asscreedkinkmeme (
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2013-05-13 07:24 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
Open
Open
Sky World
≈ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
≈ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
≈ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
≈ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
≈ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
≈ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
≈ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive
#3 (Delicious.com) Archive <-- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion
Re: Displaced 2/?, Fire Bad, New Jersey Worse
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 12:55 pm (UTC)(link)Really, Haytham had done a very good job of drawing Desmond's tattoo. And despite his typographical choices elsewhere, he had apparently refrained from adding any rainbow-farting unicorns or anything. Impressed despite himself, Desmond reread the journal entry. A young man? In a chair that tortures brains? That sounded--but no, it couldn't be.
Haytham stirred in his sleep, mumbling. "Absurd... Wouldn't allow... Torture... Children... Save him..." He clutched his creepy First Civilization amulet tightly despite the thin string of saliva that had slowly oozed out of the corner of his mouth and onto the artifact. Desmond made a face. Really, he should grab the artifact and hide it somewhere that he could find in the present. But great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather spit? That was the last thing he wanted to touch. Steeling himself, summoning every ounce of pickpocketing skill he'd acquired in the Animus, Desmond carefully tried to lift the artifact. His fingertips touched the bizarrely hot metal--
Suddenly, he was shoved against the wall, his nose mashed and his forehead stuck with splinters, and Haytham fucking Kenway was dislocating his shoulder and yelling in his ear, "We had a truce, Connor! Look what you've--oh, a thousand pardons, child, I mistook you for my son."
"Yeah, well, your Father of the Year award is on its way now." Wait, if he wasn't Connor, whose memories was he reliving? Hopefully not a woman's, like that little bit there where he'd been Ziio. Pregnant Ziio.
Haytham practically picked Desmond up by the shoulders and dragged him to the faint light of the window, scrutinizing him. "You're alive! You're safe. How did you escape? Where were you?"
"Um, I'm also on fire..." Where his hand had touched the artifact, flames now followed.
Perhaps if only one of them had tried to put out the fire on Desmond's hand, it would have worked a lot better. As it was, Desmond tried to stop, drop, and roll at the same time as Haytham tried to grab his arm and push it into his water pitcher. This ended very badly, with both of them tumbled on the floor covered in flash-boiled water. Desmond screamed as his entire arm was scalded, and yet, it was still on fire. The last thing he remembered before passing out was Haytham wrapping his heavy wool coat around Desmond's arm, and lying on it.
Connor was just starting to worry what kind of mischief his father had gotten himself into. Had he somehow escaped the ship? Taken over the world? Convinced his whole crew to join the Templars? And there was that smell--that terrifying, familiar reek of burned wood and flesh and hair that made Connor's breath hitch and his vision swim. Before he knew, he was halfway down the hill--no, stairs--racing towards his mother's longhouse--no, his father's cabin. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't lose his father like this. He couldn't bear it.
Flinging open the door, Connor could hardly see anything through the smoke and steam, the stomach-wrenching reek of charred pork (my mother is roasting my mother is scorching) but he could hear a struggle in the tiny room. "Ista!" No, that wasn't right. Not Ista, not this time. "Rake:ni! Please, Rake:ni!" Why wasn't his father responding? Was that him coughing so much? Was he doomed to watch both his parents burn to death? He waded in and promptly tripped over someone on the floor.
"Connor... take him to the doctor... his hand... and he's been... tortured..." Haytham was jacketless, his face grimy from sweat and soot, half-dragging a young man with a scorched arm. "Fire's... out... Sorry..." he added, coughing and leaning against the wall as Connor picked up the unconscious man.
He hadn't gone three paces before he heard a thump, and, sighing, turned back to drag his father along, too.
When Haytham woke up, the ship's surgeon was picking melted pieces of the young man's white jacket out of the charred flesh of his arm. Luckily, it looked like they could save all his fingers. Connor was avoiding looking at the blackened flesh, though, so was the first to see his father sit up, and promptly went over to thump him on the back rather harder than was necessary. When Haytham coughed up a rather large glob of blackened phlegm, Connor handed him a tin cup of water and waited for him to take a few sips before demanding, "So, who is he, Father? And why were you helping him stow away on my ship?"
Haytham coughed again, confused. "I don't know who he is. I thought maybe you had a twin brother you had forgotten to mention to me."
"A twin--do you think me a fool? Obviously my mother was just one in a line of native women for you--"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You probably left her bed and went to New Jersey and found some Lenape woman--"
"I swear to you, Connor, I have never been to New Jersey--"
"Then some other village--"
"And in fact I have never shared a woman's bed since your mother sent me away--"
"A likely story!"
"--unless you count sleeping in the same tent as my sister after I rescued her from slavery, which I certainly don't."
Connor scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "And yet, look at him."
"If he's not your twin brother, I have no explanation. Unless he's Altaïr ibn La'ahad fallen through time because of a Precursor artifact, which is at least more likely than anything you've come up with."
Connor scoffed. "And what do YOU know about Altaïr--"
This was probably the worst of all possible times for Desmond to wake up shouting in Arabic.
Displaced 3/?, Desmond Deserves Donuts, Connor Can't Concur
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 01:00 pm (UTC)(link)It was crowded in the room--marketplace--palace--too crowded for him to breathe. "Go away! Go, get lost!" He remembered, he remembered how to figure out who he was. Count the fingers. Ten. Close the eyes. Feel the face. Clean-shaven. Feel the hair. Short. This was a good thing. He was Desmond, and he was going to open his eyes and ask for some excedrin and maybe some junk food.
A man deserved donuts on his way to saving the world, after all.
He opened his eyes.
Two men stared down at him, faces almost identical but for the color, clad in similar jackets and hats.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Nope, still there. The younger man looked suspicious, the older one pitying. Okay, this was definitely a bad day for his brain. He re-counted his fingers extra slowly. Still ten. Five looked a bit overcooked, though. Face, still smooth. Hair, still short. Wait, what if--nope, everything looked normal under his shirt. But the two men were still there, now both looking slightly confused. Which was nothing compared to how Desmond felt.
"What's your name, lad?" asked the older man, gently. Okay, this was really Bizarro Land. The only good thing was that the younger man seemed to agree with that assessment.
Desmond wasn't sure how to reply, or even if he really was Desmond. "Umm..."
"I think that you are some other bastard son of my father's that he has helped stow away on my ship for evil purposes, but he thinks it more likely that you are a man named Altaïr from many years ago, somehow appearing out of nowhere."
Desmond rubbed his eyes, confused. How did one respond to that? "Your father's right, it is more likely."
"I told you so, son."
"How is that possible?!"
"I'm not actually Altaïr, today anyway. But I..." How could you explain the Bleeding Effect? How could you explain the Animus? DNA? How could he explain it all to his ancestors, starting with the fact that they were his ancestors?
"So some days you are Altaïr and some days you are not." Connor's voice was flat, agreeing with the madman to keep him quiet.
"Connor! Be nicer to him, he's been tortured. You wouldn't believe it if you'd seen it."
"And how have you seen it, Father? Were you the one torturing him?"
"No, I... it was in a dream. Many dreams. Dreams I've had longer than you've been alive."
"Then it cannot have been this man, can it? He has few scars for having been tortured for more than two decades."
Haytham frowned, puzzled. "He has always looked this age."
Desmond spoke up, hoarsely. "I'm from the future."
"Of course you are. That is why you are not Altaïr today, because he is from the past and you are from the future. Perhaps tomorrow you will be Ezio Auditore!"
Desmond shrugged. "Maybe. He's pretty badass too."
Connor glared at Haytham. "Is this what you are trying to do to me? Drive me so mad that I end up like him?" With that he turned and stomped out, muttering something in his native tongue.
Desmond asked Haytham, "What does he have against New Jersey? I mean, there's no turnpike yet, Newark doesn't have a sketchy airport, Rutgers doesn't yet have a reputation for bullying, and Snooki is like negative two hundred years old still. "
Haytham's voice was strained. "I am not going to ask you what any of that meant, but how did you understand him?"
Captcha: "Thirteen, 78, 78 or twenty four: which of these is the largest?" I'll go with the first 78...no wait...the second...
Displaced 3.5/?, Desmond Deserves Donuts, Connor Can't Concur, Haytham Has...uh...Issues
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 01:03 pm (UTC)(link)Desmond gulped. "Um, listen, I'm really tired, what with all the time traveling and you almost shanking me and me setting my hand on fire. And it's a really, really long story and it'll probably piss you off a lot." He determinedly closed his eyes.
"Were you being tortured in that chair?"
"You could call it that. Haytham, I'm really tired--"
"The people torturing you, putting you in that, that machine. Were they Templars? Or assassins?"
"Both, actually."
"Ah." A pause. "How typical." The words were barely audible, so loaded with loathing that Desmond felt sick--the pain in every careful inflection overwhelmed him so. "Well, sleep well, lad. You're safe now." And just like that, Haytham's voice was gentle again.
Desmond kept his eyes shut--he had no hope of figuring out how to get out of this situation, this whole century, if he had to invent his story on the fly, trying to keep out of whatever dungeons they threw crazy people in during the American Revolution. Obviously the greatest threat to him right now was Connor, who didn't want to give him the benefit of any doubt--
Was Haytham fucking Kenway actually tucking him in??
And despite his best efforts to stay awake and plan, he fell asleep immediately.
Displaced 4/?, Meanwhile In 2012, Donuts!
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 01:05 pm (UTC)(link)Rebecca cheerily called out, "I made the donuts!" as she entered the cave, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee confectionery in one hand, and an orange and white box in the other. "Hey Shaun, I have this great idea for all the powdered sugar left over in the corners, we can put it all around Desmond's nose and take pics, and then upload them to his facebook. Whoa, why the long face? I got your Bavarian Creme."
Shaun glowered at her from the computer chair. "Rebecca, check the Animus. We're not going to be pranking Desmond anytime soon. Unless we can find him." Sure enough, the chair was empty, the light dark, the screen dead.
"Well, where is he? What happened? You were here, did he get up and run off?"
"I, ah... was taking care of personal business, and the lights flashed, so I ran out of the bathroom." He pointed to the Animus. "It sparked and I could see glitches, but erm... by the time I pulled up my trousers to run over there, it looked like a massive static discharge, and he... vanished."
"Vanished. As in, he was here and then he wasn't here."
"Yes, as implied by the term vanished."
Rebecca began nervously chewing at the cuticle of her thumbnail. "What was he doing?"
Shaun shrugged helplessly. "Sailing. Connor had an argument with his father and then was watching dolphins. I've seen enough Flipper for one lifetime, and he wasn't fighting or anything, and I think we should throw out the rest of the leftover vindaloo from the other day, incidentally. So I thought he could hold out... of course, if you had been here... "
"Oh, don't blame this on me, Mister I've Got This Embarrassing Craving For American Junk Food Please Don't Tell Desmond. I thought you could keep your pants on for twenty minutes."
The Animus rebooted itself. POST, BIOS, OS. Rebecca watched it in silence, until a status message appeared.
HASSHASHIN
"What... "
DEZMND SAFE
"Is the Animus talking to us...?"
NO
EGLE
"Uh..."
ALTR
Rebecca and Shaun frowned at each other. "Either it's got some kind of code that I didn't code, or it's spelling things really badly, which I also didn't code," Rebecca said slowly.
LOK MEMRY
"Who taught you to spell?" Shaun groused as Rebecca began downloading both a memory dump and the video playback immediately prior to the shutdown.
NO ON
"That's obvious."
ANGLSH
NO MINE TUNG
"Who taught you English anyway?"
MINE WYF
"Hey Rebecca, do you think Frau Berliner-Mauer could have gotten in here and married the Animus?"
"What the shit are you babbling about, Shaun?"
"It's telling me that its wife taught it bad English."
Rebecca peered over Shaun's shoulder. "It looks like it learned to spell from like the Canterbury Tales. Or Robin Hood."
!!!
"Fan of Robin Hood?"
