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esp_dragonFandom: Assassin's Creed/Prototype
Summary: Desmond's jump in Brazil didn't go as planned.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Post-Prototype 1, ignoring Prototype 2. Set in Assassin's Creed 3.
Written for Eviljy's prompt 'Desmond (& Alex), Wingfic (the feathery kind)'.
Been so long since I wrote these characters aaaah.
Genre: General/Action.
Word count: 2,078
Status: Complete
Desmond exhaled, peering over the end of the crane. Okay, he'd leaped off the sides of buildings a million times before. Not this high though. And when he failed then, all that happened was he desyned and he started again. That wouldn't happen here.
"Any time, Desmond," Shaun said in his ear. "Preferably this century. I don't think you remember, but we do have a deadline, you know."
"Yeah, I got it." Right. Now he just had to jump.
One last breath and Desmond leaped, angling himself down, his arms moving back out of instinct. It was smooth, easy, and-
-What was that?
Out of the corner of his eyes, Desmond saw something large and black whizzing past him, almost indistinguishable against the night sky. The problem was it had passed in front of other skyscrapers, blocking their lights and reflections.
Desmond activated his eagle sense and oh fuck, that was a mass of red.
"Desmond?"
And he'd missed where he was supposed release the parachute. "Shit! I got it!" He fumbled for the cord – and he hadn't deactivated his eagle sense so he saw the red blob (why could he see gigantic wings on the back? Was his sense glitching out? It barely looked humanoid.) swerve and aim straight for him.
"Fuck!"
The parachute unfurled just as the blob hit it, and Desmond's stomach dropped as he heard a screeching rip.
He was fucked. He was freefalling to his death – the parachute hadn't opened enough to slow him down at all. Not that that would have made any difference at this height.
The blob wheeled around and it didn't look like it was going to wait for the fall to kill him.
Desmond's eagle sense winked out and he got a clear view of a guy wearing a white hood that was staying up even at the speed he was going at, a pair of huge black and red wings at his back.
A human with wings. Maybe an assassin.
Okay, he'd dealt with weirder.
His wrist blade could be helpful, but something else was happening, another kind of instinct triggering. Desmond knew it was the bleeding effect, letting something through but he couldn't tell what.
And did he want it after the mess it made the last time? Especially while he was falling to his death?
Something was wrong with his arms.
They were sensitive, his sleeves too tight now.
He did not like this bleeding effect. Not when it felt like his arms were shortening, his fingers either disappearing or lengthening to longer what his arms used to be.
His skin was tingling, itching, and he could feel something oozing out of his pores and he tried to scratch-
Fuck.
If Desmond hadn't already left his stomach five stories up, it would have dropped again. He didn't have fingers to scratch with, a long single digit limb replacing his hand. The limb was thicker than his own, the skin pebbled with goose – those weren't goosebumps.
As Desmond watched, the bumps grew, something pushing out of each one.
They looked like spines, but they started fanning out and…
Feathers.
He was growing feathers.
And they were pushing out against his top, his muscles shifting under his skin, getting bigger at his shoulder and he could see it, feel the strain of his top trying to contain his arms.
The fabric tore, and shit, how was he supposed to-
Desmond twisted around, knowing danger was right there, something sharp slashing his shoulder and his parachute fell away. And so did his communicator.
Fuck fuck fuck! He couldn't stay distracted, not when he was still being attacked, even if he was growing wings. He could freak out later. He needed to survive first.
The person made another pass and Desmond could hear the thump of every beat of the wings.
If he could fly (if he could fly), he needed his arms free of his top, not interfering with his feathers. Except his wrist blade had already tumbled off and he didn't have those things called fingers or an opposable thumb anymore.
And...that didn't seem to be much of a problem now, the cut from the other guy helping to free one arm, and he twisted around to get the wind to rip off the other one. It worked and, okay, now he had to try and fucking fly.
No big deal.
He just had to follow his instincts, like pretty much how he'd operated since he'd been kidnapped.
Desmond span, angling himself downwards as he held his arms/wings close to his body and the wind ruffled past his skin, tugging at the feathers and there was a moment that felt right, everything was in place, and he opened his wings.
