sixthiterationlogs | i'm done being a pawn

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i'm done being a pawn

WHO: Desmond Miles
WHERE: Fountain; around the village,
WHEN: 12/3
OPEN TO: Anyone!
WARNINGS: Swearing for sure

Fountain arrival; ota

His hand was going in slow motion as it reached for the key to saving humanity and releasing Juno. Despite knowing it was right, despite saying goodbye to the remaining people in his life, he was afraid as he took a deep breath and prepared for the end. His eyes closed ... and then suddenly he was opening his eyes surrounded by water. Desmond flailed, shocked and horrified, this was not the way he expected Juno to take him, and was he supposed to just wait until he drowned? No, this can't be right. His feet kicked and he broke the water into air, gasping and scrambling for the side of ... what the hell was this? His eyes hurt from the water and he dragged himself out, immediately shocked by the cold of the air around him. It hadn't been cold before, why was it cold?

Desmond shakily tried to stand but collapsed hard onto his knees, his hands catching his weight. He should be dead. Maybe he was dead. Or maybe this was something else. He sat back on his haunches, breathing unsteadily, and dropping this strange pack from his back to toss it aside. Who put that on him? Juno's face hazily appeared in his mind's eye, and his confusion turned into rage. Maybe he failed. Maybe this was Minerva, furious that he disobeyed. Frustrated, he did something very stupid and dove right back into the water, going as far as he could. He had to finish this. He couldn't thwart fate. He reached around of any sign of what to do, but it was dark and he sprang out of the water again, colder and more exhausted than before.

"Juno!" He yelled, searching the sky. "Minerva! Which one of you bitches did this?" Desmond spit out water, shaking from cold or shock. "Juno! Goddamnit."

Around the village the next few days, OTA

Desmond was unnerved by everything so far and deeply suspicious. It was an elaborate lie, it had to be. A trick. He went to the inn just because there was no where else to stop freezing and not starve as far as he could tell. He sat by himself in the furthest corner away from others, making certain nothing was at his back but the wall in case of stabbing. Occasionally he ventured up to the records there, reading it but skeptical.

Later on he can be seen in the bunker trying to make sense of what was down there and if his hacking had any use. He was wandering around the village, admittedly being a little creepy as he glanced at the houses and cased the joints. Eventually he claimed House 46 and sat outside, staring off into the distance, scowling.

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Leaving House 51 had probably been a mistake. No, it would be. With Connor out and about, that left her to wander about the interior idly and make a mental checklist of what they had and what they would need. Not they—she. Just her. The house came with two bedrooms but she would never expect Connor to stay the entire time. He did seem adamant on taking care of her and that no doubt would extend into the time it took for her stitched injury to fully heal. Lucy did appreciate it, every moment, still finding herself overcome with bouts of weakness when it was least expected.

Deciding that it was as good a time as any to step out for some air and stretch her legs as she was getting restless with laying down for too long, Lucy was slowly making her way back to House 51, following along the path past the other houses. She knew that some were empty while the others were occupied. There was no double take, there was no second glance, in passing by House 46, barely catching sight of the man seated outside in her peripheral. Someone who should've been so familiar to her. His face had been the last thing she'd looked into that seeing it there should have stopped her in her tracks.

That was the thing—Lucy, in her teal scrubs and her hair dressed down in a braid, would never have imagined that Desmond of all people would also be there. To her, this place was some kind of a Hell; after all, she was dead, wasn't she?

Her pace was slow as she continued on, body leaning somewhat to the right, still favoring that one side, and she wasn't looking forward to crossing the river again.

Edited (added thing) 2018-12-03 23:24 (UTC)

Desmond was deciding whether or not he should keep prowling around or simply go back inside, lock and put furniture in front of the door, and stay there until the next shoe dropped. He was certain this was a trick, or it was all within his own head, or possibly a kind of strange hell that wasn't actually awful just weird. That is, until he spotted Lucy, and he was positive this was a mix of mental illness and hell. Desmond got so used to being haunted by visions of things that weren't there from the Bleeding Effect. It only seemed natural that Lucy would be a hallucination his mind would come up with, or a mocking by one of the goddesses to torture him.