WNTED TO TLK HIM
TAL HIM BE HSSN
Rebecca shook her head. "No idea what you're saying, Baby. Okay, look. Right here..." She played a video clip of Desmond as Connor steering the Aquila. "Pretty boring. But see here, it starts to go hazy. Like he's desynchronizing."
RBN NVR WRIGT BK
"But he didn't do anything to make himself desynchronize. And he's done this memory fine, it was just to help him with the other one."
MYHP RBN CNOT RD
"Or maybe he just couldn't read the way YOU write."
THS RLY DIFFCLT
"Stop, already. Now look, the viewpoint moves away from Connor and goes down the stairs."
RTNHKETON
"Yeah, we can't say his name, but you can't spell, so shut it."
"Shaun, I swear there's no vowel shortage in the Animus. So you see, it goes to Haytham, and it finally gets into focus now."
"Well, he can't be reliving Haytham's memory, that's impossible now."
EGLE
EGLE
egle
"Ugh, seriously Haytham, close your mouth when you sleep."
"Maybe he's got a deviated septum."
"You're just sticking up for him because he's British."
"I am not 'sticking up' for a Templar just because he's British! I'm just saying, maybe he can't help drooling in his sleep."
THMSPSLNR
"I have no idea what you're even trying to say, strange little computer."
"So then it zooms in on the Piece of Eden, then it glitches, and then the Animus crashed."
DEZMND SAFE
"So you say."
SO I KNOWE
"You know, your spelling is really annoying."
SO BE THY FACE
"Did you just... sass me??"
COM ATT ME BRO
"That is so not Canterbury Tales."
NOT DEAFE
"Okay, Shaun, please, stop yelling at the Animus. There was some kind of power surge right then."
EDEN DREW DEZMND BACK
SAFE
RTNHKETON
YUNGE EGLE
SAFE
"He's safe... with Connor?"
"Oh, goody. He's on a wooden ship in the middle of the ocean, with an Assassin and a Templar who need massive amounts of family therapy. Who knows what sort of diseases are going around? You know he's too young to have been vaccinated for smallpox. Plus, this is Desmond, what's he going to do without cellphone reception?"
"Shut up, Shaun. How could he even get to Connor's time?"
PIEC OF EDEN
"And what exactly are you, because I'm pretty sure you're not actually the Animus."
CAV
"...And I'm also pretty sure you're not some kind of geological formation, either."
"No, Rebecca, he didn't mean cave, he meant cavy. As in a guinea pig."
PG???
"You know, squeaky little rodent?"
NO?
"Ah, forget it."
"Why are you calling my Animus 'he' anyway?"
"For one thing, I thought we established that this isn't the Animus talking back to us. And for another, he mentioned his wife."
"So? This is New York, this is 2012, a woman can marry another woman if she wants."
YEA
WMN CN VRAI STRNG
AND TOUGHE
"With spelling like that, we're not talking to a modern woman from New York."
NIL
TRUY
EVTHNG
PRMTE
The lights around the walls strobed.
"That wasn't creepy at all."
Re: Displaced 4/?, Meanwhile In 2012, Donuts!
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 01:14 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Displaced 4/?, Meanwhile In 2012, Donuts!
(Anonymous) 2014-04-01 08:51 pm (UTC)(link)Displaced 5/?, All I Have To Do
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 01:11 pm (UTC)(link)For once, Desmond dreamed his own dream, remembered his own life. He knew it was his memory because of the television (for dvds only, of course; cable was part of the Templar Plot). He had waited until his parents stopped yelling and turned off the hallway light. Then he'd given them a good two hours to get to sleep, and another to be sure.
Earlier that day, he'd prepared: Janie's older sister had just made full Assassin, made her own untraceable credit cards, and was allowed to go on missions by herself. She was both well-positioned and well-disposed to acquire the contraband the younger kids craved, and through an elaborate barter system, Desmond was able to trade three shiny pencils, a Lisa Frank notebook, and a week of sweeping Janie's house for a Star Wars DVD, a bag of Twizzlers, and a graphic novel that Janie swore would break his mind.
Desmond had hidden the DVD in his math textbook, and squeezed the candy and comic book into his secret hiding place inside the couch cushion, which he had partially hollowed out for just that purpose. It promised to be a great night of sugar, pop culture, and just being a kid.
Unfortunately, he forgot about the third creaky step (what normal kid had parents that purposefully loosened the floorboards in case of intruders? And who would want to sneak into their house anyway?) and Desmond could have groaned with frustration to see his father look up at him from the couch.
William Miles was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, which Desmond was perfectly aware wasn't his normal sleeping attire. His pillow was at one end of the couch, along with a shabby fleece blanket. Desmond clenched his fists with frustration. His perfect night, ruined by whatever they had been fighting about.
"Des, son? You couldn't sleep either?"
It was best to play along. "Yeah, I kept trying to sleep. I think maybe I need a drink of water." He went to the fridge to pour himself a glass from the jug. Even if they'd been close enough to get city water, the Farm didn't approve of fluoridation. Boiling the water from the slightly untrustworthy well was near the bottom of Desmond's list of favorite chores.
After rewashing his glass, Desmond padded back through the living room. His father was looking rather wistful. "Come here and sit with me, son."
Desmond would really rather have snuck upstairs to listen to rap on his discman (more contraband, both disc and player) since his original plans were shot, but it was best not to argue.
"Were you having more nightmares like you used to?"
"No, Dad, honest. I just wasn't sleepy." He betrayed himself by yawning. "What I mean is, I lie down but I'm just thinking so much I can't sleep."
"Thinking about what?"
How much I want to get out of this crazy place. "Just, you know, stuff."
"Fire?"
"Not anymore. Just stuff. Kid stuff, I guess."
William nodded, and to Desmond's embarrassment, he found he was leaning on his father's pillow. It smelled comforting, like a pillow should. Like a father should. William chuckled. "How about you lie down here? Count some sheep or something."
Desmond stifled a yawn. "Every time I count sheep, I end up wanting to run away and be a pirate."
"A pirate? Why?"
"'Sgotta be better than counting sheep all the time." He snuggled down into the pillow, and his father tucked him in tenderly, then covered Desmond with his coat. It smelled so, so comforting: a little sweaty, a little spicy, a little soapy, faintly bloody, but mostly fatherly. Now perfectly content, Desmond was out like a light.
Except it had never happened that way, Desmond realized as he slowly regained consciousness. He had shivered under the ratty blanket that smelled like feet, while his father awkwardly sat at the other end of the couch reading work stuff. There had been no concerned conversation about his sleep patterns, just the irritable order of "Count sheep or something, Desmond, just please go to sleep already." And he had never ever mentioned the pirate thing.
Desmond had barely slept that night, and he had never again even pretended to seek comfort from William. This whole dream had been wishful thinking, so real, so perfect, so much like what a dad should be that he could still smell it even though he was almost completely awake now. He resisted opening his eyes, concentrating on remembering how it smelled in his dreams to have a dad, not just a father. A tear trickled from each eye. Oh, that was just silly. Here he was, a grown man, a bartender and an Assassin, sniffling over a silly dream. He wiped his nose on the thick, embroidered wool fabric of his blanket--
No, not his blanket.
Haytham was so going to shank him, for real this time, for snotting up his jacket.
I'm working on the next parts, honest! I just had actual real work for 12 hours yesterday is all. And I have to sort out the timing of a couple of plot points.
Re: Displaced 5/?, All I Have To Do
(Anonymous) 2013-11-19 06:40 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Displaced 5/?, All I Have To Do
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-19 19:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 5/?, All I Have To Do
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-19 21:25 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-20 04:58 pm (UTC)(link)Desmond nodded quickly. Connor continued.
"You will not fight with them. You will not injure them in any fashion. You will not allow them to see your hidden blade or your tattoo. You will not ask them for anything. If you need anything, you will request it of me or my father. We can afford to spare whatever you need; they cannot." He dropped Desmond painfully on the bed and practically shoved an armful of clothing in his face. "My father and I are giving you some more appropriate clothing taken from our own. I was not prepared for a sudden houseguest in the middle of the ocean. I see that your strange, flimsy Assassin robes were mostly destroyed by the fire, and though of course the mere ownership of Assassin trappings such as blades and robes means not that you are of the Brotherhood--"
"I know the Creed--" Desmond interjected.
Connor waved that away like a fly. "As does my father, yet he is the Templar Grand Master." There was really no answer to that. Connor continued, "I will allow you to wear my coat while we are aboard the ship, since you have no robes or jacket of your own. Come with me. And bring this jar of salve."
Desmond hustled after him, trying to carry his bundle of clothing and the salve in one arm. Connor was certainly a lot nicer seen from inside his mind--although Desmond had to admit he had plenty of reason for suspicion and standoffishness. If he hadn't been so familiar with Connor and Haytham from his time in the Animus, Desmond would have felt quite literally lost at sea. He still had no idea why Haytham had accepted him so easily and known of his 'torture', and to be honest, that was kind of creepy.
Lost in thought, he nearly faceplanted right into Connor's enormous back (how was he supposed to wear Connor's hand-me-downs? The man was built like a tank!) as his ancestor stopped suddenly. "Here is your cabin. It is next to Father's, and mine is right there. Once your hand has healed, you will need to find some way to make yourself useful. There is only room for one useless layabout on this ship." He jerked his chin towards Haytham's cabin, then actually looked less unfriendly and more disappointed. "Since he seems to feel rather paternal towards you, make him help with your bandages."
Haytham called through the open door, "Connor, do you have that water I asked for? For my ink?"
Connor gritted his teeth. "No, this is the Captain, delivering your other bastard son for fetching and carrying." With a sardonic smile, he folded his left hand ring finger and gave Desmond a salute that was not quite overly mocking. "Enjoy, Brother Altaïr."
Desmond brought his bandaged hand to his forehead to return the salute. "I sure will, Brother Ratonhnhake:ton." Without a word, Connor pivoted on his heel and returned to the deck.
Haytham looked out, his smirk better suited for a nosy housewife overhearing juicy gossip than for a middle-aged man bearing the enormous responsibility of the Templar Colonial Rite. "You should probably tell him your actual name, or he'll continue calling you Altaïr just to get under your skin. And I've seen a lot, but not your name."
Desmond hesitated a minute. What were the chances that Ezio had mentioned him by name in detailed memoirs that had been made available to Haytham at any point, either as an Assassin or a Templar? "Desmond. Desmond Miles. Because it would, um, remind me of the, uh, torture to call me Altaïr." That was true enough. He felt like his sanity was approximately as sturdy as the toilet paper that he really, really missed in this century.
Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm... that sounds familiar somehow... Maybe something I've read... " Desmond silently cursed Ezio. Haytham seemed to give up after a moment of digging through his brain. "Maybe I'm imagining things. Well, go on, get settled. I'm right here if you need me, Desmond." He smiled like he was stretching muscles that hadn't been used in decades.
"Uh, can you open the door for me?" Desmond gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.
As it turned out, Desmond was only able to undress one-handed. By holding his hoodie in his teeth, he could unzip it with his good hand, and he could manage his jeans and boxers just fine. He could even struggle into Connor's huge shirt just fine. The problem was the 18th century idea of undergarments. (He was trying not to think about the bit where his borrowed smallclothes were usually worn by his great-great-great-whatever grandfather. Really, really trying not to think about that.) His admiration for his ancestors' literal testicular fortitude increased immensely once he tried to pull them up. And then there were the buttons he simply couldn't manage. Lots and lots of them.
Man up, Des, all you've got to do is ask for a little help. Taking a deep breath, he managed to pull on Connor's jacket and tried to hold it closed with his forearm as he leaned out of the doorway. "Haytham! Pssst, Haytham!! Haytham fucking Kenway already!!!"
After what seemed like an eternity, Haytham leaned out his own door, looking amused. "Hmm?"
"Yeah, so, I need a little help here." The damn jacket was worse than a hospital gown. "Please!"
