This is a bad dream, he thought. Too much heavy food before sleep, or maybe the mild sedative for the Animus had been a tad too high-- whatever it was, Desmond was sure he had most certainly not heard that right. Leonardo's Workshop? (The familiarity of those words strung together leaves a weird sort of ache in a way, like a phantom limb.) Malik's face? (If it was even him. He's an Assassin, that much is certain-- or, at least, the missing finger is a sign.) This entire situation? Liminal space was a big enough pill to swallow. This was asking a bit much.

It showed, too. A little, anyways. Desmond's shoulders were slightly tensed and his eyes had narrowed just a tad. Enough to form a slight scowl. He has enough tell-tale signs. Who else wears read and white hoods, right?

"Look, just-- hold on a second," Desmond said, carefully, and gestured in front of him as if he were beckoning Malik to sit back down. "I just got here. It wasn't exactly a great ride to Fun Arts and Crafts Land."