EDIT: I'm sorry to my ongoing readers, I made a big ass whoopsie and have only now just discovered it... *insert facepalm* It's fixed now.
Merry (Belated) Christmas! Sorry for the delay. Work and all that jazz—that and this chapter seriously got away from me in more ways than one. By the way, officially the longest chapter thus far, with promises of even LONGER chapters! You can thank Captain Cougar for that with the new keyboard recommendation. ;) (Typewriter FTW!)
Now time to get some answers!
Disclaimer:I only own a small collection of OCs and this cobbled-together plot. Everything and everyone else is simply borrowed based on my interpretations from the games, books, and AC: Lineage. So, in short, please forgive any transgressions and don't sue. I'm poor.
~*VII*~
Thanks for the Memories (Even if They Weren't So Great)
Tristan was confused.
Not by the moon's beams that lanced through the ornate windows high above her, for that would be the least confusing thing to her. It just meant it was still nighttime. It was strange—she couldn't help but muse as she staggered aimlessly; the cloud cover had been moving in as she walked home, promising a few more inches of snow. And the moon! She didn't remember it being so big, so bright. It was the strangest cherry on top that threw her off the most: despite being smack in the middle of winter, she found herself nearly boiling in her winter gear— as if someone had turned up the thermostat.
Yes, these things were all odd, but in the end, these things paled in comparison to the burning question looming in her mind. Why was she so out of it? Why didn't she have a clue about where she was? She squeezed her eyes as another dizzy bout struck, causing Tristan to stumble sideways. Luckily, she found her footing, but only just. Her head was foggy, and she remembered voices and hands grabbing her, but beyond that— poof! Nothing. If Tristan didn't know any better, she'd say that she was drunk. But she knew her tolerance too well— she hadn't had enough to be even tipsy. Thus, a fleeting fear flittered through her mind, and that was the real terrifying possibility that she could have been drugged. Oh God, please don't let it be that; she shuttered her eyes, willing her feet to not be so heavy.
She nearly fell on her face when rough hands shoved her forward, followed by a gruff voice telling her to move. At least—she was assuming that was what the man had said, for he spoke in a thick foreign tongue. What it was, she had no bloody clue; the stupid ringing in her ears was dulling her sense of hearing. Without much thought, she shuffled forward in a daze like she had just woken from a bad nap.
An annoying itch made itself known, and she went to scratch it only to be surprised when she nearly got whacked by a flailing hand. "What the—." Tristan couldn't help but stare at them in confusion. Was… that rope? Around her wrists? She flexed her wrists and was met with pain as tender flesh was dug into.
When had that happened?
She wasn't given much time to ponder such a revelation, for Tristan almost fell when she got shoved again. "Okay, okay. I'm going," she growled with a thrown glare. However, her irritation dissipated when she focused on the man.
Weird, she thought, more perplexed as ever as she turned to face forward— the guy seemed to be wearing armor—and not the Police Kevlar kind either. It was like the medieval versions she saw from the likes of Game of Thrones—ornate and expensive-looking; with what looked to be the sigil of a prancing black bull draped across his left shoulder in red. It made Tristan furrow her brows in confusion—had she gotten kidnapped by Ren Faire cosplayers? She didn't dwell on it long, however, at risk of being pushed again. The armor and the leather-wrapped hilt that poked out from his side looked awfully real.
It wasn't long after they turned away from the moon's rays and dipped into the darkness of the building's bowels. Tristan wasn't sure what kind of structure it was, just that it was massive and by no means complete, judging by the amount of scaffolding and construction equipment still lying about. Of course, she wasn't given much time to analyze it as they briskly made their way down a short path lit with torches. Soon a thick door came into view, guarded by about half a dozen men. They also wore similar armor, yet these men had spears on their person; their tips long, sharp, and perfect for stabbing ornery women with if the need arose. Tristan couldn't help but shy away from them as a few eyed her through the slits of their helmets as she passed. She got the distinct impression the spearheads were not plastic.
The closest guard to the door— a higher rank she guessed, if the fancier mail was anything to go by— stepped to the side and brought his fist against the door in three knocks that reverberated like an ancient drum. Immediately, it opened inwards on silent hinges, exposing a long dark staircase like a giant's maw wanting to consume her.
Alarm bells rang in Tristan's head as she balked, digging her heels in. Every atom of her being did not want to enter; for there was an evil emanating from the foot of those steps. A horrible unnamed monster prowling at the edges, grinning an evil smile as it waited for her to come within snatching distance. With a growl of frustration, the man slapped a heavy hand onto her shoulder and forced her forward. It was either that or tumbling all the way down. And honestly, she would be lying if she said it wasn't tempting to go with the latter. As they descended, she snuck one last look before the door shut with a loud bang, cutting off the outside world. A whimper escaped her as another dimmer light beckoned at the end of the vestibule with an unsettling pulse. It wasn't the warm, welcoming light that awaited a homesick traveler. Rather a cold artificial light she'd associate with hospitals or prisons.
Or morgues.
Despite the heat practically rolling off of her, she shivered.
The chamber they entered was about the size of a minor-league hockey rink. Or at least that's what Tristan thought it was due to the handful of mounted torches that barely illuminated the space in a feeble light. She couldn't even see the ceiling, so she guessed that they were deep enough underground that it soared into the inky cloak of darkness above their heads. Voices drifted her way, and when she turned to look, about a dozen people mingled about doing various tasks. Oddly enough, several were moving a massive dynamo-looking wooden device that seemed so out of place amongst the Renaissance clothing and décor. But it was the source of the light that made Tristan's blood run cold.
Sprawled out in the center of the chamber, a monstrous contraption sat with metal piping weaving itself in and out, giving the impression of some Lovecraftian steampunk nightmare rising out of the depths. Like a demonic birthday candle, the very top of it was a golden disc-shaped object suspended in the machine. It was too far away to get a good look at it, but the nausea that wormed itself into her abdomen spoke of an object that the world should have never witnessed.
