Circling Around Us
Dec. 12th, 2024 11:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Desmond and his Agents check out a lead, and it goes wrong.
Word Count: 2074
Rating: Teen
Desmond considers that, considers the zombies, and then comes to a really unfortunate conclusion. “I get the feeling Beaumont’s using that somehow. Maybe with the sword.”
Chelsea shivers. To Desmond’s surprise, she actually looks a little intimidated for the first time, as small and scared as she’d been when hoping not to die after getting shot. He’s about to ask her about that when his phone rings.
Again. Hopefully it’s Shaun or Rebecca with some more news, because this really seems like something they need to know about, pronto.
And then, of course, because he’s not lucky, it’s Madame Rogêt instead. At least he has a bit of a head’s up, given that he’s actually started to put these people into his contacts so it’s not a surprise each and every time (and maybe he can start working out who these people are that keep getting his number somehow). “I know I’m interrupting, but this one can’t exactly wait.”
“Go ahead,” he tells her encouragingly—she sounds like she’s got a headache, too, and it makes him wince in sympathy.
“Don’t miss the house, and you might be on time if you hurry. Your eyes will spot it.” That’s extremely vague, but so far all of it has panned out, so he thanks her and lets her hang up.
“I’m all right. I’ve just heard a few stories myself.” Despite this, Chelsea still looks worried.
“We can play the gossip circle later. Right now, I really don’t want to know what Madame Rogêt’s idea of late means for us,” Lydia urges, and okay, yeah, that’s a good point, but Desmond really doesn’t like the idea of throwing himself into a dangerous situation with the minimum of intel, either. Still, he’s starting to get the nagging feeling that the fortuneteller’s info isn’t wrong and they really do need to hurry.
It doesn’t take too long to spot the house. Just like she’d said, the second they make it back to the main road he spots a normal-looking house he only vaguely remembers having seen on the way in. They don’t have to walk far to find the basement entrance at the back of the house. With a keypad, as usual, but between his Eagle Vision and the book they’d picked up in the tunnels with the year of Solomon Priest’s death, 1682, it’s not even close to an obstacle. And the basement is so similar it’s basically a cookie cutter replica. Maybe there’s actually a way to do that using magic. Desmond doesn’t know. Given that there’s a place for him to slot in some of those Illuminati artifacts, he’s gonna go out on a limb and say this is another Illuminati hideout. And also that they might want to rethink their architecture design decisions, because really, if it’s at the stage where it’s predictable the second you glance at it, it’s maybe not the greatest way for a society that’s trying to stay secret to hide. Or using codes that you can look up. And also maybe taking the artifacts back would make more difference if they didn’t all just have copies.
His train of thought is entirely derailed when he slots in the final artifact and the door just opens and Beaumont is just…there. Walking down the hallway, like he’d somehow just gotten through himself without them even seeing him, somehow? But he’s there.
He’s registering this after the fact, of course, because before he even consciously sees the sorceror he’s throwing himself on the man, ready to strike. Something warm runs over his wrist. There’s a blue flicker, like that of electricity, or maybe just some of the elemental magic Shaun had been showing off, with a crackle that Desmond more feels rather than hears, and then Beaumont’s standing just out of arm’s reach.
He’d gotten Beaumont right in the throat. That had been a death blow. Or at least...it’d felt that way.
“Desmond!” Chelsea yells. It’s not big enough for them all to fit in here, to fight him. It is big enough for Rukh to fit, and he takes off immediately, a flurry of talons and beak. Nate’s started grimly feeding in with blood magic, which is nice. The boost is appreciated, right now.
It’s not just an illusion like Al Mualim had been making, using the Apple. Because right there on Beaumont’s neck is a thin line, like an old wound healing over, and a little blood begins dripping onto the floor—some from wounds Rukh’s inflicting, too, though here and there there’s the flicker again and the beginning of a smell like ozone. Desmond’s sleeve feels wet. Like it’s covered in a guy’s dying blood, only Beaumont’s still standing there and he shouldn’t be.
