Dreaming Nightmare Together

[madimpossibledreamer]

I started with the first paragraph and then Shaun just took off running. Alternative Title: The Unraveling of Shaun Hastings.  He did misinterpret some things, but he is still extremely bright. He is also in the interesting position where he would absolutely punch his other universe self with no hesitation.

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Rebecca checks in on Shaun, who is not dealing.
Word Count: 3264
Rating: Teen
 

        “This is all fueled by some combination of caffeine and alcohol. I wouldn’t take it too seriously.”
        “Like that’s anything new.” Humiliatingly, Rebecca doesn’t listen to a word and just strolls past, taking in his cork-board, and just…whistles. “Someone’s been busy. I’d guess there’s ‘feelings’ prompting this in there somewhere, too.”
        Yes, all right, it’s out in the open, they’ve both known for months now, and yet he’d thought she’d have the courtesy not to say any of those things out loud.
        And then she just has to pour salt into the wound. “You do know he forgave you, like, ages ago, right? He wouldn’t still be talking to you if he didn’t.”
        Yes, he’s aware. He’s also aware that he tends to be obsessive, burying himself in his work, particularly when he’s not actually working on more than one project at once or when he’s trying very hard not to think about something, and this happens to fulfill the criteria on both counts.
        In his brief stint in the field, Shaun has, in fact, been tortured. He would willingly go through that again rather than revealing any more about the sad state of his mental health at the moment, any more than this already has. How frantic he’d been when the spells had said that Desmond was dead, and how that has now worked its unwanted presence into the usual nightmares. Or how recklessly Desmond had thrown himself off that roof, no matter that it wasn’t very tall. He’s been to Kingsmouth, and there is nothing sturdy enough around the building to support a man’s weight. His best guess is that this is yet another instance of the man’s strange magic coming into play (and the favor of a bird goddess would probably help, there), but the recklessness is troubling and does not help his state of mind any.
        And that’s ignoring the fact the daydreams are now varied and peppered with details of actually getting to know the Dragon further. He very much wants to invite the man over to his pathetic excuse for a flat for a cuppa, because Desmond had made it a point to try all the local food and alcohol and in general was open to new experiences, so Shaun could probably find some tea the man would actually like. Then, he could natter on about, say, early Renaissance Italy, or the secret history of the Freemasons, and it certainly doesn’t help calm his fantasies any to know that Desmond has and will listen to his ramblings and ask questions as if he’s actually interested, occasionally adding a sarcastic quip or irreverent remark of his own. (Also, those jeans are a crime. Really. Particularly when it got warm enough in the pub he’d actually taken off that hoodie, for once. How the hell is he supposed to exist normally anymore? True, he’s not above the dirty fantasy, but the fact that it progresses to wondering if the man snores or what it would be like to wake up in his arms are a step too far.)
        Well. He’s improved marginally, he supposes. He’s actually paying attention to the data now, and it’s all rather troubling, isn’t it? Rebecca’s antics, if anything, make him even less inclined to confide in her. She had, rather early in their acquaintanceship, clocked that he had rather unfortunate luck, when it came to his love life. The bloke who’d swapped his allegiance to the Illuminati had been the closest thing that they’d come to an actual threat of any sort, but she’d still been on the lookout, and, as it happens, Desmond could probably be counted as one. He’s very careful about when and where he unsheathes those violent tendencies (as if Shaun needed more evidence his brain has some sort of vendetta against his person, with such wordplay), instinct coming into play when pushed, but he is certainly capable of such things. What is perhaps more disturbing is that she is fully supportive, even encouraging, of a relationship, knowing full well she is also prepared to slit Desmond’s throat and enlist help to prevent reanimation of any kind, but...well. It’s Rebecca. He’s pretty sure she’s never been something resembling ‘normal’ in her life.
        Given that this is a conversation he deeply doesn’t want to be having right now, he elects to ignore it in favor of the conversation he would prefer not to be having right now. He clears his throat. “Yes, I have been looking into Miles’ cult.” It’s easier to think of it that way, distantly, as the cult started by Elder Miles rather than the one that had obviously damaged his son in ways that the man is still healing from. “It’s not a lot, but Desmond has given some clues to narrow it down, and, well, I’m not sure they’re not a threat to the Templars.”
