I've just reached level 6 friendship with Diona this morning and well
Um
I cried. A lot. The way she just asks the Traveler not to leave and become imaginary and holds their hands oh my fucking God Diona. Forget looking for the sibling, this child must be protected no matter what and I'm taking her with me wherever I go. She is precious.
I feel like people who insist that Diona must be over 18 if she works as a bartender miss the fact that she is supposed to be one-of-a-kind child prodigy, seeing how no matter what she uses or does, her drinks are ideal af
She also never tries the drinks herself, not once, and her voicelines and story make it obvious that she is a child - from the idle lines to the fact that she blames wine industry (and Diluc) on her father's alcoholism (seriously, her "About Diluc" voicelines makes me cry), calls her father "daddy". Also Olaf refers to her as "little girl Diona" as opposed to "young Diona" if she was a young adult
why closed captioning should always be provided on every video:
Deaf People Exist
auditory processing disorder is a Bitch
people with ADHD can find it hard to concentrate on what is being said without the words in front of them
^autistic people for the same reason
autistic people may also find it hard to interpret verbal messages within the context of the video, so it's useful to have written alternatives to fall back on
do you know how painful it is to be excluded from every joke, every video, every conversation because others just Can't Be Bothered?
some people live in a conservative household or with family who don't share the same ideals, and they may not have privacy to view things on their own, so they may need to watch things with the volume extremely low or muted
I think what bothers me about AC's approach to the Animus meta-narrative as a framing device post-ac3 is precisely the lack of connection between the subject and the memory source.
The Animus no longer being restricted to the ancestor-descendant chain gives them greater freedom for their historical narratives, true, but it also breaks that innate connection that (imo) made the dual narratives of historical and MD so special and meaningful.
Ac4 tried to retain some of that by making Edward a ancestor of Desmond, but they pretty much completely ditched even that almost right afterwards.
The newer rpgCreed games are trying to recapture some of the MD nostalgia by attempting to hype Layla as the new Desmond, but she's....
Her character is just all over the place WEIRD and honestly that's for another post entirely.
There's no respect in anything she does, which is partially the fault of her weird writing. No awe. No bond. Just weird, obsessive selfish arrogance and inconsistent writing.
Nothing that links Layla to any of the sources she views except the fact that she found them.
Idk, Layla's animus sessions just come off as feeling very. Voyueristic? Intrusive?
They tried to ape the profound moments of Desmond's arc with his ancestors and being spoken to across time but again, bc of the lack of connection it just feels very... Badfic-ish?
It kinda makes Layla come off as a Templar for me 'cause that's what Templars do with the Animus - they take what doesn't belong to them in an attempt to further their agenda
I started following this girl and her whole dash ended up these. And her last post. I can’t even say words. Anons took her life. If that okay with you, then carry on with your day. If you agree this is unacceptable and okay, then reblog and spread the word. What you say can actually change a persons life! So help out
I don’t care if this makes your dash look ‘ugly’, no matter what type of blog you have you should reblog it.
I don’t understand how heartless someone can be for sending something like that. If they want the thrill of changing something for someone, tell them what you like about them and watch how different they become from it.
I just… How? How can people do this to another person?! I’m so disgusted! How can people be heartless enough to downgrade other people?! And the fact that all of them are Anons doesn’t help one bit! Just Why!?
I'm not saying Ezio shamelessly flirted with guards to make them flustered and get away safely, I'm just saying that the phrase "Get down, now!" can mean more than one thing
Summary: Minerva stops Desmond from getting to the Eye. Desmond finds another way to fulfill his role.
AN: I wrote this on a whim, physics? What physics. Proceed with caution.
ao3 link
The moment the key they fought so hard to get, touches the wall, Desmond feels that something is really, really wrong. The sense is overwhelming, and his stomach drops when a figure appears behind the barrier.
“Minerva, what the fuck?!” he demands angrily, terror tearing down his spine. The Isu just looks at him, and, if he squints, he can picture a little sympathy in her eyes.
