Sorry for the hiatus! I didn't mean for it to go that long, but finals really hit me hard and I just couldn't afford to spend time on this until recently. Anyways, I hope to make up for it with this chapter and the next, which should have some satisfying fight scenes :)

I guess it's no surprise that things get worse from here. It'll be a few chapters yet before we see the actual Brotherhood, Desmond just has to know where to find them first.

Also, Desmond is still in NYC, while Shaun, Rebecca, and William are in Quebec, Canada. Neither have any clue where the other is. S, R, and W still think that Desmond is dead.

EDIT 5/23/16: Added more to the end of the chapter! It was going to be for chapter twelve, but it seemed to fit better here, and 12 will be busy enough as it is. So now this chapter's longer, yay!

Chapter Eleven

Hungover

Desmond woke up in Masyaf.

"What the…" Desmond spun around, gaping at the castle walls enclosed around him. He was standing by a desk covered in scrolls and maps, a large window overlooking a garden below. It took him a second to recognize it Al Mualim's office — or it was, until he was killed. "How am I here?"

An Assassin scribe, wearing the traditional dark blue robes of the 10th century, strolled past with an armload of books. Desmond reached out to grab the scribe, but his hand just went right through the man's shoulder, like a ghost.

Pulling his hand back, Desmond stumbled away, shocked. He looked around again, noticed how the faces of the scribes were just blurs, shifting images like a mirage, not really there. A wave of déjà vu washed over him, and Desmond felt his heart skip a beat. "Oh man, I'm not in the Animus again, am I?"

"About time you showed up."

Desmond spun around, not expecting his question to be answered. There, standing behind Al Mualim's desk, was a very familiar Rafiq, scowling at him. "Whoa. Wait, can you see me?"

"You're standing here, aren't you?" Malik scowled at him.

Desmond was too surprised at first to respond. Then he held a hand to his head, muttering, "Oh, man, I must be dreaming again."

Malik just rolled his eyes, but it was a different male voice that said, "Yes and no," and Desmond jumped to see Altaïr standing right next to him, appearing out of thin air, or so it seemed. As usual, the Assassin has his hood up. "That was a daring move, sneaking into a Templar stronghold. Were you successful?"

"I — yeah," Desmond said, then did a double-take. "Wait, how'd you hear about that? News must travel fast in the afterlife."

"We have our ways, as you might expect." Altaïr offered a small smirk.

"So," Desmond held out his arms, gesturing at the interior. Another scribe passed by, going right through Desmond and making him feel a little self-conscious about his weight. "Uh, how am I here? Is this real?"

"More or less," Altaïr shrugged. "It was built from our collective memories. My memories, really. And you, having relived them, of course."

Another scribe passed by, and Desmond held out his arm. The white robed figure phased through him again. He frowned as the scribe kept going, passing through Altaïr as well. "And, uh, what's up with these guys? They aren't real."

"Just another construction of the memory," Altaïr shrugged, not even turning his head, completely disregarding almost everyone else in the room. It was a little disconcerting, being stared at by the Assassin, and Desmond had to keep himself from shifting in nervousness. "You remember the people as much as you remember the place. Sometimes, they are one and the same."

Desmond pointed at Malik. "So, is he fake, too?"

Malik did not look up when he sniffed. "You said he was a little slow, Altaïr. I did not think he was stupid."

"Hey!" Desmond bristled, then glared at Altaïr. "Why is he here?"

"I wanted to meet you, obviously," Malik answered just as Altaïr opened his mouth. "I wanted to see what our great legacy has become. Frankly, I'm disappointed, although it's no less than what I expected from a descendent of the great Altaïr, Eagle of Masyaf."

He said that last bit with a sarcastic drawl, which had Altaïr and Desmond sharing looks of annoyance. Desmond was tempted to start an argument, just for the sake of it, but Altaïr grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away. "Ignore him. He is always in a bad mood. Death has done him no favors."

"I wonder why!" Malik called after them, but at that point the two had already disappeared behind some bookshelves to speak in private.

Desmond jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Again, why's he here? What happened to Lucy? I thought I was only supposed to see people I actually connected to or something."

