Part Two: Routing a Traitor

Desmond was suddenly looking up at the blank ceiling of his prison, struggling to make sense of what the fuck just happened!

"He's experiencing a far better adoption rate than the other subjects," the old codger was saying.

Desmond didn't care what he was adopting, as long as he wasn't dying! That teacher-codger had just stabbed his ancestor Altair, Desmond could still feel the icy cold fingers of death gripping at his heart. How did they still have memories to go for if that anscestor had just died for Christ's sake?

He shuddered, the phantom pain in his side fading with every heartbeat that reaffirmed that yes he was still alive, thank God!

"I'm still pulling him out," Stillman said.

That was just fine for Desmond. He didn't want to experience death.

"He's been in there way too long."

Hell yeah.

"No, not yet!" the old freak exclaimed. "We're still so far from where we need to be!"

Desmond would have told the old lab coat to go fuck himself if he had the strength. God, he was still trying to just move his arms. It was so disorienting to be in the Third Crusade one minute, then back to reality the next. Jesus, he needed a second to adjust.

"We shouldn't risk it."

You tell him, lady, Desmond thought to himself, still trying to make sure all his limbs were in working order.

"What's another hour or two?" the old fart insisted.

Stillman glared at him coldly. "Why don't we discuss this in the conference room?" She gestured to where he was still unmoving on the table. "Give Desmond a minute to stretch his legs."

She started to walk away, and Desmond could swear she gave him a meaningful glance, no matter how brief. Or was that just a micro-expression? He was so disoriented.

"I really don't see the need," groused the doc, still acting like he was above it all, though more to himself than anyone in particular.

"Warren, please," she said firmly, her heels loudly clicking her quick stomping steps towards a door by a wide observation window.

"Fine," the now named Warren retorted petulantly, still trying to seem the better and more mature. And failing miserably in Desmond's opinion.

As the two walked away, Desmond finally found the strength to sit up, fiercely pressing his face into the palms of his hands. His hands with all ten fingers. He swung his legs over the side of the Animus, taking a moment to shake his head. His body felt… not quite stiff, but as if he'd just woken up suddenly from a nap and his muscles still thought he was asleep. He rubbed his head, glad to finally be out of that damnable machine.

Now that he was properly back to himself, he glanced around.

Stretch his legs huh…

And being alone gave him the perfect opportunity to do a little investigating. The more he learned about where he was and what he was supposed to be doing and who his captors where, the better chances he had of actual escape.

He glanced at the door that Warden and Stillman went through. He doubted he'd have access to that, but the door to the right of the observation window looked far more interesting.

The door was open, though Desmond recalled it being closed before for some reason. He walked through to a utilitarian room. A plain bed, with closets across from it and a small glass table and chair near the door were the only furnishings aside from the piping and duct work necessary for a commercial building or research facility that these seemed to be.

He came to groggily, wondering what cocktail he'd made and then drank that gave him such a severe hangover. But when he got up, he was surprised to see he wasn't in familiar clothes. And just as his head started to clear, a hand the size of a Christmas ham grabbed his arm and started to drag him. Instinct had him resisting, but he was still too out of it to pull of anything well. He was yanked through the cold door cut into quadrants by odd white lighting and shoved onto some strangely curved counter in the middle of a room and told to lie down, Mr. Miles and this will all be over shortly.

Right, so that's how they plugged him in that morning.

He walked quickly through what was likely going to be his "room" for a while, and into a bathroom just as sparse. He could already hear the old fart Warren trying to say something. A quick glance up showed the venting that allowed the air to circulate that lead likely to the conference room.

Too easy. Are they stupid?

But Desmond wouldn't complain at this. Knowledge. He needed knowledge to get out of here. So he stood on a counter, pressed his ear as close to the vent as he could, and listened.

"I do not appreciate you questioning my authority over the prisoner," the old coot said severely. "There's a word for that. I believe it's called 'insubordination'."

Damn old man. Did he think he was God or something?

"And I don't appreciate you trying to kill him. There's a word for that too. I believe it's called 'stupid'."

Desmond smirked. She was sympathetic to him. He could use that. Somehow.

"Lucy."

Ah, so the blond had a first name. Lucy.

"This isn't my decision. I won't cross their line. I'm smart enough not to challenge them."

Damn, that meant someone was pulling the old fart's strings too.

"Do you want to wind up like Leila?"

Desmond stiffened. That wasn't just a random threat, the "I'll get you!" that most people threw at each other in anger but never really acted on. No, that was a threat of someone who knew what could happen and possibly make it so. Desmond knew that kind of voice. He'd heard a variation of it growing up and learning the basics for an assassin, but he'd only ever heard it, truly heard it, once before. And he'd known enough to get the hell out of that city as soon as possible.

"I know the accident has everyone on edge-"

This Lucy wasn't backing down. Desmond admired her spunk, but she still sounded like she was towing the company line. Likely the smart thing to do for herself. But he'd have to work on her somehow to get any help in escaping.

"Which is why we have no time to coddle him," Warren interrupted coldly.

"If you push him too hard, he'll shut down. And then we'll have nothing."

Desmond didn't care for the sound of that.

The old fart laughed at that. "We have nothing now," he countered.

"But we will," Lucy said confidently. "We just need to have a little faith."

"Fine. But I want you thinking of ways to improve his staying power. We can't afford to stop every time the man breaks a sweat."

So Desmond's body did react somehow to the memories he was living through. And the old bastard didn't even care that Desmond had been reacting because he had just died in his own memory. That meant they were monitoring his health and needed him to remain stable to keep doing this.

Maybe he could use that? Something to think about.

"It's bad enough we have to traipse through all of these useless memories."

Desmond scowled. Traipse around useless memories huh? Could he use that somehow too?

"I'll do what I can."

Desmond got off the counter and stretched his legs back to the Animus room, swiftly heading over to the window to make it look like he hadn't been eavesdropping at all. A glance outside showed that he was several stories up on some sort of bleached out office compound. The sun was starting to set in the horizon, making looking around and identifying where he was almost impossible. He'd have to look around more in the morning.

A sharp series of beeps heralded the door to the conference room opening and Desmond turned around to level an appropriately helpless glare to his Warden.

"We're done for today, Mr. Miles."

No thanks to you, you heartless son of a bitch, Desmond thought vindictively. But he played the resigned test-subject.

"I suggest you return to your room and get some rest."