“I am sorry, Desmond. I cannot let you do this,” she says and her voice, muffled by the shimmering wall, is as flat as ever. “If you touch the pedestal, Juno will be set free, and I cannot allow that.”
No. No-no-no- “And if I don’t, everyone will fucking die, you dimwitted ghost!” Desmond doesn’t care that he is yelling hysterically, he can almost feel the time running out. “Let me through!!!”
Minerva regards him impassively as if he is a screaming toddler. “Some will survive. The human race will thrive again, free and unburdened by past mistakes,” she gives him a slightly irritated look. “You should be grateful - your life would be spared.”
Desmond wants to screech, to tear through the barrier and into the Isu, to shake her until she understands. “I don’t want it!” he replies barely managing to keep his voice more or less even. “Not like this, not by killing everyone else! Seven billion lives, Minerva!”
The woman just gives him another unimpressed look. “It is decided, Desmond Miles. This is the better way,” she says. “The barrier stays.”
And with that disappears, leaving Desmond speechless, gaping at the shimmering wall in front of him. The now-useless key hits the stone floor. Desmond turns slowly, to find everyone else staring at him with the same horror they probably see on his face.
Desmond feels numb. The fight drains out of him as if a plug is pulled.
It was all for nothing.
“How long till the Flare hits?” he asks, throat sore from screaming, and refuses to look anyone in the eye.
It’s Rebecca who answers him. “Three hours, tops,” her tone is quiet and flat, she is pale as a ghost. Desmond nods slowly.
“Can we at least try getting anyone to safety, Dad?” another almost pointless question.
William shrugs, shoulders slumped. He looks uncharacteristically disheveled and almost lost. “I’ll call everyone, three hours is enough to find some shelter,” there is no certainty to his answer.
Desmond gives another nod. It’s probably the best they can do. What else is there to do?
After they’ve done packing and moving stuff deeper into the Temple (pointless shifting things around, but still better than to sit and wait on the impending doom), and Dad returns after making every single call possible, Desmond strides to the exit, muttering a generic excuse about getting some fresh air.
Everything seems so... normal. The life is about to get toasted off the surface of the earth, and it still is a normal day outside, if maybe a little warm. Desmond breathes in and out and just stays, a few feet away from the cave entrance, all but unable to move. He doesn’t want to move.
He’d failed.
Someone approaches him, stands close, their shoulders brushing, and Desmond inhales the familiar mix of coffee and mint and old paper. Shaun.
“It’s not your fault,” he says softly, and Desmond leans on his shoulder letting their fingers tangle.
“Isn’t it?” he replies a bit bitterly and then sighs, as Shaun opens his mouth to argue. “I know, I know. You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right, you stupid git” Shaun shoots right back, like everything is a-okay, and his hand is warm, and Desmond can’t help but smile a little at the weird normalcy of this.
They stay like that for some time, watching the horizon, that gets a slight reddish tint. Talking seems redundant, what is there to talk about?
“You know what,” Shaun says suddenly. “For what it’s worth, I think I’ll enjoy spending however much time we’re gonna get after this with you.”
Desmond wants to answer him but his throat suddenly closes, and he can’t breathe, and he just wants to scream, because the world is ending for everyone else, and the radiation after will probably kill them really fast, and he just wants to do something-
“Hey,” Shaun gently cups the side of his face, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Desmond, look at me.”
Desmond looks. Shaun’s eyes are red-rimmed behind the glasses, and still the most beautiful sight Desmond has ever seen.
“I know it hurts like hell, and I am sorry, but there’s nothing we can do,” Shaun says and his voice is firm and unwavering and is a singular solid thing in the whirlwind of Desmond’s mind. “We can’t stop the Flare, we can’t wish it away, we can’t run from it to the Alpha Centauri. It’s happening and it’s happening now. But we’re going to get through it. You get me?”
Desmond wants to ask how he can be so calm, when a thought strikes him like a lightning. A stupid thought. “Yes,” he says, pushing it away for a moment and pressing into Shaun’s palm, all but melting into the touch, savoring the contrast of the cool air and Shaun’s warm fingers. “We are going to get through this. Together.”
