AC3 Novelization

by Mirror and Image

[Complete] Desmond has at last reached the precursor site, and now he must dig through the memories of Ratonhnhake:ton to find the key to open the door. What lies beyond, only Juno can say. Rated for period language.

1. A New World

Assassin's Creed 3 Novelization

Mirror and Image

Epic Author's Note 1: After many long (long, long) discussions, the two of us have decided to go with slightly more period-accurate language. The reason why that bumps the rating automatically up to M is simple. Back then there was no concept of racial slurs. People were referred to regularly by their skin color.

One of Ubisoft's great strengths is creating a sense of place in the AC franchise, and they have proven to have the brass to look at historical conflicts such as the third crusade and the American Revolution unblinkingly; addressing the causes of the conflict and – in the case of AC3, giving a beautifully nuanced, deep, and complicated understanding of what freedom means to different people. What they were more hesitant to do, however, was talk about slavery, racism, classism, and all the prejudices that were inherent with the setting of the revolutionary war. Though we would like to lay blame on Ubisoft for that, it is a trend that happens in broader media: it's just safer not to talk about the things that are so universally considered shameful. Slavery in America is reduced to shorthand for bad guys in period dramas, whittled down to at best one scene to establish whatever it's supposed to do; the ubiquitous near-extermination of Native Americans isn't even talked about, and these days nobody even realizes that it was illegal for women to be educated more than barebones basics to run a farm.

Ubisoft, in AC3, touches these issues but doesn't really explore them. Achilles has two different conversations about his skin color; Haytham has one scene defending his son's biracial status, and Connor himself comments on how limited the term "freedom" is classified to. What disappoints us is that with the breathtaking settings of Boston and New York, much more could be done. It's not a classic whitewash of history that so many forms of media do these days but it is a missed opportunity.

And so in respect of that we will endeavor to not shy away from those real facts about history. Achilles and other will be referred to by racial slurs, Connor's biracial heritage will give him sources of conflict, and British classism and arrogance will run rampant throughout, simply because it did at the time.

It was sad, disgusting, and both of us feel like taking a shower every time we type the n-word or call Connor or Ziio the r-word. We may not like that part of American history – and nobody should – but we're not going to sweep it under the rug. We have strived to make the utilization of such language brief, historically accurate, and non-offensive, which is difficult when the words themselves are offensive. We hope that this is understood. Remember, if such language makes you uncomfortable, feel free to hit the back button.

---

Used to be when people talked about the end of the world, we locked them up or laughed them off. Sometimes both. But we never took them seriously. Maybe we should have. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Better to start at the beginning – with the abduction of Desmond Miles. My son. This... boy had no ambition. No direction. No plans for the future. What he did have was a heritage. One he chose to deny. It nearly cost him his life. He was captured and imprisoned. Those who took him believed he could help them find something.

The Apple.

One of several artifacts we call Pieces of Eden. Bits of ancient technology scattered across the globe. Some hidden. Some found. All of them dangerous. Most are held by a single group – the same group that now had Desmond. You know them as Abstergo Industries. We know them as the Templars – as the enemy. We've been fighting them for thousands of years. Even longer if you believe the stories of their origins. I do. After all, I've seen the truth.

That's the beauty – and the horror - of the Animus.

A device that allows us to enter and experience the lives of our ancestors. It holds the power to change everything. To show us history the way it really happened. Up until its creation – to the victor went the spoils – went the truth.

We're trying to fix that. To free minds and bodies both. But there's only so much we can do. And the Templars have the upper hand these days. But something larger than the Assassins and Templars is approaching.

Bigger than all of us.

And if we can't find a way to stop it – these next few weeks will probably be our last. Everyone's last. In the end, it all comes down to him.

To Desmond.

Through the Animus he discovered his heritage. Explored the lives of his ancestors and uncovered their secrets. When that was done, he trained. He used another ancestor to provide decades of experience in the span of a few days. It worked. We think. We hope. Soon though – soon we'll know. That ominous date fast approaches. December 21, 2012. None of us knows what it will bring – only that this is where they want us to be when it does.

They've been guiding us, in their own fractured, frustrating way. Those voices from the First Civilization, The Ones Who Came Before. A precursor race of immense power and uncertain motives. They're the ones who made the Pieces of Eden. This is where they've led him. And through him, us. He stands at the entrance to this long-lost place, armed with the knowledge of Altair and the abilities of Ezio. He holds in his hands the Apple of Eden. And we stand at his side ready to support him however we can.

His name is Desmond Miles and he has brought us to the end.

---

His name was Desmond Miles. And this was the first time in almost two months that he could say that with absolute and complete certainty. Desmond shook his head. Who'd have thought. Back in August, his life was going the same way it had been for years. Get up, go to work, keep everyone at a distance, go home. Just an everyday Joe Average. Well, if one didn't include his upbringing. Then, once September started, his life suddenly involved kidnapping, escaping, conspiracies, betrayal, death, and insanity. And that didn't even get into what he'd seen from other's lives.

The Animus, a sci-fi machine that actually existed that allowed people to relive the lives of ancestors. Desmond had been through three different lives. Four, if one included his own. The first had been Altair, back during the Third Crusade, where he'd watched his ancestor fall from grace and fight back to his position and cleaning out traitors until he became the Grandmaster of the Order. He'd seen almost the entirety of Ezio's life, from tragic family deaths, the quest for vengeance, losing everything, rebuilding, and finally finding an ounce of happiness. And, most recently, he'd seen the angry, resentful, complicated life of Clay Kaczmarek, a distant cousin of his from one of Ezio's many illegitimate children, and Clay's recruitment and eventual death.

And yet, despite living these lives, knowing them so intimately, Desmond was finally himself. There was no Altair bleeding through, or Ezio, or Clay. He was only himself. After he'd gone insane - not knowing who he was because of the Bleeding Effect - while he was in a coma, his mind had partitioned off all the personalities he'd experienced, blocking them off so that he didn't go crazy again. Now he could access what he needed, when he needed it, and then leave it all behind when he chose to. He had been meditating, sorting out his access since he'd woken from the coma, an exercise that one of Clay's therapists had recommended that, while it hadn't worked for Clay, Desmond had enough "visualization exercises" via the Animus to picture himself back on that island in the Black Room and access the doors that lead to the memories of his partitioned ancestors.

He'd learned a lot about what was happening. Shortly before he'd gone insane, he and Ezio had found a coordinate. Desmond never learned where it went; it was simply a latitude longitude reference he never looked up, since he didn't have much sanity left. But it was apparently a very specific place in upstate New York. Shaun and Rebecca, who had helped him escape from Abstergo and been with him since, had met up with William, Desmond's father, and had snuck out of Italy to go to the coordinates.

Unfortunately, they couldn't fly straight to Buffalo or Albany or even any of the airports in New York City. Their flight had been diverted, and they'd landed at Hartfield in Atlanta. Why had they been diverted? Apparently, while Desmond was in his coma, climate change had decided to bat humanity on the head again and developed a Superstorm known as Sandy. The day prior it had finally made landfall, crushing, pummeling, and all around devastating New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, and was still raging further to the west through Pennsylvania.

Reports over the radio of the van were talking about massive power outages up and down the east coast and much, much further inland, a fire raging unchecked in New York City, debate on if floodwaters had gotten into New York's subway systems. Of course, the local death tolls were also being broadcast through every state they went through as well as heroics. North Carolina lost three people the storm, and loved talking about how the Coast Guard had saved fourteen of the sixteen people on board an old boat ninety miles off Cape Hatteras. Virginia was still embattled with falling snow in the mountains, and the deeply right-wing conservative Governor dared to pay a compliment to President Obama and how "delighted" he was with Obama and FEMA's rapid response. Luckily, nobody had died in Virginia.

They were, however, forced to pull over and stop once they started to drive through Maryland, much to William's distress. What was supposed to be a simple, if long, sixteen hour drive was now being interrupted by the damage of Superstorm Sandy.

"We should keep going," William growled. "We shouldn't stop for anything."

Shaun, who had been driving, turned his exhausted eyes to the back of the van, and Rebecca, who had maps spread out around her along with map apps on her tablet that showed traffic updates from the damage that surrounded them, turned and glared.

"Would you like to drive, mate?" Shaun asked acidly. "Perhaps you can avoid all the debris, downed power lines and detours in the dark."

"Or maybe you'd rather be navigator," Rebecca added. "Would you like to calculate the best route around the flooded roads, emergency detours and avoid the usual cameras and Templar shit in real time while giving directions that are somehow clear?"

