25th October 2012
Desmond woke at around 3AM to the sound of footsteps outside his door. He listened carefully, his body tense as he wondered who might possibly be up at this time of night, but as soon as he started concentrating he realised that the footsteps had stopped. Whoever was walking around had paused right outside his door.
Their flight back to New York would be leaving later on that day. Bill had managed to get in contact with an Assassin team in Moscow, who would be joining them and travelling with them to provide extra security. The handling of Daniel Cross had slowed everything down, since Desmond had stubbornly refused to allow his execution and leaving him behind was not a possibility.
Things were tense. Daniel had been dragged back to his cell and locked away, but his presence amongst the Assassins was a pulsating point of tension that manifested in different ways for each of them. Shaun complained about having to "sleep with one eye open", despite how securely Daniel was being held, and he had been tired and even more irritable than usual. Rebecca worked hard to keep the mood light, but Desmond occasionally caught sight of her when she thought no one was looking, and he could see the strain beginning to show and the weariness in her eyes.
Perhaps it wasn't just Daniel. Perhaps it was Clay as well. A couple of hours after Desmond had revealed the location of the Grand Temple, Clay had suffered a swift and violent relapse into madness. He had slammed his way into his room, clutching at his head and yelling in a strange jigsaw of languages, before curling up on the floor and alternating between groaning and weeping. Desmond had barged in, held Clay tightly by the shoulders, and demanded to know what was wrong. No reply had come, but his presence at least seemed to have a marginally calming effect on the man and his broken mind. Since then, however, Clay had been withdrawn and moody: holding long conversations with himself in languages that none of the others could understand.
Needless to say, the atmosphere was somewhat fractious.
A floorboard creaked outside the door, breaking Desmond out of his retrospection, and he listened to the footsteps finally walking away. He considered going back to sleep, but after a moment or two realised that he was far too alert for that. Resignedly, he rolled out of bed, wincing at the cold and quickly pulling on his jeans and a very thick sweater that was his only item of clothing capable of keeping out the autumnal Russian chill. Once dressed, he padded up the hall quietly to find the person who had woken him.
The doorway to the main conference room came into view, illuminated by the moon and by a lamp in the corner of the room. The hallway, by contrast, was pitch black. This allowed Desmond to stand just shy of entering and watch his father.
Bill was sitting at the table, his elbows resting on its surface with his hands folded over each other and his chin resting upon them. He was staring across the room at the Animus, but his eyes seemed unfocused and he appeared to be lost in his thoughts. The grey in his hair shone beneath the light that was coming in through the window, and the lamp cast harsh shadows on his face that made him look older than he really was. Desmond observed him for about a minute, feeling simultaneously hypnotised and uncomfortable as the seconds stretched on and Bill did nothing - clearly lost in his own thoughts.
Finally disturbed by seeing his father sit still for so long, Desmond cleared his throat and stepped into the room. Bill jumped in alarm - knocked violently out of whatever inner monologue he'd been going through - then relaxed minutely upon recognising his son.
'You've learnt a lot from your ancestors,' he commented drily. 'I didn't even see you there.'
Desmond realised that he was being paid a compliment, and at the same time realised that he had no idea how to respond to it. He folded his arms self-consciously and took a seat at the table, opposite his father. 'How come you're awake?'
'Had to check on our guest,' Bill replied. He was obviously tired, since he couldn't even muster up a tone of distaste when mentioning Daniel. Nonetheless, Desmond shifted uncomfortably, sensing another argument on the horizon.
'Dad, I...'
'I know, I know,' Bill interrupted, raising a hand wearily. 'You've made your arguments, I don't need to hear them again. When we get to New York I'll hand him off and he'll be taken to one of our secure bases. Not that we have many of those left, thanks to him.' There followed a short silence, in which Desmond wondered if he should just get up and leave, but then Bill looked up at his son with uncharacteristic concern and asked, 'How are you holding up, Desmond?'
A number of responses flashed through Desmond's mind as he tried to recover from the shock of being asked such a question: sarcasm, anger, suspicion. Eventually he settled on honesty. 'I'm trying not to think too much about it.'
'Ah. "It" being...?'
'The end of the world. The Templars. Lucy.'
'You liked her.' It wasn't a question.
