Feels Like Yesterday

[madimpossibledreamer]

This was meant to be one of the shorter summary chapters and then Desmond noticed she looked like a courtesan and said no. to be fair, Madame Rogêt is cool. I just figured the missions themselves were less of a priority. I did rewrite a lot of her dialogue, partly because she absolutely did know they were coming.
Also, fic anniversary coming soon!  I'll be posting something extra then, so stay tuned.

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Desmond tests out a few things and makes a new friend.
Word Count: 1749
Rating: Teen

 

          Desmond’s used to staying up for far too long, but even he’s reaching his limits, so he finally goes for it. To his surprise, Bees do actually sleep. They just don’t need to.
          “Good luck getting useful premonitions,” Chelsea wishes him cheerfully. He drifts off, slightly bemused, to the sound of her squabbling with Lydia about whether it’s worth it to still sleep and open yourself up to...forces. He doesn’t get to hear the end where Lydia elaborates on what those forces might be.
          When he’s shaken awake, though, he has to wince and apologize to a group of much more solemn recruits. Seems like he’s still having nightmares, then, even if he’s gotten better about not screaming so much.
          He takes that as an excuse to test eating in front of them, too, because if they’re taking that well enough, might as well, and they’re not as weirded out as he’d expected by that, either.
          “I wish it wasn’t just for replacing anima anymore, though,” Chelsea says wistfully, eyeing his energy bar.
          That’s just kind of wrong, but then, maybe there’s a reason Bees just end up being weird and inhuman, if that’s the attitude they take to human things. Even if it’s not physically needed, there’s something so cultural and vital about food. He’s got multiple sets of memories, and they all say the same thing—hell, they’d only started coming together (and maybe apart, a little, thanks to Shaun’s yogurt heist shenanigans) through shared meals. “You do know you can still eat for other reasons, too, right? Like, because you feel like it.”
          “People starve every day. Better the food go to someone who deserves it,” she disagrees, and yikes he doesn’t like how that sounds.
          “Then go for something tasty but low-calorie and low-nutrition.” She opens her mouth and promptly closes it. Hopefully he made her think, then.
          He hasn’t been back to the fortune-teller shop since he’d delivered the mail. Honestly he’s still not quite sure why he’d done that; it’s not like most of the things you’d buy during normal life would be too urgent during a zombie apocalypse. It just seemed like the thing to do. He hadn’t actually bothered to go inside, which it occurs to him he probably should have, but the extremely unbothered cats just hanging out and the lack of zombies in the courtyard in front of it suggests that everything’s fine. Not that they’ve been quick enough, that he’s seen, but the zombies have absolutely gone for what wildlife they’ve been able to spot. Which—huh, yeah, that’s one common pop culture type of zombie he hasn’t run into, zombie dogs or anything like that. Then again, maybe that makes sense. If it’s not a virus, or anything—if it has something to do with the siren song pulling townsfolk into the sea, and only humans are vulnerable, then yeah, no zombie animals. That’s something anyway.
          It’s a safe spot, probably, but he might want to go see if she wants to relocate to the church or sheriff’s office anyway. Maybe she’s fine, but he should offer, and escorting an innocent to safety is another thing his trainees should probably get used to, sooner rather than later.
          “Everybody good?” he asks, glancing around and taking stock, and Nate’s head pokes over the edge of the roof.
          “Just finished up. Figured I’d go scout around. Keeping an eye on the Morninglight, mostly, since you warned us.” Desmond helps him up, not that he needs the help, necessarily.  He’s definitely taking to all this Assassin stuff pretty easily. It’s just that it’s so easy that La Volpe would be urging caution right about now, and he’s not even sure the thief would be wrong, since he is technically sent by the Dragon to be Desmond’s Agent. Not that he gets the sense that Nate’s directly working against him, just that...he’s serving two masters, probably. Might not actually follow instructions given to him, depending on what they are and what kind of guy he really is, but he at least probably has orders.
          “And?” He finishes up with his breakfast and stands up, nudging Lydia who’s texting up a storm on her phone. He feels a little nosy for sneaking a peek, but it looks like just teenage stuff. Could be code, obviously, but. Maybe it’s the nightmare reminding himself that maybe he should be paranoid, because there is somebody out to kill him, and he’s pretty sure they haven’t given up, just...reevaluating.
          “Their wards are better than the Illuminati’s. They’ve got layers; just your average self-help group, hippies, and then maybe frauds and con artists, but...the magic is real. Someone there knows what they’re doing.” He shrugs. “If I had to bet on somebody, I’d say the sorceror or maybe Che Garcia. He’s their leader, and he definitely knows more than he’s telling.” He holds out a picture of the guy on his phone—taken from a distance, apparently, and he’s not looking at the camera, so that’s good. Long hair, short beard, definitely looks like a hippie, but that just might be a disguise to blend in. Or, hell, what does Desmond know, maybe he likes dressing like that, so everything just works out.
