For TheAllPowerfulOz, who tends to put up with my more wilder ideas. I suppose I should warn you for the spoilers ahead? Not too spoiler-y, but regardless. Assassin's Creed or it's characters do not belong to me. They belong to the horrible cliff-hanger king which is Ubisoft. I recommend Blue Lips by Regina Spektor while reading this.
The man before him, giving out commands, acting like the Master Assassin he became only weeks ago, this man here, is not Desmond Miles.
Can't be.
Shaun Hastings seems to be the only one that remembers about the real Subject 17, a bloke in complete denial of his lineage, easy to talk to, even make fun of. Someone who spoke to you with a light, joking tone, even if the topic was his impendning madness and probable death at the unexisting hands of a chair. A man who joked about killingpeople with martinis.
But all of this has changed, ever since he woke up from his coma, telling them all that he knew what to do. It was as if someone had turned a switch. The inactivity and doubt, his still lingering questions and insecurities, gone. What had happened inside the Animus? What had occured to change him so drastically? Shaun didn't know, and could not know, for those days had been left completely up to the Assassin and nothing had been recorded. Even Rebecca had taken notice, but when it came down to the whole 'save the world from the apocalypse' deal, no one seemed to mind. After all, they needed not only someone to guide them but also the knowledge only Desmond had.
Except for them.
He nursed the cup of tea (coffee, water, soda, it didn't matter anymore), thinking that he rather childishly wanted to go back to that. To when things, if hectic, were calmer, normal, filled with camaradier, if shaky. When Rebecca made tactless jokes. When he'd chew on Desmond merely to tease him. When Desmond spoke to them all, not out of mere boredom but actual interest in each of them. And when Lucy-.
The British jolted. No use going down that lane. But, would he really do that? Simply force it down? Like a useless thing, something inconsecuential and unimportant and for Chrissske's Lucy is dead and no one cares.
Bitting his lip helps, if only minimally, but it's what allows him to keep going. In these times, when he half-withers into himself and the clincal coldness of William Miles, he wonders, does Desmond care? He had done the deed. Did he feel guilt? Remorse? If he did, he never showed it, was too 'strong' to do so. He was leader now. He had no time to mourn.
What a sad existance. And it took its toll.
Subject 17 was still too thin, too fragile. For all the authority his presence imposed, the overexposure to the Animus had left his body haggard and weak. There were circles under his eyes, his veins were easy to see, his bones almost protruding from underneath clammy skin. And yet his mind seemed stronger than ever, as if he'd reclaimed something from within the network of memories. What was his. What he'd forgotten.
And what made him into the disgusting automaton he was now.
Sleep, wake, work, eat. Rinse and repeat.
There were no more pats on his back. No more childish bickering with the techie. No more smiles. Only duty. The future of the world on their shoulders. Responsability to break a man.
Duty, duty, duty.
He was getting fucking sick of it. Shaun heard his thoughts and agreed that their childishness had surpassed the annoited quota of 'Shit I'm getting really fucking tired of and just want to lie on the floor and bloody bugger you all.' He stared at the screen, at yet another team lost and wondered why this had to fuck itself so fast and so badly. Rebecca barely even spoke to him now, as if they hadn't always been friends.
Death did that to you.
"Hey."
He started, looking up at the woman in question and blinking in confusion.
"Well. They either didn't need you anymore or as per usual you're procastinating."
"Real funny. Scoot over."
He obliged, if only because it was too cold. Hospitals came to mind. He also needed the company. They stayed silent, Becca watching him work, him giving out instructions to retreat for the moment. It stayed like that for some time, both lounging in the bed, stomachs to the floor as if it were a simple slumber party instead of the Assassin HQ.
"He's changed."
She was looking at her hands, eyes downcast. Even her headphones were missing.
"I mean, shit, does he even remember that Lucy is..?"
They both stayed silent. A short reminescence of a life now gone.
"I just... don't like it, man. It's alright and fine and shit that he's got to save us but does he have to completely dive nose first into it? I mean, shit. I haven't seen him sleep. At least not that I know. Or eat. What's his plan? Live out of sheer force of will?"
Her deep brown searched for answers in his equal colored eyes. For the first time, he had nothing to say.
"You remember when I'd tease him for being a couch potato?"
"Yeah."
"I'd rather have the potato back."
The laughter that erupted from her was sudden and unexpected and it bubbled into him, though he kept it at a chuckle.
"I wonder as well, Becca. He just-He's not the same, like you say. It feels wrong, somehow, like he's become what we need, but not what he wanted."
She humms and places her head between her crossed arms, staring but not seeing. His glasses are placed on the floor, which he might wake to and crunch under his feet, but he's tired and exhausted, and angry and so much more. Before he sleeps, he has a sudden thought that they're both huddling like frightened children.
He dreams of what was.
What no longer can be.
"Hey."
Shaun doesn't even look up from his work but drawls.
"Hello Desmond. Go away."
But the bloke is nothing if not persitant and stubborn. Horrible convination if you ask him.
"Just brought you something to drink."
The cup is warm and filled with tea. Three spoons of sugar. A drop of milk. Exactly how he likes it.
"Is this a trick? Did you fill it with something to laugh at my expence? Real nice of you to-"
"Relax. It's normal tea. You just looked a little stressed."
"Oh."
He's not entirely sure why he feels embarressed. Or thankful. Ugh, he was going soft.
"Must be real hard, guiding all those Assassins."
"It is, but someone has to do it and by the Queen I will not allow another team to-"
The silence between them is not akward. It is an understanding.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
He shrugs. Desmond looks weary. Tired, and yet, here he is, at four in the morning in Monterrigioni, listening to Shaun.
"Keeping them all safe with everything you have. I mean, everyone keeps saying I'm important and everything but if it weren't for you, more teams would be gone. I'm nothing without the Animus and my 'genetic make-up' Just a bartender from New York."
Shaun had never, in all the times he'd been working for the Assassins, been thanked for his work. He turned to look at Miles and stared, feeling something under his skin. Dread. Worry. Premonition.
"And I'm also sorry."
"Now for what?"
Desmond was different now. Thin, scraggy. Weary.
"For not mourning her. For killing her."
He seemed to shrink into himself, the frown in his face making him look older.
"It's going to sound like a pathetic excuse but I was forced to kill her. I begged her not to make me. I even cried. If I could have, I'd have crawled on my knees and begged harder."
The sting in his eyes and the lump on his throat feel like they wish to overflow. He's not entirely sure how he manages to keep the tears from simply coming.
"I bet you think I'm a monster now, huh? I'm sorry. I just want this whole thing to be done with. Then... Then I won't need to be what they need me to be. I'll simply be what I want and nothing more."
The Assassin smiled and looked pathetic and exhasuted. Shaun wanted to do nothing more but punch him.
"Maybe then they'll let me mourn her in peace. Quietly. I'm so sorry for abandoning you and Becca. I guess... I don't really deserve to be forgiven, do I?"
He jolts awake.
The next time he goes to his desk to check on the teams, he finds a cup waiting for him. The cup is warm and filled with tea. Three spoons of sugar. A drop of milk. Exactly how he likes it.
He breaks into tears.