Entry tags:

pull me out the water, cold and blue.

WHO: Evie Frye
WHERE: The bunker and the inn
WHEN: Forward dated to November 27th
OPEN TO: Locked to Altaïr (bunker) and OTA (inn)
WARNINGS: Nothing as yet, will update if needed

your songs remind me of swimming

the bunker ; locked to altaïr

As far as awakening in unexpected places goes, finding oneself unaccountably underwater is probably among the most disorienting. Like anyone else, Evie inhales a little out of shock before reflex kicks in and forces her to hold her breath. She's in a glass box of some sort, and though the water is clear her view of what's outside is distorted by the curvature of the glass — a tube, then, rather than a box? Evie balls up a fist and bangs on the glass as hard as she can, which is considerably so, but it doesn't so much as crack.

It's only then that she actually starts to panic a little bit. She's always been remarkably cool-headed, but it's starting to become clear that either she's going to have to find some way of escaping or she's going to drown. Evie can hold her breath — her father made sure she and Jacob were both taught how to swim — but only for a couple of minutes at best. She knows she's going to die sooner or later, just like everyone else; in fact, she has made her peace with the fact that that might be sooner, rather than later, given her work. Yet to die in this way seems cruel, awful — inhuman, in the sense that the water certainly doesn't care if it kills her, because it can't.

Though she knows it's likely futile, she hammers on the glass again — and then there's movement beyond, in her peripheral, a figure she can't clearly see. Moments later, the water drains out of the tube and the glass opens up. Evie stumbles a little, but doesn't collapse, grabbing onto the edge of the tube with one hand as she leans forward to cough water out of her lungs. Her hair is hanging in her face, she's dressed in a strange dark blue shirt and matching trousers, and there's a weight on her back she didn't really feel when she was floating — a pack of some sort, perhaps, but she can't afford to look at it just yet.

"What in God's name—" is the only thing she can say right now, the words half-gasped as she tries to catch her breath.

but somehow i forgot

the inn ; ota

Later, after she's inventoried the contents of her pack, changed her clothes, and done her hair up properly, Evie makes her way to the common room of the inn. Still confused and a little disoriented, she nonetheless has sense to know that inns, pubs, taverns, and the like are where you go if you want information, a drink, or — in this case, as she's just realizing she's actually famished — food.

"Pardon me," she says to the nearest person, "but could you tell me where I could get something to eat?" A brief pause, then, "I haven't any money, but if there's any work that needs done—"

She and Jacob did odd jobs for pay for a while, after all. Even if some of those jobs veered into the somewhat questionable or — all right, downright illegal. The point is she's far from being too proud to do work in exchange for something she needs — though, come to think of it, she hasn't seen anyone exchanging money here, and that's strange.

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Between issues with whatever was going around the village, the mining trip, and recently having gone ghost like, Jake is doing his best to help where he can. Not at the hospital, because he's a horrible person to make sick people deal with but with other things around the village.

Heading home from the forge, his tee smudged from working on the anvil, Jake figured he should see if Cougar was at the inn... and snag some food. Coming through the door, he pauses to look around for Cougar, well for his hat, when someone speaks to him.

"No one here has money," he admits, giving her a once over, frowning a bit in that he doesn't remember seeing her before. Not that that says much as he's not gotten around as much as he could in the short time he's been there. "Food here at the inn is free, and provided by a few of those here, and it's mostly on a barter system, but you're free to take what you need as you need it," he says, giving a jerk of his head. "Come on. There's usually a pot on the stove of some kind of soup or stew most days. Porridge in the mornings. I'll show you."

During the short time that Connor had been within the village, he had developed a routine. He would go out during the day trying to gather materials which would allow him to forge a wooden bow and the arrows needed to allow him to hunt. And he would come back to the inn at night, sit in the common room for a meal before retiring to his room and promptly falling asleep.

He was on the meal portion of that routine, sitting at a table that was near the door instead of tucked into a corner, reading a book that had been left lying around - and usually forgetting his food was even there until he glanced up, remembered to take a bite then rinse and repeat.

When she spoke he glanced upwards, noting that she had that same confused look he had carried when he first arrived.

"Meals are free here. I have found that things generally operate by way of barter." And then, laying his book down, he gestures to the chair across from him. "Please sit. I will go into the kitchen for you."

