Introductory notes: This is the story that just won't die. First the epilogue that wasn't meant to be, and now a sequel. This story is set after Desmond has saved the world, and picks up six months after the end of Thirty-Three. I suggest you read that story first if you want an idea of what's going on. If you've already read it, then welcome back! This story is rated M for a reason and contains same-sex partnerships.

The bus pulled into the Port Authority Bus Terminal at about 10am, and the final jolt of the brakes caused Desmond's head to bump violently onto the window he had been sleeping against. Still reeling from the rude awakening he stumbled to his feet along with the rest of the chattering tourists and grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead shelf before making his way off the bus.

Desmond knew he needed to keep moving, but standing outside the terminal he felt as though his feet were glued to the sidewalk of Ninth Avenue. He looked up and down the busy street as the hordes of New Yorkers swarmed around him irritably, and for a moment he found himself wondering in the past year had been nothing but a bizarre dream. Abstergo, Monteriggioni, the Animus, walking around in 15th century Italy ... it all seemed so ridiculous when all around him people were walking to work, spilling hot coffee onto their jackets and trying to juggle three types of bagel whilst simultaneously talking on their cell phones.

This was why he had come back, after all the shit that had gone down in the final safe house ... the things he would give anything to forget. He had a plan, some kind of mad scheme to just pick up where he had left off. He'd saved the world, hadn't he? Didn't that entitle him to a peaceful life, even if his nights were destined to be full of nightmares?

The first thing he did was go into his old bank, the Chase on Broadway, to see how much money he had to work with. To his surprise it was about a few thousand more than it should have been. Some kind of severance pay from Bad Weather? After he had disappeared on them? It didn't make sense, but it was something he could find out about later.

He walked towards the nearest subway quickly, too quickly, trying to outpace his thoughts. He was being irrational and sloppy, leaving a trail that even a blind man could follow, let alone one of the world's biggest corporations, or one of its most powerful secret societies. In truth, he hadn't slowed down to think since he'd fled the upstate New York home in the early hours of the morning, before the others awoke. Since then he'd already used his real name when buying the bus ticket, and had shown ID at the bank just a few minutes ago. If people were looking for him, he wasn't making it difficult for them.

The 3 train into Brooklyn was ridiculously noisy, a cacophany of squeals and rattling. He was grateful for it. It drowned out the screaming in his head.

Going to his old apartment had been pointless. There was someone else living there now, and presumably his possessions had either been tossed out or sold by the greasy, chain-smoking landlord. The only hope he had left was for his motorbike, which had been parked outside Bad Weather when Abstergo abducted him.

He stood outside the bar now, torn between his desire to go in and pick up a shaker and start serving drunk women in low-cut tops as if he had never left, and his desire to run as far away as possible, as fast as he could. Chances were he probably wouldn't be able to get in if he tried. It was New Year's Eve and the place was rammed with revellers.

Finally realising that he didn't have the nerve to go in past the bouncers (must be new guys, he didn't recognise them), Desmond slipped into the side alley and easily vaulted over the steel fence that housed the bar's official staff smoking area and trash bag drop-off point. His sneakers (lightly built, soles with rubber grips - Assassin's shoes) hit the ground heavily. He straightened up, looked around, and the memories of this dirty square of asphalt hit him like a knife to the gut.

The scrape on his knuckles as he stubbed out a cigarette on the brick wall. The awful, sticky, stale alcohol smell of the trash bugs as he tossed them in the dumpster. The laughter as he hung out with...

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing back here?"

Desmond turned quickly at the sound of the angry, surprised male voice, and was disgusted to feel his body readying itself for a kill. A tall, muscular man with a shaved head and tattoos curling around his ears had just come bursting through the door with a pack of smokes and a lighter in one hand, and as Desmond stared at him his expression shifted rapidly from aggression to disbelief.

"Des? Des, is that you? Holy fuck!"

"Hi, Jerry," Desmond said weakly, and found himself being pulled into a fierce bear hug by the larger man. It felt like friendship and sincerity and smelled of sweat and cologne.

"Desmond fuckin' Houdini Miles! What the hell happened to you? We thought you were dead, man!"

"Not dead, man," Desmond replied, finding his old New York twang starting to slip firmly back into place like a kind of vocal camouflage.

