Part Sixteen: Apple of Discord
Altair stayed in Jerusalem for two more days while Farasat recuperated enough to be able to ride. Malik did not speak to him and seemed preoccupied by something, of which Altair was not privy to know. That was fine. It gave him time to catch up with his old pickpocket teacher. The others at the Bureau still fawned over the great Altair, and said assassin just tried to avoid it.
The ride to Masyaf took longer than Altair would have preferred. They had left under the cover of night and Farasat needed more rest stops due to both his age and his injuries, minor as they were. Still, arriving back home was something of a relief. Another assassin helped Farasat up the mountain and Altair took it upon himself to brush down both horses and look after what few items Farasat had brought with him. The old pickpocket teacher would stay in Masyaf for a time, no doubt, to let his anonymity return, before likely being reassigned to another city. Altair couldn't help but smile. He would have to introduce him to Rauf. The two would certainly have fun with the young novices.
As he finished brushing Farasat's horse and moved to his own, Altair turned to see Abbas coming down towards him.
"So, the traitor returns again, with injured brothers," the assassin growled. "What colossal mistake was it this time that got Farasat so bruised?"
Altair sighed. He would likely have to face such criticism for the rest of his life, particularly when it came to people like Abbas, who could not stand others who were better in skill stride arrogantly around. And while Altair had been like that once, so full of himself he ignored all that was important, he wasn't any more. Abbas, it seemed, would never forget. Not Altair's arrogance, nor his actions as a teen when the truth had hurt Abbas so completely.
So with a polite incline of his head, he merely replied, "I saved his life, as commanded by the dai of Jerusalem. How he arrived in need of aide, I was not told."
Abbas crossed his arms, attempting to stare Altair down. The demoted assassin simply ignored him and went back to brushing his horse.
"Such arrogance, even now," the assassin muttered. "I see not what Al Mualim does. You are still the bastard that you were before you led the Templars to our doorsteps."
"If you cannot see the changes within me," Altair replied coolly, using every fiber of his being to remain relaxed and to not stiffen at the insult to his parents, "then clearly I have more to learn."
"And now you mock me."
Altair shook his head. "If neither my deeds of repentance nor the words I say will change your opinion, then I can do nothing."
Altair finished brushing down the horse, giving both his and Farasat's extra grain for such a long and hot journey. Abbas didn't take kindly to the ignoring and simply stomped off.
Climbing up the long zig-zagging mountain trial, Altair, as he had during his previous visits to Masyaf, stopped off to talk to some of the townspeople. At first they were suspicious. Even they knew he was the one who had brought battle to their homes, and many who had lost loved ones still refused to talk to him. But some seemed to be noticing the change in him and, while not exactly friendly, weren't quite so hostile towards him.
In particular, he checked in with the basket-weaver's son, who had known nothing of what his father had done and had been left with the business and no full training.
"Ghassan," he greeted, the young man barely in adulthood waved with a wan smile from where he was weaving a small bowl.
"Master Altair," he greeted. "I welcome you. Have you need of any baskets yet?"
"Perhaps once I am no longer wandering," Altair replied, in the same dry tone of all their previous meetings. "Have things at last settled for you?"
"More or less," Ghassan replied. "My little sister, she has taken to exploring and is getting in more and more trouble."
Indeed, the four-year-old was tugging at the young basket-weaver's pants. "Pick up!" she demanded.
"I'm working, Nuzhat," Ghassan replied lightly. "Please, go back to your doll."
Altair said nothing, merely sweeping the little girl up into his arms and holding her high above his head as he had enjoyed back in his dimmest memories. The girl giggled brightly as Altair lowered her to his chest.
"Eagle!" she greeted.
"No, Nuzhat, that's Master Altair."
"Eagle!"
"Hello to you as well," Altair replied quietly. Her hands were quickly reaching up under his hood, fascinated as always, that he did have hair, just that it was covered.
"How are things in Masyaf?" Altair turned to the young basket weaver, lifting a hand up to the four-year-old's face. Her fascination with his hidden hair switched to his missing finger, as expected.
"Better. It's been a few months and many have returned to business as usual. Though our buildings still bear the scars, we will have them repaired before winter truly strikes us with cold."
"Good," Altair nodded, keeping his fingers out of Nazhat's grasp with quick, deft movements and keeping her occupied. "I had thought I saw more people."
