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berkchuu · 1 year

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The Agreement

Viktor x Fem. Reader

I've literally never posted on her rip. This is just a little fanfic I thought of a while ago!

Series Synopsis: As your country's ambassador, you've been sent to Piltover to oversee some of their newfound success. While trying to create good relations with Piltover, you meet some very interesting characters along the way; one in particle truly catches your eye. What will happen when ill intentions, manipulation, love, and magic come head to head?

Chapter Synopsis: You've arrived at Piltover! Have fun doing ambassador shit.

Chapter 1

Arrival

“Shit…” I hissed.

I stumbled onto my feet as the boat rocked. We’d been traveling for 3 days now. I swayed back and forth and couldn’t help myself from getting a little nauseous.

After I got myself stable, I smoothed the black cotton that hugged my body with my equally black leather-gloved hands. I checked my (H/C) hair making sure it was in perfect condition. Today I’m going to the University of Piltover. I am here as an ambassador of my country, Toriana. Toriana wanted to talk about meticulous little things with Piltover. We’d also been noticing their conflict with Zaun. We could spare a few men and women to help their cause but for a price of course.

“On your feet boys,” I called out to the soldiers accompanying me, “we have a job to do. Let’s do it perfectly as our King and Queen expect.”

“Yes, Mrs. (L/N). Captain Rhames and I will be by your side while the other 4 stay at a distance.” Corporal Desmond said as he put his hand on his heart.

I smile as I make my way out to the top of the boat. Smelling the fresh air gave me a sense of excitement. That wasn’t the only thing to excite me, though. Piltover was magnificent. The buildings were so unique and interesting. I gasped when I saw where the hextech ships were coming and going. The city was lined with shimmering glass and life. I couldn’t believe how unorganized it looked. I couldn’t help but giggle. Piltover was very different from Toriana. Toriana prided itself on being perfect and organized. This was not the case for Piltover. I had to admit, there was some type of order to this bustling city. Of course, I have to keep in mind that Toriana is a country with tightly ruled cities. The country of Valoran, where Piltover is a city, is more vast and random. Each city feels like a completely different world.

I shook my head and made my way off the boat. I looked around to see many Piltover guards searching our boat and my men.

“Excuse me, ma’am, we must do a protocol check on you,” I stopped and looked up at a man with sleek brown hair with some gray in it. He had an interesting-looking mustache that I couldn’t help but stare at, “Please state your full name, where you come from, and your intentions here.”

“(Your full name), I am an ambassador from the country Toriana. I’m here to talk relations with Piltover.” I stated.

“I’m commander Marcus. It’s lovely to have you here. I can escort you to your destination.” He gave me a smirk and bowed slightly, classy.

“No, that’s alright. My men and I can find our way.” I smiled and tried to make my way past him.

Once my men were searched, we went on our way. We made our way to the University, trying not to get dirty from the overabundance of people in the streets. This will get hard to get used to. If relations go well, my duty is to live here to ensure things stay that way. I’m not looking forward to that. The sun was hot. Too hot. Maybe it wasn’t a smart idea to wear all black. It’s uniform, though.

Finally, after walking for a good minute, I made it to the university. Inside was stunning. I was shocked. This place is organized. After gazing around for a few seconds, I made my way to the big map of the uni. I traced my fingers along it to try and find where we needed to go. I needed to find Mr. Heimerdinger's office.

“You must be the ambassador from Toriana!” I heard someone exclaim from behind me. “Oh, are you looking for somewhere? I can help show you around!”

I spun around to see a pretty girl in a lab jacket staring at me.

“Oh yes, I’m (Y/N), pleased to meet you. And you are?” I smiled.

“Sky! I work as a scientist. I’m part of Mr. Heimerdingers' team. He told me to find you as soon as I could. This way, miss.” She spun around excitedly and started up some stairs until she was stopped.

“Excuse me, Ms. Young, I’ll take them. Heimerdinger wants you to go make sure their rooms are prepared.” A broad man smiled and motioned her away.

“Hello, Ms. (Y/N) was it? I’m Jayce, head scientist and creator of Hextech. I’ll show you to Heimerdinger.” He gestured for me to follow him. It took me a few seconds to recover. I was not expecting a scientist to be that well-defined. I cleared my throat and went to walk next to him.

“So, you invented Hextech?” I questioned him as we walked.

“Yes, I had help, of course. My partner Viktor and I have been working endlessly on it.” He moved his body as he passionately talked about his work. I couldn’t help but giggle.

“You’ve made some incredible things at such a young age. It must be tiring.” I inquired.

“Yes, but it's worth it to keep Piltover safe.” He stuck his head up triumphantly.

“Oh, how noble!” I giggled.

“Okay, noted, Torians have a sense of humor…” He giggled, “So, are you coming to hear my speech tonight for progress day? You’ll get to see Hextexh up close!” He smiled.

“Progress Day? Hm… that must be why I meet with the council tomorrow morning.” I noted to myself.

“Oh, we’re here! Find me during the dinner after my speech. We can talk some more. You must tell me all about Toriana.” He waved goodbye and headed down the long hallway.

I sighed. What an annoying man. Are all the people patriotic? That will get old very fast. With that in mind, I knocked and opened the door to Heimerdinger's office. I have met him once before so I was, prepared to look down to make sure I didn’t step on him

“Oh (Y/N)! You’re here! Wonderful.” I saw a tuff of fluf appear from behind a desk, “You have not changed a bit, my dear! Still perfect as ever.” Heimerdinger smiled as he gestured me towards a seat in front of his desk. When he stopped me, I began to come forward with my men in tow.

“Oh, they can be escorted to their rooms. I’d just like to speak to you.”

“Of course, Mr. Heimerdinger.” I motioned my men away as I sat down.

“But Ms. (L/N), I am supposed to be with you at all times.” Corporal Desmond protested.

“I will be fine, Corporal. Go to your room. Don’t make me say it's an order.” With that, they left, and it was just me and Heimerdinger.

“Let’s talk, my dear. Today’s a big day for Piltover! It’s Progress Day! I want you to enjoy yourself. We can talk about relations tomorrow. I want you to meet everyone and see our great city for yourself. Then you can make your statements to the Council tomorrow.” Heimerdinger beamed with enthusiasm.

“Of course, Mr. Heimerdinger. Shall I change it into something more formal? This sounds like a quite…elegant night.”

“Yes. I want you to wear something that makes it known where you’re from. So you won’t blend in as much. Now then, that’s all I’d like to discuss. Ms. Young is outside my door waiting to escort you to your room. I’ll see you later (Y/N)!” He rolled back his chair and walked me to his door.

“See you soon, sir.” I smiled and waved as I walked out.

The walk to my room was silent. Sky was not as vibrant as the last time I saw her. I sensed something was up. Once we got to my room, I turned and thanked her. She just mumbled a little, 'you're welcome,' and walked away. I sighed at the rude gesture and went into my room. It wasn't much. Just a bed with a wardrobe and mirror. There was a bathroom on my left and a small kitchenette on my right. It smelled of must. Gross. My stuff was already in my bag on the bed. I have a long night ahead of me, I thought. I made my way and started to get ready for this "Progress Day."

#viktor arcane x you #arcane #viktor #viktor arcane #jayce arcane #jayce talis #jayce #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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noras-ac-shenanigans · 1 year

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Assassins Creed/Stargate

crossover snippets

Again inspired by Esama on AO3, I just have a few bits of a story I wrote but don’t have the plot/motivation to finish. So on the low chance anyone wants to take what I’ve already written and use it, feel free! Just please credit me for the parts I’ve done and let me know so I can read it!

Speech Guide:

“Normal Speech”

*Goa-uld Speech*

‘Thought’

“Telepathy”

>Non-English language<

//Radio//

——————————————————————————

Desmond... was so utterly screwed.

Not like when he’d first run away and realized he had about 70 miles between him and anywhere he could find a ride.

Not like when he made it to a city and discovered that getting a job was a lot harder without any kind of ID than he’d thought it’d be.

Not even when he had to stitch up a stab wound on his own leg from an attempted mugging because there were no clinics and hospitals would want his records.

No, this was so much more screwed that he was pretty sure only the poor schmucks before him had gotten it worse. Or better, maybe, since at least the freaky alien brain snake that got shoved into their mouths either killed them right away or allowed them to take an ‘alternative exit’ because they weren’t cowards like him. Clay had grabbed the first sharp object he’d known would do the job and just started slashing himself up so much that nothing these assholes could do would save him, it hurt but not as much, please, make it stop! MaKe IT SToP!!

Desmond jolted off the bed with a gasp, the phantom feeling of choking and burning interrupted by the pain of landing on the floor, hard, and shit, yeah, that hurt.

Groaning, he shoved himself stubbornly to his feet, leaning back a bit against the bed when the world kinda... swayed, or, blurred, or both, before he felt something flex in the muscles along his neck and the pain and dizziness and the previously-unnoticed nausea went away. A gust of air escaped him as he let himself sag down onto the edge of the bed, relief temporarily causing him to forget about his situation.

“Hello, Young One.”

Aaaaaand there goes the nice fuzzy feeling. Desmond’s eyes widen in shock as he springs to his feet to spin in a circle, scanning the room for the speaker, or at least an intercom.

Nothing.

‘Greeeeaaaat. Going nuts already. Even the worst of them got at least a few days before they lost it.’

Amusement.

“You are not going crazy, Desmond. You are just the first to have pure enough genetics for me to properly communicate.”

‘Uhhh, what?!’

Fond Exasperation

“I can see you haven’t had time to process everything yet. Please, lay back down, and I will explain.”

Desmond hesitated, but... really, even if this was all in his head, at least it was something to distract from why he was there, what these nut jobs would do to him...

Desmond flopped back onto the bed, face hidden in the pillow to keep the not-so-hidden cameras from seeing his reactions. He wasn’t sure of much, but he did know that none of the others had heard a voice like this one. Given the lengths they went through to try to get info out of their previous ‘Subjects’, Desmond didn’t want them to figure out he wasn’t going batshit just yet.

A chuckle went through his head (yeah, not weird at all) before the voice started up again. It had a very... strange accent, like someone couldn’t decide on one and just went with all of them instead. It wavered between, with a few he recognized as middle eastern and Italian and maybe a bitta Russian occasionally too. It was just weird, okay, he didn’t need to be analyzing a probably-hallucinated voice in his brain!

“Ah, yes. You will be very entertaining to work with, won’t you, Desmond? And I am real, by the way. I sound like that because I am actually speaking to you in every language I have ever learned simultaneously, and I am essentially uploading them into your mind, where it is automatically translated into a language you understand; hence, English with many accents.”

‘... Huh. And... I can hear you when the others couldn’t... why?’

Sorrow. Guilt.

“I was forced into them as I was into you, but I was only bred to Bond with those who possess the same genes as my first Host. The others were of Bonded lines, yes, but belonging to other Ashraktyl. You, however, are a direct descendant of my Bonded bloodline, while they were descended from others. Clay was close, but one of your common ancestors procreated with someone who had a genetic disease, which, essentially, damaged it too much in their descendants for me to Bond. It was close enough for me to... ease his pain, at least. When he... succeeded in his escape.”

‘Well that’s definitely an accurate way to put that, at least.’

A sad chuckle.

‘Wait, so, lemme get this straight here: You are an alien parasite/snake?’

Amusement.

“Yes, I came from a different planet.”

‘Okay. And you’re able to get... inside of people and, what, collect their memories? Then share all the ones you’ve collected?’

Amused Sigh.

“Close enough, I suppose. If you allow me, I can... share my story, give you a brief history of my kind. It would include an explanation as to why you were taken, as well. Such a- well, the most accurate word is download, I suppose, will take a while, however, in order to avoid overloading your brain.”

Desmond thought about it for about three seconds before deciding.

‘Screw it, I’ve got nothing better to do and if I look like I’m unconscious or going nuts they’ll leave me alone, right? So go for it, I guess. Any ‘side effects may includes’ I should know about first?’

Another laugh.

“This will take a few hours, so make sure you’re comfortable. And while doing this, we will be connected, as if one being. My experiences will seem as if they are yours: you will know all my thoughts and feelings. It will fade after I ‘disconnect’, but... it will be an intense experience. Are you ready?”

Desmond wiggled around a bit to make sure nothing would fall asleep, then tried sending a sort of mental nod. The alien (seriously what was his life?!) send a nod back, and then... well, his head kinda went staticky, his hearing faded out, and oop, there goes his body, that’s super freaky, he can’t move or feel or-

It was warm. Cramped a bit, yes, with so many others in the tank with him, but in a comfortable way; he and his siblings all nestled together, speaking in clicks and squeaks and body language. Soaking up nutrients from the water, a generator keeping them healthy and half-asleep to make the time pass more quickly. And it was much time. It wouldn’t be until after most of them had perished, after the survivors had been found and freed, given Hosts, researched their new world’s history that they would discover their Queen was 800 years dead. That Egeria, in the days before Ra had come for her, had given life to one final brood. They were not Tok’ra, as their elder siblings were. They were Ashraktyl: Assassin Liberators.

While the Tok’ra were meant to fight in the open, to instigate rebellions and find allies and plant spies, the Ashraktyl were made to be invisible. They would allow their elders to form alliances, build safe havens. And then they would be freed. Would find Hosts, work from the shadows, kill without being seen. Weaken the Goa-uld while the Tok’ra held their attentions elsewhere.

But the elder siblings who had been told of them, the ones given life and hosts before Egeria had started on them at all, were lost. Killed, while attempting to retrieve their hidden stasis tank on a planet beyond the System Lord’s control. And so they were forgotten, hidden beneath the earth, beneath what would become the Masyaf stronghold.

It was a human named Al Mualim who finally dug up their hidden chamber, in the year 1170. He was a descendant of a Tok’ra’s host, had been told the tales that had been passed down for generations. He had just left the Templars for good, become Mentor of the Hashashins, was building his forces in order to strike back against those who would destroy the free will the Tok’ra had fought so hard to give humanity. He found them volunteers, Assassins who were the best and brightest of their Brotherhood, who had children who were to follow in their footsteps.

Egeria, in her wisdom, had known that the type of killing they would do would take its toll. Known how dangerous their missions would be, and what would happen should they lose their way. Some of her Tok’ra, despite their vows, would still steal Hosts to save their own lives. She had not known before, but she did by the end.

So she had altered them, shifted genes and DNA so that they would be bound to one Bloodline, to the genes of the first Host they took. So that they may only live if the Line remained unbroken, which required the Ashraktyl to remain dormant so that their Host may procreate successfully; thus ensuring that the Host retained their free will, that they had a true partnership.

He became Bonded to a young man named Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, whom they together discovered was of a very unique Bloodline already, a descendant of an offshoot sect of the Ancients that called themselves Isu: the very species that originally created and enslaved humans, before the Solar Flare killed them off and the Goa’uld later came to take their place as ‘gods’. It gave them greater Gifts, allowed them to tell friend from foe, to track targets from high above and through layers of earth and stone.

They flourished, grew, became the best of the best, and his dearest friend- his brother, gave him his first name.

Creed, was the closest English translation. For that is what he was: a promise, a religion, a purpose. A reason to keep fighting, even as his remaining siblings fell one by one: three in failed Bondings, seven on missions, and one to a trap that the Goa’uld left behind. By the time of Umar’s final mission, in August of 1176, out of the hundreds that Egeria had spawned... only Creed remained.

And then there was the siege, Sultan Salāḥ ad-Dīn, the truce, and Umar sacrificing himself. He explained gently to Altair that his time had come early, that Creed needed a safe place to go, ignoring his Bond-brothers screams of denial as he used their shared knowledge to force Creed out, giving him no where to go but his willing, 11 year old son. The last either of them saw him, he was smiling sadly, hand on their head, promising them that he would be with them always in spirit. Then he was gone.

Creed would never risk his brother’s son, not even with his Gifts and the Ashraktyl’s ability to enhance and improve and heal. So he sat quietly in the background of his mind, whispered encouragement and advice, shared memories and skills. He protected Altair, until he became too old, to stubborn, and then they began to go out, to follow in Umar’s footsteps. They, too, became the best, rising to Master well before anyone else of Altair’s age group.

And then there came the Templars, and the Chalice. Altair growing prideful, ignoring Creed’s warnings. The Apple, the Nine Targets, the plot. Al Mualim’s betrayal, his death, their rise to Mentor. Maria and Altair’s sons, Creed’s future Hosts, so eager to someday meet him. Then more death, and loss, and gain. And then Altair grew old, weak, and they knew. Darim carried him away from his old friend, passed him on to one of Sef’s daughters who had chosen to follow in her grandfathers footsteps.

It was 200 years and several Hosts before Creed created another Bond as deep as the first two. Giovanni Auditore da Firenze is young to be Mentor, only 20, but there is no one else willing. With Creed’s knowledge and experience, they are able to build up the Italian Branch, making allies among the Madame’s and courtesans and Thieves Guild. His wife is strong willed and supportive, his children brilliant each in their own ways.

They discuss, during a long trip, whether they should tell the younger three about the Brotherhood as they had Federico, his most-likely future Host. Creed had Bonded with the eldest already, having joined with him for a few days as a teenager while Giovanni was testing an old Goa-uld weapon, neither willing to risk it backfiring on them with Creed on-board. He and Federico had gotten along well, the boy’s high spirits a balm to Creed’s old, weary soul. They thought to do the same with Petruccio, the poor child, who had become more ill recently. Revealing the Brotherhood to them would allow Creed, with Petruccio’s permission, to temporarily take him as a Host so that he could heal the boy’s ailments.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. The mission went south, then the one after that, and they were both too weak to fight the guards who came to arrest them and their sons. There was no way for them to escape together, so when Ezio showed up outside their prison window, they did what was necessary. Creed left with Ezio in an old bottle they found in their cell, able to survive in plain water long enough for the teenager to get to the hidden room, and the chest, and read the letter that they had kept prepared for the worst-case scenario. Ezio did not hesitate, did not waver, in uncorking the bottle and hold it to his lips, accepting the Bond with a being he hadn’t known existed in order to save his family.