Desmond hesitated for a moment, and then sighed sadly. 'Yeah. I did. It's weird. I didn't even know her for all that long, if you think about it. Just a few weeks. But when I was at Abstergo, Lucy was all I had. Then she helped me escape, and she helped me use the Animus, and she got us out of the safe house when Vidic came looking for me and...' He clenched his jaw. 'I got used to it. I got used to having her around to lead us and show us which way to go. Now she's gone, and it turns out she was a Templar all along. So not only do I not know where we should go next, I don't know if we were ever going in the right direction...' He cut himself off, knowing that he was rambling and making no sense, and let out a long sigh as he rubbed a hand over his eyes and then down his cheek. 'And I liked her,' he added miserably. 'She was kind and brave and she talked back and ... I just ... I liked her, Dad.'
'You're wondering if it was all just an act,' said Bill. 'You can't reconcile the Lucy that you liked with someone who would betray you like that.' His expression was deep and unreadable.
'Pretty much,' Desmond confirmed.
'People are complex creatures, Desmond,' Bill continued in a heavy voice. 'That's why we have to draw lines and have boundaries. Lucy might have been a nice person, and maybe she even liked you too, but she chose to betray us and that's all that matters.'
Desmond shook his head angrily. 'You left her alone for seven years. It's no surprise that she felt abandoned. Maybe...'
'It doesn't matter why she did it,' Bill interrupted firmly. 'She made a choice. In the end, our choices are all that matter.'
Desmond took a moment to think this over, before looking up and catching his father's eye. He laughed.
'What?'
'It's kind of surreal,' Desmond said. He waved his hand over the table to gesture the both of them. 'Us. Sitting here and talking about feelings. I kind of wish you'd yell at me to do something, just so I can be sure I'm not dreaming.'
He said it light-heartedly, but Bill didn't smile. 'You think I don't care about your feelings?'
'Honestly? No. We've never really done this before.'
'I've been hard on you,' Bill admitted unashamedly. 'Unfortunately, I don't plan to let up until we're out of this whole mess - there's too much at stake. But afterwards, I hope...' He cut himself short, almost nervously, before continuing. 'I'd like for us to be a family again, Desmond.'
Desmond felt sadness welling up inside him as he remembered the last few months before his kidnapping. He had felt lonely and isolated and discontent. The emotional wound where he had forcibly severed himself from his home, past, family and friends had begun to itch. He had even considered trying to get in touch with his parents again. Of course, that decision had been taken out of his hands as well.
Strengthening his resolve, Desmond responded in as calm a voice as he could manage. 'I don't know, Dad. This is going to sound kinda harsh, but let's face facts here. We never got on when I was a kid. I spent a lot of the time hating you. Then I ran away and we didn't see each other for ten years. Our relationship is really, really fucked up and it's going to take more than a game of catch and a father-son hug to fix it, you know?'
He lifted his eyes to gauge Bill's reaction. As always, he was difficult to read. A small, shrewd, cynical part of Desmond suspected that Bill had only started this conversation as an effort of manipulation: the man had begun to lose his authoritarian grip upon his son and was now belatedly attempting to force an emotional grip. On the other hand, his intentions might be pure, and he might be feeling genuinely compelled to reconnect with Desmond. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. Desmond had no way of knowing what was in his father's mind, and after Lucy he was far too wary to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.
'I see,' Bill said stiffly, but not unkindly. He lifted his chin. 'You should probably get back to bed.' He left a short, deliberate silence in the air. 'Though it's up to you, of course.'
Desmond left the room, but he did not go back to bed. He felt jittery and wired, even in his exhaustion, and the idea of being stuffed and choked and hot under blankets was distasteful to him when he was already feeling suffocated. Instead he stepped outside the house, relishing the crisp air as it struck his face and froze him around the neck and ears, and leaned against the brick wall of the house as he stared out over the messy fields of Russia. They were grey in the moonlight; at this time of year the sun would not rise for a good few hours yet.
He'd been stood there only a moment when the door opened again, and Desmond turned his head to find Clay stepping over the threshold. His eyes still held the wandering, paranoid look that they had whenever he was in one of his "bad" phases, and with no regard for the temperature he was wearing only a pair of jeans and a thin T-shirt. His feet were bare and pale with ragged toenails, and goosebumps were visible on his arms. Desmond frowned.
'Get back inside. You're going to freeze.'
Clay didn't reply at first. He stared up at the moon, which was full and bright, and hummed softly in the back of his throat for a moment before speaking. 'Beautiful, isn't she?'
'Sure, I guess.'
