The chase shouldn't have been as exhilirating as it was. No sooner had Desmond started to run than he heard the soft twin thud of sneakers behind him as the two Assassins began sprinting down the street, yelling words that he couldn't quite make out, and when he used a free hand to tip a trash can over and into their path he heard the action rewarded a few seconds later as the British man cried out and tumbled over it with a metallic clang. Clay laughed and grabbed Desmond's arm, dragging him into a side-alley.
"Up!" he called over his shoulder, throwing himself bodily onto a ladder and ascending it with the grace and speed of a spider. Desmond followed as fast as he could, but he was only halfway up before he felt slim fingers grab hold of his jeans at the ankle. Instinctively he kicked out and felt a pang of guilt as another voice, female this time, cried out in pain at the double impact of his shoe and the cold asphalt below.
Desmond hesitated for a split second, but then Clay grabbed his arm again and dragged him onto the roof. "Better hope you picked up something in the Animus," he said ominously, before releasing Desmond and sprinting to the edge of the roof. He leapt with catlike agility onto the surface of the next building and Desmond followed him without a second thought, shutting out any hesitation or fear and letting the memory in his muscles carry him through the jump easily. He caught up with Clay just as he reached the next gap between buildings and they traversed it together, so close that Desmond could hear the steady inhale and exhale of breath as Clay measured out his oxygen with the care of a man who knows he will need every drop of it he can get.
"I'm wearing ... an anorak, Rebecca!" Shaun panted, throwing himself clumsily from a roof onto a fire escape, landing awkwardly with the rail digging into his armpits, and dragging himself over the barrier and onto the stairs, running up after his friend and yelling in order to be heard over the clanging of their feet on the metal steps. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to chase people in an anorak?"
"So take it off!" She clambered up the ladder and onto the roof, squinting in the sun to try and spot their quarry.
"I like this anorak!"
"Really?" she asked with absent-minded incredulity. Shaun scowled at her, but before he could retort she pointed to a warehouse rooftop about 200 yards away. "There."
She took off running and Shaun sighed before following her as fast as he could, anorak and all. They had to drop back onto the streets a few times, then find a high enough vantage point or an open space where they could spot the two fleeing men again. Shaun turned the problem over in his mind: why was Miles running? He had recognised the boss' kid from photographs in a file that had been made available to all the Assassins ever since Miles Jr. had run away at sixteen, but the man had changed a lot in the interim decade and if he and the blonde guy hadn't behaved so oddly then Shaun would most likely have dismissed the similarity. The fact that the two of them were running meant that either they believed he and Rebecca were Templars...
Or Miles and his friend were working for the other side.
"This is useless," he panted as they crawled onto the roof of a department store. "We're never going to catch up..."
He spotted Miles and the other man on a rooftop about a street away, but as he spoke something extremely odd happened: Miles put on an extra burst of speed, hurled himself at his friend and tackled him to the ground in an impressive but painful-looking stunt.
Rebecca skidded to a halt and stared open-mouthed as the two men slowly began disentangling themselves from the awkward, bruising heap they had landed in.
"What the hell did he do that for?" Shaun asked disbelievingly.
"Doing us a favour, maybe? Let's go."
"...The fuck was that all about?" Clay groaned, rolling out of Desmond's grasp and clutching at his tender ribs, checking for any breaks.
"Excuse me for saving your goddamn life!" Desmond retorted, moving into a crouch but keeping his head low, searching the rooftop landscape for their assailant.
"Saving it from what?" Clay still sounded angry but had enough sense to keep his head low, scanning around them for danger.
"There was a guy," Desmond insisted, waving a finger at where he had last seen the shadowy silhouette of the man. "He had a bow and arrow, he was firing ... He must have barely missed you."
Clay stared at him for a moment, then sighed and stood up, dusting off his knees, lifting his head directly into the line of fire. Desmond gaped at him, then tried desperately to drag him to the ground again.
"Are you insane? He's still out there!"
"There's no one there, Desmond. I know we're in Georgia but I don't think the rednecks use longbows to keep tourists off their roofs."
Desmond considered this for a few seconds, then groaned as he stood up. "Bleeding Effect?"
"Bleeding Effect. Nice timing, Miles."
He could hear a pounding of feet, distant but not distant enough, as the Assassins continued to give chase, calling out words that Desmond couldn't quite hear. He threw himself into a sprint, praying that his feet would prove swifter than the Jerusalem guards...
What?
All around him chimneystacks were morphing and losing their solidity, becoming shadowy figures that rose up with bows and poised arrows, releasing barbs that flew thick in the air around Desmond's head without ever seeming to touch him. He ducked and dodged as he ran, preparing for the puncture of skin that he would surely feel at any moment.
Clay cursed as he noticed Desmond's strange performance, but Desmond was more distracted by the uncertain state of Clay's left arm and the manner in which his hair and skin were darkening and his beard lengthening.
"Are the visions fading?" Clay asked.
"They worsen, Malik!"
"Shiiit..." Clay had to swerve suddenly to avoid colliding with a water tower, slamming his hand against it in frustration as he passed. "Try to focus!"
Desmond formulated a retort, which came out as: "!هم في كل مكان !هؤلاء الأوغاد"
"You're focusing in the wrong direction, goddamit!"
"!ننكب !أسفل صديق قديم"
Malik was struggling now, his missing arm (wait, no...) still throwing him slightly off balance, but Altaïr himself was stumbling as the surface he was running on kept shifting and changing: unreliable, uncertain. He wanted to stop and to clear his head of the doubts that kept nagging at him like a reminder of a task forgotten, but the guards were close behind them and their arrows grazed the side of his face, whistling in his ears. They were fast, but Altaïr was faster - one of the fastest Assassins of his day - and he pulled ahead, laughing in triumph when he heard them fall behind and curse his name as the reservoir of breath in their lungs began to betray them. Finally he saw the rooftop entrance to the Assassin's Bureau and with Malik at his heels he leapt-
"No! Desmond, no!"
But the ivy-bound trellis vanished beneath his feet, leaving behind only empty air and, far away in the distance, the rough, unforgiving grey of concrete.
Too far.
Too distant.
Altaïr's arms flailed, chasing away the ghost of his mind until all that was left was Desmond, falling.
There was impact. There was pain. There was nothing.