Every Rumor Displaced

[madimpossibledreamer]

This became really really long, but. Park. Should’ve expected that.
Sorry, Desmond.
Also * snickers * Shaun you are such a nerd.
This chapter was definitely inspired heavily by the Birthday Massacre song Goodnight, because the first time I heard the lyrics after starting to write this I was like...this feels like a Bill (and a tiny bit of Desmond’s insecurities) song.
I was writing the name and went—wait, wasn’t that the name of the Assassin in the film—yeah it was okay. Weird coincidence #302.

Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: Desmond, Rukh, Alice, and Carter enter the Park.
Word Count: 3587
Rating: Teen

 

         Stepping inside the park (well, more like jumping in; they could walk in the front entrance but Desmond just feels more comfortable finding a break in the fence and hopping in) is like stepping into a dream. Or maybe more accurately, a nightmare.
         It instantly turns dark the second they step inside. Not that they can see stars, just a diffuse sort of city lighting at night that would make sense in, say, New York City and makes absolutely no sense on an island in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t any lights, but they glow anyway, filtering hazily through the fog.
         The thing that’s really freaking Desmond out is that the zombies, who are yeah absolutely dressed like carnival workers, or so he vaguely remembers from seeing a couple pictures on the internet, are just kind of...ignoring them. Occasionally one runs by, but it’s more like it’s out on some secret errand than hunting for food. Others stand in front of booths, gesturing vaguely at nonexistent customers with dead eyes. At least they’re not trying to talk. He can’t imagine how messed up that would be.
         Rukh shuffles closer on his shoulder. Alice holds his hand tighter. It’s probably a good thing they’ve left Bob behind with Nate for the moment. Shaun would scoff at the idea, but Bob kind of seems...naive? And Nate had, in a messed up way, been more enthusiastic about that idea than about Alice being here. He’s going to have to talk to him about that. Desmond shivers. It suddenly feels...colder, somehow.
         “Callum! Callum, where are you?” It’s distant, and it definitely doesn’t sound like, ugh, the voice a zombie would have if it’s trying to talk with a broken jaw or rotting muscles or anything like that, but it sounds vaguely as insubstantial as the fog.
         And then Carter starts talking like she doesn’t hear that, which—okay, it might just be a Park thing, like, it’s messing with him, but—hell he hates this. He’d gotten used to the whole not having the whole Bleeding Effect or losing his mind thing. It’s nice to have the memories, but removed, like they happened to somebody else, and not forget who he is or where he is or what century it is again or what language he should be speaking. “You’re probably going to be hearing weird things. That’s the Park trying to get into your head.” Like that’s a surprise.
         And then he sees a shape moving in the fog, and even with how weird the zombies are being, it’s moving like a person. Again. That’s right, didn’t he see something earlier? “What about, uh, seeing things?” He tries to keep it casual like his heart’s not hammering in his chest.
         Carter just blinks at him. “I...didn’t run into anything like that, no.”
         A cold shock of fear goes through him. What the fuck, is he just some sort of...cosmic plaything? Brought back by who the hell knows what just to suffer again, lose his mind, die? He realizes suddenly he’s got a death grip on the charm Shaun had probably made for him and it’s not even working, which—why would it, why the hell would it, that’s for mind control, remember? And Carter specifically said this isn’t mind control, assuming he’s not just outright losing his damn mind.
         He’d been so pleased, when he’d first gotten it. Shaun’s little field kit, packed for him thoughtfully. It feels hollow and distant, now. Just like Shaun on that last phone call. And why not? If he’s losing it, if he can’t handle the Calculations or maybe he’d just staved off the Bleeding Effect for a little while, then maybe it’s for the best—
         “I can see her, too,” Alice mentions, voice sounding distant and far away even though she’s standing right next to him. “She’s...a lost spirit, but not like the others.” She actually sounds a little frustrated, but then...she’d known what he was, to begin with, called him Assassin right to his face, so maybe she’s used to that kind of thing, and not knowing bothers her.
         “Ohh boy. I’m guessing you’re both closer to this thing than I am.” The world flickers. There’s a path leading up, somewhere, behind the bumper cars now. Right about where the barn is, actually. Or where it should be. And then it’s gone again, with Carter apparently none the wiser, because she’s just kept talking. “That’s, um. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Both, probably, if I’ve been paying attention in my classes and I have. Mostly.” The teen had been standing at a bit of a distance. Paranoia—well, and probably the Park, somehow—tells him that it’s because of him, that she wants nothing to do with him. The more logical part of his mind isn’t too convincing, but he tries anyway because, well, what else does he actually have? He’s gotta do something, and he’s not just accepting the stuff the Park is trying to force down his throat, not without a fight.
