Part Seventeen: Daniel Cross
The flights they took seemed to take forever and were roundabout. Granted, that was the point, but that didn't change the fact that it was exhausting. It was on their third change over, flying from Lima to Rio de Janerio, that Desmond decided he was sick of the travel. A direct flight would have taken less time and there were ways to hide in airports and then through the city and country. Flying, felt strangely unnatural to Desmond and even though he knew it was the safest mode of travel, he still couldn't quite bring himself to trust it. Perhaps it was because he'd been on so few flights. He certainly hadn't ever been on a plane growing up on the Farm, and traveling across the country to New York had been hitchhiking or by foot. Ending up in Italy he'd been unconscious, and the same for the flight back to the U.S. Actually, upon reflection, this was probably the first flight Desmond would actually remember being on.
How strange.
And there were all the memories of his ancestors. They were safely locked away behind partitions, but the most vivid, those of Altair, Ezio, Haytham, and Connor, were all before flight was even an idea in most people's minds. All four of them would have been leery of flying in a giant metal bird. But Desmond kept those behind the partitions, and knew that most of his anxiety was that he'd never flown before.
And if all the craziness of catching connectors and being bumped was any indication, Desmond didn't think he'd get used to flying any time soon.
He was sitting with Shaun on this flight, determined to remain awake and aware to make up for the flights he'd been unconscious for. He'd sleep on the long ride from Rio to São Paulo. Shaun was still typing at his laptop, grumbling on just how little room he had and how he'd start swearing if the person in front of him even dared to lean his seat back. Desmond didn't complain, as he had the aisle seat and could at least stick his long legs out into the aisle instead of how scrunched up Shaun was. William was further cramped against the window, but snoozing peacefully like flights were not an issue.
Bastard.
Shaun was still scowling at his laptop. Finally he leaned over and whispered, "All these Juno visits, and emails too, apparently, have got me thinking..."
Desmond raised a brow.
"What happened to Tinia and Minerva? They're the ones who invited us to this little Apocalypse party and now they've gone and buggered off. A little inconvenient... not to mention rude."
But it was a good point. "And why has Juno been the only one contacting us? Why is she there and not one of the others?" Desmond added. Juno hadn't even mentioned Minerva or Tinia. Minerva had mentioned both and Tinia had mentioned Minerva. Why the exclusion of Juno?
"I hadn't thought of that," Shaun replied. "I'll try and poke around later once we're back. See if there's not some sign of what happened to them..."
"Just be careful."
Shaun offered his usual sarcastic, yet cheerful smile. "Always am."
Desmond rolled his eyes.
Arriving at Rio was uneventful, and once they rented a van (and Desmond stopped off at a clothing store to get a cooler hoodie), came the long drive down the coast to São Paulo. After almost twenty hours of flying, Desmond happily slept the drive away in the back, letting the others worry about Abstergo, routes, and cover.
He awoke only when William shook him awake at the room in the cortiço they'd be staying at in the Bom Retiro district, and Desmond slept for another four hours once they were settled in. He woke up again the following morning, and finally felt rested. He stretched, exercised, took a shower, and eagerly came down for breakfast at a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street.
São Paulo was, by far, the largest city in all Brazil, and the largest city in both Americas, and second only to Mexico City as the most populous, with New York eking out a close third. The marks of such size were clear in the skyscrapers that could be easily at home in New York, Tokyo, and any other financial powerhouse in the world. Built on a plateau of the Brazilian Highlands, the city was humid subtropical and well on its way to the summer rainy season. It was a constant drizzle as Desmond walked down the street, and he was oddly disappointed with the ethnicity he saw around him.
Being in South America, Desmond had been expecting to see a lot of people of Hispanic or Native American or mixed descent. After all, Spain and Portugal both had claimed wide swaths of the continent and had centuries of intermarriage that England and France didn't care for up in North America. While Desmond knew he had many nationalities within his heritage, even more that he hadn't visited yet beyond his partitions, he still looked white on the outside. He was, in a small way, looking forward to being a minority. But it seemed that by being such a global city, São Paulo was also a majority of white people. Desmond sighed.
Portuguese was everywhere he listened, but he was surprised to hear a fair amount of Italian as well, particularly in the accent of Portuguese. Sitting in the restaurant, Desmond closed his eyes and retreated to that island he'd been on for so long in the recesses of his mind and looked up to the partitioned sky. If he was going to be wandering around Brazil, he needed to understand what was being said around him. So he started sifting through partitions, seeing if any of his ancestors knew the language, or at least enough for him to get the basics. Two generations back from Connor, Edward Kenway had a passing understanding from sailing the Caribbean, and with that basis Desmond shifted through more partitions, seeking ancestors that had the understanding. Altair was oddly helpful, having studied so many languages of Latin descent and being able to figure out the roots and what was being spoken. An hour later, Desmond finished sipping his coffee and was pleased to note that he could understand what was being said around him.
He couldn't quite bite back a smile at his success of controlling the Bleeding Effect so thoroughly.
He returned to the cortiço, and sat in the tiny kitchen where Rebecca was blearily trying to figure out where the coffee was. He provided a cup.
"'re the best," she grumbled, collapsing into a chair and sipping the godly drink. Shaun was already up and at the computer, researching something, and William was nowhere to be seen.
"We ready?" he asked, once Rebecca had enough time with her coffee to wake up.
"Almost," Shaun replied. "We'll be thieving away this evening, so today is about research and rest, so that we can leave once we're done."
"Where's my dad?"
"Scouting, of course," Rebecca replied, awake enough to finally start eating breakfast. "According to our intel, the power source is being worn as a bracelet by some tycoon's trophy wife."
Desmond looked to Rebecca, her serious face and sparkling eyes, then burst out laughing. "Really? Really? Those cubes are bigger than my fist! No way is it some bracelet unless it's part Transformer!" Desmond continued to laugh. "Imagine that! A Decepticon hiding as a bracelet, oh the humiliation!"
Rebecca was quickly laughing as well and Shaun remained deadpan. "I'd have never thought you'd even seen television as a child, let alone those damnable cartoons of the eighties!"
"Hey!" Rebecca barked, "the eighties were magical! And don't you dare get started on My Little Pony!"
"We were all born in the eighties! We're too young to have seen their cartoons!"
"Reruns, Shaun. Reruns."
Desmond still laughed. "I ran away at sixteen. I knew I was pop-culture deprived and worked to at least catch up on references so that I didn't stick out. Even if I preferred the History Channel, doesn't mean I don't know the highlights of what I missed growing up."
Shaun simply rolled his eyes. "Next you'll all be dragging me to BronyCon."
