Through a Glass Darkly
An Assassin's Creed Fanfic
A/N: Assassin's Creed, Desmond Miles, Abstergo, and anything in the games belongs to Ubisoft, not me. However, Michael Shaw, Richard Hastings, and other soon-to-be-named characters are my property. Reviews will be greatly appreciated!
Chapter One: Adverse Circumstances
Rain is one of the most irritating of all weather elements. It obscures the sight and deadens the hearing, cutting off the two most important stimuli that humans rely upon to react to their world. It has been used as the excuse for being late to meetings, for holding up a campaign, and, more commonly, for canceling games and races. The man running through the woods, however, entertained no such thoughts. Rain, to him, was nothing more than another obstacle to vault over, much as how heat and wind and night were mere obstacles. It provided an interesting challenge—how does one run through the rain and puddles without completely soaking the shoes? This was his challenge, and, to him, offered a complete blank from the world.
Unknown to the runner, someone else was using the rain as part of a challenge. The woman slowly scanned the trees around her, eyes flitting from path to path. It was a certainty that her target would approach her position; after all, every path in the area converged into one relatively massive intersection. She would either hit her target in the back or as he came to her; either one would fulfill her task. The woman was sitting against a tree clad in mottled tiger-stripe fatigues, with strips of cloth hanging off her to further break up her outline. In her hands was a small rifle, one that would appear for all intents and purposes to be a regular .22 caliber. Appearances, however, were deceiving; the rifle could accurately deliver a 7.62mm mercury-tipped bullet up to a distance of one hundred yards. All the woman needed was a sight picture offering a headshot, and her job would be done.
The runner banked into one turn rather sharply, and cringed as he felt the twinge of a headache begin behind his eyes. The headaches had been getting worse and worse, coming whenever he was in an emotional situation or when he was pushing the limits of his physical capability. The day hadn't helped at all. He had gotten into an argument with his girlfriend, pressure was mounting from his parents about colleges, and he was taking it out on the run by running near his anaerobic threshold. The runner cursed mentally as the headache erupted from a simmering burn into a raging volcano of pain. Gritting his teeth, the runner charged forward, but then abruptly stopped. Something didn't seem right. He didn't know what it was, but something seemed…different. The headache pulsed again, and the runner bolted. He didn't know what it was, and couldn't understand why he did it, but every instinct within him screamed to dive for cover, and that was what he did. Hitting the dirt, he heard a thwack and felt wood fragments hit the back of his neck. Although not in the military, the runner instinctively knew that he had just been shot at. The headache pulsed yet again, and he bolted up and began running towards the intersection, pushing off the trees and using them as cover. What the hell is going on? He thought. Why am I doing this? It wasn't in his control, however; it was almost like his body was running on autopilot. The runner flew through the brush, making his way inexorably towards his target.
The woman abruptly realized that her plan, such as it was, had been compromised. She had thought that her target would go down without a problem; instead, he had become the manifestation of her worst enemy. He moves like an Assassin, and a good one at that. I have to finish this now. Quickly, she slung the rifle and began to move not away from her target, but rather toward him. It was a counter-intuitive move, one that no sane person would expect, but one that had worked for her in the past. Defying human nature, she had learned, often paid great dividends. She could eliminate her target, but it would also reduce her safety margin to zero. It was all worth it, though. If her superiors were right about this man—really just a teenager—then he was just as dangerous and knowledgeable, if not more so, than Desmond Miles.
I'm not in my own mind. I'm doing things that I could not have done before. And I'm following instructions that don't make sense! The runner screamed mentally at himself, unable to stop what has happening. It was as if he could see his assailant through the rain and trees, and knew exactly what had to be done. The runner stopped, making no noise at all. An otherworldly calm descended over the runner, and for a brief moment, it seemed like time had stopped. The sounds of the woods halted like an orchestra suddenly halted in its movements, and objects hung suspended in their paths—which was all that saved the runner. The woman had launched herself from the ground up to him, a push-dagger—Now how do I know that? The runner wondered in the thought process that occasionally accompanies danger—glinting in her fist, cocked back and ready to strike. Time restarted, but it now seemed both slow and fast. The runner's hands moved, grabbing her outstretched arm and using it as an extension of his body, hurling her aside and behind him. The runner ducked at the same time, which was the only thing that prevented the flash of metal from connecting with his throat. The woman barely had time to register the fact that she had miscalculated before physics took over. Already in a parabolic arc, it terminated on a tree, and her neck was at the point of impact. The force behind her caused the bones to fracture, but not fatally so.