         That’s saying it’s her. Not him. She’s...scared of her power, scared of blowing up, and that’s something he gets in a way that maybe nobody else in this whole damned world gets. And that’s probably what the Park is using on her, pushing her thoughts and fears against her. Alice, he doesn’t fully know, but she hadn’t...liked it, to put it mildly, when he’d been rude, and probably doesn’t like all the stuff about cages and the lack of free will. She just doesn’t think she has a choice. There’s probably other stuff in there too, about family or friends or—well, he’s maybe assuming a bit much to even think she has those. Other than him, maybe? It’s kind of sad if she’d latched on to just the first guy that was remotely nice to her, but...well, it’s not like he doesn’t get that, either.
         And, as if just waiting for the cue like this is a damn stage play, there’s a way too familiar voice again, much clearer this time. Which—actually, now that he thinks about it, he vaguely remembers the Siren Song had used that, too. Dear old dad, and if he’d listened to the song he wouldn’t have to hear or care about anything Bill said ever again. All this when he’d thinking about going back and apologizing. Sure, Bill wasn’t the cuddliest, but he was an adult now. He could handle a few harsh words now and then.
         Back then, though...he swallows. He remembers this exact moment, actually. Standing in the hallway eavesdropping. They’d been teaching him to sneak, so he did that. He wasn’t supposed to, so he’d still get in trouble, mostly for ignoring Bill, but it’s also one of the few times he ever sees Dad pleased about anything, so it can’t be all bad...right?
         And Mom’s defending him. She never does it in front of Desmond. It’s always in these quiet closed door meetings between the two of them. These days, Desmond has to guess it’s something about not undermining the authority of the Mentor, but he didn’t get that back then, and it kind of hurt, back then.
         “Don’t you think you’re being a little too hard on Desmond?” He’d never heard her voice like that, but then, maybe she’d heard what Bill didn’t—or maybe it’s just that Bill didn’t care. Because he’d been trying to not cry, because tears are useless, they just get people killed, and he doesn’t want to get people killed.
         As usual, Bill was dismissive. “He should know what he’s doing right by the feedback I don’t give him. If I coddled the boy he’d never make any effort to improve.”
         He’d thought he was ready for this. That’s just how Bill is. He loves Desmond, in his own way. He’d actually bothered to say that, when they’d met again—in his own harsh way, sure, but it’s more than Bill had felt like saying when he was a kid, so why does it hurt?
         But it...continues. He doesn’t remember this. He’d gone back to his room. The memory didn’t go on. It takes him a second to recognize his own voice, as a kid. It sounds weird, like listening back to voicemail or something. “No, what you taught me was that I can’t do anything right, so why even bother?” And those...those are the tears he’d been trying not to cry. “You taught me I’d never be fast enough, quiet enough, good enough.” He pauses again, sobbing, and then he screams, “I’ll never be good enough!”
         God, this hurts to listen to, and it’s just the Park trying to get under his skin, because… “That’s not true,” he whispers.
         “Isn’t it?” And his blood runs cold. Shaun. Only his voice doesn’t have that soft tone he’d grown used to hearing. It’s distant, clinical, almost mocking. Like if Shaun really was working for the Templars, you know, the other ones. Like he’s still just a lab rat running around in the Templar’s little simulated mazes and fuck, yeah, he hadn’t even thought about the fact that to this Shaun, he’s just an escaped cultist, maybe that’s what drew him to Desmond in the first place…
         He can even almost imagine Shaun sitting at one of those desks. Not the one he’d seen in the video calls, wooden and homey. The futuristic glass and steel, perfectly modern and perfectly impersonal. “Not to interrupt. I’m aware you think so rarely that perhaps I should let you get on with it, but you’re a beautiful example of what happens when you grow up in a cult. Or, well, with abuse. And you’re still trying to defend the bastard, still trying to take all the blame on yourself, because that’s what you’ve been taught. The Isu couldn’t have found a better sacrificial goat if they’d tried.”
         “Fuck you, Shaun. This isn’t real,” he spits.
         Shaun just laughs. “Oh, I’m well aware you want to. But then, let me riddle you this: what is real? How do you know this isn’t just a simulation, or one very long dying dream?” Desmond’s arm twitches with pain, like it’s on fire again, burning up just like him, and—
         And he can’t feel her. Alice. She’s not there anymore. Is she—she’s got to be fine, she has to exist, he was going to help her—
         “Like you can help anyone,” Clay whispers in his ear. “You can’t even help yourself.”
