Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed, nor am I a part of Ubisoft that does.

I looked outside the bar and saw a couple of men with Abstergo logos approaching this place. Heh, I guess they finally found me, huh? It's sad, but I don't actually know the name of this place, my last workplace. Maybe if I live long enough to wake up again I can ask the bastards what it's called? It's only right to keep track of the places where you lost everything. Again.

You see, the first was The Farm, or 'home' as we were never allowed to call it. We had to move the whole place around anyway, so it's not like I had a place to call my own, or even a place where I was loved. Since birth I've been going from one place to the next, looking for people that wanted me to be what they wanted. My parents... well, you already know what they did, and no matter where we moved to, it was always about 'the next generation', and 'take up our fight'. Yeah right.

The goons I saw before are entering the bar now, the dicks don't even look like they're going to by a drink. Bastards. It's not like I could stop them, anyway. My body has wasted away from alcohol, and that's all I have even if I did remember how to fight.

I pour myself a drink, since for all I know it may well be my last one, heh, and here I actually thought I could be a bartender for the rest of my life. I always prided myself on my drinks, they were the first completely useless skill that I ever learned, and that always meant sticking it to those upstairs. I was raised, instead, to be invisible, to be silent, and to be deadly, which was all well and good, right up until you realise that you don't even know what the hell you're doing, let alone why you're doing it. What right did I have to look at a man and decide to end his life? What right does the world I live in have to clap me on the back and tell me that I did the right thing?

See, I didn't leave because I was lousy at being what they wanted from me. No, I was actually pretty good at what they taught me, but I suppose that they've had centuries to work the kinks out their teaching methods. It was always 'give everything' and 'do you want to see them win? You'll have to do better than that'. Heh, my Dad was a dick, I barely refuse to acknowledge him as my parent. Mentor, maybe, on a good day, but never parent. I found out what I call him on a bad day after I started drinking.

I was always better at the stealth side of things, of noticing what people take for granted and picking up details that are inconsistent. Apparently I was part of some long line of Masters that were the best of their times at that, so I never got so much as a praise. I decided that it didn't matter, in the end, that I only wanted to do what was right for me, and not some war that I had no stake in. I was only average anyway, and the only people who thought any differently were my parents, and I was only pushed harder because I couldn't live up to their expectations. I didn't need to be one of those blades that seem to be everywhere, I don't want to be cannon fodder.

The thugs are at my bar now, so I save them from their idiotic death threats by waving them off, downing one last drink, and walking past them outside.

I had vague ideas of running for it, but knew if they found me here, then there wasn't any place I could go, except for those people I ran away from in the first place. Ah, who am I kidding? I'm not even fit anymore, I guess I really should've spent more time working out than riding my bike.

It's a moot point now. The goons are coming forward with syringes, and on principal I slugged one of them in the face before the other put me in a headlock and jabbed me in the neck.

The world is fuzzy, and quickly fading as I slump over.

My name is Desmond Miles, and this is my story.