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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So far he'd explored a good deal of things in the village. The books in the inn had been pretty interesting, his house had been comfortable once the lights had been turned on, and meeting people generally about their lives had been pretty nice too. Granted Nida still needed to find something a bit more substantial to do with himself, and thus he'd been heading toward the further edges of town. Word was there was a boathouse and 'fishmonger' (whatever that was) out in that direction. While boats weren't his primary area of experience he had decided he wanted to check them out for stability before getting fishing line and seeing if he couldn't catch something. He didn't want to go swimming again so soon.

Of course to head out there by the paths meant wandering past one of the last houses in the South Village, and thus being treated to a far off scowl. Strange how that brought back memories. Still, he let himself smile because training told him that a gentle smile was a lot easier to approach people with than anything else. Not too warm, not too welcoming, just... well, for lack of a better term, neighborly.

"Hi there. I heard the boathouse is further up this path. That true?"

No way he could know that Connor was almost as fresh off the boat, so to speak, as he was.

Going back into the depths of the fountain for what you lost is something that Ashley is very familiar with. Seeking the man that had been with her when she started drowning, she'd needed someone else to help force her to leave the water rather than risking leaving him in the depths.

It is moments like these that Rinoa and she have talked about, though they had worried more about the bunkers. It hadn't occurred to Ashley that whatever powers that be that were behind this place would keep bringing people through the fountain, in this cold - that likely isn't even the worst it will get - and leave them to the elements like this.

What an introduction to this place. Hi. Welcome. Enjoy your pneumonia.

Of course, he's yelling at someone, and given Ashley doesn't see anyone around, she assumes he's still caught up in the moments before he arrived rather than where he is now. Perhaps.

She does approach with caution, though she's sliding out of the Slanket jacket she wears. It won't cover much of him, but can help to dry off his face and head to help try and get back his natural warmth.

"Uhmmm... Likelihood is, if either of them are behind this, and please tell me you don't mean the actually goddesses, but if they are behind this you probably won't see them," she says, holding out the zebra striped fabric. "And try drying off your head and neck. Will help with the cold."

Over the past few days, Connor had made it part of his routine to check the fountain, intent on making sure that if anyone else showed up injured that they were taken care of promptly and properly. It was easy enough to ensure that he passed by it on his way too and from places, or to spend time wandering around the woods nearby, looking for materials to make arrows.

What he absolutely was not expecting - not at all, actually - was to hear a man yelling out a name he recognized, followed by quite a lot of cursing. That much he understood, being angry at the entire experience that was arriving in this place - being taken from your home and then half drowning multiple times, only be spit out into a freezing fountain in thin scrubs that did nothing to add warmth.

Carefully placing down the bundle of sticks he had gathered that were straight enough to widdle arrows from, he slowly exiting the line of trees, moving towards the fountain from the right, footsteps slow and even - and uncharacteristically loud, attempting to announce his arrival and not further spook this poor person who was already likely frightened.

Only to realize that they were yelling at the sky.

Holding up both of his hands, he spoke out quietly: "Yelling at the sky will not help."

If Desmond had something he could actually throw at the sky he probably would. His temper was easily triggered these days, specifically whenever he was reminded of his helplessness. Saving the world was manipulated all along, but it was still his choice, his one and only choice. But apparently not. It was all a game. He ran hands through his wet hair, having no idea what to do next. Where was he? What was the next step? Des was used to someone else running the rodeo, leading him along, and now he was struck with how pathetic that was.

Fuck.

He glared at the pack and started sorting through it, when he heard a voice behind him. A very familiar voice, one he'd heard for a long time now, bleeding into his head and his life. "Yeah, thanks, Connor, I hadn't thought of that." The sarcasm came easily, because he figured it was a further hallucination, more evidence he'd lost his damn mind. The weird part was that he was used to hearing Connor's voice, but it sounded very real and loud and nearby this time. Frowning, he lifted his head and turned toward him.