He shot upwards, a draft under him and woah. It was no longer a certain death free fall but almost leisurely. Gentle. The lights were below him, staying at the same height, he wasn't falling, and okay, he had to work on keeping his body straight instead of keeping his legs down.
There was still his attacker heading straight for him and Desmond tilted, diving away.
"Fuck!" How the hell had his ankle been - Desmond looked over his shoulder.
Well.
Fuck.
So not only did his attacker have giant wings, he also had tentacles pouring out him, wrapping back into the human form.
Run.
There was no fucking way he would be able to fight this guy, memories of a Grand Master in his head or no, not without any long distance weapons. Not without hands.
Desmond found another draft, and he flapped, trying to put on some extra speed.
It didn't work.
Hands - claws grasped his shoulders from behind, digging into the joints where his wings met his body.
"Fucking-!" Desmond struggled, but all he could manage was just beating his wings. He couldn't reach his attacker, not when it burned to move his shoulders, feeling the claws right inside him.
He was dropped on top of a nearby rooftop and he skid over it, the concrete scouring the skin on his cheek.
He held his arms close to himself, flipping back to his feet-
Just in time to be slammed into the rooftop again, this time by feet at his shoulders.
He grunted, trying to move, but the person - the whatever the fuck it was on top of him, was heavy as a tank, and didn't budge.
Pale skin, maybe dark short hair hidden under the hood (that was still somehow up, but hey, the guy grew tentacles through his clothes).
Desmond tried to - right. He didn't have his wrist blade anymore. Or wrists. His instincts were clashing, fighting each other.
There was a slick wet sound and Desmond hissed, seeing smaller tentacles slide out from the guy's shoes and trousers, heading down and -
Fuck no.
He started struggling again, wanting to get away, but the mini-tentacles wound down, developing points and shit, was this another alien? A different version, like the little grey men who wanted to prod humans?
"Don't suppose you wanna talk first?" Desmond quipped, hoping to maybe distract the guy.
"No." Low voice, a little rough. No echoing his voice. His eyes weren't glowing either.
But hey, it was a conversation, at least.
"How about what you're going to - fuck!" Too late. This wasn't like the feathers coming out and more like getting stabbed multiple times at once.
Desmond tried to twist, to use his legs but still nothing. Maybe the guy'd rooted himself on the rooftop.
And then the tentacles paused, the guy tilting his head to the side.
"What?" Desmond wheezed. "Not what you expected?" Whatever that was.
"Huh," the guy said, squinting at him. "No, you're not." And then the tentacles were withdrawing. "You're not a virus."
"Uuuuh, no?" Desmond said, taking a deep breath when the guy stepped off him. "Are we-" He took another deep breath. "-talking about 'something that'll kill you' virus, or a 'zombie-infestation' virus here?" If he'd had his hands, he would have air-quoted. Still, he partially flapped just thinking about making the gesture.
The guy snorted, curling his lip in amusement.
Clearly not going to tell him. Desmond got that kind of secrecy.
The guy started walking off, his wings stretching out again after a flap.
"Hey, wait!" Desmond called out, flipping to his feet again, sucking in a breath at the smack of pain.
The guy turned, looking at him.
"Don't suppose you can tell me how to change back?" He lifted his own arms out of habit. It was worth a shot, and it didn't seem like the guy wasn't going to kill him anymore. Which was nice.
The guy didn't say anything for a few seconds, and shit, was he really going to be stuck like this forever?
"Think of the human form you want."
That was it? Desmond glanced at his wings (Brown feathers with a light streak on the underside and. Really. Eagle wings. He had eagle wings.) and when he looked back up, the guy was gone. Desmond couldn't see him in the skyline, but what did he know about what the guy could do.
...Human form. He flexed his finger, seeing how it moved his wing, now that he had the time to study it. Did that mean he could turn into a full bird if he wanted to? That was a question for another time.
Think of the human form he wanted. His own, thanks.
And thanks to Clay, he wasn't thinking of Ezio or Altair's arms, just his own in clarity, with his tattoo and the nicks and scars he'd gotten at The Farm, the indentations his wrist blade left.
He could feel his arms changing shape, see it happening, but it didn't hurt. It was...detached, a catalogue of feelings that his body didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with.
