So another chapter. Things start to get a little more... plottier (that is not a word). With finals done, and the heaps of time on me, I think I'll be able to upload twice a month, though I'm not entirely sure. It's better to have things well thought out and give you quality instead of quantity, right? As well always, read and eview, and any mistakes you see, please do tell me!
He's tired when he gets to his apartment, his internal clock buggered to hell and back. Yes it was wonderful going to Italy for summer vacation (quite out of the blue really), but now his body's demanding to know why the blood hell he's awake.
Not that he's complaining, quite the contrary.
He hasn't felt this calm in, and he's being honest here, years. Of course, he hasn't been this pampered either, and he feels like he's being spoiled rotten, which does not help at all his financial guilt (Desmond keeps offering to alleviate his bills and loans, except it would feel like he's being paid every time they sleep together like some sort of whore. Becca keeps hitting him every time he explains why he's turned the offer down.)
He looks fondly through the pictures they've taken together, a copy saved in his memory card and Desmond's as well, though him being the romantic fool he is, he wanted them printed out and in his hands.
His mind's still reeling from all the places they visited; Rome, to begin with, then Venice, then Firenze and from there, Monterrigioni. That is where he met Uncle Mario. He gives an involuntary snort when he remembers the man's 'unique' way of presenting himself. He may not play video games as much as Becca, but hearing a grown man say those words, he'd had to pretend he was choking on the wine he'd been drinking so his laughter wouldn't filter through.
But to think, the man he's dating owned a Villa in Italy that he didn't want to live in, filled to the brim with invaluable objects, all kept in perfect, hermetic state, because according to him, it's boring.
And then, just in case he was not amazed enough, by the people he knew, and thus the places Desmond could sneak him into (like the Sistine Chapel where he prayed called out a certain divinity's name, in a manner of speech. He might burn in hell for that one, but he's never been too religious to begin with), he heard him talk Italian. Not just butchered Italian, but the real language, accent changing seamlessly from the horrid American English to the more singed Italian, and then to French (he'd asked him how many languages he knew and then had almost fainted when he'd begun to count with both hands, then sheepishly admitted he didn't quite remember.)
So, forgive him for arriving and pretty much dumping things everywhere and promptly slumping on his bed. He's quite sure he's hit jackpot (and wouldn't you be as sure as he is? Let's see you find a rich, handsome, polyglot with the same affinity to history as yourself) and the happiness in him has him hugging his pillow like a teenage girl (thank goodness Becca isn't here to witness that.)
Don't tell him you're not jealous, he won't believe you.
But all good things must come to an end, and now he was back here, grabbing for his laptop and applying for his one more semester. Sure he doesn't actually have to do this one, but he wants to dawdle just a bit. After all, Desmond might be moving this year, and (may he be stricken where he stands if anyone actually hears him say it) he'd love to go with him.
His last electives are chosen, reapplying for his job at the library is done (of course they'll rehire him, he's their best librarian), and he stops, fingers just bare inches from the keys at the email asking for an interview in the local museum. Not as some intern, but for actual research on something having to do with the conspiracies revolving around the Templars, the Illuminati.
This makes him even more excited than he already was.
They're quite impressed on his research paper on the Assassin Order and their feud with the Templars and would like to meet him for a prospective job. He answers back, careful not to seem too interested in the offer but enough that they know he would be pleased to work on the subject.
He's always been attracted to conspiracy theories, but don't let anyone know that. It's more of a guilty pleasure than anything, if he's honest with himself. He hits send, more than pleased and jumps as the door is suddenly knocked on.
That's… odd.
The only people who come in are Desmond and Becca, but both just let themselves in, with Desmond usually calling out to let him know he's there. Carefully, he places the laptop on his bed and walks towards the small living room, peeking through the peephole.
There's nobody there.
Now, see, if Hollywood with its corny, horror, B-Rated movies (not that he watches them) has taught him anything, it's that the moment he opens the door, some psycho will either cut him up or choke him. Curse his innate human curiosity. Before he opens the door, he grabs a kitchen knife and swings the door open, looking both ways.
Nothing but a lone box in the hallway meets him. For a moment he thinks it might have been some prank and this is something akin to the popular prank of placing fecal matter of dubious origins in a burning paper bag. And he wouldn't place it below Becca to do it, except his whole name is atop the box in a little blank card. He leans down, squinting at it even with his glasses on and, more than a little suspiciously, he grabs it. Inside, something tinkers.
He closes the door, opening the box with the kitchen knife, even if his more paranoid streak is screaming things like anthrax, bomb, nerve gas, and gun. But the box, easily fitting his spread hands, has nothing but bright red paper inside. He takes some out, then stares at what it's inside. His hand fishes the silver chain and he simply can't stop staring at what hangs from it.
