Loading… Chapter 1
"Yeah, well I have to go to work."
"I got to go too, its late here"
"Aw fine. See ya."
"Bye"
"Later"
-Game Session Ended—
-Xbox Power off—
What happens before we play?
-Xbox Power On—
-Aligning Animus Parameters—
The Huntsman appeared in that familiar white room. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the horrific stiffness of being de-synced. However, he considered himself privileged to have a Player that frequently revisited the operation.
In the next few moments, the people he unfortunately had the displeasure of being stuck with appeared. He watched as they all preformed their usual rituals to become accustomed to being awake. The Lady Maverick brushed the small strand of red hair away, staring contemptuously at the syncing residents. She never seemed to be in a good mood anymore, given that he had taken her spot at the Player's favorite character. As it should be of course. Obviously, the Player had chosen him as a favorite when she became better at the game.
He didn't deserve anything less.
Generally, the Assassins and the Templars, as in their nature, stayed away from one another. Despite some contempt for a couple of members of his own association, he was a loyal Assassin all the same, and was willing to protect his brothers and sisters. Yet, he still allowed himself a bit of leeway before hurrying to their defense. Especially when some members tend to get on his nerves…
As if on beat with his annoyances, The Robber synced into view.
Only God was aware of how powerful a hatred The Huntsman had for this…child. He was almost not worth the energy to despise. The fact that he, next to Maverick and The Carpenter, was a favored character was beyond his comprehension. The only thing that mar slightly swayed his opinion about the thief was his amusing tensions with his sister: The Lady Maverick. That, at least, gave him some minor entertainment for a couple of minutes, which was the least he could do for being such and annoying brat. It did not help that his Player had achieved the Wanted high score among her clan through the boy. He found it interesting and equally enraging that he believed it to be his doing.
It was beginning to hurt his brain thinking of it, so he decided to stray away from his unhealthy hatred for a bit. The others, now used to their awareness, began to wander to their casual activities. Conversation usually occurred through the people of the same association or arguments between opposites. The Native Americans, yet, seemed to carry on decent conversation among themselves without the constraints of their separate followings. At least, he believed that is what they were doing. The three that existed normally spoke in their native tongues. They could be throwing death threats and The Huntsman would be none the wiser.
The Sharpshooter sat in his corner, polishing the blade of his musket, and speaking in a low whisper to The Pioneer. The man was not a part of his Player's party, but the clan leader often played as him, and so he appeared. He never liked him, his pretentious calm and silence made him pathetic. It didn't matter if he was a special character, or if his kill streak was far beyond his.
He was nothing. Like every other person he knew.
"I know what you're doing, and it's not hurting anyone."
The Huntsman turned to face The Carpenter, who sat directly behind him. He refused to admit that such a large bumbling man caught him by surprise. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talkin' about the way you look at 'em, like you're above 'em." The Carpenter ran a hand along the large, gavel-like hammer he was recently given as a new weapon, "You may be self-taught, and I got a lot of respect for ya, but you are just like the rest of us."
"Are you insinuating that you are better than me? Because you are most certainly not—"
"I didn't say I was better, I said you are equal to the rest of us. Our Player may choose you the most but their score doesn't give ya any supremacy 'ere."
"You know nothing about me."
"True, but I know a lot about people," The Carpenter said before standing swiftly and walking away.
"Knowing what brains look like when you smash them out doesn't count as knowing people!" The Huntsman called after the departing man, before muttering under his breath in French, "He knows nothing…idiot."
"Tensions with your false Creed, boys?" another voice that could only belong to The Lady Maverick chimed in from the other end of the room.
Huntsman looked over at her. He couldn't deny her beauty, but he had no interest in a Templar, especially one related to The Robber.
"No one needs your input, sister," The Robber hissed, leaning against the wall. The way he spat out the phrase: 'sister' almost made The Huntsman laugh.
"Aw, I'm just trying to protect you from the wrong things!" Maverick smiled acidly, "Why so bitter again?"
