Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach nor its characters. Similarly, I do not own Ubisoft's 'Assassin's Creed'. God how I wish both statements were false, though...

For those who have never played/heard of 'Assassin's Creed', yah might wanna look up 'Ezio Auditore' on Google images in order ta get a clear picture of his Assassin's outfit. It was appallingly difficult to describe - apologies.

Hi-Ho, Silver~! ^^

.:An Eagle's Cry:.

Nulla e reale; tutto e lecito.

'Nothing is true; everything is permitted.'

Assassin's Creed

Florence, the Year of Our Lord 1476

It was mid-spring, the smell of jasmine heavy in the air and the weather temperate, if not bordering on the more stifling side of hot. The early afternoon sun was bearing down on the major city located in northern Italy, her scorching rays caressing the different districts and highlighting several prominent landmarks that made Florence one of the wealthiest cities in the world; the Mercato Vecchio, Santa Maria Novella, Palazzo Medici, Santa Trinita, Palazzo Pitti.

Florence was surely beautiful during this time of the Renaissance, her inhabitants proud to be part of her rich and flourishing culture as they went about their daily business, spirits high as some exchanged pleasantries with merchants in the market, whilst others idled in the squares to listen to the minstrels strumming melodious harmonies on their lutes; there was even a young Italian male or two who'd finally worked up the courage to attempt courtship with the fairer sex they were sure was their one and only.

All in all, this particular day in early April was yet another one much the same as the last; quiet, peaceful, and oh so beautiful. One citizen however, could not appreciate the day as the other residents were. He was pacing back and forth in an agitated manner, sharp eyes the colour of mustard constantly surveying the immediate surroundings from his discreet position within a small alleyway between a local blacksmiths and a middle class apartment building.

Dark shadows encompassed the man's slim figure, not that anyone would be able to accurately guess the build from beneath layers of protective armour situated around his legs, arms, chest and shoulders, such protection portraying him a Borgia guard of the Elite calibre could anyone see him. His helmet was laying to his right, having been abandoned mere moments after arrival due to the intense heat. From his secretive position it was hard to tell unless you got up close and personal, but if he were to take but one step into the revealing rays of the sun, she would divulge shoulder length strands the colour of amaranth pink, slim and narrow features depicting roughly twenty-five years of life, and eyes so calculative most felt physically violated when subject to their penetrative gaze.

The man huffed, running delicate fingers through his hair. "Sangue di Giuda," he muttered, his gaze once more falling into the streets at the mouth of the alley. Patience was definitely not one of his stronger suits, and hence now that his confidant was more than ten minutes late, he was becoming vastly more irritated with every passing second. "Where the fuck is that stronzo?" he demanded of no one but himself, feeling infinitesimally better at venting out his frustrations; even if it was to thin air. "When I get a hold of that bastardo, I'm going to make him my next research specimen… Nobody keeps Szayel Aporro Granz waiting!"

So lost in his own obsessively gleeful and morbid thoughts of dissection and disembodiment, Szayel failed to realise that he wasn't quite as alone as he thought. A young man, no older than a tender twenty-one, watched from an equally disguised location atop of the slate tiled roof, a good four stories above the blacksmith. Honey-ochre eyes were sharp and focused, determined, just as they always were; years upon laborious years of training and honing a rather specific set of skills saw to that. Gazing down at the vexing, restless individual, a small, dark smirk lilted the youth's lips, before he took his first step out onto a wooden beam set out over the yawning abyss before him. He didn't hesitate or flinch, not even upon seeing the harsh, unforgiving cobblestone path that lay in wait down below.

Szayel indeed remained totally unawares of the extra presence, right up until the moment he heard the shrill cry of what sounded eerily similar to a bird of prey… An eagle, perhaps?

Quirking a brow, he turned his attention skyward. "Ma che cazzo?" he wondered aloud. A sudden creaking sound had him snapping his focus to the blind spot behind him, his body whirling round just in time to witness the hooded figure gracefully step off of the beam above his head.

Mustard eyes widening in a mixture of awe and disbelief, Szayel found himself unable to pry his gaze from the figure as he fell, plummeting toward the ground silently, effortlessly, the black cape draped over the man's left shoulder the only thing making any noise as it lagged behind, fluttering against the wind. Where most ordinary men would suddenly find themselves with a broken ankle and shattered tibia, the mysterious figure landed in a neat crouch, expertly absorbing any shockwaves of damage so that he could immediately straighten up and cleanly stalk forward, all with nary a hair out of place.

The pink haired male felt his heart leap into his throat and icy cold tendrils permeating his veins when he finally put two and two together; the flawless technique, the somewhat lethal execution of such an elaborate stunt that would render most individuals incapacitated, and, of course, that outfit – the ebony black jerkin that fell down past the normal length, creating elaborate looking tails at the front and back, the crimson lined cape currently hugging his left shoulder, that notorious hood with the tip fashioned to look like the hooked beak of a predatory bird. But perhaps most notable of all was that accursed symbol, that damned emblem that sat loud and proud across the figure's midsection, the silver metal seeming to glitter and shine forebodingly even given their shadowed surroundings.

That particular insignia could spell nothing but trouble for any soul unfortunate enough to lay eyes on it, was what gave rise to chilling gooseflesh over the entire length of Szayel's body in spite of the wonderfully pleasant climate; it was the badge of highly trained killer, perhaps the most feared and respected that had ever walked the surface of the Earth.

It was the mark of an Assassin.

