Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

        Desmond hadn’t been too surprised by the fact that Juno had lied and it had hurt, dying. He’d expected that part.

        He hadn’t expected to wake up in his apartment, one that he remembers, coughing out a bee of all things. Assuming it actually is a bee. It might just look like one.

        “What the hell?” he yells at it. The bee just...flutters there, staring at him, glowing. Like it’s a firefly. He’s having a staring contest with a bee in the possible afterlife, what the actual hell.

        And that glow...he kind of recognizes that, too. It’s the golden glow of a Piece of Eden being used. And then it dims, and brightens, and dims, and brightens, and there’s some kind of pattern there, but…

        “I, uh. I don’t actually know Morse code,” he warns it, like it can understand a word he’s saying. Not that they hadn’t tried to teach him, but he’d tried to forget everything he’d learned on the Farm because he hadn’t wanted to think about it. It stops.

        Flutters a little, moving around like it’s studying him, which, why, and then flutters over to his window, which unlatches itself with a slight gold flash, and then just leaves.

        Well. Okay. That was cryptic.

        Desmond runs a hand over his face, but knows he can’t just keep standing here. After his disappearance, the apartment would have been rented out again, and all his stuff is still here, so does that mean this is the past? What the hell.

        His arm’s not black, burnt, or even a little singed. It’s a little sore, at most, but this isn’t how it should’ve looked after using the Eye.

        But if it’s the past, with his past, undamaged body, that means that Abstergo could show up at any minute. He needs to grab what he can and leave now. He’s in the middle of grabbing energy bars and water bottles and his phone and charger and all the cash from its hiding place and stuffing it into his old bag when he realizes he’s overlooked something.

        There, underneath his beloved hoodie, there’s two Hidden Blades. He didn’t have those back then. But he doesn’t have time for an existential crisis, and he’ll feel a lot better knowing that he’s armed, so those get strapped on as he feels the clock ticking. His senses eventually start screeching at him (like, literally screeching, like eagles, it’s deafening) he instinctively slips into Eagle Vision, and he doesn’t see the red of enemies approaching, but that doesn’t calm his nerves for some reason. So he goes to the door, and then thinks better of it.

        The bee hadn’t actually stung him, and it was being weird, but it was trying to communicate. It’s impossible to tell whether this is some trick of Juno’s, or something, and he might fall into some kind of trap trying to figure that out, but at least it’s a lead. And in any case, going out the fire escape feels safer. So he does just that.

Chapter Text

         Desmond doesn’t find a lead on the bee again. He ends up sort of hanging around his place, keeping an eye on it, because the possibility of someone barging in trying to kidnap him is the next best lead he has, which sounds kind of pathetic when he puts it into actual words. It helps that he knows how to blend into crowds, now, and lose tails, not that he’s seen any. The newspapers and the internet at the public library tell him Abstergo doesn’t exist, but there are a whole lot of rumors about the Illuminati owning all the corporations behind the scenes, even a few posts by one ‘Guy Fawkes’, and Desmond would know the way Shaun writes anywhere after so many database entries, so...maybe they’re just a little more secretive, a little less arrogant, in this world.

         Because, yeah. Unless Minerva had done something to screw up the entirety of history, some things just don’t exist in this world like they did in his. Or they do, which is even weirder. Like, movies, for one. Those still exist. It’s baffling. And he’d come into this world choking on a bee, so, like, maybe he should get used to it just being weird for seemingly no reason, but still. Movie theaters.

         It also happens to be 2017. He hadn’t believed it until he’d seen the evidence himself, like, five times, from five different sources. Gotten him some weird looks at the library, too, but he needed to be sure.

         That means his theory about this being the past is entirely wrong. He’d started to come to that conclusion given the things that were obviously not the same, but still. It’s been shocking.

         He’d looked for evidence of a solar flare, too, and there just...wasn’t any. Something about an outbreak and quarantine in Tokyo, and that had felt important, gold important, so he’s keeping an eye on news about it. There isn’t much, which is a little suspicious. Like, no one even posting on the internet? Even when they can’t leave the city, that’s not quite normal, and he didn’t even need Eagle Vision to tell that much. It feels like when Abstergo had been trying to keep information about what happened at DIA under wraps, but there’s not too much he can do from here, and while he can speculate about a Piece of Eden, or whatever, it’s out of reach for now, given that he doesn’t want to give himself away by trying to board a flight now.

         Lots of chatter online talked about the Mayans, how they’d believed the world would end in 2012. People even had ‘end of the world’ parties, which...kind of seemed in bad taste, but Desmond guessed he could understand. If they were going to die, maybe it was better to do so while having fun, and if the world did end you wouldn’t have to deal with the hangover or any other consequences. So, either nothing had happened, like everyone thinks, or maybe the Templars were covering it up for some reason rather than declaring themselves the Saviors of Humanity or whatever. Either way, the Earth was still turning, humanity wasn’t all but wiped out, and it didn’t need Desmond to die to do it. Which is a reassuring idea.

         Except he still hasn’t managed to figure out what’s going on with—like, the apartment had been rented for Desmond Miles, people have actually called him Desmond Miles, which is even weirder because he’s pretty sure he’d been going by a fake name. As far as Desmond knows there’s only one of him actually here, so there’s just...a big question he’s terrified of finding the answer to and carefully putting out of his mind because he doesn’t have the time for that kind of existential crisis either, as to what happened to the other Desmond.

         He finds a guy, hostile, terrified, more on edge than he’d ever been even with the Bleeding Effect, but all too willing to share his fears to a willing ear, in a laundromat of all places. It was Eagle Vision that led him there, and the gold didn’t lead him wrong, and he’s glad he doesn’t startle like most when the guy starts rambling about the ‘forbidden wisdom of Eden’.

         So. It lines up, the Illuminati and Abstergo, the sort of stuff about the medicine and media he’d thought was just cultist nonsense for far too long. He reads stuff in the magazine about Bingo! Cola, about how it’s somehow manipulating people, controlling their minds, and decides he’d definitely not touching the stuff. He’d had enough of that in his last life, thank you.

         He’s walking back from one of the food carts when the Eagle Vision turns on by itself and he sees red shapes, headed right for his apartment, only one’s stopped, head turned towards Desmond—

         Crap they can’t see me here— he thinks, Eagle Vision sliding away—

         And the guy’s eyes just kind of...slide over Desmond. Like there’s nothing interesting here. And then he keeps going.

         And there’s that golden glow again, Desmond realizes, and turns, and...his shoulder’s glowing. Not the one he’d used the Eye with. His tattooed arm. The edges of his tattoo from where it’s peeking out under his sleeve are glowing, too. That—okay, he’d probably done that, somehow, and it could be useful. He’s going to panic about this and get drunk, probably. Later.

         They send in the smug asshole with the sunglasses, who seems to be in charge, alone. Which would get him killed, really, but then, the Desmond of the past wouldn’t really be able to do anything. Or maybe this world’s Desmond, before he body-snatched him or whatever.

         “Gone—though he’d made less of a mess of his apartment than the others. Maybe a runt of a Bee-touched,” he sneers, trying to cover up the disappointment. Also excuse you what, Desmond has better control than that. The reference to a Bee makes some sense, and also none at all—apparently they had some sort of way of tracking where those sentient bee goes and apparently, because they have approximately zero imagination, they just call the people that the bee visits Bee-touched. So they were coming after him because of that. Not because he’s got some pretty impressive Assassin lineage, or whatever. This world is weird. “Templars or Dragon got here first. Let’s try the next one.”

         That...Templars aren’t Illuminati? There are three factions? What the absolute hell?

Chapter Text

        Desmond only vaguely remembers making it to the New York subway. He had to scale a building under the watchful eyes of police officers, to get around the blockades set up around the city block, though it helped a lot that apparently none of them managed to see him with the newfound power of his. Not that Desmond particularly plans on making a habit of it, seeing as that might be the echo of the power of an Apple or something and he really doesn’t want to scramble anyone’s brains, it’s just...he’s a little more leaning toward the side of ‘not getting caught’. His own brain’s a little stuck in ‘flight’ mode right now.

        And then a little girl in a grey hoodie comes to sit next to him, unafraid, and he squirms a little, because he didn’t even remember sitting down and people close to him right now feels wrong. Hell, for all he knew he’d had another Bleeding Effect episode, like he’d been dangerous to anyone around him. Not like he’d know, if he can’t really remember it.

        “You’re something new, Assassin,” the little girl whispers in awe, and he freezes still, reminding himself to breathe and turn his head to look only for the little girl to be a little too close, looking him over with malicious glee, eyes slitted like a snake’s. She might look like a little street child, but this...the last time he saw something that scared him this much, it was Juno.

        “Did you bring me here?” he asks quietly, and she shrugs, grin disappearing, kicking her legs.

        “I wasn’t told how you got here. The Mouth of the Dragon didn’t tell me that. Only to give you a gift and a warning, and that the fact that you being here is more Chaos than we’ve ever seen, and it’s glorious. Like fireworks.” If she starts clapping her hands at the glee, he’s figuring out how to exit the subway while it’s still in motion.

        “Why do you want chaos?” he asks quietly, and she narrows her eyes at him in a look that practically screams ‘you are asking stupid questions, Novice’.

        “In chaos, you begin to see the patterns. In patterns, you can achieve enlightenment. When you have achieved enlightenment, you can control fate itself. Do you not wish to control fate? It hasn’t been really kind to you in the past.” The tone itself is particularly Malik, too. If Malik was a small girl, and still had both her arms, and the eyes of a snake.

        He doesn’t answer, which is apparently an answer enough for her, as she nods decisively. “Your gift, then.” The subway slows, and she stands, holding out her hand, like she’s actually a normal little girl, and he takes it, uneasy. “If you need, if anyone asks, the Dragon will claim you. You are not; apparently you will work best as a free agent, but there are times during which it may benefit you to claim allegiance to one of the three, and in those times, you may claim Dragon. You have already given us more than we ever asked for, a gift that keeps giving. It is only fair we do so in return. A warning: you have already discovered this world is unlike your own. You have been transformed, though you might wish to conceal how your powers differ from other agents. We don’t particularly care one way or the other; both will achieve goals. But you may prefer it one way.” She shrugs. “Your gift of seeing has strengthened, after your death. In this world, knowing your friends and enemies is a great boon.”

        She’s blending into the crowd, leading him up the steps to leave like she’s a born Assassin. “Do not allow yourself to be taken captive by the Orochi. Death, likewise, is temporary and can be a gift. Beware of dreams—they may give you what you seek or awaken the unclean.”

        She turns to look to him, almost skipping, but that smile almost looks like that of a normal six-year old.

        “I am glad you are not stagnant and dead, Mr. Desmond Miles. I look forward to seeing what you will become.” So, uh, they agree with Shaun, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. And then she stands on her tippy-toes and gives him a hug, and more out of bewilderment and instinct than actual choice, he hugs her back. She actually means it, is the thing, and that doesn’t make sense, but then, none of this does.

        And then she floats up, t-posing at him and glowing with the same golden glow he’d thought meant Isu artifact, and then just...pops out of existence, the exact opposite of all that careful blending in she’d been doing not seconds ago.

        Nobody screams. Nobody even says a word like they thought they saw something. No one even bats an eye.

        Well. Okay then.

Chapter Text

        Desmond soon learns where the little girl went. Well, he’s pretty sure, anyway, because that looks awfully like a portal or something glowing gold in Eagle Vision. It’s kind of guarded, so he has to sneak in, but it’s easy with his new sneaking power. Not that these guys—who aren’t all red, but even the friendly ones he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t get caught by, if they’re working for the Illuminati, because Lucy had taught him it’s fully possible for someone to mean you no harm and even be doing things for your own good and still sell you out—are particularly good at their guard duty thing, but still.

        He makes the mistake of going in with Eagle Vision on, though, because the new area is blindingly gold. Even when he blinks it away, it’s still a really bright gold. Which is just weird, but then, he’s getting kind of used to that by now, which is why he listens to the train conductor guy give a speech about Agartha, “the hollow Earth”, and doesn’t really interrupt.

        He could keep going, take the tour like the guy suggests, but no matter how friendly the guy is the whole look of this place and the guardians is bothering him, what with the similarities to the Isu, even if their décor was a little more blue, and as he glances back he realizes that while he’d come in the ‘New York’ portal, city visible as through a pool of water, there’s a London portal, too, that catches his eye. It...feels gold.

        It becomes clear, quickly, once he exits the underground station because this is London so of course he does, that this is the home of the Templars. Which would make him panic more, except they weren’t red, even though they wore a lot of it. Not all of them, anyway, any more than the Illuminati were all red. (The team that they’d sent after him, though? Those guys were definitely hostile.) Most of them are white, which means they wouldn’t lift a finger to help him if he got attacked, some of them are red, but even more of them, confusingly, are blue. Including one that was joking about “what news from the Crusades”, which...yeah, Desmond made an excuse and all but bolted, because as zen as he’d been getting about how weird this world is, he was not prepared for that one. At all.

        Most of the Templars who would be allies are concentrated in a location that feels gold, so he heads that way—a pub, The Horned God, awesome. He feels right at home.

        “All I’m saying is that something’s going on. We go this long without a word, not a bloody peep from Venice, and suddenly they’re forming a council again and telling us all to ‘play fair, children’…” The familiar grumbling makes Desmond smile, but he makes sure to double check with Eagle Vision before going and standing by the wooden entrance to the little alcove they’ve hidden themselves in.

        “Oh, would you look at that, speak of the bloody serpent and he shall appear. What do you want, Dragon?” the historian hisses at him, and Rebecca elbows her colleague. He feels himself relaxing already.

        “My name’s not ‘Dragon’. It’s Desmond,” he responds.

        “Thank you for that absolutely unnecessary introduction. We absolutely needed to know that information,” the Brit snarks after a moment, and if he hadn’t gotten to know them as well as he had over the last few months, he might take offense, or wouldn’t have realized that was Shaun covering up his moment of surprise.

        “I’m Rebecca. This jerk is Shaun,” Rebecca tells him, holding out a hand for him to shake, which he does, and then slides into the booth on the other side of Shaun—mostly because he gets the feeling if he doesn’t that Shaun might try to run for it.

        “Some answers might be nice. I got dropped in the middle of this war and I still have no idea what’s going on,” he admits, and Shaun rolls his eyes.

        “Oh, what, so it’s our fault you didn’t listen to the briefing? Do you have the attention span of a tiny child? I’ll give you this one for free—we’re not exactly playmates, the Templar and the Dragon,” he snarls.

        Desmond doesn’t flinch now, either, which makes both stare at him, a little in shock. “Actually, I think the ‘tiny child’ knew more than I did, but I get the feeling they might’ve just thrown me in the deep end because they thought it’d be funny,” he admits with a shrug.

        “You have to admit, that sounds exactly like them,” Rebecca points out, poking Shaun again with her elbow.

        “You’ll make me spill my drink, woman. Those elbows are bony enough they should be banned by the Geneva Convention.” Shaun sighs, but he’s leaning toward helping out.

        It’s hard to decide how much to say, and it’s obvious that they’ll work out he’s not telling them everything, even if they probably can’t guess exactly what. Mostly he wants to make sure that he wants to tell them the truth, what he can of it without looking too suspicious, and maybe just a little more to make them seem a little less suspicious. “That I have powers, which, thanks, knew that. That I’m a great source of chaos—didn’t think I was that bad of a bartender. I know there’s three factions, which I’m guessing includes you guys and the Illuminati. And then I was kind of pointed in the direction of the portal to Agartha.” By his own eyes, he doesn’t say, because he’s pretty sure Eagle Vision just...isn’t a thing here. And also because he’s more of a loose cannon than anyone would have any right to suspect, probably.

        “Wait, they didn’t take you to Seoul?” Rebecca interrupts, eyebrows up to her hairline, and Shaun immediately stops slouching.

        Desmond glances between the two of them. “I’m guessing that’s not standard.” He’s already screwed up. Whoops.

        Though maybe that’s the point. Rebecca had said it sounded in character, so...maybe this is all just a, what, practical joke they’re playing on absolutely everyone else? Aside from the ‘he saved the world shit’ and the Isu inheritance and who knows what else. Maybe they don’t even know what he can do.

        “The way I hear it, their recruitment tactics are straight up kidnapping, drugging, and seduction in exactly that order. You’re saying none of that happened to you?” Shaun’s intrigued. Good. Potentially bad, depending on how much they find out, but good in that he’s more likely to help out, complaining all the while, if he’s intrigued.

        “Nah, they just kind of left me on the New York subway where they found me.” Their eyes grow wider, and they look at each other like they’re confirming he did in fact say that.

        “You were in New York?” Rebecca clarifies, with her best ‘I’m not shocked’ voice, and then—

        Oh. They’re confused why the Illuminati didn’t get to him first.

        “Yeah, I ran the first chance I got after everything started getting weird. Figured the subway would be crowded and I could think.” It’s a risk, but… “I panicked a little. Thought my family was coming for me. It was a little...well, I thought we were a cult when I ran away, and maybe they were, but maybe they weren’t completely wrong, either, because a lot of the things—like, one group controlling most of the products on market—maybe were actually true. At least according to a ranting guy in a laundromat and some digging I did online.” Given the way the historian suddenly looks a little smug when he mentions ‘online’, he wasn’t wrong when he was guessing Shaun had posted a few things about them.

        It’s not...a huge leap to think that part of his life might not have actually changed all that much. He didn’t find much on himself on the internet in between frantically trying to figure out what happened to the Assassins, Abstergo, the Isu, the end of the world… He had the motorcycle license, but no other ID, a burner phone, and other than the absolute weirdness that was him failing to use a pseudonym for his latest bartending job maybe it’s a story that might hold up.

        Maybe.

        He’s under no illusions that Shaun and especially Rebecca are a whole lot better at this internet thing than he is.

        Shaun actually looks at him and even leans forward, eyes glittering with excitement. “Was it the Morninglight?” he suggests, and when he’s met with Desmond just blinking at him, because he’s not even trying to hide his enthusiasm like it’s a dirty secret, adds, “Have you heard the name Philip Marquard?”

        “They’re basically New Age hippies, Shaun. They’re not a cult,” Rebecca insists with a tone that suggests she’s said a variation on this sentence multiple times before.

        “If you’ve seen the things I’ve seen…” the historian mutters darkly, taking a bit more than a sip of the beer in front of him—huh, Desmond hadn’t taken him for a beer guy—before continuing, placing the glass primly back on the table. “Sometimes, history’s written in the margins, yeah? It’s gaps in the knowledge that make you question. No one’s going to just announce they’re a cult when they’re trying to recruit you, as we’ve seen time and time again. Don’t you want to know for a moment what they aren’t telling you?”

        Desmond clears his throat, and they both look at him, a little startled, like they’d forgotten he was here. “I, uh. I’ve never heard of either of those, but that might not mean much?” he offers, a little at a loss and hating it. “My dad was the leader, but I always got the feeling there were other branches, but we weren’t allowed to travel to them until we’d gone through basic training and been approved. We definitely weren’t hippies, though.” He points at his lip. “Training accident.”

        Rebecca leans over Shaun’s lap, grabbing his head to turn it to look at the scar, and states solemnly, “I guess that isn’t the usual b.s.”

        “Ignore Rebecca; she’s being a nerd,” Shaun advises, looking a little uncomfortable at the proximity, though he’s probably a little used to Rebecca being touchy-feely, noticing Desmond’s attempt to hide his confused expression. “I can look into it, if you’ll give me some information,” he suggests.

        Holy shit.

        Shaun has never, not once, offered to do anything for him without prompting or grumbling. He’d make them all coffee in the mornings, grumbling about the heathens they were. He’d do the Animus entries, but they were more for himself, since he seems shocked every time Desmond refers to something he’d learned in them or asks for more information. Most of the time he prefers to just shoo Desmond away, when he’s one of the only people to talk to and it’s getting lonely and probably less than safe to just live in his own head, given, y’know, Bleeding Effect.

        It’s just as out of character for this Shaun, too, apparently, because Rebecca is just as stunned speechless. Shaun blushes and scowls, drinking more of his beer.

        “It’s a gift to myself, really. I enjoy researching this kind of thing, unlike some of our lazy colleagues. Cults, conspiracies, and the like. And given the world we live in, it’s not as if knowing about these groups is worthless. Everything is true, after all.”

        Desmond tries not to react to that, he really does, but it’s so close to the Creed and so far away. Rebecca’s the only one who catches his reaction, he’s pretty sure. Shaun is too busy sulking at the thought that him actually being helpful of his own volition would ruin his reputation to actually pay attention.

        “Knowledge is always useful; I just...I don’t want to put either of you in danger,” he admits, because it occurs to him all of a sudden that maybe they’re right and in this world the Assassins are a dangerous cult. It’s not like they’re actually opposing the Templars in this world or there wouldn’t be so many Templars glowing the blue of an ally. And he...he does define himself as an Assassin, now, even if he didn’t less than a year ago. It feels like yeah, it should have an effect, and they’re not enemies.

        Shaun swallows and looks at a loss of what to say. Rebecca grins and coos at him and practically lunges over Shaun, again, to pull him into a hug, Shaun protesting, this time, and pulling his drink out of the way, and Desmond realizes he’s grinning and it’s weird, but he really has missed them. There’s a short list of people he trusts to touch him (by which he means he can actually dodge his reflexive need to stab them when they do) and these two are definitely on that list. It’s not like he hasn’t seen them for too long—just a couple weeks, after his “death”—but it feels like it’s been a while. It’s a side effect of living in each other’s back pockets for months, maybe.

        “We are Templars,” Shaun points out once he can figure out a reply. “We can take care of ourselves, you know. Probably better than you.”

        “Little baby Bee,” Rebecca agrees cheerfully, still half-smothering him. “Doesn’t even know how to fly yet.”