        Shaun crosses his arms, feeling horribly exposed as he continues. He’s always been one to put a lot into his research, but on the whole he hadn’t cared if anyone noticed. Between the topic matter and the fact that Rebecca knows him like few others, he’s sure she’ll read every thought into it, but he had been meaning to (and putting off) share what he’d gathered so far, even if it’s hardly a smoking gun. Among other things, her help would be invaluable. “Any admissions were inadvertent, I’m sure, but—probably the most glaring detail is the fact that they’d trained him to become an assassin, and taught him to expect death if he failed. ‘The outside world are all our enemies, they’d kill us if they got the chance’, that’s bog-standard cult material, hardly worth noting, but going a step further, training assassins and not just handing guns to lookouts? That’s something different altogether. On most occasions, even the most heinous of cults doesn’t actually have any intention of going and bothering those outside their own group, Tokyo sarin attacks aside. And it does make everything else make a twisted kind of sense. Desmond doesn’t trust Templars.”
        Rebecca pouts theatrically. As if any of that is needed under the circumstances. (Though he knows, partly, he’s got a bit of a monopoly on the melodramatic, at the moment.) “You’re saying he doesn’t trust us? I’m hurt!”
        “He trusts us, though I have no idea of the role the Third Eye and the fact he likes us played. He elected to trust Sonnac on a provisional basis. He basically took Chelsea Palmer under his wing.” Leading to his theory that perhaps Desmond did the same while in the cult, protecting and teaching younger members. Given the way he acted—low self esteem, if papered over to try to encourage others not to worry because he’d feel guilty about it—but also a slight resentment over his lot in life, it’s highly probable that he’d thrown himself out as a scapegoat to protect others, willingly, but anyone would also be unhappy with such treatment, even if they have been brainwashed to think of it as ‘normal’. And that, as Shaun feared, he’d probably never gotten the exit counseling or any other sort of mental health professional to help him once he’d gotten out. Probably yet another casualty of whatever happened to the ones who’d helped him escape, that taught Desmond not to seek help or call anyone’s attention to the cult. Given that it’s confirmed they have assassins? Perhaps ‘casualty’ is not mere metaphor, in this case. “Most Templars, especially those in uniform? He avoids them when he can help it, and is carefully polite when he can’t.”
        “You sure the Dragon didn’t warn him against the Templars?” He gets the feeling she’s attempting the Socratic method, and he’d really rather she not.
        “He doesn’t know them from Adam. Careful man like Desmond putting all his stock into some words some sketchy organization tells him the instant they meet?” Could happen, yeah, bloody hell, ‘course it could, theirs is a wide and varied world, but is it likely? Not remotely. “Besides, I think your assessment of the Dragon being unusually cooperative was correct. They sent money to Palmer and accounting for repairs, ‘on account of attempted violence against their own agent’. The vendetta thing makes the whole ‘assassin’ bit a tad troubling, yeah? You don’t just put that much effort into learning how to kill without having a target, or rather targets, in mind. Desmond isn’t about to act on it, but he’s hardly the only one, is he?”
        From the look of it, Rebecca already knew all of this. Which confirms his assessment of her testing him, but is still mildly irritating even then. “Did you report any of this?”
        “What do you take me for, Rebecca Crane?” She does actually listen when he pulls out the full name. “Of course I did—only to Sonnac. You know what the Old Guard would do? Besides, I have nothing concrete as of yet, only just suspicions. It’s too early to escalate anything.” They’re still too quick to label ‘evil’, still too quick to the sword.
        She nods and then calmly asks, “Did he happen to mention astral projection, by any chance?”
        That’s...an oddly specific question. He blinks at her and then answers, slowly, “...You’re in contact with him more than I am, these days.” And she just shrugs and doesn’t elaborate. Which is also infuriating, but he knows from experience he won’t drag details out of her, so he merely elects to continue, instead.
