Part Eight: A Breaking Present
Rebecca arrived, William soon after her, and they began to plan out the mission.
"Listen up," William said, callously taking charge. "The artifact is in an office penthouse in lower Manhattan. At this time of night, direct infiltration is going to get you noticed. I think we're better off having you drop in from above." He tossed a backpack to Desmond, Rebecca quick to explain it was a parachute – the extreme sports enthusiast briefly explaining how it worked, shucking it on Desmond and pointing out the pulls and how to steer. When she was done she pinned a remote camera.
"It'll provide us with a feed while you're on mission. And this will let us talk to each other." She handed him an ear clip of some kind, which he put on. He knew better than to ask how their transmissions would be masked.
And all too soon, they were parked six blocks away from the Freedom Tower, and Desmond walked into the lower floor, taking the elevator up and up, eventually to the incomplete floors, and finally to a lift. It was almost midnight, and once in the lift he shrugged his hood off briefly to wipe his head. The security hadn't even blinked at him, just checked his courier ID that Shaun had faked and sent him up to the office. He kept his hood down from the cameras, but now the real work began. He poked at the remote camera.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, moving from it to his ear piece. "Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three."
"Yup!" Rebecca's voice chirped cheerfully. "I've got picture. Running diagnostics... Perfect! I've got a nice, strong signal. Just a heads up – there's no elevator access from here on out. You'll have to get up there the old fashioned way."
"Not a problem," he said. An anticipatory grin bled through his face, and he pulled his hood up. Now the fun began.
He moved passed a generator and darted up a ladder he had seen earlier, up to a catwalk that lead to a scaffold that gave him room to hop onto a pipe, leading to more generators and pipes. His heart-rate stayed level as he hopped to an incomplete set of metal framing, likely a wall in the future, and to another catwalk. Beyond it was half-hung ductwork that could just take his weight. He was starting to get into the rhythm of it now, and he was thrilled that it wasn't an ancestor doing this, it was him. He hopped and leapt and swung through a series of i-beams before taking a leap up to a support bridge that had been lowered temporarily, climbing its slats and hoisting himself up to a large, cavernous space. He landed on a set of scaffolding that wrapped around the entire room, framing only just beginning to divide up the space into the different offices and hallways. He made his way around the perimeter, trying to figure out where to go from here.
He made his way around a massive shelving system, construction materials littered haphazardly about, and spying a partially closed aluminum grating – most likely to another lift, and he moved to slide under it.
"Oh, that's a-" Shaun started to say as Desmond suddenly felt a ridiculous gust of wind and a holy shit he was outside and the fall was going to fucking kill him!
His hands dug into the grating, yelping as he stopped and his heart jumped into his throat.
"Aw," Shaun said. "Hold still. That's a lovely view, take a picture."
"Seriously Shaun," Desmond said, his voice shaky as he stared out at the towers he was above and level to, "fuck you." Christ, how high up was he? He glanced down through the grating and decided immediately that he didn't want to know.
He took a deep, shuddering breath; a less than sane giggle bubbling up his throat as he mentally acclimated from the safety of being inside to the terror of being outside. Altair and Ezio had never been this high, and he had to work through his rigid grip on the grating, convincing himself he was safe enough to let go.
To his right was a crane. Actually, it was the crane that had been hanging by a thread during the storm, reattached, lights obnoxiously on and looking like Sandy had never happened. Its resilience gave Desmond some piece of mind, and with a deep breath he stood up. He closed his eyes, calling on the confidence of Altair, counting his heartbeats and thinking about swordplay the meditative quality of practice, reaching into his mind for the eagle that lived there, the trace of First Civ DNA that existed in him and letting the eagle thrill at the height he was at.
Yes. He was an eagle. This was his home.
This was the task that had been assigned to him.
Rolling his shoulders and hips, Desmond leapt up to the support beams of the crane, grabbing with ease and slowly shifting his weight. He was in the lee of the wind, giving him ample time to work his way up and through an access to the crane itself. Desmond peered out at the sprawling metropolis, lips pursed into a thin line and looking about. The building that was his objective was not here, and so he needed to climb higher. He glanced at the crane and saw it was facing the modern tower, giving him plenty of hand and foot holds. Nodding, he leapt up with ease, and soon he found a rhythm of climbing the structure of the crane. Desmond was feeling more confident now, his mind back where it needed to be, and he leapt from the crane to a nearby i-beam without even a thought of how dangerously high up he was. A gust of wind blew through him, he hadn't realized winds this high up were so strong, and he waited until the beam had stopped swaying before he moved along its length to a series of i-beams sticking out of the tower, yet to be trimmed down to size.
Down to another i-beam, waiting for the wind, and then to a small grated ledge. From there, the protective wrap around the tower had a small break for yet another massive i-beam, and Desmond climbed it, cords, piping, anything that would get him higher. The wind was whipping through him constantly now; he could easily imagine how it was strengthened during the super storm to put that one crane off its supports. The thrill of fear started to leak in at that thought and he opened up the eagle partition again to shut it off.
At last, however, he finally made it to flat ground.
"Jesus," he muttered, moving deeper into the safety of terra firma and taking a minute to rest his hands and arms. The strain on his upper body had been phenomenal.
"Look on the bright side – no security to worry about," Rebecca said lightly, trying to make him feel better.
"And on the not-so-bright side," Shaun added, "the slightest misstep means you're effectively... paste."
"Shut up, Shaun!"
Desmond laughed in spite of himself, and rolled to his feet.
He explored the floor he was on. Unlike below, where the rooms and halls were easy to figure out from the framing, here it looked like one massive storage dump-all, he had to roll under giant spools for which he had no idea what they were for, over piles of uninstalled drywall, electrical wires and chords that seemed to hang everywhere. Eventually he made his way up to a second level, and then up to a third. Flooring was less consistent here, he was clearly at the bleeding edge of construction; he hopped from flooring to i-beams and back again before he saw another i-beam hanging out over open air. He took a deep breath, thinking eagle.
Desmond made the leap, pulling himself up and counting heartbeats as the swinging slowed. Once it was mastered, the assassin jumped to another exposed i-beam and then up to another level. The flooring was secure here and beyond he could see another crane.
