Chapter Text
To breathe again was a surprise. Altair woke to golden light; it cleared in a moment and left him standing on a rooftop in a city he didn’t know. An unconscious man lay at his feet. Across from him, another man in robe and beaked hood, looking as confused as Altair was.
“Brother,” he said cautiously.
“Brother,” Altair replied with a nod. The style of robe was unfamiliar, but the man glowed blue to his Sight. “I am known as Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.”
“Ah. Mentor.” The other Assassin offered a bow. “My name is Ezio Auditore da Firenze. I, too, was mentor of the Brotherhood in my time – I was born in 1459.”
Altair tilted his head. “Then the question is not only where we are, but when.”
Ezio looked around them. “I think this is Rome – but not the Rome I know. I suspect some trick of the Precursors.”
No doubt. Altair had already noted other oddities, such as the language they were speaking: neither Arabic nor Latin, but it seemed to come naturally to them both. “Perhaps our neighbor can tell us more.” He crouched to examine the third man, who groaned and stirred.
“Huh? ... Why am I alive?”
“That is an alarming question, my friend,” Ezio said. The man blinked at him.
“Oh hey, Ezio – ” He surged upright. “What the ever-loving fuck?”
“A question on all of our minds,” Altair commented. “What is your name?”
“I’m Clay. Clay Kaczmarek, Mentors.” he saluted, hand to chest; another brother, then. Altair nodded in greeting. Ezio said,
“Well met, Clay. Do you know where we are?”
Clay stood and turned a slow circle. “... Yeah, I know. See that building?” He pointed.
Ezio’s eyes flashed gold as he used his Sight. “That is a lot of red.”
“I died in that building,” Clay said.
“How long had you been an Assassin?” Ezio asked softly.
“About four months.”
“Four months? You are a Novice,” Altair hissed, outraged. What Master Assassin would allow a Novice near such a den of enemies? His gaze met Ezio’s, and they were in agreement: there would be blood shed for this. “We must find shelter. And resources.”
“And clothes,” Clay put in. “If this is still 2012, neither of you are going to blend in like that. There’s supposed to be an Assassin safehouse around, but who knows if it’s secure, since my backup was a fucking turncoat.”
Every phrase from Clay’s mouth was more alarming. Altair breathed away his anger. “The Eagle’s Sight will guide us. Have you the Sight, Novice?”
“Not yet. I mean, I’m apparently Ezio’s descendant so I should be able to, but I didn’t get the chance.”
“You have a chance now,” Ezio said, a hint of roughness in his voice.
“I have noticed a minor handicap, however.” Altair held up his left hand, showing all his fingers intact.
“Ah.” Ezio unbuckled one of his two bracers and offered it. “Please, wear this.”
Altair donned it in place of his own and flexed his wrist to extend the blade. “Fine steel – the action is smooth also. I will bear this blade with honor, brother.”
“I’m feeling a little underdressed, not gonna lie,” said Clay.
With so many enemies nearby, the Novice should at least be armed. Altair took one of the daggers from his belt and held it out. “You will carry this.” Clay accepted it with an awed look. What sort of reputation had Altair gained, these last eight hundred years?
***
A destination picked out in gold, they moved out across the rooftops, pausing along the way to observe the streets below.
“Are we not going to talk about how we can all understand each other?”
“We will secure our position first. I have many questions also.” This place was strange, yes, but it was a consistent strangeness, one built by human hands. Great quantities of metal and glass, writing absolutely everywhere, as overwhelming as hawkers in a market – and to much the same purpose, it appeared – carriages that ran without horses but with much noise and smoke. A great beast of a carriage, supported and guided by rails of steel.
“What are these wires, that they glow red to the Sight?” Ezio asked.
“They’ve got lightning running through them like water through a pipe,” Clay explained. “Touch one and you’ll get zapped – especially the ones for the railroad, the trains take a lot of juice.”
It was calming, that such behemoths of machinery were named with such plain terms as ‘trains’ on a ‘rail road.’ Understanding would come in time. Ezio, who seemed more talkative than Altair ever was, asked Clay,
“How did you discover that you are my descendant? Is genealogy much practiced in this day and age?”
“Some people do. There are blood tests you can do to see who’s related to who.” Clay paused, lost in thought. “It was the Templars who figured out who I was. You should know. They built a machine that can read the memories of a person’s ancestors. Three guesses what they wanted with it.”
“The Apple of Eden,” Ezio growled. “Did they learn its location?”
“Nope. I didn’t let them.” Clay rubbed his wrist in a very telling gesture. And where were his Masters, that a Novice was faced with such a choice? Altair laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You have great courage, Clay Kaczmarek.”
Clay shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I’m just nuts. Let’s keep going.”
***
The safehouse was simple to identify by its occupants: one blue, one blue-gold, and one crimson. “Lucy,” Clay muttered grimly. “Let me do the talking to start with, all right? She’s probably planted listening devices all over the place.”
Altair and Ezio both nodded; Clay knew this land and people. But they would be right at their Novice’s back.