"Sorry to interrupt your…ramblings," the figure spoke in a honeyed baritone, startling Szayel enough to make a reach for the sword resting at his hip. The Assassin merely chuckled at the cagey reaction. "Waiting for someone, are we?"

"That's hardly any business of yours, birbante," Szayel spat, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword making him feel a little more comfortable.

The Assassin shrugged nonchalantly. "That's true, I guess. Perhaps I should just take my leave, let you get back to…well, whatever it was you were doing." Turning on his heel, the Assassin made to leave. Szayel watched with apprehensive eyes, his grip easing around his weapon with each step he took in the opposite direction; only to immediately re-tighten when the figure suddenly stopped, twirling round to face him once more. "Although," he started, one hand fisted on his hip and the other cupping his chin in mock contemplation. "What if I told you that I know where your little accomplice is?"

Szayel glared at the man. "You're lying."

The Assassin couldn't help but grin at the other's words. He'd made it a statement, but there was little conviction behind it, and his words trembled slightly, giving away his fear that he could be mistaken.

Taking a bold step forward, the Assassin tilted his head back just a tad, allowing the dark, fathomless shadow cast from his hood to expose his cocky smirk. "Am I now? Let's see… He was a tall, skinny fellow. Long blonde hair, awfully sarcastic and somewhat effeminate looking…" The Assassin didn't miss the small clench of the man's jaw at that. His smirk broadened. "Damn, what was his name? I know he told me…"

"Why do you keep talking in past tense, like he's no longer with us?" Szayel demanded, willing himself to swallow his cowardice so that he could advance on the figure. He just couldn't bring himself to do it, though.

"Oh, that?" The Assassin gave a dismissive wave. "Don't worry yourself. It was quick and clean, I promise. He didn't have the time to feel a thing."

Szayel's nostrils flared in anger. "What is that supposed to mean?"

The Assassin suddenly dropped all pretences, assured grin wiping clean from his face as his eyes hardened and his fingers curled into white knuckled fists. Szayel noted the change in demeanour, the violent air that seemed to settle down around them, and his heart suddenly fluctuated into an erratic rhythm.

"What it means is, I know what you and your villainous kin were up to, what you had planned," the Assassin all but growled, the metal greaves over his leather boots jangling ominously as he advanced. "What it means, Szayel Aporro Granz, is that you should be more careful when plotting your devious little schemes. Maybe that way your own brother wouldn't have had the displeasure of tasting my blade through the back of his throat." Carefully schooling his features into callous indifference, the figure dealt the final blow. "Yylfordt Granz is dead, abominato – and it's all. Your. Fault."

Szayel knew he should be feeling a whole myriad of emotions at that news; sorrow, fury, grief, fear. But he didn't. Not really. Yes his brother was dead, fallen to the hands of a filthy Assassin at that, but honestly all he felt was supreme annoyance. He'd gone to his older brother knowing that he could be trusted with what he'd planned, but he should have known better, picked someone a little more…dependable. What a fool, getting himself on the receiving end of an Assassin's blade – had he not told him to be wary of such a thing? Ordered him to stick to the shadows, to never leave his back open for attack? His plan would surely suffer an indeterminable setback now, but, as long as he got himself out of the rather sticky situation he currently found himself in, it could still be salvaged, the faults recovered. All was not lost.

Yet…

Putting years of practise into play, the pink haired guard let a look of absolute devastation wash over him, going as far as to slump his shoulders and bury his face in his hands as he let forged 'sobs' rack his body. He wasn't like his dim-witted kin; he knew there was no way he could take on the man in front of him and hope to come out with his life still in tact. The Assassin was optimally versatile, with lightweight armour adorning his body, including vambraces, a chest guard, and metal pauldrons, giving him a good defence, protecting him from any blow aimed his way should he have the foresight to block appropriately.

Then there was the arsenal, giving him an impressive offensive advantage. From what Szayel could see, the Assassin had a sword of his own hanging by his left hip, accompanied by a stiletto dagger not far beneath it. He had throwing knives, at least ten, tucked into pouches on either side of the central insignia, and, although he couldn't see it, Szayel knew the figure had one – perhaps more, as no one knew for sure – hidden blade on his person. It was undoubtedly the Assassins' greatest weapon, their constant and faithful companion throughout the years, and hence the absolute bane of their enemies existence.

And all of that wasn't even taking into account the fact that his opponent would be agile, able to dodge and parry and attack with the kind of practised ease that his own meagre military training couldn't ever hope to keep on par with. So yes, challenging this particular male in a one-on-one dual was not only idiotic and undeniably insane – it was just downright suicidal. And so he would resort to his ace in the hole, the one trait he'd been gifted with since birth…

…trickery.

"What's the matter Granz?" the Assassin inquired as he closed in, now just a hairsbreadth away. "Aren't you going to beg for your life?"

Dropping to his knees, Szayel hung his head, just enough to feign deep sorrow and regret, but not enough that he couldn't see the malicious sneer tilting the Assassin's lips.

"Your brother begged for his," the youth continued, circling around the elder like a ravenous wolf sizing up the best, most delectable way in which to exact its kill. "Told me everything I wanted to know without my needing to even ask. Tell me, how does it feel to be ratted out by your own blood, hn? To know that he was so pathetically spineless that he willingly gave me your whereabouts just so he could save his own skin? Of course, I may have told a little white lie when I said I'd let him live in return for his cooperation…but hey, it was his own damn fault for trusting the word of his enemy."