        “I know how to fight,” he protests slightly muffled. Shaun raises his eyebrows, skeptical and haughty, from what little he can see around Rebecca. What, just ‘cause he’s not pushing her away?

        Rebecca finally lets go, but she’s grinning ear-to-ear.

        “I,” Shaun announces with a careful pronunciation and dignity that has the bartender in Desmond suddenly fairly sure the man might actually be drunk, “...will be the judge of that.”

        It’s only the fact that the historian’s hands are shaking slightly that lets the Assassin realize he’s being pickpocketed, and Rebecca exclaims, “That’s your phone? That’s an actual dinosaur.” She actually looks half horrified, half fascinated.

        “We might have to run this past our superiors, but I think we can compile something that can help you,” the Brit continues, poking at the phone and then, with hesitation that says he’s probably embarrassed, handing it back.

        “Your phone number, right? Here.” He signs in, not bothering to hide his password from them. Mostly because he knows if he leaves it unattended for any real length of time around Rebecca it probably won’t remain locked for long, and also it’s not like there’s too much on there he’s worried about them seeing. It’s a new burner phone, mostly because he wasn’t sure if the old one was being traced and also because he, shockingly, actually didn’t know his previous password. Which is an uncomfortable reminder of the Thing He’s Still Not Thinking About. And then hands it back.

        The historian blinks, looking oddly vulnerable, but continues to add his name (under Hastings) and phone number. “My surname,” he explains awkwardly, and then adds Rebecca’s (under Rebecca) for good measure before handing it back, just as awkward.

        Something’s going on there, but Desmond’s crash course in learning social cues at the school of the bar didn’t quite cover whatever’s going on with Shaun, so he decides to ignore that for now.

        “I’d appreciate anything you can do to help, really,” he tells them both truthfully, before standing up and stretching.

        “Aww, you’re going already?” Rebecca is actually pouting. But as much as he wants to bask in the presence of his—yeah, they had a really weird relationship, thinking about it, but he’s absolutely going to call them his friends—he knows he can’t just jump in like nothing’s happened. Particularly since, well, for them, nothing has happened, other than the fact that he’s showed up and acted a little strange and caught both their attention that way. From their point of view, they’ve only just met.

        “I meant it when I said I don’t want to get you two in trouble. I’ll find another way if I have to,” he promises and gets the feeling Shaun is itching to correct his grammar or something—only he doesn’t. Huh.

        Maybe he should’ve tried to get Shaun drunk more often to loosen up. Then again, he probably would’ve refused, said something about ‘staying professional’.

        He gets up, waves with a smile, and walks away. Time to get some food—somewhere else, today at least, so they feel like they can talk freely and maybe not so suspicious of him—and then crash. Maybe on a roof somewhere, unless he can find a hotel, and even then his money supply is dwindling and he’s reluctant to just spend that when the police haven’t been too eager to look on rooftops when he avoids the ones with obvious golden security systems.

Chapter Text

        “Someone has a crush,” Rebecca sing-songs, and that actually gets Shaun to glance up, because that conclusion takes some creative logic to reach.

        “Excuse you. How the hell did you come to a ridiculous idea like that? You can’t fool me, Crane; you can’t leave this alone, either. The curiosity would eat you alive.” It’s not exactly his best comeback, but he’s still distracted, because who the hell is Desmond Miles? (He’d picked the surname up from the brief time he had the phone in his hands.) The man is practically a living ghost, as opposed to the sort that need a little encouragement to stay dead. It’s no wonder the Illuminati hadn’t managed to get their hands on him, and he is, at the very least, on the run from something—the surveillance footage said as much, what little had managed to capture him on it. He can check for cameras—unobtrusively—and tends to do what he can to remain out of the camera eye, all while making it look utterly natural and not like he’s doing it on purpose. If the odds of his repeated success in that regard weren’t statistically infinitesimal, then Shaun might be fooled.

        No one is that aware of their surroundings without a reason. The man has no credit score, and a minimal internet presence. Paid in cash—and asking about him tends to result in closed ranks, which Shaun would find much more suspicious if the few things that they had mentioned weren’t contradictory, demonstrating that they hadn’t actually coordinated their stories.

        If anything, it’s that Desmond is, well.

        He inspires protectiveness, doesn’t he? They’re clear enough indication of that. Barely met the bloke and they’re already far more invested than they should be. Is it...is it possible he's using some kind of undetectable mind control? Everything else is, so he wouldn’t put it out of the realm of question, but you’d need spells for that, surely, and surely they would have noticed? Well, no, the Bee-touched don’t, but their powers are more flashy and showy—the Bees certainly seem to appreciate the concept of free will, even if they don’t bloody understand it.

        “I’m a lesbian, Shaun. You’re the one that goes for guys,” she argues, and fake-shudders.

        “Frankly, if you think he matches my taste, I’m insulted,” he responds dryly, because that’s not what’s going on here. He’s a mystery wrapped in a conspiracy, the kind Shaun hasn’t seen in years since Rebecca pulled him into the protection of the Templars before he could end up in the clutches of the Illuminati or worse, Orochi (at least she believes him on that front, but isn’t following, necessarily, on how far that corruption goes). It’s absolutely irresistible, the need to know more. How could he possibly leave this alone?

        “Mmm, yeah,” she agrees, looking him over again thoughtfully as she brings her laptop over to where he’s sitting, cramming herself in on the couch where she can keep an eye on him. He feels a moment of vindication before it’s crushed, entirely. Because Rebecca is good at that. “You weren’t half this invested in your past boyfriends.”

        She’s just mocking him, at this rate. Not an unusual situation, really, but irritating all the same. She’d taken care with her wording, looking out for him, but it still hurts. “People are less interesting than patterns. You might know this if you paid any attention to anything in my life that wasn’t gossip-worthy.” He pauses and then adds under his breath, “And in any case, he’s a Dragon.”

        He knows he’s made a mistake when she smiles sweetly at him. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” And worse, she’s right, because he wouldn’t start offering excuses like that unless he was at least slightly smitten, damn it all.

        “You’re slightly mangling your Shakespeare. Although I suppose your American education is largely to blame.” He’s all off kilter, when was the last time he slept, and exactly how long has this Desmond been distracting him from his real work? The situation is fascinating and unnerving and upon hearing the full story Sonnac had actually allowed them to divide their research support for this.

        She sighs, setting aside her precious laptop gently. “All right, you want data, let’s talk data. We had the guy right in front of us. Can’t get much closer than that.”

        He...doesn’t wish to, because among other things actually remembering the event would require things like how drunk he’d been, how much of a fool he’d made of himself, and Desmond drawing attention to the scar on his lips, which had easily derailed to—

        Well. They weren’t R-rated fantasies, which probably conversely indicates exactly how buggered Shaun is, because a simple one-night stand with a Dragon might be acceptable. An all-too domestic situation that would lead to soft, sweet kisses in public, aware of the uneven flesh against his own, in the Horned God or elsewhere, gently leading the man around museums as they hold hands and acting like a semi-pompous tour guide? That is not permissible, thank you, no matter how Shaun’s traitorous heart takes the fact that Miles wasn’t put off by Shaun’s harsh words, that he’d even smiled at him like Shaun being cruel is endearing somehow. The man must have crossed wires, with that reaction. Most flee the room, sometimes the continent, to escape his tirades. Rebecca proves the assertion that to react otherwise is far from ‘normal’ and says things, pointed things, about the one reacting.

        But, as usual, and how he hates how smug she is about it, Rebecca is a genius and is not incorrect about the situation. He’d been overlooking that, distancing himself from that set of data because he didn’t want to think about any of it.

        And now that he is...hmm.  She starts, though.

        “Either he knew us, or people rather like us.” They’re both personalities, difficult for others to adapt, and yet somehow none of it bothered him. “He wasn’t sure we'd react the way he wanted us to, like he’d jacked into our brains or something, and he was a little anxious about how we’d react, but he didn’t act like it was the first time we've met.” For a statement like that to be the first conversation they’ve had about this, she had to have noticed and been thinking about it since. And there’s no lingering magic; they’ve been checked.

        “Visions are fairly common for Bee-touched,” he reminds her, because he had to have known the Illuminati were coming somehow, and it would explain everything neatly. “And if he’s telling the truth about the Dragon being even more mysterious than usual, he has to be relying on something for direction.”

        “He wasn’t lying,” Rebecca corrects quickly. “He wasn’t telling the whole truth, either, but he wasn’t lying.”

        “Being very careful about his word choice, yes.” Though Shaun had thought that was more to do with persuading them to help. Rebecca was the one with a better idea of how to deal with people. “Do you think he’s being used as a spy?” He knows what he’d say, but he’s curious about her assessment.

        “Oh, absolutely, though knowing the Dragon he’s also possibly an olive branch.” He stares at her. “Dragons don’t do treaties like anyone else, and we might not be experts at reading the patterns like them, but we’re analysts. We’ve both seen. Everything’s picked up. Artifacts, monsters, the bees. We’ve gone from a little good old fashioned magic to almost-immortals and whatever the hell’s going on in Tokyo. Given their plans-in-plans way of doing things, he’s probably here to spy a little, as much as he can, without even knowing it, serve as some weird form of cooperation, and probably be a mindgame to everybody. Including us. And here we’re falling for it.” She doesn’t sound at all sorry about it, though Shaun feels the sting of humiliation anyway.

        “So, what, they’re hedging their bets?” he demands, and she shrugs.

        “They’ve been oddly compliant with the new Council stuff. And really, since when do they not know more about what’s going on than literally everyone else?” Despite the fact that they like to keep their operatives in the dark—and yeah, no matter how much he’d griped at Miles, that’s entirely within their operating procedures.

        Well. It’s not like they’d planned on taking him to Templar Hall.

        “Do you believe him about the cult?” Rebecca asks. It’s more out of curiosity than anything, because they haven’t been able to pin down exactly which one he might have escaped from.

        “Absolutely.” At her raised eyebrow, he sighs. “I am, as you might remember, a bit of the cult expert here?” It’s one of the reasons he was recruited out of his nice posh professor’s position, in fact, and something he rather takes pride in. “He doesn’t even know everything he’s keeping secret. He’s learned not to want too much, to ask too much, to tuck bits of himself away that wouldn’t be approved. Desperate for people to like him, a bit of a people-pleaser, but doesn’t actually expect anything to come from it, is shocked when it does. He’s been out of it for a few years, because he’s learned to mask, a bit, to blend in more and not appear like he’s completely ignorant of the world, but for someone who knows what they’re looking for...yeah. He grew up in a cult, one that, for all we know, knew a bit of the truth, but…” his face and tone darken. “That doesn’t excuse any of it. Five quid that scar isn’t the only one, and another five those are just the physical scars. And his insistence he doesn’t want to get us in trouble?”

        “He had help getting out, and...it didn’t go well,” she guesses. Soft heart, has Crane, no wonder she identifies so much with the poor sod.

        “At a guess, we remind him of his ill-fated friend or friends, plural, and more than just in our willingness to put our necks on the line.” A vision had told him where to look, where to find those who would be willing to help, only once they had, well, he’d panicked.

        The tech scowls, raw determination in that look, and Shaun knows for a fact he is completely and utterly doomed, because the woman is his best friend and there’s no escaping Miles now. “This isn’t going to turn out the same.” They’d probably fight anyone who got in the way, too, even the entirety of Orochi.

        “No, it isn’t,” he agrees, and turns back to his research. God, he hopes it’s Morninglight. He’s been itching to knock their teeth in since they moved in their ‘personality test’ routine in London. Arrogant pricks.

Chapter Text

        Desmond’s really glad the Illuminati didn’t get to him when he gets a video message on his phone. Shaun takes a look at it later and shudders, pronouncing that “it’s that bitch Kirsten Geary”.

        “Oh, come on, you’re barely bleeding,” she tells someone screaming offscreen, speaking a little louder to be heard over the screens, before she turns to the phone. “I’m a little hurt, Desmond. The Dragon poaching you from under our very noses, tut tut, so very rude, but then, they never have had much in the way of manners. You’re missing out on the best compensation plan, health insurance, and parties among the Big Three. Just know that while we can’t order our best hit squad the second you set foot in New York again—mostly because while the Council is out of touch they do know how to apply some good old-fashioned style violence when someone steps out of line—we can make your life extremely uncomfortable even without extreme measures, so consider this call your ‘come to New York’ postcard, hmm?”

        “Really, give us all some peace and quiet,” she continues, rolling her eyes, and nods at someone else offscreen. The screaming stops abruptly. Desmond swallows. “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’ll come back. You lot always do.”

        Desmond quietly resolves not to test this and also not to return to New York anytime soon if he can help it. Because he’s heard enough threats in his time, and that was definitely a threat. Also, he’s pretty sure he judged the Illuminati almost perfectly, because it’s easy to picture her as a colleague of Vidic’s.

Chapter Text

        So Desmond just...hangs around in London for a bit. He gets a notification on his phone that Pax Romana has been deposited into his account. Apparently that’s a unit of money, and his phone’s not lying to him, because the bank he wanders into verifies he does, in fact, have the hexagonal shaped coin with a little griffon on the front. It doesn’t look like any of the coins he’s seen before, but then, he gets the feeling that the Animus streamlined some things because he’ll wake from vague nightmares of young Ezio trying to make sense of the Italian local currencies sometimes (old Ezio had just kind of shrugged off the necessity and gotten on with it), and he’s pretty certain the Crusades didn’t have the same currency everywhere, either, though in some cases they probably resorted to bartering instead.

        He doesn’t withdraw all of the Pax Romana even though he’s not really used to actually using a bank as himself. Again, that trust in the banks is a holdover from Ezio suggesting that yeah, a bank might not be the worst place to keep one’s money, just don’t count on it if someone decides to freeze your account or commit treason or whatever, though he’s pretty sure that last one doesn’t really apply too much in his own case. The echo of Altaïr grumpily concurs, even though he was glared away from the Assassin coffers by Malik and secretly was pleased because he didn’t want to do the bookkeeping any more than Malik (or Maria for that matter) wanted him to do the bookkeeping. Even as a Master Assassin, he tended to just pickpocket what he needed, even though he didn’t need to do it. Malik lectured him every time, but privately Altaïr was pretty sure his old friend found it funny.

        They hand him a little pouch to carry them, and it seems to be bigger on the inside. Maybe he’ll figure out how that works, because a messenger bag like that? He’d be set.

        He really should stop being surprised. Traces of magic are everywhere here, if you know where or, really, how to look. Connor would see it as normal. 

        Though, the banker lady tells him cheerfully, most people like him prefer to pay by app, these days, she can definitely show him how. Maybe later, he tells her with a smile, mostly because he’s not sure how many pies Illuminati has its fingers in, in this world, and doesn’t want to mess with it even if they probably won’t retaliate or anything.

        He’s also treated to a little lecture that kind of reminds him of Shaun about how they’re also called Marks of Favour because they’re manufactured by the Council of Venice (interesting choice; he can definitely see why Venezia would serve as a good base at least in Italy and it’s probably why they went with the term ‘Pax Romana’ for the official name of the currency, and is almost certainly the Council Geary had mentioned), who kind of serve as a United Nations of the Secret World. Interesting stuff, and definitely something to ask Shaun about later.

        While he’s there, he also sees this guy just come in and...withdraw gold bars. Legit gold bars. Part of him wants to complain about that, like, that’s weird, why, but the rest of him that got a little too into treasure-hunting as Ezio is busy cataloging that this means that if he does find any loot, he can probably just use it to barter or sell it or whatever and nobody will be suspicious.

        He wanders into the clothing store across the street and just browses a little. They have yet more hoodies, these ones with flame designs. He’s a little tempted, but doesn’t want to go buying much yet when he’s not sure if he’s getting, like, a regular paycheck, or if he has to make this last, and he still needs to pay for food. They also have leather, which might be useful if he ever gets a motorcycle again. Road rash hurts like a bitch and he doesn’t want to imagine actually doing things, strenuous things, like climbing buildings or trying to fight.

        They take Pax Romana, like he’d suspected. They’ll take regular cash, too, which is good. He’d had some in his apartment, so it’d be weird if they didn’t, but still. On one hand, it means that the world hadn’t stopped using regular old American dollars, but on the other, he gets the feeling that since Pax is a Council of Venice currency, it’s likely not everyone takes it, so maybe he should hold onto the cash for places without that influence.

        He hasn’t worked out what about this world is the same and what isn’t, and he still hasn’t quite gotten over that bee thing, but maybe getting his bearings here will help. It turns out to be quite a lot of money, even if Pax does seem to be a slightly weaker currency than the dollar (funny what you pick up from Renaissance Italy banker’s kids when you spend decades in their head), so you have to use more to buy things. Being gifted so much cash out of the blue makes him uncomfortable, and he keeps getting notifications about packages at the post office next to the little fish & chips place. They turn out to be things called ‘talismans’.  He’s not sure what to do with them yet, but he’ll figure it out. He’s almost certain it’s the Dragon messing with him, waiting to see what he’ll do, so he just puts those in the bank and tries not to let himself react visibly.

        He has watchers, and they're not red, so he doesn't worry about it too much. Mostly, they just follow him around everywhere. He thinks about turning and waving at them, but decides not to, mostly because, well, it’s not good to make paranoid people even more paranoid. Take Machiavelli, for instance. Nah, it’s better not to let them know that he’s managed to spot most of them, mostly but not exclusively using Eagle Vision, partly because, well. He’s pretty sure Eagle Vision isn’t a thing here, and not just because of the creepy little girl’s words.

Chapter Text

        There’s ads everywhere; one about some guy from the Orochi Group, which Desmond remembers hearing aren’t trustworthy, a ton for the Morninglight, which isn’t suspicious at all, and some about Bingo!Cola, which also is obviously completely aboveboard, why would you even ask. Still, it’s good to know the face of one of, well. Potentially one of his enemies. Samuel Chandra. Apparently a businessman, and well-known in this world, making the Orochi Group some massive corporation, which is never good when earning trust on Desmond’s side. If he squints with Eagle Vision, he thinks he might see a little red tinge around the man’s face, but given that he’s never heard about that before, he can’t be sure he’s not imagining things. The creepy little girl said his ‘gift of seeing had strengthened’, so maybe, but he’s not going to lean too hard either way unless it happens again.

        It also turns out that Shaun was not, in fact, lying to him, and fish & chips in London just tastes better. It’s kind of a surprise, given that Desmond is a little used to Shaun just saying the Brits do everything better and hadn’t really paid attention, given that he was pretty sure Shaun just liked to grouse for fun. And...well, he starts to get the idea that there probably actually is something shady about Bingo!Cola, because it’s everywhere. They have it in a vending machine, but the guy at the counter is selling it, too. They even, the man—cook and owner and cashier, he’s told—informs him cheerfully, have the Cherry, Vanilla, and Diet versions in the vending machine if he’s interested.

        He declines and just takes the Londinium Mint, which turns out to be a mint-flavored carbonated soda. It’s a little odd, but it doesn’t really bother him, trying new things, even though he’s not that hard to please and half the time just kept asking for burgers to watch Shaun go off on another rant about taste. He likes it, he decides, though he probably wouldn’t go out of his way to get it.

        The man then says something about how it’s nice everyone gets along in Ealdwic, even though it’s London, which is apparently the funniest thing the woman behind him in line has heard all year, since she starts giggling and clapping her hands. Desmond thanks the guy and ducks out. It’s possible he’s referring to the Templar, Illuminati, and Dragon, because oddly everyone seems to come and hang out here, and they’re not even trying to slit each other’s throats. The guy’s right, for sure, but. Again. Weird. The closest comparison he can think of off the top of his head is Maria, and even then there had been some pretty decent attempts at fatal stabbing on both sides before they’d even gotten to that point. He can’t even imagine, say, his dad and Vidic sitting down and not trying to kill, maim, or capture each other, even if there was some other organization telling them not to.

        He becomes a regular at the Horned God, which is nice and normal. Other regulars are apparently about evenly split between people with flashy outfits like long coats or glowing stripes or fancy embroidery and people dressed more like him with jeans and hoodies and t-shirts, and he'd briefly made the mistake of thinking that one meant people from the different factions and locals, but when they switched it up quickly found out that, no, it's just whatever they feel like wearing for the day.  He even takes a turn behind the counter once; apparently because half their serving staff is notoriously unreliable. He spots a Templar tattoo on one of them, Melissa, and he’s pretty sure he knows why they keep disappearing. Not that he knows exactly what they’re doing, but. Well. They’ve practically got an army here; they’re probably using it somehow, and there has to be a reason they’re recruiting people that have been visited by the bees.

        The Horned God has an outdoor area with a bike and tables and lights and a waitress whose job is mostly to just stand out there. It’s an interesting setup and for some reason Desmond has the image of people sitting at the picnic tables staring at each other on either side having a drinking contest. It actually has an upstairs, too, with a dance floor. Not that he really goes to do much more than people-watch, but one of the nights when he’s a little tipsy Shaun goads him into it, unaware that he doesn’t really have too much in the way of self-consciousness, so that backfires. Rebecca finds that hilarious, but she’d always been easily amused, and he has a blast trying to out-dance her. Not that he does, he’s just making it up, but still. It’s fun.

        It’s also right next to a brewery, which might explain the selection. Anywhere that serves alcohol has pretty much all brands he’s never heard of, but he approves of the variety and the taste. It might just be that the beers are local, so he wouldn’t recognize those. (The wines and the rest, though? That’s a bit more of a puzzle.)

        This little section of London has not one, but two theatres, as Shaun would spell it, and when in London, Desmond guesses, though one of them is a movie theatre (still weird that that exists) and one of them is a really fancy looking actual play theatre with red and gold and paintings on the wall that look genuine. Ezio’s eye’s telling him that, again, although it’s possible he wouldn’t notice fakes there, given that he was mostly working with or looking at the real deal, courtesy of Leonardo or himself. Apparently some of the plays (or, sometimes, concerts) are put on by bored Bees (the human ones, not the glowing ones that look like insects but may or may not actually be insects), which seems odd. Sure, having a creative outlet did help Ezio a little, but still.