To that, Ghassan chuckled. "That's because word has finally come down from the Teacher on how some of your missions have gone. They were impressed with your attempt to save those in Damascus from some evil merchant."
Altair stiffened. "I only do as I am commanded. I have not done anything to earn Masyaf's good will and I do not do my work to cave to what other's think." The assassination of Abu'l Nuquod was a disaster and Altair did not want praise for it.
Ghassan shrugged. "As you wish, Master Altair. But your work is changing other's opinion of you."
Others perhaps. But not Malik. As such, he still had much more redemption to do.
"Eagle!" Nazhat cried, reaching again for the fingers. "No fair!"
Altair gave a quiet chuckle. "Then you must improve your speed."
The girl put on a tremendous pout.
Ghassan groaned. "When she gets older I don't know what I'll do."
Altair chuckled again and lifted the child higher before gently setting her down. "Your brother his busy," he said. "Your dolls need you more."
The girl pouted a moment more before putting on a huge smile. "Alright!"
"She always listens to you," Ghassan shook his head. "You are good with her."
Altair shook his head. "I only work on what I remember of my own parents. I'm certain there is much that I miss."
Ghassan laughed quietly. "I won't keep you, Master. You've a report to give, have you not?"
"Recent patterns suggest that Al Mualim will be busy in his study before he will see me."
"Ah, then the young novices and apprentices will be complaining of hard work soon," the basket-weaver smiled. "Shall I look forward to weaving more practice dummies?"
Altair offered a smile as he headed out. "Only time will tell."
He continued his hike up the mountain, stopping off with the grainer, grocer, blacksmith, and others that he usually visited to make sure he was well supplied for the next mission. With each he tried to stop and talk, as he did with young Ghassan, but with only marginal success.
Still, his attempts had at least made the villagers faces more familiar to him.
He spotted Rauf as he entered the fortress and headed over to the practice ring.
"Ah, Altair," the weapons master greeted warmly. "Have you come to show my students what it means to wield a blade?"
"Not today," Altair replied. "Tomorrow perhaps. But I thought you might like to know that my old pickpocket teacher, Farasat, will be here a few months."
Though his tagelmust did not show it, Rauf gave a mighty grin. "I have only heard legends of Master Farasat's skill. I look forward to meeting him and seeing what we can do with these novices."
Altair gave a sly grin. "I suspect they'll be exhausted, after all three of us are through with them."
"Indeed! What a wondrous plan!"
"Is Al Mualim busy?"
Rauf nodded. "He's locked himself in his study again. Only ever comes out to eat. I know several reports have come in and he hasn't looked at them once. I suspect it will be a few days before you may speak to him."
Altair nodded. "Very well."
Three days later, Altair was standing with Farasat and Rauf with the novices, putting them through their paces, when Abbas came down to grunt at Altair that the Master would see him now.
"Come in, Altair," Al Mualim said warmly. "I trust you are well rested? Ready for your remaining trials?"
Altair nodded, noting that the treasure from Solomon's Temple was on the desk and opened. Some strange silver globe with widely spaced groves in a pattern or etching that Altair was unfamiliar with rested in Al Mualim's hands. A strange artifact.
"I am." Altair looked up from the strange globe and looked the Teacher in the eye. "But I would speak with you first," he asked quietly and respectfully. "I have questions."
"Ask them. I'll do my best to answer."
Altair launched into the one thing that was bugging him. "The Merchant King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city. Majd Addin in Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William meant to murder Richard and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to aide their leaders; instead they chose to betray them. What I do not understand is why."
Garnier, Talal, Tamir, their roles together made sense. Nuquod, William, Majd Addin, their roles did not.
"Is it not obvious?" Al Mualim questioned, stepping forward. "The Templars desire control." He stroked the silver globe. "Each man, as you noted, wanted to claim their cities in the Templar name, that the Templars themselves might rule the Holy Land and eventually... beyond."
Altair nodded. It did make sense that way. But something was still missing. Something was there; he just could not see it.
"But they cannot succeed in their mission," Al Mualim concluded.
"Why is that?" Altair asked.
"Their plans depend upon the Templar treasure." The globe was stroked again. Altair had to admit he'd never seen a silversmith craft so smooth a globe. Even the best smiths he'd worked with could not do such a large casting, but at best, Altair estimated they would do two halves and fuse them. There seemed to be no such fusing, for the grooves were far too narrow. They would have to have been etched after the silver had cooled. Al Mualim held up the strange globe. "The Piece of Eden. But we hold it now." Al Mualim gave a cold, almost cruel smile. "They cannot hope to achieve their goals without it."