The Assassin watched with a certain degree of accomplishment as the older male's slim shoulders started to shake with what he assumed was anguish, a slender hand rising to cover the man's mouth as his bereavement escaped him. But oh how wrong he was. Szayel was trying his best to stay the course, to keep the younger male thinking that he was lost to grief – but really, it was all so trite he couldn't hold himself together much longer. Did the fool honestly believe that he could ever lament the loss of such an imbecile the likes of which his brother turned out to be? How absurdly preposterous.

Unable to help himself, Szayel felt the grasp on his pretence slipping away, giving birth to stifled chuckles, ones that spread like a virus to the rest of his system and exploded into loud, vigorous laughter before long. The Assassin could only watch, his face pinching in disgust at the man's lack of disregard toward his own flesh and blood. How wretchedly miserable.

"My brother was a simpleton," Szayel stated indifferently, mustard orbs holding no emotion other than cold, hard fact. "With that loud mouth, cowardly disposition and subpar intelligence, he would have faired better with life in a sordid bordello than he ever did working under me. He was nothing if not a constant embarrassment to our family name; so, if you really think about it, your slaying him is a blessing in disguise." A sly, twisted smirk slithered its way onto thin lips, making him appear more manic than the Assassin had deemed possible. "In reality, I should be thanking you, Assassino."

"You're the lurido codardo," the Assassin spat, his lip curled back in distaste. "How can you sit there and speak ill of a dead man? I don't want your gratitude, you sick son-of-a-bitch – I don't want anything from you, other than your life."

"Well, unfortunately for you, I'm going to have to deny that request."

The youth scoffed. "Oh? And how do you plan to stop me, traditore?"

Szayel grinned, his eyes glinting. "As an Assassin, you should very well know that any worthy foe always carries a trick or two…up his sleeve!"

Before the Assassin could react, Szayel reached into the depths of his right sleeve, procuring a small vial which, when thrown to the ground mere centimetres from his feet, exploded into a thick cloud of purplish-black smoke. The heavy fog obscured his vision, and the smell – obviously a potent concoction of whatever illegal substances the slippery bastard had gotten his grubby mitts on – was enough to make him hack and wheeze, giving the pink haired guard time enough to scramble to his feet and make a clean break for it.

"Figlio d'un cane!" the Assassin cursed, wiping furiously at chemically induced weeping eyes.

Szayel burst out of the alley in a panicked flourish, calling forth his acting ability to appeal to the masses as his eyes and actions screamed of terror. "Help! Aiutami, Dio!" he cried, successfully catching the attention of all those around him. Smirking inwardly to himself, he called out the one word he knew for certain would rally the Florence civilians around him; "Assassino!"

As expected, alarm quickly spread through the faces and hearts of the city's residents, the once busy street erupting into a state of distress and panic as people fled in all directions, unsure of which way they should turn to escape the infamous crusader. This time Szayel let his smirk filter out into view. All of this commotion should provide ample coverage for a swift getaway, he mused haughtily, easily losing himself to the crowd as he hurried away from the alley and certain death.

The Assassin, as soon as he was able to see straight again, made for the mouth of the passage, only to groan in exasperation when he realised his target had caused a flurry in which to flee. Setting his jaw, the young male hurried back from where he came, grim determination etched deep into his brow as he scaled the roughcast wall of the apartment building, his movements catlike in their finesse as he fluently picked his hand and footholds, easily reaching the roof in seconds. From there he had the perfect 'eagle's-vision', and, with hair so obnoxiously coloured, it didn't take long at all for the trained killer to pick out his target from the stampeding herd.

Judging the distance from the roof on which he stood to the redbrick palazzo situated across the width of the bustling street, the Assassin quickly deemed it achievable, giving himself a nod of approval. Taking a few steps back in order to get a half decent running start, the Assassin took an almighty leap from one side of the street to the other, clearing the gaping void stories beneath his feet to land in a tucked up roll on the roof of the palazzo. Adrenaline now pumping thick through his veins, the figure darted across the rooftops, keeping a keen eye on the blinding head of pink trying to make his escape in the throng of terrified citizens. That alone had the Assassin curling his fingers. Didn't they know, couldn't they tell, that the Assassin's Guild was on their side? That they fought from within the shadows to further their cause, to make their lives rich and ensure that they always had the taste of freedom on their tongues?

Growling, he shoved the thoughts from his mind. Now was not the time to be pondering over such trivial matters.

The Assassin propelled himself forward, athletic legs and a young, healthy set of lungs ensuring that he would not know fatigue or system failure for a long time yet. Smiling with pure exhilaration as he surged over the endless sea of tiles, the figure put his all into every jump and leap, hurling himself over obstacles and numerous other voids glaring up at him from below. He was fast gaining on his target, having the obvious advantage of a clear passageway no matter which direction he turned, whereas the pink haired buffoon was distracted in his own chaos, audibly cursing out each and every person who got caught in his path and hindered his escape.

Sensing the perfect opportunity when the guard blindsided a man at least twice his bulk, sending him sprawling to the cobblestone floor, the Assassin made a quick assessment of the surroundings, searching for the quickest route down to the helpless mark, before throwing himself from the roof with nothing but fearlessness in his heart. The wind was whistling in his ears as it rushed past his head at dizzying speeds, tears wetting his eyes from the force, but still he didn't miss his objective, grabbing a firm hold of the iron bar jutting out a metre down from where he leapt. Moving with the momentum, the Assassin swung forward, letting go of the bar to land neatly on a veranda another metre or so down. From there it was a simple matter of stepping out into the air, much like he'd done earlier, his feet landing square in front of the spluttering target.