Clay strode in boldly. “Surprise, motherfuckers!”
Blue, sitting at a desk, and to her credit, reaching for a weapon. Blue-gold, blinking dazedly on some sort of chair. Red, backed against a wall, pale with shock. “Oh hey, Becs,” Clay addressed Blue. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”
“What – Clay – what?” Her eyes flicked between Clay and the Assassins at his back.
“Short version, the Isu are back on their bullshit.” Altair kept his ears on the conversation while his Sight sought those ‘listening devices’ – tiny things, sparkling gold to his eyes. He pried one out and set it on the desk; Becs’s face shifted from surprise to anger. She poured water into a cup and dropped the device in.
“You – but – you – this is impossible,” Red stammered. “You killed yourself!”
“Mhmm. And why’d I do that, Lucy?” Altair dropped two more listening devices into the cup. Blue-gold blinked.
“Oh. You’re ...”
“Clay Kaczmarek, subject 16.”
“Desmond Miles, subject 17.” They shook hands. Desmond continued, “Thanks for the notes.”
“... Yeah, no problem.” Their Novice had little practice accepting praise, it seemed.
Ezio’s eyebrows went up at Desmond’s name, and he covered his surprise by saying, “No need to ask whose descendant this one is.”
Indeed not; he was all but Altair’s twin. Altair slipped closer. “Habibi, are you well?”
“I don’t even know anymore ... Altair? Are you really ...?” His eyes shimmered gold as he sought proof – and then his head whipped around. “Lucy? What the fuck?”
“What?” said Becs.
“She just flipped from blue to red, what gives?”
Again to her credit, Becs raised her weapon, this time pointed at Lucy. “I’m guessing it’s you, Des. Up to now, you never thought of yourself as an Assassin, so our enemies wouldn’t always be your enemies. And that means Lucy’s been a traitor this whole time.”
Lucy, still pale, attempted to defend herself. “Des, you rejected the Assassins too!”
“I was sixteen, and all Assassin meant to me was a father who put scars on me.” (Altair suppressed a growl.)
“You should get it, then. Bill Miles – ”
“Is an asshole, yeah. But these three? I’d be honored to call them brothers.” What had he seen of their lives, Altair wondered, to speak with such respect?
“You’d put me on their level?” asked Clay.
“Dude, you used your last brain cell and your life’s blood to leave those messages. I’m not about to forget that.” (Altair was going to find a good strong tower, with thick walls, where both of his Novices could rest.)
Lucy protested, “You don’t know the terrible things I’ve seen people do throughout history – ”
“That doesn’t make the Templars right,” Desmond told her.
“Yeah, Lucy,” Clay put in, “I thought you went to college. This is, like, first day of philosophy class stuff.”
Lucy didn’t have the chance to respond; she keeled over with one of Ezio’s darts in her shoulder. “Knockout drug,” he murmured, catching her. “Have you any cord in this place?”
“I think there’s some duct tape,” Becs said faintly. Ezio laid Lucy down and vanished out the door. There was a moment of stillness as they each waited for another to speak.
“Habibi, is this your whole group?”
Desmond shook his head. “There’s Shaun. Where is he, anyway?”
“He went to get food. I’ll ... just text him to get extra.” Becs took out a small device and poked at it. Curious, Altair moved to look over her shoulder; she was writing a message by tapping on letters. ‘Had some friends drop by, can you get more lunch.’ And then another symbol to send it.
“Convenient,” he mused, which made Becs squeak and jump. “Can such messages be intercepted?”
“Uh ... yes, sir. And tracked, too, if you’re not careful.” So, similar problems to the means of communication he knew – though much faster, since a reply appeared on the device in moments. ‘I hope they like Lebanese.’ Altair made a note to obtain such a device for himself as soon as possible.
Ezio dropped another handful of listening devices in the water cup, which made Becs jump again. Clay snickered at her. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Miss?”
“Rebecca Crane, sir.”
Ezio proceeded to truss up Lucy with the rope he had found. Altair returned to his descendant’s side. Desmond was too thin, too tired; if he had understood his words to Clay, he had also recently been in Templar hands. Nor had he missed that Desmond did not count Rebecca among his kin.
“We’re going to have to move, aren’t we?” Desmond mumbled in familiar Arabic.
“It would be wise,” Altair replied in the same tongue.
“I was a bartender,” Desmond complained. “I was good at it.”
“Of course you were.” Desmond gave him a surprised look. “You are my descendant. I am sure that you can master any skill you care to.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Everything is permitted.” That made Desmond giggle – a very small giggle, and a little hysterical, but he would count it as success.
***
The final member of the Assassin team arrived carrying bags of food, and stopped short in the doorway at the sight of Altair sitting beside Desmond. “What in the blazes?”
Rebecca scrubbed her face. “I don’t know either, but I think they really are who they look like.”
Any further questions were interrupted by a growl – from Altair’s stomach. “Your pardon, I have not eaten in eight hundred years.”