"Shit!" Desmond backed up several steps and almost tipped into the fountain again in his shock. His giant ancestor wasn't some weird vision or illusion, he looked very real. He was not going to hyperventilate. "This isn't real, this isn't real." He murmured to himself. It was the only thing that made sense, because the reality made no sense. Was he back in the Animus for good?

A very distinct feeling of absolute confusion fell over him as he heard the other man speak so easily, throwing the words over his shoulder in that sarcastic tone as if he was entirely used to hearing such things from him. Stranger still, he had called him by name - had called him Connor, when he was almost certain they had never met before.

He had been about to speak, the curiosity written plainly on his features when the other finally turned to look at him.

And yelled out another obscenity before stumbling back several feet and even almost tipping back into the fountain. What in the world was going on?

Hands still held up in front of him, he moved forward, much slower now than before, hoping to not spook this man any further.

"Calm down. I know this must seem strange, arriving here as you have. It is unfortunate, but it is real." And then, lowering his hands, he spoke again, "You spoke as if you knew me, but I am not familiar with your face."

Desmond was pretty aware of his surroundings, so it wasn't easy to sneak up on him, but he didn't really notice her at first. He blamed this situation. He was wet and exhausted and until she spoke, for an embarrassingly long moment, he thought Lucy? It was the hair, for sure, and it was crazy that for awhile every blonde head he saw reminded him of her, but he wasn't the most stable of guys lately. His brain felt like it was on fire a little at the moment from overuse and anxiety.

He suspiciously looked at her, because why was she offering him a coat, but ... fine. Desmond took it from her cautiously and did what she recommended, drying off his head and neck while keeping his eyes on her. It'd been a few weeks. He would eventually be less high strung. "They're the women who people mistook for goddesses. They're not. They're pains in the ass." That seemed like a good enough summary. They were extremely powerful, far beyond anything he could imagine, and they weren't even really alive or physically near him. They were far beyond human ability, and he hated them with every fiber of his being at the moment.

Desmond handed her back the jacket, which seemed weird since he'd just wiped himself with it, but it also seemed weird to keep what was clearly hers. He darted a look up at the sky and then back to her. "I don't know, you'd be surprised how often they end up showing up when you don't expect it." Or want it. He didn't have any of his knives on him. He just realized now that he was in new clothing, so focused he'd been on screaming at nothing.

"Shit, what is going on? Who took my clothes off?" Listen, that was a pretty important question, alright? This was really freaking him out.

Desmond wasn't unfriendly most of the time. There was a point where he liked talking to people. He used to be a bartender for fuck's sake. He used to listen to people for a living and charm them into better tips. The way he was raised and his experience most recently were contrary to that though, and he just hadn't gotten used to it again yet. He also stopped trusting friendly people in general after Lucy. Look how that turned out.

He glanced in the direction of the guy who spoke and had to bite back a less than friendly response. It wasn't his fault that everything was shit. Probably. Desmond was still on the fence about whether all of this was real. It was seeing people like this that made him falter in that belief, because no way would he come up with random folks in his delusions. The guy looked like nothing from his other sets of memories. Fine. This was fine.

"I don't know. I've been here about a day." Desmond glanced down the path and frowned. A boathouse. Huh. "Where do the boats go? Can they get us off this damn island?"

Seriously, Nida had to wonder just what luck it was that kept him running into new people rather than more experienced residents of this place. Still, what information he had he would be happy to give. So he paused and tilted his head, trying to figure out what he remembered from what he'd read and seen.

"Well, I suppose they could be used for that, but my understanding is that they wouldn't be particularly sea worthy, not to get far. The boathouse is supposed to be on the river, and you can follow those rivers to the lake, of course. I figure they're mainly meant to be used for that. Haven't made use myself so I don't know how navigable the river is further out toward the ocean. Of course I haven't seen the boats myself yet, so I haven't had a chance to look them over."

Given time if the river wasn't navigable they might be able to make it so, but that couldn't happen in the winter, and from what Rinoa had said about dangers like fever snakes it would be a potentially dangerous prospect. Not that dangerous was something he'd avoid. It was just sort of what he did.

"You can come check them out with me if you want."