It's the insignia; the 'A' symbol; the mark of the Assassins; their Creed. He runs to his room, reaching under his bed at the box he keeps there, opens it to take out the book and compares the insignia in both. They're exactly the same. Both in red, both having the same width in one line, the same thickness in the other, except the Creed he's holding has something etched into it. It's so small, almost unseen, but the words stand out, and it's the exact thing that says in the first page of his book, except in perfect English instead of ancient Arabic.
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
His shoulders slump and he feels flabbergasted. What are the odds, the possibilities? How did this arrive here? Did Desmond send it? He goes back to the living room for the box and returns to his room. After he's gotten rid of all the red paper, he finds two little notes. One is filled with dates, reaching back to 1192 A.C. The other has a single sentence that for some reason makes him shiver.
It is not what he seems.
It feels like a warning, even if the grammar is atrocious. The Creed, the dates, the note, they all seem like a warning of sorts, like somebody's trying to tell him to open his eyes, but in relation to what?
Now he feels curious, not to mention eager to find out what all those dates seem to be for. And again the question, did Desmond send this? It was probably him, after all the only people who know his guilty pleasure are Beccs (she'd given him the bloody Da Vinci Code. He'd thrown it back at her yelling that it was a crime against the Artist himself) and Desmond (who was more of the type to give him something obscure and let him find out things on his own. In this manner he both loves and hates the man for knowing him so well), so it makes more sense that Desmond sent it to him.
He sends him a text, thanking him for the gift, but tells him it won't make up for the mental trauma his bloody Uncle gave him. Seriously, the man was too touchy, too loud, and too goddamn obnoxious. He never thought it conceivable, more so in such an older man, but it appears it is indeed possible to be more aggravating than Desmond. It must run in the family.
A text answers back, bids him goodnight with a ridiculous smiley and heart which he rolls his eyes at. He plops on the bed again, tired and ready to sleep. In his hands, the Creed feels cold, even with him holding it. He smiles and places it around his neck, thumbing the insignia. He'll start his little search tomorrow. For now, he just wants to sleep.
The Creed on his neck feels so fucking heavy, like a responsibility forced on it. He finds it weird that his Pop only wanted him to keep it. What for? In case he meets another Assassin? In case he, god fucking forbid, he meets a Master?
Or worse, what if he got questioned by one of the six Grand Masters?
His whole body gives an involuntary shiver. And these rumors his Pop gave him about the Mentor, he wonders, are they true? Of course he's heard the stories, what Assassin brat hasn't? The Mentor was the First, the oldest and seventh of the Grand Masters. He hailed from the original cradle of the Assassins, Masyaf, and has appeared each time the order has needed guidance.
In the Crusades, in the Renaissance, hell, some say he fought with the founding fathers in the time of Independence. There are other rumors that say he started the Great Fire in London. Another rumor says that he was Jack the Ripper, commissioned by the Queen herself to keep not only a secret of hers, but of the Order as well. And yet another rumor says he fought in both World Wars.
But in each one, the ending goes the same. Once he sees that things are going kinda of alright, that the world isn't about to collapse in on itself, he disappears for an indefinite period of time. Except last time he disappeared, he said it was for good.
No one's seen him, and Daniel has to wonder if his Pop was pulling his leg by telling him those things. But what if it were true? What if all this time he's been raised by the Mentor himself? His head clatters the keyboard in front of him and Hanna giggles, looking from her desk.
"You keep doing that and you'll be out of letters before noon comes in." She jokes, turning to her paperwork when the chief comes in.
"You alright Cross?" His Sargent chuckles at the keyboard notes marked on his forehead. "You look more nervous than usual."
"M'feeling real peachy Sarge, real peachy." The way he's rubbing his face, you'd think he wanted to wipe all semblance of what made him Daniel Cross. "Just, some family problems stressing me." He lies, smooth and simple.
The Sargent shrugs and leaves for a cup of coffee. He mumbles a curse under his breath, feeling the Creed against his chest again, heavy as an elephant. Of course, it's his luck that no one's found out about the little switch up, but just you wait and see and someone will fucking notice on the worst time ever.
Meanwhile, he's supposed to calm down and find out what he can on this Lucy Stillman without anyone knowing. What with there practically being a Hacker 101 when his Pop's involved, that's actually the easy part of the job.
He does find everything about her. Lucy Stillman, born in some little town in Nebraska, she was the sole survivor of a fire that consumed the house, along with mommy and daddy Stillman. See, this is where it gets kinda skivvy, and he can tell she's been adopted by an Order member.
She completely drops from the surface of the planet after somebody adopts her. Oh, it's legal alright, except the adopter's name is kinda funny. He bites his lower lip and thinks that maybe a Grand Master did it. They're the best minds in the world, but when it comes to changing their fucking names, they fucking suck and go for something weird and archaic.
