Notice (this one is long ass, but please bear with me, folks): Can I be perfectly honest by saying that I was kind of, well, unsure as to how I would write chapter 10 here? Afraid, even?
Sorry about the delay, folks. And this one's the longest, too, but I was doubting myself in finishing this since I think I have not one, but two chapters to finish before the Epilogue. (So much for going according to plan.) I devilled in video games, some beta reading, commission art, and the occassional family outing before I've decided to even write the notice for this! And it took me awhile to reopen this file. Seriously, guys, I'm really sorry for the cliffhanger. OTL
But now, being the first week of June 2015, I've gone to writing once more. And sleep-deprived, of all times. But then again, ideas come when my brain needs rest. Funny. And not the "ha ha" kind. (Also, no beta because I really need this out now)
Now, recap: The first four 'guides' have made themselves known and so Desmond goes on the final part of his 'journey' to finish his spiritual endeavor to look for his 'Fifth'. Accompanying him is Clay Kazmarack (sp?), allegedly known as "Subject 16", his supposed 'guide to his guide'.
Side note: I think I have to redo that chapter with Daniel Cross. Somehow, the dialogue was slightly out-of-character and some bits of his past life is inaccurate to the comics, so it needs to be remedied while I finish this all up.
Now, let's see who Desmond finally meets to end all this.
Read on!
Memory Lane
This was getting too close to home for him. After Clay had led Desmond away from whatever manifestations had recreated his childhood home, the visions—or memories, more like—kept forming under his feet and around them both as they progressed. The entire realm itself would shift from day to night, indoor to outdoor, all shimmering before taking shape of a place from Desmond's life since then.
Pass two years as his first days as a bartender, dodging shady characters he suspected were either Assassins masquerading as civilians or Abstergo agents looking for any rogues to test on. Apart from those, his life going incognito was... surprisingly uneventful.
"No offense, but your chance at 'freedom' was plain boring, Miles.", the older man grunted ahead of him, not minding whatever retort Desmond might have thrown back at him, unimpressed at the spectre Desmond in the memories drinking with what he murmured as a class-A bimbo at the side of the bar. The real Desmond would rather not have remembered all those empty promises he made to this lady or that.
Nor be reminded of a whole-hearted one he made, only to fall to a blade's stab.
Onward they went, a more animated memory showing. Clay had them stop to witness spectre Desmond being restrained and blindfolded by two mercenaries into a van, the Abstergo Industries's logo white on the brutes' black jump suits.
He could not help but groan at the sight of it. The turning point of his life laid out before them as his old self was stuffed inside the van to be delivered into an airplane heading to Abstergo's Italian research facilities. To meet Warren Vidic.
Desmond made a face at how much he was man-handled as such, more a keen to cargo than a passenger in the situation. "I never would've thought those blasted paper pushers would get an interest in me... Or any of us, even.", having added the last part for Clay's and every past 'subject's' sake, Desmond decided to go ahead of the engineer this time, his steps forming a new memory regardless of which direcfion they took, to him it seemed.
But Clay, that son of a gun, was still playing tease at him, fast walking backwards ahead of Desmond and looking back at him to retort, "Hey, hey, hey. I'm your pack leader for now, remember?" Subject 16 then proceeded to snappily turn Desmond to another direction to witness—
"No, Clay! Stop! Dammit, I don't wanna see..." Too late. He saw the clandestine confinements that were his home just a year ago. White and sleek, the wall designs shaped to form a discreet cross, the lone Animus apparatus in the center of the room, the doors opening to let someone join the still-in-session man in the machine.
"Ready for another session, Desmond?"
"Lucy." For a moment, his right arm started prodding, but the scene caught him too much for him to notice. More resentment mixed with longing than bitterness, the man watched on as they chatted in cryptic words. About how Lucy was there undercover to keep him safe, what Desmond needed to do to hack the computers to find inside information on the Animus project, of how Vidic threatened to put him in a coma and begging the man to let Lucy remain as his caretaker after their disagreements.
He wanted to skip it all, go forward to when they finally got out of that prison. And so it did: the scene was now of them getting out of the elevator, entering the parking lot with security guards awaiting to ambush them, but Lucy's training and Desmond's Animus exposure to Altaïr's life gave them enough leverage to escape, the bumpy ride inside the car's trunk earning a snort from the real Desmond himself.