He watched her go by and so many emotions ran through him that he couldn't pinpoint one of them. He went through a lot in his short life, but nothing left a cut on him that went deeper than Lucy Stillman. His own death didn't hurt him as much as hers. Both were, in the end, his decision. He was manipulated and twisted into an impossible position, but it was still his choice. This specific kind of torture felt like Minerva's bitterness over him picking Juno instead. That is, until he noticed she was limping.

He tilted his head curiously. Much like Connor, she seemed very real. And he was fairly certain this was not how he'd envision her. Something in his chest felt heavy and twisted, and Desmond moved away from the house to follow her. He could stalk her, but she was too good for that, and he felt like there was so much burning inside of him right then that he might burst into fire or he had to talk to her. "Lucy." He pushed the word out of his pained throat. He already mistook one blonde woman for her since coming here. He couldn't imagine how, since he knew every line of her face. Wishful thinking? No. No that.

"Luce." Desmond stopped when he was still a few feet away from her, so he wouldn't crowd in on her. If he was right, he didn't know what came next. She was injured. He feared what that meant.

His steps were heard before anything else, more defined than the breeze passing overhead through the trees. She assumed it wasn’t someone following her but someone else walking the same path, that was until she heard her name, heard the way emotion choked it. And then it came again, the shortened version from someone who was familiar with her, could perhaps have been close with. Friends even. Lucy stopped, staring off a head at the road and not really seeing it. Luce. No one else here had yet to say her name in such a way.

This isn’t real. This is just some fucked up part of my imagination, remnants of trauma. Was that what she’d been hoping?

Her heart was pounding in her chest, throat tight. Part of her wanted to wait and see if they would speak her name for a third time.

Keep walking, she told herself. Don’t turn around. There’s no one else there.

Lucy stole a glance back over her shoulder, caught the glimpse of his figure from the corner of her eye. Slowly, ever so slowly, she began to turn to fully face him; she was staring at a ghost, he wasn’t real. Oh god. Her head shook. She closed her eyes immediately and reached up to dig her fingers in at the inside corners.

“This isn’t...” Needing to try that again, this time there was emotion threatening to choke her. “You’re not really here. This shouldn’t even be happening.” His name nearly slipped out, it took everything in her power to bite it back, finally looking across at him again.

Desmond was for real starting at a ghost. The ghost of someone who meant a lot of different things to him. If he was a better guy, maybe he would've stayed away from her here. When she spoke those words, all he could do was push out a sudden inappropriate laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "You stole my lines." It was what he was thinking exactly. She was a vision. He was still stuck in the Animus. She was dead. But Connor was long dead too. He let his eyes move over her face, struck by the vivid and horrific memory of staring into her eyes as he was forced step by step closer to her. He made the choice, in that last second, but he was dragged there first.

"I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating. I think this whole place is one. But if we're both hallucinating, one of us isn't real, or we're both real." It was a testament to how fucked up their life was that reality was so easily warped. If she was real, he let himself think, the question was from when. If she was injured, there was only one option. He wasn't stupid. He could play stupid and maybe he should. She was one hell of a liar but maybe if this was all real, the lies could stop. Dream on, Desmond.

He put out a hand toward her, palm up. He didn't come any closer, but it was a way for them to see if the other one was tangible. If she tried and went right through him, or he went through her, well, they'd know then, wouldn't they? He really and truly did not know yet which one he wanted it to be. "Lucy," he said again, quietly this time.

Lucy stared at the hand he held out to her. It was the same one she would find herself holding sometimes when he was in the Animus, just another little secret she wouldn’t share with him. Once or twice, she’d been caught by Shaun or Rebecca, and she was glad neither of them said a peep. She’d been embarrassed, kind of, but who else was there for him as support? His own damn father had never been around. How could he think she’d so easily reach out and take it? How could she trust him right now when he’d been the last thing she remembered seeing?

There it was, her name, cutting through the thoughts racing in her head. A quiet invitation.

Her arms folded over her chest to ward off the chill in the air and she hesitantly began to cross the gap between them, not taking her eyes off of him. Christ, touching him was the last thing she wanted right now. What she wanted was to scream at him, to demand answers. “You looked at me like you’d seen a ghost, Desmond, why?”

Closer and closer, one foot in front of the other, slow movements.

