Desmond was never good at flirting. Hell, when him and Lucy ever caught eyes, he couldn't let it last more than a few seconds. He would then turn away, a little embarrassed. He may even been terrified that he might have given her the wrong impression -or worse- the right impression. That misty eye contact they occasionally shared did something to him.
But those moments came and went, just as one takes a shit.
The bartender laid hooked up to the Animus, simulating his ancestor, jumping roof top to view point to haystack and to any other obstacles oddly placed just where he needed them. Peculiar really, but all in his favor to escape the advancing guards. Lazy they became once the line of sight broke, leaving the simulated assassin to escape from his hiding spot.
Altair was the body, and Desmond was the mind. It was Altair's memories Desmond walked in. The latter could not feel the heat from the burning sun or the parched mouth the Arab had acquired, or maybe Desmond had ignored all of his senses and was too focused on reenactment. But in any case, when he was the assassin, Desmond secretly lied to himself, and he believed the world around was real.
Even if he was well aware that the Animus was not a time-machine, within it, everything looked so lively. The towns people were living lives, chatting to one another, carrying jars upon their heads, begging for money, and pushing anyone close to them away. Irony then strikes like vegans outside a slaughterhouse, and Desmond, distracted by a woman who was practically clawing at him for coins, was shoved away by a crazy old man, into another woman carrying a jar of water. How did he know it was water? Well it doused him entirely. This caught the guards' attention and, once again, Desmond took advantage of his ancestor's agility and ran.
The rush was more exhilarating than troublesome. It beat being locked up in a metal room, having every move watched, with an extreme lack of privacy from those fricking surveillance cameras.
This is his only way to taste freedom within his imprisonment. The only way to feel human is to be in a machine, under the direct order of Warren Vidic, living out someone else's life.
After a long battle of strategic wordplay backed by logical explanation, Lucy finally convinced Vidic to relieve Desmond of his adventure, much to her superior's distaste.
"Now rest up, Mr. Miles. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow," the eldest said, stealing an evocating glance at the blonde woman. With that said, the man turned on his heel and exited the room through sliding doors.
Desmond stretched his arms and legs, stiff from lack of motion, while Lucy finished up whatever she does on the computer set aside the Animus. You know, Facebook and shit. A few words exchanged but nothing led up to anything special, and there was a lack of a "misty eye" moment.
Lucy left, and Desmond did some snooping, but he soon retired to his metal-box-of-a-room. Refusing to shower, knowing of the peeping tom camera set up in the bathroom, the man sat on the bed, contemplating between sleeping or sitting around. He was itching to do something, but the space was limited. His mind, however, was exhausted from his puppeteer-ing within the Animus. Rest is what he needed. But rest wasn't the only thing he got.
"Awake."
Visions of strange images danced upon the walls around him. The room was black in complete opposite with the white one he fell asleep in.
Sleep. Was he still sleeping?
Crimson symbols flooded his vision.
What does this all mean?
This wasn't the first time he had seen them, but now, the symbols wouldn't leave his mind. They were everywhere, engrossing his thoughts and constraining his mind from functioning aside from panic.
"Awake."
The voice came again. It was far too deep in his mind behind those goddamn symbols for Desmond to understand. It became buried within a chorus of others, screeching for understanding.
But the man had lost control of his rationality, forfeiting his fight to find reason for those images of red. He wished for them to go away, but those things were like pesky bugs that fly in your face that never seem to leave you alone.
He brought his head to his knees, his hands raking his fingers nervously through his short hair. His breathing was in haste, and his fingering began to dig, dig for answers, even if he had to rip his skull open.
"Be still."
A firm hand gripped Desmond's shoulder. His fingers instantly dropped, and all chaos vanished. His throat hurt; he had been screaming. The man turned his head back, and his eyes grew wide.
"Alta..."
His voice died when the man clad in white placed his fingers softly on Desmond's lips to silence him. Desmond was shocked as he noticed that he could feel the man's touch. He was tempted to say something, but it was as if his tongue was numb, and he was unable to speak.
"Awake..."
He felt his eyelids grow heavy and soon they fell closed.
"...Dezmund."
And so he did.
"Wake up now. There is no time to waste today," came from a surprisingly cheerful Vidic, who entered with a skip in his step.
"What's got you in such a good mood, Doc?"
"Progress, Mr. Miles. Progress," was his only explanation. "Now let us get started."
Desmond complied, though curious of what happened to him. He walked out of his cell -er 'room'- and picked up Lucy's gaze from her computer. She quickly stole her eyes and presumed her work, and Desmond brushed it off. He was in the twelfth century in a matter of minutes.
Being the assassin his ancestor was, he was quickly maneuvering around the city, hitting up his targets and reporting back before the blood could even trickle off his hidden blade. It was now easier for Desmond to tolerate these gruesome actions, not even wincing as he sent his blade into his prey's flesh.
He was becoming more like Altair, in a sense. He began to feel the routine of the assassin as if he was learning to comprehend something. He just didn't know what it was. The Creed perhaps? Or did he start to understand Altair? Of course he couldn't fully perceive Altair's inner thoughts because Desmond was controlling the assassin's body without registering a conscious. He was the puppeteer and this badass assassin was under his control, as much as the synchronization parameters would allow.
Desmond could actually get away with a lot of things that wouldn't quite be historically accurate, but let's elaborate on that tale another time.
Perched on an erect tower that would make anyone who would bother to look up think he was some fat ass bird, Desmond scanned the city through Arab eyes. He took a moment to breathe, basking in this leisure time his now possessed. A skyline he had only discovered days ago was his surroundings. A man he had never known before was his body. But he was still Desmond; he was still the man that had ran away from Assassin life who was ultimate thrown back into.
And Desmond lied to himself again.
He was still himself.
A/N: If you are reading this then I congratulate you for being awesome and actually reading through this little chapter of mine! Try not to mind the errors and grammatical imperfections. It's my weakness!
I'm going to be very up front about this. In truth I myself had never actually played the first Assassin's Creed, but I have watched two different walkthroughs as well as played the whole Ezio Trilogy so yeah I sorta' know what I'm doing in a way, but if I post something completely against all relation to the whole Assassin's Creed world then I apologize, and you can point it out if you want, though I'm not likely to change it...
Reviews are nice, I enjoy nice things so if you want to go ahead but I would cry to myself if you guys hate this. Also, I know nothing of Arabic and i would like to throw some in here but I need help to see if I translated this right or not.
Continue or not,
~Blue[J]~