"No, no, hey, no." The moving forward did spook him, and instead of falling into the fountain, Desmond put his foot back on the wall and flipped to the right with the kind of speed and grace that would impress anyone who wasn't also an assassin. He put a hand on his wrist where his damn blade should be, but nothing was there. Not that it would do anything against a hallucination. This was insane. There was Connor, larger than life, and not in a mirror or on a screen. He only recently lived through his particular ancestor's life, so it was fresh and tragic in his head.

"This is surreal," he mumbled, his momentary panic turned into cautious curiosity. Desmond stepped forward carefully, watching Connor closely. He was much too smart to actually touch the man; if he wasn't real his hand would go right through, if he was real, Connor would smack his hand off for trying. He experienced that enough times to know better. He was coming off as wary as a stray dog at the moment, every step forward uncertain.

Desmond eyed him and offered his hand, giving Connor the choice to take it, but honestly not even sure if he wanted him to be solid or not. One meant he was definitely crazy now, the other meant this was so much more confusing than he expected. "I'm Desmond." He had no idea what to say after that, so he considered it, and then well fuck. "I'm, uh, your descendent." Which he hoped explained a little bit about why he was so freaked out.

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.

You - who will bring him the last piece. That he may open the door.

You are important, child. In more ways than you will ever know.

Yours is a special lineage. Past. Present. Future. Many are connected to you.

Juno's words, spoken so very long ago now rang through his mind as Desmond spoke, as some of the answers to his very many questions became clear.

Desmond was his descendant, part of his future lineage, related to him no matter how distantly. How much time had passed between the line that he had come from and the time which Desmond lived? What had taken place? How much had changed? There was suddenly so much that he wanted to know.

This man, this one who stood in front of him now was who Juno had spoken of. The one who needed the last piece. The one who had to open the door. He wondered even now what that had met.

There was a hand being offered and he reached for it, movements slow and steady as skin slipped against skin, warm and very, very real.

"You are who she spoke of. She said that I needed to bring you to the last piece, but I have never understood what she met." His touch was gentle, like a man who was fully and entirely aware of his own strength, but it was fleeting and over in a moment. "Please, there is so much I wish to know."

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.

Oh god Connor was real. All his hallucinations were intangible, so he knew the difference, and Desmond was filled with both relief and fear. He didn't want to be crazy and stuck again, but he also had no idea what to do with the information that he was face to face with his ancestor. His hand was shaking after Connor pulled away; no wait, his entire body was shaking.

"Yeah. I'm ... I'm the one she was talking about." Desmond knew exactly what he was talking about, because he'd been there at the time. Watching through Connor's eyes. How do you tell someone that? Hi, nice to meet you, I know more about you than anyone else and you'd probably hate it. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, still wet. This was insane. If he wasn't already insane, he'd probably be soon enough.

"Man, I'm not really sure how good my answers are going to be, but I can try." He owed Connor that. Of all his ancestors, Connor was the one he felt he really understood, and he didn't want to be another person who gave him riddles or half-truths. If he didn't know what to say, he wouldn't. His brain was on fire at the moment anyway and he was freezing besides. "This is the afterlife, isn't it?" It was clearly the obvious choice now. "Like a purgatory? Because we're both dead, and we're here, so that's ... that's got to be it." Connor lived much longer than Desmond's 25 years, but he did eventually die like all other people.

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.

"You know-" Helpful advice wasn't something Zevran handed out so often or so easily but this was ticking a few boxes in the back of his mind, settling into a creeping suspicion he couldn't quite shake that this man had many of the same instincts that he did. That this man had the same itching paranoia under his skin, the wariness in his bones. "Generally if you are attempting to seek for points of entry or perhaps where you might crack a window for a burgle- you'd have some visible excuse for wandering about and looking so intently."

Offered while he, well, wandered about, looked intently, and sketched. A map of the village for his own use in a notebook taken from the store room. Not at all a conspicuous or strange thing to be doing, no Ser. "Just an observation."

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.

Desmond glanced over at the guy and bit back his own surly instinctive unfriendly response. It's not other people's fault everything sucks, Desmond. Since this was pretty definitely a huge hallucination, Desmond wasn't sure where this guy really fit in with the types of people he'd come up with. He really was not this creative. It was the biggest reason he doubted that he was crazy, and sometimes leaned on 'this is hell' instead.

After a beat, he smirked at the guy, loosening up a little. "You probably shouldn't give trade secrets away like that. Then there will be a whole lot of us innocently creating personal maps." It was a good suggestion though, and one he noted to himself for later. He wasn't trying to be a creep, but he also figured everyone here was made up so. Eh.

"I'm not a thief, I like having endless amounts of exit strategies." Or stealth spots. Jumping into someone's home was a very good option for that. He'd done it more than a few times. Running and hiding was a huge portion of how he - and his ancestors - survived when things got rough. He did have the movement of an Assassin, graceful and quiet, but vey little ability for deception and lying. "Too much is out in the open here or badly secured."

"Oh no. This is the greatest betrayal of my Guild I have ever committed. How shall I go on? Allow me to throw myself upon my sword- oh wait." Zevran rolled his eyes with a sly half smile, flipping his notebook closed and tucking it away fr the moment. No crow he, this man. And to his word, no thief either. There was a difference in how one held themselves; and there was a tension here that didn't come from mere sneak thievery.

"No, you are an Assassin or Spy of some sort, yes?" No Orlesian in his tone, so not a bard. But he was coming to learn that there were many strange people in this village and many strange worlds yet to explore. "The windows for the upper floors have not yet frozen shut. Most swing outward upon odd hinges but an odd number of them pull directly up."

If there was anything Zevran could understand well? It as the need for a quick retreat. "Worst comes to worst you could head for the forest, plenty of cover there and most are reluctant to travel in the dark."

Despite most people's kumbaya approach to this place, Ashley knew that sooner or later the people that came to this place weren't going to be the safe and loving people that most of this place seems to attract. Except she knows the truth.

Though it doesn't seem to hold her back from trying to help. It's more worth the risk than it is to turn her back on those in need. If nothing else, she knows her mother would have her ass. So she tries, accepting that life has already turned on her, and all she can do is what she knows. Help, and kicking butts if needed.

"Huh. Known some like that myself. Though less mistaken for goddess and more putting themselves into the right places to make others think they are for the ego boost and power." Which given his reaction, might be the case here.

"NOt that I've heard of anyone here by that," she says, chuckling as she took the jacket, shrugging. "It started as a blanket, but supplies are iffy here. Whole storeroom is full of these damn walking blanket things. Who even knows why."

She's definitely not figured it out, but she's willing to use what she can as she needs it.

"As for the how and who and all? We have no clue. Some call them the observers. Best I can figure after they snag you from wherever you were, they do the whole medical science experiment, dress us in scrubs and drop us down the world's worst flume ride until we end up playing in the fountain," she says, shrugging. "Not a lot of answers to all of the questions. Not that we're not trying."

She offers an apologetic look. "Sorry to not have much more," she says. "I'm Ashley, by the way. Kind of make circuits around the fountain when I'm out. Just in case."

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.

Connor would absolutely hate how much Desmond knew about him - but it would have been nothing against Desmond in particular. He would hate what the Templars had forced upon him, what the assassins had become, how they had used him, how he'd been given no choice in anything. Would hate how it had been his life that had been manipulated and used to find this stupid key that would lead Desmond to his death.

Would hate that Desmond had seen him at his worst, at his lowest points, where everything had gone wrong. Had seen his failures. But he wouldn't hate nor blame Desmond for a singular moment.

Hearing that he was dead threw him off just a little - but that only made sense. This place was in a future from the time which he had lived, and Desmond was his descendant.

Everything about this was so fucked.

"I am sorry but I do not know." He wished that he had some of the answers this man was likely seeking, but he had so few himself.

"You are shaking." He says it simply, like a statement, only just having looked down and noticed. "Come. There are empty houses nearby. We may talk there. Once you are dry and warm."

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i'm done being a pawn

House 46 | Welcome Wagon Rolling In

Fountain

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House 46 — welp

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Wandering

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