He doesn’t have time to go looking through his bag for a sword. It’ll take too long to get the rifle from his back, never mind the fact that it’s not great for close-quarters combat anyway. He doesn’t have the time, but he doesn’t have to, because all he has to do is think about it and there’s a sword in his hand and man his head is starting to hurt but he doesn’t have the time for that, either. There’s blood dripping from his nose, too, and his arm is burning, but the only thing that matters now is getting a sword clean through Beaumont with no coming back.
He doesn’t look scared. If anything, he looks...some combination of impressed and wary. “Always a raven,” he mutters, and that doesn’t make sense—
And then Rukh’s flying into a wall with some blue electric pulse of light, Desmond’s heart is in his throat, and he’s falling backward as someone drags him back away from Beaumont. Away from Rukh.
He’s pretty sure he’s screaming something but he can’t even hear what he’s saying through the pounding in his ears and some rumble he can’t place. And then there’s a familiar feathery body shoving itself into the side of his head again, and he lifts one trembling hand to pet an equally freaked out raven. Whose feathers are sticky with blood. And it seems like Nate and Lydia have teamed up to heal them both. Which is, you know. Nice. Appreciated.
“That’s...that’s it, right?” Chelsea again. Sounding panicked.
He’s still not quite feeling right, but enough to look up, and—yeah. That’s Filth.
Apparently, Beaumont had caused a rockfall so they couldn’t follow him. Chelsea saved him from getting crushed. But it seems like Beaumont’s spell had damaged more than just rocks, unless he’s summoning it somehow. It looks more like the Filth was already here, in the ground, because the black living oil is seeping in through the walls, dripping from around the rocks, oozing together like it’s sentient and...forming a shape. No tentacles, though.
He thinks it’s going to appear as John for all of a second before he realizes that no, that’s not what’s going on.
It’s...sort of in the shape of a dog, mixed with a hyena, maybe. If the hyena-dog is taller than most people, and has red glowing eyes, and its fur was spiky like a porcupine. But it’s also sentient. It’s not mindless, because it doesn’t just charge them, stance ready to spring, like it’s guarding the path, and it growls softly, jaw swinging open a little too smoothly.
“I’m just…” Lydia walks toward the door to try to close it, because yeah, it’s thick, like a vault door, so it should be able to keep the Filth-dog on the other side, except that’s enough to set it off and it charges, knocking her back. Desmond hears a few ribs break, but Nate’s on that pretty quickly, and Chelsea gets a few good smacks with the hammer in while it’s trying to shoulder through the door frame. He doesn’t like the look of that wound, though. He’ll have to try later, too, when they’re all rested up.
“Chelsea, go with your pistols. Everyone try to keep your distance,” he orders, grabbing the rifle himself. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t bother telling them what to do, but they’re all a little shaken and somebody needs to keep a clear head. Rukh shifts like he wants to dive back in, but while Nate made sure the bird’s wounds are healed up, he’s still smearing the blood from them over Desmond’s ear and, really, he’s earned a break. Fortunately, he doesn’t actually go for it.
They manage to play keep away, just a little, watching for it to crouch down like it’s just a normal dog going to spring on them before gliding forward in an unnatural way. One time when Lydia ends up too close, it unhinges its jaw (if there’s even a hinge on its jaw to begin with) and attempts to bite her—Rukh does intervene that time, mostly by knocking her off to the side, out of the way. Unfortunately, it also has ranged attacks, spitting Filth at them that festers at their feet, and while it doesn’t hurt, exactly, it does feel weird. Unclean, huh. Alice had a point. It feels like he needs fifteen showers and possibly some more golden spots just to get that off.
It’s nice there’s some space, and it doesn’t manage in its actually vaguely physical form to, Desmond doesn’t know, re-sludge its body and slide over the desks or whatever to get to them. It actually appears vaguely frustrated by the fact that it keeps running into the desks or shelves. Helpfully, Lydia—no, her grandmother, judging by the laugh—knocks one over on top of it, so it has to shake off the books and shelf before it can come back after them. Somewhat absurdly, one sticks in its quills, though it appears to be sinking, maybe, just a little, like it’s just going to absorb the book (does it absorb the knowledge too? God Desmond just needs a break for a minute).