But they were too late. Too naive, both of them, and half the family was dead in just seconds. It took all of Creed’s skill to get them out alive, and Maria, whom he’d spent many-an-evening discussing art with, was broken by the end of it.

What followed was nearly 50 years of pain and loss and oh-so-few rewards, all for them to discover they were pawns in a bigger game, for a species long dead. It was the first time Creed was not passed down upon his Host’s retirement or death, instead choosing, as Ezio had, to rest. While in the vault, paying respects to his dear friend, they found the stasis jar he and Altair had built, ages ago, in case of emergency. They took it with them, back to Sofia, then to Constantinople, then to Italy and the marriage and then to Rome. It was there, after a final evening under the stars, looking over the vineyard that would be Ezio’s home- his family’s home- that they separated, for the first and last time since they had Joined. They pressed foreheads together, one final goodbye, and then Creed slipped into the jar.

He stayed there, sleeping, resting, until he was awoken by the lid coming off, the jar tilting, and he instinctively angled himself to enter the open mouth head-first, sliding through the back and around the spine and hooked himself into the nerves and brain. He completed the Bond, prepared himself for the traditional introduction. Instead, he had to snatch control in order to prevent their immediate death by sword, swinging a strange axe- tomahawk, the Host supplied- and nearly severing the soldier’s arm before heading straight up a tree and leaping away, not stopping until he reached a space his Host identified as safe.

And that was his introduction to Connor Kenway, descendant of Ezio’s daughter, who had passed Creed’s bottle down for decades until the Templars stole him and his Bloodline’s son and corrupted him and then lost Creed again to the son’s son, who’s Mentor knew about the Bloodline and sent Connor to retrieve him and wound up taking Creed into himself in desperation when the jar was damaged in the fight.

Despite their rough, hurried start, they made a good team, this earthly young man and him. His culture was fascinating, unlike what Creed had seen and heard of before, and apparently they were on one of those New Continents that had been discovered while he was with Ezio, the ones he had seen centuries ago on the Apple’s map with Altair.

He met Achilles, the current Mentor and Connor’s trainer, and got caught up on his history. He learned of Ezio’s death (peaceful, and loved), and of the passing around he had done until the pirate and the Purge and the theft. So many dead, because of one traitor, one Brother losing his faith. It was no wonder Achilles had nearly given up, the poor man. But Connor… oh, Connor, so like his Ezio, losing his family so young and tragically. Creed still didn’t care much for these ‘spirits’, not when he was created to defy false gods, but the woman seemed sincere, and her advice had led to Connor taking up his rightful place. So he could let it go, for now.

And so Connor and Creed began their own journey, fighting oppression and armies and Templars alike, meeting other Assassins who still survived, still fought. Killing Haytham, his Father, his Blood, was painful in a whole new way. Not even Al Mualim’s betrayal stung like this, right down to the bones. They gave him a proper burial, at least, laying the stolen son to rest next to the woman he had, genuinely, loved. It was… mostly peaceful, after that. They dedicated themselves to rebuilding the Brotherhood a third time, doing their best to weed out the Templars before they could dig their claws into the new government.

When the time came, eventually, for Connor to pass on the Creed… they could not bring themselves to tell her, Connors daughter. Remembered all their shared pain, over decades and centuries, and didn’t want to put her or others through that anymore. So they build another stasis jar, this one stronger, more durable, and bid their farewells. Creed slid into his sanctuary and slept long, deep, for centuries more, thankful for the respite yet ready to serve, when needed once again.

Only, it was far different, his next Bonding. It wasn’t right, the Host wasn’t right, from one of his sibling’s Bloodlines instead of his. He tried, he tried so hard to leave them, but he was blocked in, a collar around the neck and gag in the mouth and he had no where to go that wouldn’t damage them more. So he stayed, unable to escape, learning only bits and pieces his host (not his Host, never his, it’s wasn’t right!) was able to press towards him.

Templars. Abstergo. Experiments, and kidnappings. They learned of his kinds existence a few years ago, scoured the globe, found him under an Assassin’s care. They forced him into them, not knowing about the Bond, that Creed was not some common Goa-uld simbiote to bond with anything he could find. They suffered, both of them, unable to connect properly and in pain because of it. They knew of his sentience, wanted to interrogate him for their technology, but he could not speak through the host, no matter how much he tried when they began to torture them. They realized it, eventually. Used new machines to test their DNA and discovered the problem, after what was months or years. Finally gave him an exit, left the jar under his dying hosts head, let him crawl into in with slow, pained movements. Then executed them, an Assassin who’s identity he never knew, who only suffered so much because they happened to be the one on guard duty that day.

They waited until his malnourishment was fixed, until he was healthy again, before dragging him out and into another host. A different Bloodline, this time, a man with no knowledge of Assassins or Templars, and Creed had realized with horror that they planned to simply track down any descendants of those 12 Ashraktyl mentioned in an ancient Hashashin document they dug up from a forgotten Serbian tomb.

Decades passed like this: them dragging in some poor soul they’d spent years hunting down, him being forced in, them losing their minds and dying. 15 people, only three of them actual Assassins, one a child, whom they took away to be brainwashed into a spy and whom he later saw returned to them, now an adult, unstable and full of rage.

It wasn’t until Subject 16, until Clay, that they got the Bloodline right. There was still pain, the genetic damage not allowing them a full Bond, but… it was better.

Until they realized, of course, that Clay was able to access Creed’s memories, even if their ability to truly communicate was stunted. They began the torture again, trying to eek out anything they could get, but Clay was stubborn. Acted more unstable than he was, gave them false information they had no way of confirming, gaining enough ‘freedom’ with his apparent cooperation to slip a makeup mirror off an assistant, break it in his room, and take the shards to his wrists deeply and numerous enough that they were not able to slow the bleeding in time. Creed had done what he could, cut off his pain perception and sent peaceful waves of reassurance as he faded away. They rushed him into the tank, and even through the metal and muffling technology he could hear Vidic throwing a tantrum over the ‘loss’. He got a vindictive satisfaction out of it.

And then, that morning, he’d been pulled out, forced into yet another host, but this one- this one, Desmond Miles, was his true Host.

“And they can’t know, Desmond, they can’t, or they’ll hurt and kill you too. But we can get out of here, together, it’ll take a few days but I can improve your body, give you the physical strength and endurance we need to fight our way out. I can even do the fighting, Young One, if you don’t wish to. I can get us out. Please, Desmond. Trust me.”

Coming out of the… well, there’s not really a word for it, in any earth language. Vision-memory, maybe. And that’s a thing now too, Desmond knowing dozens of earth languages and several that are very much not. ‘Genetic memories, very useful. Guess your Queen was pretty well-traveled to know so many before she spawned you.’

Fondness. Sadness.

“Yes, she had been to many planets. Taken many hosts, before she changed her ways. It is why she changed, actually. Most Goa-uld are vain and stubborn: they would rather find a host they like and preserve it for as long as possible. Egeria, however, liked to try a new body on every planet she visited. As most of those planets were inhabited by humans stolen from around Earth, their languages were varied as well.”

‘Huh, cool. So… what do we do now? You said you can get us out?’

Relief. Eagerness.

“Yes. Goa-uld are able to use their connection to the human body to alter it in subtle ways. We can change hair and eye color, and control the different chemicals your body makes to direct them to do things such as develop muscles. We will need to sneak out using methods your body does not currently have the muscle for, and will likely have to fight as well.”

‘… So what you’re saying is that I’m not muscular enough in the right places, so you’ll have to use your alien magic to get us there.’

Amusement. Impression of a snort.

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine. But yes, essentially that is what I meant. But it takes a few days to make such alterations, so you will need to be a very good actor.”

‘Oh, that’s not a problem. Years of customer service for rich drunk assholes makes me more experienced than most of Hollywood.’

A laugh.

“Well, then. I suppose we should get started, hmm?”

Pretending to be in a lot of pain isn’t difficult at all. Neither is muttering fake names and locations to himself in whatever random language Creed helps to pop into his head. It’s kinda fun, actually, in a ‘if you fail you die’ kinda way. Stress-relieving. Staring blankly at Vidic while he asks questions before randomly shouting in Italian or Arabic and lunging for his neck as if he has a hidden blades gets him some bruised ribs, but also a full day of being left alone. No one wants to deal with the raving lunatic screaming about Templar plots and swinging invisible swords.

Meanwhile, Creed is working, altering chemicals and hormones to rearrange his muscles and fats and a bunch of other things Desmond could understand if he wanted to but he doesn’t, thank you, and now he’s hiding faster reflexes and healing and muscles and abs underneath his flailing and now-barely-loose hoody.

After Escaping: they see the SG-1 crew out investigating something, see Teal’c, recognize him as a Jaffa, kidnap him.

The Goa-uld tilted his head, brown eyes under the white hood flicking over Teal’c’s body in a way he recognized from a lifetime of being surrounded by warriors. He bore the scrutinizing with a blank face as he returned the favor.

The host was a young man with dark brown eyes, his skin tanned in a way that spoke more of genetics than time in the sun. He was wearing what Teal’c had learned to be blue jeans, black sneakers, and of course, the white ‘hoodie’ which was fully zipped up and pulled low over his face. He could see a tattoo peeking out of his left sleeve where it had ridden up a bit, and he was certain there was some sort of gauntlet or weapon on his right forearm as well.

Their ‘staring contest’, as O’Neill would have called it, was broken when the Goa-uld hummed out an intrigued noice.

*You are a Jaffa with the mark of Apophis’ Prime, yet you are not an enemy. How is that, young one?*

Teal’c felt a flicker of irritation yet maintained his composure, though he still retorted,

“I am a warrior over a century old, not a child for you to patronize.”

The Goa-uld responds with a strangely friendly-seeming smile, amusement evident as he says,

*I have been alive for a little over two thousand years, Jaffa. Anyone under half that is young to me. And you did not answer my question. Why do we not sense you are an enemy?*

‘We? Sense?’

Teal’c kept his silence for a few moments longer, thinking his answer through. This Goa-uld was… strange. Both in behavior and speech. Most would be snarling away at him, threatening and torturing and enjoying making ‘the traitor’ suffer. But while he was very thoroughly restrained, he had not been harmed outside of the zat shot which had knocked him unconscious. And the way the Goa-uld spoke, it reminded Teal’c of the way the older Tok’ra would. If he was truly as old as he said, then it matched up with the last time the Tok’ra Queen Egeria had been seen. Was it possible…

“Are you Tok’ra?”

The reaction was immediate and obvious. The Goa-uld jolted as if shocked, eyes widening and lips parting for an instant before excitement and hope lit up the host’s face, questions pouring out too quickly for Teal’c to actually answer.

*They are alive? They still fight? How many, where? They were supposed to come for us, to dig up our pod and find us hosts but those who knew were killed before they could and we feared… They are truly alive?*

Teal’c knew, in his head, that this could be a trick. That the Goa-uld could be excellent actors when the situation called for it. But his instincts, his heart, which had first told him to trust O’Neill and the others, were telling him that this was real. That this Tok’ra, two thousand years old, had been stuck here, separated from his brethren and their support, suffering alone for all this time.

So he relaxed into the restraints, looked the Tok’ra in the eyes, and began to speak.

“Until almost three years ago, I was the First Prime of Apophis. That changed when the Tau’ri rediscovered their Stargate.”

————-

It was many hours later before Teal’c finished speaking. He had been released at some point in the beginning, and the conversation moved to an abandoned apartment building several blocks over, where the Tok’ra had found an intact dwelling and set up inside. They were currently sitting across from each other at a small kitchen table with mismatched chairs, a few half-empty plastic bottles of water set between them.

In exchange for his information, the Tok’ra, whom called himself an Ashraktyl, had introduced himself as Creed and his host as Desmond. They, too, had shared their stories with Teal’c, from Creed’s first host all the way down to his and Desmond’s forced Bond, just two weeks before.

They had escaped their captors, Templars who ran a company called Abstergo, and spent the six days hiding out among abandoned buildings, utilizing their skills and Desmond’s genetic gift from his Ancient ancestor to avoid cameras and searchers, pickpocketing in order to get supplies.

After they let Teal’c call his team

“It is alright, O’Neill. I have not been harmed. There was merely a misunderstanding which we have cleared up.”

Jack gave him a dubious Look, but a quick scan over him showed an at-ease body language and no injuries. Another look at Teal’c’s abductor showed a similar demeanor, his hands spread empty and his limbs loose and non-threatening. Deciding to trust that Teal’c knows what he’s doing, Jack pushed aside his misgivings and lowered his weapon, prompting the other soldiers behind him to do the same. Teal’c nodded and then stepped to the side, revealing the man behind him fully. He’s young, mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a white hoody that mostly covered his short brown hair and cast a shadow over his darker eyes. He looked back at Jack, then seemed to realize something and smiled sheepishly before reaching up to push the hood down fully, rubbing his neck nervously as he explained,

“Sorry, it’s become habit to keep it up. I’ve got some assholes out there that want me as a lab rat, so…”

Jack blinked, scanned over the kid again, saw nothing that obviously said ‘alien’, then turned to Teal’c and asked,

“So, misunderstanding, huh? You two gonna explain?”

They shared a quick, indecipherable look before reaching some unheard agreement as Teal’c takes over answering, the kid surreptitiously inching back behind the Jaffa in a way that did not leave Jack feeling encouraged.

“This is Desmond Miles. A week ago he escaped captivity by a company called Abstergo, who’s proprietors forced a Tok’ra into him in an attempt to extract information on the location of ancient alien weapons the Tok’ra once helped to hide on Earth centuries ago. They pretended that the Blending left Desmond mentally unstable and used that as a distraction until they were able to escape together. They were in hiding when they saw me waiting outside of the office for you. My hat was blown off, and they saw my mark and captured me in order to determine why I was here.”

Jack blinked at the verbal info dump, taking a few moments to sort through and digest the story. The- apparently- Tok’ra saw his increased scrutiny and scooched further behind Teal’c, looking more nervous.

‘Fair, since he- they did kidnap someone. Teal’c wouldn’t just take them at their word, so they must have given him proof of their claims. If the Tok’ra’s been on Earth long enough to have hidden alien weapons that long ago, then it’s a safe bet that they’re pretty invested in the planet’s safety.’

Mind made up, Jack gestured over his shoulder for the rest of the strike team to move out, telling the two aliens,

“We’ll take this back to base, get the reports filled out and verify your claims. General Hammond can deal with this. You said your name is Desmond?”

The kid nodded, most of the nervousness gone now that the weapons were too. Then he blinked, nodded again with a look of relief, and his eyes flashed that eerie gold and his entire posture changed, switching from miscreant-kid-trying-to-hide to confident-and-experienced-soldier, and wow did that make a difference. Desmond’s hunching and slouching had hidden exactly how tall he was, and those loose clothes were definitely hiding some serious muscle.

Jack stomped on the urge to pull a weapon at the familiar, creepily vibrating voice that then spoke to him.

*Thank you, Colonel O’Neill. We appreciate the trust you are showing. My name is Creed.*

Jack nodded and then partially turned, waving his arm towards the door in an after-you gesture. The Tok’ra hesitated a moment, then instead walked over to a window and grabbed a backpack that was rested underneath it. He returned to the table and carefully emptied the bag out onto it, giving Jack a clear view of what was inside in a very deliberate way that Jack appreciated. He stepped forward when the Tok’ra moved back, allowing him to inventory the contents.

“Granola bars, metal water bottle, painkillers, Swiss Army knife, first aid stuff, busted cell phone, and… yup that is a gun, thank you for keeping your hands out of the way, I’m just gonna…”

Jack reached over to grab the (fully loaded, safety on) handgun, unloading and tucking it into one of his bigger pants pockets. That done, he checked the pile over one more time, found nothing else, and then put it all back into the bag before taking it in hand.

“Anything else you wanna put in here? I’ll keep a hold of it and make sure it all gets returned to you once we get you verified as a good guy.”

Creed hesitated, getting the same look some of the other Tok’ra did when they were ‘conversing’ with their hosts, then sighed and pushed up his right sleeve, revealing a medieval-looking silver brace on his forearm. He pointed his arm off to the side, made eye contact with Jack, then flexed his arm and revealed an eight-inch stiletto blade that shot out from his wrist.

It took Jack a moment to respond, in which he thought,

‘Oh yeah, very glad he’s not a Goa-uld.’

Because there was no way one of those parasites wouldn’t have used that thing at the first opportunity, or tried to hide it and use it once inside SGC. At the speed it came out, it was probably capable of severing spines. Jack glanced from it to Creed, and saw when the Tok’ra understood his unspoken thanks in the gentling of his face. Creed nodded, somehow retracted the blade, and then removed it to slip into the open bag. He handled it with near reverence, in a way that made Jack sure that he would be extremely upset at it being destroyed or stolen. He mentally vowed to sneak the entire thing straight to his own quarters to avoid any chance of it being ‘mishandled’ by some NID lackey as he watched as Creed tossed in another knife and some cash before saying,

*That’s everything, unless you want Desmond’s skittle stash in our jacket pocket.”*

Jack snorted and shook an amused negative as he zipped the bag and slung it over his own shoulder. This time, when Jack gestured for him to follow Teal’c, he did so without question. They made it outside and to the van without incident, Creed pulling up his white hood seemingly automatically once they exited the building. His hands were loosely fisted in his pockets, his eyes roving over the streets and rooftops without him ever moving his head.