Desmond had a choice to make. He felt like all he'd had for a long time (maybe his entire life) were bad choices. He could lie to her. He could come up with a convincing enough lie that was partly true; he did learn some things from her. An idea was already formulating of what to say to adapt to a question like that. He could say the truth, because she sure as hell knew exactly what happened. If this was Lucy before he killed her, she would have already run over to him. She would have taken his hand and tried to formulate a plan for their escape.

Acting like they were a team, like she cared about him. Lied so well even now he probably would believe her.

There were some questions he had too. Things he wanted to scream at her. And he was just so fucking tired. All these lies and betrayals, the ones he lived in real life and the ones he experienced through his ancestors, so many wars and losses. Something flickered on his face then, and he looked as tired as he felt. Burdened with the weight of several lifetimes. He died and now he's here, still dragging his carcass around. So he just threw his hands up in the air.

"Because I'm dead, Lucy, okay? Because I'm not sure if this is hell or purgatory or if I'm stuck in the Animus permanently." Yeah, fine. Whatever. Who cared. He was never good enough at lying anyway.

By now they were within arm’s reach. That was a good place for her to stop, his words reaching her at that moment. She was stunned, silent as she let those three words sink in—because I’m dead. “...what?” That was impossible; everything they’d done, the research, all of her efforts and the years wasted, and for what?

Lucy took an extra step forward, arms lowering to hang at her sides. “But—how?” She wouldn’t know as she hadn’t made it out of Juno’s Temple. But this news, it was big, it was distressing. It meant that they’d failed, and she’d failed him just the same as she’d failed Clay. “The geomagnetic reversal, had it actually happened? Did everything become unstable?”

God, so then Juno had been right. And why wouldn’t she be? She was a god, one of the first. And who were they to be fucking around with gods? This was too fucked up.

The pathetic part of it all was how much he wanted to reach out and touch her. He still was not completely convinced she was there, and ... their situation was so fucked up but Desmond truly wished that things had been different. Their time together was short, but it felt like it was the majority of his life in importance. Everything else he did before that was shallow and pointless. They had each other, or so he thought. But he didn't reach out. He dropped his hands to his sides, mimicking her position.

"It was a solar flare coming, it was going to wipe out most of the human race like it did all those years before. There was only one way to stop it." Desmond spoke about it in a factual way, not an emotional way now. He put that distance between him and the truth, because he felt so much of what they did was manipulated by a power greater than them. Her death and removed influence of his life succeeded in isolating him more than before.

"It was my body. It was my life that was required to stop it. No one else could have done it." He maintained direct eye contact with her. You couldn't do it. The Templars couldn't do it. If you gave it to them, everyone would have died. "Juno fucked us over though. I had to choose between dying to save everyone, but releasing her to do it, or living and letting everyone else die." That choice would weigh on him for a long time, but right now? He still believed he did the right thing. They would have to fight Juno, but they had a chance with everyone alive. He couldn't let the cycle continue. He couldn't let either of their deaths be in vain.

Then what they’d talked about, it had come true. They’d been right. And Desmond had been right when he’d flat out said—we’re fucked. So then where did that leave her? She didn’t want to think the worst, but if Desmond was dead back home and somehow he was here then...were they both dead? Was that why she didn’t know a damn thing past everything going black in Juno’s Temple?

“Desmond, I’m...” Unconsciously, she took another step closer, eyes still locked with his. What was she, sorry? Her gaze then lowered to his chest. A beat passed and she raised her left hand to first graze her fingers over the center, feeling the material of his scrubs, and then she slowly pressed her hand until it laid flat over his heart, an exhale trembling softly at the feel of a hard, steady beat. He was solid. This was real.

There was nothing they could do regarding Juno. Releasing her hadn’t been part of the plan, but she’d fucked them over good.

Desmond froze where he stood when she started to come closer, and the strangest thing was that he felt afraid when she lifted her hand. If they went through each other, they'd have answers as to who is crazy and that it wasn't real. Maybe then everything that happened was made up in his head too. So the best case scenario was crazy, except it felt like every cell in his body right now was tensed up hoping she'd be solid. And then what? They were real and dead and together again.

He was scared she was real and that he'd be so happy to see her again, and then he'd have to tell her the truth and pay for his choice. He didn't deserve her sorrow. His eyelashes fluttered when she first touched his scrubs. Real. This was real. Lucy was real. She was right there and he felt like he'd been running a marathon with how hard it was to keep breathing. Desmond put his hand over hers, holding it to his chest, and his beating heart officially started to break.

