Heh heh heh... Hi. Well, this is my first fanfic (that I've finished, anyway), so I'm kinda new at this... Bear with me, please. In addition, I've never actually played through the game (just a couple bits and pieces here and there), so there's probably a whole bunch of mistakes I need to go through and fix; my friend (who has played through the whole game) can't catch all of it. If you spot one, please tell me what and where it is so I can fix it as soon as possible. :
Just another warning: There WILL be major plot spoilers in the later chapters! There are also minor spoilers all through the story, too.
Well, I've got nothing else, so... Enjoy!
Chapter One:
The Phoenix Project
"The subject is moving too slow with the Animus," a deep male voice said, the tapping of his feet echoing softly around the white-walled break room. He refilled his cup of coffee from the pot, taking a deep swig. "We're already far behind schedule. I do hope the Phoenix Project will help speed things up; our superiors don't like to be kept waiting."
"We don't even know if it works on humans yet," a female voice protested, "And who knows what would happen if it works? We could end up doing irreparable damage to the space-time continuum, and if—"
"You worry too much." The man said, taking another long drink of coffee. "The subject himself is in no danger, and I'm sure his ancestor's memories will remain intact if the Phoenix Project fails."
"And how do you know that?" the woman snapped back.
"Simulations," the man said confidently, "And all the research that we've done. We've gone too far to trash the machine and start from scratch, and all the calculations seem correct. We're just having problems with the lab animals we've been using so far, and all of their cellular memories have ended up intact anyway."
"But we haven't gone that far back in their DNA yet!" the woman said, "The farthest we've gone back is their parental unit, nowhere nearthe scale you're talking about, and what are we going to do with… With him if the Phoenix Project ends up working?"
The man smiled. "I will let you arrange that." The woman sighed angrily and turned to stalk out of the room, but the man stopped her. "Before you put the subject on the Animus for today's session, would you take a sample of his blood for me? I'll perform a few final tests on animals, but as soon as they prove to be successful I want to—"
"He has a name, you know," the woman snapped back, "And I don't see why you're so impatient. Desmond will get to what you want eventually."
"'Eventually' is too long from now, Lucy," the man snapped back, "I already told you, I will perform the final experiments, and then tomorrow we will try out Desmond's blood. Now get the subject on the Animus, and see if we can get his cellular memory to progress any further. With luck, we might uncover some clues."
Lucy sighed, "Yes, Dr. Vidic."
Dr. Vidic glared at her, and Lucy walked out the door, a little more discouraged than when she entered.
In his room, Desmond climbed off the sink and retreated to his bed. The air ducts didn't provide him with nearly enough information to be able to make a valid conclusion; what was the Phoenix Project? And why did he get the distinct feeling it involved Altaïr?
After a few long moments, Lucy appeared at his door, gesturing in the general direction of the Animus. Almost mechanically, Desmond got up and stepped into the Animus's chamber, letting her take a quick sample of his blood before lying down on the freezing-cold metal table. Lucy retreated back into the control room, pushed a few buttons, and the oh-so-familiar holographic screen slid over Desmond's head, lighting up with data from the previous sessions and models of his DNA.
Back in the control room, Lucy sat down at the Watcher's desk, adjusting the screens of what Desmond saw and getting comfortable in the chair. She started up the coffee machine, checked the mini-fridge for creamer and a steady supply of Diet Coke, and set a timer to ring at noon to remind her to let Desmond take a break for lunch.
Desmond closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
It was going to be a long nine hours.
--
The next morning, Desmond woke up at 7 A.M., same as always.
He literally rolled out of bed, already not looking forward to the day ahead of him. He slouched to the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. The hours he spent on the Animus every day wore him out, and he always ended up stiff and achy the next morning.
Desmond took a quick shower, cranking up the hot water as far as it would go to try and wash the soreness out of his arms and legs.
Clean and marginally less sore than he was when he woke up that morning, Desmond wiped off some of the condensation from his mirror.
Dark green eyes stared back at him, set in a dark-skinned face passed down from his Arabic ancestors. His eyes scanned the face in the mirror; heavy eyebrows centered over his eyes, a hint of a moustache under his nose, the pale pink scar that slashed down the right side of his lips. He sighed, making himself look even more tired and lonely than he usually did lately; sometimes it was hard to believe he was only twenty-five years old. Grabbing a towel, he dried his short, messy dark-brown hair, and pulled on some clean clothes: a white hoodie, jeans, and a pair of socks, what seemed to be the official uniform for captives of Abstergo Industries. He had ceased bothering putting on shoes after about his third day at Abstergo.