Desmond had to turn his gaze away from it though. Seeing his body change in front of his eyes was a too trippy and felt a little too close to the bleeding effect, creating a curling uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
When the shifting feeling in his arms stopped, Desmond looked down and turned his hands over. It was his own hands; he knew his own scars and where Altair's, Ezio's and Connor's were, and while their lip scars overlapped, that was the only scar they had between them, and none of their scars were on his arms.
...He'd just regrown his arms and kept all his scars and tattoo. So had he really regrown it or...something. Desmond ran his thumb over one scar (an accident in the bar involving glass and slippery fingers) and felt the slight difference in the texture of his skin there. It was there, not his imagination.
His sleeves didn't reform though, leaving him with ripped tatters at the shoulder.
Okay. Time to take stock of the situation.
He wasn't dead. That was the best thing. He wasn't fatally injured either (unless the guy had injected him with something). He'd been stabbed in multiple places and he still needed to get the power source inside the building. That he was no longer near. Hell, he didn't even know where the building was after getting turned around after that aerial dogfight.
And there was no way he was going to get in and out without gathering suspicion, not without sleeves, not with blood still drying on him, and he didn't have his hood either.
Fuck.
The others probably assumed he was dead too after the last thing they would have heard.
He needed to regroup. He would have to try to get the key another time, when he wouldn't draw attention. And when he knew for certain he wasn't going to burst into a full bird - or any parts of a bird for that matter at bad times.
Desmond looked around and saw a scaffolding on another building. It was something he could make. If he changed his arms into wings again.
Yeeeah, no. Desmond turned away, jogging towards the roof door.
He'd had more than enough experience than he wanted of using something he didn't understand completely and not knowing the consequences until it was too late. He would keep 'transforming' to a minimum and until he could find out if the others knew anything about this. And if they did, why the hell they hadn't told him before.
_________________________________
There was supposed to be thought about Desmond wondering if the reason why he desyned when he jumped off buildings was because he couldn't match up with his ancestors growing wings in the middle of the 'failed' jump.
Alex couldn't eat Desmond thanks to his Those Who Came Before genes, since that probably wasn't clear. And Alex attacked Desmond because of what he saw in his vision too, pfft.
Summary: Desmond's jump in Brazil didn't go as planned.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Post-Prototype 1, ignoring Prototype 2. Set in Assassin's Creed 3.
Written for Eviljy's prompt 'Desmond (& Alex), Wingfic (the feathery kind)'.
Been so long since I wrote these characters aaaah.
Genre: General/Action.
Word count: 2,078
Status: Complete
Desmond exhaled, peering over the end of the crane. Okay, he'd leaped off the sides of buildings a million times before. Not this high though. And when he failed then, all that happened was he desyned and he started again. That wouldn't happen here.
"Any time, Desmond," Shaun said in his ear. "Preferably this century. I don't think you remember, but we do have a deadline, you know."
"Yeah, I got it." Right. Now he just had to jump.
One last breath and Desmond leaped, angling himself down, his arms moving back out of instinct. It was smooth, easy, and-
-What was that?
Out of the corner of his eyes, Desmond saw something large and black whizzing past him, almost indistinguishable against the night sky. The problem was it had passed in front of other skyscrapers, blocking their lights and reflections.
Desmond activated his eagle sense and oh fuck, that was a mass of red.
"Desmond?"
And he'd missed where he was supposed release the parachute. "Shit! I got it!" He fumbled for the cord – and he hadn't deactivated his eagle sense so he saw the red blob (why could he see gigantic wings on the back? Was his sense glitching out? It barely looked humanoid.) swerve and aim straight for him.
"Fuck!"
The parachute unfurled just as the blob hit it, and Desmond's stomach dropped as he heard a screeching rip.
He was fucked. He was freefalling to his death – the parachute hadn't opened enough to slow him down at all. Not that that would have made any difference at this height.
The blob wheeled around and it didn't look like it was going to wait for the fall to kill him.
Desmond's eagle sense winked out and he got a clear view of a guy wearing a white hood that was staying up even at the speed he was going at, a pair of huge black and red wings at his back.
A human with wings. Maybe an assassin.
Okay, he'd dealt with weirder.