         Is that...Altaïr, Ezio, and Connor? And Rukh takes off without so much as a sound, joining the one on the left. He can’t quite make out for sure, but they just...turn away and disappear, without saying anything. Like he’s not even worth acknowledging.
         Chelsea just looks disappointed. “You told me I did good once, so I guess you did do better than your dad. But you’re still barely talking to us, still not letting us in.”
         “You talk to the Templars more than us, and we’re here with you. It’s because you knew them before, isn’t it? They actually feel like people to you.” Nate’s more hurt. He would’ve expected it to be the other way around, because he hadn’t thought Nate would care…
         “Because we shouldn’t take it personally? Or because you don’t think you’re worth caring about?” Danny’s bitter, turning back to his computer and getting replaced before Desmond can even reach out, think of what to say.
         “Because you still don’t ever know what to say or how to fit in. And Danny’s wrong, isn’t he?” Carter shrugs, wiping more blood over her face. She grins at the look of confusion on Desmond’s face. “I know, I’m new, I barely know you, but that’s true of everybody, isn’t it? Not just me. All of us. None of us know you, and you like it that way, because you’re protecting us. You still half think you’re dying, and if we get attached, we’re going to get hurt.”
         “That’s because for all he knows, he’s right. You can’t know if this is real or not, can you? You lost that ability a good long time ago.” ...Lucy? Finally in a Templar uniform, like she would have been, if… “Think about it, Desmond. All these powers, a different world, monsters, seeing all of us again? How likely is any of that?”
         “God, Lucy, I am so sorry.” He doesn’t mean to say it, because either way this isn’t her, and he—he’s still not seeing them, not exactly, but there’s blood spreading and he doesn’t want to look at her and can’t look away.
         “Sorry doesn’t bring me back to life.” Which—is true, but she’d never say that…
         “Well, of course not. You brought us here. This is just your brain dying.” Rebecca. And she’d been distant, wary. Did she...actually agree with the other Templars, the ones that thought they should be keeping their distance?
         She might be right. It’s getting darker. Except—
         No.
         His tattoos are glowing again, lighting up like a beacon. From where he’s holding the charm in his pocket. It’s warm. He’d been right about his guess; Shaun had made this himself. He wanted to make sure it was done right. He’d been wrong about it just being for mind control, though. Shaun wanted to make sure...to do what he could, even when he wasn’t in the field, not anymore, and it’s not like he hadn’t made one for Rebecca, too. Nicking himself with the needle when he’d been sewing the bag, and swearing as a little blood got on the inside. Deciding it’d probably help, not hinder. Shaping the little iron disk in patterns using his own magic, imbuing it with his magic, the fire flickering over it, making it malleable. And then—oh. The World Tree, runes. And Shaun, the absolute nerd that he was, had actually gone through the trouble of asking the conductor about obtaining just a little of the wood of Agartha for the center, for realism and the actual connection. Never mind the Agartha Conduit or whatever those were called again, Desmond could probably teleport just with this. Polishing and smoothing away the rough edges and then using laquer. In between research and helping out, and he’d considered making it a necklace but wasn’t sure if that’d be too forward, if Desmond would even accept that (he’d say that was a question, but...he hadn’t actually made that clear, had he?) and Rebecca was already teasing him unbearably. But he doesn’t regret it. Just making it, knowing that he’d give it to Desmond, made him...happy. Warm.
         The same warmth Desmond got when he was flirting with Lucy and she was flirting back, the same warmth he got when his mom actually stopped to treat his wounds and try her best to cheer him up, the same warmth he got when joking around with Rebecca, the same warmth when interacting with his Novices and his adorable brat of a bird, the same warmth when Shaun was nice for a change and Desmond tried to cheer him up right back.
         And suddenly he can feel them. All of them, all at once, and he should be going into a coma if not passing out, but—
         That’s right, he can remember Rebecca talking about servers. He didn’t get all the technical details, but the basic principles made sense, that it was easier for five computers to do a huge task than it was for one. That was basically just the same principles as the Brotherhood. It’s always harder to do something alone. That’s why it’d been so much easier with Nuala guiding him. And to some extent they’re all bearing part of the burden because they’re worried about him, because they want to help him.
         Damn. He feels like crying again, but this time, he doesn’t feel an ounce of shame about it. They’re good tears, and screw Bill, Assassins aren’t robots, they’re human, and if there’s anything that his ancestors taught him it’s that grief is important, too, because without that you don’t heal.
