[ AC: sequential ]
Jan. 2nd, 2012 05:52 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tacticianFandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Desmond Miles, Clay Kaczmarek
Rating: G
Warnings: A kink meme request: Desmond is Subject 16, Clay is 17. Spoilers for the leaked DLC audio.
He meets Subject 16 on an island – not a physical one, of course, but a vague digital construct of one that seems to have been put together by someone who knows what an island is but has never been to one himself. The ground is made of damp sand that glimmers more platinum and silver than sun-kissed gold, and the water lapping at the shore washes up and ebbs back into the sea at a constant, unchanging rate, mindless of tidal patterns and the tilt of the earth. The sky is overcast and gray; the brightest visible things are the nameless gates arching high and stoic above their heads, portals to things Clay would rather not remember.
“Hey,” says Subject 16, sitting on a rounded boulder in faded jeans and a black hoodie pulled up over the crown of his head. He looks surprisingly friendly and easy-going for a guy who apparently decided to graffiti the walls with his blood. He looks surprisingly sane.
Clay narrows his eyes, recognizing the other man's voice, recognizing the echo of glyphs and puzzles in the tribal swoops and tapered arches in the ink marking the darker-skinned arm. If they had passed on the street, Clay would not have been able to single him out from the sea of university students milling about the campus, though he might have found it a little strange – Physics students usually don't indulge in tattoos, their indoor skin usually too pale and sallow to really sport them well. “Subject 16,” he hazards, taking a step back in the dry-packed earth.
“Desmond,” says Subject 16, flashing a small but charming smile that even Shaun might hesitate at before blowing it off, one that even Lucy might have found charming, and oh, Lucy, thinks Clay, doubling over like he's the one who was stabbed clean through the middle. He splays one hand on his stomach, trying to keep himself from vomiting, but even when he fails, there's nothing in him to hack up and he just dry heaves for a few moments instead, knees in the dirt, salt water in the artificial, perfect nitrogen-oxygen-carbon-dioxide rationed air.
He hears Subject 16's feet hit the dirt, spies strangely practical sneakers in his line of vision before a hand settles on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades, but Clay's mind is a mess, has been a mess for a long time now, except no one has bothered to fix it. And where is he? What's going on? Why does he feel so light and empty, heavy and full? Why are his clothes a different color? Why is Subject 16 here? Who is he? What does he want? Where is Lucy? Where is Shaun and Rebecca? Do they know he's sorry? Do they know it wasn't his fault?
“C'mon,” says Subject 16, easing him up as soon as his breathing has relatively steadied. He sounds somewhat sympathetic, which is more than what Clay can say for his teammates. Oh, sure, they keep on throwing concerned, pitying looks his way when they think he's not looking, glances full of unspoken conversation in the moments he's conscious right before dropping into the Animus, but topside, they all know the irrefutable truth that Clay was born and bred into this duty. He's never going to be an astronaut and he's never going to see space beyond tilting his head to the sky at night.
“You don't have much time,” says Subject 16. “Your head's all scrambled, full of holes, and you've got to patch them up with whatever memories you're missing. You'll find them in there, but you better hurry.” He raises his other hand and points to the glowing arch a few paces away. There is something wry and distant about his smile now, something that tinges the openness of his face with a strange bitterness that is not artificial at all, something old and gone and tired. “Lucy and the others might have come for you,” says Desmond, pulling them both to their feet. “But they can't get you in here.”
Clay narrows his eyes, trained by instinct to be wary. Desmond looks like he might have once been kinder and less cynical than Clay is, looks like he might have been more of a people person, looks like he might have been better off assigned to field duty and reconnaissance than the Animus project (of course he would have been – look at the guy, the Animus project killed him). Maybe Desmond didn't learn quick enough to close off his heart. Maybe he didn't let go of his dreams quick enough, so that they left scars when they were torn from him, so that he smeared his insides on the floors and walls before all that was left of him could disappear.
“What do you mean by that?” asks Clay.
Desmond smiles at him and at this proximity, Clay is close enough to see the off-center scar marking a pale line down his lips, is detached enough to see the irony in it. He looks like them, Clay notices, more than pale-skinned, light-haired Clay has ever resembled his ancestors, and he wonders if that is what made Desmond an earlier choice for Abstergo than Clay was. Desmond rolls his shoulders in an easy, graceful shrug and Clay is too busy inspecting his face to notice the hand at his back until it pushes him, stumbling, forward into the past.
“Hurry,” calls Desmond, the last thing Clay hears before he breaches the door, before he's old and wise Ezio instead, listening to the cold winds of Masyaf whistling past his head as he falls.
Characters: Desmond Miles, Clay Kaczmarek
Rating: G
Warnings: A kink meme request: Desmond is Subject 16, Clay is 17. Spoilers for the leaked DLC audio.