Altaïr just shrugged, so casual a gesture that Desmond wasn't quite sure an Assassin as serious as him could make. "I never said that those were hard and fast rules. You've walked between worlds, Desmond Miles, and you have left a trail for the rest of us to follow. I myself do not know how it works, exactly. All I know is that I am speaking to you now; this is as close to reality as your dreams will become."

"Wait, so where did you come from? Heaven?" Desmond asked, at once intrigued by the idea. Before, he had been more or less convinced that his last vision had been some weird out-of-body experience, his mind trying to rationalize being dead for a few minutes or hours or whatever. But if what Altaïr said was true, then it meant…"Is it real? What does it look like?"

Altaïr blinked slowly, his face remaining as still as marble. "I cannot tell you that, and even if I could, you lack the capability to fully comprehend it. But do not worry yourself over where we come from; what I tell you may not be the truth for someone else, and I refuse to give you false ideas of what all this might be. What it might mean. That is not why we are here, Desmond. I wanted to speak to you about your friend, Elliott."

"Elliott?" The name caught him by surprise, and the blood drained from Desmond's face. Why would Altaïr be concerned about him? "He's not a Templar, is he?"

"No, he is not," Altaïr said, although he must've thought the look on Desmond's face was funny, because he smirked a little bit. "Did you fear you would have to kill him?"

"I mean, it's kind of an occupational hazard, isn't it?"

Altaïr just shook his head. "It is a great responsibility, but for once not one you have to bear. No, what I am concerned of is what your presence in his life will do to him. Elliott knows more than you realize, although I doubt he's fully aware of what he has stumbled upon. He now knows of the Templars, but not the war, and it blinds him to the danger that he is in. If the Templars weren't aware of him before, they soon will be."

"Why? Because he wanted to help me?"

"Even the purest of motives can lead to disaster," Altaïr reminded him. He glanced away, a line forming between his brows. "Some of us learn the hard way. I am warning you now, so you do not repeat the mistakes of our past."

"Do you mean…" Desmond started to say, but Altaïr turned his head, eyes flashing over his shoulder. The assassin turned away, a line forming between the brow, as if he already knew what name Desmond would say, and it was enough for Desmond to quickly backtrack and rethink what he was about to say. "...Uh, er, never mind."

"You won't fail him," Altaïr said, his attention shifting to a corner of the room. "Or should I say, you can't fail him."

Desmond blinked. "You're talking about Elliott, right?"

"You have put the entire Brotherhood in jeopardy because of your actions," Altaïr said sharply, fixing Desmond with a rather cold look. "As well as your friend Elliott, and his family. Do you think the Templars will stop at only him?" Altaïr just scoffed at the idea, his face hard before brushing past Desmond with a rather impolite bump of the shoulder. "Just do your job. And remember the tenets."

"Dude," Desmond held out his arms, turning to watch Altaïr disappear around a corner. He hadn't expected such a cold reaction from the Assassin, and went after him, only to come across an empty hallway. Altaïr, as per usual, had disappeared into thin air. "Well, nice to see you, too, pal!"

It wasn't like Desmond expected a real heart-to-heart with Altaïr, but he had hoped that perhaps, after all these years, maybe the Eagle would've chilled out a bit or something. But clearly Altaïr was dealing with some problem, and Desmond was pretty sure it might be related to Kadar, Adha, Maria, or anyone else he watched die. People Desmond had to watch die, too. And Desmond was starting to wonder if he was dealing, not with the souls of the departed, but the haunting ghosts of the distant past.

He was so not prepared for this. Desmond just knew how to make people dead, but he had no idea how to solve the dead's problems.

It was the past. It was over. What was there to worry about?

"He feels responsible for you," said a voice behind Desmond. He turned around, surprised to see Malik standing there, fixing him with a hard, dark look. Malik cleared his throat, then rectified, "Altaïr doesn't want you to go through what he went through...which is pointless, considering how and why you're here. But I imagine he sees some of himself in you. I know I do."

There was less venom in those words than Desmond expected. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Malik wasn't as angry about this as Altaïr — which would be a first. Especially considering the undisclosed topic, the dead brother and missing arm (Desmond had some trouble not staring at it like an idiot).

But he could still hear the warning in Malik's voice, the challenge. Maybe he wasn't so sure of Desmond, either.