So Desmond was right. That was going to be his room for his stay here. The old bastard headed to a door opposite the head of the Animus, a double-wide door with the same strange division into quadrants by a set of white fluorescent lights. Lucy didn't follow, instead going to a small raised platform to check on a bank of servers. Cold air rained down from above, cold enough to create mist. Wasn't she freezing in that short sleeved shirt and skirt? Desmond walked up to her, uncertain what to say but knowing that if he was going to get anywhere, he needed someone in his pocket. Dr. Dickhead was out of the question, but this Lucy girl seemed remotely humane.

He didn't even need to start a conversation, Lucy turned to him as she finished, her eyes curious. In a slightly hesitant voice, she asked,

"So you're really an assassin? Like Altair?"

"Yes and no," he hedged. His mind started to race, weighing pros and cons swiftly. This was not the conversation starter he wanted, not in the slightest. He rubbed the back of his head, looking away. But it was a chance. One thing he learned as a bartender was that in order for others to open up, you sometimes needed to share something about yourself. Normally, for Desmond, that meant making something up on the spot. But that wasn't an option here. Talking about the old life wasn't going to be pleasant, but then, like everything else since this mess started, he didn't have many choices.

"What do you mean?"

"I was supposed to be one, but I ran away from the farm when I was sixteen." He looked away again, rubbing an arm. This conversation was going to suck.

" 'Farm?' "

"Yeah, that's what they called the place where I grew up: the farm. Like Masyaf, I guess, only not so, uh, creepy. Just a small community in the middle of nowhere, about thirty of us, living, you know, off the grid." He wasn't sharing anything about the farm. Granted, by now, they'd probably moved somewhere else, likely right after he'd run away. But even though he needed Lucy as an ally in this place, she was still a part of Abstergo. To say nothing of all the cameras all over the place. No, that was all he'd say about the farm. He was well trained in the respect of keeping quiet.

"But why?"

"Thought my parents were just crazy hippies," he answered, remembering younger days, "trying to stick it to the man, you know?" We're trying to change the world. We're persecuted because we don't think like everyone else. Peace in all things. They'll kill us if they ever find us. We have to be prepared for any and everything. "My dad was always going on about our enemies, about how they'd be looking for us, about how we have to be prepared." Years of believing it, years of waiting, years of... nothing. "No one ever came. Nothing ever happened."

"Then why'd you run away?" she asked, her head cocking to the side.

"Heh," Desmond snorted. What did she know? "I could never leave the compound. You have any idea what it feels like being trapped in a place, knowing there was a whole world out there that I'd never get to see?" He'd had enough of confinement. He had been young and reckless and had craved a life where he could make his own decisions.

Her face changed slightly, and expression Desmond couldn't read. Was it empathy? No, couldn't be.

"Don't you miss your parents?"

"No," Desmond answered easily, bitter memories filling his head. "Far as I'm concerned, they weren't my parents. They were my wardens, and I was their prisoner."

Lucy hesitated, her eyes darting to him and then looking away. "It sounds like they only wanted to protect you."

Well that just hurt. Because she was right. They had tried to warn him about this. Maybe not Abstergo specifically, but that people were out there and after them. Himself included. He had thought he'd left all that behind when he'd left. He was cautious of course, a lifetime of living off the grid didn't just disappear. But to know that he'd left for no good reason hurt. His parents had told him, but he was such an impatient kid he didn't listen.

"With all that's happened... I don't know, I guess they were right." He owed them an apology.

... Assuming he could even get out of here and find them. By now they had probably moved to a different compound.

Lucy looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drudge up the past."

And with that, Desmond knew his sympathy vote had been cast. Lucy, bless her, had a heart, unlike Dr. Dickhead. Telling his story hurt, and it revealed more of himself than he ever wanted to in a place where he was a prisoner, but it brought the blond assistant to his side.

"It's alright," he reassured her. "It gives me something to think about."

"Try and get some sleep," she said gently, a small smile on her face as she changed topic. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Got a question for you before I turn in." Because he was not sharing his sob story without getting some information in return.

"Sure."

"How did they find me? I mean, I haven't been anywhere near another assassin for ten years."

It was the one thing that bugged him. He was a reclusive loner. While he could do his bartending duties and be sociable as the situation called for it, he rarely related to anyone. He still stayed off the grid, kept hidden, and stayed alone. Alone suited him, but it also kept him away from the assassins he'd run from. It's how he'd survived for over ten years.

"Did you use your real name?" she asked.

"No, not before today."

"Credit cards?"

"Cash only."

"Telephone?"

"Heh. No one to call."

"Driver's license?"

"Motorcycle. Guilty pleasure."

Everything about him was fake. Even his bartending license was a forgery, since he didn't need the paper trail of attending a proper mixology school. But being on a motorcycle, racing down windy roads, the wind in his face, the power of the bike, the skill of staying in control... of finally having control over something in his life... it had been the one thing he'd wanted to be real.

"There's your answer. Photo, fingerprint."

Damn it.

"This is a drug company!" Desmond protested. "What does Abstergo have to do with the DMV?"

"Desmond. These guys are everywhere. They..." Lucy completely stopped, her eyes darting to the cameras surrounding the room. "I... I'm sorry, I... I really can't talk about it. Aren't you tired?"

It wasn't long before Lucy said she had to go, and ushered him to his quarters.

Unsurprisingly the door slid shut behind him.

Also unsurprisingly was a pair of beeps that resembled a digital "ha-ha" as it triggered a red light above the door indicating that it was now locked.

"Dammit," Desmond growled.

He sat heavily on the metal chair in his room, thinking.

There was a "them". A "them" so powerful that even his warden didn't dare challenge them, and looking at all the equipment in the other room indicated that even the old codger had some connections to get finances for those state-of-the-art servers and processors that lined the walls. So the "them" had to be powerful to the extreme.

Shit, what the hell did he land in?

Right, not thinking about "them". Of his immediate captors, Warden was a dickhead with a stick so far up his ass it supported his spine. The old bastard had delusions of grandeur, thinking himself some kind of god over his coworkers and... subjects. If the conversation he overheard was any indication, he didn't give a damn about Desmond and whether he lived or died, he just wanted the easiest route to the information that "they" probably wanted. That required Desmond conscious, but it wasn't a necessity. The codger wouldn't put up with anything that was too much effort to control, so Desmond would have to be very careful in any arguments, lest he end up in a coma to do all this fact-finding. There was nothing to work with in that hand.

Which just left Lucy Stillman, hot blond with ethics. She would do what was asked of her, but fight for humane practices. That was something he could work with. Desmond leaned back. He was a bartender after all. He could offer a sympathetic ear and wise advice. Befriend her and convince her to do something to give him a little more freedom. Perhaps leave his door open and then he could snoop around files and try and figure out more of what was going on around him.