"With cosplay," Desmond deadpanned. "I think you cosplaying as a pony would be perfect."
"Oh yeah!" Rebecca laughed. "He's bookish enough for Twilight Sparkle, but I think he might be better as Spike!"
Desmond turned to Rebecca. "We missed this year's BronyCon, how about next year?"
"A Pony convention? At least make it a Dr. Who convention!" Shaun snapped.
"No way," Desmond chuckled.
"You wanted the eighties, Shaun, you mentioned BronyCon, you clearly want to go," Rebecca said airily. "We wouldn't be good friends if we didn't support your innermost desire."
"Besides," Desmond smiled. "The first BronyCon was fun, to say nothing of the one last summer in Jersey."
They dissolved into laughter again.
It was an odd release, being able to laugh about cheesy eighties cartoons and teasing Shaun. It released all the pressure of the upcoming end of the world, at least for a little while. And it felt good to laugh. They'd had so little to laugh at recently, that it was refreshing and invigorating.
As Desmond finally wound down on laughing, he turned back to Rebecca. "So, not a bracelet."
The rocker giggled. "No, not a Decepticon bracelet."
They all chuckled again.
"But," Rebecca finally said seriously, "it is property of a local VIP, like back in New York. Guy runs a wrestling arena. Plans to give the power source to his trophy wife as an anniversary thing. With tonight being a big fight, he'll be distracted and it'll be the best chance to sneak in and take it."
"Wrestling? Here? Not soccer?"
"Football," Shaun corrected sourly. "Bloody Americans."
Desmond and Rebecca ignored him.
"Yes, wrestling," Rebecca replied. "You know other countries might be surprised that the good old U.S. has more than football and baseball. And basketball."
"That's assuming no one's seen the Olympics," Desmond countered. "We always field the biggest team and it's in just about everything, even if we suck at several of the events."
"Moving along," Shaun growled, rolling out a map of the arena, "his office is here, on the upper floors, but given that he's a VIP, it's one of the best secured. Only one lift, and it's run by security cards to even get to the floor."
"Like that will even be a problem," Desmond replied, looking at the catwalks and maintenance stairs.
"Still, we'll have to be careful. VIPs are always delicate about their belongings."
That evening, just as the sun was setting and they'd gone over all plans and contingencies, Desmond headed out to the Luz Station and took the metro. What was wonderful about being in the Bom Retiro district was the Luz Station, which connected with practically every line of the subway in the city. It was the Grand Central Station of the city. A few connections later and Desmond stepped out to the platform he wanted.
He reached up to rub his nose. "You there, Rebecca," he said softly.
"Bad r-cepti-n. Can yo- he-r me?"
"Well," Desmond muttered, "glad to see that's working. Guess I'll try you back when I'm topside."
Desmond ascended to the streets, remembering his ascent every morning in New York on his way to work. Looking around cautiously, he pulled his hoodie down a little lower, and started strolling.
"You copy now?" he asked softly.
"Loud and clear."
"I'll be at the arena in ten minutes."
"Great."
The early evening was cool and humid, and Desmond followed the crowd that was starting to form near the arena. Above were flashing posters and billboards about the epic fight about to happen between Luis Otavio Duris and Guilmere Venancio. Desmond had never heard of either of them, but he didn't ever follow sports beyond knowing what highlights were needed for his customers.
The lines at the ticket booth were long, and Desmond let the crowd pull him to one. "Now to find a ticket," he muttered, keeping his mission objectives in mind and small in scale so that this whole heist wouldn't seem insurmountable.
"We don't have time to play nice," Rebecca said, "steal someone else's."
Desmond stopped. "Bit of a dick move, don't you think?" Because even though Assassins always hovered in the gray area between good and bad, even though he was going to steal something, Desmond didn't think stealing a ticket that someone had worked hard to earn the money for was the right thing to do. Getting inside? Finding the power source? Stealing that? Yes, the right thing to do. But stealing from Joe Average? Not so much.
Rebecca faltered on the com. "Well, I guess you could try and sneak past security instead..."
"Much better option."
Desmond back tracked to a restroom he'd seen and slipped out the window. Rather than dropping to the ground, he instead climbed. He'd spent the entire day with the map of the building, and not just the layout but also the maintenance portions. It was a long climb, leaping from hand hold to hand hold, but he still made it to the top swiftly and without too much strain. It seemed all his time in the Animus really was improving his fitness.
"Okay, I'm on the roof," Desmond whispered. "I'll be inside momentarily." He found a roof access and pulled out the lockpicks he had from his backpack. Lockpicking had been a skill that he'd been exceptional at when growing up on the farm, better than Haytham, and Desmond had very little trouble getting in. He closed the door behind him and relocked it, so that nothing would be suspicious, and stealthily maneuvered through the hall and out onto the catwalks. Overlooking the entire stadium, Desmond squinted and looked around, trying to orient himself. Concentrating, and reaching to the back part of his mind that connected with eagles, he looked with his Eagle Vision, almost hearing an eagle screech and almost recognizing what breed of eagle. Looking around in his forensic like vision, he noted the distinct red glow of blood, and glanced below him.
The blood was on batons of security, who were bigger and thicker than most bouncers Desmond had met.
"That doesn't look like normal security..."
"Because it isn't," Rebecca sighed. "Those are Abstergo agents. Cross is probably here too. You need to be careful. We... don't want to lose you."
"I'm notoriously hard to kill," Desmond replied, trying not to think of Lucy and the aching loss.
He stuck to the catwalks and maintenance halls, but Desmond couldn't get to the VIP room by staying there. He casually walked out to wide upper hall and blending into the crowds, stopping to chat in Portuguese with some of the people, easily imitating an Italian accent.
"So who do you think will win?"
"Guilmerme Venancio, without a doubt."
"No way, Venancio doesn't have the spine to last that long!"
An Abstergo agent was behind Desmond, talking to everyone who came up the stairs. "Have you seen this man? Contact security immediately if you do. We're looking for this man. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately."
Desmond stayed in the crowds, chatting idly as they moved forward.
As the flow moved closer to the VIP area, security got thicker and the crowd got thinner.
"You're gonna have to find another way around. Security's too tight here."
"Ya think," Desmond muttered. Thankfully there was another restroom and it was easy to climb outside. This part of the building was almost butt up against the next, and Desmond wall crawled along, one arm and leg on one side, the other arm and leg on the other wall, building a good momentum until he was farther down and found another bathroom to slip into.
"Look, it just sort of happened. We didn't mean for it to. It just... did. I'm sorry," one man in the bathroom said.
"You're sorry? She's my sister, man! My fucking little sister!"