It was… wrong.
Unnatural.
And Tristan was being led right to it.
It was a fruitless endeavor—she knew that the second she resisted, but she was also a desperate idiot fueled by pure adrenaline. She bucked and kicked and dug her heels in. For a millisecond, she had the advantage of surprise on her side. The hand that had been cemented against her shoulder slipped off, and she tasted freedom, but it was a bittersweet and stale taste as she was wrestled back under control. She watched as the disk seemed to mock her struggle, its ungodly light flaring for a brief moment before resuming its normal rhythmic luminescence.
Tristan jerked her head to look at the man who had an ironclad grip on her forearm again. "Please! Let me go!" She threw all her weight back on her heels as she beseeched him with a desperate plea. "I'll give you whatever you wa—." Her head whipped to the side, and stars danced in her vision as an armored hand backhanded her cheek.
"Basta, tu cagna!" He snarled as a trickle of warm blood streamed from the corner of her lip, but her attention had risen upward. It was brief, but she swore she had seen movement. It had just been barely visible in the blackness. It was gone before she could focus on it, but it looked like someone had been climbing around up there. She didn't dare hope; it could have been a bat for all she knew.
The captor's rough hand appeared to now be permanently affixed against her shoulder as it shoved her to walk forward again. As the surrounding people began to gather around them, Tristan drew inward into herself. Some of them stared outright as if she had grown two heads without knowing about it. Others whispered amongst themselves in muted voices. While some even crossed themselves. But far too many looked on solemnly as if being witness to a doomed man walking to the gallows. One or two ducked their eyes to avoid making contact as she silently pleaded with them.
Eventually, she was led to what looked to be some kind of workman's bench covered in all sorts of blueprints and drawings—close enough to the pulsating device where there was no need for candles or torches to see what was on them. The sketches and designs she saw were disturbing, to say the least, and she squirmed, diverting her attention to the two figures conversing. One was nothing more than a cloaked shadow, their features hidden. Although, judging by the hourglass shape, Tristan suspected it was a woman. The other—a man and the leader, she assumed, wore tattered, dirty clothing that fitted loosely on his figure. What might have been a blindingly Dentist-approved-white at some point was stained a sickly yellow, and upon getting closer to him, she realized that at some point, it had been a lab coat. The words, ABSTERGO INDUSTRIES HISTORICAL ACQUISITION jumped out at her from his blood-stained breast pocket as he turned to face them. With the light directly behind him acting as a corrupt halo, she couldn't make out his features, but she caught a semblance of unkempt stringy hair and a scraggly beard. His companion did little in acknowledgement besides a slight tilt to the head.
Her escort growled something, and the other man scowled and flippantly gestured behind him in the general direction of a cage that was built close to the machine. She noted it was where all those strange-looking pipes were connected to, and with a chill, she realized it was the perfect size for a human-sized guinea pig. His attention turned towards her, his gaze bored and mechanical. "Mettila lì. —che?" He stiffened and it was then, the woman finally turned around. Pale skin to the point of translucency was all that Tristan caught a glimpse of. Piercing eyes met her own and a single word breathed from the woman's lips as realization dawned upon her: "No."
He took a step towards Tristan, faltered, then started snarling something to the man behind her, who reared back in surprise. There was anger in the lab coat's jerky movements, but Tristan sensed an underlying fear in his actions as he looked between her, the woman, and the machine towering behind him. Something was very wrong. And as if in response, she felt something shudder and grow warm in her pocket. She watched in frozen horror as the ropes that had been tied around her wrists twisted and frayed like twin snakes until they became nothing but burnt fibers that floated away.
"W-what?" She stared at her now free hands, the angry red marks disappearing before her eyes.
It was then that Tristan heard it—or more like felt it: a whining sound that began to rise in pitch and volume to the point where her ears couldn't register it beyond a great pain that lanced through her head. She watched in awed horror as other members in the room began clapping their hands over their ears. Some even collapsed, blood emitting from their noses and ears in red rivulets. The only ones that appeared to not be affected were the lab coat and woman. He took one last long look at her before running.
She found herself flabbergasted when he ran towards the strange apparatus, pulling at wires and tubes in a hurried frenzy that spoke of desperation, but that did little to ebb the resonance beginning to thrum throughout the room akin to a metal concert. A mighty cracking sound that was as low and steady as a brooding thunderstorm on the horizon followed suit, and something made of metal began to squeal upon itself as it shifted.
Like a string was attached to her hand, she felt drawn to her jacket's pocket, and when her fingers wrapped around a texture betwixt that of smoot and weathered, her senses and the entire world seemed to explode into a frenzy of pain. It started as if her hand's skin was peeling back and charring amidst a heat that competed with the sun. She watched as a golden light seemed to wiggle and squirm before becoming too bright to look at. But she found that she couldn't move, let alone let go of the source of all this pain. Nor could she blink to blot out the light that rivaled the orb from the other side of the room.
In a helpless state, Tristan could only watch as the bright burning light emitting from the innards of her pocket stretched up her arm. No-! She struggled, somehow managing to delay its progress. But only just. She found that it was hotter than walking barefoot on concrete in the middle of Summer. Too hot. Burning… burning— it was like it was melting. She would have screamed in pain and terror if her mouth hadn't felt like it was superglued together.
Her vision saw movement in the rafters again, and this time, she clearly saw who it was: a man wearing white who was crouched amidst the wooden beams. No one else but her had seen him, and she took that as her initiative and tried to cry out, "Help me!" But alas, it was as if she was made of stone and her lips concrete. The golden object across the room let out a silent challenge in the form of emitting a brilliant flash that shone brighter than anything she'd seen before. It was like staring into the very center of a newborn star. She only hoped her death would be quick and painless.
