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Identity Crisis

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Leaving the Animus had always just been waking up from a long nap.

But this time was different- maybe it was because it hadn’t been a normal session, and, for all intents and purposes, he had been in a coma. The darkness pulled at him, coaxing him back down, back into the memories of ancient Constantinople with its beautiful sky and strange inhabitants.

And, more than anything, Desmond wanted to give in. He was selfish- didn’t want to face Lucy’s death, Rebecca’s overbearing kindness, Shaun’s acidic remarks- and, after all, the Animus gave one a semblance of reality. He could touch and taste and smell and hear, and he could live out the rest of his own life reliving those of his ancestors.

Because, really, what was he but an approximation of others? He had skills that weren’t his, felt things that he had never really felt, been places that he had never laid eyes on. He was the product of other lifetimes, and the Order really only needed him for his DNA, not his mind.

Desmond Miles wasn’t a Chosen One. He was just a bartender.



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