"Almost there, Desmond," Rebecca said. "Once you reach the top of the lit-up crane, you should be high enough to make the jump."
Desmond pursed his lips. "Should?" he asked pointedly.
"It'll be fine. Don't worry," Rebecca said. "You know I always say that."
"Well – you might want to worry a little," Shaun countered. "I'm pretty sure she was high when she was running the numbers."
"Goddamnit Shaun! What the fuck is your problem?"
"A joke. It was a joke!" the Brit said. A pause, then. "Or was it?"
Bastard. Desmond climbed up the crane, the eagle in his mind having shown him the rhythm, and slowly he ascended above the bones of the tower, the vertical beams just falling away as he made his way higher and higher and higher. He stopped at the top, just looking around, tracing the black line of the Hudson River and picking out the different buildings. He could just make out the Statue of Liberty, still standing after the storm, and something about the symbolism of that made him think of 9-11. John Stewart of the Daily Show had a breakdown on camera; Desmond was still new to TV at the time, but the thing he remembered most was the comedian saying that with the towers down, he could see the Statue of Liberty. Desmond felt like he understood, in a small way. Mission though this may be, he had just done something phenomenal.
He had beaten Altair and Ezio, and Ratonhnhaké:ton. None of his ancestors had done a climb like this. Pride filled him a little bit, and he agreed with Shaun. It was a lovely view. He had done it himself, under his own power, and had pulled confidence and identity from not from Altair or someone else but from himself. If done over again he knew he could do it himself, and the confidence that gave him made him smile. He had accomplished something. Everything in his life had brought him up to this point, but his feelings were now reflected by his deeds. He was an Assassin.
He was an Assassin.
He pulled out his camera and took a quick selfie, preserving this feeling he had. He didn't want to forget it, and he didn't want it washed away into his genes for future generations. He wanted it for himself, to look at when times were down, to remember this feeling of accomplishment, to know that he had done this. The days of being a "baby assassin" were over. So were his painful teen years, so were his struggles to find his place. He was home, here, on top of the Freedom Tower that he had climbed under his own power, and he was never going back. The future may be uncertain, but for now he had absolute confidence in the present.
Rebecca could barely be heard over the wind, but her voice was clear.
"Jump when you're ready, but wait for my signal to open the chute. Timing's really important here. Too soon or too late and you'll miss the building."
"You're the expert," Desmond said. He took a deep breath, standing to his full height, the wind whipping around him, savoring the moment.
And then he leapt. Perfect form.
The wind blew around him and he could have been anywhere, Syria, Italy, Kanataséhton. All at once the Leap of Faith took on a new meaning, a sense of place that was anywhere, and he was one with the Creed.
"Now! Open your chute now."
The moment ended all too soon, and Desmond fumbled for the release, hearing the great wavy sound of his chute opening before his fall was abruptly abbreviated, and he was reaching up to grab the guidance handles to angle his much slower fall to the helicopter landing pad that had been his target. Once he detached, he fell into a tight roll, pulling up to watch the chute just drift away on the winds. Unbuckling his pack, he left it on the helipad. If things went well, he would just walk out of the building. The adrenaline in his blood started to sag, leaving him slightly twitchy from withdrawal, and he walked slowly to across the landing pad and to an access door that was unlocked. Unbelievable.
Down a hall, through a door, he found the office he wanted and looked around. The power source glowed slightly, immediately drawing his eye to it, sitting on the desk like an expensive paperweight. The absurdity struck Desmond slowly, and he nearly laughed at the thought before walking up to it.
He touched the casing holding the cube, it was just glass. Adjusting the sleeve of his hoodie, he jammed his elbow in, breaking it. Rubbing glass off his elbow, he reached down and picked up the power source. He tensed, waiting for an alarm.
… Nothing.
"That wasn't so bad," he muttered, turning and reaching behind him to stow the trinket aside in his courier pack.
"So."
Damn it. Jinxed himself.
"You must be Desmond." He turned to see a man in the shadows, tall and holding a gun on him. Everything in Desmond's body stiffened. Caught, caught, he'd been caught! What would happen now? He swallowed hard.
"Not exactly what I expected. But I guess your kind doesn't have many options these days," the man said, stepping forward, closer to Desmond. Really? The guy has him dead to rights and instead of keeping his distance he's moving into the reaction zone? To the place where the gun would be less effective? Was the guy an idiot? A thrill of hope fired off in Desmond's mind, and he stalled for time.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Ask your father. Now give me that."
Come on, come on, a few more steps. "I don't think so," he goaded.
"Look – I'm not supposed to kill you," the man, blond, said, "but the bossman didn't say anything about fucking you up. So you've got to the count of – "
Perfect.
Desmond grabbed the gun and twisted, the blond man grunting in surprise and jerking around to prevent his arm from being broken, and Desmond threw a punch at the guy. He had a glass jaw, it seemed, he went down in a huff. There was no time after that, however, and he dashed out of the office and to the nearest elevator, keeping his hood down and not even giving the security guard a passing glance as he left. He power walked the six blocks to the van and climbed in. Only once the van was on 87 going back north into upstate New York did he allow himself to breathe a sigh or relief.
"Who was that?" he asked in a tight voice, adrenaline still leaving his system.
"Daniel Cross," William said, eyes locked on his ipad.
And? "So who the hell is Daniel Cross?" he demanded, frustrated.
Shaun turned from his eyes from the road briefly. "Believe it or not, he used to be an Assassin. The Assassin, the way I've heard it told. But it turned out that he was a sleeper agent for Abstergo, trained to infiltrate and bring down the organization."
"How did he know you were there?" William asked. "We could be compromised. That's a problem."
"I doubt it," Shaun replied. "They must have caught me snooping inside their network and sent Cross to see what we were after. If they were aware of our current location, we'd know – guns blazing and all that. Though I will say this – it doesn't bode well for future expeditions."
"I'll set up some cameras topside once we're back," Rebecca said. "If anyone shows up we'll see it." She rubbed her face, hiding it behind her hands. She contorted herself in the car seat to bring one of her legs up, pressing her forehead against it, shutting out the world. She had been doing that more and more recently. Desmond glanced at Shaun and saw that he was watching her, too, worry tightening his eyes.