"I can protect Elliott." Desmond said, his voice hard. His fists clenched at his side. A part of him couldn't believe that Elliott could be in trouble, but he would be damned if he let it happen. "I won't let anyone else sacrifice themselves for me."

"Well, if Altaïr is anyone to go by," Malik said, raising his chin, giving Desmond an appraising look. His eyes squinted slightly. "The odds are not in your favor. Be warned, Desmond Miles, your friends are in danger. And Elliott won't be the only one."

"And why do you care?" Desmond asked sharply. Something about the idea of the rest of his friends being threatened just didn't sit too well with him.

The answer he got was a slap to the face. Desmond yelped, clutching his stinging cheek and surprised by how much it hurt. Yep, this was definitely the real Malik.

The Real Malik snapped, "Because I am an Assassin. We are all Assassins, and while I may not approve of everything you've done, I will be loathe to keep you from achieving your goals. Now, you need to wake up."

"W-what?"

"I said," Malik once more struck him across the face. "Wake up!"

And with the crack of his hand, the walls collapsed around them.

"Ow, fuck!" Desmond flinched, suddenly launching forward in his bed. A hand went to his face, wondering how he could hurt from a dream, while trying to take in the blankets tangled around his legs. His breath puffed in front of him and he shivered in the apartment, dark and cold. It was startling to find himself back here, in New York, when Masyaf felt so real. The warmth of the desert was swallowed by the sharp winter here.

It took him a second to remember why his heart was racing.

Elliott.

The chill sent a jolt through his system, and Desmond scrambled out of bed, nearly falling out face first until he caught himself and kicked himself out of the blankets. "Shitshitshitshit."

Finding his things in the dark was infuriating. It took Desmond five long seconds to find his shirt and hoodie in the mass of dirty laundry on the floor, then another five to stare at his bare wrist before remembering he put his hidden blade on the bedside table. Normally, he'd keep it on at all times because, you know, prerequisite paranoia; but Desmond remembered a story his mom told him, about an uncle who used to wear his hidden blade to bed as well — and ended up sliding his own ear off.

So no, Desmond was not prepared. His thoughts were scattered, and he could only think of Elliott, how to get to him, what might've happened, how Altaïr or anyone else could've known…

They had been careful. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since the break-in, and Desmond could still feel the hangover from their victory party. Even now, his head pounded a little, and Desmond cursed himself for being so slow, so stupid.

His head still pounded from the shots of vodka he had earlier that night. Elliott had challenged him, but how many did Desmond actually take…? All he remembered was winning. Desmond clutched his head, trying to fight through the ache so he could think straight, figure out a plan of action.

There was no way Desmond could just call to find out if Elliott was okay or not. He didn't have his cell phone, Angela's was still in the Tower somewhere, and he wasn't going to waste time finding a phone booth. No, the fastest way to make sure Elliott was alright was to go to his apartment himself.

It was the dead of night. There would be fewer cars out, which meant Desmond would have to hoof it on his own. It would only take that much longer to reach Elliott.

Did Abstergo really find out about them so fast? How was that even possible?

Stuffing on his boots, Desmond decided that wasn't important. Hefting open his window, he ducked out into the night, vanishing into the snowstorm.

The window was dark when he got there.

Desmond knocked first, because it was polite. And because if Elliott responded, then he had nothing to worry about. "Come on, Elliott, please be here…"

But nothing moved inside. When Desmond used his Eagle Vision, he saw no glowing form in the bed where it should be. Not on the couch, not in the kitchen.

The apartment was empty.

"Shit." Desmond breathed, right before he discovered the window unlocked and ducked inside.

His feet landed on something crunchy, loose on the floor, Desmond nearly slipped. He grunted, caught the edge of the desk for support, before noticing it had been completely cleared. What he stepped on was the remains of the computer, plastic, glass, and computer bits all scattered across the floor. He toed the remains with his shoe, pushing them away to make a path. There was more debris as he looked to the couch; books, papers, Elliott's backpack ripped open like a piñata. The bed was a mess, all the blankets on the floor. The lamp was knocked over, now a pile of shattered porcelain and a broken shade by the bed.

The door, left ominously open. A thin wedge of orange light fell across the room, highlighting the mess in stark shadows.

The place was ransacked.

