It wasn't the first time Altair took a life.

No matter how much time passed, there was always a flash of satisfaction and pride for a clean kill and the indifference to the man's family or friends that would morn his passing.

There was no sympathy or hesitance, just arrogant pride and disgust as the blood —hot, burning, red, slick— pooled in his palm and splashed against the stone walkway as the lifeless body fell to the floor.

He retracted his blade with a flick of the wrist —blood spat in the face of his enemies— mildly displeased at the blood that stained his hand, before indifference shuttered over his expression.

—Pride straightened his back, pride formed the words he spoke, pride guided his blade into soft flesh. Rank and a small measure of skill gave his actions and words the weight that would anchor his fall—

But it was of no consequence, despite the vitriol Malik spat at him about innocence and the creed. As it was the same creed that guided his blade, that spoke his words, that blessed his actions.

Altair smirked, the scar on his lip stretching into a familiar expression of self-satisfaction.

—Nothing is true— Everything is permitted.

Desmond shot off the cold table of the animus; he leaned over the side and retched uncontrollably.

—the warmth of flesh beneath his fingers, the heat of blood splashing into his hand, the burn as he yanked the blade out—

Blood —hot, wet, burning— pounded in his ears, making him deaf to all but the echoes of the metallic slide of a hidden blade —pride— and the sound of the lifeless body of an innocent —permitted— hitting the floor.

There was a dull frustrated screech as the bile splashed onto Vidic's leather shoes, curses and abuses were flung his way only to be silenced by deaf ears. Lucy fluttered in the background, confused and worried —compassion, kindness—, rubbing gentle circles in Desmond's back, and tried to speak to him through the pounding.

"—Stillman, what was—"

"—disorientation—"

The words faded in and out as Desmond fought to silence the pounding, to chill the warmth of blood on his hands.

"—sudden drop in synchron—"

"—don't care! I need—"

"—shock to the syste—needs rest—kill—in cold blood—"

And the world bled into focus again. The bright white and silver of the room glowed in hyperrealism, the words being spoken by Lucy —defensive— and Vidic —furious— suddenly too loud, too sharp for his ears.

A groan was wrenched unbidden from his throat.

He ground his palms —stained— deeply into his eye sockets, an attempt to shadow the sharp whiteness —the robes he wore— of the room he was contained.

The words ceased —small mercy— and the world dimmed.

For one blissful moment, Desmond heard the echoes silenced. He felt alone in his mind, no warmth —blood—, no arrogance —pride—, no death —permitted—.

Then Vidic was in his face, hand clasped on his shoulder, too tight, too close to his throat —one flick of the wrist—, shaking him roughly, words and spittle flying. Lucy stood tight lipped, arms crossed, whatever words had been said had leashed the fight and human decency in her, at least for the moment.

Threats were thrown haphazardly, a stark contrast to the carefully worded suggestions before Desmond had complied to enter the animus. They may have been repeated from the earlier conversation, but were no less chilling —coma, brain dead, don't want to fade—.

The words, the fight, the indignation and fury at having willingly submitted to that —blatant disregard to the creed, murdering an innocent—, died and washed away before it had gained any momentum. It left Desmond feeling beaten down and tired beyond belief.

Vidic growled menacingly, "I'm not here to coddle you or your weak conscience, Mr. Miles. Get in the animus."

He complied. Lucy seemed to be even more worried, nails tapping rapidly on the screen to set up the animus.

Desmond was pulled under.

—like drowning, suffocating, fading, lungs filled with water, cold, hurts, burns, gone—

Altair took a breath.

—like wind beneath the wings, free, warm, fresh, breathing anew again—

Altair flicked his wrist and readied his blade when he saw the unprotected back of the Templar guard, a foolish mistake.

Desmond watched, dimly aware of his arm pulling back, readying to strike.

Altair —Desmond— struck, blood splashed in his palm as he drain the life from the man in a single instant. Red pooled on the floor, oozing out from the lifeless form dumped on the ground.

He felt nothing but pride for a clean kill.

Desmond shut his eyes. —nothing is true—

Lucy tossed him a hidden blade, demanding that they had to leave, that he needed to protect himself, no matter the cost.

Desmond ignored her, folding into something deeper and older than himself, dismissing her as his vision glowed blue. He slipped on the familiar leather —welcoming an old friend— and flicked his wrist to extend the blade.

It gleamed dully under the florescent lighting, springs a little sluggish, the leather of the bracer rough and stiff —new, untested—. He retracted the blade with a satisfied nod, the blade will prove itself in time.

"Desmond! We have to go!" She yelled, hand on his shoulder, her back turned toward the door, toward the exit, toward the enemies.

A few of her hairs fell out of place from her clip, loose strands cascading haphazardly around her shoulders, shining gold in the light —like fire, like the sun, like the apple—.

Templar guards entered with weapons raised as they glowed bright red, a shout of warning upon their lips.

He spun into action, blade ready in his hand with a deft flick of his wrist. His arm pulled back and fell in a swift strike, metal feasting on the delicate flesh of the guard's necks, sating its thirst on his blood —burning, pride—.

A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, a feeling of satisfaction not yet his own.

The others shouted in alarm, back pedaling to put some distance between the winged deliverance and their fate. Fear made their hands shake as they raised their crackling batons, fear silenced the screams of allies that died around them, fear shut their eyes as oblivion fell upon them.

His hand rose and fell, feet moving in an intricate dance, muscles rippling beneath the familiar strain of battles fought and won without effort.

Blood pooled in his palm —warm, burning, familiar—.

Blood splashed against his clothes —white stained red—.

Blood soaked the stiff leather of his bracer —softened with time, softened with red—.

As the last scream died in the Templar's throat, he flicked his wrist once more to retract the blade from its warm sheath, blood oozed sluggishly from the lifeless body as it thudded to the white tiled floor. The blade gleamed red in the harsh light, its edge newly christened—thirst sated—.

A gasp escaped unbidden from Lucy's throat.

He turned toward her, leaving red foot prints on the white marble tile —a relic, a trace, proof of existence—.

Her form took on a distinct red tinge, an infection in the sky blue glow. She was tense, horrified, Templar baton held up and ready to defend, but she did not strike —trained, assassin, templar— instead she spoke.

"Desmond?"

Desmond smirked, the scar on his lip stretching into a familiar expression of self-satisfaction—pride straightened his back, pride guided his blade—.

It wasn't the first time Desmond took a life.

—with the wind beneath his wings, he breathed anew—

A/N: So I have no idea where this came from. I wanted to touch on the bleeding effect and how that would affect how Desmonds handles his first "real" kill, and then it turned into this; Altair bleeding into a slightly unhinged Desmond. I apologize for the slight twisting of facts (i.e. Lucy doesn't give Desmond a hidden blade when escaping Abstergo), but it is fan fiction, and I felt like it fit the story flow better.

I hope you enjoyed reading it, feel free to let me know what you think!

-Rezz