The drive was quiet after that. They moved to back roads once they hit Albany, and by then the sun was coming up. Rebecca was reclined in the seat, sleeping. Desmond considered joining her, but a hand touched his shoulder.
"Son?"
Desmond turned.
William had the most curious look on his face, an expression that Desmond thought couldn't exist on it: hesitance. "I..." he started, but the words failed. Desmond had never witnessed this before, and he watched in wide-eyed fascination. William licked his lips and tried again. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have lashed out like that. Before. Hitting you was wrong. You have to understand I've never been very good at this. At parenting. Never mind that we live rather..." he frowned, struggling for words, "extraordinary lives."
It was just like Desmond when he had been recording his message, lost on his phone somewhere, struggling to find words. Sympathy welled in him, and he leaned back in his seat.
"Yeah," he said softly. Extraordinary lives... "I kinda liked my ordinary one," he said gently, hoping to have a real conversation.
"You can't escape who you are, Desmond," William said in a clipped tone.
Of course not. God forbid having a meaningful talk. Desmond prickled at the stern voice. "So I've noticed," he said in a flat tone.
"Look, it's silly for us to go back and forth like this." his father said in a dismissive voice. Desmond's hackles rose but William rose a hand to forestall the comeback. "I admit," he said, "I did a shitty job raising you. I apologize, I'm sorry. But it's important you understand it didn't come from a bad place."
That... that made sense to Desmond, and he held his tongue, letting him continue. "You're my son. I love you. I guess I was so busy trying to make sure nothing bad happened, I didn't..." his words faltered. He rubbed his stubble and pushed through it, "consider the consequences. Truce?"
It was the first time William Miles had ever given anything. From his heart. In earnest. Desmond nodded. He couldn't call things between them good, but it was a start.
An hour later they were still on the road. The ripped apart branches and leaves were nowhere near as prevalent, and the drive had gotten a lot smoother. Sort of. The suspension of the van was still total shit, but now Desmond could pretend the roads were smooth. He looked out the windshield, Shaun still driving and Rebecca in the passenger seat, staring at nothing. Something was up with her, but Desmond didn't know what. Well, what aside from everything else that had been thrown at them. He leaned back in his seat, considering napping; his eyes were starting to burn for being up so long. Even his father had put down his touchscreen and was leaning back, but the older man's eyes were locked on something in his hand, a wallet, thumbing a picture. What...?
Oh.
His mother. When was the last time he'd thought of her? His imprisonment in Abstergo? God...
"I can't believe it's taken me so long to ask," he said. "But – how's Mom? She's not..." he couldn't bring himself to say it. He remembered Vidic talking about attacking the Farm, and understood the wealth of power Abstergo had.
"No, no," William said quickly, his voice almost soft. "Your mother's fine. We decided it would be better if we split up for this job."
A wry chuckle. "Always assuming the worst," he said.
"Hmm. For good reason."
"Can I at least say hi to her?" Desmond asked. Let her know he was all right. Let her know he loved her, apologize for being such a jerk as a teenager, let her know...
"I'm sorry," William said, back to being a hardass. "It's too risky. Maybe when we're done."
Maybe when we're done. Maybe when we're done. Desmond had heard that all his childhood. It was code for not ever, because they were never done. Bitterness soaked into him again.
"Right," he responded. "When we're done."
When they finally arrived Rebecca all but disappeared into the cave, going to the camp to pick up cameras and other paraphernalia to start securing their location. She didn't say a word. Shaun was soon after her, back to the door and his historical archives and whatever else a Shaun Hastings did in the wild. Desmond was alone with his father as they began taking the bought food and carting it down to the cave. Desmond was tired; he'd been up over twenty-four hours planning for the mission and he was looking forward to collapsing in his sleeping bag. He saw Juno's ghost, high up at a station, and he suddenly found himself remembering Lucy.
Lucy...
All the things Juno showed him had flooded his mind; her betraying them, but also trying to show them kindness, trying to stay true to herself even as the her world fell apart around her. She wanted to have it both ways, to have the Assassins and Templars work together. Could it even work? Had it even been done?
"Have..." he started to say but stopped. He glanced at William, his father giving him a measured look. "Have we ever tried to make peace with the Templars?"
He shrugged in response. "Throughout our history, there have been moments. Several, in fact. But. It's impossible. There are existential differences. Insurmountable. If there were to be unity, it wouldn't be a truce so much as a submission."
"But knowing what's about to happen... Wouldn't it make sense to try and talk to Vidic? Come to an arrangement? Even if it's only temporary?" Abstergo had so much power at their fingertips, to use it to prevent the solar flare, to keep the world safe. Nobody knew what was beyond that god-forsaken door, and Desmond sure as hell didn't trust Juno for it to be completely good. Her contempt for humanity, for Desmond himself, was too strong not to.
"We'd all be so busy watching our backs," William replied. "Nothing would be accomplished. Imagine that, we're more productive at war than at peace. Sad, isn't it."
"Well, have we tried... sending in someone? Doing to them what they did to us with Lucy? Or Cross?"
William shook his head. "We have. And it's never worked. We either sent in people who were either too weak, and found themselves turned – or too strong, and were unable to carry out the charade. The Templar philosophy is very seductive, it's just so easy to say that people are beneath you, to think you're special, elevated, destined to take care of them. It's easy to submit to someone else's rule, someone else's orders. Those that can resist it, however, resist on every level imaginable. It seems there is no middle ground."
It hurt to think that way, to just write off the Templars wholesale. He'd seen Lucy's intentions, her gamble to play both sides, the guilt she felt in what she did. And, dick though he was, he saw that Haytham was a Templar only because he wanted to take care of people, to guide them as he had been as a child. His intentions were good. He, Lucy, Abstergo, they all wanted peace. Even Vidic said as much during his captivity. The Assassins wanted it too. "I just feel like we all want the same thing."
Another shake of the head. "We use the same words," William said, "but that's all they are: words. In the end, it all comes down to freedom. We seek it. They detest it. And so there's never an end to the fight. Not until one side is completely gone."
But... "Is that even possible?"
"Probably not," William replied. "Our two groups have existed in one form or another since, well, forever. If we could have gotten along, we would have by now. This war is eternal. But," he added, seeing the look on Desmond's face, "things can be better than they are. And that's something."
