Chapter Text
Sequence 1
Christmas eve, 2012, passed in a drunken blur for Shaun and Rebecca. The Solar Flare had been deflected, the world was saved – but at the cost of their friend, and leaving him to die was only the last of many regrets.
Shaun wondered how he could ever have thought of Desmond as a spoiled brat, after seeing how his father treated him. Rebecca regretted pushing Desmond into the Animus again and again, despite the damage it did to his mind. They had watched him grow, from runaway and unwilling experimental subject into a skilled and dedicated Assassin. Dedicated enough to give his life to save the world.
And they’d left him to it. By the time they were able to return to the Grand Temple, the place was crawling with Templars, and the only consolation was that they hadn’t been able to find anything either. Bill Miles, meanwhile, hadn’t left their safehouse or said more than a handful of words in the days since the Flare. Hence, drinking on Christmas eve.
Shaun and Rebecca stumbled through the door of the room they were sharing – and paused, instantly alert. There was no visible sign of an intruder, just air a little too fresh, from a window that shouldn’t be open. They traded glances and moved forward cautiously.
A sticky note had been placed on the desk. It read, I lived, bitches! A second note, tucked underneath the first, read, Me too, hoes!
***
The Grand Temple, like other Isu technology, was nearly unlimited in its powers. It had been designed to shield the planet from the Solar Flare, but it was capable of so much more, if its user willed it. Such as making sure he survived the ordeal unharmed.
Such as erasing all traces of Juno from the system, and resurrecting Clay Kaczmarek in her place.
Such as transporting them both away from the Temple before Abstergo descended on it.
And then … they were free.
They went and got shawarma, because Desmond had seen it in a movie just before everything went down.
***
Sequence 2
On Mother’s Day, 2013, Alix Miles received a card. This was more than a little alarming, since nobody was supposed to know where she was. The postmark was from Rome; inside was a generic Hallmark card. And tucked inside it was a Polaroid photo.
Any Assassin would recognise the scene: the statue of Altair under the villa at Monteriggioni. At Altair’s feet sat a figure which was almost his twin: the beaked hood hid most of his face, and a hidden blade gleamed at his wrist. Alix scrambled for her phone.
“Bill? Bill, Desmond sent a picture.”
“What? Is he all right? ”
Alix studied Desmond’s confident posture, his ease in the garb of the Brotherhood. Thriving, I’d say.”
“Good, that’s … good. Any sign of where?”
“Italy, but that was days ago. He’s probably in Australia by now.” Alix was so proud, Even at sixteen, if Desmond wanted to be in the wind, he would be. With the skills he had now, he was untrackable. And he had backup, someone he trusted to hold the camera.
“I’ll increase the reward for confirmed sightings,” Bill said.
“Hmm.”
***
“You know, you don’t have to follow me around,” Desmond said.
Clay looked at him like he was stupid. “Dude, you saved my life. And also the world, but who’s counting.” He didn’t pause his typing; piece by piece, he was scrubbing every mention of Desmond-the-terrorist from the Internet, replacing them with stories of a whistleblower being silenced.
“Yeah, well, you died for me. Twice, even.”
“And I’d do it again,” Clay declared, then cackled at Desmond’s expression. “You’re blushing!”
“Shut up. ”
(Clay was the next thing to a technowizard now, thanks to his sabbatical as Animus code. He led Rebecca on a merry chase of untraceable emails and spoofed links. And every so often, Shaun’s phone would ring, even if he’d changed his number, and Desmond would be on the other end, asking for some obscure piece of information. Neither of them mentioned any of it to Bill.)
***
Sequence 3
“What do you mean, the database is compromised,” Alan Rikkin demanded. The underling cringed and turned the monitor towards him.
“All copies of the Animus session in question have been replaced with, well, this.” The image was no historical location, but some sort of pastel-colored stage, on which a singer was belting out a song.
“Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down …”
Rikkin reached over and stopped the recording. “They’re all like this?”
“Yes, Sir. Even the most recent backups. We’re working on a secure way to access the offline backups.”
“You think whatever caused this is still active in our network?”
“We’re not taking any chances, Sir.”
“Get this fixed ASAP.”
More reports reached him throughout the day. Key text documents replaced with the script of Bee Movie. Facial recognition data replaced with cat pictures.