That metal screeching sound came back full force. Its source was the huge metal beast crumpling like a soda can under a boot. Yet the glowing sphere amidst it seemed to be getting bigger with thick luminescent tendrils emitting from it and brushing against the walls, disintegrating them into that of dust and stone. The unfortunate few who were struck by the beams were instantly turned to ash. One slammed into the ground only inches from her leaving a crater the size of a small car in the stone floor.
MOVE! She snarled at her feet, willing, begging them to run. To get out of here before she got herself stupidly killed by falling debris or whatnot.
But only the burning swarming luminescence answered. With heat and pain and a thundering scream in her head that hit like a white-hot lightning bolt:
WHY ARE YOU HERE? THIS DOES NOT CONCERN YOU, TRAITOR!
A mirage of a woman amidst white, blue, and gold danced across her vision; her face drawn up in a snarl of anger as acrimonious golden eyes bored into her own. It disappeared in a flash, but it must have broken whatever paralysis she had, for Tristan found herself sprawled on the floor gasping, her hand red and blistery. When she went to clasp it, a small cry of pain escaped her. Something, or someone, landed not far away from her, and then there was the distinct sound of boots as whoever started racing towards her as rubble and wooden supports rained down.
Gloved hands gripped at her upper arms and shoulders, pulling and tugging her to her feet, shouting in great urgency. In a daze, she stared at the man's face looking back at her from the confines of a white hood. He was young with brilliant eyes and he was yelling something, wildly gesturing. Wanting them to leave. Tristan gasped, clutching at him, grasping in desperation as the sounds and sensations in the room began to reach a crescendo. Did he not hear it? Did he not feel it?
Something was about to happen.
"Please," she rasped, barely hearing her own voice over the chaos as whatever was about to happen reached its apotheosis. "Don't let me g—!"
With a clap like thunder, the orb imploded, shattering into a thousand pieces. An enormous explosion rocked the chamber soon thereafter as the contraption that held it collapsed upon itself, sending smoke and sparks up in the air. But she knew it was not done yet, for everything tensed as if the world was holding its breath, and Tristan saw the young man's eyes widen as he felt it too.
But it was too late.
As if a string had wrapped around her, a mighty force tugged from behind, ripping Tristan from his grasp. She didn't even have time to make a sound as the world around her went white. But it only lasted a brief second as the last thing she saw was a cobblestoned street hurtling at her as the same voice from before howled in her head.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Tristan awoke to a drumline of enthusiastic band kids fiercely drubbing the inside of her head. She felt like one big pulsating bruise on the top of the world's worst sunburn. It even felt like her eyes hurt if that were possible. But the ringing had stopped—so yay, she guessed. She squinted one eye open and was greeted with red and flaxen wallpaper and cozy candlelight that were gentle on the eyes. She couldn't help the breath of relief that slipped between her lips. I'm not in that place anymore.
"Ah, you're awake."
Tristan craned her neck with both eyes opened to find the once murderous man seated close, leisurely sitting with both hands between his legs. There was that same studious expression from before—as if she was some kind of lab experiment. A little unnerving to say the least, but it was a far cry from the earlier treatment. She'd take it despite not helping to feel apprehensive in his presence still.
"Unfortunately," she grunted, wincing at the croak that came out. For a dryness rivaling that of Death Valley decided to make itself known in her mouth. She let her head fall back against the headrest with a thunk, noting she had been placed on some kind of a low-back couch that was pushed back against the far side of the office. She also noticed a particular type of wetness on her upper lip, and when she put her finger to it, she discovered blood.
Her nose was bleeding. Joy.
Tristan sighed, pinching it. "How long was I out?" she asked in a nasal tone.
"Not for very long," he pulled out a handkerchief and wordlessly offered it to her, to which she took with a thankful incline of her head, dabbing at her nose. They were past the 'killing her on the spot' stage, so that's nice. "How do you feel?"
Tristan's lips twitched under the cloth. She got the sense the question wasn't out of genuine concern but rather out of courtesy. It was reasonably palpable he had the aura of suspicion still about him— can't blame him there, but at the same time, hey, can't have the swooning woman bleeding out everywhere. She chuckled without mirth at the thought, tipping her head back with the cloth to her nose. If she wasn't so lost in the land of pain, she'd probably feel some kind of embarrassment for fainting. Her? Fainting? Brent would be laid out on his back in tears.
"Honestly? I've been better." She rubbed the spot where it felt like an ice pick was gouging out her frontal lobe. Yet it did little to relieve the pain, and she winced as a result. "Someone's stabbing my temple, and a desert is forming under my tongue. Although, I just want to emphasize I normally don't go about fainting like that."
She fell into a puzzled silence after that. Had it been fainting? Or just another case of weird blacking-out hypnosis? She hoped it wasn't becoming a trend.
Regardless, he made a sound eerily akin to a modern-day "mhm." Otherwise known as the sound someone makes when they suspend their disbelief for the sake of courtesy in an effort to make the other person feel good about themselves. In different situations, she'd probably be embarrassed; at worst, indignant, but their earlier interactions left her with the wisdom to maintain some sense of humility.
"But I remember now." She saw him stiffen for a brief moment.
"And what do you remember?" He seemed to have chewed on his words for a long time before responding. And even then, he regarded her with a deep-seated suspicion as he spoke. A calculating cautious man she should not trifle with f she had any sense.
"Well, you were there," Tristan turned towards him, the last image still fresh in her mind. He had tried to help her in that chamber. "And I was being led to a great chamber that was…" She trailed off as she took a good look at him and a horrible revelation sunk itself in her gut; for she saw where youth once was, crows' feet and wrinkles decorated his face like badges of honor. You were so young then. It… it couldn't be. Shouldn't be possible. Her unoccupied hand gripped the material of her pants.
"You're… not the same age, are you?" She spoke in a hushed tone, unsure if she wanted to hear it. When he shook his head, driving the last nail into the coffin of what little remains there were of her denial, she swallowed. "How... how long ago was it then?" She cleared her throat. "What year?"
