quote:

‘Listen, just calm down.’ She says.
Calm down? What possesses her to spew such garbage! She tells me to calm down, while her partner straps me into a clockwork dream machine to see things that are too real to be anything but real.
Things that are too horrible to comprehend.
Things that are too insane to ever be real, all the same.
I have thus far spent my time here thinking when I do not dream (is there a difference?). Have I slept? No...I don’t think I have. I just dream, and I do so because they make me dream instead of sleep. I would that I could (did he say that? Was that a construct of my own person, or the person from the machine?), but these people – these monsters – refuse to relinquish control of my own mind.
I do not want to return to that terrible contraption. The things it makes me see make me want to tear my eyes out.
He murdered those people...I murdered them; stabbed them in the neck and spoke to them as if I had not, and then...and then I ran like a coward.
I know for a certainty that I am no coward, but all I know is that I fear that machine, and would that I never return to it for as long as I draw breath.
Listen to me; I’m talking like them.
But I am not them. I have never seen a horse, never mind ridden one. I have never once set foot in the places I see in these dreams. And never – never – have I killed a man, not with a gun, not with a sword, and not with the blade that replaces my ring finger.
Is it still there?
Yes...yes. The man in my dreams was missing his, but mine is still here on my hand...although the ring itself is gone.
They probably melted it down and sold it.
Monsters.
Holy-!
He’s standing over me as I lie here. I never saw him. My eyes must have been closed.
I must have been dreaming.
Because I don’t sleep.
He wants me to spend another day in that thing. But I won’t go. I will not allow any but myself to choose that which I dream.
But...but he says that I can go once they have what they want-
No! I won’t go!
But I’ll be able to leave then...and I won’t have to get into that contraption ever again.
I don’t trust this man. And I fear what horrors I’ll see this time – and I will not accept the insult that they are the actions of my ancestor – although I still wonder as to the purpose of my imprisonment, not to mention why they require I use this machine, I feel that to continue is for the best.
Unfortunately.
I suppose I’ll do it, then. Although not because I want to.
But why this Assassin?
Why at this point in the crusades?
‘Good evening, Elissa.’ She says.
‘Lucy.’
‘I hope you slept okay.’
Slept? I have not slept. How can I sleep in a prison where I am allowed the luxury of my own thoughts for only the shortest of times?
I choose simply to glare at her. How she mocks me, with her innocent voice and pretty features. But I see through her guise.
‘Enough with the pleasantries, Miss Stillman, we hardly have the time or patience. Girl; into the Anima!’
Anima, they call it. As if they are the Latin-speaking Knights of legends and myths. They give this horrible machine a name as if it is deserving; as if the visions and pains it inflicts are somehow good.
Silver in colour, and curved to best suit the shape of my spine, it has a section in its middle made of glass, roughly shaped like a human body, albeit with six metal circles that glow red running the length of it, getting larger the closer to my neck they are, while my head rests upon a larger, more complicated looking one that glows even stronger.
As I look through the windows of this place into the dark, oppressive night, I wonder if I will ever see them from the other side again. If I will ever see the day.
I lie down.
‘Good. Now, just relax.’
A visor curves over my eyes, and I see only the red glass as green symbols run across them. The symbols become images, and then I fall into the dreams as Paul Sheldon would fall into his cloud of ideas.
But where he sees a story unfolding that he is fully able to control, should he choose, I do not have that luxury.
And suddenly, my name is no longer Elissa.
I am an Assassin.

quote:

