream and sugar."
"Then what's the point?"
"Shaun," William warned, apparently tired of the banter. The Assassin, Shaun, snapped to attention.
"Alrighty then, one black coffee for the gentleman and one cream and sugar with no coffee for the lady," the Brit reported, scribbling. Layla made a face as he whipped around and stalked away.
"You learn how to tune him out," the woman behind Layla assured.
"I heard that!" Shaun quipped from the bar.
"I'm sorry what'd you say?"
"Enough, you two," William patiently sighed, like a parent dealing with children. He leaned the table and asked quietly, "Rebecca, have you taken care of our tails?"
The woman, Rebecca, replied, "I sent a fake trail to Jordan. It'll take a few days before Abstergo realizes they're being punked."
"When will the Altair be here?"
"She's behind schedule. Gavin said they'll be here tomorrow or the next day. I got you two a hotel near the port."
"Good work," William nodded.
Layla was darting her gaze from one side of the café to another during the conversation. This place was too public to be talking about shadowy organization stuff. But the only other people here were on the other side of the café, murmuring their own conversations, out of earshot. At least she hoped.
The ex-Abstergo agent remembered that one day she went to lunch with Sophia. Just to prove a point, the executive scientist pointed out every single camera that belonged to Abstergo. There was a lot. The woman had even pointed out a couple people, who just looked like friendly run-of-the-mill civilians, not trained agents. Abstergo had eyes and ears everywhere.
It was that very same lunch Sophia told Layla about the Assassins and Templars, the eternal war between them that continued to this very day. Caught up in the moment, the Egyptian- American had dared to asked to join the Order. How exciting it would be! To be a Knight like the 12th century stories, protecting the weak and spreading order into the world with chivalry. Sophia had merely chuckled, and had said she had to prove herself.
Little did she know that lone statement got Layla in this mess in the first place. All she wanted was to prove that she was useful. She thought if she found intel on the Assassins, the history of their origins, Simon Hathaway and Sophia Rikken would finally give her the promotion she had strived for twelve years. But how could she get anywhere, when her superiors pushed her down at every step?
"Stop it, do this, do that," they would say, like a mantra.
Now, they sent Sigma Team to kill her.
Layla knew Sophia sent them. She was the only one that a clue where the girl was. Layla had trusted the woman and considered her a friend. Only for Sophia to play her. Like a damned fiddle.
The pair drank their coffee and the Assassins continued their not-so-subtle-but-got-away-with-it reports. She and Shaun continued to throw jabs at each other, to the point William had to physically stop Layla from throwing her steaming "cream and sugar only drink" at the Brit.
She and William walked back onto the street, opting to head to the hotel on foot. They pushed through the sea of people. People in jeans, thobes, suits, hijabs, t-shirts, and abayas. Then there was tunics, sandals, and togas. Layla blinked.
She watched as a man in Roman armor stepped in front of her. He said something in Latin that the Egyptian did not understand. He moved away, replaced by a Macedonian Greek. He was moving towards the direction of the palace, muttering that he had to see the Queen. An Egyptian woman cried out.
There was a blast of a horn, so loud it hurt Layla's ears.
Phylakes. They had come for her!
She took off. People let out startled cries as she shoved into them, even sending a couple to the ground. She ran into stalls and posts, coming out of nowhere. While the Egyptian stumbled through the obstacles, the Phylakes was unhindered, drawing nearer. She could hear their heavy footsteps behind her, the rattling of their armor and weapons.
In a desperate attempt, she twisted around corners, zigzagging through the sandstone streets of Alexandra to ward off her pursuers. But it was hopeless.
Suddenly hands grabbed her arms and she found herself pinned to a wall. The Phylakes shouted in a strange language. Bayek screamed.
No! He was a Medjay! He was a Medjay!
"Layla!" the Phylakes roared. "Snap out of it! Layla!"
Layla snapped her eyes open to see William's eyes staring directly into her. He had her pinned to the wall, expertly pushing his weight against hers. Sweat covered her skin and the woman panted like she had just run a marathon. Suddenly a rush of sensations attacked her.
Car horns, music, acidic smells, fluorescent light, colors of gray and brown. The American-Egyptian's head was pounding. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins. Air. She needed air!
"Get off!" Layla wailed, pushing against William's chest.
The Assassin complied, stepping back out of her personal space. Layla neared doubled over, hand over her racing heart. The world spun and her legs shook.
"What's happening to me?" the woman gasped.
"It's the Bleeding Effect," William answered, sternly yet softly at the same time. He had his hands up, nearing her like she was a frightened fawn. "Beyak's memories are merging with your own."
At a moment, Layla didn't know what he was talking about. Then she remembered. The Bleeding Effect. That fascinating, terrifying side-effort of prolonged use of the Animus. How long did she relive Bayek's memories? Days? Weeks? Oh, and Deanna was worried about her physical state. They never considered her mental state of mind. It was the Bleeding Effect that allowed her to—
No, Layla couldn't bring herself to finish that thought.
