Just a one-shot of Desmond Miles, personal catharsis over the end of Assassin's Creed III, which still bothers the hell out of me.

I sort of wanted to turn this into a longer fic, but I'm not really sure where I want to take this story. I also had an idea for a few OC's, Assassin recruits Desmond could find to help rebuild the modern Assassin Brotherhood...but idk, its still pretty vague and I'm not sure on what plot I could use. Let's see how this one goes, shall we?

Rated M for swearing, gore, nudity, the whole shebang.

Die to Live Another Day

Chapter One

A New Hope

"TOD: December 21st, 2012, at four-thirty-seven PM."

Weightless.

Numb.

Free.

Desmond felt like he was floating, but he couldn't feel his body. He didn't have to. For the first time in his entire life, he didn't care that he wasn't in control. He could stay here, in this endless white void that reminded him so much of the Animus — and yet there would be no assassins. No faraway cities or ancient wars or magical alien artifacts that turned the whole world upside down.

"Desmond."

And he wasn't alone.

Lucy was here. Standing right in front of him. Huh, maybe he still had a body after all. She looked up at him, a soft smile on her face. Desmond smiled back, and something yanked tight within him — he'd forgotten what her smile looked like. She looked just as she had on the day they first met: blue jeans and a silver top. Innocuous, yet unforgettable.

"Lucy, you're here," his voice echoed in his own ears, cracked and broken. "I missed you. I-I didn't know — I mean, I can't —-"

"Shh, it's alright," she said, bringing up her hands to cup his face. She swept her thumbs across his cheeks, wiping away the tears that had sprang up so suddenly. "I'm not angry at you. I understand. You did what you had to do. You're an Assassin, Desmond. It's your destiny."

"Born Miles, Desmond, Thirteenth of March, 1987."

"Destiny," he repeated, but with a hard edge. He remembered what "destiny" meant. It meant friends dying, it meant hopeless causes, it meant sacrifice after sacrifice taken unwillingly from him. "Load of good that did me."

"You were brave." She said, almost admonishing. "So brave."

"I know." Desmond said, resting his hands on her arms, her hands still around his face. She felt so real, he could scarcely believe it. He never thought he could do this again. "But nothing's changed, Lucy. The Assassins are still losing. The Templars are still in control. Killing Vidic — it barely slowed them down."

"You saved the world," Lucy reminded him. "You saved your friends."

"I couldn't save you."

"Cause of death appears to be electrocution."

"I didn't need saving, Desmond," her laugh was rueful as she shook her head. "I made my choices. I knew what I was doing, and it was still a mistake. I was wrong. And I paid the price."

"Lucy, I just — I never got to tell you," Desmond said, his voice starting to shake again. He had been waiting for this moment for so long, never thought he'd get it. "Before we went to Rome. I wanted to tell you how I felt —"

But she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I know."

Desmond smiled under her touch, leaned into it. Their foreheads connected and Desmond could feel a strange pulsating warmth coming from her. He closed his eyes and relished the moment. Lucy was here. Lucy was safe.

"Will be referred to from this point on as Subject Seventeen, as designated by his files."

"Is it over?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Can I...can I rest now?"

Lucy pulled back and he mimicked her movement, meeting her eyes again. She tilted her head, smiling softly.

"No."

Desmond blinked, taking a step back. "W-what?"

That wasn't expected. Like, at all.

"The fight isn't over yet," said a voice from behind, making Desmond yelp and whip around. He was stunned to see a white-robed man standing before him - an Assassin with his hood up, thick leather belt and red sash around his waist, armed with a hidden blade and missing one finger.

Even without the face, Desmond recognized him immediately. "Altaïr?" He threw a look at Lucy, astonished and feeling a little betrayed. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Lucy just said, "I asked him to come."

"What? Why?"

"Because your mission isn't over yet," Altaïr replied before Lucy could say anything. Desmond faced him again, matching scowl for scowl. Under the shadow of the hood, he could see that Altaïr had the same scar splitting his lips. "We are messengers, Desmond Miles, to tell you of what lies ahead, of the dangers you face. The seen... and the unseen."