So fatalistic. So pessimistic. It wasn't like William didn't understand it, especially now, but how could a guy live with that kind of attitude? How could anyone live believing the worst at all times, see only doom and gloom wherever he went. Always as a child, it was: "If they find us, we're dead. There's no hope." "If you fail here, imagine what the consequences would be if this were a real mission. You'd be dead, and we would fail." "You can't afford to slack around, the stakes are too high, get your shit together." "Don't just assume someone will come around and rescue you. You have to assume you're dead to rights, that no one is coming, because they probably aren't." Desmond had always thought that was because William was such a self-serving prick he'd never bother sending a rescue mission. It was why he had been so shocked to hear the rescue mission at Abstergo, and felt sick to hear it fail so badly. Had William done that? Sacrificed so much to save him? Or was it someone else's order, because William was too busy to spare a thought for his son? Jesus, what did the old man even think when Desmond ran away? Did he just assume Desmond gone, compromised, dead? Did he...?
"Did you look for me, Dad? When I was gone?"
"Every day." Utter conviction, clarity in his voice. Desmond couldn't believe it, stared incredulously at his father as they put the food in the coolers. William caught the glance. "I mean it," he added. "Every night I'd look. Searching for your name – or variations of it – hoping you'd slip up. Abstergo only found you first because they had better access. A few more days and it would have been me."
That... That...
Desmond smiled.
"Well, I'm here now," he said softly.
"And I'm glad," William responded, nodding.
The rest of the day was spent settling back in. Desmond didn't want to go in the Animus right away and instead caught up on his sleep, dreams filled with Lucy and Juno and the events that lead to her death. Memories of Altair and Maria on Cyprus, Ezio and Sofia, Haytham and Ziio, all lumped together into a tumbled mess, and he awoke in the evening, Rebecca sleeping next to him in her own bag, Shaun nowhere to be seen and William puttering around on a computer. God, did the man ever sleep?
Desmond got up slowly, stretching and stumbling over to the butane cooker.
Coffee. He needed coffee.
Maybe some exercise after that.
William joined him soon after, hoping to get his own cup. He looked at his father, realizing they were talking more now in the last day than they ever did when he was a kid. Pressure of saving the world? Or were they finally connecting for real? Desmond almost didn't want to push his luck, he was happy to learn that his father actually did love him, missed him even, wanted to look out for him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to press further. Knowing those things and resolving the bitterness and resentment were two different beasts, and he didn't want the latter to overcome the former again. Still, he wanted to try. The need to be closer was pressing on him. He tried a softer topic first.
"Do you think Lucy regretted what she was doing?"
William looked up. Apparently he was surprised at their extended conversations as well. He poured his coffee. "I used to think I knew her well, but clearly, that wasn't the case. So I can't give you an honest answer."
Not what he was hoping for. "She seemed so sincere, though," Desmond said. "Like she really wanted to make a difference." The things he saw...
"Yes, well," William said dismissively, "when I first met him, I thought the same thing about Cross."
… Yeah. It...
"It just keeps happening over and over again," Desmond muttered, sipping his coffee. So many things repeated. The more things change the more they stay the same – that didn't just apply to one lifetime, it applied to all of history. It all was one big cycle, one thing after the next and then back to the first. People betrayed people and learned the damage they wrought, others sought revenge over and over until they were either destroyed by it or learned to see beyond it, others desperately tried to protect what little they had to have it stripped away from them over and over. And people like Lucy tried to stay true to themselves and failed because they didn't want to take sides. Everyone had seen it, everyone had lived it, and everyone would do it again. Everything repeats.
"What does?" his father asked, eyes sharp.
"... Everything..."
William straightened. "Don't get weird on me, Desmond."
…? Did he think...? Oh...
"No," Desmond said quickly. "It's fine. I'm fine. Don't worry. I just... There's a lot in my head right now. Clay helped me sort through it, but... it's still a lot."
William said nothing, going back to his work. He glanced back at his son, though, and Desmond decided to take that as a good sign.
He drank his coffee slowly, absorbing this newer, slightly gentler, relationship with his dad. He was working on his second cup, considering an exercise routine to get his blood pumping before figuring out what to do for the day (re: how long he could put off going in the Animus), evening, whatever, when Shaun came in from somewhere, shaking Rebecca slightly to wake her up before joining Desmond for a cup of coffee. "Good morning all, happy to see us all up and about," he said with false cheer. "I've pushed in a new batch of entries focused on the Kanein'kehá:ka. In order to ensure accuracy, I actually turned to a friend on the outside, but don't worry! He thinks it's for a presentation, so we're in no danger of being discovered. I've also been researching that glass sphere that Connor-"
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Desmond corrected.
"-used for his spirit journey. It's clearly first civilization in origin, it appears to function as some sort of temporal calculator. It's essentially a crystal ball – but one that actually works; can't be coincidental, all things considered. Which begs the question: are there others out there? I've put the question to the other teams, they have better access to research at this point, seeing as how we're all living like third world refugees at this rate. I've also been doing some digging on Haytham's blades. Still not a hundred percent sure where they came from. My initial instinct was he started out as an Assassin – his father was one, in fact. But it appears dear old Haytham was a Templar from pretty early on. Maybe he took the hidden blades from someone, it's happened before. Anyway, I'd suggest you go see about finding a socket for that power source," he said brightly. "Or we can return to Connor if you prefer. All the artifacts in the world won't mean a thing without the key."
"I vote the power source," Desmond said, looking up. Shaun and eventually Rebecca followed his gaze up to the station where Juno's ghost was. "You see her, right?"
"Yes."
"And that would be an understatement," Shaun said, his tone saying everything. "She's apparently figured out how to communicate with the computers. Got a few messages of gobbledygook until she finally managed a 'Hello World' program. She rather doesn't like us keeping you from your work. Here, see what she's just sent me."
Shaun turned over his touchpad to a laptop, and both Desmond and Rebecca could see the message displayed.
YOU SHOULD NOT MEDDLE IN AFFAIRS THAT DO NOT CONCERN YOU.
