Before he even got onto the thing, Desmond knew he would hate it. It was the thing that embodied his lack of freedom. Lack of human rights to choose. So he resented it. An inanimate object that did nothing more than obey the orders of it's creators. To do what it had been created to do. That thought made him hate it more. He wanted to destroy it. To break it down to tiny pieces so they could never use it on him again. But he knew he could never do that. Because Desmond knew, deep down, that he and the machine were the same. The Animus had as much choice as he did. And in a quiet moment as he stared up at the ceiling of his prison he came to realize that he had never been free before. The bartender replayed his life before the Animus, recalled the life of Altair and what it meant to himself. He always had shackles tied to him. Shackles called fate. Shackles called destiny. And he would be forced to obey like he was nothing but a thing.
Shackles - 12/22/12