He was too late.

No no no no.

Breath loud in his ears, Desmond scanned the room, using his Eagle Vision again, hoping for clues. He didn't want to believe what he was seeing, all the worst memories coming back to him. Altaïr returning to Masyaf to find it under attack, to find the entire fortress under mind control. Ezio racing to save Sofia, only to find Yusuf dead. Connor, witnessing his entire village — and Ziio, his mother, with it — burn to the ground.

No, not again, please not again.

Desmond wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not that he didn't find a body.

Then his eyes picked up on a glimmer of gold on the floor. He bent down, brushed aside some loose note paper, what was once advanced calculus — to find it wet, stained red.

Blood.

"They came for him."

The small voice made Desmond jerk his head up in surprise. Under the veil of his hood, Desmond stared at the little old woman peering into the open doorway, casting a shadow over the light.

"The men in black," she whispered, and Desmond recognized her. Mrs. B, Elliott's neighbor. Desmond stood slowly as she continued to speak. "They were looking for something...but the boy wouldn't give it to them. I could hear it through the walls, the shouting, the noise. It was...awful. I saw them carry him out."

"Elliott? Was he alive?" There was undeniable urgency, desperation in his voice, and Desmond could barely hide it behind a brusque tone. He had no time for coddling.

"Unconscious, I think. His head was bleeding. I think…" Mrs. B trembled, took a step back from the door, shaking her head and clutching her hands together. "He fought back, and they hurt him."

"Where were they taking him?" He demanded, leaning forward in earnest. He was glad for a witness, but what good would it do if he didn't have enough information.

But Mrs. B just shook her head again, receding further back into the hallway. Desmond went after her, stepping forward and pushing the door open. Mrs. B flinched, perhaps intimidated by this tall man in a white hood, staring her down. "I-I don't know. They didn't wear any badges. They didn't look like police."

Desmond hissed through his teeth, tossing his head in frustration. Not that he expected a little old woman to have all the answers, but still. "Doesn't matter. I have a pretty good idea who's behind this, anyways."

Mrs. B blinked owlishly at him behind her glasses. "Who?"

"Trust me, ma'am, you don't want to know." Desmond said, throwing one last glance at Elliott's apartment before back at her again. "Is that all you have?"

"I think so," Mrs. B shrugged helplessly. "What're you going to do? The boy is gone. The people who took them, I don't think they're very nice…will you get the police?"

"Pfft, no." Desmond's scoff was probably more worrisome than assuring. What good would the cops do here? Abstergo didn't leave behind any traces except for one scared witness, and that wasn't much to go on for your average detective. And that was only if the police weren't already in the pockets of the Templars. "They can't help here."

Deciding that his time here was done, Desmond brushed past the woman, ready to leave. But Mrs. B called after him, "Wait, I remember something else."

Desmond paused, glanced over his shoulder, doubtful she had more to give. But Mrs. B continued with one raised, shaky finger. "Y-yes, I remember, one of them made a phone call. I don't remember everything they said, but there was a name."

"A name?" Desmond's eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. Yes, a name, he needed a name. He needed someone to blame for this.

"Yes, a Dr. Caire," Mrs. B said, and it was like the name was burned into Desmond's mind. It sounded vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he had come across it before in his research. "He wanted the boy in person. I-I don't know why. To interrogate him, maybe? Dr. Caire wanted him brought to 'the Tower', whatever that means. I don't know — wait, where are you going?"

Desmond didn't hang around to answer her question. He was already running for the fire escape.

Desmond wasn't surprised when he found Abstergo Tower lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was swarming with security now, on high-alert after the recent break-in. Guards walked every floor, or at least the ones he could see, and Desmond had a good feeling he wasn't going in the same way as last time. So they got their power back on, but Desmond had no way to know just how secure they really were.

Luckily, he already had a plan.

Desmond wasn't sure if it was a good one, or if it would even work at all, but he'd come up with it on the way here. The night sky was still a broiling gray-purple; Desmond swore he saw a flash of lightning when he looked up one time. Using a water tower to leap over a wide gap between apartment buildings, Desmond made a beeline for Abstergo tower in the distance.