He couldn't stop himself from dropping her hand and putting his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. This wasn't going to last long, he knew that much, but for a few minutes Desmond was giving himself permission to be selfish and just be glad she was still breathing. She was real and solid. She smelled and felt exactly as she had. And she was small, he forgot how small she was compared to him. His eyes stung and he willed his grief away, for now. "I really hope I didn't wish this on us. I wanted to see you again, but this wasn't what I meant."

The movement was unexpected. Being pulled in for a hug was not something she'd come to expect with him. It wasn't a hard hug, no roughness, and yet her expression twisted in a grimace and was fortunately hidden against his chest. She'd tensed however, body instinctively braced against the ache in her abdomen. Jesus, it was going to take time to get used to this handicap, not being at her full capacity and strength.

Lucy focused on her breathing. She focused on the body heat he provided, the feel of how sturdy he was in holding her close. His smell. Only one arm went around him, hand curling in the back of his scrubs, while the other hand, her right one, was rested at his waist. What did he mean...? Why wouldn't they have seen each other again? The hand at his back gripped tighter, the telltale burn of tears at the back of her eyes, and she was pressing her face all the more into him—don't cry, don't cry. There wasn't any reason other than how much pain she was in since she'd arrived and he was the one and only familiar person she knew in this place, someone from back home.

Let them just have this moment, the two of them standing there, hugging one another, holding on like it could be the last chance they get. Which was exactly why she didn't speak, didn't break it.

But there were still so many questions. Desmond Miles was dead.

There were a lot of things he used to tell himself he'd do if he got to talk to Lucy again. Some of it was yelling. Some of it was apologizing. Some of it was rated NC17. None of it was possible because of what happened. Desmond held her close and leaned his nose into her hair, pretending they were back before everything went bad. When she was the life line he believed in and trusted. When it was them against the rest of the fucking world. Maybe he could just have this, they could just have this.

But he couldn't.

"I'm sorry." The grief might make his throat hurt like hell, but it also managed to choke out some words. He closed his eyes so tightly they began to hurt. "I wish I could go back and do so many things differently." That was the thing about death, and in particular an early death. There were nothing but regrets and possibilities that would never happen. He was too close to any of it. Desmond moved away from her, because he wanted to sink right into her embrace and forget the world. And it simply wasn't an option. Nothing about their lives or apparently their deaths were fair. He crossed his arms and took a few steps back.

"I would have made us grow up together instead. Who cares if my dad was a prick if it was you and me back then?" He knew this was a fantasy and a blind one at that, but he was emotionally circling the drain. "We could've tried to have a real life. Or, whatever, fine, if my blood would've gotten us there no matter what, it would've been as partners." And Desmond would still have died to save the world, but she would have lived. She wouldn't have needed to leave the Order because of William. God, so much shit was at his door, and Desmond doubted he'd ever take responsibility for it.

"I just wish...." He sighed and uncrossed his arms, running fingers through his short hair. "I wish you trusted me."

And just like that... what pretense of security she could have found in that embrace was gone. Just like that. He was stepping away from her, talking on and on, saying things that sounded like they were backed up by too many regrets, flowing with “what ifs”. “But we were...” growing up together. Or so Lucy remembered, glimpses of the boy Desmond used to be, glimpses of him and nothing more. It hadn’t lasted long. Things had been so different when they were younger, it was a surprise to hear him bring any of that up, as vague sounding as it were, like he actually might have remembered glimpses of a young blonde haired girl being trained by his father.

That was a part of her life Lucy Stillman tried to block out, pushing it away as if it’d never existed. As if William Miles hadn’t had a hand in shaping her to be who she was today before abandoning her, leaving her vulnerable and open for the Templars to swoop her in to their side of the game. She swallowed and now crossed her arms, mirroring his stance, staying where she was while he was taking down that bridge they’d closed.

Partners? What was he saying? Why was he saying all of this?

“I did trust you, Desmond.” I trusted you despite who your father was. “I trusted you more than the others.” Because, in some fucked up way, it had sometimes felt like they were one in the same.