"Do you mean the Templars?" Desmond asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because I know all about them. Sure, they're sneaky bastards, but that doesn't mean —"

"No, not the Templars." Altaïr cut him off, sniffing with impatience. "Something far worse."

Desmond went silent as he tried to think of what that could be. What the hell was worse than world-dominating Templars that want to brainwash the entire human race? And even if they could be stopped, what could he do about it?

He was dead. Desmond couldn't fathom it, but somewhere deep inside he knew it was the truth. That Lucy couldn't be here otherwise. That the Altaïr ibn La'Ahad standing before him was not just an illusion. That they had reached the ultimate freedom — freedom from the confines of their puny bodies, free of the responsibilities of life and creed. Desmond was so free, in fact, he felt lost, empty. What was he going to do now? Where could he go? What was left in store for him?

"Known prominent ancestors include Altaïr ibn La'Ahad of the Tenth Century from the Levant; Ezio Auditore from Renaissance Italy; Edward Kenway of the Early Seventeen Hundreds, as well as son and grandson Haytham and Connor Kenway, active during most of the American Revolution. His blood has an unusually high percentage of Precursor DNA, but Subject Seventeen does not appear to be a Sage. He lacks the distinct heterochromia and anisocoria."

Desmond looked at his hands. He wasn't wearing his hidden blade like he should. His wrists were bare, his sleeves drawn up to his elbows. It was Lucy who convinced him to start wearing the iconic Assassin weapon after they escaped Abstergo's facility in Rome. He did, of course, but complained about it the entire time.

Turns out she was right to be safe. Less than two weeks of setting base in their new hide-out, Abstergo tracked them down and attacked. If Desmond didn't have his hidden blade on hand, their team would either be dead or captured.

It was hard to say which one was worse.

But he just shook his head. "The hell could that be?"

"Juno," Lucy said, coming up to stand beside him. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her face now very serious, blue eyes boring into his. "Do you remember? You released her from her prison when you saved Earth. Now she's out and she has a plan. While the Templars and Assassins are busy fighting each other, she gains power. She finds followers and acolytes to do her bidding."

"And you're blaming me?"

Lucy hesitated before answering that. "Well, you're the one who released her."

Desmond sputtered, insulted, and shook his head in disbelief. He wrung his hands, saying, "I didn't have much of a choice to begin with! It was either let the world die and start over, or save everyone and let Juno free. And sorry if that makes me the bad guy, but I'm not going to put humans on the endangered species list because one Precursor thinks she can fuck us up!"

"Well, it's not over yet," Lucy remained ever-diplomatic, looking unperturbed by his yelling. Her gaze upon him remained even. "Juno's still out there."

"What is she gonna to do?"

"Destroy the world," Altaïr said, his golden eyes flashing bright enough to see. There was clear hatred in his voice, and he spat out her name like a curse. "Juno seeks to undo all that humanity has achieved within the last six millennia. The bad...and the good. She will raze cities, kill billions, and throw the world into darkness. All so that we may worship her again, her mindless slaves to rebuild her Civilization. The Third Civilization."

For a moment, Desmond was speechless. Then he recollected his thoughts and compressed his entire opinion into one word: "...Huh."

Altaïr twisted his head to the side, annoyed. "I believe this situation requires a greater response from you, Desmond Miles. Juno is not to be underestimated."

"What the hell do you want me to do about it?" Desmond demanded, throwing out his arms. He didn't appreciate Altaïr's criticism, or that this was somehow his responsibility. His fault. "I'm already dead! We're all dead! I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here to hear this, man, but it's true! I can't do anything."

But Altaïr only blinked. "What is the Creed?"

"The Creed?"

"Yes, idiot. Repeat it to me."

Desmond threw him a strange look, but the words fell of his tongue as easy as a prayer. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

"Exactly. Nothing is true."

"...I don't get it."

"Desmond," Lucy said, starting to sound a little reproachful. She gave him an expectant look, planting her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows like the answer was obvious. "You are not dead. Not yet, at least. Your body is, but your mind isn't. Where do you think we are right now?"