Despite the heavily armed soldiers all staring distrustfully at him, he seemed to relaxed a bit after they’d closed the vans doors and started driving. The further away from Colorado Springs they got, the looser his posture became, until they reached the base’s gate and he gave and actual sigh of relief. At Jack confused look, he smiled crookedly. The Colonel realized it was Desmond in charge just before he spoke, sounding both heartened and tired.

“Abstergo’s been hunting for us since we escaped, and they’ve got a lot of resources. Influence, money, and a whole lotta people on payroll, including law enforcement and politicians. But we know for a fact they haven’t managed to get anyone from the SGC to work for them yet. Creed heard their head doctor complaining about it to his supervisor a few weeks before the last host they shoved him into-“

He cut himself off with a wince, face paling a bit. Jack frowned, mentally prepped himself to hear something awful, then asked,

“What happened?”

Desmond hunched in on himself a bit, avoiding eye contact as he took a deep breath, released it, and then answered.

“Creed and his siblings were all designed by the Tok’ra Queen to be very… unique. She meant for them to be assassins, and knew how high the risk would be. Egeria didn’t want to risk them becoming corrupted by the darkness of the work they would do, so she altered them so that once they Blended for the first time, they would absorb some of the Host’s genes. After that, they would only be able to take a Host if the person shared enough DNA with the first Host to be compatible. Creed’s… Creed’s pod wasn’t found by the Tok’ra, and most of his siblings died before the descendant of a Tok’ra’s Host found them. After that, the remaining 11 who’d survived and had found willing Hosts all died within a decade of being rediscovered.”

Jack winced, already dreading where this sad story was going, but didn’t interrupt.

“So, Creed’s the only one left, and he’s bound to a certain Bloodline- my Bloodline, but Abstergo didn’t know that at first. They just forced him into the first prisoner they took and then started taking notes. Once they figured out it had to do with DNA, they started hunting down any remaining descendants of the 12 Ashraktyl. They didn’t know which one Creed was, so once they found someone they’d just…”

Desmond winced himself, starting to look even paler. Jack wanted to stop him, but he also had a responsibility to find out more.

“They forced him into 16 people before me, and since none of them had the right genes the Blending didn’t happen correctly and they started to become more and more mentally unstable the longer Creed was locked in them. He couldn’t get the chemical balances right or even get far enough into the nervous system to be able to speak with them. He was just this- this awful parasite to them. He- he did what he could, tried to relieve their pain, but… they would all die, eventually. Either because they lost it enough to attack and get killed, or because they found a way to do the job themselves. Only one ‘Subject’-“

He spat the word, face twisted in anger, and Creed must have been starting to get closer to the surface because his eyes had a glow,

“-survived, a little kid they brainwashed after they let Creed out and discovered the kid was basically a blank slate from the physiological shredding the Blending caused. Subject 16 heard that he’d been sent into a rival’s group and used as a sleeper agent. Took out their leader and then ran back to Abstergo like they’d programmed him to.”

‘…Yeah, kid, they’re all not the only ones who need some mental help. Damn, can’t imagine living with those kinds of memories.’

Desmond shook his head, eyes squeezed together before he nodded and went lax. A moment later Creed sat back up, posture almost regal despite the circumstances. He gave Jack a sad smile before he continued in Desmond’s stead. The other SG soldiers in the van all startled and reflexively gripped their weapons at the sound of his voice, but didn’t do any more than give him distrustful looks when they saw Jack’s calm reaction.

*Our apologies, Colonel. It is… difficult, for him to speak of these things. I’m born with the ability to compartmentalize the memories I inherit: Desmond is still learning how to do so. Every time he accesses my knowledge, it feels to him as if he is living that memory himself. Considering many of the other ‘Subjects’ died in slow and painful ways…*

Jack winced again, more visibly this time, cause yikes. Reliving other people’s suicides could not be either pleasant or good for the kid’s already tenuous mental health.

‘First stop, Dr. Fraiser. Need to get him- them checked for any injuries or trackers or secret bombs or something. Be just our luck. She can assess their mental states too.’

During a briefing with SGC Leadership

*My information, other than what Teal’c has told me, is 2,000 years out of date. I can, however, provide you with plans for things such as shields and some of the smaller weapons and ships. Egeria was not able to access the plans for much else before I was spawned, but she gave me all she knew.*

Creed paused, lips downturned as he continued,

*The main problem will be finding the actual resources to build the things I can give you. Earth does not have many of the necessary elements or power sources needed to recreate some things. I can start with those that could be easily modified and we can go from there. Perhaps your allies may be able to procure some of what you need for the rest.*

He directed his gaze back at Maybourne, raised an eyebrow, and asked mildly,

*Will that suffice to prove my intentions, Colonel?*

Maybourne looked torn between asserting his ‘authority’ due to the barely-concealed distain or marrying the guy for finally getting the officer what he’s been harping the SGC for. He instead decided to just nod, demand one of the immediately-doable designs by the end of the week, say his farewells, and stalk out of the room, shoulders squared and head held high. Creed actually snickered at that, or maybe Desmond had popped out for a moment, but quickly composed himself to let the General know how big he needed the blueprint sheets to be, and the kinds of pencils and tools to go with it. Cause apparently it would be easier for the 2,000 year old to just draw it all out on paper, rather than use the computers to generate a 3-D model. Jack approved. Computers were just trouble.

*I’ll start with energy shields. The medium-sized ones can be modified to work with nuclear reactors.*

Carter perked up and asked,

“What about a naquahda reactor?”

Creed blinked at her, brows creased, and asked what that was. Carter then proceeded to drag him off to her lab to show off her little pet project, and while Creed actually looked a bit interested, Jack would bet his best fishing pole that Desmond was in the back of their head having a nice little nap. The look on his face when Daniel had tried to pump him for information on the ‘Isu’ language and started spouting Ancient gibberish he’d learned over the years had shown that much.

Aaaaand that all folks! Hope there’s a chance someone wants to do something with this!

#assassins creed crossover #stargate #desmond miles

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voidwritesstuff · 6 months

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The Blaze/The ember level tapes.

Cw: mentions of abusive household. Mentuins of gaslighting, adoption, age gap between Lucas and Jerico (not in a weird way!)

Level beggining:

Desmond: afternoon jerico, how are you?

Jerico, is looking towards the door: oh im alright, I uh[She seems distracted in a good way] I ran into one of your patients just now, guy in his 50s, has dog tags?

Desmond: Lucas? Whats he doing here so early?

Jerico,with an audible smile: yes him! He thought he was running late[giggle]

[End tape one]

Desmond: so, whats been going on?

Jerico: well...where to start-- in our first session a few months back I told you about my upbringing. Well, this week has just been hell

Desmond: tell me about it, this Is a safe space

Jerico: my mot-- you know who has been on my ass again. She talked shit about my adoptive family and its just- its like she cant see me happy.

Desmond: that sounds awful, im sorry

Jerico: she says [high pitched,annoying voice] "how could you replace your biological family?! I gave you everything! You know how Many people would like to have a mother like me?!" [She coughs out the Word mother with anger].

Desmond: I thought you told her to stop?

Jerico: I did. She didnt listen

[End tape 2]

Jerico: I didnt pay her no mind. I blocked her, and just when I thought I could go on about my day, he shows up.

Desmond: your biological father I assume?

Jerico: yep. He tried harrasing me telling me how my dad Ray is not manly enough,how he stole me away from him.

Desmond: im so sorry, this must have been very stressfull for you.

Jerico: I yelled at him for a solid fifteen minutes before I hung up and left my phone in my bedroom.

[End tape three]

Desmond: I would like to know what you feel towards your parents a little more, what happened to you.

Jerico: every time I tell people of my trauma and abuse they brush it off. Sometimes I feel like im making things up.

Desmond: thats something called gaslighting, an abusers favorite tool. I promise you that whatever you tell me ill Belive you,please, go on ahead

Jerico: its gonna get grim really fast,are you sure?

Desmond: yes.

Jerico: dont say I didnt warn you.

[End tape 4]

Level ending:

Desmond: oh jerico im so sorry...

Jerico: I told you.

Desmond: what your bilogical parents did was abuse, you are right. I Belive you.

Jerico: thank you,you dont know how much I needed that.

[End tape 1]

Desmond: your biological parents had no right to treat you like that, you were just a child figuring out the world. You didnt need to be perfect.

Jerico: try n tell em that.

Desmond: im sorry your voice was never heard, I cant begin to imagine the pain and anger you Carry

Jerico: there are days I feel like the screams I could never let out Will burn through my throat, that ill die with all this hatred in my veins. If it doesnt kill me first ,that is

Desmond: I promise you it wont,im here to help.

[End tape 2]

Desmond: all those things that you needed to be patient and stop complaining were ways to Keep you silent. You were right.

Jerico: It was such bullshit!

Desmond: it was,you were standing up for yourself, which is the right thing to do. You are not a difficult child for having needs, you were and still are a great daughter anyone would be happy to have. Your adoptive par- your parents are so proud of you

Jerico,audible smile: they are,they tell me every day.

[End tape 3]

Desmond: thats good to hear,you deserve it. [Clock goes off] I think our time Is up.

Jerico: it is, well..thanks. I needed to let everything out

Desmond: always glad to help. [Pause] oh! On your way out tell Lucas to come in

Jerico: Will do!

[A little distant]

Jerico: Lucas! Hey, uh the doc says its your turn

Lucas: thanks- [pause]hey uh..are those tears?

Jerico,sniffing: yeah it uh..got emotional.

Lucas, concerned and very soft sounding of not a little protective: are you okay?

Jerico: im...[short pause] getting there I think.

Lucas: thats uh- good. Hey uh before you go uh...[a little too long pause]. C-can I get yo-your number? Please dont think im some dirty old Man

Jerico,laughs: yeah, hold on. [Scribbling]. Here...and dont worry, I dont think youre some creepy old Man.

Lucas:oh- g great!

Jerico: have a nice day,lieutenant cole

Lucas, audible smile: you too, Ms.Castro.

[End tape 4]

#oc: the blaze/the ember ism #ism lucas #ism desmond

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fruti2flutie · 4 years

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spy x family: the dark comedy & wholesome romantic's dream

do you like reading manga? do you enjoy the humor of gekkan shoujo nozaki-kun? do you marvel at the action scenes of one punch man? do you appreciate the softness of any kyoani production? if yes to all, go read spy x family! if no or hesitant, i'm here to Change Your Mind by introducing you to the series!!!

the story follows our main characters: loid forger (code name: twilight), yor briar (code name: thorn princess) & anya (test subject: 007). code names, you ask? test subject??? what am i going on about!?

the premise of the story comes from loid's newest assignment: operation strix, where he must work undercover to get close to & probe information from donovan desmond, the leader of the national unity party & threat to peace. to do so, since his target is primarily associated with an elite private school, loid must get married & have a child. through various circumstances, he's able to adopt the orphaned (& telepathetic) anya & marry the naive (yet deadly) yor briar, which gives us our unconventional forger family.

the action of this series is amazing. if you're not a fan of fighting or blood, view with discretion because spy x family does not disappoint with its feature of action nearly every chapter. it's the kind of anime-type action that makes you wonder is that even humanly possible? but doesn't take you out of the moment. every sequence involving yor fighting is *chef's kiss* absolutely captivating.

the COMEDY. is SO GOOD. it fits so naturally with the setting, which is a pre-modern/post-industrial age, also. one of the best examples to showcase the type of humor is when anya realizes a bomb is going to go off through a vision of a clocktower blowing up in the future, but...

putting a telepathetic child into a family that 1) has a father whose occupation is literally built upon secret identities & 2) has a mother whose outward ditziness completely juxtaposes her killer instincts is rife for comedic moments. it's a mixture of loid+yor hiding their true selves & anya struggling to keep up appearances as a smart kid who in reality reads minds to cheat on tests. spy x family is clever, quirky & there's something to laugh about every page.

the forger family itself is where the comedy shines, too, because anya is a girl who is hungry for excitement & adventure. she's a kid no older than six being raised by two adults who have no idea how to raise a child, let alone be normal. as a result, this unintentionally leads to "normal" familial shenigans all the time, and it's funny, cute, and heartwarming.

but past the action & comedy, there are moments that make your heart twist in absolute adoration. because the forgers, even if it's a ruse, quickly become a family: yor learning to care for herself & others; anya finding friends, family, a home; loid oblivious to growing fondness of his wife & daughter. the chemistry between the characters is incredible, genuine on all fronts & undeniably wholesome.

and, while it's not technically a romance, spy x family presents the fake-relationship/domestic au hybrid you can't help but love. loid & yor are great on their own, but together they're basically an unstoppable power couple as parents (+spy & assassin). it's likely a slow burn development as well where i appreciate the smallest intimate moments between them, and yet i still can wish for more.

plus, it also helps that anya is the cutest daughter in the world who also thinks her mama & papa belong together!

in summation, this series has so much potential & i highly recommend giving it a read! or if you aren't a fan of manga, the series is highly likely to have an ANIME in the works given the manga's success, so be on the lookout!!!! (however, it'll probably be a while since there aren't many chapters/volumes out yet.)

tl;dr spy x family is so good & i love the forger family so much 😭💞

#spy x family #manga #manga recommendation #manga rec #loid forger #yor briar #anya #tasuya endo #my rec #<< starting a tag in case smthn else comes into my brain i need to get outta my brain #my rambles #<< for anything that counts as me talking excessively lmao #long post

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reddeaddamnation · 3 years

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Imagine: The assassins courting you but its quotes from trippy retro songs from my country (that make no sense when translated)

Alexios: Let's go to the beach. Jump in the BMW. Drive where we won't be sleeping

Kassandra: With a naughty eye, I will wink at you the wrong way because a naughty woman knows all the tricks. She knows everything

Bayek: Elena, Elena, child of the wild desert, my Elena, I love only you

Aya: Be careful, because I'm a fiery girl. Stop in time or you will burn your heart

Altair: You tell me that my heart is ice and that my soul is dead. You take away my freedom and waste my youth

Ezio: Catch me, grab me slowly, undress me, throw away every choth and gently, gently touch me, touch me and know that we will start flying

Connor: I'm a hunter and a fisherman. Fuck the law

Haytham: There aren't laws for the millions, there is no forgiveness for the chicken. The chickenman doesn't have an alibi and will go to jail again

Edward: What do you say we get drunk and break all stupid cliches? ...Take me to a local pub and order, drink for me and start a fight for me. Everyone to cuss and envy our kisses. Drive insanely pass a red stoplight, do something crazy for me.

Shay: Was it day, or night with an endless moon? You whispered with soft lips a soft secret and I heard the sea, it told me that you don't have a name. I will call you my dear.

Arno: You will lie to yourself that they kiss better than me. They will caress you with my hands, the only ones. And you will wait for them to create memories with you.

Jacob: This year I will make 100, 200, 300 million. Then, my dear, I will take you to (100,200,300) Barcelona

Evie: I will shoot you with 100 bullets if I catch you in the act. That you're out hunting but having sex instead.

Desmond: Mechanic, with golden hands. I will fix everything on your body. Mechanic, knows everything. I will work on you from morning till dusk

Clay: Touch it, let it play in your hands, touch it, my heart wants only you.

Daniel: I have traveled all over the world, I have seen a lot of pain but your eyes still haunt me

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xadoheandterra · 3 years

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Series: The Heir, The Reader, and Clay

Title: Run It Again Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Characters: Desmond Miles, Malik al-Sayf, Altair ibn La’Ahad, Al Mualim Pairings: Altair/Malik Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII Enabler: @kingbob2-0 @claire-the-dyke-dragon Tags: Time Travel, Dad Malik, Desmond Raised By Others, De-Aged Desmond, OC’s Galore, Feels, Emotional Trauma and Implied Abuse, Altair Is A Giant Mess Summary: They hadn’t found an answer yet, and Layla was impatient despite the promise of the Grey being timeless in its nature. She didn’t want to have to search for an answer that might never come–so she made another suggestion. Why not just change it? Why not counter the Isu influence on the Pieces of Eden where it counted, and counter what Juno inevitably did to the Eye in the Grand Temple?

It was all the push that Desmond needed to let himself be just that bit more selfish. So selfish he chose to be, and there was one moment where the Isu’s hold on the Pieces of Eden had a profound effect–the Levantine Brotherhood. Altair Ibn La’Ahad. Al Mualim. There was just one problem–Desmond was eight, a child, and didn’t remember dying.

Layla at least had his back, even if she was just a bit fashionably late.

Altair touched his hidden blade on his left arm reflexively. Al Mualim had gifted him back the blade silently, judgement lined every inch of the Master as he stared Altair down, and Altair stood not tall and proud but hunched and unsure in front of Al Mualim in that moment--unsure of his own place within the Brotherhood and unsure as to why he was being given the chance to get it back. Altair didn't fight the opportunity though, or question it beyond the brief realization that Al Mualim intended to send him out weaponless and informationless--and the realization that Altair would from this moment onward be at the whims of his Brothers whom all hated him.

There was so much red in Masyaf now, when all there used to be was blue and Altair didn't know how to feel about that--that so many of his Brothers scorned him and hated him and believed him to be the source of all that has gone wrong in their Brotherhood. Altair told himself he'd work silently and calmly--and then the first brother opened his mouth and all Altair felt was rage--rage at the boy who dare speak to him so, rage at the fact that he was being told to hunt down a traitor to the order and not being told anything more--rage that his Brothers clearly knew who had sided with the Templar dogs and yet they still didn't give him a name or bring him in themselves. No it fell to Altair's shoulders and Altair had to wander the village and listen to petty gossip and steal and do all of the things he hadn't needed to do since he was a Novice.