Shaun’s lips curl up in a semblance of a smile. “Damn right,” he says and Desmond leans forward, briefly pressing their lips together, like it can soothe the burning aftertaste of the lie.
When they break up, Shaun leans in, pressing his forehead to Desmond’s, and he can’t help but just look at him, knowing it’s the last time he sees that stupidly beautiful face.
Desmond doesn’t want to let go. Ever.
“I’ll be down in a bit,” he whispers, leaning away and giving the skies a sidelong glance. “Just need a few more moments.”
Shaun smiles sadly. “Sure,” he nods and pokes Desmond in the chest. “Don’t stay out too long, you’ll get a heatstroke.”
At that, Desmond can’t help but chuckle. “Lame!” he calls at Shaun’s retreating back and the historian flashes him a bird.
Desmond watches him disappear in the mouth of the cave, before looking around again. The air is hot enough that the snow melts, the forest turning from whitish to evergreen again, and Desmond breathes in the smell of pines and humid moss, and his heart is racing.
The Apple in his hand gives a slight static sound as he pulls it out of the pocket and squeezes, focusing. A moment later, his own doppelganger appears from the strings of golden light and looks at him expectantly.
“Go after Shaun,” Desmond commands aloud. He doesn’t have to, but it just feels right. He slips his phone in the other’s hand. “Behave naturally, don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Not-him nods and heads for the entrance, but before he is gone, Desmond calls after him.
“Tell them I’m sorry before you disappear,” he says, as his chest constricts painfully. He wishes he could be with them, just as Shaun said.
But he can’t.
The doppelganger gives him an almost pitying look and nods again, fading into the darkness. Desmond closes the cave with the Apple and starts walking away. They can open it from the inside in time, but for now, he can’t risk his only family getting hurt.
He manages a few hundred yards into the forest before coming across a clearing and stops. That would do just as nicely as anything else. Stomach heavy, Desmond looks at the sky.
It is now creepily reddish, like in a light-polluted city at night, sparse clouds molten-orange. The sun just above the horizon looks bigger, edges loose, jagged. And it gets brighter.
He has minutes.
After a moment of hesitation, Desmond takes the Apple out of his pocket again and looks at it for a long moment. The air around him gets a little hotter by the second, and the dry wind ruffles his hair. Desmond desperately doesn’t want to be alone, not right now, so he wills another doppelganger to life.
“You are an idiot, you know that?” a familiar voice that’s definitely not his own, asks him, and Desmond opens his eyes again.
“Sixt- Clay?” he corrects himself, which earns him a scoff. “How are you even-”
Clay looks almost apologetic. “Well, Seventeen, I hitched a ride in that big head of yours -- so much empty space, you really should have done something about that-” Desmond can’t help but laugh a little at the ridiculousness of it all, and Clay gives him a little smirk. “-and I guess the Apple decided that if you summon the same guy, it’s technically still alone, so here I am.”
Desmond sighs. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and that’s not a lie. “Y’know what I’m about to do?”
“Something monumentally stupid,” Clay supplies helpfully with a shrug, and Desmond smirks sardonically, even if it’s really strained.
Shaun’s words sparked that idea, stupid and incredibly unrealistic as it was, it was still a sliver of a chance. A tiny, almost nonexistent sliver.
“Wish it away,” he had said, and Desmond thought of the Apple, of how Juno had shown that it was used to make people wish things into existence. She did say they couldn’t create a shield, but Desmond wasn’t after the shield. He wasn’t about to protect the whole planet single-handedly -- or single-mindedly.
But what if he could reduce the Flare? Maybe not by much, maybe just a little, maybe up the survival count from ten thousand to say fifteen or twenty? A drop in the ocean now, but it could change so much for the future of the human race in the long run.
Desmond wasn’t about to let this chance go to waste.
And all he has to do is use the Apple and believe. Believe that he can withstand the Flare, believe that he can focus it on him, until everything he is would be reduced to less than atoms, to electrons, protons and neutrons, and that would be enough to save some people.
