Air.
He needed air.
No, I do not, he thought, gasping and writhing against a wall as he tried to compose himself into a sitting position. He had been blinking for nearly five minutes now. Were he not breathing, he would be dead. His gloved hands grasped at the cold metalwork etched into the flooring, trying to find some sort of hold so he could steady himself.
On accident, he nudged the Apple in the process of his heaving; his vision clouded, but he could see the golden glint through the water in his eyes. It rolled leisurely to the other side of the room, bumping against the wall and hitting a slope that sent it spiraling down to somewhere unknown.
"Damn it," Altaïr seethed out, pathetically still in the same place. He didn't even know where he was. If he lost the Apple, he was sure he would never get out of this.
On an impulse, he shoved away the pain in his lungs and ripped out from his insides the last bit of confidence. He stood up and took a few steps forward before collapsing onto the ground and blacking out.
When Altaïr came to, he was surprised he was still alive. At first he had been fooled into thinking that he had reached an afterlife, or perhaps the entire incident had been a dream, but the tinge of soreness still rested in the back of his dry throat, like he had been deprived of air, suffocated, smothered… it was a bitter reminder.
He could finally see, but he relied on his sense of touch to feel that he had been moved to somewhere more comfortable than the solid ground. The surface was still cold—more metal, he noted—and he could smell a faint tinge of blood in the air.
Altaïr groaned as he sat up, only experiencing a small cycle of dizziness before he felt himself tipping backwards.
Hands ceased his fall, strong but gentle in its efforts to help the assassin. Altaïr's immediate reaction was to flick out his hidden blade and propel it towards the source of invasion, but his coordination was off and steel pierced nothing but the skies.
"Whoa, easy there," came a voice, presumably from the owner of the hands. Altaïr was assisted in lying back down. He could not understand the language. Not French, nor Spanish, nor Italian, nor German, and most certainly not Arabic. Altaïr prided himself in being multilingual. Not understanding this man frustrated him.
"What is it that you speak?" he demanded, words coming out in nothing but a slew of vowels and consonants for the other man in the room.
"You don't speak English? Ah, hold on, I think my RIG has a translator."
Altaïr did not speak, hesitating, unsure of what to do with the language barrier.
"I think that was Arabic. I'm hoping. English to Arabic, Arabic to English…" Altaïr briefly closed his eyes, taking in the strange sounds that followed his words. Wherever the Apple had taken him, it was far away from Masayf.
"That should do it. My words making any sense?"
Altaïr's shoulders jumped, startled. Was he merely jesting with Altaïr? Speaking to him in a foreign tongue to confuse him, and then admit he had known Arabic all this time!
"Yes, I understand."
The man moved in front of Altaïr, finally revealing his appearance. Before he could speak, Altaïr inhaled sharply and nearly fell backwards again in an attempt at moving away.
"How is it you possess the power of the sun in your helmet and armor? Perhaps I truly am dead. Are you one of Those Who Came Before?" He quickly switched to eagle vision. A blue aura surrounded the male physique and his strange armor.
"Oh boy. Necromorphs, a power node supply, and time travel, all in the same day. I knew your outfit looked strange."
What was wrong with Altaïr's robes? What were necromorphs and power nodes? Time travel? Was this the Apple's doing?
He had so many questions, yet opening his mouth and finding the right words were tasks he seemed incapable of performing.
"My name is Isaac, Isaac Clarke. You might think I'm insane, and don't worry, you aren't alone—most do. But I think you just jumped through time. You're in the year 2512."