For a long, long while the rage was all Altair felt. Even after Al Mualim gave him back his sword--bloodied and freshly used to kill Masun--gave him back his hidden blade and told him to head to Damascus and find Tamir--and that he must first visit the Bureau and the Rafiq therein and seek approval for the kill. So Altair did as bade and sought out the Bureau and the Rafiq and truthfully Khaliq had nothing but kinds words to him that rang false and hollow when Altair heard them; like Al Mualim Khaliq had bid him to find the answer he sought as to Tamir's location and best route to do the deed itself--and that Altair was to not to ask after the Informants as to the answers for his questions. In turn Altair hunted down his target with the bare minimum information and everything he had gathered for himself before he Khaliq granted permission for Altair to kill Tamir. As blood then spilt Altair felt the world wash away into that hazy dream-state that always followed such high targets in the aftermath of the killing.

The ghost of Tamir spoke, and the things he whispered had burned the rage in Altair to newer heights. He called their Order a Brotherhood, claimed Altair a prideful child--Altair found himself aflame and eager to seek out the rest of these names the Master promised would free him from his shame. Perhaps they truly would, then, if they aimed to demean everything Altair had known since childhood into nothing but a mockery. Al Mualim aimed him, pointed him to targets, and Altair let his fury and injustice out upon them until he would be spent--and maybe it would quell the way his chest ached when Malik and Kadar did not emerge from the Temple; maybe it would ease the way his throat felt tight in his neck, his stomach bound up in his chest, as he changed the bandages on Malik's arm. Maybe it would stop the way his Brothers scorn itched beneath his skin, or the feel of a blade in his gut as he his held back and still and Al Mualim cries Justice.

Maybe killing these Nine would ease some of that which burned Altair, inside too. Perhaps that was all he was good for, anyway--to be the weapon aimed and fired by the Master; the killer and the blade for the cause of the Brotherhood and nothing else. Do not think, Altair--do not know, only act. Do as I say--

Altair touched the hidden blade again with his fingers and stared down at his weapons and shuddered. He did not want to be just the blade, the killer that everyone saw when they looked at him. Altair was smart and clever and so, so good at killing that it was no surprise that was all anyone saw of him--but his other talents were there, and often he wanted to hone them more than he wanted to be the blade at the behest of his Masters and yet--yet the blade was all anyone wanted of him. Then it turned against them they hated him and Altair--Altair had to close his eyes and force himself to breathe.

Al Mualim hadn't answered his questions, after that first death. He'd brushed aside his queries with sweet words that rang hollow--Altair knew too much, was too important, and that had provided him a head too large for his skill. Perhaps the Master was right. Perhaps he let the knowledge he'd been given, the fact that he'd been favored so publicly, get to his head and twist him. Perhaps this shame was good for him, but Altair couldn't see that. All he felt was the pain of it--of being different and other like he'd always been. Even as a child he'd been the strange one who either spoke too much or spoke too little--who stared and watched and couldn't help the blank gaze that would cross his face as he contemplated the colors and what they could mean. The way he knew who lied and who told truth and the way he would spill secrets he knew not where secrets--and Altair grated at the thought of it all as Justice, this punishment and debasement, but perhaps in some twisted way it really was.

There were so many colors and secrets bound to the twilight world of Masyaf; some days it left Altair breathless as others it left him baffled in trying to understand their meaning. The impressions in that twilight world were so faint and daunting that even now Altair wasn't sure if they were right. Not when so much of Masyaf bled red; it'd always been purples and blues and at least the blue-purples Altair could trust but all the red made him tense and wary and waspish when he had to interact with his Brothers. Or perhaps more accurately still his Masters, because wasn't the whole of the Brotherhood his Master at this point? Isn't that what Al Mualim had told him--he was beneath them, a blade for them, nothing more until his Nine were dead and gone and his soul freed from this torment--Altair touched his Hidden Blade and grounded himself as he bowed his head with his heavy thoughts.

Acre was the next destination; his target Garnier de Naplouse who supposedly ran the Knights Hospitalier. Jabal was kinder, by far, compared to anyone Altair had interacted with. He was short with his words, but he at least pointed Altair in the right direction. He didn't outright lie or present a second face, either, which Altair respected. He teased but his teasing wasn't cruel and for that Altair felt thankful, a bit hopeful. Jabal glowed bright and brilliant blue of safety and in Acre Altair found the chance to ease a bit of the tension. He wasn't forced to move, and move fast. He had the chance to take his time, to gather the information he needed before he moved into his target in the hospital--a target who sold men to a slaver and shipped his 'product' to Jerusalem, for all he claimed to heal them.

The amount of blood that covered everything had made Altair near sick; the way Garnier dressed was horrifying. He barely bothered to clean himself from each person he visited. The sick and illness of the place was permeable in the air and Altair wanted everything to be over as quickly as he could. He near welcomed the dream-haze of the kill--until the ghost of Garnier spoke and Altair felt--

Altair couldn't describe how he felt. It was wrong and he knew it was wrong, yet Garnier's conviction and the way he spoke of his victims was not--it shook Altair. He'd been spoken of that same way, hadn't he--a mad dog to be put down, a child to be freed from his burdens of mind--a loyal dog to his Master, like all of Garnier's puppet soldiers high on whatever drugs Garnier put into their system. Were they truly better off under his care--was it so wrong to desire to help even if that help led to such--such depravity? And what did that mean for Al Mualim who stood there and mocked and raised Altair up with each hand, the way he pushed Altair to better heights and then knocked him down with harshness that belied the kindness--the way Altair often felt ghosted by the Master and his failings to be just that level of good enough for long enough and--Altair felt so indebted--like those men--

For a brief moment Altair sought the Rafiq for answers; perhaps Jabal had something worthwhile to say, to ease the churning confusion in his mind--but Jabal wanted nothing of it and that safety, that blue calmness edged toward purple and red and Altair--Altair quit speaking as soon as Jabal lashed back and dismissed him. He'd forgotten himself in the friendly face, forgotten himself in his task--to each he was a blade and nothing more and for a moment Altair allowed himself to be tricked to thinking otherwise. As soon as he pulled himself back, Jabal returned to being friendly and kind and safe and Altair--Altair just wanted to be done with Acre and gone.

Al Mualim had answers; he spoke kindly when compared to their last conversation--a better mood, Altair figured. Perhaps last time had been at a poor moment, perhaps news had reached Al Mualim and Altair had merely chosen the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. Now the Master drew Altair in to his study, dismissed the Scholars who worked with him through books and tomes, and settled Altair down until he was here. The Master recognized the way Altair wavered, a little bit elsewhere and not all present, and worked accordingly until Altair came back from wherever he drifted in his confusion. Until Altair sat with blade in hand and fingers pressed against it, gaze down and inward while the Master moved about the room and worked and Altair thought and--Altair breathed slow and steady.

"I do not understand," the words were finally spoken into the air, and Altair did not feel better for them.

"Tell me what you are having trouble with," Al Mualim sat his book aside and placed his elbows onto the table as he looked at Altair from over his hands--ever patient, his Mentor. Altair pressed fingers against the blade to keep him here, close enough to feel the bite of the edge, but far enough to not hurt himself.

"The men in the hospital, Garnier's victims--" Altair hated to think of that wretched place, the smell of blood and death and decay--the way illness soaked the very floors and how utterly unclean everything felt. Yet those men still they near worshipped the ground Garnier walked on--and so many of his victims whispered words of thanks even as they were butchered. They weren't rich or well liked people but they were still people, those of the streets and the unknindness of the world.

(Altair, too, whispered thanks as he was broken down and made back up each time he failed a task; thanks to the Master for taking pity on him and teaching him and bettering him and the parallels--)

Al Mualim sighed, heavy indeed as he leaned back in his chair and Altair raised his gaze to his Master--he took in the purplish-blue hue of the man before he blinked away the twilight world and stared at the drawn and thinness to Al Mualim's face as he spoke, "This is my fault."

"How is this your fault?"

Al Mualim ran his hands over his face before he got to his feet and headed toward the door to the study. He spoke quietly, too quiet for Altair to hear before he stepped back into the room and settled himself back down in his chair. He answered, "I thought it best to keep such unpleasantness of the world from you for a time--and realized how I have failed you in doing so only too late." The door opened and one of the Scholars entered with tea, set the cups and pots down and quickly bowed out.

"What unpleasantness?" Altair asked as Al Mualim poured a cup of tea and then offered it. Altair didn't want to pull his fingers from the blade, from his steadying touch and yet the Master would expect Altair to take the drink. Altair reached out and clasped the cup tight between his fingers and stared down at the tea and did not look to the Master, did not look at his Mentor as he struggled to piece together what unpleasantness Al Mualim had supposedly kept from him. There was plenty of unpleasantness to the world--what new danger that Altair had been unaware of had he missed?

"It is the way of the world," Al Mualim said, words soft and gentle that Altair tilted his head as he listened, bird-like in curiosity, "that leaders will seek to control their subjects by any means necessary--it is what makes them leaders, in the end. Oftentimes it starts with words or deeds, a way to draw those to them. Kindness and softness to their touch--and then those methods begin to fail, so they seek baser results. Coin for bribes or favors, threats against loved ones and livelihoods, and all kinds of cruel trickery."

Altair frowned and bowed his head and watched the way the tea churned in his cup. He knew of these actions; he'd thought of such things before when he contemplated the Creed and the fallacy that even the Assassin's fell into. His grip on the tea was tight, strong enough that he could hear the leather of his gloves creak. He still didn't know what Al Mualim meant about unpleasantness of the world--about what was kept from him. What sort of secrets had he not been privy to like every other person he'd ever met--what social more had Altair missed this chance that Al Mualim decided better to not correct him on?

"Herbs, Altair," Al Mualim spoke, words kind in their unkindness, "can be used in such interesting ways." Altair knew this; knew of how they used poppy to aide in healing, the way it twisted the mind and changed how one thought. He knew the way herbs could bend things into a strangeness that was no other--he'd seen the responses on it. "So easy it is to slip something new into another's drink, or their incense set to burn--all the while the masses unaware of the change. In fact many, if given leave of their senses long enough, become enslaved to it--to the feeling that it provides them, to the escape from their harsh realities...to peace."

Altair ducked his head, mumbled his response of, "He drugged them?" with half-surprise, half lack of it because he knew--he knew there were herbs involved and he knew the way they were used was wrong somehow but he couldn't pin it until Al Mualim's offhand comment and it burned at him, then. Were they willing victims, complicit in their poisonings as they desired more and more of this addictive substance that they knew they were given--or had they no knowledge of what Naplouse had done, no awareness as to what they now found themselves in need of except conflating that need with their vaunted savior? "Poisoned, them?" Altair continued, sick with the thought that those poor souls had no knowledge of what Naplouse had done.

Al Mualim settled his teacup down, eyes sharp as they stared at Altair who paled at the thought--drugged, poisoned, unknowingly imbibing a substance that he could not name and did not know the effects of--it terrified him. "Our enemies often accuse me of the same," Al Mualim said, eventually, and Altair near dropped his cup in surprise. "This surprises you, Altair?"

"I--you wouldn't--" Altair glanced between the cup and his Master, throat tight. Had he--

"This tea is not drugged," Al Mualim said, a faint smile to his lips. "Worry not--but that is what they would claim of me." Altair pulled his hands from his cup, the words that is what they would claim of me circling around with thoughts of poison and a leave of ones senses. He felt ill and sick; he knew there were depths men strove to for control--knew there were depths people fell too--but this was not something he ever thought possible and to be used upon someone such as Naplouse's victims--

(--upon himself--)

"They would claim I hold a garden of hedonistic pleasures, of women and wine and herbs to make you complicit in what I wish to have of you," Al Mualim said. "The truth of it matters little to them in their claims."

"Is it peace they seek, then?" Altair asked, gaze once more focused on Al Mualim. "With--with herbs and bribes and such extortion?"

Al Mualim hummed, thoughtful, and settled himself back into his seat as he thought. "Perhaps, after some fashion, it is a peace they seek--"

Altair jolted; perhaps they could be educated. He leaned forward, eager as he said, "Then if we told them--"

"--but it is not a peace we agree with, Altair," Al Mualim interrupted, words suddenly sharp. "If they were to believe we too sought a peaceful resolution then we could not comfortably perform the acts we need to."

Altair backed down, chastised, head bowed in thought, before he nodded once in understanding.

"Good. Now, if that is all, you may go." Al Mualim waved his hand, and Altair got to his feet quietly.

Altair raised his hand to the sky as he stared at the sun from the rooftops of Jerusalem; he was exhausted. Between his mind which wanted to continue to overturn the idea that these Templars they fought again sought peace--albeit in a way that really was unfavorable to the people--and the idea that if they could be educated then perhaps there would not need be violence or war; his body was tired, run ragged over the past few weeks with nonstop work and little answers and little sleep. There were those who thought Altair had little in the way of needs; sleep was a big need that Altair had functionally little of, and he doubted he'd get a chance for more until his Nine were done.

With a deep and heavy breath Altair pushed himself onward toward the rooftop of the new Bureau--Al Mualim had given him the location as an afterthought, something about the Apothecary no longer being a viable location. Altair wasn't fully abreast of the issue--he wasn't really an Assassin any longer for all the Master kept saying he gained a rank back--a rank of what always nagged at Altair. A rank of respect or a rank of skill or some other unidentifiable rank that Altair hadn't been aware of? He merely knew that truthfully he wasn't an Assassin, he was a tool and a killer yes, but an Assassin he wasn't any longer. The Master had made that clear after he'd woken him from his faked death.

The sigil of the Brotherhood was a fairly good indicator that Altair had the proper place; the latticework that covered the garden when the guards were actively hunting within the city was opened for ease of entrance, too. Altair crouched at the lip of the roof, ready to tumble down and get on with this farce of an assignment when he heard the voices--heard Malik.

"--and make sure the tea isn't scalding!" Malik had called. "He does not need another ache upon the one with his head, Jawad!"

"Yes, Dai!"

Al Mualim had not told Altair that this was were he sent Malik. He had not told Altair that Malik held position at a Bureau now, that he had Novices to care for and look after, that he put Malik to work in the most dangerous city with only one arm and Novices--but it felt good, too, to hear Malik's voice. Altair dropped from his crouch to sit on the edge and leaned forward, hands pressed to balance him. He closed his eyes and listened.

"Hush," Malik's words were soft, kind and gentle as he spoke. "This is the coolest place in the whole Bureau, child. The lighting here will help. Now lay down--no, keep the cloth over your eyes, it will help. That's better. Jawad will be back with the tea soon--just rest for now. It will get better." Malik shuffled about, and there was something soft and childish and faint, a whine or words that Altair could not quite make out but that was fine--he wasn't interested in some child as he was in Malik. "I will be right here, I promise. Just rest. Let the incense and the quiet do its work."

Malik went quiet after that; the only sound soft shuffling and the sound of paper moving. A door opened and presumably the tea Malik called for had been brought--but Malik was quiet and the door closed again and it was back to soft sounds of shuffling and paper moving. Altair opened his eyes and felt himself fully relax, a small smile played at the corners of his lips. Malik was well, bossing around Novices and tending to them with the grace of a mother cat. A bit of the stress left Altair at the thought; this was Malik in his element. This was where he was always meant to be.

It was good; Altair stretched and dropped from the ceiling. He wanted to slip into that twilight world and see all of Malik's colors--to be comforted in them--but the walls would only hinder him and if the Bureau was as dark as Malik implied then it'd be near worthless to even try.

"Mm?" Malik hummed, and Altair stilled as he moved forward. "I thought I told you to close your eyes, Desmond."

"I aaaaam," the plain whine of a child; Altair blinked and held himself still. There should be no Novices that young at a Bureau. "S'just bright. An loud."

"Then I will tell them to quiet," Malik said, "but you should be resting. Or does your head feel better already?"

"Nnooo?"

"Then rest."

Altair stood stock still, eyes wide beneath the cowl of his hood; he could catch the faint scent of the incense, familiar in the way that he often had it burned at his bedside table when his eyes refused to work because the twilight world was too strong and it made everything ache. It was out of character, but Altair hesitated. He hesitated to enter the room because then he would see Malik--he would speak to Malik and the last they had seen one another Malik had been whole and his brother alive and they'd been fighting. His fist clenched at his sides and he angled his gaze toward the ground. Were they still fighting? Altair didn't know. He didn't even know why Malik was upset, really. It had all seemed to work perfectly natural to Altair--so why had Malik gotten so upset about everything?

It took a second longer, the child muttered something but Altair was too far in his head to hear it--and the soft reply of Malik was nothing more than sweet sounds and less words to the scrambled mind of Masyaf's Eagle until Altair shook himself free of his circling thoughts and pushed himself forward into the Bureau.

It was dark; Altair knew it would be as Malik had referenced so. The incense burned lightly on the counter, but the rest of the room was rather bare. Books lined the walls and Malik was thumbing through them, categorizing or organizing Altair couldn't quite tell in the dark. He moved quickly to the counter but saw no sign of the child he heard Malik speaking with--perhaps they had snuck their way back inside the house proper, through the door. It didn't matter, though, because here was Malik, as whole as he could be dressed in rich black and fulfilling a role Altair had only dreamed of.

Altair stepped up to the edge and breathed, and without thought the words came spilling from him were a soft, "Safety and peace, Malik."

Malik's back stiffened and Altair took a quick step back as he remembered his own silent footsteps and the fact that they were fighting only a second too late. He held his breath as Malik turned, eyes narrowed and words sharp yet quiet as he said quite vehemently, "Your presence here deprives me of both." Altair stilled, ducked his head, and waited in silence. A moment later Malik sighed, heavy, and said a short, "What do you want?"

Altair floundered; what did he want? He wanted Malik to not be angry with him, but there was a month of time lost between them in the way of that. There was an arm and Kadar in the way of that. He breathed out a slow and steady breath and thought of his Nine--he didn't want his Nine, he didn't care about the ranks or the popularity or Al Mualim's favor. He wanted Malik but he couldn't have that comforting comradery. Not now.