Abstergo was not having a good quarter. First, the repeated failures to retrieve Subject 17. Then, every Piece of Eden going inert fllowign the Solar Flare. And now this … farcical attack. He needed a drink.
Fortunately, one of his business contacts had invited him to a trendy bar this very evening. The bartender who served them had the fashion sense of a hipster, with a white knitted hat and tinted glasses that made his eyes look golden. His name tag read ‘Edward’; he looked vaguely familiar, but then Rikkin didn’t bother to memorise every server he saw.
“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
“I’d like to try your signature cocktail,” Carlson said.
“The same for me,” said Rikkin, who didn’t have a preference.
“Coming right up!” Edward wore a wrist brace on one arm, but it didn’t slow him down as he twirled bottles and poured liquor. Excessive showmanship, in Rikkin’s opinion, but that was popular in places like this.
“I call this the Tiger Lily.” Edwad presented a glass garnished with a twist of orange peel skewered on a red plastic cocktail sword. Carlson got the same, except tat his sword was blue. “It has notes of orange, anie and jasmine, all on a base of premium gin.”
It was a decent enough cocktail, and Rikkin settled in to drink and talk business. He ordered more of the bar’s signature cocktails, sampled a row of flavoured vodka shots, and tried what Carlson claimed was the best whiskey of all time (he’d had better).
Through the buzz of the alcohol, Rikkin was slow to notice the numbness in his fingers and toes. By the time he did, his breath was also labored. “Alan, are you ok?” Carlson asked.
“Urgmrgl …”
“Waiter! We need some help over here!”
Rikkin slumped over the table and couldn’t lift himself back up. A commotion erupted around him, calls for water, for an ambulance. As his vision dimmed, he thought he heard someone whisper, “Requiescat in pace.”
***
“Holy shit. The CEO of Abstergo looked you in the face and didn’t recognise you.”
“Hide in plain sight, right?” Desmond wiped off the contouring makeup and the concealer he’d used to hide his scar.
“And then you smiled at him and killed him in the middle of a crowded bar. And then finished your shift,” Clay continued.
“It would have looked weird if I just left. Besides, I had nothing to do with it. Some medications really don’t mix with alcohol.” The glass was long since washed, and the plastic sword which he’d coated with the drug was in a trash bin several blocks away.
“What were you going to do if Rikkin didn’t want a pretentious toy-sword cocktail?”
“I had my hidden blade on me,” Desmond shrugged. “Also, why do you get to be Grumpy Cat?”
“Admin privileges,” Clay responded. “Don’t you like being a tuxedo cat? I thought you were cute. Oh hey, they just filed his death certificate. And the result is,” He made a drumroll with his fingers. “Stroke, with a side of alcohol poisoning.” A satisfied smirk ghosted over Desmond’s lips.
***
It was Bill’s turn to receive an unexpected envelope. Inside were a newspaper clipping about Alan Rikkin’s death, and a feather dipped in red.
***
Sequence 4
Elisa and Roberto, initiates of the Spanish Brotherhood, had run into a small hitch in their mission. They had counted on the security guard at this gate to be bored and distracted – the guard on duty today, however, was stubbornly alert. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the gate and their window was closing.
They were having a tense discussion in hand signs when a tourist holding a map walked up to the security post. He was wearing a white hoodie and jeans, and he was talking to the guard in a mix of English and broken Spanish. Which was pretty funny, but the guard was also thoroughly distracted. ‘Let’s go.’
They slipped through the gate an around the corner. It was supposed to be a simple mission, retrieving a codex of genealogies from a church archive in Madrid before the Templars got their pas on it. The archive’s director was currently on a beach in Portugal, and they had scoped out the security cameras and sensors beforehand. Elisa and Roberto scrambled onto the roof of the target building, then inside through an access hatch, then realised that the director’s secretary had decided to put in a few extra hours. Her desk was also right next to the door of the secure vault.
“Now what?” hissed Elisa.
“Wait for her to take a nature break?” That could take hours, and the longer they were there, the more likely they were to get caught.
A car pulled up outside and the driver got out, carrying a parcel. He rang the doorbell, and the secretary stood up to let him in. The initiates didn’t hesitate. A spoofed keycard got them through the vault door, and they closed it behind them.
“Is it just me, or did that guy look kind of like the guy from before?”
“Not really. That was a tourist in a white hoodie, and this one’s a courier in a red hoodie. Stay focused.”