To Desmond's relief, Haytham was appropriately impersonal and methodical throughout the whole embarrassing process, and successfully suppressed any smirks until after Desmond was decent and trying to look over his shoulders to check out his own butt. "Damn, Haytham, I gotta get me a few pairs of these for my own! No wonder Ziio was willing to unbutton all those damn buttons to jump you! My ass looks fine!" Desmond tried hiking up the jacket tails for a better view, and completely missed Haytham's momentarily stricken look that smoothed over into a thoughtful frown. "I can even put up with the buttons to look this good. Where did you have these made?"
Haytham's frown deepened. "I don't know if that would be possible. The owner of the shop disappeared, and when I tried threatening her good-for-nothing husband for information, he shat himself as soon as he saw my hidden blade." The frown twisted into a half smirk. "I may have said a few things that implied that I was actually an Assassin. But usually that doesn't scare them that much."
"The tailor, was her name Ellen? Husband a drunk named, ah, Quincy or something."
"How did you know?"
Desmond grinned. "She's okay, but Connor might not be too happy if you go finding her."
Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "You know many things I would not expect you to know, yet you are charmingly naive and helpless about basic skills such as dressing yourself to the point of being like a child. No; don't try to explain yet. In the dreams I have had of you, you are in the machine which torments you, and then you come out of it and you sleep, and in your sleep you talk in different tongues. Different languages, different voices.... In my youth I thought you were simply well educated and knew Italian, Arabic, and so forth. But now, meeting you and finding out what you know about me, about Connor..."
"Yeah, see--"
"Wait, please. I have a theory, and once I've explained it, I would like you to tell me if I am anywhere close to the truth. You say you are from the future. I believe it may be true. I do not know how the machine torments you. But I think perhaps it shows you the lives of others and forces you to watch the horrors therein. I think perhaps you receive not only knowledge and skills, but also the most intimate personal information."
"Uh, yeah, you could say that."
"And the pain this produces is so intense that you relive it as nightmares. I know not if this is some sort of Precursor artifact capable of affecting the mind, nor do I understand why your captors chose you to be their victim, but I do know that it is a very dreadful device."
Desmond sat on the narrow bunk and gestured Haytham to sit on the stool bolted to the floor. "That's pretty much it. The reason Abstergo--that's the company the Templars run in my time--put me in it to begin with, is that I have famous Assassin ancestors, and the Animus can dig out the memories of a person's ancestors--from, from their blood or something, don't ask me how--and make the person relive them." He ran his uninjured hand through his short hair. "They were looking for something in Altaïr's memories." Haytham's eyes widened at the name, then narrowed. Desmond continued. "So to get to that memory, I had to go through all the ones leading up to it, and I had to get very good at being Altaïr , or else I'd keep dying, and the machine would stop, and I wouldn't be able to get to the next one and I'd stay a prisoner of Abstergo. And have to keep going back in the Animus." He shuddered.
"Was it very painful?"
"A little, not too bad. But it... it makes you forget who you are. You spend ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day being Altaïr ibn La'ahad the Assassin, you forget that you're Desmond Miles, the bartender who never wanted to be an Assassin, who ran away from the crazy Assassin Farm and the crazy Assassin families in it."
Haytham's eyebrows raised. "Indeed?"
Desmond nodded. "And then I'd remember things that I hadn't seen in the Animus. Like Altaïr and his wife fooling around at the top of a guard tower. It was like it opened a door in my brain that I couldn't close, to my ancestors' memories, and I got not just the things they wanted to know, but everything. Languages, skills, other memories, all kinds of random stuff. Like, did you know Altaïr saw his dad murdered in front of him when he was a kid?" Desmond's eyes unfocused, and he didn't see Haytham's jaw tightening. "Oh, but then the same thing happened to you, didn't--shit, see, this is what happens. I start being people and I can't stop. I don't know if I'm in Jerusalem talking to Malik, or I'm Ezio in Florence talking to Leonardo da Vinci, or here talking to you but I'm Connor, or what." He rubbed his eyes.
"And you only have these memories of... people who are your ancestors?"
"Yeah, so at some point Connor has to actually start talking to the ladies or I won't exist." Absently, he reached out to make a motion of taking something from thin air, then sighed. "See, I could have sworn that was a feather..."
Haytham looked at him for a minute, then suddenly smiled. "So you're my grandson?"
Desmond waved a hand dismissively. "Great great something or other grandson, yes. I'll be born a little over 200 years from now. So--ack!" I never would have figured Haytham for a bear-hug sort of grandfather... Connor is probably more used to squeezing the breath out of actual bears, though...
Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-20 06:38 pm (UTC)(link)-OP
Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-20 19:18 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-20 07:07 pm (UTC)(link)I love your haytham, I really really do!
Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-20 08:59 pm (UTC)(link)Eagerly waiting for more!
Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-20 09:37 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) 2013-11-21 12:03 am (UTC)(link)Perfect!
Re: Displaced 6/?, Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-21 00:06 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) 2013-11-21 12:45 pm (UTC)(link)PRDN ME
1000 PRDNS
LGH OT LD
Rebecca blinked at her creation. "I don't even know you anymore, Baby..." she murmured.
Shaun huffed. "Rebecca, it's clearly being affected by some malign influence. A malign influence with very bad spelling."
BT I STL LOK BTR
EVN THGH I LOK LK DHS:
1101000101111000011110100010110
Rebecca frowned. "That can't be the same as the one sending those emails..."
"Yeah, the email fellow can spell."
HR HR HR
THOU MDST A JKE
THOU RT SOOOOOOOOO FNY
"Okay, both of you SHUT UP. Computer guy, were you the one flickering the lights?"
CLD NT HLP IT
JNO TRYND SHT ME DWN
Shaun asked in a bored voice, "And why was she trying to do that?"
I HLPT DEZMND
"Why would you care about helping him?"
FAMLY
KINDRD
Rebecca shook her head. "No, you're a computer. Computers don't have families except in microprocessor development."
NT CMPTR
A MN
Shaun's voice was tired. "Honestly, Rebecca, it's obvious what's happening. This cave is haunted by the ghost of Altaïr , clearly, reaching through the years to save Desmond by exposing him to smallpox and cholera, and talk to us through the Animus with ghostly bad spelling."
DN'T BE STPD
NO SCH THNG ALS GHSTS
"Shaun, the sarcasm isn't helping."
I M MRELY DED
ND IT WSN'T MNE DOING
SNDNDE DEZMND BCK
"Oh, I'm glad you're not a ghost, I was really worried for a minute that I was going crazy and thinking I was talking to a ghost, but you're just dead so that's OK."
Rebecca mentally counted how many migraine pills she had left. Desmond better save the world before long or my brain will shoot out of my nose.
"So, ah, 'Altaïr', how did you get from 13th-century Syria to 21st-century upstate New York?"
DTH
"I guess all those religions are wrong, the afterlife is actually near the Finger Lakes."
IF YE BE N THE APL
ND YR GRNDSNS BRNG YE THR
DHN YEA IT BE
"Rebecca, tell your computer to stop pretending to be Altaïr ."
NT PRTND
I
AM
ALTAIR
IBN
LA'AHAD
HW THOU LKST THM APLS?
I USD VWLS TO HLP THEE READ
SNCE THOU NDST TH HLP
Shaun ground his teeth. "Well, I can totally believe you're related to Desmond, you're just as stupid and annoying."
WHS GT 0 THMBS
AND HTS THEE?
THS HSSN
If she didn't laugh, she would start screaming. So it made sense to laugh until she cried, and cry until she hiccupped. "So, assuming you are Altaïr --"
"We can't be sure of that!"
"How DID you go from being human to being in my computer?"
MSTLY HMN
CN'T USE APL IF FLL HMN
HV TO BE PRT FRST CV
APL IS LK YR CMPTR
LGHTNNG
LK A HRT
OR A MIND
ALL BEINGS
FLSH BN ND LGHTNNG
Despite himself, Shaun was watching over Rebecca's shoulder as the words appeared.
WHN USE TH APL
IT LRNS YR LGHTNNG
YR PTTRN
50 YRS LRNYNG
ND WHN MY FLSH ND BN
CLDNT HLD LGHTNNG
APL IN M HNDS
KNW MY PTTRN
WHN A YNG MN
I WS JST MY SLF
THN I WS MY SLF
ND TH APL
THN I WS ELDR MN ND TH APL
THN JST TH APL
I NOTCD NT
EVRTHNG EVR KNWN
IS N TH APL
"Except vowels apparently."
THN TH APL
OPNED TH DR
ND I BCM TH LGHTNNG IN WLLS
DEZMND GV ME MCH LGHTNNG
SO I CD RECH YR MCHNS
EVRTHNG IS LGHTNNG
EVRTHNG IS SPRKS
YU ONLY TH SPRKS IN YR HD
EVRTHNG ELS JST TO MK LGHTNNG
KP TH LGHTNNG
BR TH LGHTNNG
HLD TH LGHTNNG
JNO IS LGHTNNG
HR JAR HRE
IS HR GAOL
SH NDS DEZMND
SH NDS TH KEY
KINDRD
ONLY FAMLY CN TO OPN IT
ONLY DEZMND
SH LYED
TO RTNHKTN
SH LYES TO DEZMND
SH WNTS TO STP HS LGHTNNG
TO USE HR OWN
"But she's the only one who can protect the earth from the solar flare."
YEA
SH BRTRS HR FRDM
FR TH WRLD
"Does Desmond know? That he'll die?"
HE WLL
"He'll have to choose between his life and the world?"
HE S A HERO
"You think he'll choose to die?"
I DN'T WNT HM TO
FMLY
ALL GNE BT HM
JNO CRS NT
HS DTH GIVS HR PWR
"Not all gone, there's William... "
"Rebecca, when did we last hear from William? On his very important mission where he was supposed to check in frequently?"
"Oh shit. Well, at least we don't have to explain any of this to him yet."
I figured our favorite Syrian with the loose grasp of modern English orthography might be giving people (such as me) a headache with his insensitivity to the need for vowels. So here's his info dump in standard spelling, capitalization, and punctuation.
You can't use the Apple if you're fully human.
You have to be part First Civilization.
The Apple is like your computer.
Lightning,
Like a heart
Or a mind.
All beings are
Flesh, bone, and lightning.
When you use the Apple,
It learns your lightning,
Your pattern.
50 years of learning
And when my flesh and bone
Couldn't hold lightning
The Apple in my hands
Knew my pattern.
When a young man,
I was just myself.
Then I was myself
and the Apple.
Then I was an old man and the Apple.
Then just the Apple.
I noticed not.
Everything ever known
Is in the Apple.
Then the Apple
Opened the door
And I became the lightning in the walls.
Desmond gave me much lightning,
So I could reach your machines.
Everything is lightning,
Everything is sparks.
You are only the sparks in your head.
Everything else is just to make lightning,
Keep the lightning,
Bear the lightning,
Hold the lightning.
Juno is lightning,
Her jar here
Is her jail.
She needs Desmond,
She needs the key.
Kindred.
Only family can open it.
Only Desmond.
She lied
To Ratonhnhake:ton
She lies to Desmond.
She wants to stop his lightning
To use her own.
Re: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) 2013-11-21 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)You made me so sad at the end there, though, reminding me of all my AC3 feels! Damn you and the conflicting emotions you bring!
-OP
Re: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-21 18:57 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) 2013-11-21 09:11 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) 2013-11-21 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-22 05:01 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-22 00:57 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-22 03:42 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-22 05:03 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 7/?, Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-22 21:57 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) 2013-11-25 12:55 pm (UTC)(link)The crew took a keen interest in the sudden appearance of a second passenger, sitting between the Captain and his father, and the least embarrassing speculation Desmond overheard was that he was Haytham's other bastard son. Some of the other theories were a lot more... icky, to be honest.