Whatever, it's not his problem if the idiot decided Connor Stillman was a good name. And then, like he said, she dropped off. No hospital records, no school records, not until she turns eighteen. Then she's back in the world, studying in some big Chicago University (he can't be bothered to even look it up), studying of all things Microbiology with a Minor in Pathology.
A real brainy chick, not to mention she's not too bad on the looks department. Now, he could be a dick and go to her, tell her he has to take her in and ask her about Mss. Marino, then demand to know who she's playing Keeper to, but in context it doesn't. Keepers are notorious, two-faced liars. They got to be, otherwise their charge would be dead centuries ago at the hands of a Templar.
It makes sense if you think about it. Being a pathologist, she's gonna have to work at the morgues. This is by far the best place to keep a Grand Master in. Inconspicuous, stealthy, and the right temperature for the 'sleeping' monster, not to mention you get privacy with the black bags and individual cabinets.
He makes a face, remembering how he had to Keep his pop and shudders, yet again. Yeah, not his best childhood or teenage memories, not that he'll tell his Pop. But this has him wonder, which if the six is she Keeping? She's not doing such a good job, letting him/her go out making a mess.
They finally managed to find out who Scrappy was. Ethan Muller, small time crook, coming in and out of jail, not to mention rapist if by what he'd seen of Marino went right. This made the fiftieth death in these two years in somewhat the same way.
It's a common Grand Master tactic to eat crooks. Kinda like making a public service and getting their chow down at the same time.
But see, that's where it doesn't add up. This is what has him nervous. According to forensics, there were Marino's footprints, Muller's footprints, and then two unspecified prints that had caught the specialist's attention because whoever these two were, they'd been barefooted.
Grand Masters don't travel in packs, and to his knowledge, the only time they do is when they're in a conference. At the most, they go with two, maybe three Masters and about a dozen Novices to scout the area.
So it doesn't make sense to watch these two pretty much hunting together. But if what his Pop said was true, that the Mentor was here, that he was the Mentor, could it be…
The he's actually found Subject Sixteen?
The color drains from his face. Along with the Mentor's rumors of greatness, there's one rumor in particular that he remembers the older people used to frighten children with.
Templars had been catching people who were suspected to be Keepers. They all were all fifteen of them. They were tortured physically and psychologically to spill the beans on the whereabouts of the Grand Masters, the location of the main Bureaus, any info on the Order. Of course, they were pretty much fucked to begin with, because every single Keeper was instructed to commit suicide if ever caught or if they personally felt they were close to spilling the beans.
Now, Subject Sixteen was special in that he was supposed to pose as another poor bloke caught and learn the inner workings of the Templar HQ. They were able to receive reports from him for the first few months and suddenly, they stopped.
The Mentor, finally sick and tired of watching their people getting abducted and more than pissed that one of their own had been allowed to go on such a dangerous mission, went in to become Subject Seventeen. He managed to break himself free and erase most of the records they had, and coincidentally, found Sixteen half-dead.
This is where it stops for the kiddies, more of a warning that the Templars are mean and bad and won't doubt in catching little kids to get information from you.
But for the Keepers, they got told the whole thing. The Mentor found Sixteen bled half to death, writing things on his cell and, in an attempt to save his life, broke the tennet he had made himself and turned Sixteen himself.
This is where it gets really horrifying. The Mentor had never turned anyone in his entire life, so it wasn't that much a surprise when you get told he fucked up some way. Most people get seriously creeped out at being told one of the seven actually managed to fuck up a turning. It went so bad that Sixteen went insane and, if you believe the story, became a monster, like the Grand Masters, but far worse, neither here or there. They say he could see The Truth, whatever that was and the other Grand Masters became terrified of him.
Sometimes, some of the people say that the process had the Mentor also lose his mind, or that maybe his failure had him lose what hope he still held. Other times, they say he was so disgusted by what the Templars had been doing, so tired of the senseless fighting, that he left the Order forever. But they all agree on one thing.
He took Subject Sixteen with him.
And now here was the possibility of having found them both. His fucking year just keeps getting better and better.
"You ok, Danny? You look a little pale."
"M'fine." He croaks, because the truth is, this is worse than finding out your pop might be the Mentor. Because if the stories are true, then he'd been living real close to an unbalanced, all-powerful monster, and worse, this monster was living right here, right now in Chicago.
He excuses himself to the bathroom and can't help it when he throws up in the toilet. Grand Masters have a 'refined' way of eating, if you wanna call it that. The reason why they were so nervous of him? No one's quite sure, but one rumor says it's because he loved to 'play' with his 'food' by ripping it to shreds and eating it while it was still conscious. He hopes Muller died quickly, because painlessly is one thing he's sure didn't happen.
The Creed on his neck feels like a weight ready to pull him down; ready to drown him.
