A large, callused hand jabbed Desmond's side. Reacting by instinct alone, the man rolled over, snatching at the air to grab his sleep-disturbing assailant. He failed by a narrow margin, skin brushing against skin.
"Hey, mate, I just got in," whispered a British voice. "'Becca needs you."
Desmond immediately sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It wasn't unusual for him to be woken in the middle of the night - even before he'd been captured by Abstergo - and subsequently could shake the haze of dreams quite easily. The Bleeding Effect was another thing entirely.
As he'd thought, Shaun was leaning over him, eyes shadowed by grief and jet-lag. It took Desmond a moment to recognise the historian, changed as he was by the melanchony that haunted all of the team.
"It's good to see you again," said Desmond, raising his hand to pat Shaun's shoulder.
Shaun flinched back, avoiding contact.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Shaun said. "We can - and we will - talk later. But there's a new development - Altaïr was taken by Abstergo."
"Fuck! I knew we should have sent the LA team for him!"
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Shaun nodded, letting his glasses sit askew on his face. Getting to his feet, Desmond finally managed to touch Shaun. It was brief. Almost as if Shaun was afraid of something.
Realisation hit Desmond like a baseball bat to the gut - Shaun was afraid of him.
"We'll talk later," he mumbled in agreeance. "Rebecca is probably getting antsy."
He didn't see the expression of the Brit's horrified regret. After Lucy, Shaun had found himself jittery and anxious, expecting an attack at every corner by anyone. Touching him was a privilege nobody had at the moment - even before Lucy, before he became an assassin, Shaun had never been fond of touch. He opened his mouth to apologise, but by then it was too late. Desmond had left.
*** White - clinical white - became boring quickly. Altaïr had not seen a single person since he'd been captured, only heard various voices from the walls, underlings to Vidic, no doubt. At least he was allowed to walk around the room now. Well. He was allowed to "play" - clearly they had some use for Altaïr that they didn't want his body to diminish in strength and skill. "Playing" involved the floor disappearing from under his feet, the walls that slid down and forced him to keep climbing, "ghosts" attacking him at any time of the day or night (there was no indication of natural light, but the undulating torches were extinguished) - it kept him fit. And while Altaïr was loathe to give in to Vidic's requests - the doctor had to knock him out with gas to get him back into the Animus - he was more loathe for his body to rot. At least this way there was a challenge and a chance for him to escape.
The room had been used before - red Templar marks were all over it. More than one person had been forced into the nightmares and taught the ways of the assassin. Altaïr wasn't sure whether to pity or hate them.
There had been a bed at one stage but Altaïr hated things of such permanence and immediately pulled all of the sheets and pillows off to make a nest on the floor. More pillows had been provided after that. They were white too.
Bathing came in the form of another room in a glass and metal box that rained water from a tap. Altaïr's first washing session had not gone well. After the initial shock of running water, it had gone from bad to worse. As Altaïr had leaned over in the cold water to scrub his legs, he felt a soreness in his lower back, just on his tailbone. He rubbed a hand over it, and upon feeling that the skin was raised, twisted his head over his shoulder to look at it. It appeared to be some sort of mark - a bruise? Further examination in the mirror revealed that he'd been tattooed with the same symbol as on his shirts and trousers.
How dare they mark him like an animal. Rage flowed through Altaïr's veins (an emotion that was easier to access with each passing 'day') and he punched the mirror. It didn't give but he thought he saw the flash of a face and a stifled squeak. To think that they had marked him and were spying on him even in the shower made him attack the mirror again.
They gassed the room.
Azrael - Altaïr's strange, not quite human ancestor - was apparently an archangel. Hence the feathers. But what the humans called archangels were really just a group of long living, weird looking, nutters with extraordinary abilities. They lived off offerings - Azrael had a particular craving for the life energy of humans, and humans were obliging to him. In return, he kept them safe from the darkness for a little bit longer. They called him Death sometimes, but there were many Deaths in he world - Azrael just happened to be the strongest.
There were souls in there somewhere, but Azrael didn't eat those. And if someone was already dead before their full capacity had been achieved, then it hurt nobody if Azrael ate the left over life. It didn't matter when, where, or who.
The feathers that covered Azrael's arms were real.
They made Altaïr's arms itch. It was something called the Bleeding Effect. It wasn't real, according to the voices, it was merely an afterimage, nothing to concern himself about.
Altaïr glared at the ceiling as the glass slid over his face. While the feathers might not be real, he had a plan concerned other abilities that Vidic had chalked up as "glitches" and "memory corruption".