"We're in love. Okay. There. I said it. We're in love and we've been in love for a long time."
But the brother was still pissed off. "You're supposed to be my best friend and here you are banging my sister behind my back!"
"You should be happy for us. I'll take good care of her. You'll see."
"Go visit the bitch that gave birth to you!"
The two started to throw punches then, and Desmond snuck around them and burst out of the bathroom.
"Fight! Fight!" he shouted, pointing to the bathroom he'd exited. "Fight! Security!"
Abstergo agents and bouncers both came running to investigate, all focused on the bathroom as the two men who were throwing punches and engaged in their own wrestling match spilled out into the hall.
With everyone sufficiently distracted, Desmond slipped through the crowds to the now empty hall, and found the VIP suite unguarded.
"You're really close now," Rebecca almost whispered. "The power source should be in one of the rooms up here." There was a pause as Desmond eased forward. "Be careful."
Stepping lightly but looking like he still belonged, Desmond approached the wide windows that were of the VIP. But something was wrong. One of the lights was swinging. Overhead lights didn't swing. Not unless something hit them. Looking with his Eagle Vision, Desmond could already see the highlights of blood. Lots of blood. Bodies were on the ground. The VIP, his staff, and running towards the window was the trophy wife. Two shots from inside echoed, and the woman screamed as blood ejected from her front as she slammed against the window, already dead. Desmond stepped back, eyes narrowing, calculations and theories flashing through his mind, the dominant one being Cross!
Sure enough, the blond was in the room, stuffing the large power source into a fannypack of all things, likely to keep his hands free.
The sleeper agent saw Desmond, and raised his gun, but Desmond was already rushing forward and ducking under the window as it blew out above him. Cross leapt over the wall, through the shattered fragments, and took off down the hall, throwing his gun aside. The crowd behind him, who had been watching the fight from the bathroom, turned, startled, and the crowd ahead, who had turned at the gunshots, screamed and started to run.
"Jesus Christ!" Cross shouted in English. "Stop screaming! Shut up! Shut up!"
Desmond took off in an instant, Rebecca already yelling in his ear. "Hurry Desmond! If he gets away with the artifact, we're screwed! You can't let that happen!"
"Already on it!" he shouted back. With everyone screaming and running, it was hard to keep track of anything, but Desmond's forensic Eagle Vision had no problem following the blowing blood trail of Cross and the blood of all those people that were on his clothes. God how many were there? A half dozen? No time to think about that.
Naturally, to make life more interesting, the Abstergo check points were trying to maintain crowd control and shelter Cross's escape. Crowd control was a bitch, however, and Desmond was able to sneak past the first checkpoint easily. The second was harder because Abstergo was getting more organized, and Desmond ended up taking down one of the agents in one smooth motion as he kept blending with the crowd, none the wiser as they all ran for cover.
"The garden, Desmond. Head for the garden! Cross is probably looking for a way out of here and is just as blocked in as you!"
"Got it!"
Desmond raced towards a small out of the way door that most of the panicked crowd didn't notice and stepped through, controlling his breath and crouching down into the bushes. It was a small garden, walled off and still part of the stadium and probably what the VIP used for functions that required more elegance and less violent boxing. He took a moment to simply control his breath, come down off the adrenaline pumping viciously through his veins, and just remain calm. That had been terrifying. Desmond had never faced down a gun before, not unless you counted Cross being an idiot in New York and walking right up to him in New York. And he'd certainly never been fired at.
But at this point, Desmond was an expert in compartmentalizing, and he only needed a few seconds to bury the terror back down and start easing further into the garden.
"I fucked up Warren... I fucked up..."
Bingo. There was Cross. Desmond could see the neon bright glare of the blood splattered on his shirt, pants, and face. No wonder he was hiding here. He looked like he'd just exited a slaughterhouse. There was no way Cross could go out to the streets and get away, he'd be spotted easily.
"Ran out of bullets!" Cross shouted. "Can you believe that shit? Out of fucking bullets! He almost had me... Jesus!"
Really? Desmond certainly didn't think so. Between that and Cross practically giving his gun away in New York, Desmond had to wonder how much combat experience Cross even had. He was the Assassin right? Why was he making such rookie mistakes?
"What do you mean, calm down?" Cross growled. "I am calm. I'm fine. I am a-o-fucking-kay!"
Desmond hoped Warden's eardrum blew out for that.
"Sorry. Sorry," Cross said more quietly. "Got a little, uh... you know. I'm on edge man. Always on edge. Losing my goddamn mind..."
Desmond frowned. That sounded like the Bleeding Effect. Did Cross get thrown into the Animus? Was that why he was so unstable? Why he vacillated from being The Assassin to making such novice mistakes? That his judgment was compromised? What the hell had Abstergo done to him?
"Of course I have it," Cross barked into the phone, pulling out the power source. "Wonder what it does... Why do you think they're after these?"
Wouldn't you like to know? Desmond kept easing forward.
"Right. Good idea. Soon as I get back. Just a few hours inside. It'll help. It always helps..."
Inside? The Animus? Desmond shook his head, feeling great pity for Cross. The Animus wouldn't help. It would only make things worse. And the longer Cross was subjected to it, the worse it would be. Being so unstable, it was only a matter of time.
"Alright. I'll wait here for evac."
"What's wrong with him?"
Desmond couldn't answer. He just shook his head.
Cross hung up his cell and started pacing in agitation. "I need to kill that bastard... ...get out of my head Kenya... ... she keeps saying they can stop it and then this happens... Have to find a way to keep it under control.. ...goddamn Assassins..."
With Cross distracted, feeling safe, and distinctly unstable, Desmond crept forward on silent feet and wrapped his arm around Cross's neck. Cross tried to take a breath, but Desmond's grip and chokehold were too strong. The sleeper agent passed out and Desmond set him down gently. He felt too much pity. "The Animus will kill you," Desmond said softly as he took the power source and put it in his backpack. "The Bleeding Effect will get worse and worse, you'll have less and less control, and then you'll be nothing but an amalgamation of all the people you've been." Desmond lightly put his hand on Cross's forehead. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
Desmond's hand lingered too long, however, and an Abstergo agent spotted him.
"There he is!" he shouted in Portuguese.
"Better move! Head for the metro. I'll hold the train for you!"
Desmond easily leapt the fence to the street and took off. He may not know the city like the back of his hand like most of his ancestors did, but Desmond knew how to duck through alleys. Once he'd broken Abstergo's line of sight it was easy to duck through the alleys, find a dark corner, pull out a different hoodie, this one slate gray with a local college logo on it, and blend back into the crowds. He took a different metro, much to Rebecca's consternation, and walked calmly through the streets, back to their tiny room. It was close to dawn when he arrived, and the van was already packed, and they started the long drive back to Rio. Desmond settled himself in back and nodded off to sleep.