Calmly, the runner approached the woman, seeing that she was, for all intents and purposes, incapacitated and soon to be dead. He slowly rolled her over until they could see the other's eyes. In a quick, violent motion, the runner jerked the push-dagger out of her limp hand and placed it against the woman's throat.
"Who sent you? Who ordered you to kill me?" The voice was gravely, deep, like boulders rolling down a hillside. This isn't my voice—what's happening to me? The woman laughed darkly, then grimaced in pain at the movement it caused. "That, Assassin, is for me to know and for you…to not know." True, she could have said something a bit more revealing, but she saw the confusion behind the steely eyes. If she could prevent the target from reaching the Brotherhood, through whatever means, then she could still succeed in her mission. The runner's eyes narrowed, and remained so while he administered the coup d'grace. The woman attempted to gasp, but all she could manage was a muted, blood choked gurgle as the push dagger tore her windpipe, esophagus, and arteries apart.
The headache subsided, and the runner lurched backwards, gasping painfully as the pressure suddenly eased. He stared numbly at the woman's body, slowly leaking blood onto the ground, and his eyes locked on the bloody strip of metal in his hand. Repulsed, he flung it aside and scrambled back, away from the body. Although focused on making a career as a police officer, he had not actually seen a dead body before, and the gaping hole in the body's throat wasn't doing anything to put the boy at ease. The runner's hands started to shake as the adrenaline burned off, and he was barely able to stand. Staring mutely at the macabre tableau, the runner jolted and took off, wanting to put as much distance between him and the body as possible. As he ran off, he kept playing back the sickening feeling of the dagger going into his victim's throat.
The runner twisted the handle, and the hot water streamed out, pounding his shoulders as he braced himself against the wall. What he had seen, what he had done, was too horrific, too brutal, for him to believe that he had done it. But he had. There was no doubt in the runner's mind that he had killed, that he had felt someone breathe their last by his hand. He didn't understand what had happened. It's like one moment I'm myself, and the next moment someone else is inside my head and in control of my body. Whatever happened to me, it is not right. The runner shut the water off, and started drying off. When he looked into the mirror, the haunted eyes of Michael Shaw stared back, unable or unwilling, in the depths of his soul, to deny what had happened.
"So, she failed." The Templar murmured, glancing down the conference room's length to see all the participants. What he saw on the faces of the assembled security personnel, scientists, and Knights was a uniformly blank expression, but he knew that this was a cover. The tension in the shoulders, the preoccupation with papers or an interesting spot on the wall, and the slight quiver of the eyes told him that all felt fear, in this instance.
"We have had several eliminations go off without a problem or change in circumstances, and now this target, a mere—what, seventeen, eighteen year old?—boy, not only survives, but kills one of our most experienced Knights?" The silence that greeted the rhetorical question was particularly telling. The Templar's words had not been spoken in heat, but rather with all the warmth of an Arctic wind, making them all the more deadly.
"I want answers, people, and I want them yesterday. I don't care what it takes, I want Shaw's life put under an electron microscope. Remember what our intelligence has been saying—if this 'bleeding effect' identified by the Brotherhood is manifesting itself throughout the general population due to our experiments with the Animus, then the Assassins will have a huge new field of recruits. I, for one, refuse to let that come to pass." The Templar rose, and the group followed suit. It was the signal that the meeting was over, but everyone realized that it was only the beginning. They quickly retreated from the boardroom, knowing that their superior would still be brooding for hours.
Richard Hastings stared out of his office window, looking down into the Abstergo compound. He had not started his career in the Templars as an employee of the company, but had instead become their chief operative in the US military, a position he held for nearly ten years, before his premature retirement. On the surface, he was just a security group commander in Abstergo, but he was much more than that. He was the de facto field commander of the spies and Knights, the ones who regularly fought the Assassin Brotherhood. He had learned from the mistakes of his predecessors, more specifically from those of Robert de Sable and Rodrigo Borgia; good command relied not upon micromanagement, but by training and encouraging subordinates to take action before being told. The war of the Templars and Assassins had gone the way of warfare as practiced by the professional militaries of the world; split-second decisions based on new intelligence would prove to be the decisive factor, not the long, drawn-out campaigns of the past.