Altair frowned, not understanding. "What is this treasure?"
"It is temptation," the Teacher's voice held just the slightest hint of reverence and awe.
"It's just a piece of silver."
Al Mualim held it up again, letting the light from the window behind him shine. "Look at it!"
Altair shook his head. The twinge of a beginning headache began at the back of his head but he ignored it. "What am I supposed to see?"
The Master frowned, his eyes narrowing. "This 'piece of silver' cast out Adam and Eve. It turned staves into snakes, parted and closed the Red Sea. Eris used it to start the Trojan War; and with it, a poor carpenter turned water into wine."
This was... impossible. Stories of the Jewish and Christian and Greek myths. This piece of silver was the Golden Apple of Discord and the Apple of Eden? A tool to change water to wine or part the vast seas?
Impossible.
Altair had befallen pure sorcery only once, and that was when Al Mualim had stabbed him, but didn't. Everything else... that was something that could have a logical explanation. There was no such thing as these miracles. So how was a small globe capable of such supposed wonders?
"It seems rather plain for all the power you claim it has. How does it work?"
"He who holds it commands the hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it. Whoever 'tastes' of it, as they say," Al Mualim replied, a strange note in his voice.
Altair gave an internal shake of his head. Then it was impossible. For Al Mualim could not control his heart or mind. The headache faded. No one could control another so. And how could one "taste" the silver? Who would put such faith in such ridiculousness? However...
"Then Garnier's men?"
"An experiment," Al Mualim answered, "herbs used to simulate its effects, to be ready for when they held it."
"Talal supplied them; Tamir equipped them. They were preparing for something." For why else would the regents of those three cities need the army that was being prepared? "But what?"
"War."
"And the others, the men who ruled the cities. They meant to gather up their people, make them like Garnier's men."
Oh, it suddenly made so much sense it was terrifying.
"The perfect citizens," Al Mualim agreed, looking to this... Apple. "The perfect soldiers. A perfect world." Slowly, reverently, he replaced the piece of silver... the Piece of Eden, back into the winged egg, closing it with great care. More care than Altair had ever seen the Master give to anything.
"Robert de Sable must never have this back," Altair said firmly.
"So long as he and his brothers live, they will try." Al Mualim's hand rested on the egg.
"Then they must be destroyed."
Al Mualim gave a wry grin. "Which is what I've had you doing."
The list of nine. Good.
"There are two more Templars who require your attention." Al Mualim walked over to the pigeons. "One in Acre known as Sibrand. One in Damascus called Jubair. Visit with the Bureau leaders. They'll instruct you further."
"As you wish."
"Be quick about it," Al Mualim commanded. "No doubt Robert de Sable is made nervous by our continued success. His remaining followers will do their best to expose you. They know you come. 'The man in the white hood.' They'll be looking for you." Al Mualim walked back to his desk and rested a hand on the treasure.
"They won't find me," Altair promised. "I am but a blade in the crowd."
The Master nodded. "Here. My gift to you. In gratitude for the good work you've done."
Altair stepped forward and took a sword from the table, one adorned ever so slightly at the hilt to show his ranking as an assassin. A junior assassin, but Altair was no longer a novice, apprentice, or journeyman in rank. He was finally an assassin once more. Something that he had desired so desperately at the start of this journey of redemption, and yet, all he cared about was that the blade was sturdier and stronger. The rank meant nothing, because what he had been learning was far more valuable.
Altair bowed his head and sheathed his sword. He had another journey to prepare for.
He blinked. The visor was pulling back. A quick shake of his head and the lingering feelings of Altair dispersed, leaving Desmond alone in his head, with only his own perceptions and knowledge.
Huh. He felt like he had just sat down. Desmond lifted his head, looking to Vidic who was pacing at the foot of the Animus. "We done already?" he asked.
"Get up," Vidic growled.
"Whatever you say, doc," Desmond replied lightly. He sat up and stretched, comparing the feeling to getting up after a short nap, though the comparison wasn't really accurate.
A phone beeped.
Vidic reached into his pocket as Desmond watched from the corner of his eye.
Vidic answered without even a "Hello," and just listened.