"Oh here we go," The Carpenter sighed as Robber's face flared.
"You sold me—"
"We've heard this, lad."
"…For a can of soup!"
"What? What did you say? I sold you for what now?" Maverick challenged, leaning forward as if to hear better.
"SOUP! A God damned can of soup!"
"That's right. I did. But hey, look on the bright side. If I hadn't of done that, then the Assassins wouldn't have another member with a tragic backstory to add to their dysfunctional brotherhood."
The Strong Man cut in with a deep, baritone voice, "There's more of us then you, Maverick, and I doubt we're any less dysfunctional then the Commander and his bratty daughter over there."
At the mention of his name, The Commander lifted his head. He glared at the Strong Man, annoyed at the comment about his daughter. The Huntsman lacked very much interest in the family's problems, but he knew the Redcoat was the 'bratty daughter' who Strong Man mentioned. He turned his head to see her holding a knife poised to be thrown, but her father caught her hand, "Eleanor, don't bother with them."
"He called me a brat, father!" she yanks her arm away, "I shouldn't be referred to something so childish!"
"You know, she's right." The voice came from The Sharpshooter. Apparently the ongoing arguments had caught his attention.
"God forbid," the Huntsman thought rather bitterly, "that he doesn't get his two cents."
The Strong Man, surprised by the Sharpshooter's interjection, looked at him. "You agree?"
"Oh yes, God forbid you have a man with sense on your side." The Redcoat continued with a mocking smirk.
The Sharpshooter's voice was cool and quiet, "Oh yes, you don't deserve any sort of childish insults. You deserve proper, adult name calling like the precious little bitch that you are."
It was silent for a minute, but the Huntsman himself found he was the one that broke the quiet with a barely held back chuckle. He had to admit, that was a good one. The Redcoat, on the other hand, was far from amused.
She pulls out her sword, "Say that again, Assassin, and you'll get a blade where no man ever wants a blade to be!"
Members on both sides attempted to calm the coming explosion that was about to happen, the Carpenter being one to stand between her and the Sharpshooter, "Woah there love, don't get fired up. "
"Get out of my way you Irish coward, this doesn't involve you!" The Redcoat's fire was spreading, making this far more interesting the Huntsman, but much more dangerous as well.
"The Carpenter's eyes narrowed, "What'd you say, love?" he unsheathes the sledgehammer he favored as a weapon, "I didn't quite catch that."
The Huntsman watched as the Redcoat stepped back a bit, intimidated by the sheer size of the Irishman. What the Player doesn't know is that while they are all of equal strength in the game, the Redcoat wouldn't have a chance of defeating the Carpenter in a direct confrontation here, when the game was far from even.
The tension cooled, but only for a second, as the Commander wasn't willing to let the death threat to his kin slide, "You touch my daughter, and you answer to me, immigrant."
"Ah, go kiss the feet of your King you British lapdog!" The Carpenter reluctantly sheaths his weapon, "That's all you're good for!"
"Don't talk to my father that way!" The Redcoat's voice rises over them.
"I wasn't talking to you, girl! Then again, the same goes for you! You're just like him; all the lobsters are the same brownnosing crown-lovers that terrorized me for no good reason!"
"I can think of a couple good reasons!" The Commander was inching closer.
"There are a couple good reasons why you shouldn't be breathing either!"
Just when it looked like the three were about to clash, a smoke bomb exploded between them, sending them all into a fit of coughing. Both sides took the distraction as an opportunity to pull back their respected members from the near fight.
Despite what could've happened, the Huntsman was disappointed. He was waiting for the Carpenter to kick the two Templars where it would hurt for a while, but even that luxury faded with the smoke. Yet, he was curious as to who threw the bomb in the first place.
"Alright," he found himself saying, "Who ruined the opportunity for some entertainment around here?"