For days, perhaps even weeks, he had been attending the ill, cleaning, harvesting the snakes that had proven to be the cure. Now, he was taking time to walk, to breathe, see what he had intended to see for some time. Perhaps it was foolish to go alone. He had promised Dorian, but with things going as they were, he found himself wanting only his own company. It was restful to listen to nothing but his own thoughts for once.

He knew now that even if he hadn't been dead when he'd been taken, if he returned, he would be. He was old. His body had been ready to give out. He'd felt it even as the door had lowered and he'd seen Darim for the last time. Though he didn't believe in the Christian notions of heaven or hell, or even the Saracen notions of jannah and dozukh, he had tried to remind himself that nothing was true. It was possible there could be an afterlife. And if there was, he'd hoped to see those he loved there. The unfortunate many who had gone on before him. With recent arrivals, Malik had been strong on his mind. After seeing Tony's vulnerability, he'd thought of both Darim and Sef. As he had carefully attended 7's hair, he'd thought of Maria. And all of this had made his heart heavy. Which was why he had set it all aside.

Rather than think about any of it, Altaïr went to the Bunker, taking a long walk, spending a full day on the way, listening to his surroundings, and had then descended into the bunker. If he hadn't been running each day, this would have been wearing - but with the exercise, the practice, and his own determination, even this long walk in the growing chill felt little but satisfying. He was able again, and despite the strange surroundings, he felt capable of coping with it all.

So much was ruined. Room after room of it, rubble and disarray, the dust of a long time spent idle. There were things he didn't understand - things he thought he'd seen in the Apple, but that he couldn't put together in a way that made sense to him. Yet. Screens with text that made little sense to him despite his being able to read it. Great glass boxes meant to hold things he couldn't name.

It was as he walked from that room that he heard-- something. A thump. His brows drew down and he began toward the sound when it happened again. Now he could see where, and he could see why, and his heart stopped in his chest.

"Maria--!"

He wasn't sure what to do. His first thought was to break the glass, but that would endanger her. Instinct screamed at him to act, and it was in panic that he pressed a button, hoping - and then being proven right as the tube opened, releasing her, and then he was there at her side. Ah, his amazing wife, holding herself up even after such a scare...

He carefully braced her shoulder, only moving when she spoke - but when she spoke, he pushed her hair back from her face and gathered her near, his heart in his throat. "Habibti..." The word was a choke. "I thought I would never see you again."

She's taken a little off guard, though she doesn't show it much. Evie has never known an economy that wasn't based on the exchange of money for goods and services. On the other hand, perhaps she shouldn't be surprised — as far as she can tell, this is a small village in the middle of nowhere. A barter system probably makes more sense.

"Honestly, almost anything sounds fantastic right at the moment," she concedes. It feels like it's been ages since she had a decent meal. Evie follows Jake into the kitchen, looking around her as she goes. The architecture here doesn't seem too dissimilar to what she's familiar with from home — if anything, it's quite modern.

"Have you been here very long?" It seems a good enough question to start, one she rather suspects she'll be asking of a lot of people here.

It would probably be a bit of a misperception to say Evie is more interested in the book than the man reading it — but the book did catch her attention. So they've reading material here, which makes her think this place might not be entirely awful.

The offer is so unexpectedly kind that, for a moment, she doesn't know what to do with it. "If you're certain," she says, as if there was much room for doubt there. "That's very kind of you."

She sits in the chair, a little gingerly — and when he walks away, she takes a moment to see what it is he was reading. Scholarly curiosity, of course.

Oh.

Oh.

It's only because she's so disoriented that Evie doesn't actually yank herself away from him and then immediately punch him in the face. Or knee him in the groin the way she'd done with Starrick. It takes a moment for her mind to catch up to what's going on, and then she abruptly goes stiff and pushes him away, not harshly but not especially gently either.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, her tone making it clear she is not really all that sorry, "but I believe you've mistaken me for someone." She's flushed a bit, with slightly indignant embarrassment mostly. "My name is Evie Frye. And if you don't mind, I'd like to know what on Earth is going on."

Part of her already suspects there are Templars involved somewhere, that she's been kidnapped, even though she has no memory of such a thing.

First, there was confusion. And then a strange mix of pain and horror. What had he done? The second time in a matter of days. He had grown too hopeful, and then had hoped too hard.

