White: completely void of color.
The sound of breathing. His own breathing.
Thunderous heartbeats, scared of uncertainty. Wondering if this is the end of his simulated reality or the end of his life.
The beating expanded; a duet singing different words but remaining in the same key. Melodically in tune but rhythmically diverse from one another.
Heavy and quiet.
Fast and calm.
His and Altair's.
The latter had appeared far from the point where Desmond stood. The assassin's form was bent into a crouch, his body facing away. The progeny examined his ancestor's profile, noting a concealed face and a hidden demeanor.
After moments without moving, Desmond advances, spectating the white abyss that surrounded him. He walked with caution, fully aware of the fact that a killer was his destination. And in all the instances, an unpredictable one.
Abdominal pain grew with each step, and Desmond kneeled over without progress in the stretch. After taking a second to recollect, he pushed up and continued.
The journey was endless, forever stumbling to reach the end but it continuously appeared distant.
For a second time pain ripped through him. As he glanced another time around he was astonished to see an extensive crimson trail that followed him. It gleamed like liquid, but at the same time, it illuminated rather than reflected light.
Returning his gaze to Altair, the distance aggravated Desmond. Words never fully formed; only a throaty beginning of a name was voiced before dissolving on his tongue.
Finding that there was only one thing left he could do, he sprinted, hoping it will get him somewhere. But he quickly became winded, his poor fitness a result of a lack of physical exertion outside the Animus.
Overly exhausted, having ran for an incredible amount of time, Desmond's reach finally grazed the robes of the assassin. In the same instance, a world was created. The instantaneous blaze of the sun blinded him and he became helplessly unaware of what the world quickly offered him.
The assassin, completely taken by surprise, had no time to react: the two inevitably tumbled off the side of the building gracelessly, landing awkwardly, painfully, and loudly. Unfortunately for Desmond, he took the blunt of the impacted. Moaning and aching, he began to push off whatever fell on him. And whatever fell on him had the same idea.
Altair gazed down bewildered at the man who –literally– came out of nowhere. He only had a second, but he caught the similarity between them, the only difference being the foolish demeanor the newcomer had. He thought nothing about it, quickly rose, and turned to witness a line of guards, watching the little incident, their expressions asking for trouble.
Aaaaand his target was long gone.
Without any sort of verbal exchange, the assassin fled. Desmond was left struggling to get up, swearing he broke something. But did you know? Guys with sharp objects steam rolling towards you is a great motivator. Yeah, Desmond became familiar with that fact; he pushed himself up with reserved strength and ran in the direction Altair had gone.
But he was a ways away, the distance growing with each step. God, this was too much running for one day. But even if his sides hurt and his calf muscles ached, he pushed forward, fully determined to escape his pursuers.
This was crazy. Normally (as in, during Animus sessions) he wouldn't be this slow –this lethargic– he wouldn't be breaking a sweat! But Desmond was piloting his own body at the moment and definitely not a conditioned parkour-ing assassin. To really make things even more uncomfortable, he was being cooked in his sweatshirt, but had no time to remove it; he was alarmingly within earshot of the guards, whom screamed in foreignese, obviously upset about something. Due to their continuous pursuit of him, it was safe to assume they must be thinking Desmond was involved.
He kind of then wanted to kick himself in the ass for making himself look guilty by running away.
Self-consciously aware of the fact that sweat was now rushing down his face like Niagara Falls, he thought of ducking under cover instead of out running the guards. Acting upon the potentially lifesaving solution, he turned a corner, giving himself no more than a couple of seconds to find somewhere to hide. In the same moment he heard the foreignese squawk of the pursuers advance, Desmond dove in what was to be his hiding spot: a classic haystack.
Being stabbed in all directions by the merciless straws, he froze, waiting for the men following him to run past. It was easy for the lower half of his body to be still after practically running a triathlon. However, he wheezed twice before his third was cut short by a hand reaching around and clamping down on his mouth, keeping it closed. Desmond panicked, furiously inhaling through nostrils then back out, but he was unmoved, still watching the men out of the haystack, whom slowed and began searching the area.
The only luck Desmond had was the guards' attention spans. They soon were distracted by a few angry merchants.
Given the freedom to move, Desmond went to remove the hand from his mouth, but noticing a missing finger, he was both relieved and terrified. In the next moment his was pulled backwards out of the stack, roughly pushed into a narrow, shady alley right before his legs finally gave out. He looked up through tired eyes, mouth slightly agape, inhaling the dusty air, looking the exact definition of exhaustion.
The man before him crouched from standing to acquire the same eye level. The assassin's face read confused with no hint of concern, only puzzlement and perhaps disbelief. He parted his scarred lips and began to speak a few but heedless words. Not receiving a response, the assassin repeated, but this time was interrupted by Desmond trying to talk as well. It came out hoarse and too incoherent, and the assassin waited for a Desmond to try again, pleased to hear from the guy who came from nowhere.
"Now… Now I know what… what you meant by…" He takes a breath, lips tugging into a faint smile. "…by running forever."
Altair frowned, disappointed. Desmond took a second to consider why. It was then he realized that they hadn't been understanding each other –or more specifically, they spoke different languages.
Taking his attention from the hooded man, Desmond examined his fingers, real dirty and bent at odd angles, obviously broken. Altair noticed this, and without a word, grasped Desmond's hand in his, and without any warning, bent them back into place.
Desmond hissed, "Shit!" Not only were his finger broken, his wrist was swollen by now, most likely fractured. Frowning somewhat, the man clad in white appeared to have little knowledge of treating injuries.
