December 21st , 2012

'What you doing up so early?'

Desmond started in surprise, and then relaxed a little as he saw Vicente approaching, a steaming mug of coffee in each hand. The cartel leader handed one over, which Desmond took gratefully, wrapping his cold fingers around the warmth of it before looking back up at the early morning sky. He felt the bench flex slightly as Vicente sat down next to him, and realised that the man probably had no idea what the significance of today was.

'Right now,' Desmond explained. 'There are massive solar flares happening. They would have destroyed the entire world, all of it, but there's a planetary shield device in place keeping us from being affected.'

'You're shitting me,' Vicente accused, after a moment of stunned silence.

'Wish I was.'

Vicente whistled between his teeth. 'Man. Guess we're lucky we got that shield?'

'Yeah,' Desmond replied thoughtfully. 'I guess so.'

There followed a comfortable silence, in which Desmond stared up at the stars and Vicente drank his coffee. In truth, Desmond had been terrified that the Shard would fail them, and that in spite of everything the planet would burn, him along with it. He had been torturing himself with the question of whether it would have been better to trust Juno, to hand control of Earth over to her, instead of to Abstergo. But what good were such thoughts now? It was too late for any of that.

'You're the quiet type, huh?'

'Huh?' Desmond looked up in surprise.

Vicente grinned, his startlingly white teeth glinting in the low light. 'Ever since you two got here, Daniel's the one who's done most of the talking.'

Desmond thought this over. 'Wow, I guess that's true. Weird. No one ever accused me of being too quiet before.'

'No?'

'You wouldn't believe the number of times I've heard the words, "Shut up, Desmond."'

This prompted a chuckle from Vicente, followed by a more sombre expression. ''I guess a lot has changed.' He looked down at his coffee thoughtfully for a few seconds before stating, quite matter-of-factly, 'I'm coming with you to Abstergo.'

Desmond glanced over at him. 'Daniel got to you, did he?'

'Ha. No, he's still in the early stages of putting pressure on me. Daniel knows his game, and it probably would have worked sooner or later, so I figured I may as well save him some time. Besides, I...' He blew out a breath and furrowed his brow. 'I have nothing left now. Nothing to lose. I can't even go and see my own kids. Unless we fix this mess, I spend the rest of my life with nothing, and I don't trust you and Daniel not to fuck this up if you go by yourselves.'

'Thanks.'

'No problem.'

It occurred to Desmond that there was a very good chance that Vicente would die on this mission, and that if he did he would never see his kids again anyway. It occurred to Desmond that the right thing to do would be to convince Vicente to stay here - to tell him that they didn't need him, that he should stay safe. Finally, Desmond realised that he had no intention of telling Vicente any such thing. After all, what was Vicente, but a cutthroat cartel leader, responsible for God only knew how much death and misery. If anyone was low enough to be used as a human shield in a firefight, it was Vicente.

For a moment, it felt almost as though Daniel's fingers were clawing at the inside of Desmond's throat once more. Because that, he could see, was what was really happening. Daniel had found the open wound left in Desmond by Clay's death, and had poked and prodded at it, widening the damage, hardening the scar tissue - first with cruelty, then with feigned kindness - until what was left behind was stronger, but uglier. A person who was willing to tread over the corpses of his allies in order to reach his goal.

He wished that he had the energy to care, or rather, he wished that he had the energy to wish. In all honestly, Desmond now felt disconnected from himself. He had felt this way ever since the suicide attempt, the one that he couldn't even remember committing, let alone the exact reasons behind it. He knew, in a numb, detached sort of way, that he should be horrified by the fact that he'd tried to kill himself and could not remember why or how, that he should be terrified that it might happen again. But in all honestly, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

Was that depression, or was it the anti-depressants? Desmond was still taking them, the doses now measured by Daniel and handed to him twice a day, but this didn't feel like it had before. It felt there was something deep inside him, something awful that he should be afraid of, but wasn't.

'I gotta be honest,' Desmond said at last, hearing the false sincerity in his own voice. 'I'm glad you're coming with us, man. I really think we stand a chance now.'

Vicente looked over at him and grinned, the expression heart-breakingly open. 'Come on,' he said, standing up. 'Let's get some breakfast.'

January 1st, 2013

'Load up,' Daniel said. 'And leave that fucking shotgun behind.'

They were in the central yard, the supplies that they would be taking along mostly piled in the back of the van, with a few boxes still scattered around. Desmond had Harold Kaczmarek's shotgun balanced on his shoulder, one hand on the stock to keep it steady. He gripped it a little tighter and glared at Daniel. 'I'm taking it along.'

'It's a piece of shit.'

'We tested it yesterday,' Vicente interjected mildly. 'It's old but it works the way it's s'posed to.'

'It's dead weight,' Daniel barrelled on, not breaking eye contact with Desmond. 'Shotguns are for retards who couldn't hit the broad side of a barn on a cloudless day in June. You're too good a shot with the pistols to be weighing yourself down with a shotgun. If anyone actually gets into the kind of range where a shotgun would be worth a damn, just take them out with your blade.'

'So I'll carry the shotgun and use a pistol.'

'What the fuck is the point of carrying a gun that you're not going to use?'

'I'm going to use it to blow Alan Rikkin's goddamn head off,' Desmond snapped coldly.

Daniel stared for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. 'Oh god, this is a sentimental thing, isn't it?'

Desmond averted his gaze.

There was a moment of silence in which neither of them moved, simply stood facing each other in the cool sunlight. Daniel let out a sigh of utter impatience, then held out a hand.

'Give it to me.'