Altaïr shook his head, stepping back to a respectful distance and then a little farther, and then gave her an apologetic half-bow, hand lifted to rest over his heart. "My deepest apologies," he said, voice still evening out. He'd hoped so much for someone he recognised, someone he knew, who knew him. Something that would ease the growing loneliness that had been creeping in on him.

"I am afraid that I have mistaken you for my wife. There is a great deal to explain of this place, and I only have the answers for some - but I will tell you all I can." The more he said, the clearer his voice became. Still, and always, accented, still quiet. "My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, and I gravely apologise for the liberty I have taken."

Finding that there was, in fact, reading material was one of the only saving graces he had found within this place thus far. The one he was currently reading was by Benjamin Franklin, a name and man who he was entirely familiar with.

He simply offers her a nod in return before he retreats into the kitchen. Having so recently experienced the unpleasantness of arrival himself he knew how draining it could be.

He returned a few short moments later with a steaming bowl of stew, along with a spoon and a mug full of tea, placing it all carefully down in front of her before returning to his own meal.

"It is not much, but it is hot." And occasionally that was all that mattered.

"I've seen a few of those that put in time on the meals, and I have to say it's better than any chow hall food I've ever had. Definitely better than MREs," he says, chuckling with a wrinkling of his nose at that. "Least you know it's all fresh and maybe not made from brains or something," he says, heading for the stove, grabbing a bowl on his way for her.

"Not long really. About two months now, and I've known some that have been here a couple of years, but best I can tell no one in particular here now has been here more than a handful of years." Not that he's met at least. "Take it your brand new out of the tubes?"

Which is maybe not the nicest way of putting it but he's never been sure on a better way of wording it either.

"I should hope not," Evie says, sounding faintly alarmed and horrified, but in a way that makes it clear she does realize he's joking. She may not know what an 'MRE' is, but she does know what sarcasm is, thank you very much. It doesn't keep her from being revolted by the idea of eating brains. Did he really need to use that particular example?

Two months isn't terribly long, but then he says years and Evie feels a chill crawl down her spine. She can't imagine it. She has every intention of being gone from here long before a year has passed, let alone two — but the possibility occurs to her that it's been that long and no one's been able to find a way out, that they really are all trapped here in what essentially amounts to a gilded cage.

Well. It's not going to last, if she has anything to say about it.

She makes a bit of a face at the question; it's neither elegant nor tactful, but there really isn't a better way to put it. "I suppose you could say that. Is that how everyone gets here? Underground like that?"

Evie's not claustrophobic, nor is she afraid of the dark, but there'd been something about that place that had felt oppressive, all the same.

Given the space to do so, Evie took a moment to get her bearings. They were in a lit room, the walls and floor made of something gray that looked like it might have been cement. There were other glass tubes like the one she had been in, but empty. And then there was this man, this strange man with an accent she could almost but not quite place.

The apology and offer of explanations was enough to mollify her a bit, though she couldn't help but remain cautious. It was unlikely this man had kidnapped her, but perhaps whoever had done so was still nearby.

And then that name — that threw her entirely off her guard. For a moment she simply stared at him. "You're—" she began, and then stopped herself. What were the chances this was really Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Master Assassin, Mentor, and possibly one of the single most important figures in the history of the Brotherhood? He'd been dead for centuries.

No. It wasn't possible, not by her reckoning. Just a man with the same name, that was all. She recovered herself quickly, decided to err on the side of politeness. "I fear it's my turn to apologize, sir; your name seemed familiar to me." If by some miracle it really was the Altaïr she knew from the histories, she'd already made it obvious to him that she recognized his name at least, and trying to pretend otherwise would have been silly. Still, she didn't need to go into the details of why and how, just yet.

"I don't think I would be too far wrong to venture that this isn't London," she said, prompting him. Evie was a reasonably intelligent woman, and this was certainly no part of England that she'd ever seen.

"It's a delicacy in some countries," he points out, popping one shoulder in a shrug as he thinks about it. "Depending on how they're made, you don't even know." Pausing and then making a face, nose wrinkling. "Which is totally a lie. You know," he admits, trying not to smirk. "You travel enough and you learn."

And you sometimes wish you hadn't, but that's the way the world works, isn't it?

