Recap: Ezio, Lauro and Pedro have made it to Milan, tracking a lead in their hunt for the White Liberator, which turned out to be a dead end.
Thought I'd give the two OCs a time to shine, seeing as I'm no good at inventing characters and need to flesh them out. Plus I'm...having troubles writing about the Ranger team :P
Hope you like m'boys.
~11~ Decoy
Alone in his room, Pedro finished washing the oil and loose stubble from his face into the water basin before checking himself once more in the glass, lead-gilt hand mirror that had once belonged to his father. He nodded with satisfaction. He always felt refreshed after a shave. He put the razor, mirror and shaving oil back into his bag of personal affects before pulling out a comb and running it through his hair, even though he had done so three times that morning already.
So he liked a bit of grooming. There were worse habits.
After replacing the comb, Pedro pulled on a shirt, relishing the feel of cleanliness after weeks of sweat-encrusted cotton. Then he donned his robes and boots, buckled his belt tight, and armed himself with an English hand-and-a-half sword, throwing knives, a brace of pistols, and, of course, his wrist blade.
He slipped the latter on last, tightening the buckles until it was comfortable. He clenched and relaxed his left hand, turning his wrist before engaging the blade. It shot out of its hidden sheath before darting back inside, a viper in the grass. After putting Lauro to bed the night before, he'd removed the blade, cleaned it, then replaced it, checking again and again to ensure all was as it should be. Although the full technology of how it worked was beyond him, he would know if anything was amiss just by the sound.
His, and Lauro's, were simple designs, the type that had been used by Assassins for centuries. Earlier models required the removal of the left ring finger in order to work, which also ensured the dedication of whoever wore it. Only those of true intent would join the brotherhood. Now, the finger was branded.
Pedro looked at his hand. It was not branded. He had not the skills nor the experience to be accepted as a full-fledged Assassin. Lauro, too, was a mere recruit, more likely to die or quit before seeing his next decade. A rare few gained the higher ranks in their younger days, Ezio being one of them. Like many, Pedro saw the grand master as nothing short of a hero, a harbinger of hope, a warrior for God. They were childish thoughts, perhaps, as he was a man, just like those he led. But becoming Mentor when he still had colour in his hair gave him much respect, and he deserved it.
Pedro looked at his wrist blade again, then at his bare right forearm. As a Master Assassin, not only did Ezio have two wrist blades, but one of them was extra special, courtesy of artist and inventor, Leonardo of Vinci. Its blade was hollow and could be injected with a toxin, allowing him to poison an enemy with a mere prick and escape before anyone knew anything was wrong. In addition, a tiny pistol had been installed into the vambrace, so he needed only to aim with the back of his wrist and hit the trigger with his other hand.
Handy additions, to be sure, and yet no underling was ever permitted to use them. But for some reason, that made sense to Pedro. They did not join the brotherhood to kill. Most didn't anyway.
A low thud startled Pedro from his thoughts, and he whirled towards the door. Then he relaxed, smirking. Lauro was up. Or at least awake.
Making a last sweep of the inn room, Pedro swung his bag over his shoulder and opened the door. He knocked on the one across the hall, and heard a few mumbled threats from the other side. Grinning, Pedro opened it to near darkness.
"Rise and shine!"
"Go 'waaaay." Lauro was in a heap on the floor beside his bed, bare-chested, tangled in the sheets. His expression revealed the presence of the hangover.
"You must be the lightest of lightweights I know," said Pedro cheerfully, setting his bag down and entering without permission. He moved towards the window.
"No, don't—"
Pedro threw open the shutters, and the morning sun blazed through in all its glory. Lauro wailed and rolled under the bed.
"I hate you."
"You love me." Pedro knelt in order to see him. "Come give us a hug!"
"Shhhh." Lauro waved a floppy arm at him, squinting in pain. "It's quiet time."
"IS IT, REALLY?"
Lauro moaned and tried to roll further under the bed. Unfortunately for him, it was only a couple feet broader than his shoulders and Pedro easily tugged him back out.
"Time for breakfast! How about some greasy pork sausages and pickled eggs?"
Lauro's face turned from white to green in record time, and how he managed to keep his guts down was a spectacular feat in of itself. Chuckling, Pedro smacked his bare chest non-too-gently.
"Wash up. I'll have coffee made for you."
"That won't make us even," Lauro growled.
"You can only blame yourself, dove." He nudged his bag of affects with his foot. "Here. Use my razor."
"Maybe I'll use it on more than my face."
"Maybe I'll put something special in your coffee."
Lauro grumbled and Pedro knew he had him beat. Smiling, he went downstairs, stomach rumbling in anticipation of a good, hot meal.
There were a few early risers in the taproom, snarfing down breakfast before heading off to work. The delightful smells of brewing coffee, fresh bread and sizzling bacon had Pedro drifting across the room, sniffing. Out of habit he was still fully aware of his surroundings. From the moment he'd gotten off the stairs he knew how many people there were, what they were eating and what kind of mood they were in. Ezio was not among them, so either he was taking a late morning or had left at an ungodly hour.
The landlord's wife, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, smiled in recognition as Pedro approached.
"Good morning, young man. I trust you slept well?"
Pedro couldn't help but smile in return. "Very well, mother, thank you."
He ordered enough breakfast for both himself and Lauro before choosing a table near the back of the taproom, where he could casually watch the other patrons. By the time the food was brought over, Lauro was dragging his feet across the room, scowling, clothes rumpled and a mini thunder cloud over his head.
"Oooh, look at the state of you!" The landlord's wife tutted and grabbed Lauro's sleeve, guiding him to a chair across from Pedro. "Goodness, boy, you look like you've never been drunk before."
Lauro mumbled something and reached for an apple, but she swatted his hand.
"Eggs! Eggs and coffee is what you get." She plunked a plate of fried eggs and buttered bread in front of him, then poured him a large mug of brew. He blinked at the speed in which she moved, and Pedro chuckled.
"A virgin and a teetotaller. All the ladies want him."
"At least I want the ladies back." Lauro grinned for the first time that morning, even after Pedro kicked him under the table.
The Assassin disciples finished their breakfast in silence, inwardly pleased by the attention the landlord's wife gave them, making sure they had enough to eat and drink. An hour passed and Ezio had yet to show his face, so Pedro assumed he was already gone.
"So what happens now?" asked Lauro, stretching lazily. He looked better, colour having returned to his cheeks.
Pedro shrugged. "Look around, I suppose."
The younger man poured himself a third cup of coffee, adding a dash of cream. "We can be a little more productive, you know."
"Oh?"
Lauro took a sip and nodded, swallowing before saying. "Yes. Like getting rid of that gut." He flicked a finger across the table. Pedro snorted in mock outrage.
"I could outrun you any time with any gut."
"Strange, I've never seen you run. Because you always fall behind."
"You have a delicate self-esteem. I have to let you win or you cry yourself to sleep."
"I have been insulted." Lauro stood and slapped a glove down on the table. "I challenge you to a race, sir."
"I accept, sir." Pedro stood as well, over a head taller than the other man. "Name the time and place."
"I shall. Just let me finish..." He downed the rest of his coffee, cringing at the heat but nodding appreciatively. "That's good. Now, sir, to the streets."
The pair marched outside, then into an alley before climbing onto the roof of the shop beside the inn, where they had a better vantage point.
Lauro put a hand up to block the sun and panned the skyline. He pointed at the Church of Saint George, to the southwest. "There."
"Very well. Three, two, one—"
They shot off, two arrows from two bows, feet flying over ochre tiles and sailing across the gaps of narrow streets below. Both knew their limits and so they chose a pace that suited them. Which of course was slower than normal, as they had both eaten a bit more than their fill and it was like running with a sack of bricks around their waists.
Pedro kept up with Lauro most of the way, his longer strides making up for the speed he simply could not retain for long. But he could feel his insides start to tighten and cramp, and he fell behind.
"So slow!" Lauro sang over his shoulder. The church was a hundred metres away.
"Just you wait!" I really shouldn't have had third helpings, he thought, cringing.
A few paces ahead, Lauro dropped down over the edge of the last building before the square, using the façade to scale down easily. Pedro followed suit, not as nimbly but just as securely, and then there was the final dash across open space.
"My grandmother was faster even after they buried her!"
"All the more reason for her to feel ashamed of her grandson!" Pedro put on a sudden burst of speed, not towards the church, but towards Lauro.
"Whoa!" The smaller man was unprepared for the full body slam mere feet before the front door of the church. He hit the ground, Pedro's arms wrapped around him, winded.
"You sack of niblets!"
"Whoops!" Pedro untangled himself, stood, and sauntered over to the wooden door before putting a hand to it and leaning casually. "My my, you look a state."
"Not fair!" Lauro cried, getting to his feet, gasping. "You cheated."
Pedro gave him a crocodile grin. "You didn't specify the rules, dove."
Lauro dusted off his robes irritably, but Pedro knew it was just for show. He'd get over it.
"You deserve that cramp," said Lauro. He smirked as Pedro grimaced.
"Probably."
People were watching them strangely. Pedro tipped his chin at them.
"Let's go," Lauro mumbled.
They left the square and returned to the rooftops as the morning hustle and bustle grew swollen in the streets. They made a pass at the inn, but Ezio had not returned, so they took to exploring Milan, talking with people, crossing paths with other Assassins. They seemed a little reserved, recognizing the pair as strangers by their dialect. But they shared the latest news and welcomed gossip from the south. The disciples did not mention their company nor their quarry, as Ezio hadn't permitted them to go blabbing ("Although he didn't tell us we couldn't blab," Lauro had pointed out), but somehow the White Liberator came up more than once, along with rumours of the Mentor's presence in the city.
"If anyone can catch him, it would be Ezio Auditore," was the general mood, but there were also skeptics, for both Ezio's abilities and the Liberator's existence, let alone presence.
By noon, the young men were ready to seek shelter from the sweltering Milan sun. Even the breeze drifting its way over the rooftops did little to relieve the heat trapped beneath their hoods.
"There. Looks like someone selling drinks." Pedro pointed across the square from the roof of a house. Wiping his brow, Lauro squinted to see the vendor.
"Got any money?"
Pedro checked his coin pouch. "A little."
"Good. You're buying." He shot him a grin before turning towards an alley, where there was an easy way off the roof.
"Smart ass." Pedro followed, only to freeze, grabbing Lauro's shoulder to stop him as well.
"Are you drunk again?!" a voice demanded from the alley below. The Assassins peered down curiously, seeing four men in similar clothes. One, the shouter, was flanked by two brutes, and the fourth was barely holding himself up against a door, cowering.
"I don't mind a man taking a swig to clear his head," the bird-faced shouter continued. "But I will not permit you to get stumble-ass drunk at this guard post!"
"Jackals," Lauro hissed, and Pedro nodded. The Jackals were a gang that ran about the city, causing mischief. They were little more than glorified thieves and thugs, according to the local Assassins, but they weren't doing enough harm to warrant rooting them out completely.
At least they were easy to spot.
The leader put his face into that of the drunkard's, grabbing his collar and shaking him. "I was clear, wasn't I? I was clear as mornin' piss that you'd better shape up, or I'll tan you, like—a—cow!" He threw the man down the alley with a roar, and he had not the coordination to catch himself before getting a face-full of mud. But then he was up and running, no doubt to find somewhere to sober up.
The leader turned to one of his henchmen. "You! Stand guard until the next shift arrives." He continued up the alley, away from the square, his other henchman following.
Lauro and Pedro retreated from the edge of the roof. Lauro was grinning.
"I bet he has the key to that door down there."
Pedro shrugged. "Who could you wager against? My money's on that too. The problem is, how are we to know if it's worth the risk?"
"Who cares? There might be something interesting down there. And if not, we can at least appreciate imagining his face when he realizes the key is gone."
Pedro snorted. "Then lead on."
Like ghosts, the Assassin disciples tailed the Jackals for several blocks, waiting for an opportunity to get close. Crowds worked the best, but the men kept to alleys and less busy streets. There was no way they would be able to get close to him without the bodyguard noticing. Perhaps that was the intention. They knew the ways of the Assassins well enough to be leery, although not so leery as to think they could be killed at any moment.
"We need a distraction," Lauro muttered. They had abandoned the roofs in favour of the ground, where it was less likely their shadows would be spotted under the descending sun.
Pedro turned his eyes towards raised voices down the street. Listening past the sounds of the city, he was able to discern a few words. He smiled.
"I think I have one."
"Liberty! Freedom! It is our right as citizens of Milan. As human beings!" Cornelio, book binder and part-time scribe, was feeling the strain his declarations put on his throat, and every passing minute made him more and more coarse. But he would shout until the city listened.
"I have seen what it means to be free, my friends. Nothing can make you more happy than casting off your chains, stepping from your manacles and spreading your wings! Listen not to what the authorities tell you, but to what your heart says. Think for yourselves, friends. Think! You may take comfort in the leadership of your faith or the council, but you mustn't allow loyalty to blind you to the truth!"
Cornelio paused. He was starting to sound blasphemous again. And if that didn't put him in jail, bringing up Assassins directly most certainly would. One slip of the tongue was all it took.
His break invited one of his fellows to take up the cry, and he willingly allowed her, picking up a flask and downing a swig. It burned his raw throat.
I won't be able to talk by year's end, he thought balefully, then shook off the disheartening attitude. Assassins risked their lives every day to give people freedom, to keep Templar shackles from falling about their wrists. If all Cornelio could do was rally others to his cause, to show them the Assassins' work, that was better than making no effort at all.
Crack!
Cornelio spun around so fast he nearly toppled off the crate he used as a podium. People were scattering from a point in the middle of the street, a stream of pungent smoke drifting up from the gap. The book-binder stepped off the crate and pushed himself through the crowd, his three companions following.
"What's going on? What's that smoke?" He broke through the ring of citizens and stared at the bits of shrapnel that were the remains of a cherry bomb lying on the flagstones. "Who threw that?"
"Get out of my way. Get out of my way or I'll break your bloody legs!" Someone was shoving their way through the crowd across from Cornelio, who felt his hackles rise at the sight of him.
"Gastone Giordano."
The bird-faced Jackal pushed a youth sprawling in order to get out of the press of people, a henchman on his tail. They stared at the shrapnel as well, before Gastone looked up and spotted Cornelio.
"You! What the hell are you doing?"
"I didn't do this," Cornelio barked coarsely. He resisted the urge to clear his throat. "I'll bet it was one of your fellow mutts; lit it without knowing what it would do."
"I aught to wring your scrawny neck, boy!"
"You're the scum of the earth, Gastone! You and all your swine."
Gastone drew a sword, eliciting gasps and short cries from the people. Heart pounding, Cornelio pulled out a knife. Its blade was no longer than his finger but it could cut leather like lard. Gastone scoffed at it.
"Is that all you can handle, street rat? A little pig-sticker? Ah ha ha ha!"
Cornelio put on the meanest face he could and took a step forward, pretending not to feel fear when Gastone's bodyguard also drew a sword and stepped before his leader. That man was much bigger, and less likely to be a coward.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please, no violence."
Eyes whipped around. A shadow soared over their heads and a man in white fell from above, landing in a crouch right in the middle of the battlefield. Exclamations of shock mumbled into silence as the man straightened and turned to look between Cornelio and Gastone.
"Now, what is the problem?" he said calmly, making no move to arm himself at the sight of naked blades.
Cornelio could barely contain his excitement. An Assassin! A real Assassin!
"Disturbing of the peace, my l-lord!" he stuttered, pointing the knife towards Gastone. Then he realized how threatening he must look to the Assassin and lowered it. "A cherry bomb, your greatness."
The man cocked his head, then looked down at the shrapnel. He nudged it with his toe. "And you believe this fine gent here threw it?"
"Complete nonsense!" Gastone snapped. "I did no such thing. It was this little wank stain." He brandished his sword at Cornelio, who puffed out his chest, aiming to look brave in front of one of his heroes.
"Lies! We are but peaceful citizens. You, on the other hand, are a rabble of thieves, thugs, and lowlifes!"
Gastone let forth a spew of insults and curses, but a flash of white behind him had caught Cornelio's attention. It was there and then it was gone, a fish nosing the surface before diving back into the depths. Gastone didn't notice a thing.
"I think it is safe to assume neither of you threw it," said the Assassin at last, silencing Gastone's rant with calmness. "It might have been one of your friends," he nodded to Cornelio, "or it might have been a Jackal. Or it might have been a child up to mischief." He smiled. "Or yet another party might be at fault, and they have just succeeded in distracting us all."
Shifty eyes all around. People began to pat themselves down, checking for missing coin purses or goods. Gastone sneered. Cornelio noticed he never checked his pockets.
"This isn't over," Gastone growled, brandishing his sword at Cornelio again. Forgoing insults, the book-binder instead smiled and wiggled his fingers in farewell. Gastone wouldn't attack him, even with backup, with the Assassin there. Although he was going to have to watch himself on the way home tonight...
Gastone turned and began to push through the masses, his fellow Jackal tailing like a dog. As the crowd began to disperse, Cornelio almost thanked the Assassin for intervening. But the man turned to him, scanning him up and down as though assessing him. Then he winked, and Cornelio blushed, speechless as the Assassin turned and melted into the crowd.
"Did you get it?"
"Of course I got it!" Lauro waved Gastone's key in Pedro's face, making him sway his head back. "And he didn't feel a thing."
"Well done, I guess." Pedro shrugged.
Lauro rolled his eyes. "You couldn't have done it any better."
"I would have been faster."
"Bull poop. You would have walked right into him like the great blundering ox that you are."
Pedro grinned at him, but Lauro merely sniffed and walked on ahead. "Just try and keep up."
Having made note of where the guarded door was, the pair of disciples soon stood but metres away, just around the corner. The shift had changed, and a sober Jackal now slumped against the door, pretending to be checking his nails.
"Do you think we should find Ezio?" Pedro hissed. Lauro shook his head.
"No time. That Gastone man might return here once he realizes the key is gone. I say we go in, take a look around, and if it's worth Mentor's time, then we find him."
Pedro paused, chewing his cheek, and nodded tightly. "Let's go."
It was by fortune alone that Ezio didn't topple out of the bell tower and plunge hundreds of feet to the flagstones below. The images that continued to flash before his eyes prevented him from witnessing his near demise even as his legs buckled and he slumped against a pillar, twitching, breath hitching.
He was watching them from the eyes of a sparrow – two figures in white hoods, chasing each other across the rooftops. Suddenly they were in an alleyway, disappearing down a flight of stairs. He saw them then from the view of a rat, watched them rummage through a room stuffed with valuables. One man pushed open the lid of a chest and pulled out an ebony box, and tried to open it. Ezio could see the familiar symbols emblazoned over each face of the box. A container of a precursor artifact.
And then there were more men. Strangers. Enemies. They tried to shoot the Assassins, but the pair made a run for it, only for one to be struck with a club before he reached the stairs. The other man didn't notice and escaped.
Ezio recognized the fallen man just as the clang of a bell shattered the vision. He pressed his hands to his ears, curling in on himself, feeling as though he'd been standing inside the bell when Thor smashed it with his mighty hammer. As the ringing subsided, he opened his eyes to see the bell, but feet away, still and silent. It hadn't been rung at all.
Nausea joined the sound-induced tension that bound his chest. Ezio sat up and rubbed his temples. He didn't let himself vomit.
It was the Apple of Eden. Giving him visions in the day now, whether he wanted to see them or not. And he knew it was the ebony box it had wanted him to see. He didn't care about the box. One of his charges was in trouble. Or rather, was going to be.
"Pedro."
He got up, swaying, and set a hand against the bell to steady himself. It felt cool. He wanted to rest his brow against it and close his eyes and forget the world for a few minutes. But he couldn't.
Raising his arm, he stretched it back slowly, drawing his pectoral tighter and tighter until the dull pain became searing. The old bullet wound slapped him back to reality, and his mind became clear.
The wind tried to pluck him from the side of the octagonal bell tower of San Gottardo, but he was sure-footed and strong-handed, and anything less than God's flicking finger could not make him fall. He dropped the last twelve feet and set off running. Ezio's breath was even and deep, his body accustomed to the combination of rigorous activity and anxious trepidation, and it took him back to the inn without issue. There, he waited for the inevitable.
The "Are you drunk again?!" spiel was from Assassin's Creed: Unity. Just borrowing it because it made me smile.