Time really was running out, even Shaun could not deny this. In light of Desmond's mental and physical deterioration, they could not afford to lose any more time. Lucy's new regimen put Desmond under for twelve-hour stretches, sometimes even more. Given that they could not feed him while he was reliving Ezio's memories, they set up a daily saline drip. Lucy bought seven of them, and Shaun could hardly stop himself from pessimistically assuming she hadn't bought more because she didn't expect him to last any longer than a week.
And when Desmond was allowed to return to consciousness, he was hardly himself -- babbling in Italian mostly, sometimes Arabic, and a couple times, Shaun could swear he identified a variety of other languages being muttered under-breath. When taken out of the Animus, he always seemed desolate, angry, restless, wanting to move and run and fly -- but his body could not keep up with him, weak as it was, and they ultimately confined him to the seat so he wouldn't hurt himself. He soiled himself once, twice before Lucy went out and bought an ergonomic bedpan. She took it upon herself to clean it every six hours, perhaps as some sort of self-punishment in atonement for what she knew she was responsible for doing to Desmond.
Shaun, for his part, kept quiet. At this point, he could hardly blame Desmond for not making an appearance at the forefront of his waking moments, instead favouring taking a backseat to madness. Truth be told, Shaun would have done the same. He busied himself with aiding the other assassin teams, working the night shifts guarding Desmond to give Lucy some reprieve. The woman hardly slept as it was.
Rebecca modified the Animus to accommodate as Desmond's now permanent seat, adding a variety of supposed creature comforts like extra padding and a wider width, to allow a bit of movement. She also gave it four sturdy circular attachments, to cuff Desmond's hands and feet. His wrists quickly chaffed, and they had to add padding to the cuffs, too.
The memories of Desmond's chipper smile and stupid questions seemed so far away, now. In Desmond's place, Subject 17 was a frail, dying corpse. It was so ridiculous, Shaun laughed himself to tears one late night, his breath hitching oddly in places. He didn't even feel Rebecca's soft, hesitant hand on his shoulder, so busy he was trying not to choke himself from lack of air.
Subject 17's imprisonment was fully underway, Shaun thought to himself. Now they only needed to take his life. Abruptly before him, the computer screen bulged and blurred, and Shaun impatiently wiped away the tears. He had work to do.
And all the while Desmond was dying, Ezio grew closer and closer to the Apple. Until he finally found it.
Fill [7/?]
And when Desmond was allowed to return to consciousness, he was hardly himself -- babbling in Italian mostly, sometimes Arabic, and a couple times, Shaun could swear he identified a variety of other languages being muttered under-breath. When taken out of the Animus, he always seemed desolate, angry, restless, wanting to move and run and fly -- but his body could not keep up with him, weak as it was, and they ultimately confined him to the seat so he wouldn't hurt himself. He soiled himself once, twice before Lucy went out and bought an ergonomic bedpan. She took it upon herself to clean it every six hours, perhaps as some sort of self-punishment in atonement for what she knew she was responsible for doing to Desmond.
Shaun, for his part, kept quiet. At this point, he could hardly blame Desmond for not making an appearance at the forefront of his waking moments, instead favouring taking a backseat to madness. Truth be told, Shaun would have done the same. He busied himself with aiding the other assassin teams, working the night shifts guarding Desmond to give Lucy some reprieve. The woman hardly slept as it was.
Rebecca modified the Animus to accommodate as Desmond's now permanent seat, adding a variety of supposed creature comforts like extra padding and a wider width, to allow a bit of movement. She also gave it four sturdy circular attachments, to cuff Desmond's hands and feet. His wrists quickly chaffed, and they had to add padding to the cuffs, too.
The memories of Desmond's chipper smile and stupid questions seemed so far away, now. In Desmond's place, Subject 17 was a frail, dying corpse. It was so ridiculous, Shaun laughed himself to tears one late night, his breath hitching oddly in places. He didn't even feel Rebecca's soft, hesitant hand on his shoulder, so busy he was trying not to choke himself from lack of air.
Subject 17's imprisonment was fully underway, Shaun thought to himself. Now they only needed to take his life. Abruptly before him, the computer screen bulged and blurred, and Shaun impatiently wiped away the tears. He had work to do.
And all the while Desmond was dying, Ezio grew closer and closer to the Apple. Until he finally found it.