He didn't even feel the cold as he gripped frozen brick and leapt over slippery drops. It was, perhaps, the adrenalin, or maybe the hangover that still had a grip on his head. He couldn't shake it, and was perhaps getting worse thanks to the stress.

Well, aside from his right hand, which felt nothing at all. It hadn't ached or twinged since he left Abstergo earlier, and he still had no idea how or why his hand started hurting as terribly as it did.

A part of him hoped it didn't happen again, so he didn't have to find out.

At least it was quiet.

It wouldn't be for very long.

Wincing internally as what was about to happen, Desmond reached into his backpack and pulled out the semi-automatic he pulled from an Abstergo guard several weeks ago. He wasn't sure how far it's accuracy went, but Desmond didn't have anything else, and he'd rather not get up close and personal until he leveled the playing field a little bit.

He got down to a crouch, resting one elbow on the lip of the building he was on. Desmond faced the front of Abstergo Tower, it's light casting a soft glow over him, but he would be too far away for anyone to see clearly, and the low wall he was next to provided good cover if he needed it. The building he was on was closer in height compared to the office complex he landed on previously; connected between them was another cable, this one flat instead of angled, and waved a large banner about Abstergo Entertainment's new Helix project, ready to be released.

Desmond had half a mind to burn it, but decided to hold onto the urge for later.

The gun felt too small in his hands, too light. Could it even do the job Desmond needed it to do? He hadn't fired a real gun in some time, and his last experience had been with a flintlock pistol in the Revolutionary War.

It wasn't quite the same as the one in his hand now. Desmond hoped his aim hadn't gone down the drain since he died.

But he knew it didn't matter. Elliott was in there somewhere. And Desmond was going to get him, no matter what.

There were guards pacing the balcony at about the thirtieth floor, roughly equal in height to Desmond. There were multiple balconies throughout the building, but this one in particular was easiest to get to without touching the ground. Desmond sure as hell couldn't jump down from anywhere else, and he had no intention of braving the bottom floors to reach the top — it may be a cliche, but bad guys and important people always like to have their offices on the top floors, didn't they?

There were three total that Desmond could reach — two that took post on either corner of the balcony, and a third that walked in and out of the doorway. The distance between Desmond and his targets was about fifteen or twenty meters. A bit of a stretch, but doable.

He'd have to time this just right.

Taking aim, Desmond tensed his finger around the trigger. The head of the first guard entered his line of sight.

Bang!

The recoil reverberated through Desmond's hands and down his arms. The guard jerked once and dropped out of sight.

The gunshot was swallowed by the storm and wind, but echoes of it could still be heard. Desmond ducked down before he or the flash of his gun could be located, and peered over the edge of the low wall to make sure he wasn't seen. The second guard didn't notice the loss of his compatriot as he leaned over the balcony, looking for the source of the noise.

He waited five seconds before raising the gun again, and firing off another shot.

He missed.

"Dammit!" Desmond cursed as the bullet ricocheted off the wall behind the second guard's head. The man whipped around, startled, and Desmond took aim again, this time lining up the shot and hitting the back of the guard's head. He fell forward, not to be seen again.

Desmond huffed, a little pissed at himself. This was why people didn't sixteen shots of vodka.

(He was pretty sure it was sixteen).

The third guard had yet to return, and Desmond's butt was starting to get cold. He was nervous, shaking all over, his hands shaking with anticipation. He just wanted to get over there as quickly as possible. All this waiting meant Elliott got closer and closer to getting killed.

Still, he made himself wait. If there was one thing Desmond learned after reliving three different Assassin lives, he knew it was best to be patient.

If he got too antsy, he made mistakes.

Like that shot he missed.

Finally, the third guard came back to the balcony, and this time Desmond's work did not go unnoticed. The man whipped his head back and forth, alarmed. Still unseen, Desmond raised the gun again, taking aim.

Bang!

The guard turned at the last second. The bullet hit the glass, shattering it, making the man jump, then face Desmond.

"Oh, shit." Desmond ducked his head before he could be spotted. Luckily, Assassin white blended easily in the wintry weather. But the flash of a gun did not. If the guard saw him and raised the alarm, then it would be all over before it even began.

Desmond counted under his breath. Unlike the Animus, these guards wouldn't go back to business as usual after finding one of their buddies dead.

Whether or not he would be seen, sooner or later the Templars would know he was here.

