Author's Note: So it just dawned on me that I forgot to post this chapter yesterday... Whoops!
Desmond Miles was a moron. Clay had only known the guy for what was probably an hour and he already had figured out that much. After all, you had to be an idiot to trust a person who was obviously a Templar agent. Desmond had blindly given the blonde his trust and it had left him in a coma while the Assassins scrambled to figure out what exactly had happened when their hapless novice had grabbed Ezio's Apple. The situation wasn't exactly great for Clay either, since he had the previously mentioned novice wandering around Animus Island and muttering something about trying to find the correct memory. Clay knew that the animus drove people crazy, but he hadn't expected Desmond to be this far gone.
"Hey, beans for brains," Clay called as he trailed irritably after the guy. "Are you done wandering around raving like a lunatic yet?"
"I'm not wandering around raving like a lunatic," Desmond replied, cringing a little when he parroted Clay's description.
"That's what it looks like you're doing," Clay retorted, rolling his eyes and then flickering through the data stream to appear right in front of his unfortunate animus successor. Desmond startled, eyes going wide and wild for a moment before he managed to get himself under control. Clay watched the entire process without surprise. While he hadn't known Bill Miles long, it had quickly become obvious that the man accepted nothing less than complete obedience. Clay had seriously doubted that Bill was any better in his personal life, doubt reinforced by Liliana Miles leaving permanently for Spain years ago. Watching Desmond was confirmation of something worse than Clay had expected.
Clay Kaczmarek had faced a form of abuse in his own life, through his father, Harold's, near constant neglect. His mother, Cynthia, had loved him dearly but her work kept her traveling. This meant that, more often than not, Clay had been left alone with his father, who hadn't ever been sure he wanted a child. The neglect had led to a series of therapists by the time he was in eight grade, lasting until he'd joined the Assassin Brotherhood. Clay's issues had been centered on rarely gaining any attention and never really feeling wanted, not from the fear of being hit for doing something wrong. It looked like Desmond's came from the second strain, which made Clay like Bill Miles even less than he had before.
That wasn't to say that he hadn't liked the man initially. Bill Miles was perfectly likable, if you didn't challenge his control. Once someone challenged his authority, Bill became less like the pleasant guy down the street who dropped everything to help with your barbecue and more like some sort of drill sargent who had been sent directly from the depths of Hell to turn you into a good soldier. Clay had never really been much of a good soldier, so he and Bill had gotten off on the wrong foot pretty quickly. That was one of the reasons he'd been grateful for the undercover assignment in Abstergo. It got him away from Bill's disapproving glares every time Clay did something the older man didn't approve of.
"Your father's more of an asshole than I thought he was," Clay commented, stepping back. Desmond paled and glanced upwards, as if expecting to hear Bill's voice snarling down at him. The worry wasn't exactly unfounded. They had heard Bill speaking to someone else earlier, when Desmond had just come to inside the animus, so it was logical to assume that the people outside the animus could hear those trapped inside. "Don't worry," Clay drawled. "No one can hear us in here. Otherwise your little Assassin friends would have known that I was still hanging around."
"T-That's, uh, that's good to know," Desmond stuttered, not looking entirely convinced. He backed up a couple steps and then turned on his heel, pacing hesitantly towards the memories. Clay trailed after him, genuinely curious. Desmond seemed to be staring intently at each memory stream before moving on to the next one, almost as if he knew what he was looking for. That didn't make any sense. Desmond Miles was in a coma because of grabbing the Apple at Lucy's prodding. The guy shouldn't have any idea of what he was searching for.
"Did the Apple show you something?" Clay questioned but Desmond ignored him, mouth set into a determined line. Clay scowled and reached over the snap his fingers in front of Desmond's face, making the younger man flinch. "What are you doing?" he questioned, trying not to feel too bad about startling Desmond.
"Looking for a memory," Desmond replied, not meeting his eyes.
"And you know what memory you're looking for?" Clay prodded in an exasperated tone.
"Yes." Desmond's tone went sharp and he stalked on to the next memory, leaving Clay frozen in surprise. He hadn't thought the younger man had it in him to snap. Apparently he'd been wrong. That was surprisingly reassuring. The world might actually survive what was coming if Desmond had enough strength left to stand up for himself and make his own decisions.
"Suit yourself," Clay drawled, settling comfortably on the beach and watching the waves occasionally wash up against the sand. He waited patiently as Desmond searched through the memories available to him, frustration growing on his face. The frustration quickly morphed into despair, the younger man sinking to the ground and standing despondently out towards the foggy looking ocean. "Having trouble?" Clay questioned, which wasn't the nicest thing he could have said, but nice wasn't exactly in his vocabulary. Desmond ignored the comment, leaning forward to rest his head against his knees. "You're giving up, just like that?" Clay prodded. "The world is doomed." Desmond mumbled something that Clay couldn't hear. Clay rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation and said, "Pardon me?"
"The world's already saved," Desmond repeated, lifting his head up long enough for Clay to actually understand what was being said.
"Really?" Clay challenged. "Did Lucy tell you that?"
Desmond lifted his head to stare tiredly at the older man. "Lucy isn't a Templar, and she isn't the reason why I know the world isn't going to end," he said, tone dull and tired.
"You think Lucy isn't a Templar? Open your eyes. She left me in Abstergo to die and she would have done the same to you if you hadn't had memories that the Templars want," Clay sneered.
"I'm sorry about that," Desmond snapped back, voice wavering a little. "But there wasn't another option. I needed Lucy to be above suspicion so she could get me out." Clay watched, confused, as Desmond pressed his head against his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs, shoulders tense.