Connor listened, stony-faced, until everyone had finished their stew and bread and started on the rum and whiskey course, then stood up and banged his empty bowl on the wooden table for attention. "Early this morning, we came upon a castaway, and took him aboard. My father," and here he gestured towards Haytham with a pained expression, "recognized him as his nephew, whom he had last seen many years ago and had forgotten to tell me about." At this, Connor shot a totally believable glare at Haytham, who shrugged innocently. Some of the sailors chuckled a little. Most of them looked back and forth between the three men, and Desmond was glad for once to resemble his ancestors.
Connor lifted his cup, which had about half a shot of whiskey in it, and gestured to Desmond. "To my long-lost cousin, Desmond Miles." The crew toasted him, then started talking about absolutely everything else, deciding that a long-lost member of an admittedly secretive and dysfunctional family was not all that interesting.
Haytham whispered, "You know, I don't actually have any nephews."
Connor retorted, "It is called lying, Father. I recall that you are highly skilled at it."
Desmond tried a sip of rum and nearly choked. First chance he had, he'd pre-invent some cocktails, time-space continuum be damned.
Haytham crossed his arms. "When have I lied to you, son?"
Connor rolled his eyes. "You are lying to me about him," he pointed at Desmond.
"I am not."
"You have told me that your 'friends' did not burn my village on your orders."
"And they didn't!"
"Then what were they doing in the forest, looking for small children to beat?"
"I'm not sure, since I had ordered them to leave your mother's village alone and had not even talked to most of them for more than five years. But if I had to hazard a guess, they were defying my orders by looking for a sacred cave near your village."
Connor scoffed. "More likely, they were looking for it on your orders."
Haytham leaned into his son's face and spoke very quietly. "If I had wanted them to go there, I would simply have told them where it was. The fact that they were looking at all is proof that they were not obeying my orders."
"You? You know where my people's most sacred site is? You, of all people?"
Haytham rolled his eyes. "Yes, me of all people."
"I do not believe you."
"You don't have to believe it, but it's true."
"How did you discover it?"
"Your mother took me there, of course."
"For what purpose?"
Desmond mumbled, "To show him her sacred cave, duh."
"I thought it was just to show me the markings that matched this," and Haytham pulled the amulet out from under his shirt. Desmond shied away from it, and Haytham tucked it back beneath the fabric before continuing with a smirk, "but it seems your mother had a backup plan, should I not find what I had thought was there."
"And what exactly was this backup plan?"
Desmond mimed sneezing. "Hormones!"
"Oh, can't you guess, Connor? Honestly, sometimes I worry."
Connor sulked, and Desmond really hoped he would shut up and not press any further. But, alas, Connor demanded, "I insist that you tell me, Father, because I do not believe she took you there. Prove it."
Haytham thwacked his son abruptly on the nose. "Aren't you proof enough?"
Desmond mumbled into his hands, "Please, Ratonhnhake:ton, drop it."
"How am I proof--"
"That's where you were conceived, silly boy!" Haytham threw his hands up into the air and bemoaned, "I am never going to have grandchildren."
Connor's face was burning bright red as he stumbled as quickly as possible to the deck so he could steer his ship and try to forget. Haytham covered his face with his hands, laughing or possibly crying.
Desmond sighed. "I guess he'll figure it out eventually, Pops."
Re: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-25 18:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-25 19:59 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-25 22:13 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-25 21:49 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-26 00:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-26 03:52 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-11-26 19:05 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-01 09:50 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 8/?, Awkward Family Dinnertime
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-01 16:40 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 9a/?, Not That There's Anything Wrong With It
(Anonymous) 2013-12-03 05:55 am (UTC)(link)Desmond had never realized how boring life at sea could be. Sure, it was all well and good to shoot down frigates or break masts with chain shot, but mostly there was a lot of boredom. His respect for Connor had skyrocketed: it was tough enough to stand on one's feet for hours and put up with the antics of uninhibited people in various stages of alcoholism and minimal amounts of sobriety, but at least there was ample entertainment for a bartender at work, if he was good at his job. Plus, bartenders usually got to go home at the end of the night. Unless they got kidnapped in the parking lot.
The most interesting thing that happened on the ship besides whale-watching was the bickering between Connor and his father. Desmond was pretty sure that that was entirely a result of cabin fever, which was setting in fairly badly for him, too.
Once he had sung all the songs he could remember (not many) and knew the lyrics to (even fewer) and could actually stand to listen to (practically none), he started making up words to fill out the songs he couldn't remember. He wrote a large number of extemporaneous Foo Fighters songs with lyrics all about Haytham's taco-shaped hat that way. That took up about an afternoon, and earned him a large number of confused looks from the crew.
Then he sat in his cabin and tried to shave with his hidden blade.
Then he realized he was almost out of bandages for his burnt hand, and now, he also needed to bandage his face.
Then he was desperate enough to snoop around for something, anything to read. He discovered that Haytham was a big fan of Treasure Island, which was rather surprising, and Connor had brought along a nice edition of Robin Hood, which was even more surprising. So Desmond, never having actually read Robin Hood, swiped the book to read that evening.
He didn't realize how pissed off he would be at a damn book, though.
"Fucking Templar shitfaced asshole bastard jerkwad!!"
Haytham leaned in the cabin. "Excuse me, my parents were married. Not that," his voice lowered, "not that there's anything wrong with it." He rolled his eyes towards Connor's cabin.
"Not you," Desmond fumed, "I can't believe fucking Robin Hood is all oooooohing over fucking King Richard. He's such a douchebag! C'mon, Robin, have some self-respect!"
Haytham smirked. "You are not a fan of Richard the Lionheart?"
"Of course not! He's all, ooh, we gotta go fight the evil heathens and reclaim the Holy Land. Well, assface, maybe the heathens are just regular people who don't fucking like you trying to steal their damn land! Maybe you should just sit your Templar ass down in England where you belong! Fuckhead. Should have assassinated him when I had the chance."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh...uh...that was...that was Altaïr speaking."
"That makes me feel so much less like I'm in the presence of a madman."
"Fuck off, Pops."
"Why do you call me that?"
Desmond squirmed. "Um...well...you are my ancestor. But I don't want to say all those 'great's all the time..."
"I do appreciate that."
He half-shrugged. "I don't know. It fits. I could call you 'Templar douchebag' instead. If you'd rather."
"No, I think I'll let you reserve that for King Richard."
"Okay, then, you're Pops."
"Then what do you call Connor?"
Desmond blinked. "Um, Ratonhnhake:ton, usually."
"You're just showing off that you can speak his language."
"That's right."
Haytham grumbled. "So, when did you learn it?"
Desmond pondered. "Subjectively, I'd say about two weeks ago, but that was in 2012."
"Two weeks ago."
"Yeah, ever since I started being him in the Animus. Well, actually, a little before, but I'd rather not talk about that. Especially not with you."
"So, what is it like? This Animus. It seems very unpleasant."
Desmond considered, closing the book and leaning back against the wall. "It's not so bad when you're actually in it. It makes you relive memories of your ancestors. So one minute you're a modern guy, and the next minute, you're in medieval Syria, jumping off a mountain, missing a finger so you can fit your blade in. And...it's like, like a game. It's like playing pretend, or playing with toys, only you are the toy, and everything you would normally make up in a game, is actually happening to you. And the better you are at it, the more real and the more right it feels."
"Why were you screaming, then? If it's like a game."
"I didn't want to be put in it...well, I mean, I had no idea that it even existed. I was just a bartender, I was trying to forget all that Assassin nonsense I was raised with. And then one day I got beaten up and dragged off and I woke up on this bed, trapped in place, having to relive these creepy memories of killing dudes? It was pretty messed up. And then, that wasn't even the worst, because it got to the point where, even when they'd take me out and let me sleep, I'd dream his memories, even without the Animus bringing them out." He covered his face and mumbled, "Especially that one dream. Oy."
Haytham tilted his head, inquiringly.
"Ahhh, um, well, Altaïr's wife Maria was all, like, running along the walls, and he was following her, and she climbed up a tower, and when he got up there they started kissing and...well...there was a nice soft pile of hay, I guess, and she got pregnant, and...yeah." Desmond rubbed his eyes. "I try not to think about it. Um...oh, hey, did you know that Maria was a Templar?"
"...What?!"
"Yeah, they met when she was masquerading as her lover, the Grand Master, and Altaïr tried to assassinate her, and they got into a fight, and he pulled her helmet off, and..." Desmond broke into gigglesnorts. "And then he said, 'What sorcery is this?!' which I think is about the second worst pickup line I've ever heard one of my ancestors use. And then, she escaped, and they kept running into each other, and she'd like kick him in the face when they climbed ladders together. So you see, we come from a long line of very sensible people in extremely mature relationships. Like this one time, Ezio--"
"What's the worst one?"
"The worst what?"
"The worst pickup line. What is a pickup line anyway?"
"Oh...a pickup line is, um, the kind of thing you might say to a pretty girl to try to get her to talk to you and hopefully be a little impressed by your awesomeness. Like pretty much everything Ezio ever said."
"All right. So, what is the worst one?"
Desmond looked out the window. "Wow, look at that sunset!"
"You're avoiding the question!"
"No, it's just a really nice sunset."
"So...?"
"Yeah...?"
"So what is the worst pickup line you've heard from your ancestors? And did it succeed?"
"Oh, uh, yeah, it eventually did succeed. Not in making her think he was awesome, but they did get together eventually and have a kid, so, um, yeah, it worked in that way."
"And what was it?"
"You're not going to let me avoid this question, are you, Pops?"
"Absolutely not."
Desmond sighed, and flinched up against the wall. "Okay, you ready? You're totally going to shank me for real. The number one worst pickup line that still miraculously somehow eventually worked..." He covered his face with both hands and mumbled, "It went like this. 'Me. Haytham. I come. In. Peace.'"
"What?!"
"Come on, it was lame!"
"Well, I wasn't trying to 'pick her up', as you say!"
"Neither was Altaïr!" Desmond shrugged. "It just happens like that! And because it's the sort of thing you remember, it's the sort of thing I relive! Because that's what I do! I'm just a bag of DNA inherited from important people, so I get shuffled from one Animus to another, and the different sides of this stupid war try to steal me back and forth from each other, so they can stuff me in their computers and see what you guys did two centuries before, because that's more important to them than me, than Desmond, than what I know and what I've seen and what I believe!"
He was practically shouting now. "I didn't want any of this! I had my life, I had my job, I had already decided I didn't want any of this, and all of a sudden I'm back in the middle of it! Do this, Desmond, be this guy, tell us what you find, so we can use it for our own purposes. Who cares what you want? Who cares if you go crazy? Who cares if you don't know when or who you are? Who cares if you go into a coma? Who cares if some creep from tens of thousands of years ago possesses you and kills the woman who was trying to keep you from going crazy? That doesn't matter, because she's a Templar!" He made spirit fingers for emphasis. "Woooo, a Templar! That's so much more important than whether she was a good person or if she was helping me or if I liked her, because obviously when the world's about to be a charcoal briquette, we can totally afford to just kill people who are trying to stop it. Let's keep up our little grudge match while the world burns around us! And it doesn't even matter if I go insane, as long as I get more useful! And by useful, I mean, good at killing people."
Haytham blinked, mildly alarmed.
"Do you know what happened to the last guy, the one before me? He went so nuts from being Altaïr and being Ezio, that's right, he's some distant cousin of ours if that makes you feel any better, he went nuts and committed suicide. But that's not all!" Desmond gritted his teeth. "Before he died, he decided--because he knew about me before I knew--to leave me messages that only I could read with my Eagle Vision. Because he figured once I went a little crazy I'd pick up on how to use it. And I did. So how did he leave me messages? In blood. On the walls." He gestured wildly around the tiny cabin. "They cleaned them up, of course, but all I had to do was look, and..." He shrugged. "Clay was a smart guy. Maybe if he hadn't been pushed too far, he'd still be a smart guy. Maybe he'd still be a guy, anyway, instead of a corpse."
"The weight of memory was too much?"
