Prologue

Altair despised being wet, and the speed he was going on his black motorcycle was making it so much worse with the breeze blowing through his body. Unfortunately, his leather jacket had been forgotten in a knife fight with a Templar, leaving him with only a uniform white hoodie, and a helmet. He just wanted to get out of the water, but the mission he'd been sent on was so far away from the order that the chances of him even making it back home before the downpour ended were slim, and it was so late that every building he passed offered no refuge; everything was closed. He thought he'd be soaked to the bone before he found some sort of haven to rest at.

The mission, though as a whole could be viewed as a complex addition to a series of strategic kills, was fairly simple. A Templar who was staying in a decent hotel for some dirty work with other Templars never made it to her meeting, having received a neat stab wound prior to the meeting. They were spreading pretty lies about themselves, and Templar influence was high in the area. Killing that woman had been like sucking poison out of a snake bite wound, and it would've felt good if it wasn't still murder. It had been a long while since he'd taken any pleasure in killing, but fighting on the other hand had always held great excitement to him.

A question Altair always seemed to ask himself was if the ends justified the means. A lot of assassins had been deserting lately, probably because they found the answer to their own questions were none too appealing. But that didn't seem to matter since the water was soaking through his clothes; it was cold at the speed he was going, and he was ready to rest after a long day anyways. When he got to any kind of checkpoint, he'd be thankful for whatever comforts it offered. Even if it was just an abandoned mattress under some sort of awning, he'd take it with happiness. He could find a hotel or something too, but the area he was in currently was a rundown suburb of sorts. The chances of finding a place to stay within a reasonable distance was slim, and if he was going far distances just for a place to stay, he might as well just drive his bike through the order's gates.

As the son of none turned a sharp corner, right before he'd given up searching for a place to take shelter, bright lights glared off of the street from down the road, and a tall edifice with long windows greeted his vision with a promise for a dry escape. He had no idea if the building was closed or not, but he pulled the bike into a nearby driveway under some leaking trees, and went inside.

It was on a homely street with alleys, dumpsters, and shabby apartment buildings. Altair was surprised to see such a stately building sitting on the corner of a street like this. Only after he got in the building did he take off his helmet and shook his head around like a dog. Then he removed his dripping hoodie, lest someone recognize the design and try to kill him, and he had a rather bland looking tee shirt underneath, also dripping to the floor with rain water.

Holding his helmet under his right arm and stuffing his other, less complete hand into his pocket, he took a look around the seemingly empty building. It was a library, and nobody was inside though the door was unlocked and the lights were still on. Their fluorescent bulbs and tubes cast viridian shadows, and it put Altair on immediate suspicion. Was anybody inside this room with him, just waiting to put a hole in his chest or something? He couldn't stop being wary anymore, which was a reason he would never desert the order. Altair would never be able to settle into a normal life.

That, and he'd be forced to kill his brothers. They'd come after him, and he'd have to kill them or die because it would be too big of a risk to take with Templars waving their lies in everyone's faces., somehow managing to coax assassins into their ranks.

Malik Al Sayf was the first deserter, and though Altair had not known him personally, he'd developed a strange mix of sympathy and scorn for the man. The story goes something like this: His brother died and he loses his arm, Altair hadn't heard of what his mistake had been, and then seeking some sort of comfort from his brothers, he is turned away and disregarded. From what Altair heard, it was because Malik's brothers were jealous of him that he received no sympathy. He'd been an amazingly skilled assassin, and in that way, Altair and he were exactly alike. But the son of none had been able to deal with the loneliness that jealousy earns better than Al Sayf had, and for that he was still in the order as a top ranked assassin.

In the time Al Sayf spent recovering from his lost arm, he questioned the order's ways in his loneliness, and it drove him to the breaking point. He left some time after his recovery was completed, and Altair's brothers say that he turned Templar when a man named Zaid Al Tufayl Baz, probably a man with an interesting family, showed up and tempted Al Sayf with some sort of companionship. As said before, all deserters have to be terminated; the last thing the assassins need is to have any vital information leaked to the Templars. That being said, all assassins that have been sent to kill the original deserter have been executed or slaughtered by the man himself. Even with one arm his skills are amazing, and in some way, Altair had some admiration boiled up inside him.