It was a small group with the Assassins hit so hard, but still, Desmond always felt so isolated from the rest. His father was controlling, manipulative, sometimes downright cruel. He didn't go easier on his son, but Desmond was also protected in a way, by his mother if no one else. But no one was there to protect Lucy. He put the blame on what happened on a lot of people. William was right up there. "No, I mean ... side by side. But he doesn't think like that. He gets in his head that only he knows the way. God Haytham really reminded me of him." Which William would hate, because Haytham was a famous Templar, but they were short sighted people. And at the moment, Desmond was feeling very connected to Connor.

He could get caught up in those cycle thoughts, but then she said those words, and his head jerked up, staring straight at her. She was so damn convincing, that was the worst part. He could believe her so easily. Was it him, that was this stupid? Or was she really good? Desmond shook his head at her. "More than the others. Okay, I believe that. That's what a good lie is formed on, right? Just enough truth." He could drown himself in bitterness. Maybe he'd drown them both in it. He wanted her to tell him the truth, of her own free will, but she never would.

"You wouldn't, would you? Tell me the truth." He said out loud. "I want to think you would, Luce, I really do, but that's because I'm a fucking idiot who fell for y--the act." The error was made and Desmond couldn't change it now, unfortunately. He was just going to ignore that little stutter. Yeah okay, it's not even a secret at this point, but that was probably her plan too. He rubbed his hands over his face. "Please tell me. Don't make me have to say it, I think you're smart enough to know what's going on, so now's your chance. Tell me."

“Haytham..?” That was someone she wasn’t quite familiar with. Weird that he would bring that up now. To confuse her? Regardless, it doesn’t matter. Things were moving quickly then, she wasn’t hearing whatever it was he was saying in between because she was too focused on watching him come apart at the seams. “Desmond, it’s not a lie...”

Words trailed off. Lucy stared across at him, felt like there was a camera effect where the world behind him stretched out as suddenly her senses brought just him right to her. What was he...? He was accusing her of lying, why? And when she’d been the most honest with him out of their little group. She’d felt like she could take off a corner of the mask, peer out without too much fear of backlash. She could’ve been real with him, had breached security even to voice her concerns to Vidic where any one of them could’ve found her out. He mattered to her, it hadn’t been intentional, to care.

The perfectly constructed little world, the lies she’d built, they were all coming apart the same as she watched him coming apart at the seams. It’d been her plan to gain his trust, so that Project Siren could take off. Not to get him to fall for her. She’d caught the stutter, the near slip up, and something within her cracked. Her jaw clenched. Tell him her conscience screamed at her, her heart backing it up, while with her head she was fighting them. What would be the point in keeping up appearances here? There was no Warren Vidic, no Bill Miles. It was just Lucy and Desmond. As far as she knew, the latter was dead and he deserved some semblance of the truth.

Lucy felt too wound up, heart stuck in her throat, too tensed by what he was asking of her, a simple and yet not so simple request to fill. Her weight shifted and she unfolded her arms, an ache beginning in her right from being on her feet for so long (or had it always been there and was now getting worse the longer they stood there), for making the trek to the inn and then back to her house. “I...” It was hard to find the words. What do you have to lose by telling him? “I can—“ and she then broke off on quiet sound of pain, shoulders hunching forward as a hand went to press to her stomach. Her head lowered and she half turned away from him, feeling the dampness beneath her palm seeping through the dressing and her scrubs.

Shit.

Her head shook and she was glad that she’d turned off to the side, fingers quick to reach up to swipe her cheek where she felt the tear trek down. “I’m sorry...” was all she could offer him, for the moment.

For a moment there, Desmond really thought she might have done it. She looked like she was on the verge of it, like she was dropping some of those masks he didn't know were masks, and maybe then he'd see how much of her was real or imagined. He honestly didn't think much of it was imagined; best lies were mostly truths. He felt a fluttering of hope in his chest, because if she could do this, maybe it really was only the things holding them back before that mattered. William and Warren were not there. If she told him, and he didn't have to shout it at her ....

At first he didn't know what was happening, only seeing her back away from the attempt and he felt frustrated, but then he realized what was happening. He went so pale that he nearly felt faint. His anger and bitterness and betrayal were all very real things, but so was this. Desmond went into a coma the moment he stopped fighting Juno, knowing that meant Lucy's death, and he knew his knife was moving and then his mind went black. He wasn't faced with her body, ever. He was still in that coma when she was buried. He woke up to the truth and the complex grief involved. So seeing that blood here on the other side, knowing he was the cause? It was horrifying.

