HELL YES ANOTHER SIXTEEN STORY. I find he's actually really easy to find inspiration to write a fic for, but nearly impossible for it to sound good. This particular inspiration came from the song "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley. It expresses Sixteen's feelings/the things he went through realllyyyy well.

I might add more to this. I felt like there was more things he's gone through that I could add, but I'm too lazy.

He was dreaming. Or... was he? He couldn't remember getting out of the Animus or getting into bed.

Sixteen was running, laughing giddily, feeling free. He felt the grass beneath his feet, the wind on his skin, the bullet pierce his chest.

Unable to run, he fell to his knees, still laughing. He looked at his hands, white-gloved and coated in blood. He looked at the gun his hands were holding. It was long and had a bayonet on the end, also coated red at the tip. It was heavy. He threw it away, then looked down again.

"There is BLOOD on my waistcoat!"

He looked up and everything jolted sharply into focus. He wasn't running through a field, he was running through a war zone. Man clashed with man, stabbing and shooting. Gray and blue bodies littered the grass. There was one in front of him, gasping for air, wearing the same colour coat he was. The gun he had thrown was sticking out of him, its blade embedded in his chest.

Iiiiiiii-I-I ju-ju-ju-j-jjjjjjjjj killeddd-ed-ed-dededed a m-m-m-aa-an

The scene jumped around, white lines shooting across the field like lightning. A gray-jacketed soldier, body parts glitching all over the place, was running by and noticed he had no weapon. Without pausing for a second, the soldier drove his blade into the enemy warrior's chest, then continued to clash with the opposing forces.

He gasped and looked down again. Blood was now staining the entire front of his waistcoat.

"I just killed a man, and there is blood on my waistcoat," he panted, before collapsing into the mud, unable to stay on his knees.

Laying on his stomach, he wasn't able to see much besides the grass, still separating and re-joining, in front of his face. He could only hear the sounds of gunshots and battle, the sounds of screaming and death, the sounds of clashing metal.

"His wild heart beats with painful sobs," he breathed, feeling the blood leaving his chest and soaking into the ground. "He cannot shriek."

A man fell next to him, part of his face blown off by a bullet. An eyeball hung unceremoniously by a nerve. Brains seeped out.

"Bloody saliva dribbles down his shapeless jacket," he continued, hardly able to speak. As he felt the last of his life leave him, he whispered, "This is the happy warrior. This is he..."

DESYNCHRONIZED

Many of them said, "He has a demon, and is insane; why listen to him"?
—John 10:20

"It happened in 1908. Or was it... two thousand... eight? 1708? AGH! I can't remember!"

They put him back in. Something about Russia. Something about how they failed more than ten years ago. Something about—

He opened his eyes to a snowy forest. The only thing in front of him was a man, who was nodding, yet looking around like he expected someone to jump out of the bushes any second and cut both their throats.

And that's what happened. Men materialized from behind the trees, knives and guns drawn. They wore this... look, this scarily evil look, like they wanted nothing more than to cut his heart out and eat it.

He froze, remembering the night, the terrible night he tried so hard to forget, when they found and kidnapped him.

Without a second thought, he tore away into the trees, away from anyone who would try and take him back, put him back in that machine.

Wasn't he in it right now?

A gunshot, then one of the men laughed in crude Russian - which he could understand for some reason - "The 'great' Nikola Tesla is dead, boys! Now we can go back to his lab and steal that damned artefact!"

He ran on. He could care less about the man he had been talking to seconds before or this "artefact".

What the hell are you doing! a voice - oddly familiar - growled at him from nowhere. This isn't how it was supposed to—

The sky was on fire. Flames and explosions ripped across the sky above him. He could feel the shaking of a thousand earthquakes, could hear the creaking of trees falling behind him, felt the searing heat on his skin as the fire got closer. He just kept running, heart pounding in his ears.

A huge gust of something blew him forward, several trees as well. He landed hard on his hands and knees and saw the force keep going, ripping trees from their roots with a cruel and ruthless power.