"Al Mualim has--" Altair started and then stopped when Malik held his hand up, eyes narrowed in Altair's direction. For a second Altair drifted, feet shuffled as he swayed unsure of what he said that upset Malik now.

"You have been sent on a task to redeem yourself, is that what you are about to tell me?" Malik asked, words biting. "I do not care for the story. Be out with your task or leave. I do not have time to pander to your ego." Altair opened his mouth to speak again when Malik raised his hand and pressed his lips together. "You will speak of only your task?" Altair nodded once, slowly. "Then speak."

"I am here to kill a man named Talal," Altair said, voice even and calm despite the fact that his heart rabbited in his chest and his palms felt sweaty and his stomach was up in his throat--

"And?" Malik gestured, looked around. "What information have you brought me, then? What news of this Talal that you have sought out? Come, surely you remember?" Altair opened his mouth, then closed it when he realized he thought better of the choices. Malik pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered a short, "Of course not," and turned from the counter. Altair watched him focus on the books, posture tense as he uttered a short, "It is your duty to find and kill this man, Altair. I am not to house all the answers."

Altair knew this; he faced this with the others in Acre and Damascus and--he'd forgotten when he heard Malik's voice. Altair ducked his head and stepped back as he realized there would be no help here. The fighting between them, the gap of time between them--Altair had fooled himself into thinking that seeing Malik would make things make sense again.

"If you will not help me I will be on my way," Altair said, words short and hands clenched at his side.

"I did not say I would not help," Malik snapped out and Altair paused as he moved to leave. Malik didn't look at him, though, and Altair felt all the more confused about it. Was Malik so upset with Altair that even seeing his face made the other sick? Altair blinked, rapidly, to fight the way his eyes wanted to water. He hadn't cried since he was a child and he wasn't about to start now. "There are three places where information about your target may be found. South in the markets between the Muslim and Jewish districts; north near the mosque in this district; east, in front of St Anne's Church near the Bab Ariha gate."

Altair hummed a response, not sure what to say in this moment. Thanks should be enough, but with the tenseness to Malik's shoulders and the way he refused to look at him Altair decided not speaking was the far better option. He shifted, angled to leave.

"The garden is open to you," Malik said, well aware what the slight scuff of Altair's boots on the ground meant. "If you need food or water ask and I will have Jawad bring you something."

Without another word Altair left and closed himself off once more.

Malik breathed out, shaky and unsure just what had happened, heart clenched like a vice and the rest of him so damn cold. He'd spoke to a ghost; a dead man had walked into his Bureau safe as can be, spoke words to him with a face that was not his and a voice that wanted to spear Malik's heart--with a swagger that hurt to see--and Malik wasn't sure what to make of it other than--Altair was dead. Malik both wanted to drink in the form and face of someone gone from this world--the familiar scar across his lips, the way his eyes were honeyed and warm without that second sight, the missing finger of his left hand--how the robes clung to him like a second skin--and he wanted to scream because how dare they? How dare they make him relieve the death of a man who did not deserve it?

"Papa?" Desmond mumbled and Malik shuttered his thoughts, wiped at the tears in his eyes, and quickly turned and crouched down. Desmond peered up at him with the reflective eyes of his second sight and Malik wanted to wince at it--he'd told the boy the rest his eyes. This would not help his aching head Malik knew. "Why sad?"

Malik swallowed, and then settled himself on the floor behind counter and reached out to pet Desmond's head with his right hand. He readjusted the moist cloth so that it covered Desmond's eyes again as he said softly, "A ghost, Desmond."

"S'not a ghost," Desmond pouted; his head must feel better, Malik noted, because he was more lively now and less churlish. "He was sad too."

Malik breathed out slowly and let the contradiction lie because it made little sense. Altair had been put to blade by Al Mualim himself; Kareem had said so and Kareem had little reason to lie to Malik's face about such matters. The others in Masyaf spoke about it--about how public it was. The way some Brothers had chance to hold Altair down and took joy in it--joy in how he struggled, joy in the sight of the blade parting flesh--it made Malik sick. Altair should right and truly be dead after that and if he wasn't--if he wasn't it meant he took Al Mualim's blade and survived and Al Mualim had told nobody the specifics. Which meant that truly was Altair and not a brother with a similar face and a similar voice to trick Malik's mind. It meant Malik grieved a man who lived and did not--did not dare come to see him?

Could Altair even have come to see Malik? Malik didn't know the man's condition. He seemed fit, seemed well, despite the actions that should have killed him. He was quieter, certainly. Altair had pensive moments where his voice failed him and he would speak less on things and in this moment it seemed that. He'd closed off, too, toward the end--focused, accepting. Malik's hand shook as he remembered offering the garden and nothing more and he thought--he breathed out slow and steady.

"Not a ghost, child?" Malik asked, words light.

"Mm," Desmond hummed. "He's sad an' confused an' there's so much much," Desmond's words were jumbled and quick and he couldn't seem to get out what he wanted to say so he gestured large with his arms until they hit Malik in the stomach lightly, "'bout you."

"Me?" Malik blinked, surprised--but then should he have been? Altair and he had been fighting, certainly, because Altair was an ass who could not see his head for his face--but that couldn't have been it. Not with how long it took the man to come down from the roof and enter into the building. Malik had honestly thought it'd been Faheem again, come to harass him and he'd been ready to throw the man out on his ear if need to.

Instead the man to walk through his door had been a ghost and Malik too struck dumb by it to do anything more than--than be a bitter asshole at the reminder. Malik sighed heavily and said a soft, "I was told he died."

"Oh." Desmond pushed the cloth off his face and peered up at Malik with tired eyes. "M sorry? But. He's not dead."

"No," Malik agreed, "he is most certainly not." Malik peered down at Desmond, and then lightly tapped the child on the nose and watched the way Desmond's face scrunched up at the gesture. "How is your head?"

"Um. Better."

The empty cup of tea rested in the corner of the little nook Malik had put together for Desmond when his head started to hurt. He gestured to the cup with a raised brow, "The tea help?" Desmond hummed, but didn't nod his head. Not perfect, then. "Good. Back inside for you, then, but only to bed." For a moment he got a churlish look in response that Malik could only smile at. "None of that now, Desmond. My friend will be quick and return soon--you said he was bright. I do not want you to upset your head any more than it is. The bedroom should be dim, and I will make sure some incense is there for you."

Desmond huffed, mumbled a faint, "Fiiiiine," and wrapped himself in the blankets Malik had used to create the nest for him. He looked rather cute all bundled up in cloth with only a tuft of his curly hair peeking out and gold-bright eyes squinting at the world. Malik placed the cloth back on top of Desmond's head and escorted him to the door with a faint chuckle, only pause when Desmond stopped walking to look up at Malik with a frown. "Talk to him, papa?"

Malik paused, looked at Desmond. "I will try," he said in response; and he would, but sometimes talking to Altair was like talking to brick--impossible. Desmond nodded, then groaned at the action, and slipped through the door back into the house proper.

#fic: run it again #assassins creed #altair ibn la'ahad #malik al sayf #desmond miles #fanfic #time travel #altmal #altmal raises baby desmond #wip #fic: the heir the reader and clay

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teecupangel · 4 months

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What if when Desmond's ancestors come into contact with pieces of Eden they see desmond doing modern day stuff starting from when he connects with them.

So I already wrote a short fic about Altaïr learning about Desmond after he lost Maria and Sef which led him to using his Apple setting it up so that his consciousness and memories after his death would transfer to Desmond and finding a way to save Desmond before the two of them go rogue as Altaïr felt that William Miles and the Brotherhood cannot be trusted at the moment. (as usual, I cannot find it, it's somewhere in this tumblr XD)

And since Ezio already had some ideas of who Desmond is…

We’re setting this for Ratonhnhaké:ton to give us a change of pace. :)

He saw him for the first time when he grabbed the key around his father’s neck.

He saw him arguing with his own father, saw him take a punch he could have evaded…

He saw his shoulders tremble for a brief second before anger took hold of him.

Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t know who he was.

No.

He knew his name.

Desmond.

He knew that he was watching Ratonhnhaké:ton some way.

He could see him if he touched the key.

But he had been too blinded by his anger to find out more.

He had been focused on taking down Charles Lee.

The next time he sees Desmond, it as he was burying the key in Connor Davenport’s grave.

The vision he sees is much longer than the time he held the key.

It was like time slowed down while he watched him.

Desmond Miles.

An Assassin like him.

His descendant.

Trying to save the world from the sun’s wrath.

He learned why that spirit had appeared before him and used him.

Juno.

He was used to ensure that his descendant could save the world.

It did not heal the pain of betrayal.

But it helped numb it.

His vision stopped with Desmond learning where he hid the key.

And Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped that he would be safe.

Perhaps he would do what Ratonhnhaké:ton could not.

Maybe he can finally end this tragic war.

He hears Juno tell him of what will happen if he lets the world burn.

He hears Minerva tell him to save himself.

He hears his conviction.

He sees him burn.

“Cap’n?”

The vision disappeared from his mind and he is back by the brow of Aquila, holding tightly the bag that hides the glowing ball George Washington had thrust upon him.

Had left to him to deal with.

Was that the end?

His descendant dies to save the world?

And the world continues to turn…

Without even knowing what had been sacrificed.

How many more lives would be sacrificed?

His father’s life.

His life.

His descendant’s life.

Is this cruel fate all that lies in the end?

No.

Ratonhnhaké:ton refuses to believe that.

And this ball…

It might hold the hint to what he can do to stop what will come to pass.

“Set sail.” Ratonhnhaké:ton ordered as he walked towards the helm.

“Where to, Cap’n?”

“Home.”

#i don’t know if set sail is the correct nautical phrase #hopeful ending ig???#ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #ratonhnhaké:ton #connor kenway #fic idea: assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot

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dragonoffantasyandreality · 3 years

Text

Kamen Rider Thunderbirds Chapter 3 (Bit 5 End)

Prologue, Bit 1, Bit 2 Updated, Bit 3, Bit 4

Finaaaly! I finished Chapter 3! :D

Big thank you for @janetm74 for the beta read, thank you @myladykayo for helping me through the story. Tagging @willow-salix, @katblu42, @gumnut-logic and @dreamycloud)

So let’s end this chapter, right? :)

-0-0-0-

“So you are saying that you’ve been attacked by some unknown monsters?” Jeff asked, his fingers gripping the paper. The bandaged up boys nodded.

“Yeah. And we believed it was a set up." Virgil pointed out.

"It seemed like deliberate sabotage by those… things, so we came in and fell into their trap." Scott theorized. He continued explaining: in fact, the way the fires started was suspicious, the flames appeared in random parts of the building, according to the recent investigations. And according to the testimonies of the rescuees who were trapped underground, the humanoid fire-monsters appeared out of nowhere and they are the ones who started the whole fires, and then… they were simply waiting. The field commander finished that the poor fellas acted as bait for the monsters to finish him and his brothers off.

"Long story short: they were after our heads apparently." Gordon concluded.

Their father had a look of extreme concern. To think those threats with impossible yet fantastic power to bring down a building were after his sons was very alarming and pose a threat to their lives and security. Here he thought that time where they had to save the world from a mind-controlling alien sphere was a close call!

"Thank heavens the Kamen Riders came and saved us!" Alan chirped, his ocean eyes sparkled like stars with memories.

"Yes. You guys are very lucky. And those rescuees as well." Agreed Jeff, "However, we don’t know if we could trust those bug-eyed warriors.”

“But dad! They saved us!” Argued the youngster, “They saved us from these creatures! I am pretty sure they are our allies! Friends even!”

"Alan! We don't even know who they are!" Pointed out Gordon.

The young blonde crossed his arms and gave the most dramatic pout. Jeff sighed, gently shaking his head with a slight sympathetic smile, “They may be on our side now, but we still don’t know what their intentions are. Especially when they got those… other-worldly powers. So take their alliance with caution.” he said sternly.

The brothers nodded in agreement, including Alan who simply cocked his head to the side. They did tell John about the whole thing, in which the middle brother had mixed feelings. Concerned, relieved and interested. But mostly worried.

After the debrief, the atmosphere was a lingering silent worry.

“Hey kiddo, don’t be upset.” Gordon smiled optimistically.

“You sure?” Huffed his youngest brother.

“Yeah. As much as I am suspicious about them, I am also curious.” his innocent smile turned into a cheeky smirk.

Alan’s grumpy face slowly transformed into that of an excited gremlin that the redhead knew and loved, “Alright! How about we go talk to Brains? See what he thinks of this rescue.”

Gordon grinned, “Right behind ya, Sprout!”

And soon enough, the terrible two vanished through the door of the lounge, their excited feet echoed through the halls.

“What do you think of the Kamen Riders, Scott?” asked Virgil, placing a gentle hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

Scott shrugged, “I don’t know.” He was mostly worried about those monsters. Those… things. What are they after? Why do they want International Rescue dead? Of course it was only one time, but what if they do it again? He was beginning to feel dread. Being possessed by an alien was bad enough, but almost getting burned alive by monstrous animal-headed gladiators with powers to control fire was out of the question!

“You know, I do have a hunch that our bug-eyed acquaintances are on our side.” admitted Virgil, “But, I also have a feeling that we’ll meet them again, considering the circumstances.”

Scott looked back at his brother. Sky blue meets earthly brown. There was a silent conversation. An understanding. And then a nod from the eldest brother. They sat there in compassionate silence.

The quiet must’ve been killing his brother, because all of the sudden the mechanic asked, “Say, would you like to play the piano again?”

“Why’s that?” Scott raised a brow.

“My fingers are sore from fixing the Mole in a rush back there.” Virgil smiled with a little embarrassment, as he revealed his bandaged hands.

Scott gently tapped his brother’s shoulder with a chuckle. He got up from the couch and walked over to Virgil’s beloved white piano. He sat on the stool once more, opened the lid and stretched his fingers, “What should I play?”

“Anything, I don’t mind.” His musical brother shrugged, standing beside him.

As Scott thought which song to play, his mind drifted back to the moment when he looked into the eyes of the golden Rider. It seemed to him that there was something warm behind those bug-eyes… something human. Scott wondered if there's a sensitive soul behind that mask.

Maybe it was just in his mind, maybe it was not true, but it made him relax. Pressing the keys, he began playing a familiar, jazzy beat as he remembered that moment. After a few repeats of the rhyme, he went to the main part of the song.

“Ah, my favorite! Take Five!" Jeff exclaimed, "Just like you guys.” he chuckled.

Scott smiled at his father as a response. There were some remnants of his stress, but it didn't bother him as much as he was in the morning. Jeff gave him a relieved nod before continuing doing paperwork, quietly humming and tapping his foot to the beat. Virgil smiled widely at his brother before humming as well and snapping his fingers along with the melody of the immortal piece of Paul Desmond.

Scott jumped into improvising like he was here to woo the girls at a party. As he was playing, he thought back of their victory. And his tension melted away. Outside the villa, the soothing music echoed through the beautiful nature of the island and into the night sky.

-0-0-0-

The moon shone in the night sky and the cold was a constant companion. The sounds of distant cars driving through the streets could be heard from the top of the skyscrapers. On one of them stood four figures, taking their time enjoying the view from above.

The Kamen Riders were resting after the heated fight. Gills was leaning on a wall next to the entrance, between his legs lay his loyal dog. G3-X was finishing writing a report of the fight on his custom laptop. Kuuga was laying on top of the entrance, admiring the stars. And Agito was standing near the railing, staring into the lights of the city.

"Oi, Agito!" called Kuuga all of a sudden. The golden Rider turned to his best friend.

"Nando(What is it)?" asked Agito.

"Why wouldn’t you come up here and watch the stars?” suggested the red Rider, "It's beautiful up there."

"How can you see stars from here?" objected G3-X, "Ya can't see Shiitake with all those slagging city lights!"

"They can see them through their visors," scoffed Gills, making the robocop Rider whistle a sound of realization before turning back to his computer.

Raider looked up and tilted his head as if trying to see them, but after a few moments he gave up as he put his canine head back to the ground.

Agito had taken a moment to stare at the city, then moved towards the entrance, climbed and sat next to Kuuga.

"Not too cold buddy?” the red Rider asked, only to receive a shake of the head from his golden companion. The two took a moment to appreciate the stars in the cold night sky. Few stars faintly glowed in the dark sky.

"Man, can't believe we just met with International Rescue in person!" excitedly said Kuuga, "I gotta say, they are quite tough guys, ne? Especially Noodle, he looks quite young!"

"Noodle?" asked the golden rider in confusion.

"The blond kid! The one I saved from falling into a ravine and returned the gun to?" Kuuga sensed Agito raising an eyebrow that cannot be seen from the cover of his mask. "We should give them nicknames. To… you know, to know who's who we're talking about?" He explained, shrugging.

A sparkle of mirth could be faintly seen behind the faceted eyes of his friend, a warm smile could be felt radiating from his breath. "Sure...But why the blond kid 'Noodle'?"

"Because his blonde hair reminded me of noodles. And to be honest, 'Noodle' sounds kawaii~! Don’t you think he looks kawaii, ne?” A big grin was radiating from behind the mask of the red Rider. Agito laughed wholeheartedly. Kuuga continued, "The auburn hair guy; I think we'll call him 'Kuma'! He looks so serious, strong and tough, like a bear! Remind me of someone…"

The golden Rider laughed again as he nodded. "So um… shall we call the leader 'Sky Eyes'?"

Kuuga rubbed his silver chin for a bit, "Hmm…the one who pilots that big-hyper-speedy-rocket-jet thingy? Why's that?" he asked.

"Because… his eyes reminded me of the sky...” The red Rider saw the sparkling human eyes behind Agito’s red bug-like lens. Kuuga nodded, agreeing that the name was well suited for the blue sashed commander.