He furrowed his brows but stayed silent— and after what seemed too long, she wondered if he was going to deny her an answer. She conceded perhaps that was a good thing. Maybe the truth deserved to stay buried, and the both of them could pretend this was nothing more than a misunderstanding and a case of mistaken identity. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat after what felt like forever and a year and answered with a subtle tone of discomfort as if he too realized the sudden weight of his words.
"1454."
It dropped from his lips like a one-ton weight, and her shoulders slumped because of it. She couldn't help but stare at him, the hand clutching the handkerchief dropping to her lap. "You mean…?" She blinked, gaze turning away and down as she found herself short of breath. Had it really been twenty-two years? How had this happened? How had any of this happened? She rubbed at her face with a shaky hand.
"Unfortunately, yes." At least he sounded sympathetic. "If it is possible, could you tell me what happened?"
Tristan took a steadying breath before she dropped her hands. "I… I'm not sure, to be honest." It was hard trying to gather her thoughts when they were as scattered as dandelion puffs on the wind. "It's coming back in bits and pieces. I was walking home and I—" …blacked out into a nothingness as bright as the sun and "—just came to, dazed, confused, and lost. It wasn't long after that I was nabbed."
It felt…strange. She hadn't remembered any of this until just recently, until whatever spell, hypnosis, curse that damn woman had conjured on her broke. The pounding was gone, but the scarring experience was still prevalent in the back of her mind, and Tristan had to resist sending a nasty glare towards the general direction of the paintings.
She had stumbled out of an alleyway—everything spinning as if she had just gotten off the world's worst roller coaster. Shaky hands had gripped at nothing as she tried to find steady ground; however, it had been hard to see with watery eyes. Eventually, she had found—or more like smacked— into a wall. Her chest rose and fell with each heaving breath as she pressed her forehead against the cool stone. It felt like she had spent hours there, trying to catch some semblance of air in her lungs, trying to recover from whatever Mass Effect Liara-mind-meld induced nightmareshe had just witnessed. There were still lights and visions dancing under her eyelids.
Her eyes flew open when she heard murmuring voices, and Tristan did her best attempt to turn and face the newcomers, half-walking, half-stumbling about like a drunken frat boy after initiation.
"Hello?" She remembered having cursed her feet for feeling disjointed. "Is someone there?" she had attempted to utter as the faint footsteps and low hush that were the men's voices became louder, but it probably came out as a garbled mess. Dammit, why was everything so fuzzy? "I need help, and I think I've been drugged—." She swayed as another dizzy spell came over her, and she fell forward, barely catching herself before she faceplanted. "Goddammit."
Her only answer had been the footsteps becoming silent, and she remembered an eerie stillness settling around her. She felt more than heard someone close in, and in response, she lifted her head. In the dim light provided, she saw two black boots glinting. One hand tightened to a fist as mental klaxons began blearily blaring in the back of her head. Something was off, but she didn't get much time to dwell on it before multiple hands grabbed her and something heavy hitting her head.
Cue everything else and finding herself in… that place.
Tristan faltered when she got to the stairs, remembering the sheer raw emotions that had emitted from that black pit, and out of a terror that threatened to raise its head again, her hand tightened. There was no point denying the truth. Those people had been planning on using her as a guinea pig for that infernal contraption. She probably had been sentenced to a horrible demise if fate or whatever had intervened. With this crushing damnation, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and quietly uttered a shaky curse under her breath.
Tristan sensed him get up, but she waved him off. "I'm okay, I'm okay." Or I will be. She rubbed at her nose in an attempt to save face. "Anyway, they brought me into the chamber. I expect I was supposed to be that thing's next victim before… well." She gestured around her, frustrated. "That. Then it was bright, and next thing I know— I wound up waking up not far from here with absolutely no memory of what happened until just now."
She also decided it was best to omit the part about meeting up with his son. Especially the part about stealing some poor woman's allowance and smacking her in the head with it. While a humorous story, she wasn't going to throw Federico under the bus.
She flicked her eyes his way, and he seemed to be drilling holes into the walls of his office. Tristan could practically smell the smoke from all of the wheels turning in his head as he thought long and hard. A pang of sympathy struck her, for a lot had been dropped in his lap. It's not every day your son brings in a stray from both the future and the past.
He took a long noisy exhale as he turned to walk towards his desk. "If I had not seen this for myself… I would have a… difficult time believing in such a tale." She snorted, earning her a sharp look from him. "Yet I find that you and your arrival here alongside other revelations are no mere coincidences." He inclined his head as an invitation to be seated opposite of him as he poured wine from the decanter. He picked up a cup and offered it. "But first—a drink; for I sense you have many questions."
Tristan's lips thinned until they were nonexistent as she took it from his hand. "Unfortunately, I doubt you'll be able to answer the most pressing of them all, but I guess I'll start off with the simplest and say I don't believe you were there by coincidence either." Her eyes narrowed as she took an experimental sip. Tart, but it soothed the dryness in her throat and eased the pounding in her head at least. "Why?"
An eyebrow rose as he hummed in thought—or maybe in annoyance at her tone, but he met her stare head-on regardless. Finally, he seated himself behind his desk. "It was at my Uncle's behest. He believed that something was amiss and, since his hands were tied, wished for me to look into some disappearances that were occurring on the outskirts. I learned quickly that whoever was orchestrating these vanishings was keen and had made sure to target delinquents and those of ill repute. No one cared to come looking for a cripple or an orphan off the streets if they were gone too long."
"Lemme guess," she interjected. "No one, except the Assassins?"
He cocked his head to the side and fixed her with an unreadable expression before his stony face softened to that of a little bemused smile. "Indeed." It did not take long, however, for his demeanor to harden again. "In fact, it was only truly brought to my Uncle's attention when one of our very own contacts was taken. Unfortunately, by the time we realized what had happened, we had little to go on. We knew who was being taken but not as to why or where. We sent spies to the four winds: Siena, Rome, Florence, even so far south as Naples and Genoa. And yet only whispers and rumors, but nothing truly tangible."