        Desmond declines to rent out the theatre and just wanders around for a bit. The concessions are almost entirely alcohol, but Desmond approves of the way the bartenders, plural, go about their jobs, so, you know. They’re not quite as approachable as the two in the Horned God (though the fairy outfit is...a little weird, but apparently it’s a choice and not some sketchy policy, so who’s he to judge), but they’re close. Surprising, since ‘higher class’ establishments tend to be a little more...selective, should he say.

        Also apparently they sell smokes, but they’re mostly herbs, or so he’s told. They seem pretty sure he’d be interested. It’s a little weird. Apparently the theatre actually has a smoking section or something? It does kind of fit the old timey atmosphere, he supposes, but still. Weird.

        Also, the balconies are just begging to be used in an Assassination; you could pretty much just stealth a kill up there if you’re good enough and they’re placed pretty well for an air assassination, not that Desmond actually has any targets he wants to kill just yet. Except for maybe that Chandra guy. He’s not sure on that front, but until he is, he’ll just keep collecting information instead. He kind of wants to kill Geary, but he’s pretty sure that would start a war and he definitely doesn’t want to do that. Yet, anyway. Mostly his instincts keep telling him that she’s a threat and needs to be eliminated, which. They’re right about the first part, but he’s not sure about the second, partly because he has no idea what kind of effects that would cause or if she’d be replaced by someone even worse . And also theatre assassinations remind him uncomfortably of Haytham, so maybe not.

        Pretty close to the theatre, there’s a park. Apparently the Morninglight guys set up a tent in front, but doesn’t go to them just yet. He probably should at some point to try to figure out what they’re planning; Shaun’s instincts are rarely wrong, but still. He wants to make sure he’s ready before he tries something like that. Even if all he can do is mostly mental preparation at this point. He does have the Hidden Blades in case they decide to just abduct him, but they’re probably playing things pretty straight if they’re not seen universally as a cult, so they probably wouldn’t try force in the middle of the street when the entire section of London is practically crawling with cops in shouting range.

        Occasionally some trains run by, rattling overhead. He’ll take more of a look later, but he doesn’t want to be late for meeting Shaun and Rebecca for two reasons: one, he doesn’t want them to worry about him, and two, he really doesn’t want them to decide he’s untrustworthy or something.

Chapter Text

        One day he decides to go check out all the little shops in the area. It’s kind of neat, seeing all of them around. Maybe it’s the Ezio in him, looking for ways to increase his influence in an environment he’s not entirely sure about. And maybe it’s that kind of echoed pride that has him enjoying them so much, but he doesn’t think so. Little shops always had something neat in them, and didn’t tend to get too suspicious about his use of cash. Sure, the worker might be more likely to remember him, but he’d perfected blending in and being forgettable, even before all the Animus training. ‘Course, he’d done that to keep his maybe-cult he’d escaped from off his back, but still. It’d been handy. Although apparently that’s the norm here, and that feels familiar, too. Puts him at ease.

        There’s a record shop. Not that he actually has a record player to be able to use anything, but still. A little alcohol store. Their selection is also good, but then, almost everywhere has been like that, here. And a little electronic repair shop, not that he needs any of that right now; the only thing he has is his phone. A bakery, which might be called ‘Burnt Offerings’ but the bread is delicious. An import/export business with really weird hours and lists ‘items magical & mundane’, which for all he knows in this world is actually real. Of course, because he doesn’t actually know how to spot magical items, he could be sold fakes and wouldn’t even know. Maybe that’s something he should ask Shaun about later.

        A butcher’s shop, and since he doesn’t plan on opening a restaurant and isn’t renting an apartment (even though with the money the Dragon’s been giving him he probably could at this point) he doesn’t have anywhere to cook it, so he doesn’t even bother with that. Yet, anyway.

        A tiny flower shop. There are probably uses to those beyond just freshening up the look of a place and giving them to people you like, but he still doesn’t know about magic, much less if he can use it, so he gives it a pass and is going to return later.

        A couple more restaurants, but they’re closed when he gets to them, and he’s not sure what kind of food they might be selling just from the outside. A tearoom, another charm seller, which, again, might be useful if he can figure out the real from the fake. The Discriminating Thaumaturgist, whatever that means.

        There’s a sketchy barber shop. He wanders in and immediately feels unsafe, so he apologizes and immediately leaves. He’s not sure what’s giving him that feeling; the triplets working there seem perfectly fine and glow white under Eagle Vision. But he also hasn’t survived this long without listening to his instincts and he’s not going to start ignoring them now.

        Part of that is still, well. Not that he’s experiencing the Bleeding Effect, like, at all, which is incredibly weird, but he’ll still get moments where he feels like reality is just a game and so there’s just a disconnect between consequences and reality. He’s got to have something that tethers him to this world and lets him not get too caught up in thinking as opposed to acting.

        There’s a laundromat, which he takes note of although it won’t matter too much until he gets a change of clothes. He’ll do that soon, just...he’s not sure what he wants to go for, because unlike with the food he doesn’t see much point in switching it up too much. A tabloid, although given that it’s talking about the Templars and Bees on its front page, he’s pretty sure they know more than people think. He notes the other things they mention: black magic cults, vampires, lizard-men, mummies. He’s also had some normal-looking pedestrian walk straight through him, so he’s pretty sure ghosts exist, too. And it calls Templars ‘grail-obsessed freaks’, which, well. On one hand, it’s encouraging that they’re not just immediately wiped out of existence, living so close to the Templars and insulting them like this. In his world, they’d have been quietly disappeared ages ago. On the other, well. He likes Shaun and Rebecca still, but he’s still a bit wary, and that doesn’t help.

        He’s tempted to grab something at the Carefully Not Starbucks no sir we’re a tiny artsy little coffee shop, but spots a little sandwich shop just past it. That’s also pretty good, but then, he’s not picky. It’s in a little square next to a strange guy doing a puppet show, going on and on about environmentalism something something the world is doomed. He’s a little colorful, and not just in his words, because those are bright oranges and greens and blues in his outfit. There’s a decent crowd. He can eat while watching, probably, because while he’d ignore that if he was in his own world, it doesn’t hurt to have a clue about how it compares to what he knew.

        He settles in and half-zones out, because for once, everything seems about the same. He’d heard variations on this particular rant before, a couple of times, back from when he was a bartender. Why was he so focused on this particular spot, besides the fact that a couple of the people had mentioned the Fallen King and a puppet with reverent tones—

        It feels gold, he works out, just as the guy says, “This is a warning from the Sun. It says it’s old and tired and scared of death. It says you’ve lived as young gods for too long! Spoilt children who only need to wish for something and it’ll come true!”

        The sandwich falls out of his hands before he realizes it. Distantly, he’s a little upset about that. It’d been a nice sandwich. Tasty. They’d been mostly eating canned goods and other easy things to pack for so long there, when he was in the Animus, not that he always tasted everything after he’d finished a session anyway. Waste of money, waste of food, and he’d been homeless just like this guy (how does he know that, why does he know that), he knows how important it is not to just let something happen to his food like that, but it’s okay, he can still eat it—

        He’s died once, he can’t do it again, he can’t, but that’s the pain of it, isn’t it, Juno, because if he needs to do it, if he has to die so everybody can live he’d do it again, no matter how much—

        “Easy there, Desmond,” a familiar voice tells him, gentler than he remembers. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let’s go sit down.”

        “’m wasting food,” he mumbles, suddenly cold all of a sudden but it hadn’t been as he burned—

        “I’ll buy you another. Come on, now, that’s right, easy does it,” the voice tells him even as hands gently—gently—grab his shoulders and start maneuvering him in a direction, and he doesn’t even have the presence of mind to shrug it off or wonder where they’re going.

        “We’ll get behind,” he protests, just a little, even though he knows he can’t go back into the Animus, he’s got a headache and his synch rate’ll be all off and someone—lucy shaun dad—is gonna yell at him for it, but what can they do, they have a deadline and he can’t even become not himself properly—

        “Damn schedules and all of that rot. You are not some cog in a machine, Desmond Miles,” he’s told, and suddenly he’s a little warmer. “Breathe, there’s a good lad.”

        He gasps in, but the tears are threatening to fall, and he knows it’ll be reported—well, maybe not, Shaun had been strangely sympathetic at the end—and Dad’s going to be disappointed (like that’s anything new), but he’s scared. It’s nearing the end and he’s scared.

        “I don’t want to die,” he breathes, even as he reflexively sits—it’s a stool.

        “Then don’t,” the voice—Shaun—states firmly, and it’d be dismissive if not for the firm ‘I’ve got your back’ tone to it. “You listen to me, Desmond Miles, and this is important: I don’t care what your cult, what the people who called themselves your family told you. You don’t have to die. I’m the data man, and I’ve done a lot of studying of prophecies and whatnot, and even if they knew a little of the truth, they didn’t know what I know. Prophecies aren’t absolute. There’s always an alternative or three. So keep breathing, keep living, and we’ll see about the rest.”

        He’d thought that, maybe, when reading about it on the internet. That the solar flare hadn’t happened, that he wouldn’t have to die, but part of it, he realizes, hadn’t believed it. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet, and then that guy—the Fallen King—started talking about the Sun, and he lost it, because part of him was still convinced that there was no other way out, for the little rat in the maze.

        He shouldn’t believe this, for the same reason Shaun’s trying to reassure him: he doesn’t know what Desmond knows. But Shaun’s words feel gold, and for the split second he’d been viewing the Calculations he knows that Eagle Vision is just a small fragment of that glimpse into the underpinnings of reality, so—it’s true. He’s safe, for the moment anyway, although—huh.

        Doesn’t mean the Fallen King puppet guy’s wrong, either. Could be that an apocalypse is lurking on the horizon, again. Just means he doesn’t have to sacrifice himself this time, to stop it. So he relaxes a little and opens his eyes—no, wait, they’d been open, he just hadn’t been processing what he’d been seeing—and starts describing what he’s seeing like Shaun is asking.

Chapter Text

        Shaun’s just in his sweater vest, when he’s fully present, and there’s something around his shoulders—

        “You were going into shock,” Shaun explains, arms crossed, still acting like him being nice is some kind of unspeakable sin, though there’s something in his expression Desmond can’t quite place. “And, honestly...it might have been partly my fault, so yes, I gave you my jacket, Miles, you should feel honored.”

        “How the hell is it your fault?” Huh. He still feels exhausted. Better, like he’s gotten to do one of the climbing regimens and his muscles are all nice and achey and happy, but honestly he could probably sleep for a week.

        The historian gestures vaguely outside the coffee shop. “The Fallen King. I should have warned you. Didn’t, obviously, but we’ve been keeping an eye on the bloke. Couple of the new recruits have reported strange visions and passing out after watching one of the man’s so-called ‘performances’, only it’s only been affecting Templars, as far as we know, so I didn’t think it was necessary.” That’s...probably as close as he’s going to get to an apology from Shaun Hastings, isn’t it?

        “It’s fine,” he tells him—because that’s a perfectly reasonable thought process—and if anything Shaun’s scowl gets even worse.

        “It is not. There’s more to being ‘fine’ than ‘not being injured’ and ‘not being dead’, you realize. Just so we’re clear, I’d assumed, since you know you’d been in a cult, but—did you ever have therapy, or absolutely anything to assist your transition to what passes for civilian life?” That’s...huh.

        “Didn’t need it—and no, Shaun, I’m not just going to start seeing a shrink just ‘cause you said so.” Because there is absolutely no way he can summarize his life in a way that won’t get him institutionalized for the rest of his life.

        “Expert on cults, here. Exit counseling or support groups are important for transitioning out of them.” His voice is still gentler than Desmond’s ever heard it, but it doesn’t take an Assassin to spot the tightly controlled need for violence in his voice, and yet he’s not unleashing it on Desmond—

        Wait, he’s actually mad... for me. Not at me. That’s new.

        “I ran away when I was a kid. I’ve been out for a long time.” He breathes in and out and manages a smile. Shaky, but he’s getting there. “I’ve been working as a bartender in New York for a while, and my life was pretty normal until the thing with the glowy bee.” Aside from, you know, Abstergo and human experimentation and the Animus thing, in between, but still. Pretty sure those don’t exist in this world. Better he stick to what he knows does. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ll never be normal, exactly, but.”

        Shaun drums his fingers impatiently on his arm, thinking. “Last flashback?”

        It might be, uh, a little creative with the truth, but if he doesn’t count Bleeding Effect, which, again, probably isn’t a thing here, not without Animuses—Animi?… “It’s been a while.” And then, because Shaun’s opening his mouth again and probably going to object, again, he does his best charming bartender smile he can muster. “I think you said something about buying me another sandwich?”

        Shaun is probably two seconds away from another lecture or sarcastic temper tantrum, but he’s holding it in, just because he doesn’t want to upset Desmond. It probably makes him a bit of an asshole, but that’s kind of funny. “Fine. What kind?” he bites out.

        “Chorizo.” It’s all he can do not to laugh when Shaun almost does a double-take at the fact that he didn’t mispronounce the word (like what’s left of Ezio in his brain would let him).

        “Coming up, your royal Highness,” Shaun grumbles, and Desmond can’t exactly help himself.

        “Could I maybe get a coffee, too, seeing as these good people have let us just take one of their stools out of the kindness of their hearts?”

        The barista giggles, and he winks. Fortunately, Shaun can’t see that from where he is, or he’d really be overdoing it.

        “You’re pushing your luck, King Miles,” the Brit responds, wandering off muttering about the French Revolution and smug royalty that didn’t know what was coming to them.

        He does end up buying Desmond a latte anyway, frowning when he’s thanked. He doesn’t take his jacket back for a while, though.

Chapter Text

        Maybe Desmond’s pushing his luck, a little, but he’s enjoying hanging out with Rebecca and Shaun without the end of the world hanging over them all, and the tourist thing is a lot more fun when he’s not subconsciously worrying about a repeat of what happened in the last world. Shaun’s definitely concerned about him now, though that’s probably the guilt talking. Maybe it’s really weird that he seemed to get over it so quickly, though seriously, the Brit had actually managed to be reassuring, even if he didn’t understand how.

        Desmond sucks it up and heads over to a street he’d been avoiding the whole time he’s been here, namely the way that leads to Templar Hall. It’s an impressive area, all right, towering above everything else, with the giant fountain in front and everything.

        He’s actually really tempted to just climb in, especially with his newfound power, though he’s almost certain that’d raise red flags, since he’d have apparently just lost his watchers, even if they didn’t think he did it through magic or whatever. Before the Animus, he’d never actually just looked at architecture and immediately start thinking about it in terms of handhelds, but climbing had been a lot of fun and he actually kind of misses it.

        The watchers definitely take a lot of interest in the fact he’s taking an interest, though, and he probably shouldn’t do it for too long. Really, he’s trying to avoid ending up on anyone’s ‘to do list’ for the time being. He’d had enough of that last time.

        While he’s standing there gawking, though, he’s actually approached by a Templar asking about a lost talking raven and is forced to contemplate possible familiars or whatever because oh yeah, that’s right, magic exists. Another one is itching for some violence, which after the comment about the Crusades makes him wary. The guy’s not red, but he can’t help but feel uneasy. One of the Templars complains that he’s not a bloody walking tour but hands him a map anyway. He’s already half memorized most of the layout from previous days, and there’s probably also secrets that have been hidden because that’s just how these secret societies roll , but still, it’s useful. He’d really appreciated Rebecca’s ‘minimap’ feature. True, most of the cities Altaïr was in weren’t that big, so it was harder to get lost, but still.

        There’s a mostly empty building right next to the entrance to the Templar courtyard. He’s allowed in there, but there are just...police officers standing around, and absolutely nothing in there. Maybe that’s what all the sirens are about. The door is gold, but they’re not going to let him in anytime soon, so he mostly doesn’t bother.

        He also memorizes the location of all the phone boxes; they take Pax, too, and it never hurts to have an idea where everything is. Not that he thinks he’ll need it with the new phone, but it pays to be prepared and he’s already memorized Shaun’s and Rebecca’s numbers.

        The park has a big tower of crates labeled ‘Camelot’ built around a big tree, and there’s a fountain of gold behind it, not that anyone seems to notice. It feels like pure energy, and it’s gold in Eagle Vision too. Desmond doesn’t touch it.

        He checks in on the girl in the park, too, introduces himself and keeps an eye on the old guy trying to impress her. He’s not sure how old she is but he’s guessing teens, based on a general guess and the fact that she talks about school and accidentally becoming a pyromaniac. Fortunately, it seems like she didn’t judge him wrong and he is, in fact, not making any moves on her or forcing her into anything, but it doesn’t hurt to keep talking to her every day to make sure. Maybe that’s the bartender in him.

        There’s even sewers, if he wants to deal with them. He doesn’t particularly. They smell even worse than when he’s in the Animus, but it pays to have an idea of the layout in case you need to make a quick escape or whatever, so he sucks it up and goes. Maybe it’ll make his watchers worried, but also, he just doesn’t feel like making small talk with the Templars as he walks up to the entrance right now. The tunnels are cramped and confusing, winding with dead ends and turns, but he memorizes them, too, just in case. There’s even a door to an excavation down here, he’s told, but it’s locked and he doesn’t want to go breaking locks or trying to pick them just yet. Just in case.

        Apparently, there’s something called the British Museum of the Occult, just to the right of Templar Hall, though he can get there without going past all the guards. It’s got a larger than life statue of him in his current outfit in the front lobby down the steps, which is opposite two horse statues. The horses are normal enough, but the statue of himself is really kind of creepy, and a museum curator dude who he could pay to open wings or buy pedestals and who teleports around behind or in front of him as he visits various rooms doesn’t help. There’s even a gift shop, but all five of the salespeople seem to have nothing to sell him and other than that there’s just a few flyers and posters and another one of those Bingo!Cola machines. Unfortunately, there’s almost nothing there, and the guy mentions something about him being the ‘sponsor of this version of the Museum’, whatever that means. At least there are benches and the water coolers work, but there are also just...halls that go further than they need to, because there’s nothing at the end. It’s unnerving.

        There’s even a color-coded map on the wall, with such sections as ‘The Children of Hell’, ‘Strains of the Filth’, and ‘Menagerie of the Vampires’, but then, maybe he should expect that from the apparently Transylvania section. Japan is also a wing, which catches his interest, because it means he probably was right about Tokyo, even if he’s not sure what, exactly, is going on there. If that’s true, there’s also probably something going on in New England, Transylvania, and Egypt, too. For being empty, there were some actually useful things in here, even if those ‘things’ just happened to be knowledge.

Chapter Text

        When he gets out of the museum, he watches one woman go past on a motorcycle and then use a spell, apparently, to put it away, which would be really handy and also he could finally have his motorcycle without a hassle, so maybe that might count as a win. Maybe? He marks that down firmly as ‘later’, just like the idle thought that maybe he should get a new tattoo, something to mark his survival and transition to this new world and whatever. He has absolutely no idea what to get for it, other than maybe an Assassin symbol, and he feels a little weird about that, too. He doesn’t have to rush into it, really. He’ll figure something out.

        Wandering back down that road, he finds probably the wildest nightclub he’s ever seen with a sky that looks like shifting stars and floating cubes that might actually be shifting stars and floating cubes and also apparently he can buy private room keys. Not that he needs that right now, but again. Scouting. It’s almost got an Islamic feel, if they went for gears and gear-like designs, because the repeated motif and patterning is everywhere.

        It’s possible that those rooms are actually the floating cubes, given that the big box in the middle says it needs a room key to enter and looks a little like a bigger version of the other cubes, though he hopes you don’t actually notice the turning when you’re in the room. Seriously, it’d suck to be having a serious discussion only to suddenly notice you’re upside down.

        Darkside is, well. He’s lived in worse, and it’s not like he can’t deal with things if he gets jumped. There’s shops there, too—a little comics shop, a gun store with a shopkeeper whose eyes are glowing, a club distastefully called the Crusades. He can’t quite bring himself to go in that last one more than once, and while he could probably score some more money in pool and actually kind of likes the grunge look and the band playing, the ‘apocalyptic’ theme coupled with the name bothers him more than the obviously non-humans inside. They’re not starting fights, so they’re probably fine, more than the aesthetic, which just rubs him the wrong way. And so far, no Isu, though he’s still keeping an eye out.

        There’s a fight club, too, which may or may not be sponsored by an app called Pets vs Monsters, whatever that means. He could sign up to fight, but just ends up watching, instead, as monsters come out and face each other in the little circular hole. They’ve put a chain-link fence around the top, little grates that they raise when they want to unleash the next fighters, and a little flickering ad-board with barely working lights. People have to stand around to watch, though some have brought their own tables, mattresses, folding chairs, and beer, and one enterprising probably-nonhuman with a gas mask has somehow dragged its stand down the steps and is selling fruit for some reason. No one's throwing it, so that's clearly not the reason, which is the only thing Desmond can think of.  If you want a better view, you can even climb up the rickety, rusting steps to the metal catwalk above, which he does, mostly because heights have always been a little calming and he needs some of that right now. Maybe it’s a good thing it’s all stone and metal, though, given the number of flaming barrels around—and it’s a lot more packed than he would have thought, so it’d probably be pretty easy for something to go really wrong.