He didn't have to look far, as the Independent was right near him, poised to throw another bomb in case tensions broke out again. She directs her attention to the Huntsman, rolling her eyes. "All of you are ridiculous. You all know full well what would happen if any of us were killed outside the sessions." She glares at the Huntsman, "Especially you."
The Huntsman frowned. "Damn," he thought," I forgot about that…" He was lying to himself; he remembered the occurrence clearly. The Preacher, who prided himself in slaughtering any Assassin he could, was one enemy The Huntsman always enjoyed murdering in the sessions. Nothing annoyed him more than a hypocritical, religious nutcase. His rather minor annoyance with the priest rose to a blood rage not too long ago. The confrontation resulted in a massive glitch in the session, forcing the Player into limited mood while the system recovered. The Player was notified that it was a kink in Ubisoft services, but in reality, The Huntsman as well as the Preacher needed time to heal. Secretly, he was glad they were seperated. If either of them had been killed-
"Both of you were almost gone for good." The Independent finished his thoughts, "Permanently erased from the Player's game."
"And the only the Lord forgive us if the Player lost her favorite character."
The Huntsman, whipped around, facing the Preacher, who apparently felt the need to add his own opinion, "She wouldn't have lost me because you would've been the one who was terminated. And since she never picks you, I doubt it would be much of a loss at all."
Looking up from under his circular hat, The Preacher glared at him, "You don't want this to end badly for you, Huntsman."
"I bet you're waiting for the chance to get rid of me anyway. Not that it would make much a difference in your popularity."
"I have nothing to lose, then-"
"Searching for game sessions…" a robotic, female voice droned, "Searching…"
The Strong Man took this opportunity to place a hand on The Huntsman's shoulder, urging him not to start this now. The Huntsman glared at the Templar he was about to snap at before reluctantly moving away. If the Player had any say in this, she would agree with him in saying the Preacher had no place here.
"Session found. Avatars stand by." The woman's voice droned again, syncing before them. She lacked very much design or color, or any real personality. What she did have the power to do, however, was to Animus Hack. It was her that had too separate him and the Preacher the day they fought and she had the power to terminate any of them on the spot.
She wasn't well liked.
"Character Selection in progress." She mumbled, as the Player could not hear her at this point.
As they were selected, the killers around The Huntsman greyed out, indicating that they were already selected. Looking at himself, he saw that he was already selected as well, his skin and closed turning grey.
"Aw, someone took the Huntsman." The Player's voice echoed in the room, her comment making the Huntsman smirk.
"Yeah, I took him." A male's voice, one of the Player's friends, echoed in response.
"And I took the Robber." Another friend said.
"Yeah, thanks guys. Now I have to pick one of the other fourteen badasses. Huzzah for first world problems!"
"The best problems!"
"You mean like losing your TV?"
"…I miss my sexy TV."
The Player laughed, "I know you do. I'm picking the Night Stalker."
The Huntsman looks at the Night Stalker, who was in the corner, slashing two knives together quietly. He was avoided by everyone, including the Huntsman, who found him rather unsettling, even if he was a brother. He stood up, sheathing his knives and walking to the woman. The Lady Maverick whispered something to the Redcoat, making her chuckle. The Stalker turned slightly, looking at them, and chuckled as well.
Maverick raised an eyebrow, "What are you laughing at, Stalker?"
"I was just imagining how much more beautiful you'd be if you smiled more." The Stalker seemed to drag his words, "a big, bloody smile from ear…" he traced a line from his own ear to the other, "to ear." He chuckled, then turned, and synced away with the woman.
The Lady Maverick seemed thoroughly disturbed, "Seriously, don't you people have mental checks in your Creed?"
The Sharpshooter was laughing along with the Robber, "What made you think any of us, all of us, were sane?"
The Huntsman smiled a little. He didn't know how much of him was left, or how he would've been without his life of nobility. He didn't care much either. He was the best, and brightest, killer in the room.
And anyone that challenged him was dead before they could blink.