Fill: Anyone's Ghost /? (Trigger Warnings: mental torture, dubious medical touching, restraints)
"Hey, mate, I just got in," whispered a British voice. "'Becca needs you."
Desmond immediately sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It wasn't unusual for him to be woken in the middle of the night - even before he'd been captured by Abstergo - and subsequently could shake the haze of dreams quite easily. The Bleeding Effect was another thing entirely.
As he'd thought, Shaun was leaning over him, eyes shadowed by grief and jet-lag. It took Desmond a moment to recognise the historian, changed as he was by the melanchony that haunted all of the team.
"It's good to see you again," said Desmond, raising his hand to pat Shaun's shoulder.
Shaun flinched back, avoiding contact.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Shaun said. "We can - and we will - talk later. But there's a new development - Altaïr was taken by Abstergo."
"Fuck! I knew we should have sent the LA team for him!"
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Shaun nodded, letting his glasses sit askew on his face. Getting to his feet, Desmond finally managed to touch Shaun. It was brief. Almost as if Shaun was afraid of something.
Realisation hit Desmond like a baseball bat to the gut - Shaun was afraid of him.
"We'll talk later," he mumbled in agreeance. "Rebecca is probably getting antsy."
He didn't see the expression of the Brit's horrified regret. After Lucy, Shaun had found himself jittery and anxious, expecting an attack at every corner by anyone. Touching him was a privilege nobody had at the moment - even before Lucy, before he became an assassin, Shaun had never been fond of touch. He opened his mouth to apologise, but by then it was too late. Desmond had left.
***
White - clinical white - became boring quickly. Altaïr had not seen a single person since he'd been captured, only heard various voices from the walls, underlings to Vidic, no doubt. At least he was allowed to walk around the room now. Well. He was allowed to "play" - clearly they had some use for Altaïr that they didn't want his body to diminish in strength and skill. "Playing" involved the floor disappearing from under his feet, the walls that slid down and forced him to keep climbing, "ghosts" attacking him at any time of the day or night (there was no indication of natural light, but the undulating torches were extinguished) - it kept him fit. And while Altaïr was loathe to give in to Vidic's requests - the doctor had to knock him out with gas to get him back into the Animus - he was more loathe for his body to rot. At least this way there was a challenge and a chance for him to escape.
The room had been used before - red Templar marks were all over it. More than one person had been forced into the nightmares and taught the ways of the assassin. Altaïr wasn't sure whether to pity or hate them.
There had been a bed at one stage but Altaïr hated things of such permanence and immediately pulled all of the sheets and pillows off to make a nest on the floor. More pillows had been provided after that. They were white too.
Bathing came in the form of another room in a glass and metal box that rained water from a tap. Altaïr's first washing session had not gone well. After the initial shock of running water, it had gone from bad to worse. As Altaïr had leaned over in the cold water to scrub his legs, he felt a soreness in his lower back, just on his tailbone. He rubbed a hand over it, and upon feeling that the skin was raised, twisted his head over his shoulder to look at it. It appeared to be some sort of mark - a bruise? Further examination in the mirror revealed that he'd been tattooed with the same symbol as on his shirts and trousers.
How dare they mark him like an animal. Rage flowed through Altaïr's veins (an emotion that was easier to access with each passing 'day') and he punched the mirror. It didn't give but he thought he saw the flash of a face and a stifled squeak. To think that they had marked him and were spying on him even in the shower made him attack the mirror again.
They gassed the room.
Azrael - Altaïr's strange, not quite human ancestor - was apparently an archangel. Hence the feathers. But what the humans called archangels were really just a group of long living, weird looking, nutters with extraordinary abilities. They lived off offerings - Azrael had a particular craving for the life energy of humans, and humans were obliging to him. In return, he kept them safe from the darkness for a little bit longer. They called him Death sometimes, but there were many Deaths in he world - Azrael just happened to be the strongest.
There were souls in there somewhere, but Azrael didn't eat those. And if someone was already dead before their full capacity had been achieved, then it hurt nobody if Azrael ate the left over life. It didn't matter when, where, or who.
The feathers that covered Azrael's arms were real.
They made Altaïr's arms itch. It was something called the Bleeding Effect. It wasn't real, according to the voices, it was merely an afterimage, nothing to concern himself about.
Altaïr glared at the ceiling as the glass slid over his face. While the feathers might not be real, he had a plan concerned other abilities that Vidic had chalked up as "glitches" and "memory corruption".