Awake.
I open my eyes, and the first thing I can do is scream.
I scream and I scream and I scream until my lungs are empty and my throat is dry, not for what I saw in my latest Dream. Not for what I saw upon waking. No. I screamed for what I felt grinding the bones in my skull against each other with such pressure you would think I had been placed in a vice.
There is nothing around my head. Of that I am sure. The bones there are...well, they’re not moving, that’s something, I suppose.
But the pain. Was I hit by a train when in the Anima or something? Did Lucy drop a rock on my skull while I was under? I never trusted her...
Get a hold of yourself, girl. Of course she never did anything; the girl’s too much of a coward. Always hiding behind that little computer of hers; what’s she hiding?
Why does my head hurt so much? Why? That man...that Assassin
Hassan
did nothing violent. In fact...in that last Dream, he was not hurt, and went nowhere that pain occurred. Nothing happened at all.
Was that it? Was that what went wrong? Do I need to fill some sort of ‘violence quota’?
No; don’t be stupid. Of course you don’t. I was feeling fine – absolutely fine – up to a point. At which point, my head burst with pain...such unbearable pain.
‘ARGH!’
I can barely think for the agony it causes me. Yet, being here, I cannot be certain that they are even my own thoughts.
I have not heard myself spoken of with much in the way of acclaim here. I fear that they feel I am a lost cause or something of that nature, and I fear far more that they are correct in this.
Pushing myself to a sitting position, the pain riveting my skull does nothing in the way of alleviating ; it simply intensifies to a point that it could potentially inspire madness.
However, I like to think of myself as strong minded. No; let me better rephrase that: I know of myself as a particularly strong minded individual. And I prove this by opening the eyes that sheer agony had all but sewn shut.
Some pills sit on my bedside table. White and with that strange triangle symbol that appears everywhere (including my Dreams) emblazoned upon it and nothing else besides. The chances that they could do me plenty of harm are high, but good enough for me. Even in that fraction of a chance that they could remove this headache.
I groan harder...the pain...I can’t stand it. It tears at my flesh
I grab the pills from the table and for a moment, I hesitate. What...what if they kill me? What if Lucy left them out so that I would die, and she be rid of me?
as if it were paper, picks at my skull with a crowbar, scratches at the places behind my eyes with
I decide that I don’t care whether I live or whether I die; only that the pain is gone, because I cannot stand it for a moment longer.
There’s water in the bathroom. Running will propel water to my head, but for now, I need these things in me as fast as possible. Dry-swallowing them, I lean forward onto to my feet, and lumber as fast as my legs will carry me into the bathroom.
an eagle’s talons. I cannot stand it. It’s agony. Someone get rid of the pain. Someone stop it. Someone kill it. Someone kill me.
I throw my head into the sink and wrap my lips around the nozzle of the tap as I turn it on as far as I can manage.
I drank as much fowl tasting warm water as I could, but even that was not much. I emerged from the sink, coughing and spluttering and ready to vomit.
The pain fades and I pass out.