... Or even where the hell he was...

Desmond glanced at the cameras in his room.

Speaking of snooping, a prisoner would be looking for methods of escape. So he might as well look around his room for those watching him.

Getting up he started to investigate his minimalist environment.

The ceilings were fairly high, Desmond estimated ten or twelve feet. Tapping the walls showed minimalist sheeting. It didn't even seem like standard drywall, but some sort of metal, meaning he couldn't punch through to access the wiring or plumbing behind the walls. No hacking that way. The recessed lighting in the walls seemed to be mounted from behind the walls, since even when Desmond pulled out one of the fluorescent bulbs, he couldn't see any screws or nails for attachment. Nothing to get his fingers on. At best the bulbs would be sharp glass, but they wouldn't do what he needed them to in the long term.

The piping in the bathroom was partially exposed and might make for a good weapon if he could somehow get it off. That was also looking unlikely with the number of brackets that seemed to be supporting it to the wall. They build this place to last.

... Or hold a prisoner...

The only things provided that he could move around in his room were the towels in the bathroom and the small set of toiletries in the nightstand by the bed.

He was on the metal chair in the shower stall looking around the shower-head for what sort of supports it might have when the door to his room beeped.

He leaped down with the grace of always climbing chairs to get wines on the upper shelves and went into his room.

An armed guard had a gun pointed in his direction; Desmond easily held up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. No resistance from him.

Not yet, anyway.

The guard set a tray of something on his glass desk, then backed out of the room. The door shut with a digital "ha-ha", and Desmond was locked in again. He waited a moment before cautiously walking over.

What he saw made his stomach growl.

"At least I'm allowed to eat."

Not that it was much of a meal. Bland looking and only barely warm, he shoved down the tasteless food. They needed him functioning and he needed himself functioning.

Once done, Desmond decided that he'd done all he could for the day. A good night's sleep was just as necessary as regular meals after all. So he washed up and went to the closet to change.

To find it locked.

"Are you kidding me? I can't even change?"

Desmond let out a tired sigh. His clothes were still clean. Years of the farm and "leave no evidence" had made him a very neat eater, but it was the principle of the thing.

Guess he was going to bed in his clothes.

He tried not to think of his father, their last fight, the old fart's warnings and how they were... were true.

Blood blood everywhere but hidden washed away yet still there symbols must write this down must share this the next subject must know can't write no pens no pencils no quills no charcoal just fingers missing finger not missing finger must be coded codex coded blood writes he'll see it he has my blood he has my past symbols coded Chinese letters Japanese kanji eagle sharp eyes can see pictures maps warnings they can't hold me here death is my freedom blood dripping but such good paint

He stayed still as he startled awake and he saw red writing that confused him but he closed his eyes and slid back to sleep, the vision fading to nothingness.

The following morning Desmond woke slowly, trying to ease tension out of his body. Strange, normally such tension in his body indicated that he'd had a nightmare, but he didn't remember it. Did they slip something into his food? He normally remembered his dreams so clearly...

He blearily opened his eyes...

And saw the old bastard standing over him.

Desmond groaned, pulling away, "Gotta say," he said, voice still thick with sleep, "that's a little creepy Doc, waking up to you standing over me."

This whole situation wasn't bizarre enough. Really it wasn't. Now there was a freak that watched him sleep either in bed or flat on the Animus. Definitely a god complex.

"Been watching me sleep?" he asked, a bit more awake, if only for the creeped out feeling crawling through his veins.

"We're always watching you," Warden replied coldly. Not that Desmond needed the reminder. "Now get up. We've got a lot of work to do."

"Ooh, wonder who I get to kill today," Desmond shot back with bitter sarcasm as he sat up. Because a prisoner would fight back with the only thing he had. Words. Let his observers think he was helpless. He'd keep thinking. And since they couldn't monitor his thoughts, he would have the advantage.

Besides, he liked being snippy and sarcastic. It was resistance he could show and if he irritated the old codger enough, maybe he'd make a mistake.

"Don't be so cavalier," Warden snapped.

Desmond ranked a victory in his column.

"Your ancestors almost had the right idea, Mr. Miles."

Desmond stood and the door beeped to let them out to the Animus room where there was a tray of breakfast by the Animus all set up.

"If the deaths of a few people, evil people, no less, could save the lives of thousands more, well, it seems a small sacrifice."

Desmond looked at the plastic spoon for his cereal and lamented. Sure, prisoners in penitentiaries had the creativity to use a plastic spoon as a weapon, but that meant doing things that would take a while and Desmond had left the farm for a reason. He wanted to escape, not kill people. No matter how much his warden irritated him, Desmond didn't want to cross that line. Not if he didn't have to. So he quietly ate his cereal and drank his milk and juice from their plastic cups.

Ergh, no coffee, such cruelty.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?" Desmond asked. Did Warden have a touch of admiration for Desmond's ancestors? That might be useful...

"They didn't go far enough," the old coot replied, one arm behind him while the other swung at the elbow expansively. "To use a rather tired analogy, corruption is no different than cancer. Cut out the tumors, but fail to treat the source and, well... you're buying time, at best. There's no true change to be had without comprehensive, systemic intervention."

Right. God complex.

"Chemo for the masses."

Because mass murder always solves everything. Sure it does. Desmond looked down to his cereal to hide rolling his eyes. Yes, the world was messed up. There were a lot of bad people out there and, Desmond would agree, that some people needed to die, if for no other reason than because they were too dangerous. But he knew enough about history to know that if you killed someone, they became a martyr and someone just as terrible would rise to take their place. It was why he didn't see the point in being an assassin. Things didn't change that way.

Warden prattled on.

"Education, re-education, to be more precise. But it's not easy and it doesn't always take."

Oh, so dear Doctor Dickhead didn't believe in mass murder but mass brain-washing. Desmond grabbed a slice of toast and rolled his eyes again.

"Let me guess," he dripped sarcasm. "You've got a better solution." Desmond paused and cut back on the sarcasm. Quietly, but carefully he asked, "What is it then?"

Information. Knowledge. Spill the beans, doc.

Warden chuckled, one arm still behind his back, the other waving at the elbow. "Now that would be telling."

...Guess a victory got chalked up in the bastard's column as well.

Desmond finished his toast and cleaned his hands on the provided napkins, deftly tossing them to the garbage can under the cart that had his food. The old bastard had walked over to his raised desk and stared out the window, sipping his coffee (since of course his captors had coffee). "Hurry up, Mr. Miles, we don't have all day."