Deciding on a change of location, probably to get a doctor, the assassin got up, pulling Desmond along. The latter fell into the man, who ended up supporting him by throwing one Desmond's arms over his shoulder. Then the two commenced their trek to wherever the assassin had decided to go.
Their pilgrimage to safety was long considering the assassin's preference to travel through the shadows and remain unseen while Desmond was slow and weak from blood loss and a month's worth of exercise.
After a small comical episode featuring Altair trying to get Desmond's fat ass up to the entrance of an Assassin's bureau, followed by Altair letting Desmond fall on mentioned fat ass intentionally to get inside, a familiar face greeted them with not the warmest of welcomes.
A man in dark robes appeared, completely furious of Altair. Desmond was sprawling on the ground, watching the two cloaked men argue. Occasionally, they would point over to Desmond, indicating their discrepancy was about him. And Desmond understood, having simulated Altair; he knew that there was tension between him and the one armed assassin, and the latter is plainly displeased.
Scooting over to an adjacent wall, Desmond rested up against it, cradling his broken hand within his other. His legs were bent, his head tilted down, and over all, he was drained from his chase and escape.
The others' voices became quieter, but tension lingered on Malik's bid of something as he walked into the bureau. Altair, stood there, waiting, until the other returned with supplies. They both exchange eye contact, a pair glaring and the other unchanged. Malik's eye shifted to Desmond, annoyed but curious.
Altair lounged on pillows, watching as Malik splinted Desmond's hand. He saw the water accumulating in the newcomer's eyes and read the obvious discomfort in his expression. The assassin could not get his head rapped around that fact that this man, who looks very similar to himself, who appeared out thin air, had captured his interest enough to bring him to an Assassin's secret location. At that moment, Altair understood his brother's disapproval of this man. But what was done was done, and something about the man was strangely enticing, but the assassin couldn't find out what.
Desmond was in a lot of pain. Not "a lot a lot", but enough to cause him to tear up a tad. After a good amount of time spent on wrapping up his forearm, wrist, and fingers, Malik calls for the other assassin, who gets up from his nest of pillows and comes over. A few words were directed to him before Malik gathered the supplies in his arm and returned inside.
There was a delaying moment, Desmond stared at his splint, and the other stared at him. As Desmond moved his eyes to watch the assassin, the assassin knelt down in front of him. His stomach flipped when the hooded man gripped the end of his sweatshirt. As the piece of clothing was pulled up, heat of embarrassment quickly rose to Desmond's face. To his dismay, he couldn't understand what the other wanted, and he was, therefore, paranoid of alternatives.
His flesh was exposed, revealing a jagged gash across his skin. Coarse fingertips slowly and gently traced the dried blood. Desmond's gaze followed along those fingers, forearm, and shoulder –all the way to the amber eyes that stared perplex at his marred skin.
The assassin finished removing the sweatshirt and the shirt underneath in time for Malik to return with a rag and a basin. Altair received the dish, went to the fountain to retrieve water and returned. Malik said no thanks to the other when taking it back. Setting the basin down, he soaked the cloth in water, rung it out, and began to show the other assassin how to clean Desmond's wound. He didn't really instruct much, and soon left Altair to do the rest.
The sun was beginning to set, and the shaded covering became shadowy; Malik dropped off a few candles, before leaving and turning in for the night.
Altair mindfully dragged the cloth to wipe away all the dirt and debris accumulated at the edge of the gash. Desmond winced and moaned occasionally. In one instance, a rather strange moan came from the back of Desmond's throat, and Altair's movements paused, and his eyes found Desmond's. Desmond flushed and glanced away. The cleaning then resumed without interruption.
The assassin dumped the dirty water, refilled the dish and took a drink from it before giving the rest to Desmond who finished it.
It had grown dark by now; the candles were the only light source illuminating the terrace. Desmond was uncertain about what to do; the most obvious thing to do was to stay with the assassins, but what concerned him was if he could go to sleep where he usually slept when he was simulating.
He viewed the hooded man laying over there now, back to him, still and silent. Desmond thought for a moment, then crept over, grabbed a mat Altair wasn't occupying and pulled it a distance away from the assassin. He positioned himself facing away, a folded arm under his head. With a deep sigh, his thoughts swarmed.
He remembered being in the Animus, being hurt, but feeling the pain, not like any time before. Then he guessed the machine must have bugged because it all went white. The only thing he saw was Altair, and he ran for a while, and even though it looked like he couldn't get to him, he did. That was when he popped back into the Middle East, this time as himself, and (along with Altair) fell off a building, breaking his wrist and fingers. Altair then ran off, leaving Desmond to be chased by guards. He hid in a haystack, was pulled out by the assassin then taken to this place, the Assassin's bureau, where he was fixed up.
So how the hell is he able exist when this is all supposed to be a simulation that can only work if he was Altair? No way can the Animus do this. Like he had mentioned before, the Animus was not a time machine, so how? Why does this seem so life like?
Thoughts about how his predicament originated flooded his mind, but were stopped short.
A pillow was thrown at him; he looked over seeing Altair rolling over, his back once again facing Desmond. Desmond took the pillow, put it under his head, and decided it was enough worrying for one day.
N/A: *gives you cool handshake* You rock if you made it this far! *high-fives* This is twice the amount I usually put in a single chapter and I may make this a habit. Sure there was practically no dialog, but I'm going to really build on this difficult communication (the language barrier) and also the difference in eras. No, those aren't the main main focuses of the story (check the summery) but are definitely a cool component of it and have significance. I also threw some fan service into the mix. (It may or may not be a major focus.)
P.S. The reviews are super appreciated, and they make me smile -You guys are great! :D
You are free to continue if you wish,
~Blue[J]~