'Constant too. Permanent. I like that. No matter what century I'm in or whose life I'm living, the moon and the stars are always there. I can look at them without having to wonder whose eyes I'm seeing them through.'
Desmond was in no mood for this. Things were already too confused and weird for him to deal with enigmas about the universe. 'It's 2012,' he said shortly. 'And you're Clay Kaczmarek. Can't you write it down on a fucking card or something?'
Clay laughed jaggedly. Apparently unoffended, he replied, 'I tried carving it into my skin once. Didn't work.' He tapped his forehead. 'The problem's up here. Why do you think the Templars value thought control so much? People are ruled by their brains.'
'Not their hearts?'
'The heart's just a pump. Pumps don't think.' He spoke derisively, but a large shiver ran through his body like a pulse, and it became apparent that he was tightening the muscles in his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
'Jesus Christ, here.' Desmond pulled the warm, thick sweater over his head and thrust it at Clay with ill grace. The cold air that hit his skin no longer felt refreshing.
Clay took the item of clothing slowly and then pulled it on, his fingers red and clumsy. Once he was wearing it, he hid his hands inside the sleeves and wrapped his arms around himself as though he were wearing a straightjacket. He was a few years older than Desmond, but right now he looked young and vulnerable and tormented, and Desmond felt his resentment dissipating despite the cold that was now seeping through to his bones.
'You looking forward to going home?' he asked, on the basis that at least it was better than talking about the weather.
'Home?'
'America, I mean. I hear you were in Italy for a while.' Desmond wavered, unsure of where this was going. 'Maybe you could see your family again when you get back.'
Clay shook his head emphatically. 'No, I don't want that. Not yet. There's too much to do.'
'But once we open the Grand Temple, and save the world...'
'Save it?' Clay chuckled bitterly through his teeth. 'You think that's Juno's plan? To save us all?'
Desmond felt an odd sensation in his stomach. It was the very familiar sensation of having held an irrational fear for a long time, and being incredibly close to having it justified. 'I...'
'She hates us, Desmond! Yeah, she'll save us. She'll save us like panther storing its food in a tree branch.'
'What are you talking about?' Desmond stared into Clay's face, near violent with frustration. 'If you know something then you need to tell me!'
Clay cringed suddenly and clutched at his head. Through gritted teeth he groaned, 'It's not just a shield. It's a cage.'
'What is?'
'The Temple. There's one key. There's one lock. But you turn the key in the lock and two doors open. Oh God, my head!'
A well of dread had opened up inside Desmond and was beginning to consume him. He had suspected that there was something very wrong with their current plan, and now he was on the verge of being handed evidence. He felt wretched for pushing Clay when he already seemed to be in pain, but he needed to know if they were heading into danger, and so he reached up and tugged Clay's hands away, replacing them with his own and forcing the man to look him in the eye.
'Tell me, Clay,' he said firmly. 'Tell me what you know. What happens if we go to the Grand Temple?'
Clay's eyes roved madly over his face. 'The world won't burn. The temple contains a shield device, and it will protect the planet. But Juno ... she bound herself up with it. She's stored down there, I don't know how, but if you use the Temple then she'll get out and she'll try to enslave humanity again.' He shook his head, as though angry at himself for not explaining things properly. 'No, she won't just try, she'll succeed. You have no idea how strong she is, or what she's capable of. These creatures ... they were more advanced than anything we'll ever be able to comprehend, and Juno despises humanity. Imagine what she'll do to us if she gets out.'
Desmond tried to wrap his brain around this devastating news. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and made an effort not to get too far ahead of himself. 'How can you possibly know all this?' he demanded.
'Minerva,' Clay said simply. 'She showed me the Truth.' He always pronounced "truth" with an audible capitalisation. 'All of it. I can show you, too, in the Animus.'
'Yeah. No offence, but I'm going to need to hear this for myself.' Desmond's tongue felt numb, but somehow he managed to force the words out. He realised that he was still holding onto Clay's head and hurriedly dropped his arms back to his sides. As though his fingers had been carrying some kind of electrical charge, Clay's body sagged with relief so much that he appeared to lose a couple of inches in height. His own arms came around his body protectively again, his fingers worrying at the sleeves of Desmond's sweater from the inside.
Thoughts were blazing through Desmond's head, racing and fighting each other to be first to the finish line. Mixed in there was a sense of relief that his wariness of Juno had ben justified, and a fear that he would not be able to convince his father of this, and a realisation that they surely couldn't go and open the Grand Temple now. Or ... could they?