"Um, m-my head?" Desmond looked around uncertainly. He had to admit, if this was what the inside of his head was supposed to look like, he was seriously unimpressed. Wouldn't Shaun be pleased to know his 'guesses' about Desmond's brain were proven right. "It's kind of, um, empty."

"Your mind works like the Animus." Lucy said. "It constructs an image to help you better understand information being given to you. We're here because you hold the deepest connection to our identities."

"We are neither living nor dead," Altaïr explained, which didn't make any sense at all. He gestured to Desmond with his four-fingered hand. "Juno attempted to kill you, but your blood is strong. Stronger than she or anyone else could know. Now, you are the only one who knows her plans. You are the only one who can stop her."

"But how?" Desmond pleaded, his breathing coming in a little hard. He didn't even know he could breathe, but he was definitely aware of it now. What they were asking him just felt too impossible. How could they even expect him to do any of this? To succeed? "How am I supposed to stop Juno if I can't even see her?"

"That is for you to find out." Altaïr said, unsympathetic, crossing his arms.

"Nu-uh, no way, not doing this," Desmond was already shaking his head, throwing up his hands and backing away from the both of them. "You're both crazy. If you're even real, if I'm not imagining you...whatever it is you think I can do, I can't. I'm just one guy — one guy in a league of, what, less than a thousand Assassins still alive? The Templars are huge, and Juno's nuttier than a squirrel — I can't handle both of them at once. It can't be me. I can't keep doing this. It–it's too hard."

He turned away from them, clutching his head. Not even death would accept him so easily — what the hell was wrong with his life that Desmond couldn't even have the peace of an afterlife? Or none at all, he didn't care at this point. He just wanted it to be over.

"Subject Seventeen was discovered, dead and abandoned, in an ancient Precursor temple. No clues were found as to the whereabouts of his allies, but it appeared as though they had been there recently. The only items found on his body were his clothes, an earpiece and watch, a backpack containing tools and a phone, and his wrist blade mechanism."

"Desmond." A hand at his shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder. Altaïr was there, but now his hood was down. He looked no older than Desmond, but his eyes betrayed the age of years beyond. Desmond was surprised they actually didn't look identical as they had in the Animus - Altaïr was a smidge taller, his skin darker, and hair a dusty blond. Desmond realized with a jolt he had never know what Altaïr's hair looked like. It must've been from his mother, a Christian from Europe.

Desmond expected him to look angry, but Altaïr didn't. He seemed...sad. It was such an unfitting expression that Desmond couldn't say anything for a moment, allowing the other Assassin to speak.

"I know you have suffered many sacrifices," Altaïr said, his voice soft. Kind, even. Desmond stared at him, feeling utterly hopeless. "Yours, as well as mine, and many others. No Assassin has ever had an easy life — least of all, yours. I would never ask any of my brothers and sisters to endure what you had to experience. I would not expect them to take on another's pain wholecloth. To step into the shoes of a stranger and be forced to live out every moment of their life. But you weren't given a choice, Desmond. You were chosen. And it is unfair for us now to choose you again."

"But while you bear unimaginable pain," Altaïr continued, clasping both hands on Desmond's shoulders as the man slowly turned back around. "You also wield irrepressible strength. You know better than anyone else the fight we fight — and what we fight for. Not just for peace and freedom — but for love. For happiness. For the families we protect and the friends we defend."

"Your family still needs you, Desmond." Lucy appeared beside Altaïr, her eyes soft and somehow, hopeful. "Not just your parents, but Shaun and Rebecca, too."

"Malik. Kadar." Desmond added, surprising himself. Altaïr jolted a little, his eyes widening. Desmond's mouth kept moving, speaking automatically. "Maria. Claudia. Bartolomeo. Leonardo. Cristina. Yusuf. Sofia. Flavia. Marcello. Ziio. Kanen'tó:kon. Oià:ner. Achilles. Haytham."

"Yes. We are strong not because of the weapons we use or the secrets we keep." Lucy nodded, accepting each name with a wisdom that seemed so much older than her. "We are strong because of our families. Of the people who love us, who support us, and we in turn love and support them. Without them, we've lost every reason to fight. To live."