On the plane home, Desmond found himself sitting with Rebecca, Shaun and William further back on the plane. Rebecca had the aisle and Desmond was squashed in the middle, but Desmond noticed that Rebecca was more wired and twitchy than he'd ever seen her before.
"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"
"Hm?" she turned, eyes bright with tears. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Eeeeehn, wrong," he replied. "Try again."
She let out a long sigh and choked out a sob. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take," she said softly, leaning into him so that they could talk without anyone overhearing. "Cross shot at you. He almost killed you."
And still grieving Lucy, that would have destroyed Rebecca. Desmond sighed.
"I'm not going anywhere, remember? My specialty is laying around in the Animus."
"I know. I know, but I need a break. Something. But we're too far into this to back out now."
Desmond let out a long breath. "We're all suffering from Lucy's death," he said softly, looking down to his left hand that even now held the hidden blade. The hand that killed her. "You're lucky. You've had time with Shaun and my dad. You've had time to talk and recover. For me, it feels like last week." He shook his head. "I never even got to go to her funeral."
"I know," Rebecca replied. "You had it worse by far, ending up in the coma and all. But I'm just..."
"Lost. Feel alone. Want to run away, scream, hide, cry, anything. But instead you have to deal with pressure and performance. The fate of all this resting on our little merry band, and we don't have the time to just cry in a corner."
Rebecca let out a low chuckle. "Yeah. That. God, why can't Shaun get it like you do?"
"Because he's Shaun," he replied lightly. "Mr. Hide-Behind-Sarcasm-And-Everything's-Fine."
"But he shouldn't have to do that to me."
Desmond raised a brow. "We know how you're dealing with this, but have you thought about what Shaun might need from you?"
Rebecca offered an angry glare in response.
"You keep talking about wanting your needs met," Desmond said softly, "and yes you need them met. There's no denying that. But you've been wallowing in your grief for so long, have you thought about what maybe Shaun needs? Why he's resorting to so much sarcasm and wit? He's grieving too."
"But I... I just..." Rebecca pulled away and stood up. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said. Then she stalked away, a lot on her mind.
Desmond waited a moment, then went in the opposite direction for the other bathrooms. He stared at himself in the mirror, glaring at himself, angry, and so very, very sad. He didn't want to talk about Lucy. Lucy hurt. But just as Rebecca needed to talk, maybe he did to. He dug out his phone and went through the menus to find the recording program he'd used before.
"Okay, uh... it's been a few weeks since the last recording. Sorry about that."
Desmond chuckled at his awkward intro to himself.
" 'course I... guess it's just a few seconds for you. A leap down the playlist... hum. Anyway... uh, I think I was talking about Clay... uh, Kazcmarek, Subject 16." Ergh, this wasn't easy. "So, when I fell into a coma back in Italy, and woke up in the Animus black room... it was uh..." what was a good word for that small island in the back of his mind...? "so calming... it felt like I... like I had woken up into a dream, a haze... a dream where none of this mess had ever happened... felt like I should be getting ready for another day of pouring drinks at Bad Weather, and uh, another day of complaining about being between girlfriends, and wondering what the hell to do with myself..."
A moment where Abstergo, the Animus, the Assassins, it was all a bad dream and he just needed to get back to work. "But, uh, when I saw Clay... just sitting there, it- it started to come back, you know, piece by piece... and... when he told me about Lucy I... fuck, you know... it- it hurt... you know, realizing that I killed her, without thinking or feeling anything."
It hurt so damn much. It still hurt so damn much. It hadn't stopped or went away. It was still a black hole, eating away. But it was time to move on.
It was time that at least his father really understood what had happened. Not about seeing Lucy's future, but how that was possible in the first place.
"Not at the time, anyway... well the things just kept piling on... with more memories of Ezio, and Altair, and the First Civilization and then... right before he vanished, Clay passed on his memories."
Perhaps the most bizarre thing to have happened in the Animus. Proof that DNA could be viewed by someone else. "To me... he showed me everything he had seen, and lived through... and it was... it was brief but overwhelming. Not really sure how to explain..."
How does one explain another's life and feelings so clearly without living it? The old proverb of not judging someone till you walked a mile in their shoes was so very true.
"He saw glimpses of Adam and Eve, and their escape from Slavery... he saw the beginning and the end of the war between the First Civ and humans... he saw Minerva and Juno, and Tinia trying to work out their... their calculations. At least that's what they called them. They had these tools... these powerful machines... that could predict possible futures... not what was going to happen, but what uh... What could happen... probabilities. And... well, they spent a lot of energy trying to figure out what was the most likely scenario for the future. Their's and ours."
Desmond bit back a wave of bitterness. "And in the end I guess they figured I was their most likely candidate... some guy named Desmond, living at the beginning of the twenty-first century of the Common Era... but which Desmond was the right one? Because, you see, probability is a weird thing... it can branch out in so many ways... which version of me did they need? Was it the Desmond who got married early and had a son... the one who stayed single in New York... or was it the Desmond who moved to San Francisco to be a waiter... maybe it was a Desmond who worked at an auto body shop in Chicago... or, or... maybe it was the me who never ran away from his parents in the first place."
Desmond had seen all those possible futures, all the variations from what the Clay had passed on. They were all safely partitioned away. And he would never access that partition ever again.
"The First Civ had countless variations to chose from but... in the end... the lucky one was me. I'm the Desmond their best calculations spit out... I'm the Desmond they left their messages for... and I guess I have to live with that honor. What an honor..."
Desmond bit back a yawn. "I'm pretty tired... uh... there'll be more later. Ciao."
He returned to his seat. Rebecca hadn't come back yet, and despite Desmond's resolve to stay awake for flying, he just fell asleep.
It was a quiet journey back to the cave. Both Desmond and Rebecca were in depressed states after such a long talk about grief and Lucy, and Shaun kept tiptoeing around Rebecca, not wanting to do anything wrong. William seemed to file it all under Useless Emotion and ignored them so that he could get back to work. Once they had slid down into the massive cavern, Rebecca shivered.
"Am I the only one who thinks we should buy a few space heaters? Maybe a couple more coats too? It's cold down here." She shivered again. "I sort of figured that as we powered the place up it'd run on its climate control system or something." She shivered again. "Guess not. Maybe the First Civvies like it this way? All I know is I don't. So I'd really like for us to pick up some sort of heating solution the next time we head out. Please!"