Stuffing down a growl, Desmond looked to Lucy who was at the monitor by the foot of the Animus. She glanced at him with a micro-expression and offered a sympathetic smile. "If you're done eating, let's get started."

Desmond looked at the curved Animus, and frowned.

Knowledge. It was all about knowledge. And maybe if he could figure out what this Altair guy was supposed to be after before his captors...

... He had to get on that thing.

He lay back on it and as the visor came up from his left, he felt pressure at the back of his skull and...

Desmond looked down at his anscestor's body surrounded by white fog and floating symbols.

"Just a moment, Desmond, and we'll have everything loaded."

"You know," he replied, "it's really off-putting when I'm surrounded by nothingness and your voices just kinda comes out of nowhere."

He looked down at the robes, noting that there wasn't any stains from the battle that he'd just watched his ancestor fight to save a fortress-home he'd never seen before. In fact, they were the same pristine white as when he'd first been in this waiting area.

Hm.

That meant there were things the Animus couldn't do.

"Are you ready, Desmond?"

"To spend a long string of DNA dying in order to get to that memory you want?" he replied sarcastically. "Sure thing. Wonder how long it'll take to bleed out."

Desmond took a breath to steady himself. He'd last left his ancestor being stabbed by the old teacher-man. He wondered how much that pain would disorient him this time.

The fog dissipated in a flash of white and Desmond was standing. In front of the leader of the Assassins. Looking down, he didn't even see blood.

... He was alive?

He was alive?

Altair was shocked to find himself whole. His last clear memory had been of the teacher, the closest thing he had to a father, stabbing him. Falling to the ground between Rauf and Abbas for a treachery that Altair did not believe he had committed. He had made a mistake, true, but treachery? Certainly his master thought more of him than that!

And yet he was whole.

"I am... alive." He looked up and around. He was in the library of the fortress, the usual room where Al Mualim did his work, taking reports, sending out orders, and making decisions. His master had often said that when surrounded by such knowledge, by researching all angles of what he wished to do, he was assured that he was making the right choice.

Before him, behind the simple wooden table, stood his teacher, centered in front of the great window, hands clasped behind him. His gaze was flat and revealed nothing and Altair could not make sense of what had occurred.

"But I saw you stab me..." Sharp pain, deep into his chest, piercing his diaphragm, grazing a lung, and burying into his heart. Darkness encroaching upon his vision, sound fading away. Not the sinking into unconsciousness, Altair was quite familiar with that sensation. But ice filling his veins, his heart's life-giving beat slowing, the strong smell of his own blood. And Al Mualim looking coldly down on him. "...Felt death's embrace..."

What had happened?

"You saw what I wanted you to see," his master said gently.

Altair straightened, surprised to not feel pain in his side.

Stepping forward, the teacher continued. "And then you slept the sleep of the dead." He leaned forward. "Of the womb, that you might awake and be reborn."

Altair blinked. "To what end?"

"Do you remember, Altair," his master said, walking around the table, "what it is the Assassin's fight for?"

"Peace," he replied promptly. "In all things."

"Yes," his mater nodded, a flash of pride on his face. "In all things. It is not enough to end the violence one man commits upon another. It refers to peace within as well."

This was the master Altair knew so well: one who lectured on philosophy and principles, how to better oneself to do one's work more efficiently. There was no coldness, no thrusting a knife to his innards, but the warmth of the father of the Order.

Al Mualim continued, "You cannot have one without the other."

"So it is said," Altair agreed.

"So it is," Al Mualim corrected harshly, anger twisting his face.

Altair did not reply. The master had shown anger on occasion over the years, but never a fury so closely banked as this, and never had the teacher ever had such harsh tone and words for Altair, the most promising, and then the best assassin of the brotherhood.

It was clear that Altair had erred. Badly. But looking back he could see no other options.

"But you, my son, have not found inner peace. It manifests in ugly ways. You are arrogant and overconfident."

Disappointment from the master was something that all within the Order dreaded. The teacher was strict, wise, and cared for them all. To fail him was a great shame, thus all within the brotherhood strove for perfection.

Altair did not care for the disappointment and fury held towards him by such a revered man.

He cared even less for such harsh criticisms. Especially since he'd had no peace once Adha had disappeared. Since then Altair had faced the worst of humanity and lived.

Inner peace? That was but a dream.

"Where you not the one to say that 'Nothing is true; everything is permitted'?"

Because Altair had taken those words to heart. It was the only thing that could make sense after the disappearance of Adha. If everything was permitted, then the atrocities he'd seen could be understood. If nothing was true, then all people were potential liars and traitors as Harash, the Order's second-in-command, now dead by Altair's blade, had been. It was the only thing that created order in all the chaos Altair had seen in the last year.

Al Mualim looked sadly at him. "You do not understand the true meaning of the phrase, my child." The teacher rounded the table to stand behind it again. "It does not give you the freedom to do as you wish, it is a knowledge meant to guide your senses, it expects a wisdom you clearly lack."

"... Then what is to become of me?" Altair asked with all deference.

"I should kill you for all the pain you have brought upon us. Malik thinks it only fair. Your life in exchange for his brother's-"

Altair understood that line of thinking. After all, he wanted the lives of those who had taken Adha away. But Altair did not wish to die.

"-but this would be a waste of my time and your talent."

Altair nodded to himself. As long as he was still useful for the teacher, Malik would not have that wish. Perhaps he could somehow heal that friendship. Altair still could not understand what had changed Malik so, but that was a question for another time.

Al Mualim walked around table again. "You'll see you have been stripped of your possessions. Your rank, as well. You are a novice. A child, once more, as you were on the day you first joined our Order. Born again to learn again."

That stung. Altair was in his second decade; he was not a child. He had worked hard to reach the rank he well and truly earned. Had he not suffered enough? What more humiliation would there be?

"I am offering you a chance at redemption. You'll earn your way back into the Brotherhood."

Redemption.

Al Mualim was offering redemption.

Altair would take that path. He would prove his worth again. Because this wizened teacher was all Altair had left that was steady and reliable.

"I assume you've something planned."

"First you must prove to me that you remember how to be an assassin." The teacher walked to back of desk once again. So much motion for this conversation, Al Mualim was displeased indeed.

"So you'd have me take a life." That would be simple.

"No. Not yet, at least." The master looked coldly at Altair again. "For now, you are to become a student once again."