"And the Assassins will grow once more," Altaïr assured him, the ghost of a smile on his thin lips. "Recruits are just waiting to be found. You know Juno's plan, and you have both the power and the will to stop it. Do not give up now, Desmond. The fight is only getting started."

Strangely, Desmond felt inspired by these words. He didn't think Altaïr could be so...so earnest or sympathetic. He felt a smile pull at his lips. "You think...you think we can win?"

"The battle with the Templars is an ageless one," Altaïr admitted, his eyes casting downwards. He pulled his hands away from Desmond's shoulders, flexing his wrist and testing his blade. "But Juno is a new threat that must be dealt with. Her machinations have bled through history, and she intends to destroy it entirely, so that we may forget what it means to be human."

"We need you, Desmond," Lucy added. "We all need you. You're not alone in this fight, not now. Not again. You just need to find the right people."

"Juno has left the imprints of her plan in your mind; the purpose of her followers, and the ones she intends to draft to her cause." Altaïr held up a hand in warning. "Beware her Instruments, Desmond. They may appear to be your allies, and they are no friends of the Templars, but they seek only to help their mistress. Anyone who stands in their way, guilty or innocent, will be killed without mercy."

"My preliminary analysis shows extensive third-degree burns on his right hand, done premortem. The skin has been rendered black and heavily scarred, and the veins have been exposed. Strangely, while the skin appears charred, it still retains moisture. Further dissection is in order..."

"If she finds out you're still alive," Lucy added. "Then you'll have other things to worry about than the Templars."

"Okay," Desmond said, frowning. So Juno was not crazy - she was bat-shit insane, but apparently some people thought she was pretty cool. Enough to do whatever she said. "So I have to stop Juno, but also stay away from her and her minions? How the hell am I supposed to do that if I can't even see her? Where the hell is she?"

"She lives in the Grey," Lucy said, which was about as vague as you could get. "The space between spaces. Electric pulses carried between synapses and the code in your computer. She lives through text and pixels, and can be anywhere, see everything, at the same time...as long as they have IP address."

"So, she's in the Internet, is what you're saying," Desmond summed up, not quite able to fathom just how weird and scary that was. "Great. Guess I'm never going to check my email again."

"Why would people send mail to a dead man?" Altaïr asked, scowling again. Ah, there's the familiar face everyone loved.

Desmond gave him a frustrated look, about to argue when he realized Altaïr had a point. He held up a hand, waving it off. "...You know what, never mind. You guys got any other words of wisdom to impart?"

"Don't die," Lucy offered. "Again."

"Amazing, thank you."

Desmond noticed that they were starting to look a little pale, and it took him a moment to realize they were fading. In a second, he panicked, not ready to see them go. "W-wait! Where am I? What happened to my friends? What are the Templars doing now?"

"Sorry, Desmond. Those are things you must learn for yourself." Lucy said, shrugging helplessly. She raised a hand to touch his cheek again, but Desmond was horrified to find that he couldn't feel her anymore. "You're smart, no matter what Shaun says about you behind your back."

"He says stuff behind my back?" Desmond asked, affronted, but when he reached out to touch Altaïr and Lucy, his hands went right through them. In fact, the whole world was becoming less solid — himself included. The white void was turning gray. "Will I — will I ever see you again?"

"Maybe," Lucy smiled, but it was bittersweet. "When the fight is finally over."

"Please note: Subject Seventeen has a higher than average body temperature. Although he has been dead for over twenty-four hours, my thermometer is indicating that his body has maintained a 97.8 degree Fahrenheit of temperature. The cause of this is yet unknown..."

"You'll meet us again," Altaïr said with a curt nod, pulling his hood back over his head. "Safety and peace be upon you, Desmond Miles."

And with that, he was gone.

Now all that was left was Lucy, in the ever-growing darkness. Desmond tried to approach her, but she was so transparent already he was afraid he'd lose her if he took his eyes off her for even a single second. "Lucy, I just wanted you to know, if things had gone different, I —"

"What? Wouldn't have sacrificed yourself?" Lucy asked with a wry smirk. "I know you better than that, Desmond. I would've still ended up here, one way or another. And so would you. But now you have a second chance. Make it right. Whatever you do, don't lose hope."

