Wide-eyed, Desmond backed away from Robert until a chair struck him in the shin.
And Robert just kept giving him that sad, steady look.
"How did you think we found you?"
In the lights that painted her in moving colors, Lucy had told him he wasn't alone.
"You bastard." Desmond's head swung back and forth without his conscious control. "The minute I start to believe a word you say, you try to turn me against my friends."
"She made the right choice, Desmond."
Shouldn't you be going home?
"No. I'm not falling for it. Lucy would never betray us."
The hint of a shy smile, among them and apart.
Robert stepped forward. "She never did that. She was there to protect you, and to keep you from doing anything drastic."
"Yeah, that's a lot better." Heat rose in Desmond's chest, stronger and cleaner than doubt, and he glared up into Robert's face. "You're telling me my friend stabbed me in the back, and that it's okay because it's part of what you assholes are always saying about keeping us as slaves for our own good?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about." His voice cut coldly, and Desmond felt a sting of petty satisfaction at making him sound angry like a mere human. "The plan was for her to only observe and contain your group. Do you know why she turned you in?"
"She didn't," Desmond spat back.
Robert rested his hand on the back of a chair, and tightened his fingers until it creaked. His head lowered to meet Desmond's eyes, giving him the look of a bull preparing to attack.
"Your friend was losing his mind," he said, slowly and clearly. "Lucy called us in when she couldn't bear to watch it anymore."
The room tilted on its axis. Desmond fell back toward the chair and hit the floor instead.
Lucy tried to calm him, he snapped and drove her back. It was a dance they had.
"Oh god," he said. "Christ. Clay."
It could be frightening, how he acted, how sometimes he would pause with his finger over a passage in a book and stare at the wall like there was something written on the crumbling brick and whisper indecipherable words. How, when the rest of them treated it as a complex and important game, he worked with feverish devotion, like a man on a cliff braiding his own lifeline. How far away he went. Then he'd wake up, and he'd be laughing about how some of the Templars' secrets were buried under layers of encryption and some were as simple as single substitution cyphers, like kids heating up paper to discover the secret writing made in soapy water or lemon juice, and Becca would be talking about how everything always came back to paper, like how one of the first versions of BASIC was scrawled on paper tape and run on some ancient computer that happened to be named after the same star as the old eagle guy. And Clay would be okay. It was just how he was. Desmond thought he was the only one who wondered if someday he wouldn't come back.
Robert knelt beside him, shoe sinking into the carpet. His expression was sympathetic, and that was what Desmond didn't know how to take.
"Resistant people can't help but notice the gap between what they are told and what their senses observe." Over Robert's looming shoulder the wall of sky was darkening. "Some minds can endure it. Others can't. They become paranoid, delusional, unable to trust even themselves. If he had been let worsen for much longer, there would be nothing we could do. In the most likely case, within a few years, he would have taken his own life."
Desmond thought of the old movies, of men standing on bridges and window ledges, holding on against the wind and looking down and down.
Clay's voice thick with bitterness: "They don't even leave people the will to kill themselves."
Robert's eyes were cool and deep. "He's getting help here, Desmond. Already he's recovering."
After a round of sparring Lucy grinned as she let him get his breath back and said, "We're gonna save the world."
She would never betray them.
To save them, she would do anything she thought she had to.
Desmond sat up and pressed his hands against his face. The darkness was a relief from the dusk.
"All I've got is your word," he said, weak and thin to his own ears. "For all I know, they're both dead, and you're keep keeping me alive to jerk around for fun. If you're going to kill me hurry up and do it."
Robert's voice was solemn. "No one's going to kill you."
"Fuck you."
Desmond watched the afterimages run and jump in the colored sparks in the darkness. He waited and hated himself for knowing, no matter how he fought to doubt, that Robert was and always had been telling the truth.
After a long time, Robert said, "Desmond."
Desmond didn't look up. "Just leave me alone, all right?"
Softly: "All right."
There was the sound of footsteps being absorbed into the carpet, and the beep of the door. Opening, closing. Quiet. Real dark descended before Desmond opened his eyes.
The next day passed through a haze. He saw no one but the man who brought him food. When he thought of his life it was unintelligible to him, nothing but shapes and images that did not resolve into anything he recognized. He thought of Ezio's life instead. What would Ezio have done? Stabbed Robert in the throat with a fork and broke out. The thought made his stomach turn. He drifted in front of the window wall and thought of Firenze.
The next day, Robert was there.
He said, "Come with me."
Desmond obeyed.
He thought he was being taken to the Animus, but he felt the elevator moving up instead. He was led out. For the first time in what he guessed to be two weeks, he felt open air. Sun struck his face. A breeze toyed with the ends of the blindfold, and he heard sounds of distant traffic far below.
The cuffs came off his wrists. He pushed the blindfold up and blinked in the sudden light of the rooftop.
Clear Skies 9/?