Lucy sighed, the coffee in her cup making steam which gently teased her with promises of a proper awakening. On her neck, an insignia, a gift given to her long ago, felt heavy and it make her feel somewhat depressed. To be honest, she was supposed to be asleep, not sitting here being frustrated and all blue.
Sixteen was happily scribbling things on the walls in languages that made her head hurt from the bombardment of information that she already had going on.
Her current frustration lay in a simple petri dish. Every time she felt she was getting closer to the cure she'd been working so hard on, the sun would rear itself and happily blow away her progress. She still hadn't been able to find out exactly what caused the sudden combustion. She knew it was something changed in their DNA, she'd seen it alright, but she hadn't been able to actually change it so they wouldn't just burst into flames and ashes when the sun hit them.
Summer vacation had come and gone without any signs from Desmond. She wondered if maybe she'd gone too far this time, but then again, he was prone to play tricks on her, then come back with his stupid grin, a wave and a
"Hey."
The coffee was almost dropped as she gave a rather embarrassing squeak. It was caught by nimble fingers and Desmond smiled at her, amused.
"Do you always have to do it so close to my ear!" She snapped, the sadness she'd had for him not coming replaced with irritation.
He moved the cup between his hands, smile still on his face. "If I didn't I wouldn't get to watch you jump six feet in the air. I'm surprised I can still catch you unaware after so many years."
She threw a scalpel at him and he dodged, laughing at her attempt. Had he been human, it would've actually hit him on the forehead.
"Where's Sixteen?"
"Over there scribbling something on the walls again, don't worry." She assured him when the smile fell a bit. "He's using a marker this time."
Last time it had been his blood. She still remembers coming home, excited that she'd been accepted to the university she'd applied to, only to stop dead on her tracks. The papers and her bag had fallen to the floor and before she could scream, Desmond had covered her eyes and mouth, whispering to her, assuring her, and, if she strained herself a bit more, she thinks she can remember him apologizing to someone in another language.
She was handed back her coffee and a large paper bag that seemed to be full of quite a lot.
"Mario says hi."
Her eyes widened. "You went to Italy? When!"
She placed the cup on the table and began to rummage through the bag like a kid in Christmas. There was wine, food, clothes and other assorted trinkets from his trip, and she shook her head at the sheer amount of it.
'Uncle' Mario was another of Desmond's kind, though when and where they had met or why he'd been turned neither would tell. He would, however, tell stories of his days in Monterrigioni, defending it from those idiots in Firenze who simply couldn't make up their mind if they were friends of enemies.
"This summer, actually. I went with Shaun."
She stopped, about to grab hold of what seemed like a portrait and raised a brow at him. "You took him to see Mario. Loud, boisterous, screaming he's not human, Mario?"
"Did you just off-handedly call him stupid? He wouldn't appreciate that." He smiled cheekily as she placed a hand on her hip.
He made a face no eight-century years old should make because it'd fit a little eight year old better. "Well, yeah, I mean, I wanted to spend some time with him and Italy's not the quietest city at night; or Venice."
The blonde threw her hands at the sky in an obvious 'I quit' stance, rolling her eyes as she took the portrait out. "You always kept telling me not to become too attached to people and here you are telling me how you took your lover slash boyfriend to Italy like some sort of honeymoon. I trust you took him to all your old places."
He smiled fondly. "He was practically creaming himself when we went to the Sistine Chapel. Well, actually…" The smile on his face turned devious and she blushed, punching his arm.
"What are you, a teenager?" She unwrapped the portrait and stared, eyes wide. "Is… this you?"
"Centuries ago." He seemed almost sheepish. "Sometimes I wonder if I should let myself grow back my hair but as I've been there and done that…" He shrugged, making a face clearly indicating he was not up for it.
The portrait showed him and an entire family. He was wearing what was common of that time, though it seemed to be he'd been affluent back then. The family, a woman, her husband and three children, a boy, a teenage girl, and a young man seeming a bit 'older' than her father, smiled with confidence and pride.
"This was painted by da Vinci himself." Desmond told her in a matter of fact tone, but it didn't escape her notice that he wasn't looking at the painting. "He kept insisting and it got awkward when he had to tell him he could only paint the whole family together at night."
He chuckled, looking at his missing finger, his hand softly massaging the missed spot there. "I felt so strange, being part of something again, being able to tell my secret without fear of rejection or disgust. They were pretty ok with it, not to mention they were part of-" He cut himself and shook his head. "I took care of them, always did, because you don't just forget kindness of that magnitude."
He finally looked at it, frown on his face. She could feel this sort of homesickness coming from him, wistful and forlorn, looking at these people and places long gone that he'd over lived. He pointed to the man and smiled.