"I'm sorry," he whispered instead, shaking his head. "Come on, you need to ... you need to sit. You're bleeding." Desmond really felt like he might pass out or get sick, but seriously Des, stop passing out as if that'll solve all your problems. He felt numb as he reached out to touch her again, trying to be gentle and lead her off the path to sit, but he was shaking. He didn't have the right to help her. She should have trusted him. Vying feelings that left no real middle ground.

Desmond thought this might actually be an amazing hell, all things considered. "I'm sorry," he said again, his time brokenly, and he couldn't stop the tears from springing to his eyes. Nothing would have stopped them. His guilt, sadness, self-hate, and grief were too potent a mix. But between the apology and the intense emotion behind it, well, the connection was clearly written on his face.

No shit I’m bleeding, I’ve been bleeding since I got here were words that would remain unspoken.

Lucy lowered her eyes to her torso, lifted her fingers to see the fresh red staining through the layers. “He’s going to kill me,” she muttered to herself, brows knitting. Connor was going to be so displeased that she’d pushed herself to this point when she should’ve been resting. She lifted her head and found Desmond there again, close, felt his hand at her arm ready to guide her, and she reached readily for him in return, trusting him, as the shift in balance was almost enough to make her feel as faint as he looked.

He was shaking, why? The sight of blood shouldn’t have been so distressing given all the time he’d put into the Animus. The things he’d seen.

The second apology came, the words broken, grief-stricken. She allowed him to guide her only so far before she was staring at him, puzzled and growing more and more concerned by the sight of tears. Was he...crying? “What’s...going on?” They only got so far when she stopped and grabbed at his arm, staring up at him.

Lucy was seeing him in a different light now. She saw him there but it wasn’t in this world, it was underground. It was darker. A black splash of light and symbols covered the air behind him. Her eyes searched his, moved over his face, the expression he wore. He was shrugged off then, the air leaving her lungs, like he’d driven his fist into her diaphragm. He had, in some way, the edge sharp, the cut clean and meant to—

“... no.”

That couldn’t have been right. He wouldn’t—

She began to back away, the horror of dawning realization now an expression she wore as clear as ever. Lucy felt sick. She could feel a fury creeping in for the pain she was in all because of him, a panic for what this meant. It was all too much at once that it was hard to make sense of just one thing. Was that what that meant, her last conscious memory being of him standing in front of her? “No.” Her breath hitched, came out shallow and quick. “No.” With all of her strength, whatever she had left, she took a sudden lunge forward to shove her hands roughly at his chest, to add a smear of her blood on his scrubs, uncaring of the slice of pain tearing at her side.

Edited 2018-12-08 07:50 (UTC)

"Lucy," he said weakly, but he had no idea where he was going with that. Desmond didn't know what to say, he didn't think he'd have to explain himself outside of talking to the others. Certainly not with her looking at him like that. He never learned to be deceitful well, especially not when his emotions were this high. Lie under pressure, probably, lie when it didn't matter, definitely, lie when it felt like his heart was being cut out of his chest, not so much.

He didn't stop her when she pushed him, stepping back with the movement instead and putting a little more distance between them. Her blood on his scrubs was a brand. All the death he'd seen and the death he'd caused, and he was pretty sure this was never coming off him, metaphorically. "I didn't want to," he started and then stopped. How can he explain? It was seconds to the outside world, but it felt like an hour for him. He didn't want to, but he did. "Juno took over my body. I fought her, fought so fucking hard, I didn't want ----" He could blame this on Juno. Desmond knew that. He could tell her that it wasn't his choice and it would be difficult, but it would give them both someone to hate instead of him. It might be kinder, to lie.

But everything came full circle eventually. He knew that much.

Desmond rubbed at his eyes, trying to swallow through the pain. "She showed me. That you were one of them." He was actually being very careful with a word like Templar, in case Connor came around. "I saw what your plan was. Subject 16, Clay, he knew too, but you know that. I got trapped in the Animus with him after." After he dramatically went into a comatose state from shock and possession. "She showed me what would happen if you betrayed us. Everyone would die. Only I could save the world, even if it meant I died too." Lucy couldn't have known that; no one knew it but Desmond, once he got his head on straight.

He swallowed and touched the blood on his scrubs. Fuck. What was his life? "So yeah. I killed you, and I killed myself, and if there was a way to do the second thing before the first thing and still save the world, I would've done it."