Shaun blinked, then turned. "If you can wait for tomorrow, I'll head out then. For now, a standard fire pit will have to suffice."
"As long as this isn't permanent," Rebecca nodded. "I'd hate to think how it will be once temps drop below freezing."
"Not a problem."
"For now," William kept striding forward, "let's settle back in."
"Right," Rebecca nodded. "We can get back to Connor whenever you're ready, Desmond," she said. "Unless you want to plug in the power source first? Up to you."
"Proper meal and sleep first. We can plug in tomorrow then get to Connor."
The next morning, Desmond woke to Shaun and Rebecca chatting by the fire.
"I'm telling you, there's something down there..."
"Don't be daft," Shaun replied. "Seventy-thousand years, remember?"
"I don't know," Rebecca shook her head. "Maybe they were sleeping or something and we woke them up. Some kind of... cyrogenics. Or hibernation. I mean, how much do we know what the hell they were doing down here?"
"They were working on a bunch of different solutions," Desmond replied, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "But nothing worked. Just went from one to the next. And then... I don't know. They must have left at some point. After the end..."
Rebecca looked down to her frying pan and omelet. "I wonder what the world would be like if they'd succeeded..."
"I'm more concerned about what it'll be like if we don't," Shaun said quietly.
"...salvation... they found a way..." All three looked up, startled at Juno's voice. "...too late for them... but not for you... sealed... to protect it... though now it bars your way... find the key... the past will tell..."
There was a flicker, and static-filled image, and then a hologram of Juno stood before them. "Hurry. Why do you delay? If you do not retrieve the key in time, all the world will perish, and you with it. Yet you stop to talk. Or rest. Rest later. When your work is done. If I seem aggressive, if my words feel more imperative than request, it is because I fear that you will not succeed in time. And then all of us are doomed." And with a flicker, she was gone.
"...Right, if this was October, I'd give old Juno here the prize for best Haunted Cavern," Shaun stood stiffly. "Heaven forbid we eat or drink or get more power sources, no, the key is the key," he grumbled as he marched off. "I'm off for a supply run."
"Er, um.." Rebecca scrambled for a topic of conversation to distract from that scary intrusion by a long dead One Who Came Before. "Hey, we were talking about grief and Lucy. I hope it's not uncomfortable for me to ask but... what happened with Lucy?"
Desmond looked down. "I don't know... Not in words I can explain."
"I'm sorry," Rebecca looked back to her omelet and dishing it onto a plate. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, it's fine," Desmond said. While Rebecca sat with her omelet, he started to make his own. "I really don't know. I was talking to my dad about it. I think I... let her in." Desmond shook his head. "No. That's not right... It wasn't her, not exactly. It was more like... a program. Does that sound weird? This Juno here, I think it's her somehow. But the Juno in Rome? Definitely a program. It showed me things."
Rebecca sipped her coffee. "What did you see?"
Desmond looked up to the ceiling and the lacquered stone bubbling down from it. "That if I didn't stop Lucy, Abstergo would get the Apple and we'd all be dead."
Rebecca looked away. "I still don't understand why she turned on us..."
"I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing," Desmond replied. Even as she doubted herself, she kept doing what she thought was right. That much, he was certain of. Breakfast remained quiet, and Desmond noticed his father by the Animus, tapping away at his tablet.
Stomach full, Desmond stood and stretched. "Time to find the plug."
William walked over. "Remember to keep in contact."
Desmond shrugged. He wanted to make a sarcastic comment about how none of them were able to keep up, but he'd realized that that was true. His father, while clearly fit, was older, more delicate. And Shaun made no secret that his specialty was computer databases, not running around "willy-nilly". Rebecca would probably keep up with him, except Juno had her too scared.
Only Lucy would have joined him.
Desmond bit back his feelings and looked to where the door had opened the last time he'd plugged in a power source.
"Alright then." He double checked his equipment, tapped his feet further into his shoes, and started off.
He was barely a few feet in, eyes already following the dilapidated and crumbling stairs up when Juno appeared.
"What is a fact?" she asked. "Is it fixed? Immutable? Certain in its existence and only awaiting discovery?" Around her patterns and equations he couldn't read floated in space, the same orangy color as her hologram.
"Or might it be changed? Here we learned the answer," the globe of the Apple suddenly floated to Desmond's left, almost as large as him, "and thought that it might save us." The Apple shrunk and was held up by someone who looked like Tinia, Jupiter, whom Desmond had met at the end of Ezio's journey. Beams of light arced down from the Apple to humans who dully walked by.
"They were used to command. To control. To own," Juno said coldly and contemptuously. The walking humans disappeared and instead were replaced with humans kneeling before the Apple, staring down to the ground. "But we soon discovered another use. When enough sat in thrall and were told to believe, their thoughts took on form. What was imagined became real." Juno paused and let that thought sink in.
Was she talking about noetics? Like in that '09 Dan Brown book The Lost Symbol, that had so many experiments on human thought controlling reality that were crazily real? Where the ultimate goal was to do things like will away cancer? Shit, Desmond had thought that was a bunch of science fiction!
"If a hundred minds could wish away a wall or create a tree," Juno posited, "what might a thousand do? Ten thousand? More?" Juno walked around a fountain of light, eyes hungry. "Might we change the consensus and will the threat away?" The fountain of light disappeared, leaving the earth spinning and a single light shining brightly above it. "We resolved to send one into the sky where it illuminate us all. Once placed, a sentence would be uttered."
She looked to Desmond, then watched as the light rose and what looked like the sun in the distance burned.
"Make us safe."
Looking back to Desmond, Juno continued. "In this way, we would change the consensus. We would save the world." She started to pace. "But it never came to be." More lights joined the first around the Earth. "We sent a dozen of them skyward - but there was no way to maintain control. To direct the beam. To enthrall the world." She stopped and turned to him, saying softly, "To speak the words." The Earth disappeared. "Though this was strange and dangerous - what we tried next was worse..."
And just like that, all the holograms were gone.
"Just great," Desmond muttered.
Ascending the flights of stairs required lots of leaping forward, as the millennia had broken every flight down to almost ruin. Desmond constantly leapt gaps, trying to avoid the unstable parts where he could, until he reached another landing, where he stopped for a small breather.
Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, as Juno once again appeared.
"Our first instance was to travel back," she said, her orange hologram stepping forward. "To change the past. But we could not find a way," she looked aside. "But forward… We could look forward...
"And so here we sought to see beyond ourselves," she gestured to a large globe that was encircled by the patchy stairs Desmond had been climbing, "and know what was to come."
Juno disappeared and reappeared behind Desmond, making him jump. "First we watched to learn if our work would succeed. But the answer was always the same." Within the globe, the earth burned. Juno turned to Desmond and pointed.