        “Another important detail—the bit about the sun. Now, the latest I’ve heard along those lines is some Illuminati drivel about solar flares cooking the Earth, long debunked aside from the effects on radio waves and possibly our power grid. But Desmond was convinced.”
        Both are pretty specific details, but, frustratingly, have not mapped onto a precise cult yet. Never mind the fact about his own father being the leader—that should be more helpful than it’s turned out to be, at this point. He also doesn’t mention the way Desmond had reacted about the food—food control was probably one of the methods used to keep members in line, an utterly infuriating idea when applied to a small child, but. It’s one of the common tactics in cults, so until they get a promising lead from one of the more specific clues, Shaun’s not going to bother too much about that one. And most likely they had trained attack animals of some kind, or at least had discussed the possibility. Venerating the bloodline, well, given that the father was the leader, that’s practically a given, isn’t it?
        “Most of the ones I’ve heard you talk about sound like they’re sun worshipers, not anti-sun.” As usual, Rebecca focuses in on the detail that sticks out.
        Shaun nods. He’s reaching out to practically everyone he knows, at this point. At least Gladstone had been motivated to lend a hand, for once, rather than moping about the ‘house arrest’ bit.  “It’s unusual, which should help, but I’m coming up empty-handed, as of yet. I’m still trying to work out why us, exactly.” If they’re going after Templars, in this day and age, it’s likely older than one might suspect. True, Templars haven’t exactly made an effort to hide, but if it’s an American group—and it would seem to be, Desmond absolutely looks and acts American—it’s far less likely that this is a situation that arose naturally. Either someone in the Secret World (Illuminati? Morninglight? Phoenicians? Rebecca pointed out his reaction after the fact, though it’s more likely that the group operated in a low-tech fashion than they’ve popped up now to just start a cult) provoked the group, or it’s some sort of ancient grudge. If the latter, Shaun has a better than even chance at narrowing it down. He is a historian as well as a sociologist, thank you very much. Another point in the favor of this hypothesis? They’d known something about the secrets underlying the normal façade of reality, enough that Desmond is reevaluating what he’s been told—which is the sort of thing that leads one to going back to the cult, the last thing the man needs right now.
        She actually looks surprised, for once. “It’s not just the thing about the Crusades?”
        That nearly derails him. The ancestor worship was one thing, but he’d entirely neglected to include that in his own research, which is an oversight unlike him.  On the other hand, he can’t exactly remember the last good night’s sleep he’s had. He jots down a note to research more on that front before he continues.
        “Given what we know about them, now, his skills fighting, avoiding attention, pickpocketing, tailing, parkour, and the like—make sense. He’d understood being followed and physical threats, as long as there’s no attempt at a follow-through.”
        True, he’d overreacted badly, after that scare he'd given them, but Desmond had hardly reacted, even thought it funny, which was hardly appropriate and Shaun has to work on refraining from blurting out such things in the future. He’s doing his best, but his is not a nature suited to gentle treatment.
        And she’s not usually this quiet, which, more than anything, tells him exactly how deeply he’s buried himself in this, now. In Desmond, and his mystery. But he can’t stop.
        “His developing the Third Eye likely merely served as a catalyst for more training.” And of course they’d used different terminology, known only to the in-group. And Desmond had seemed surprised they’d known of its existence, like he’d actually believed the propaganda about ‘only the Chosen have this ability’ or whatever other rubbish he’d been told. And his alternatively worrying and amusing matter-of-fact analysis of the man that tried to kill him, coupled what seemed honestly to be a reaction like this was some sort of insult to his professional pride.
        “Desmond panicked at the possibility of deities existing, despite the fact that many are quite benign. He didn’t believe magic existed beforehand, so that’s at least one worry we can put to rest—things like the Third Eye are one thing, but the foot soldiers, at least, won't be committing magical arson anytime soon.”  Of course, that doesn't rule out the possibility that higher-ranked members might actually have been allowed to learn magic, and it doesn't take more than a few practitioners to be incredibly destructive.  “They had a hierarchy, again, not exceptionally useful, other than the fact that the lowest rank was likely called Novice and they were not allowed to carry weapons. The location was called The Farm...annoyingly generic.”