"But you left your hog here! You loved that bike! Hell, when we realised you weren't coming back for it Tony filed a missing person's report. He said no way you'd just take off on us, no way you'd leave your baby..." Jerry frowned, anger now starting to overpower his relief again. "Where'd you go, Des?"

"Woah, wait ... Tony called the police?" Desmond tried to deal with that. He hadn't really given much thought as to how his kidnapping might have affected those he'd known in New York, but he'd never thought that any of them would care that much. It was a revelation, though he didn't know if it was a pleasant one.

"Is Tony here right now?" Desmond asked at last.

Jerry was staring at him. They had been close, or as close as Desmond ever let anyone get, and the skinhead was probably hurt by the way his friend was behaving. "Yeah," he said at last. "Just him and me left from when you worked here. All the other barkeeps moved on. They let us know before they took off, though," he added pointedly.

Desmond looked down at the ground and shrugged. "I got into trouble, Jerry."

Jerry nodded, deciding to leave it there. In this city, "trouble" meant anything from a loan shark to a drug deal gone wrong, and as a general rule it was usually better not to ask for specifics. He put away his cigarettes unsmoked and opened the side door for Desmond, who made his way to Tony's office with an ache in his chest.

"We thought you were dead, you selfish cunt."

That was Tony. He may have been the one to contact the police when Desmond went missing, but he was no soft touch with his words. He sat on the edge of his desk in an office covered in awful, gaudy modern decor as club music and the sounds of young people partying echoed through the door.

"I got into trouble, Tony."

"What kind of trouble?" Tony didn't believe in rules.

"Just trouble. I had people after me."

"Well aren't you Mr Mysterious! Give me a break, Desmond. Your life is many things but exciting and adventurous it is not. First I get the hippie cult hermit bullshit when you apply for the job, now this? Fuck off."

To an outsider, Tony probably sounded like an asshole, but his bad attitude and filthy mouth were just his way of communicating affection. At least, that's what Desmond liked to think. "I'm not gonna ask for my job back..." He started.

"Good, because I'm not offering it. I hired a Mexican girl with great tits to replace you." Tony looked him up and down and his expression softened a little. "But we could always do with a busboy. You could start again from the bottom of the pile if you want."

Desmond thought about it, but quickly realised that it would only be a matter of weeks, if not days, before either the Templars or the Assassins found him. In that moment, he finally realised that his life at Bad Weather was over. His life in New York was over. He needed to hit the road again, and fast.

"What happened to my bike, Tony?"

The bar owner sniffed. "It's in the garage, next to the walk-in cooler. You left the keys behind the bar when you took off, halfway through a shift I might add. I even got that scrap heap tuned up for you about three months ago. Knew you'd come crawling back eventually. You owe me three hundred bucks for that, by the way."

The sum reminded Desmond of the final question he had to ask. "There's some money in my account, a few grand..." He left the sentence hanging.

Tony looked up at him with his cool blue eyes, his expression difficult to read. "Yeah. Well, I figured if you were off somewhere, in some kind of trouble ... Well I at least wanted you to have a bit of cash to get you through..." He was sounding a little embarrassed. "Hell, I got way more money than responsibility, it didn't do me any harm to pay you off. No need to get all gay about it, Desmond."

He filled the bike's tank, parked it in an overnight garage in Jersey City and booked a room in a hotel on the same street. The place was cheap and dirty; Desmond knew he needed to make the money he had go far.

He tried to stay awake by watching TV, but the set was broken and so was the clock in the room. 2013 arrived at some point, but he didn't mark the time. Against his will, he fell asleep.

He dreamed of fire.

He dreamed of a baby, lying inside an Animus.

He dreamed of a glowing wall, of a blinding light.

He dreamed of Lucy as he sank his blade into her.

He dreamed of Rebecca, and of Shaun, and of his father and mother.

But most of all he dreamed of Clay. And it was these dreams that woke him up six times that night. Eventually he sat bolt upright in bed, burying his fists in his hair and tugging viciously as if by pulling hard enough he could yank out his thoughts as well.

"Clay," he whispered aloud, through gritted teeth, the skin of his hands stretched white over his knuckles, tears stinging his eyes. "Oh God. Clay."