        There are more non-humans at the Haitian Bazaar, including, apparently, the world-famous Dante the Ghoul’s Taco Stand. He’s been asked a couple times if he’d tried it yet. They’re not kidding; there is something—someone?—nonhuman selling tacos and his ‘acclaimed hot sauce’ in one little corner. Desmond’s not brave enough to try, not yet anyway, though he can definitely imagine Rebecca dragging him down here, probably to see if he’s good with spicy food or to invite him to do a food challenge or something. Other stands are selling charms, herbs, flowers, sausages, yet more clothes, kebabs, which look delicious (and wind up as delicious as they look), veggies and fruits. Generally, there are four types Desmond has noticed: more ghouls, like Dante, more types with gas masks or hoods, a horned maybe satyr type, and short ones. He’ll probably ask Shaun for more details later. Up the stairs, there’s a place selling practically everything—dairy, lottery tickets, incense, flowers, mantra prayers, and, questionably, yet more Bingo!Cola, though there’s nobody actually manning the cashier box. Desmond marks that as a quest for later, because a missing person in this world is...well, he’s got a bad feeling about it. At the end of this little street, there’s a Haitian and Creole restaurant, and the gumbo is great, if a bit spicy.

        Opposite the empty store, there’s a little place called the House of Chalk, which advertises Readings, Rituals, and Spells, though they take one look at him and say he only needs the ingredients, mostly herbs, though they also offer to sell him voodoo cards, whatever those are, and a drum?!? himself. He’s not sure how to take that, but says he’ll come back when he’s got a specific need for it, to which they nod. Apparently, that’s a normal response, somehow. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to take the drum, though. He doesn’t know what he’d do with one or where he’d store it. The proprietor outside, Mama Abena, feels important, but he’s not ready to get involved in too much yet, so he just chats with her a bit about being new to London and then leaves, keeping a note in his mind to come back later.

Chapter Text

        Desmond isn’t going to try to sneak into Templar Hall, no matter how tempting it’d be. They’re being polite enough right now, but yeah, if he does something suspicious he’s pretty sure all the hospitality they’re showing will disappear instantly, and he wouldn’t even blame them. Ezio would’ve done the same thing.

        Shaun assures Desmond he’s working on some sort of explanation of everything, including the other sentient species of the world, but it’s probably taking a while because it probably has to be run past someone who can check off ‘not giving away too much to a rival group’. He’s very apologetic about it and glares a lot when Desmond says he understands, because apparently that’s something he’s supposed to be mad about. Like there’s not a ton of red tape, probably, in the way.

        He’s getting a little restless, though. Instead of climbing the buildings and putting his still not-so-well-hidden watchers on edge, he decides to do something else reckless that will probably make his friends worried, and that is go and poke the Morninglight people and hope they do something that gives them away.

        They’re very friendly and nice when they greet him. Their smiles look genuine and not just that retail smile, but that, too, is an art. “You looked a little lost. New to London?”

        “Yeah, I felt like a change.” That’s probably showing them vulnerability, but hey, this is half a fishing expedition; he needs to use some kind of bait.

        “Oh, London is definitely the place for something new, but don’t hesitate to come to us for help! It’s easy to get lost when you’re new to the country.” They recommend the fish & chips place and also one of the closed restaurants, which was still closed the other day when he walked past again.

        “A friend of mine was right; fish & chips is definitely better ‘on this side of the pond’. I thought that the other place only takes reservations, though.”

        At this point, the woman, who’d previously only been listening, interrupts and blusters some sob story about the owner having a sickly mother in the countryside, so they’re unable to keep regular hours. It might even have the advantage of being completely true, but it’s also definitely a front for the Morninglight.

        Maybe it’s the definite touches of religion. Desmond hadn’t had much of an opinion on the subject before. When he’d been homeless, it’d been equal odds that a church would welcome him with open arms or treat him like the spawn of Satan, so he’d learned to ask around before seeking shelter on the coldest nights. Then, the more he learned about the Isu and Templars, the less and less inclined he’d been to be religious.

        Honestly, it could go either way. They could just be a spiritual self-help group. Some of the people at the bars he’d worked at had seemed like self-help, at the very least, could legitimately help people, depending on the advice and who was offering it. But yeah, they absolutely could be a cult, particularly with the way they, well.

        They don’t feel red, that’s the thing, but they’re not white and they’re definitely not blue, and they’re also not important enough to be gold, and it’s making his mind feel itchy standing next to them. He ignores the urge to fidget, though, continuing to make conversation as he tries to pin it down exactly.

        They know exactly what to say, or, well, they think they do. Because they’re offering what anyone new and a little overwhelmed from such a big move overseas would want—help with getting a job, making friends, finding a place to stay, all that jazz. Drinking buddies, even. He doesn’t say that he’s already got that covered. Instead, he casually mentions he plays guitar, and they trip over themselves trying to tell him he’s not the only one, there’s a new girl who’s learning the violin, and they’d love to hear him play.

        It’s...maybe a lighter red, or something? Red by proxy.  He’s not so much seeing it as feeling it. He tries to squint with Eagle Vision, under which they look like just very vague greyish outlines, which is weird and uncanny and he quickly throws himself back into normal vision because that is anything but normal. It’s possible his eyes haven’t adjusted to whatever changes the little girl asserted happened, or maybe there’s just something very wrong here. They don’t have bad intentions themselves, but they’re just puppets, even if they don’t actually realize that. They’re not acting on their own; they’re following orders.

        “It’s kind of silly, but since the whole personality test buzz online we decided to get in on the action with a little test of our own. Don’t feel obligated; we know we’ve already taken enough of your time…” the leader mentions casually, and, hmm.

        Okay. Magic exists, and this could definitely be some sort of trap. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to just walk away here, he’s got some sort of power he needs to test a little more, and if worst comes to worst, he’s pretty sure at this point Shaun and Rebecca would at least attempt a rescue operation, so sure, he’s game. “Lay it on me,” he states boldly with one of his most charismatic smiles, and she points him to the laptop they have set up in their little tent. The Morninglight Personality Test announces itself very cheerfully and says ‘let’s analyze your true being’ which isn’t suspicious at all.

        It starts by asking him about his attitude toward plastic cutlery, which stuns him for all of a moment. The leader tells him not to worry about it too much and just pick the answers that stick out to him; it’s just for fun, so he laughs and nods and turns his attention back to the options. He’d basically collected a set over the years and used it over and over, so convenient is the one that stands out the most to him. Not ineffective; he can say that for sure, cheap, yeah, but that’s the point, and marvel...well, kinda, but he hadn’t really put that much thought into it, just that it worked.

        The second question is what he’d most rather not do, which is probably fishing for some kind of vulnerabilities and/or what kind of group activities might draw him in—writing poetry, joining a book club, going to a psychiatrist, or going to a baseball game. He’d written poetry of sorts over the years, composing a song or two for the guitar. He wasn’t particularly good, with the lyrics part anyway, but he had fun, which was the point, and he’d never had aspirations to be the best. It’d been a little cathartic, even, to do something imperfectly and be totally okay with that. A book club could be interesting, especially as he hadn’t gotten a chance to read all that much. He’d picked up one here and there, when he could, but it’s not like he’s ever had too much in the way of disposable income, and he’d always had a half-feeling at home half-paranoid reaction to public libraries. It’d be interesting to talk about that kind of thing with other people. Psychiatrist, probably, because what the hell would they even do for him? He’s heard baseball games are boring, but he’d never gotten a chance to go, so it’d at least have novelty for it. Yeah, the psychiatrist. (Especially as if he mentioned the ‘died and traveled between worlds’ part, even to one who knew about vampires and secret wars or whatever, he’s pretty sure that would get him some inaccurate labels and medication he doesn’t need at the very least. He’d rather that go to someone it could actually help .)

        The last time he cried, with the answers week, month, year, and can’t remember. Last week, pretty publicly too, but it probably would serve as good bait—will they call him out on it? He decides to choose ‘past year’, because before that, it probably was one of the times he was Bleeding. They don’t say anything to him, which, sadly, doesn’t tell him anything. They could either be trying not to let on that they’ve been creepily watching, or they legitimately have no idea. That’s kind of disappointing. Keep it together; they’re not even the bigwigs here. They’ll probably report to someone who’ll report it to someone like Vidic, who will give orders to someone like Cross, if they decide it’s worth it.

        Besides, the next question might be another trap in of itself. The city he most wants to visit, yikes. They start with Tokyo, then Montreal, Warsaw, and Bangkok. Wait—this probably isn’t a random list, is it? If it really is a cult, then they probably have branches in those cities, which is why they’re asking, just in case he gets recruited and wants to go elsewhere. Montreal rings some kind of bell, and he’s worrying he’s giving too much away by saying Tokyo, but he’s sure there’s something interesting there and the others don’t feel gold and he’s kind of doing this as bait, anyway, so he reluctantly goes for Tokyo.

        The city he’d least like to visit, same list. Uh. Well, Connor interacted with a few French traders and the like, so he knows a little French, so probably wouldn’t be completely out of place in Montreal. And he likes Thai food, so...Warsaw?

        Next, yeah, this is another vulnerability question, what makes him the most anxious. First day of new job...nah, he’s had a few through the years and that wasn’t really a problem. Waiting in line for a rollercoaster...maybe that one. It feels a little too open and it’d be too easy to get stabbed. Asking a stranger for their number, again, no, he’s done that in the past, he was a bartender for chrissakes. Making a speech at a wedding. He...kind of can’t envision actually being close enough to anyone who might get married in the near future, so can’t imagine getting anxious about that, so rollercoaster it is. He’s probably putting too much thought into this, but he’s genuinely curious how ‘accurate’ this personality test is and if it’s using magic or whatever.

        Where do you see yourself in five years? Dead, ouch, did not need to bring that up, too early, thanks , exactly where he is now, probably not? He’s pretty sure he’ll actually be doing stuff and having something to go on by then. Exactly where he wants to be...no? He doesn’t really have aspirations on that account. So probably ‘I can’t imagine’.

        Oh, yeah, and here’s the temptation question, making people anxious and then vulnerable and then probably give them promises. Which of the following would most interest you—power over language, visual beauty, obscene wealth. It’s easy to think of the Apple for this one, and it’s almost immediate to choose ‘I want none of it’. Thanks. Wishes like that are never granted without a price, and he’s...well, not personally, but he’s lived through being able to end the lives of those who would seek it.

        Huh, this is a familiar one, though usually the online quizzes you just take for fun and for something to talk about with patrons have it at the beginning, only with a twist. It’s not his favorite color, it’s the color that best represents his inner self, supposedly. White, orange, black, blue. Again, just going off initial impressions...he’s really partial to white, isn’t he. Though that might just be an Assassin thing.

        He’s slightly startled when it speaks up again. Apparently, he’d reached the end. “Thank you for participating. Your data is now on record forever.” ...Uh, that’s not creepy at all.

        And then it hops to the result screen: You are burdened with secrets. You feel that you cannot trust those you work for, that they ask too much and give nothing in return. No warmth. No light. No love. This isolates you from your fellows and, in time, begins to isolate you from yourself. You must break the wall of silence. You must speak up and tell us everything. You must learn what it means to be free.

        ...huh.

        Everything stops, greying out for a second, like it did when he was Altaïr, or Ezio, or Connor. But no one’s dead, which probably means this is just another ability from the Isu that got overjuiced somewhere in the transition. He feels rather than sees the images, his dad, running away, being so sure that he’d just been part of a cult that never loved him, never cared for him as more than a tool, then learning the truth and all the things that he couldn’t say and definitely can’t say now, and he’s doing his best, but he does still feel some distance between himself, Shaun, and Rebecca—

        There it is again, one of those deafening eagle screeches, and he’s right back in it again like he’d never left. They don’t even notice. So, yeah, he can pretty much confirm that probably was some kind of magic, and there’s something else, too. It feels kinda familiar, like what he’d done when he was trying not to be seen by the Illuminati. Which probably means that’s some kind of Apple-like persuasion thing. Which is honestly kind of what he was afraid of, but he’s going to try not to use it unless he has to.

        Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him. The creepy little girl— wait had she been an actual dragon— nope, he’s putting that crisis off until later, thank you. She’d said something about his powers, not just his Eagle Vision, and she hadn’t been wrong yet, so yeah, he probably should’ve seen this coming.

        It does explain why no one’s sure they’re actually a cult, though. They’re all looking for flashy brainwashing magic. Something small that just entices you to pay attention, to listen, to keep an open mind, that’s probably really subtle, really easy to fly under the radar, and sometimes that’s just what you need.

        They hand him a pamphlet. He thanks them and wanders into the park, obviously reading it, wondering if they’ll bite or not and try to follow him in or not. It’s at least a little more out of the way than the street, so they might be slightly more likely to try to nab him.

        It’s the average cliché pamphlet—what makes you human is spirituality, humans have the unique ability to change from within, blah blah blah, to reach the next level of existence is human, which seems kind of contradictory to Desmond, because wouldn’t you stop being human at that point, but then he spots a line that makes him really uneasy. ‘Humanity is chained. To old prejudices, old fears, old institutions.’ Because he can absolutely see those words coming from Altaïr. Damn , was Shaun actually right about the Morninglight? Was there actually an Assassin connection there, had they perverted Altaïr’s work—

        No, Desmond, calm. Show them I’m upset, and I blow it. It doesn’t feel like I’m being watched, but still.

        There’s no sign of Isu, so, logically, maybe Altaïr had never been born, or at least, never been the great Mentor. Altaïr didn’t have a monopoly over atheism, and it’s far from impossible for groups to go off the rails over the years—just look at Al-Mualim. Then again, This-World Desmond still had existed—at one point anyway—so maybe Altaïr had existed after all, and he’s just going to be going in circles at this rate. He can look into that and his dad later, though honestly there might not be any answers to find, at this point. He’s not sure whether that’d be better or worse.

        Right now, he knows a couple of things. It doesn’t matter if the rest have lost their way, he’s gonna hold the line and protect humanity, and this time, he’ll do his best to find something that doesn’t involve him dying. He’s gonna define what being an Assassin means to him, just like those before him. He doesn’t like the line that mentions the Morninglight is going to ‘change the world and reach for the sun’. And he is absolutely going to follow them when they leave.

Chapter Text

        Desmond pretends he’s fallen asleep, sitting there on the stage on the opposite side of ‘Camelot’. Honestly, he’s pretty much just sitting there meditating, focusing on his senses. It hurts a little, so he’s grateful for having his eyes closed so it’s not worse . If he was doing this from high up, maybe it wouldn’t feel like he was pushing his brain like this, but he doesn’t want to worry the Templars now. He still feels the Morninglight there, in the direction he’s facing, and the Fallen King to his left, though oddly enough while the Fallen King is now white, his puppet is a dull gold, but it also feels like it’s saying ‘not for you’, which is doubly weird because Eagle Vision is, as far as Desmond knows, pretty personal and therefore any information he’s given should be relevant to him and only him. Maybe it’s for later, maybe it’s just saying that this guy is important, but, like Shaun was saying, it mostly just affects Templars and he was caught up in it for some reason. Blending into the crowd are the Templar agents watching him, the usual assortment of color. There’s only one who’s red, probably, like Machiavelli, explicitly put there as the skeptic who’d end Desmond if necessary. Behind him, the wannabe knight and the girl are, refreshingly, a bright blue.

        The second they start moving like they’ve finished up their creepy personality test-pamphlet routine for the evening, Desmond’s eyes spring open. Maybe he’s giving something away by the ease he starts following them, but it’s not until he’s finally started doing something again that he realizes that yeah, he was getting bored. Maybe he should’ve figured that out already, although in his defense he hadn’t really thought about the fact that when most people say they’re ready to start climbing walls, they don’t mean it literally.

        It looks like a change of the guard, actually, one set of Morninglight people swapping out for another, because London doesn’t seem to sleep any more than New York. This area of London, anyway. That’s honestly the trickiest part, not getting spotted there. The other Morninglight don’t seem like they expect to be followed, so they’re not even looking for it.

        Hilariously, since Desmond has Eagle Vision, he can feel his own followers cautiously starting to pick up a few things. Honestly, it’s a pretty good teaching technique, and it’ll probably serve them well, later.

        They don’t take him anywhere interesting, just one of the ‘flats’ in Ealdwic. It’s not even that far, which is a bit of a letdown. He’d say it’s weird, but he’s one to talk. Sure, they’d had a little more space in the Grand Temple, but before that there hadn’t been much space to spread out unnoticed, so occasionally Rebecca’s snores or Shaun grabbing a new cup of tea or coffee would wake him up. (She’d sometimes fall asleep on the Animus, which she’d made as comfortable as she could, but still.)

        Desmond’s just trying to decide where he wants to go for food when an eagle screeches, again, and he throws himself to the side just in time. But there’s a cry behind him, and damn, the Templars following him! One of them must have been in the line of fire. He starts sprinting in the direction of the red figure peeking around the corner of the building, but it disappears in blinding gold, which means Agartha, if he’s not mistaken. Which probably means one of the other factions. Maybe even the Illuminati, given their threat. But also, Geary didn’t think that would be permanent, so...what did they even hope to get from this? Maybe, maybe it’s the Dragon, trying to see what he’d do, but—

        No time for that, so he turns right back around and sprints back, right to where the woman’s lying on the street. She’s young. Not as young as the woman in the park, but still. Young. Sure, he’s giving away that he’s known about them, but he’s not going to let a woman bleed out—

        would the Templar do this to one of their own just to make him give himself away—? And there’s that Council, and Orochi, he barely knows anything about them, it’s probably not Morninglight; he’s pretty sure they didn’t have the time to call out a hit—

        A man, red but it’s wavering, “You knew—”

        Desmond interrupts him. “I mean, I’d follow me, too, but please . Let me help.”

        “She’s Bee-touched,” he retorts, venom losing its bite, and Desmond meets his eyes, fierce and defiant.

        “Yeah, so that means we should just ignore her pain and suffering?” Even if she’ll come back from this, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel. Nobody else has any objections.

        He operates more on autopilot than anything, after he’s asked her whether she wants him to end her suffering or try to take the bullet out. Well. He only gets out the first half before she’s shaking her head frantically, so he supposes that solves that. He’s pretty sure that if he does nothing, they’re not about to “waste” money sending her to the hospital when she could just temporarily die and get it over with, and he gets that, but when she doesn’t want that to happen, he’s going to do his best to help. He’s vaguely aware someone else is talking to the police, and he’ll probably owe them for that, because no one tries to interfere.

        One of the other trainees, apparently, is a master of healing magic, and he wasn’t going to step in. Desmond would say this world is really messed up, but no, he’d experienced something similar on the Farm. Anything that didn’t kill you—or at least, didn’t kill you permanently, he supposes—was to be ignored as long as it didn’t interfere with duties. Sheepishly, and a little incredulously, he’s walked through it, too—apparently that’s something every recruit’s supposed to get, a quick introduction to all of the powers. He’s pretty sure he’s not doing it correctly, but he still has absolutely no idea how this blood magic thing works, or how his arm is doing the thing (it’s glowing, he can actually feel it a little, but his sleeve is down far enough, they’re not paying attention, or they’re just not calling attention the fact they’ve noticed).

        What it actually feels like is like he’s messing around with the Calculations, again, somehow, except he absolutely shouldn’t have access to those anymore so, like, what the hell, restoring her to a previous state. Still, whatever he’s doing is working, and he can actually feel himself get more tired, but seriously, they’re not on the battlefield, this kind of thing doesn’t happen that often in this area of London, why the hell wouldn’t they just use a little energy for this? He’s probably not feeling his left hand until tomorrow, but it’s fine. She thanks him when he’s done in a quiet voice. She hadn’t been screaming, just clinging with a death grip, but pain has a way of stealing your energy. He makes sure to get her name—Chelsea. The now light red guy glares, but he explains he’ll probably want to check in with her later, make sure she’s okay, or at least hear that from someone.

        Well. He’d gone looking for excitement. He’d found it. He’s ready to collapse into one of those booths in the Horned God, though.

Chapter Text

        “He’s late,” Shaun grouses into his drink.

        Rebecca tries and fails to hide her smile, because honestly that’s really kind of sweet of Shaun. He might go and accuse her of sentimentalism, but he’s practically gone completely mother hen mode when it comes to Desmond after that panic attack. “Come on, you know Desmond. He probably saw something cool and wandered off and got distracted and lost track of the time—that, or he’ll have a million questions when he shows up.” That thought makes a small smile break through Shaun’s worry. Because he enjoys that, a bloke he thinks is attractive hanging on his every word, coming to him like he’s the best expert in the world? It’s definitely going to his head, a bit.

        Which is when Desmond, with his dramatic sense of timing, practically collapses into their booth and steals Shaun’s beer and practically chugs it. Which is pretty much the whole glass , because the worrywart over there hadn’t actually been drinking much of his because he’d been too busy fretting. Shaun doesn’t even complain, but then, he’s probably taking in their new Dragon friend’s appearance and finding it absolutely alarming. Which he actually should, because, well, it’s bad.

        There’s blood, which is particularly bad because from everything they’d heard he hadn’t left London, so unless he joined in the fighting ring or something there shouldn’t be anything in London for him to fight . He looks absolutely exhausted. But then, maybe, more than anything, he’s actually frowning. This is the guy who takes everything with a smile and good humor. And the occasional bad joke.

        “Desmond, are you all right?” the historian demands, and Desmond blinks at them, taking a moment to actually follow along.

        Then he manages a laugh. A really, really small one. “Oh. It’s not mine. You’ll probably have to apologize to your bosses for me, though.”

        “Why?” Rebecca asks. She really, really doesn’t want to be the skeptical, wary one, but it’s not like Shaun’s going to do it.

        He groans and just kind of slumps in the booth. “I kinda let on that I knew I was being followed. Because one of the Templar Agents following me got shot.”

        Oh...okay, that hadn’t been in the calculations pretty much anywhere. It does kind of confirm her theory he’s more capable than he’s been letting on, but still. That’s stuff for the battlefields, not the middle of London.