"Well, well, well," the Assassin drawled, bending down to seize the older male by the scruff before he got any more funny ideas. Hauling him to his feet, the figure did his best to ignore the frightened gasps and whispered murmurings of the small crowd beginning to mill around them. "We met again, Granz. Are you going to die a dignified death this time, or tire yourself out some more with fruitless chasing?"

Mustard eyes were wide with dread, and this time there was no falsity behind the emotion. "Why?" he beseeched, his hands trembling. "Why do you Assassins care about this? It had nothing to do with you! It was supposed to be a simply mutiny, a way for me and my kin to gain some power and influence instead of simpering under the boot of some brainless twit! So why are you here? I don't understand!"

Chuckling dryly, the younger male decided to indulge the man. After all, it would be his dying wish.

"'Why', you ask? It's quite simple really…" Leaning in close, far enough for Szayel to catch sight of burning ochre and a scowling brow ingrained with a palpable fury, the Assassin growled, "Because you threatened the one closest to my heart, and in doing so sealed your own fate. This isn't an official contract, coniglio…consider this a personal vendetta."

Szayel frowned, irked beyond all comprehension at his own incapability to piece together the information quicker than his mind was evidently struggling to do. He was a fucking genius, damn it! But then, even the conclusion he came to was an effort to grasp. Surely the Assassin dog wasn't implying that which he was formulating as truth, was he?

Slender brows furrowing deeper, he responded, "Wait… Are you saying that–?"

"It doesn't matter," the Assassin quickly dismissed, knowing that he needed to finish up and disappear before they attracted more attention than they already had. "You have no use for idle gossip where you're headed, signore Granz. I hope you've made peace with your God, because I'm about to send you to meet him."

All pride and dignity thrown to the wind without a care, Szayel quickly reduced himself to the one vice every human fell to when faced with certain demise, one that held no prejudice toward status, power, or wealth; barefaced pleading.

"No, wait! Please!" Szayel begged, certain he would have dropped to his knees by now had the younger man not had him in such a steadfast grip. "Reconsider! I can be a very useful and resourceful ally – I have influence, money… Just name your price! I'll pay anything; do anything! Please!"

The Assassin felt like rolling his eyes, but with difficulty refrained. "I already told you; you have nothing I want. And there is nothing you can do." Clasping his left hand on the guard's shoulder, he gripped a pointed chin with his right, making sure to angle his wrist directly under a bobbing Adam's apple. Stepping in close, the Assassin tilted his head down so that his lips hovered close to the elder's ear. "Requiescat in pace…traditore."

With a subtle flick of the wrist, the Assassin made use of undeniably his most deadly weapon; the hidden blade. Concealed on the underside of his vambraces, the mechanised, retractable blade was small, but highly lethal. Like the poisonous adder, it lay curled up in wait, patiently biding its time until the opportune moment to unfurl and strike, killing its prey in one single, fatal blow. It was the epitome of stealth.

No one ever saw it coming.

For all his unfathomable intellect, Szayel could not find the words to describe what he was currently feeling – although in his defence, it wasn't everyday he found himself viciously stabbed through the throat, and so he'd never had the chance to make the appropriate notes on such an experience. He tried to speak, but it was useless. His vocal cords lay in tatters, the hidden blade severing them completely when it retraced slowly, so very slowly, back out.

Grasping at his throat, Szayel sputtered, all noise made gurgled as he began to drown on his own blood. A steady river of crimson coated his hand, streaming over his fingers and down the length of his neck to soak into the material of his shirt. Mustard eyes, glassing over and unable to focus on any one thing for long, landed squarely on the Assassin, his withering body noting the almost solemn look upon the Assassin's face as he sank to his knees, his body strength unable to hold his weight as his very life force poured liberally from the wound.

The Assassin helped the lightly convulsing body to the ground, guiding the man down to lay upon his back. Honey-ochre eyes watched reverently as the life visibly drained from the guard, eyes once so full of energy and schemes dulling as they lost that unmistakable spark that signified existence, limbs growing heavy and cumbersome as internal organs started to shut down, leaving the dying man feeling cold and so utterly helpless.

Szayel's last breath was shaky and frightened, the final rush of air rushing past trembling lips to form a broken sob. The Assassin, trained to feel no regret, but in no way lacking a sense of compassion even for his enemies as their life was extinguished, waited patiently for the guard's body to grow still in death, before releasing a heavy sigh and reaching out, using his right hand to permanently close the man's eyes. Such irony; the same hand used to kill was the one to show care and consideration. A sick parody some might say.

Rising to his feet, the Assassin brushed the dust and dirt from his pants, fixing his cape over his shoulder. He got no further than a few long strides, people in the crowd eagerly clearing a path for the cold-blooded 'murderer', when a panic-stricken citizen suddenly appeared from around the corner, waving his hand and pointing in the figure's general direction.

"There, there!" he exclaimed upon catching sight of him, eyes bugging and full of dread. "Guards! Assassino!"

The figure cursed under his breath as he heard the unmistakable clanging of weapons and armour approaching, and promptly turned on his heel, making a break for it in the opposite direction. Again he got no more than a few hurried paces away before he found himself skidding to a halt, the same scene replaying before his eyes, only this time it was a scantily clad puttana disclosing his position.

