Touch of the Divine

[madimpossibledreamer]

You and me both, Desmond. (He was half planning on running Eagle Vision if not the stealth thing by Shaun because he wanted to get Shaun’s opinion on how that works but didn’t want Shaun to guess he’s been using the stealth thing in London, but that didn’t happen either.)
Gold isn't completely unheard of, but it definitely shouldn't be as prominent as it is for Desmond, and that's not actually what Shaun's focusing on.

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Desmond finally gets some answers about his newfound powers, and some of those answers definitely suck.
Word Count: 2256
Rating: Teen

         It’s not all fun and games, sadly. The hammer is definitely too slow and also talismans aren’t good enough to stop bruises, even if they are using the training versions of weapons. Because once Shaun was satisfied with getting his ass beaten (which isn’t a euphemism, he’d been happy about it and if he were anyone else he’d be smiling), they move on.
         “Do you need instructions in firearms?” He looks actually a little nervous about the prospect.
         “What kinds?” Desmond asks offhandedly, and then at the pause stops looking around for them to see Shaun looking a little bemused again.
         “Assault rifles, pistols, shotguns,” the Brit lists out slowly. “You don’t, do you?”
         It’s not what they’d focused on, given that unless you used a silencer guns weren’t particularly stealthy unless it was, like, a sniper rifle, but yeah, they’d concentrated on that, too. “Set up some targets and I can show off. Though I might need a little adjustment for the assault rifle, assuming the police aren’t going to freak.”
         The Templar does. All that eagerness seems to have evaporated, though.
         “You okay?” he clarifies, because apparently having a panic attack is enough for him to be able to spot one.
         “Well, excuse me for not being Illuminati about this,” he snarls, but—the way he’s acting, there’s some kind of trauma there, but Desmond’s not going to pry. Honestly, if it turned out he didn’t know anything, he’s starting to get the idea that they would’ve left that for Rebecca on another day.
         “Shaun, the police are going to be fine with me shooting, right?” he clarifies, and Shaun refocuses, back in the moment.
         He’s also looking at Desmond like he’s completely unintelligent, but that’s a fair enough price. “You have...noticed almost everyone is armed, right?” He sweeps an arm toward the street, and Desmond nods.
         “...I figured everyone had graduated past Novice.” This isn’t actually like Masyaf, is it.
         “I assume that you’re talking about a hierarchy system. Yes, those exist. For the most part I believe it has to do with the number of assignments you’ve completed, although for all I know the Dragon use more esoteric criteria. And no, anyone is permitted to carry around any weapons they wish, though most only bother with their favorites. You still need to take care when in non-Council territory, of course, and the Templars would probably take exception if you came in with a tank.”
         That might be a joke. It’s hard to tell, with the delivery. “Oh, I definitely was wondering about that,” Desmond teases, and Shaun rolls his eyes.
         “With you, it’s hard to tell,” Shaun snarks back, relaxing a little (huh, those sniping sessions actually were probably a fun pastime for him), but he doesn’t get back that eager look in his eye until the Assassin’s done and he announces they’re moving on to magic, which, given the way he’s trying to rein in his enthusiasm probably means that’s where he shines, which isn’t too surprising, but also means he’s probably good, given how he’d been decent with the sword.
         Like the potential of exotic weapons, Desmond had been excited for the prospect briefly, before another thought occurs to him.
         He doesn’t have normal magic. And sure, he’d gotten a few weird stares when he’d been trying to heal Chelsea, but if anyone’s going to overanalyze, it’s going to be Shaun.
         “Come on, you big baby. You’re not going to incinerate me any more than you were able to stab me.” He’s a little more gentle than impatient, this time, maybe a little amused. Still...Desmond’s not looking forward to this, but on the other hand, if he refuses, that’s going to be seen as suspicious, too. And, well, maybe this unusual introduction will work out in his favor, because it’s not like he could be expected to know this is weird.
