Author's note: I wrote this in response to Valiant-Poptart's Assassin's Creed songfic. The object of the challenge is to choose ten songs at random by shuffling the music player, then writing out what drabbles the songs inspire us to, under the condition that the drabbles be written only while the inspiring song is still playing, and that the writing stop when the song stops. I thought it an interesting challenge and decided to try it myself (unravelling my musical tastes in the meanwhile), so here it is.

I do not own the Assassin's Creed franchise. If I do, I'd be as rich as the Auditore, but I don't own it.

Irene Cara: Flashdance

A small smirk began to appear on Ezio's face as he slowly paced round the streets of Firenze. The scent of freshly-baked bread filled his lungs as he took a deep breath. The sights, sounds, and even smells of the city always made him feel...free.

"Ezio!"

Ezio turned round to see who it was who had called him. A girl came running to him, a smile etched on her lips. Ezio's expression changed from surprise to one conveying every ounce of charisma he had as he approached the girl.

"Cristina, amore."

Cristina giggled, and Ezio could see her cheeks began to flush. "Charmer," she managed to stammer. Then: "I heard you're going to see Vieri today?"

Ezio nodded warily. "I am. And - ?"

"Well, I – " Cristina tilted her head slightly, - "I just want you to know that Amerigo cancelled his visit, so it'll be very lonely back home tonight..."

Billy Joel: Movin' Out

Desmond closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. He listened carefully, trying to identify any noises which might come through the chilly night air. So far so good, no indications of anyone being awake or aware of his presence in the kitchen. He inched forward, opened a drawer, and began to dig inside. Pulling a wad of money – all the money his father had – he dropped it into his backpack and began to stoically make his way to the door.

Desmond's tongue flickered over the scar on the left side of his mouth. Memories returned to him, memories of his father's anger, of his father pushing him down to the floor, of his head hitting the table on its way down and tearing the skin on his lip. Well, none of those will still be around after he's gone.

Desmond slung his backpack over his shoulder, opened the door quietly, and stepped outside.

Michael Jackson: One Day in Your Life

A tall hooded figure made his way from the middle of the sandstorm, coughing every now and then to rid the sand which had begun to enter into his mouth and throat. Taking confident steps in the sandy terrain, he approached one of the nearby tents, opened it, and entered.

"He's dead."

A man, previously sitting on a stack of cloth inside the tent, stood up and approached the hooded man. "He...is?"

The man in the hood nodded. "Yes, Rauf, my father is dead."

"But – Altaïr, aren't you sad?" Rauf stammered, almost unbelieving.

The hooded figure – Altaïr – thought for a moment, then shook his head in silence.

You've Got a Friend

Three firm knocks on the wooden door of his workshop made Leonardo Da Vinci start. He had been in an artistic mood for the past few minutes – or hours, or maybe even all day long – and the sudden, sharp noise had startled him from his musings. Muttering to himself, almost incomprehensibly, Leonardo approached the door and called out:

"Yes, yes, I'm coming. Be patient."

"Leonardo," a familiar voice came from across the door. "Hurry."

Leonardo opened the door and found himself face-to-face with his friend. "Ezio! Che-?"

But the very moment the words escaped his mouth, Leonardo saw for himself what it was that had urged his friend to come calling in the middle of the night. Ezio's arm was bleeding profusely, and the pallor on his face was certainly no good indication. Leonardo swiftly pushed him inside and began to bustle about with bottles of ointments and tried his best to dress his friend's wounds.

"It's a good thing you managed to come here, amico," Leonardo mumbled as he applied a piece of cloth to his friend's wounds. Ezio cringed at the pain, then replied in a shaky voice:

"So I think."

R. Kelly: I Believe I Can Fly

"What do you want me to do?"

"Jump."

"What? You – you gotta be crazy!"

"I mean it."

"But – Lucy, listen to me! If there were at least a bloody haystack down there, I might consider jumping, but this - !"

"Desmond."

"What?"

"Just jump."

Desmond shook his head and stared at his companion, still as incredulous as ever. He glanced downward once more – a free fall, from the top of the warehouse to the concrete floor underneath him, with nothing at all to stop him from breaking his neck on the impact. However, Lucy insisted as vehemently as she'll ever do, and as much as he hates to admit it, Desmond knows she won't stop until he takes the plunge.

"Fine. Requiescat in pace, Desmond Miles."

Desmond spread his arms, took a deep breath, and made the leap of faith, plummeting down. He had dropped only a few feet when he felt the metal cords behind his arms straighten into position, and just before he crashed to the floor, the wing-like implements stopped him and made him glide a few metres ahead before his feet met the ground and he stopped.

"There," Lucy's voice called out from the top. "I told you the gear works just fine. Thanks for testing it!"