William glared at them both, his disappointment heavy around them.

"Or maybe, Dad," Desmond said quietly, "you'd like me up in front doing one of those jobs."

William deflated. "Fine. Is there a good motel nearby?"

"Oh, really?" Shaun growled, "Really, a motel? Where refugees from the coastline have gone after evacuation? Or maybe where relief workers might be staying before getting to where they're needed?"

William didn't say anything. He just turned and started pulling out the sleeping bags. Desmond stood and helped cart some of the boxes over to one side so that they could pretend that there'd be room on the floor of the van for the cramped sleeping that they were going to have to do. With still steady wind gusts and the occasional rain, it was simply better to stay in the van. William, unsurprisingly took first watch.

The following day they went through Maryland, listening to the death toll steadily rising towards double digits, and much discussion on how the storm surge had faced the perfect confluence of events to devastate Maryland and New York City. With winds blowing the surge west, along with high tide, there were certain towns that didn't have a chance. In New York City, they had Long Island to contend with, as the winds blowing west, with high tide, funneled all the water in Long Island Sound in only one direction. The Big Apple.

Eastern Pennsylvania, particularly near the New Jersey boarder, was a mess. Rebecca had them back track three times to avoid downed trees and power lines as she learned about them from her tablet and double checked back roads along the maps spread out on the dashboard and her lap.

"Why not use your tablet?"

"And leave a digital trail of where we're going?" Rebecca gave a wan smile. "Old school is better this way."

On the radio, Pennsylvania officials were also mentioning death tallies in the double digits, and the devastation that was still going on to their west. Of course the closer they got to New York, the more news they got of the damage there and New Jersey, where Sandy had made landfall. New Jersey had, at current count, two dozen people dead and was still steadily rising, whole cities flooded like Hoboken, which had evacuated two of its fire stations, the historic downtown of Jersey City was ruined, rumored fuel spills, massive beach erosion of thirty to forty feet, rampant reports of price gouging. But were New Jersey suffered the most was the Jersey Shore, the extensive boardwalks and amusement parks were simply gone. There were still reports of rescues as floodwaters and surges with every high tide brought the water further and further inland. And gas shortages were already being reported.

In New York City, everything was shut down. The lifeblood of the city, the airports, the railways, the subway, all were shut down. Many tunnels were completely flooded and had damaged electrical equipment. Without such vital throughways into the city, and lockdowns in effect, the eight million residents were realizing that they were going to be without power for weeks, and it was difficult to find where to get either food, water, or gas. On 57th and One57, there was a crane a zillion floors up that was partially collapsed and there was no way to repair it, leaving the area under it at risk of further damage. Heartfelt stories of people in some of the boroughs who had generators flooded the airwaves of having power available for anyone who needed a cellphone charge, or wanted to come in for a shower. Mayor Bloomberg was set to have a news conference the following day to lay out timelines for when many of the city's necessities would start getting back online. There was talk of making certain counties disaster areas after all the damage and it seemed every new report brought a higher and higher death toll. People were scavenging for food from spoiled goods outside supermarkets. The fire in Queens was still raging, a hospital was evacuated when backup generators failed...

Desmond reached forward and turned off the radio. He couldn't listen anymore. No matter how lost and restless he was feeling towards the end, he'd been a citizen of New York City for ten years. To hear his home so devastated, so ruined. He just couldn't listen. Enough was enough.

They arrived in Turin, New York in the early evening, and Desmond leaned forward. "Take a left here."

"Er, what, now?" Shaun said, slowing down.

"Turn left," Desmond replied. "We need to go deeper into the valley."

"But..."

"Trust me. I know what to do. Or rather, where to go."

"Really?" William asked dryly.

Desmond ignored him. "Pack up your maps, Rebecca. We'll be off the beaten track."

"You go it," Rebecca said, neatly starting to fold up the maps.

"So now you're talking," Shaun said, slowly turned off the road to a dirt service road.

"Yeah," Desmond replied. "I was sorting out a few things." He gave a small grin. "I'm glad to be just me now."

"Well that is an improvement," Shaun agreed with his usual British understatement. "Though not by much."

"Shaun, shut up," Rebecca sighed.

Desmond narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Since he'd awoken, he'd realized that Lucy's death had truly hit Rebecca hard. He'd known that from what he'd overheard in the Animus, but being conscious, he could see her lack of energy, her usual energetic sparkle dimmed to almost nothing. Shaun's own sarcasm carried a range from either less bite to more, depending on his mood. William simply sat in the back, still observing – the perennial statue.

Fifteen minutes of tracing around service roads and barely-there tracks that the van almost couldn't fit, Desmond told them to stop.

It was completely dark out, though mostly because of the massive cloud cover from Sandy that was probably hitting the US/Canadian border in a few hours.

"Happy Halloween," Desmond said softly. With the winds still howling from Sandy, the darkness of the clouds blocking the setting sun, and the cave Desmond had unerringly lead them to, it was the perfect set up for a horror story. Or a monster movie.

"Bloody American holidays," Shaun groused.

"We're here," William said firmly, silencing Shaun's grumbling. He opened the back doors and warm humid air blew in. "Let's go."

Desmond went to one of the boxes and dug through to pull out the Apple.

Rebecca blinked. "How'd you know where that was?" she asked, grabbing one of the boxes for all the Animus gear.

The Apple merely glowed along with some of Desmond's blood. "Ancestry," he replied.

William slid another box of supplies along the truck floor and hefted it. "Less talking more taking shelter."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he growled under his breath.

Shaun came around back, also grumbling under his breath. "Damned trail's barely passable. How are we going to go back and forth for supplies, it'll be mud in the span of a sprinkle."

Desmond pulled out a glow stick, broke it, and shook it, then hooked it to his belt and then pulled out a flashlight.

The cave opening was definitely bigger than a man. Someone on horseback could probably ride in and not even have to duck. Roots from the trees above the entrance were hanging barren, trying to reach for new sources of nutrients, and in front of the rock that was also the floor of the cave were some sort of low lying ferns or bush of some kind on one side and some sort of evergreen bush on the other. If it weren't for the sheer size, Desmond would have thought it well hidden, with the roots from above and the brush below.

Glancing back, everyone had a box and was squinting against the damp wind. Desmond nodded and carefully stepped forward, swishing his flashlight slowly back and forth to get a good sense of the obstacles that lay before them.

"Incline ahead," he said, stepping on to the dirt of decayed vegetation from centuries of blown in refuse. He glanced back, noted that everyone had glowsticks at their sides to help and he continued forward. Roots from above occasionally broke through the ceiling, and slowly, after the first fifty feet or so, the cave started to bear to the left, completely out of sight from the mouth and going deeper and further down.

"Rocks sticking through the ground," Desmond cautioned, still easing his way forward, his flashlight with each pass showing exactly what they needed ahead. A flat, unnatural looking wall lay ahead, covered with graffiti of both ancient Native American art hunting some sort of large beast, and more modern spray paint tags and random drawings that made no sense, covering the ancient cave paintings underneath.

The "NO HOPE" graffiti was the most interesting, however. It was at eye level, and the "O" of "NO" was actually a concave indentation in the wall shaped like a perfect sphere. Desmond nodded to himself. He pulled out the Apple, which instantly alighted, giggling anticipation in his mind. In the stronger light, other carvings in the familiar patterns of Those Who Came Before were worn into the flat wall. Reaching through the tree roots, Desmond placed the Apple in the concave indentation and it floated there as if gravity didn't exist, happily swirling and twirling as golden light spread along the carved lines and hexagons. The light spread, veining through the rock enshrouding them all in the golden glow.

" 'In another moment, down went Alice after it,' " Shaun quoted, " 'never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.' "

The Apple gave another anticipatory giggle before falling into Desmond's hands as the unnatural wall before them slowly rose up, revealing more of the cave behind it. Crouching under, Desmond scooted through, then turned to help the others with their boxes. Once they were all through and standing, Desmond turned and looked at... not at a cave, but a hall. A perfectly rectangular hall, made by Those Who Came Before.

"Down the rabbit hole indeed," Desmond mumbled. The air was musty, but the breeze from outside kept pushing fresh air forward, and the dirt at their feet was more like sand, or centuries of dust. Maybe millennium of dust. They kept going downhill steadily until they reached a massive open cavern so huge Desmond's flashlight only barely reached the natural rock ceiling. Ahead was a squat rectangular block of concrete like stone that was buried in the natural rock of the cave. On the far right was a dip in the earth that looked like it would have lead down into something. Yet it was nothing but flat stone.