And then, as if all of this hasn’t been shocking enough, they actually get backup. This guy comes in with an artifact—it’s a little too silver and flat to be the Apple, but he could one hundred percent believe that’s Isu tech with the blue accents—that shoots fire. Only it’s not your ordinary elemental magic fire, it’s glowing a little gold-red. The Filth-dog shakes its body, like a dog trying to shake off water, and actually screams, if that’s even the right word for the unearthly sound it’s making, and then puddle melts and...dissolves?
The guy’s dressed kind of like Boone, Mr. “Last of the Cowboys”, that he’d met way back when he’d first entered Solomon Island (if he’d been feeling better, he would’ve stopped by on the way out to check in, make sure he was okay), but he’s got some pretty nice tats on his arms. He might be the Templar Rebecca had warned them about, but given how seemingly friendly he is it seems pretty unlikely.
“After this, you might owe Boone a drink, and not the other way around.” That implies that they’re not going for several rounds...but yeah. And then he glances at what looks like Filth ashes swirling around. “Look, we need to talk, but not here. I’ve been staying at the old school.”
“If you’re promising a shower, we’ll follow you anywhere.” Desmond’s too tired to be anything but brutally honest, and even Chelsea smiles at that, hesitating a moment before picking up the hammer again. Desmond doesn’t blame her—he wouldn’t want to lug that thing around right now either.
The man nods. “There is a shower, but it’s a little small. The Council set up across the street, and they won’t mind.” The Council of Venice, maybe? They’re here too? ...Huh. Still, if anyone figured out how to deal with the water situation in the houses, maybe they did? That’d be nice.
Summary: Desmond and his Agents check out a lead, and it goes wrong.
Word Count: 2074
Rating: Teen
“I don’t know much,” Nate announces preemptively before he can even get a question in. Which, uh. Isn’t great. “There’s...a kind of superstition, from what I’ve heard. Not that we’re told things, only what we need to know, but even then...people talk.” He also...doesn’t usually qualify his information this much. “It’s some kind of...wellspring of corruption, I guess. And it only leaks into the world at high frequency right before the end of an Age, which wouldn’t be great for us. The Bees don’t seem to like it, so it probably hurts Gaia in some way.”
Desmond considers that, considers the zombies, and then comes to a really unfortunate conclusion. “I get the feeling Beaumont’s using that somehow. Maybe with the sword.”
Chelsea shivers. To Desmond’s surprise, she actually looks a little intimidated for the first time, as small and scared as she’d been when hoping not to die after getting shot. He’s about to ask her about that when his phone rings.
Again. Hopefully it’s Shaun or Rebecca with some more news, because this really seems like something they need to know about, pronto.
And then, of course, because he’s not lucky, it’s Madame Rogêt instead. At least he has a bit of a head’s up, given that he’s actually started to put these people into his contacts so it’s not a surprise each and every time (and maybe he can start working out who these people are that keep getting his number somehow). “I know I’m interrupting, but this one can’t exactly wait.”
“Go ahead,” he tells her encouragingly—she sounds like she’s got a headache, too, and it makes him wince in sympathy.
“Don’t miss the house, and you might be on time if you hurry. Your eyes will spot it.” That’s extremely vague, but so far all of it has panned out, so he thanks her and lets her hang up.
“I’m all right. I’ve just heard a few stories myself.” Despite this, Chelsea still looks worried.
“We can play the gossip circle later. Right now, I really don’t want to know what Madame Rogêt’s idea of late means for us,” Lydia urges, and okay, yeah, that’s a good point, but Desmond really doesn’t like the idea of throwing himself into a dangerous situation with the minimum of intel, either. Still, he’s starting to get the nagging feeling that the fortuneteller’s info isn’t wrong and they really do need to hurry.
