At first, it had been a blur. Still disoriented and confused, barely just put back together and fragments still flaking off like snow, he stumbled and staggered through the dark halls and abysses lit with ghostly blue and violent crimson.
Memories echoed in his head, voices bouncing around that he struggled to – couldn't bear to – put names to. But they came anyway, whispers of his past, his life, his story. And many others.
Italian, French, English, so many languages and lives and memories assaulting him like a downpour, and him without an umbrella, leaving him curled and shaking on cold iron coding.
Because that's what it was, he had realized then with all the sudden shock of slamming a foot on the brakes, complete with the feeling of snapping in his head like a rubber band. Coding. Zeroes and ones.
He had laughed, hating the sound with all the ferocity he could still find within his broken mind – it was high-pitched and terrible, a reedy giggle of someone with no grasp on reality, not anymore.
"It's okay, Alice," he had crooned to himself, standing up and shaking his head (more of a twitch than a shake). "We're all mad here."
By the end, when he had finally stumbled into that beach on that island with its artificial sky and all the real warmth of a computer program, it had all come back. He laughed that awful little giggle again, sitting on a rock and rubbing his wrists.
His earlier words of empty comfort came back to him, and he ran a hand through short blond hair that was nothing anymore but data, and smiled widely, a Cheshire cat grin.
"Really is Wonderland, isn't it?" He said loudly to no one. "Right smack fucking dab in the middle of the place." Another giggle, trailing off into more words. "Into the rabbit hole I went, and did I come out? Did I ever come out again? Or did I eat the cake and drink the wine and stay here forever?"
A crackle of data like a gunshot echoed across the empty sky, and he knew, oh he knew what that meant.
"Hello, hello, Alice number two. Or seventeen." He whispered. "Come to join me at last, Desmond?" He remembered now, remembered the frantic Assassins pounding at keys and arguing over the poor little lost lamb.
That traitorous bitch was dead, and it had broken Desmond. And now he was here, with a little prodding from him on this end and the crew on the other.
Now there was one thing left to do, wasn't there?
"Ding, dong, the witch is dead, only it broke the soldier in white." He sang under his breath, sneakers on sand as he approached. "Now since all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put brave little Desmond back together, down he goes into the rabbit hole, and it's left to me to fix him~"
He sighed, the sing-song cheer fading and leaving him so very tired.
He was tired, tired and much too old for a man barely thirty. He had lived so many lives, seen so much death, felt so much fear and anger and love that was not his own, and he just wanted to sleep. That would be nice, he decided. Sleep. But he couldn't, and anger briefly flared through the exhaustion – how dare that bitch make him some guy's messenger boy?! - but it faded. This was the one thing he could do still, and he'd do it and do it well, damn it.
Seeing Desmond's body lying still on the sand, spreadeagled and still as death save for the rise and fall of his chest made that anger creep further away. Dammit,he was young. Or looked it. And he looked – he had to stop and grab his head, force himself to not be Ezio, not see Frederico lying there dead on the cobbles of the Piazza, see instead a cousin that needed help.
And help he did, running the circuit over and over until it was rote to him, muscle memory alone leading him across the Animus and through his memories – he could easily close his eyes and do it, maneuver through darkness and empty space and yellow-gold bars of buzzing heat.
Honestly, the hardest part was the end. Not even walking up to his grave upset him, hole in the grass and chairs surrounding it, a portrait of a face that didn't feel his anymore. He just laughed and leaped into the hole – who cared? He was worm food, fish food, bones and scraps of cloth at the bottom of an Italian riverbed. That and a tightly-wound half-mad piece of data, running in circles like a show pony while the Chosen One did his work and put himself back together.
But the end…to see that door in the distance, all bright light and warmth – he was fucked if he didn't even hear a goddamn angelic choir coming from that thing, that simple black entryway. But no matter how fast he ran, how far he jumped when the floor came out from under him…he never made it.
He stopped screaming himself hoarse as he fell after the first couple times, though. The fall was nice, actually, slow and peaceful. He could flip himself on his back and watch the clouds and permanently setting sun, or – more common for him – flip face-down and pretend he had taken a Leap of Faith, pretend he was really an Assassin again, pretend that he'd land in a wagon of hay or a pool of water and climb out to continue the hunt.
But he only landed on the beach, shaking himself off and checking Desmond's progress – he knew Ezio's life as if it were his own, so it was nice to peek in on the Italian someone else was driving for once, and see what was going on. He had a good laugh when he saw the party, the Assassin playing minstrel. Bet Desmond was enjoying that.
But he couldn't watch for long, knew he couldn't. He was too close to Ezio Auditore, much too close. Even little glances to check on Desmond were risky.
He didn't know why he was even doing that, though. Why should he start worrying about him? His job was to get him in, get him fixed, and get him out. Nothing else, no dreams of warm sun and cool breeze and a cool beer in his hand and human company at long, long last. He could not have that, gave it up even as he painted warnings on the walls with his last few minutes of life.
He closed his eyes and grinned even as Desmond clawed for him, eyes wide and horrified as he disappeared into Rome one last time.
"Goodbye, Alice." He whispered, feeling the Animus eating his artificial bones. "Run. Run, you silly boy. This cat can't leave his Wonderland. He's already mad, you see. No going back…"
He knew he couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't cry, but he still felt something wet on his face that wasn't blood. It was the last thing he felt, and he slipped off to oblivion with one final laugh.
Free at last, thank fucking God, I'm free at last.