"I think we're here," Desmond murmured.

The Apple once more lit up and the unbroken wall split in two, each sliding aside to reveal another opening.

Leaning into the opening carefully, Desmond held back the others. "This is a steep slide," he said. "Not sure for how long. I can barely see the bottom."

"Be careful, Desmond," Rebecca said softly, the sorrow of losing Lucy wavering her voice.

"I will."

Desmond crouched down and slid out one leg, slowly easing a slide down, balancing himself with one hand while the other swept the flashlight along so that he could see what was ahead of him. As was typical in New England, giant boulders and large rocks would ease out of the sandy dirt and Desmond made sure to pause and call out what was ahead for the others above him. At the bottom he set his glowstick on the ground so everyone knew when they reached flat ground. "Okay! Come on down!"

"This isn't The Price Is Right!" William growled above them.

"And what, pray tell, is Price is Right?" Shaun asked, dry sarcasm in his voice.

For a brief instant, Rebecca's old self bled through. "How can you not know that?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I was a kid everyone I knew watched that show when they were home sick. You mean you've never heard of Bob Barker? Pachinko? The dollar wheel? What is wrong with you?"

"There nothing wrong with me if I'm not properly versed in bad American entertainment."

"Screw that, as soon as we're set up I'm pulling up an episode on youtube and making you watch it."

"Focus, people," William said, ruining the moment.

They slid down one by one, Desmond helping with the boxes and guiding them with his flashlight.

Around them the architecture was distinctly from Those Who Came Before, a faint blue-green glow reacting to the Apple and giving more light to see by. But the signs of decay were heavy. Some of the great columns that supported such a massive structure had collapsed, and cracks were starting to weave their way along the walls and ceilings.

There was a partially collapsed floor that stumbled their navigation briefly, and along with the almost lacquered black stones so often glittering of Those Who Came Before, more concrete-like stone started to appear. Square patches along the path.

At last they came to a vast open expanse.

The black lacquered stone seemed to be forming stalactites and stalagmites within the more concrete-like stone of the vast hall. This made no sense to Desmond because the black stone was unlike any rock he'd ever seen and it didn't look like proper stalactites and stalagmites, lacking the dripping features that defined such rock structures. Instead it was like they had... bubbled outward somehow, but even that wasn't an ideal description. There was one solid column of the black stone from the ceiling down to the floor. Another half-formed column to the left almost eighteen feet high.

The concrete was cracked and broken, the slabs sifting apart after centuries of disuse. Along the concrete walls were long rectangular openings that were reminiscent of windows. In fact, the entire architecture was reminiscent of rectangular blocks fitted together if not for some of the faint bluegreen glow so familiar to the structures of Those Who Came before.

But that was nothing compared to the centerpiece of the room. From broken floor to ceiling, hanging over a gaping maw of darkness were two concrete structures that almost looked like a gateway with a faint blue-green glow. The gate was reached by a series of a dozen steps of the broken concrete, wide and thick leading to some sort of platform in front of the massive gate.

Directly ahead of them was a long stone rectangle, standing waist high, on a flat dais. The top of the rectangle was slanted and there was flickering blue-green light that continued across to a concrete like column that then extended above the rectangle unsupported. Desmond's ancestry of Those Who Came Before whispered console and Desmond stepped up confidently, looking for controls. On the ground in front, with the black lacquered stone-like crystal, was a strange cube, larger than Desmond's hand, with rectangular chunks cut out of it, also flickering in the blue-green color. Power source. In the glow of the console, it was easy to see a cube-like impression and Desmond inserted the cube inside.

The flickering stopped, the power restored and spreading. The darkness disappeared as more blue-green light spread to other console stations through the massive cavern, making the cavern clearer to see. The lacquered crystal seemed to glow as the massive gateway surged with new power, the force field barrier strengthening and the tetractys, an equilateral triangle broken into nine more equilateral triangles that Ezio had drawn in the hidden basement of Monteriggioni appeared within. Behind him, Desmond could here the others putting down their boxes.

"We'll need to set up camp here," William said pragmatically. "It's far enough underground that we won't have to worry about Abstergo spying us or on us. Rebecca, get back to the truck-"

… the key... Desmond jerked around, recognizing that voice all too well. Juno, whom Desmond didn't trust one iota after his encounter with her. She seemed filled with hate for humanity, spitting out vitriol about those beneath her who did not have that extra sense, yet were their only hope. And she had shown him the future, without any compassion or concern, leaving him the ultimate decision to kill Lucy, whom he cared for so much. Clay's memories of her were also unpleasant, though centered around saving Desmond.

you must... find... the key.

Her voice was weaker than he remembered, lacking the harsh criticism and haughty arrogance. He could only barely hear it, and it sounded like it was on the other side of that gate.

Desmond walked forward, eyes going right to the concrete-like rock that was suspended in the forcefield. No doubt this was the lock, but the Apple wasn't reacting to it.

find the key...

Desmond felt his mental partitioning, deep in his mind crack open. He lowered his head and shook it, remembering the black island, the columns of Those Who Came Before that he used to block off his ancestry unless he called upon it himself. But there was a crack and another door was forming, not to Altair or Ezio, but to someone knew. He slowly spun around, eyes squinting, as the sights of this Precursor Site blurred and faded, something else trying to overlay it.

"Son?" William must have noticed something because he put a hand on Destham's shoulder. Haymond turned to look to his father, his friend and coachman. But it wasn't William who stood there, grizzled gray hair slicked back. Instead was a bald man in a tricorn hat.

"Sir?" came a deep British accent, southern London, asking in concern.

Desmond sighed. "Here we go again," he muttered bitterly, before collapsing.

---

"Desmond?" Rebecca sounded worried.

"Do you hear us?" William didn't.

Desmond grunted. Still pulling himself together. "Yeah." He rubbed his face, and looked around to the white blankness of the Animus. Great, back in here again. Joy. "What happened?" The last memory was a little foggy. Something cracking when it wasn't supposed to?

"The Temple triggered a bleeding effect," William replied mechanically. "You collapsed and entered into a fugue state."

Peachy. "So naturally," Desmond bitterly replied, "you dropped me in the Animus instead of... I don't know... making sure I was okay?"

"You weren't in any danger," William replied calmly. Almost condescendingly. Bastard always knew best. Desmond did not miss that. "Besides, the Temple appeared to be communicating with you, and I didn't want to risk severing the connection. At least not until we knew what it wanted."

You must find the key. Yeah, Desmond knew exactly what it wanted.

"Right," Desmond growled sarcastically and bitterly. "Of course."

"Son, I..." William's usual confidence was gone, and he sounded almost... apologetic.

Desmond sighed. "It's fine." No it's not. "I get it." Or rather, Clay did, and Desmond could see that now. "And I know what I'm looking for, by the way." Still, he couldn't help jabbing that he was the one in control this time. He wasn't a child to be ordered around. He could at least exercise this much control. "It's a key. Just don't know where it is, though..." he shrugged, things coming together in his mind. Why what had happened after his careful construction of partitions happened. "Guess that's why she triggered the Bleeding Effect."

"She?" William inquired, clearly confused.

Desmond didn't want to talk about it. "Juno, Dad. She's... talking to me." And didn't that sound just as crazy as he had been? No, he really didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay, Desmond," Rebecca said awkwardly. "While you were, uh, visiting Constantinople, we picked up a software update for the Animus. Once you passed out from Juno's tender mercies, we had to scramble to get the Animus and all its gear down here."

"No more recliner for you, Desmond," Shaun added cheerfully. "You don't seem to rank leaning back in style any more."

"Shut up, Shaun," Rebecca growled, her temper far shorter than usual as she continued to grieve Lucy. "He is right. I had to whip it together in a hurry so I did a lot of rewiring. Thankfully it's smaller now. More portable than the massive recliner."

"Yay."

"Anyway," Rebecca continued, "I'd like to run a couple of quick tests – make sure there aren't any major issues."

"So I play guinea pig," Desmond gave a wry smile that would be more at home on Ezio's face. "Just like old times. Alright, what do you need me to do?"

Around him basic geometric forms started take shape, in a vaguely hall-like manner. "How's an obstacle course sound?"

"Like fun." And Desmond gave an honest smile.