"I'm ending the session... Look, I'll be right there... You're sure about this?... Yes... No, everything's Denver..." Vidic was pacing, agitation slipping into every step and his voice turned to a harsh whisper. "Don't see how he could... Of course... I understand." Vidic ended the call and Desmond glanced back at Lucy, who was still studying the computer station on the Animus.
Vidic glared at Desmond. "You're in a lot of trouble, Mr. Miles." Then he stomped out of the lab like a black cloud was around him.
Desmond turned to Lucy again. "What's his problem?" This time?
Lucy glanced around and said hurriedly, "They're coming for you."
Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Who's coming for me?"
"Assassins."
Desmond blinked, his face open in surprise, thoughts firing at light-speed in his mind. No wonder Vidic was pissed. They thought he had somehow gotten a message out on where he was and what was happening. But for all his hacking and attempts, Desmond had come up empty. They had to know that. It wasn't him. "Hey, I had nothing to do with this!"
"Sounds like they're mounting some kind of rescue attempt," Lucy replied.
Desmond sat back down. The assassins that he'd abandoned were coming after him.
That was... that was...
That was something he couldn't afford to think about right now.
Lucy gave a sympathetic smile. "Guess you're more important than you realized."
"Man," he said, "things just keep getting weirder and weirder around here." And he wasn't even doing anything to add to the weirdness.
Lucy shrugged. "It was bound to happen."
"What do you mean?" Desmond stood again, walking over to her.
"That little fight your ancestor started during the Third Crusade? It never ended."
...What?
"You're being held by Templars."
"Vidic's a Templar?" Pause and rewind, what?
"There's no way you could have known," Lucy hesitantly reached out and touched his arm, then pulled back. "They hide it so well," she looked away. "But to answer your question, Vidic works for them. We all do. Abstergo is their company."
This did not make sense. "I thought Templars were old dudes with funny hats who sat around drinking beer, plotting world domination with the lizard people." Because Templars in today's world, almost a thousand years removed, was about that absurd. It was for the conspiracy theorists. And while there were "conspiracies" Desmond agreed with (he stayed off the grid because of all the surveillance that was out there after all), he didn't go for the whack-quack theories that were out there.
"No," Lucy shook her head. "...Except the part about world domination I guess. Look, Desmond, it's complicated. Half the stuff they say about the Templars comes from crazy, tin-foil hat-wearing nut-jobs. The other half is misinformation intentionally produced by the Templars themselves."
"But they are the bad guys, right?" Desmond crossed his arms and said slowly. Too much. This was too much information all at once and it both made sense and didn't.
"If there's one thing I've learned, since I started working here, it's that there's no such thing." Lucy smiled sadly. "It's all so relative. I guess the best way to explain it is... What they want is good. But the way they're going about it..." She shook her head again and looked away. "It's bad. Really bad."
"What are they trying to do?"
He didn't get an answer as Lucy's phone rang. She went to get it.
"Lucy," Desmond reached out, lightly grabbing her wrist. He needed an answer from the one person he could trust in this God-forsaken place.
But her eyes flicked to the cameras, and Desmond let go of her wrist.
"Yes?" she answered the call.
"Miss Stillman. I need to speak with you," Vidic growled over the phone. "Get up here. Now."
Right. People were watching.
"I'm on my way, Doctor." She hung up and looked at him with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Desmond. I have to go. You should turn in for the night." She turned and headed to the exit Desmond not could get through. "The answers to all your questions are right in front of you. You just have to know where to look."
Desmond glanced down immediately to her computer station and noticed that her id pen was just lying there. He held in a grin. He could grab it after she left. Given that she was trying to rush out since Vidic had called her, it was perfectly acceptable that she'd have forgotten it. Oh, Lucy was good. Now if he could just figure out a way to get the two of them out of this rotten place.
"Please, Desmond, I'm going to get in trouble if I don't leave, and I can't leave until you're in your room."
He let out a tired sigh, partly for show, partly because he was feeling tired. Running a hand through his hair he gave an apologetic smile. "Yes, ma'am," he offered.
Lucy gave a grateful smile. He walked towards his room, knowing that all he had to do was wait for a while, maybe an hour, and then he could go digging through computers again.
Strange, lethargy was coming from nowhere and he was starting to drag his feet. He was at the door to his room and he had to put an arm out to steady himself.
"Desmond?"