Thoughts of Malik Al Sayf left his mind when a man appeared behind the front desk with a rather large book in his hand, his only hand, though briefly Altair considered the idea of this Librarian being Malik before he started speaking. There was no way he'd be in a library, right?

"You're here rather late; would you like a book, or are you just getting out of the rain?" The slight rasp to the man's voice brought Altair further out of his thoughts and into the real world, where he forced himself to be more attentive. Standing in the middle of the tiled floor with dripping everything, Altair was about to snap at the man behind the counter. Who would come to a library this late at night, in this weather just to get a damned book?

Chuckling slightly as he set his book down, he muttered before Altair, "Calm down, I'm not blind. That's some look you just gave me. I can see what you need most right now is just place to dry off," and he waved his single arm around animatedly as he spoke. Coming around the front desk, he offered, "I can help you find a book to read while you rest though, if you like. I doubt the rain will be ending anytime soon."

And Altair, though not much for books, genuinely considered reading a book despite his feelings of suspicion and alertness. He remembered the dry texts of the library in the order, of weapons it cultivated, of armies and battalions it slayed, great men who fell to the hidden blade, and he remembered how focusing on the words dulled his senses in the worst way. Who could listen for enemies when you were reading a large text? It never held any interest for him. Though it was true that the order's secrets may have been hidden within its history, the son of none had suspected it to be false truths, manipulative tales of the past that could poison his thought process if he didn't know any better. He'd want to dig deeper than reading a book if he wanted any real answers.

But this time the man's voice, along with his appearance and friendly gestures, gave him a sense of calm, to which he felt that if he found the right book would be complimented nicely with a story.

"You're probably right about that," replied Altair, "I wouldn't mind sitting down and reading a book, though I don't really know what I'm looking for," and he trailed off with that, feeling slightly embarrassed that he was in a building meant for readers and asking for a book without knowing his preference on books. He pulled his four-fingered hand from his pocket and swiped at his nose abashedly. Other than the fact that he didn't want to touch the nonfiction section, he had no idea as to what kind of book he might be interested in. How does somebody like him, somebody who has no time to read, know about what they might want to read?

"Well, in that case," Malik started as he walked away from Altair and towards the tall oak bookcases, his tone light and reassuring, "I suppose I can recommend you a book if you're not sure." It was as if Altair had not been the first man to come in without direction. He followed the librarian through the bookcases while staring at his back, which he could tell through his shirt that he kept in shape. He could understand it, seeing as how the man only had one arm; maybe he was trying to stay healthy, or maybe he was trying to prove himself. But he didn't want to stare at a cripple, it's rude, and the man could be one of those men that take offense easily, though he didn't seem the type.

Finally reaching the bookcase that the librarian wanted, he scanned the shelves for some book.

"Tell me, are you a man for mysteries? As soon as I saw you, I could tell you were the kind of man who spends his whole life searching for answers."

Oh, the irony! Was his face revealing at all the amount of mystery he held in his heart? Like the librarian could read his mind, or perhaps his character, he'd somehow managed to guess correctly what kind of tale would interest him most. Or less, depending on how you look at it and how good the book is. Maybe it was a bad idea to let his guard down; somewhere along the line, the librarian might've figured him out. Just how did he-

"All assassins do these days. "

And with his suspicions confirmed, everything stopped all at once.

Okay! So here's the prologue to my first Assassin's Creed fic, to which I put forth more effort in writing than any other fic I've written. If you like this start, leave me a review, and if you didn't like it, still leave a review; everything you write me helps to make another chapter.

So if you want more, please leave me any kind of review! If you have suggestions or predictions for what might happen next, I'd love to hear them, and remember to follow and favorite as well 3