Anger flared. "There is no need for this!" To go back so far... To a beginning that Altair didn't even remember... He truly would be... a novice.

And all this for a mistake that he still could not see.

"Others tracked your targets for you," the master continued, "but no more. From today on, you will track them yourself."

"If this is what you wish," Altair bowed his head, sullen at his new placement.

"It is." No room for argument.

"Then tell me what it is that I must do," he said, resigned and ready to work back to Al Mualim's good graces.

"We have been betrayed. Someone was assisting Robert de Sable. One of our own." The teacher leaned on desk, his face exhausted. "You must find him and bring him here for questioning."

Another traitor. Like Harash. How did de Sable's cursed men keep infiltrating the brotherhood? How?

"What can you tell me of the traitor?" Altair would not abide such treachery. The Order had suffered enough for it. Altair had things to say to such a betrayer.

"Aah, but that's just it." Al Mualim smiled, though it was not one of amusement or resignation, but of harsh cruelty. "I've given you all I will. The rest is up to you." The master turned to the window, a clear dismissal.

Altair kept his emotions tightly in control. Frustration mounted at having nothing. All he knew was that there was a traitor in their midst. The Order bore many members in Masyaf, numbers easily making half of the town's population. That made almost nine-hundred suspects! And he was to find but one! That was assuming that the traitor wasn't one of the townspeople who worked with the Order. Then that was over eighteen-hundred suspects.

The frustration of it all... was over-powering. Altair needed a moment, a moment to get all of this feeling under control. In one sweeping moment, his entire world had been shaken and pulled out from under him. He could never recall being on such unsteady footing with everything.

So Altair did as he always did when seeking solitude. He retreated to the highest parapets of the fortress.

It was too much to take in.

The demotion was humiliating. He had not even his hidden blade, the one weapon that he'd born for over a decade, the most reliable and swift weapon his arsenal. He had no resources now. All his hard work to become the best of the Order and now he was back to the very bottom. Even lower because no novice was his age. Not even apprentices were his age.

And Altair would have to bow and scrape to every one of them.

Al Mualim sought to teach him humility.

Altair's pride bristled at the very idea. His work was now that much harder.

Letting out a long sigh, he looked to the afternoon sun.

The anger at the demotion was understandable. But it was not the primary source. No, the reason he raged at his situation was to avoid the confusion.

Altair had been dead. Dead. He was certain. He hadn't just felt death's embrace, he had been smothered by it. Yet here he was, alive, whole, and there was no sign of any injury. Al Mualim had said that he slept the sleep of the dead. Of the womb. So had he died or not?

You saw what I wanted you to see.

What did that mean? Was Altair simply put to rest to heal? Was it weeks, months later that he had to investigate? For such an injury would take much time to heal. Yet Altair doubted the possibility, for his muscles were as toned and sharp as he remembered. Such a long convalescence would have left him weakened and in need of building strength again.

So what had happened? Al Mualim had shown him a lie? A possibility of what would be if Altair continued on some path that he wasn't aware of? That was unlike his master. The teacher used logic and examples, experience and situations. He did not present lies in his lessons. Just facts that his students needed to figure out.

And if that was just a possible path, why did Al Mualim look so coldly upon him when thrusting in the blade? Al Mualim weighed every death carefully. He would not revel or rejoice at a death. He would merely see it as a solemn necessity. To smile at death was to become your enemy.

It was all so confusing.

So Altair focused on his anger at his position. That was easy to understand. Easy to use. Fury and rage were weapons one honed into cold determination.

Altair would finish this task given him. He would prove his worthiness.

And perhaps by then, the confusion would be forgotten.

But deep, deep in Altair's heart, beneath everything he was aware of within his own mind, at the very foundation where he'd built his beliefs based on his unwavering trust of the great teacher Al Mualim, a tiny crack formed.

Altair proceeded, unaware of the small fissure. Unaware of how it would grow.

Altair did not leap to the haystacks below. His emotions were once more his own to control and utilize, and there was one meeting he wished before going out to Masyaf and starting his investigation. And since the person he wanted to see was likely within the upper areas of the fortress, it would be more efficient to climb back down the standard way.

Besides, a novice could not do a leap of faith.

And though he raged against it, Altair was now a novice.

He let out a sigh and silently walked through the halls, reaching a tower that held the physicians of the fortress.

His purpose here was two fold. First it was to check upon his old and now bitterly estranged friend Malik. From that, he would be able to gauge how much time had passed since being stabbed by the master.

He stuck to the shadows, not wishing to intrude when so many physicians and apprentices were scurrying about, until he found a lone physician, leaning against a wall and sipping from a cup of water.

"Safety and peace," Altair greeted, emerging from the darkness to stand in the light of the window.

The physician startled, though in a barely noticeable way before turning.

"Ah, our newest novice," the man said scornfully. "Have you injured yourself already?"

Altair bit back his first, second and third response before quietly saying, "I wish to know the condition of Malik A-Sayf."

"That is knowledge above your station, novice."

Altair said nothing, merely staring at the man.

The physician glowered right back, but he could not maintain it as Altair could. He turned, looking out the window. "The Order knows of your demotion, novice. Al Mualim has informed us of the need to teach you humility."

"Humility is not granted by simply leaving one in ignorance if one asks a question," Altair replied, holding the hot anger back from his voice.

"No. But it is taught by making one work for the answer. Al Mualim thought you might come here. Tell me, novice, have you completed the mission that our leader has given you?"

Altair said nothing.

"I thought not. We do as Al Mualim wills before all else." The physician glanced back to the demoted assassin. "Yet in my opinion, your coming here first speaks more of you than completing any assassination. The others are wrong. There may be hope for you."

"I care not what others think of me."

"That can be a help and a hindrance. At the moment, you bear it as a hindrance."

Altair let out a long sigh. "I did not come here for lectures or conversation. Will you tell me of Malik A-Sayf's condition or not?"

"Arrogant indeed," the physician replied. "I will say that it is serious. We've had but a day to tend to him and he needs much tending. If he survives such a grievous injury or not, that shall be up to him."

Altair looked down. He closed his eyes and allowed a moment to worry and grieve. But it passed in a moment. Malik was far too stubborn to follow Kadar in death. That was enough.

"My thanks, brother."

"Safety and peace," the physician replied. "Novice."

Altair grated his teeth and left. He had a hopeless investigation to start.

At least he knew that not much time had passed. The trail would still be fresh, if he could but find it.

And, disturbingly, the physician was unsurprised to find Altair whole. That meant Al Mualim's stabbing of him was some sort of illusion.