He ran through it, using all the tools and skills he'd picked up from Ezio and Altair, ducking, rolling, jumping, and climbing. Slowly, as he went along, the shapes became less random. The floors started to take on patterns of planks in the eye of an abstract painter, and beams and rails started to appear. In the distance, he saw slanted roofs and shuttered windows with chimneys protruding above. It wasn't until he came to a railed balcony that he paused.

"Rebecca, are you doing this?"

"No," she replied. "I think it's the DNA that Juno was trying to get you to synch with. It's leaking in. You'll probably end up with the ancestor that you need to be by the end of this."

Peachy.

So he climbed the rail and kept going.

More and more structures started to be built and Desmond started to recognize the designs. It wasn't Ottoman, Italian, or even from the middle east. It was the familiar colonial style of homes that were still built to that day. Shingled roofs, paned windows that could be slid open. Stout chimneys.

Ahead was a massively large structure, with archways that he fell through easily and appeared in the white geometric shapes slowly coalescing into a narrow street. Desmond's vision glitched for a moment before he looked down to fancy clothes of fine-spun wool, cotton, and silk.

"Looks like I got my new avatar," he said. Let's see, no weapons other than a hidden blade. Assassin, then. He walked forward, watching the street continue to form as more details started to show. Near the end the person who had overlaid William stood.

"Sir? Sir?" the man asked in his deep voice Holden patted the horses as he paused. "Everything all right, sir?"

Desmond looked to him, glad that everything was in order. "Yes, fine," he replied, glancing up to the evening sky. "Just preoccupied, that's all." He stepped forward and together they continued down the street.

"Don't forget your invitation. Master Birch will be meeting you inside."

"Thank you." Holden truly was a steady friend, to have stuck by his side these past years.

"Where shall I retrieve you once you're done?"

"Front of the Opera House," he replied confidently. "And be quick about it," he said gravely. "I don't expect to be here long." The underlying need for a fast getaway went unstated.

"I'll bring her around at once."

Haytham Kenway stood before the Opera House entrance and took a small breath. Time to get to work.

---

Built in 1728, the Royal Opera House was funded by the capital made from John Gay's ballad opera: The Beggar's Opera. Designed at the sight of an ancient convent garden, the theatre had been specializing in plays for some thirty years. Haytham stood in the main hall; rich, red carpet, white paneled walls, gold and brass trim everywhere, a grand staircase that lead to the main auditorium and split to the upper levels, and reflected on all that had brought him here.

It had been almost twenty years since the death of his father, the disappearance of his sister; nineteen years since brigands had broken into his home and shattered his sense of safety. He had been ten years old then, and now he remembered little of either. There were, buried deep in his subconscious, scattered memories of this opera house, however. Something about the carpet and the lighting and the cultivated sounds of strings made him remember sitting in a dark chamber and trying to lean over a rail, looking out over an enormous expanse of people, trying to see the stage. Big, strong arms had grabbed him and lifted him up – his father, he thought. There was the sensation of falling asleep, warm and loved, feeling utterly safe.

Hm. If only that feeling had lasted.

Still, he was no longer a child; he had needs to put childish thoughts behind him. Since that time he had grown up and learned the truth of the world, and idealism was best saved for private contemplation after an assignment had been completed.

Reflection over, he breezed forward. In one sweeping motion he removed his hat and stuffed his invitation inside, handing it to the clerk almost before he finished uttering the words: "Invitation, please." The smooth motion left the poor fellow struggling to finish his well-rehearsed sentences of service. "Shall I take your coat sir?"

Haytham simply waved him off, the less the help saw of him the better. Besides, as he told Holden, he sincerely doubted he would be here long.

People milled about the reception hall, in small groups and parties, talking of home, family, politics, anticipation of what they were about to see. Haytham saw no children about, and for a moment he was back in that dark private box, held by his father, feeling safe and sound. He shook his head, once again putting such thoughts from his mind – he was surprised to be so overwhelmed with nostalgia, he had not thought a place he had visited only once would bring him back to happier days, and he steadfastly compartmentalized, resolving to give the emotions their proper exposure once he was in the carriage; Holden was guaranteed to give him the privacy he needed for an exploration and – more importantly – would not ask questions. There were few enough places in the wide world he felt safe enough to explore his deeper thoughts and feelings, and while Holden was hardly an equal by any stretch, he was brilliant as a gentleman's gentleman, and his loyalty was absolute and unwavering. Haytham knew of only one other man like that, and he was the one Haytham was about to meet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are requested to kindly find your seats."

Haytham obeyed the command dutifully and made his way up the stairs, past two more servicemen clad in impeccably white gloves. Past them was the lush deep red of wall to wall carpet, designed to absorb the sound and keep people warm in the cold months – though with hundreds of people crowded together in the expansive auditorium one had little trouble retaining heat. Said crowds were shuffling down the aisles, carefully navigating the ever changing maze of people and rows to find their seats. Some already seated waved to friends, women delicately avoided awkward situations that would question their honor, and gentlemen helped those around them. Haytham made his way down the center aisle, eyes open for his appointment when an usher spotted him and made his way over. "Good evening, sir. This way, please."

Following the man, Haytham spied the greying hair of a man he had known since childhood, the man who had taken him after the death of his father and kidnapping of his sister and raising him as his own, inducting him into the family Order and guiding him through the truth of the world.

Reginald Birch.

Where Haytham trusted Holden for his unwavering loyalty, he trusted Reginald for his sincerity of purpose and clarity of vision. He was a mountain, unmoving, unwavering, in the tragedy of the world around him. He, like Haytham, saw the world for what it truly was, and sought to guide it in the right direction. A merchant like his father, owner of ships and trading mostly in tea, Reginald had made an impression immediately when Haytham met him as a child. Beset by muggers, Reginald had threatened to kill them in a gentlemanly fashion while Haytham's father had refused the act. Betrothed to his missing sister Jenny, Reginald was just as distraught as a ten-year-old Haytham when the incident had happened, and helped Haytham repeatedly in his search for his sister. However much he did not like Jenny, it was his duty as a Kenway to find her and save her from whatever fate had befallen her. Reginald had helped him through the grieving process, reassuring him when thoughts of his sister being dead surfaced, encouraging him when all hope seemed lost. It was Reginald Birch who had shaped Haytham into the man he was today, and as Grandmaster of the British Rite Haytham would follow him into hell if it was asked of him.

Navigating the narrow access to the seats, offering a thousand apologies when he came too close to a lady or stepped on a gentleman's foot, he found his seat and settled himself in.

"Evening, Haytham."

"Reginald."

The opening music had started, and moderate quiet was starting to settle over the crowd, though many were still conversing. Reginald leaned in. "I can't tell you how happy I was to hear they'd mounted this revival. Gay's best work by far. Have you seen it before?"

Haytham gave nothing away. "Once. My father brought me here as a child, though I remember little of it. And I don't suppose tonight will afford me the luxury of a proper viewing either." His eyes drifted up to the private boxes, dim memories trying to overlay his conversation. A purse of his lips and it was gone.

Reginald glanced to his student before moving on. "No, I'm afraid it won't. On to business then. Do you see him?"

On to business indeed. Haytham had been surprised to learn that one of them was here, the members of the opposing side of their great silent war. He had rather always pictured them as dullards, incapable of appreciating the finer things in life such as this play or the refinement of music. Theirs was a sordid sort, consorting with the lowest of the low and showing just what kind of "people" they were. Animals really. When Reginald had summoned him for this task, Haytham took an appropriately modest amount of pride that he had been chosen, and he dutifully started scanning theatre.

The two of them were in the second to last seat, at the very back of the auditorium; Reginald would not have picked those seats if he didn't know exactly where the target was seated. That meant the floor seats and the mezzanine directly above them were above reproach, and so Haytham set his eyes to the private boxes. The chandeliers provided adequate lighting and he moved from one booth to the next until he eyed a man surprisingly familiar. "He's seated in one of the boxes above," he said softly.

"He has in his possession a ring of some kind, perhaps a necklace, that our code-breaker says is vital. The stairs are watched. I don't know if said eyes are cut of the same cloth, but those watchers are armed. You'll need to find another way up."

"I already have," Haytham replied, spying an old ladder just visible in a shadowed alcove to his left.

The music was over, and the actual acting had commenced, strong cockney accents reverberating about the theatre as he stood and slowly exited his row. Once he was clear, he gave one last, lingering gaze to the play. Perhaps when this was over he would take the time to see it for himself.

No, that was a childish notion, and he had stopped being a child when he was ten years old.