"Yeah, Abstergo's not really good with preserving the test subject. They figure the Father of Understanding guides them to shred people's brains in the Animus. So I got rescued by some assassins, and what do they do? They tell me, hey, we've got an Animus too now! Rebecca thinks it won't make you crazy as quickly, so here, be Ezio. And then I found the apple and killed Lucy and went into a coma, and my dad showed up and basically said, hey, let's try putting him in the Animus and see if that helps with the crazy caused by putting him in the Animus."
"Your own father put you into this torture device, knowing what it does to people? What it did to you?!"
"Dear old dad, yep, he sure did."
Haytham recoiled, looking disgusted, and sat down on the small chair.
Desmond shrugged. "He's got all the fatherly instincts of a goldfish. He's the reason you don't win a Father of the Millennium Award. And, he's been leading the Assassins since I was like 14. Isn't that just wonderful for me? Cause let me tell you, there's a bunch of Mentors in our family and he is, like, sooooo much better at Mentoring than, like, Altair, Ezio, and Connor combined. He's tops, Pops. Oh yeah. The best. Two thumbs up." He raised his middle fingers for emphasis.
"And then, what's even better is that now it's not enough to have Templars throwing me into the Animus, and Assassins throwing me into the Animus, now I have to use it to help this scary First Civilization creep who is manipulating everyone. Because that's exactly what I wanted to do, become even crazier by helping out this bitch named Juno, who by the way is the one that made me stab Lucy. And--"
"This Juno is the same one that told me to become an Assassin?" Connor interrupted from the doorway.
"Yes, and hasn't it brought you so much joy? Hasn't it done so much for your village?"
Connor looked down at Desmond dispassionately. "How am I to believe your story?"
Desmond considered. "She took the form of an eagle when talking to you. And she made you take the same form." He could tell that Connor was startled, although his face was impassive. "The last thing your mother said to you was that she loved you."
"That's easy to guess," Connor objected.
"True! Let's see. That morning she had caught you reading a book that you then hid from her." Desmond realized peripherally that he and Connor were talking in a speedy mishmash of languages, and Haytham had a politely quizzical expression. "I'm pretty sure I couldn't read when I was four years old." By saying that completely in English, Desmond was rewarded with the brief sight of Haytham looking momentarily proud of his son. Which was pretty cool, and made Desmond feel good about himself. This was what normal families did, right? Brag about each other? If he couldn't have a normal family life with his own father, he could at least pretend here and now.
"All right, so let us suppose that you are telling the truth." Connor was a lot more formal speaking in English, Desmond noticed. "You have come back here from the future to...what?"
Desmond shrugged. "Hell if I know. I was reliving a memory of yours and all of a sudden, BAM, I'm in Haytham's cabin with my hand on fire."
Re: Displaced 9b/?, Not That There's Anything Wrong With It
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-03 05:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 9b/?, Not That There's Anything Wrong With It
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(Anonymous) - 2013-12-05 01:45 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 9a/?, Not That There's Anything Wrong With It
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-05 05:31 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 10/? The Time Is Now 2 AM, Do You Know What Your Name Is?
(Anonymous) 2013-12-06 08:12 pm (UTC)(link)"Dammit, I am SO sick of fucking Templars fucking watching me sleep!!" Waves of irritation rushed through him, not even directed at Haytham, more at his memories of Vidic staring at him, ready to pop him back in the Animus and turn his brain into mush. "Get the fuck out!"
Haytham eyed him, as if debating whether it was safe to leave him. "Do you know what your name is?"
"It's Desmond 'Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-My-Room' Miles! Now scram!"
Desmond curled up in his blankets as Haytham left, and mumbled, annoyed, when he realized that the comforting smell was gone now that he was awake. Typical, his brain playing tricks on him again.
Haytham woke up when the sky was beginning to lighten, but only because the ship's cat had climbed into his lap and started purring and kneading his calf muscle right through his trousers. He petted her sleepily, pulled himself up from the floor, and leaned against the wall to keep himself upright so he could watch over Desmond.
Less than half an hour later, the cat was comfortably ensconced in his lap again, dozing off after a busy night of eating rats. He cradled her close and kept snoring softly, not noticing when she worked a button off his coat.
Connor woke up at dawn with a splitting headache. He'd had only his usual sip of whiskey the previous night, and even though he had never really gotten used to it, he usually didn't get a hangover anymore. He only even drank it because it did keep away embarrassing digestive problems at sea. Desmond had informed him a few days ago that even the clearest water actually was a stew of tiny little creatures determined to make one sick, and that a little alcohol was a very good thing for killing the tiny creatures. But, he always added, the rum from this time period was foul and practically undrinkable, and he was going to figure out some way to fix that.
Gradually, the thump and clack of wood against wood became louder, and Connor's headache intensified. He peered out of his cabin to see Haytham and Desmond fencing with wooden practice swords. Here was a chance to see how skilled Desmond actually was, and a distraction until his head stopped throbbing.
After about a quarter of an hour, Connor decided that Desmond was all right, although nothing special. Haytham seemed to come to the same conclusion and stopped the practice. Desmond grinned. "I was just getting warmed up, Pops. That's the way I learned to fight when I was a kid."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, I picked up a little more here and there." Desmond's stance suddenly shifted, his blade movements were more focused on the edge of the sword. He sprang at Haytham, batting the other's practice sword out of the way, and the older man had a hard time blocking them all.
Desmond stood up straight again, his eyes strangely blank. Now he used the point of the sword, he focused more on defense, he crouched a little to make himself smaller, then stood up proudly when attacking.
Another switch: his eyes rolled to the side, and he had a different style. Another blank look, and Connor was highly amused to recognize his father's own style.
Haytham was beginning to tire, but seeing his own style, he managed to weave in one or two sharp taps on Desmond's hand. Desmond pushed his way inside Haytham's guard, his eyes flicked to the other side, and he suddenly reversed the sword and whacked his ancestor with the pommel. Haytham sank to the ground, dazed. "Uhhh...that was...unusual." He was sure to have a lump from that.
"Father, look, he is in distress again!"
"I'm not doing too well myself."
Desmond shook his head. "I'm fine, it's just...something...I don't...ugh..." He stared at Connor until the world made a little more sense. "Better. I... Sorry."
"If you keep having these fits, lad, we can't let you fight."
"It'll be okay. Honest. It doesn't matter who I am if I'm just fighting. I have all these great fighters. Just point me at the creeps."
Haytham and Connor looked at each other, dismayed.
"Look, I trust you two. You're both blue to me. If my brain is falling apart I trust you to do my thinking."
"What if I ask you to kill my father? You must think for yourself."
Haytham folded his arms and scowled.
Desmond's eyes widened. "But, no! You've been getting along with him. You don't really want to kill him, right?" He started to hyperventilate.
"Want and need are not always the same thing."
"Plus my son can get very annoying."
Desmond backed away, looking back and forth at them in consternation. "But... you don't... I don't want... don't make me..." He was creeping along the wall, heading for the deck. "I won't, I won't."
"What's your name now, lad?"
"It's still Desmond, and it's not crazy for me not to want you to kill each other, and it's really not crazy for me to want not to be in the middle of it all! I may have to be part of this dysfunctional family, but that doesn't mean I have to be part of... padr--, par--, of killing your own father!"
Connor smiled, a tight and guarded expression. "Good, so you would rather think for yourself than be a sword for hire."
Re: Displaced 10/? The Time Is Now 2 AM, Do You Know What Your Name Is?
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-06 22:51 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 10/? The Time Is Now 2 AM, Do You Know What Your Name Is?
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(Anonymous) - 2013-12-09 06:12 (UTC) - Expandwriter!anon has a question for those who know more about the games than I
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-09 18:31 (UTC) - ExpandRe: writer!anon has a question for those who know more about the games than I
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-09 21:17 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 11/?, 1337 Assassin Super-Hax0rs
(Anonymous) 2013-12-10 11:31 am (UTC)(link)"Please tell me you found something. Please tell me that the last four hours of my life were spent babysitting Altaïr for a good reason. Please tell me that someday, somewhere, I will be able to listen to West Side Story without flying into a murderous rage."
Rebecca blinked. "West Side Story?" Then she recognized the music coming from Shaun's laptop speakers, and glanced at the Animus.
MARIA
I JST MT A GRL NMD
MARIA
MARIA
MARIA
"I offered to help him find other songs about women named Maria. I know there must be loads. But this is the only one he's interested in. Over and over and over."
MARIA
MARIA MARIA MARIA
MARIA
"I can totally tell you're related to Desmond."
HW
GD TST N MSC?
HNDSM FCE?
LEET HSSN SKLLZ?
Rebecca was going to explode face first from not laughing.
"No, because you're almost more annoying than him!"
"Shaun, why don't you go take a break, I'll see if there's anything more I can hack from Abstergo, and then we can figure out what to do about Desmond and William."
"No, we need to figure this out now. We need the key, the key is in Connor's memories, we need Desmond to get to Connor's memories, or else there won't be any me or you or Assassins or Templars or anything! And if we can't get Desmond we need to find William or else we're totally screwed!"
"Right, but Shaun, you're going crazy. Don't you just want to get away from Altaïr?"
HE LVS ME
"Yes. Yes, I do want to get away from Altaïr. Very very much."
HV FN
NOVC
After Shaun had stomped away, Rebecca made herself comfortable at the computer and started trying to break into Abstergo's surveillance cameras. While waiting on a particularly slow refresh, she pulled up some mp3s and started making a playlist for Altaïr. He was going to experience different music or she would die trying. Probably at Shaun's blade, at that. "All right, I think you'll like this one. But don't play it around Desmond."
WHY
"He'll make, um, inappropriate comments. Because it's all, 'How do you solve a problem like Maria?' And he'll be like, 'hur hur I'll tell you how Altaïr solves a problem like Maria!' And then he'll imply something sexual and crude."
...
BT WE DD HV ENRMS AMTS OF LV
MNY NGHTS
MNY MRNS
MNY DAYS
OUR SNS WHLED AWY MCH TME
WTH UNCL MLK AL SYF
ND WE FCKD LK CNYS
PN INTNDD
Rebecca blinked, trying to find the pun, then smiled a little sadly. "You adored her, didn't you?" She added a few mushy songs to the playlist.
YS
STL DO I ADR HR
SM MN WNT A WMN TO SRV THM
MARIA WS MY EQL
MY OTHR HLF
IM A STRNG MN
I CLDNT LV A WK WMN
HW CLD WE UNDRSTND ECH OTHR
IF WE WRNT BTH STRNG
"You're really enlightened for your time, you know that? Actually, you're ahead of most men in this time."
WHT
THT ABSRD!!!
"Couldn't have put it better myself."
700 YRS?!
"Yep. Some guys think women are just there to bring them sandwiches and beer. I used to argue with people on the Internet, but if they knew I was a girl they'd just insult me. Or threaten me."
ND NBDY HRTS THM?
"Nope. Nobody even takes them seriously."
DSGSTNG
"You're telling me. People think that it means nothing because it's on the Internet. But people really do get hurt. I've known a couple of them...hey look, you're in a computer, how good are you at hacking?"
I HV NVR TRID IT
So she patiently introduced him to Abstergo's security systems, and showed how to evade them. Before long, there was an Assassin from the Crusades poking his way through everything he could find on Abstergo's servers while Rebecca tried to outwit their firewall.
WHO IS ERUDITO
"Huh?"
IN SRVR NOW
BYPSS BFFR OVRRN PRTCTN
NW IN RAM
THN BFFR RFLL WTH
"Greetings, scholar, from the Erudito Collective!"
WHT SY I
"I don't know. Introduce yourself?"
AM I NT SCRT?
"Honestly, Altaïr, being you is the perfect pseudonym. Nobody will ever believe you. Did you find the password file?"
YS
CNT DECRPT
"That's okay, they're usually a trapdoor encryption, just install the backdoor."
ERUDITO
SYS
"Tsk, tsk. Naughty, naughty! Through the back door!