"What about the redhead guy? What should we call him?" asked G3-X as he looked up at the two Riders, seemingly curious.

"Clownfish..." Gills dropped the answer. There was an awkward pause. "He smelled fishy..." He deadpanned. Everyone laughed, acknowledging his typical 'I don't care, deal with it' attitude as they accepted his answer.

"Noodle, Kuma, Sky Eyes and Clownfish. Sounds good for our mystery gang of rescuers!" Kuuga clapped and rubbed his hands excitingly

Agito chuckled softly before looking back at the stars once more. The more he stared at the little faint glistening lights, the more the made him think of sky… sky eyes… the man whose eyes were always drawn to the sky.

He felt a warm feeling as he remembered those cobalt irises. He wondered why he felt like that. He barely knows that man, let alone the fact that International Rescue seemed to keep themselves secret. Maybe he'll never know. But one thing for sure, they'll cross paths again. Because of those things...

Those kaijins… they were new. He had never seen them before. And they are as aggressive and dangerous as disasters. Agito… Yuuki sensed that whatever they were, they seemed to be after International Rescue. But for what? And why?

The answer will remain unknown, for now...

-tbc-

#Kamen Rider Thunderbirds series #kamen rider #thunderbirds #kamen rider fanfiction #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds 1965 #kamen rider agito #kamen rider kuuga #my fanfics #yay! I finished chapter 3! :D

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doginshoe · 4 years

Text

School Project

Anya x Damian

Summary: Anya and Damian have been assigned a project together and the two work after school to get the assignment done. If they can even manage to get that... ** I’ve aged them both up to what would be 12yo though we don’t exactly know Anya’s age but somewhere around there.

one-shot fluff @sevenlaila

To say that Anya was disappointed to learn that Damian Desmond lived in the Eden Academy dorms was an understatement. She had tried her hardest after these few long years to befriend the boy, not that it had particularly gone well, so that she could visit his house and help Papa in his goal for world peace. The weight of the world was resting on her small shoulders after all.

Yet, now as she stood outside the door after Mama had dropped her off and sent her on her way with a quick kiss and thoughts of she could justify breaking Desmond's fingers if he upset her, she couldn’t help but feel frustrated. Fate had given her a chance to save the world and help Papa that no longer involved long grueling hours of studying for Stella’s, and stupid Sy-on boy had ruined it.

She knocked on the door with a small closed fist, banging hard. Papa had told her it was polite to knock. Less suspicious and easy to check if anyone was home before a spy should start to pick a lock.

“Sy-on boy!” She shouted. “Open!” Her cheeks puffed as she listened to the muffled and annoyed thoughts of the young boy who was making his way to the door. If anyone had the right to be angry it was her. If he could just live with his father then she wouldn’t be stuck studying with Uncle Yuri every Sunday and forced to record Spy Wars because Papa said no cartoons until she finished her homework. Anya couldn’t be bothered. In all her hard work at the Academy she had only got three Stella’s and none of them had been from perfect test scores unlike Sy-on boys. It was all her spy training that had got her -

The door opened to reveal a disgruntled face. “What do you want?” His droopy eyes were narrowed, his lips turned down into an uneasy frown as he stared down at her - cheeks slightly flushed.

Anya didn’t budge as she ignored his usual rudeness, blank faced. “Project.”

“So? You really going to think I’m going to do a project with some loser like you?” He rolled his eyes as he leaned against the door, giving her that stupid arrogant smile that she would like to punch off his face just like when she had first met him. Papa had said to be nice, but he made it hard. There was something about him that had Anya feeling slightly irked whenever she looked at him.

She blinked as he kept talking. “Please. Don’t give yourself any credit! You’ll only weigh me down.”

“But -” Anya looked past him, seeing the dorm behind him empty and she tightened her hands on the straps of her backpack. She knew he was expecting her, the thoughts betraying him as she saw how he had already set the table with snacks and a jug of milk. He was confusing, but it just made it easier as she shrugged. “If Sy-on boy is ok with failing. Fine.” She tried to turn around or attempted to, but his hand clamped on her shoulder and twisted her back around and into the large house.

“Let’s just get this over with.” He grumbled, Anya trailing behind with the hint of a smirk on her face as she dropped her school bag next to the chair of the dining room. Her legs dangled off the edge as she sat down, feet grazing the ground but not touching like the boy who sat across from her. His eyes turned down in annoyance at his pencil before flicking them up to the snacks set in front of them.

“Don’t think I set this out for you or anything. It was the house maid. She always does this.” A lie, but Anya chose to ignore it as he flicked his gaze back to her as he continued to speak. “Since I’m such a good host I’ll let you have some but only -”

Yet, Anya was already reaching, leaning across the table as she tried to grab hold of a cookie placed in the middle of the table. She looked over as he stopped talking, both their eyes wide as she slowly curled her greedy fingers around the treat set out for them.

“If you.. Finish your part.”

She didn’t waste any time as she pulled back, shoving the whole cookie into her mouth as he watched in shock. Anya tried to swallow it whole, but the tears formed in her eyes as she felt a burning dryness at the back of her throat. Her small hands grabbed at her neck as she tried to take a breath.

“Hey! I told you to not eat any yet-” His tone tried to sound angry, but his hands were rising in concern as he scooted closer to the girl whose face was turning redder by the second. “Are you.. Okay?”

Anya heaved forward, quickly chewing the cookie as she tried to swallow it all down. She didn’t think anything else was harder to eat than Mama’s cooking, but she must’ve been mistaken as she took in large gulps of air. Her eyes were watering, small tears building up in the corners of her eyes that threatened to fall as she looked back up at Damian.

“G-good…” She raised a shaky thumbs up at him.

His eyebrows drew in, but his lips were twisting into something indecipherable. His cheeks were flushing and Anya thought he looked a bit sweaty. This happened a lot with Sy-on boy. Sometimes he would get red and he would look even more stupid than usual. Even his thoughts were stupid as they clashed together and were practically unreadable to Anya as it fizzled so much inside his head.

Sometimes she thought he would explode, but it hasn't happened. Yet.

“You’re an idiot! Haven’t your parents ever taught you any manners, Commoner?” He was angry at her as he yelled. “I swear you’re just so… so -”

Cute.

Anya blinked before she looked down at her hands. “A spy... should always be polite.” Papa and Bondman were always nice. It’s why she had to be nice to Sy-on boy. If you’re polite then your target won’t expect a thing as you lowered their defences. Manners were in some situations, just like episode 35, the most important part of a spy’s mission.

She tightened her hands into fists before she looked up, her eyes sparking with new determination as she shut the boy sitting next to her up with her hard stare. “I am sorry for eating your cookie, Sy-on Boy!” She leaned in, her expression deadly serious as she reached out and cupped his face. This was just like what Bondman did to the princess in Spy Wars when she told him the passwords to her father's vaults.

“Please forgive me… Sweetheart.”

He said nothing as Anya continued to hold his cheek, her eyes were stuck to his as she then did the next move. Awkwardly she stroked her thumb across his freckled cheek. This was it. She had him. He would be dying to have her over his real house now. Maybe he would invite her over during the break and she could bring Bond? As well as Papa of course.

Yet, as Damian’s mouth parted, Anya’s eyes practically shining as she had to hold in the smirk that was threatening to pull up on her lips, his face burned into a bright shade of crimson.

“Get off of me!” He screamed as he threw her hand off his face. “What’re you… How could you even think…” Damian’s eyes were blown wide, his hands shaking as he stared at her incredulously. “Get out! Get out now!”

“But Sy-on boy -”

“No!” He stood up abruptly, pushing her out of her seat as he grabbed her bag. Anya didn’t have a choice as he took hold of her arm and dragged her to the door, swinging it open as he pushed her out. “I never want to see you here again.”

“But -”

“Get out of here Ugly!” He threw her bag into her awaiting hands, barely catching it as she fumbled on his front step. Without another word he slammed the door shut on her face and Anya could only stare at the place he had been as she tried to process what she had done. She followed everything that Bondman had done… Where had she gone wrong with Sy-on boy?

Anya groaned. World peace really was doomed now... Not to mention they didn’t get any work started on the project.

#spy x family #spyxfamily #sxf fanfiction #anya folger #damian desmond #fanfic #my writing #Danya #??#idk their ship name actually #spy x family fanfiction #doginshoe #anya x damian

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storytimefromthecreed · 4 years

Text

The Other Side of the War

When one steps into the Animus, in the time it takes for the world to appear, everything is grey. That’s what it was like right now. Searching the horizon for the world to appear, Desmond searched the grey and found that this was not the case. It remained ever present, and panic shot through him. Something was wrong. Maybe the Animus glitched? Maybe something had happened to the rest of the team, and he was stuck in that damn chair?

If he had a heart, it would be hammering. That should’ve confirmed the thing he dreaded most was true. Perhaps, when you get there, this is what you have to figure out on your own.

As the memories resurfaced, he pieced through his day. Did he need more time with Connor? He’d thought he’d finished his story. Oh. They had. They’d found what needed finding. He remembered waking up and wishing he had coffee. Juno, the face of his family as he pushed them away, the burning. It was the most painful thing he’d ever felt in his entire life. “Maybe that’s why it killed me.” Taken aback that he’d spoken the words, Desmond looked around once more. For a world that would never build.

Of course, he would wind up in hell.

Falling to the ground with a sob, Desmond sat and pulled his knees to his chest. For a moment, he just sat there and wept. Then, he yelled into the void, “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life!” There was no echo. “I’ve lied, cheated, stole. Hell, I’ve even killed, but you know what?” He waited, what for? He wasn’t sure. Maybe the Devil would show his face or God would smite him. “I’d do it all again! Ok? I fought for good, for the lives of the innocent, for the right to choose, and I’d do it again!” Nothing happened, and so Desmond returned to his crying.

A beam of light appeared a few steps away, like someone had drawn a curtain. The beam grew until a shadow formed inside it, and Desmond braced himself for a fight. He was an Assassin, after all.

He plopped down beside him and offered him a hand. Gold eyes twinkling at the sight of him. “God, I must be really handsome for my line to turn out as it has.” Desmond knew that voice, had spoken it, and yet it should be impossible for this person to be before him. His life was always filled with impossibilities. “Des-mound.” His accent was thick and made Desmond smile. “It’s really good to finally meet you.” Taking his hand, Altair helped him up. “Now, without delay! I had to fight the others to be first in line, and I’m sure they’re going to be mad if we’re late.” He’d began to make a step but stopped when he saw Desmond paled.

“The others?” He asked.

Altair nodded, “Yes. The other Assassins.” Now, he smiled, “We’ve been watching the adventure you’ve been on, and I have to say, Des-mound. We…we’re all so proud.”

“Proud?” Desmond pulled his arm away and cradled it against his chest. It should’ve been burned, and yet his tattoos were in perfect condition. “How can you be proud of me? I died. I made the wrong call. I…I lost.”

A hand went to his shoulder, and he looked up to see Altair giving him a soft smile, “Des-mound, a friend once told me what I am going to tell you. War is endless, it is a cycle between good and evil. It is, and always shall be. We make war on others and they in turn make war on us. Now, that’s not saying that it’s hopeless or not worth fighting, all it is saying is that there are no winners and losers. There simply is. As long as you fight for truth, for good, you’ll always win.” Tears sprang into Desmond’s eyes, and Altair felt a pang of sorrow. Maybe Connor and Ezio were right. They were better with their words and never would’ve made Desmond cry. Just as he was about to say this, Desmond wiping his face and finally smiled.

“Thank you, Altair.”

Swiftly, Altair pulled him in a hug. Shock colored Desmond’s face when Altair let him go, to which he said, “I’ve always wanted to do that. Now, tell me, are we ready?”

“Let’s do it, Gramps.” At this new nickname, Altair swung his arm over Desmond’s shoulders, and they started walking into the light. Scared, Desmond put his arm around Altair’s shoulders, and they stepped in.

Everything was white, and nothing existed save for Altair’s weight beside him. It made Desmond brave. Then, suddenly, there was a, “He’s HERE!! DESMOND!!” Heaven looked nothing like how he thought it would. There were no harps or clouds, but plenty of angels. As his eyes searched the room, he recognized some familiar faces amongst the strangers.

A woman with bright red hair looked him up and down before nodding her approval, the man with a ponytail gave him a small wave. Maria looked between him and Altair, hands clasped in excitement, and Malik stood by her. He looked different when he wasn’t yelling. His face kinder when he smiled.

Breaking apart from the crowd was someone Desmond would know anywhere. Ezio made his way before him and offered a hand, his mouth opening and closing before he finally spat out, “Hi. I’m Ezio.”

Chuckled, Desmond opened his arms, and Ezio walked right in. “I know who you are, Ezio, and it’s so good to finally meet you.” As they pulled away, Ezio held him at arm’s length and looked him over with tears in his eyes. “I can’t imagine how frustrating it was working through the veil and not knowing the whole story.”

“I’d love to hear it from the source, that is,” Ezio looked sheepish, “if you wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d love that, Grandpa.”

“Hey now, don’t go calling just anyone Gramps.” Altair pouted with a cross of his arms.

“Ignore him,” Maria stood before Desmond now, offered a hand. “He thinks the whole world revolves around him.” With her snark passing, she gazed down at him gently. “You probably don’t know who I am, but I know so much of you, Desmond. It’s truly wonderful having you here.”

“Maria Thorpe.” Demond gave her a hug too. “I know you.”

An argument had broken out between Ezio and Altair behind them, but they ignored them. “Oh,” Maria turned bright red. “You do? Well, I can explain. You see, in the beginning….actually, I’m sure I’ll have time to explain everything later.”

“I’m his Prophet.”

“I’m his Gramps!”

“I’m Connor.” The voice made Desmond turn and look up, all the way up, until he found warm by eyes.

Desmond leapt, “Ratonhnhake:ton!” He offered a handshake, “I just finished a session with you, and there’s so many things I have to ask.”

“A session?” Connor took his hand, and Desmond shook it eagerly.

“Yea! In the Animus. So, what happened to the Homestead? Where did the turkey go? How do you feel about the current state of America?”

“Uhhhh….”

“Sorry,” Desmond laughed, “Got a bit ahead of myself, didn’t I?”

“It’s understandable.” Connor assured him, “But the turkey? He lived a long, happy life, and died of natural causes, I promise you. Here, there’s some people you have to meet!”

Meeting Haytham was strange, but meeting Haytham’s Assassin/pirate father was even stranger. “What do you mean you never got to go through my life?” Edward huffed, angrily fluffing a pillow for Desmond. “These two,” he waved the pillow between Haytham and Connor, Haytham flinched. “Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“Maybe it’s because you pissed away the head start the Assassins had worked thousands of years for?” Arno sipped his coffee.

Desmond wheeled to Edward. “That was you?!”

“Aye, get off it, all of you. Don’t go embarrassing me in front of my grandson, you hear?” Edward mumbled.

“But I’m the Gramps!” Altair called from the kitchen.

The day was spent catching up, as well as a family can with eras between them, and Desmond’s mind wandered back to his family in the land of the living. He hoped they were safe and knew he he’d be waiting for them when it was their time.

Until then, he was in wonderful company. What’s the worst that can happen with all the Assassins living under one roof?

#ezio auditore de firenze #altair ibn la'ahad #Assassin's Creed #assassin's creed 3 #assassin's creed brotherhood #connor kenway #desmond miles #arno dorian #arno victor dorian #edward kenway #assassin's creed unity #assassin's creed black flag #assassin's creed revelations #maria thorpe

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

Text

Derek Taylor 2020: We’re Still Here

That’s about the best that can be said for a year that pulled out nearly every stop in a surging sea change to calamity, adversity and tragedy. The number of people lost to a pandemic that now stands steadfast as a monument to the true meaning of American Exceptionalism as the epitome of empathy-eradicating self-interest is enough to negate even the noblest efforts at laughing to keep from crying. Musicians and music persisted though, even in a severely altered performance landscape of shuttered venues and virtual concerts. And recorded offerings new and archival remained plentiful.

When so much about the present feels like a sprint backwards, societally, environmentally and across multiple other measures, music reliably endures as a means for finding both meaning and footing in the world. What follows are 20 capsule vignettes describing selections from the sea of albums circulated this year that kept me afloat, followed by 25 more in list form that did the same. Thank you for reading and thanks for sticking with us.

Paul Desmond — The Complete 1975 Toronto Recordings (Mosaic)

Given the magnitude of hardship this year’s wrought on living musicians, it may appear a bit perverse to lead this list with a dead one. Even so, this immersive set’s become an old reliable when it comes to achieving aurally-sourced solace. Desmond, the arch and affluent altoist, leaning into a Canadian club residency with ace sidemen while making good on his gentleman’s agreement with absent Dave Brubeck to abstain from piano accompaniment. The leader’s lady-killer instincts are assiduously evident in the amorously-oriented song choices as his dulcet, tranquilizing tone seduces and delights, night after night.

Chris Dingman — Peace (Inner Arts)

An intensely personal project where abundancy of content arose not out of ambition but rather necessity and is made all the more affecting for it. Dingman designed and played the nearly six hours of solo vibraphone music on this set for his hospice-sequestered father with sole purpose of providing comfort and calm. Reflection after his parent’s passing moved him to release it into the world with the hope that it could do the same for others. Intention accomplished.

Joe McPhee — Black Is the Color (Corbett vs. Dempsey)

It’s been a distressing year for nearly everyone, but particularly for McPhee, who lost his brother Charlie to illness. Even amidst ongoing emotional tumult, his fecundity felt undiminished. AC/DC on the British OtoROKU label offers another entry with the English organ trio Decoy. Of Things Beyond Thule, Vol. 2 is a smashing CD sequel to its vinyl predecessor with Dave Rempis, Tomeka Reid, Brandon Lopez and Paal Nilssen-Love comprising the super group. A reissue of the seminal She Knows… with Scandinavian power trio The Thing on the Ezz-thetics label and Black is the Color compiling early concert material in surprisingly sharp fidelity from the Corbett vs. Dempsey imprint cover the archival end of things.

