Mark fumbled with his keys, unlocking the door to his apartment. He carefully shouldered in, holding a bag of groceries in one arm. Closing the door with his foot, he walked over to the kitchen, setting the bag down on the marble counter and tossing his keys towards the small wicker basket next to the door. As always, he missed. Sighing, he walked over and picked up the red carabiner and placed it where it was meant to be.

He unpacked his groceries, putting aside a pineapple yogurt. Grabbing the yogurt, he walked over to the couch, kicking off his Vans and putting his black-socked feet up on the glass coffee table. Grabbing the remote, he lazily flipped through channels while eating his yogurt. Nothing that interested him was on, so after he finished his food, he threw away the container, grabbed his shoes, and walked down the hall to his room.

He opened the door and jumped. A man was laying on his bed. The man was wearing white robes, contrasting greatly with the black sheets on the bed. The man had knives. Lots of knives. Thankfully, the man also appeared to be sleeping.

Both fear and excitement coursed through Mark's veins. This could either be one of the luckiest days of my life, or the last, he thought.

Slowly setting his shoes down, Mark crept over to the bed, inspecting the man. He was tall and fit, appearing to be of Middle Eastern descent, and his white robes were quite dirty. He had a slightly curved sword buckled on his hip, a sinister dagger strapped to his back, and ten or fifteen small knives affixed to various parts of his body. A hood obscured most of his face, but it looked as if he had not shaved in a few days.

Taking a deep breath, Mark prodded the man. He did not move. Mark tried again, poking a little harder this time.

The man burst into action, and within two seconds, Mark was pinned to the wall, a blade at his neck.

Mark screamed. He had not noticed this weapon during his first inspection. It was a knife that had been hidden along the man's left wrist. Some mechanism had allowed it to be almost shot out, instantly at Mark's throat. To Mark's horror, he also saw that the man was missing the ring finger on that hand, which would have been right where the blade was. Careless use or a sign of dedication?

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice frosty with anger.

"M-M-Mark-k K-K-K-Kramer-r-r. C-could you please put that knife away? Please!"

The man ignored the plea. "Where are we?" he asked. His voice was still cool and hard, but it might have relaxed just a little. Gone down from 'kill-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you' to 'leave-you-bleeding-in-an-alley-if-you-cross-me.'

"Westwood? Listen, who are you, why are you here?" Mark responded, once again in control of his voice.

"West... wood? Where is this Westwood? Did you abduct me from Masyaf?" Before Mark could answer, the man continued, "No. You would never have been able to touch me. There is no way you could have done this. Who do you work for? The Templars? Out with it... Mark!" The knife shot back into its mechanism with a flick of the man's wrist. He continued to keep a firm hold on Mark against the wall.

The name seemed alien on the hard man's lips, as if he were not used to making those sounds in conjunction with each other. Mark chose to let the obvious insult slide and stick to responding to the final query. "The Templars? They were around what, eight hundred years ago? Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something? Here, let me go and I'll get you something to drink. Would you mind discussing this in a civil manner... ?"

"Altaïr" the man responded. "Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad"

"Altaïr..." that was an interesting name, "okay. Well, Altaïr, how does that sound? Let me go and I'll go make us some hot tea. I won't try anything, you can watch me the whole time, if you want."

The man, Altaïr, paused to consider the offer for a moment and said, "Very well, tea would be quite welcome, I suppose." Altaïr let go of Mark and bowed slightly.

Now that they were both standing up straight, Mark noticed how much taller Altaïr was than him. Mark was an extremely average five foot nine inches, while Altaïr must have been six foot three or four at least. Mark headed towards the kitchen, Altaïr on his heels.