‘Good morning, Elissa.’
Morning already?
‘You’ve been out for quite a while. In fact, you had fallen into a coma by the time we came to you.’
‘Seemed the thing to do.’ I murmur woozily.
‘Don’t be a smartass.’ He snaps. ‘You haven’t given us a reading for a week, and my employers are not pleased – not pleased at all. They blame these shortcomings on myself, but I feel the blame rests elsewhere.
‘Miss Stillman!’ Opening my eyes, I see he’s raised his head to call to Lucy Stillman. I know what he’s thinking; he thinks – knows – it’s her fault. Just as I do. ‘Miss Stillman, is the machine working?’
‘I can’t say with certain-’
‘But will it do what it was built to do?’ He snaps, impatiently. ‘Will it analyse her genetic code?’
‘Yes. And it will do so faster and more efficiently, but Vidic-’
‘You can perform all the necessary tweaks and adjustments after we have taken readings, Miss Stillman.’ I here find myself wondering if he hates her as much as I do. Does he see the same snake that I see when I look at her?
Admittedly, Warren Vidic is no saint, but he’s open and honest, and I appreciate that, even if he is a miserable jerk. Lucy is hiding something, though. I would stake my life on it.
‘What happened to the Anima?’ I ask, pushing myself to my feet.
‘It overloaded.’ Vidic answers. ‘We got what we wanted from that memory, and subsequently, needed to go back further. Unfortunately, the Anima suffered catastrophic failure, while you suddenly started screaming as you began suffering from what I assume were violent headaches.’
‘Vidic, we’re not getting any results from the name you gave.’ Lucy suddenly calls. ‘I’m scanning the sample DNA, but getting nothing.’
‘Get in the machine.’ He orders, and me, being weak as a baby at this moment, can do nothing if not oblige. I plod forward as he stalks out of the room with an air of immense importance and purpose.
The chamber as changed significantly in the past week. The floor that was one metal around the Anima is now transparent and, apparently, removable. Steam rises from beneath the horrible contraption, which itself looks the same on the surface, aside from the fact that the once imposing red lights now shine an ethereal blue.
The two near corners of the room are also railed off with a large number of computer panels kept behind thick panes of glass.
Still, I climb into the machine, and the visor, which is now little more than a curved piece of glass framed with chromed metal, curves over my face.
‘-you tried the name with an “i” mutation?’ Vidic wispers. ‘Oh, give it here. I’ll do it. Explain to the girl about the mark II.’
‘Um, yes. Okay.’ She speaks hesitantly; clearly afraid of him. So she should be. ‘In the new model, it is theorised that you will be immersed far more efficiently, with a much more vivid and controlled image in regards to what you see, hear, feel and so on. You should not experience any mental discomfort after going into the mark II, and so you can stay in there for much longer. Since the workings of the Anima have changed so much, we will, from now on, refer to it as either the mark II or the Animus.’
‘I think I have something! Stillman; quick!’ The woman nods and retreats out of my line of sight. Now, I am privy only to the ceiling.
‘The year 1192?’ She almost gasps it. Why is she so surprised? ‘That’s so much earlier than we originally expected.’
‘It is. Now send our girl there.’
I barely have time to think these words before I lose all consciousness, and once again, become the assassin...
Hassan

quote:

Originally posted by dacoolstas:
do you write stories for money? you should, you have a very "intense" style. Seriously, i could feel everything, everyword.

quote:

Originally posted by dacoolstas:
lol, sure. i will give you some room!

your way more diciplined then me, sometimes im to lazy to even feed myself. XD

quote:

‘Urgh.’ I need to get up. I know it, my body knows it, and I’m fairly sure that my bed knows it, too. Still, I’m tired. I need a good night’s sleep, and then some.
Of course, there are other things a woman needs.
I’m so pent up, and I know it so well. There are two things I can do to rectify that fact, but one is something I haven’t been in the mood to do since before I got here, and the other requires me waking the hell up!
‘Damn it, Elissa. Get up!’ I murmur to myself, but it’s not working; I want sleep. Sleep is nice; it’s the closest thing to an escape that I can get in this horrible place.
Taking that into account, let me ask again the same question I’ve asked so many times on so many mornings: where in Satan’s red sphincter am I?
Look at me; now I’ve come to making up expletives. Is that what they’ve reduced me to? Must be. Of course, when, day in, day out you’re being strapped into a mechanical dream machine named after the latin for something-subtly-related-to-help-make-these-people-sound-clever, people are bound to go a bit nutty.
That’s right, I went there.
How long have I been here, though? Wherever here is, of course. It must be more than a week, now, by my count. Then again, however, I did spend a noticeable amount of time unconscious because of the ‘Anima’.
And the memories come flooding back.
Oh god, I still have nightmares about the pain. Something like that makes childbirth look like child’s-play. At least I’m assuming so; if having children is that painful then I’m getting my tubes tied when I get the hell out of here.
If I get the hell out.
‘Girl, you smell like that guy at the freakin’ bus station.’ I mutter.
That does the trick. He smelled bad.
Holy god, I think I smiled. That hasn’t happened for a long time. Okay, up, Elissa, up. Time to try and be a little happier in this miserable place, under miserable circumstances.
Hmm. I guess I didn’t smile. Must have been the wind.
And there it goes again.
Okay, stop with the games; let’s get up.
I roll onto my left arm and push myself up; first to the elbow, and from there, I simply lean onto the gentle security of my soft...ahem.
The blood rushes to my head as I sway myself onto my feet, blinking profusely and trying to see my way through the mess of black and white sparkles.
I slap my hands to my face and wipe the sleep from it, almost gasping at the stiffness of my body, which, thank you very much, is still retaining the same cheerleader curves I’ve had since high school in spite of (or perhaps even because of) the awful food they feed me.
I swear, if there were rats in here, I doubt even they would eat it.
Lumbering slowly to the bathroom, I’m reminded of life before all of this, and I’m filled with feelings that are a strange mix of happiness and depression. By this I mean that it’s almost amusing to see how much situations can mirror themselves and yet never be the same; no matter where I am, I will always be the same old tired slob I always was when it comes to waking up and taking my morning shower.
And the depression? Well, the thought strikes me that maybe I will never live those old days again. Maybe I will spend the rest of my life in this horrible place. Maybe I will die here, and never see anyone I knew ever again.
Please don’t think like that. Please stop; I’ve cried enough here, and in
(now hassan you will suffer for what you have done oh god no please no)
that damned machine. Some of the things they’ve made me see really hurt, and when I refuse to see them, they threaten and beat me. Lucy doesn’t, though. She stays well away; hidden in the shadows. Go ahead and hide your smiles, you vile *****, because you sure as hell won’t be smiling when I take the skeletons out of your closet and find out what you’ve been thinking.
There it is; the shower. As dull and grey as everything else in here. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the room, there are sinks and towels and a security camera; everything a growing prison cell needs.
I sigh. It’s been the one thing keeping me out of this room as much as possible...but I can’t ignore it any longer; if not for my hygiene, then for what must be my deteriorating mental state, I need a shower.
Look at it this way, I tell myself; at least they won’t be the first people to see you naked. Yes, that’s right, Vidic; the person you’ve been calling an assassin all this time actually worked in strip clubs to get through college. Of course, you knew that already, didn’t you, you sardonic old *******?
I remember this one bartender guy, though. He was just...wow; brown hair, amazing eyes and for a bartender he had quite a bit of muscle on him, although he was still pretty skinny...well he looked and sounded a little like Nathan Fillion with a slightly middle-eastern twist. Sounds odd, I know, but still; he was a man I would have loved to have gotten to know a little better.
Unfortunately, I never really got to talking to him much beyond asking for drinks. Also, I doubt he saw much in me besides a girl who spent most of her time there taking her clothes off.
Speaking of which, I take special care to avoid noticing the cameras as I remove my hoodie and jeans; making it look natural is the easiest way to make it become natural after all, and that is just one of the many things I’ve been learning during my time here.
Now dressed only in my underwear, I turn on the shower; giving it ample time to warm up. The water smells refreshing and already I can’t wait to get in it and use the Abstergo owned brands of toiletries.
The undergarments I’m allowed are cheap and not particularly comfortable, so taking them off is surprisingly nice, although I suppose, considering how bad they stink that it’s something to be expected.
I put a hand in the shower’s stream to feel the heat, and by Christ it’s nice. Absolutely perfect. I don’t care if it’s poisoned or anything – in fact, at this point, I’d probably welcome it if it was – all I want is to feel the hot, fresh water running all over me. In the most natural, non-erotic way possible, of course.
I step in and it’s every bit as euphoric as I imagined. I actually close my eyes and let my head roll back with ecstasy as the feeling hits.
And then I put the thing to its intended purpose; relishing in rubbing clean skin, and wincing every time I touch one of the many, many bruises. Those people hit hard; I’m surprised I haven’t broken any bones.
I suppose I’ll have to just try and enjoy it as much as I can.