You have certainly shocked us today, Mentor. We like it."
"Maybe they actually believe you. Weird."
THY SY
"We know another Mentor. We see him right now.
But we like you much better."
"They can see William?? Where is he?"
WHO IS 17
ND 16
HV THEY NO NMS?
"17 is what Abstergo called Desmond, Subject 17. 16 is Clay, a friend--a friend that infiltrated Abstergo, and they put him in the Animus. And it, it killed him. It drove him mad. The Bleeding Effect."
IT MKS WOUNDS
IN TH MND
IT BRKS DWN TH WLLS
TH LGHTNNG BOUNCS
Rebecca surreptitiously wiped her eyes. "So, anyway, it's probably better for Desmond to be vacationing, wherever and whenever he is."
YS
FR HLTH
Rebecca nodded, and solemnly bent over her computer, searching for William Miles, imprisoned somewhere by Abstergo.
HY
LK!
Her screen was suddenly hogged up by a video image, a man sitting in a room, on a bed, with his head in his hands.
LK WHT I CN!
The image was odd, black on dull gray enlivened only by a haze of white here and there, and a blue shimmer over the man. "Is that... is that Eagle Vision, Altaïr?" Was this what Desmond saw? This strange world of intention and concealment?
YS
TH MCHN DD NT KNW HW
SO I SHW IT
"Are you telling me that you changed the security camera firmware and the display drivers to access Eagle Vision, your genetic abnormality inherited from the First Civilization, when nobody even understands how it works?"
MYHP
IS JST SPRKS
DFFRNT WY TO SGHT
SPRKS ALWYS THR
MST PPL HDS JST DNT KNW HW
TO THNK THM TO PCTR
Rebecca facepalmed as Shaun emerged from his snooze corner. "Are you saying that you just gave Abstergo's cameras the ability that gives us an advantage? Well, some of us?" he asked disapprovingly.
WLL I CN TK BCK
THY DNT CR
IF THY WNT EGLE VISN THY CN
ALL ANMS MEMRS IN SRVRS
JST HV TO TK ME APRT
ND FND HW IT WRK
"Wait! Don't take it away yet. Can you do filtering based on the data from the Eagle Vision filter? I mean, make anyone that's blue not show up in the usual view?"
"If someone from Abstergo looked at the Eagle Vision view, would they see their allies or ours as blue?"
I DNT KNW SHN
LTS KDNP A TMPLR ND RN TSTS
"Oh, if we're kidnapping Templars I'll just defer to your expertise. Just be sure to catch another attractive one."
"Shaun, can you just not?"
I SHLL JST TORTR YE IN STD
Rebecca resigned herself to the tinny sound of "Maria" blasting through Shaun's inadequate laptop speakers until, probably, the apocalypse. "Um, guys? Idiot assassins? Altaïr found William. Shouldn't we go and get him? Maybe somehow sorta save the world a little bit? Or at least try? Since we don't know where Desmond is?"
I KNW
RTNHKETONS BT
1778
"Okay, so we know but can't get there. But even if we could, wouldn't Desmond want us to save his dad?"
Shaun rolled his eyes. "Are we talking about the same Desmond here? Yea tall, annoying, stupid, scar on his lip, little bit crazy, avidly follows the Kardashians, hates his dad?"
HS FDHR PNCHD HM
"That too. Look, I think that, um, on the all time list of assassins with the best relationships with their fathers, Desmond ranks even behind Connor. Whose father was a Templar. Just to remind you."
Rebecca made an aggravated noise. "We should do something! I can't just sit here and listen to you two insult each other until the end of the world!"
Re: Displaced 11/?, 1337 Assassin Super-Hax0rs
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(Anonymous) - 2013-12-11 02:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 11/?, 1337 Assassin Super-Hax0rs
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(Anonymous) - 2013-12-13 05:19 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 12a/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) 2013-12-15 05:21 pm (UTC)(link)The crew of the Aquila loved their captain. Sure, he was a quiet and sober fellow, not like the flamboyant pirates at the start of the century. He was always properly attired, always alert at the wheel, always working hard, no less than he expected of every crewman. And the lack of wild, rum-sodden parties on his ship was more than made up for by the huge amount of loot they tended to collect, which was always distributed equally among the crew, with the captain taking at most the few pennies left over.
Even when there was no bounty, he paid them well, made sure that they and their families never lacked for anything, even the families of those few who had been killed or crippled under his command.
Sure, he brought his stuck-up Brit of a father aboard the ship, but not a man among them couldn't sympathize. Who didn't have a lout for a father, a Redcoat for a brother, a mother who sipped a little too much wine, or a sister who was no better than she should have been? Family was family no matter how awful. And for a snob, he wasn't so bad. He didn't actually seem to look down on them, it was just the way he carried himself, self-assured and very proper. Until someone challenged him to a game of fanorona. He never passed up the challenge, and never, ever won.
The best part of beating Haytham Kenway at board games was that he secretly possessed a mouth so foul any ship's captain would have been proud.
Except, of course, for Connor, who never responded to his father's swearing with anything other than an amused smirk and folded arms. And then he took several of his father's pieces in one lengthy move.
Haytham huffed, "You know, son, when other boys were learning to play these games, I was practicing at swordplay for hours a day."
"And when I was that age, I was learning how to hunt. However, I have still beaten you twenty-three times in a row."
Desmond looked over from where he was keeping an eye on his potentially rowdy ancestors, while also mucking about with rum, limes, and some herbs he'd had Haytham wheedle out of the ship's doctor. He tried a bit more mint, then made a face. Mojitos were far from his favorite drink, but the Aquila carried ample amounts of rum and limes, so it was something to start with. The problem was that the rum tasted like the smell of industrial solvents.
Desmond knew that crappy vodka could be improved by filtering, but not only was he trapped in the 18th century with no Brita pitcher, he wasn't sure what it would have done to the good parts of the flavor. Assuming there were any.
He found the cook humming to himself, scraping something crusted on the inside of a pot. That was a little gross, he had to admit. "Um. Hey."
The cook turned, and smiled cheerfully. "Ah, Captain Connor's cousin! What was your name? Damon?"
"Desmond. I was wondering if I could have some charcoal from your stove? Just a handful. And, do you have, hmm, any cheesecloth, and string? And maybe a pitcher or two? I'm trying to make the rum taste better."
The cook bustled around. "I can let you borrow this pot with the broken handle... Some charcoal is no problem... Here's a pitcher... Twine... I don't have any cloth for you, though. Here, you can use all this."
Desmond smiled widely. "Thanks! This is really helpful."
"A word to the wise. If you make the rum taste too good, then they'll just drink more of it."
Desmond nodded. "I used to tend bar back home. Don't worry, I'll cut back on their rum and they'll never notice cause it tastes so good. Do you have some sugar?"
He had never constructed a charcoal filter before, and his first two attempts resulted in muddy gray rum. Then he remembered his half-destroyed hoodie. He'd cleaned it as best he could, although the fire smell still lingered. One trip to his cabin, ten minutes of frustrating sawing with a hidden blade not meant for the task, and he had a sleeve that he filled with charcoal and tied off. Pounding on the charcoal reduced it to fine grounds, and by tying it loosely over the pitcher, he was able to pour the rum through, and ended up with a faintly smoky liquor that was infinitely less foul. He set more to filter, then started working on his simple syrup, which he was going to make half strength to better hydrate the crew and decrease hangovers. It wasn't like they knew what a mojito was supposed to taste like, anyway.
While he was working on the syrup, he found Haytham trying to observe him secretly. "So, Pops, did you fail sneaking class and flunk out of Assassin school? Is that why you became a Templar?"
Haytham snorted. "I never knew that I had even been in Assassin school until long after my father died."
Desmond stirred the water and sugar, the wooden spoon in his hand almost, almost turning into a practice sword, and if he turned around, a blond man with a gait still rolling after a decade on land would tell him to parry and dodge, stab and twist... No. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, and it was Haytham standing there, grown up Haytham, dark hair turned gray, hat instead of hood, stolen blade on his wrist. Pops. Standing there, watching Desmond patiently, waiting for his mind to return to 1778 from whatever year it had been in, past or future. "Hold on a sec, Pops, you can be my first guinea pig."
Haytham frowned. "I'm a small, very loud pet?"
Desmond chuckled. "No, in my time we use them, well some people do, in medical experiments. So we say someone is a guinea pig if we test things on them that could be unpleasant, like new drink recipes." He checked the syrup. Almost cool enough.
Haytham offered, "You know, I had one. A guinea pig, that is. Well, he was Jenny's, but she let me pet him. It was a way of keeping me out of her things, I suppose. And if I talked to him, I wasn't talking to her, which I'm sure she appreciated."
Desmond imagined Haytham as a small boy, enthralled at the chance to cuddle his sister's guinea pig, petting it with chubby fingers while it squeaked up a storm. It was very hard to see that little boy in the man standing beside him.
Connor found Desmond just as he was putting finishing touches on the first three cups. He handed them to his ancestors, and sipped his own drink. It was okay, better than the industrial-solvent rum on its own. Haytham nodded, and Connor shrugged. Desmond would have liked some ice in his, just like he would have liked cell phone reception, antibiotic ointment, sanity, and tomato ketchup. But he couldn't get any of them, not in the 18th century, and he was quite grateful that those were the extent of his worries.
He was very aware that if he hadn't had the good fortune to end up in the company of his ancestors, particularly one who knew some of what he had gone through and much about the First Civilization and their crazy artifacts, he could have been killed or locked up as a madman--which he supposed he technically was sometimes. Instead, he got to tend bar on his great-great-whatever-grandfather's very own actual pirate--well, privateer--ship. Sure, there was a much higher risk of dying from smallpox or cannon fire or drowning than his old job. But, to make up for it, Connor and Haytham and Faulkner were much better educated and more interesting to talk to than any boss or co-worker that he had ever had, or most of the Assassin families on the Farm. Which was sad, that over two centuries worth of human learning didn't make people any more educated or smarter.
Two centuries worth of human learning had, however, produced the rejoinder "Your mom," which Desmond had thoughtlessly snapped at Haytham one day. That led to an hour or more of explaining the use and subtleties of the insult to both Haytham and Connor. And, the next day, during their second hour of late-morning father-son bickering, when Connor had snidely pronounced, "It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes," Haytham put his newfound skill to use.
"Your mom!"
Connor literally stumbled and collapsed from hysterical laughter, and Desmond sprang up to grab the wheel as Connor writhed on the deck, pounding the boards with his fist as tears streamed down his face. Haytham cautiously approached his son, looking worried. "Are you..."
Connor's face was brick red from laughing so hard, but he managed to say, "I certainly hope you did, but please do not tell me the details!" before rolling around in fits of laughter.
Desmond was having a hard time containing his own amusement, and tried to muffle his cackles with his elbow. Especially at the look of blank incomprehension on Haytham's face. "Uh, Pops, I probably should have mentioned this, but, uh, it sort of gets awkward if you say 'your mom' like that to someone whose mother you've actually been with, and everyone knows it. Like, your son? It's not so much of an insult then, more of, um, an awkward thing to say."
Connor almost cut off his own nose as he wiped away tears of mirth, his hands were shaking so much. "Father... I..." he collapsed again from laughter. "That was... I cannot..."
Haytham grumbled, "Okay, okay, fine, I get it."
Desmond reassured him, "If it had been anyone but Ratonhnhake:ton, it would have been fine. Or, maybe, if she was still around and could make lewd comments back at you, then it would have been a case of causing him to feel parent squick, which parents seem to find highly amusing."
Connor asked, still trying to calm down, "What is... parent... squick?"
"The way you want to vomit when you realize that, not only did your parents have sex to make you, they actually had fun and enjoyed it, and probably did it again and again. And how you don't want to know the details."
Now Haytham was snickering and smirking. Connor rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Father, grow up." But he was still giggling to himself.
Desmond resolved never to enlighten them about "That's what she said."
Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-15 17:22 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-15 18:02 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-15 18:15 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-15 20:16 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
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(Anonymous) - 2013-12-21 00:53 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 12b/?, Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-23 14:41 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 13a/?, Peer Pressure Is Nothing Compared To Ancestor Pressure
(Anonymous) 2013-12-24 03:30 pm (UTC)(link)"Let us go investigate this island. Faulkner says, if his map is correct, there should be the ruins of a governor's mansion, and little else." Connor looked at Desmond's still-bandaged hand, then called, "Father! I need somebody to row."
Desmond settled in the small boat--entirely a different experience from the sturdy Aquila. He gripped the seat as first Connor, then Haytham joined him, and the boat tilted alarmingly in the ocean.
Connor handed his father the oars. Haytham handed them back.
"Please, Father, can you row?"
"But son, I've never rowed before."
"And you are an old dog that cannot learn new tricks?"
"No, but you're a strong young man who can show some respect for his father."
Desmond looked up at the clouds, hoping this wouldn't take more than an hour or so.
"Respect?! ...I respect your impressive physical strength despite your age, and wish to help you maintain it."
"And I respect your vast experience in matters nautical."
"Good, then you will be more than happy to row while I use my experience to navigate."
"I'm quite certain you're capable of handling both at once. You could probably kill one of my friends at the same time, even, you're just that talented."
"You have friends? ...Oh, I forgot, you enjoy the company of murderers and abusers of small children."
"You mean, hardened killers like my son?" Haytham's voice was deadly and quiet.
"I certainly never inherited that talent from my mother."
"Would that she had killed Washington when she had the chance, instead of merely concussing him!"
This was going nowhere, and neither was the boat. Desmond picked up the oars and began clumsily rowing towards shore. Yeah, the rocks were dangerous, but he was pretty sure he knew where they were. And he was making mental bets on when either of them would notice he was rowing. He would have lost, though, because as soon as his bandages shifted and he winced with pain, the bickering stopped.
"Give me that!" Haytham snatched the oar out of his bandaged hand. "What on earth do you think you're doing? What do you think would happen if you got blisters?" He ineptly applied the oar to the water, and they proceeded more or less towards the shore.
Connor tried to hide his smirk. Desmond rolled his eyes, annoyed with both of them.
It began to get dark as they approached the shore, and Connor was so focused on steering clear of hidden hazards that he wasn't paying much attention to the land. But when Desmond switched to Eagle Vision, he saw a heck of a lot of blue gathering on the beach. "Uh, I thought you said this was uninhabited? So, uh, what's with the crap-ton of Assassins?"
Connor looked up, surprised. "How do you know they are Assassins?"
Haytham cursed, grimly. "Who else would be blue to you and red to me?" He squinted, then laughed. "Except they've got at least one traitor. A Templar, or good as."
"You recognize this person?"
"No, but I can't think of any other reason someone on an island full of Assassins would be blue for me." He reflected for a minute, then added, "It could be Jenny, but the last I heard she was in London terrorizing everyone within a three-mile radius."
Desmond squinted. Yes, there was definitely a wisp of red among the crowd.
The waves gently carried them to the shore, where at least three dozen hooded figures waited. A large man, perhaps a handful of years younger than Haytham, stepped forward. "Who are you, and why have you come here?"
Haytham muttered, "Typical Assassin welcoming committee."
Desmond reminded him, "Most Assassins have plenty of reason to hate you."
His voice radiated wounded innocence. "I haven't killed any assassins inyears."
"Howmanyyears, Pops?"
Connor shushed them, and stood up carefully in the boat. "I am Ratonhnhake:ton of Davenport Homestead, Captain of the Aquila." There was a general hushed commotion.
"Ruh--what?"
"Connor, then."
"Connor... what?"
"Just... Connor."
Desmond casually folded his ring finger and pretended to pick his nose. Haytham smirked at him. "Don't you think Templars know those little recognition signs you Assassins love?"
"Of course. But I don't think other Assassins know that Templars know that. Besides, what Templars are we talking about? Rank and file Templars? Or ones that defected from the Assassins or are spies or are otherwise associated with--"
"Will you two be quiet?!"
"Er, are you having some kind of difficulty?" The man was trying to look around Connor to see what all the talking was.
"My father and my cousin are...bickering. Again."
Desmond sulked. "I'm not bickering. You bicker with Pops. I don't."
The man blinked and shook his head. "I see. What brings you here, Connor of Davenport Homestead, Captain of the Aquila?" He caught Desmond's eye and brushed something off his sleeve, ring finger folded. Desmond pointed to Connor's tomahawk, and was glad when the man looked at it, eyes widening with recognition. Then his gaze wandered to Haytham's arm, obviously noticing the old Assassin symbol. Desmond could have facepalmed. Oh shit, he thinks Pops is one too!
Connor was good at this formal stuff--perhaps because he sounded formal all the time. "I find I have need to maroon a crew member for his crimes. We had thought this island to be uninhabited."
"It wouldn't be a secret hideout if it was marked on maps, would it?"
"Very true. In any case, since we obviously cannot maroon him here, may we purchase supplies and food from you, and then continue on our way?"
The man smiled. "Bring your whole crew ashore, Captain, and we'll throw a party."
Connor demurred. "That will not be necessary--"
"Nonsense! The Ghost of the North? Here? No Assassin would give away the chance to thank you and your crew for all you do for the Brotherhood."
Haytham was very carefully not obviously laughing.
Connor inclined his head stiffly. "Very well. Where can we dock?"
They rowed back out to the Aquila, and Connor steered it into the cove. Almost all of the crew gathered on the shore, leaving only a couple of men to keep watch over the ship and make sure the creep didn't escape from the mast. The Assassins had offered to transfer him to a couple of cells they had in the basement of the old manor, but Connor had declined.
Makeshift tables were being set up in the grassy area in front of the manor, and Assassins from the island mingled with sailors from the Aquila, and everyone took the chance to eat as much fresh food as they could. There was wild boar with pineapple, a spicy rice dish, and many other dishes that seemed exotic to most of the sailors, but just reminded Desmond of home and the vast array of ethnic cuisines he was used to having at his fingertips in take-out menu form. There was alcohol other than rum, for once, although the red wine was indifferent at best. There was music, and dancing, and room to dance without being hemmed in by the ship. There was a distinct lack of loose women, and what women there were, Assassins all, had a no-nonsense attitude that seemed to scare off most of the sailors. Desmond was fairly sure that one or two of them had agreed to make out with some of the crew, but the amount of drunken debauchery was fairly low.
Desmond and Haytham were hanging out at one of the tables, watching Connor watch his crew, and watching Jimmy sleepily playing dice with Faulkner. The Assassin who had welcomed them to the island walked deliberately over to them--clearly a little tipsy, but not smashed. "Hullo, visiting Assassins."
Haytham pretended to be watching a line dance. Connor eyed the older Assassin. "What is your name?"
"Ted Burleigh. First in my family to be an Assassin! Not like you fellows and your family."
"Mm," Desmond agreed, noncommittally.
"Me mum was a pirate, y'know. But an ally of Assassins. So when I was a lad and I couldn't be on a ship without puking my eyes out, I figured I'd join the Brotherhood. Least Mum's proud of that even if I can't sail."
"How did you get here, if you can't sail?" Haytham inquired.
"It was the worst time o' my life," Ted confessed. "I swear I puked up half my body weight. But this is the best place in the Caribbean to train, y'know. I didn't wanna go to Louisiana, or up to New England. An' I haven't left since I came here. Hey, Connor. Connor--You ain't got a last name?"
Connor gritted his teeth. "No."
"How on earth do you expect to blend in to colonial society without a last name?" Ted seemed aggrieved, either because of Connor's surname situation, or because he was having trouble sitting down on the flimsy folding stool.
"Very poorly, as few colonists seem to be able to see that I am half British."
"Then why not use your British parent's name?"
"Good question, son," Haytham whispered.
Desmond asked Connor, "Why does he care if you have a last name? How many Native American assassins named Connor are there anyway, and does each one get to drive a ship named the Aquila?"
Connor was well on his way to grinding his molars into dust. "Because my parents were not married and I understand that in my father's society that means I do not inherit anything from him except his face. Certainly not his name, even if I wanted it. Or anything else of his."
Ted peered at Haytham, looking surprised. Haytham smiled weakly. "Yes, hello, I'm Connor's father. I have no qualms about him using my surname. In fact, I would be delighted. And honored."
Connor growled softly, then muttered "Fine. Kenway."
Ted fell off the rickety stool. "Kenway?! As in...Edward Kenway??"
Haytham looked surprised. "Yes, that was my father's name. You knew him?"
"No, but my mother did." Ted seated himself again with exaggerated care. "She knew him really...really well."
Desmond winced. He could see where this was going.
Ted continued, a little louder. "My mother loved Assassins. At least two of 'em. And then she chose stupid idiots to father her children. Vastly inferior men." He shook a finger in Haytham's face. "I would...LOVE...to be your brother, mister...mister Kenway. Y'know. Your dad gave us this island. 'Cause the Templars found our old place. Kept attackin' us. He felt bad, she said. Said it was his own fault. Tried to protect it, but it weren't good enough. Now we're here an' the Templars ain't bothered us."
Haytham was really, really unable to look directly at Ted, and settled for keeping a concerned eye on Jimmy.
"So...I heard that ol' Edward and all his family got killed forty years ago. Guess not all his family."
"Actually, he was the only one who died that night. Other than some of the attackers, one of the boys who lived next door, and my governess." Haytham's voice was cold and remote as he watched Faulkner wrap his coat around Jimmy, who was nodding off, leaning against a palm tree.
Connor was watching his father thoughtfully. He supposed that, of all the phrases that could describe Haytham Kenway, "vastly inferior" was one that would never be applied to him, not even by the most Templar-hating Assassin. And, although he knew that many of his people had been displeased with his mother for taking a white man for her lover, he knew that none of them considered his father a weak or pathetic person and none of them spoke of his mother with anything less than respect. His friends Teiowi:sonte and Kahionhatenion also had a British father, but whenever he was spoken of, it was with fear and disdain. None even wished to speak his name, nor did anyone call his wife by her name, not even after she died, for fear that someone would tell him she had hidden there.
Ted interrupted Connor's musings by yawning hugely. "Pardon me." He yawned again, and put his head down on the table. Desmond tripled his estimate of the older assassin's blood alcohol content.
Displaced 13b/?, Peer Pressure Is Nothing Compared To Ancestor Pressure
(Anonymous) - 2013-12-24 15:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 13b/?, Peer Pressure Is Nothing Compared To Ancestor Pressure
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(Anonymous) - 2014-01-02 17:32 (UTC) - ExpandDisplaced 14a/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) 2014-01-20 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)Jimmy looked at him, mouth agape, as Desmond pulled off Connor's coat, chucked it into the guest room, and replaced it with the plainer robes. "All right, now, you have to walk like you belong here."
"How's that?"
"You're important and a little bit arrogant. You're respectful of your elders but don't cringe. You're being trained to carry on a noble tradition. And you have every right to be where you're going. You don't need to hide."
The boy nodded slowly. "Won't they know I don't belong here when they see my face?"
Desmond pulled the gray hood so it covered more of the boy's face. "If they see your face. Now follow me, I'm your teacher and this is a special lesson. We're actually going to see one of our worst enemies, and you're curious. All your life everybody's told you that these guys want to kill you and jump rope with your intestines." Jimmy made a face. "Seriously, these are like the worst guys you can imagine."
"I can imagine pretty bad."
"These guys, they want to kill you just for being you. Okay? Keep that in mind, you're being a curious kid going to see an actual boogeyman."
Jimmy nodded and bit his lip. "All right, let's go."
There weren't too many assassins milling about, which was both good and bad. Less chance of detection, but also less chance of hiding.