When he got back to his room (or, more appropriately, cell), he saw that breakfast had already been served. A bowl of cereal, a carton of milk, and a take-out cup of Starbucks coffee waited for him on his bedside table.
Breakfast of champions.
Desmond ate his cereal in silence, and began to wonder what he'd get to see during his session at the Animus today. It was one of the highlights of his painfully boring stay here at Abstergo Industries; after all, who wouldn't want to watch the memories of a 12th century ancestor like it was a movie? He didn't fully understand why the Animus had been made or why Abstergo had chosen him for their experiments, but there was one thing that Desmond couldn't deny: traveling through his ancestor's—Altaïr's—memories was undoubtedly the coolest thing he had ever done.
As much as he'd like to deny it, though, Desmond couldn't help but be jealous of Altaïr. Desmond was tall and well built, but his abs were nowhere near sculpted or rock-hard. He wasn't incredibly muscular or athletic. Not like Altaïr, who was strong and fast, and could run along miles of rooftop and scale walls and jump off tall buildings into piles of hay without breaking a sweat, and still have enough energy to finish his mission, all before supper.
This was why Altaïr was an Assassin, and Desmond was a bartender. Altaïr was deadly and perfect, while Desmond could use a couple hours at the gym.
Altaïr had the grace of a hawk, while Desmond could recall several instances when he'd accidentally walked into a glass door. Or a wall.
No matter what he did, Desmond would never be able to compare to Altaïr.
Even though he had his differences with his ancestor, Desmond still wondered what went through Altaïr's head. The memories the Animus allowed him to see usually involved missions and a little bit of the downtime in-between the missions, but Desmond never actually got to see what Altaïr was like when he wasn't killing people. From what he had seen so far, Desmond knew that beforehis demotion, Altaïr was cocky and arrogant, which had resulted in his friend Malik losing his left arm and his brother when a mission went horribly wrong. After a near brush with death and a demotion to Novice, Altaïr had changed; he'd become quiet and withdrawn, avoiding Malik whenever possible, not really talking with anyone.
Sometimes, when he let his mind wander, Desmond would have an imaginary conversation with Altaïr. Even when faced with a demotion, Altaïr always seemed to know what to do, what was going on; Desmond always ended up hopelessly lost.
A knock on his door brought Desmond back from his thoughts. "Come in," he called, knowing who was on the other side even before the door slid open and she stepped inside his room.
"Good morning, Desmond," Lucy said, her high heels clicking on the linoleum floor. Desmond liked Lucy; she was the only one who ever really talked to him in Abstergo, with the exception of an occasional "Hi" from one of the security guards or a chat with Dr. Vidic, the head scientist. Lucy was tall and slender, with blonde hair that she always had pulled back in a bun and bright blue eyes. She was pretty, and there were times when Desmond wondered why she worked at Abstergo when she could have any job she wanted; she was smart, talented, and beautiful.
"I have some good news for you," Lucy said, tapping her clipboard with her finger. "Dr. Vidic and I have some other work to do today, so you don't have to go on the Animus. It's a free day."
Desmond's face lit up. "Seriously?"
Lucy smiled, a rare occurrence. "Is there something you'd like to keep you occupied for a while? A deck of cards, a book…"
"A pack of cards would be nice," Desmond said, "And I was wondering… Would you mind if I got out of my room and walked around a little bit? It's pretty cramped in here…"
Lucy seemed surprised by the request, and paused. "Well… I guess so…" she said. Noticing the look of elation crossing Desmond's face, she quickly added, "But only if you stay in the lobby and don't snoop around too much, otherwise Vidic will get angry and you'll stay here for the rest of eternity."
"Thanks, Lucy!" Desmond said, leaping up and wrapping Lucy in a hug.
A moment later he doubled over in pain as Lucy jabbed him in the gut with a sharp underhand punch. She took a few steps backward, looking down on him. "Don't ever do that again." She turned on her heel and left the room. "Lunch is at noon and will be delivered here. Be back before then or you'll get caught."