He meets Subject 16 on an island – not a physical one, of course, but a vague digital construct of one that seems to have been put together by someone who knows what an island is but has never been to one himself. The ground is made of damp sand that glimmers more platinum and silver than sun-kissed gold, and the water lapping at the shore washes up and ebbs back into the sea at a constant, unchanging rate, mindless of tidal patterns and the tilt of the earth. The sky is overcast and gray; the brightest visible things are the nameless gates arching high and stoic above their heads, portals to things Clay would rather not remember.
“Hey,” says Subject 16, sitting on a rounded boulder in faded jeans and a black hoodie pulled up over the crown of his head. He looks surprisingly friendly and easy-going for a guy who apparently decided to graffiti the walls with his blood. He looks surprisingly sane.
Clay narrows his eyes, recognizing the other man's voice, recognizing the echo of glyphs and puzzles in the tribal swoops and tapered arches in the ink marking the darker-skinned arm. If they had passed on the street, Clay would not have been able to single him out from the sea of university students milling about the campus, though he might have found it a little strange – Physics students usually don't indulge in tattoos, their indoor skin usually too pale and sallow to really sport them well. “Subject 16,” he hazards, taking a step back in the dry-packed earth.
“Desmond,” says Subject 16, flashing a small but charming smile that even Shaun might hesitate at before blowing it off, one that even Lucy might have found charming, and oh, Lucy, thinks Clay, doubling over like he's the one who was stabbed clean through the middle. He splays one hand on his stomach, trying to keep himself from vomiting, but even when he fails, there's nothing in him to hack up and he just dry heaves for a few moments instead, knees in the dirt, salt water in the artificial, perfect nitrogen-oxygen-carbon-dioxide rationed air.
He hears Subject 16's feet hit the dirt, spies strangely practical sneakers in his line of vision before a hand settles on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades, but Clay's mind is a mess, has been a mess for a long time now, except no one has bothered to fix it. And where is he? What's going on? Why does he feel so light and empty, heavy and full? Why are his clothes a different color? Why is Subject 16 here? Who is he? What does he want? Where is Lucy? Where is Shaun and Rebecca? Do they know he's sorry? Do they know it wasn't his fault?
“C'mon,” says Subject 16, easing him up as soon as his breathing has relatively steadied. He sounds somewhat sympathetic, which is more than what Clay can say for his teammates. Oh, sure, they keep on throwing concerned, pitying looks his way when they think he's not looking, glances full of unspoken conversation in the moments he's conscious right before dropping into the Animus, but topside, they all know the irrefutable truth that Clay was born and bred into this duty. He's never going to be an astronaut and he's never going to see space beyond tilting his head to the sky at night.
“You don't have much time,” says Subject 16. “Your head's all scrambled, full of holes, and you've got to patch them up with whatever memories you're missing. You'll find them in there, but you better hurry.” He raises his other hand and points to the glowing arch a few paces away. There is something wry and distant about his smile now, something that tinges the openness of his face with a strange bitterness that is not artificial at all, something old and gone and tired. “Lucy and the others might have come for you,” says Desmond, pulling them both to their feet. “But they can't get you in here.”
Clay narrows his eyes, trained by instinct to be wary. Desmond looks like he might have once been kinder and less cynical than Clay is, looks like he might have been more of a people person, looks like he might have been better off assigned to field duty and reconnaissance than the Animus project (of course he would have been – look at the guy, the Animus project killed him). Maybe Desmond didn't learn quick enough to close off his heart. Maybe he didn't let go of his dreams quick enough, so that they left scars when they were torn from him, so that he smeared his insides on the floors and walls before all that was left of him could disappear.
“What do you mean by that?” asks Clay.
Desmond smiles at him and at this proximity, Clay is close enough to see the off-center scar marking a pale line down his lips, is detached enough to see the irony in it. He looks like them, Clay notices, more than pale-skinned, light-haired Clay has ever resembled his ancestors, and he wonders if that is what made Desmond an earlier choice for Abstergo than Clay was. Desmond rolls his shoulders in an easy, graceful shrug and Clay is too busy inspecting his face to notice the hand at his back until it pushes him, stumbling, forward into the past.
“Hurry,” calls Desmond, the last thing Clay hears before he breaches the door, before he's old and wise Ezio instead, listening to the cold winds of Masyaf whistling past his head as he falls.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 11:36 pm (UTC)But I am glad you liked it. ;A; Thank you for reading!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-05 01:05 am (UTC)The contrast between Desmond and Clay you paint, the zen-master chameleon vs. the bitter proletariat is instructive, and really makes clear that Sub. 16 & 17 took the same input and dealt with it very differently.
Your writing made new spaces in my head, Aug. Thanks.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-05 01:23 am (UTC)During the credits, which were really...very, very long, I spent a long time looking at that island! That was probably the inspiration for the description of it.
New spaces! I love new spaces! ♥