Title - Traitorous
Rating - T
Warning - Swearing, major spoilers
Disclaimer - All components used in this piece of fiction belong to Ubisoft. Not me
A/N - First things first; if you have not finished Brotherhood and do not want to know how the glorious game ends, do not read this fan fiction. It is something I wrote in response to the ending, so it is obvious that there are going to be Major Spoilers. Second things second; this is one chapter of what I'm planning to be many short snippets of certain moments in the Assassin's Creed world. There will be pairings, there will be canon, there will be things not covered in the games. There will be chocolate, too, but that's for later. And there will be Subject 16. I love the character of Subject 16 very much.
"No, stop, please! Don't – Don't make me –"
"It must be done." The cool, distorted voice pierced his eardrums, and he loathed it. Abhorred it. Absolutely fucking hated it.
A quick, sharp jolt ran up his left leg, and he was jerked involuntarily forward. Another step closer, another struggle for resistance as he desperately tried to regain control of his own body. The hidden blade was out, but it no longer provided a source of comfort and ultimate power; it provided the loss of hope, a vile, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was going to be used to kill an innocent.
Not her, please, God, not her.
She's not who you think she is.
The voice became lodged into his head, like a record stuck on the same place because of a bump in the road - a moment of uncertainty in his brain that he couldn't quite digest. What did it mean? She was the one who'd saved him from Vidic; she'd filled him in on everything and worked hard to help save the world.
She was nothing short of amazing. So why did a single sentence drive so much doubt about her into his head?
You have to find Eve.
Adam, Eve, the Piece of Eden… Everything was steeped in religion. Desmond had begun to lose track of it all way back when, having never been a believer of any of it. Now, it was all he could believe. And he still didn't understand much. Go him, the supposed hero and descendant of the twelfth and fifteenth century's greatest Assassins. At least he knew what he was trying to achieve when he was reliving their memories. At least he knew what the fuck he'd been doing back there, and even if he did screw up there would always be another chance. The past stayed unchanged.
The future was full of uncertainties.
She sees me raise the knife… She sees me… raise the knife.
Was he becoming like Subject 16? Was he, Desmond Miles, going to be remembered as nothing more than Subject 17 in the future, by other subjects, by other assassins… by himself?
He still struggled desperately against the goddess' power, trying to turn that gleaming blade away from her because she was the only person that had kept him sane throughout everything that had happened to him.
She sees him raise the knife.
Only he sees it plunge into her; her blood, her blood, spurting onto his hands.
"It has been done." The cool, satisfied voice was the last thing Desmond heard before he collapsed, onto the blood stains of everything he'd come to rely on, everything he had loved.