        When Shaun finds these bastards, he would very much like to punch one of them in the nose. Perhaps more than one. Probably starting with the bastard of a father. It might be a bit unwise, but they very much deserve it, and not just because he’s fallen farther and deeper than he’d ever intended.  Even now, he can’t just lock this up as yet another bad idea and step away. He’s always had trouble leaving bloody well enough alone.
        “Are they recruiting?” Ahh, what a good question. Pity he doesn’t know the answer.
        “If they were, and weren’t being discreet about it, well, we’d have a name already, wouldn’t we? So if they are, they are very, very good at keeping it quiet. Given how he responded when he tried to use his assassin weapon on me, I’d wager he ran when the reality of hurting another person hit him. He is very capable of violence when he’s not consciously thinking about it, but the second he has to contemplate actual real-world results, against humans at least, he can’t stomach it, a state no doubt unapproved by the cult.”
        “Have you tried asking him about it?” she asks instead, gently. “...I get the feeling he would talk to you.”
        Shaun eyes her with some alarm. That’s twice now she’s hinted at such things, and she sounds oddly confident. Surely she hasn’t betrayed his preoccupation to the man himself? “He hasn’t,” he responds slowly, studying her face. The innocent smile she shoots him doesn’t help any. “...And in any case, I do believe you’re wrong. When he’s not having a panic attack, he’s rather tight-lipped on the subject. He’s conflicted, and does know, to some extent, that what they did was wrong, possibly wants not to dwell on the subject, but he’s also still protecting them, perhaps even subconsciously.”
        “What about the tattoo?” ...From the sound of things, she’s contemplating another one herself. Also potentially changing the subject before he works out whatever unwise meddling actions she had taken.
        No clues to the cult’s identity and whether they’re a danger to his employers or Desmond there, unfortunately—Desmond could have asked the tattoo artist to do whatever they pleased, or picked out some design he found pleasing...it doesn’t necessarily indicate anything about the cult’s history. It’d seemed like that was something he’d been interested in learning, too, so while he wasn’t big on sharing anything useful elsewhere, he probably would have done so in this instance. Though it’s still an important aspect to research, separately. “It’s frustratingly abstract. I’ve been going through my materials on goddesses associated with birds. If it wasn’t merely a whim, the fact that most have some protective aspects would probably have appealed to Desmond. Other common aspects include immortality, messengers, and wisdom. Morrigan would make sense, especially for a warrior.” He ignores the fact that she is also well-known in tales for luring men to their downfall. “If it’s a raven, Hsi-Wang-Mu would also be a possibility. I’m ruling out Athena or Minerva and Hera or Juno—neither would stand for less than a perfect depiction and this doesn’t look anything like an owl or a peacock.”
        Rebecca studies the picture he’d taken, and then nods. “I’ve seen some tattoos gone wrong, and that would qualify, yeah. They’d at least try to get the eyes or the feathers.”
        “If it’s supposed to be an eagle, it could be Hebe. A vulture, possibly Nekhbet, protector of the Pharaoh or Nephthys, associated with the afterlife and darkness. No matter the exact connection, though, it’s possible that this tattoo and whatever magic and blessing it bestowed were the only thing that kept him out of the cult’s hands all these years, especially since he gained it with the intent of escaping the cult and not allowing it to control his life any further.” Intent is a powerful component of magic. And it’s honestly probably the tattoo that caused him to turn out to be a damn strange Bee, unless the Dragon are involved somehow.
        And then, there, one final question. “Do you think they’re the one that sent the assassin to try to kill him?”
        Desmond hadn’t considered it. “It’s possible they were involved. Though I think Desmond would rather have expected someone better, if that were the case.”
        She eyes him again—yes, he knows he looks like shite, he’s been going through a lot of data, recently, and then pats his arm. It feels annoyingly patronizing. “I’ll look into what I can, just so you’re not playing Atlas all by yourself.” She says this as if she hasn’t obviously been doing so on her own already. “I’ll pick you up something, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t eaten today. If you’re not off that computer by midnight tonight, I’m locking you out of everything.” Protesting that that’s terribly unfair will get him nowhere, he’s aware from experience. He swallows his pride, instead.