He never was much of a believer, yet here he is.
“You can still go back,” Clay says softly. “There is just enough time for you to run back into the Temple before it hits.”
Desmond looks at him and smiles. He is shaking a little, but it’s genuine. “Yeah, I know,” he shrugs and grips the Apple tighter. The air around them is almost painfully hot and orange-red. The end of the fucking world. “But that’s not why I’m out here.”
Clay smiles back at him. “You’re such an idiot, Seventeen,” he says, shaking his head.
“What else is new?” Desmond chuckles and lifts the Apple up, towards the bright, flaming sky. “Don’t go just yet,” slips out of his mouth, as embarrassing as it is.
“Have nowhere else to be,” Clay steps a bit closer. ”Good luck, Desmond.”
Desmond closes his eyes and wills himself to believe. To forget everything else, to put everyone out of his mind, no doubts, no attachment, just his belief in himself and the might of his blood, genes, whatever made him that special snowflake Juno needed. He knows enough to be aware, that it’s impossible, but hey, wishing a tree or a wall into existence wasn’t supposed to be possible either, and that didn’t stop the Isu.
The Apple in his hand makes a tiny melodic sound, sending a power surge down his hand, and that’s the last thing Desmond hears before the Flare comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave of what feels like pure fire, roaring in his ears and drowning out everything else.
He doesn’t die immediately. There is a searing pain tearing his body apart, but he doesn’t die, and that makes hope bloom in his chest. He is alive, it’s working! Desmond grits his teeth, willing himself to believe, to become nothing but a beacon of unchallenged will.
It’s like something breaks, something that was holding him back, and Desmond takes one hard, labored breath that burns him from inside out and soars.
He is everything. He is the ground, charing under the relentless heat, he is the stones, the vapor streaming up, he is the sunlight and the burning trees. He is the earth, and the air and the skies. He is cities and mountains, animals and plants.
He is people. He is amongst a group of assassins, watching the roof of the shelter with bated breaths, he is a little boy, no older than seven, looking at the metro ceiling through the pitch-dark curly fringe with confusion. “You will live through this, buddy,” Desmond thinks affectionately before the image of the boy fades.
He is inside the Temple, and it’s alight with energy, sparks and flairs running up and down walls in a continuous stream of gold and blue, and he sees his dad, and Shaun and Becca watching the show with shadows dancing over their faces, making everything surreal.
He is everywhere. He is everywhen. He is Altair, seeing the map of the whole world for the first time, he is Ezio taking his first Leap of Faith, he is Connor looking at the night sky from the Homestead roof, he is Haytham watching the horizon on the bow of the ship, he is Edward, lying ashore, laughing and coughing up water after almost drowning, he is Flavia running across the rooftops of Firenze, he is Sef sparring with Darim, he is-
The Apple in Desmond’s hand starts to give way. He gives in too, bit by bit, clothes and hair burning, skin bubbling and sizzling, and chipping away, and he breaks apart, surrounded by fire, turning into ash, to atoms, to nothing-
“That’s it,” Desmond thinks with sudden ease and the darkness takes him.
AC_AC_AC_AC
“-enteen? Desmond?!” the voice cuts through the darkness, loud and frantic. “Seventeen, I can see you breathing, wake the fuck up!”
Oh. That’s right, he is breathing. Desmond breathes in and out, and after a moment of struggle, opens his eyes.
“Thank fuck,” comes a relieved sigh, and Clay’s concerned face swims into view.
“Sixteen?” he blinks and sits up, slowly, suddenly acutely feeling the muscles moving under the skin. “What happened?”
Clay scoffs-laughs. “I was about to ask you the same thing, you know,” he says and spreads his arms, prompting Desmond to look around.
The sky is clear again, watered-down winter blue, tinted pink with the rising sun - the first safe sunrise in the next seventy-five thousand years. There are lights there, like huge swaying green and violet curtains hanged from the heavens - aurora borealis, fading, but still visible.