"However," he steepled his hands together in thought. "Out of sheer luck, my brother intercepted a letter with mention of a vital asset. They don't give a name, but they referred to an individual called the Alchemist they wished to be moved out of Tuscany."
A brief image of the lab coat flashed in her mind. It would make sense a scientist would be referred to as an "Alchemist" in their eyes. An interesting development, if not a little on the nose— but not the answer she was mainly looking for, to which she retorted out loud: "That doesn't answer the question how you found their little hideout though."
He spread out his hands, "I would think the explanation plain to see. The Assassins have eyes and ears in many places. An ally spotted something out of place, and it was then our mysterious snatchers made a mistake," he sent a surprisingly amused yet pointed look her way prior to taking a drink from his glass.
His gaze made Tristan shift uncomfortably. "Why are you looking at me like that?" When he didn't comment at first, the hidden message eventually dawned on her, and she blinked as a result. Me. I was the mistake. From the sounds of it, it had been more than just that too. It sounded like she had been bait.
Her heart skipped at the thought, and she found herself stammering. "I-I see. You're welcome—I guess," she palmed her head, averting her gaze. A tiny bit of her was indignant if not pissed at such a method, but she had to give credit where it was due. If it had gone any different way, she probably would not be alive still.
There was that tension again. It was thick and choking and she emitted a long sigh of defeat, "I know what you want to ask, so do it already."
"About?" A lesser knowing person would have thought it an innocent enough question, and given the man's Oscar-worthy acting, she probably would have been fooled as well. However, she knew better, and she nearly rolled her eyes.
"Please," she huffed and threw a hand in the direction of the paintings behind her. "About… that."
She didn't like how his eyes lit up nor the fact he set his elbows down on the desk to lean in further, "So, you are an Assassin then."
"I guess you could say that," Tristan said as she pursed her lips, a little lost in her thoughts. He had sounded far more eager than she had liked. Not to mention, this wasn't exactly how she thought her day was going to go. But then again, no one expects to be transported back in time and meet the same man twice at two different points in his life. Let alone belong to an organization that somehow still exists to screw up everything in her own period. She swirled her drink before setting it down on the desk between them. "But truth be told, no, I left that life before I was ever initiated. My parents were, though. Well… more like my dad was. He trained us— my siblings and me, of course. So… I know my fair share. And of course, I know of…" she paused. "I know of the enemy."
She thought about it and frowned, rubbing at her cheek. "Were those… people…?"
However, he understood what she was trying to say. "Templars? No, I believe they were just men put to work and paid to keep their secrecy. Nothing more than workers under the Borgia's boot."
She hummed in agreement. It wasn't the first time someone was paid to be the lackey. Although… that image flashed again. "Not even that foreman wearing the white robe?" She blurted.
He seemed surprised at that one, but it was replaced by another case of poorly hidden interest. "What are you thinking?" He mused, obviously having caught the nuance of her words. Shit. Me and my big mouth
Her shoulders lifted and fell in one movement, "I'm not sure, honestly. Call it… a hunch. I think I know who your Alchemist is." Tristan turned to find him looking at her intently. The unspoken 'go on then' followed suit in the form of an eyebrow rising just a slight and a tilt of his cup.
Tristan cleared her throat. "I don't know how to say it without sounding absolutely mad. But... he... that man in charge..."
"Yes?"
She chewed on her lip. Should she? Well, you've already shown him it's possible, a part of her snarked. You're here, aren't you? With a reserved sigh, she chugged the rest of her liquid courage and turned, "I think he's from the same place I'm from. Well, err, not place per se. We…" She pressed her knuckles against her forehead as the words failed to come to her. Ugh! Woman, would you just spit it out! In frustration, she threw down her hand, "I don't know how else to say it without sounding insane, but basically— we are from the same time. One that's roughly five centuries from now. Hell, maybe even the same yea—which is 2013, by the way. Who knows. Or at least I think he is—but that's just my working theory right now? If that makes sense?"
She shook her head, feeling absolutely helpless. God, how she must sound right now! She rubbed at her face again, stifling the urge to scream."I know that half these words will go over your head, and I know this all sounds insane, but you have to—"
He raised his hand to stop her. "I believe you."
Tristan had to make the conscious decision to snap her jaw back into place as it nearly threatened to fall to the floor. She really had been expecting to orate an entire thesis on how she was not actually crazy and didn't belong in the loony bin. "You do?"
A ghost of what could be considered a smile twitched at his lips. "How else would you explain your mannerisms or the clothes you wore?"
Helpless and flabbergasted, she raised her shoulders and let them drop before wildly gesturing. "Perhaps I was and still am crazy, and I escaped from a hospital? Or a wild fantasy?"
She was surprised when a quiet laugh escaped. "I would be lying if I were to say it hadn't crossed my mind at least once. But it wouldn't have explained the recognition in your eyes, then."
Although hesitant, if not slightly embarrassed, Tristan allowed herself to smile as well, although she figured it looked more like a grimace. It was refreshing to know he had some semblance of a sense of humor.
As she expected, though— it was short-lived for he waved his hand, dismissing the conversation in a flash, "However, the circumstances do not matter. I am merely curious as to how this is possible?"
"Uhm, well," she mumbled, cupping her cheek. It didn't take long for her gaze to drift, looking for her bag. She found it neatly tucked under the couch's corner, and she pulled it closer to her, digging into it. "Don't let its appearance fool you, but this… this thing is responsible." She pulled the clock-thing out and laid it out on the wooden surface between the two of them. Acid threatened to rise as she looked down upon it. While the dented artifact sat there looking innocent, there was that sense of unnaturalness again. It wasn't nearly as intense as the machine from all those apparent years ago, but rather like an annoying itch at the back of her head, the sensation persisted. No doubt about it, this thing was the reason why she was here. But fucking why, though? Why me, of all the miserable people available in the year 2013?