"Giovanni Auditore. A lot of men come and go, but this one like a few others I knew, shines out. He was a good man. Loving; caring; a real father, I remember." He chuckled, shaking his head. He pointed at the woman next. "Maria Auditore was bold and not afraid of me, which I found refreshing. Not because I wasn't dangerous, but because she was completely sure that I wouldn't harm her or her family.
"Federico, Claudia, and Petruccio. The youngest was always sickly, and for some reason, he needed these feathers and I'd go and get them for him." He smiled, shaking his head fondly. "Maria, I always had to go and scare the shit out of some guy because they were always cheating on her, but she was a real spitfire on her own. Federico…" He suddenly panned out.
Lucy looked at him. He seemed so old suddenly and shook his head with the saddest smile. "I don't think I've had a friend like that."
"What happened to them?" She asked before she could stop herself. He kept looking at the portrait and barely touching it, he pointed all three men.
"They were hanged a month after the portrait was done."
Her eyes widened. She bit her lip and was about to say she was sorry, but he was already wrapping the portrait back, shaking his head. "I remember feeling so furious and so powerless at the same time. I scared Claudia, but instead of running away from me, she commended herself and her mother to me, told me she trusted me regardless. I felt so guilty."
There was disgust now in his voice. "I'd turned complacent, thinking that maybe I'd found my peace and they paid with their lives for my idiocy. I knew there was something odd about that Borgia. He smelled wrong, but with Giovanni's reassurance, I didn't pry any further."
He gave her the painting and smiled at her, but it looked fake. "But hey, the past's in the past right?"
She set it down and hugged him, something that made him freeze like an animal ready to spring. This is why she wanted to find the cure, give him back the thing that'd been stolen from him. Is it so strange to believe that immortals wish for death?
"It's alright." She told him, because the way he spoke, he was blaming himself, was wishing he'd died like they had, and it gripped at her heart thinking of all the people he'd met and lost. "It's ok."
He hugged her back with a sort of desperation and he gave a humorless chuckle. "Aren't I the one supposed to comfort you?"
"You're not a machine, dad." She reminded him, because at times, he'd forget. "I know you're afraid. Just, stop thinking about when the people you know now will die, ok? It's not healthy."
"…so you caught that, huh?"
"You're an open book when you tell me about your past." She answered, separating from the hug but not letting go. "I promise I'll hurry. And I, I'm sorry about getting mad at you over Leila. You were right, she isn't your concern."
He chuckled and shook his head, ruffling her hair like she was ten again. "Nah, it's my fault. I should've done something you know? Gotten her to a hospital at least, I just, I don't know. I wasn't all that there. You had every right to get pissed at me. And I'm sorry for yelling at you, shouldn't have done that, no matter how angry I got."
She smiled, happy that she'd managed to both comfort him and get the Leila incident over, even if her absence still hurt. "At least you killed the bastard that did that to her."
They let go, their scuffle not forgotten but forgiven, at the least.
"So how'd Shaun react to Mario?"
He groaned, but smiled nonetheless, and it seemed to her he was trying his damndest not to laugh. "Shocked. Horrified? I'm not entirely sure. The undignified squawks he was giving made it hard to tell."
"He squawked?" She asked, now laughing herself.
"I'm telling you, it was hard to tell! He sounded like he was cussing him off and begging him not to kill him in the same sentence."
They're both laughing now, her because she can imagine Shaun being in a bear hug, legs kicking, and face red with indignation and Desmond because he saw it in the flesh. He seems to frown, just a bit, and they hear rather than see Sixteen come to them. He's on the rafters though, looking up, and she stops a bit, watching the surveillance cameras on her laptop. There's nothing.
"How about you finish checking what I brought you? Hey!" He whistles at Sixteen, loud and shrill and the other is immediately besides them, eyes wide and silver. "Bought stuff for you too."
"F-F-For me?" He seems confused and Lucy smiles as he shuffles towards her, peaking over her shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"Just… gonna check something out."
She blinks and he's gone.
On the roof, Desmond ran quick and silent, the intruder's smell thick in the surrounding area and he mentally kicked himself. This is what happened when he didn't come back for such a long time.
He caught the scent again and stopped at the smell. He approached, carefully, the figure that leaned quite calmly on a part of another building, all smiles and twinkling eyes that shone a bright aquamarine, his own stance relaxing because he knew this man from long ago.
"Now, now, that aggressive stance, is that any way to meet me, arkadeshim?"
Desmond's smile was sudden and he walked towards the fool who walked towards him. They hugged, like long lost brothers and laughed, looking over at each other, finding new features, recognizing old ones.
"So the rumors are true, Il Mentore is in Chicago. I'd say some smart-ass comment about small world but we both know better don't we?"
"I haven't been called that since forever, Yusuf. You still have that ridiculous beard, I see."