"Why am I suddenly so exhausted?" he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.
Lucy was at his side, helping him to his bed. "That's because of the Animus. You were in it all day."
"All day?"
Lucy glanced away guiltily.
Right. Vidic had mentioned being able to stay in the Animus longer. Hence his big breakfast that morning.
"Being in the Animus is work. Your body might not be doing much, but your mind is processing and interacting with a simulated world, sifting through memories not its own and, for all intents and purposes, recording them into your own brain. Not to mention shifting from your ancestor's perspective to your own, which happens more frequently when you can't synchronize well. Thankfully, aside from a random glitch or question, you've maintained synchronization well so you haven't had that strain."
"So because my mind had a workout of epic proportions, my body is now filled with lead."
Lucy actually gave a chuckle. "Something like that."
Desmond offered a tired grin. "I think I'll take my five-mile jog."
He was now laid out on his bed, Lucy keeping a professional distance, though her smile was all warmth. "Take a nap Desmond. Someone will be in with dinner soon."
Desmond shook his head. "Feels like all I've been doing is lying around," he muttered.
Lucy stepped away, heading out, but she paused at the door. Turning, she quietly said, "Sleep well, Desmond."
But Desmond was already asleep.
It was two hours later when Desmond jolted awake, sitting up and looking around. He didn't know what had woke him, though he did feel better than he had when Lucy had helped him to bed, and he took a moment to just sit and listen.
The door to his room let out a series of beeps and an armed guard came in with a dinner tray.
Ah, that was what woke Desmond. He'd felt someone else coming.
... Though Desmond didn't think his senses were ever that good.
He held up his hands, showing that he was being a good little prisoner and the guard put down the tray on the small glass desk by the door before backing out again. The door locked with its usual digital "ha-ha" and Desmond looked at his meal.
Clearly, Abstergo was minimalist when it came to food.
Still, he felt like he was starving and he dove in, eating neatly and swiftly.
So, what had he learned today: 1.) There were Those Who Came Before, whoever they were, and they left "gifts" that people had discovered and utilized to improve the world. 2.) The people who discovered these "gifts" were Templars, a.k.a. Abstergo, and they wanted to used these "gifts" to do something. 3.) What that something was, was a good ideal but the Templar/Abstergo method left a lot to be desired. 4.) A part of this whole aliens-lived-on-Earth-first theory was somehow buried in Altair's life and Desmond was still searching memories to get it. 5.) The Assassins that he had run away from knew he had been captured and were trying to rescue him. 5a.) That meant that he hadn't been as hidden from the Assassins as he had thought when he ran away, which meant that they, despite few numbers, had let him live his life. He didn't know what to feel about that. 5b.) His knowledge, or rather, Altair's was important enough that this whole Assassins-versus-Templars thing was still going on. 6.) ...
Oh shit.
The "gifts" of Those Who Came Before.
If that was technology, something that could make holograms or something, it would be viewed as magic in ancient times, the same way computers would be a miracle even a century ago. Some kind of alien technology.
Therefore... the Piece of Eden... the Apple was a leftover from Those Who Came Before.
Dammit!
Desmond needed to dawdle. He needed to dawdle as much as he could in those memories. Until the Assassin's rescued him or he escaped, or something, because Abstergo - the Templars - could not get that little "piece of silver".
Oh, today was just information overload.
And really, what science-fiction book or film did he get dropped in for this?
Desmond shuddered, but pushed away his dinner tray.
It was time for a little hacking.
Starting at Lucy's computer hooked up to the Animus, Desmond once more plowed through directories and files, determined to find a DOS or Terminal window to hand type a keylogger. He checked her email, by this point out of habit more than anything else, but there were no new emails. His eyes were burning, even after the nap - however long it had been - before the diner guard he was still exhausted, but he steadfastly ignored it.
As he had expected, there was nothing on Lucy's computer that he could use. Nodding, he turned around and moved up the steps to Vidic's computer. His email was probably interesting, and there was a better chance that his computer was linked to the outside, separate from the Animus as it was. Desmond sat in the chair, infinitely more comfortable than the cushioned chairs by the Animus, and for a moment he just leaned back.