His wrist blade could be helpful, but something else was happening, another kind of instinct triggering. Desmond knew it was the bleeding effect, letting something through but he couldn't tell what.
And did he want it after the mess it made the last time? Especially while he was falling to his death?
Something was wrong with his arms.
They were sensitive, his sleeves too tight now.
He did not like this bleeding effect. Not when it felt like his arms were shortening, his fingers either disappearing or lengthening to longer what his arms used to be.
His skin was tingling, itching, and he could feel something oozing out of his pores and he tried to scratch-
Fuck.
If Desmond hadn't already left his stomach five stories up, it would have dropped again. He didn't have fingers to scratch with, a long single digit limb replacing his hand. The limb was thicker than his own, the skin pebbled with goose – those weren't goosebumps.
As Desmond watched, the bumps grew, something pushing out of each one.
They looked like spines, but they started fanning out and…
Feathers.
He was growing feathers.
And they were pushing out against his top, his muscles shifting under his skin, getting bigger at his shoulder and he could see it, feel the strain of his top trying to contain his arms.
The fabric tore, and shit, how was he supposed to-
Desmond twisted around, knowing danger was right there, something sharp slashing his shoulder and his parachute fell away. And so did his communicator.
Fuck fuck fuck! He couldn't stay distracted, not when he was still being attacked, even if he was growing wings. He could freak out later. He needed to survive first.
The person made another pass and Desmond could hear the thump of every beat of the wings.
If he could fly (if he could fly), he needed his arms free of his top, not interfering with his feathers. Except his wrist blade had already tumbled off and he didn't have those things called fingers or an opposable thumb anymore.
And...that didn't seem to be much of a problem now, the cut from the other guy helping to free one arm, and he twisted around to get the wind to rip off the other one. It worked and, okay, now he had to try and fucking fly.
No big deal.
He just had to follow his instincts, like pretty much how he'd operated since he'd been kidnapped.
Desmond span, angling himself downwards as he held his arms/wings close to his body and the wind ruffled past his skin, tugging at the feathers and there was a moment that felt right, everything was in place, and he opened his wings.
He shot upwards, a draft under him and woah. It was no longer a certain death free fall but almost leisurely. Gentle. The lights were below him, staying at the same height, he wasn't falling, and okay, he had to work on keeping his body straight instead of keeping his legs down.
There was still his attacker heading straight for him and Desmond tilted, diving away.
"Fuck!" How the hell had his ankle been - Desmond looked over his shoulder.
Well.
Fuck.
So not only did his attacker have giant wings, he also had tentacles pouring out him, wrapping back into the human form.
Run.
There was no fucking way he would be able to fight this guy, memories of a Grand Master in his head or no, not without any long distance weapons. Not without hands.
Desmond found another draft, and he flapped, trying to put on some extra speed.
It didn't work.
Hands - claws grasped his shoulders from behind, digging into the joints where his wings met his body.
"Fucking-!" Desmond struggled, but all he could manage was just beating his wings. He couldn't reach his attacker, not when it burned to move his shoulders, feeling the claws right inside him.
He was dropped on top of a nearby rooftop and he skid over it, the concrete scouring the skin on his cheek.
He held his arms close to himself, flipping back to his feet-
Just in time to be slammed into the rooftop again, this time by feet at his shoulders.
He grunted, trying to move, but the person - the whatever the fuck it was on top of him, was heavy as a tank, and didn't budge.
Pale skin, maybe dark short hair hidden under the hood (that was still somehow up, but hey, the guy grew tentacles through his clothes).
Desmond tried to - right. He didn't have his wrist blade anymore. Or wrists. His instincts were clashing, fighting each other.
There was a slick wet sound and Desmond hissed, seeing smaller tentacles slide out from the guy's shoes and trousers, heading down and -
Fuck no.
He started struggling again, wanting to get away, but the mini-tentacles wound down, developing points and shit, was this another alien? A different version, like the little grey men who wanted to prod humans?
"Don't suppose you wanna talk first?" Desmond quipped, hoping to maybe distract the guy.
"No." Low voice, a little rough. No echoing his voice. His eyes weren't glowing either.
But hey, it was a conversation, at least.
"How about what you're going to - fuck!" Too late. This wasn't like the feathers coming out and more like getting stabbed multiple times at once.