        “I healed her, but I have no idea what I’m doing, and—I mean, sure, she’s a Bee, it wouldn’t have killed her, but still, I don’t—is it really fair to just let her suffer?” He’s rambling, a little, probably in shock, and Shaun fidgets like he wants to just take off his jacket and wrap it around the man like it’s bubble wrap and it’ll protect him somehow. He stops when their friend actually meets their eyes, not continuing to ramble but begging for an answer all the same. Shaun looks surprised and thoughtful, and yeah, it’s easy to get the impression someone’s not suffering if you don’t see it. It’d been easy to lose sight of that when so many Bees used to use death as just another way to get to an Anima well, before the various factions figured out how to tap into the Agartha Teleport devices for a more convenient (and, more to the point, less expensive) travel mechanism instead. It’s easy in this kind of war to get cynical, but she hopes Desmond keeps that possibly-naïve fire and willingness to fight for it. It’s refreshing, and honestly, there’s enough cynical assholes around. Desmond looks a little relieved when they shake their heads, if still not happy.

        “It’s messed up, yeah, but it’s easy to assume it’s not a big deal when so many Bees don’t treat it like one. Someone like you should absolutely have stepped in, and since we’re not in the middle of fighting for our lives here, they probably should’ve too, but people get in habits trying to stay alive. Your resources pretty much replenish themselves on their own, so it’d be easy enough for someone like you to do it without putting yourself in danger.” At his confused look, she shrugs. “They really told you nothing, huh. You basically get a pool for every weapon, but it replenishes quickly enough. That’s only Bees, though. Normal people have to tap into Anima the long, slow way, but you’ve got a direct line to the Anima Wells and Agartha itself.” That looks like it makes him recognize something, but he doesn’t share with the class.

        They’re distracted for a moment as static comes over the usual station, and they can hear the cursing come down the stairs as one of the employees wrestles with it. She’s still feeling a little dizzy from the excitement, Desmond most of all, but it’s not every day you get shot at. Even Shaun looks queasy.

        “Back up a bit—you said she got shot?” Shaun picks up his phone, doing his best to try to hide the tremble in his hands, squinting at the screen. Whatever trace of the alcohol are long gone. This is all just adrenaline and worry, and yeah, he’s in deep.

        Desmond nods, stretching his left hand and wincing. “Rifle, roughly, uh, Britain, meters...fifty meters, maybe? I ran after the guy, but he escaped into Agartha.”

        That’s...not good news, but then, none of this is.

        “You ran after a bloke with a gun,” Shaun states flatly, unimpressed, but then, he’s been worrying so much he’s missing the little signs Desmond actually is more competent than they both first evaluated. He’s done a lot of work to seem unassuming and like he doesn’t know fifty ways to kill a man, but yeah, Rebecca’s getting the idea Desmond Miles is a cinnamon roll that could kill you.

        She’s not warning Shaun, though. More than just the little guidebook project which is honestly really sweet of him, he’s also planning on sparring to make sure Desmond can take care of himself, and it’s funnier if he has no clue. Shaun getting surprised is generally really funny, particularly when the man insufferably seems to know everything, and the fact that Desmond keeps doing it and Shaun finds it hot every time is hilarious.

        “He’d holstered his weapon, so yeah, I ran after the guy with the gun, Shaun,” the Dragon grumbles. “But—listen, the fact that he could get into Agartha, that’s not good news, right?”

        “I,” Shaun announces with great dignity, “...will look into it.”

        Rebecca winks, and it’s enough to make their friend relax a little more even as he shakes his head at her.

        “...And Crane will help, I suppose.” He sounds grudging, but it’s more like he’s embarrassed because he forgot she existed completely. Arse over teakettle, or whatever.

        “It means he’s from one of the factions?” their new friend persists, and it’s clear the determination is throwing the historian for a loop. As it should. They hadn’t seen any sign of the gentle badass before. Well. Rebecca suspected, but that’s just because she’s better with people, and Shaun’s better with data, as long as it’s not written in maths. That’s her field.

        “Not the Orochi, I wouldn’t think. Pretty sure they haven’t gotten any Bees—or anyone into Agartha, thank goodness. Phoenicians, maybe, though we haven’t seen any obvious signs they’ve been operating for years. Like, the Council are still acting like they’re still in play, but we can’t verify that at all, and you know how good I am with my tech. Then again, Phoenicians are seriously old-school and paranoid beyond even the other Factions, so if there’s anything it’s probably a paper trail.” That gets his attention, apparently, even if he disguises it well by stretching casually. That’s probably enough to distract Shaun, if only because he’s seriously pining, but you can’t pull the wool over Rebecca Crane’s eyes, no ma’am.

        “Sounds like there’s a lot of players in the field,” he comments, still purposefully casual, and Hastings there puffs up.

        “You don’t know the half of it, really. There’s a reason we were put in charge of going through the data; it requires a great deal of work to keep track of half of the moves they’re all making,” he boasts. Sure, it’s absolutely true, but he’s also showing off.

        “But yeah, if it were us, it’s usually old school weapons and magic. There’s a few who specialize in guns, but modern weapons are more an Illuminati thing.” And then it occurs to her she’s not sure if he even knows how Bees normally fight. “If it’s the weapon thing that’s getting you, that’s normal enough. Bees can empower the weapons they use, so yeah, sometimes it’s guns and blades. Which also, yeah, can take off a zombie’s head. It’s pretty sweet.” Shaun’s staring at her as if she’s just rambling again until he notices Desmond nodding and following along, at which point the light dawns. And he looks even more worried.

        She is either watching or recording when their new friend does his thing, because it’s going to be awesome.

        “That’s not to say that it’s absolutely impossible it was a Templar, just that it’s less our style. There’s a lot—like us, actually—that are working to try to pull us into the modern day with inclusivity efforts and computers, but it’s a process,” she adds. “I’m putting equal odds on Lumies or Dragon, though the Phoenicians are in there somewhere as a wild card.” If they’ve left any kind of trail online, she’ll find it. And he’s not taking their word for it, but he’s taking it into consideration, which is, well. It’s appreciated.

Chapter Text

        In general, Desmond had been keeping his distance from the “other” Bee-touched, mostly because he’d been worried he’d give himself away without enough information. At this point, though, he really wants to find any clues he can, so he actually mingles. A lot of them come to the Horned God or Tabula Rasa, the nightclub, and they’re more than happy to talk to him, even though that does seem to be making Shaun worry and the rest of the Templars watching him slightly on edge. Which is honestly a bit of a problem, because they’ve been on edge since the whole attempted murder thing, so it’s just making that whole situation worse, but he’s not just going to sit around and not try to investigate, either. He believes that Shaun and Rebecca are actually trying and would actually tell him what they found out, but he’s not too sure about anyone else, and if there’s somebody higher up in the Templar chain of command who wants him dead he’d like to know about that. He does find himself drawing on Ezio’s social skills, just a little (both Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton would probably rather beat someone up to interrogate them, and that’s not useful here), but, to his pleasant surprise, even more on his own. Being a bartender had actually really prepared him for getting someone talking and then just listening while making them feel heard. It’s a real confidence booster to realize hey, I’m not actually too bad at this, so take that, Dad.

        Bees in general don’t care too much about opposing factions, apparently. Not like the higher-ups. But there’s something that just strikes him as off and makes him wary, though it takes him a while to work out what it is. Friendly or not, they remind him of Minerva. They act inhuman, more like an Isu. Rebecca had a point about how they treated death and pain. Not all of them, obviously—Chelsea, for example, is an exception. Okay, they might have a reason. They’re, to all intents and purposes, immortal, seeing as they can’t stay dead and don’t seem to age. It’s too early to be sure, given that a lot of time hasn’t passed since the bees empowered people, but also immortals do clearly exist in this world. Shaun’s complained about them. More than once.

        With the Bees, though...a lot of them act like they’ve forgotten what it was like to be human in a matter of weeks or months. Even when they’re just hanging around in London, being vaguely normal, they’re weirder than even Shaun and Rebecca, and that’s saying something. So, could one of them have taken the shot? Sure, especially as they don’t seem to see the killing blow as anything more than the end to a good spar and are slightly confused about the whole thing: torture? Yeah, sure. That’s serious stuff.  According to all of them, every other faction does that but their own, but even that’s rare enough to be just the stuff of rumor. (Part of Desmond is pretty sure that’s just excuses used to try to paint everybody else as the villains.) What’s the point in making someone teleport to the Anima Well in the park when it’s not that far to run back just to kick your ass?  Which means that he probably now has a name for that gold fountain.

        Of course, having played through his ancestor’s memories like a video game, it feels like the attitude you might get if you actually had respawn mechanics in real life, but that doesn’t make it any less weird. None of them are red, but, disturbingly, he gets the feeling none of them would have to be, not if they thought he’d just walk away after. A lot of them seem confused that it happened in London, rather than Shambala, wherever that is, because it’s there and Stonehenge (is it not a tourist attraction in this world? How does that work?) and El Dorado and Fusang Projects, whatever that is, where the Council has okayed them actually going cutthroat like the Templars and Assassins would on meeting each other back home. They’re treating it more like ‘oh hey someone broke this gentleman’s agreement by trying to splatter your brains across the pavement in the wrong place, they didn’t think that through did they, how about I buy you a pint and tell you about the last twelve texts I got about switching sides’? It never occurs to any of them that just because you happened to walk away from dying, that doesn’t mean it’s all fine either. Look at him; he’ll still have the occasional nightmare about his own death, and judging by Shaun’s reaction, even if he didn’t necessarily know the specifics, that was the kind of trauma that you’d expect to lead someone to a bar or therapist, but it somehow doesn’t seem to occur to any of them. None of them are the transparent of the Morninglight, either; most of them are just the white of indifference. It could be that their orders have changed, but Desmond gets more of a feeling that the hitman’s long gone, because with the speed he’d left, he didn’t seem quite so blasé about it. From London, anyway; the likelihood is, the second he gets out of Templar territory someone may very well make an attempt again, so he’s going to make sure he’s prepared.

        He also gets what seems to be a blank, staticky voicemail on his phone that makes him feel weird, but also grateful that he’d got Rebecca to cast some sort of magic-protection spell on his phone. (Actually, it was less of ‘he’d asked’ and more ‘she’d just snatched it from him and insisted’, but she was cool enough to do it in front of him and the blue hadn’t wavered, so he’s pretty sure she didn’t also sneak in something to spy on him. Probably. He’d actually snuck around the barriers to head to the public library more often after that, though, because he could also absolutely see her thinking spying on him was for his own good.) Maybe it’s just another failed attempt to curse him and the Illuminati haven’t given up; they’re the obvious suspects, as they’d already threatened him, but Desmond’s also wary of coming to conclusions too quickly, because he’d seen Italian Renaissance politics and politics during the Crusades and politics during the Revolutionary War and if there’s one thing he could say from those experiences it’s that things got messy. If he just straight-up assumed it was the Illuminati, he’d let down his guard and he’s semi-firsthand seen how dangerous that could be.

Chapter Text

        When Desmond gets Shaun’s summary of all the things he’s been asking about, he’s shocked speechless. Sure, it’s probably heavily edited and vetted by at least three different Templars, but still, he hadn’t expected the man to actually try. Apparently, that’s highly offensive, and he spends the next two hours getting lectured about how ‘this is basic material, really, anyone should know this’. Apparently, that’s also really funny, because Rebecca looks two seconds away from laughing the entire time. When he gets to reading it later, it’s alternatively sweet and disturbing, occasionally funny, but then, he’d always liked how Shaun worded things, and the fact that he’s still worried about Desmond is misguided, but appreciated nonetheless. Some of the stuff Desmond had actually worked out on his own, too, but it’s still nice of the man to go to the trouble of actually trying to explain all this.

        It’s an open question how much was expedited by the attempted murder in their domain. One thing hasn’t changed between the Templars he knew and these new ones: it sounds like bloody vengeance is their specialty, so, yeah, if they weren’t behind it? They are plotting a bloodbath, and nobody died but Desmond’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind, because—yeah, okay, he’s been saying ‘hitman’ or ‘attempted murderer’ rather than Assassin, even lower-case, because he’s taking that ‘harming an innocent’ thing seriously. He wasn’t...a pacifist, before all this, persay, just didn’t really want to fight a war either, but there are things you don’t do and that is one of them. What makes it worse is…

        Okay. He could be wrong. But he’s pretty sure of two things: one, the guy with the gun might have learned it from hunting or whatever, but it definitely wasn’t from target practice. He knew how to hit a moving target. But two, he wasn’t used to people actually—okay, yeah, so most people wouldn’t know when to dodge, not without a sixth sense, but it feels like the guy actually mainly goes after civilians. Not people who can fight back.

        ...It’s because of the speed and slight twitchiness to the ‘retreat’, Desmond realizes after mulling it over. Altaïr wouldn’t have a clue of how to load a gun, but he might’ve been able to figure out how to reload and shoot before Desmond even crossed the distance, never mind a guy who probably uses a gun as his primary weapon so he should’ve been able to pull off a second shot. Ezio would have been barely ruffled, and if he’d run out of bullets he’d just switch to one of his many weapons or hand-to-hand. Assuming he was out of bullets, Ratonhnhaké:ton would improvise with, say, the fishing line, or retreat and watch to try again—and not to Agartha, probably across the rooftops to hide in Darkside or something.

        Maybe he couldn’t afford to be caught, but the slight panic in the movements says Gun Guy wasn’t prepared to fail, which means he doesn’t go after good targets very often. Sure, his ancestors were the best of the best, and they’d fail. Things wouldn’t go to plan. What that meant, what defined the true Masters from the Novices, was how effortlessly they could pivot from that failure. (He hates to agree with Al Mualim’s shared teachings on anything, but the guy actually had a point for once.) So yeah, if not for the fact that Desmond’s been trying to get everybody to underestimate him, he’d actually be a little insulted.

        ...Nah, he’s still insulted anyway, just because you don’t get random people involved. Which is actually why he’s kind of cheering on the Templars in this one. Assuming they’re not behind it, but if they are, most don’t know, because some of those showing up white are suddenly a solid blue and they’re pretty much all united in thanking him and expressing how bloodthirsty they are.

        Unfortunately, he has another idea that decided to torment him that he’s definitely not running by Shaun or Rebecca because he can’t: the Illuminati grunt had called him a ‘runt’, so maybe the expectation was he actually could die. It’s not common, given how much everyone expects Bees to just get back up, but...maybe it’s not unknown either, that maybe some Bees aren’t quite as powerful. And that’s without the whole bit where he’s actually not sure if he’s got those powers, so yeah, aside from the fact that it’d been super traumatizing the first time, he’s going to try to avoid dying if he can help it.

Chapter Text

When I say everything is true, Desmond, I mean it very literally. All right, not entirely literally, but close enough to be indistinguishable, practically speaking. Most of those conspiracy theories you hear about, they’re real. The only exceptions, as far as I’ve been able to work out, are the Illuminati’s little disinformation campaign, where they release information that sounds plausible to conceal the truth among the rubbish. And by plausible, well. That’s in the ear of the listener, isn’t it? We live in a world where there are dozens of potentially world-ending crises, people are coming back from the dead, entire cities are falling off the grid. It comes with the territory, really.

So. The Big Three, as you’ve already noted.

The Templars. That’s us. I wouldn’t exactly call us the ‘good guys’. Just better than the Dragon and the Illuminati. If you want a group most likely to try to save civilians or, better still, the world, vote for the Templars. The biggest problem is an issue of inflexibility, though that’s more the old guard. The new guard, well. An infamous snowball fight happened to take place in the courtyard of Temple Hall, I certainly did not take part and get a good shot on Dame Julia, and she absolutely did not retaliate and facilitate my icy demise. Rebecca was also not in the thick of it, despite the fact that she doesn’t quite move like she used to.

But, even though none of that occurred and is categorically denied, the new guard is attempting to get past this narrowminded ‘righteous cause’ approach, because it’s easy to miss important things that way. We absolutely do not need to end up as flexible as the Dragon, and, sadly, it’s impossible to always save everyone. More just...trying to have the reminder that while the mission does come first, it doesn’t have to be the only priority. We’re past the days when setting fire to an entire village to stop a single demon makes any sense (if, indeed, it ever did). Also, attempting to get our computer systems up to state, bring us up to date with support for minorities, that sort of thing. Rebecca actually runs the numbers, though, and we do, in fact, have the highest recorded count of saving civilians, as per the archives down in the Council’s Sunken Library, which should count for something.

The Illuminati are every single thing wrong with modern capitalism wrapped up in a nice shiny package and presented with a bow. They accept everyone, they say, but only to a point—you’re only valued as long as you’re useful. For an ambitious Bee, it’s possible to go far, but I’d hardly want to keep running that mouse wheel and put a single foot wrong. Constant performance evaluations, and, would you believe it, they have, in the past, asked what’s in it for them when it came to saving the world. I would think that the answer of being able to continue their business ventures would be enough for them, but perhaps they were trying to reduce expenses that month. They have friends in high places, or occasionally those they have merely bribed or blackmailed to be their “friends”, because the only thing they love more than money is power. Their surveillance network is second to none. I believe they have a number of hitmen on contract, and likely have some connections with organized crime. They also fund magic schools; there’s one prestigious one in Solomon Island teaching such illustrious classes as ‘necromancy’ and ‘thaumaturgy’, though I hear the headmaster Montag might be looking into replacing the curriculum, and they probably have the best understanding and even melding of magic and technology (I say probably because I wouldn’t count out the Dragon). Their stated motto is work hard, party harder, but does anyone enjoy a work party, really?

The Dragon, well. That’s your lot. Masters of order-in-chaos and all that rot. Sometimes, it’s easier to deal with the data drunk, because while they might be masters of finding a sensible pattern between sending an Agent to give an old grandmarm an orange and then starting an act of arson across town that harms absolutely no one, I am not. Crane has more luck, here. So if you were wondering if your recruitment was normal: no, but yes, thinking about it, that was probably the point. It’s hard to tell where the poking holes in reality to find the pattern, following the threads of that pattern to action, and just baiting the rest of us to see how we respond and where we stumble begin and end. The Illuminati like to advertise how they’re the best choice for free will, individualism, and such, but the Dragon truly do tend to give the most leeway, as you’ve seen, with the exception of absolute orders they never explain. They tend to operate more in terms of cells, from what we’ve seen, although the exact structure isn’t really known outside the organization.

It’s somewhat vulgar to be gambling on this, but if I were a betting man, my money would be on the Illuminati for that hit. Losing you to the Dragon, oh well, there’s always another to take your place, but with you spending so much time here and being seen with us, that could be seen as the threat of an alliance, leading to a shift in power. And the Illuminati guard their place in this secret war with all the tools in their arsenal. I happen to be a scholar of history, and, situations like these, it’s all about following the trails of power. Who would have the motive in this instance? It’s not always easy to discern, but history wouldn’t be fascinating if it were easy.

It’s not exactly a grassy knoll, but, well. It’s a well-known fact among those in the know that one of us was responsible that day in 1963. Just a question of whom. The Illuminati claim responsibility to anyone who asks, the Dragon say nothing and delight in seeing how many ways that could be interpreted, and we say it wasn’t us, but this would hardly be the first time we’ve tried to disavow our sordid past.

And before you critique the plan as the worst ever concocted by man...it’s very likely that temporarily killing you wasn’t the point. While you’re temporarily indisposed, that’s the real window of opportunity, to kidnap you, bury you alive, what have you, while your spirit is trying to return to your body from the Anima Well. I’m not terribly familiar myself; the Templar way tends to be the straightforward removal of our enemies, but I suspect someone’s attempted it, several times. We’ve had agents disappear. Not many, but enough to form an alarming pattern of sorts. More often missing individuals aren’t found quickly, simply vanishing before they can be found and recruited.

Much about the Phoenicians was lost to the past, more’s the pity, but here’s what we do know: they’re fond of the color purple, they used to have ties to piracy and Carthage, shockingly, they were founded by a brother to the founder of the Templars after they fought about something, for which the only references I have for that part are unfortunately vague but consistently mention a woman, and rather than trusting one of the Three the Council of Venice decided to use the Phoenicians for when their own won’t do. I suppose there they have a point: using any of the Three would upset the delicate balance they’ve been working their whole existence to uphold. The Phoenicians also supposedly haven’t been heard from for at least a hundred years, but Rebecca’s fairly certain they’re still active. I suppose since the Council started ramping up their own campaign, it’s plausible. They’re not part of the Secret War, but can act against other factions that aren’t part of the Council, and records indicate they might be used as enforcers against factions that aren’t following the rules, and, for all we know, since they are essentially Council black operations, might act on their own on occasion. It’s not like the Council will confirm or deny.

Orochi. Ah, that infamous eight-headed snake-monster of legend, brought to life in a corporation based in Tokyo, hence the name. What probably convinced Rebecca I was on the right track here is that they have the Illuminati—yes, that Illuminati— concerned. That simply doesn’t happen. They have a finger in every pie, as the saying goes, with eight-sub-companies with branches in every industry on every continent. (Possibly excluding Antarctica; data here is shaky, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a secret base there, too.) I’m not sure how far their influence spreads online, but their media empire rivals the Illuminati’s. While their charitable contributions are nothing short of magnanimous and their medical discoveries have saved many lives, I’d be worried about Faustian bargains for more reasons than one (for one thing, because one of the sub-companies is named Faust Capital because someone thought they were being clever). It’s hotly debated online whether Bingo!Cola is one of their products; I avoid it out of principle.

Supposedly, the Morninglight is just a self-help group, but one of my specialties is cults, and they’re secretive enough to outsiders it’s ringing all the warning bells. No one has that clean of a presence online without some type of diabolical plan. And if you bring up Marquard to any of their number, it’s nothing but praise, not a single critique in sight. They practically worship the man. Never a good sign, really. Sadly, I don’t have as much information as I’d like. While I’d advise not drawing more attention from them than you can help (and have already done) , I’d also appreciate it if you could share anything you do happen to learn.