Moving into the alcove, much of the light had disappeared, and so grappling with the ladder was a bit of a struggle, but Haytham managed it and climbed it, bringing him up to the mezzanine. The thick and heavy drapes provided the cover he needed, and soon he was in the secondary halls, "accidentally" walking into private booths until he found one that was empty. From there he calmly took a seat to better survey the booths across from him. He needed to go up another floor, and all the other boxes were occupied. His target – he never did learn the man's name when they first met – seemed to be fully engrossed in the play. Foolish to think he was safe in a place like this. Foolish to think he was safe anywhere, truth be told; more's the pity.

Having properly surveyed the ground, however, he exited the private box and made his way to the back of the theatre. His next stop was the catwalks, and with the play going everybody backstage were busy as bees. Finding the right door, he glanced down at the stage before seeing if anyone was about to cause him worry.

"Man the lines! Flats in place! Stand-by!"

"I've got a bit of stage fright..."

"A little dutch courage'll put a bloom in your cheek."

"Jeremy's really burning up the boards tonight. He's a marvel."

Nobody existed to assail him, and Haytham took a moment to clean the April mud and muck off his boots before making his way across; last thing he needed was the grime to fall on someone's head and cause him or her to look up. Once across – the view below was spectacular in how it removed the veneer of theatre and showed the innards of the craft – he looked at his second story door and spied a third story one above it. Not at all thrilled with the idea of climbing, he took a deep breath and observed that it was absolutely necessary before grabbing the support post and shimmying his way up. Embarrassingly undignified, that.

Now, however, he was on the desired floor, and after a quick bout of lock picking he was in the main hall. He quietly made his way into the booth, and saw that his adversary was alone. Excellent. He sat behind him.

"Haytham..." the man said.

They had met in Corsica last year, when Reginald had availed Haytham to find a code-breaker for a journal that they had taken possession of back in '47. This man had been guarding the code-breaker, and in their fight had cost Haytham his father's sword. More than slightly perturbed, Haytham had returned the gesture by taking his weapon. Capturing the journal had been a rough year for Haytham, he had learned his mother had finally passed on, he had come within inches of the ones responsible for the attack of his childhood. One conspirator died of his injuries, another confessed Haytham's father one of them, and had been killed for an item in his father's possession. And while the former was utter rubbish, he believed the lead that followed led him on a painful mission with Braddock... Seeing this man brought up thoughts of that damned journal and the terrible year that followed, but Haytham was a gentleman first and none of his thoughts showed on his face. His sparing this man last year had been an act of kindness, a warning not to cross paths again, but now there was simply no helping it.

"How is Lucio?" the man asked.

"Rather well I expect," Haytham replied. "He's been reunited with his mother, you'll be happy to know."

The man's head jerked as if wincing. "You should have come to me, that night we met. We would have found another way..."

An offering of partnership? It was the first Haytham had ever seen, their kind so intractable he would have thought it impossible. There was an impulse in Haytham to consider the offer, in memory of the rumor of his father if for no other reason. But he was Reginald's man first, he was a member of the Order first, and duty was paramount in all things. Could they have found another way?

"Yes, perhaps," he replied. "But then you would have known what we were after."

"Of course," the man said. "God forbid either side be rational in a conflict such as ours."

"You do a disservice," Haytham replied. "We have always been rational. Me and mine, at least. What the two of us are not, however, is capable of sharing."

The moment hung in the air, both men thinking of that night, the damage they did to each other, and the respect they grudgingly had for one another.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"As am I."

Haytham stabbed the man through the chair, the older man stiffening and giving a hitched grunt. "Terrible form..." he muttered before slumping into his seat, gasping for air.

Standing, Haytham reached over and examined the elaborate cravat, patting around until he found the necklace Reginald wanted. Mostly green and embossed were the only details he had time to observe before slipping it into a pocket and standing to leave the box.

To his surprise, a boy was behind him; red headed, wide-eyed and utterly terrified. Perhaps ten years old, Haytham realized he had just crushed a boy's sense of safety even as his own had been crushed. Pursing his lips at the thought, he brought a finger up to his frown – the universal gesture for quiet – and walked away before the reality of what he had done settled on him. The job was done, the item acquired, the target neutralized, gasping his last gulps of air. His next objective would be to leave without drawing suspicion.

He made it down the main hall, down some stairs and past a few ushers when a scream echoed throughout the halls, making the servants turn in confusion. Someone shouted, "Calm, please!" but Haytham could feel the confused energy of the filled auditorium. Excellent, he could depart with the masses. Already several were beginning to enter the hall from their private boxes.

"B-side balcony!"

"Over there! That's the one! That man there! Seize him!"

A rush of energy passed and the man in front of Haytham was tackled to the ground. A flush of a near miss filled his cheeks and he made a quick turn before he started to look guilty. The end of the hall was beginning to fill with people leaving the mezzanine.

"A man was killed in the upper balcony!"

"Oh, my!"

"But I-I've done no wrong; I swear it!"

"I beg your pardon."

"No pushing! Please!"

"Order! We must have order!"

Haytham made a quick right into the mezzanine, where he had begun his assignment, and saw that it was almost completely empty, people standing in groups of friends and family as before, but now instead of talking about gaiety and life instead tense with anxiety, casting suspicious looks everywhere. Womenfolk huddled around the protection of their men, said men trying and often failing to put on a brave face. "Do you know what's happened? What was that scream?"

"Someone said murder."

"Murder! Here? Don't be absurd."

"Please, darling, take me home. I'd rather not be here if there's a corpse about."

"There's a killer about! I'm staying here where it's safe."

Exiting the mezzanine he saw more crowds.

"Move! Move!"

"Order, we must have order!"

"Imbecile!" one man cursed, shoving past Haytham and his orderly retreat; others were power walking down the steps, increasingly desperate to get away. Another pair of servants held a man against the wall, confused and demanded to be told why he was being detained.

"You search along here. You search down there."

"Very well. If you find anyone, give a shout."

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I need to get out! It's too close in here! I must get some air!"

"Smelling salts! Does anyone have smelling salts! My wife is distraught!"

"Calm yourself! You must calm yourself! I won't let you go until you're calm!"

Haytham breezed past it all, down the stairs into the main entry hall. Everyone was there, it seemed, pressed together and uncertain, energy giving them an undulating sense of anticipation. Haytham blithely left them to it, quietly and politely making his way through to the doors. Many more were there, hailing carriages or talking to their footmen. Holden, bless him, was already primed and ready, calmly telling several theatre goers that he was not free for hire no matter what the price.

"Holden!" he said brightly. "Shall I avail you of your services once more, or have you decided to aid the rabble?"

"Rabble?!" someone said with complete indignation.

"Master Kenway," Holden replied. "And how was the opera?" he asked.

"Rather dull, truth be told."

"Dull? Dull? What kind of brute-"

But Holden shoved the man aside and looked into the carriage as Haytham settled himself.

"Shall we be off, then?"

"Aye. To Fleet and Bride."

"By your command."

Haytham pulled out his new trinket, studying the treasure he had been ordered to collect. It was not green but rather jade, though he was no expert. A dragon spun around the circle eating its tail, distinctly from the Orient, but the symbols inside the dragon's circle were queer, almost Egyptian perhaps, or Greek or Roman. Haytham knew little of history in that regard, save what he had learned in his education – which was of course distinctly one-sided and focused ubiquitously on the beauty that was England.

Pocketing the trinket, he closed his eyes and reflected on the events and the memories, hoping to sort them out before Holden arrived at their destination.

---

He supped at Fleet and Bride, Reginald's place of business and one of the major sources of finance for the Order. Reginald was still at the opera to watch events unfold, and so Haytham assembled blankets and a pillow for those that spent the night here between shifts or returning from assignment. His sleep was far from restful, memories of Jenny's kidnapping, the house on fire, Reginald saving his life, plagued him and he woke at dawn in protest of the constant interruptions. He had not had such dreams in years, over a decade in fact, and he was loath to admit that the Royal Opera House's power of nostalgia had affected him so. Breakfast consisted mostly of the ample sources of tea, earl grey with a pinch of cream, to wake him up and set his mind right.

Reginald was in his office, standing at the window's grey light and studying the trinket Haytham had killed to obtain. "The rest will be here within the hour," the grandmaster said, voice as far away as his eyes were intent.

The entire court showed up, several must have ridden through the night to arrive, from all over the countryside and the city. Haytham knew some of them but not all, his travels in Europe having left him rarely touching base here at home. The meeting lasted over an hour before he was called in.