He tried to get back up, to keep running, but a particularly old and slow tree to fall was creaking behind him. He could only turn and watch as it got closer and closer.

DESYNCHRONIZED

When men strive together one with another, and the wife of one draweth near for to deliver her husband out of the hand that smiteth him, and putteth forth her hand, and taketh him by the secrets: Then thou shalt cut off her hand, thine eye shall not pity her.
—Deuteronomy 25:11-12

He was in a car. He sat in the back, waving at the people cheering. A woman in pink sat next to him, smiling widely.

The wolves are out hunting.

There was a loud bang, and he, the woman in pink, and the man and woman in front of him immediately turned to the right, trying to identify the noise. Another bang, and he thought he saw red spurt out of the front seat, before the man in front of him cried out, "Oh, no, no, no. My God. They're going to kill us all!"

He looked to his right again, slightly behind him, and thought he saw a flash in one of the windows of a building before a searing pain exploded in his throat. Hot blood spilled out and he hunched over in pain and fear, attempting to cover his neck and face with his hands. The woman next to him was grabbing his arm.

"And all these things were done in secret," he whispered out, but the blood in his mouth made it sound like nothing more than gurgling.

Where, oh, where has Jack gone?

A split second of pain to the right side of his head, then nothing.

DESYNCHRONIZED

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him...
—Revelations 6:8

"I remember when I lost my mind," Sixteen sung erratically under his breath. "There was something so pleasant about that place."

A face appeared in front of his eyes. "Just try to sleep, okay? I'd get in so much trouble if Warren found out, so you might as well try to benefit from it.."

Music floated around him, a beautiful opera. It was fantastically high and well-sung. Sixteen found himself humming along, though he couldn't quite predict what was going to happen, so he ended up humming a warped version of the beautiful song he was hearing.

"Sixteen?"

"I'm at the opera..." he breathed.

"What?"

"The soprano is so beautiful." All at once he sat up, whipping his head to the side to stare at her.

Lucy backed up a pace, looking shocked. "Lay back down..."

"Ha ha ha, bless your soul!" he screamed, high-pitched.

"You really think you're in control?" His voice lowered so fast he practically growled the words out.

"Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice," he breathed out, feeling his mood change yet again.

"Just lay down," Lucy urged, remaining increasingly calm, but he could see her starting to panic. She stepped forward to gently push his shoulders down. He resisted, voice growing louder, reciting more poetry that he'd never heard before in his life.

"Fingers hooked inside each other's bodies, faces red as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away!" In one swift movement, he grabbed her, standing up at the same time. Thrusting her on the bed, face-up, he straddled her before she could get away.

"What the fuck!" she shrieked, looking genuinely scared when she realized she couldn't move her body. "Get off!"

"A WOMAN waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking!" he cried out, then leaned down and slammed his lips over hers to stop her from yelling. She pushed him off and turned her head to the side, pounding at his chest and arms with her fists.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

Both of their jeans were off before he realized he was the one who'd done it. Then he was fucking her, firmly growling out more poetry.

"I draw you close to me, you women! I cannot let you go, I would do you good, I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others' sakes!" he cried as she struggled.

She was sobbing now. "Stop.." she moaned. He could feel how tight she was.

This only caused him to thrust harder, faster. She cried out. "It hurts!" she shrieked, her body racked with sobs.

"She cries as I fuck her..."

So much poetry ;_; I'm going to get my ass sued one of these days, but until that happens... USE ALL THE COPYRIGHTED WORKS!

Anywho, these are the events, in order of occurrence:
-Battle of Gettysburg
-the Tungsten event
-JFK assassination

And these are the poems and their respective poet, in order of occurrence:
-The Happy Warrior by Sir Herbert Read
-Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds
-A Woman Waits for Me. by Walt Whitman

Obviously I used a couple lines from "Crazy" as well, just to make it all fit.

And if you aren't the biggest AC nerd ever (like me) or you don't pay extremely close attention to the glyphs and memorize them (like me), you won't get some of the references I threw in.

Please review and tell me how I did! :)