And he'd rather it'd be later.

Desmond peeked over the wall. The third guard had bent down to check the body of the first guard. Shit, was he reporting it in already?

He waited for the third guard to stand again.

Bang!

He missed.

"For fuck's sake…!" This time Desmond didn't duck down when the guard turned around — the guard shouted something, too distant to be heard, but no doubt about the lone white figure on the roof across the street. This time, he wouldn't miss.

The next bullet found its home in the third guard's face, just as he was reaching for his radio.

"About time," Desmond muttered, tucking away the gun. How many bullets was that? Six? For just three guards? Unbelievable. Maybe he was even rustier than he thought.

With that part of the building completely unaccounted for, Desmond had free reign to approach. Stepping onto the low wall, he crept down, holding onto the brick as he stepped onto the cable. It wobbled beneath him, a metallic ringing in the air. It wasn't like the thin rope bridges he's had in past lives. This was longer, thinner, and much, much higher than he was used to.

Like a tightrope walker, Desmond held out his arms, found his balance before taking the first step. His heart caught in his throat as he looked down and took in the dizzying height. The hangover headache quickly switched to nausea in that moment.

Desmond had to close his eyes, look up at the building instead. No, no, don't look down. Just focus on what's ahead.

Still, it was hard to think that there were daredevils out here who did this for a living. Not even an Assassin would try something like this without some amount of hesitation first. He had mad respect for those crazy sons of bitches.

One step at a time, Desmond made his way across the cable. It probably went faster than he thought, but each moment on that wire felt like Desmond was flipping the bird to Death himself.

He was perhaps half-way across when he felt the cable start to shake. And it wasn't the wind.

"What the…" Desmond's eyes narrowed down on the balcony — spotting the fourth guard he hadn't seen before, who was now trying to unhook the cable he was attached to. "Hey!"

Shouting did nothing helpful at all, to no one's surprise. In one swift go, Desmond's balance was shaken and he swayed too far to the left. He cried out, managing to catch the cable with his hands before falling off completely. His legs swung freely underneath him, but Desmond didn't have time to think of what to do next when he heard gunshots.

"You have got to be kidding me." Desmond muttered through gritted teeth as bullets ripped through the banner in front of him. Luckily, the guard was a bad shot, and the cable was swinging so wildly from Desmond's hanging weight that he was too difficult a target.

But the guard couldn't do both at the same time. And the cable was quickly settling itself again. One bullet came sickeningly close to Desmond's face — he felt the heat as it went past his cheekbone, ruffled the hem of his hood, before disappearing into the night beyond.

"Jesus," Desmond breathed, before finally letting go with one hand — hanging by just his right — as he scrambled to undo the zipper in his backpack, legs kicking beneath him as he pulled out the semi-automatic, and swung the muzzle at the guard. His aim swept back and forth as the cable continued back and forth. He closed one eye, timing the shot.

And, between two beats of his heart, Desmond pulled the trigger, and the guard fell back. "Fuck off!"

Glad to be rid of him, Desmond grimaced and stuffed the gun into his waistband, too rushed to put it back in his backpack. Considering the way this was going, he was going to need it again.

He grasped the wire with both hands again, trying to pull himself up. But he couldn't get up, his balance too unstable, and for a second he thought the wind picked up.

Until he looked back to the building he came from, and saw someone else.

Another guard. And this one had a saw.

"Oh no…" Desmond blood pounded in his ears, seeing the sparks fly. The third guard must've alerted someone, who came around the long way. And now Desmond was caught between a rock and a hard place. "That's not good."

To his credit, Desmond tried his best to get closer to Abstergo Tower, sidling along the cable as quickly as he could. But he didn't stand a chance.

A loud crack filled the air. Desmond didn't even get a chance to look back at the rope-cutting guard before all tension in the cable went slack.

And then he was falling.

The cable dropped, and Desmond went with it, clinging on for dear life. A terrified cry left his lips, and Desmond could only watch in horror as instead of falling to his death, the cable swung, like a pendulum.

Straight for Abstergo Tower.

This was Death's way of laughing at him. It had to be. Desmond was going to die as George of the Jungle.

"Fuck!" Was all Desmond could shout in the face of demise.