Goosebumps made her become hyperaware that the room's temperature had become cooler since she had brought it out and she resisted rubbing at them as they began to rise on her forearms. Even the man across from her seemed hushed, his attention at once fixating on the golden object. With a slow and steady hand, he picked it up. For some reason, Tristan had been expecting some extreme reaction and had held her breath as a result. But when no such thing occurred, her breath came out in one long nosy breath. He turned it this way and that, humming, studying it, noting the damage, and spending way too long on the back. Be my guest, she couldn't help but muse as she crossed her arms. Afterwards, adding a bitter, at least share with the rest of the class if you can actually read that chicken scratch.
As if reading her mind, his eyes flicked upwards, and the corners of his lips drug downwards into a frown as he flipped it back over. She took that as a, no, he couldn't read it either. Great. "Do you not know what this is?"
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "You mean besides being a pain in my ass? No, I don't."
For once, he refused to acknowledge the snarky reply in favor of indicating the bauble. "Based on a… hunch, you could say, I strongly suspect that this and the other object in question to both be Pieces of Eden."
The silence that followed ticked by with every agonizing second. Tristan stared and waited with bated breath for the other shoe to drop. The punchline. Something. When it never came, it felt like someone had sucker-punched her gut. "Wait—." She straightened, making a time-out motion. It was only later, did she remember he probably had no clue as to what that meant. "You mean to say…?" Tristan shook her head venomously. There was no way she heard that right. "No, that can't be. They're… Pieces of Eden are just fairytales. Myths! They're not real. Can't be!"
He looked up, that aura of suspicion seeping back into his tone as he spoke, "You were raised an Assassin? And yet you choose as to doubt their existence when one is in front of you?"
"I…" Tristan found her hands more interesting at that moment as a warm feeling enveloped her cheeks. "It's… not exactly an easy thing to believe. In fact, I always figured they were just stories."
He inclined his head in a slight nod of understanding. "And yet you are here."
She winced. Touché.
"Good point," she mumbled, rubbing the back of her head.
A dry laugh soon slipped out as she shrugged helplessly. "I guess it explains a lot of things then." She threw a glare at the newly named object, a gesture fueled by the cold sliver of fear burying itself in her chest. They were right then. All of the stories she thought make-believe to scare the novices into submission. It had sounded so far-fetched! How could anyone genuinely believe such a thing? Objects created by the 'gods,' yeah, sure. A yarn for the ages.
How naïve of her, and she'd laugh if she could. What was that theory she read once? All myths and legends had afoot within the parameters of reality. The idea of Cyclops came from the skulls of mammoths afterall.
Her musings were interrupted as the man opposite of her cleared his throat. "I'm curious— how did you come of this?"
Tristan didn't look up, but her shoulders sagged as she kept eye contact with the thing in his hand. To anyone else, it would appear just as a beat-up bauble—a keepsake from times past. But they both knew otherwise. Her mind flashed to that eventful night, and she couldn't help but glance at her once raw wrists. That innocent thing had caused her to time-travel, to be healed, and possibly provided an instantaneous translation. Worst yet, it had brought down an entire building to bury the other Piece of Eden that had threatened unspeakable horror if it had been initiated.
Just what else was this SCP wannabe capable of? She watched as he turned his hand slightly, and it glinted.
Almost like a mischievous wink.
"Beats me. Truth be told, I just found it in my pocket."
The awkward silence that followed suit said everything, and she flushed harder despite scowling at him. "I know how it sounds but trust me when I say I truly don't know how it got in there," she protested, throwing her hands. "It certainly hadn't been there when I left for home. And surely not when I-."
Tristan stopped— her mouth wide open.
She had been about to say, "when I pulled out my phone."She didn't, of course, for obvious reasons. He wouldn't know what a phone was for starters, and secondly, it certainly didn't help a revelation came and smacked her up cross the head like a two by four.
A shoulder bumping into hers.
"-'scuse me."
A slight tilt of the head, the flash of an apologetic smile despite the hood covering his face.
"Sorry about that."
Tristan jumped up, narrowly missing barking her knee on the underside of the desk. "That bastard!" She snarled, bringing an enclosed fist down upon her open palm. "He must have slipped it in!"
A heavy silence followed suit and a blush seeped deep into her cheeks as he stared at her in bafflement. She shot an apologetic smile before letting her hands fall back to her side.
"Right… right. Ugh, before all of… this, I was bumped into by someone on my way home. I thought it had merely been an accident, ya know? But now? As crazy as this sounds, I think he purposely did that." She made another waiting motion, shaking her head, "No, as a matter of fact, I know he did, and he must have slipped that into my pocket while doing so."
"Did you know this man?
"I… don't," she groaned, running hands through her hair. "I was… preoccupied, it was snowing, and I never saw the guy's face." All she could remember was the scruffy underside of a chiseled chin and a muffled apology that was quickly swallowed by the wind as he disappeared into the dark.
How many puzzle pieces were there? How many variables and factors did she have to stumble upon to even get a sense of what was going on? Besides that, what was the cause for all of this time-traveling nonsense? Was Abstergo responsible for this nightmare? Her mind flashed to the lab coat.
Possible.
She resisted the urge to pinch at her nose. This was starting to get more convoluted than a game of Monopoly.
What she did instead was take a long breath and let it out again. "Regardless… He had to have known me or had a general idea. It was either that or a really fucked up prank." And honestly, is it wrong I'm vying for the latter? A humorless laugh slipped out as she palmed her face, "I'm sorry. I know this is all very confusing and convoluted and that me landing on your front step is not your idea of a good time. Or really anyone's as a matter of fact."
"You do not need to apologize." He pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and, in one near-graceful movement, grabbed a quill from its resting place. She watched as he dipped it once. Twice. And tapped it against the inkwell. "However, given the surrounding circumstances, I do believe it would be best if you were to stay here for the time being."