"I guess so? Someone popped open the tube I was in, but they were gone before I crawled out. Others make it all the way down to the fountain, where from what I can tell, you're pumped out from the very deep bottom and make your way to the surface. Something that should be real fun come this winter if it gets as cold as everyone thinks it might."

Which to Jake isn't even the worst of it.

"I wonder where they held us before the tubes though. Who changed our clothes? What tests did they perform? I think if we ever found out that, we'd know who and why though."

His brows lowered. This was the second time in a matter of days that someone had reacted that way to his name. Though she seemed, if anything, more stunned than Connor had been. Still, there was nothing in her posture that indicated defensiveness, which made him believe she was no Templar. Which meant he would have to find out.

As she spoke, he stepped back to a more polite distance before he could answer: "You are correct. My wife told me about the city of London, and this does not resemble her stories in the least. This building, they call 'the Bunker', but the village above has no name beyond 'South Village.' And yet." Altaïr took a few paces to one side, thoughtful. "Somehow, I find myself believing you could tell me the name of my wife."

"I'm hardly in any position to be choosy just at the moment," Evie pointed out with a rueful smile, coincidentally agreeing with his unspoken thought. It was food, which was the important part. And tea, though she wasn't sure it'd been made from real, honest-to-God tea leaves — again, not that it mattered right now.

"Franklin was a brilliant man," she said, nodding in the direction of the book to indicate she'd seen what he was reading. And then, after a pause, "Could you tell me where you got the book?"

She really would feel exponentially better if there was a library here. There was nothing quite like a good research session to get her thoughts organized, and if nothing else it might help her figure a way out of here faster.

Edited (can i do verb tenses at half past midnight? clearly not) 2018-12-10 05:37 (UTC)

"Well, I'm afraid I haven't had the good fortune to spend much time outside of England," Evie admits, a little embarrassed by that but — travel is costly, and after their father's death she and Jacob hadn't had much money, at least not till the Rooks. What she has done is a whole lot of reading, so she has a fair idea that what Jake is saying is true. She just still doesn't like the idea of it.

"So is that what this is about? Tests? Are we part of some sort of experiment?" The idea is galling, and makes her more than a little angry, honestly, though she's trying to keep that contained. She'd seen enough of human experimentation at Lambeth Asylum, before they'd dealt with Elliotson, though that had maybe been a bit more... visceral than what seems to be the case here.

Evie didn't freeze, but there was something in her manner, the hesitation of someone who realized she'd been caught out and wasn't totally sure what to do about it yet. Already she'd given away too much by making it obvious she recognized his name, and he'd just effectively shattered any illusions she might have been trying to make herself believe that he wasn't the man she'd initially thought he was. Her mind was a whirl of confusion and worry, not just at where they were but at what was going on. Here she was, in a strange place, with a dead man who'd been responsible for setting into metaphorical stone the ideals and tenets of the Brotherhood she knew.

It was probably a good thing that in all of that, she didn't have room for awe. Otherwise, she might have been too overawed by him — or, rather, the idea of him — to stay sensible. And then she would have shaken herself out of it, but it was best not to go there in the first place.

How much should she say? The Assassins were covert for a reason, and there was nothing to prove they weren't being watched, or that the Templars weren't behind all of this — whatever this even was — in the first place. Yet, he clearly knew that she knew who he was, and their captors probably did, too. Dissembling when he'd all but asked her a direct question didn't make any sense.

"Maria Thorpe," she said, cautiously, and after a lengthy pause. "You had two sons together." And then, skipping ahead in time as it were, "I— we've still got copies of your Codex, but — it's been more than six hundred years." Since he died, and after that point everything he'd written had nearly been lost, but now wasn't the time to go into those details.

In fact she had to stop, reflexively covering her mouth with her hand a little to keep herself from getting too carried away. There was no telling how much of what she thought she knew was wrong, or altered. Time had a tendency to do that.

"How is this possible?" she managed at last, lowering her hand, her expression that of a woman who was trying and failing to make any sense whatsoever of what was happening.

They still had his Codex. His shoulders eased slightly. She was an Assassin. She looked like Maria, and she was an Assassin. Pride soothed his uncertainty and he let loose a breath he'd been holding. "Stranger things than this have happened, Okhti. There are some here from further in the future than you. But now I am concerned in a different way: You are the third of us to come here."