"Looks like Juno's really taken a shine to you," Shaun continued. "I suggest you don't engage her. There isn't time to go down that rabbit hole; it's sure to prove a badger's den, besides. This whole experience is, actually. That final door; salvation, was it? But for us? Who knows. Here we sit – working towards something we know next to nothing about, but it's our only chance. There's that, I suppose."
"Then we better get going," Desmond said. "Let's power that station up."
Left of their campsite at the back of the temple were a wounded set of stairs, and Desmond climbed them hoping they led to the station. He felt not small amount of trepidation over powering this place up. If Juno was as intent as her email (Christ, she was sending email? How fucked up was that?) was any indication then he couldn't completely trust what was behind that door. Shaun had it right: salvation, but for who? Desmond was becoming more and more convinced that it wasn't for them, not for humanity. But, having said that, he couldn't imagine how anything in this temple benefited the First Civilization. They were all dead. What good could come of whatever Juno had planned? What was beyond the door?
Beyond the stairs was a two-level room. A contraption of some kind in the middle, lit up from the first power source. A generator? An experiment? A food vendor? He started to approach it but was stopped by a voice.
"In the beginning," Desmond startled, jerking around to see Juno's translucent form, "when we thought we could be saved, we sought to face the sun's wrath and contain it." Her hologram or whatever moved to the contraption Desmond was heading for, an orange hologram of nebulous energy, the solar flare of doom, filled the cavernous room. "Four towers would be built," she said, holograms illustrating her point blinking to life. The solar flares' energies pushed against the towers, but could not get past them, demonstrating their ability. "To pull her fury into this place and dispel it. But even with all we knew, with all we had, it would take too long. A thousand years we could labor and still the work would not be done." The four towers disappeared to just one, half complete, much like the Freedom Tower he had just climbed. "The first tower was never completed, the project abandoned," Juno explained, looking at Desmond. "We moved on. But while we labored on other endeavors, a few returned. They thought to automate the process. Metal might finish what flesh could not." She turned away and disappeared. Desmond blinked, the hologram over – the program complete. Or was it just a hologram? He bit his lip and pressed on. Attached to him indeed...
"Did anybody see that?" he asked through his earpiece. "Is my camera on?"
"Yeah, hell of a sight," Shaun said. "Like bad tele."
At the far end of the room were more stairs; he ascended, but the landing ended abruptly, time pulling it back down to the lower level. Sighing, Desmond leapt out over the edge of the landing, to a futuristic crossbeam of some kind. He could feel energy humming inside it, and he tread very carefully across it, around the artifact from below, and then up to a higher level. Beyond he saw the station, and he started to walk towards it, only to be interrupted again.
"If we could not meet the sun's cruel embrace, perhaps we might rebuke it. Already we could generate the fields – to protect us in times of strife." Juno was there again, walking passed Desmond before turning to him, looking him in the eye. A bracelet-like hologram appeared, followed by a man in First Civ clothes wearing it as he fired a weapon, demonstrating the field she was talking about. "But these were small and simple things. To replicate them on a scale the size of a world..." The planet appeared again, blue light protecting it, but disappearing. "We lacked the energy to make it so. Half the world, they said, then. It is better than none at all. We tried. Again, we failed. A quarter, they asked. Even this, we could not do. A sixth! An eighth! A tenth, they cried!" her voice rising with the desperation of the people, before the dull recitation continued. "The answer was still the same. Perhaps in time, a city might be spared. But it was time we did not have. So we moved on."
The program ended, the ghost disappeared, and Desmond was left wondering what Juno was trying to tell him. She wasn't the type for a history lesson, so what was she getting at?
He moved to the station, pushing the power source in and watching dimly as more of the temple powered up, a bridge beginning to form beyond the door and another station lighting up. He felt uncomfortable, looking at the future. He hated being this woman's pawn; he hated not knowing just what they were opening.
He moved back down to the camp, trying to puzzle through his questions. Shaun wasn't at the other end of the earpiece anymore, meaning he was likely off informing William of Juno's personal visits. He didn't relish the idea of talking about that. He didn't relish any of this, the deadline, the stakes, the door, the possibilities, any of it.
Rebecca was there, by herself, staring off at nothing until she caught sight of him. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair even messier than normal. Had she even slept?
"... Was it weird seeing Cross?" she asked, her voice rough. Not from yelling or singing, Desmond thought, perhaps from crying. She hadn't been the same since Lucy. None of them had, really, but unlike the rest of them she didn't try to hide it.
"What do you mean?" he asked, sitting next to her. She looked at him in confusion for a brief moment before her eyes widened in realization.
"Oh. It's different for you," she said. "You don't know what happened, I guess." She stared off at nothing again, thoughts far away. After a long pause, she continued. "For a long time he was... important to us. He was a different person."
"Shaun said he was a sleeper agent," Desmond said gently. "Like Lucy."
Rebecca shook her head, hunching forward. "It was different," she said. "She made a choice. But Cross... If you read the files, Abstergo just..." her voice broke off, eyes staring at something hard. Desmond realized she was shaking slightly, her breath coming out in short puffs. "They did terrible things to him..." her voice was barely audible. Desmond worried that she might have a panic attack, and he put a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her attention.
"Rebecca?"
She looked at him, her eyes watery and haunted. "You're lucky," she said, eyes flicking to William. "We all are. We have people who care about us. Who look out for us. He was all alone – and the people he thought he could trust, they used him."
"... Did you know him?" he asked, keeping his voice soft, gentle. He would never have described her as fragile, Rebecca; she was always rocking or hacking or smiling, the perpetual sunflower of the team in stark contrast to Shaun's sarcasm and Lucy's determination. Now, though, with the smile wiped away, Desmond realized she had been through as much as he had. Even more. He didn't need to guess how fucked up she was inside. He was, too. They all were.
"No..." she said finally. She looked away. "But... I knew Hannah."
"Who's that?"
"She tried to help him," she said. "She trusted him. But there was a raid about a year ago... She stayed behind so the others could escape. Tried to reason with him. To see if she could fix things..." she trailed off again, eyes lost in memory.
Desmond swallowed, realizing Lucy wasn't the only person Rebecca had lost in this war. He remembered her contrite joke about offing her boyfriend, the stern lecture he got afterward about how hard it was to kill. How much did she speak from experience? How much did she live? He was almost afraid to ask, but...