         And then he laughs, because honestly, that’s kind of funny. There’s a nutjob trying to end the world, again, when the hell is he going to find the time? But he has to make the time. Somehow.
         And okay, fine. So he might not have been the best kid. Maybe Bill Miles actually was doing his best as a father. That doesn’t mean that it was good enough, either. Part of him will always love his dad, he’s pretty sure, and he actually feels better about that, knowing that wasn’t a lie. But maybe he can actually think about how much Bill fucked him up, too. Not like it’s going to be easy, but what worth doing ever is?
         Shaun’s fallen asleep at his desk. The real one, the solid carved wood that’s probably an antique. Probably knows the entire history of it, too. Desmond should ask him about it sometime. Shaun hadn’t meant to fall asleep, either. He’s still wearing his glasses.
         He’d been careful not to show Desmond parts of the room. The wall of monitors that is every camera in Kingsmouth (and, it looks like, some of Danny’s in the ‘Savage Coast’, including the ones around the Park, the ones that the Phoenicians hadn’t taken out). Though apparently Rebecca hadn’t shared whatever she’d installed to monitor him, too.
         A wheeled whiteboard, behind a bunch of other wheeled whiteboards. He can barely make out ‘sun’ and ‘cult’ from here. Probably torn between trying to figure out the mystery and not get Desmond lost in bad memories, and put on hold, like he’d said. One of the new ones dedicated to Beaumont, one to Excalibur (and if Shaun had been emphatic about how annoying he’d found that over the phone, it’s underlined, literally, in red, with red exclamation marks and a few frowny faces he’s going to guess Rebecca added), and one to a sword he doesn’t recognize. The Dainsleif? He squints, but he’s not going to get much there and probably can’t spend too much time here anyway.
         Shaun probably needs his sleep, but...he’s frowning more than when he’s awake, and he actually whimpers Desmond’s name.
         “I’m okay, promise. I’m being careful, just like I told you,” he tells him, carefully pulling off the glasses and folding them within reach. He gets a flash. Pain (gunshot wound, fun), heartbreak, loss, mixed with something that never happened. Desmond’s death too, if he had to guess. A nightmare. Given what he’d poured into the amulet, it’s entirely possible he’d been able to sense, even in his sleep, that Desmond was in trouble. He glances around. Looks like Shaun took off his jacket. He picks it up, tucks it around Shaun’s shoulders, and he settles down, actually briefly smiling. “You should look like that more often.” Shaun snuggles slightly into the comfort and warmth.
         Rebecca, furiously at work. She’s actually trying to surreptitiously sneak info to Danny, it looks like, or, more often, nudge him into finding it on his own. She hadn’t cut him loose after all. She was just...being sneaky in how she followed orders. “Good going.”
         Of course, then she actually looks up, so he has to disappear, but he’s got somewhere else to be anyway. His Novices, and the Druids, all trying their best. Chelsea, where magic isn’t her strong suit but if they could bottle her determination it’d be solved already. Then again...maybe that’s what he’s doing. Technically. Using that as fuel for...whatever the hell it is he’s even doing. Nate, divided loyalties, but not with the wannabe killer, which is something. Likes Desmond, understands the shadier side of things, probably would even understand being an Assassin. Nuala, trustworthy, if serving her own king, who looks at him directly and raises an eyebrow. “You’re needed.”
         She points, and he follows. Really follows, not with his eyes, but all of a sudden he’s back in his body, on his knees, tattoo and amulet lighting up the entire area, and Alice is in a fetal position and Carter’s crying and probably, judging by the buildup of power, about to explode.
         “It’s okay,” he tells her, and she shakes her head desperately, eyes mostly staring, haunted, past him. “You’re not going to kill us.” But he has to work quickly to make that happen, so—maybe…
         Nuala had shown him how to project the Eagle Vision, and he’d just been through the Park trying to dig up every vulnerability he had. What would happen if he used that energy to turn the tables? “I’m going to grab your hands.” He wants to make sure Alice is okay, too, but he’s running out of time to act, so that’s for after they survive this.
         That feels like it’s over faster than it began, but what he realizes afterward is that it’s more like he was just following his instincts, not consciously going for it. Which is probably good, because even with the help his head hurts a little.
         He’d managed to knock Carter out of wherever she’d gone, though. “Uh. Desmond? What the hell did you do?”
         He shrugs and crouches down to gently shake Alice’s shoulder, bracing for catching a glimpse of whatever had been bothering her, too, when there’s a laugh in his ear. “Nice fireworks, Chuck. Next broadcast plays at the Ferris Wheel, but no rush.”
         Yeah. If nothing else, they all have to get their breath back first.