It was mere seconds before he found himself fully surrounded, three guards blocking the way to his left, and four to his right. He could try to run, scaling the wall before or behind him, but he wouldn't get far, not when there was a plentiful supply of rubble ammunition to hurl at him – not to mention one of the guards had a halberd; a long, spear like weapon with an extravagant blade on the end.

Weighing up the likelihood of his options as the guards proceeded with caution, advancing carefully to snare him in a trap growing tighter and tighter with each calculated step, the Assassin quickly realised there was no other option…

He would have to fight his way out.

Resisting the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation lest the highly alert guards mistake it as a hostile action, the Assassin dropped his weight into an appropriate stance, his fingers curling and flexing periodically, the weight of his hidden blade an insurmountable comfort.

Taking a deep, soul cleansing breath in through his nose, the Assassin let it out in one word; "Merda…", before suddenly springing forward, effectively catching his first victim off guard.

"You're afraid?"

'Of course I'm afraid.'

"But you'll be safe now, held in the arms of your god."

'Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us.'

"If not your god, then what?"

'Nothing. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear.'

Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad

Assassin's Creed

Running a hand through disobedient locks the shocking colour of electric teal – home grown, thank you very much – Captain Grimmjow Jeagerjaques wrinkled his nose. Sweat had gathered on his brow, making the unruly bangs falling over his forehead damp. He could feel the salty liquid forming at the nape of his neck as well, falling in steady drops down to the collar of his uniform. Fuck, it was hot as Hell today.

In a way, he supposed he was lucky enough; being Captain meant that he didn't have to wear a helmet. Why should he when he had a party of four men acting as his personal bodyguard wherever he went? His armour was also a lot lighter than that of his men, and sparse in comparison. So yeah, it could always be worse. Shit, some of his men must be damn near ready to pass out right about now. They wouldn't dare though, not if they valued their hides returning home in the same condition in which they left.

As of now, he and his men were in the San Marco district, making routine rounds. Grimmjow was content enough to allow his protection to do as they saw fit; hassling merchants for the permits to sell certain goods, taking none-to-discreet bribes if there was any discrepancies – of which the total sum would end up firmly within Grimmjow's own pocket – and even flirting with the local whores outside the bordello. He honestly couldn't give a shit what they got up to, as long as he didn't have to lift a finger. It was too fucking hot, his skin attempting to melt from his very bones, and he seriously couldn't be bothered raising his voice let alone a heavy, burdensome sword should the need arise. If he got away with doing sod all today, he could die a happy man.

But, of course, Lady Luck never was one to grace him with her sultry embrace. Fucking bitch that she was.

"Capitano!"

Sharp, piercing pools of aquamarine snapped in the direction of the cry, thin lips pulling back in a snarl to bare pearly white teeth, dauntingly sharp canines glinting against the glare of the sun in a most threatening manner. A gangly guard Grimmjow had long since forgotten the name of came rushing forward through the crowd, stumbling and falling over himself in his apparent urgency. Grimmjow cocked a slim, blue tinted brow.

"What is it, maggot?" he growled, making no move to conceal his displeasure as he stood to his full height of 6'2", burly arms crossing over a muscular chest. "This had better be good. I really don't feel like wastin' my time on any wretched curs who'd rather come bawlin' to 'mommy' than raise his sword to an enemy…"

The guard paled at that, swallowing thickly as the Captain's own squad of men came to flank him on either side, curious as to what all the commotion was about. Fidgeting nervously, the guard summoned the courage needed in order to simply address the bronzed skinned powerhouse that was Captain Jeagerjaques.

"F-Forgive me, Capitano," he stuttered, wringing out his hands as they began to sweat underneath his leather gloves. "But we have trouble down by the square…we need assistance right away!"

Grimmjow scoffed, already turning his back to the miserable sod as he replied. "Then go find someone else," he ordered arrogantly. "I'm far too important to be dragged into whatever petty squabble ya find yourselves stuck in."

"B-But, Maestro Jeagerjaques…!" the guard implored, moving to rush after the Captain's lazily retreating form. Grimmjow's personal guard stepped forward, two men grabbing each one of his shoulders to keep him from reaching their superior. The guard struggled, though it proved fruitless. Grimmjow's bodyguard were notorious for both their strength and ruthlessness – much like the Captain himself. "Please, Messere! We need help!"

Grimmjow waved a haughty hand, his pace unfazed. "That's none'a my concern, lurido porco. Now piss off, before I get really angry."

"It's the Assassino!" the guard all but yelled in a last-ditch effort to gain the Captain's interest. It seemed to work, as Grimmjow suddenly halted in his tracks, burning cerulean orbs peering back over his shoulder. "He's back, Capitano…and he…he murdered lieutenant Granz…"

Eyes narrowing into a vicious glare, Grimmjow about-faced, storming back over to the pleading guard to fist a hand in his collar. "Well, what the fuck're ya waitin' for? Lead the way!"

One: Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.

Two: Hide in plain sight.

Three: Never compromise the Brotherhood.

The Assassin's Creed

The Assassin was busy dealing with the latest wave of opponents by the time Grimmjow and his men showed up. He could feel a fine sheen of perspiration sitting thick on his brow, plastering hidden bangs to his skin, much like his sweat-slicked back and legs were causing his clothing to stick against his heated flesh. Droplets of the saline liquid were rolling down from the bridge of his nose to his upper lip, souring his mouth with the stale taste of his own heat exhausted body. Still, he pressed onward, slaying any foolish enough to put themselves in his path.