Then he crashed into the glass.

And fell through.

His shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he barely remembered to land in a roll. It was only partially successful — at the momentum Desmond was going, he ended up head-over-heels, tumbling a magnificent ten feet before finally skidding to a stop. His limbs flopped to the ground, sprawled. Desmond's temple smacked the floor and he blacked out.

The next thing he knew, his head was head hurting. Which meant he wasn't dead, which was good news.

The bad news arrived soon after.

Groaning, he peeled his face off metal, wincing and looking up. He was lying face-first on a cold floor, surrounded by pale blue and white light. All around him was shattered glass from the window. Snowflakes filtered in from the busted window. He could hear the wire whipping about in the wind outside, smacking against the side of the building in cracking booms.

Desmond could taste blood in his mouth, from where he bit his tongue. Broken shards cut into his palms.

But he didn't notice any of that.

No, his gaze was solely focused on the eyes staring back at him.

Five faces, pressed against glass, staring at him. Different heights, genders, ethnicity, but all had one thing in common. They were young.

"...kids?" Desmond couldn't believe his eyes. Neither could they, apparently, staring at Desmond with open mouths, staring silently as he slowly picked himself off the ground, grunting with the effort. Every part of him hurt with that landing. At least it hadn't been a long drop from the window to the floor.

Oh, there was another thing, too. The kids were all locked in their own little cubicles, complete with an Animus, just like the set-up in Rome. Because Desmond really needed a reminder of that.

"Who are you?" One of the kids asked. A boy, maybe seventeen.

"Are you here to save us?" Another asked. No older than thirteen. He watched Desmond with wide eyes, a bewildered smile on his face. "You're an Assassin, aren't you?"

"How did you — ?" Desmond started to say, but was interrupted by a girl behind him.

"Assassins aren't real!" She snorted, fixing Desmond with a look of suspicion as she crossed her arms. "That's just a myth Abstergo tells to scare us."

"And yet!" The older boy held out his hands at Desmond standing between them. "Here he is. He's even got a hood."

"Whoa, wait, what's going on?" Desmond held up his hands, blinking rapidly. He was so not prepared for this. "What're you guys doing here? Is Abstergo using the Animus —"

"To look through our memories?" The older boy said. "Uh, yeah."

"They just kidnapped a bunch of kids? What, and no one knows you're missing?"

"I've been here for three weeks," the girl said, shrugging her shoulders. "I ran away from home before they found me."

"I've been here for six," the older boy said. "They didn't say what they needed us for. Just that we're 'helping a greater cause' whatever that means. But we learn stuff in those, um, memories or whatever. Stuff about Assassins and Templars."

"They said they'd let us go once we gave them what they wanted," The girl said. "But I haven't seen anyone leave. They just get more and more kids. I don't think they're ever letting us go."

"I just want to go home," the younger boy said.

"This is so messed up," Desmond said, which was probably the understatement of the year. He bent over his knees, pausing to catch a breath. If there were any guards on this level, they hadn't found him yet. Desmond wasn't sure how much time he had, but now he knew he had a lot less, and now a lot more to do.

He had to do something about this. Elliott was still top priority, of course, but Desmond couldn't just leave all these kids here. Had the Templars really stooped so low as to use helpless minors to do their dirty work? It was bad enough they used adults like Desmond. It must be easier to control someone who's smaller than you.

"Don't worry," Desmond straightened, finding his best 'adult' voice, or something similar. His dad used a similar tone when he was being bossy. "I'll get you guys out. How many more are you?"

"Twenty, maybe?" The older boy said, making a face and shrugging helplessly. "As far as I know. There might be more."

"Fantastic." Desmond muttered, as he approached one glass door and analyzed the electronic lock. There was a keypad, which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't also require a card. Which he didn't have. "I don't suppose there's a master key for all these cells, is there?"

"I don't know, but there's a control panel up there," the girl said, pointing. Desmond followed her finger to the windows on the other side of the room, high above the cells, like a watchtower. He could see movement inside. "That's where they monitor us. Are you really an Assassin?"

Desmond didn't get a chance to answer before someone shouted behind him. "Hey, you! You're not supposed to be out of your cell!"