         Most of the reason Shaun can even give this guarantee, it turns out, is that he wasn’t even planning on volunteering for target practice this time any more than he was with the guns. Oddly, he straps a book to Desmond’s back. It’s supposed to help, somehow, but it isn’t showing up in Eagle Vision at all, so the Assassin is skeptical. Shaun’s tips aren’t particularly useful until he actually throws a fireball or two himself since Desmond had mentioned he’s good with learning by observation. He’s had plenty of practice.
         “That’s awesome,” he breathes, focusing on trying to replicate the feeling.
         It’s kind of a shock to learn that it’s actually possible for Shaun to actually appear even more smug. “What you see now is the result of hard work, though you should be a natural.”
         It feels a lot like belief. Shaun thinks he needs all this stuff, so he does, because that’s how people have been doing it for millennia. Desmond can probably do that, because, sure, it looks impossible, but it’s happening, and he’s seen a lot over the last couple years. He can definitely pull off a Leap of Faith.
         Of course, that smug look disappears a few seconds later because Desmond actually manages it, and he watches the historian have a single moment where he’s happy and proud before he actually processes and his face goes blank. “You’re not. I. What? Bloody hell, that report did not do this justice. Is your arm glowing?”
         “...They look the same to me, but I don’t know how any of this works.” They don’t, actually; his has a gold tint, but it’s hard to gauge how weird that is by this world’s standards. Very, apparently. “And yeah, it’s been doing that since the whole thing with the bee. I guess it’s not supposed to do that?”
         The historian’s a little too agitated for a proper explanation, but he’s trying anyway. “You don’t understand. You’re not summoning a fireball. The focus isn’t even active. It...hmm. I’ve never seen anything of the kind before—maybe a shamanistic tradition, but—if I had to guess based on what little I’ve seen, you’re politely asking the world ‘please, may I have some fire’ and the world—Gaia, maybe, given the colour—is just...giving it to you, no questions asked.”
         “And you’ve seen a lot of magic.” He’s gotten a bit of an idea from the stories and rants, but it’s good to know.
         “It’s one of my areas, yes—after I was recruited, of course. I didn’t particularly believe in mystic traditions until I’d seen quantifiable evidence they did, in fact, work.” He’s dismissive, but not of the implied question. His mind is racing, trying to figure out what’s going on, and Desmond wishes him luck, because the guy’s probably missing some clues and even with all that extra information the Assassin still has no idea.
         Maybe he should ask about the dream. If anyone would know, it’s Shaun, and he really should know what he’s dealing with sooner rather than later. He opens his mouth to ask. “You want me to try again?”
         ...that’s not right. But Shaun’s pushing him on before he can even say anything else.
         “That’d give me more to work off. Roll up your sleeve, maybe try shooting lightning bolts from your hands this time.” It’s easier now that he has a feel for it. And maybe a sign that he’s getting used to how this world is, because it actually takes the realization that he hadn’t even blinked to go ‘oh wait yeah there’s a sentence that Shaun said casually’. He’s ordered to keep going, to hit the training dummy with ice, break the earth underneath it, and then move on to chaos magic, which feels...weirdly normal, because some of it feels like a stripped-down version of the Calculations, manipulating entropy and probability for desired ends, and part of it is just summoning weapons out of thought, which just seems practical, because you never have to worry about losing your weapon or having it taken from you. It gives him a headache, but barely one he notices, this time, because he’s not pushing it too much, just little changes in combat. It’s not like he’s doing the math in his head as to trajectories and whatever. He’s just doing it, because he’s had so much practice at that. That helps, the fact that it’s more instinct than active stuff he has to push, he’s pretty sure.
         And then, again, to blood magic, which is definitely more disturbing even though half of it is healing, especially since it seems like the training dummies have blood in them, somehow. Maybe it’s an illusion. He’s hoping it’s an illusion. They definitely don’t feel like stunt-props with bags of fake blood in them or something. Shaun’s fascinated, deeply troubled, and probably not going to sleep until he figures this out. Well, probably until he passes out, actually, because good as the guy is, he’s probably not solving this before his body literally gives out from exhaustion.