You’ve seen the ghouls and know what they look like; usually, they’re corpse-eaters and not particularly bright or well-liked by other supernatural creatures. I cannot explain Dante and that’s one mystery I’m perfectly happy leaving unsolved. Darkside is the only place I’ve seen them not digging up gravesites or attempting to kill and bury food for later. Ghouls are entirely mortal, so the usual attacks should kill them; I wouldn’t advertise trying it until you’ve been properly equipped and trained, though.

The short ones with rodent faces are the Blajini, from Transylvania. They’re known as “the Kindly Ones”, and like many fairy tales, they’re capable of great mischief, but do them no wrong and they will repay you in kind.

The ones with the gas masks, by the way, are vampires. They follow strict rules when in London, but those who have been alive long enough to learn to avoid the blood rage, to control their darker impulses, can do so with ease, and they can develop their own motivations beyond mere survival, usually feeding only on the living, and some leading relatively quiet lives. Of the commonly depicted weaknesses: destroying the heart, decapitation, fire if you can trap them within, exposing them to sunlight, ignore the rest as airport paperback rubbish. Also forget the common misconception about them not having a reflection, unless you happen to have a mirror backed with real silver. Many deal with the sunlight weakness using magic or specially enchanted clothing, hence the gas mask.

The ones with the horns are fauns, like the satyr and Pan, associated with nature, the forest, and such. For lack of a better word, most of them seem...lost. Wandering without purpose. They may be seeking it. I haven’t heard of agents being attacked by them, but writings record they, too, are vulnerable to mundane attacks and don’t require any blood rituals or ancient incantations.

Those talismans, by the way, are basically magical armour. Given that someone’s attempted to shoot you in cold blood, I’d recommend you wear them as soon as you possibly can. I’ve attended too many funerals, in recent days. It’s all ramping up. The specifics—the specifics can be dodged, but the general outline? Seers, fortune-tellers, ancient texts, they’re all saying the same things: ‘dark days are coming’.

Chapter Text

        It turns out Desmond has not been a little too cautious when it comes to his new powers. The almost-constant police sirens have been bothering him. He really wants to check out the area in Darkside where the police have been swarming, see if it’s at all related to his own attacker, and he’s pretty sure his tails would be severely unhappy if he just waltzed up and started poking around, so Weird Mysterious Sneaking Power it is. He doesn’t actually want to fight these Templars, not yet anyway. Maybe if he finds evidence that they’re as bad as the world he came from, but—okay, yeah, so he’d run into a reference they’d been involved in the Crusades, but he’s pretty sure they weren’t masterminding it or using it as an excuse to try to find artifacts to enslave humanity. Probably.

        And, like, his worst fears are realized, because he had to have absorbed part of the powers of the Apple, or using the device at the Temple changed him, or something , because he doesn’t actually lose his tails. Not exactly. He’d been thinking something about ‘I don’t want them to panic but I don’t want them to exactly notice what I’m doing’, or something along those lines, and they don’t. They just trail behind, looking a little vacant and lost, but they’re still vaguely within sight. They’re just also obviously not paying attention to what he’s doing.

        The police officers don’t see him either, but it becomes obvious that he hasn’t phased out of reality, or whatever, because they do actually bump into him. The apartment itself is tiny, though, so they just apologize to the next officer within arm’s reach. He basically just has to stand in the doorway and hope none of them need to leave, so he doesn’t get much in the way of glimpses. They’ve probably already removed the body. From the look of it, whoever did it was kinda messy and got blood everywhere, and they don’t even need anything special to see it; it’s sunken deep into the carpet.

        He doesn’t really have to wait around long to figure out this doesn’t have anything to do with the guy. Whoever did this probably used some kind of bladed weapon and went slow . Not exactly the hitman type.

        “Who’s writing the report to our friends in red?” one of them teases, and they turn to a guy who looks pretty young.

        “Not again,” he whines, and they laugh.

        “Only taking the piss. We’ll just put it on the D.I. The promotion’s hers, but so’s the paperwork,” another one snickers.

        “Don’t reckon we’re that lucky. Sonnac’s agents’ll investigate, sure, but magic’s a mite better at covering tracks,” an older officer argues.

        He is able to take a couple of pictures on his phone, flash and all, of anything that remotely feels gold. Looks like there’s a computer open, though it’s an open question if he’ll actually be able to make out what’s on that computer, even if the camera on this phone is a lot better than his had been.

        He also has to vault over the side of the walkway when one of the officers turns around and runs out, apparently to lose his lunch. Fortunately, it’s a little past where Desmond’s hanging on, and ouch they don’t maintain this area at all, he’s got splinters digging into his hand and they’re going to be a bitch to get out.

        So he ends up taking a break to clean up and bandage his hands. His little entourage doesn’t seem to take him suddenly willing himself back into being noticed or having a new injury weird. Fortunately, they don’t seem the worse for wear, but...yeah, he’s going to try not to take advantage of it.

        Too much, anyway. Because he wants to finish his ‘tour’.

        The guarded gold door stays shut; this time if he squints his vision goes kind of black and white, with the faintest hint of what might be gold runes. He touches one, but nothing happens, so it’s not like a combination lock. For one absurd moment he kind of wishes Shaun were here; he’d be able to at least pinpoint what ancient language this is, probably. Then he remembers, and...yeah. Given that the police apparently have Templar connections and he’s technically probably prying in things that would make them mad if they knew, that’d be a bad idea.

        Templar Hall is even more disappointing, though it does confirm a few things. Shaun had gone on at length about ‘renewing wards’ and how he’s trying to find alternatives to the usuals; salt makes a mess, water is just asking for mould unless contained properly, chalk is fiddly to work with, doesn’t feel great to try to write, and gets all over your clothes trust him he’d been a professor, and crystals are a little too new age. He doesn’t spot any of that, but feels something a little more than just nervousness that says he shouldn’t be here as soon as he steps past the guards. On the other hand, it doesn’t set off alarms or anything, so it’s like he’s invisible from that, too.

        Second, even though it’s really, really obvious to him that the ones following him are acting really weird, no one else seems to question it. Which reminds him very uncomfortably of the zombie-like results from Al Mualim’s use of the Apple.

        Third, he does overhear a couple of the people standing around mention the attack, and while he hadn’t really doubted Shaun or Rebecca, it’s nice to have confirmation; if it was ordered by the Templars, it sounds like none of these rank-and-file guys know about it, so they weren’t lying to his face, which is nice. Not that Shaun or Rebecca are probably all that much of Novices, to quote Altaïr, but he’s pretty sure they get info about what the other factions are doing, and aren’t making strategic decisions that would involve hiring hitmen or knowing about hiring hitmen, so if it is a higher-up, they probably weren’t told either, rather than just lying to his face.

        The area itself is massive and imposing and practically empty. They’re just as fond of putting crosses everywhere, but there’s something...it’s not cold and lifeless, no matter how empty. It just feels like a memorial to days long past, not soulless cubicles of a corporation more determined than most to turn everyone into happy little robots ready to take orders. They like their braziers next to the huge columns, for some reason, but to the right there’s a cozy little office that happens to be empty at the moment, maybe even sort of a welcoming area or check-in desk or something , but it’s mostly got art and comfortable places to sit and a neat carved wooden desk that Desmond would be tempted to steal if he actually had any use for one. As it is, well, kind of not relevant. The paperwork that’s sitting out looks like mostly intake paperwork for new Bees, which, woah Rebecca hadn’t been kidding there’s a lot , but also, the only reason any of this would be relevant is if he really were spying for the Dragon. Which he’s not. More of the same in the drawers. Looks like anything Top Secret isn’t kept out here in the open, which is understandable but a little disappointing anyway. The desk does have a well-worn and obviously old copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy, which—huh. Ezio had at least heard of this, even though he’d been a bit too busy to track down a copy to read it. Didn’t Machiavelli mention it once, or was it…? Nah, he doesn’t have time for this. Just because one try hadn’t burned out the brains of the friendly Templars trailing him doesn’t mean he wants to push it too long.

        Unfortunately other than a few people standing around, all the doors that would lead anywhere interesting are locked. He still finds gold runes by squinting, and these actually do light up when he touches them. Frustratingly, they rearrange themselves almost immediately and go dull gold again, meaning that, essentially, it’s a combination that keeps changing itself almost instantaneously, and unlike with a keypad, Eagle Vision is giving him no clues. Maybe it’s that he hasn’t figured out how to use this supposedly stronger Eagle Vision; more likely, oddly enough, he gets the feeling that it’s because he’s supposed to transmit the whole key at once, using a spell or artifact rather than actually touching the symbols one by one, so there’s no previous fingerprints to go by.

        Desmond basically just turns the power back off when he’s back by the fountain because while it’s useful it’s really making him uncomfortable, and the tattoo stops glowing. They still seem fine, but it means he’s doing his best to stay casual when he meets up with Shaun and Rebecca at The Horned God later.

        For better or worse, there’s a distraction before long, though; this surfer dude just comes up to him out of the blue and introduces himself as Desmond’s Agent. That doesn’t sound like a handler, or anything, and he’s not technically a Dragon, if the little girl had been telling the truth, and also they’d seemed pretty determined to just leave him to his own devices and just watch what happened, so he’s really confused about what this latest plan means. The Dragon really are masters of chaos. Hopefully this doesn’t mean that they could keep tabs on him somehow. The Dragon looks a little shorter than what Desmond can remember of that red outline peeking around the corner of the building, though, so he’s probably not the guy with the gun. Unless shapeshifters are a thing here, or something, but he can’t imagine a shapeshifter would be too worried about getting caught; just drop the gun, shapeshift out of sight, and without Eagle Vision he should just blend in, so Desmond’s discarding that possibility at least this time.

        “I don’t know that I really need anything, unless you can maybe track down some information,” he finds himself saying, because it’s pretty awkward having the guy just stand there and stare, even if it actually looks like the guy is finding it as hilarious as Rebecca was, really. This is kind of vaguely reminding him of his time as Ezio, but he’s not recruiting and he’s not even sure that he wants to rebuild the Brotherhood yet until he gets a grasp on this world and all the faction stuff. Sure, Shaun gave him the basics, but there has to have been relevant details he was leaving out.

        “Pretty sure I can do that. Maybe even find you stuff,” the guy (who hasn’t even bothered to give his name) responds.

        He really is used to traveling light, but...Rebecca and Shaun are listening, so maybe he should too. “What kind of stuff?”

        The surfer dude just shrugs again, like he’s perfectly okay with just waiting around here and making Desmond pay for his meals (and honestly might have been as briefed about this situation as Desmond was), so he sighs and waves at the guy. “Okay, sure, go get me...stuff, I guess.” He hesitates, but hey, it’s not like this is news, and he really does want to know who was behind it. And may or may not be planning on leaving that asshole alive. “ And while you’re out there, see if you can’t find out if anyone’s plotting against me or about that shooting a few days ago.” He’s not sure if he can actually trust the man’s information, but he does show up as blue, and it’s a good test. At one point, wasn’t one of Ezio’s recruits actually working with the Templars? He’ll have to keep an eye out, but this kind of thing could be useful, if he thinks about it.

        Wannabe Agent Guy grins, waves back, and ducks back out of the Horned God. Really weird. What’s maybe even stranger, though, is that he’s starting to get used to all of this weirdness.

        Probably the good old-fashioned non-magic violence. That has a way of grounding things even when there’s a vampire selling fruit and vegetables next to a fighting ring.

        “I told you we were looking into it,” Shaun hisses. Man, his ego’s so fragile, sometimes.

        “Yeah, but we can come at it from different ways. I’m not that good at just sitting around and not thinking about it,” he responds mildly, and apparently the historian doesn’t have an argument against that one because he shifts to a rant about Renaissance Italy. That’s pleasantly familiar.

Chapter Text

        Desmond can’t see. He’s sitting. It feels like a subway car, but all the lights are off, not just in the car, but along the sides. They’re moving, rattling along, faster than public transportation should go unless this is a bullet train or something. He feels trapped, claustrophobic, suffocating in the air, like the darkness is something alive, malevolent, attempting to smother him, to crush him until there’s nothing left and he’s absorbed. As if in response to his panic, he feels his arm grow warm, and holds it up, and yeah, the tattoo is glowing again under his sleeve, burning bright like the sun—

        He is, in fact, in a subway. Not on one of the cars. He’s waiting for the next train with a whole bunch of other people, and part of his mind is saying he’s here because the next power source for the Temple is here. All the lights come back on—no, it’s more like he’s traveled in time, or something, because everything looks normal, and no one’s panicking about the loss of light or anything. Or his arm glowing, and that’s because, abruptly, it isn’t. It looks like Japan, and that has to mean this is Tokyo. Something bad was going down in Tokyo, and the little girl said that dreams…

        What was it about dreams? They were important, he knows that, but it’s just sitting there on the edge of his mind mocking him. His train of thought is interrupted.

        Someone bumps into him, shuffling along, and he looks...familiar. He doesn’t look up, though, even when Desmond puts the pieces together and calls out, reaches out a hand for the man, as the doors open and they all start to board.

        It’s not actually Clay, Desmond knows somehow, with the clarity that dreams give, but it looks and sounds like him. He sounds like he had in the messages he’d left behind, broken and glitchy, muttering to himself, clutching a sports bag with a death grip. “...won’t hurt, that’s what he said, sh-sh-she can’t get you, gotta be brave, fear nothing, just the messenger, don’t kill the messenger, hahaha they won’t kill the messenger…”

        Suddenly, there are police officers walking toward them.

        He doesn’t glance up to look at them, though, but instead turns and moves his gaze from the floor to straight into Desmond’s eyes, and the Assassin shudders, because those aren’t eyes. They’re worse than empty, they’re...more like black holes with stars behind them. He grins, and it’s the smile of a viper. “I hadn’t invited you to the party yet, but sure, I’ll play. Peek-a-boo, Chuck, I see you.” The voice is dark, suddenly, resentful, inhuman echo to the words, and it’s Clay’s voice but not, and he chuckles, the friendly tone sinister, oily.

        And then an explosion rocks the station, coming from the bag, painting the walls with a black oil slick, if black oil slicks were alive and started moving and sprouted tentacles and look completely, utterly wrong, like they’re holes in reality or something. Desmond gets sprayed, too, and instantly feels like he’ll never be clean again. It crawls along Desmond’s skin, making it itch like he’s been infected. The edges of his vision distort, grow dim.

        And then he bolts upright, gasping for air. Just a dream, he tries to tell himself for all of two seconds before he remembers what he’d been trying to remember in the dream, and realizes that’s the exact opposite of comforting. ‘Beware of dreams.’ And yeah, he had been looking for answers about Tokyo, too, but there’s a good part of the dream that had felt...real. Within some definition of reality, anyway, maybe something like the Animus. His arm is glowing slightly, warm and comforting, a night-light in the chill of the early dawn, and he shivers. What the hell.

        He’s come to the attention of something, probably. Not an organization, something strong and powerful and malevolent like Juno.

        It had taken the form of Clay. Maybe that was his mind drawing similarities, maybe that was something the thing had done to mess with him, but either way, there’s a clue there, no matter how much thinking about this makes him want to scrape off his skin to try to stop feeling contaminated.

        He’s just going to list off possibilities, getting all of them or nothing right. Used to be human, trapped in some sort of simulation (dreams, maybe?), and while he’d lost his body, it made him more powerful in his domain. The tone had been right, a fragmented mind barely hanging on to humanity, the kind of guy who could be a drinking buddy under the right circumstances. Friendly and resentful of the fact that Desmond was still alive and he was dead, lending a hand and delighting in the fact that his misery wasn’t alone anymore. He has absolutely no idea why it called him Chuck, but that didn’t feel like a mistake.

        The Assassin sighs, looks back toward his pillow, and gives up on sleep. There’s no way he’ll be able to drift off again. Might as well go about things—like actually equipping all of those talisman things from the bank, because he’s suddenly feeling a little paranoid for some reason, after a good shower or twelve, and seeing if there isn’t anything else he can do to try to prepare himself for...whatever that was.

        He scrubs his skin a little too hard in the shower, but he’s not bleeding and still doesn’t quite feel right, so he’s pretty sure it wasn’t overkill. He realizes after the bank stop he’s not thinking clearly and that he can actually evaluate magic items based on whether or not they glow gold in Eagle Vision, so he goes on a minor spending spree. It doesn’t help him know what exactly they’re used for, but it can tell him they're not fakes.  After that, he gets distracted by the feeling of something else gold, glowy, and vaguely...sticky? Like honey, maybe, he decides, when he follows the feeling a bit and it gets stronger. Maybe like the Bees. And, Altaïr’s memories remind him, honey’s good for treating wounds. Sure, this probably isn’t actual honey, maybe more like...spiritual honey, or something, but he feels like he’s spiritually wounded, so maybe that’s just perfect.

        Contrary to all his expectations, people actually barely even react when he starts climbing buildings, jumping between awnings, and the like. It’s probably all the times that people reacted badly to Altaïr or Ezio doing the same; some of those phrases are burned into his psyche. He really does like Ealdwic, he decides. He’s not going to do it visibly near Templar Hall, anyway, to avoid making them more nervous, but his watchers seem somewhat appeased when he makes sure they can keep him in their sights, even if, at this point, they know he knows they’re there. (None of that explains what was going on the other day, but he’s still trying not to think about that too much.) None of the buildings aside from Templar Hall are too tall, but they’re a joy to climb and it’s nice to just run around on the rooftops. These buildings were practically made for climbing, with handholds and footholds everywhere, and it’s good to keep in practice and just be able to relax and breathe. Sure, there’s some smog here, but he still finds his worries disappearing. Even after wandering around the city following the feeling of important things, he feels something gold and glowing and kind of irresistible, so he finds himself on a kind of scavenger hunt around London.

        It turns out that standing in the spots that glow gold has him hearing voices, but not the Bleeding Effect kind—it’s a woman’s voice, kind but worried, and it reminds him vaguely of Lucy, but at least unlike the dream-guy it’s not trying to imitate her. It’s probably associated with the Bees, so yeah, they might’ve actually been trying to talk to him, before. For the most part, they’re just telling him stuff he already knows, about the Assassins, about London, about the Templars, but it feels...cleansing, to find those, and it’s not until he hears Rebecca calling him that he realizes he’s missed lunch.

        “Damn, Desmond, I didn’t know you knew parkour!” He grins as he looks down and sees her.

        “Give me a bit; I’ll come meet you!” he yells back, and with the handholds and footholds here, really, it’s easy. He might be showing off a bit.

        She actually claps for him when he makes it to the ground, and he bows with a goofy flourish that he’s half certain is from Ezio. “I haven’t actually gotten lunch yet, so I’ll have to grab something but I can definitely come with.” He does actually like hanging out with them, is the thing, and he’s pretty sure he’s been decently productive for today.

        Her eyes light up. “Have you heard of Dante’s tacos?” He was right on the money, then.

        “I’m not going to be regretting it in the restroom the rest of the day, am I?” he asks, amused, and she’s finding it just as funny as he is, apparently.

        “No cases of food poisoning there, though I’ve got no promises if you go chugging the hot sauce. My treat?” She pauses, then adds, “...I’ll throw in that obnoxious pair of shades you were looking at that bugged Shaun as ‘hideous monstrosities’.”

        “Deal. I need something for undercover work.” He wouldn’t actually dare use them for anything requiring stealth, but they’re hilarious and he definitely was weighing using some of the Dragon funds for them.

        “You really are an agent of chaos,” she remarks, but coming from Rebecca that’s almost certainly a compliment.

Chapter Text

        Rebecca falls silent mid-sentence, which is uncommon enough that, paired with the rest of the Horned God going quiet, tells Desmond something’s up before the man arrives at their booth. Shaun’s looking a little shifty and would probably be terrible at undercover work, Desmond guesses. Unless he spends most of the time complaining. He’s good at that. He could probably make that look natural. Or—no, maybe he’d be decent at it in cases where he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t directly care about a lot of people. Abstractly and theoretically, yes. Which tells Desmond this is probably one of the Templar higher-ups, they knew he was coming, and were instructed not to tell him. And Shaun feels guilty about it, and Rebecca probably doesn’t. She’d always been a little better at the whole pragmatic thing, no matter how much Shaun tried .

        It’s a good thing Desmond has been training practically his whole life for keeping a straight face, even if he was hardly the best of them at it, because otherwise he’d be giving something about his snooping mission away. He’s doing his best to not feel guilty about that, because among other things Rebecca and Shaun are, knowing them, absolutely doing the same exact kind of thing behind his back.

        He’s Black, which says good things about their recent inclusiveness efforts, and his suit is immaculate, but the earring helps him not look completely out of place. Despite all the whispering.

        “Richard Sonnac,” he introduces himself, setting down the beer and sliding into the empty spot next to Rebecca. When he holds his hand out for a handshake, he goes for ‘respectful’ and doesn’t try to make it into some sort of contest. “Normally we’d be holding this meeting in my office, but recent events have made even the best of us rather more paranoid than usual, so even escorted you entering Templar Hall was ruled out of the question.” Unless they’re being cagey, that means they probably don’t know about his scouting, then. “I wanted to express my apologies for the attack in person. We pride ourselves on London being the hub of the Secret World, and events, as of late, have not been encouraging. The surveillance had even mostly been for your protection, although I appreciate your tolerance in such matters.” He’s also straightforward and genuine. Desmond likes this guy. It doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t a bastard or plotting Desmond’s death, but in a place where everybody’s been acting like this is one massive spy thriller, one guy actually mentioning stuff about behind-the-scenes and not trying to prove his superiority is a bit refreshing.

        “Thank you. Any leads?” he asks.

        “Desmond,” Shaun hisses, kicking him under the table, but he doesn’t even flinch.

