#abiitmanes

Delsin was just finishing his latest stencil when he turned and saw someone enter the alleyway, and decided not to take any chances before he quickly began to climb out of the alley. It was likely whoever this stranger was, they wouldn’t take kindly to any graffiti even if it looked even nice.

         “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised. The French— wait, what am I saying?” Shaun starts to laugh, soft and genuine, before he takes the bottle out of Desmond’s hands. He downs the glass Desmond had poured for him and refills himself two finger’s worth and swirls it in the glass. The change of tone in the topic snaps Shaun back to the memories of the boat, the rocky nights, the late night talks with Gavin outside on the deck. The spray of ocean mist in his face, against his glasses. Cold, cold nights. Pity.

        “Yeah. Your dad is something else.” And there’s a trickle of fondness in his voice. Even if Bill was a complete bastard, he got things done — organized a lot of the unorganizable. Shaun shakes his head before he lays back on the bed, careful to let the glass rest on his stomach, one hand still on it. The lights of outside fall on the ceiling, the orange glow of the city flicking with passing cars. 

        “Uh oh.” He said, sounding very unlikely the fearsome Templar he was, and more like a three year old who had messed with something he shouldn’t have. 

       Before him, stood a man garbed in the strangest clothes he had ever seen. It was... vaguely assassin-ish, but so were his clothes so he knew appearances could be deceiving, and around him was what looked like precursor ruins and behind the man, a giant blue glowing wall.

      What a sight.

“Enough to turn a blind eye,” Shaun smirks and takes off his glasses and hands them to Desmond. “Check it out for yourself.”

Where? What...? Everything was blurring and there were... things crossing his sight that somehow he knows aren’t really there? Ghosts, perhaps? Maybe. Memories run wild and send him into a fit of confusion, hands moving up and holding his head. Places and people flash in his mind’s eye, names running and blurring together and languages fighting to get to the surface.

Who...?

Shaking and quickly losing his sense of self, the phoenix runs straight into a wall and tugs at his hair, breath leaving in sharp heaves and eyes staring wide and unfocused. Nothing was making sense, nothing was coming together like it should.

“Who...?” his words trail off, only coming out as gibberish at this point. Hands tug so hard at his hair that it’s amazing he doesn’t rip the strands right out. 

Not good.

It was hard for Shaun to believe his eyes, as fatuous as it seemed to have Desmond Miles — more so known as Subject Seventeen — standing in front of him, in his usual snow white hoodie, the eagle spread on the back. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen the man in years, or that they were arguing over another life, but it was the fact that last Shaun had heard of Desmond Miles, he had been a specimen on Abstergo’s table.

Dissected. Poked at. Fun things.

But instead, he’s here, his arms crossed and God, Shaun has not clue what to think. He must either be mental, or Abstergo’s playing a trick on him. Infiltrating what they have left of the Assassins. Shaun has too much of a fight left in him, after seeing the research on Desmond in Abstergo’s files. He remembers Rebecca holding his shoulders, her touch soft as she comforted him and told him that she was sorry. Not that she had anything to be sorry for.

As far as Shaun was concerned, it was Lucy’s fault.

Not that he ever got to voice it. Or that he would. It’s not respectful to the dead. Not that Shaun cared much about respect when it came to traitorous Templars.

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⚜ — outofauditore —  ⚜