The Beginning of Silence
Chapter 01
Desmond hated his days off.
Well, 'day,' as in 'singular,' really. He only had one day he didn't spend at work. When he thought about it, he was probably the only sane individual who felt that way—who would hate a day off after a six-day work week that included long nights, loud music, and rowdy clientele? Nobody, that's who.
But, if in the unlikely event someone shared his sentiments, their feeling of dislike would probably pale next to Desmond's. His abhorrence almost certainly stemmed from the fact that he had absolutely nothing to do on his day off, and Desmond hated to be bored. When his hands weren't busy pouring drinks and his mouth and mind weren't preoccupied with wheedling one-sided conversations out of barflies, it left him room to think, and his thoughts would inevitably stray back to the Abstergo incident.
Of course, he tried his best to think of other things, but it was hard now that Altaïr, his long-dead ancestor of dubious occupation, was now fully 'synchronized' with Desmond. Not that it hadn't been cool to have the bad-as assassin with him—at first. Desmond soon got tired of how his reflexes reacted to the slightest stimulant, and how his eyes darted around the room upon entry, looking for escape routes. And that thing Lucy and Dr. Warren Vidic had called 'Eagle Vision'—it was hell! People glowed funny colors based on their mood towards you, and while that had been handy at distinguishing the raging drunks from the sobbing ones down at the bar, it got real old real quick. Knowing in advance which soused man was going to hit on Desmond's only coworker, the pretty bartender Mary, ahead of time wasn't fun, even if it did impress her that he threw them out of the bar so fast they're heads spun. At least his new reflexes were good for something.
A month had passed since the messages on his wall—the cryptic ones citing Bible verses and what may or may not have been the Mayan end of the world—had been written, and Lucy had busted him out of the Abstergo lab. He hadn't seen or heard any Abstergos since he got loose. They'd left, but something else had come along to take their place: glowing people, strange urges to hide from anyone wearing a red cross or 'x' on their clothes, and even odder urges to scale skyscrapers with his bare hands were what characterized Desmond's life now, and he was really starting to get annoyed. Sundays didn't help much. They got him thinking.
Who was Desmond, really? He wasn't wholly Desmond Miles anymore, that was for sure. Was he Altaïr now? His ancestor's presence was undeniable, but the Desmond part of him still lingered. Did that make him something in between? His ancestor's new role in his life was too significant to be ignored, and left Desmond feeling like someone else. He was no longer the old Desmond, what with his sharper mind and more in-tune awareness. Assassins, Templars—he saw them everywhere now. Every jolly politician on the news was a New Knight, and all who opposed—well, they were like Desmond, weren't they? Assassins of a new age. Or were they like Altaïr's old master, an assassin in disguise?
Even his heightened senses weren't enough to reveal to him a distant TV figure's ancient allegiance.
Late Sunday afternoon, almost one month after running away from the Abstergo lab, Desmond wandered around his kitchen. Rain pattered on the window sullen persistence, beating a tattoo on the panes in discordant time with Desmond's feet. He was bored, but then, he usually was. Thinking to occupy himself, he opened up the drawer he kept the silverware in. A butter knife leapt to his fingers. Its dull edge reflected the fluorescents overhead.
Lately, Desmond had taken to talking to himself. He knew it wasn't a good sign where his sanity was concerned, but it helped ease the voices which echoed in the Sunday silence.
"You know, I could probably kill someone with this," he said. With the air of an experimenting child, he slashed the knife through the air. It whistled, and he grinned bitterly. Desmond lowered his body into a fighting stance and parried the blade of an imaginary enemy. "Take that!"
The diversion didn't last long; Desmond felt idiotic, swinging a butter knife at his refrigerator. He tossed the tool into the sink with a clatter and a splash: it had hit the maelstrom of dirty dishes he hadn't bothered to clean over the past week. Sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, and Desmond went into the living room, where he settled onto the couch.
He wasn't one for much TV, now that all he could see were assassins and Templars, but he turned the set on anyway and propped his feet on the coffee table, thumbing up the volume over the din of the downpour outside. He liked to watch the news, however, and was waiting for someone to report the finding of an ancient artifact that would 'change the world.' He knew it would come eventually, but after a month, the suspense was waning. Hadn't Abstergo made their move yet?
Desmond absently flipped channels, settling on sports, where he watched a basketball player get elbowed in the face by the opposing team's forward. "I coulda dodged that," he growled, and knew it was true. The game would have been child's play for Altaïr, and Desmond too, now that they were synced. "Kid stuff." He was about to grumble about the slow reflexes of the now-bleeding post when someone knocked on his door. Loudly, in fact. They showed no signs of quitting, either.
He wanted to ignore it. It was probably the landlord, looking for rent money. Desmond didn't get off the couch. But the knocking didn't stop (not that he thought it would), so eventually he roused himself.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Desmond growled, rolling to his feet with uncanny grace. His new and improved smooth movements had been commented on dozens of times since he and Altaïr were synced. Not that grace mattered to Desmond. "No need to break down the door." The raps had risen to an unholy crescendo— louder than the rain outside, even. The sheer volume set his instincts on edge; made him wary to let the intruder in. After all, it was probably nobody. Right? Desmond couldn't be sure, so, for the sake of his nerves, he kept the chain on.
Good thing, too, since it seemed Dr. Vidic was the mysterious caller.
When it rains, it pours.