Corrupted Spiral

[madimpossibledreamer]

Desmond decided to opt out of doing any missions for Bach, because as much as he doesn’t like Edgar, Bach really rubbed him the wrong way. Probably the ‘war journalist who loves watching the show rather than actually wanting any of it to stop’ bit. Even though dealing with Theodore Wicker’s issues and demons is a good thing to do. Fortunately, he’s got Agents now.

Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Desmond has a nightmare and Rebecca has some news.
Word Count: 1935
Rating: Teen

 

         This is a dream, probably. Or the Animus. Real life tends to have better transitions than this. A bunker underground. Shaun would probably be able to identify the style at a glance, but he’s not Shaun.
         That’s...something he’d always found weird, actually, how Shaun would make all those smart remarks, and yeah, sure, for someone else it’d make sense, but it actually kind of hurt, sometimes. Stuff about the American education system, when he’d read Desmond’s file. Not like much in his history—not like much that mattered—wasn’t on record, somewhere, like you could just reduce him to data. Though Shaun did like data.
         He’d known Desmond didn’t exactly attend public school, or whatever. He’d known, and sure, it was easy to forget, probably, for someone who grew up normally, outside of the Assassins, but still. Bill made sure some things were taught. History, mostly, missing a whole lot of things that might actually been useful. Not in of themselves, exactly, but for blending in. He’d learned to keep his head down, but still, the minute he opened his mouth sooner or later he’d say something that would be a dead giveaway, and there’s only so much living his own life could teach him. Always felt wrong. Like pretending, like everyone would know just how much of a freak he was, if they looked too long. Like he was only ever going to pretend to be normal, and never actually get there.
         This Shaun, he notes again, doesn’t do that, but maybe that has to do with the difference in his specialty? At least, if Old Shaun actually knew anything about cults, he didn’t say a word about it. Not that the Assassins were a cult, not exactly, but Bill came pretty close to running it like one. And Shaun’s doing a fairly good job with filling Desmond in on things without making him feel stupid. It’s nice, really. Old Shaun got better about that, near the end, but he’s pretty sure it’s not even about the crush. Just...this version of Shaun gets it, more.
         “Still wanna know how it felt to stab that smug son of a bitch,” John tells him, matching his stride, and he glances sideways.
         He doesn’t get much of an idea of features. Nondescript, really, but covered in that weird black goop, so he looks more like one of the Animus’s glitches of a human than someone actually living.
         “That’s really rude, Chuck. You’ve hurt my feelings.” The laugh doesn’t sound too much like he even cares.
         They keep walking, and it’s turned into that museum in London, and John’s stopped walking, just started teleporting behind him like the creepy curator. Exhibits like statues of Vidic and Cross—ugh there’s an image he didn’t need to haunt him in his waking life—wendigo, all fifty types of zombies—are set up to either side. “What’s with the meeting?” Sure, he probably doesn’t have to ask out loud, but it feels better, somehow.
         “Oh, I didn’t call you here. You’re the one tuning in to the broadcast. I’m just your friendly neighborhood DJ, just having a talk with my favorite caller.” He could be lying, but...it doesn’t feel like he is. “To the point, then. You’re feeling a little desperate, there. Sorcerors with swords. I can help you.”
         Sounds easy. “What’s the catch?”
         John’s about to answer when there’s footsteps. The sound of clacking heels. And the...guy? Entity? Who didn’t react to anything suddenly looks terrified. “Run,” he insists, and then he’s gone, which—great, what now?
         He has a single moment of being completely and utterly done—hasn’t he been through enough—before it turns to an icy terror burning through him. Strike first. It’s the only chance he’s got.
         It happens faster than he can even consciously follow. One moment, she stalks around the corner, and the next, his Hidden Blade is buried deep in Shaun’s gut, and this time there’s no talismans, nothing to stop absolutely everything from going wrong, and this time it’s not even something that has to happen.
         “Des—” he gurgles, confused and in agony, not finishing his name, that’s wrong, fuck Desmond can—he can fix this, he’s been taught, the Calculations can undo this, can stop him from bleeding out, he just needs to—
         They fall. They fall, and Desmond’s head is exploding, images hitting hard and fast, now, and Shaun’s in arm’s reach but he can’t even move. His arm flickers, the gold spreading, covering his whole body, until he’s the gold of those Isu hologram things, with only the spreading blood darkening, turning hungry, going to eat the world. The stars, winking out one by one, the infection rising like living black oil, devouring the World Tree, Agartha. Fading just like Shaun’s life, the light going out of his eyes too, all while Desmond can’t move, helpless, fuck—
         And then he’s sitting up, gasping, and his mind’s reaching out before he can stop himself, desperately wanting confirmation Shaun’s fine, and the headache hits just about the time that he gets the feeling that yeah. Shaun’s exhausted and pushing himself too far too fast not just for the world but for Desmond but—Jesus he’s got to stop. Fortunately, that’s easy enough—maybe he’s actually getting at least a little more of a handle on using the Calculations—because the connection cuts off abruptly. “Figure you want a chance to get yourself together before the others get back,” Lydia announces, moving away from where she’d been shaking him and tone like she doesn’t care or didn’t notice the nightmare or freakout, at all.