Edited 2018-12-09 23:35 (UTC)

Everything he'd just told her, the moment he said it out loud and confirmed it—I killed you—she was fixed on simply those words and nothing else. On the memory of his face hovering in front of her. This was real, wasn't it? Was this supposed to be some kind of karma? Lucy forced herself back a step and pressed her hand back to her side, the pain fresh, real. Pressure, she needed to keep pressure on it until she could get home and to Connor.

Juno... "She couldn't have known." Hushed words. Her eyes were lowered to where his hand was touching his scrubs, the blood she'd left. "She couldn't have..." Then her eyes were back on his. "How could— You believed her?" It wasn't like Desmond could've asked her himself, if he'd been under a full body possession and had no control over his actions. But Lucy wasn't thinking about it like that.

Christ, he'd brought up Clay and that was like throwing salt into an already open wound, one she carried with her to bed every night, one that was constantly there, the Animus a bleak reminder. She'd tried so hard to not think about Subject 16, the promises she'd made to keep him safe, that she would see him out of Abstergo if he just helped her first. Lucy's hand pressed harder to her abdomen, the blood slowly creeping out along the teal material at the edge of her palm.

Then quietly, "I thought you would be different." There was a waver in those words; exhaustion, hurt, misery, the revelation, her fate. "But you're no better than him."

Edited 2018-12-10 00:25 (UTC)

"Juno may be a psychotic bitch, but she was in the system. She could read secret e-mails, get video from locked rooms, she was everywhere." In a lot of ways Juno had a shitton of power as she was, but free, he had no idea how bad it would get. All Desmond could do on that front was hope they had a chance to stop her. Maybe. It was out of his hands now. He looked basically everywhere but at her. "Yeah, I believed her. I never trusted her, but she had a lot more success using the truth to hurt people than anything else." Led Clay right to his own suicide with that kind of truth and mental breakdown.

There were few things that could sucker punch him better than comparing him to William Miles. And he knew exactly that's who she was talking about. His father the master manipulator, cold as ice, and the two of them were vastly different. Or maybe they weren't. Desmond felt the blow cut into hm, sharp and vicious, and he wanted to strike back, but she looked so defeated. And she was bleeding.

"We both let you down," he said quietly, agreeing. "I heard there's a hospital not far from here. It's by the inn." Desmond would've taken her himself, if he thought she wouldn't refuse just to spite him. "You need to go there, you're going to pass out if you don't." If she passed out, he'd carry her, but he can't offer to do that. He was physically keeping his distance so as not to scare her. "Just go get help, and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'll stay out of your way." He had to make sure she would stay alive here, but after that, well, Desmond was great at running from his problems and shutting himself down.

If Juno had been in the system and could read e-mails then she would've read the one Lucy had written to Vidic, breaking protocol to voice her concerns. Juno would've known that something was amiss, if she had been so smart. Lucy said nothing else—fuck Juno. Fuck this. Fuck Desmond Miles. Fuck everything and everyone. She'd been on her last leg in this war between the Templars and the Assassins, had been in it for far too long, longer than him. Why care now? She was dead.

There were tears on her cheeks, she knew it but could barely feel them. She was broken, defeated, bleeding, and most of all, Lucy was numb. Still she lashed out. "Don't act like you fucking care, Desmond." It didn't matter that he'd slipped up moments ago, admitted that he'd fallen for her. "I don't need help, I'm fucking dead." It was such a shock to hear herself admit that. A swift breath was sucked in and she'd managed to hold back any kind of a sob wanting to escape, turning away from him.

Back onto the path she went, steps staggering briefly. She would follow it back across the water, back to where she lived. And Lucy hoped that he rotted in this Hell. That was all he deserved, as far as she was concerned.

Desmond started to say something in response, because he was pissed too, it's not like he got anything good out of any of this shit either. But if they kept yelling at each other, she wouldn't go get help. He didn't like that she was going the opposite direction from the hospital, so he followed her from a far enough distance he wouldn't ping on her concern list. Just long enough to know where she went, and hoped that she wouldn't stubbornly choose to bleed out. Maybe someone was there. He hovered at a distance for awhile, and then went back to his place, locking it up, and planning on staying there for a long while.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i'm done being a pawn

House 46 — welp

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