Reginald gave a succinct account of what had led everyone to the meeting: the story of the journal and its mysteries, the quest to find a code-breaker, and now a new artifact, which he passed around the oblong table. When it returned he held it up once again, mesmerized by it, a glint in his eyes Haytham had never seen before and rather didn't like. "Fascinating... Gentlemen, I hold in my hand a key. And if this book is to be believed," he put his hand on the journal, "it will open the doors of a storehouse built by Those Who Came Before."

"Ah, yes; those who ruled, reigned, and then vanished from the world," one of the lieutenants said, not with some sarcasm.

"Do we know what it is that would be held within?" asked another.

Reginald eyed them gravely. "It could contain certain knowledge. Perhaps a weapon. Or something as yet unknown, unfathomable in its construction and purpose. It could be any of these things. Or none of them. They are still an enigma, these precursors. But of one thing I am certain – whatever waits behind those doors shall prove a great boon to us all."

"Or our enemies. Should they find it first," Haytham offered.

"They won't," Reginald assured. "You've seen to that."

Haytham smiled at the praise.

"I assume you know where this storehouse is?" another of the order asked.

"Ah," Reginald replied, gesturing to one at the table. "Mister Harrison."

"Gentlemen," he said softly, his voice nasal and thin. A map was quickly unrolled and soon everyone was up and staring at it. Haytham recognized the coast of the Colonies, studying it as the conversation continued.

"How fare your calculations?" the grandmaster asked.

"I believe the site lies somewhere within this region," Harrison replied, tracing his fingers over a vast circle well west of the Colonies, deep in savage territory and at a radius so wide as to encompass hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles. Truly? This was the sum of this man's calculations?

"That's a lot of ground to cover," someone muttered.

"My apologies," Harrison replied, his cockney accent thickening in nerves. "Were that I could be more accurate..."

Reginald was reassuring. "That's alright. It suffices for a start. And this is why we've called you here, gentlemen, to avail you of our progress and impart the next stage. With the help you have been lending me overnight and just now, I believe we can all agree on this:" He turned. "Master Kenway. We'd like for you to travel to America, locate the storehouse, and take possession of its contents."

"I am yours to command," Haytham agreed readily. "Although a job of this magnitude will require more than just myself."

"Of course. Upon this paper are the names of five men sympathetic to our cause, garnered by our fellow compatriots here with their vast collective knowledge and experience. Each is also uniquely suited to aid you in your endeavor, ranging from underworld connections to knowledge of the Indians. With them at your side, you will want nothing."

Haytham took the paper and glanced at the names: Charles Lee – any connection to John and Isabella Lee? - William Johnson, Thomas Hickey, Benjamin Church, John Pitcairn – he'd heard of him, military man, good leader. The others he knew nothing about other than what was written, and he wasn't about to read their short biographies while in front of the other; appearances must be maintained, after all. "Well," he said, "then I'd best be on my way."

The answering smile on Reginald was one Haytham had seen many times before. "I knew our faith in you was not misplaced. We've booked you passage to Boston. Your ship leaves at dawn. Go forth, Haytham – and bring honor to us all."

It was only later, after meeting with Holden and telling his servant the news, that he realized the larger part of what was expected of him:

He was just named Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, and his list of names were its charter members. The weight of the realization gave him pause, he looked out the window to the muddy April streets. The New World had been known about for centuries, over two hundred years and they had never been able to set up a successful rite there; they had gotten there first and had a much stronger foothold. Haytham vowed to himself that this would be different. Not only would he find the storehouse Reginald was so obsessed with, he would route out their enemies and make the continent one ripe for their Order. He would establish his Order so firmly that there would be no doubt over who controlled the Americas.

His ambition carried him through the rest of the motions he had to endure in order to begin his mission. He and Holden held a lengthy conversation about his lost sister Jenny, what new avenues to pursue and how to go about the search discreetly. Reginald of late had become obsessed with the fairy tales of that journal and the precursor site, becoming agitated whenever Haytham talked about his mentor's betrothed. Haytham could not begrudge the man's own sense of loss over Jenny, but neither could he ignore any possible lead on a sister he was duty-bound to locate. They both shared a moment of disdain as Reginald's single-mindedness, but Haytham's absolute trust in the man eventually won out, and he gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Once packed, he embarked upon the ship, one of Reginald's own, and mentally prepared himself for a six week excursion across the Atlantic.

Most of the voyage was spent reading the mysterious journal that had so consumed his friend Reginald. The words were simple but somehow profound. The clarity and certainty of the point of view was neither fanatical nor unsupported; evidence was listed, thought experiments provided, life was breathed into the tail of the Precursors, stories and studies that were compelling enough that even Haytham, for all his strict personal control and rigid character adherence, dared to wonder if the fairy tale might have some kernel of truth. He stared at the key he possessed and wondered, dare he say, fantasized, about what lay beyond the mythical door.

He brought himself under control however, before his imagination ran away with him. There were, of course, other concerns to be had about the ship.

What was supposed to be a six week voyage turned into an interminable ten week monstrosity. Bad leadership, infiltration by them, and a storm of such magnitude that many travelers were compelled to aid in the repairs. Though he was no expert, he had rather thought that storm season on the Atlantic were in the late summer and early fall months, not the end of spring. Hurricanes, as they were called, were devils of storms and it was the only name Haytham found appropriate for the storm that had assailed them God you clearly don't KNOW what a hurricane is. The supplies were spoiled as well, perpetuating a nutritional disaster that drove even rational men to distraction. Haytham's military excursions and gentlemanly character prevented him from joining the savagery of the rabble.

The crew had cheered when they saw birds flying overhead, a symbol of being near land, and as the morning fog lifted he saw the expanse of a world such that he had never seen before. Hills and mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, signs of civilization so scant as to feel almost virgin; only the smallest of hovels could be seen through the fog – only one spire peaked up, the rest just dark blurs of buildings.

This was Boston? One of the largest cities of the New World? This... hovel?

Haytham had his work cut out for him.

Docking took far too long for the passengers, particularly with land in easy sight. Almost of one mind they all mobbed the dock, some cravenly bowing and kissing the ground, weeping in unbridled joy at the trials being over. Haytham looked on at disgust. Plebeians.

Instead he took his time in packing his gear, making sure nothing was forgotten, and disembarked with one last parting glare at the captain. He set his gear on the dock and took a breath, smelling the humid salt of the ocean for hopefully the last time, and mentally prepared himself for the first immediate steps necessary when arriving in a new locale.

"Master Kenway! Master Kenway!"

He turned. "Yes? May I help you?"

A young man, barely twenty from his looks, breezed through the crowds with a spring in his step and eagerly breeched Haytham's personal space, looking for and taking his hand. "Charles Lee, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've been asked to introduce you to the city. Help you settle in." Haytham nodded and started to heft his pack. "Oh no need sir. I've arranged for your bags to be delivered to the Inn."

The boy spoke with the speed of youth combined with excitement and enthusiasm, shifting from one foot to the next to the point of nearly bouncing. Haytham gave one last look at his bag before nodding. Charles was one of the names on the list, a charter member – well, not now at least, when he was young and eager to please and acting more as an apprentice than an actual member of the order. His looks were uncanny, however, to the Lees back home and Haytham indulged in his curiosity.

"Are you by any chance John and Isabella's son?" he asked.

The boy started in surprise before beaming as bright as the sun. "One and the same. Do you remember them?"

"Yes, my father brought me to their wedding. I was but a boy at the time, as you can imagine, and we supped with them and they with us many times. Now that I think of it I remember your birth, Isabella went into labor just as they were leaving our home, my mother went with them to the doctor for the delivery. I didn't see much of them after I was ten, of course, but we've exchanged letters on occasion and a few years ago I began dining with them again. You must have been just starting your commission."

"Yes!" Charles said brightly, eyes wide and smile stretched nearly from ear to ear. "I grew up hearing stories of you and your letters and adventures. I dare admit an embarrassing amount of giddiness with excitement when I was contacted to meet you."

"Your commission is with Edward Braddock, is it not?" Haytham asked, keeping his voice level and innocuous.

"Aye," Charles said, still bouncing about, "But he's yet to reach America and I figured I might... Well... At least until he arrives... I thought..."

"Yes," Haytham coaxed. "Out with it."

The boy could hold no secrets whatsoever, and his desires burst out of him. "Forgive me, sir. I had... I had hoped that I might study under you. If I am to serve the Order I can imagine no better mentor than yourself."

"Kind of you to say, but I think you overestimate me."

