Note: This is NOT an update, it's a rewrite of chapter two since I felt legitimately ashamed of that chapter in terms of how it was written. Sorry for the long update time, but I'll try to be better in the future.
For a long time, the only sound in the hideout was the shuffling of papers, the quick tapping of Rebecca's fingers on the keyboard, and Desmond's labored breathing from the Animus. Since they didn't have any proper beds or blankets with them, Lucy had suggested he sleep in the Animus. It was better than nothing, at the very least. Warmth emanating from the But that only remedied part of the problem. They had no sort of antibiotics to give the newest member of the group, and couldn't risk going into town to get some from the pharmacy. All they could do was let the fever run its course.
When her thoughts reached Desmond, Lucy glanced up worriedly from her work. He was coated in a sheen of cold sweat, but shivering violently. The vomiting had stopped, at the very least, but it was quickly replaced with gut-wrenching coughing fits that brought up blood and a thick, yellow-green mucus. Every cough sounded as if he was dying. And the way things were going for him, he would.
Malik stared in complete awe and outrage at the object that thrummed softly from within the honed talons of the eagle. This was the only solution the Brotherhood could possibly come up with?! This artifact? The very object that drove their former Master to insanity, that pushed the Templars and Assassins to the edge of war, and turned skilled and cunning warriors into mindless drones?!
Perhaps Altair was not the only one who still remained a novice after all this time.
The bureau leader growled in frustration as he snatched the object from the eagle, which gave an indignant squawk at being knocked of its makeshift perch. At the moment Malik's hand brushed the smooth surface of the object, it began to pulse gently, the silver object's very molecular structure seeming to shift unlike the surface felt as warm and soft as human flesh.
He frowned at it, pondering the impossible question the object posed. The gentle purring of the Apple continued, yielding no sort of answer. Yes, it definitely responded to something, but exactly what, he had no idea. No one did. Very few of the Brotherhood could activate it, in fact most could not. And even the strength of the reaction varied among the meager group it 'awoke' for. Most of the time, the artifact did little more than glow a bit for most people. But for those who had refined their skills in the Brotherhood for a number of years, it hummed, warming under that person's palm. Very few elicited the reaction Malik did, the Apple refusing to relinquish it's cold surface. But with Altair . . . the reaction was several times more powerful than anyone else could conjure, including the late master.
He sighed again, a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Such a trivial thing should be left for those who pretended to have knowledge about the thing. There was something serious he had to attend to, after all. As if sensing his thoughts, Altair turned over in his sleep, a mild shudder running down his spine. The tension in the man's muscles had not loosened at all, which meant he was still suffering great pain.
In his hand, the Apple hummed loudly and began to glow even more powerfully. The thing was somehow resonating, echoing the pain it could somehow sense from Altair with artificially generated comfort. The rafiq shook his head in disbelief, placing the artifact next to his comrade as he did so.
"This will mean the death of us." He muttered, watching as the soft golden light grew steadily brighter. Eventually, it grew to the point where he couldn't keep his eyes on the artifact anymore. The light emanating from it had neared blinding levels. As the light increased, the steady hum slowly became a high-pitched, keening wail. In only a few seconds, the sound reached the same unbearable level of the light. Something warm trickled down the side of his face from his ear, and he realized they had actually begun bleeding. Just as the sound neared levels that threatened to rupture his eardrums, both the sound and the light abruptly cut off.
Hesitantly, his eyes opened, blinking rapidly to rid his vision of the black spots dancing within it. The only remainder of the wail came in the form of a dull ringing. He raised his hand tentatively to his still-bleeding eardrum, relieved to see there wasn't nearly as much as he'd originally feared. Now irritated with the artifact, he wiped at the thin stream of blood and turned to glare accusingly at the Apple, which now lay innocently on the floor next to . . . a heap of empty blankets and pillows. Somehow, without any explanation or reasoning, Altair had vanished.
Rebecca should have known something bizarre was going to happen when Desmond began to squirm. For the last several hours since he'd first fallen asleep in the Animus, he'd not so much as twitched a muscle. The unexpected illness had leeched the energy from the young assassin's limbs, allowing him to sleep in an almost comatose state. Nothing anyone in the group did could stir their youngest member, so they just let him be, allowing him to recover his strength.
The tech genius of the group paused in her work when she heard a low murmur from Desmond. A long pause followed the soft noise, but her fingers still only hovered hesitantly over her keyboard. If Desmond had finally begun to wake up, she would have to get him to a proper place to sleep and maybe get some form of medication. Just as those thoughts crossed her mind, the young man began to mumble again in the same groggy, disoriented voice. As she listened, his voice increased in volume, becoming almost panicked.
"N-no . . . I . . . can't help . . . what can I . . ." Without warning, Desmond went rigid, a scream tearing from his throat. At the same moment, the Apple of Eden began to pulse and keen with a combination of blinding light and an unbearable, keening wail. Rebecca nearly fell off her chair at the sudden onslaught, screwing her eyes shut and clapping her hands over her ears. She was vaguely aware of someone stumbling into the room, their presence moving closer towards her with every passing moment. Finally, a hand rested on her shoulder, shaking it lightly, and it wasn't until she heard her own name that she realized the wail had ceased.
"You okay?" She nodded, ears still ringing distantly like the bell on the collar of a cat.
Still wary, she lowered her hands from her ears, and blinked her eyes open, grateful for the absence of the glaring brightness. Looking next to her she confined that it had been Shaun who had staggered blindly into the room to assist her. Her legs ached from crouching on the floor for so long, so she straightened, wincing. Shaun followed suit, both of them staring at the Apple lying innocently on the desk.
"What the bloody hell happened?" Rebecca shook her head, still mildly disoriented, eyes automatically traveling to the near-comatose assassin in the Animus. She sighed in a mixture of relief and astonishment when he murmured something incomprehensible and shifted onto his side, expression resembling something along the lines of irritation or confusion. Cautiously, she approached the artifact, pondering it from every angle. After several moments of careful observation, she looked up to consult the other conscious assassin.
"Hey, Sha-" She stopped mid sentence, eyes falling once again on Desmond. Once again she paused in her actions, waiting for something else to happen. A moment later, Desmond rolled onto his side and blinked his eyes open, the golden undertones brightened dramatically, gaze fixed on the doorway. Rebecca followed his line of sight, her own eyes widening in shock.
"That's . . . impossible . . . how did . . . "
The Master Assassin Altair Ibn-La'Ahad was slumped against what remained of the frame, sweat trickling down his face, one eye sealed shut while the other glared distrustfully at the three in the room. He rose halfway to his feet, but immediately slumped to the floor again, retching and clutching at his throat. When the fit finally subsided, he brought his gaze, which was now much less focused, back to them.
"Where . . . am I . . . ?" His voice rasped horribly, like long nails against a rusty pipe, and it was obvious that it caused him pain to speak.
"Who . . . are . . . " The question died on his lips as his eyes rolled into his skull, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Duh-duh-DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHH! New-ish chapter is up! I'm so very very very sorry it took so long for me to update this, but I had some MAJOR writers block because of this story. So please forgive my very limited imagination.
Anyway, ACTUAL new chapter should be up fairly soon, but be patient with me with that too. Thanks for supporting this story regardless, and please bear with my stupidity. Bye!