God he was tired. Reliving so many assassinations - three? Four? In a row was more than his brain could apparently handle. The days were running together in his head, he couldn't really believe it was just this morning when Vidic had dropped the little hint about Those Who Came Before, whoever the hell they were, or pocketed the dick's pen. It felt like a lifetime ago... Desmond rubbed his eyes, his forehead, his face, slapping at his cheeks slightly to try and keep himself awake. The last thing he needed was for the old fart to see Desmond asleep at his desk. Yawning and rubbing his eyes again, he turned back to the bright glow of the screen.
The setup was almost exactly the same as the Animus computer. No DOS access, directories on P.O.E., files that were password encrypted, text editors, and email software, and that was it. Desmond used quite a few curse words as he clicked around the desktop. Maybe he could play freakin' solitaire while waiting for his kidnappers to be done with him. Sighing, he leaned back and rubbed his face again, trying to stay awake. The computer was also on a closed LAN, no access to the outside that he cold find, and at this point he was getting more than slightly frustrated. He should have paid more attention in his computer lessons.
He clicked on the email software, interested in what the old fart got, but also wondering if he could compare the headers with the email on Lucy's computer, try to figure out what the root ISP was. If everything was local, maybe one of the other computers in the building was linked to the outside, and he could access that remotely...? It was more than a little outside his abilities, but he had to try.
Most of Vidic's email was news junk. One talked about hurricane season ending because there had been hurricanes on and off since last year, when Hurricane Irene - a storm the size of Europe - had devastated the northeastern United States by dropping over a foot of rain and breaking flooding records and cutting off entire towns from rescue, to say nothing of people being without power for over a week. That and the revelation that FEMA was almost out of money and was putting other projects on hold. Desmond snorted, wondering how the northeast took precedent over the Katrina and Missouri victims. Politics schmolitics. There was also a blurb about Eye-Abstergo, the telecommunications thing Lucy had hinted at earlier. It was still babble to him, other than gleaning that the launch date was around Christmas, it meant nothing. Oil drilling in Antarctica and naval destroyers in the area and other soundbytes were in Vidic's email, but it told him nothing.
One thing he did find interesting was an email from a guy named Alan Rikken, the fabled head of Abstergo himself, voicing that Vidic had better shut Lucy up about her inquiries to Leila's death. Was that why he'd emailed Lucy to tell her to stop dipping into company ink?
Desmond turned away from the computer and put his head in his hands. He didn't have the patience for conspiracy shit like this. But then, this was a company that believed in people, aliens, whatever, that Came Before, so who was he to argue?
He would have written it all off, his brain too tired and unable to accept everything he had been thrown at today when he happened to see and email from an unknown sender. Unknown sender? That meant someone on the outside was able to access the inside. He needed to study that. He opened the email.
I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I SAW HIM. HE HAD A METAL BALL. IT OPENED. THEY WENT CRAZY. SHOOTING. STABBING. TORE EACH OTHER TO PIECES. I KNOW IT WAS YOU PEOPLE, SAW THE LOGO. HEARD THE NAME. I'M GOING TO TELL. ANYONE WHO WILL LISTEN. YOU'LL BE EXPOSED. THEY'LL KNOW THE TRUTH. AND THEN YOU WILL PAY. YOU CRAZY BASTARDS. YOU'LL PAY.
Whoa.
Shit.
Just... shit.
A metal ball... Just a piece of silver... With the power to control the hearts and minds of any who taste of it... What they were looking for...
Fuck.
Desmond's mind shut down. He couldn't handle it any more. Shakily, he somehow managed to close all the programs and turn off the computer. He got up and almost fell to his knees. His breath was coming out in short bursts, likely he was starting to hyperventilate, and he was certain he'd lost all color in his face. He nearly tripped on the stairs of the dais, just about staggered into his room. He had the vague memory of turning on the shower and standing under it for time indeterminate before slipping back into his jeans with pockets of pens and a scrap of paper with an access code, but it was all a fuzzy blur.
It wasn't true. None of it was true. It couldn't be. It couldn't. The Templar treasure, the thing Abstergo was looking for, the conspiracies...
Desmond had a troubled sleep.
I've learned too much there's so much to pass on so much to tell but it has to stay hidden from all but those with VISION to see the TRUTH to see past the LIES and gaze into the ABYSS and SEE and UNDERSTAND and BLOOD runs deep and far and back in TIME and have to let the MEMORIES speak for themselves and hope he can find the ANSWERS before it's too late it's too late my time is coming but there still so much to say
Desmond's eyes snapped open, colors filling his vision before it bled away. What was that...?