Sonny Rollins — Rollins in Holland (Resonance)

The Saxophone Colossus holding court with Dutch compatriots in 1967. Most conspicuous is daredevil drummer Han Bennink, who even at this early stage straddles swing to European Free Jazz from behind his kit. Rollins shifts between comparatively pithy studio salvos and effusive concert excursions that once again cement his supremacy in the strenuous realm of long form improvisation. Seven decades as a musician makes for a bank vault-sized cache of bootlegs, but this one, refurbished and authorized remains something special.

Stephen Riley — Friday the 13th (Steeplechase)

Like McPhee, Riley’s a perennial resident of my pantheon. This date realized a long-standing wish to hear him in the company of cornetist Kirk Knuffke backed by the freeing simplicity of bass and drums. Both men have aerated, instantly recognizable tones and pliancy in phrasing that provides practically endless possibilities in tandem. Riley’s also instrumental as featured guest on Pierre Dørge’s Bluu Afroo, a slightly preemptive Ruby Anniversary celebration of guitarist’s multinational New Jungle Orchestra.

Sam Rivers — Ricochet & Braids (No Business)

The auspicious launch of a Sam Rivers archival series last year was among the Lithuanian No Business label’s greatest achievements. Two more seminal entries came down the pike in 2020: Ricochet featuring Dave Holland and Barry Altschul of particularly fine vintage, and Braids spotlighting another pivotal Rivers ensemble in Hamburg with low brass wizard Joe Daley. There are four more to go, which should target the end of 2022 for the series’ completion.

James Brandon Lewis — Live at Willisau & Molecular (Intakt)

Lewis is the type of compelling artist tapped for accolades like Down Beat’s Rising Star award, despite having been active as an accomplished improviser for over a decade. Delayed exposure is common collateral to a career path in improvised music though, and the saxophonist hasn’t let slow-to-cotton critics slow him down a bit. A deal inked with the Swiss Intakt imprint has so far yielded Live at Willsau, which finds him in fiery duo with Chad Taylor, and Molecular, a studio venture with an all-star quartet that will hopefully become a working band again in 2021.

Susan Alcorn — Pedernal (Relative Pitch)

Pedal steel may feel like a nascent voice in improvised music, but in actuality Susan Alcorn and her peers have been plying it as a viable vehicle for some time. While Pedernal is somewhat perplexingly her first album as clear-cut leader, impediments to an earlier debut seem inconsequential given the ample amount of thought and design evident in the end product. Strings wielded by Michael Formanek, Mary Halvorson and Mark Feldman weave with the wide gamut of Alcorn’s aqueous sonorities across intricate pieces further stamped by Ryan Sawyer’s peripatetic drums. The results are at once daring and distinguished.

John Scofield — Swallow Tales (ECM)

ECM has an enviably accomplished record when it comes to matching the austerity and formality of its sound design to artists’ objectives. Case in point this stark, but not standoffish trio set that’s as much (electric) bassist Steve Swallow’s offspring as it is Scofield’s. Drummer Stewart is the third point in the triangle, but he sagely defers to his elders, leaving them to a dance of differently gauged strings that expertly balances motion and space.

Corbett vs. Dempsey

John Corbett is emblematic of that rare breed of music monomaniac who balances obsessiveness with altruistic generosity. He’s personally responsible for bringing dozens of rare and classic recordings back into circulation, first through the fondly remembered Unheard Music Series and more recently via the CvD concern. This year, another stack was added to that sum with Milford Graves & Don Pullen’s The Complete Yale Concert 1966 (including the rarified Nommo), Alexander von Schlippenbach’s Three Nails Left, Tetterettet by the ICP Tentet, Peter Kowald’s self-titled FMP debut as a leader and the madcap New Acoustic Swing Duo from Willem Breuker and Han Bennink as standouts.

Whit Boyd Combo — Party Girls & Dracula (the Dirty Old Man) (Modern Harmonic)

Vintage skin flick soundtracks have rarely if ever received an even-handed shake in terms of relative artistic merits. Tarred with the same smut brush as the visuals they were constructed to accompany, they’re routinely viewed as just as disposable. The Whit Boyd Combo doesn’t exactly dispel this dictum, but it does lay down some funky and at times refreshingly fractious freewheeling horns over organ, bass, and drums driven beats on this late-60s session tape excavated by the folks at Modern Harmonic. The companion Dracula (the Dirty Old Man) isn’t quite on par, but it’s still a solid vessel for competently crafted fossilized grooves.

Robbie Basho — Songs of the Avatars (Tompkins Square)

Real Gone Music whet the appetite earlier this year with the release of Songs of the Great Mystery, a “lost session” from Basho’s tenure at the Vanguard label. Songs of the Avatars ups the ante substantially by granting outsider access to a six-hour survey of the dearly departed fingerstyle guitarist’s personal tape trove. The aural riches are ample and include Basho exploring familiar proclivities (Indian, Native American and Japanese interpolations) alongside unexpected new ones (ballet and cantata) with passion and conviction to burn along the way.

Jimi Hendrix — Live in Maui (Experience Hendrix)

Posthumous Hendrix is a seemingly inexhaustible resource as each year repackaged and repurposed treasures are released into the marketplace. Fortunately, familial heirs are the ones doing the sowing and this lavish set documenting musical and extra-musical particulars of the icon’s reluctant conscription into cosmic hippie scam does right by him. Given the windswept conditions near the Haleakala Crater it’s a minor miracle that he, Billy Cox and Mitch Mitchell mesh as well as they do, and while the footage included can be frustrating in its fragmentary presentation, it’s still a thrill to see and hear them jamming in amiable and ebullient form.

Joe Maneri, Udi Hrant & Friends — The Cleopatra Record (Canary)

Details on this one could easily serve as grist for a credible short film screenplay with perhaps Jim Jarmusch directing. Brooklyn, 1963: A group of marginalized ethnic musicians relegated to playing wedding gigs gets conscripted for an afternoon recording session. The cheaply packaged and provincially distributed results are destined for the anonymity of dime store cut out bins. Except that the band includes two geniuses: Joe Maneri, who would go on to become a master microtonal improviser/composer and Udi Hrant Kenkulian, one of most revered modern doyens of the Turkish oud. Available over at Bandcamp for a pittance.

Ayalew Mesfin — Good Aderegechegn, Che Belew and Tewedije Limut (Now Again)

Adding up Buda Musique’s 30-volume Ethiopiques series and a host of other more modest enterprises, it’s obvious that there’s never been more access to vintage Ethiopian music than now. This trilogy of discs from the Now Again label covering vocalist/keyboardist/bandleader Ayalew Mesfin’s catalog restores one of the last untapped reservoirs to circulation. Tight horns, choppy, fuzz and wah-wah drenched guitars and chugging bass fuel dance floor burners while Mesfin’s pipes work memorable magic on a string of melancholic, melismatic ballads.

Kent & Modern Records Blues into the 60s, Vol. 1 & 2 (Ace)

Ace’s appellation as a music label of enviable reach and import has never been an erroneous assignation. This pair of compilations investigates the urban, but far from urbane, blues scene surrounding Los Angeles as documented by the Kent label in the 1960s. Comparatively longer-in-tooth legends like T-Bone Walker and Big Jay McNeely jockey with younger, fame hungry artists like Larry Davis and Little Joe Blue in negotiating a West Coast argot that’s heavy on electricity channeled through guitars and organs. McNeely’s ripping “Blues in G Minor” is one of several snarling sonic wolves in non-descript sheep’s titling.

V/A — A Stranger I May Be: Savoy Gospel 1954-1986 (Honest Jons)

This astutely-sequenced set stands out in the particularly plentiful playing field of this year’s gospel reissues. The mighty Savoy label started out as a jazz venture before branching out into other African American musical idioms. The compilers at Honest Jons parse the program chronologically across three-discs and leave the heavy-lifting of context and artists biography to a lengthy essay. Choirs, ensembles, bands, and moonlighting R&B singers all make appearances directing their talents to devotional and invocational celebrations of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Sun Ra

One of the highlight roundtables at Dusted this year was a Listening Post ruminating on the Sun Ra Arkesta with and sans Ra on the occasion of the band’s new release Swirling. I got to play the (hopefully uncharacteristic) part of curmudgeon in those exchanges principally because while I respect the ensemble’s longevity absent their lodestar leader, there’s still an explicit void extant that tends to eclipse my actual interest. The Ra reissue docket for 2020, which included excellent editions of Celestial Love and A Fireside Chat with Lucifer from Modern Harmonic, When Angels Speak of Love on Cosmic Myth, Heliocentric Worlds, Vols. 1 and 2 from Ezz-thetics, and Strut’s Egypt 1971, which collects Dark Myth Equation Visitation, Nidhamu and Horizon alongside a bevy of contemporaneous unreleased recordings, only bolstered the bias.

Fresh Sound Records

Still the standard for thoughtfully and lavishly curated jazz reissues, Barcelona-based Fresh Sound kept commensurately prolific pace throughout the year. Gary Peacock - The Beginnings surveys the recently deceased bassist’s early work as a versatile California-stationed sideman. Remembering does similar service to rare concert recordings by Belgian guitarist Rene Thomas while The Complete 1961 Milano Sessions offers truth in advertising by compiling woodwind savant Buddy Collette’s sojourn on Italian shores with (mostly) indigenous sidemen.

V/A — Sumer is Icumenin (Grapefruit)

An overdue sequel to Dust on the Nettles (2015), which apparently commands on princely sums on Discogs these days, this set encompasses 4+ hours of cherry-picked vintage British freak folk. Second helpings from stalwarts of the style such as Comus, Steeleye Span and Fairport Convention join Albion offerings from obscurants like Vulcan’s Hammer, Mr. Fox and Oberon in celebrating the weird crossroads of ancient Britannic and 1960s counterculture influences. The cant is more to The Wicker Man side of the spectrum with Magnet’s bucolic canticle “Corn Rigs” the ringer in that regard.

Twenty-five more in mostly stochastic order:

Aruán Ortiz - Inside Rhythmic Falls (Intakt)

Brandon Seabrook/Cooper-Moore/Gerald Cleaver — Exultations (Astral Spirits)

Cecil Taylor & Tony Oxley — Birdland, Neuberg 2011 (Fundacja Sluchaj)

Horace Tapscott w/ the Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra — Ancestral Echoes: The Covina Sessions, 1976 (Dark Tree)

Damon Smith — Whatever is Not Stone is Light (Balance Point Acoustics)

Frank Lowe & Rashied Ali — Duo Exchange: Complete Sessions (Survival)

Dudu Pukwana — and the “Spears” (Matsuli Music)

Mary Halvorson’s Code Girl — Artlessly Falling (Firehouse 12)

Burton Greene — Peace Beyond Conflict (Birdwatcher)

Albert Ayler — Trio 1964: Prophecy Revisited (Ezz-thetics)

JD Allen — Toys/Die Dreaming (Savant)

Charles Mingus — At Bremen 1964 and 1975 (Sunnyside)

The Warriors of the Wonderful Sound — Soundpath (Clean Feed)

Kidd Jordan/Joel Futterman/Alvin Fielder — Spirits (Silkheart)

Roland Haynes — 2nd Wave (Black Jazz)

Quin Kirchner — The Shadows and the Light (Astral Spirits)

Thelonious Monk — Palo Alto (Universal/Impulse)

Black Unity Trio — Al-Fatihah (Salaam Records/Gotta Groove)

Gary Smulyan — Our Contrafacts (Steeplechase)

Joni Mitchell — Archives Vol. 1: The Early Years (1963-1967 (Rhino)

Elder Charles Beck — Your Man of Faith (Gospel Friend)

Sarhabil Ahmed — King of Sudanese Jazz (Habibi Funk)

V/A – The Right to Rock: The Mexicano and Chicano Rock ‘n’ Roll Rebellion 1955-1963, Episodio Uno (Bear Family)

V/A – Hillbillies in Hell: Country Music’s Tormented Testament (1952-1974) ~ Revelations (The Omni Recording Corporation)

V/A — The Harry Smith B-Sides (Dust to Digital)

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itseivwhore · 4 years

Text

|Ezio Auditore x reader|(Modern)

I was at the beach for an entire day,from morning until evening:with the sun and the impossible heat (plus my pride and the thought of being invincibile to everything and everyone),didn't exactly help the stay...so I ended up to have billions of sunburns all over my shoulders and face (who would have thought...I've been spending 17 years at the beach every damn Summer,yet I never got such a bad sunburn like this one.Invincible my ass). And I was stuck on my bed,I couldn't even move...so how better to spend all this free time if not to write something?

Have a little modern au imagine with all of the Assassins,and at least but not last,with the reader comforting Ezio struggling and being a bit dramatic with the big sunburns he got.