        Sonnac, however, doesn’t seem insulted. “None, I’m afraid, which I fear is the other reason why this meeting has been postponed as long as it has. I was hoping to be able to bring you some fresh lead to prove to you that you will be a safe guest while you remain in London, but I unfortunately must inform you that is not the case. What I can tell you, whether you believe me or not, is that this was not sanctioned by the Templars, though that, of course, does not rule out a lone agent gone rogue. What we do know, thanks to you, is that this likely was the work of one of the members of the Council of Venice, since they were able to flee into Agartha. Only those who have been Bee-touched have been given the Agartha anchors by the Guardians, so that narrows the pool of suspects, if not, sadly, that far, since quite a few have been visited by the Buzzing. The Council itself is taking interest in your case. Chelsea, by the way, is recovering quite well.”

        Desmond weighs this for a moment. Sure, this all might be a ploy to figure out how much he knows, but if he’s lying it’s stuff he already knows, and if he’s not, they actually could get somewhere if they work...well, he was going to say ‘together’, but it’s more along the lines of ‘in parallel’. “I’m not actually entirely convinced it’s a Bee responsible.”

        Shaun looks shocked, Rebecca looks not-shocked, and Sonnac looks intrigued. “Please, do continue.”

        “When the attack failed, he ran. He didn’t go for a second shot, which would have made sure that I went down and couldn’t follow him, and he seemed panicked. Shaun pointed out maybe he was hoping to take me out and then do something while I was out, but the Agartha Well’s pretty close, so he wouldn’t have a lot of time. If he’d actually been planning on doing something after, it’d make more sense to lure me somewhere so he actually had the time while my spirit was out. And sure, maybe he was trying to hide who he was working for, but the brief glimpse I caught, he didn’t look like he was in uniform, and if he was a Bee, it wouldn’t be long before he’d be back. The way he moved, he panicked. Like he’d have something to lose if I was armed. To me, he seemed like a normal mercenary or hitman out of his league.” He’s been thinking about this a lot, and anything he has, it doesn’t make sense, not as presented anyway.

        “All very good points.” Sonnac sighs, taking a sip of the beer. “And, unfortunately, rendering this ever more of a mystery. Rebecca here has been scouring the internet looking for a payment for services rendered, and has found nothing. Of course, it’s entirely possible our would-be killer never got paid, considering he failed his contract, in which case tracing the entire thing becomes that much harder. Either he or his employers covered his tracks magically. If it’s a matter of tracing the Agartha anchor, that is likewise a tedious task. While the source of them is unknown, according to the Conductor, there’s more than a few, so a theft would be likely to go unnoticed. If a Bee handed one off to someone else, it’s not as if there’s some sort of magical alarm. We can experiment to see if an ordinary person can use one, which would be useful information.”

        Which, actually, raises a good question. “Do you think he was set up to fail?”

        Rebecca breaks in. “Oh, like a message, you mean? Sure, that seems like it’d fit what we know. I can look into that.” At Sonnac’s raised eyebrow, she adds, “Sorry, Boss.”

        “It’s possible, but I would hate to say anything with certainty at this juncture.” Fair enough. “What I can tell you is that we have managed to get permission for something else. We have, shall we say, renovated a small area under our jurisdiction to serve as a private training ground. It is not as extensive or reinforced as the one in Templar Hall, but it should prove adequate for your use. Shaun has been anxious to provide you with the sort of instruction your faction handler should have ensured when you were first recruited, particularly since you are in proven danger. You are also free to use the space as you see fit; consider it a gift of hospitality.”

        “Again, I appreciate it. I wouldn’t mind having somewhere to stash my stuff.” He doesn’t mention ‘sleep’, as he gets the feeling the ‘other’ Bees don’t. Which, call him old-fashioned, but the ability to sleep and dream, even if it makes him vulnerable, is part of what he sees as making him human.

        That gets an odd look—maybe he’s supposed to just use the museum and vault?—but no comment, so it’s probably as good a choice for him to say as any.

        “I believe I have time to finish this,” Sonnac indicates his drink, “...and after that, duty, unfortunately, calls.”

        He does take his time, passing along a few book recommendations (“not,” he states with a slight grimace, “Dan Brown, though I suppose the inaccuracies wouldn’t be so irritating to someone in a different profession”), speculating on the latest Illuminati disinformation campaign (“probably the posts about artifacts from Atlantis, as if we wouldn’t have all heard the second another Third Age artifact was discovered”, to which it’s all Desmond can do not to groan) and comparing local breweries (“it depends on my mood, but as complex as my job happens to be, it’s refreshing to just indulge in something simple”) before he has to leave.

        “You up for a spar?” Desmond asks the second Sonnac leaves, and Shaun swallows hard.

        “...As urgent as making sure you can use your powers is, perhaps we should wait until I’m fully sober,” he manages, though he looks slightly cheerful. Possibly because he’d been expecting Desmond to get mad at them for hiding this. Or something.

Chapter Text

        It’d been easy not to think about, partly because he’d been enjoying work and the novelty of not being on the Farm, but Desmond sometimes honestly really missed the simplicity of just...practicing fighting with someone. He’d tried to ignore it, because that was such a complicated feeling he didn’t really like to dwell on, but yeah.

        It’s an even more complicated feeling now. He’d tried leaving behind the Hidden Blades, because he’s worried, but he doesn’t have a great place to put them and, more importantly, he’d almost had a panic attack the second he tried to take them off, so...they’re there for emotional support, he supposes.

        It’s probably not going to be as much of a spar, either. He’s overheard some of the newer recruits talk about training and they use practice dummies, so that’s kind of what he expects, too. When Shaun actually goes to pick up a sword after bringing him to the ‘flat’ (honestly a little too big of an apartment, they went all out, it’s even down the street from Templar Hall why) he figures out he’s wrong and almost panics again, but, like, he’s pretty sure the cover of Weird Dragon Experiment only covers the magic-adjacent stuff Shaun’s probably going to teach, too, and probably be better about giving pointers than the physical fighting. The historian is taking it a bit too seriously, given that he’s already scolded Desmond for trying to wear the big obnoxious sunglasses. “Aren’t we going to use those?” He gestures at the practice dummies. They do have them.

        Shaun glares and gestures to the other sword, impatient. “I have passed all my physical training, thank you very much. Otherwise it would have waited for Rebecca to be free. As it is, yes, you have me, and yes, I am very much qualified.” ...He takes almost all of this personally, doesn’t he? A question about the exact choices made is suddenly a reflection on the man’s competence.

        On the other hand, he’s going to have to learn how not to kill sooner or later, to hide the fact he’s an Assassin. He’d just rather not start out with one of his friends. Sure, he’d done some sparring with Lucy, but they’d pretty much given up on that after Lucy—

        And, well, that probably wasn’t the only thing. Not that any of them had said anything, and not that he’s been Bleeding since he got here, but they’d all been wary of the Bleeding Effect.

        His Eagle Vision spots a camera. His money’s on Rebecca.

        Shaun tsks at his hesitance. “I’m not just here to watch you flounder, Desmond. You have put on the talismans as recommended, right?”

        So he hadn’t been kidding about magical armor. Which, this is going to be a good demonstration of how that works, but also—

        “You’re wearing some too, right?” He really, really doesn’t want to take chunks out of his friends, particularly when he’s not sure if they’ve had visits from Bees or not. He’s guessing not, but they’re also just generally weird, so he wouldn’t be utterly shocked if they were weird in this, too.

        “No, Desmond, I normally wear rings, bracers, and necklaces. I weep for your general observation skills.” ...That’s a really good point, but Desmond hadn’t wanted to assume anything. “And before you ask, yes, these are the most powerful protection artifacts we had lying around. Now, are you done stalling?”

        It is also, to put it mildly, frankly weird to see Shaun without glasses. Apparently he does own a pair of contacts he hates, going by how much he complains about them, but Rebecca had broken his glasses once when they’d been training, so he’s been more careful since.

        Shaun’s stance is...actually kind of ready. Like he might actually know what he’s doing, which is simultaneously cool and kind of worrying; hopefully he doesn’t know enough to actually push Desmond too much. There’s the talismans, sure, but the Assassin might be a little distracted trying not to go for the throat.

        Unfortunately, that wish goes unanswered, because Shaun gets a little too impatient and goes for it, except he’s not showing easily exploitable weaknesses. Even when he’s aggressive, he’s not exposing himself too much, ready to deflect if he has to. On the other hand, Desmond easily evades the attack.

        “We’re not here for my exercise. Fight back,” Shaun growls, and that—

        Sure, it’s a taunt, designed to do exactly what it does, which is tick the Assassin off. “ Don’t sound like my dad,” he responds in a low warning, because even if Shaun doesn’t know the specifics, they get it, at least a little.

        Shaun winces a little. It’s not clear if it’s from how hard he hits the historian’s sword, because yeah, even his hands hurt a little from that one, or from the comment itself, but he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t say anything else , either, or even give him a break, just strikes out again, and this time Desmond takes the effort to meet it, because all right, this is fine, nobody’s hurt or maimed yet. It’s just sparring. He can do this.

        It’s easy to get into a rhythm. A little too easy; he gets a little complacent and Shaun slides his sword down. He’d practically lose the skin on his hand if his wrist talisman (which oddly just looks like a wristwatch) didn’t light up slightly. It looks like the attack just slides right over the top of his skin, which...okay, yeah, he’s feeling a little better about actually fighting back after that. As they trade a few more blows, a few things become obvious.

        One, Shaun’s actually good. He’s not Altaïr, but then, practically no one is. Mostly, it seems like the Templars here require fighting practice even for those who aren’t on the front lines, and the historian takes that as seriously as he does everything else. Desmond is better, but even though he knows about the talismans and has actually seen them in action he’s really reluctant to, say, try to stab his friend in the heart or neck. And, infuriatingly, even though some of that had been on purpose and part of it was just the fact that he’s been flying under the radar all his life because he didn’t want to be seen as a threat, Shaun isn’t taking him seriously.

        It happens faster than he can even consciously follow. One moment, he’s blocking an attack; the next, there’s the clatter as his sword’s falling to the floor and skidding away, and the Templar gets closer (to do what , he’s not entirely sure), and suddenly Desmond’s got his wrist up to Shaun’s throat. Maybe a bit to the side. The talisman might’ve been the only thing that saved the guy; it’s unclear because everything is going way too fast and this is just what he’d been worrying about.

        Desmond’s other hand is holding Shaun’s sword. He has a vague memory of disarming Shaun and taking it. Sure, he’s seen the talismans are good and all, but still, it’s probably a really good thing Shaun had been too close to actually stab straight through or he’s got this icy feeling muscle memory would have gone for it, and he’s still not sure how the talismans work or what happens if they fail. The sword falls seemingly of its own accord, because he really didn’t want to be holding it in the first place.

        “Bloody hell Desmond!” Shaun’s staring wide-eyed and a little cross-eyed at the Hidden Blade, in shock for a moment or two before that wears off and he reaches out to grab Desmond’s arm, pulling up the sleeve and inspecting the Hidden Blade like he hadn’t nearly had his neck skewered.

        The Assassin, meanwhile, is trying not to panic, so he’s not quite in the frame of mind to shove Shaun off.

        “I just...I could have killed you.” He doesn’t mean to say that.

        And Shaun is every bit as unsympathetic as he’d expect, although some of the effect of the glare is lost without the glasses. “That’s the point. But no, you couldn’t have. Not with the talismans I’m wearing.” Except, no, he’s wrong, because Desmond’s getting the feeling if he used whatever power he has access to, now, he probably could have just...negated the protections, and that is scaring the hell out of him.

        “Why the hell are you being such a hardass? You know I’ll just come back.” Or at least, that’s the assumption Shaun should be under, anyway. It comes out angrier than he intends, but it’s better than actually stabbing the guy.

        Shockingly, this time at least, Shaun doesn’t take the bait. He’s still scowling and looks grumpy, and he does back up to return some personal space, but he doesn’t immediately snap back. “Knowing you’ll come back and knowing you’ll be fine are two different things.” And that—

        That’s sweet enough that he doesn’t have a clue how to answer. He’s not used to people caring about him, not this much.

        The historian seems to understand, because his voice is almost gentle as he continues, even if he still looks angry and like he’s about to pick a fight at any moment. “That weapon. I’ve never seen its like before, but based on the construction, it’s not good for long-term fighting unless it’s reinforced, and it’s not exactly meant for self-defense either.” He pauses. He’s fishing for something, but Desmond has absolutely no clue what he’s looking for. “Were they training you to be an assassin?”

        That’s unexpected and damn it, Desmond is not going to cry. “Something like that.” His voice is a little hoarse, but the fact that Shaun’s not interrupting or rushing him, just watching and looking a little upset? He’s trying to be as good a listener as he can manage. “I don’t...fighting isn’t the problem. I don’t mind that. But they wanted me to be a weapon, and I wasn’t very good at that. Or a soldier, maybe. I wasn’t very good at that either. Questioned orders too much.”

        “There is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with you.” Shaun can’t actually meet his gaze at this point, probably because he’s embarrassed. He lets out a long, deep breath. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you ended up Dragon, no matter what else I feel about them. And—well. To put it lightly, those who slip through the cracks...I mentioned it before, that some go missing. That may have been an understatement. If you end up taken in by one of the Big Three, you’re protected by centuries of agreements and enforcement by the Council. If not, you’re not beholden to becoming a foot soldier in some secret war, but that only remains true for the duration you can keep out of sight, and it’s generally only a matter of time. That being said…” He pauses again, then visibly decides ‘screw it’ and continues. “...If you should ever need Rebecca and I to kidnap you and lock you in our office, let us know. I even think I could get that signed off on by the higher ups, as long as you mainly help with our Illuminati intelligence. The Illuminati previously attempted to distract us by occupying us with recreating the story of St. George. I hardly think we’d mind returning the favor.”

        That is sweet and hilarious and probably more than half Rebecca’s idea. Desmond can’t help but grin even as the image of Vidic politely requesting a kidnapping comes to mind. It’d never happen. “I think I’m okay for now. Rain check?”

        Shaun acts offended as he retrieves his own weapon. It’s hard to tell if that’s legit or not. “Of course. The offer remains open.” He eyes Desmond’s sword on the floor again, and makes a decision. “We’ll start again when you feel ready. No need to rush.”

Chapter Text

        When he’s feeling a little calmer, a little less panicky, he decides to bring up something Rebecca mentioned would tick Shaun right off, just to see if he can focus in combat.

        They’ve moved on to clawed weapons now, which are cool and all, but kind of get in the way of using the Hidden Blade. The historian’s definitely better with the sword, but they’ve built up a decent rhythm by this point and it helps a lot to know that he doesn’t have to worry about killing blows anymore (as long as he doesn’t use his powers, which he’s pretty sure he can manage) , particularly since, well, it’s not like they’re really easy to use to deflect, so they are just hitting each other and letting the talismans do the rest. Although he’s pretty sure that during their break Shaun had triple reinforced the shielding spells on them, and while he’d probably also come to the same conclusion about the weapons not working well together he’d both insisted the Hidden Blades be removed for the time being, and they’re also practicing with wooden versions, all of a sudden. Shaun’s being all casual about the new precautions, which is kind of nice—he is actually taking Desmond seriously, now, and he doesn’t want Desmond to feel bad about it, but of course he’s not actually saying any of that out loud because he’d burst into fire, or something.

        Still, this isn’t exactly what Desmond had been hoping for. He had been kind of hoping to learn a bow, maybe, or a crossbow, because that’s easier in combat, or maybe even kali sticks, but no luck, and these are near enough to reinforced Hidden Blades that it’s not too much of a challenge.

        A hammer’s sitting out, too. It looks interesting, but Desmond gets the idea for the most part it’ll probably be too slow for his taste. Rebecca’s not providing commentary, even if she’s probably watching, Shaun’s not swearing at him, and now that he’s not anxious he’s almost bored. Sure, his brain is coming up with fifteen ways to use them in actual combat, like, for instance, they’d probably be pretty good at trapping and disarming other weapons, but when they’re both using them, not so much. He has to make his own fun somewhere. “Hey, Shaun? What’s with the cats and dogs and little moth-things? Are they supposed to be familiars or something? Do I need one?”

        “Bloody ak’ab,” Shaun snarls, but, impressively, he’s still managing to trade blows and mostly not be distracted by the oncoming rant. Mostly. “Ooh, they’re so small, oooh, they’re so cute, ooooh look at them, they’re learning to charge like their parents, oooooh, they’re going to bloody kill us all in our sleep.”

        This part, actually sparring, getting in the groove without getting in the killing groove? This part’s nice. Maybe it’s a little messed up, but it feels very homey to him.

        “Makes perfect sense to me. It probably wasn’t too easy domesticating cats, dogs, or hawks, and if anyone’s not going to feel a hint of fear trying to do that, it’s a bunch of people who can’t stay dead.” And, honestly, if you could have a loyal death-moth crawl around behind you and eventually protect you in this weird world, then why wouldn’t you? If it’s dangerous, that’s kind of the point. Though maybe not everyone’s on that same page, considering, well, Templars let people run around with them in London without a permit or anything.

        That actually gives Shaun pause, so much that he nearly misses a parry. “...It is nearly as disturbing, having you talk sense, as Rebecca doing so, I’ll have you know.”

        “Gotta keep you on your toes,” Desmond tells him cheerfully and practically limbos under a badly telegraphed hit, lightly tapping Shaun on the shoulder before backing away again.

Chapter Text

        It’s not all fun and games, sadly. The hammer is definitely too slow and also talismans aren’t good enough to stop bruises, even if they are using the training versions of weapons. Because once Shaun was satisfied with getting his ass beaten (which isn’t a euphemism, he’d been happy about it and if he were anyone else he’d be smiling), they move on.

        “Do you need instructions in firearms?” He looks actually a little nervous about the prospect.

        “What kinds?” Desmond asks offhandedly, and then at the pause stops looking around for them to see Shaun looking a little bemused again.

        “Assault rifles, pistols, shotguns,” the Brit lists out slowly. “You don’t, do you?”

        It’s not what they’d focused on, given that unless you used a silencer guns weren’t particularly stealthy unless it was, like, a sniper rifle, but yeah, they’d concentrated on that, too. “Set up some targets and I can show off. Though I might need a little adjustment for the assault rifle, assuming the police aren’t going to freak.”

        The Templar does. All that eagerness seems to have evaporated, though.

        “You okay?” he clarifies, because apparently having a panic attack is enough for him to be able to spot one.

        “Well, excuse me for not being Illuminati about this,” he snarls, but—the way he’s acting, there’s some kind of trauma there, but Desmond’s not going to pry. Honestly, if it turned out he didn’t know anything, he’s starting to get the idea that they would’ve left that for Rebecca on another day.

        “Shaun, the police are going to be fine with me shooting, right?” he clarifies, and Shaun refocuses, back in the moment.

        He’s also looking at Desmond like he’s completely unintelligent, but that’s a fair enough price. “You have...noticed almost everyone is armed, right?” He sweeps an arm toward the street, and Desmond nods.

        “...I figured everyone had graduated past Novice.” This isn’t actually like Masyaf, is it.

        “I assume that you’re talking about a hierarchy system. Yes, those exist. For the most part I believe it has to do with the number of assignments you’ve completed, although for all I know the Dragon use more esoteric criteria. And no, anyone is permitted to carry around any weapons they wish, though most only bother with their favorites. You still need to take care when in non-Council territory, of course, and the Templars would probably take exception if you came in with a tank.”

        That might be a joke. It’s hard to tell, with the delivery. “Oh, I definitely was wondering about that,” Desmond teases, and Shaun rolls his eyes.

        “With you, it’s hard to tell,” Shaun snarks back, relaxing a little (huh, those sniping sessions actually were probably a fun pastime for him), but he doesn’t get back that eager look in his eye until the Assassin’s done and he announces they’re moving on to magic, which, given the way he’s trying to rein in his enthusiasm probably means that’s where he shines, which isn’t too surprising, but also means he’s probably good, given how he’d been decent with the sword.

        Like the potential of exotic weapons, Desmond had been excited for the prospect briefly, before another thought occurs to him.

        He doesn’t have normal magic. And sure, he’d gotten a few weird stares when he’d been trying to heal Chelsea, but if anyone’s going to overanalyze, it’s going to be Shaun.

        “Come on, you big baby. You’re not going to incinerate me any more than you were able to stab me.” He’s a little more gentle than impatient, this time, maybe a little amused. Still...Desmond’s not looking forward to this, but on the other hand, if he refuses, that’s going to be seen as suspicious, too. And, well, maybe this unusual introduction will work out in his favor, because it’s not like he could be expected to know this is weird.

        Most of the reason Shaun can even give this guarantee, it turns out, is that he wasn’t even planning on volunteering for target practice this time any more than he was with the guns. Oddly, he straps a book to Desmond’s back. It’s supposed to help, somehow, but it isn’t showing up in Eagle Vision at all, so the Assassin is skeptical. Shaun’s tips aren’t particularly useful until he actually throws a fireball or two himself since Desmond had mentioned he’s good with learning by observation. He’s had plenty of practice.

        “That’s awesome,” he breathes, focusing on trying to replicate the feeling.

        It’s kind of a shock to learn that it’s actually possible for Shaun to actually appear even more smug. “What you see now is the result of hard work, though you should be a natural.”

        It feels a lot like belief. Shaun thinks he needs all this stuff, so he does, because that’s how people have been doing it for millennia. Desmond can probably do that, because, sure, it looks impossible, but it’s happening, and he’s seen a lot over the last couple years. He can definitely pull off a Leap of Faith.

        Of course, that smug look disappears a few seconds later because Desmond actually manages it , and he watches the historian have a single moment where he’s happy and proud before he actually processes and his face goes blank. “You’re not. I. What? Bloody hell, that report did not do this justice. Is your arm glowing?”

        “...They look the same to me, but I don’t know how any of this works.” They don’t, actually; his has a gold tint, but it’s hard to gauge how weird that is by this world’s standards. Very, apparently. “And yeah, it’s been doing that since the whole thing with the bee. I guess it’s not supposed to do that?”