"What happened?"
Her face turned into something ugly, painful, she gave a furious glare to Desmond, voice rising. "What do you think happened?" she demanded. "He killed her. That's what he does. That's all he knows how to do. Sometimes, it seems that's all any of us know how to do!"
"Rebecca..."
"I just want to be alone right now," she said, her voice breaking as she stood and walked away, back to the van on some pretext.
"Any luck?"
Desmond looked to see Shaun again, eyes following Rebecca up the steep slope until she disappeared.
"... No."
"I don't know how much more of this she can take."
Desmond sighed. "How much any of us can take," he corrected. "It doesn't help that you use sarcasm as a defense mechanism. She doesn't respond well to it, you know. The last thing she needs is confrontation from outside as well as inside."
Shaun said nothing for a long, long time, before closing his eyes and turning away.
"Shaun..."
"Later Desmond," he replied quickly, walking away and waving a hand. "I'm in the middle of something very important right now. Just... rule. That's a rule. Just follow that as a rule."
Desmond cursed. Could he help anyone?
By evening everyone had weakly come back together. Desmond thought it ironic that he was closer to his father in this moment than he was with either Shaun or Rebecca. He gave both of them meaningful looks, trying to convey everything he wanted to say, but sighed and got back in the Animus, waiting for it to power up. William sat by the station to monitor.
Almost a year later and Connor still couldn't quite believe how much he had learned in such a short time. The white man's culture was complex, and his behavior often strange, but still Achilles pounded books into his head so that he might learn and understand. When Ratonhnhaké:ton commented that culture for the Kanieke'há:ka was so much simpler, the Old Man simply swatted him on the head, saying it was only easier because Ratonhnhaké:ton had lived it all his life.
The physical lessons seemed to become more and more grueling every week, but Connor welcomed each challenge and took pride in every accomplishment, as it brought him closer and closer to reaching the decades of practice that his father had.
The decades of practice that Charles Lee had.
With Godfrey and Terry's wives, Catherine and Dianna, also came five children. Godfrey and Catherine had the two oldest, a pair of boys only a year apart who were soon sent to Boston. The oldest, Brodie, was the first, leaving only a month after arrival, to work as a shipman. The other, Keith, had left two months prior to apprentice with a mason. Terry and Diana's children were all under ten, one boy and two girls.
Lance was already having the boy, Logan, over showing an interest in wood and Lance was wondering with Terry if he had an apprentice coming in a few years to learn under his other apprentice that he had called up from Boston, a young orphan named Christopher.
But that was the future.
For the moment, Godfrey and Catherine had invited everyone to dinner. Achilles had declined, the change in weather bothering his leg too much for the long trek down the hill and back. Connor did not think the injury was hurting given that Achilles walked the same as he always did, but the Old Man did enjoy his peace and quiet. Connor had almost declined, but Achilles had given him a look, and Connor knew this would be more practice in the culture of the settler.
Dinner had been enjoyable, and conversation lively. Diana had disappeared to tend to the children and Catherine had disappeared to start handling the dishes. At the moment, Terry his eyes a little bleary from the alcohol, asked Lance why he'd left Boston.
"Surely there's more work for you in the city that out here?"
Lance got an energized gleam in his eyes. "Why? Why? Because of the damned British!"
Godfrey and Terry both looked confused. "Did ya break the law?" Godfrey asked, eyes wide.
"No!" Lance growled. "The British are walking all over our constitutional rights and damn proud of it!"
"I do not understand," Connor replied.
Lance let out a long sigh. "This is the problem. This is why people don't realize they're losing their liberties one by one! The only ones who can see what's going on are in the cities and the surrounding towns. The further away you are from such a hub of information, the more likely you are to accept being treated worse and worse."
Godfrey chuckled. "Ye'd best be explainin' to we bumpkins."
"Where to even start, Lance leaned back. "I guess it starts with the French and Indian War."
Connor blinked, remembering the stories he'd heard growing up. "Ah, my mother fought in that war."
"Your mother?!" the Scotsmen chorused.
But Lance would not be deterred. "It was expensive and dear old King George decided we should pay for it."
"Well of course," Terry answered. "It was fought here as well as Europe. Naturally ye'd have ta pay."
Lance shook his head. "No, we didn't by law."
"But he's the king. He can do whatever he wants."
"No he can't," Lance yelled. He took a breath. "Look, many of the colonies have charters, constitutions, dating back before this current set up of Parliament. One of the necessary things for our charters was self-governance, since it takes upwards of three months to send word and get a reply."
"Yes," Connor nodded. "Achilles has been explaining this history. A governor is appointed to administer the needs..."
"And state assemblies set up laws, taxes, and all the administration," Lance continued. "But after the war, England was facing bankruptcy. So without talking to the assemblies that write all the taxes, that collect all the taxes and who knew the economics of each colony, dear old King George and his Parliament ignored all that and introduced the Sugar Act back in '64."
Terry scoffed. "Only you city folk need that sweet stuff. We brew our own."
Godfrey slapped Terry on the head.
All of them chuckled.
"Now I didn't pay much attention back then," Lance admitted. "Too busy with my craft and getting by. But Sam Adams saw that the colonies were expected to pay, though we had no say."
"But we've never had a say in taxes," Godfrey interjected. "Even back when Scotland was its own kingdom, common folk never had a say."
Lance let out a sigh of patience. "That's not the case here and hasn't been in over a hundred years. Every city, every town elects their assemblymen. By choosing who represents them, the people have a say. And if the assemblyman doesn't preform like the people he represents want, they can vote for a different assemblyman."
Connor nodded. "Discussion and choosing who represents you is important. For the Haudenosaunee, the five tribes meet and debate until an answer is found. Those who go for such a council are the chiefs chosen by the clan mothers, and the clan mothers represent the clan."
"Yes!" Lance agreed. "It's about having a say. But in comes King George ignoring all that and expecting us to comply like children because father said so!
"But most people didn't see the damage," Lance continued. "The Sons of Liberty started to form-"
"Bunch of troublemakers from what I've heard," Terry grumbled.