Tristan flicked her eyes his way, a frown settling deep as he began writing in a practiced manner. That… seemed like a jump. First, he practically wanted to murder her, and now he was offering her a place to say? No, nuh-uh. Not her, coach. Not falling for it. "That's not needed, I assure yo-."
"It's not a request." He finished the sentence or word or whatever he had been writing to look up sharply with eyes that were reminiscent of flint. Before she could get a protest in, he put a hand up, demanding silence; something she reluctantly conceded to. "And do not think I am doing this out of mere charity given your current predicament either. I realize you consider yourself no longer a member of the Brotherhood but recognize you are still an asset and a dangerous one at that. Imagine if the enemy had realized the power you have in your own possession and had gotten to you first? The damage and chaos they would commit would ensure all our sacrifices were in vain.
"Besides." His eyes flicked downwards, and instinctually Tristan had to fight the urge to cover her chest. It seriously felt like the man had lasers for eyes or X-Ray vision, given how intense that look had been. "Judging by your appearance, I would assume you don't necessarily have an alternative."
Tristan openly winced. Harsh and to be expected. His reasoning was sound enough. Unfortunately, that type of rational thinking didn't reach her brain-mouth filter in time as she bitterly spat out, "So what— I'm supposed to just stay locked up in a damn tower until I die of old age here, alone? Away from those I know and love? Never to go home again? Never to see my family? Is that what you think is best?"
He shot a scathing glare, and Tristan stiffened, both regretting her words and expecting the worst because of it. However, no explosion occurred. In fact, nothing of that manner happened. Instead, his features softened, and he averted his gaze to the surface of his desk. "No… No, of course not." He sighed, running a hand over his suddenly tired face. "I would not want that for you. I am sincere when I say I'll do whatever in my power to find answers for you. However, until that time, I repeat that it is best for you to stay here. Be assured, if you do wish to stay, you will be treated as a guest and will want for nothing under my roof."
The silence that followed was a long and painful one. Choices. One with a no-win situation either way. Her lips opened to say something, then thought better and closed. Despite all that, the question unspoken floated in the space between them: But how long will that take?
"…Okay, we'll do it your way then. I will stay," Tristan slipped back into the chair with shoulders that felt far heavier from before. "Although," she grabbed the cup and pointed at it with a sheepish grin, "Is it too late to have another?"
"Never." He poured both of them another round. It took all of her willpower as not to drain it right there and right then. Instead, she forced herself to take just a sip as a whirlwind of different thoughts roared through her mind.
"What happened…. Afterwards? Did… did anyone else make it?" She didn't know why she was asking. Maybe a poor attempt to change the subject or just distract herself from the gilded cage awaiting her.
He shook his head in slow gestures setting his quill down. "No… not far as I can tell. If anyone did survive the initial destruction, they were sure to perish in the smoke and fire when the building itself collapsed."
"Good." She gritted out as her crossed arms tightened into a vice grip. The man blinked, taken aback by her sudden vehemence, and she offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry—it's just… That… thing deserved to be buried. Being around it… That feeling—." She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "It didn't belong."
He jerked his head, switching from her to the thing lying in the space between them. "I understand what you mean. I encountered something similar once before. If the Templars had managed to obtain it, I fear as to what they would have accomplished. And if this 'machine' you mentioned had been completed…"
He looked up and must have sensed her state of mind for he shook his head, "Of course, we both have an idea as to its fate and should not dwell on the 'what ifs.' There is nothing left of it. You saw to that," he finished what little wine he still had before pushing himself back. "And I do believe I have one last matter to discuss. It concerns something I think you would want back."
Before she could respond, he breezed past her and pressed a hand against an inconspicuous looking button that she only just noticed. On hidden hinges, a door set inside the fireplace swung open, revealing a small hidden room. She could not say what was in it, for he blocked the view as he entered it. Truth be told, she found it odd someone would just open up their secret chamber in front of a guest—but then again. Nothing was acting conventional or typical today. Would anything be ordinary again? If she didn't get thrown into an asylum after this, that would be a bloody miracle.
Tristan tapped her fingers against the desk in bafflement, a little lost for words. Probably not. And besides, what could he possibly have that was hers? Just another puzzle, she guessed. It did not take him long to return, and much to the disappointment of her inner hidden compartment aficionado, the entrance closed behind him once more. He must really not want people to see inside there. She huffed.
In his hands, he cradled a bundle that was covered in some kind of cloth. He wordlessly placed it in front of her and went ahead to sit back down again. She watched him with a raised eyebrow, silently asking what on Earth he could have for her. To which, he subtly smiled yet said nothing.
You're a big help, she scowled, but her fingers were automatically unwrapping the cloth from whatever mysterious object it covered. It was not long until a muted gasp escaped her lips as faded dark blue and grey met her eyes. With shaking hands, she pulled out the long piece of cloth as it unfolded. While twenty years had come and gone, and moths probably had their way with it, the word RAVENCLAW announced itself in faded yet still golden letters across it.
"I thought I lost this," she said, thumbing the still soft material. It had been a cheap gift, a novelty from Hot Topic where they had even gotten the colors and bird wrong, yet it had held such a special place for her. And to say she had been heartbroken when she couldn't find it was an understatement. But… She glanced up in such disbelief, "How did you come of it?"
He steepled his fingers together, and she got the sense of sadness emanating from him, "…When you disappeared all those years ago, I first thought it was naught but a dream. Because surely, it couldn't be anything else, and who would believe in such a tale? That was until I found this where you once stood. I knew then what I saw had been real, and thus, I've kept it since. Proof that something unexplainable did happen, and I quietly swore to myself that I'd return it to its rightful owner if given the opportunity. But the years trickled by, and I came to believe that day would never happen."
The corners of her lip curved into a mournful smile and her fingers dugs deeper into the fabric. "And yet here I am."