Yusuf Tazim, a man born to Istanbul at the time of the Ottoman Empire, a man who should be dead, touched his beard with a rueful smile, eyes twinkling like they always did, though now a normal deep brown.
"It is not ridiculous." He walked around Desmond, looking him over and gave a snort. "What about you? What happened to the beard, the hair? Tired of looking like the old man you are?"
Desmond crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. "Said the kettle to the pot."
"Do have in mind that, regardless of my age, I am still younger than you. You, on the other hand, are ancient. I would not be surprised if you lived in a museum or something of the sort. But yes, the name Yusuf has long since not been used, unless I'm in some Order conference." He waved his hand, like swatting a fly. "Agh, those conferences, always so boring! Always talking about 'our duty to the humans' and blah, blah, blah."
Desmond couldn't help the amusement or the chuckle and shook his head. "You haven't changed."
"But you seem to have, Ezio. Or do you use another name yet again?"
"Desmond Miles now."
Yusuf made a face, like something nasty was under his nose. "A boring American name. Why not choose something better, more exotic, with more flourish!"
"Like what?" He's still amused, because Yusuf is still as childish as always, even for a grown man (?), and for a minute, even with their surroundings being metal, it feels like they're in 1603 instead of 2012.
"Amir is a good name, or how about Tayyib. Excellent names, not boring at all. Though it is refreshing to see you've finally stopped trying to be witty by calling yourself variations of 'eagle'. Ah, but enough of that, I didn't come to lecture you on why your name is so boring."
This made Desmond frown. "I thought so. What has happened? I saw Mario a few days ago, as boisterous and lively as ever, but he simply warned me to be weary and to be ready to change cities at any given time."
"And he was right. Shao Yun has found you."
The silence between them hung heavy. Desmond cussed, hands passing through his short cropped hair and he began to pace, a beast caged and furious. His tone of voice changed, accent suddenly heavy, a resurfaced memory from long ago.
"Since when?"
"Four months ago. She knows of this place and of your Keeper. Thankfully, I was with her and I have managed to convince her not to approach the young lady or the other iblis in your care." He informed him, his playful nature gone as he informed the former Mentor of what had occurred. "She does not know, however, of your lover."
The pacing stopped and Desmond glared, eyes bright gold, like coins in the depths of the ocean, sparkling and angry.
"But you do." There was a coldness to his tone that made Yusuf hold his hands in defense, upwards and weaponless.
"My apologies, but I had to make sure she did not find him. Though I must compliment you, you barely leave a trace, if any. I have, regardless, changed such minor traces to confuse her. She is, however, dead set on finding you."
But Desmond was already thinking of Shaun, of his rather blunt nature and of the troubles he could get himself into if Shao ever found him and began to demand answers he did not know the answers to. She was well known to get answers through not only her own drive but her precise methods.
"Altair." He stopped, jolted a bit from his thoughts and thought it strange to be called by a name he'd dropped so long ago. Remembering the past only harmed the present.
Yusuf looked at him, straight in the eye, blue aquamarine eyes boring into his without a flinch.
"She insists that you have a cure for our condition; a way to return our humanity. She says you have hidden something from the Order since your days in Masyaf." They stayed quiet, judging each other. "Is this true?"
He could tell him, he knew. He trusted Yusuf with even his life. But this, this was something that, in a way, did not belong to him. No, this information belonged to a man without an arm, and this knowledge had been kept from him by that man.
He had yet to find the fucking Codex.
"Yes." He watched Yusuf's eyes widen, the shine in them as bright as the moon. "And no."
The other man scoffed and shook his head. "You speak in riddles. Yes or no, surely it cannot be both?"
"The Master who preceded me in Masyaf found and placed the knowledge in a Codex I had already written." Desmond explained, eyes looking over the landscape, the electric lights, the concrete and steel.
"He hid it inside its pages, between my own words, to keep the knowledge safe and away from Templars who would wish to end me. But before he could give it to me, before I could have the actual choice whether to rest or keep going." His hands clutched at an invisible book and then panned out, palms spread open and empty. "His son kept the book afterwards, and then his son, always hiding it. The last of that line I found in Masyaf again, but already, she told me she'd given it away yet again."
And it had been extremely infuriating. Each time he'd held some of the pages, maybe, perhaps, some of the cure, it was gone. Darim al-Sayf, later Malik al-Sayf in honor of his father, had not taken as nicely the knowledge that Altair ibn-La' Ahad, with all the power he had as an alukah had not been able to save his father.
Neither had he.
"Then this book, it truly holds a way to makes us become human?" Yusuf seemed both shocked and, was that hopeful?
"Being completely honest, my friend, I am not sure myself. It has been centuries since I last saw the Codex."
The other cursed in his native tongue, biting his lip, thinking. "If Shao Yun finds about this information she will rip through anything to obtain it. She believes it can be used as a weapon against us."
