Affinity: Part XVI

Part XVI: Dropping Bridges

An alarm was going off.
"What's that for?" A woman asked, craning her neck to stare at her neighbor's computer screen. A few others in the office space paused for fractions of a second – there was a temporary lull in typing; the chittering between the workers, and the responses being made through telephones.
"We got a match," the man replied, smug and nonchalant. He clicked through the numerous open programs on his monitor – constantly in the state of updating information and attempting to draw conclusions with data tables and code. He found the source of the noise and began reading off the alert: "…The Department of Motor Vehicles for New York," he said, looking through a grid of names and numbers. "Someone named… Thomas Morrison just got a motorcycle license." He displayed a thumbnail of what was presumed to be the young man in question. "He has the same fingerprints as a missing person." A Missing Person, of course, meant different things in the Abstergo Corporation than anywhere else in the world.
"An assassin?" the woman whispered excitedly.
"They match the fugitive formerly known as Desmond Miles," he noted. "I'm sending this in. The managers will be interested."
"Just interested?" she shot back, leaning in closer to inspect the wanted man's face. "It says he was born Off the Grid. No birth certificate-"
"-Or social security number."
"…How do we even have his finger prints?"
"Hm," he scrolled through the pieces of information. "Said he was arrested back in 2001 for property damage." He smirked. "Couldn't get control of his free-running, I bet. They got his prints, put him in a holding cell, and by the next morning he had managed to knock out two of the officers on duty and escape out of a skylight."
"From fourteen feet up." The woman finished, finding the sentence her co-worker had been reading. "Huh." They both blinked, reluctantly impressed with the report. They quickly patted down their shoulders and pants; smoothing invisible ruffles in a subconscious effort to maintain a vision of perfection. "Of course that won't really matter now," she continued, watching as the necessary files were slowly uploaded as an attachment and dumped into an e-mail.
"By tomorrow we'll have every toll booth and security camera looking for his license plate."
"And by now?"
"There are plenty of contacts that can find him," he smirked. "I know a man who lives up there; he files reports to me. He sent me notes on some woman who made a call into those Civilian Watch Lines we set up a few months back; something about a suspect; this suspect, if we're lucky – 'course she didn't know anything about us and she probably fancied him a private investigator.  I'll get him on the phone, he'll get someone on the phone – we'll get her name and help by lunch." The two of them smiled encouragingly at one another, enjoying another small victory before turning back to their respective stations.
The clacking and hum of technology emerged at full force once again.

xxxx

Desmond pulled into one of the empty parking spaces and cut the engine, listening as the noise slowly dissipated into the air. He didn't wear a helmet today, and the wind had whipped past his face until his nose began to run and his ears had turned pink. He leaned his elbows on the handle bars, rested his face into his hands, and let out a very long sigh.
He was having one of those days. 'Those days' meant a few things: Irritability, getting so jumpy that he could have been confused for a guy who accidentally murdered his wife and, well, he didn't wear his helmet. It was a bit harder to see out of the tinted visor, and his range of vision was undoubtedly smaller. Even by just a few degrees, some inches – it didn't matter to him. On days like this, Desmond kept himself on alert.
He swung off the bike; still shiny, still new. He dumped the keys into his pockets and began walking down the levels of the parking garage. He rode to and from work, now. Less waiting around and less time spent in a cramped subway car – it felt better to him. The car population was getting smaller all the time; it was easier and easier to weave in and out of traffic; though Desmond personally liked to think that was because he was only getting better at riding his bike.
Ducking out of the parking garage, he swayed to the right, down the street. He only had a handful of blocks to go before he reached Vodka and his eight hour shift started. Well, the prep work started, at least; the bar didn't open until it was dark.
Dark of course being a relative term, Desmond thought, wrinkling his nose as he observed the streetlamps on at full power against the midnight blue of the sky.
It wasn't even seven at night and already he felt like the entire day had been drained. And it was only, what? August 23rd? The sun had been setting an hour earlier than it should have been for months now, and meteorologists weren't exactly sure why. Desmond could have snorted – now was the time to pull out all that End of The World Crap, huh? All he knew for sure was that winter was going to be a bitch at this rate – more so than usual.
And sure, things weren't exactly going great; here or… well, anywhere else, but people probably thought the planet was going to explode when Black Tuesday hit, too. Or World War One… Or the Outbreak; both of them. Everyone just had to ride it out. Or leave. Desmond knew he was way better at the second option.