"We can get you help, Layla," William said gently, like was trying to assure her.
A part of the woman wanted to defend her pride. The other wanted all the sensations to stop.
"J-Just get me out of here," Layla wheezed.
The Assassin nodded and tentatively touched her shoulder. When she didn't slap him away, he guided her out of the alleyway. The ex-Abstergo employee leaned on him all the way to the hotel.
Layla couldn't remember the last time she took a long, hot shower. Living in a cave for weeks, she did not want to describe her painstaking process to stay clean.
She stayed under the water for two hours. She vigorously scrubbed every single inch of her body, trying to get every spec of sand, grime, and blood off of her. She ended up washing the same parts twice, but could still see the blood staining her skin—which turned from tanned to black and back again during the process. There were long minutes where she just stood there, staring at the wall, reliving the events of the past few days.
Some were in the 21st century. Some were not.
The woman didn't even move when the hot, steaming water turned cold. It wasn't until her body started to shiver she finally turned off the water and stepped out. Layla changed into a fresh pair of clothes and wrapped her hair until a towel.
William did not comment how long she took. In fact, he was in the exact same position in the exact same spot as she left him. He was in the far corner of the room, nestled in a comfy chair with a book in hand. The man wore a pair of reading glasses, precariously balancing on the tip of his nose.
Layla almost thought he was a statue, until he quietly turned the page and resumed his unmoving posture. Usually, the woman would strike up a conversation to fill the silence. But having no interest in talking to him (what could she say, anyway?), she opted to ignore him. She didn't know how to pass the time.
After being in a very realistic, virtual reality simulation, regular TV did not give her the same appeal as before. She didn't need any more drama, anyway. She enjoyed reading, as it always gave her the perfect escape, but she left her book back at her camp. The ex-agent did not want to ask William if he had a spare, because it would mean she would have to talk to him.
So, Layla stripped out of her outer layers and collapsed on the bed. It was a cheap-ass hotel mattress, but it felt like a cloud. The cotton sheets felt like satin as she bundled underneath the layers. Her head buried in the hard pillow. The Egyptian fell asleep instantly. In the morning when she woke up, it would all be a dream.
"I knew you'd come, old friend. Perhaps I was always meant to die at your hand."
Beyak begged. Beyak pleaded. He was a Medjay. He was a protector of the people, yet here he was, murdering them. His friend.
He gave her a quick death. He prayed the gods would forgive him.
Her blood soaked his hands, his clothing. He was on his knees beside her, his legs unable to hold him. Beyak did not notice the tears slipping from his eyes, forming rivers down his cheeks. His hands trembled.
The Assassin raised his head and let out a furious roar to the gods themselves.
"Come on, wake up!" a harsh voice commanded.
Layla snapped her eyes opened with a gasp. She was sweating again, but this time it was cold and she was shaking. She flinched and shot into a sitting position, almost ramming into William.
"It's alright, it's alright," he cooed, softly. "It was just a dream."
The woman sighed shakily and hung her head. Back in the modern day.
"No," she replied. "It wasn't."
The old Assassin said nothing. He did not speak or touch her, either not knowing how to comfort someone or not wanting to. Layla did not move, either.
After a moment, William decided, "I'll go get you some water."
He got up and left the room, leaving Layla some much needed privacy. The woman buried her face in her hands.
How did she get here? Hiding from her own co-workers and depending on William Fucking Miles. The Mentor of the Assassins. What did that make her? She wasn't a Templar or an agent, that was for damned sure. But she wasn't as Assassin, either. At least she didn't think she was.
She didn't want to be a killer. But it was too late. She had killed. She left her home, her family, her friends. The people that she trusted wanted to kill her. There was nothing Egypt could offer her. Her life was in a shadowed land—there was nothing it could give her. There was nothing left.
Her only choice was the Assassins.
Leave, and find a new way.
Layla swallowed, and it hurt her constricted throat. She didn't want to. She wanted to go home. She wanted to hug her parents and her brothers, to hang out and binge watch Netflix with Deanna, to talk and laugh with Sophia. Like none of this ever happened. She knew it was dream even as she planned her escape.
The touch on her knee almost made her scream. William looked apologetic.
"Sorry," he murmured. He placed the glass of water on the table. "Here."
Layla did not look at it and did not react when William sat on the edge of the bed next to her. He did not look at her. They stayed like that for a long time.
Layla didn't know when her shoulders started shaking, or when a whimper escape her lips. She felt tears streamed down her face. She furiously tried to wipe them away, but it only seemed to make more. There was light touch of her arm. She didn't react, even when William placed a hand on her shoulder. Not even when he gently wrapped his arms around her.
Layla leaned into his chest and cried.