Desmond felt motion. He felt the cold, heavy fear that soaked him before he remembered why. He was laying down in the back seat of a car, moving fast and smoothly, and his hands were tied behind him with something plastic. He opened his eyes.
"Shit!" His body leaped and twisted, banging his head against the window as he pressed back to get as far as he could from the huge bald man with the red and white pin.
"Calm down," the bald man said. "No one is going to hurt you."
Desmond had never heard his voice before. It was deep and calm, with a faint French accent, and sounded used to giving commands.
"Lucy. Clay." His own voice was thin and frightened. "What did you do to them?"
He remembered Lucy's face gone white, and Clay vanishing behind a wall of uniforms and masks. Shaun and Becca could still be free. The Templars might not even know they existed.
"Your friends are safe."
Liar.
Desmond's head was full of the surreal thought of being murdered, like in a movie. Corpses buried quietly in the night. They were the ones who made the rules. Who knew what they were capable of that the rest of the world wasn't?
Desmond's pulse beat against his throat. "Where are they?"
The windows were dark. There was a partition separating them from the driver. The world outside was vague, shifting casts of gray.
"With other Templars who have taken on your case. They each have someone who will watch over them." Desmond could not read anything recognizable in his eyes. "You're mine."
Behind his back, Desmond's hands scrabbled desperately at the car door, seeking the handle. There was nothing but smooth upholstery. The bald man looked at him with something like interest.
"Always so unreasonable. You'd smash your head open on the road, trying to run."
He looked perfectly composed, hands resting on his knees. Maybe people who weren't supposed to exist died every day. One look at his hands made the idea of strangulation no longer seem like cartoon absurdity.
"Where are you taking me?" Though the window was cool against the back of his head, sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
He thought of the ruins on Rikers Island, the pictures of rusted bars and people who said you could still hear prisoners clawing at the walls.
"To show you the truth."
"Brainwashing," Desmond threw back.
"No." Implacable. "It wouldn't work on you."
"That's what this is about." For an instant, a wave of anger rolled over the sick fear. "You'll kill us or lock us up because we're different and you can't control us. You can't stand that there's anybody alive who's still free. We're not you so we're evil and it's okay to destroy us."
The bald man's expression never changed. He only shook his head, as though he weren't surprised at all.
He only said, "Wrong is not the same as evil."
Desmond's back dragged down the car door. There was no escape that way. There was no telling where he was, and no way to follow. These people, as Shaun and Clay had told him, tracing between the lines of history, were experts at making things disappear.
The bald man never looked away from him. "You're right. You are different. Where the rest of humanity were put on a better path unwillingly, you have a choice. We're going to help you make the right one, Desmond."
What turned his blood cold was that everything they did to him would be for his own good.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Robert de Sable."
Pronounced the French way. Ro-bear. Desmond's thoughts ran in inane circles, and that was better than thinking about what might be happening to Lucy and Clay, and what was going to happen to him. He'd seen that name somewhere, in the paper or the news maybe, with other people high in the government who had nothing to do with Desmond.
The car was going slower, turning more often. It came to a stop. Robert put a black bag over Desmond's head.
"A formality," he said. "Don't try to run."
As soon as Desmond heard the door open and felt outside air, he ran.
Blind and off-balance, he threw himself forward as fast as his body would move, unable to know if he was sprinting toward a dead end, caring only that it was away from the fast hard footsteps behind him.
He hit something hard with his right shoulder, stumbled, kept going. It was too slow, too slow. No one alive could catch him when he had his hands and eyes. His panting sucked in the black fabric.
Something heavy hit his back, and the ground vanished from under his feet. His legs kicked at empty air until he hit grass with a body on top of him that knocked the breath from his lungs.
If there was anyone there, they said nothing, if they were even able to see something that was not supposed to happen.
"I nearly forgot that you can disobey," Robert said as he got up and pulled Desmond to his feet like a ragdoll. Because he was out of breath from the chase, it sounded like he was laughing.
Clear Skies 3/?
"Shit!" His body leaped and twisted, banging his head against the window as he pressed back to get as far as he could from the huge bald man with the red and white pin.
"Calm down," the bald man said. "No one is going to hurt you."
Desmond had never heard his voice before. It was deep and calm, with a faint French accent, and sounded used to giving commands.
"Lucy. Clay." His own voice was thin and frightened. "What did you do to them?"
He remembered Lucy's face gone white, and Clay vanishing behind a wall of uniforms and masks. Shaun and Becca could still be free. The Templars might not even know they existed.
"Your friends are safe."
Liar.
Desmond's head was full of the surreal thought of being murdered, like in a movie. Corpses buried quietly in the night. They were the ones who made the rules. Who knew what they were capable of that the rest of the world wasn't?
Desmond's pulse beat against his throat. "Where are they?"
The windows were dark. There was a partition separating them from the driver. The world outside was vague, shifting casts of gray.
"With other Templars who have taken on your case. They each have someone who will watch over them." Desmond could not read anything recognizable in his eyes. "You're mine."
Behind his back, Desmond's hands scrabbled desperately at the car door, seeking the handle. There was nothing but smooth upholstery. The bald man looked at him with something like interest.
"Always so unreasonable. You'd smash your head open on the road, trying to run."
He looked perfectly composed, hands resting on his knees. Maybe people who weren't supposed to exist died every day. One look at his hands made the idea of strangulation no longer seem like cartoon absurdity.
"Where are you taking me?" Though the window was cool against the back of his head, sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
He thought of the ruins on Rikers Island, the pictures of rusted bars and people who said you could still hear prisoners clawing at the walls.
"To show you the truth."
"Brainwashing," Desmond threw back.
"No." Implacable. "It wouldn't work on you."
"That's what this is about." For an instant, a wave of anger rolled over the sick fear. "You'll kill us or lock us up because we're different and you can't control us. You can't stand that there's anybody alive who's still free. We're not you so we're evil and it's okay to destroy us."
The bald man's expression never changed. He only shook his head, as though he weren't surprised at all.
He only said, "Wrong is not the same as evil."
Desmond's back dragged down the car door. There was no escape that way. There was no telling where he was, and no way to follow. These people, as Shaun and Clay had told him, tracing between the lines of history, were experts at making things disappear.
The bald man never looked away from him. "You're right. You are different. Where the rest of humanity were put on a better path unwillingly, you have a choice. We're going to help you make the right one, Desmond."
What turned his blood cold was that everything they did to him would be for his own good.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Robert de Sable."
Pronounced the French way. Ro-bear. Desmond's thoughts ran in inane circles, and that was better than thinking about what might be happening to Lucy and Clay, and what was going to happen to him. He'd seen that name somewhere, in the paper or the news maybe, with other people high in the government who had nothing to do with Desmond.
The car was going slower, turning more often. It came to a stop. Robert put a black bag over Desmond's head.
"A formality," he said. "Don't try to run."
As soon as Desmond heard the door open and felt outside air, he ran.
Blind and off-balance, he threw himself forward as fast as his body would move, unable to know if he was sprinting toward a dead end, caring only that it was away from the fast hard footsteps behind him.
He hit something hard with his right shoulder, stumbled, kept going. It was too slow, too slow. No one alive could catch him when he had his hands and eyes. His panting sucked in the black fabric.
Something heavy hit his back, and the ground vanished from under his feet. His legs kicked at empty air until he hit grass with a body on top of him that knocked the breath from his lungs.
If there was anyone there, they said nothing, if they were even able to see something that was not supposed to happen.
"I nearly forgot that you can disobey," Robert said as he got up and pulled Desmond to his feet like a ragdoll. Because he was out of breath from the chase, it sounded like he was laughing.