Out on the open street, there was a chill that settled with the darkening sky. Desmond slowly furrowed his eyebrows in thought, as if coming across a string of words he had heard but for the life of him just did not know. There was something off – a little shutter in the typical order of things – almost - and as he moved through the crowds and got ever closer to his destination, he attempted to run through a mental diagnosis of what could have been wrong. Everything looked fine; everything felt fine; and everything sounded fine: Cars honked, people chattered; footsteps went off in the distance as he steadily passed others by.
Except for one.
One small set of shoes were clacking on the pavement behind him. Had been for at least a block.
Someone was following him – unless they weren't; unless he was being delusional like Alex said he was. Oh God, wouldn't that be easy? Okay, okay, he was thinking, feeling his palms sweat – there was a cross walk up ahead. All he had to do was wait for the signal and slowly, slowly turn his head around and see who had been on his ass for the last quarter of a mile. Breathe, just breathe – you aren't going to get stabbed in broad…well, early evening.
Shit, he was panicking now.
He felt uncomfortable in his suit as he paused on the street in between the dozen other commuters. All he had to do was just, look. Just move to the side a bit and…
"Cynthia?" he said, voice approaching the edge of cracking. He coughed, watching her slowly turn her gaze towards him, as if meeting him there was a total coincidence.
"Oh, hello Jonathan." Desmond blinked. Jonathan? He blinked again and realized that Cynthia didn't actually know who he was. Well, did anyone? Except Alex, at least. She stared him down with those dark hawk eyes of hers. Her hair was still tied up high on her head in a tight knot that should have hurt. She was still all in black. The only possible hint of a change was that she looked a bit older than the last time Desmond had seen her – times weren't exactly 'easy' right now, and even he looked tired nowadays. Felt tired, too – of certain things, of everything. The walkers began moving around them, gently nudging them into the road as they avoided bumping their shoulders. Ever so slowly, Desmond unstuck himself from his spot on the concrete and moved down the white marked lines on the road. Cynthia followed. She was out of sight again, but he heard her footsteps.
When they reached the other side of the street, he gave another quick glance back to her, just to make sure that he really wasn't in some messed up hallucination. But no, his former boss was still there, still walking, not taking her eyes off of him. He suppressed a shutter, and instead asked, "How did you find me?"
She furrowed her eyebrows. "I didn't find you, Jon. I was just… in the right place at the right time. I thought I saw you when I was walking out of the store."
"Which store?"
She pointed behind her. "Just one of those corner stores. I don't know the name. I was looking for laundry detergent." Desmond swallowed.
"Well, where is it?"
"They didn't have it," she answered coolly, shrugging as if to portray a 'what can you do?' gesture.
"A store that doesn't have detergent?"
"Not the type I want. Relax," she put a warm hand on his shoulder, and he tried not to stumble as he moved. "I'm not stalking you or anything," she let out a good natured chuckle; something Desmond had never heard her do, not in the handful of months he had worked at Mkinely's. "So, how are you?"
The easiness of the statement almost sent Desmond through a loop. "I'm… well," he said, voice sounding particularly far away, as if it belonged to someone down the street and he just managed to pick it out.
"Still hanging around with Alex?" Well, at least that was normal. An expected line of questioning, at least. Even now the bitterness burned through her words; Cynthia had never really bothered to hide her distaste for Alex – Desmond, for obvious reasons, never mentioned the dozens of comments she would throw his way when no one else was around. Especially not to Alex. Her excuses were vague and he had decided a long time ago that he would be the last person to simply follow an idea with blind faith because he had been told to. At first he had even figured that the two of them had dated at some point; of course, now that line of reasoning seemed like something inconceivable, and possibly worth a good maiming if he were to accuse either of the two of that.
Now, months removed from that introspection, he knew what she had been trying to get at; thinking that Alex was still a predator in the way that Zeus was: Cold and indifferent to human life; hiding in fake skin; waiting, waiting for someone to wander in close enough into its jaws… He couldn't really blame Cynthia for that, he supposed, but it irked him a million times more than it had in the winter; his relationship with Alex that much deeper; that much firmer and rooted into the dirt.
"…Yeah," he breathed out finally. Cynthia made an interesting noise in the back of her throat, and he pushed down the urge to run – he suddenly felt caught between getting the hell out of Cynthia's sight and not alerting anyone else who might have been on the lookout for him. He never thought Cynthia was a spy – but, well, They were Everywhere. As it stood he kept on holding his breath, waiting to hear the clink of a gun or the breath of another rolling down the back of his neck. He had to wonder if the whole coincidence he was caught in now had been planned – a day, a month, since he had arrived in winter? Perhaps Cynthia had been tracking him, watching him – maybe there were those dependent on her for information.