Grimmjow would never admit as much out loud – as it was, he had difficulty disclosing the information within his own head – but he was absolutely spellbound by the Assassin each and every time he caught a glimpse of him in action. His moves were so fluid and graceful, like a beautifully choreographed dance that only he could hear the beat to, the blood of his enemies raining down in a wondrous shower of crimson as he preformed brutal assassination after brutal assassination. It truly was a spectacle to behold, and one which had the ability to make his heart accelerate wildly whilst somehow simultaneously stilling it within his ribs. Shit, he would never tire of watching that lithe figure exacting out a lethal ballet of pinpoint manoeuvres and composed blows.

Simply mesmerising.

"You two," Grimmjow commanded of the two guards on his right. "Take post up on the roof an' wait for my signal. An' for the love of shit, be discreet, yeah?"

Once the two men hurried off, cerulean orbs gazed on in fascination as the Assassin dealt with the remaining three guards, seemingly unaware of their presence for the time being, the surrounding area littered with the fallen bodies of their comrades – the ostentatious head of amaranth pink hair that could be no other than Szayel amongst those scattered around.

Grimmjow mused as to the motives behind that one; sure the Borgia Guards and the Assassin's Guild never did agree what exactly justified a 'fair killing', no matter what side it fell on, but regardless there was always a valid reason. For the life of him though, Grimmjow simply couldn't figure out what the pink haired bastard could have possibly done to warrant a personal hit from one of the most infamous hitmen in the city. Hell, possibly of all time.

A strangled cry of pain wrenched the Captain from his reflections, his focus snapping back to the ongoing exhibition just in time to witness one of the three guards encircling the figure getting a halberd to the gullet, the Assassin balancing his weight on his right foot to hurl the sharp blade into the target, the movement executed as elegantly as a step in the waltz. The guard fell backward, choking on his own fluids as he slammed to the ground. The Assassin swooped down to procure the dying man's own weapon; a rather vicious looking flanged mace.

The heavy weapon proved to be no difficulty for the Assassin to wield as it was pried from unresisting fingers, the youth twirling it a few times to get accustomed to its bulk and size. The two guards left standing shared a furtive glance before branching away from one another, approaching the figure head-on but from a wide birth. The Assassin flicked his gaze between the two, his posture calm and composed as he waited for his challengers to decide who would attack first.

The guard on his left charged first, sword held high above his head as he made his move. The Assassin rushed to meet him, countering the blow with the thick wooden handle of the mace. Kicking out with his right foot, he caught the guard square in the jewels, causing him to double over in agony. By the time the older man realised what position he'd put himself in, it was much too late, the skilled killer raising his own weapon above his head to bring down with crushing force on the back of his skull. The guard promptly hit the dirt face-first, fortunately dead before impact.

With a cry of his comrade's name, the final guard surged forward, sword held out by his right side. The Assassin neatly ducked back from the intended swipe to his neck, his footing remaining in place so that as soon as the deadly blade missed its target he could strike out with his left hand in an open-palmed blow to the nose. The guard stumbled back, losing all semblance of his stance, allowing the figure to kick out with his left foot this time, catching the wrist of the guard's sword hand so that the weapon flew from his hand and clattered harmlessly to the ground. Swinging the mace, the Assassin landed a devastating blow to the left side of the man's ribcage. The guard screamed in pain, clutching the wound as his torso hunched forward.

Noticing the Assassin gripping the handle of the heavy weapon with determined purpose, the guard's eyes widened in fear, desperate pleas to spare his life tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. The Assassin merely snorted in response before taking aim, twisting his upper body round in order to get as much power behind the final swing as he possibly could, much like the batter in a ball game before the throw. Pitching forward, he landed a sickening hit to the side of the man's face, bones shattering upon contact and blood spraying from several different lacerations as his body spun almost full circle before dropping lifelessly to the floor.

Panting and flushed with exertion, the Assassin let the weighty mace slip from his grasp, the sound of it slamming against the dusty cobblestone muffled due to the insane amount of blood rushing in his ears. His adrenaline high was making him feel dizzy, and admittedly at little nauseas it had been pumping through him that long. Couple that with the intense heat of the blazing sun, and his resulting state of dehydration, and the figure was just about damn ready to join the sea of mangled corpses at his feet.

Without any warning, a hot, searing pain lanced through the back of his right shoulder, causing him to teeter forward, almost tripping over his lethargic feet. Immediately on high alert, the Assassin crouched down to avoid any further hits, and, sure enough, seconds later a crossbow bolt whistled over the top of his head, embedding in the ground not a metre away.

Turning, ochre eyes glared up at the two archers on the rooftop behind him, both reloading the projectile weapon to take a second shot. The Assassin hissed, reaching back with his left hand to snap the wooden shaft of the bolt lodged in his shoulder, his eyes tearing up instinctually at the burning pain of ripped flesh and torn muscle. Just as the first archer took aim, a booming, purely masculine voice called them off.

"Oi, bastardi! Who the fuck told ya to go ahead an' fire? Huh? Idiota!"

The Assassin felt his whole body stiffen up at the voice, his head swivelling slowly to peer over his shoulder. Captain Jeagerjaques. What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be on the other side of town right now! Damn it, he should've known by the rich teal and blood red colours of the archers' uniforms that they were particular Borgia guards; namely his guards.