A sigh escaped, oddly being fond of the memory of being stuffed into said trunk. "Yeah. You could call this to the time she took me out of town.", Desmond murmured out as the world melted and formed itself around them once more.
Clay merely shrugged at him in answer before continuing to head a seemingly random direction at whatever was becoming of that realm.
As anticipated, the scenery turned into a warehouse, the bunker his team called 'home' until Abstergo agents came and forced them to escape. Who would have thought that the Lucy, sarcastic history nerd Shaun Hastings, and the ever-enthusiastic programmer Rebecca Crane would be the closest thing he had to family.
Even closer than him and his parents.
"Quite a club you had, Desmond." Clay looked on at the set-up of the Animus as Desmond relived the life of Ezio Auditore. As he spoke, the scene blended to the warehouse and 15th century Florence. "You felt so alive, being another man. In another time and place. Doing their dirty work—"
"Would you have preferred to do the Templars' dirty work?", Desmond snided inspite of living the lives of three Assassins and, ironically, one Templar. "I didn't ask to be experimented, but atleast here, it was on our own grounds."
Midsentence, the man realized that the scene was getting more and more morped as it progressed from a teenage Ezio to his prime as Il Mentore of the Brotherhood. It morphed between different sections of modern day Montigiori and the worn down Colosseum.
But none had affected the other man's composure. Clay kept on walking, voice steady with a hint of remorse. "Was it ever on our grounds, kid?" His head slowly turned to face Desmond, eyes easily mistaken for boredom actually conveying fatigue. "Because if you were going to ask me, it never was. Nor will it ever."
Suddenly, the ambience changed, its heavy weight upon them as Desmond witnessed himself and the others around the Apple of Eden. Everyone but him frozen, but not because he wanted to. He didn't want nor could do anythinf about the Apple's manipulations. Juno's or Jupiter's, it didn't matter.
Because even when he knew, from all the signs and clues left to him, he didn't want to extend his arm. He didn't want to flex and aim the blade. He didn't want to kill Lucy.
But he would do it. And he did.
Desmond's burnt arm twinged with pain and he openly made note of it by writhing. The most pain he had felt since entering this journey was causing him to kneel down and grit his teeth. "Shit...shit... Fuck this arm, shit..."
Amidst the agony, he sensed Clay kneel next to him. Prying his eyes open, he saw him look at the arm almost with pity.
"You have to keep going.", the older man said gravely as he slowly stood up. "You already remember what comes after this. It's just that, well, you don't want to remember."
"What do you...", withholding as much of the pain as he could, Desmond replied, "What do you mean I don't want to remember?"
"Think about it, Miles.", his tone grave, Clay began. "For a year, you've been made to see and do things in the life of another in order to do what needs to be done. Yet, in all your time doing that, the Bleeding Effect was doing more things to you than warping your ancestors' memories with your reality."
This was all confusing and painful to listen to. The words Clay was speaking to him were affecting the burn in his arm as his other hand clutched it. Remember and not wanting to remember. What did he mean by that?!
"ARRRGH!" Something beyond the arm made it glow, the rays of light coming out of glyphs that made little sense to his stressed mind. Each ray that illuminated the area, but it kept the agony up.
"God, this arm! Please, please, make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOOOOOOP!"
Clay only stood up to look down on him, but his expression changed to hopeful. "Don't fight it, jackass!", he urged. "The one thing you've been trying to forget, but have been ignoring since you got dragged into this saving the world mess. Think!"
"Don't fight it? Do I even have a choice? Clay—" But as he blinked, the man was gone. He was with only himself, but the increasing burning from his arm prevented him to make sense of where the realm has taken them. It hurt, ate at him, making him wish that he could chop off his arm but couldn't
"God fucking damn you, Clay!"
There were no tears from his eyes, but he began sobbing from the pain. His body lurched face down on the floor as he couldn't hold out the anguished screaming anymore.
Shit! Was this pain Hell? Was that why he was led through this journey only to be abandoned with his punishment? If not, some God forsaken struggle inside him, like the books his dad would read back home?
'Don't fight it.' Clay's words echoed through his mind, past the wall of hurt that engulfed his nerves. Only, it wasn't Clay's voice.