Jimmy followed Desmond loyally, carefully mimicking his movements, and casting occasional glances to see if he'd lost his mind in the past few minutes. Actually, he hadn't had any particularly bad Bleeding Effect episodes since they'd come to the island--Inagua, they called it. Desmond figured that since he'd experienced no memories of Haytham's father, Edward, he wasn't getting the weird dislocation of being in the same place as two different people that had been plaguing him ever since he had appeared on the Aquila.
But shouldn't he be picking up on Connor's memories? Wasn't this a significant memory for him? After all, it was unusual for Connor to be defending his father to other Assassins. And family was extremely important to him, even his father's side of the family. Wouldn't he have remembered going to his grandfather's island, finding mementos, meeting the annoying son of his grandfather's pirate ex-girlfriend?
Did that mean Desmond was actually changing the past by being in it? Was he going to be credited with the invention of the mojito? Could he convince his ancestors to get along? Or should be try to do as little as possible in the hopes of not screwing up the future? What if Connor was meant to have children with Dobby, and because of Desmond's intervention, got together with the woman from last night instead? Would Desmond still exist? Would be come back to a body that looked different? Would his father have a less crappy personality?
Desmond realized that Jimmy had yanked him into the parlor--he supposed that's what it was--and was trying to fan his face. "Desmond! Wake up, Desmond!"
"I'm awake, Jimmy, I'm okay."
The boy looked up at him dubiously. "What does okay mean?"
"It means I'm fine, I'm all right."
"You speak funny, Mister Desmond."
"No, I don't. You speak funnier, Mister Jimmy."
The boy giggled. "I'm too young to be called Mister anything," he reproached. "How come you don't speak like Mister Haytham or Captain Connor? They're your family."
"Well, I didn't learn to talk from them. Just like they don't sound the same because Connor was raised by his mother's people."
Jimmy digested this. "You still talk very oddly."
"How should I talk?"
"Like Mister Haytham."
"Why not like Connor?"
"Because he's younger than you. Also you call Mister Haytham 'Pops' so he probably raised you for part of your life, so you should talk like him."
Desmond reached under the gray hood to--
--Kadar had just become a novice, and Altair realized it was going to be much more difficult to ruffle the younger boy's hair to tease him--
--freeze with his hand creepily on Jimmy's hair.
"Wake up, Desmond!"
His hand was shaking as Altair's grief and guilt overwhelmed him. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he couldn't lower his hand, but he also couldn't raise it to touch the gray ghost before him.
"Psst! Desmond! Psst!"
"Hey, J--you're not my son." It was the woman from last night, and she looked aggrieved. "Have you seen my son around? Little taller than you, surly expression, black hair...?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No, ma'am."
"Oh, don't call me ma'am. My name is Mary, Mary Burleigh."
Desmond was finally able to drop his hand. "So that Ted fellow..."
"Is my stupid big brother, yes. Your uncle was right, by the way. Mother did name her children after her lovers and husbands. Except for my littlest sister Jenny. I suppose if Haytham is your uncle, then his sister Jennifer must be your mother...?"
Desmond was starting to feel really guilty about the fake backstory he and Haytham had concocted. "Yeah... But, um, she doesn't like to think about me..."
Mary looked at him with the deepest sympathy, and Desmond felt about half an inch tall. "I know all about what happened to her. I'm sure she feels just miserable when she looks at you. It's not fair, you know. Your uncle has a bastard son and nobody looks down on him for it, but your mother didn't even have a choice in the matter and would get heaped with shame if she was open about it."
"Hey, he didn't go knocking up Ziio on purpose, he didn't even know she got pregnant until Connor was seventeen. And, and about my, uh, mom. Yeah. About her. Where were the damn Assassins when she got kidnapped? How come she had to wait until her little brother grew up and could use his Templar skills to rescue her? How come the Assassins didn't go, 'hey, we haven't heard anything from our fellow Assassin Eddie Kenway in a while. Maybe he got killed and his daughter got kidnapped and his son's in the hands of the Templars! We gotta do something'? Why were they all, too bad so sad, and then they get upset about Haytham the Grand Master Templar? It's like his buddies, they're all, hey let's beat up this native kid, and then they wonder why he wants to kill them all. Duhhhh, you can't treat a kid like shit and then wonder why he grows up to cause problems for you."
Jimmy was gaping at Desmond in awe. Mary smiled and pulled up her hood. "Exactly what I said to my brother, but I don't think he listened. Your uncle is a valuable asset, a Templar with Assassin connections and Assassin sympathies. Any sensible Assassin--like your cousin--should try to cultivate these sympathies, and try to prevent the title of Grand Master from falling to some Templar we have no ties to."
Desmond nodded. "Keep your enemies close, exactly. So I'm going to--ah--"
"Break him out? Good, I'll help."
"Really? Why?"
"The reasons I just said. And... my family owes yours a big favor. The biggest favor, actually."
"How so?"
She looked at him. "You weren't told? Look... my mother used to go by the name Anne Bonny."
"Anne Bonny the famous pirate?! Like in that old book?! She's your mom?!"
"The very same. I think she's the only one in the book who's still alive, actually. She was saved from hanging by my brother that died--they couldn't hang a pregnant woman, you know. But they threw her, and Mary Read--"
"THE Mary Read? Wait... you're... you're named after her! She's one of the ones your mom--wait, she was an Assassin???"
Mary laughed. "Yes, although the one or two other people who have figured it out were more disgusted by my mother's love life than astounded that she was an Assassin."
Desmond waved his hand dismissively. "Where I come from, women walk hand in hand and send out wedding invitations, but nobody believes in Assassins."
She shook her head in amazement. "Well, as I say, they threw them into jail. They executed all the men, including Mother's husband Jack. And at the trial, your grandfather showed up and was captured. And they decided to torture him but keep him alive. Mother wouldn't say what they did to him, but she says he looked terrible."
Desmond blanched. He didn't know anything about the mysterious Edward Kenway, but he seemed to have some pretty vicious enemies.
Mary continued, "The Assassins sent a team to rescue them--your grandfather wasn't one yet, but they didn't want Mary and my mother to stay in prison, of course, and be brought to trial again. So they rescued your grandfather, and he was in no shape to fight, so while the Assassins were fighting the guards, he helped Mary out. And--and she died of childbed fever, but my mother made it out because of him and the Assassins, although my brother was born too early and didn't breathe." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "So you see, I wouldn't exist, nor most of my brothers and sisters, if it weren't for Edward Kenway. And I thought about it. And I don't think he'd want his own son dying in a jail cell in his own basement. Templar or no. And I don't think Mother would be very happy with Teddy if she found out about it."
Desmond opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say. Jimmy butted in, "Mister Haytham helped save me. From bad stuff."
Mary nodded gravely. "Teddy was reading the information we have on Haytham this morning, but I don't think he got past the word Templar to read about how apparently saving people from horrible fates runs in the family." She waved a stack of paper. "1735, saves his mother from death or worse when their home was attacked. Tries to help his father fight off the invaders, but gets injured. 1754, saves a whole bunch of Natives from one Edward Braddock, Templar. Later works with one of them to eliminate Braddock."
"Yeah, that's Kanieh'ti:io that he worked with. Ziio. Connor's mom. But he didn't coerce her or anything, she kissed him first when he was being all gentlemanly."
Mary paused to scribble notes. "1758, rescues his sister Jennifer from slavery. Also rescues his friend, James Holden, after Holden is captured and maimed in the course of rescuing Jenny. Then kills Grandmaster Reginald Birch, who had masterminded the 1735 attack on the Kenway family--"
"Jenny killed him. I mean. My mom. She killed Birch. Not that Haytham wasn't trying, it's just how the fight went. Both of them will tell you that. Birch was an evil douchebag. He did worse than you could possibly have written down."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because there weren't witnesses and the victim doesn't talk about it. Or think about it."
She pursed her lips. "How do you know, then?"
"An unlucky guess in a shitty circumstance."
Jimmy laced his fingers through Desmond's, and clung to him, looking up at Mary with big eyes.
Mary bit her lip. "I see. Er, back to your uncle. 1776, may have done something to save his son from the gallows--weakened the knot on the noose or some such. Certainly it was a bad noose that didn't kill him right away. He was spotted sneaking around in the crowd at the execution, disguised, and vanished by the time the excitement was over. He didn't interfere with one of his close friends getting killed by Connor, either."
"And he helped me!" Jimmy insisted.
Mary asked, "What did he do?"
"Captain Connor found me, um, getting hurt by this guy... and he whistled, and Mister Haytham and Mister Desmond came over, and they pulled him away from me, and took me to the doctor, and tied that man up so he couldn't hurt anyone, and had a trial for that man and told about the way he was hurting me so I didn't have to say it. And they keep me from being lonely and scared. So you can't let your brother hurt Mister Haytham. I need him. Maybe when I'm taller and I can use a sword and a flintlock, I won't need him. But right now I do."
She crouched down to look the boy in the eyes. "All right. I won't let my brother hurt Mister Haytham. We're going to fix everything, you and me and Captain Connor and Mister Desmond."
Jimmy nodded, smiling.
Mary spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and darted out of the room, returning with a teenaged boy in gray robes, whose face seemed to have a permanent scowl. "My son, James Burleigh."
James grumbled--he looked about fifteen, and disaffected with life in general. Desmond switched to Eagle Vision and saw wisps of red around him. This was going to be awkward.
"Mom. I don't want to do whatever crazy Assassin scheme you have going on. How many times have I told you I don't want to be an Assassin?"
"I don't care if you want to be an Assassin or not, James, I need your help and this is very far from Assassin business."
The boy seemed interested--or at least marginally less disaffected, which was quite the accomplishment. "Are you leaving the Assassins?"
"Probably not, but your uncle won't be happy about us breaking a Templar out of jail."
"There's a Templar in the basement? A real live Templar?"
"Yes. And if you help me out, you can leave with him."
"What's the plan?"
Desmond was staring at Mary. She rolled her eyes. "Don't judge me. I want my boy to be happy."
"But what if he betrays you all?"
She frowned thoughtfully. "I don't believe he would. First, I think he only wants to get away from here. Becoming a Templar takes more dedication than I think he wants to summon."
"I'm right here, Mother."
"They'll kick you out if they don't like you."
"As opposed to the Assassins, who won't even let me leave. What are you smirking at?" He glared pugnaciously at Desmond.
"James Burleigh, you mind your manners."
"Or else what, you'll have Uncle Ted hit me even harder in training?" He had a faint shadow of green and yellow around one eye.
Mary frowned. "I'm sure he didn't mean to."
"I'm sure he did."
"Ah--" Desmond interrupted. "Look, I understand about wanting to get away. When I was sixteen, I ran away from the Assassins too. I hated my... my teachers, I hated everything about it. I knew my mom would be disappointed, but I had to find my own way. And I didn't join the Templars, there's lots of other things you can do with your life. I worked whatever jobs I could get, and then I ended up as a bartender, and I really liked that. I would have been so happy not to be a part of the whole thing ever again if it weren't for some asshole Templars in Italy." Damn, but it was hard to integrate his fake backstory with his real one.
"You didn't want to be like your uncle?" James queried.
"Cool and awesome like him, yes. A Templar, no."
"My uncle isn't even 'cool and awesome'."
"Ted is a good man and he saved my life when your father and all the other Colonial Assassins were killed before you were born."
Desmond's blood ran cold. He kept forgetting about the Purge. That was not something he looked forward to discussing with Haytham.
Jimmy asked, "Don't you have other uncles? I bet at least one of them is decent."
James shrugged. "I've never met them. I met my Gran once. I guess she's not too bad."
Re: Displaced 14b/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
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(Anonymous) - 2014-01-22 07:19 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-22 08:44 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-23 07:54 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-23 20:02 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-24 03:34 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-24 04:21 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
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(Anonymous) - 2014-01-25 19:54 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-25 20:30 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2015-06-18 06:20 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14c/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2015-06-18 19:13 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Displaced 14a/?, Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You
(Anonymous) - 2014-01-21 20:43 (UTC) - Expand