Altair pushed such thoughts from his mind as he exited the fortress and walked past the training ring. The injured were still there, already treated by the Order's physicians and those still needed aide likely within the walls. Those that were there were clearly resting before starting the long walk down the mountain to the town. Novices and apprentices were flitting about, offering aide to those who were ready and water or food for those who were not.

He supposed he should be grateful that he at least didn't have to do such trivial things. Altair's mission to ferret out their traitor was at least important, unlike helping the masses.

At the fortress's entrance, a journeyman stood in his grey tangelmust, scanning the crowds. As Altair approached, he stepped forward.

"Safety and peace, Altair."

"You're in my way."

"Yes, Al Mualim has asked that I assist you. Remind you how it is we hunt our prey." The journeyman's tangelmust hid all but his eyes, which glanced down. Altair held back a smirk. It seemed that despite his demotion he was still respected.

"I know how it works," he replied with contempt. Was he truly to be treated as a novice by the entire Order?

"Be that as it may, I have no desire to disobey," was the quiet, almost timid response. This, at least, Altair could understand. One did not disobey Al Mualim.

"Then be quick."

"The assassyun have many tools at their disposal-" the journeyman started to lecture. As if Altair was truly a novice.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. A full lecture would take time and he had a trail to find and then follow. He may have to suffer the humiliation of being viewed as a novice, but he would not let it slow him down. "We can eavesdrop; we can pickpocket or we can use violence to intimidate."

"Good! You remember." The journeyman let out a small sigh of relief.

"So you'd have me walk amongst the others and learn what I can about the traitor," Altair continued in a condescending tone. The journeyman had done nothing to earn Altair's ire, but the demoted assassin dared not talk back to Al Mualim. Indeed, he would do well not to talk back to anyone. But one's tone could always be misinterpreted.

"Yes. Begin by going to the village market. That's where we first spotted the traitor."

... Spotted? Al Mualim already knew who the traitor was? And yet he was sending Altair on this fool's errand? There was no efficiency in this! It was a waste of the Order's time and his talents!

"You know who it is?" he demanded.

"Perhaps." The journeyman leaned back and for a brief moment, looked proud to have an advantage over the best assassin in the brotherhood.

"Then give me a name and let's be done with it." Enough wasting time.

"That's not the way it works. Al Mualim wishes you to learn, and this is the lesson he has presented for you." The journeyman was looking down again, humble once more. "Now go." Swiftly, the informant turned and headed back to the fortress.

Altair took a moment to let his rage boil before banking it and setting off swiftly down the mountain.

He walked amongst the people, blending with the other assassin whites of the crowd as he and other rafiq and dai headed to town. Journeymen and apprentices were still helping the citizens down the mountain often taking breaks or respite. Altair only glanced at them long enough to recognize his fellow members of the Order. He had made a point, despite his many missions away from Masyaf, to know every member of the Order at least by face.

Once in the first stretches of town, Altair easily broke from the crowd and climbed a ladder to the rooftops. If he was to truly observe and find a trail, being above was the best place to be. Most did not think to look up, after all. And Altair could conceal his presence with such ease that even upper ranking journeymen would not know he was there.

Making his way from rooftop to rooftop, Altair observed the crowds below, suspicious of all. The assassins, he recognized. Most who were down in the towns were the journeymen and apprentices. The senior assassins, rafiq and dai were still mostly in the fortress, tending their own. Those that were down in the town were talking with merchants, likely evaluating stocks and costs for repair, since the Order of Assassin's had agreed to pay part of any repairs incurred due to Order business. The merchants came to Masyaf to have a safe and quiet place to do business with the understanding that trouble could come. It was an agreement that had worked well thus far.

Altair briefly wondered if Al Mualim was going to have to renegotiate with the merchants after this skirmish, but dismissed the thought as it didn't truly concern him.

Leaping easily from higher rooftops to another set a level lower on the mountain, Altair paused.

The bulk of the people moving about town were... the citizens. And Altair did not know any of them. The only interactions he'd had with the townsfolk were the merchants he dealt with directly that handled his equipment. The tanner, the blacksmith, the apothecary, the stable-master. Those faces he knew. The others were all strangers to him. He did not visit the inn for meals, as fellow assassin's would, nor did he have family in town.

Altair frowned. If he did not know them, he did not have a measure of them.

... That was worrisome.

Depending how long he was chained to Masyaf, doing Al Mualim's tasks of redemption, he would need to make a concentrated effort to recognize faces as he did with the Order. Not knowing the faces of people in Beirut or Amman was understandable. Those cities were massive. But to not know the people of his very home? Unacceptable.

It would seem Altair had become complacent. This would change.

He continued down the rooftops until he reached the market square, small and next to the mountain, the mid-afternoon sun was starting to stretch shadows, providing a cool respite. In fact, in one of those shadows were two people who should not be there.

Altair frowned heavily. One bore the white hood of a senior assassin, such as himself. The other bore a black robe like Al Mualim, an older assassin likely retired to be a rafiq or dai. But the hood pulled up suggested one who might still do assassinations from time to time. After all, a hood was only ever pulled back when one no longer needed to hide from the kills one performed.

With such skilled assassins just standing in the shade, leaning against a well like a pair of gossip mongers, Altair recognized what they were doing.

They were waiting for him.

This was how the most beginning novice would learn to eavesdrop. A "mission" would be set up and the novice would have to listen in without anyone noticing and report what he'd learned.

Altair was on a roof above them, completely hidden, and yet they did not start the conversation he needed to hear.

Because a novice would not hide so well.

Altair chaffed and grated at the restrictions on him, but retreated to find a ladder. He climbed down swiftly and blended with the crowds heading into the market until he found a lone bench in the sun. He'd have stood out horribly were it not for an apprentice who was helping a tired old woman take a brief rest. As Altair sat, he reached down and petted the woman's dog, offering it a piece of dried meat from one of his pouches, which made the woman turn to him to thank him for his kindness.

The senior assassin in the shade nodded.

"I know what I saw," he said quietly to the rafiq. "Masun opened the gate, he let the Templars in."

The rafiq replied, "Then you must tell Al Mualim."

Altair hid a scoff by commanding the dog to sit and then lie down. This conversation was very clearly put on for his benefit. Still, he had what he needed. The traitor was a man named Masun. There was nothing more to learn here. Once the two departed, he would find Masun and drag him to Al Mualim.

"I can't," the senior assassin said emphatically. "Masun did not act alone. Someone inside the fortress helped him."

