A/N: Second writer!anon hopes OP enjoys! I'm tackling the angstier side :D
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At Abstergo he'd never noticed the growth of his beard, because they would shave it off him when he was asleep. The realization of this happening upon reaching the Assassin's hideout had sent a shudder of disgust and added an additional vibe of CREEPY to Dr Vidic's already repugnant character. He'd barely been a week off the streets, then, so he hadn't noticed much physical change beyond his ability to see blood-paintings on the wall if he squinted just right, and a sudden urge to murder anything that glowed red in the half-light.
Lucy had given him a tentative smile and a brief explanation about "the bleeding effect", which Desmond had taken lightly enough. It sounded cool, anyway: so he spent a couple hours inside a machine, reliving some ancestral dude's memories, and he would be able to do all that free running and ass-kicking, just by watching? Awesome! It sounded like the fastest way to get fit, ever.
But slowly, Desmond began to realize everything wasn't peaches and cream. It began at the hideout in somewhere, Italy, some days after fleeing Abstergo. In addition to the myriad of ghostly carriages and muttering, indistinct voices, Desmond was finding himself easily out of breath. A closer look in a mirror after a shower had him grabbing the tiny folds of his stomach, and pulling. He'd never been a man to be out of shape, even after leaving the Farm: eating healthily and doing daily exercise had done wonders for his physique. But all this lying around had started him on the road to pudgy-land.
And so he went to the warehouse downstairs to train. Lucy had recommended he try out his ancestor's moves, to make use of the bleeding effect -- but Desmond's mind was far too ahead of his body. He almost broke a limb trying to swing from one ceiling beam to another, only to discover his arm strength was many times less than his mind informed him it should be. He ended up crashing spectacularly onto a tower of boxes, making a mess and only just barely escaping with his dignity as he rolled to his feet.
Shaun made fun of him, of course: that was practically in the man's job description, given what Desmond had seen of him so far. Everyone had heard the racket and Lucy had swiftly come down to see what was happening -- Rebecca had even begun to pack in fear that they'd been discovered. Then, even she had joined in on the slow clap of shame, once Lucy had deigned Desmond to be safe and ok.
It was this ever-thinning wire of awareness that time was running out that caused them to lengthen Desmond's animus-time, upon Rebecca's suggestion. Lucy was reluctant, but even Desmond could see that the Templars were biting at their heels: he agreed readily. Again, not the sharpest tool in the shed. But certainly one with a good heart. Even Shaun had to admit that, even if only to the recess of his mind.
It came to be that Desmond would be strapped in from early morning till noon, every day. He would wake up disorientated, feeling like days had passed instead of hours. He'd lost his appetite, too, his mind refusing to believe he hadn't devoured that meal at Teadora's, or caught a cat nap at Leonardo's. His focus was utterly on killing Rodrigo Borigia, the man who'd murdered his family -- food and sleep were an occasional possibility, but not nearly the need that the hunt was.
"Desmond," Shaun snarked one afternoon, having observed Desmond stare rather fixedly and quite moodily at the wall for over a minute. "You look like a bloody wino." It could be mistaken for worry, but Desmond doubted it.
Startled out of his reverie, Desmond had enough energy to muster a glare and some random witty retort at Shaun before stomping off. A look in the bathroom mirror later revealed he'd forgotten to shave for what seemed to be three days now -- but hadn't he done so yesterday? The days were blurring… he viciously grabbed at his belly underneath his shirt, which was slowly beginning to sag. He'd lost his six-pack, too. He decided to train every afternoon after the animus session, to stop this from happening. He skipped breakfast, figuring with all his lack of activity, the less food he ate, the slower he'd grow fat.
Fill [1/?]
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At Abstergo he'd never noticed the growth of his beard, because they would shave it off him when he was asleep. The realization of this happening upon reaching the Assassin's hideout had sent a shudder of disgust and added an additional vibe of CREEPY to Dr Vidic's already repugnant character. He'd barely been a week off the streets, then, so he hadn't noticed much physical change beyond his ability to see blood-paintings on the wall if he squinted just right, and a sudden urge to murder anything that glowed red in the half-light.
Lucy had given him a tentative smile and a brief explanation about "the bleeding effect", which Desmond had taken lightly enough. It sounded cool, anyway: so he spent a couple hours inside a machine, reliving some ancestral dude's memories, and he would be able to do all that free running and ass-kicking, just by watching? Awesome! It sounded like the fastest way to get fit, ever.
But slowly, Desmond began to realize everything wasn't peaches and cream. It began at the hideout in somewhere, Italy, some days after fleeing Abstergo. In addition to the myriad of ghostly carriages and muttering, indistinct voices, Desmond was finding himself easily out of breath. A closer look in a mirror after a shower had him grabbing the tiny folds of his stomach, and pulling. He'd never been a man to be out of shape, even after leaving the Farm: eating healthily and doing daily exercise had done wonders for his physique. But all this lying around had started him on the road to pudgy-land.
And so he went to the warehouse downstairs to train. Lucy had recommended he try out his ancestor's moves, to make use of the bleeding effect -- but Desmond's mind was far too ahead of his body. He almost broke a limb trying to swing from one ceiling beam to another, only to discover his arm strength was many times less than his mind informed him it should be. He ended up crashing spectacularly onto a tower of boxes, making a mess and only just barely escaping with his dignity as he rolled to his feet.
Shaun made fun of him, of course: that was practically in the man's job description, given what Desmond had seen of him so far. Everyone had heard the racket and Lucy had swiftly come down to see what was happening -- Rebecca had even begun to pack in fear that they'd been discovered. Then, even she had joined in on the slow clap of shame, once Lucy had deigned Desmond to be safe and ok.
It was this ever-thinning wire of awareness that time was running out that caused them to lengthen Desmond's animus-time, upon Rebecca's suggestion. Lucy was reluctant, but even Desmond could see that the Templars were biting at their heels: he agreed readily. Again, not the sharpest tool in the shed. But certainly one with a good heart. Even Shaun had to admit that, even if only to the recess of his mind.
It came to be that Desmond would be strapped in from early morning till noon, every day. He would wake up disorientated, feeling like days had passed instead of hours. He'd lost his appetite, too, his mind refusing to believe he hadn't devoured that meal at Teadora's, or caught a cat nap at Leonardo's. His focus was utterly on killing Rodrigo Borigia, the man who'd murdered his family -- food and sleep were an occasional possibility, but not nearly the need that the hunt was.
"Desmond," Shaun snarked one afternoon, having observed Desmond stare rather fixedly and quite moodily at the wall for over a minute. "You look like a bloody wino." It could be mistaken for worry, but Desmond doubted it.
Startled out of his reverie, Desmond had enough energy to muster a glare and some random witty retort at Shaun before stomping off. A look in the bathroom mirror later revealed he'd forgotten to shave for what seemed to be three days now -- but hadn't he done so yesterday? The days were blurring… he viciously grabbed at his belly underneath his shirt, which was slowly beginning to sag. He'd lost his six-pack, too. He decided to train every afternoon after the animus session, to stop this from happening. He skipped breakfast, figuring with all his lack of activity, the less food he ate, the slower he'd grow fat.