Somehow, he couldn't hear his own screams. He knew he was screaming, knew the pain still ambushed his body, but suddenly it was far away, like his body and the whole realm was an already distant memory.
Memory... Remember...
And it hit him. All of it. His training days, his family, his friends and enemies. His anscestors, their struggles, and their lives. But in the middle of all that was something, someone, he had been taking for granted in the scheme of things.
Hashashin!
Hey, kid.
It's the Assassino!
Drop that gun, sir!
Bastard!
Stop! Assassin!
Desmond! What's up?
Ah, Mister Miles.
Son...
I'm just me!
You did well, Desmond.
"Desmond..."
And then, everything went white.
Interlude
"Mister Banks? Are you alright, Mister Banks?"
"What? Wha...shit, how long was I asleep?" Gavin had dozed off, a night of inspecting the glyphs Bill's Codex. His eyes were still blurry, but were clearing up to show the mess his desk was in.
Charts of symbols, clip ons with named photographs, the entire backdrop a map of the world, marked with their journey's comings and goings, the latest being a rendevouz to meet up with the others of the remaining American Brotherhood. And a full mug of coffee he didn't remember having.
"Not for too long, sir.", the Russian lisp registered the woman to be Galina Voronina, the remaining of the Russian Brotherhood. He groggily turned to her as she added, "The helmsman suggested I bring you this." Her head nodded to the coffee.
A hand of his went to grasp the mug's handle firmly before he raised it to his face, sniffing the aroma. It had seemed to wake him up further. "Did you brew this?"
"Umm, no.", the young woman replied. "I did not know what brew you preferred, so I asked one of your companions to make it. I only brought it up."
Ah. Well, the gesture was, to Gavin, still noteworthy. "Thank you, Galina. How are you faring so far?"
Taken aback by his inquiry, the blonde woman spoke, voice less personal. "Our rendevouz towards Saint Petersburg is still fresh in my memory, but worry not, sir. I will pull through, brother Gavin. I will do what is must."
Gavin shook his head at the girl. She was so formal, it was excessive. "That's not what I meant, Galina. How do you feel about what happened?"
It took a few seconds, but the question sunk in as Galina became rigid, then sighing as her posture relaxed again. "It is... I know what is real. I do. And yet, during times, I wish it had all been a glitch in our Animus machines." Her tone soon became graver, hands fidgeting around her white hoodie's sleeves. "They are—the memories, my fellow scientist, friends and family—still with me. I know they are dead, that I killed them, but part of me still sees them. Wants to see them. My sister..."
The Bleeding Effect. The Russian team was so drastic with their methods into the science of the Animus, many went insane, the bleeding effect making it out like they weren't even in the present. Miss Voronina was the luckier ones, having fought the effect long enough to survive. But now, it seemed, Galina had to live with the aftershock, including survivor's guilt.
"You aren't the first to feel that way.", he stated remorsefully. "Those who resist most of the effects still tend to question what is real and what isn't. Sometimes, they prefer the memories being replayed, at the risk of mental breakdowns." He took a quick sip of the coffee, ignoring the liquid heat that stunf somewhat, when something caught his eye on the table.
Gavin reached out, finding a photograph. He smiled sadly at the once haopy family that took the photo during a time less hectic for the Brotherhood. He angled the image towards Galina. "And like you, they wanted to use that disadvantage to do the world some good."
The woman curiously eyed the image before taking the photograph from him. Some recognition reflected in her eyes as she spoke, "This boy... I've seen pictures of him in reports. Is he...?"
"Yup." Taking another sip before settling the mug on a not-so-clattered part of his table, Gavin nodded. "That boy right there, white hood like yours? He'd have grown up and high tailed to become..."
Meeting The Fifth...?
Desmond Miles...Wake up, Desmond Miles.
He hadn't opened his eyes yet, he was beginning to become aware of his surroundings once more. Familiar feelings made themselves known to him. A familiar essence that, at the same time, could not be pinpointed immediately. But he recognized the voice, different as it was now than before when he still lived.
No, that wasn't right. Desmond felt alive, but he was well aware of his own passing, his transcendence to The Realms. But he had not heard that voice for some time, he knew.
It finally occured to him that right now, in the material realm, a year or so had passed since that December day. Still, it felt like only a few hours was spent on his journey. And the being he felt cradle his head, shading figure from light that would no longer blind him if he opened his eyes. The most relaxed and calmed he had felt, he recognized the person before he did just that.