"What are you talking about?" Clay questioned after a moment. Then what Desmond had said sunk in. "Wait a minute. Did you just say it was your fault that I never got out of Abstergo."
"Y-Yeah," Desmond replied, voice wavering miserably. His shoulders rose defensively up around his ears as Clay waited impatiently for explanation that was sure to follow. Bill Miles was Desmond's father, and Bill would have had some kind of explanation for why Clay had been left to die that would have absolved the man of all guilt. Clay was sure that Desmond would be the same way.
Minutes drifted by and no explanation came. Desmond just sat there, hunched over like some kind of kicked puppy. Clay frowned at that and turned his gaze towards the ocean. He felt betrayed by Desmond instead of Lucy now, but it was hard to hate the guy, especially when he looked like he expected Clay to start screaming at him at any minute. "Why?" he asked at last and Desmond curled in on himself further.
"I couldn't get you out," He said after a minute, lifting his head up to rest it on his knees. "It was just me and Lucy and Da-" Desmond cut himself off at the beginning of another name, knuckles turning white suddenly with the force of his grip on his legs. Clay watched cautiously, trying to decided it he needed to stop the younger man from hurting himself, but after a moment his grip relaxed. "I couldn't make a rescue attempt. I didn't have the resources so I just had to let you die." There was a pause and then Desmond said in a low, sad voice, "I shouldn't make excuses."
Clay didn't know what to do. Desmond just looked so horribly guilty about the whole situation, but Clay didn't do sympathy. In fact, he didn't exact cope well with the full range of human emotion, something that his therapist hadn't been all that successful in helping him with. "You said you were looking for a memory, right?" he questioned, standing abruptly and startling the younger man.
"Y-Yeah," Desmond replied cautiously.
"Well the one you're looking for obviously isn't here, but if you can find one of its predecessors you can probably work your way through it to get to the one you're attempting to find," Clay pointed out in a rush. Honestly, he just needed Desmond gone for a while. He needed some time on his own to work out what he was feeling, and puzzle over everything Desmond had inadvertently told him.
"That could work," Desmond speculated, standing slowly and retreating towards the memories again. Clay watched him and breathed out a soft sigh of relief when his successor in the animus vanished.
Desmond had implied that he'd put some kind of plan in place. He had also implied that there was a limited number of people and resources. That meant one of two things. The first option was that Bill was purposefully setting his son, and those assigned under him, up for failure and death at the hands of the Templars. That was a particularly cruel set up, but not beyond the Mentor. Especially not if Bill thought he could gain something valuable from the entire affair. If that was true, then it left Clay thoroughly disgusted with the Mentor. The other option was that Desmond was working independently of Bill. That meant that the younger man knew something that the Mentor did not. That possibility was intriguing.
Clay knew that Desmond had lived solely inside a compound known only as the Farm until he escaped at the age of sixteen. How could he have gotten information that the great and powerful Bill Miles couldn't get his hands on? It didn't make any sense. Clay sighed, acknowledging that he was going to need to persuade Desmond to tell him the full story. Unfortunately that meant he needed to wait until Desmond got back. He sank down in the sand to wait, trying not to pay attention to the smoothness of the sand. He'd created, for lack of a better term, this island but quickly discovered that the internal memory stream of the animus couldn't replicate reality. While the machine itself could make a person's senses give off the illusion of living their ancestor's life, those perceptions seemed to be partially based off already existing physical senses. Technically Clay had no physical senses for the animus to draw on, so the island had come out wrong.
Waiting in silence, without even the peaceful sound of ocean waves lapping against the shore since the animus couldn't figure out how to produce that either, was horrible, but Clay had grown used to it. It wasn't as if he could do much besides waiting while trapped in the animus anyway. It was a dismal existence, but he'd thought it was better than being trapped in Abstergo forever when he'd come up with the plan that had landed him here. Desmond reappeared some time later, crashing to the ground like he'd been dropped out of the sky. The younger man muttered something in Italian too low for Clay to hear and then sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Having any luck?" Clay questioned.
"Some," Desmond replied. "Though not as much as I would have liked." He paused, trying to stand before his legs gave out and sent him crashing back down. "I have to go back."
"Take a moment," Clay told him sharply. "Inside the animus it is more difficult to separate yourselves from your ancestors. There's no physical difference when you come out of a memory and end up here." Desmond nodded, relaxing back into the sand. "Besides, I have a question for you."
"I suppose I owe you an answer." Desmond turned tired golden eyes towards the older man. "What do you want to know?"
"Your words implied some sort of plan is in place," Clay said. "Does your father know about it?"
"No." Desmond looked down at the false sand and let out a wavering breath. "He doesn't."
"Okay," Clay accepted. "Who does know about it?"
"Myself, Lucy Stillman..." Desmond trailed off, hesitating.
"And," Clay prodded impatiently.
"Daniel Cross."
"Cross?" Clay bellowed, scrambling to his feet and grabbing Desmond by the front of his shirt. "The traitor knows about this? Are you an idiot Miles?"
"He won't kill us," Desmond protested, a hand coming up to wrap tightly around Clay's wrist. "Or at least not me."
"You are an idiot," Clay sneered, shaking the younger man a little. "He's just waiting for the right moment to strike and hand over your whole plan to the Templars."
"After the Templars who threw him aside like garbage after he'd accomplished what they needed from him?" Desmond replied. "Not a chance." When Clay raised a skeptical eyebrow, Desmond's expression seemed to crumple. He broke Clay's grip and stepped away, turning his back and headed for one of the memories lingering along the edge of the island. Just before he stepped through Clay heard him mutter, "Why does no one ever believe in me?"