They know they are going to lose their minds.

No, they are sure they never smelled the thick, winter woods, numb toes and fingers, small puffs of breath. Breathe.

It smells of parchment, no, it is the dust from all the old scrolls clogging up in their nose, no.

No, wrong. The harsh sun burns into their backs despite the protecting of their white clothing. A fog of dirt clouds their vision. Clothes caked with sweat, clinging to their skin.

No. Decorated walls, red plated roofs, beautiful flowered balconies, and laughing cheering woman. Cobblestone streets and long beaked medicine men.

No. Wasn’t it the overwhelming buildings? Wasn’t the massive, apathetic crowd their privacy, their cloak? Since when did they have a fourth finger?

Mangling, disorienting. The result of the four is destined to be a crumbling piece of work. They all conclude they aren't individuals anymore.

They try to keep their minds and souls to themselves, but it seeps into each other. One body isn’t meant to hold four hostile, conflicting personas. The body only belongs to one of them, and the rest left in pondering about what to do.

Dissatisfaction. The three thought they were dead. They are, in some sense. Their lives ended, their sagas spirals into a close. Although, they didn’t think their afterlife would be this… unsettling.

Sure, some type of hell could be worse; the three had done horrible things as they have lived. At least, that would have been a more reasonable punishment and afterlife. Yet, living in their descendant’s subconscious? That is, in Desmond’s words, f***ed up.

The three couldn’t remember their lives past their glory days. All fragments of memories lost between each other.

True, they are all stubborn. They refuse to submit to their inevitable fate, dominating control of his body in intervals, or as long as possible. No, but they grudgingly care for the owner to a degree. He is carrying their lineage.

Desmond genuinely desires to take life as it is. He didn’t think things through. He dashes through the majority of his life swinging with opportunities, running in the midst of his fears. He smiles and jokes and cackles, avoiding that lingering doubt in the back of his head. He did not desire to inherit his family’s lineage and responsibilities. He hates it. He hates the fact he could not have anything for himself.

Ironically, now he literally has nothing for himself.

They are here. They didn’t want this for him, and more importantly, for themselves. Blame the Templars. Blame the Assassins. Screw both of them.

Usually they aren’t this hot-tempered. Perhaps old age doesn’t get rid of vehement emotion. Or their descendant rubs off on all of them a bit more than they rub off on him.

“Maybe these grumpy old men should keep their oh-so-tragic pasts to themselves. You know, instead of dragging their beloved descendent into their thought process.”

“Be quiet.”

“Whatever, grandpas. May we focus on eating food instead of reminiscing old memories that doesn’t help us at any moment?”

Desmond devours the greasy burger with vigor. He talked, spitting bits of meat everywhere. “Why do you guys have to be so… stoic?”

“You know we have to take this situation seriously.”

“Eating?”

“Desmond.”

“Okay, I know, but at least, let whatever this is last. Before we all go insane, or whatever the hell.”

“Should we research more? There must be something to solve this.”

Desmond waved a fry around before shoving it into his mouth. “We already tried researching. There’s nothing I can do to get you in some separate body or something. Well, unless I kick the bucket or something.”

“That’s not an option.”

“It technically is. Lucky for you guys, I’m really not feeling it.”

“Good.”

“Just saying, why don’t we, I don’t know, accept this?” Desmond leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “For now at least? Nothing horrifying happened to us yet. We’re under the radar from the Templar and Assassin’s grabby hands, so we don’t have that much to stress about anymore. This isn’t that bad.”

“You’re lying through your teeth.”

“Okay, maybe I’m not alright with this, but that doesn’t mean we can try to some extent? With all this crap?”

“We won't promise anything.”

“That's alright with me.”

Desmond takes another sip of his coke, wipes his oily fingers on a napkin, and closes his eyes. A quick nap will suffice.