What other options did they have left?
With that question, the bubble of despair rose to the forefront of Desmond's mind and emerged to sit oily and unpleasant on the surface. As he ran through the possible paths that lay ahead he realised aloud: "We are so fucked.'
Clay's lips drew back from his teeth, which were ground tightly together. 'You're just figuring that out now?'
'If what you say is true, then what the hell am I supposed to do? I can either hand the world over to Juno, or I can hand it over to the Templars. Humanity gets enslaved either way. What kind of a choice is that?'
'There's always a third option,' Clay suggested in a low, insidious voice.
Desmond looked at him in alarm. 'You mean ... do nothing? Let the world end?'
'It's what a true Assassin would do. Freedom, above all else, remember?'
'No.' It was a relief to have one thing of which he was absolutely certain. 'That's not on the table.'
'Some people might survive. The human race might survive.'
'There is no way I'm letting seven billion people burn to death because of a philosophy that most of them don't even believe in.'
'But you're OK with letting them be enslaved?'
Desmond glared at him, confused and angry, trying to figure out why Clay was pushing the apocalyptic option so hard. Clay's eyes were bright and feverish, but his expression was disarmingly neutral. 'I would have thought that after everything you've gone through for the Assassins, you'd understand.'
'I do.' Clay smiled bitterly. 'I'm just playing devil's advocate. You know that Bill's going to argue all of this, a lot more convincingly than I have. If you can't stand up to me, how can you possibly hope to stand up to your father?'
Desmond ran this over in his head. For a long moment he was sorely tempted by the idea of simply handing the evidence over to his father, and to Shaun and Rebecca. They could discuss it as a group, and perhaps even vote on the best solution. Of course, Bill would probably be able to talk the other two round to his own point of view and, even if he didn't, he could simply use his position as leader of the team - not to mention as the current keeper of the Pieces of Eden - to dictate their next move.
What would that move be? Bill had already said that he'd rather let the world burn than hand it over to the Templars, but would his belief in the wisdom of Those Who Came Before convince him to put their fate in Juno's hands?
It suddenly became clear to Desmond that he was stalling; it was actually far easier to try and second-guess what Bill would decide than it was to work out his own feelings. This decision was impossibly hard. He would be dooming the world in one way or another no matter what he chose to do, and not choosing at all was not an option. All the clues and all the hints that they had found pointed to Desmond being the one to save them all, and he couldn't see any good coming from shirking his responsibility. In desperation, he looked over at Clay.
'What do you think I should do?' he asked, a slight plea in his voice.
Clay looked a little taken aback at being asked. 'It's not up to-'
'I know, but I want to hear what you think. I ... It was almost you. If the timing had been a little different - if Abstergo had caught me first - then you'd be the one making this choice. So what would you do?'
Clay didn't answer at first. He looked up at the moon again, still hugging himself tightly, as though the answers were in the heavens. Finally he replied, 'I don't even know that much about them. The Ones Who Came Before. I've interacted with them more than anyone else, and all I ever really learnt was that they have to downgrade their thought process about a million times before they're even capable of communicating with us. They laugh when we call them gods, but they didn't earn that title for no reason. They are ... unfathomable. They might even be unbeatable.'
'But the First Civs fought. They rebelled. They won, didn't they?'
'Yeah, and where are the First Civs now? They're dead and gone, but Juno is still here. If thousands of years of fire and ice and earthquakes couldn't kill her, what chance do we have?' Clay finally looked away from the sky, and down at the grass just beyond the porch. 'But the Templars are human. Alan Rikkin is human. We know how to kill humans, probably better than anyone else.'
So. It was obvious which option Clay thought was best. Desmond should probably be worried that he was seeing sense in the words of a madman, but at this point he would take any kind of advice that was available. Besides, Clay was right. Their chances of beating the Templars might be minimal, but at least the Templars were a familiar enemy. 'Better the devil you know, right?' Desmond sighed aloud.
No reply came from Clay, who seemed to be gasping at the last reserves of his sanity and focus. Desmond swallowed the lump of dull terror in his throat and put a hand gently on Clay's shoulder.
'Come on, let's go inside,' he said. 'I need you to show me Minerva's message before the others wake up.'
They turned their backs on the moon and returned to the shelter of the house.