The boy shook his head. "Impossible, sir. Impossible. Oh, this way."

Well, if nothing else, Charles would be a healthy boon to Haytham's ego. He rather liked the idea.

They continued to walk down the pier and Haytham took better stock of his surroundings. The town screamed poverty, everything was built in dull wood slats, stonework was little more than practical brick. Despite that first impression however, the streets were uncommonly wide, wide enough for easily four or five carts to ride through, and stands were everywhere; the street, once they were on it, was brick, which surprised Haytham. The people moved to and fro about their daily business, boys were selling news sheets and even the poorest seemed able to read the columns. What was the literacy rate here? Slaves moved about quietly, as was their station, and were easily recognizable with their patently dark skin. Haytham had heard tell of judging slaves by how close to spades they resembled, and he could now see for himself that the stories were true. Some where well clothed, most likely manservants. Similarly, the Indian savages were easy to pick out, their skin, too, was dark and easy to identify. Some were dressed well but most were in unseemly animal leathers and looked as brutish and heathen as Haytham had pictured.

What truly struck him, however, was how the spades and the savages and the quaint colonists all mixed with the superior British stock in what Haytham could only label as working harmony. He did not see riots or fighting that he had always assumed common in the rough-and-tumble American children. The levels of drunkenness, obscenity, and backwards thinking he expected were simply not present, and Haytham found himself pleasantly surprised. In a land so heavily influenced by them, he had rather thought differently. Hovel though this city may be, there were things here he could work with.

In the spirit of that good thought he turned to his escort. "Boston's quite a lively city," he offered.

Charles was quick to agree. "There's all manner of things to see and do. Once you've settled in, I suggest you take some time to walk the streets. Who knows what opportunities you might discover..."

"Hold a moment," Haytham said, interrupting the boy's enthusiasm. "I need to fetch a few things before we get to work." Heaven knew he lost enough when the storm had hit.

Not at all perturbed, Charles nodded his head. "I'll arrange for horses while you do that."

Haytham and Charles separated, Haytham entering a shop simply labeled "General Store." Were all the signs here printed? What happened to the illiterate, how did they know to come here? Regardless, he entered and reequipped himself. The proprietor, disgustingly French, was happy to see actual coin instead of credit, and dug through his stock to find the necessary papers, blank books, inkwells and ink stones, a poor excuse of a pistol that was intolerably expensive, and tea. Dutch tea, no less, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

No sooner had he stepped outside that Charles was there with a pair of mares. Haytham mounted without a word and they set off.

"We ride for the Green Dragon Tavern," Charles explained, eager to interpret Haytham's mind. "The proprietors are... eccentric, but the rooms are spacious and they do not pry."

"What do you mean by 'eccentric'?"

"Ah, well... the owner is a woman. She and her husband Mr. Douglass inherited it from her brother two years ago. They're rationalists, like the departed brother; they believe life is the result of logical deduction, secularists. They don't believe in God."

"I see," Haytham said, letting his tone deliver his thoughts. "Have you been told why it is I've come to Boston?"

"No," Charles said simply. "Master Birch said I should know only as much as you saw fit to share. He sent me a list of names and bade me ensure you could find them."

That explained the enthusiasm; Haytham was a doorway to a wider world. "And have you had any luck with that list?" he asked.

"Aye!" the boy said brightly. "William Johnson waits for us at the Green Dragon."

Interesting. "How well do you know him?"

"Not well," Charles replied. "But he saw the Order's mark and did not hesitate to come."

A mark in his favor then, much like the boy. Haytham offered a nugget of hope. "Prove yourself loyal to our cause and you may yet know our plans as well."

The answering grin was awe-striking. "I should like nothing more, sir."

The rest of the ride was quiet enough. Haytham took in the streets and the people by turn, trying to see if he could ascertain the percentage of slaves, Indians, and Colonists. He was surprised to see so many types of people: English of course, but also French, German, Irish, Scottish, Spanish, Portuguese, and even Italians. Languages ranged from all of those, some incomprehensible gibberish from the slaves, and an ugly guttural set of noises from the Indians. He was again struck by all the differences between the men and women, and he marveled that the colonies had not gone to war with itself up to now. He had been in France many times, they at best only tolerated the English and vice-versa. Wars with the Indians happened practically since Columbus discovered the New World, and heaven knew no man – spade or otherwise – wanted to be a slave; and yet they were all together in this city doing more than tolerate each other. It was a marvel, simply a marvel.

"Sir, we're here," Charles said brightly.

The Green Dragon was not grandiose; like the rest of the city it lacked sophistication, simple brick and green shutters, shingled roof and chimneys at either end of the structure. Still, it was inviting. The pair dismounted and as they approached the door they could hear what seemed to be a heated argument.

"You lying, cheating, no-good sonofabitch!" a cockney woman was hissing to a man, presumably her husband, pushing at his chest and turning away at the perfect moment to see Haytham and his escort.

Haytham practiced prudence. "Perhaps we've come at a bad time?" he offered.

In a split second the woman's face went from irritated to bright and cheery. "Oh!" she said, her voice an octave higher and two octaves sweeter. "Don't be foolish, dearies! Please. Sit. Fancy something to eat? A drink, perhaps? Or is it a bed you require?"

Young Charles was put out. "We've already lent rooms here."

The husband, presumably Mr. Douglass, brightened. "Oh, yes! Of course! Masters Lee and Kenway, was it? I'll have your bags brought up. Do you require anything further?"

Haytham was already at the stairs. "Only privacy." A glance showed the proprietor frown but nod, asking no questions. Do not pry indeed.

"This way," Charles said once they reached the landing. The rooms were indeed spacious, for a colony, Haytham supposed, but the bed was freshly turned down and the amenities were complete. Given other locations he had been forced to stay in this was more than adequate. All the rooms were on the second floor, while the first and basement were reserved to the tavern. There was, however, space enough for a small table on the landing, and there sat a man pushing forty with a blanket curiously draped over his shoulder, sipping a mug of something.

"Sir, William Johnson."

Said man looked up. "A pleasure," he said with a faint Irish brogue, he and Haytham taking hands. The pair retired to Haytham's room for privacy, Charles dutifully closing the door to stand guard outside. "A good lad," William offered, "if a bit earnest."

"I can see he will have his uses."

"That he will. Now, I'm told you're putting together an expedition."

"Yes." Haytham explained the long tale that had brought them to this point: the journal and its revelations, the key he had acquired, and now the research indicating it was here in the Americas. "We believe there's a precursor site in the region. I require your knowledge of the land and its people to find it. First though, I'd like to know a little more about you, William. Tell me about yourself."

"What's there to tell?" he countered. At Haytham's answering look, however, he continued. "I was born in Ireland to Catholic parents – which I learnt early in life, severely limited my opportunities. So I converted to Protestantism and journeyed here at the behest of my uncle. But I fear my Uncle Peter was not the sharpest of tools. He sought to open trade with the Kanien'kehá:ka – but chose to build his settlement away from the trade routes instead of on them. I tried to reason with the man, but as I said, not the sharpest. So I took what little money I'd earned and bought my own plot of land. I built a home, a farm, a store and a mill – humble beginnings – but well situated, which made all the difference."

"So this is how you came to know the..." he frowned at the name. "Kanie... Kena...?"

"Mohawk," William offered. "You can call them the Mohawk, just don't call them that to their face. Indeed – and it has proven a valuable relationship."

"Are they a sensitive people, then?"

"Sensitive?" William said, snorting. "No, theirs are a people betrayed by us a few too many times. Mohawk is actually in insult to them, the Dutch tried to pronounce the Algonquin word for them – which is deliberately meant to be offensive. If you ever meet a Kanien'kehá:ka, call them the Keeper of the Eastern Door. It will at least show respect, assuming they know the language. They're part of the Haudenosaunee, or People of the Longhouse."

"The what?"

William gave him a withering look. "This will take a while, it seems. The Kanien'kehá:ka – Keepers of the Eastern Door, are part of a larger society of natives called the Haudenosaunee – the People of the Longhouse. If either of those are too long for you, you can call them Mohawk and Iroquois respectively, both terms are European pronunciations of Algonquin insults to them; the latter coming from the word hirokoa, which means killer people, by the way, so mind your words."

"Well, then, it's a good thing we have an expert in our midst," Haytham said smoothly.

William smiled. "They are a good people; some of their beliefs are a bit backwards to we Europeans, but they are excellent fighters to have with you in a war and a boon to traders like myself. They're smart too, though few people, Colonists and Europeans both, know that when they see the animal skins and the wampum."