          “We’re checking out the fortune teller’s. Come on.” He might be climbing down, but he absolutely sees the face Chelsea makes. “I thought you signed up to protect everyone. Not just the people you think deserve it.” It’s pretty mild, but she does look a little sheepish and then just lost in concentration. Heights are definitely going to be a problem for her, huh.
          It’s honestly a bit of what he expects, with the carpet on the wall and other knick-knacks. He can’t be sure about it until she starts speaking, but he’s pretty sure half of them are cheap knock-offs. As is her accent, apparently, as she goes into the whole vague vision-speech about the fog before he even gets a chance to greet her, but she is dressed exactly and he means exactly like one of the courtesans, before she drops it entirely.
          “Got so used to, well, this,” she waves at the crystal ball carelessly, like it’s just the trinket he pegged it as, “...and it’s not like I’ve had a chance to talk to too many people since all this started. Old habits, you know? But I’ve been outside—not far, the courtyard seems to be safe—but enough to see that money isn’t going to get me very far in these dark days. You can call me Madame Rogêt. And you’re Desmond, right? I’ve dreamed about you.”
          He can’t help but smile at that one, even as Chelsea shuffles behind him. It’s not meant to be flirting, probably, not with the matter-of-fact way she delivers it. “I bet you say that to all the guys who walk down those stairs.”
          She laughs, pleased. “Only the handsome ones, and not at all, since…” She shrugs, but she doesn’t have to elaborate. “I know about you, too, Nate. And Chelsea and Lydia. Welcome, and sorry there’s not more hospitality for me to give. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
          She presses fingers to the bridge of her nose, and Desmond winces in sympathy—that looks like someone who’s trying to get pressure to relieve a headache. Lydia apparently comes to the same conclusion, because she grabs a bottle of painkillers off the shelf and hands it off to Rogêt, who doesn’t even bother with asking for water, just swallows two pills down dry. “Thanks, dearie. Given everything going on out there now, it’s not the confession it used to be—I am—was—a fraud. Take people’s money and tell them just what they wanted to hear, from reading them. Oh, I didn’t try to scam them or anything, just guide them along the path to coming to the conclusion on their own, but...something changed, with the fog.”
          That’s...different. He exchanges glances with the others, who look just about as confused as he is.
          “You didn’t hear the siren song?” That might end up being a big deal.
          She laughs. “Oh, I did. Just like everyone else. Just happens that having an active social life saved me. Not the mayor, though. Took a little while to wriggle out of the handcuffs, though, but it could have been worse.”
          Well. He’d been hoping for something to counteract the effects. The disappointment must show on his face, or maybe she’s just reacting to Chelsea behind him who’s almost certainly looking disapproving. He’s probably going to have another talk with her again, because it’s none of Chelsea’s business what consenting adults get up to.
          “But you didn’t come here to talk about that, did you? Thank you for the offer to escort me somewhere, but I’ve already had enough judgment for one lifetime, and there’s something about this place...I can’t explain it.” Neither can Desmond, but he does know exactly what she’s talking about. There’s an air about this place, besides the utter lack of zombies, that says this place is safe, even without wards.
          “You said you ‘were’ a fraud?” Nate asks quietly.
          “I did, didn’t I? I...dream about things, now. Things I couldn’t possibly know—like you four. Nightmares, the same one every night, like a song you can’t get out of your head. Ravens. We’ve had ravens for years, and they’re friendly enough, but these...are different.” Hopefully they have absolutely nothing to do with Jack the Lad, because Desmond is not prepared for fighting that...thing again. “I don’t even see that many of them outside, not like in my dreams, covering Kingsmouth like a funeral shroud, blotting out the sun. Cutting us off from the world. Skeletons, pecked clean by ravens. Disease and suffering.” She starts a little, like they’d been losing her in the retelling. “Another type of undead to add to your growing list, I fear. And if you do nothing, we’ll all die.”
         As if there wasn’t already enough of that. “Where should I go?”
          “Apparently you’ll see a sign.” That’s cryptic, but the words feel gold, too. Then again, if peering into the fabric of reality works anything like the Calculations, no wonder she looks like she’s going to puke her guts out. She does absent-mindedly start humming The Raven as they leave.
          They reach the courtyard when Lydia laughs. “I think I see the sign, too.” She points—the name of the shop. The Raven’s Knock.