It doesn’t take too long to spot the house. Just like she’d said, the second they make it back to the main road he spots a normal-looking house he only vaguely remembers having seen on the way in. They don’t have to walk far to find the basement entrance at the back of the house. With a keypad, as usual, but between his Eagle Vision and the book they’d picked up in the tunnels with the year of Solomon Priest’s death, 1682, it’s not even close to an obstacle. And the basement is so similar it’s basically a cookie cutter replica. Maybe there’s actually a way to do that using magic. Desmond doesn’t know. Given that there’s a place for him to slot in some of those Illuminati artifacts, he’s gonna go out on a limb and say this is another Illuminati hideout. And also that they might want to rethink their architecture design decisions, because really, if it’s at the stage where it’s predictable the second you glance at it, it’s maybe not the greatest way for a society that’s trying to stay secret to hide. Or using codes that you can look up. And also maybe taking the artifacts back would make more difference if they didn’t all just have copies.
His train of thought is entirely derailed when he slots in the final artifact and the door just opens and Beaumont is just…there. Walking down the hallway, like he’d somehow just gotten through himself without them even seeing him, somehow? But he’s there.
He’s registering this after the fact, of course, because before he even consciously sees the sorceror he’s throwing himself on the man, ready to strike. Something warm runs over his wrist. There’s a blue flicker, like that of electricity, or maybe just some of the elemental magic Shaun had been showing off, with a crackle that Desmond more feels rather than hears, and then Beaumont’s standing just out of arm’s reach.
He’d gotten Beaumont right in the throat. That had been a death blow. Or at least...it’d felt that way.
“Desmond!” Chelsea yells. It’s not big enough for them all to fit in here, to fight him. It is big enough for Rukh to fit, and he takes off immediately, a flurry of talons and beak. Nate’s started grimly feeding in with blood magic, which is nice. The boost is appreciated, right now.
It’s not just an illusion like Al Mualim had been making, using the Apple. Because right there on Beaumont’s neck is a thin line, like an old wound healing over, and a little blood begins dripping onto the floor—some from wounds Rukh’s inflicting, too, though here and there there’s the flicker again and the beginning of a smell like ozone. Desmond’s sleeve feels wet. Like it’s covered in a guy’s dying blood, only Beaumont’s still standing there and he shouldn’t be.
He doesn’t have time to go looking through his bag for a sword. It’ll take too long to get the rifle from his back, never mind the fact that it’s not great for close-quarters combat anyway. He doesn’t have the time, but he doesn’t have to, because all he has to do is think about it and there’s a sword in his hand and man his head is starting to hurt but he doesn’t have the time for that, either. There’s blood dripping from his nose, too, and his arm is burning, but the only thing that matters now is getting a sword clean through Beaumont with no coming back.
He doesn’t look scared. If anything, he looks...some combination of impressed and wary. “Always a raven,” he mutters, and that doesn’t make sense—
And then Rukh’s flying into a wall with some blue electric pulse of light, Desmond’s heart is in his throat, and he’s falling backward as someone drags him back away from Beaumont. Away from Rukh.
He’s pretty sure he’s screaming something but he can’t even hear what he’s saying through the pounding in his ears and some rumble he can’t place. And then there’s a familiar feathery body shoving itself into the side of his head again, and he lifts one trembling hand to pet an equally freaked out raven. Whose feathers are sticky with blood. And it seems like Nate and Lydia have teamed up to heal them both. Which is, you know. Nice. Appreciated.
“That’s...that’s it, right?” Chelsea again. Sounding panicked.
He’s still not quite feeling right, but enough to look up, and—yeah. That’s Filth.
Apparently, Beaumont had caused a rockfall so they couldn’t follow him. Chelsea saved him from getting crushed. But it seems like Beaumont’s spell had damaged more than just rocks, unless he’s summoning it somehow. It looks more like the Filth was already here, in the ground, because the black living oil is seeping in through the walls, dripping from around the rocks, oozing together like it’s sentient and...forming a shape. No tentacles, though.
He thinks it’s going to appear as John for all of a second before he realizes that no, that’s not what’s going on.
