(2015) Assassination's Note: This was written back in 2010, before everything else was revealed after the second game and so on. Major example: Desmond knew from the start that he was an assassin, because as far as I knew while playing the first game, he had no idea. So, in other words...this isn't going to follow any of the things that happened after the first game and into the second. 'cause there's no way I'm going through the 12 chapters I have done to fix this error since starting.

On another note: I don't know if there will be any pairings in this fic. When I started this it was a request for Altair/Desmond, but as it went on, things changed and I don't know where it's going. (2018) While we're on this note...I will be slowly updating the old chapters with the edited versions on this particular site.

(2010) FFV's Note: I'm going to forewarn you readers that I haven't played Assassin's Creed in two - or three - years so expect this to be kinda...not in character. School kills us all and keeps us away from our hobbies... Anyway, this might not make any real sense to anyone since this came at a very inappropriate time, seeing as I didn't have any paper on me to write the whole idea down. I hope you enjoy though and help me out. (I'll be playing Assassin's Creed over my Thanksgiving break to help myself out)
This is a request fic from: Despair-Sama. (I mainly decided to take a crack at it since it'll be something new from what I usually type and I love challenges)

Desmond Miles was the kind of man one would not expect the most from, not at all. He was just a simple bartender, lived a relatively normal life.

But this was way before a scientist found an interest in him, just a simple lab-rat subject. That was all he was needed for. Being dragged from his completely normal, calm and happy, life and thrust into one of a living Hell. All he was told was, "Mr. Miles, come with us and we promise to take good care of you."

Even as there were men with guns in the background behind the old man who was speaking to him.

Not a way he planned to continue his life, all Desmond wanted to do was keep a low-profile, not being called an 'assassin' in front of his - former - coworkers then being dragged away while kicking and shouting how they had the wrong guy and to look somewhere else. How in the hell could Desmond be related to Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad? Related to an assassin at that. It made no sense.

It boggled his mind to the point there he'd been so confused he hadn't realized until it was too late to escape. If that were even possible. He'd been thrown into a room with a bed, a closet, a bathroom, and a door that would be sealed shut each night due to a password he didn't know.

This seemed worse than when he was younger and had to sneak out of school when he didn't feel like going.

Something was definitely wrong and he knew it. Desmond wasn't one to believe in ghosts but he did believe in that certain superstitious feeling one got whenever something bad was about to happen. This was one of those moments Desmond wished he would have died when that glass slit his face and how it ended up leaving a scar on the right side of his face. Over his lips, to be more precise.

The first day Desmond was placed on the Animus, it completely freaked him out. The surrounding area was one that he'd never known to exist. The bloodshed he saw through golden spheres had his blood run cold. The man who he was 'inside' of was emotionless and didn't care about a damn thing unless it helped with his plan. What freaked him out the most was how this man's left ring finger was gone, up to the first joint from the knuckle. Just thinking of how grotesque it must have looked once the finger was either chopped off or even torn off had Desmond's stomach flip.

He felt like a prisoner within this assassin's body, he was trapped and couldn't turn his eyes away from what was going on.

Then he was stabbed by the 'head hancho' of this cult, pain coursed within his system, senses linked so closely with his supposed ancestor's own. And once everything went dark within the assassin's vision, it effected Desmond's own, causing him to jerk awake once he was pulled out of the system.

Shaking hands instantly clapped over his face and brought his legs up, knees curled. He coughed for a moment before relaxing and glancing over at the old man beside him. "What's up, Doc?" he asked, somewhat rude as he turned, hands placed on the cold metal and legs dangling.

"Well, Lucy here wanted to give you a break, Mr. Miles."

A silent 'Thank you' was given, though Desmond pushed himself up and off of the machine as he was instructed to go rest. "Hot damn..." he muttered, brows furrowed as he shoved his hands into his worn jeans' pockets. Hearing Lucy suggest they, she and the scientist, go to the other room to converse about the issue they were now having.

That was the first day.

Right now Desmond was contained within the room for a whole week now. Slowly he'd grown used to the feeling of invading one's life through, somewhat, being sent back to the past to experience it himself. There were complaints from Warren as he tried to urge the ever-so-caring Lucy to keep the 'subject' within the memories longer than desired.

They did it for an extra thirty minutes, only to then regret it once a sickness had taken over Desmond's insides. Headaches occurred in violent pulses, enough to make him topple over whenever they attempted to take him to the Animus. Just before they were within ten feet of it Desmond would collapse with a groan, then after three days of this Warren had demanded that Desmond take some prescribed medication to make this stop so they could continue finding 'it.'

Whatever 'it' was the former bartender had no idea.

Reluctantly, he'd taken the pills at the time instructed and took how many he was told to. Then, hopefully, soon he'd become well enough that they could actually get him to the machine to sync him with Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Whatever this industry was searching for must have been very important since Warren was becoming extremely impatient with their slow progress, especially since they were set back three days and needed to hurry.

Letting out a grunt, Desmond lifted himself up on the Animus. Turning, he then let himself fall back slowly to rest upon the cold metal once again. The screen made a 'swooshing' sound as it crawled over his vision. Closing his eyes, Desmond let out a soft breath, reopening them too see the machine glitching though Lucy was moving about like nothing was wrong.

"'ey, Luc-"

Reaching a hand up to make a stopping motion, his eyes widened to see that said limb began to fade. This was the moment when Lucy glanced over and cried out in shock, which in return had Warren hurry over.

"What did you do?" he shouted at her, seeing Lucy shake her head and protesting that she'd only done what she always did. "Fix this!"

"Uh, Doc..."

Both scientists glanced over and the last thing Desmond saw was Lucy covering her mouth after mouthing, "Oh my God..."

Then all was a bright flash of light, pupils dilating, causing Desmond to lift his arms to cover his eyes. His sweater's sleeves, surprisingly, did a wonderful job of protecting his vision. For once grateful for the shaggy clothing he'd been given to change into.

Lowering his arms after seeing the bright shine lower in hue, Desmond blinked and stared in front of himself. "...oh shit."