Twenty minutes have passed, and I’m finished. I’m getting good at that; telling the time without looking at a clock. I’m learning to keep track of time in my subconscious; hell only knows how.
The room is so full of steam that I can barely see the other end of it, but I don’t doubt that the security camera can see everything regardless of it.
Where the hell are my clothes?
Did someone come in here?
I can’t believe it. Security cameras? Fine; whatever. Some baby-napping scientists want to see me naked, then I don’t care – they ain’t the first and they had better not be the last – but taking my clothes away while I’m in the freaking shower? Do these people have absolutely no sense of freaking decency?
No point hollering. It’s what they want. Sick freaks. Maybe it was Lucy...or is she even the type for high school pranks? Probably.
Sick freaks.
I make my way over to the sink and grab some towels to dry off and cover up, and then I go to the main room to get some fresh clothes from the closet which, thank hell, is open.
And then, while pulling on my jeans, I hear it.
Quietened and muffled by the wall, I can hear them talking from the other room. Zipping up my fly, I press my ear to the cold metal and listen hard.
‘...she has yet to provide any solid results, and I am losing patience.’ I don’t recognize that voice...it’s hard and has a strong, almost military, American accent to it.
This time I do recognize the voice; it’s Vidic. ‘We have results; her ancestor
(i cant believe you thought you could beat me old friend now say goodbye)
had an abnormally long life before fathering a child; there are literally dozens of time periods in which he could have been in possession of the Piece, and we have narrowed it down significantly. We just need a little more time to pinpoint the exact moment that he gets rid of it, and it’s ours!’
‘I hope so, because we have sunk an awful lot of money into this project of yours that it’s almost starting to rival that we’re spending on the archaeologists.’
They just don’t fight Nazis quite as well as they used to, eh? I think, smugly.
‘No...we should definitely have results by the end of the week. I promise you.’
‘I hope that’s a promise that you can keep, Vidic. I really do.’ The man pauses, and then says, ‘We shall continue this conversation in five days, then. Goodbye.’
‘Going somewhere?’ Lucy...urgh. What are you doing there?
‘Yes.’ The man says after a long, sharp silence. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours, but I’m going to be late for a flight to Denver. I need to check up on the station there.’
Nobody said goodbye. That strikes me as quite odd, but it doesn’t matter; I’m more interested in finding out what this ‘Piece’ is I’m supposed to be finding for them...or that Hassan is supposed to be finding...or getting rid of.
It’s all a bit confusing.
Oh damn! I have another session in a bit! Quick; hoodie on! Dang it! Hoodie on!
‘I see you’ve had a shower.’ Vidic says as the door opens moments after my head pops out of the neck.
‘Yeah.’
‘ Well seeing how you’re all ready and refreshed, I think it’s time to get back in the animus.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes again!’ The man snaps, violently. ‘Now get in!’
‘And if I don’t?’
His eye twitches. ‘We’ve been over this, Miss Reynolds. There are numerous other options; we could bring men in to beat you again, we could go further than that if we really needed to, or, if push comes to shove, we could always chemically induce a coma, but that would take much longer and require that we spend more money on your...umm...welfare.
‘Now, get in the damn Animus!’
With no small annoyance, I leave the room and approach the Animus, where it just sits, staring at me with a sinister smile that makes me want to destroy it. ‘Lie on me.’ it grins. ’Give me the history of your family. Every dirty little detail! Give me everything!’
As I sit on it and make to lie down, I begin to wonder why I ever even respected Warren Vidic. The man is as cruel and vile as ever a man could be, but somehow I doubt he’s even the worst member of this corporation. He’s getting his hands dirty with me, after all; so there must be someone jerky enough to hire him.
The visor appears and, in the blink of an eye, I’m no longer Elissa.

quote:

I’d just like to state that I am male, straight, perfectly comfortable about that and that what I’m writing and have written in no way represents me. It just works here to be writing from a female perspective, for several reasons.
Just so we understand that.