But, why make a move now? he had to ask. Why not when he first started working at Mkinely's? Why not before he had Alex at his side, Alex, who was willing to go to Hell and back to keep him safe?
Desmond knew he was going to have to swallow down his fear, his trepidation – just for a few minutes. He'd get to Vodka and borrow Tim's cell phone. Call Alex – they wouldn't be tracking his goddamn co-workers too, would they?
They. Who was They again? Or would it have just been easier to mean Everyone when he thought of that horrid, four-letter word?
Well, Cynthia had been his co-worker. Once. He squinted at her, as if maybe he could figure everything out if he stared long enough. It didn't seem to be working, obviously, so he started talking again. "How's Tabitha?" he asked, hoping to drag the conversation as far away from home territory as he could. Cynthia sucked on her teeth for a moment.
"Don't know. She moved out in April, after her boyfriend went missing."
"I'm sorry."
"Psh, feel sorry for her boyfriend – they say he vanished, but everyone vanishes every now and again."
"I guess." Desmond said, watching as a small alleyway appeared in between the buildings up ahead. He was attempting to distance himself from anything that would make him conspicuous – like paying attention to Cynthia. He always made a point to not get too incredibly angry at others – it was just easier to sit and take it, or better yet, leave – than get arrested for Disturbing the Peace or extensive Property Damage; those weren't exactly his idea of a fun time. But every time Cynthia opened her mouth, he was torn between leaving and forcibly shutting her up.
And Jesus, was that second option really appealing to him right now. In fact, she didn't even have to say anything – it wasn't fair, he had been so happy before other people got involved. He was always happier before anyone else got involved, actually.
Apparently not liking Desmond's lack of reaction, Cynthia spoke up again: "I think it ran a bit deeper than that. Bet he just turned into a pile of blood in Central Park. A bit of bone marrow stuck in someone's teeth." She spoke slowly, giving Desmond an accusing side glance.
"What're you –"
"Of course," she continued in an oblivious way, "He was a Rugby guy for MC."
"MC?" Desmond repeated back.
"Manhattan College; so he always ran around the Park at night for practice. It can get pretty dangerous out there." Her eyes turned cruel in an obvious way, now. Her voice lowered into a hiss, again, directed at him instead of the street and civilians. "I mean, It has to feed somehow."
Desmond's body struggled to catch up with his mind. A split second later, his face flushed angrily, and his mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. "Care to repeat that?" he shot back, veins in his arms popping as he jerked forward in a challenging way.
"You heard me," Cynthia said, ducking past Desmond and into the alley he had spotted before. She wasn't done speaking – and now, neither was he. He had been able to tolerate the typical grit of her words; the snake-like way she moved about; but suddenly she made it personal. And he wasn't used to personal – the idea of someone having enough knowledge of him to just crack him open; expose vices and harbored thoughts – you know, like Cynthia what was doing to him now? He didn't like it. At all. And as she pressed back into dead end of the road Desmond thought for a moment that he could have been walking right into a trap.
But he was a little too angry to be rational about it – to be afraid anymore.
"You… You're lying." He ground out, leering at his former boss. That poke she sent towards Alex – to what Alex was trying to be – made everything but basic instinct roll over and go quiet. "He would never-"
"-What about those guys in the alley?" she persisted, even as all the energy Desmond had shown quickly vanished, and his body slowly drained itself of color until he resembled something more akin to an alabaster statue than a person. "What about everyone Zeus killed during the Outbreak? All those people? You can't tell me that thing hasn't murdered – you can't tell me it's human." Desmond winced at that, unwilling to move or talk again as the phantom sights of blood danced behind his eyes. But still, he wasn't immune to a slow-building rage that kindled itself as Cynthia spoke up.  
"Zeus is dangerous – to you, to everyone," for a moment she almost looked sympathetic as she continued. "I told you, back at Mkinley's, to avoid him – I was only trying to protect you from that… that… disgusting thing that's taken an interest in you."
