When William speaks, he doesn't hear.

He stares blankly into the angry face, his fingers curling around the Apple and the hum of its energy flowing through him.

He's tired.

William stops talking, surprised, and Desmond blinks.

This guinea pig is exhausted, he muses, and he can see William's face turn into something disapproving.

He can feel the hum of the Apple placating him. It's soothing over anger, his indignation at being nothing more than just a guinea pig, a sacrifice, a plaything, and he lets it grind dull the sharp edges of his anger with the satisfying feel of pulling life from a living body. He can feel the satisfying transfer of the soul leaving, of him draining all its energy into nothingness.

It mirrors how he feels, and he's tired of suffering alone.

He steps toward William, the Apple a warm weight in his hand, and all he can think about is murder. All he can think about is the sound of the guns going off, the horrified look of the guards as they pressed the muzzles of the guns to their own throats, pressed their own fingers against the triggers, and pulled the triggers themselves. He feels something akin to life fluttering in his breast as he cuts the ropes on William's chair, not really paying attention to what he's saying as he gives a clipped, "Yeah."

His father hesitates, but Desmond doesn't care. He moves forward for a hug, letting himself slump just slightly.

I'm tired, Daddy, is what he wants to say in his father's arms. Don't you care about me?

Of course I care, child. Your sleep comes soon enough, comes the resounding hum, burning its way into his mind. Don't you want to play just a little more? Aren't you still hungry for more? I want to spend more time with my baby.

The Apple feels warm in his hand, and he stares at it with a longing look.

"Almost bedtime," he murmurs. "The end is nigh."

Such a good little boy, the Apple responds, and he turns on his heel to walk away.

His father looks surprised, though Desmond doesn't know why. He lifts the Apple above his head, feeling the sweet sensation of life draining away, causing more gaping holes. Causing more tiredness. Causing more death. He likes it, he muses, and he can feel the Apple petting his mind, telling him it's all right. He likes watching the bodies fall. He likes the blood spatters and the boom of the guns. He likes knowing these guys know how he feels, helpless and tired and just so empty. It makes him feel better about his own weariness.

He can feel other presences, disapproving of his use of the Apple, but the Apple just purrs and tells him that they didn't know how to use it correctly.

Of the presences, Altair had come the closest when he gave it to Abbas, but he was still so far from its true use.

Desmond walks forward slowly, enjoying the hum of the Apple and the violent chaos around him. He can feel his father walking behind him, can feel the fear. He blinks, his eyelids heavy, satisfaction bone-deep. He paces out of Abstergo.

It's time to sleep, he muses as he climbs into the back of the truck.

I know, child. I know, my precious baby boy, comes the response he had heard since he picked up the Apple.

It sounds surprisingly like Juno, and he swears he can feel arms wrap around him as he leans back, tilts his head back to rest against the back of the truck, the Apple in his hand and his arms curled around his own stomach in mimicry of a hug. He can feel arms over his, wrapping him up, keeping him safe, promising him sleep and comfort and no more of this terrible guinea-pig reality he's been forced into. The Apple sings sweet lullabies into his ear, painting his mind with images of the blood sprays and the horrified looks of the guards as they killed themselves. It smothers him with love and affection that he's never had, not even on his own team, and rakes its nails over his mind and promises him so much more when he sleeps, when he finally sleeps, massaging his brain. It sings of sweet murder, of promised eternal slumber.

And when he places his hand on the pedestal at the end, he briefly tries to pull back, but he can feel Juno's fingers raking his mind.

"You've been a good boy, Desmond," she whispers, and he hears it in the same voice as the Apple. His posture relaxes: he finds himself falling backward. She catches him, setting him down slowly even though his body hits the floor faster, and he lets her wrap her arms around him in a tender hug. "Such a good boy. You like Apples, don't you?"

He nods a yes, and he can feel his consciousness departing, a sweet lullaby from the Apple buzzing in his ears as he passes on, the bright red spatters of spraying blood painting in front of his eyes making Juno look even prettier and the muted sounds of guns going off adding to the lullaby that he hears Juno singing as he fades out.

Finally.

Sleep.

Anyone else mildly disturbed by Desmond's use of the Apple?