         “This tattoo. Anything you care to share with the class?” Shaun asks, tapping it carefully.
         Part of Desmond’s brain screams ‘danger’. The eagles are silent. He’s able to ignore all that. Despite the fact that they were just sparring, he trusts Shaun, so touch isn’t a prelude to a killing blow and he doesn’t need to be on edge all the time, thanks.
         “Got it as kind of a ‘fuck you’ to my family, after I escaped—” He catches himself, then decides, nah, it’s not that unique a name, which is probably why it’d been chosen. “After I escaped the Farm. We weren’t allowed stuff like that, anything that could be used to pick us out of the crowd. Maybe I could’ve thought through the design more, but who cares, you know? It’s mine.”
         The Templar nods decisively, agreeing with the sentiment but maybe a bit distracted. “...I don’t suppose you sought out a magic tattoo, by any chance?”
         “As of three months ago, I didn’t believe magic existed,” he answers honestly. Really, really old tech, yeah. Not magic. Though the Shaun of the Old World had some lecture about that and a guy named Arthur C. Clarke, so maybe, in a way, he had. “It definitely wasn’t glowing before then or anything like that.” The dream, Desmond, tell him about the dream.
         Instead, he’s silent again. Which feels like mind control, again, and he should warn Shaun, but—he can’t. It doesn’t feel as direct as Juno, not like he’s a puppet on strings, but still. He can’t say a word.
         “Those do exist, before you ask, but—not like this. It doesn’t look like it’s the ink, either, though I’d have to do some tests to be certain. I can speculate, though, and my guess? That’s some sort of mark tying you to whatever goddess is pictured, and she’s boosting your abilities, though it didn’t awaken until a visit from our friendly neighborhood bees activated it.” He pats Desmond’s shoulder, as the Assassin attempts to remember how to breathe.
         “Gods? Those exist?” His voice cracks, just a bit, but seriously, fuck the Isu.
         Shaun notices. “Breathe, Desmond.” He waits until Desmond’s not completely having a crisis, and then nods. “Yes, supposedly, though most have either died off or been killed off during past Ages. The last major god with relatively plausible accounts is Loki somewhere on the New England coast, but most have died or were killed off since the Third Age or before. Most artifacts from then have been lost, unfortunately, though if the Illuminati had Excalibur you could be sure they’d be bragging about it.”
         He swallows. “Shaun. Were any of those world-ending scenarios caused by a solar flare?” Well, he can get that out, apparently.
         The Templar’s alarmed, but taking it seriously. “Unfortunately, not one of the things I know, I’m sorry. Given how many religions have a reference to a ‘world-ending’ flood, I would suspect that at least one of the previous three ended in water, but sources are few and far between.” Don’t need to die to save the world, he reminds himself, focusing on his breathing. Shaun basically just said there’s special weapons to kill gods. He just needs one ASAP. They’re rare? No big deal. He’s got Eagle Vision. Easy, right?
         Does that make Not-Clay a god? It’d make sense, but…it doesn’t fit, somehow.
         “If it helps, the Sun hasn’t been doing anything worth concern for as long as we’ve had satellites monitoring the thing.”
         That...does help, actually.
         “I’ll take a picture of your tattoo, if that’s all right. Research who it might be, if it’ll give you any piece of mind. I could also take a sample?” He just keeps volunteering to do things. The mystery must really be bothering him.
         And sure, Desmond’s as eager to figure out what the hell is going on with his tattoo as anyone else, really, but if they can do a DNA test, what the hell are they going to find? Do most Bees have not-so-human DNA anymore, or is this less science and more magic? “I...um. I think I’ll pass on the ‘you taking bits of me’ thing, because I’m pretty sure you’re right. I don’t think it’s the ink, and I’d rather keep the tat intact, you know? Go ahead and photograph away, though.” And, oddly enough, letting Shaun maneuver him into a situation with the proper light feels like the time Leonardo had convinced Ezio to model for a painting. This wasn’t how he expected their sparring session would go, though.