It’s...sort of in the shape of a dog, mixed with a hyena, maybe. If the hyena-dog is taller than most people, and has red glowing eyes, and its fur was spiky like a porcupine. But it’s also sentient. It’s not mindless, because it doesn’t just charge them, stance ready to spring, like it’s guarding the path, and it growls softly, jaw swinging open a little too smoothly.
“I’m just…” Lydia walks toward the door to try to close it, because yeah, it’s thick, like a vault door, so it should be able to keep the Filth-dog on the other side, except that’s enough to set it off and it charges, knocking her back. Desmond hears a few ribs break, but Nate’s on that pretty quickly, and Chelsea gets a few good smacks with the hammer in while it’s trying to shoulder through the door frame. He doesn’t like the look of that wound, though. He’ll have to try later, too, when they’re all rested up.
“Chelsea, go with your pistols. Everyone try to keep your distance,” he orders, grabbing the rifle himself. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t bother telling them what to do, but they’re all a little shaken and somebody needs to keep a clear head. Rukh shifts like he wants to dive back in, but while Nate made sure the bird’s wounds are healed up, he’s still smearing the blood from them over Desmond’s ear and, really, he’s earned a break. Fortunately, he doesn’t actually go for it.
They manage to play keep away, just a little, watching for it to crouch down like it’s just a normal dog going to spring on them before gliding forward in an unnatural way. One time when Lydia ends up too close, it unhinges its jaw (if there’s even a hinge on its jaw to begin with) and attempts to bite her—Rukh does intervene that time, mostly by knocking her off to the side, out of the way. Unfortunately, it also has ranged attacks, spitting Filth at them that festers at their feet, and while it doesn’t hurt, exactly, it does feel weird. Unclean, huh. Alice had a point. It feels like he needs fifteen showers and possibly some more golden spots just to get that off.
It’s nice there’s some space, and it doesn’t manage in its actually vaguely physical form to, Desmond doesn’t know, re-sludge its body and slide over the desks or whatever to get to them. It actually appears vaguely frustrated by the fact that it keeps running into the desks or shelves. Helpfully, Lydia—no, her grandmother, judging by the laugh—knocks one over on top of it, so it has to shake off the books and shelf before it can come back after them. Somewhat absurdly, one sticks in its quills, though it appears to be sinking, maybe, just a little, like it’s just going to absorb the book (does it absorb the knowledge too? God Desmond just needs a break for a minute).
And then, as if all of this hasn’t been shocking enough, they actually get backup. This guy comes in with an artifact—it’s a little too silver and flat to be the Apple, but he could one hundred percent believe that’s Isu tech with the blue accents—that shoots fire. Only it’s not your ordinary elemental magic fire, it’s glowing a little gold-red. The Filth-dog shakes its body, like a dog trying to shake off water, and actually screams, if that’s even the right word for the unearthly sound it’s making, and then puddle melts and...dissolves?
The guy’s dressed kind of like Boone, Mr. “Last of the Cowboys”, that he’d met way back when he’d first entered Solomon Island (if he’d been feeling better, he would’ve stopped by on the way out to check in, make sure he was okay), but he’s got some pretty nice tats on his arms. He might be the Templar Rebecca had warned them about, but given how seemingly friendly he is it seems pretty unlikely.
“After this, you might owe Boone a drink, and not the other way around.” That implies that they’re not going for several rounds...but yeah. And then he glances at what looks like Filth ashes swirling around. “Look, we need to talk, but not here. I’ve been staying at the old school.”
“If you’re promising a shower, we’ll follow you anywhere.” Desmond’s too tired to be anything but brutally honest, and even Chelsea smiles at that, hesitating a moment before picking up the hammer again. Desmond doesn’t blame her—he wouldn’t want to lug that thing around right now either.
The man nods. “There is a shower, but it’s a little small. The Council set up across the street, and they won’t mind.” The Council of Venice, maybe? They’re here too? ...Huh. Still, if anyone figured out how to deal with the water situation in the houses, maybe they did? That’d be nice.