He returned the gesture and she abhorred how pitiful the sympathy was. "So, you are."
Tristan felt her eyes sting and turned her head so he wouldn't see. This was a nightmare. Why, why, why? She had just gotten her life into a semblance of sanity. She landed herself the job she had fought with tooth and nail to get. She had just bought a new apartment closer to the studio doing something she loved. The only big worry she had wanted on her mind were taxes, holidays with the family, and what to eat for dinner. Not this. Not this stupid war dragging her back, kicking and screaming. Not being back in time away from everyone and everything she knew. She hadn't even paid attention in history class! Why her?
Tristan risked a glance and thankfully, the man had preoccupied himself with going back to his letter. Probably about her. He had allies, and if he was wanting to help her, so too would they. She also had a place to rest her head at night and, well, much as she loathed to admit it, she was offered protection from those who'd use her. That was a good thing, she guessed. And reluctantly, she acknowledged that was a step up from nothing. She focused on the scarf in her hands and steeled herself. Mama raised no quitter. And Dad, in his dickish ways, made sure you could survive. Now fucking act like it, Trish.
And that meant one thing to take care of…
She inhaled noisily, imagining herself as some heroine in a Young Adult novel about to tackle the big conflict as she turned back to face him. "One last thing then," she put out her hand. "Tristan."
He raised an eyebrow, a bit caught off guard at that. His gaze then dropped down to her hand, to which she briefly wondered if handshakes were even a thing during this period. Oh god, what if he misinterpreted it and tried to kiss it. The thought nearly made her blanch. "I already know your name?"
Tristan grunted an affirmation keeping it out still. "Yes, you do— but I think we can both agree that we got off on the wrong foot. So, consider this an olive branch so that we may start over from the beginning. I have a suspicion I will be here a while." Her free hand gestured at herself, standing loosely, open—hopefully, friendly-looking. "I'll start. My name is Tristan, a former assassin from the future. Safety and peace be upon you."
He looked between her and her hand, perplexed. She almost thought he was going to leave her hanging and suddenly felt silly doing this. Why would he even want to shake her hand after all of this? They were strange bedfellows amidst an unusual—no, unnatural situation. She was an annoyance merely to be tolerated until she was dumped at the very next opportunity. Tristan's cheeks flushed, and her hand began to drop when he eventually took it with a calloused hand, giving it a firm shake as he returned the traditional greeting, "I suppose you are right then. Safety and peace unto you as well. I am Giovanni Auditore da Firenze, and I welcome you to my home."
~*End*~
I'm going to be honest— I struggled so hard with this chapter. And even though it's said and done— still not 100 percent on board with the "second half," I suppose you can call it. But it's done and finished, and I hope y'all liked it despite my reservations and the fact Giovanni seriously kicked my ass. So if you find something you didn't like— please tell me so I can do my best in making it better.
Anyway, with that said. You guys probably didn't expect that twist, hmm? ;D
That's right, folks, 1476 had not been Tristan's original destination. *dun dun DUNNNNNNN*.
In fact, she jumped FORWARD twenty-two years. That means there's some alternate alternate universe where she's kicking back with the OG Auditore Bros. (Oh, the plot bunnies stemming from that line of thought are JUICY to say the least.)
Now onto the fun stuff!
TK's History Fun Facts:
Weird Science: We all know that the Renaissance gave rise to many forms of arts, whether in new experimental painting techniques or a new funky looking musical instrument, but did you know that there was also a lot of scientific breakthroughs? Not to the extent of what's going on here per se since this is a fictional work that borders Bioshock Infinite-esque science fiction, but it is the age where ancient texts were being rediscovered after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans.
This single event led to a rise in advances in engineering, medicine, geography, and mathematics. With the advent of the printing press, books' availability also skyrocketed, leading to a larger audience becoming more knowledgeable of subjects once only available to wealthy folks. Alchemy, the predecessor to modern-day Chemistry, also grew in popularity here. I should also add, this was the period where Leonardo da Vinci made a robot. Several in fact. And some even worked.
We're going to need a bigger crane: The game does not do it justice, but Il Duomo is gigantic. Absolutely incredibly enormous, and it becomes clear why it took 140+ years to build. And a few hundred more on top of that before it reached its modern-day photo-worthy self. (I have a few pictures on my Instagram displaying this in case anyone is interested in looking.) Tl;dr version: the Medici both funded and borrowed from this project a lot. In one instance, much of the original marble had been torn up and used as material for a birthday present for one of the patriarch's sons!
The craziest part? A contest full of the world's best modern-day engineers was unable to replicate Filippo Brunelleschi's designs. Yep! You read that right; no one has been able to figure out just HOW a 15th Century architect managed to keep the Dome intact and standing without the use of flying buttresses for close to six hundred years.
Mythical Origins: This is actually a legitimate theory! While not a mammoth per se, an archaeological dig on the island of Crete did uncover the skeletal remains of Deinotherium giganteum, an ancient ancestor of the modern-day elephant. In fact, the remains are the first of its kind in this area—dating back between 8-9 million years! To you or me, it'd be creepy, but I imagine that to an ancient Cretan, or honestly any resident of the Aegean during this time, that would be proof enough that some one-eyed beast existed just to terrorize mankind!
Canon Notes: So, in-game canon isn't exactly clear as to whom Ilario Auditore is and how he's related to everyone else. Given that Monteriggioni was the Auditore home since the late 13th Century and the Palazzo Auditore had just been built a year or so prior to the game, it stands to reason he could have been some kind of Uncle—or hell maybe even a Great Uncle with ties to the political machine due to his close friendship with Cosimo d'Medici. That and it probably helped he was a former Gonfaloniere (basically a glorified judge.)
Thoughts? Theories? Random bouts of screaming? Lemme know! Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome. If you wish for a more prompt response or just want to chat you can hit me up on my Discord! (Just PM me :) )
-TK