That caught Altair's ear, however. Another traitor? How was it that betrayal had become a disease in the Order? First Harash, now this.

"What makes you say this?" the rafiq asked.

"He exchanges letters with someone inside. The basket-weaver carries them for him."

Altair rubbed the dog's belly, looking at his mental map of Masyaf. He had passed the basket-weaver on his way down. It would be simple to find.

"That's no reason to stay silent."

Indeed.

"Bah, but the weaver delivered him a letter just before the attack. I suspect it held the order to open the gate."

Altair gave an extra piece of dried meat to the dog. If he could obtain the letter, it would be evidence. More proof to Al Mualim that he could do his job.

"Then speak to the weaver," the rafiq said wisely, "He can name Masun's accomplice."

"He's disappeared," the senior assassin replied. "Hiding for fear of being dragged into this."

"Hehn. Probably inside one of his own baskets." They both chuckled, glancing at Altair with the briefest of micro-expressions before separating and joining the crowds.

He gave the dog one last treat, silently accepted the old woman's thanks and swiftly found a ladder to reach the rooftops once more.

He found the basket-weaver's shop easily. He stayed on the roof opposite, looking at the empty stall as the sun continued to march down. Altair sat to think. There was no basket-weaver. It was possible that he was hidden, as the conversation he "eavesdropped" indicated, or delivering another message, or simply getting wares from another stall and replenishing what was lost in the Templars attack.

It was hard to say.

There were several options before him. He could wait until the weaver arrived, search the stall since the weaver was not there, or search the village.

Altair frowned heavily. He could not search the village for the basket-weaver, as he didn't know what he looked like. He truly needed to get to know the villagers, at least by face if nothing else.

So, with a quiet sigh, Altair retreated from the stall to find a ladder once more, intent to search the stall and shop to find the traitorous letters that might lead him to Masun's accomplice.

To his consternation, the nearest ladder was farther away than he preferred, but as long as he wasn't noticed, all was well. He blended into the crowds once more, heading to the basket-weaver's stall.

Altair was surprised when he arrived to see that the basket-weaver was there, and fending off a desperate townswoman.

"Please, just one!" the woman begged. "We lost everything in the attack and have no place to store our grain."

"I...I can't right now... I-I'm busy," the weaver stuttered. Altair grinned from down the street, leaning easily against a building to appear to be resting in the shade. The weaver was nervous. He realized that he was in the middle of something big and scared of being caught. As he well should be.

"Is this about the letter?" the woman asked, confused.

Letter? Altair's grin widened. Proof. He would get the letter and have proof of Masun's treachery and perhaps a name of the assassin who had betrayed them. He would be back in Al Mualim's good graces by the end of the day.

"W-w-what letter?" The weaver looked around nervously.

"The letter you received when I got here. Bad news?" the woman was concerned.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Listen, I'll see what I can do, but please. I need to be alone right now. Come back later."

"As you wish."

The woman left, looking confused and somewhat upset about not getting what she needed for her grains. Altair paid her no mind, his eyes, ears, and very being locked onto the basket-weaver who went through the motions of closing shop, despite it being mid-afternoon. Looking around nervously, the weaver checked his pouch for a third time before hesitantly heading off up the windy path of the mountain. Altair became a white shadow, shifting from crowd to crowd easily as he approached, looking away only when the weaver turned around suspiciously.

So nervous. Paranoia made the weaver's senses heighten, but that meant nothing to Altair. He was the best of the best. He walked up, easily lifted the whole pouch, and was disappearing up a ladder to a rooftop before the weaver even thought something was wrong.

Altair pulled the sole letter out of the pouch, eager to see the name of the other traitor.

Brother,

I fear our plans have been discovered and we can no longer meet. Best you disappear before Al Mualim's men find you. They must not learn of my betrayal or everything we've worked for will be undone. I've left some coin for you near the dead Cyprus tree. Take it and head for Damascus. Loose yourself amongst the people there. When things have settled I'll contact you again.

As for I, I cannot leave here knowing Al Mualim continues to deny the freedom of these people. A new world is coming. One without war, without fear or pain, so I must help them anyway I can. You'll probably believe me foolish, but I must remain in Masyaf. I'll be near the center of the village on the stage calling out to my brother's and sisters. Maybe I can make the listen. Maybe I can make them understand.

May the Father of Understanding Guide You.

Altair's eyes narrowed as he read the letter again. Masun knew the assassins were on to him and was advising his accomplice to vanish. Indeed, Masun intended to pay his associate's way. The first part was what Altair expected of such a filthy traitor.

But the second part was infuriating. Al Mualim, denying freedom? Al Mualim provided freedom! How dare this knave speak of such things he clearly did not understand? A new world? Masun must have been bewitched by false words and idealist promises that would never come true. It was impossible to have a world without fear or pain. The Assassin's worked towards peace, but the ultimate goal was self-determination. Let people choose their paths. Most would choose wisely, but some would not. Those who did not use wisdom would harm others. It was inevitable. And those who went too far would face an assassin's blade.

Altair put the anger aside. The letter was clear proof for Al Mualim. That was what was important. As for who the other traitor was, well. Altair was quite good at intimidation and interrogation.

The stage it was then. Altair winded his way up, from rooftop to rooftop, scaling walls as necessary given the steep climb of the mountain. He stayed on the roofs this time, looking for Masun. The traitor was indeed on the stage, surrounded by a small crowd of a dozen as he spoke passionately to them.

"I see the way you look at me," he said heatedly. "I hear the things you say. Traitor! I'm not a traitor, it is Al Mualim who's betrayed us!" Altair, along with most of the crowd, scoffed. "You'll see. Soon all of your eyes will be opened to the truth. We stand upon the threshold between this world and a new one, a better place where all might live as equals!" Some of the crowd laughed out loud. "But men like Al Mualim would see this dream destroyed!"

Altair shook his head. This fool was so... stupid. And fanatical.

"Yesterday's attack was but the first," Was that a threat? Altair thirsted for his blade. "And more will follow unless you repent. Give up your wicked ways, rise up against the madman of Masyaf. See through his lies!"

The crowd booed him some picking up loose stones to throw at him. Altair could not stop the smile.

Masun tried a few more minutes to convince them, but to no avail. He threw up his hands in defeat and stalked off, heading to the shaded street that lead to the dead Cyprus tree. No doubt seeking to deliver the coins he promised to whoever his fellow traitor was.

Altair smiled. The dead Cyprus tree was isolated with a small wall that would ensure privacy.