Michael Shaw, Hastings brooded, watching the light and shadows play across the small garden in the courtyard. The lad truly does not understand what he knows, what he can do. I told Vidic and Rikkin that this could happen; that our tampering with the ancients' technology could incite this. It was only a theory, but it was the only thing that Hastings' group had to work on. His group, simply put, had the objective of assassinating the Assassins. They were to be stronger, faster, better trained, and more creative on the field than their opponents. Abstergo's leaders had been skeptical when presented with the operational brief, but Hastings used his legendary stubbornness to good effect. "What good is it," he had said, "to research and use the Pieces of Eden if we have a higher casualty rate than our enemy?" The numbers had woken up the Templar leadership. In the past five engagements with Assassins, the Templars had lost nearly fifty operatives in exchange for one Assassin confirmed dead, and two probables—and those being slim at best. Even the most basic tactician could recognize that such an exchange was not a good one.
Hastings turned back to his desk, where a blinking light signaled a video conference was waiting for him. Sighing, the field commander sat down and took receipt of the call. "Hastings here. Who is it?" The screen was digitally altered in front of him to protect the identity of the caller—a measure in case Abstergo's security had been compromised.
"My voice is my identity, as yours is." The ghostly face on the screen replied, and Hastings knew who he was dealing with: Marcus Ruiz, Gamma team's commander.
"Very well, Gamma. How does the expedition progress?" As an additional measure, the men spoke in terms of a scientific expedition—after all, Abstergo was involved in all different kinds of work, so it provided an easy cover.
"We are making some very surprising discoveries concerning the ancient Hurrians, more specifically in their warrior class. They seemed to be nearly homicidal in battle, or else they were incredibly well-trained." To any outsider, it would sound like an archeological dig had been conducted, but to those in Abstergo who knew of Hastings' 'Red Teams', it concerned the Assassins. The Red Teams brought the fight to their doorsteps, and often into their historical backyards, as well. In this case, 'Hurrians' referred to the Assassins in the Middle East, and 'homicidal' referred to their method of elimination—it had appeared, for all intents and purposes, to simply be a series random murders in an already violent area of the globe. Only those in the secret war, of course, knew what had happened.
"Very interesting, Gamma. I'd like a full report soonest, if you would be so kind. Oh, I just came across something that would be worth investigating. I know it is not your area of expertise, but I thought you would like the change of pace." On screen, Ruiz sat up a bit straighter. He had been placed on Mideast duty for the past four years, and had created a highly effective network of informers and cutouts—to simply go away would potentially undo all that he had accomplished. "It involves an early action of Roger's Rangers, in the French and Indian War. More specifically, a training exercise of theirs. Interested?" Almost immediately, Hastings could see the pleasure in Ruiz's body language. The opportunity to be back in the United States, one of the most secure bases for the Templars? No one would pass that up.
"It definitely sounds interesting, sir; you know that I've always liked these early special warfare units. I'll see what I have to do to wrap up here, and I'll be back with a few of my best people to tackle this new challenge. Gamma, out." Hastings gave a short nod, and the connection was cut.
Still brooding, Hastings went back to the window, and stared down into the peaceful garden. Once, when he was younger, he would often sit out in the garden, pondering the terrible majesty and happy mystery of life and nature. I suppose that it was the idealist in me, all full of wonder for the world. I never did change back then, did I? It had been a place of solace for the young warrior, a place to gather his thoughts and repair his mind from the horrors of war. Now, however, Hastings saw the garden as a piece of order in a chaotic world. The universe tends towards chaos, it is true. But is order not preferable, not more beneficial, than the clashing of wills which the Assassins support? Can't they see that order has to be brought about through obedience, not argument and divergent thinking? Hastings knew that, in a realistic sense, that the Templar Order could never really kill the idea of free will, much as the Assassins could never really kill the idea of order through force. However, the Assassins had forgotten that, when all is said and done, the ends justify the means.