"So we moved on to other things, but she remained." Behind Desmond another orange hologram appeared, one Desmond knew very well from Ezio's memories. "The one you call Minerva." Juno reappeared higher on the stairs. "In time she too stopped looking - and instead began to speak." Before Minerva, Ezio appeared, and Desmond recognized the scene so very well. From the slightest shift of Ezio's weight, his confused glancing around, Desmond knew this scene. He'd already lived it, as Ezio had.
Juno continued. "She called out across time in the hopes that you might be saved. She hid messages where none might find them, save for you and those within this place..." and Juno gestured grandly once more to the sphere.
Desmond narrowed his eyes. She was so magnanimous in her presentation. So... robotic. Desmond didn't trust it. Something about all this was wrong. He was following her trail of breadcrumbs, but there was no sign of Minerva's workings or Tinia's. This was all supposed to be towards saving the world, but how? Why explain all this and not how the solar flare would be stopped? Why the history lessons?
"Fascinating," William murmured over the radio. Desmond glanced down through the stairs and saw his father and Rebecca at the base looking up.
Desmond's frown deepened. "I'm tired of it," he growled as the hologram faded. "The cryptic warnings. The threats." He looked up and around as if Juno would simply appear. "Just tell us what you want!"
"But they are," William replied. "'We saw the Nephilim there. We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them,'" William quoted. "Imagine trying to explain this to a two-year-old. To a grasshopper. When they said the will of the gods was unknowable, they meant it. Literally."
Desmond shook his head. Yes, his father had a point. How did one explain how a clock worked to a toddler, or how books worked to the illiterate, but that wasn't the point. Juno was leading them by the nose and there was no guarantee this wouldn't end up like...
Like...
Desmond sighed, staring at the broken, cracked stairs. "I killed her, you know," he said softly. "I killed Lucy."
And that hurt.
William attempted to be consoling. "It was the Apple, son. It was Juno."
"I saw what she was. What would happen if I let her live." Why didn't they understand? "I could have stopped myself. I mean... there was a force there. But I didn't have to. I chose to. I chose to kill the one person who was keeping me sane. Because she was vacillating and her not choosing would be the ruin of us all."
"Desmond..."
"Lucy was going to betray us and take the Apple back to Abstergo. I saw the satellite launch. I saw them turn it on. And then... it failed..." Just as it had for Those Who Came Before.
Desmond looked back up the stairs, eyes narrowed. "Whatever's on the other side of that door, it benefits Juno. We need to be careful."
"We will be," Rebecca replied.
Desmond wasn't convinced, but he nodded anyway. He climbed to the next landing and found a massive opening to a new area. Stairs lead down to rubble, so Desmond continued forward, watching his balance as the floor and the entire structure seemed to be tilting down to the rubble below. He made his way around a large central structure, with closed off doors and broken walkways, but he noticed one down below appeared to still be open. Being unable to drop from here, he back tracked to the dilapidated stairs and carefully made his way down to the rubble and to a clear hallway which had the door he had spied.
Inside was more age and rubble, but above he could see a hole in the wall that lead to another room. He climbed up, watching all his hand holds in the ancient stone, and then climbed another wall to another hole.
Finally up and once more on the tilted floor, he had a clear path to the next power station.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, pulling out the cube and sticking it inside the opening designed for it. There was deep rumbling, and Desmond watched as the walkway on the other side of the gate extended. "I wonder what stories the Temple will tell next?"
After all that climbing, Desmond was ready for a proper lunch, and was frying some hot dogs when Shaun finally returned from his supply run. His arms were loaded with various necessities, and he was depositing them around the campsite when Rebecca wandered over with a growling stomach.
"Food!" she smiled, snatching from the plate of cooked hot dogs Desmond had already finished.
Shaun dug through his bags and tossed over some hot dog buns, muttering about unhealthy American food.
"So," Rebecca said, biting into her lunch, "what's the latest? Learn anything else interesting while you were exploring?"
Desmond shook his head. "Just what we've already talked about. They were working on some weird stuff towards the end. Trying to engineer new bodies and store their minds inside computers."
"Failure after failure," Rebecca shook her head. "It must have been hard for them..."
"Oh yes, it's always hard for the master," Shaun groused. "Remember, we were their slaves. Hard for them, yes, but we had it worse."
"Doesn't matter," Rebecca replied. "They had survival in mind just like us now. Does that make us any different?"
"I worry about it too," Desmond switched topics. "I mean, they say there's something in here that'll help us. Or, Minerva and Tinia did. Juno... I think she's talking about something else. But what is it? Why is it locked up if it's exactly what we need?"
"I don't know," Rebecca sipped her soda. "Maybe it's dangerous. Maybe they wanted to make sure only you could reach it."
Desmond frowned. "That's another question... What makes me so special?"
"I guess we'll know once we open the door."
Shaun continued puttering with supplies before he brought over his laptop and settled in to eat the "unhealthy American food" with lots of ketchup and relish. Rebecca and Desmond chuckled.
William stalked over, staring at something on his tablet, likely dragged over by the smells of Desmond's cooking. "It's been a long time since we've been in the Animus. I'd like to get to that once we're done eating."
That was perhaps the most polite order to get back to work Desmond had ever heard from his father.
"Sure," Desmond replied, pulling out a bag of chips that Shaun had gotten. "After lunch."
After that they were munching away quietly, absorbed in food.
"Huh. Look at that!" Shaun sat back with his tea. "I've found a third power source!"
Desmond blinked. "Already?"
"It popped up in an earlier search," Shaun explained, turning the screen around, "but I've only just managed to confirm it."
"Where?"
"There's a museum in Cairo with one on display."
"Cairo?" Rebecca asked. "Aren't they protesting their new President? Morsi just gave himself unlimited power, right? This will be dangerous."
Desmond glanced to the Animus, and imagined the noose around his neck that Connor had just survived. He wasn't looking forward to "healing" from that. "I guess Connor will have to wait."
"No," William disagreed, setting down his coffee. "You three stay. We need to find that key and time is running out. Not only do we need to get in, we need to figure out how to use whatever's in here assuming it's not something for Juno as you're worried. I'll make the trip."
"Alone?" Desmond asked skeptically.
"Wouldn't be the first time. Doubt it will be the last."
"What about Cross?"
William smiled almost softly, stepped forward, and put his hand reassuringly on Desmond's shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine. I'll be back soon."
It wasn't until Desmond was back in the Animus that he realized that William hadn't answered his question.
A warm, strong hand touched his shoulder, held it against all his pain, and he felt safe with that strong hand, and he slept.