Her hand disappeared from his chest. "Don't forget love."

Then Lucy, too, disappeared, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

The mortician shuffled around the metal table, reaching for his scalpel as he held up the recorder to his mouth.

"I am about to begin the autopsy. Berg has requested that his major organs be preserved and all blood stored away. My goal is to learn what killed him, how it killed him, and then dispose what is left of his body."

A white sheet covered Subject Seventeen's lower half, to keep it clean as the mortician began his dissection. The former Assassin was well-built and handsome, and the mortician would've pitied his young age if he had been paid a little less. But as it was, the mortician was more interested in learning why this man's skin was still warm.

He set the small blade against the man's chest below him. The mortician was about to press down when he noticed a twitch of movement in Seventeen's face. A flickering behind the eyelids. The lips opening ever so slightly.

A cold chill went down the mortician's back. While he never had the misfortune of discovering that a previously-thought-dead body actually wasn't, it bothered him how unusual this one was. Then again, bodies tended to move even after the brain died, known as rigor mortis — stiffening muscles and tendons could open eyes, clench hands, and sometimes cause the entire body to sit straight up.

The mortician's had a few scares in his life, but all of them had been false alarms. The Assassins were clever. But not that clever.

He shook his head and went back to the task at hand. He was letting his paranoia getting to him. Too many lonely nights in a dark morgue made you think that the bodies themselves might be more interesting than they really were.

The mortician sighed and pressed the blade into Seventeen's chest.

Desmond's eyes flew open.

Before the mortician could even open his mouth, a hand found his throat and wrenched him upwards. The mortician cried out as the Assassin launched forward, gasping for breath as blood dribbled down his bare chest. He seemed completely unaware that he had a man in his grip.

The mortician gasped, clawing at the blackened hand — the heat of Seventeen's skin skyrocketed incredibly fast, from strangely clammy to soft warmth to blistering hot. The veins across his right hand were a faint glowing orange.

When Desmond finally noticed him, his face drew into a scowl.

"Where am I?" Desmond demanded, his voice hoarse and gravelly. He didn't realize he was shouting in Arabic. "Who are you?"

The mortician yelped as the man's startlingly golden glare fell on his face. He spluttered, trying to breathe through the clamp around his neck. "P-please...I-I can't..."

Desmond dropped him and the mortician slumped to the floor, coughing and spluttering as air returned to his lungs. As he recovered, Desmond threw himself off the cold metal surface, his mind scattered, his legs unsteady. Wondering why the hell he was so cold, Desmond looked down and shouted (still in Arabic), "What the fuck? Where the hell are my clothes?"

He scanned the room, marking all the exit points on instinct — the door to his left, and the small windows high up on the wall. The room was dark with only one light shining on the ceiling. It looked more like a serial killer's lair than a professional's workspace. It was even night out, because apparently this guy was going to hit every cliché in the book.

Desmond knew all he needed to know when he saw the Abstergo logo on a nearby computer's desktop. English returned to him in a sudden blow. "God damn it!"

Of course it was Abstergo. Desmond shouldn't have been so surprised. Who the hell else would put him on a metal slab and cut him open like a lab rat? Crazy sons of bitches thought they can have the last laugh, stealing his body to...what? Preserve his body? Well, probably not, since he was about to turn into the next CSI: Miami victim this week. Maybe they'd just keep his head in a jar, take his blood and dump the rest. Use what they needed to continue their project; all the better now that their favorite Subject couldn't fight back now, right?

Well, weren't they in for a surprise?

Behind him, he heard the table grind against the tile, then silence. The mortician was no longer coughing.

A piercing screech that only Desmond could hear, then he was spinning around and grabbing the wrist of the mortician, in his fist the scalpel, just as it was about to come down on Desmond's back.

The mortician let out a half-angry, half-terrified shout when Desmond blocked his attack. Desmond jolted, panicked by the noise, and wrenched the man's hand down and inward. The mortician's yell turned into a gurgle as his own scalpel was buried into his neck.