Desmond tried to twist, to use his legs but still nothing. Maybe the guy'd rooted himself on the rooftop.
And then the tentacles paused, the guy tilting his head to the side.
"What?" Desmond wheezed. "Not what you expected?" Whatever that was.
"Huh," the guy said, squinting at him. "No, you're not." And then the tentacles were withdrawing. "You're not a virus."
"Uuuuh, no?" Desmond said, taking a deep breath when the guy stepped off him. "Are we-" He took another deep breath. "-talking about 'something that'll kill you' virus, or a 'zombie-infestation' virus here?" If he'd had his hands, he would have air-quoted. Still, he partially flapped just thinking about making the gesture.
The guy snorted, curling his lip in amusement.
Clearly not going to tell him. Desmond got that kind of secrecy.
The guy started walking off, his wings stretching out again after a flap.
"Hey, wait!" Desmond called out, flipping to his feet again, sucking in a breath at the smack of pain.
The guy turned, looking at him.
"Don't suppose you can tell me how to change back?" He lifted his own arms out of habit. It was worth a shot, and it didn't seem like the guy wasn't going to kill him anymore. Which was nice.
The guy didn't say anything for a few seconds, and shit, was he really going to be stuck like this forever?
"Think of the human form you want."
That was it? Desmond glanced at his wings (Brown feathers with a light streak on the underside and. Really. Eagle wings. He had eagle wings.) and when he looked back up, the guy was gone. Desmond couldn't see him in the skyline, but what did he know about what the guy could do.
...Human form. He flexed his finger, seeing how it moved his wing, now that he had the time to study it. Did that mean he could turn into a full bird if he wanted to? That was a question for another time.
Think of the human form he wanted. His own, thanks.
And thanks to Clay, he wasn't thinking of Ezio or Altair's arms, just his own in clarity, with his tattoo and the nicks and scars he'd gotten at The Farm, the indentations his wrist blade left.
He could feel his arms changing shape, see it happening, but it didn't hurt. It was...detached, a catalogue of feelings that his body didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with.
Desmond had to turn his gaze away from it though. Seeing his body change in front of his eyes was a too trippy and felt a little too close to the bleeding effect, creating a curling uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
When the shifting feeling in his arms stopped, Desmond looked down and turned his hands over. It was his own hands; he knew his own scars and where Altair's, Ezio's and Connor's were, and while their lip scars overlapped, that was the only scar they had between them, and none of their scars were on his arms.
...He'd just regrown his arms and kept all his scars and tattoo. So had he really regrown it or...something. Desmond ran his thumb over one scar (an accident in the bar involving glass and slippery fingers) and felt the slight difference in the texture of his skin there. It was there, not his imagination.
His sleeves didn't reform though, leaving him with ripped tatters at the shoulder.
Okay. Time to take stock of the situation.
He wasn't dead. That was the best thing. He wasn't fatally injured either (unless the guy had injected him with something). He'd been stabbed in multiple places and he still needed to get the power source inside the building. That he was no longer near. Hell, he didn't even know where the building was after getting turned around after that aerial dogfight.
And there was no way he was going to get in and out without gathering suspicion, not without sleeves, not with blood still drying on him, and he didn't have his hood either.
Fuck.
The others probably assumed he was dead too after the last thing they would have heard.
He needed to regroup. He would have to try to get the key another time, when he wouldn't draw attention. And when he knew for certain he wasn't going to burst into a full bird - or any parts of a bird for that matter at bad times.
Desmond looked around and saw a scaffolding on another building. It was something he could make. If he changed his arms into wings again.
Yeeeah, no. Desmond turned away, jogging towards the roof door.
He'd had more than enough experience than he wanted of using something he didn't understand completely and not knowing the consequences until it was too late. He would keep 'transforming' to a minimum and until he could find out if the others knew anything about this. And if they did, why the hell they hadn't told him before.
There was supposed to be thought about Desmond wondering if the reason why he desyned when he jumped off buildings was because he couldn't match up with his ancestors growing wings in the middle of the 'failed' jump.
Alex couldn't eat Desmond thanks to his Those Who Came Before genes, since that probably wasn't clear. And Alex attacked Desmond because of what he saw in his vision too, pfft.