Waking varied: from the feelings of intense panic, the sense of pressure on his neck and life being squeezed out of him; to the sickly sense of fever and pain, hazy images of retching and that strong hand on his forehead; to the dull misery of his cell and the lessons he had learned in there, about the Creed, about principle, about Stone Coats; to the vivid memory of chasing after Hickey, determined that Washington the slave owner would live so that the infant revolution would have a chance, that the atenenyarhu, the Templars, would fail, that Charles Lee would fail.
And then, at last, he awoke in a bed, sheets twisted about his ankles, curled on his side with his arm tightly bound to his torso. He was in a bed, in a tiny room, a desk at the foot of the bed and a chair at his head. And in the chair was Achilles, reading a book. Vague memories of a strong hand flittered in his mind, and he realized whose it was.
And he realized, no matter how strained their relationship, he felt safe in the presence of this man. He smiled, and fell asleep again.
The next time he woke, a white man with a thick beard dripping from his chin was leaning over him. He blinked slowly, utterly still, uncertain at the new face.
"He's awake, Master Davenport," the man said said, turning and leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton's line of sight. Achilles entered his line of vision, his face old and weathered, the look of exhaustion exaggerating his features. Would his raké:ni have done this? The question entered his mind so suddenly he felt his chest tighten, too many emotions being triggered by the question. He fought for stillness, thinking of wood, hard and unyielding but with a deep system of roots, a soft center deep inside. Like his mother. Perhaps even...
That wouldn't help.
He managed to control himself, and looked at the Old Man again.
"A week," the old man said, answering the question before Connor could even think to ask it.
"... What happened?"
And Achilles went into a clinical but detailed account of recent events: of Tallmadge seeing Connor's arrest and immediately sending a letter to Rockport while concurrently making as much noise as he could about the turn of events to cast doubt, of Achilles rallying the assassins and – with Faulkner out to sea and no ships in port – going tediously over the land route to get to New York as quickly as possible and assess the information, spying on the Templars as they slowly gathered at Fort George and debating their plans and, at the last possible minute, learning about the switch of identities and the execution. Duncan had broken into the jail to pass word, and instead reported Connor's severely weakened condition, changing already last minute plans and struggling to make it all work. Clipper and Stephane gave rousing accounts of Achilles' leadership when they came in, marveling at the Old Man's ability to make snap decisions and work around an ever changing environment.
"Currently we are in Bellevue Hospital," Achilles said, "two miles north of the city line. Your arm was infected, and it was decided to quarantine you away from the city. Jamie Colley here's been looking after you. It seems infection and disease are his specialty."
"Good to see you recovered," the bearded man said, nodding before leaving to check on other patients.
"He's a good boy," Achilles said, "Good hearted and with an even temper."
Connor, admittedly, had only half heard the explanation. He was too busy looking at the heavy bags under the Old Man's eyes, listening to a voice even thinner than usual, and the heavy leaning on his cane even as he sat.
"Niá:wen, Roiá:ner," he said softly. "I did not understand until now."
"English, Connor," Achilles said. "I don't understand a word you say."
But Ratonhnhaké:ton had fallen asleep again, content with what he had learned and what he had realized. Haytham Kenway was still a complicated knot of feelings, but in Achilles at least, Connor felt certain about one thing: the old man cared. He, too, was wood, like Ista, and he felt safe knowing that. For once, he felt no anxiety, and he slept.
His peace did not last long, though, as he dreamed of Hickey's death, his time in prison, and his ordeal. He awoke with a start, and he realized belatedly that he did not have his dream snare. Connor did not even want to think about his future, and what he would need to do to make good fortune favor his dreams again. He glanced at the Old Man, still at his head, sitting with his bad leg lifted up and resting on his bed. It was the dead of night, everything grey-blue with the moonlight.
"... What do you do about the dreams?" he asked softly.
Achilles was awake, unruffled by a question in the middle of the night. "Everyone deals with them differently," he replied. "My old mentor Ah Tabai said that dreams were as diverse as the people who had them, and he said that culture could only bring so much solace. I didn't learn that lesson fully until much, much later. After Shay. After the war."
Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard the names before, Achilles always spoke of the old Order anonymously, briefly, with as little detail as possible without softening the horror that the old war had brought. He pursed his lips in curiosity even as his tiredness threatened to pull him back to sleep. Achilles, eyes ever sharp, put a strong hand on Connor's shoulder. "Rest, boy. I'll guard against your dreams a while longer."
It was the best night sleep he had during his recovery.
But, at last he sat up. It was July 9th now, and Achilles very simply asked if he was strong enough to stand.
Connor managed to get his feet under him; he swayed slightly but remained upright.
"Good," the Old Man said. "There's something you need to witness. Duncan's been watching the Colonists, and there's to be an event this afternoon. Word's come from Philadelphia and Commander Washington is going to make it public."
"... I do not understand."
"Nobody does, but given the current circumstances, there are a couple of options it could be; and if Washington is making it public, that narrows it down even further. Come, boy, let's get you to Broad Street."
Connor dressed slowly in borrowed clothes that fit him poorly, and he realized he could not button up his shirt and coattails up to his neck, the sensation of cloth so close reminding him too much of earlier memories. His breath caught in his chest, and he left his chest bare well below his collarbone. Achilles offered no comment, not even a glance, and hobbled his way out of the hospital, and to an awaiting carriage. Connor got in slowly, surprised at how weak he felt, and Achilles entered with him, and they road back into the city, to a broad park on a hill, near a place called Trinity College, according to the Old Man. Connor learned that there had once been a base here, on the west side of the city, and that they would spend the rest of Ratonhnhaké:ton's recovery there before heading back to Rockport.
The Colonial soldiers – Connor could only think of them as Americans – were all gathered, in mismatched colors and clothes, seven thousand men from many colonies, and Washington, larger than life, stood at the head on a platform. For the first time they looked like an army, standing shoulder to shoulder and backs as straight as any regular. Civilians were pressed all together, rich and poor alike, to bear witness to whatever was about to transpire.
And then, with a nod from the commander, a man with a roll of paper stepped forward, and the crowds hushed, and the silence settled over minds as well as mouths, eyes glued to the man with the paper, and expectation began to arise.
"As ordered by the commanding general," the man said, "this army will now hear the Declaration as approved by the Continental Congress on July fourth, the year of our Lord seventeen seventy-six."
He paused, and Connor's eagle saw a swell of emotion on the orator's face. He took a breath, and began to read.
"In Congress, July Fourth, Seventeen Seventy-six. The unanimous declaration of the thirteen United States of America,
"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
"That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and sappiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.
"Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these States. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world."
And thus began the recitation of sins of Parliament to the colonies: from taxation to dissolution of governing bodies, to instilling judges without the consent of the people, to massing armies, repurposing trials, taking away Colonial charters. Nothing was spared, everything was outlined in detail. The entire field was gripped by the document, hanging on every word, nodding and cheering or clapping a hand. The case of independence was outlined thoroughly, succinctly, and even eloquently. The reader finished his reading with the most powerful of statements.
"Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.
"We, therefore, the representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the supreme judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by authority of the good people of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united Colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent States, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."
"It's quite impressive, what you've accomplished," Achilles said, barely audible over the cheers and applause of the Congress' declaration of independence. Connor turned to the Old Man, surprised, uncertain how such a rousing document generated such an out of place sentence. Did he think Ratonhnhaké:ton somehow responsible for this document? How? It was the work of the people, of Sam Adams and his cousin John and Hancock and all the men from the other Colonies – no, the other States. Achilles had once compared Ratonhnhaké:ton's struggle with that of the states, of the desire to be free and safe; and now it was outlined in black and white, published for all the states to see, all the British Empire to see. Connor had little to do with any of it; it was the will of the people that had created this event.
But, then, too, Ratonhnhaké:ton had survived many trials and tribulations, as the Americans had. His mettle had been tested, with harder and harder trials, if his most recent ordeal was any indication. He reached up briefly to touch his neck, still feeling the sensation of a rope, still feeling his life ebbing away. Was Achilles actually praising him? Was this...
"Is that... a compliment?" he asked, a little bewildered.
The Old Man snorted. "Now don't misconstrue. I'm sure the whole endeavor will end tragically. Your goals are too high and too idealistic for the world we live in. But to have come this far..." his voice trailed off, his eyes far away. "Three high ranking Templars are dead because of you, and by some miracle you are still alive. More still, you yet remain untainted by the world you are forced to live in. Well, it's more than I ever expected. This," he added, gesturing to the crowds, to the applause and the cheers still ringing around them, people weeping in joy for their independence. "This, too, is more than I ever expected."
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "The people yearned for freedom, but feared to grab hold of it. That fear is gone now."
"Thanks to you."
"No," Connor rebuffed. "This they did on their own."
Achilles shook his head. "You diminish your role," he said, leaning on his cane heavily. "You were instrumental in the Boston Tea Party, you helped that silversmith ride out to Lexington and Concord, gave ample warning to Sam Adams and his cohort, helped in Breed's Hill, and saved Washington's life, but still you fail to see the value you have brought to this struggle. But you've always been of humble heart."
Ratonhnhaké:ton still did not see. "I do what is right. No more. No less. If a person sees wrongdoing and does nothing, how can they call themselves a person?"
Achilles said nothing, and they watched the crowds together in silence for a time, before Achilles motioned for the buggy to move on. They moved west, deep into the city, and to a nondescript building. The second floor was empty of most furniture, a few covered chairs and some wrapped paintings and little else. Duncan was there, looking out a window for signs of pursuit. Stephane was at the hearth of course, already cooking something, and Clipper was nowhere to be seen. Connor was exhausted, even that small excursion tiring him, and he immediately went to sleep in a dusty, moldy bed.
Two hours later they sat around a weathered table, two rabbits split between all of them, stale bread and seeds. Connor found he could eat very little before he felt full, and he pushed a half eaten plate back on the table. Clipper, the youngest of a large family, snatched it up greedily.
"It sure was something," he said with a full mouth. "Watchin' the crowds, seeing everyone all happy-like. Ain't never seen nothing like that before. Ain't never heard nobody claim independence neither."
"It's a piece o' history, at that," Duncan said, drinking his rum. "I'm not as learned as I ought ta be, but I don't think there's ever been a colony that just ups and declares their independence. Would you know, Achilles?"
"Two, that I know of," Achilles said. "Scotland in 1320, though we've all seen how that played out, and the Netherlands in 1581. Both led to bloody internal wars where nothing changed. This is different only because we have an ocean between us and them, though history has the sad habit of repeating itself."
"You saying this won't amount to nothing?" Clipper asked.
"No," Achilles said. "It will most certainly amount to something. There is a war, after all, and civil wars like this always creates something. What I am saying is that declarations of independence have yet to actually create independence. Lofty ideals and flowery papers do little to change the world, and madness only follows those who think that it can."
"In that we disagree," Connor said carefully. He did not want to ruin the compliment he had received earlier, but the young native had at last pinpointed the great difference between he and the Old Man. "I understand that one person cannot change the world, but one person can change one person. If that happens, one at a time, and those people change others, and those people change still others, then something even as great as independence can be achieved. The ills of the world will not be changed overnight, but it can be pushed in the right direction, a little every day."
Achilles looked over the table at Connor, gaze intent.
Then, at length, he finally responded.
"Sometimes change comes too late."
"Messieurs, s'il-vous plaît, pas maintenant," Stephane said. "We 'ave good food, good rum, and we celebrate zhe return of Connor. Now is not zhe time for un argument."
"He's right about that," Duncan said. "The Lord's done his work for the day, let us be happy that it ended as well as it did." He fingered his beads.
Author's Notes: Not too much to say in this chapter other than we are a hair's breadth away from copyright infringement of the highest degree with putting so much of the Declaration of Independence in the fic. It's just... the language is so beautiful and the build up to the actual declaration moves so smoothly. The waves that document makes throughout history (assuming that as Americans we aren't yet again conflating our own importance like American's seem to do) is amazing, and the power it has is palpable even today. There's a magic to it - or it feels like it sometimes - and we just wanted to add more and more... Please don't sue us, universe, our intentions are good and our money is nonexistent.
We also start setting up the next arc for Connor and Achilles: the break. Connor finally realizes how they are different and why the will disagree so bitterly, and it is concurrent to his realization that Achilles is as much as a father as Haytham is, perhaps even more so, and goes out of his way to thank him (alas, in his native tongue that Achilles doesn't understand), and that will build for quite a while. There's also the very first mention of Shay, but more on that MUCH later. We also cameo'ed Jamie, but more on him later.
But really, this chapter is about Desmond. It plays straight for the most part, this memory isn't as poignant as NY or as emotional as Italy, but it acts as a nice between-moment and sets up his pity for Cross that will come to a head in Italy. Also, we finally talk about what Desmond saw and felt before killing Lucy. We hinted at it in Revelations but could go into more depth here. And as a bonus we spun Rebecca's and Shaun's plates a little. And another recording, also played pretty straight.
Next chapter: Ellen. Big Dave. PTSD.