A group of civilians chattering on about pointless nonsense stood in the corner of the cave. Desmond glared tiredly at the mirage. After a few seconds, he rolled over and sighed heavily, forearm across his closed eyelids. The sound of clashing steel caught his attention, and he glanced to the other end of the room. A phantom of Ezio fought a Templar guard, but it was easy to tell Ezio was just toying with the man. One language mingled with the other, and the meanings of each word became lost to the youth. He sighed again, sitting up and kneading his throbbing temples.

Ever since that day all those moths ago, when he had first felt the sands of Jerusalem shift underneath his - Altair's - boots, everything had begun to blur together. There were some days that he would wake and not even be himself anymore. He would speak to no one, usually in Arabic or Italian, seeing his friends, the people who were trying to save him, as strangers, or as people long past.

And it didn't stop there. How could it? Bad news only seems to get worse when you start describing it to others, even yourself. On occasion, Desmond would go into a fit of 'madness', a state in which he lashed out at anyone who came close to him, muttering death threats in one of his ancestor's native tongues. All the while, his eyes burned with an eerie golden light, like those of a cat on a moonless night. Whenever someone did try to get closer than he would allow, he would unsheathe his hidden blade and swing it up at the person in a deadly arc, snarling at them to keep away.

He remembered none of this the next day, most of the details explained by either Lucy or Rebecca. The two of them, along with some reluctant assistance from Shaun, studied what the cause may be for weeks on end, while still somehow managing to get him into the Animus according to schedule. After several long weeks of fruitless speculation, Rebecca had the brains to ask Desmond what happened before, during, and after the fits. Desmond knew that question would present itself eventually, and by now, he was more than willing to provide whatever answer he could.

"Before the, uh, 'fit' starts, my ears start ringing. Not too bad at first, but over the course of about two minutes, it goes from annoying to holy-shit-its-gonna-split-my-skull levels." Rebecca tilted her head, face halfway between a smile and a puzzled frown.

"Holy-shit-its-gonna-split-my-skull levels?" Desmond shrugged. Hey, he was just telling it like it was, that's all. "Okay, and after the ringing?"

There really wasn't any after the ringing, but he decided to leave that particular detail out. "I suddenly feel hollow inside, like a wooden doll, and then, it feels like something is being poured into me, rushing into my limbs, my mind, my heart, everything." As he explained, the sensation rose in his chest, a phantom of something. He shivered.

"After that, my vision goes red, and that gets darker and darker until all I can see is blackness. Just before I black out, I think I hear someone whispering to me, but its too quiet to hear."

All the others were nodding now, Lucy and Shawn murmuring in serious tones to each other about new theories and tests they may have to run, and what equipment they would need for said tests. Great, maybe it was better if he had kept it to himself after all, so he wouldn't have to go through anything that involved taking his brain apart and sewing it back together again. Whenever experiments were mentioned and his name was used in context with it, something always went horribly wrong.

"Des?" He blinked several times, refocusing on Rebecca.

"Oh, sorry. You already know I don't remember anything when I have an 'episode', and afterwards . . . " He shuddered at the memory, at the utter disgust the feeling brought to him. "When I wake up, the blackness is still creeping out of my eyes, but it doesn't go alone. When my eyes are seconds away from clearing again, the pouring feeling happens again, but in reverse; like someone is tearing my insides onto the outside." The second he finished, he pressed an arm to his stomach to quell the harsh churning. He caught Rebecca's concerned look from the corner of his eye and sat up straight again, smiling in what he hoped to be reassurance.

"I'm okay. Sometimes I get a little nauseous when I talk about things I don't like." The tech expert of the team nodded a few times before returning his smile half-heartedly. The tech expert of the team nodded absently a few times, not looking entirely convinced.

"Is there anything specific about the blackouts? Like, is there a certain set of circumstances that lead up to one?" The question made Desmond pause, toying with the idea it presented. He hadn't really payed much attention to things like that, but . . . could there?

"I'll get back to you on that." Not the greatest answer in the world, but it was the only one he could supply at the moment, so it would have to do. Understanding, Rebecca nodded again, rising from her perch on the edge of her desk and joining Shawn and Lucy. Most of their conversation consisted of hushed whispers and concerned glances in his direction. After about two minutes of this, Desmond became irritated with the secrecy of their discussion. They were talking about something that happened to him, right? So why all the confidentiality? He cleared his throat, loud enough for all of them to look up at him.

"Mind telling me what's going on? I mean, this does happen to me, so I feel like I have a right to know what's happening in my brain." Surprisingly, the one who answered him was not Rebecca or Lucy as he expected, but Shawn. And his tone . . . it was very different from what he usually heard from the man.

"You'd like to know what's going on? Well, then I'll tell you. You are suffering an unidentified side effect of being in the Animus which no subject before you has experienced, and it may be either driving you insane or killing you from the inside as we speak." The historian's lip curled slightly in a mock sneer. "So, I apologize if we don't share everything with you to keep you sane for a few more days"

Everything Shaun had said in his last sentence washed through Desmond's brain as pointless noise. A familiar ringing filled his ears as the truth of the statement sank in. He . . . could be dying? No. No way. He had to . . . he had to play his part in saving the world, he couldn't die because of something beyond his control. No. The ringing reached ear-spiitting levels, much louder and shriller than usual. Crimson pounded at the edges of his vision, spreading out until it engulfed his sight entirely. Seconds before he fell into oblivion, he thought he heard a voice, murmuring that everything will be alright.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he regained conscious control and his eyes flickered open. An hour? Hour and a half? Red still rimmed the edge of his vision as he looked around at the others.

"Guys, what ha-" He gasped, body going rigid at the sight before him. Shawn and Lucy lay on the ground, blood pouring from various wounds a lll over them, barely moving. Rebecca rushed between the two of them, a roll of bandages and a first-aid kit clutched in her hands.

"Wha-" As he stared, something warm and wet trailed from his sleeve onto his palm. No. It . . . it couldn't be. Horrified, he brought his hidden blade up to the light. Blood dripped steadily from the blade to the floor. Shawn's blood. Lucy's blood. Oh, God. He . . . he had . . . No.

"What . . . happened . . ?" Rebecca's panic-stricken eyes looked up from their focus on a deep gash across Shawn's chest.

"Y-you had another b-blackout . . . When you were u-under, you w-went after Lucy a-and Shawn." Tears now tracked down her face as she shook her head and returned to her work, fingers trembling. A mixture of horror, guilt, and nausea, boiled within Desmond's stomach. He knew that Rebecca wouldn't lie to him about something like this, not when it involved someone or something within their team. He really had . . . nearly killed . . . Tears blurring his vision, he tore out of the room and found his way out of their new operations base, not stopping until he reached a small clearing surrounded by shrubs and tall, weed like plants.

Falling to is knees, he fumbled with the fastenings of the hidden blade on his wrist, finally removing it and successfully extracting the blade from the complex contraption. For several seconds, he studied it, specifically the drying blood on the weapon. Blood from the wounds he had created . . . He shuddered as fresh regret rolled through his psyche.

This was for the best. This way, he couldn't harm anyone again. Yes, this was the right decision. If he died, he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone whenever he blacked out. He could stop being a burden to everyone else. After all, no one really needed him anyways, right? With those thoughts rushing around in his mind, he began to draw the blade across his wrist.

"Desmond." The blade froze, along with the man holding it. He knew that voice, all too well. He'd heard it countless times before, and recognized it nearly as much as his own. He looked up.

Next to him stood the Grandmaster of Masyaf, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad.