A/N: Sorry that I broke my promise; the inspiration comes in fits and starts, and school is getting worse, not better. I appreciate the favorites and reviews, but please—I want more reviews; they're like the crack cocaine of writers.
Disclaimers: I don't own Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed II, or Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood. Those are property of Ubisoft Montreal. Michael Shaw, Richard Hastings et al, are my creations, though.
Chapter Three: The Truth
Hastings leaned back in his chair, looking over the latest update from Vidic. Apparently, the new subject's ancestor was in the Crusades, and fighting directly against the Templars. Cursing himself, Hastings felt an itch to break something. Of course this has to happen—the instant I pull off the team working the Middle East, our wonderful scientist just HAS to have a subject focusing on the Middle East. Just perfect. Murphy's Law, it seemed, still wrecked the best-laid plans of mice and men, as the old saying went. Slowly, ever so slowly, Hastings forced himself to calm down. Only so much could be controlled by humans, only so much could be predicted and shaped by the human hand. That knowledge, however, did nothing to diminish the rage that the Templar felt as well.
"I told Beta to wait, to observe from a distance. Instead, he sends out a man with a rifle. How to deal with him?" The cold tone had entered his voice again, and the secretary in the outer room cautiously inched her head around the corner, unsure if her superior was speaking to her or not. Hastings noticed her, and smiled thinly, waving his hand in dismissal. His habit of speaking aloud had only gotten worse as he had aged, but it helped him think. Rising and closing the door, Hastings resorted to pacing instead. Despite what he thought of what it showed—an indecisive, hesitant leadership style—the practice also helped him think. The conundrum that Shaw posed to him was unlike anything that he had taken on before. Yes, Hastings had killed his fair share of Assassins and their allies, but those were different. They were willing fighters in the secret war; they knew the risks and the possible consequences that went with them. This, though…
"He's just a child, caught up in something that he cannot possibly understand. But, his knowledge makes him dangerous. Knowing how the Assassins work, it will only be a matter of time before they contact him. Assuming equal capabilities, they also know where he lives, and they might also know why we are interested in him." Hastings stopped and furrowed his brow in thought. If the Assassins also knew of Shaw, and were to get in contact with him…A predatory smile grew on the man's face. It was a grin that would have been recognized the world over by any warrior. It meant that somewhere, somehow, someone was going to die. It was a grin that had lit up his face in Panama, launching an ambush against some of Noriega's best, and then later in Iraq, assaulting a Scud missile site with the Green Berets. It was the smile of a predator who saw a way to maximize his chances of success. He quickly strode over to his desk phone and punched in the number.
"Gamma? Good. Listen, I need you back at headquarters immediately…No, it's not anything that the bosses disapprove of; I have some new information I want to discuss with you…Very well. May the Father of understanding guide us, Gamma."
A door slammed distantly, and Michael's eyes flew open at the sound. He had fallen asleep on the couch, a fact made plainly obvious by the newcomer.
"Michael, why are you sleeping on the couch? You have a bed, you know." His mother said with a tone of humor, already beginning to bustle around the kitchen as Michael sat up groggily.
"Mom, have some pity. You know that we had practice today, and I'm not really sleeping well, so any naps I can grab I will gladly take. Now, what's for dinner?" He asked, the teenager's presence asserting itself in his mind firmly. As long as this Assassin doesn't…. His mother seemed to ignore the quick flash of worry over her son's face, and addressed his question even as she began preparations.
"Your father thinks that fajitas would be a good change from our usual of pasta and Italian. I know, I know," she began as Michael shot her a look of mock horror, "Carbo-loading is really important for you, but you can only do so much with pasta and related foods. Mixing things up is good, you know that!" Grinning, Michael conceded defeat and went to pick up his schoolbooks from the computer; it drove his father mad to see the clutter by the computer, but it was simply part of Michael's personality. It was like trying to make the sky change color, his father had once remarked—it required an act of God to clean up his books and various papers in order for anyone else to work there. Moving the books upstairs to his room, Michael felt the beginnings of a thought bouncing around in the back of his head.
Assassins and Templars…Is there a common link through history? Is it possible that both survived? Michael frowned as he began to clean his room. True, the Assassin Order had been eliminated sometime during or after the Crusades, but what about the Templars? There were all sorts of crazy conspiracy theories running around about them. Shaw knew that there was a military order known as the Templars, and figured that was a good place to begin. Wikipedia, here I come. One of the more irritating facets of Shaw's personality was his inability to let a problem or question drop. It had resulted in more than a few awkward moments for his friends, but it was effective, nonetheless. Nearly running down the stairs, Shaw booted the computer up and began writing down on a piece of paper what the possible search terms were.
"Templars, Assassins, Crusades, conspiracy…religion," Shaw said, almost as an afterthought. Who knew if it could turn up something interesting? Shaw was simply following his gut instincts, knowing that they were usually right. What he got, however, was something different entirely. True, there were results on serious research concerning both the Knights Templar and Assassins, notably centering in and around the Holy Land, but most of the search results were the meaningless conspiracy theories about the Templars and 'world domination and enslavement', as one site had put it. Shaking his head, Shaw decided to concentrate only on the Templars themselves. Reading through their history, especially in the period after the Crusades and the origin of Friday the Thirteenth, Shaw found himself wondering how the Templars could even have survived. What the Vatican pulled back then was slick, not to mention overly cruel and cunning. Leaning back in his chair, Shaw reflected upon their history. It seemed almost cyclical, to his way of thinking. A non-entity order of warrior-monks rising to prominence, playing a huge hand in the Third Crusade, and then fading to obscurity as the Church saw them as a threat, and took appropriate measures.
A pattern that has, I'm afraid, been repeated throughout history. People fear what they do not understand. As far as Shaw was concerned, that was it. But, if the Templars had died out in 1312, did this indicate that the persona also inhabiting his mind was from that time period? Was he, perhaps, a Teutonic Knight, a rival order? It seemed plausible; the Teutonic Order benefitted greatly from the demise of the Templars, but so did many other religious orders. Sighing, Michael began to shut down the computer, thinking that the information he had gathered only raised more questions, rather than answering them. Out of habit, though, he checked his e-mail, idly wondering if he had gotten any interesting mail from colleges. Sadly, the colleges that did send him mail were not ones he was interested in. As he was about to exit out, a new e-mail came through, sounding the ping indicative of what his computer classified as priority mail.
No e-mail address, no name of sender, but what's this? The e-mail's title was only "Recruitment". Not trusting what the computer said, he hit the 'Scan' button on the e-mail, checking it for viruses, Trojan horses, or anything else like that. When the scan came back negative, his interest was piqued. Opening the e-mail, he saw nothing but gibberish. It looked like someone had scrambled the message around completely, resulting in what seemed like nonsense. The beginning of the e-mail, though, was a question, with its requisite answer box.
"Who defeated Napoleon in Russia?" The question read. Curious, Shaw read the question again. He realized that it was a trick; no one had actually beaten Napoleon, any halfway competent student of history knew that…
The key was Russia, Shaw realized. Smiling, he recalled a phrase that his history class had come up with regarding Russia:
Whatever you do, don't fuck with General Winter!
Typing in "General Winter" for the answer, he clicked outside the box, and the e-mail transformed radically before his eyes. One moment it was a scrambled mass of letters; with a blink of the screen, it had resolved into a coherent screen of sentences and paragraphs. What he saw, however, still didn't make sense.
This has gotta be some kind of joke. "We invite you to join the Brotherhood, to ensure peace and freedom"? Yeah, right. And I doubt they'll actually visit me…Shaw made the cursor move to delete the message, convinced that it was some kind of spam or joke message. The mouse stopped moving, however, when he heard his mother's voice.
"Michael, there are two men here to see you; they say it's important!"
Stiffly walking into the den, Michael saw the two men in question seated on opposite ends of the couch. Before he even made a sound, however, the two stood and turned around. The look in their eyes made Michael stop in shock. It wasn't the warm look of greeting that he had been expecting. Instead, both men's eyes had that gleam of wariness and absolute self-confidence that he had seen in his father's eyes, after he had been told that his SWAT unit was being mobilized. The three stood, staring at each other, until the elder of the two visitors cleared his throat.
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Shaw. Wouldn't you sit down?" The accent was British, of London, if Shaw wasn't mistaken. As he slowly made his way the indicated chair, Shaw sized up the man. Average height, graying hair, physique of a rugby player and probably as strong and fast, too. Although Shaw couldn't see any weapons, he felt that the Englishman didn't walk about unarmed very often. His companion was a stark contrast: Short, dark-skinned, dark-haired, and the physique of a swimmer. Nevertheless, Shaw also felt that this was a man most would not want to trifle with, reinforced by the obvious steel in the shorter man's eyes. The Englishman didn't waste any time, speaking as soon as Shaw sat down.
"My name is Collin Burroughs, and my colleague here is Christian Guttierez." Guttierez simply nodded, but otherwise remained mute; Shaw wondered if the man could speak English. "As you may imagine, our organization is highly interested in you, and wants to invite you into our ranks. Are you interested?" Shaw stared at the man as if he had two heads, a tail, and was speaking in a completely new language. The silence that hung in the air after Burroughs finished speaking quickly became awkward, when it became apparent that Shaw wasn't going to speak. Chuckling, Guttierez spoke, to Shaw's surprise.
"My friend, I think that he still doesn't understand." Contrary to Shaw's expectations, Guttierez spoke flawless English, with the characteristic drawl of the American southwest.
"Mr. Shaw, what my English colleague here is trying to say is that you have a skill set that we value, and, more to the point, want to cultivate. However, should you accept our offer, I can't guarantee that your life will be safe. You will be trained, you will be sent on assignment, and you might come back alive." Guttierez checked to see that he had Shaw's attention. Still, the silence hung in the air.
Burroughs looked nervously at Guttierez, who looked back at his colleague, uncertain. Clearly, they had never met someone who tried to process everything they said.
"One question." The first words that Shaw spoke startled the two, after such a long silence. "Just who the hell are you people? Assassins?" That startled the two men, who often recruited people who had no idea who they were. That confirmed it for Shaw, who let slip a small grin of triumph. Burroughs, typically of an Englishman, recovered first.
"You…know who we are?" he asked, after a slight pause. Shaw snorted in good humor.
"Please. From what I've read of the Templars, they would have barged in here with automatic rifles and taken me away. They certainly did that during the Crusades with anything they wanted; if they still exist today, why should they change that which made them successful? No, I say that you are Assassins. You are subtle, never naming your organization, but you have the look of killers about you. Moreover, you each have one pistol concealed on your person, as well as at least two knives and one…armguard, I'm tempted to say, that is also probably a weapon. Only an assassin would take such measures of concealment. Did I miss anything?" If the two men had been startled before, they were downright scared by now. Burroughs went white as a sheet, while Guttierez look like he was about to burst a blood vessel out of anger. Smiling, Shaw raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"I'm the son of a police officer who was a Marine, gentlemen. I know a thing or two about concealment." Shaw looked at the two men levelly. "Now, I think I know why you are here, but I must ask: Why me? Why should I trust you gentlemen?" The statement hung in the air, unanswered. Shaw could see that the question made the two men uncomfortable. The subtle flashes of concern, worry, and anger over their faces told Shaw all that he needed. He left it up to the two, however, to answer it.
Sighing, Guttierez leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and speaking lowly, seriously, keeping eye contact with Shaw the entire time.
"Mr. Shaw, I'm going to be blunt with you. Our organization is under attack, physical attack, from the Templars. Every day, we lose agents and teams to them. We hide our losses well, but we're close to collapse. We have identified several other individuals like yourself who can give us the means to recover, maybe even stop the attacks. Your skill set is very rare amongst our agents. Quite frankly, if you don't accept our offer, you run the risk of death." That got Shaw's attention, and Guttierez could see it.
"You think the Templars will abide by your decision to remain neutral? Kid, in my years with the Brotherhood, I've seen entire families butchered to prevent word of their activities from spreading. Before that, in the military, I saw villages and clans massacred just so the local nutjob could secure his power. If you accept our offer, we can protect your family."
Shaw looked at the two men. It seemed that Guttierez was older, even if he looked the younger of the two; more significantly, he answered the tougher questions, indicating seniority. He couldn't place it, but Shaw felt that he could trust the men. The men 'gave off the right vibes', as his father would say, and instinct was the best judge of character, Shaw had learned.
"Very well, sir. I suppose I can trust you two gentlemen, as well as understand the 'what' and 'how' of your situation. But that still doesn't answer the 'why' of this entire muddle. What makes me so special that I would be singled out?" Once again, Guttierez was the one to handle it. Reaching slowly into his pocket, he pulled out what looked like an iPhone, or something similar. After touching the screen for a few seconds, he slid the device over to Shaw across the table.
Gingerly picking the device up, Shaw looked at what was on the screen. It appeared to be some kind of medical report—His, in fact, once he zoomed in on the image. A bit shocked and instantly wary, Shaw scrolled down through the rest of the report. Genetic memory…DNA markers…Hold on, what does this say? He looked up, certain that he had been played for a fool.
"Say what, now?" The teenager slid the device across to the two Assassins. Burroughs looked at it and nodded, as if it confirmed what he suspected.
"Mr. Shaw, you are a descendant of an Assassin, even if you don't know it. The theory of 'genetic memory' is a relatively recent one, which we explored on our own—the original research isn't ours, you see. Simply put, your memories can be accessed through your DNA through the interaction of certain genetic markers, because certain human instincts, based upon the experiences of our ancestors, have been passed down and absorbed in a 'collective unconscious' that is physical, not merely a mental concept thought up by Jung.
"Based upon these markers, you have been related to an especially skilled Assassin, one who was particularly successful. Due to this, we feel that you can learn a lot from his genetic memories, and be able to use those skills in real life. Do you understand what we are offering? We can give you the chance to let you gain an exponentially greater level of competence with your existing skill set, as well as expanding and refining it." Burroughs fell silent, watching the teenager in front of him.
Once again, silence reigned in the air between the three. Although Michael had been subject to information that had caused him to do a double take, he had never encountered information with the slamming unreality of this. It seemed almost…fake, like a piece of particularly good fiction. Yet, he could still see the blood of the woman come out of the dagger wound; he could still hear the man's vertebral column snap. And, most disturbing of all, he could still hear that accented English: Well, if you meet him in hell, give him my regards, Templar.
"Very well. What do I need to do?" The teenager asked quietly, looking down at his hands. He missed the sad smile that the two Assassins exchanged, and Guttierez spoke.
"We'll explain this to your parents, son. We'll give you a few days to get your affairs in order, and then you'll be leaving with us. We have a few more people to visit, but we'll stay in touch with you. Think you can do that?" Nodding slowly, Shaw nodded, well aware that what he had done would forever alter his life.
"And what of my family? My loved ones?" Guttierez glanced up and saw the picture of Emily and Michael on the mantel; they had their arms around each other, taken just before the Winter Formal.
"We'll relocate your parents, make sure that they have new names and no connections to your home here. We'll try to ensure that your parents will have a job, as well as training them in self-defense. You girlfriend, though…I'm not sure. We can't spare the assets, I think, because we don't have many. You might have to break it off. Are you sure about this?" Guttierez asked, suddenly concerned for the kid in front of him. He had said yes awfully fast, after all.
"I'm sure…I'm just worried, is all." The two Assassins saw the pain in the kid's eyes, and made a move to go into the kitchen. "Wait. What will happen to me, after I'm trained?" This time, Shaw saw the arched eyebrows on both men's faces. Burroughs offered a lame answer to the question.
"We're not sure right now. You may be placed on a team, you may be forced to go it alone. It all depends on what the others do." With those words, they walked out of the room, leaving Shaw alone with his thoughts.
I never thought I would have to call it off this soon…He thought sadly, looking at the picture of his girlfriend. Although it wasn't his first relationship, it was the first where it felt like everything clicked, that Emily understood him and he understood Emily on a deep, emotional level. The two were approaching their sixth month anniversary, and both had vowed to keep the relationship alive when school ended in two months. What do I say to her? Do I lie, or take her into confidence? Can I trust her? His last question brought home the reality of the situation. If he couldn't even trust his girlfriend, like he had in the past, how could Shaw trust those he was going to work with? Who could he trust, anymore? A small tear slid down his face, as he finally faced the prospect of leaving behind everything that he knew. Now he knew how soldiers leaving for their first deployment felt. Sighing deeply, he turned away from the picture. He had made his decision; he would have to live with it now.
The sound of the front door opening roused the two Assassins into alertness. To be more accurate, they were focused on the entrances to the kitchen. Although they didn't move, both flicked their wrists, and the hidden blades they wore extended out of their bracers, hidden from view underneath the table. The sound of boots striking a hardwood floor echoed through the house, as Franklin Shaw entered the kitchen and saw the two men sitting at his table.
It took a lot to shock Mr. Shaw, who had been a Marine infantryman for fifteen years and four tours overseas, one of them in Korea watching over the DMZ. His instincts, apparently, were still sharp. His hand automatically moved to his holstered pistol, but he made no move to draw it.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The voice was soft, almost light, coming from such a big man. Yet the Assassins could hear the razor-sharp steel hidden within it, and the look in Franklin's eyes telegraphed his intent clearly: If you hurt anyone in my family, I will kill you without mercy.
"Pilum? Is that you?" Guttierez spoke quietly, almost reverently. Mr. Shaw's eyes fixed firmly upon the elder of the two men.
"…Gladius? My God, it is you!" As Franklin's boots pounded across the kitchen's floor, the hidden blades retracted with barely a sound; apparently, he was not hostile.
"Yes, it is. It's been a long time since Paris, eh, Frank?" The two men embraced, and Burroughs was left looking at the two of them, not understanding what was going on.
"Mr. Shaw and I here served as part of the Marine Protective Force for the Paris embassy, his sunset assignment. He was the overall leader, while I was one of his team sergeants. Needless to say, we bailed each other out of trouble with our friends the Royal Marines." Franklin laughed, and shook his head.
"As I recall, Christian, I had to bail you and your guys out of trouble the entire time I was there. I did nothing to disgrace the Corps in any way, shape, or form. Excepts, perhaps, that one time at Les Invalides…" The big police officer assumed a mock-thoughtful expression, and that broke the tension. The three men sat down, just as Mrs. Shaw entered the room.
"Ah, good. I was just about to send Franklin here to look for you, Mrs. Shaw. I'm afraid, my friend, that I'm not here on a purely social call." Guttierez waited for the husband and wife to exchange looks, and continued when he had their undivided attention.
"It concerns your son, Michael. Now, I know that you want him to succeed and go on to college, maybe even enter the military, if he's taking after you, Franklin. But, he has the potential to do very well in the organization I am a part of now. I guess you could say that it is military in nature, but with a more…international agenda. It isn't anything that you would object to, Franklin; we still fight for the same ideals as we did in the Corps. Your son has already exhibited the talents that we look for in recruits, and he has the intelligence to back it up, too—true, he doesn't have a through-the-roof GPA, but a 3.7 is respectable for anyone."
Guttierez paused, looking to see if his friend followed what he was saying. The elder Shaw stayed mute, looking at his friend very closely indeed. His eyes had become narrow prisms, their dark green glittering with wariness and a small amount of anger.