        The historian’s a little too agitated for a proper explanation, but he’s trying anyway. “You don’t understand. You’re not summoning a fireball. The focus isn’t even active. It...hmm. I’ve never seen anything of the kind before—maybe a shamanistic tradition, but—if I had to guess based on what little I’ve seen, you’re politely asking the world ‘please, may I have some fire’ and the world—Gaia, maybe, given the colour—is just...giving it to you, no questions asked.”

        “And you’ve seen a lot of magic.” He’s gotten a bit of an idea from the stories and rants, but it’s good to know.

        “It’s one of my areas, yes—after I was recruited, of course. I didn’t particularly believe in mystic traditions until I’d seen quantifiable evidence they did, in fact, work.” He’s dismissive, but not of the implied question. His mind is racing, trying to figure out what’s going on, and Desmond wishes him luck, because the guy’s probably missing some clues and even with all that extra information the Assassin still has no idea.

        Maybe he should ask about the dream. If anyone would know, it’s Shaun, and he really should know what he’s dealing with sooner rather than later. He opens his mouth to ask. “You want me to try again?”

        ... that’s not right. But Shaun’s pushing him on before he can even say anything else.

        “That’d give me more to work off. Roll up your sleeve, maybe try shooting lightning bolts from your hands this time.” It’s easier now that he has a feel for it. And maybe a sign that he’s getting used to how this world is, because it actually takes the realization that he hadn’t even blinked to go ‘oh wait yeah there’s a sentence that Shaun said casually’. He’s ordered to keep going, to hit the training dummy with ice, break the earth underneath it, and then move on to chaos magic, which feels...weirdly normal, because some of it feels like a stripped-down version of the Calculations, manipulating entropy and probability for desired ends, and part of it is just summoning weapons out of thought, which just seems practical, because you never have to worry about losing your weapon or having it taken from you. It gives him a headache, but barely one he notices, this time, because he’s not pushing it too much, just little changes in combat. It’s not like he’s doing the math in his head as to trajectories and whatever. He’s just doing it, because he’s had so much practice at that. That helps, the fact that it’s more instinct than active stuff he has to push, he’s pretty sure.

        And then, again, to blood magic, which is definitely more disturbing even though half of it is healing, especially since it seems like the training dummies have blood in them, somehow. Maybe it’s an illusion. He’s hoping it’s an illusion. They definitely don’t feel like stunt-props with bags of fake blood in them or something. Shaun’s fascinated, deeply troubled, and probably not going to sleep until he figures this out. Well, probably until he passes out, actually, because good as the guy is, he’s probably not solving this before his body literally gives out from exhaustion.

        “This tattoo. Anything you care to share with the class?” Shaun asks, tapping it carefully.

        Part of Desmond’s brain screams ‘danger’. The eagles are silent. He’s able to ignore all that. Despite the fact that they were just sparring, he trusts Shaun, so touch isn’t a prelude to a killing blow and he doesn’t need to be on edge all the time, thanks .

        “Got it as kind of a ‘fuck you’ to my family, after I escaped—” He catches himself, then decides, nah, it’s not that unique a name, which is probably why it’d been chosen. “After I escaped the Farm. We weren’t allowed stuff like that, anything that could be used to pick us out of the crowd. Maybe I could’ve thought through the design more, but who cares, you know? It’s mine.”

        The Templar nods decisively, agreeing with the sentiment but maybe a bit distracted. “...I don’t suppose you sought out a magic tattoo, by any chance?”

        “As of three months ago with the whole bee thing , I didn’t believe magic existed,” he answers honestly. Really, really old tech, yeah. Not magic. Though the Shaun of the Old World had some lecture about that and a guy named Arthur C. Clarke, so maybe, in a way, he had. “It definitely wasn’t glowing before then or anything like that.” The dream, Desmond, tell him about the dream.

        Instead, he’s silent again. Which feels like mind control, again, and he should warn Shaun, but—he can’t. It doesn’t feel as direct as Juno, not like he’s a puppet on strings, but still. He can’t say a word.

        “Those do exist, before you ask, but—not like this. It doesn’t look like it’s the ink, either, though I’d have to do some tests to be certain. I can speculate, though, and my guess? That’s some sort of mark tying you to whatever goddess is pictured, and she’s boosting your abilities, though it didn’t awaken until a visit from our friendly neighborhood bees activated it.” He pats Desmond’s shoulder, as the Assassin attempts to remember how to breathe.

        “Gods? Those exist?” His voice cracks, just a bit, but seriously, fuck the Isu.

        Shaun notices. “Breathe, Desmond.” He waits until Desmond’s not completely having a crisis, and then nods. “Yes, supposedly, though most have either died off or been killed off during past Ages. The last major god with relatively plausible accounts is Loki somewhere on the New England coast, but most have died or were killed off since the Third Age or before. Most artifacts from then have been lost, unfortunately, though if the Illuminati had Excalibur you could be sure they’d be bragging about it.”

        He swallows. “Shaun. Were any of those world-ending scenarios caused by a solar flare?” Well, he can get that out, apparently.

        The Templar’s alarmed, but taking it seriously. “Unfortunately, not one of the things I know, I’m sorry. Given how many religions have a reference to a ‘world-ending’ flood, I would suspect that at least one of the previous three ended in water, but sources are few and far between.” Don’t need to die to save the world , he reminds himself, focusing on his breathing. Shaun basically just said there’s special weapons to kill gods. He just needs one ASAP. They’re rare? No big deal. He’s got Eagle Vision. Easy, right?

        Does that make Not-Clay a god? It’d make sense, but…it doesn’t fit, somehow.

        “If it helps, the Sun hasn’t been doing anything worth concern for as long as we’ve had satellites monitoring the thing.”

        That...does help, actually.

        “I’ll take a picture of your tattoo, if that’s all right. Research who it might be, if it’ll give you any piece of mind. I could also take a sample?” He just keeps volunteering to do things. The mystery must really be bothering him.

        And sure, Desmond’s as eager to figure out what the hell is going on with his tattoo as anyone else, really, but if they can do a DNA test, what the hell are they going to find? Do most Bees have not-so-human DNA anymore, or is this less science and more magic? “I...um. I think I’ll pass on the ‘you taking bits of me’ thing, because I’m pretty sure you’re right. I don’t think it’s the ink, and I’d rather keep the tat intact, you know? Go ahead and photograph away, though.” And, oddly enough, letting Shaun maneuver him into a situation with the proper light feels like the time Leonardo had convinced Ezio to model for a painting. This wasn’t how he expected their sparring session would go, though.

Chapter Text

        If Desmond was in a better mood, he’d be touched at the fact that him looking upset has both Rebecca and Shaun looking him over for wounds and to make sure he’s okay. Because they actually care.

        He’s not. Far from it. It’s interesting to note that now that he’s shown off for Shaun, he actually jumps a little when Desmond slams his hands on the table. He wouldn’t have reacted before.

        Good, snarls the Assassin in him that’s looking for a fight. “Is it true that you started the Crusades as a joke?”

        Shaun’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, but as usual when he has no idea how to respond he defaults to sarcasm. He doesn’t get it and that’s the problem. “ I happened not to be alive at the time, but yes, so the story goes. Up to nine million dead, mostly civilians, and I believe we were left at the end of it all without even a bloody punchline.”

        Desmond takes a shuddering breath and steps back, refusing to sit down. He can’t. “Jesus, Shaun, could you be any more of an asshole?”

        “Let me think, Desmond.” He pauses for effect, and Desmond can guess where he’s going to go with it, the absolute asshole. “Yes, I believe I could.”

        “What’s this about?” Rebecca breaks in, trying to be the voice of reason, which is good and all, except he’s really, really not in the mood.

        “‘Most likely to try to save civilians or, better still, the world,’” he quotes mockingly, watching the historian look even more shocked that he actually remembers that word-for-word, because yes Shaun, he does try to pay attention, especially when he knows the guy had been putting in hours and hours of work into it.

        “Of the Big Three, you’ll remember, which, yes, is more than a tad depressing, but I also didn’t claim we were the ‘good guys’. Historian, here, bit of an expert, and that’s only to be expected. The more you study, the more you learn. History can be beautiful, show the best of humanity. Arts, culture, learning, compassion. But I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t mention it can also bring out the worst, the most depraved, the most cruel. Some like to sanitize history; I refuse to do so. There’s a long and storied history of humans hurting each other long before committing hate crimes and ignoring pronouns.” He sounds reasonable, which hurts. He looks like he about launches into a lecture, probably about Renaissance Italy and how messy that was, like Desmond doesn’t know that first-hand, but thinks better of it.

        “Sit down, Desmond. I’ll pay for your drinks,” Rebecca offers, and he shakes his head.

        “I can’t—” He’s losing all that determination and all that’s left is pain. He doesn’t have the words. “I can’t.” He takes a shuddering breath. “My ancestors? A Muslim and a Crusader.” Well. Technically Altaïr’s an atheist, but it’s not like they need his entire life story at the moment, and it’s just luck he doesn’t actually say Templar even though he’s thinking it, because he doesn’t want to explain that right now.

        Rebecca looks sympathetic, and even Shaun looks like the gravity of the situation is dawning on him. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to stop him from saying things that really aren’t helping. “So they wouldn’t have even met if not for the Crusades—”

        Desmond doesn’t bother holding in the snarl when he interrupts. “Don’t give me that. It’s a price I—hell, they would have gladly paid to prevent so much death.” Maybe they think he’s exaggerating. That’s fair. Most people haven’t had his experience. Hell, in this world, maybe he’s the only one. “Just—if either of them had gotten killed, would you regret anything?”

        Shaun glances at Rebecca, who pointedly refuses to say anything and bail him out. He can’t quite meet Desmond’s gaze as he continues. “Again, not personally responsible. Objectively, absolutely, it’d be a loss for the world, but we don’t live in an objective world, do we? If I never met you, I wouldn’t know what I’d be missing. The only ones who should be apologizing are my predecessors to your ancestors. The most I can do is what I can in the present trying to prevent us from heading down the wrong path ever again.” He takes a deep breath, looking, if anything, more bewildered. “If you knew that much about the Crusades, I’d have thought you’d have worked out the connection by now. It’s in the name. You know, Templars?”

        Desmond’s been lying to himself, sure, trying not to look, because maybe his connection to his ancestors is a little too strong and he’d been trying to hang out with his friends without this hanging over him, but now that he’s seen, he can’t just pretend he doesn’t know, either. His hands are shaking. “That you were involved, sure. Not that you jumpstarted the goddamned thing.” Because that’s something his little sessions researching back in New York hadn’t shared.

        The historian keeps trying to logic this, because of course he does. “Would ‘just being involved’ really make you feel any better? As you’ll recall, there was another infamous group who explained they were just following orders, too. And they were still personally responsible for some of the worst atrocities.”

        “Desmond!” Rebecca calls in alarm, but he just...can’t. He’s gone.

Chapter Text

        Desmond’s timing this, and it takes Rebecca forty-five minutes on the dot to text him. Honestly, she probably set a timer of her own. He’s not surprised Shaun didn’t, mostly because Shaun probably has no idea of how to start, doesn’t have much experience apologizing, and might still be making up his mind about whether he should apologize.

Rebecca: so what brought this on

        The train conductor-like guy had expressed surprise, that no one had run off during his little speech before and he hadn’t even had a chance to hand Desmond an ‘anchor to the Hollow Earth’. It looks, vaguely, like an Apple, but he’s not getting any weird temptation-feelings from it. If he stares at it too long, he starts to see how it works, that it connects the point in Agartha (that’s the name of this place, apparently) to wherever he is and pulls him between the two, that it’s bending space and warping time, but it gives him a headache to do that so it’s safely in one of his hoodie pockets (while it’s not white, he has to say he loves the upgrade of zippered inside pockets, because it’s always good to have more places to put things he’s picked up). It’s probably how the keys at that nightclub worked, honestly, but he’s not thinking about that either.

        He’d like to say he’s not brooding, but like Altaïr’s protests to Malik that’s a total lie.

        He’s been avoiding his problems—again— checking out Agartha, even if it gives him a headache. There are branches going everywhere, with more portals every so often, above, below, curving. Traveling along them is actually kind of fun, as you can walk around the little glowy swirly spots and actually walk, or you can actually walk straight into them and be flung to the next stop, which has all the exhilarating thrill of a Leap of Faith. This entire place is giving him a headache, really, but he needs to figure out his next move, and doesn’t want to, so he talked to all the shopkeeps in the main trunk of the tree (some of them take gold bars) and found the auction house and bank here, and it’s packed. Some Bees probably never go back to the hubs. The radio turns on, when he walks past one of the shopkeepers, and a voice in his head that sounds like Not-Clay confirms his guess, that he hadn't been able to talk about that for a reason, though as far as he can tell at least Not-Clay isn't taking a ride in his head.  There’s even another hangout spot, but he doesn’t really want to socialize right now, so he just finds a convenient spot on the tree to wedge himself in and stare at his phone.

        He should respond, he knows. Just isn’t sure how. ...Honestly, it’s probably best to go casual, here.

Me: Couple guys down in the park

Me: Probably Dragon? I don’t know I didn’t pay that much attention

Me: the second they said you guys started the crusades as a joke I just started seeing red and didn’t wait for the end

Rebecca: so shit-stirring

Me: Probably

Me: sorry to drag you into this

Rebecca: I’m fine. And if you are too, that’s good

Rebecca: Shaun on the other hand is throwing a world-ending temper tantrum

Rebecca: that consists mostly of being a complete and utter shit to anyone who dares look at him

Rebecca: and then complaining about how he’s a complete wanker and will never be loved

Rebecca: You really did a number on him

Me: I’m not staying away forever. Just needed to get away.

Me: I didn’t want to do or say anything we’d all regret

Rebecca: Good

Rebecca: Part of what caught us off guard was you actually caring so much about your bloodline

Rebecca: on account of you escaping the cult and all

Me: I get that I’m a walking contradiction

Me: not everyone I’m related to is a complete bastard

Me: Sadly most of the good ones are long dead

Rebecca: that’s actually not super uncommon sadly

Rebecca: especially if you’re at all into music

Me: why did you have to bring that up

Rebecca: Sorry

Rebecca: Upside is we can suffer together

Me: at least someone understands my pain

        Though it’d been a good conversation starter with patrons, sometimes.

Rebecca: Is this why you never wanted to come with me to the Crusades?

Me: Pretty much

        ...Hang on.

Me: So uh when you say ‘not being loved’

Rebecca: You were a bartender, how did you not get you have him wrapped around your little finger?

Rebecca: ‘Knowing you’ll come back and knowing you’ll be fine are two different things?’

Rebecca: That was pretty much a love confession, dude!

Me: I don’t like to assume when I’m getting mixed signals

Rebecca: ..You’re a good guy

Me: I try

Chapter Text

         It’d be easy to lie, say he’s not pretty much full-on sulking, but he is. The thing is, Shaun had a point. The generational war had been pretty much baked into the Templars and Assassins and so at some point it’d become easy to generalize, to start blaming them all for things done hundreds of years ago, but he’s gotta remember ones like Maria. It’s not everyone, and yeah, he can imagine Shaun way back then, arguing against it until he was hoarse. If he was overridden, yeah, he’d probably go along with it, but he wouldn’t back down until the very end and then be there with a hundred smug ‘I told you so’ variations the moment something went wrong. Sure, it’d also be easy to say he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it, but—y’know, whatever, this is Shaun, what had he been expecting?

         And then there’s the realization that Shaun liked him, and probably in more than just a one-night stand kinda way or he totally would have gone for it. Desmond had been hung up on Lucy, and then she died, and it’s hard to say whether Shaun being into guys in this world is a new thing or whether they’d both been a big complicated bundle of issues, anxiety, and sarcasm. There’d been hints, but he hadn’t been kidding to Rebecca. He’d had one instance of reading the room wrong at his first job, and the woman had been so upset that he’d resolved never to make someone feel like that again even if it cost him, because that sucked.

         Learning that he was right, at least about this one, that Shaun liked him, it’s an ego boost for sure. He likes Shaun and Rebecca, had back then too. Though he gets the feeling, and this is a weird one, that Rebecca’s actually a lesbian or at least leans toward women here, when back—he’s gotta figure out a better phrase than ‘in the world he came from’, but doesn’t have any bright ideas, here—they’d had a conversation in which Rebecca was pointedly loud about being really enthusiastic about discovering he was bi, just like her. Thinking back it was probably directly pointed at Shaun and she was playing wingwoman, but there’s no way to confirm that, now. But he’s probably not getting that threesome, which is fine. It’d been more of a fantasy than anything anyway, and he probably would’ve been running away from his problems trying to forget the pain of losing Lucy, never mind how she died. It hadn’t been his fault, but kinda hard not to feel responsible when it was your hand and your blade that killed her. He wasn’t going to screw up saving the world just ‘cause he couldn’t keep it in his pants.

         Maybe he’s cockblocked himself, with the argument they'd just had. Probably not; Shaun seems like the kind of guy who’d at least have come to expect disagreements with anyone he started dating. The Brit really liked to debate, and yeah, he could be an asshole, and just because Desmond likes that, most of the time, doesn’t mean there aren’t occasions where that could rub him the wrong way, case in point, so yeah, pretty much inevitable and probably not too big of an issue.

         At the same time, though, he’s suddenly realizing it’d be really complicated to get into a relationship now, especially with someone as smart as Shaun. Sure, he and Rebecca have been really good so far at writing off anything weird as ‘oh hey there’s more of that Weird Dragon Experiment stuff’ or maybe ‘Cultist Experimentation’, but if he got into a relationship, there would be more that he couldn’t say, and he’d feel guilty, and Shaun’s a bright guy and would notice at some point. It’d be nice and he won’t say he isn’t appreciating unexpectedly supportive Shaun, but he’s trying to keep his expectations low, because it’s really hard to guess how this one is gonna work out and there are probably about a million ways this can go wrong.

         And then there’s also the fact that he’s kind of a people person. Sure, there’s tons of Bees everywhere, but he doesn’t particularly want to talk to them, because he doesn’t know where he stands. It hasn’t been too long and already he’s missing just being able to talk about music with Rebecca and history with Shaun.

         He’s walking around the edge of one of the platforms, hood up for ‘a proper sulk’, as Shaun would put it, when he notices something far below that captures his attention, and he squints.

         Agartha is big and gold and hurts the eyes in Eagle Vision. Yeah, so far good with the basics. But there’s a section down there nearly out of sight that isn’t doing that, which instantly gives him a bad feeling.

         From what people have said, this is basically the World Tree, so if there’s a section that looks like it’s not doing too good, that doesn’t bode well. He leans forward, trying to get a better look, turning on Eagle Vision even though it’s absolutely going to give him a headache later—

         He’s falling. A flash of red. There’s no platform below him, not for thousands of miles, and by that point he’ll be dead when he hits the ground, and he really, really doesn’t want to figure out if he can come back or this was all just a cosmic joke, just to bring him back to kill him again.

         I don’t want to die!

         And then a voice in his ear even as he falls. “Then don’t.”

         ...Altaïr?

         His arm flares, burning—it actually hurts, this time, though it’s got nothing on when he’d actually died, and his anchor-thing is glowing through his pocket, and suddenly he’s stumbling back onto the platform, probably slightly visibly panicked. The blue-haired Illuminati walking up to the portal to New York just raises an eyebrow at him and continues on with her day.

         Well. Okay. That confirms a few things.

         One, he had been trying, really, really hard not to think about it, but this basically confirms that he has been messing around with the Calculations all this time. His new power? It’s all the Calculations. That’s why ‘going invisible’ works like the Apple, that’s why Shaun’s expert analysis was that he’d been asking the world to give him things, because, fundamentally, that’s what he’d been doing. Sure, he doesn’t have the fine control he did when actually connected to the system before dying, but it’s not just like he’s got an Apple fused into his arm, or something, it’s Isu tech all the way down.  Though he's not sure what the thing with Altaïr's voice was about.

         He concentrates. A God-Killer weapon doesn’t appear in his hand. So it isn’t going to be that easy, figures. So he can’t do anything too complicated, probably because it’d make his brain explode or something actually trying to get it to work.

         Two, well, he’s probably not fully human anymore any more than the Bees are. Well, he’d kinda known that before. Eagle Vision is Isu genetics. But dying had...activated it, or something, or being connected to the system had, whatever.

         And it’s not like he can confirm this either way. He still doesn’t know if he’ll survive being killed again. But he can teleport away right before a lethal blow, which is something the Bees can’t do, and most probably wouldn’t bother to do anyway, given their kind of lackadaisical attitude toward dying.

         Third, his feeling that he’d be attacked again the second he left London? He’d been slightly off, but he hadn’t been wrong, either. The red had confirmed this had been a murder attempt, and, again, he’s got to wonder why. If they knew he wasn’t a normal Bee, maybe they’d think they could pull it off, but most Bees would just die and walk it off, and apparently it can pull even the body back to the Anima Well, somehow, though that seems like it takes more effort or everyone would be doing it. He’s seen some of the younger Bees making a game of jumping off, and despite the fact he’s not sure if there even is a platform or branch below them anywhere, they do come out of the Anima Well, seemingly no worse for wear.

         Fourth—okay, yep, his head is going to absolutely murder him for this, but no red is visible anywhere in Agartha he can see, so he’s still standing behind his ‘regular hitman’ theory.

         Fifth, he’s going to seek out some ibuprofin or something even if he’ll probably get some weird looks for being a Bee trying to find such things, because why not just ‘die and respawn’. It’s...not even as if he doesn’t get it; he absolutely has done it on purpose just to reset some things because they were being aggravating in the Animus, but still, it starts getting really weird when you’re applying it to the real world.

         Sixth, Solomon Island sounds lovely this time of year.