"I am aware of that aspect." Desmond answered walking towards his him. "That is why you will tell her of the Codex."
"What!"
"If she knows there is a book, and that it is lost, she will go and try to find it instead of myself. That way, it will give me time to not only move everything to a different location, but also time to place all my matters in order. By the time she finds exactly what I have, I will be gone."
"You haven't changed." Yusuf smirked, already making his way to the border of the warehouse. "Still as scheming as always. Then I shall do so, and I shall also keep an eye on your Keeper and the other. My own has been placed to guard her and keep open eyes and ears, just in case something is to occur."
There was a pan of sudden guilt in his stomach and he shook his head. "No, you do not need to-."
But Yusuf waved him away, smirk on his face. "Don't tell me Il Mentore is worried about me! I've already died once, and if necessary, I will do so again. Desmond," A hand was placed on his shoulder; the worry was clear on Yusuf's face. "On the risk of being called a stalker, I have seen this young man makes you happy."
A slight shake and a squeeze to his shoulder as he kept speaking kept him from making a smart ass comment. "For once, I think you deserve to be left out of the Order as you've so desperately tried to all this years."
"You are too good to me, my friend." He placed a hand on Yusuf's shoulder as well and the other scoffed, smirking again.
"I am your only friend. Well, there's Mario, but he's family to you so he doesn't count." He let go and made a mock salute. "Safety and Peace, arkadeshim."
He was gone before Desmond answered back. "Safety and Peace, my friend."
"We need to talk."
Shaun gives a hum of agreement, though he's not exactly paying attention. These last few weeks before he gets back to class he's been searching for those dates. Desmond seems to be busy with something, though at least this time he's been told beforehand and there's a constant string of messages to keep them in contact until he's done.
His yelp is justified, (very manly if he may say so himself) when the lid of his laptop is almost slammed on his fingers.
"What the bloody hell!"
"You weren't listening man." Rebecca has a hand still on the lid, the other on her waist and there's this serious frown on her face. No, honestly, she's actually being serious.
Maybe it's a sign of the impending apocalypse. Maybe it's a sign that she's off her rocker, though that part he's always been sure of.
"Fine, you have my attention." Not entirely, but he's not about to tell her that.
"We need to talk about Desmond."
Suddenly the conversation seems to be going wrong. "What about him?"
The ways she bites her lip, as if nervous and somehow (God forbid) self-conscious of what she's about to tell him, he doesn't like it one bit. "You know, at first, I was pretty glad you two met, and that he took you out and that he finally fucked you-"
"Must you be always so crude!" Please, what's left of his dignity, spare it.
"-And managed to pull the stick you had in your ass-"
"I did not have a stick in my ass!" He's never going to stop defending himself, because he can't help but wonder how much worse she'd speak if he didn't.
"-and he actually got you to cheer up. But, well, I kinda did a background check on him."
Those thick silences described in cheesy romantic novels (that he does not read), the type that you could almost slice with a knife? This one is one of them.
"You what? I thought I told you-!"
But she merely waves him away, like he's five and she's his mum, explaining to him why he can't have ice cream before lunch. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you said. But shit man, you never know what sort of fucking sexual predators, or serial killers are on the loose. More so now that the police says there's actually one roaming the streets."
"I fail to see the correlation between your paranoia and breaching the personal privacy of my boyfriend!" He's felt embarrassment for Rebecca's more protective streaks but this one almost borders on seppuku lines.
But she seems determined on this matter and turns his seat to face her, leaning uncomfortably close to him. "You know, if he had something along the lines of a parking ticket, maybe an assault charge because he got into a brawl, I wouldn't have cared at all, Shaun, he's got the tats to prove he's served time."
He splutters with the efficiency of a choking fish. "He is not a delinquent, and if he was he'd have told me-."
"That's not the point, Shaun. The point is; I found nothing."
Again with the thick silence. Though not as thick as real butter, more like a margarine sort of thickness. That was by far, the stupidest line of thought he's had in some time. Desmond is rubbing off on him. Speaking of, he now has to defend the limey git.
"Then why are we having this conversation?" The anger and defensiveness he feels are very appropriate. "And if you tell me it's suspicious that I found a man with no criminal record and shares some of my interests, then by the Queen, I will bloody well punch you."
She has this look in her face, like weighting the consequences between starting an actual physical fight with him (he's ashamed to admit he would lose. She knows Krag Maga, of all things) or telling him what she knows. By her sigh, he knows she's decided for the latter. And thank goodness, he doesn't think he'd have liked being in a headlock where oxygen is denied from him until he faints.
"Shaun, listen to me. I found nothing on him." She finally let go of the chair, eyes filled with worry. "And I do mean nothing. No social security number, no tax info, no hospital records, fuck, I didn't even find a birth certificate." Now she's pacing the room, one hand on her head, her headphones oddly missing.