The forest is no more, there are just planes of charred black ground spreading as far as the eye can see. It looks lifeless, but in the distance, Desmond sees the town, Turin, and it doesn’t look like a pile of smoldering ash, and he breathes out, relieved.
And looks down at his hands.
His right hand is… weird. It looks like it was dipped into tar, with silvery First Civ designs running across the palm and up the forearm to the elbow.
“What the actual fuck?..” Desmond whispers.
“I guess that’s what’s left of the Apple of Eden,” Clay chimes in, looking at his hand with interest. “The pattern looks really close to it. You somehow managed to fuse it into your hand?”
He is right, Desmond thinks, the pattern in the center of his palm does look like an Apple’s imprint. “Wait a hot second,” he says and looks up at Clay, squinting. “That shit isn’t working now, I’m not even sure how to get it to work.”
Clay cocks an eyebrow at him. “So?”
“So... how are you still here?” Desmond asks slowly, gently, and Clay all but startles.
“I-,” he starts, eyes going wide and then blinks a few times. “I didn’t think-” he lifts his arms to his face and examines them closely, counting finger, before biting himself.
“Wow, dude!” Desmond exclaims out of surprise, but Clay seems to not hear him, eyes wide and looking at the indents on the meat of his palm.
“I am a real boy,” he whispers, and a huge grin, genuine and ecstatic breaks on his face. “I am a real boy!!!”
He jumps in place a few times and does a cartwheel. “Amazing!” he exclaims after he can’t stick the landing properly and falls over, landing face-first, and rolls over, smearing his clothes with coal dust. “Wow, that’s still pretty hot, I gotta say.”
“Um, you okay, Sixteen?” Desmond asks him and Clay turns to him, smiling so wide it seems his cheeks will split any second.
“Never better, Seventeen!” he assures and jumps up, like on springs, grabbing Desmond in a full-on bear-hug. “Thank you,” his voice suddenly hoarse, raw.
Desmond pats his back awkwardly, hiding his face in Clay's ash-smelling shoulder for a moment. “I literally have no idea how I did that, but you're welcome.”
“Who cares how,” Clay laughs again, a bit watery, looking around with the face of someone, who’s seen the light of day for the first time in years. “We are both alive, Desmond! All thanks to your stupid sacrificial ass,” his face turns serious. “Don’t pull that shit ever again.”
Desmond makes a face. “Hey, it worked,” he points out. "And the others would care, wait till my dad throws a tantrum about you being the Templar spy or some shit.”
Clay cackles. “I recognize dear old Bill,” he says and pushes Desmond into the general direction he came from. “Let’s get back to the Temple then, I’m dying to hear some nagging.”
“I’d do without,” Desmond mumbles just to be contrary and looks around, uneasiness creeping in his gut. “Do you think we did it? Save the world, I mean.”
“You tell me,” Clay replies, looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. “That thing in your hand must work somehow.”
He is probably right, Desmond thinks and looks at his right hand again, at the Apple’s imprint. And then, on instinct, closes his fist, squeezing his eyes shut, concentrating. The rush of electricity is immediate, and he can’t see it, but he somehow is aware of the edges of the burnt forest, as if he can feel it. They are standing in the middle of a burnt spot, just a few miles in diameter, and beyond that everything looks… normal. The trees are alive, untouched by the flames, and he even feels a couple of small animals nesting in the branches.
The world didn’t go up in flames.
“It worked,” Desmond whispers to himself, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and notices something else.
The Grand Temple cave wall is raised.
Desmond’s eyes fly open. “Come on, we gotta go,” he tells Clay and takes off running.
The others are standing at the mouth of the cave, and Desmond breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. They are safe.
Rebecca, hair sticking in every direction more than usual, stares at what from a distance looks like a bastardized Geiger counter in her hands.
“-idea how it’s possible,” Desmond hears her tell disheveled Shaun as they approach. “Not even a trace of radiation, like it didn’t happen, and that shouldn’t be-”
“Son!” his father exclaims in a voice that sounds close to desperate and takes a step to him before he notices Clay. “What the?..”