Michael Bublé: Call Me Irresponsible

Every bit of his flesh, every cell of his brain, and every drop of the blood in Altaïr's body knows he has been foolish. But similarly, every bit of his pride decreed that never will he admit it – not in front of Al Mualim, at the very least, and most likely not in front of anyone else either.

Al Mualim, though, was most certainly cross. "Stay your blade – " he was saying, but Altaïr had interrupted him.

" – from the flesh of an innocent." With a glance showing his hurt pride: "I know."

To Altaïr's shock, a sudden, stinging sensation greeted his cheek the very moment he finished saying so, and Al Mualim began again, pulling his hand back after slapping Altaïr's face: "And stay your tongue!"

Phil Collins: Look Through My Eyes

"Don't you get it?"

Ezio cringed inwardly at Federico's words. The way his brother was speaking is not a pleasant thing for him, but he had no choice but to sit through it.

"Don't I get what, Federico?"

"You – you pazzo – " Federico stared down at his younger brother in a look almost patronising. "You fought with Vieri's men, made a gash on your lip, sle – "

"Vieri threw the rock at me!" Ezio tried to defend himself, but Federico cut him off.

"Wait until I am finished! You slept with Cristina Vespucci, escaped the guards via the roof, and returned home as if nothing had happened?"

Ezio remained silent. Federico approached him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Fratello, that was fantastic!"

Chaka Khan: Through the Fire

Desmond felt tired. Very tired. Through everything he had done, never had anything came even close to this crazy. Desmond felt his head ache as he paced down the hallways gingerly, part of him anticipating what he knew will come, part of him dreading the same.

Desmond watched helplessly as his vision began to blur and darken. Various silhouettes began to appear, outlining figures of guards and horses pacing about – guards and horses that did not exist. As Desmond walked between two guards' silhouettes, he felt certain that one of them had reacted slightly to him, but when he turned his head to see them, the silhouettes have already waned away.

Shaking his head, Desmond entered into his chamber and dropped unceremoniously on the bed.

"Oh, man."

He loved the bleeding effect for making training way, way easier, but this is just...unbearable. As he drifted to an exhausted sleep, Desmond noted the white silhouettes of people and animals passing by, and even the white silhouette of an eagle flying overhead.

Billy Joel: Everybody Loves You Now

"Altaïr."

Altaïr's eyes snapped open, and for a moment he nearly placed himself in a defensive position. But he recognised the voice before anything fatal happened and caught himself.

"Malik, my friend. You startled me."

"Apologies," Malik smiled, standing framed in the doorway. He entered the room Altaïr was in and began as nonchalantly as he could:

"I see you've been on a more thoughtful mood lately."

"I've been thinking – oh, never mind."

"Well?"

The way Malik said that single word made Altaïr hesitate. He had instinctively tried to keep his thoughts private, but his curiousity has been piqued and there is no stopping it when it is.

"May I ask you something?" Altaïr spoke carefully, almost tentatively. He was treading on grounds yet unfamiliar to him, and there is no point in risking humiliation by a misplaced word.

"Go ahead," Malik nodded. The nod gave Altaïr courage, and he asked:

"I cannot understand how you changed so fast. That is, how you hated me one moment and you forgave me the next. One day you despised me as the reason your brother died, and the next you welcomed me as if I were Kadar."

A smile lit Malik's face. "Ah! So that is what you meant! Well, I've heard things about you between those two time periods you referred to as days. Good things, mind you. You've saved people in towns everywhere, done great deeds and rid us of the Templars, and I could see for myself you have changed. Thus I conclude that this Altaïr is no longer the Altaïr who had indirectly killed Kadar."

Altaïr sat still in silence, meditating on what his friend had said. Malik lingered for a moment, then spoke: "Safety and peace, Altaïr."

"And to you the same, Malik."

Michael Jackson: Man in the Mirror

He glanced around him, observing the room. A messy bed, minimum furnishings, and a mirror hung on the wall. He took slow steps, one at a time, and approached the mirror, staring hard into his own reflection. Even for him, the figure in the mirror seemed so strange, almost unrecognisable. He stretched his fingers and touched the image his eyes saw, the image of a man in the mirror.

Thoughts began to flash through his mind. Memories, blurry and yet precise, flashed through at lightning speeds. He needed to reveal them to someone, but no-one was there for him.

His eyes met those of the ones the mirror held. Those eyes are trustworthy –they stared back at him with the uniform expression of determination. This is it. There is no other way.

He felt his fist swing back, as if involuntarily, and smash the mirror into pieces. He took a shard in his fingers, the blood beginning to trail from his hand. Calmly, almost peacefully, he cut a gash on his arm and dipped a finger into it.

Slowly and with a smile in his face, Subject Sixteen began to write on the wall.