"But you've heard nothing of the precursors' site? No hidden temple or ancient constructs?"

"Oh, yes and no – which is to say," he clarified, "they have their fair share of sacred sites but none matching what you describe. Earthen mounds, forest clearings, hidden caves – all are natural though. No strange metal... no odd glows."

"Hmmm, it is well hidden then."

"Even to them, it seems."

The flush of ambition from Charles had faded, and William's brief commentary on the men living in the wilds showed a more complex problem than he had initially thought. This would require more care than previously outlined, and Haytham realized this project could take years. The thought was troubling.

"But cheer up my friend," William said, sensing the new grandmaster's mood. "You'll have your precursor treasure, I swear it."

Haytham put on a smile. "To our success then."

"And soon!"

The rest of the day was spent with William attempting to educate Haytham on the Keepers of the – which door was it? - on the Mohawk and the People of the... of the... of the Iroquois. Haytham mentally groaned at the long string of names and and societal complexities. Five nations, now six, banded together under the Iroquois banner, speaking the same language and having the same culture of kidnapping children and raising them as Iroquois. Haytham was aghast the the savagery, but William assured him there was no malice intended, and it was because of this... diversification that they had survived as long and as strong as they had. Other tribes, like the Massachusett, the Pocumtuk, the Mahican, the famous Mohegan, the Pequot, the Delaware, Abnaki, any of the other irrationally long list of savages – natives, William corrected – paled in comparison to the unity and community of the Iroquois; and their eastern most tribe – yes, Keepers of the Eastern Door – the Kan... the Mohawk.

By the end Haytham's mind was filled with unpronounceable names and a healthy respect for the sheer girth of information that William brought to the table. The pair retired to the table on the landing, Charles still playing watchman. Haytham paused to ask after the boy. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Yes, sir; thank you for asking," the boy replied. His energy and enthusiasm seemed boundless. "Mrs. Douglass gave me a meal and I ate at the door."

He ate standing? Haytham shook his head. "One should not sacrifice himself when it is unnecessary, Charles," he said. "If you were hungry you should have let us know so that we could make arrangements. While our numbers are so small that will be necessary."

"I hardly mind, sir."

"I insist."

"As you wish, sir."

… Right, time for a change of topic.

"Do you like it here, Charles?"

For the first time there was a pause, a moment of thought that assured Haytham he would get an honest answer rather than a placating one. "There's a certain charm to Boston I suppose, to all of the colonies really. Granted their cities have none of London's sophistication or splendor, but the people are earnest and hard-working. There's a pioneer spirit that I find compelling."

The new grandmaster nodded. "It's quite something really, watching a place that's finally found its feet."

"Feet awash in the blood of others, I'm afraid," Charles offered.

"Ah," Haytham smiled, "that's a story as old as time itself, and one that's not likely to change. We're cruel and desperate creatures, set in our conquering ways. The Saxons and the Franks, the Ottomans and the Safavids, the Christians and the Moors – I could go on for hours. The whole of human history is but a series of subjugations."

Charles nodded, once more quick to agree. "I pray we one day rise above it."

Haytham pursed his lips before putting on a winning smile. "While you pray, I'll act. We'll see who finds success first, hmm?"

Charles was clearly concerned that he had somehow affronted the grandmaster. He was quick to placate. "It was an expression."

"Aye," Haytham said, unforgiving, "and a dangerous one. Words have power: wield them wisely."

"Sir, I did not mean-"

"I doubt you did, but it is the words spoken in such ignorance that do the most harm. Consider this your first lesson: mind yourself."

"I... I understand, sir."

"Good. William and I will be dining now, and our conversations will be much less critical."

"Yes, sir."

Earnest boy indeed.

---

Epic Author's Notes 2: The first and foremost thing to say before anything else: Two years ago when we were writing Brotherhood the two of us noticed that it was often a struggle to write, and that at certain points we respectively loathed being the one doing the typing. This was actually compounded, the feeling started back in AC2 when we were doing massive time skips and generating content from nothing, but we really noticed it in Brotherhood. When we first novelized AC1 we were most excited about Brotherhood, but when we actually DID Brotherhood we found it to be a chore. And that feeling has gotten worse ever since. Revelations was out and out painful, and now we're knee deep in writing AC3 while subbing AND teaching and... it's no longer fun.

We've been novelizing the AC franchise for five years now, and it has physically changed how we think about fanfiction - in that we don't write fanfiction anymore, we novelize games or cartoons or anime that we're watching. We've lost the creative spur to take characters and throw them in new situations and see what happens, and we feel that that is a loss.

And so, after much debate and conversation, this fic, AC3, will be our last novelization. It seems apropo that the end of our novelizations end with the end of Desmond's sage, and while we'll certainly continue writing fanfiction, we will no longer be exhausted with year-long projects that suck everything out of us. We feel that we're somehow letting people down, but we must make a decision best suited to us as writers first. We hope you understand.

Epic Author's Note 3: Hurricane Sandy. Yes, we went there. Yeah, this is a massive thing and if you didn't live in any of the 24 states affected by Sandy, or even in America when is struck, it's easy to just say, "Eh, it was a big storm." NO, it was not just a "big storm". Hurricane Irene, from the previous year, was as big as Europe, which is pretty damn big. This storm, Sandy, covered from Florida all the way into Canada. By January, two months later, there were STILL 8,300 people with out power in New York City alone. There were, of course, the usual effects you expect from hurricanes along the entirety of the Eastern Seaboard, with massive power outages that lasted for weeks at at a time, flooding, wind damages, coastal erosion, etc. But when we say superstorm, we MEAN superstorm, because a Hurricane and a Snowstorm mated to produce this killer Superstorm. The Great Lakes had record wave heights from 20 to 40 feet. Winds from Sandy pushed in all the way to western Ohio, Appalachia got 3 feet of snow from this hurricane, Southern ONTARIO in inland CANADA felt the effects of heavy rain and strong wind. In the US alone, over 6 million people were without power on Halloween, some as far away as Michigan. Sandy kind of brought into glaring clarity that US infrastructure hasn't been touched in years and needs a major overhaul and update - which of course, has yet to be even brought up for debate in Congress - but that's a political rant that we'll keep to ourselves.

Epic Author's Note 4 (Geeze there are a lot of these): The chapter. First off: Desmond! Hi, how you been! More than anything else the game opens with us blatantly explaining what all the sky imagery in ACR novelization lead to, Clay's final gift to Desmond was creating the partitions and teaching Desmond vicariously through his memories how to control the Bleeding Effect - it was the whole point of Revelations to begin with and it can now be properly outlined. Also Sandy but we just finished talking about that.

More importantly: Haytham. Since this is the first time we really get a chance to see Templar philosophy, we sort of decided to go whole hog. Haytham is an "ist," racist, classist, elitist, sexist, stateist, etc. Because Templar philosophy considers themselves above humanity as shepards, that kind of elevated thinking leads to the ego of an "ist." In this first chapter Haytham has insulted just about everything the two of us claim as heritage either by ancestry or origin or just in lieu of the fact that we have lived in New England all our lives, and he will continue to do so throughout his tenure before we switch to Ratonhnhake:ton (can't do accents here). Honestly Haytham is pretty unlikeable as a character - he was to us at any rate - and we don't understand how he won out over Connor who (to our mind) is infinitely more interesting and juicy as a character. We have, however, tried to make him likeable insomuch as we can, and his past echoes Ratonhnhake:ton eerily enough that rereading this chapter before posting it is kind of funny that these two won't get along.

Or maybe they will, we haven't gotten that far in the writing yet...

In case it wasn't glaringly obvious there was kind of a lot to establish here - and for the next couple of chapters - before we get to the meat of the fic: Haytham, backstory, Charles Lee, Templars, Colonies, Kanien'keha:ka, Ziio later on - and trying to make that love story make anything resembling sense - Braddock, more backstory, etc. Because of that we've done our best to streamline the beginning memories, trimming the fat as it were. The most obvious sign of that is the great reduction of the voyage and the cutting out of Ben Franklin and his "wit" in regards to women (insert feminist rant here. I don't even care that he was known for sarcasm and wit and dry irreverent irony that the US is supposedly famous for. Just... gueh). More of that will happen in later chapters.

And before anyone asks: yes, we will talk about Rogue. But that's a long, long, long ways away. Be patient.

Next chapter: more uber-dense-plot-establishment.

See you in the summer!