“Desmond!” Shaun sees him too and rushes out of the cave, despite Becca’s protest. He reaches Desmond in a few long strides and grabs him by the collar.
Desmond expects shouting, maybe a shake or two, but Shaun just fists both hands in the fabric of his hoodie and looks at him, like for the first time, and his eyes are so beautiful,
Desmond almost gets lost in them.
“You absolute bloody twat,” Shaun finally says, almost calm, measured, but his voice is shaking a little, as do his hands. “I will kill you myself if you do that again, I swear.”
He kisses Desmond, hard, almost bruising, and Desmond pulls Shaun into his chest, a tiny moan escaping his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers as they part, and Shaun looks like he is about to cry.
“You better be,” he replies, hands still on Desmond’s collar. “Arsehole.”
There’s a loud “ahem” coming from the rest of their party, and Desmond gingerly turns his head only to lock eyes with his father, finally realizing what has just happened.
“I can explain,” he blurts out and sees Becca snicker behind his father’s back.
William looks from him and Shaun, to his Apple-fused arm, to Clay, who is watching them with the smuggest grin on his face, and back to Desmond. “I hope so, son,” he says mildly and opens his mouth to add something when the phone in his pocket starts going off.
He fishes it out, looks at the screen and after a moment holds it out for Desmond.
“It’s for you, son,” he says, and Desmond takes the phone, confused, pressing it to his ear.
“Bill? Thank heavens, what happened?!” the familiar voice fills his ears, and just like that, Desmond is left breathless, eyes widening. “Bill?”
He has to swallow the lump in his throat before he can speak. “Hi, mom.”
On the other end, Maria Miles gasps. “Desmond!” she exclaims, just like she would all those years ago, when he was little, and his vision goes a little blurry. “Oh, sweetheart... Are you alright?”
Desmond wipes his eyes, and looks around, at the smoldering remains of the forest under the winter sky, at his Dad, giving him a tiny, understanding smile, at grinning Clay and beaming Rebecca, at Shaun, holding his hand, and smiles himself.
“Yeah, mom,” he tells her honestly. “I really am.”
My current job has me working with children, which is kind of a weird shock after years in environments where a “young” patient is 40 years old. Here’s my impressions so far:
Birth - 1 year: Essentially a small cute animal. Handle accordingly; gently and affectionately, but relying heavily on the caregivers and with no real expectation of cooperation.
Age 1 - 2: Hates you. Hates you so much. You can smile, you can coo, you can attempt to soothe; they hate you anyway, because you’re a stranger and you’re scary and you’re touching them. There’s no winning this so just get it over with as quickly and non-traumatically as possible.
Age 3 - 5: Nervous around medical things, but possible to soothe. Easily upset, but also easily distracted from the thing that upset them. Smartphone cartoons and “who wants a sticker?!!?!?” are key management techniques.
Age 6 - 10: Really cool, actually. I did not realize kids were this cool. Around this age they tend to be fairly outgoing, and super curious and eager to learn. Absolutely do not babytalk; instead, flatter them with how grown-up they are, teach them some Fun Gross Medical Facts, and introduce potentially frightening experiences with “hey, you want to see something really cool?”
Age 11 - 14: Extremely variable. Can be very childish or very mature, or rapidly switch from one mode to the other. At this point you can almost treat them as an adult, just… a really sensitive and unpredictable adult. Do not, under any circumstances, offer stickers. (But they might grab one out of the bin anyway.)
Age 15 - 18: Basically an adult with severely limited life experience. Treat as an adult who needs a little extra education with their care. Keep parents out of the room as much as possible, unless the kid wants them there. At this point you can go ahead and offer stickers again, because they’ll probably think it’s funny. And they’ll want one. Deep down, everyone wants a sticker.
Good guide. It is one of my biggest pet peeves when 6-10 year olds are all written like 3-4 year olds. Positively cringey. If in doubt err on the side of the kid being more mature than you expect.
