"Arretez-vous!"

A boy ran down the alley, his muddied face flushed with effort. His lungs groped for air, his chest heaving to power his frantic legs. The soldiers pursued, their fists raised at his attempt to escape. He did not stop.

He ran.

Ducking between brothels, and diving underneath carts and wagons of the impoverished was a difficult route to follow. The soldiers yelled and swore, but the nimble feet of a young boy of seventeen was slow to tire. And although they managed to hold the pursuit at first, his muddied face and ratty clothes blended with the district. Just outside the small peasant church the soldiers stopped, and they threw one last dirty glance into the crowd before departing.

The youth laughed, but it was too soon.

"Ah, there you are." A hand gripped the boy's shoulder, and he turned in shock. Standing before him was a general, his station revealed from his bold uniform.

"Do not struggle, boy, I do not wish to arrest you," he let go of the youth's shoulder, and grinned, "Instead, I want to ask you something."

"What?"

"Have you ever considered joining the army?"

Jean Claude woke at sunset.

His candle was weak, its light faint when he lit the wick. However, the flame gave the small room a warm glow, and Claude was able to stand.

A humble room with only a few scattered pieces of furniture and a stove, it mimicked its tenant. Claude was strong and well built, but his hair and his face were free of the wistfulness of his youth, and replaced with the stoic calm of maturity. His eyes tightened at the corners as he examined the chest, and he gingerly lifted the lid to reveal his garb. Although the nineteenth century had brought with it a new era of clothing, the image of the Assassin remained the same.

As Claude pulled off his nightshirt, a distressed sight was uncovered. The entire right half of his body was a mural of pain. The remnants of skin that had swelled and shrunk from fire, scorched until the skin had been melted away were permanently etched into his body. And standing naked, the leftover scars hung like twisted wires of flesh, an intricate maze that bunched and tore his skin all over his right arm and hand, and bubbled and blistered over his torso, and culminating over his back, where the scars seem to have been carved in with a knife.

Claude pulled a white shirt over his head, and the marks disappeared under the fabric.

The hood fell over his face as he buttoned his white shirt. The armour and boots had changed, new technologies of warfare brought new defenses. For the Assassins, the rule of Napoleon's military left Paris in the hands of the templars, but the assassinss still held the alleys. Pulling a glove over his right hand and fastening his blade, Claude looked over to a dusty mirror on his wall. He glanced at his face, catching his own eyes for a moment. Although his whole body had been divided between the burnt and the unburnt, his face was still untouched, and he lingered on it.

Then he looked away.

"General Molyneux!" Jean called, his arm waving about his head. The effort wrinkled his pressed uniform, and Molyneux laughed.

"Calm down, Jean! Save the energy for the enemy!" Dropping from his horse and smoothing out his moustache, the General surveyed the scene: the desert was a barren place, but the Nile was a refreshing site. After a long expedition, they had finally arrived.

"Egypt!" General Molyneux cried out to his battalion, "The wonders of thousands of years hide within this sand, but along with these mysteries lie the bloodthirsty rats who we call our enemy!" The men whooped and a hearty laugh followed. Molyneux continued, "Drink and eat well, friends, for we will face many challenges here. But remember, we live to serve France and her general, Napoleon!"

Jean raised his hand to a salute, and the battalion followed. Molyneux returned it, and they went back to their meal.

"We will drive these vermin into the caves from which they came," he hissed, and turned to Jean, "And you will be there with me, boy, and we will make sure they do not question the might of the French army!"

"I live to serve him," Jean replied, his hand over his heart, "and will die for him if God wills."