"What we're asking, I suppose, is our permission to take him in and train him. Before you ask, he's already agreed. We just felt that we should inform you." Guttierez looked at them, and continued after a slight pause. "He'll be working on the side of freedom and liberty. He will have the support of the most talented and experienced people in the world. But, he will never again be able to contact you; if he meets you, it will be by accident, under an assumed name, and in a place very far from home. Do you understand me, Franklin?" His old friend startled. During his time in the Corps, Guttierez had only used Shaw's given name when the situation was especially dire. The only time he had used it was when his fireteam in Iran had been pinned down by a mixed force of insurgents and Revolutionary Guards—outnumbering the team by about a hundred to one.
"Christian…this is my son we're talking about here. I know he's going into the military; he's been accepted to Annapolis and has gained an NROTC scholarship for his other schools. But…he can't leave, not yet. I still have to teach him, and he still has to discover who he is. You don't make warriors overnight, you know that." In the silence that passed in the wake of his remark, Burroughs spoke quietly for the first time.
"Not anymore, they don't. I'm a psychologist, among other things, Mr. Shaw, and your son has the warrior's state of mind and being evident in him. It shows from the way he speaks, moves, how he tunes out unnecessary stimuli and focuses on the most dangerous threat. He's already a warrior. He simply needs the training, and he can only get that training with us. No disrespect, sir, but the military would waste his talent. We can give him an opportunity to make a direct impact through his missions." Sighing deeply, he continued.
"Mr. Shaw, your son has already accepted our offer. We're giving him a few days to put his affairs in order, and we'll speak to the school. He has enough credits to graduate, thanks to the summer courses he took online. Although he's been accepted at the Naval Academy and other places, we can give him an education that is just as effective, if not more so."
For a long time, neither Shaw said anything. Amelia looked ready to cry, but she seemed to be holding up well. Franklin's face was expressionless, not revealing whatever thoughts were behind his visage. It seemed that both were warring between their love for their son and their sense of what the offer represented. Neither had seen Guttierez in years; they had kept in contact with him only sporadically. It looked like that he was still involved with the Corps, but in a very 'black' way. Still, the Shaws were unconvinced either way.
The sound of another pair of boots, this time coming down the stairs, broke all four from their thoughts. A stone-faced Michael walked into the room, and Franklin finally saw the man his son had become. He still looked like the gangly teenager he had known and loved, but there was something new about him. For several seconds, Michael didn't say anything. When he spoke, his voice was soft, yet had the hard bite of authority that Franklin instantly recognized.
"I know you two were brought in at the last minute on all this, but my decision stands. I will accept the offer of this organization on behalf of these two men. I'm afraid that my decision is final." He came to attention, back straight, head high, thumbs along the seams of his jeans. For a sheer instant, both Guttierez and Shaw saw not a teenage runner in front of them, but a Marine officer, instead—one who was willing to take responsibility for his own actions, and take the punches in case anything went wrong. It was a breed of officer that they had encountered only a few times. They were either dead in nameless places around the globe or the generals of the Marine Corps.
Standing slowly and stiffly, Franklin Shaw walked over to his son, staring him directly in the eye, dead level with him. The two looked back at each other, the young, inexperienced man and the old, wise professional. Without a word, Shaw embraced his son, and he began crying silently. He knew that the call, when it came, was irresistible. It was what had made him enter the Marines, and later become a SWAT officer. He knew it was what had made Michael apply to the Naval Academy, and assume the leadership roles in Scouts. His only regret was that Michael didn't have to grow up so quickly, even though it was apparent that he had.
"He'll be staying with you for the next day or two, until we come back to pick him up. We still have several families to visit, for the same reasons that we explained to you. Good-bye, Mr. Shaw, Mrs. Shaw. Remember, we were never here." With those words, Guttierez stood, and Burroughs followed him out the door. Inside, the family slowly returned to their normal routine, but with an undertone of almost tangible sadness.
