OPEN

[diadermic]

Who: diadermic AND OPEN
When: Noon, before the sirens go off.
Where: Sector 4 in the streets unless taken somewhere else.
Summary: "My name is Altaïr, and this is my favorite bench in the whole Siren’s Port." MAKE HIS LIFE HELL
Warning: NOPE or not yet anyway OPEN FOR ANYTHING???? oh and possible philosophical stuff lolol.

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[diadermic]

It was a strange feeling, and Altaïr did not what it was (Confusion, shock, curiosity -- ? He didn't know, and part of him didn't care.) when the man that Altaïr had first encountered in this strange city, among these strange people, decided to sit down beside him. The assassin wouldn't have questioned it, he wouldn't have turned his head such as he was doing at that moment so his gaze was focused on Desmond for a split-second, if it wasn't for the fact that Desmond had openly showed his disdain, his dislike, and his disbelief in being in Altaïr's company.

He had seen plenty of frightened men, Altaïr that was, but he had never been a victim of one of those frightened men to come up to him, sit down beside him, and talk to him casually.

At least Desmond was not ranting on about Altaïr being an illusion this time, because if they had anything in common, it would have been that they were prisoners in Siren's Port, and they weren't the only ones. It would have been fruitless for Desmond to continue that same delusion.

With his head dipped down once again and tilted to the side, "Desmond." The acknowledgement was spoken in recognition, half of it sounding all-too-familiar as it rolled off his tongue, the other half as though he was still in practice of knowing that the other was in the same existence as him, speaking as though Desmond was not the enemy, but as though Desmond was a quarter of his way to being the assassin's ally -- and if it wasn't that, then at least Desmond knew that Altaïr won't be killing him anytime soon without breaking a sweat.

Wary with speaking with a large number of people that were passing by them -- blind in their own way of being ignorant of Desmond's and Altaïr's own being sitting on the bench -- Altaïr only lowered his head even further. The way that Desmond sat could have been mistaken for mockery, but Altaïr did not have time to be pointless and inwardly seethe, instead he only spoke curtly, "No. My interest doesn't lie with these people." Indicating the natives of this city.

With a long stretch of silence between them, Altaïr continued, " -- The core. The Piece. I know where it is, but there are risks."

[bleedaffected]

Desmond's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name in Altair's voice. It sent a strange mixture of emotion coursing through him. On the one hand, it was so wrong-- so wrong for Altair to be addressing him directly, as almost-equals, as someone he should even know. On the other hand, it was grounding, and the feeling of inevitability that this was Desmond's reality now solidified just that much more. In that sense, it was sobering. Somewhere, there was still a sane piece of his mind that was telling him that Altair was just a hallucination, that this was nothing, and that he was playing tricks on himself. But the longer he sat there, the less that seemed true. He shifted a bit in his seat, lowering his arms and sitting back against the bench. As he moved, his leg accidentally brushed up against the side of Altair's for the briefest of seconds, and his heart stopped again. It was real. It was all so goddamn real.

No, it wasn't. He Lucy would freak out and put him on house arrest if she had any idea what was going through his head right now. She'd be right to. Maybe it was something that needed to be done. Because if Desmond was to accept Altair was real, then the next step from there would be vying for his acceptance. It would be a downward spiral that never had an end.

...Then Altair brought up the Core, and things instantly got worse. It was a subject that Desmond, admittedly, didn't know too much about. If Altair told him information that he didn't have already, then...

"Sounds like you've been busy," he choked out, trying to sound as casual as possible. He cleared his throat and went on in a might lighter tone, "So, let me guess. It's easy to get to except for the army of ten thousand Templar guards, security cameras, and plague rats."

[diadermic]

The brushing of material against his own did not seem to faze Altaïr, there was very little that could faze the assassin, but it did not go unnoticed. He glanced down at the small, seemingly insignificant movement. He did not object or approve to it, but only allowed it. He was not petty enough for something as small to affect him on any level. Tilting his head back to the direction of the ground, he only watched Desmond at the corner of his vision, observing the way that he moved, and how the words that came out of the other’s mouth was strained. There was no doubt in Altaïr’s mind that Desmond knew more about him then what was let on. Then again, the assassins worked in the shadows, and despite being as wary as he was to Desmond, he must have had a reason. (Irrationally and selfishly, Altaïr was ready to threaten Desmond into a corner and beat the answers out of him. Anxious men spat out their secrets quicker.)

Should it have been such a surprise that Altaïr was busy in the first place? It was his duty to seek knowledge and to dismiss the illusion of truth. Instead he sat there silently, listening to what Desmond had to say, no matter how much or what little information was given to him, he had no reason in mind to not trust Desmond, but the more he thought of trusting the other, the tighter his fingers coiled into fists.

"...You know of it’s condition?" The question was out of pure curiosity, his voice low and firm with a demanding tone that was overlaid by how intrigued he was to listen to the other’s words.

More silence, "The people here are prisoners. They are blinded by the object that keeps them here. They wait for their problems to be solved, and not solve it themselves." There was no disdain in his voice, just pure distant spoken thoughts.

[bleedaffected]

Desmond took a breath and allowed himself to settle into the weight of the moment. Hearing Altair speak what had been going through his own mind made him worry a bit, but Desmond was still willing to give this interaction a chance. He folded his hands in his lap and glanced over at his great ancestor. Serious. The man was always so serious.

"At this point? You probably know more about it than I do," Desmond admitted. "I've been, uh..." He trailed off then, searching for the right words.

"...home. Sick. Out for the past few days."

Sick. Well, that was one way of putting it, anyway.

"But my offer for help is on the table, if you want it."