         It’s a good attempt, he’ll give her that.
         “You missed a call from your boyfriend, by the way. I tried to wake you, but…” She shrugs.
         The image of stabbing Shaun is still a little too vivid, but then, it’s not like his brain didn’t have anything to base that off, unfortunately. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
         She eyes him, not buying it. “...Either you’re arguing about the word you use, or you forgot to add a ‘yet’ to that statement. Not judging either way.”
         Reflexively, he flips her off, sitting up and rubbing his face. He’d...honestly really rather not think about it. He’s got too many haunting memories for one lifetime, let alone...four. Five? If he counts his own previous actual life as one, then...yeah, five. But he’s also actually pretty sure that Alice had a point, and if he has to suffer the least he can do is get some use out of it, so analyzing it is.
         Not all of it means something, he’s pretty sure, but he can...nudge the Calculations, maybe, though it might make the headache worse. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he’s pretty sure the part with Shaun was just...memories that haunt him. It doesn’t feel important, not as important as the rest of it, anyway, so. Moving on, which is good, because he doesn’t want to think about that part.
         He’d been worried about the mind control (fair enough, that’s something that everyone should be concerned about, he’s pretty sure) so he’d called for backup in his sleep. And John hadn’t gotten to respond, but he’s pretty sure just like a Piece of Eden or Artifact, John would want a favor or there’d be some other kind of price. And he’d mocked Beaumont (maybe just from the fact that Beaumont can’t touch him, now, not in whatever data-form he’s in), but he’d been scared of whatever was coming. Though that could just be a leftover from when he was alive? He’d been scared of something then, too. Maybe something to do with his role as a messenger, whatever that was.
         Weirdly, though, he’s pretty sure that his subconscious had chosen the museum for a reason, but why—
         Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. Something he’d noted at the time, but forgotten because honestly there was so much detail to remember, here. One of the exhibits was labeled something about the Filth, right? Alice had warned him about ‘the unclean’, in dreams, and he’d been fairly sure it had some sort of connection with John. From there, the obvious conclusion awaits. He’s pretty sure that’s the word for the oil-infection eating holes in the world, which means someone else knows about this, or they wouldn’t have a name for it. Something else for Shaun to research, maybe. Or for him to delegate; he’s pretty sure if nothing else Rebecca can force him to ask somebody else to do it. He gets the warning of Chelsea and Nate’s returning and pulls himself together, as much as he can anyway. He’s definitely going to have to teach her more about being quiet.
         At least he feels somewhere near rested. Nightmares aside, sleeping in a literal hell motel is far from one of the worst places he’s slept.
         Chelsea is way too chipper, though. “We’ve been killing demons for the reporter while you were sleeping.”
         Uh. Okay. Good to know.
         “Grabbed you something from the vending machine—non-expired,” Nate adds, tossing him one of those overly-sugary snacks. Desmond kind of hates that his childhood made most of these taste weird; he bets they’d be amazing.
         “Anything I should know about fighting demons?”
         Chelsea actually takes out a heavy-duty camera and practically shoves it in his face, pointing at pictures. From the look of it, she’d been taking them during the middle of a tall demon trying to stab her face or the winged lady demons throwing fireballs, which definitely makes him a little uncomfortable, because seriously, he’s responsible for his recruits. They really are kind of an oddball group aren’t they.
         It’s morning. Childhood habit means it’s not too much of a hassle to wake up bright and early, even if he doesn’t like it too much. The nightlife, the stars when you could see them...he prefers the vibes late.
         And then he finally gets another call, and picks up. “I’m okay,” he states, even when Chelsea just raises a sarcastic British eyebrow at him in response to that statement. It’s kind of a shock. She doesn’t usually break those out.
         “Seriously, keeping yourself in one shape is good for Shaun’s peace of mind,” Rebecca responds after a moment. Taken aback, probably. “But that’s not why he was trying to get ahold of you, only he’s in a meeting with Gladstone now, so I got deputized.” And then her amusement disappears, which is. Concerning, knowing her. “He was really worried because the warmongers finally got a Rank 8 guy deployed and he wanted you to know you should just basically avoid him.”
         Desmond takes a deep breath. Please don’t be Cross, he begs the universe. “Okay, I figure you’ve got a picture of the guy.”
         “Already sending it to your phone. And, sorry, I can’t do the history lecture like Shaun can, but you should know he’s, like, old blood. As in, Crusades old blood. Though he’d actually have his great-great-great-whatever granddad rolling around in his grave—guy was practically a hippie in his time, the way Shaun puts it, and Javier Horal’s pretty much the opposite.” That’ll be interesting for later. “Anyway, they want him to deal with the whole ‘end of the world’ problem with his usual prejudice, and it’s only not wanting to get on the bad side of the Council that’ll keep him from a bloodbath, so. Watch your back out there, Des.”
         “Thanks.” It’s not the first time he’s had someone gunning for him, but...he considers, glancing at the others. Maybe it’s time to ramp up the whole training program.