They had copied the manuscript’s inventory information before deleting it from the database. The auction records which had led them to it had likewise been erased. Elisa eased the book off its shelf and zipped it into a bag. Meanwhile, Roberto shifted the other items on the shelf to disguise the gap. There would be no trace that the manuscript had been here in the first place. Then they had to wait again for the secretary to take a break; ironically, the vault was the best hiding place in the building.
They snuck back to the roof, then traversed two other buildings and slid down a grapple line into an alley. A moment later, and they were just two more pedestrians on the street. A college student, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a nylon knapsack over his shoulder, brushed right past them with his eyes glued to his phone. Elisa blinked; there was something familiar about his gait. But she couldn’t draw attention by turning around.
Much later, after their debrief, Roberto found a note in his back pocket. “Sometimes you need to make your own luck – DM”
“Wait. DM as in Desmond Miles?” Elisa opened her laptop and found the message the Mentor had posted, offering a reward for any information. “Let’s see – 180 centimeters, late twenties, dark complexion – oh come on, today alone we ran into three guys who match that description.”
“Hold the fuck up. ”
***
Desmond pulled his reversible hoodie out of the knapsack and shook it out. “I love this thing.”
“Don’t say I never get you anything nice.” Clay was listening in on the Madrid cell through their phones. “Do they pass?”
“We’re not here to grade them, Clay. They’re shorthanded, like everyone else.”
“Yeah, I get it. Where to next, O wise leader?”
Desmond rolled his eyes. “I’m think it’s time to set up a bureau of our own.”
***
Sequence 5
A new bar had opened in the Franconi Family’s territory, so their boss sent some men to explain the way things worked on their turf. The bar owner showed them the door. Don Franconi sent another team of men with orders to be more insistent. The bar owner showed them the floor .
That team had returned bruised and battered, claiming that the proprietor of the Monterigioni had beaten them all single-handed. The Don snorted, docked their pay, and sent his best enforcer to have a pointed word with this Milo Desmonte.
And now Andretti was in the hospital with precise stab wounds in each shoulder. He was in no danger of dying, but he wouldn’t hold a weapon for months. That was the work of a professional . The question of what to do next was still on Don Franconi’s mind when he woke the next morning. He pulled on a robe and wandered into the kitchen – where the coffee machine was already running.
A person was perched on the kitchen island; he had gotten inside without triggering any sensors or alarms. He was dressed in a long white coat, his face hidden under a beaked hood – Franconi blanched. He remembered the legends passed down through generations, of the Angel of Death who had once stalked Italy.
The apparition turned to the coffee machine and poured a cup. “We’re going to have a little conversation, Mr Franconi. Coffee?”
Franconi clutched the cup with numb fingers. If this man wanted him dead, he already would be, right? “What – what do you want from me? Sir?”
“It’s pretty simple. Don’t mess with the Monteriggoni. Don’t mess with its people.” Franconi waited, but he didn’t continue.
“That’s all?”
“Yep. As long as you don’t start shit, I’ve got no problem with you. Come by for a drink sometime.”
Franconi nodded mutely.
“Good talk.”
The coffee machine beeped; Franconi startled and spun around. When he looked back, the assassin was gone.
***
The Monteriggioni was already a popular bar – that was what had caught Franconi’s attention in the first place. And an invitation like that was as good as an order. He took Andretti with him, both to watch his back, and because the enforcer, too, had encountered the white-cloaked killer.
“Welcome to the Monteriggioni!” For an instant, Franconi could have sworn it was the assassin’s voice. But the bartender’s accent was completely different, and he smiled pleasantly as they appoached. He gave Andretti a knowing look. “Are you ok? You look like you’re hurting.”
“Workplace injury,” Andretti replied cautiously. “I’m … grateful to be alive.”
“That’s a good attitude to have. What’ll it be?”
***
“The Mob sure tips well,” Clay commented while balancing their books.
“I think it’s their way of showing respect,” Desmond said. “Any of your ideas for income panning out?”
“I’m definitely going the indie game route. I’ve got a great concept already.”
“Oh? What’s it about?”
“A secret society of assassins fighting a battle across history for the freedom of humanity.”
“Dude, what the fuck ?”
“Hey, it’s the perfect cover. And maybe I’ll get to sue Abstergo for copyright infringement.”