"Figures you'd be waiting for me, lady."
Smiling, the Fifth Guide looked down at him. His head had been cradled on her lap like one protectively. When Desmond began to get up, she assisted him, holding him until they both rose up. When he showed that he could stand on his nown, she gave Desmond some space.
She was strikingly beautiful, now that he had a good look at her. Maybe not Lucy-standards, but being taller than him with flawless skin gave some pointers. Odd, since compared to the last time, she was now wearing a simple dress, still embroidered like a weird sci-fi flick, but no jewelry nor head ornaments to distinguish her from any other person.
Without the echoes of machines older than his time, Minerva sounded homily as she spoke. "Finally, you came, Desmond."
The fact dawned on him, that the woman standing before him was amongst many who had paved the way to everything that transpired that faithful Twenty-O-Twelve, and yet he felt no anger. No feeling of betrayal. No urge to retaliate at her for every bit of hardship he was put through. No inner pain felt nor remembered. Speaking of which...
He looked down at his burnt arm, only it wasn't burnt. In fact, it looked anew, even
Like before with his other Guides, his inner thought transmitted themselves to the woman. "Let me tell you that you have every right ro feel that way, had you kept onto that part of you.", she began, almost sounding happy about being so humbled. "For millenias, my race saw ourselves as superior beings, surpassing yours in both mind and body, but here we are, souls reaching the end of our journeys no different."
"Reaching?", the man asked, curiously looking at the woman's simple apparel. "I thought an ancient being like you would've been done by now."
Minerva's eyes began to look heavy, not looking at him but through him for a moment before she spoke, "That is the peculiar bit about this journey, isn't it?"
When she looked back at him, Desmond thought carefully. Their journeys. She was stating that she herself was... No way.
"How can that be?", he asked, more to himself than Minerva. "You're implying that you didn't die until recently! But that would mean..."
She nodded. "Yes. That embodiment of myself you saw? I was still there. I never left the Temple until you touched the pedestal."
Matter-of-factly, Desmond stated, "You died with me."
It was then that wherever they were changed, the bright light dimming to be more accommodating to reveal a large cavern. The light under and around him changed to clandestine marble floors and panels, golden lines adorning the room as machines in their prime and not decaying whirled to life. A bright, turqoise light grew bright to his right and he turned to find the doors he had unlocked before.
They were in the Grand Temple, circa God-knows-what.
Desmond knew that he had already been here, explored every bit reachable with his Assassin skills, but to see it almost anew and functioning took his breath away.
Slowly, he turned back his gaze to find Minerva palming some kind of panelling with numerical figures he dare not bother understand, like her fingers were caressing them.
Before he could be distracted further, he suddely remembered the disc he had, prepared to take it out until something came to him.
"If you died along with me, then show up here, that means you've just finished most of your own journey through the Realms."
Palm still on the panelling, she turned to him, although she had a struggled concentration on her face. "That is also correct. You seem to be getting used to the astral world, Desmond."
At the mention of the Realm's mechanisms, the Assassin flexed his no longer burnth right arm, then relaxed it to ask, "If that's the case, why are you here and not finishing your own journey?"
One would think all he had witnessed would prepare him for her answer, but it still surprised him as she spoke in a sure voice.
"I am finishing it. You are my Fifth."
Author's note: Bada-bada-BOOM! Pow! What did I tell ya about weird astral crap not being linear and being cryptic? XD
(Speaking of which, that poll I had about making astral ficlets for other characters like Edward Kenway, Shay Cormac, or whatever character you'd like to read about? It's still up on my profile. Go on and vote! I'm open to suggestions.)
I can't believe I finished this chapter, guys! This one was the actual struggle I had with this fic. The whole leading up to this Fifth business. Niw that this one's in the bag, the last chapter and epilogue should run smoother.
Sadly, not sooner.
I'm afraid the next and last chapter would get updated on an unknow date between Jun and July. I've got classes again (I completed my last seem months ago) and have enrollments and such to await and complete.
Still, I'd like to thank the people still reading this, despite the inconceivable haitus, and the new readers who would still like to know where the story leads. QnQ
For you guys. And for Desmond!
~The Itchy Bird