And surely she knew what that could mean. When not only one Assassin was sent but three - the situation was more than dire. There was more to find out than just a single, highly-trained soul could discover. More to fight than a blade in the crowd could take on.

"I can tell you of what I've learned - but it is, as yet, lacking. Since my arrival, there has been a great sickness that endangered many lives, and that has taken more of my attention than investigation. There are people here worth knowing - and all in the same situation as we."

Honestly, Connor wasn't entirely sure what the tea had been made out of. Only that there had been sachets of it in a container marked tea upon the counter in the kitchen. It had taste vaguely like the tea he'd had back on the homestead, and it was a warm alternative to water if nothing else.

"He is." Spoken as if Benjamin Franklin somehow existed in the present tense, because for him, he still did. "I was surprised to learn that so many of his inventions are still in use." And that electricity had actually been invented and fully worked.

"There is a library near here. They had books on many different subjects."

"Not always good fortune. Especially when you do it because you're shipped off to help stop wars." Or start them, but then that's why everything went to hell so that's another story. "It's the only reason I ever got out of the States."

He makes a face, nose wrinkling and face screwing up. "Weeeeeell, that's a good question. It might be. Feels like it, you know? The medical scrubs, the odd way we remember different things from one another, the half finished project houses. That said, who knows. The computer lists indicate something of the sort, but without more details, I'm only guessing."

Three Assassins. Her brows went up a little at that. Truly, there weren't that many more Assassins than that in all the British Brotherhood. Herself, Jacob, Henry, George Westhouse, the handful of Masters on the Council... there had been more, once, but before she and Jacob had even been born the Templars had done a lot of damage.

To have three of them brought here, and in what had been apparently such rapid succession, was an outlier, and not an especially good sign. She frowned at the mention of illness, and of the other people here — decent people, all caught up in the same difficulty. "So we're all trapped," she said, an inference but one that made sense to her.

"Do you think there are Templars here? Or a Piece of Eden?" She could imagine Jacob now, rolling his eyes at that last — but she was trying to puzzle out what could have done all of this, and that seemed the immediate likely suspect.

Naturally, she caught on to the present tense right away, though she chose not to comment. Altaïr had told her there were people here from her future, and he was of course from her past, so the idea of people being here from different time periods was one already familiar to her, as utterly impossible as it seemed.

"Is there?" Her expression visibly brightened, just a little. "Well, that's good news." She made a mental note to investigate, once she'd settled on somewhere to stay.

And then, partway through her bowl of stew, she realized she hadn't even introduced herself. Lovely first impression, Evie. "I'm sorry — I've been terribly rude." She put her spoon down, paused a moment, then held out her hand, hopefully for him to realize she intended a handshake. Not an entirely proper gesture for a young woman from her time, but she'd never been entirely proper, either. "Evie Frye. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He took in a breath and slowly exhaled it. Her questions were ones he had asked himself, and he still had no good answers - but he gave her the ones he knew:

"I do not believe there are any Templars here, but I cannot be certain. If you have the Sight, you will soon find you do not have it here. To me, it was Eagle Vision. And it is gone." He motioned toward his own eyes. "So I cannot be certain of anyone's intentions, but I have not been private about my name, and after my actions against the Templars, I do not doubt one would have reacted by now if any were here.

"As to Pieces of Eden, however..." That got a true sigh. "Much of what is happening has their earmarks. Illusions. Unexplained changes to reality. Abilities given and taken away. I have seen no outright evidence, but the similarity is too close for my comfort. In the village that is some distance away, there is a codex of sorts. A record of all that has happened to this village. You speak English natively; it will be easier for you to understand."

For a moment - one that seemed to stretch on seemingly forever - Connor did little more than stare at her offered hand. It was better, he supposed, that most of the people he had met here were polite enough to not simply force touch upon him in some way, but instead offer it. Still, it had never been something he was entirely comfortable with, especially on the first meeting. But he had learned long ago that it was rude not to shake someone's hand, that it was a sign of respect to do so.

When he finally reaches out and clasp her hand with his own, it's done in a manner that speaks of gentleness, as if he's all too aware of his own strength and is careful because of it. It doesn't last long, a shake or two, but it's enough.

"It is nice to meet you as well, Evie. I am Connor."

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pull me out the water, cold and blue.

your songs remind me of swimming

but somehow i forgot

Inn

Inn

Bunker, complete with mistaken identity.

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