#ofthorpe

“Uh -- wait.”

That had been the first words to spill forth from his mouth once he realized that the blazing sun assaulting him, the heat like a brick wall, and the stranger that had so rudely bumped into him upon passing were all just a little too detailed to be qualified as a dream. Exhaling a steady breath, Desmond only spared a glance to someone dressed like a 12th century citizen of the Holy Land -- specifically, way too close to Altaïr’s timeline. Glancing down, he saw himself in his standard jeans, sneakers, and gray jacket. This was probably the worst kind of nightmare for him to have.

Glancing about, he knew to avoid guards that had always been a little too hyped up on their egos, he figured, quickly backstepping and navigating around a corner. “Okay, just stay out of sight until you wake up or figure out what the hell’s going on,” the bartender murmured to himself, because realistically, despite going crazy, it was taking every ounce of self-control to not freak out here. 

And though he managed for a few blocks to avoid more than strange stares or angry glances, he understood that luck really wasn’t on his side as he glanced over his shoulder at a nice, armed guard that was beginning to follow him, the New Yorker next promptly bumping into someone, almost hard enough to knock them both down.

  had he listened to anything his mother had said? not quite. yes, he had   managed to pick up on a few important notes on mannerisms and such   from what seemed like the endless list, but the boy’s mind was else-   where, thinking more of the rumors he’d heard from other boys his age.   sef acted as though he listened, but it was only when he heard a pause   in his mother’s never ending speech did he choose to intervene, trying   to resist a smile.

hi my name is trash

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