He rubbed his eyes, they burned less than they had the night before, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn't sleeping well. Funny how kidnapping did that to a guy. He took a deep breath and slid out of the covers, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and walking to the bathroom. His legs were sturdier than the night before, but when he looked in the mirror he saw the mess he was.
Vigorously, he splashed water on his face, running his hands through his short crop of hair to straighten it out even vaguely. The improvement was minimal but he wasn't going to fuss. When he stepped back out into his room, he saw the door open. No Vidick to brag at him first thing? He frowned, wary of the break in pattern.
But, true to form, Vidic and Lucy were in the main lab, the old fart up on his dais drinking coffee and Lucy once more tinkering at the computer. Another large breakfast was laid out by one of the chairs: two muffins, a bowl of cereal, a banana, and a large glass of juice.
Desmond offered a dry grin. "Missed you this morning, doc."
"Get in the Animus!" the old man snapped.
"Not before he eats," Lucy said, just as quickly if not as sharply. Desmond sat himself down and started to eat, quickly and cleanly. Nobody spoke, and after an ominous fifteen minutes eating Desmond decided to press.
"What? No conversation? No holier-than-thou lectures?"
"Lay down damn it!" Vidic hissed, turning away from the window and glaring. Desmond held in a startle when he realized there were bags under the old man's eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, it seemed, meaning he was stressed from that phone call. Perhaps he could... but no, trying to goad the doctor would likely only make things worse, and Desmond wasn't going to risk it. He glanced at Lucy, and the hot blond looked as stressed as Vidic. She looked up at him and gave a pleading look, as if to say not now.
He nodded, and hopped up onto the Animus table, shimmying to the right position and laying back. As the screen slid over his face he could feel the vibration, the heat, and the pressure at the back of his skull and along his spine...
And then he was standing in the loading screen, white fog and bits of code flying about. He checked Altair's weapons, pulling out both the cutlass and sword, checking the hidden blade and the counting out every knife he had. He wanted to practice the moves he saw, his body (his mind?) was twitching for it, but he knew Vidick was watching and he didn't want to show off what he might and might not know. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to just experiment in the Animus, push himself and find his limits, but that could never be here, and so he sighed and waited to be dropped in Masyaf.
The small mountain village loaded in the construct, and Desmond frowned as the NPCs started walked around him. He had been loaded into the middle of the town, and he looked around, trying to assess his options on how to dawdle. As he walked down the mountain to the horses, he tried to think about his options, but invariably his mind went to his discoveries from yesterday, the giant information dump that had sent him tail spinning into the Twilight Zone.
Of the long list of things that he learned, the only thing he believed in was the Piece of Eden, the little silver ball that one-eyed old man Al Mualim had. He believed it only because he saw it; or rather, Altair saw it. The things it was supposed to do, the "people" who were supposed to have left it, Desmond decided it was all cockamamie bullshit. Everyone around him was just crazy, including the old fart Vidic and the old fart Al Mualim. The fact that they believed it, however, meant that they were dead serious, and so he had to pretend it was all true, too. If they were looking for the little silver ball, though, it was pretty clear it was in Masyaf, though he probably shouldn't let on that he knew that. That meant carrying on with the memories and pretending he was clueless.
Since he was clueless on damn near everything else, it wouldn't take much to do.
As he finally made it to the stables, he mounted the white Arabian and began his ride to the kingdom. When the white fog dissipated and he looked to see he was in the lower valley. The watch tower Altair and Malik had climbed when they were seven loomed over him, and he had an idea.
"Hey, Lucy, you said my synchronization increased when I climbed watchtowers, right?"
"Right."
Desmond smirked.
There were, he discovered, a total of twelve watchtowers in the kingdom, and he spent as much time as he could finding and climbing them. Even the grizzled old doc couldn't complain, because it increased his synch ratio, and Desmond rode all around the construct. The locations were starting to look familiar to him, now, and he began to understand how the construct had worked. Altair knew the Middle East like the back of his hand, but that didn't mean he had every nook and corner committed to memory. The city Desmond lived in before he had been kidnapped he knew like the back of his hand, but in the same way he couldn't picture his way to work and remember every building and every streetlamp on the way, Altair could not be expected to know every blade of grass and piece of rock of the Holy Land. What the construct did was string together the places that Altair remembered the most - places he would make camp in or trails he frequented more than others or major landmarks one used to mark distance. That was likely why everything was in the wrong place; the construct was trying to compensate for the gaps in memory.