Flanked further by two remaining shields, the Assassin could only roll his eyes at the confident, cocky swagger of the teal haired Captain as he sauntered ever so casually toward him.

"Just look at this mess," Grimmjow drawled, clicking his tongue as he poked at the corpse of one of the first wave guards with the toe of his boot. "It seems we can't go a single day without one'a you filthy Assassin's causin' some kind'a trouble, ne? What a waste."

"Then perhaps you and your men should think about treading more carefully, Capitano," the Assassin retorted, his tone a venomous hiss.

Grimmjow growled, cerulean pools narrowing to slits. "Or perhaps you should stop murderin' the innocent, Assassin."

"Tch, don't make me laugh," the figure scorned, hands curling into fists by his side. "You Borgia scum wouldn't know the meaning of 'innocent' if it bit you in your pompous hides."

Grimmjow bristled. Damn kid was always so fucking mouthy. "Ya could swing for such insolent words, marmocchio."

The Assassin grit his teeth. Christ how he hated that stupid fucking nickname!

"I would hang for a lot more than a few ill spoken words," he stated icily. "Then again, you'd have to catch me first."

Grimmjow grinned, the look purely feral as he made a show of looking around them. "I wouldn't sound so fuckin' sure'a yourself, ragazzo," he sneered, sweeping his arms out by his sides. "Just look at ya; ya can barely stand on your own two feet. I hardly think you're gonna provide much of a challenge to one man, let alone five."

The Assassin couldn't deny the claim; he was in serious trouble if the Captain and his men decided to take him down right now, especially with two archers posted out of reach up on the palazzo rooftops. Letting his weary eyes slipped closed for a brief second to gather his scattered bearings, the young male took deep and steady breaths. He could do this. He would just have to concentrate that little bit harder, fight that little bit more diligently – but he was far from beat yet.

Just as that thought past through his mind, his willpower and resolve once again restored to maximum capacity, he heard a sound that shivered through to his very soul, one that had his head tilting back and a imperceptible, grateful smile quirking at the corner of his mouth…

The faint, but ever welcomed cry of the majestic eagle.

Eyelids fluttering open, the Assassin tentatively reached a hand out, catching a singular white and tan coloured feather within his open palm. Smile stretching into a beaming grin, the Assassin clutched the feather to his chest as it filled with warmth, locking shining ochre with piercing aquamarine.

"The fuck're ya smilin' about?" Grimmjow demanded in a huff, his brow creasing in suspicion.

The youth merely continued to smile, tucking the feather into the sleeve of his white undershirt. "Nothing at all, Captain Jeagerjaques. Well, apart from the fact that the odds are about to turn in my favour, that is," he added with a devious smirk.

Grimmjow scoffed derisively, though his right hand still lowered to rest on the hilt of his sword. "Oh yeah? An' what army's gonna give ya that advantage, hn?"

There was a muffled sound of commotion from above their heads, but by the time Grimmjow and his two foot soldiers could avert their attention that way, it was already over, the two archers disposed of and lying dead amongst the red slate tiles. Grimmjow whipped his gaze back to the Assassin, growling as he drew his weapon, followed swiftly by his men.

The young male simply chuckled at the blunette's look of unadulterated fury at losing his upper hand; at being bested. If there was one fact commonly known throughout the city, it was that the fearsome Captain sure did loath to lose. At anything.

"As you can see, Capitano," the Assassin began in a purposefully antagonistic drawl. "I don't need an entire army in order to win, and that's because I possess something much more powerful than that…" A self assured grin plastered itself across his lips as he locked eyes with the riled up blunette, a heavy sense of sheer conviction palpable in his tone. "I have the everlasting trust and fidelity of my comrades, and that, dear sir, is the single most prevailing arsenal any many could hope to own."

Growling loud enough to startle his own bodyguard, Grimmjow snapped, "Well? Don't just stand there, ya useless whelps! Have at 'im!"

A potent new rush of adrenaline quickly infiltrated the youth's veins as the two men ran forward, replenishing his lustre for battle as he hurled himself body and soul into the oncoming attack. The guard to his right, wielding a bearded axe, made the first attempt. The Assassin made short work of him though, parrying the first blow off of the metal design on his vambrace before snuffing his existence from the Earth with a swift but precision aimed stab to his sternum and gut, the youth making use of both hidden blades. Shoving the fumbling guard from his path, the Assassin rushed toward the second target who had taken up stance in front of his superior.

Running full tilt, the lithe figure easily avoided the mighty swing of the man's sword by dropping his weight, using the momentum from his dash to skid the whole way through the guard's parted legs. Jumping to his feet before the bewildered man had time to turn around, the Assassin made a fist with his right hand and gripped it in his left, thrusting his elbow back with force into the man's spine. The guard gave a harsh grunt at the powerful strike, arching his back into a definitive bow shape, allowing the young killer to wrap his arms around his neck. With a sly smirk to the seething blunette he was now facing, the Assassin dropped down onto one knee at the same time as pulling the guard's neck over his shoulder, effectively severing his spinal cord in one, violent tug.

Letting the listless body slump to the ground, the Assassin rose regally, eyeing the Borgia Captain with a cocked brow and an obvious air of, "Whadda'ya say to that?"

Grimmjow couldn't help but give a truly carnal smirk, weapon still drawn but idling by his side. "Impressive display, Assassino," he commended, cerulean orbs pinned to the athletic male as he made his way forward. "Though I can't help but wonder…what ya gonna do now?"