Turning, Desmond faced the guard that had just come around the corner. The man had a hand on his gun, looking mad, but it quickly turned to surprise when he realized Desmond wasn't an escapee. He did a double-take, trying to pull out his gun. "Oh, shit —"

He didn't get a chance to finish before Desmond lunged forward and unsheathed his hidden blade, burrowing it into the guard's throat.

The guard dropped, Desmond on top of him, while the kids behind him screamed in shock.

Standing up, Desmond faced the stunned kids, and held out his arms. "Does that answer your question?"

He didn't wait to hear their reply before taking off. No doubt more security would be arriving to inspect the damage, and Desmond needed to reach that control room before things got really hairy in here.

This Animus room, whatever it was, had to be about the size of a football field. It occurred to Desmond, as he was racing down the narrow halls between cells, that he'd never played football before — or any normal sport, really. The sort of thing that was usually a rite of passage for normal people growing up never happened for him. Desmond wondered if he was missing out.

After blitzing another guard, who just appeared around the corner, without stopping, Desmond decided it wasn't. Somehow, he doubted throwing a pigskin would be anywhere nearly as exhilarating as it was to be an Assassin.

The windows of the control room had no glass, perhaps to better utilize weapons in case of an emergency. The wall leading up to his was flat, sheer, with no feasible handholds. But the ceiling was high, and Desmond knew how to get up there. More kids, as well as adults, were woken by the ruckus, and stared as Desmond raced past — before directing himself at a wall and jumped. He angled his body to the side just as his heels touched the glass, and with another leap he bounced off the wall and launched himself upwards on top of the cells, then into the rafters.

The guard manning the station didn't stand a chance. He only saw Desmond at the last second, was still fumbling for his weapon when Desmond dropped down on the windowsill. Before the man could even cry out, Desmond hidden blade was in his neck.

Letting the man drop dead to the floor, Desmond slipped inside and stood up. The control room was small, and the array of computer screens and camera footage at first had Desmond so overwhelmed he wasn't sure what he was looking at. The older boy had been right about there being a lot — Desmond counted at least twenty-five. He sincerely hoped that there weren't more Abstergo was holding in this building.

"Goddamn," he muttered, leaning on the panel as he perused the buttons and keyboard. This was not what he came here for.

He had to get to Elliott, he had to kill Dr. Caire. He couldn't waste time on all of this.

But then again, how could he not?

"Ah-ha!" Desmond smiled, lifting a finger and bringing it down on a red button conveniently marked 'Emergency Release'.

Immediately, all the lights on the board started to flash, followed by a piercing siren that made Desmond wince. More lights flashed into the Animus room beyond, blue turning to red, and there was a great whoosh as all the cell doors opened at once.

As everyone started rushing out and making for the exits, Desmond realized they still weren't safe. Quickly perusing the buttons again, it took him a moment to lock down the exit doors in which security was approaching — if the Templars didn't know he was here before, they certainly would now.

The computer was already logged in, and Desmond smiled when he saw he could pull up an Internet browser. Bending over the keyboard, he opened up an email client and typed out a message. Not sure how much time he had, Desmond made it brief, but he was careful to ensure the right addresses were in place.

He had to make sure these kids were safe.

Desmond had just hit 'send' when all the lights went out. At the same time, he heard the soft squeak of hinges behind him. Desmond went still. "Oh, shit."

He'd forgotten about the door.

Before he could react, two large hands suddenly clamped down on his shoulders. Desmond cried out as he was thrown up and over, lifted clean off his feet, and into the next room. His shoulder hit the door he forgot to check, before he fell into a chair. Knocking it over, Desmond tumbled to the floor in a heap.

It created a mighty crash, a change in the suddenly silent walls. The sirens had been cut off, leaving Desmond's ears ringing, and it was nearly completely dark except for a series of emergency floodlights in the corner of the room.

There were tables, chairs, a carpet, even a couch — Desmond at first thought it was a lobby, until he saw the large windows and realized that, no, it was an observation room. One built for the ease and comfort of Templars reveling in the exploitation of innocent people.

But Desmond didn't have time to think of the horridness of it all. By the time he picked his head up, his attention was quickly stolen by the towering form standing in the doorway before him.

When he saw the man's face, Desmond's blood ran cold. He recognized him.

Juhani Otso Berg.