Over his travel across the "kingdom," Desmond saw afterimages of Altair all throughout his apprenticeship and journeyman stages of life: the time when he was traveling to Jerusalem and excited about the opportunity to learn his craft, off to Acre and wondering what the port city was like, acting as a messenger and looking for the man he was supposed to deliver a letter to. Altair had been an excited, impatient teenager with a frightening amount of ability and a steely determination to be the best - to prove himself to those who considered him a bastard half breed and show Malik he could excel without being quite so smart in the sciences. He saw Altair later in life, too, sitting on a watchtower and mourning the loss of Adha, wondering where she was and aching that he had failed, determined to be even better, cursing everything around him and clinging to Al Mualim's teachings to keep himself sane and release the anger he felt.
Altair... Desmond was starting to understand him, a little. His ancestor was scary, in some ways, in his sheer ability and in his cold hearted, casual view of death. His near absolute silence and reticence to everyone around him was offputting, but living in his head... Desmond was learning a lot.
"Will you EVER get around to triggering the damn memory?" Vidic demanded.
"How much has my synch ratio gone up?" Desmond asked, not for the first time as he climbed his horse again after climbing out of a hay cart.
"Another three bars," Lucy replied. "Why are the watchtowers increasing your synch ratio? Do you know?"
Desmond hesitated a moment before saying, "No idea." He didn't want to lie to Lucy, but he didn't want to tell her when the doc was listening in. "Are there any more towers left?"
"No, not according to the Animus."
Desmond nodded, and without looking at the map - no longer needing it and its undefined outlines - and rode north, up a mountain trail Altair used when he had been avoiding the armies on his way south. Exiting into the small village - he still didn't know its name but felt he should by this point, he turned east and confidently rode his proud white Arabian up the main road, passing citizens as they walked about their business. The massive Saracen camp outside of Damascus was still there, but Desmond felt that was yet another limit on the construct, they were long gone from the market capitol, rushing south to prevent Richard's march to Jaffa. Salah ad-Din was already ahead, likely at Arsuf by this point, making preparations and scouting for preferred location for battle.
It wasn't until much, much later that Desmond would wonder how he knew all of that.
He entered the city through the construct-made scholars, four men in white who didn't look anything like scholars other than their color, and quickly left them traveling down the main thoroughfare and listening to the poor district's cries for business. It wasn't until the road at last narrowed that he paused, trying to remember where he should go.
Frowning, he grit his teeth and said, "Map, Damascus." Checking the map, he nodded and climbed up to the roofs. The poor district never lifted itself more than three stories, and he could easily see the brass or bronze dome of the Bureau lifting above the string of houses. He made his way over, jumping small alleys and walking along narrow wooden beams, conscious of the sky and its eyes and trying to look like he was a total newbie.
Desmond hopped onto the roof and then calmly leapt down into the Bureau, leery of the rafiq.
Author's Notes: ... is it bad to admit that after finishing the game we started up a new file and are playing ACR again? Er, never mind...
Abbas shows up again in this chapter, given his role in the expanded universe, one can't not include him, and when I proofed this before posting it I made a few minor (very, very minor) changes to compensate for what we learned in Revelations. Don't know if this will hold up or not, and we certainly can't fix everything that contradicts of ignores Revelations, but please know that we do try.
And at last we get the (an?) explanation on why the little Piece of Eden is called the Apple from ACII onward. Look up Eris and you'll realize Al Mualim is talking about the Golden Apple of Discord, and the Adam and Eve are obviously talking about the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge: the Apple of Eden. Shame on us gamers that didn't know all this until we researched it for writing this fic. We need to look up these things more often...
Also, we hope Desmond's mental shutdown makes sense. It had to happen eventually, you don't get an info dump like that and not shut down as a result. In combination with his extended time in the Animus and the first signs of the Bleeding Effect starting to happen (and did any of you pick up on it?), well, his mind had to do something to protect itself. We like Desmond, but he just doesn't have the badass experience like Altair and later Ezio to handle these kinds of faith-shattering revelations.
And we managed to sneak in a possible explanation for the cruddy world-map. Had to try.
Next chapter: Zamil makes another appearance. Come on, we all love Zamil, don't we?