It was all too easy. Altair attacked once Masun was crouched under the dead tree, ramming his skull fiercely into the mountainside, then pulling him up to thrust a knee into the traitors groin. A swift punch under the ribs, as Altair's personal vengeance for the betrayal was he was able to give before Masun gave up without throwing a single punch back.

"Enough! I yield! I yield!"

"Speak quickly then," Altair growled. "I have no interest in your games. Why did you betray us and who do you serve?"

"We serve the Templars," Masun replied, coughing and clutching at his groin, his voice higher. "You should too. Their cause is just."

Altair didn't even dignify the idiocy of that with a response. "We?"

"Jamal," the traitor groaned. "He told me of their plans; asked me to open the gate."

Through the basket-weaver. But Altair already knew this. It was not what he wanted to know.

"You betrayed us," he snarled. "We, who called you brother and kept you safe from harm."

"I did what I believed was right." Altair frowned. The man had taken leave of his senses. "And if you must kill me for it, so be it. I am not afraid to die."

That gave Altair pause. Masun was willing to die for what he believed in, insane as it was. Against his will, Altair gave a little respect for that. After all, he believed in Al Mualim and would die if needs be to further the teacher's goals. "Your fate is not for me to decide. It is Al Mualim who will judge."

Altair briefly wondered if Al Mualim would use an illusion on this man as he had on Altair, but pushed that aside swiftly.

Though Masun clearly had difficulty walking, Altair grabbed his arm and dragged him up the mountainside, refusing to heed his pleas to go slowly or to have a moment to recover from the beating.

The guards of the fortress let him in without a word and Altair showed none of the pride he felt as he had solved the mystery in less than an afternoon. Al Mualim would favor him once more for this. He had proven he could do investigations. Altair would have his rank and respect back and then he would go after de Sable.

Al Mualim was in the library once more, though this did not surprise Altair. Indeed, the master seemed to have been waiting. A sword was in his hand as he faced the window behind the table. Altair kicked Masun's legs out from under him, making the traitor kneel, firmly grasping the shoulder so the traitor would not run.

The teacher didn't turn, but started speaking.

"You stand accused of betraying our brotherhood and opening the way for our enemies," he said, turning slightly. "How do you answer these charges?"

"I deny nothing," Masun said hotly. "I am proud of what I did. My only regret is that they failed." Altair's grip tightened.

"I offer you a chance to repent," Al Mualim continued softly, "to renounce the evil in your heart."

"It is not evil in my heart," the traitor bit out, "but truth. I will not repent. There is nothing to repent."

"Then you will die," Al Mualim said heavily. He raised the sword with both hands and drove it down through the soft tissues of Masun's neck, piercing the heart between the ribs, blood gushing out as the sword came out just above the hip and chipped the floor beneath. The murder was done with the grace of a true master.

Masun didn't even cry out as his head slumped forward, his body unable to due to the sword piercing and supporting his torso. Al Mualim held the sword there before bracing a hand at the bloody neck and yanking the long blade out, finally letting Masun's body fall to the floor. The soft thud seemed to be a signal as two apprentices came in to remove the carcass. A third was behind them with cloth, kneeling to mop up the mess.

"You did well, Altair," Al Mualim said quietly. He handed the bloody sword to the Altair, "and have earned the right to carry a blade once more."

He took the blade, taking a cloth offered from the apprentice and wiped it clean. "What will become of the one who helped him?" Perhaps Altair was to be sent to kill him.

"That remains to be seen," Al Mualim said coolly, walking behind the table. "Some do ill out of ignorance or fear. These men can be saved," he turned to face Altair, "Others suffer from corrupted wills, their minds poisoned and twisted. These men must be destroyed." Altair was vaguely surprised at the vehemence in the teacher's voice, but said nothing. "Soon enough we'll know what sort of man Jamal is."

Altair nodded. His investigation did not show Jamal's reasoning. Of course there would need to be an interview. Regardless.

"I've passed your test, then. What now?"

Al Mualim chuckled. "Aah, my child, we've only just begun." Altair hid back a bristle as Al Mualim picked up a scroll. "I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die. They are plague-bringers, war makers," he set the list down. "Their power and influence corrupts the land and ensures the Crusades continue. You will find them; kill them. In doing so you'll sow the seeds of peace, both for the region, and for yourself. In this way, you might be redeemed." The apprentice bowed and left.

"Nine lives in exchange for mine." Altair nodded. His life was worth many, after all. And it would restore his place. In this, he had no complaints. He may be doing things in a more time-consuming fashion, but he was still back to assassinating. He could show his skill once more.

"A most generous offer, I think. Have you any questions?" the teacher went to the small pigeon coop kept in the library.

"Only where I need begin," he replied, resigned to doing things the hard way, but grateful that he could finally do things. Once out in a large city, he could go back to doing things the way he wished.

"Very well. Ride for Damascus. Seek out the black market merchant named Tamir. Let him be the first to fall," Al Mualim pulled out a pigeon, stroking it gently. "Be sure to visit the city's Assassin Bureau when you arrive. I'll dispatch a bird to inform the rafiq of your arrival. Speak with him. You'll find he has much to offer." He let the bird out of a window that had been opened to ward off the afternoon heat.

"If you believe it best," Altair said respectfully.

"I do. Besides, you cannot begin your mission without his consent." Al Mualim gave a cold smile.

"What nonsense is this?" Altair demanded hotly. "I don't need his permission, it's a waste of time."

"It's the price you pay for the mistakes you've made. You answer not only to me, but all the brotherhood as well now." It was a sharp reminder that he was still considered a novice.

"So be it." The rafiq would not be there for everything Altair did. He could still do as he wished.

"Take your equipment and go," Al Mualim turned to the window. "Prove that you are not yet lost to us." The dismissal was clear.

Altair picked up the sheath for the sword and attached it to his belt. Once sheathed, he delicately picked up his hidden blade, checking the sharpness, the spring, the leather and metal guards. Everything was as it should be with his hidden blade, and it felt so good to have it back on his arm.

Turning, Altair headed down to the stables. He had work to do.

Author's Note: When you play the game, you don't always get an idea of Desmond. He just sort of wanders around and stays silent. But we have to believe that he's not just quietly doing what he's told and saying "Yessir". He has to be trying to assess his situation and planning escape. Plus it was fun to put in little things like actual eating. ^_^

Frankly, I'm not sure what to say about this chapter, we're all focused on the Weather Channel and trying to figure out if Hurricane Irene is going to decimate us tomorrow or not. . Sorry, not much to say as a result.