"He's not though," Desmond muttered, and it was only chance that Cynthia heard it too. "He's not; he –"
"He's what, Desmond?" Cynthia spat out impatiently, using the pronoun in a mocking way. Her voice rose as she continued, her body inching forward as she asked, begged for someone to challenge her words. "What were you going to say? Is It nice? Is It good? Is It a plague on humanity? Is It a monster? Well, what is It?" Desmond opened his mouth, trying to find those elusive, convincing words before he realized that it wouldn't matter. Cynthia didn't care about Alex. She didn't see Alex – she saw Zeus. A monster. A murderer. An… It. There was a hatred in her eyes so deeply set it was a surprise that he hadn't noticed it before. And it was burning, burning into him so much and it wouldn't stop; it spread to him like wild fire and he gritted his teeth, feeling a little bit more of himself slip away and he knew he couldn't prevent that feeling.
Not anymore.
With similar loathing flashing across his maddened face he closed the gap between them; slamming his fist as hard as his anger would let him right into Cynthia's jaw.
She fell to the side with a surprised grunt; her body scratched against the pavement, and for a minute Desmond's vision went red, and he lusted to hit her again. He wanted to make her bleed. He wanted - every Templar, every bastard who mocked him, every goddamn bigot who mocked Alex, and every single fucking reason why he could just never be happy to – die.
For that moment he saw all of those things in Cynthia, and he wanted to kill her. Had to kill her, and he stood over her, fists crunched up into white balls as his conscience struggled for control that his rage would not give up.
"He is not a thing." Desmond yelled, not caring who saw him, not caring who heard; not particularly caring about much, anymore. "His name is Alex. James. Mercer. Not Zeus. Not Virus. Not – Monster." He leaned down slightly, glaring shards into Cynthia's lanky body. She didn't move. Didn't even twitch. She could have been dead but still Desmond kept talking: "And not an It. Do you understand that, Cynthia? We don't need your help."
And then something rushed out of him at the words. He stopped himself, quickly setting his thoughts back into order, letting a refreshingly stony mask envelope him. It became easier to move, to breath. And he felt as if he had run for hours, and – and – there was only exhaustion, now. No room for regret.
He straightened up, still panting as the last of his anger faded from him. "I don't need you anymore. I never did. I never needed anyone – not for protection, not for safety, not for love, not for anything."
He stared up at the brick wall as if addressing multiple people at once: "Stop thinking that I will die unless you help me."
Cynthia shifted, tried to sit up, and Desmond backed away a few more feet, listening to his heart hammer away in his chest, trying to hear beyond that – wondering if there were sirens out there, meant for him. "Don't try to find me again, Cynthia." He warned, staving off the panic, anxiety, and worry that he had. He was tired. He was always tired, of some things – everything – hadn't he said that already? His mind went in circles as he stared down at the pavement, already starting to shuffle his feet in a circle when he cast one more look over at the woman.
She was on her knees now, just as Desmond was turning to walk away. "I don't have to," Cynthia supplied, touching her face – that had hurt, but it wasn't just Desmond's wrath that kept her on the ground for so long; that glare she had gotten – his murderous look – was what kept her frozen to the spot and unwilling to even breathe. But now that was gone, and he was only looking at her from the corner of his vision. So she spoke again: "They already found you."
Desmond paused. "…Me?" he whispered, still not turning all the way around.
"They know all about you – about… Him," she shuttered at the word. "They can help you, Jonathan." She began standing up, oblivious to the thoughts racing through Desmond's head. "They're going to take you away from that… person. Make sure it's destroyed for good so it never harms anything again. Just think what they can do to help us – to help you, Jonathan – Jonathan!" There was a crunch of loose gravel as Desmond hauled himself forward – running as fast as he could from the alley, from Cynthia – from 'Jonathan' and work and normalcy and everything he had tried so hard to keep up in this city.
Those things didn't matter now, he knew. That pretense of fitting in. It never mattered much in the end. It was the end right now, and so he just had to… go. Somewhere. Anywhere. He wasn't so sure where at the moment but it would come to him in time – it always did.
He heard the horns blaring and the people talking and his strained breathing coming in all at once; making split second halts as his feet slammed onto the concrete and everything but sheer, mind numbing panic was blocked out. And with every flurried step he was shedding himself – letting those small bits of life and peace flutter behind him. Happiness and home and summer heat and long fingers reaching out to him – those did not keep him safe. Life was the enemy, and he was constantly stuck fighting against it, hiding in its shadow everywhere he went.
For a while, he forgot, and he had roamed out into something significant – and now he was paying for it. For tasting that Forbidden piece of Paradise. But, God, the sun had never been brighter! The grass had never been greener, and he had never felt more in love with everything than when he forgot. He had been so stupid! But, but, being dumb was easy.
And yet, and yet, he was running away from perfection.
And all through that – all through that, he only had one thought on his mind:
They already found you
They already found you
They already found you
They already found – me.