Introductory notes: Quite a few people have asked me to write more about Clay and Desmond. I didn't particularly want to continue with the Thirty-Three/Mad To Live storyline because I felt it reached quite a nice conclusion, but I do like exploring the characters. So this is a slight AU in which Desmond and Clay are being held at Abstergo at the same time. I'm using a Let's Play of the first game as a guide, mainly because I don't think I could stand to run away from any more bloody beggar women.

Desmond Miles stepped out of the side entrance to Bad Weather and into the twelve square feet of gravel that constituted its smoking area and garbage bay combined. The bar's name turned out to be unfortunately apt for the evening; the rain was coming down in sheets and Desmond knew that it would take all of his reflexes to light a cigarette and smoke it in under three minutes without the weather putting an end to his one vice. He pulled his hood up and used it for shelter as he flipped a cigarette between his lips, struck a match off a dry patch on the wall and brought the two together as quickly as possible.

Not fast enough.

The match fizzled as a stray raindrop cut its life short prematurely.

"Fuck me," Desmond cursed under his breath. "Could this night get any worse?"

There was movement behind him. He smelt the chloroform too late and got the answer to his question.

Desmond had been holed up in the clinical white room for over two days before he finally gave in and succumbed to sleep. As he had suspected, it turned out to be a mistake. He was awoken by the sharp stab of a needle in the crook of his elbow, and before he had even finished yelling out and sitting up he could already feel the sedative coursing through his veins. He caught a brief glimpse of blonde hair and the gentle pressure of a hand on his forehead as unconsciousness claimed him once again.

Lucy told him later that they preferred to introduce subjects to the Animus whilst under sedation. The process of adjusting to the virtual reality program was apparently streamlined when the subject was in a state of deep relaxation, since the brain accepted the initial images as a dream. The Animus then merged with the mind insidiously, so that by the time the brain noticed the difference, it was too late.

Desmond knew that it wasn't a dream. Even as he grew accustomed to the feel of a sword in his hand, and elbowed his way through crowds of whining beggars, he knew that there was something wrong. He looked down at his left hand, saw the missing finger, and felt anger boiling in his stomach. He dragged his mind out of the Animus kicking and screaming, so violently that the program became corrupted and was forced to reboot.

The Templar in charge of Desmond's "treatment" was a man called Warren Vidic, and Desmond despised him before he'd even heard his name. As the weeks went on, the very sound of his voice would become enough by itself to make Desmond want to punch things, and he began to project a grey beard and smug eyes onto the face of every guard he despatched whilst in the machine.

But then, Desmond hated Altaïr as well.

His first real encounter inside the body of his ancestor was to see, as through his own eyes, Altaïr murdering a helpless old man in cold blood. Desmond had seen a dead body before, but he had never killed anyone despite the years of Assassin training he had undergone.

It shouldn't have been like this. If the comparison weren't so horribly egregious, he might have said it was like losing his virginity through rape. For the first time Desmond drove the life out of someone's body, and he did so helplessly, with no control over his actions. The horror of it hurt him far deeper than he would ever let anyone know.

Then the bubbling of the man's blood was drowned out by a voice, a voice coming from his own mouth, boasting about the kill as though it were a point of pride. Desmond found himself powerless to stop himself speaking, even as he grew sickened and enraged by the words he was hearing. He remembered the name that Lucy had told him, before he'd been put back inside the Animus.

Altaïr Ibn-La 'Ahad.

"My way is better," Altaïr sneered through Desmond's mouth, and Desmond hated him.

But he played the game anyhow, in the hope that when he reached that final memory the Templars might ... well. Not let him go. Desmond wasn't that naïve. But he hoped, at least, that they would release him from this entrapment inside Altaïr, and let him explore a different, less scummy ancient relative. So he leapt over the beams with catlike grace and instinct, and crouched at the lip of a ledge staring with genuine awe at the Arc of the Covenant. It was an awe that, of course, his ancestor didn't share.

"Don't be silly. There's no such thing. It's just a story," Altaïr scoffed. Desmond wondered if punching himself in the face would cause him to become desynchronised.

"Then what is it?" That was one of Altaïr's companions, a man named Malik Al-Sayf. Desmond liked Malik, though it was a strange affection, since all of Malik's contempt was directed at Altaïr and therefore also at Desmond himself.

Altaïr dismissed Malik's warnings and turned to climb down the ladder to confront Robert de Sable. That was when Desmond experienced the first of the glitches.

He reached the ladder. Behind him, he heard Malik mutter in clear English: "Your funeral, asshole."

Desmond spun Altaïr's head round and stared at Malik. The man was looking back at him with despair and anger, but didn't speak again.

Desmond must have stared at him for a full thirty seconds before he began to feel the pressure of desynchronisation like a weight on the back of his neck. Reluctantly, he descended the ladder to begin the confrontation with Robert.

He quickly got his ass kicked, and the resulting mix of shame and satisfaction was somewhat unsettling. Satisfaction won out, though, and Desmond settled in to enjoy the sight of Altaïr fleeing with his tail between his legs.

Just as he reached the cave entrance and saw daylight, however, he found his mind gently detaching from the Animus and before he knew it the HUD was sliding back to reveal Warren Vidic with a face like thunder.

Lucy was trying to placate him. "Warren, it might just have been a glitch..."

"Glitch my ass. I knew we should have taken the precaution of..." He paused, glancing at Desmond as if he only just remembered he was there.

Desmond decided to play dumb. "What glitch? What are you talking about?" he asked, arranging his face into a shape he hoped resembled confusion.

Vidic stared back at him suspiciously. Desmond looked away from him and at Lucy, who was also frowning.

"Desmond, did you notice anything strange while you were in the Animus? Any problems?"

"You mean aside from Altaïr's major personality defects?"

Lucy smiled at him, and seemed to relax. "Nothing aside from that? Must have just been an equipment fault. You ready to go back in?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Nope." The guilt in her smile betrayed the humour she tried to inject into the word.

"Then let's go back in."