Lance had too much momentum to stop. "But then came the Stamp Act in '65. Everyone was angry then!"
"For stamps?" Terry asked incredulously.
"It wasn't just stamps but for paper goods," Connor interjected, remembering what Achilles had been teaching him.
"And everyone uses paper goods!" Lance said, full of energy. "News sheets, order forms, ledgers, books, letters, money, petitions, anything that needed paper had to have approved paper with a stamp that was more expensive!"
That got Godfrey upset. "Letters?! They're expensive enough to send home and it woulda cost more?!"
Lance nodded swiftly. "Exactly! I joined with the Sons of Liberty then. Had great fun tarring and feathering a few officials, though Sam Adams didn't approve. He organized boycotts and petitions." Lance leaned back with a gleam in the eye. "Watching Sam Adams speak is a wonder to behold. His father is a preacher and you can hear it in him."
"Achilles mentioned there was unpleasantness as a result of this," Connor said.
"Oh yes," Lance said. "Riots. Violent, ugly riots. Word came that there were riots in all the colonies when they realized how expensive it would be."
"No doubt we'd be part of a scrap like that," Godfrey said to Terry, both wearing identical grins.
Lance shuddered. "I didn't mind some humiliation, but those riots were..." he shuddered again. "Sam Adams kept arguing peaceful protest, not mobs. He kept organizing. The stamp distributor, who came to start giving stamps to 'authorize' the paper to be sold, had his effigy hung from Liberty Tree. Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson's house was ransacked, but come November, the Stamp Act took effect.
"But," Lance sat back in satisfaction, "we won! The Stamp Act was repealed. So if the colonies talk loud enough and in one voice, the king will listen. Things finally settled down."
Everyone at the table was grinning.
"Pity it didn't last," Lance sighed, his emotions dropping from energetic highs to despair. "In '67 old King George did the same thing. Once again ignoring the assemblies that have been doing their own taxing for a century. The Townshend Acts taxed all our imports. And this time they added a Customs Agency to enforce it, without our say!"
Godfrey and Terry grumbled about this. "But they just repealed the Stamp Act, and then they did it again? Didn't they learn?"
Lance nodded enthusiastically. "Massachusetts circulated a petition to protest this, but then the damn Londoners told the colonial governors that if their assemblies so much as thought of signing the petition, to dissolve the assemblies! Massachusetts was told to rescind the letter! Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, all were organizing boycotts over the Townshend acts, the Customs Board couldn't enforce anything, so they called for military aide! Warships arrived in Boston and started to forcibly recruit local ships into their tenure." Lance truly had momentum, was sitting at the edge of his seat as he explained the fear and horror of what was going on in Boston as people realized things were escalating because the King wouldn't do what he'd done before and just back down from such a stupid tax.
"The colonies have a lot that Europe demands," Lance looked to the lumberjacks. "We have trees like they don't have in Europe, hundreds of years old and tall enough to reach the sun." Both nodded. "We naturally have all sorts of ship building here. We have furs in high demand, but the colonies don't have enough to support ourselves. We need to buy tea from the Dutch or the English, clothes from the French, the list goes on and on. Paper was one thing, but taxing imported goods would make people like myself, people who make enough to get by and save enough for maybe a luxury here and there, drop into poverty. It was ridiculous! The only way I stayed afloat with my apprentices was the demand to buy American, but I had to buy my tools from the British, clothes for apprentices who grew a foot a day from the French!
"The Assembly didn't rescind the letter because we have a right to petition! And our dear governor dissolved the Assembly, not that it did anything. The Assembly kept meeting." Lance was smiling with pride. "The Assembly even met with Assemblies from one hundred towns across Massachusetts to decide what to do with all this... idiocy! They put forth a letter explaining that Boston wasn't lawless, that sending soldiers wasn't necessary, and that it went against our charter, constitutional rights!"
Lance sat back heavily. "But it did no good. Regardless, the soldiers arrived that fall. My conservative Tory neighbors had no problem pointing out that my shop was available to billet troops and I was kicked out. I've been wandering Massachusetts looking for a place to set up shop till I finally settled here."
"You have endured much," Connor said. "It sounds as though many have endured much."
Lance nodded.
"And to think," Godfrey gave an ironic laugh, "we used to worry about food back in Scotland. If there be enough after the Lords took what they needed. Here, people worry about rights. What an amazing colony."
As the air started to cool, Connor brought Catherine and Diane up to the house to show them the Three Sisters, corn, beans, and squash, asking if they could harvest it as well as their own small fields, for Achilles.
"Of course we'll help," Catherine said, puzzled. "But where will you be?"
"I have not seen my people in three years. I will visit and return before the snows arrive."
Achilles, who had been pushing Connor for so long, acknowledged that a small break might be necessary. "But you must be back before the end of November."
Connor nodded. The quiet year had given Faulkner much time to travel and trade up and down the coastline of the colonies. He often came home with loud, highly exaggerated tales, like protecting a merchant ship the Henderson from privateers off of Virginia, finding a different set of privateers hiding about a lighthouse down in the Carolinas, or hunting down the Saint James, a British privateer who had no qualms about what flag a ship carried up near Nova Scotia. But with all of Faulkner's travels, came a hefty chunk of money to help restore the property as well as pay his sailors who were building small shacks by the rocky beach for when they docked. With the proper funding, Connor had traveled to nearby Salem and found a good horse to use for himself, as opposed to the nag who had certainly seen better days.
Riding had initially not been one of Connor's strong points. Out in the thick forests around his village it was too easy for a horse to slip on loose rock or stumble with the steep mountains. It was easier to walk and some tree groves were so thick a horse would not be able to maneuver through them. But once Connor understood how fast a horse could go he applied himself to learning with greater purpose. He was sixteen now, and Achilles was showing more and more confidence in sending him away from the homestead in order to handle things. With the money that Faulkner brought in, many of the smaller repairs of structure or that required a woodworker, could be done. Unfortunately, they still didn't have the money for plaster, or much of the iron or smithing that was needed, nor were there any craftsmen nearby who could handle that type of work. Still, progress was progress.
His horse, a black mare, powered down the roads through Massachusetts, happy to have the exercise and Ratonhnhaké:ton was thrilled at how much shorter the distance seemed to be with such a powerful animal underneath him. He made excellent time getting to his valley, far faster than he had initially anticipated, and he rode down to his village.