"So? Maybe he wasn't born here." It's a good defense. Yes, it's a perfect defense. Except, he's starting to doubt himself.
But she stops pacing and glares at him. "You're not listening, man! I searched everywhere! I literally spent my entire vacation digging through useless information, and not once did the name 'Desmond Miles' appear anywhere!"
"To begin with, you shouldn't have gone sticking your nose where I specifically bloody well asked you not to search." His voice is rising with each word. For some reason he feels betrayed, even if the act was not done against him. "To follow, have you even thought that maybe he's some sort of, I don't know, I'm bloody pulling strings here, a secret agent or something? And that he has to keep himself off the bloody radar and you've just blown his cover!"
She snorted at this and shook her head. "Nah, man, not that either. I got some friends who know about those things, and no-way Jose. Now, I didn't tell you this at the beginning because it didn't seem like it was important, but when he came in, he asked to be let in."
This was getting ridiculous the more he listened. "I'm sorry if being polite seems strange to a person of your caliber." Except, now he was thinking of other things; like the fact that they hadn't traveled together; his sudden disappearances; and all that money, where does it come from?
She was smiling, like someone who's found gold, or even better, a black diamond. "No, no, I mean, he wouldn't move in, wouldn't, like something was physically stopping him from coming into the house." She raised a finger and left, obviously to her room.
It'd be a lie if he said he wasn't starting to get interested. Why did Desmond not have any data? What sort of person did you have to be to be virtually nonexistent in an era where you could find your information via the internet in less than five seconds? It was all swimming in his head, and he was finding more things that didn't add up. All those things he had, from centuries ago, where had he been able to acquire them?
Rebecca came back with her laptop and opened the lid, showing him a webpage and he stared at it, face blank, all his worries from a second ago gone.
"Seriously? This is, according to you, the reason why he doesn't show up in your little stalker search?"
"It makes complete sense! He won't come out at day, he had to get invited in, and have you ever seen him eat anything? All I ever see him do is drink stuff, but never eat any actual food!"
There, on the laptop's screen, in ridiculous letters, is the word 'vampire'. He smacks his forehead, as if it were obvious, the finding of the century, the answer to the mystery that was Desmond Miles. "Yes! Of course! Why didn't I ever think of that?"
Is he being sarcastic? Of course he's being bloody sarcastic! This is the stupidest thing she's ever come up with!
"Man, I'm being serious! Think about it!" She's not smiling. Dear lord, she is being serious. "He says he's allergic to garlic! We haven't seen him in daylight not once! He doesn't eat, he walks too quietly, his reflexes are too fast and his eyes do that funky thing where they change colors! Perfect fucking sense!"
He has to get away from this. She's been playing too much World of Warcraft. Or perhaps drank too much Monster, who the blood hell knows? He gets back to his laptop, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses and trying to fight back the migraine caused by the sheer idiocy she's spouting.
"You don't believe me! Fine then! Here's this! Invite him to have dinner and I'll prove he is a vampire!"
He glares at her. "No." He snaps, trying (read failing) to get back to his research, because if he doesn't put his foot down this moment, she'll start doing something even more idiotic.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her hand try to get his cellphone. "Rebecca!"
They're fighting over it now, though it's very ridiculous. Her, she's dancing out of his arms reach while she tries every underhanded trick she knows, while he's pretty much scratching at the back of her hand and punching and kicking at any chance he gets, even going so far as to pull her hair. Unfortunately, Becca is queen of cheating fights, so he's relegated to watching from the floor when she elbows him on the stomach, glasses askew, clothes ruffled, and a bruised ego as she sends Desmond a text.
He makes another go at her and she raises her leg. He flinches, knowing fully well what that foot can do.
"Don't make me do it, Shaun." She tilts her head, leg like a spring ready to kick out. Like some bloody fucking ass because that's what she's acting like.
They stay like that, at a stalemate and he curses his weakness. They both start when the cellphone hums again and he groans. Had she been writing in the ensuing chaos? Her cheer confirms it.
"Tomorrow at 10! Alright! I gotta go get some things ready for the vampire test, meanwhile search something to cook." She throws him his cellphone and he gawks.
"What! Why me!" This is not fair in a thousand ways.
"Because you invited him over, duh. Don't let him know what we're doing!"
He's still standing in the middle of the floor, looking at the door, then at the little screen with a time and a confirmation for Becca's insane plan. Everything was going so well. Why did the universe like to use him as their personal toy? Now he has to find a way to subtly foil every one of Rebecca's schemes to prove that Desmond is, instead of a poor bloke with skin disease and a blotchy record, a vampire.
Why hasn't the Earth swallowed him yet?