"That's a good question," the Assassin replied, still grinning victoriously as he stalked ever closer to the teal haired male. Making a subtle reach for the man, he remarked, "I suppose I could always–"

His thoughts were cut short as the distinctive bustle of rushing feet and shifting armour could be heard fast approaching, alongside the exclamation of, "This way, men! Hurry!"

The Assassin immediately pulled back from his initial intentions, clenching his jaw as he blew out an aggravated breath. Shit, was it honestly too much to ask for two fucking minutes of uninterrupted peace?

Apparently the answer to that was a resounding 'yes'.

"Perdonate, Jeagerjaques. It would seem we're out of time."

Before Grimmjow could even open his mouth, the youth gave him a sharp kick to the inside of his left knee, making him buckle and fall forward, giving the Assassin time enough to manoeuvre behind him. Grabbing the Captain by the scruff, the figure trailed him to his feet, releasing the hidden blade on his right arm and pressing it tight against the supple skin of his throat just as a new assembly of guards rounded the corner.

"Halt right there!" the Assassin demanded, making a show of glinting the deadly blade in the sun against the blunette's neck. "Make one false move and I won't hesitate to slit him open," he threatened, pulling the compliant Borgia Captain back toward the wall behind them. When his foot made contact with the roughcast brick, the Assassin pressed his lips close to the elder's ear, murmuring, "I'll settle up with you later, su altezza. Until then, I'm sorry."

Grimmjow frowned. "'Sorry'? For what?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt an almighty clout to the back of his skull, causing him to pitch forward and his eyesight to blur around the edges. Shouts and commands erupted around him, the sound of arrows, bolts and rocks sailing through the air accompanying them shortly after. Grimmjow was vaguely aware of arms pulling him to his feet, of concerned questions as to his wellbeing and how he wanted them to proceed, but he couldn't focus on them.

Forcibly shrugging the numerous sets of fussing hands from his person, Grimmjow turned his attention skyward just in time to catch sight of the Assassin making his escape, that black and crimson lined cape fluttering in the wind as he effortlessly hefted himself over the top of the roof and promptly disappeared from view.

"I'll settle up with you later…"

The teal haired Captain couldn't hide the vicious smirk quirking his lips. Now that sounded like a promise, and one from which he couldn't wait to reap the rewards. He'd be seeing that Assassin again sometime soon, that much was certain…and oh how he was going to enjoy making the insolent little brat pay for his actions here today.

Licking at his dry lips, he told his men to stand down, that they would have their chance yet, before scooping up his abandoned sword and sheathing it back at his hip. Rubbing at his throbbing temples, the early signs of a splitting migraine making themselves abundantly evident, Grimmjow felt his smirk tug wider.

Oh yes, he was going to enjoy every damn second of the kid's torture.

"It is a good life we lead, brother."

'The best. May it never change.'

"And may it never change us."

Frederico and Ezio Auditore da Firenze

Assassin's Creed 2

Glossary:

Sangue di Giuda: Christ on a bicycle

Stronzo: Asshole/prick

Bastardo: Bastard

Ma che cazzo: What the fuck was that?

Birbante: Rascal/rogue

Abominato: Filth/wretch

Bordello: Brothel

Assassino: Assassin

Lurido codardo: Filthy coward

Traditore: Traitor

Figlio d'un cane: Son of a bitch

Aiutami, Dio: Help me, God

Coniglio: Coward/chicken

Signore: Mr/gentleman

Requiescat in pace: Rest in peace

Puttana: Whore

Merda: Shit

Capitano: Captain

Maestro: Master

Messere: Sir

Lurido porco: Filthy pig

Idiota: Idiot

Marmocchio: Brat

Ragazzo: Boy

Perdonate: Sorry

Su altezza: Your highness

A/N: Oh my. I cannot accurately put into words how excited I was to write this. Jus' like 'Red Dead Redemption', the 'Assassin's Creed' games are among mah all time favourites. I cannot friggin' wait ta get the new one, it's killin' me tha' I don't have it yet. Fer serial. Bouncin' off the walls here waitin' for mah pay ta come through - an' buyin' the new game is gonna be the very first thing I do with it~! ^^

As for the story, I can only hope yah'll who read it enjoyed doin' so. I tried mah best with the actiony/fight/parkour scenes, an' can only cross mah fingers tha' they're understandable/enjoyable. God it's hard ta write tha' kind'a stuff accurately, but without disturbin' the pace an' flow of the story with too much detail - which we all know am notoriously bad with~ This part is more a less an introduction, hence nothin' too vital is goin' on. Not tha' there will be a complicated plot considerin' this will be a short story anyway... Am sure yah'll guessed who the Assassin was, ne? There's a reason his name isn't mentioned, which will be brought ta light next chapter.

This was supposed ta be a OneShot, but alas I got carried away again. Another instalment should see her finished, but I refuse ta dig mahself a hole by sayin' as much only ta end up havin' to take it back - so let's jus' say we'll see, ne? *flicks tail*

Please do enjoy if yah dare, mah sweets ^^

Ciao

Toringtino~

Oh, an' N.B. For those of yah who reviewed on mah last chapter of 'The Parent Trap', I wanna say a big, squishy thank yah~! (Here's lookin' at you, Belle!) Mah internet connection has been rather like my life as of late, which is ta say unreliable at best, so I can only apologise I never got round ta thankin' yahs personally - Just know tha' yer support means the world ta me, an' I'll never be able ta express mah gratitude enough~

~x~