Because I was annoyed,and it was the only idea I got.Oh and it won't be like all my other long imagines:this one will be quite short...maybe.(Oh x 2,I would like to point this out:the writing style will be a little bit different from all the other one shots I have written,since this will be a modern one,so don't really expect philosophical speeches).

~~~~~

Summer.

Probably the most awaited season of the year,where everything changes and the world takes on a new and youthful aspect:longer and warmer days,holidays,exciting and fun experiences,countless of new opportunities to spend free time with friends;maybe spending a few weeks in a beautiful house right in front of a lake,in the middle of nature,away from the city and its continuous noise...and this is what Ezio organized:three weeks in that beautiful large wooden house,where he would celebrate his birthday.

Everybody knew that the Italian boy had always-always-organized fantastic parties,with hundreds of people,inviting almost the whole school and all the people he knew,celebrating all night long.Everybody knew about his famous,big parties.But the group of his closest friends was shocked and amazed,to say the least,when Ezio declared that for this year there would be no big and crazy party:just a few weeks,all together,a sort of summer holiday,near a lake,in the middle of a forest.

And everyone,of course,expected that Ezio had rented an ultra-modern and very expensive house,but when they all arrived at the place of residence,they remained amazed:that infamous house,which the Italian had so long mentioned,was nothing more than a large,simple,two-storey wooden chalet.The outside of the house was surrounded by a thick layer of grass,decorated with many small colorful flowers,overlooked by large trees that partially covered the large lawn with their shade.A hammock had been tied right in the middle of two trees,and was slightly moved by the warm summer breeze.

The interior was spacious and furnished in a very simple way with wodden fornitures,and everything was more cozy and soft thanks to that small touch of vintage everywhere in the house:pendulum clocks,antique paintings hanging on all the walls,huge windows that illuminated immensely the large living room.The second floor was just where the numerous bedrooms were,as well as having a large and spacious balcony overlooking the majestic lake,giving a truly beautiful view.

In short,a truly delightful house,reserved and discreet,away from towns and cities.

Everyone,on the other hand,had found various activities and amusements to do:who,like Edward,Jacob,Ezio and Desmond,as soon as they arrived at the chalet,had lost no time and immediately dived into the lake,swimming and playing in the cool water;who,like Connor and Altaïr,had decided to take a walk in the woods near the chalet,looking for silence and peace,away from Jacob's screams,Edward's dirty jokes and Ezio's curses;who,like Evie and Arno,sat in the shadow of the mighty tall white poplars reading books,sometimes muttering something to each other;who,like Leonardo,spent most of his time painting the landscape around him.

Y/n instead spent the hours of the day alternating between being in everyone's company:swimmimg with the four boys in the lake,or walking together with Altaïr and Connor in the middle of the woods,or simply chatting with the two readers,or watching the painter paint his masterpieces.And,during the last hours of the evening,being together with Ezio,cuddling him,spending sweet and almost infinite moments with him,laying in the hammock next to him,laughing at his flirty comments,shivering at his reserved and gentle touches and blushing at his tempting and allouring glances.

The whole group was having fun,no one was bored,the days went by fast,and Ezio's birthday was getting closer and closer.Everything was normal.

Until...

"Santo Dio!" a heartrending scream of pain,coming from inside the chalet,interrupted the quiet of that mid-June afternoon.All of them had gathered in the large living room,standing around him.Curses and cries of pain had little to do with all that fuss:the real reason why the whole group had gathered in the living room was-as one might have imagined-for Ezio himself.

Once he was finally back from a full day at the lake,most of it spent sunbathing,everyone noticed how incredibly reddish his face had become-noticing however that he was wearing his t-shirt again.But he just shrugged it off,reassuring everyone by telling that it was 'completely normal',as if nothing happened.But the hours went by,and with them grew-more and more-the pain that became unbearable,impossible to ignore,the realization that became more and more vivid in his mind.And consequently,even his complaints and pain only grew:starting from barely audible groans to loud shouts,catching the attention of the whole group...who tried to do everything to help him,but in vain.

"Don't...don't touch me!" Ezio intimidated with a threatening voice,pointing a finger at all his friends who,a little surprised,a little worried-and even a little amused-were in front of him.

"Please,you need to take of your shirt off,Ezio!" Y/n prayed him for the umpteenth time in an exasperated tone,slowly taking a few steps towards the guy,spreading her arms,wanting him to understand that she didn't have any bad intentions.

"I don't need to do anything!Leave me be!" Ezio shouted again with eyes burning with rage,backing away when he saw his fiancée approaching him,his flashing gaze wandering quickly over all his friends' faces.

"You are shouting like a girl,mate.Quit it" Edward's loud,bored and singing voice came from the kitchen,too busy rummaging through the fridge to turn around and look at the poor boy.

"Zitto Kenway!" the Italian apostrophied him,panting heavily,red in the face,drops of sweat running over his forehead,while he walked quickly back and forth in the living room,trying to avoid the looks and comments of everyone.

"Be a man and take that shirt off,you are complaining for nothing" Jacob replied in a careless,nonchalant voice,passing next to Ezio and then placing a heavy hand on his shoulder,purposedly giving some loud pats:smirking in a purely amused way when he saw the Italian hissing and groaning in pain.

"Don't.Touch.Me." Ezio repeated in a cold sharp-edged whisper,violently swatting the Bitish' hand away from his shoulder,watching Jacob chuckling and throwing himself on the couch,sitting beside Arno,who was silently observing the scene.

"Ezio please,try to be reasonable" even Leonardo tried to persuade his friend,thus beginning to talk to him,sometimes even murmuring something in Italian,gesturing from time to time.

Desmond,who in the meantime had returned from the kitchen and was holding a beer in his hand,entered the living room,confusedly looking at Ezio for brief moments,and then sitting down next to Arno

"So that's what Italians are like when they're angry,huh?They shout and insult you?" he asked in a whisper,raising an eyebrow,trying not to be heard from him,receiving instead a furious look that,if he had the power to kill,the young Miles would find himself lying on the wooden floor,dead.Desmond simply cleared his voice a couple of times,then opened his beer and drank a few sips,turning to his French friend when he heard him hide a mischievous smile.

"Not only when they are angry.They're always like that" Arno said,raising a corner of his lip in a bitterly amused smile when he looked up at Ezio,seeing him respond to the artist in a rather nervous,impatient manner.Y/n,meanwhile,had gathered all the patience and strength she could have in herself;she knew that the boy could be dramatic when these things happened:she knew him too well,and she knew she had to use gentle manners with him,not forcing him to do things he didn't want to do.

So,walking slowly towards Ezio once more,with a small,pure smile on her rosy lips,she stopped in front of him,looking into his fervent,deep,dark eyes:and when his shiny eyes met and locked with her e/c ones,the violent fire burning inside his gaze disappeared immediately,returning to the warm,calm,soft brown eyes that she loved.She sighed lightly,looking up at him.

"You have to take off your shirt,you'll only make things worse" the girl explained in a serious tone,but not scolding him and,rising on her tip toes she grabbed his head,slowly took the sunglasses out of his hair,placimg them on a small table next to the sofa."Let me help you,alright?" she proposed to him with a sweet,loving,caring smile,starting to raise the edges of his shirt.

He couldn't do anything.How could he refuse the help of the person who endured him and loved him most of all?He simply couldn't.So he got help from her,but some loud hiss and painful groans,while she tried to get ridd off of that shirt,couldn't miss.Once the girl finally managed to get the shirt off from him,she stepped backwards,e/c eyes widening,bringing her hands on her mouth,staying silent in front of him,amazement and genuine disbelief that formed in her face.

"Oh my God" Y/n couldn't help but let out a shocked sigh at the view of his body:he was completely and totally red,to say the least,burned.Ezio didn't seem to perceive how much he had been burned also,and above all,on his torso and abdomen:but the pains and burns only increased when he took off his shirt.The Italian began frantically to ask questions on questions to his friends who,either too shocked,or too amused,didn't answer him.

Desmond suddenly stood up on the sofa and looked for Connor,who had been sitting on a chair with his arms resting against the backrest until now,and then beckoned him to come closer:

"Hey Connor...come here and stand beside Ezio" Connor,for as much as he was a little reluctant and confused,did as he was asked,got up from his chair,and walked to the center of the living room,stopping next to Ezio.

Everyone watched the two boys in silence,until the young Miles suddenly burst into a loud and hilarious laugh.

"LOOK!He's the same color as your shirt,you could blend in Ezio!" he exclaimed,pointing at the poor guy,looking at his arms and chest and then squaring from head to toe Connor,who was wearing a bordeaux t-shirt:and,not exaggerating at all,all of Ezio's skin in his whole body was exactly of that dark red color.This joke unleashed the hilarity of the whole group,who began to laugh loudly,who more openly and who adding more jokes,who giggling confidently.

"Cosa?Fammi vedere!Non c'è un cazzo di specchio in questa cazzo di casa?!" Ezio shouted loudly,looking around frantically, tarting to speak Italian -probably not realizing it because of the fury and embarrassment he was feeling at the moment-he started to rum around all the rooms to find a mirror in which he could see himself;leaving everyone alone in the living room,he ran to the bathroom,and after a few moments another 'cazzo!' echoed in the chalet.

He returned from the bathroom,mumbling lowly,keeping on cursing and talking Italian,panting,completely and utterly red,tired and angry eyes glaring at everything and everyone around him.

"What are you laughing at,Altaïr?!" Ezio suddenly asked angrily,turning to the Syrian when he heard him laugh silently.He did not even deign to turn around and look at the guy,he just looked over his shoulder,grimacing when he saw all the sunburns on the Italian's body,for then returning to watch outside the window.

"You are getting angry with everyone here.It's only your fault." Ezio took an expression to say the least shocked,when he heard Altaïr blame him so blatantly.

"Why should it be my fault?When I was about to take the sun cream it was empty" Ezio defended himself promptly and assuming an authoritative tone,frowning."And I really wonder who consumed it all" he added,raising his voice,turning to Jacob and glaring at him.All of them followed the Italian's gaze,and the whole group focused on Jacob who,still sitting on the sofa, looked around confused.

"What?It's not my fault if Evie is bloody pale!" he suddenly replied,opening his arms theatrically,pointing to his sister who was sitting right in front of him on another armchair.Laughing cunningly,he quickly dodged the slipper she threw at him.

"Yes,I agree,it's only Ezio's fault" Desmond agreed,taking yet another sip from the beer,getting more comfortable on the couch. "I mean,you are Italian,dude"he replied back,leaning forward and resting both elbows on his knees,giving him a disappointed look.

"And what does it has to do with it?" Leonardo asked,purely curious.

"Shouldn't he be used?You know,all tan,Italy' sun,the heat,Mediterranean people" explained Desmond with a careless voice,gesturing a little with his hands,receiving yet another frosty and furious look from the Italian.Ezio rarely did become nervous,there were few times when he became angry:but he was not offended with his friends or by all the jokes they were telling him;he was just annoyed,tired by the burning that was all over his body.The pain was so acute and so strong that he couldn't even make a single simple move.He appreciated that everyone wanted to help him,but he had to admit that all that talking,all that chaos,didn't help him at all.

"It's no one fault,okay?" Y/n said,slightly impatient,looking at the whole group and then giving a serious look at her boyfriend.But Arno didn't seem to hear her and,softly scoffing,put the book he was reading on the coffee tablet in front of him.

"Do I have to remind you that you yourself have said:'Oh I don't need the suncream'?" he replied in a decisive way,trying to imitate his friend's Italian accent at his best,looking straight into his flaming eyes.

Ezio remained silent,spechless:what the French guy said was nothing but the truth.Hours before,back in the morning,almost everyone-most of all Y/n-tried to convince him on putting some suncream on.But he didn't want to know anything about it,laughing and joking about how the others were so fragile in the sun's rays,bragging a little and feeling proud,proclaiming that he,Ezio Auditore,had no need of sunscream:and so,after swimming in the lake a couple of times,he lay in the sun,and stood there for hours,not moving,even falling asleep...only to find himself,later,in such a state.

"Don't be a smartass with me" Ezio threatened again,lowering his voice in a sharp sigh,pointing a finger at him.

"Otherwise?" Armo challenged him with his natural-old-boldness,quirking an eyebrow as he raised from the couch and took a few steps towards his friend.Ezio of course did not remain silent,to suffer the lecture of Arno,and began to respond fiercely against the provocation of the Frenchman.

"Can't we just try to solve this out without arguing for once?" Y/n suddenly exclaimed in a purely exasperated tone,putting herself between the two men and pushing them away,but receiving a hiss and a painful grunt from Ezio.

"Don't we have some medicenes here?" Evie then asked cautiously,interrupting the silence that had taken hold in the living room after the heated argument between the two guys.

"The only medicine it's alcohol" Edward answered blantatly,coming out of the kitchen with two cold beers in his hand. "Here you go mate" and threw one of the bottles at Ezio,who grabbed it quickly,looking confused and annoyed at the beer that the Welsh had thrown at him.

"I think we should go to the hospital" proposed Connor in a murmur,crossing his arm to his chest,taking on a genuinely worried look when he looked-again-at Ezio's body.

"Perfect!I'll drive.Let's go,shall we?" exclaimed Jacob cheerfully,clapping his hands loudly and smiling,excitement glistening inside his eyes,quickly taking the car keys from the coffee table.

"Yogurt," Desmond said seriously from all of a sudden,silencing everyone.

"What?" Y/n asked,wrinkling her eyebrows in a confused expression,approaching and kneeling next to him.

"We should use yogurt on these sunburns.It helps" continued the young Miles with a firm tone,showing to the young woman his phone,pointing at the screen.

"How can this help?" Altaïr asked in a skeptical tone,turning around and finally taking an interest in the matter.

"Yogurt refresh the sunburns,soften them and have a pleasant moisturizing effect" Y/n read aloud the information she read from the screen,scrolling on it for some more moments,for then giving it back to Desmond.The Syrian guy kept on giving a plain,cold and diffident glance at Miles,shaking his head in the mean time.

"Don't look at me like that,I found it on Internet" concluded Desmond showing his phone,for then shrugging,returning to lay his back on the couch.

"We can try.Do we have some yogurt left in the fridge?" Leonardo asked with curiosity,hoping for the best.

"If the big giant didn't eat them all..." Desmond joked loudly,raising from the couch,giving a playful pat behind the shoulder of his friend when he passed beside him,entering in the kitchen and opening the fridge.

"I only ate the coconut ones..." Connor justified himself in a low murmur,leaning his shoulder on the frame of the kitchen's door,lowering his eyes on the floor.

"You can find a lot of false thing on Internet though" the oldest Frye said,thinking about what Demsond read about using yogurt and other things as an help with sunburns.Jacob scoffed loudly,rolling his eyes in a dramatic way.

"Oh come on Evie!At least we'll be able to help that stubborn dumba..." but Jacob was suddenly and not a little violently interrupted by Ezio's loud and hoarse voice:

"BASTA!" the Italian yelled,making the silence return into the chalet and among his friends once his shout stopped echoing in the house.Everyone was motionless,nobody dared say anything,even Jacob refrained from making one of his jokes.Everyone looked at him in amazement,to say the least,intimidated,sometimes exchanging and casting fugitive glances.Ezio was there,motionless,eyes burning brightly,rapid breathing,red in the face,passing and placing his glare on everyone around him.

"Pasta?" Desmond asked confusedly,frowning and making a grimace.

"We are not going to the hospital,no one is going to put yogurt on me,I won't take any medicine!" Ezio proclaimed authoritatively,higly and stubborly denying any kind of help and refusing any kind of purposes.Taking his sunglasses from the coffee table,placing them on his head,he started to walk towards the door. "And you..." he stopped near the treshold of the kitchen,where Edward still was,before standing im fromt of the Welsh."You can keep your beer Edward" e,taking his hand,he forcefully gave the beer he threw at him before,for then storming out from the chalet.

Y/n-who since the moment Ezio began to shout had been silent as everyone else-was trying to reach him,but she felt a hand grasping her wrist and tugging her slightly,stopping her.Turning around,she found Arno beside her,his hand now resting on her shoulder,squeezing gently.

"Leave him be.He is angry,there's no way to let him reason now" he said to the girl,giving her a bitter and soft smile,nodding towards the window and letting her see that Ezio was outside,laying on the hammock...at least,trying to lay on it,for the sunburns he got all over his body didn't allow him to move,swearing and cursing for at least another hour.

~~~~~

A few hours passed by all what Jacob jokingly called an 'Italian tragedy'.It was late evening by now,almost midnight,and Ezio was still outside sitting on a chair near a wooden table not far from the front door:no one had dared disturb him,for fear of increasing his anger,or of unleashing something infectious.The Italian hadn't even come home for dinner,or for any other reason:he had stayed there for the rest of the day,first lying in a hammock,perhaps asleep,then sitting in a chair staring at nothing,occasionally trying to touch his shoulder or back to see if the pain still persisted.

No one seemed to care so much about him anymore.Apart from Y/n who,of course,was the most worried of all of them:she always turned her gaze towards the windows,trying to catch a glimpse of his form,trying to understand if he was still upset or if he had calmed down,but she certainly couldn't stand there,motionless,looking at him,doing nothing.So she decided to finally get out of the chalet,and try to let him reason,and calming him

Once outside,she gently closed the door behind her,looking for her boyfriend with her eyes,finding him sitting with his back to the chalet,eyes looking at the big,calm lake.The girl took a few steps forward,starting to walk as quietly as possible towards him.But he heard her.

"If there's somebody else then you all can go away," he coldly proclaimed in a loud and decise voice,not turning around and continuing to look at the lake.It was really a beautiful evening:sky full of stars,moon high in the sky,the water reflecting its dull and cold rays on its small waves,a light and fresh breeze made the branches of the trees move gently.

"I'll go away then" Y/n replied in a neutral tone,getting closer and closer until she found herself standing behind his reddish-shoulders.He turned around as soon as he heard her voice,looking at her in an astonished and tired way.

"You're the only person I want next to me even when I'm upset" Ezio murmured in a soothing,low voice,soft and warm brown eyes pleading her shiny e/c ones,her heart almost melting when she heard such a gentle,and utter loving phrase leaving his lips.Her Ezio was back.

"Vieni qui" he whispered,opening his arms,stretching an arm out,gently grabbing her by her waist and delicately letting her sit on his lap.Muscular arms wrapped around her form,pulling her closer,not caring about the pain that action was causing him,just holding her as close as possible,face buried in her chest,snuggling his stubble against her soft flesh,smiling against her skin when he heard her giggling.

She deteached away from him,looking at him before giving him a smile when,as she was caressing his cheek,he leaned his face on her palm,almost wanting to be lulled after such a long,tiring day.He opened his eyes after a while,fixing some strands of h/c hair that were falling in front of her.

"I'm sorry" the Italian whispered suddenly,giving his beloved a look full of guilt and embarrassment.One of the things Y/n adored about Ezio was his honesty and humility:he knew when he was wrong,he knew when to apologize and he knew perfectly well when to do so."I wasn't angry with you all...I was just tired and nervous because I got all thesw fottute sunburns" he explained in a serious voice,squeezing her hips.He could read in his deep eyes how purely sorry he was.She gave him a small smile,leaning in and leaving a chaste kiss upon his lips.

"I,we know,Ezio.No one is mad at you" Y/n reassured him in a soothing and quiet voice,leaning down to kiss him again,with more passion,paying attention to where she put her hands,so as not to hurt him.

Ezio still was whispering apologies near her ear,caressing her,kissing her,thanking her.But she got up from his highs after a while and,after looking at him seriously,the girl leaned towards the table next to them,holding an object that Ezio had not noticed until now.

"It's yogurt.Desmond tried to see if it could really help,and apparently,it could," Y/n explained,raising the yogurt jar in her hand and showing it to him,who in response sighed loudly and deeply,throwing his head back,almost looking in defeat.But despite his reaction,Ezio sat down composedly on the chair and nodded.

The girl laughed purely amused and,opening the jar,she took some yogurt on both hands,and began to smear it on his shoulders and on his red,scalded back;at first groans and hiss,his skin still too sensible and damaged,but after a while,when she started to delicately massage his shoulders with the fresh,cold yogurt,he sighed,relieved.He hummed,closing his eyes,throwing his head back.

"Quanto posso amarti?" he asked in Italian,sounding so hoarse when he-once again-groaned when her small hands slided down from his shoulders to his warm chest.

"Shouldn't you be giving a message to me?" Y/n asked him back in a sarcastic tone,leaning down,whispering that near his ear,hearing the entrance door being opened and closed.

"But it's my birthday today" Ezio answered in a mellifluous tone,claiming to be offended,giving a sad grimace to his lover,who just laughed loudly,for then suddendly returning serious.

"Who told you I don't have a gift for you?" Y/n inquires with a low and semsual voice,leaning more near him,her hands sliding down on his torso,almost tickling him,her lips on his definite jaw,feeling him almost shivering.

And just when he was about to answer her,he stopped when he saw all the others walking towards the table,singing the infamous song:it was,in fact,midnight,and it was Ezio's birthday.Jacob walked in front of everyone,holding a large pizza in his hands,on which were added candles.Once they arrived near the birthday boy,the British placed the pizza on the table in front of Ezio who,with happy eyes,looked at what was to be his birthday cake.

"We didn't have the time to go in the nearest city and buy a cake,so we make a true Italian pizza..." Connor explained with a ghostly smile on his lips,nodding towards the plate.

"For an angry,burnt italian man" concluded Arno with sarcastic voice,raising a corner of his mouth in a cheeky grin,smiling at Ezio.

"I tell you,we aren't even sorry" added Edward with a proud smile,placing his hands on his hips.

"Pizza cake" Desmond said,spreading his arms in a theatrical gesture,but Jacob promptly interrupted him,raising a hand and shushing the young Miles.

"We talked about this before,Des.It's birtday pizza.No discussion," Jacob replied,speaking seriously to say the least. "It is law!" he then proclaimed,roughly smashing his fist in the table,making the flame of the candles tremble.

Ezio heard Y/n laughing behind him,her hands were now wrapped gently around his neck.Pressing a long,chaste kiss on his bearded cheek,she whispered to him:

"The surprise has to wait"

~~~~~~

°°°¡TrAnSlAtIoNs!°°°

"Santo Dio!" = Good God;

"Zitto" = Shut up;

"Cosa?Fammi vedere!Non c'è un cazzo di specchio in questa cazzo di casa?!" = What?Let me see!There's not a fucking mirror in this fuckint house?!;

"Basta!" = Enough;

"Vieni qui" = Come here;

"Quanto posso amarti?" = How much can I love you?

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