***
Sequence 6
“Shaun, check this out.” Rebecca pointed at her laptop screen, which was open to a Yelp review, for a bar named the Monteriggioni. “The owner is listed as Milo Desmonte.”
“That’s as good as an invitation, I’d say. Where are we heading?”
“Toronto. You pack, I’ll get us tickets.” Rebecca spent the flight studying real estate listings in the area. Shaun didn’t comment on it. They arrived at midday, then had to settle into the existing Assassin safehouse and acquire a car. It was well into evening when they went looking for the Monteriggioni.
The bar was nestled in a bustling market district, among dozens of other eateries serving cuisines from around the world. The Monteriggioni was doing brisk business this evening. Italian pop music played on the stereo, the lighting was warm and the seats comfortable. A chalkboard announced, “Thought of the day: Orion’s belt is a huge waist of space.” And above the bar, disguised among other decorative carving, was the emblem of the Brotherhood.
Desmond stood behind the bar, laughing and chatting as he poured drinks. He was dressed in shades of charcoal, with a red sash at his waist, and if one knew what to look for, hidden blades under his sleeves. He looked up as the door opened, and broke into a grin. “Shaun! Becs! You made it!” He vaulted over the bar to hug them both. “Safety and peace, fratelli. ” He murmured.
“Safety and peace,” Shaun replied. It was one thing to chase rumors of Desmond’s exploits, another to see him, healthy, happy and secure in his calling.
“C’mon, I saved you seats.” Desmond herded them over to the bar. “I promised I’d pour you each a drink, didn’t I? First one’s on the house, so what’ll it be?”
Was this what it should feel like, to be welcomed at a Mentor’s table? “Whatever you recommend, Desmond.”
“Same,” Rebecca said.
“All right, then.” Shaun received an excellent whiskey on the rocks, while Rebecca ended up with some sort of blue cocktail. They sipped their drinks while Desmond made a round of the other patrons. A dozen languages were being spoken, with as many nationalities present. Desmond had a smile and a quip for each of them (“The only GMO around here is me,” he told one customer with a wink.) Eventually Desmond came back around to their end of the bar with one of his staff in tow. “Hey, guys, this is Sarindar, she’s one of my novices.”
“Novice bartender, or the other thing?”
“Yes.”
Shaun wondered if Desmond even realised what he was doing. “Diverse crowd you have here.”
“I know, right? They say New York is cosmopolitan, but man, it’s like the whole world is here in Toronto.”
“Appropriate,” Shaun commented. “The city’s name comes from an indigenous word meaning ‘meeting place’.”
“That’s so cool,” said Desmond. “Are you two in town for long?”
“As long as you’ll have us,” Shaun said.
“We’d like to join your team,” Rebecca added. “Can’t let Clay have all the fun.” Her phone chimed with a text message: [I heard that.]
Desmond’s eyes gleamed gold. “Stay until closing. Then we’ll talk.”
The evening wore on comfortably. A while later, Clay emerged from a back room to join them – alive and in the flesh – while they couldn’t discuss any serious business in the open, it was a joy and a miracle to be able to chat with him.
Once the bar closed in the wee hours, Desmond led them upstairs to a flat; he vanished into another room, and returned minutes later wearing the cloak and hood of a Master Assassin. Both Shaun and Rebecca instinctively straightened.
“I figure this discussion calls for formal dress. Are you two sure about this? I’m pretty sure my father won’t like it.”
“With all due respect,” said Shaun, “Bill Miles can get stuffed.”
“Yeah, we’ve been through a lot together, and we want to support you,” Rebecca said.
“In that case, welcome aboard,” said Desmond. “And I know Clay will appreciate the backup.”
“You have no idea ,” said Clay. “The bullshit this dude gets up to, I swear to God.”
“We know, ” Rebecca replied.
“Really feeling the respect here, guys.” Desmond reached into a cabinet and produced a dusty bottle and four glasses. Shaun noted the date handwritten on the label.
“Is that – ?”
“One of Ezio’s own vintages, yeah. Don’t ask me how it’s survived this long.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Boy, have they ever.” Desmond poured them each a glass.
“What kind of toast do you even say at a time like this?”
“How about this,” Desmond said seriously. “Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember...”
“Nothing is true, ” they answered.
“Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember...”
“Everything is permitted. ”
“We work in the dark to serve the light – ”
“We are Assassins. ”