"Liar."
Wide-eyed, Desmond backed away from Robert until a chair struck him in the shin.
And Robert just kept giving him that sad, steady look.
"How did you think we found you?"
In the lights that painted her in moving colors, Lucy had told him he wasn't alone.
"You bastard." Desmond's head swung back and forth without his conscious control. "The minute I start to believe a word you say, you try to turn me against my friends."
"She made the right choice, Desmond."
Shouldn't you be going home?
"No. I'm not falling for it. Lucy would never betray us."
The hint of a shy smile, among them and apart.
Robert stepped forward. "She never did that. She was there to protect you, and to keep you from doing anything drastic."
"Yeah, that's a lot better." Heat rose in Desmond's chest, stronger and cleaner than doubt, and he glared up into Robert's face. "You're telling me my friend stabbed me in the back, and that it's okay because it's part of what you assholes are always saying about keeping us as slaves for our own good?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about." His voice cut coldly, and Desmond felt a sting of petty satisfaction at making him sound angry like a mere human. "The plan was for her to only observe and contain your group. Do you know why she turned you in?"
"She didn't," Desmond spat back.
Robert rested his hand on the back of a chair, and tightened his fingers until it creaked. His head lowered to meet Desmond's eyes, giving him the look of a bull preparing to attack.
"Your friend was losing his mind," he said, slowly and clearly. "Lucy called us in when she couldn't bear to watch it anymore."
The room tilted on its axis. Desmond fell back toward the chair and hit the floor instead.
Lucy tried to calm him, he snapped and drove her back. It was a dance they had.
"Oh god," he said. "Christ. Clay."
It could be frightening, how he acted, how sometimes he would pause with his finger over a passage in a book and stare at the wall like there was something written on the crumbling brick and whisper indecipherable words. How, when the rest of them treated it as a complex and important game, he worked with feverish devotion, like a man on a cliff braiding his own lifeline. How far away he went. Then he'd wake up, and he'd be laughing about how some of the Templars' secrets were buried under layers of encryption and some were as simple as single substitution cyphers, like kids heating up paper to discover the secret writing made in soapy water or lemon juice, and Becca would be talking about how everything always came back to paper, like how one of the first versions of BASIC was scrawled on paper tape and run on some ancient computer that happened to be named after the same star as the old eagle guy. And Clay would be okay. It was just how he was. Desmond thought he was the only one who wondered if someday he wouldn't come back.
Robert knelt beside him, shoe sinking into the carpet. His expression was sympathetic, and that was what Desmond didn't know how to take.
"Resistant people can't help but notice the gap between what they are told and what their senses observe." Over Robert's looming shoulder the wall of sky was darkening. "Some minds can endure it. Others can't. They become paranoid, delusional, unable to trust even themselves. If he had been let worsen for much longer, there would be nothing we could do. In the most likely case, within a few years, he would have taken his own life."
Desmond thought of the old movies, of men standing on bridges and window ledges, holding on against the wind and looking down and down.
Clay's voice thick with bitterness: "They don't even leave people the will to kill themselves."
Robert's eyes were cool and deep. "He's getting help here, Desmond. Already he's recovering."
After a round of sparring Lucy grinned as she let him get his breath back and said, "We're gonna save the world."
She would never betray them.
To save them, she would do anything she thought she had to.
Desmond sat up and pressed his hands against his face. The darkness was a relief from the dusk.
"All I've got is your word," he said, weak and thin to his own ears. "For all I know, they're both dead, and you're keep keeping me alive to jerk around for fun. If you're going to kill me hurry up and do it."
Robert's voice was solemn. "No one's going to kill you."
"Fuck you."
Desmond watched the afterimages run and jump in the colored sparks in the darkness. He waited and hated himself for knowing, no matter how he fought to doubt, that Robert was and always had been telling the truth.
After a long time, Robert said, "Desmond."
Desmond didn't look up. "Just leave me alone, all right?"
Softly: "All right."
There was the sound of footsteps being absorbed into the carpet, and the beep of the door. Opening, closing. Quiet. Real dark descended before Desmond opened his eyes.
The next day passed through a haze. He saw no one but the man who brought him food. When he thought of his life it was unintelligible to him, nothing but shapes and images that did not resolve into anything he recognized. He thought of Ezio's life instead. What would Ezio have done? Stabbed Robert in the throat with a fork and broke out. The thought made his stomach turn. He drifted in front of the window wall and thought of Firenze.
The next day, Robert was there.
He said, "Come with me."
Desmond obeyed.
He thought he was being taken to the Animus, but he felt the elevator moving up instead. He was led out. For the first time in what he guessed to be two weeks, he felt open air. Sun struck his face. A breeze toyed with the ends of the blindfold, and he heard sounds of distant traffic far below.
The cuffs came off his wrists. He pushed the blindfold up and blinked in the sudden light of the rooftop.
"Hey," said Clay.