Many of the village turned, surprised to see a newcomer, until he pushed back his hood and displayed his face.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" called out many greetings, and people came out of the longhouses to say hello to their tribesman.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" a familiar voice shouted out in joy. "I am glad for your visit."
"Kanen'tó:kon!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton leapt of his horse to hug his friend. Kanen'tó:kon was taller than last Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen him. Indeed, he wasn't quite so chubby either. Already he was wearing beaded ornaments to indicate his status and what he had learned since last Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen him, and more turkey feathers in his hair.
Ratonhnhaké:ton hugged his dear friend again. "Ah, it has been too long!"
"It has! Are you here to stay?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "No. A brief visit is truly all I have. My teacher and mentor wishes me back before the end of November."
Kanen'tó:kon laughed. "Oh, so you follow the white man's calendar now?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton laughed.
A celebration was soon arranged and Ratonhnhaké:ton was sitting with his people, full and happy. He turned to Kanen'tó:kon. "How are things?"
"A good year," Kanen'tó:kon replied, smiling. "Our harvest will be plentiful, our numbers swell, and the forest remains undisturbed."
The white man had not advanced since last Ratonhnhaké:ton was here. Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled. Iottsitíson was correct, he'd be on the right path.
"And how are you, brother?" Kanen'tó:kon asked.
Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't quite hold back a chuckle. "Kept busy by our enemies. I have learned much that will be necessary, but still more is ahead of me. But the more I learn, the more their power wanes. I am hopeful the land will be free of their influence soon." The way Achilles had been drilling him lately, he had better be ready soon to start hunting down the Templars.
Kanen'tó:kon smiled. "I have kept your place inside the longhouse. It will be there for you when you are ready to come home."
Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled back.
His visit lasted a week before they sent him off with well wishes and Ratonhnhaké:ton rode back, feeling rejuvenated in a way he hadn't expected. In the back of his head, Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if perhaps he should visit his village more often, but that was a selfish wish. The Templars, the atenenyarhu, needed to be defeated first before he could take time for himself. Already, on the ride back, he was pondering what Achilles's next methods of training would be and anticipating how to defeat it.
Cresting the next hill, Ratonhnhaké:ton was surprised to hear a shrill scream, and immediately kicked the flanks of his horse.
Further down the road, a wagon was being overturned, a black couple sprawled on the ground as a result.
"Animals!" the black man shouted. "Stop!"
The accent was unfamiliar to Ratonhnhaké:ton, but that did not matter, he charged forward.
"Take what you deserve, thief!" one of the three white brutes shouted.
"Please!" the woman screamed, "Stop!"
"Shut that darky whore up," another of the white Stone Coats grunted.
The third demon saw Connor's approach but barely had time to react before Connor leapt off the horse and instinctually pulled out his tamahaac, slamming it into the man's head brutally and letting blood fly.
"What the bloody-"
The Stone Coat holding the woman didn't get any further as Connor surged forward, tackling him down and again applying the tamahaac, crushing in the atenenyarhu's face. The third was wielding some sort of cudgel on the black man, who was on the ground with his arms in front of his face defensively, leaving his torso to be abused. With a fierce growl, Connor leapt, once more smashing his tamahaac into a man's head.
The man and woman were still terrified, the woman crying and rushing over to her husband to cradle him. Connor stood stoic, giving them time to gather themselves, and inspected the wagon. It seemed undamaged, but the horse that had been pulling it, a bony thing even older than Achilles' nag, had broken a leg when the cart had been overturned. Connor let out a soft sigh, cradling the horse's head. "Niá:wen," he said quietly, and pulled out a knife and slit its neck to let it die as peacefully as possible. Tied behind the cart was a young cow that was pulling and yanking at the rope, trying to get away from the violence. Connor did not know much of cows, as they were not a part of his village, nor the homestead, but he approached as he would a skittish horse, which he did have at least a little experience with.
"Hush now," he said softly, gently patting the white forehead. "The violence is done. No harm will come to you."
The cow didn't exactly settle, but it did start to calm down slowly. By the cart, the black couple also seemed to have settled. Connor walked over cautiously, keeping his hands visible, and sat down at distance so that the pair did not feel crowded. "What happened?" he asked softly.
The woman, tears still flowing down her face, explained. "We were going to a new town to buy some farmland when they claimed us to be cattle thieves. Warren denied them and they attacked us."
The man, Warren, reached up to his wife's face gently, despite the great pain he seemed to be in. "We thank you, stranger, for the kindness, but we have nothing left, to offer."
Connor shook his head. "If a person sees brutality and does nothing, than how can he claim to be a person?" he replied. "I live in a community not far from here. You may heal there, if you wish."
"What kindness is this?" the woman asked, tears once more filling her eyes, though this time for a different reason. "Thank you. We owe you so much."
Author's Notes: and now we have a couple of new homesteaders: Warren and Prudence. Note that once again Connor assumed the bigots were just Stone Coat demons to be slayed. It's worth mentioning that the land they were set to buy was most likely a scam, because back in the day it was illegal for African Americans to own land. We noticeably tiptoe around the fact that the homestead land is Achilles'. We had a thin veil of logic but it was just never gotten into. Also, Ratonhnhake:ton visits home - and every time he does it reflects how much has changed - in himself and in the world around him. For now, he's still young, and so only small changes. Next tiem... well, we'll get there :P
Honestly though there isn't much to say because the majority of this chapter is about Desmond. Because of how much happens in the later Desmond segments we "fix" his relationship with his father a little fast here. In the game it's supposed to mirror the arch with Connor and Haytham, but there was no way to squeeze it all in, and so most of the conversations happen here. Also note Rebecca. She's not having a good time of this, and it just goes downhill. And also note - Desmond is now officially a badass because he scaled the FREEDOM TOWER on his own. No more milling around in a room unable to interact with anything. No more dreaming of past ancestors, no more running pointlessly around Monteriggioni. No, he is a baby assassin no longer, and it was one of the most fun sequences to write.
Next chapter: more homestead misadventures, Kanen'to:kon, Boston, and a certain party that's famous in history.