Desmond smiled as he straightened, the pain wearing off already. A whole day to himself! He would probably miss not being able to see Altaïr in the Animus, but he could use his time to do much more productive things.
Like take a nap. That sounded like a good idea at the moment.
So, Desmond stretched out on the bed, and closed his eyes. Perhaps later he would find out the answers to his problems.
The Assassin wove deftly through the streets of Acre, listening intently for the heavy sounds of following footsteps behind him. He heard nothing, and slipped into an alley. Any minute now somebody was going to realize the Templar was dead.
The idle talk of the city folk behind him was split with a woman's scream.
About time, the Assassin thought as he headed back to the rendezvous point. You would think a dead man in the middle of the marketplace would be more obvious.
He delivered the news of the soldier's death to the waiting informer, who eagerly paid up the fee and gave the Assassin the information he needed. Relieved that the mission was finally over, the Assassin headed back toward Masyaf to report his success to Al Mualim, leader of the Assassins.
His horse was waiting for him in the usual spot, and he rode off into the distance just as the Templars in the city realized that the one who did the act would be leaving rather quickly. He heard their shouts behind him as he spurred his horse into a full gallop; "Damn you, assassin! Damn you!"
--
After an hour or two of hard riding, Masyaf came into view. Once he got within the city limits, the Assassin dismounted and led his horse to the area where his brothers-in-arms kept theirs. When no one was looking, he quickly scaled a wall and walked on top of the roofs to get to the Stronghold; there was much less traffic that way.
"I see you have returned alive, Altaïr," Al Mualim said, putting down his book and picking up a quill in order to write something or the other. "But did you succeed?"
"I have," Altaïr replied calmly, plucking a bloody feather from the red sash tied around his waist and a small bag of coins from a pouch on his belt. "And here is the payment."
"Excellent," Al Mualim said, examining the feather for a brief moment before pocketing the coin pouch. He smiled. "I am pleased to see that you have been sticking to the Creed, Altaïr. Does the pain of your demotion still trouble you?"
Altaïr grimaced, glad his hood was shadowing his face as it flushed in shame. "Yes, sir."
Al Mualim placed a wrapped bundle onto the table. "You have earned it, Altaïr. Well done."
Cautiously, Altaïr unwrapped the bundle. A short sword lay inside, and glistened in the light as he picked it up and tested the weight. "…Thank you, sir," he said, the barest hint of a smile flashing across his face. Another weapon he had back in his arsenal.
Al Mualim smiled again, and picked his book back up. "You are dismissed."
Altaïr sheathed the sword in the scabbard on his back, bowed respectfully to the Master Assassin, and walked out of the room, barely suppressing his joy.
After he wandered the fortress for a while to calm himself down, Altaïr headed toward the courtyard of the fortress. He was incredibly pleased with himself; it had only been a month or so since his demotion to Novice, and he had already almost earned back all of his weapons.
But he still had a long way to go before he got back his former rank. It was going to be tough, but Altaïr wanted his rank back badly.
Almost as badly as Malik wanted his arm back. Or his brother.
Altaïr still hadn't forgiven himself for what happened on that day.
The day Malik's brother was murdered by the Templars, and Malik had lost his left arm.
If only I could turn back time!Altaïr thought sadly as he slumped down in a shadowy corner of the courtyard, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. Malik still hadn't, and probably never would, forgive Altaïr for the mistakes he made on that day.
It is nothing to worry about now, Altaïr thought, flicking out his hidden blade and feeling its comforting sharpness for a moment. He retracted it, and sighed. I did not expect this mission to be so exhausting; I think it is within my rights to take a quick nap.
Wondering silently about how he was going to make things right between him and Malik again, Altaïr fell asleep.
After a few hours of what seemed like the best sleep he had gotten since he came to Abstergo, Desmond got up and out of bed. Lunch was, indeed, served at exactly 12 o'clock noon, so he ate about thirty minutes after he woke up. After cleaning his plate obediently and waiting until the janitor had picked up his dirty dishes, he left his room to explore.
Every once in a while, Desmond was reminded by that handy, annoying little voice in his head called his conscience that Lucy had said only the lobby, but put that aside for the moment. He would go to the lobby… After he had found out what the Phoenix Project was.