Desmond tightened his grip by another small fraction. 'Why?'

'If we're bringing it along then I'm going to be the one to carry it. Your best assets are your speed and your aim, and I'm not having either of them compromised. I'll hand it back to you once we reach Rikkin, and then you can perform whatever sad little symbolic act you like.'

'You don't want to kill him yourself?'

Daniel looked at Desmond with derision. 'As long as he ends up dead, I'm happy. I don't give any particular kind of fuck as to how it happens.'

Desmond's eyes were wary as he he pulled the shotgun forward, off his shoulder, cacthing it by the barrel as it slid down over his chest. He held it there for just a moment, before finally holding it out to Daniel. The older man snatched it off him, rolling his eyes, and walked over to the van.

Daniel hadn't asked whether or not Desmond was ready for this. He didn't need to. The day before, Desmond had lined up eight empty cans on blocks of wood, walked a hundred meters away from them, then taken a deep breath, turned and fired eight times. He hit every single one, dead on. The day before that, he and Daniel had sparred brutally and Desmond - bloody-lipped and panting evenly - had managed to pin the older man to the ground, one thumb pressed into his eye socket warningly. The mixture of fury and delight on Daniel's face had been enough to tell Desmond that he this hadn't been a thrown match.

Despite the short amount of time that they'd been here, Desmond could feel that he was stronger. The lean, toned muscles on his arms and back and torso had thickened, and the change in the way that he moved felt like he'd had a new set of batteries installed. Inside the Animus, small twitches and seizes in his muscle groups had prevented him from losing any mass, but it was no substitute for daily training.

That thought - the thought of daily training - suddenly brought back memories that he had long since discarded. Memories of his childhood, and of sparring with the other children, and feeling his resentment grow along with his muscle strength. A sudden pang struck Desmond's heart - of fear or regret, he couldn't tell which - as he thought of his father, and of Rebecca and Shaun. They were surely at the same headquarters that he, Daniel and Vicente were planning to attack. What would happen if they got caught in the crosshairs? It was hardly an impossibility, for Rikkin would almost certainly send familiar faces out to halt Desmond's progress throught the building. Could he really head out on this mission without warning them? Wasn't there some way that he could get them to leave - just temporarily?

Desmond glanced over his shoulder at where Daniel was standing by the van, talking with Vicente, and deliberately moved around the side of the building so that he would not be seen. He had succeeded in swiping Daniel's phone from his bedside table, knowing that he wouldn't have brought it along unless it was untraceable. He swiped the screen to bring up the unlock request, and quickly used his eagle vision to peer in at the phone's memory of the correct code.

He paused for a moment, once he was in. This is dumb, he thought to himself. There's no way he's still using the same phone, he added, as he entered the number with fumbling fingers. He's not going to answer, he concluded, lifting the phone to his ear and holding it there as he listened the dial tone.

It had only rung twice before he panicked and started thinking about hanging up altogether. He dropped it away from his ear and held it in the palm of his hand, thumb hovering over the red button that would disengage the call. He listened to it ring, the sound dissipated and tinny in the open air, a third time, then a fourth, and then resolved to hang up.

Then the fifth ring never came.

Desmond stared stupidly at the phone, waiting for the electronic dial. He almost jumped out of his skin when a voice came through the small speakers instead, sounding like a whisper.

'Hello?'

Fuck it.

Desmond lifted the phone to his ear again. 'Dad?'

A pause. 'Desmond. Where are you?'

A nasty, cold feeling curled in Desmond's belly at the words. He knew why his father was asking him that, could almost hear him being compelled by the Apple, even with all the distance between them, and it was more vile then he could ever have imagined. In a sudden panic, Desmond fumbled the phone away from his ear again and hung up, already regretting the decision.

Wiping his eyes hurriedly, he peered around the side of the building again, just in time to see Daniel frown and pat down his pockets. Desmond quickly shoved the phone back into his pocket and walked briskly across the compound, heading towards the cabin where they had slept. So long as he returned the phone in time, Daniel would never know what had happened.

One of the many benefits of controlling the Apple was the ability to be confident in the knowledge that no one would ever disturb him unnecessarily. And so, when Alan Rikkin heard the knock at the glass door of his office, he looked up and gave a genuine smile, beckoning with one hand to invite his employee in.

'William,' he greeted in a courteous tone, watching the man approach his desk. 'You have that report on the situation in Nepal already? Admirable.'

'Actually, I'm here for another reason,' the grey-haired former Assassin leader said evenly. 'I just received a call from my son.'

Rikkin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. 'Desmond? Really He's still alive?'

'Apparently so.' William didn't sound particularly elated by the news. His expression was slightly vacant, as though the cognitive disconnect between what he wanted to do and what the Apple was forcing him to do was too great to handle. He had been kept in the Animus, and then under heavy observation, for much longer than any of the others. The fact that he'd never shown any signs of breaking free from his mental shackles, and was even able to function perfectly well as a member of the Templar order, was a testament to the success of Eye Abstergo.

'Hm. To be honest, I'm amazed that he made it,' Rikkin mused. 'Did he tell you his location?'

'No, but it doesn't matter,' William replied. 'I know my son, and he wouldn't have called unless he thought he was heading into a life-threatening situation. He's planning to come here, to try and take the Apple from you.'

Rikkin raised and eyebrow and smiled. 'Really? How sad. He might have lived a reasonably long life as an outlaw.' He was already running over instructions for security in his mind. 'Thank you for letting me know, Bill. If you get to him before anyone else, make sure he sees your face before he dies, understood?'

'Yes, sir.'