Blood spurted everywhere — on the mortician, on Desmond, and onto the floor and ceiling. A veritable Jackson Pollock piece, Desmond marveled at the sight, still half-delirious, as the mortician sagged in his arms. Revolted, Desmond dropped the body. It hit the ground with an unceremonious thump.

He stumbled away and fell against a nearby desk, watching as a pool of blood formed around the mortician's head, his skin getting paler and paler by the second.

Desmond pressed a hand to his face, wiping away the still-warm blood. His breath was still coming out in harsh gasps. "H-holy shit!"

He glanced at the door, worried that Abstergo guards would come bursting in at any minute, but nothing happened. Desmond stood there, shivering and naked and utterly freaked out, for an excruciatingly long time, before finally realizing that no one was going to come.

Shaking himself over, Desmond tried to recollect his thoughts and made himself move again. He looked around, trying to find something to wear or wrap himself up in.

On one wall was a furnace, empty and dark. Arranged nearby were two large, human-sized boxes. Beside them on the floor was a pile of kindling and a large barrel full of what looked like fabric.

Desmond approached it carefully, not wanting to glance inside the boxes. Not that he'd never seen a dead body before, just that the ones inside the box probably didn't deserve it.

The barrel was filled with clothes. As Desmond started digging through it, he realized with a sense of disgust and horror that these used to belong to people, probably the ones still in the room with him. Swallowing down a wave of nausea, Desmond kept looking until he found some jeans and a sweatshirt that were about his size. Pulling them on, Desmond felt a little better, but not by much.

He decided not to bother with underwear or shoes for now. That was just a little too creepy for him.

He went to a nearby sink and cleaned himself up, wiping away the blood from his hands and face, as well as the inked-in lines on the exposed skin. It sickened Desmond to feel like a cut-out project for second-graders, and desperately wanted to leave this place and go home.

Home...

He had no home.

Desmond sighed, hanging his head. He had no idea where he was. No one knew he was alive — for now. Eventually, Abstergo was going to find their employee dead and a body missing. The search for Desmond Miles would multiply tenfold, perhaps even worse than it was before, in his previous life.

Holy fuck, had he really been dead?

Desmond didn't feel dead. At least, not until he looked at his ruined hand.

The hand he used to touch the Apple back in Juno's temple. The searing pain, the bright light as it coursed through him. What even was that?

A part of him wondered if it was still there. Desmond examined his hand, twisting this way and that, wondering just how bad the damage was. It definitely looked burned, the limb dead...but it wasn't. The veins in his right hand glowed strangely, like there was lava flowing through them. It faded the farther up his arm it traveled, disappearing in the divide between burnt and normal skin. Desmond could still move his hand and fingers, thankfully, but he couldn't feel it anymore.

It was weird. It felt like it had been amputated only...not.

Juno had destroyed his hand and left something else behind. This one didn't belong to him anymore.

Lucy and Altaïr's words echoed in his head. Desmond winced, pressing his good hand to his temple. Oh, right, Juno, crazy bitch extraordinaire. Just another thing to add to his list of problems.

Man, he really needed to get out of here.

Desmond prioritized his needs; unfortunately, Juno was not the first — food was, and so were his stuff, which Desmond would really like back, thank you. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank as much as he could take. He felt parched and his throat still hurt; being dead hadn't done him a lot of favors.

Shutting off the water, Desmond looked around for something he could use as a weapon. The scalpel was his first idea, but it was buried somewhere in the mess that was the mortician's neck, and he decided he didn't want to touch that again.

Desmond suppose it wouldn't matter anyways. A scalpel was too fragile for his needs — it probably broke off in the man's neck anyways.

The mortician had an array of other tools, though, and Desmond perused them quickly before he found a long pair of thin scissors that could prove handy. Not so much if he got into a fight, but Desmond was planning on using stealth to get out of this hellhole.

Improvised weapon in hand, Desmond opened the door and peeked out. The hallway was even darker than the workroom, and there was absolutely no one about.

Perfect.

Taking one last glance behind him at the dead mortician, Desmond took a deep breath, steeling his nerves.

And then he was gone.