This story contains quite a few spoilers, as it begins after the events of Assassin's Creed 3. Do not read if you don't know what happened yet.

I dedicate this story to my dear friend Trisha. She is the one who came up with the basic plot idea and when she told me a few days after we both finished the game, I had to laugh so hard that it was settled: someone HAD to write it down. The huge problem was that I don't think I could ever write a funny story, so I had to turn it into something dramatic.. oops. But don't we all like some drama? Well, not only did it become a drama, it also became something a lot bigger than we both probably expected it to be.

The second problem was that English isn't my mother tongue. I hope everyone forgives me if I make some stupid language mistakes - sorry. I played the games in English and I just couldn't put German words into the characters' mouths.

Anyways, Trish, this one's for you. Thank you for sharing my enthusiasm and for all the long talks about our dear characters. And thanks for everything else, especially for being the way you are. You're a great, great person. But I think you know that.

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"He didn't exactly save the world, truth be told."

Great.

His head was pounding. Spinning. Thumping.

And someone was obviously mocking him. The sarcasm in the voice of that someone made the man want to jump up despite his throbbing headache and punch the speaker right into his face. Knock out a few teeth if possible. Draw some blood.

"He merely just slowed down its end. We're still in deep, deep trouble. But what am I complaining about, that's completely okay, really. With me at least. Just let us deal with the crazy first-civvie-lady. I'm sure we can do it. It's not like we need him, right?"

He paused his ranting for a moment and the man could hear him type something on a keyboard. Then a deep, annoyed sigh. "Well, there is still the possibility that we find a way to get rid of her using, you know, intelligence instead of jumping around on tall buildings and stabbing people. If we do, well, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be much of a help anyways..."

The man opened one eye and immediately regretted it when a flash of pain hit him like a flanged mace right between his eyes. Was that a memory? Did he ever get hit by a huge brute swinging a big-ass weapon?

He decided that this question didn't matter for the moment. It seemed far more important to know who the hell was complaining about how whatever he did wasn't enough to save the world.

Even if those two things might be connected in some way. Maybe the mace-swinging brute was in fact a "crazy first-civvie-lady" - whatever that was supposed to be – who was trying to destroy the world with some evil plot he couldn't deal with because he was wasting his life standing behind a bar mixing Shirley Templars for constantly busy New Yorkers.

Bad Weather.

Now where did that come from?

"I could still do with a long holiday, really. It is up to our chap here to decide the next steps and he's busy napping while we're devotedly doing our jobs."

"Shaun..", the man managed to grumble beneath his teeth.

"Oh, look, he decided to wake up, great, how about we all go back to work then? It's not like we don't have time for excessive naps, really, we should just make sure that we have about 10 minutes each day to figure out how to save our little lives and – I admit, that's a minor matter, but I still feel obliged to mention it – the world."

The man forced himself to open both eyes, ignoring the gnawing pain that started to torture his head again, leaving him slightly nauseated and dizzy. In front of him stood a man with short, brown hair wearing black and gray clothes and dark glasses. He had his hands in his pockets and smiled down at him, a smile that looked far more irritated than amused.

"Good to see you awake for a change."

"I don't remember-", the man started, only to have four-eyes sigh and shake his head.

"Do you remember anything? Do you know who you are?"

He tried to focus. Who was he? Bad Weather. Shirley Templar. The few scattered memories that remained in his head wouldn't get him very far if he didn't manage to connect them somehow. Lucy. The pain stabbed him again, only that this time it was rather somewhere in his chest.

"Father.. father's a Templar..", he mumbled, not sure whether or not this thought had any meaning or if this blob of dizziness and pain he was obviously reduced to even had a father.

"Wrong life", the British man replied. "Let's try again. Who are you?"

Then it dawned on him.

"My name is Desmond Miles. And I am an Assassin", he said, trying to make his voice sound as strong and convincing as possible. For a short moment he had himself believe in this statement. He was Desmond Miles and he definitely was an Assassin – he surely had plenty of time to figure out what an Assassin was later. For now it seemed like a big step in the right direction to remember his name.

"Wrong", the British man replied again, crushing Desmond's hopes. He must have looked really miserable because Shaun granted him at least a small smile of pity. "Well, it's close, though. If this is what you still believe.. if this is where your memory stops, that's a shame, really, a shame. But it makes sense. There are certain things us human beings just loathe to remember, I guess, and this is surely one of them. Oh, how I hate to be the one to tell you the ugly truth. You're not gonna like it."

He paused and Desmond felt the urge to punch him again as every muscle in his body tensed. He would hate the truth? Fine. He still wanted to know it. Had to know it. He would hate the truth, but he was pretty sure that he hated dramatic pauses in important speeches even more.

Shaun sighed and finally continued talking.

"Your name is Desmond Miles. And you are dead."