a/n: I don't normally do crossovers but my wife asked me to write this, so here I am. The first 3 chapters are already written, so if there's interest, I'll keep posting. It's short, but if anyone is interested in reading the rest, I'll work on longer chapters. Mainly an introduction. Happy reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Assassin's Creed or their characters. I do, however, own some characters that will come up in later chapters. So, I have something, I guess.

Martha sat at the windowsill, slender fingers drumming as she stared out the window.

Brown eyes stared intently at the building across the street, giving her the appearance of being wrapped up in thought. She'd been sitting at this window for over an hour, and her butt was starting to hurt. That was something they never really addressed in training-no one talked about how boring a stakeout was, and no one talked about how stiff and sore your joints and muscles became when sitting still for so long.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as a stranger approached. He watched her for a moment, but her gaze remained focused out the window until he spoke. "You know," she caught an amused tone and she met his eyes in the reflection, "all the art is inside the museum. In fact, you're surrounded by art in here."

Her eyes shifted back to the window, shrugging in response to the stranger. "Yet you stand there, staring at me," she murmured back. "I can assure you that I am not a part of the museum displays." There was a pause, but she knew he hadn't moved, and then he laughed, seeming surprised at her response.

"I was more pointing out your distracted state. There are many interesting, historical, and beautiful things inside the museum yet you sit here, staring out the window."

She rolled her eyes at her reflection. "That is certainly my concern, not yours." Outside, across the street, the door of the warehouse opened, and Martha had to school her expression to keep her face impassive. A man stepped out into the street, wearing a bright yellow raincoat; he crossed the street in the museum's direction and headed left. "Often we're too focused on what's in the past and what is static, that we miss the interesting and beautiful things happening around us; we miss history being made."

The man stepped closer, leaning to look out her window just as Martha stood. He smelled like coffee. "Is history being made out in the street, then?" He asked with some humor.

She started gathering up her belongings, shoving her journal back into the leather bag that was sitting on the floor by her feet. "Who knows? But if someone isn't looking, we could miss it happening." The man straightened seeing that she was intent on leaving.

The stranger blinked at her sudden desire to leave. "No need to leave on my account." His pleading tone made her pause, smiling up at him. Her eyes met his, briefly, before he continued, "You were watching history from this window first; I should be the one leaving."

Martha shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. "Not to worry. I am not leaving because of you." She turned to go, pausing again when she felt a hand on her wrist. His grip was light, and not at all forceful. Martha had outgrown the need to immediately attack anyone touching her automatically, so she merely raised an expectant brow at him and hoped he wouldn't feel the tip of her blade hiding beneath her sleeves.

"Sorry," he said, glancing down where he was holding her wrist. He didn't let go, though. "Can I get your name?"

"I doubt that is needed. I do not imagine we will see one another again." There was a flicker of something on his face, but she didn't have time to process the information, gently tugging on her hand to leave. She needed to hurry, or she'd lose her query; she'd already wasted too much time getting out of the museum. The grip on her wrist tightened, and she planted her feet firm; she was not opposed to using force to break free, regardless of whether it would create a scene.

"First name?" He pressed, offering what she supposed he imagined to be a charming smile. She huffed and rolled her eyes, but couldn't resist smiling back.

"Martha," she replied, and then tugged her hand free, quickly. Without glancing back, the young assassin hurried out the front doors of the museum. She glanced up and down the street trying to spot the man she'd seen exiting the warehouse.

Turning, Martha headed right, moving through the light crowd of people to follow his footsteps. After a few feet, she caught sight of the flash of yellow from his raincoat and let out a breath. She didn't rush to catch up to him, but she did pick up the pace to stay close enough that she could keep him in her line of sight. When the yellow-clad man turned into an apartment building, Martha picked up the pace, catching the door just as it was about to close. She heard the elevator doors close just as she stepped inside the building.

The lobby was clean, well maintained, but nothing fancy. The carpet dulled the sound of Martha's footsteps, but she needn't have worried. The woman at the front desk looked bored, flipping through a magazine. The receptionist paid Martha no attention as she turned to the stairwell, dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The elevator was slow moving and didn't stop until the third floor. When she reached the top of the landing, she heard the ding of the elevator and the doors sliding open. When she cracked open the door of the stairwell, the man in the yellow jacket was facing away from her, heading down the hallway.

Martha paused, attempting to calm her racing heart with a deep breath, yanked her hood up to obscure her face, and then stepped into the hallway. She kept her distance until he reached his door. As he started unlocking the door, Martha's step quickened, and once more she caught the door before it closed.

The assassin slipped through the door where she was faced with the man's back as he removed his jacket. Strapped to each forearm, Martha had thick knives in leather sheaths. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she slid one free now and stepped up behind the man. In one fluid motion, Martha had the point of the blade pressed to his neck. "Hands up," she instructed. The man obeyed immediately, putting both of his hands up, fingers splayed.

Taking half a step back, Martha kept the metal pressed against his skin. "Now, turn around." Again, he obeyed, and she stood face to face with the stranger. He looked at her with wide, solemn eyes, frightened but unsurprised, and she was struck by how young he looked.

"I had a feeling this would happen eventually," he sighed.

"Edward Monger?" She verified, and he nodded his confirmation.

"You can pat me down, but you'll find I have no weapons. Would you mind lowering yours?" Edward asked. She hesitated. It wouldn't be smart to show any weakness or potential mercy. He was thin, the arms he held up were scrawny; he didn't look the type to be able to stick a blade through another person. Martha lessened the pressure on his neck, only slightly. If it were true that he'd been suspecting someone would come for him, he'd be foolish not to have a weapon, and while she didn't know a whole lot about Edward, she knew that he was not foolish.

Plus, you should never underestimate your opponent. Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in the apartment. It was dirty, sparsely furnished, and dusty; most likely it was a safe house.

"Sit." She instructed, inclining her head in the direction of the coffee table to her right. His eyes widened in surprise, and Martha let out a breath. It would do no good to tell him she wasn't here to murder him. If he was afraid, the assassin hoped he might cooperate. After a beat, he sat, and she pulled up a chair in front of him. "The Sword of Eden," she started and watched as the surprised look faded and he smiled, comprehension dawning on him.

The tension eased from his shoulders as Edward smiled at her. Martha shifted in her seat, uneasy with how relaxed he had become. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."