Desmond slunk almost expertly through the empty halls of Abstergo, past the Animus's chamber, past one of the employee's numerous break rooms, and past an extremely cluttered office that belonged to one of the lesser scientists that worked here at Abstergo. If there was one thing he had learned from his time in the Animus, it was how to track people; it helped that he had picked up a bunch of information from Lucy and Vidic's conversations in the break room that shared a wall with his bathroom, and he had happened to overhear a room number.
He cleared the intersection before heading down the hall to his right, then paused as he heard some angry voices from down the hall. He recognized Lucy's and Vidic's, and quickly tested the nearest door's open button.
A keypad popped out from the wall, demanding the code.
Locked.
He tested the button of the door opposite it.
Locked as well.
He saw a storage closet and, on a whim, tested it.
It opened silently, and Desmond ducked inside.
"I told you we needed to do more tests!" Desmond heard Lucy snap.
"I couldn't have seen that coming," Dr. Vidic answered.
"It didn't even work," Lucy retorted.
"I realize that. It was something I must have overlooked—"
"Overlooked? Did you forget that going that far back in a human's DNA would be more complex than going back one generation in a mouse's?"
By now Dr. Vidic was starting to get angry. "If you have a solution, Lucy, say so!" The tapping of their shoes on the linoleum floor got momentarily louder, then started to fade, as did their argument as they rounded the corner and headed toward either Vidic's office or the nearest break room. Desmond waited quietly until he couldn't hear their footsteps anymore, then a few more seconds until he was positive it was safe.
He peeked outside for a moment before scampering down the hall, excited. He was going to find out the answer to at least one of the questions that had been bugging him for a while.
The door to the Pheonix Project's chamber was still open, allowing for an easy entry. Inside, Desmond was greeted by an enormous machine.
It was basically a twisted mass of wires, pipes, surrounding a central, boxy tube with what looked like a sliding door in the front. Out in front, a brightly glowing display panel sat, begging to be touched and messed with.
If there was one thing Desmond was good at besides making martinis, it was computers and other electronics. He had been fascinated with them ever since he was a kid, and had been learning and creating code practically since he had learned how to type. He touched the screen, and the mouse moved with his finger. He tapped a lonely-looking box over to the left side, titled "SUBJECT 17".
It pulled up a picture of him, his DNA, and a whole load of information about him. It was slightly creepy, when you thought about it.
Then Desmond noticed the other side of the display. It was a jumbled string of code, waiting for further input before finishing whatever task the computer was set to do.
Desmond typed in a string of code on the touchscreen, going slow so that, if he ended up getting a lot of information that he would need to access later, he would remember the code. He hit the "ENTER" key, and waited for something to happen.
There was silence for a long, agonizing moment, and then the machine in the back of the room began to hiss.
Desmond backed up, alarmed, as the machine beeped and whirred, chemicals and energy being pumped into it as it geared up to perform whatever action it was created to do. The hissing steadily got louder as more power was fed to it, and a light began to glow in the seams of the door.
The noise rose in a crescendo as the machine performed the final operations, and the light in the seam of the door glowed brighter than ever before. Fearing the worst, Desmond ducked behind the solid base of the display screen, bracing himself for an explosion.
Suddenly, everything just stopped. The noise, the light, everything.
Desmond didn't dare look, in case it still exploded.
There was a soft rasping sound as the doors opened, and loud coughing could be heard from within the tube's chamber. Smoke began to flood the room, being carried away by the ventilation systems almost as soon as it floated out of the chamber.
Now Desmond peeked over the top of the display screen.
Waving away the smoke, his back to Desmond, was a man, clad in white, hooded robes. But there was no mistaking the weapons on his back; the red sash around his waist; the gauntlets on his arms; the distinctly cut robes, made to look like an eagle's feathers as the wearer soared from rooftop to rooftop.
There was no mistaking the armor. Or the fact that the ring finger on his left hand was missing.
As if it was cut off.
Slowly, the figure in white turned to face Desmond, a look of bewilderment on both of their faces. There was definitely no mistaking the eyes; they were the same dark green eyes that Desmond looked at every morning in the mirror.
"I am Altaïr Ibn La-Ahad," Desmond's ancestor said, in perfect Arabic, "And I do not believe this is the courtyard of the Assassin's Stronghold."