Part Five: History of Slaughter
"Out of the machine, Mr. Miles."
Suddenly the white fog was there and gone in the blink of an eye, and then the visor was removing itself. Desmond shot up into a sitting position, his head swimming in disorientation. He rubbed his face, his cheeks, his neck; he could feel dry sweat all along his temples. He breathed deeply. His hands were shaking. Breathe. Breathe. There was no blood on his hands. None. Clean. Dry.
Shakily, he threw a glance at the grizzled old man in a lab coat and threw out, "What's the matter, doc?"
"Miss Stillman," Warren growled, "is once again insisting I let you rest."
And with a great huff and what Desmond would have laid money on as a grunt, the doc turned on his heel and stalked out of the enormous white room, an angry slouch in his shoulders and a distinctive stomp in his step.
"So," Desmond drawled once the door to freedom had closed with the doc's departure, "feel like telling me who put the stick up his ass?"
Lucy took a seat in a white upholstered chair, one of two in the room. She was still looking at her tablet, but she glanced up to answer. "We have a deadline: One week. Well, six days, now."
"Deadline?"
She looked away. "I can't talk about it."
Wasn't she supposed to be nice? Wasn't she supposed to be sympathetic? But she was still with Abstergo, the god-complex freak Warren and therefore still a "bad guy."
"They won't take kindly to what you've done..."
Something inside of Desmond snapped.
"... Man, put yourself in my shoes," he growled, his feet starting to pace, "I'm being held hostage by a group of scientists - at least I think you're scientists - and forced to spend all day in some crazy ass machine. You won't tell me what you're looking for or why you want it, but I'm supposed to be thanking you for keeping me alive! This is so fucked!"
Lucy looked at him, her eyes carefully blank.
Desmond got defensive. "Sorry, but it is!"
She put the tablet down on the arm of the chair and leaned back, suddenly looking tired. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Hm, let's see," Desmond drawled, "I don't know, maybe give me some answers?"
She sighed. "I can't. And it's better this way." She picked up her tablet. "Safer."
That only irritated him further. "Safer for who?" he demanded.
She leveled a calm look at him. "Both of us."
Desmond growled, running his hands through his hair, and all but fell into the second chair, collapsing into its almost-soft depths. He stared at his hands again, all ten fingers, no blood, no dying man in his arms glaring at him. "I... I killed him," he whispered. Hands turned into fists and he pressed them into his eyes. "It wasn't me, it was that fucking ancestor, but it was me... I just..." They were shaking; he couldn't understand why there wasn't blood on them. "I still feel the thrust... I, he... he pierced the lung. That guy was choking on his own blood and..." His entire body shivered, the cold temperature of the room coursing threw him. "And he took it so seriously..." he muttered, shoving his elbows onto his knees, eyes looking at nothing. "That's worse than when he doesn't care, because he gets it, got it, whatever. He knew it but he still did it..."
How? How could anybody understand what death was, what it took to kill someone, and still do it? Desmond knew and the idea of killing people petrified him, he didn't want that kind of responsibility on his shoulders, and he didn't want to try and justify it was for the "greater good," for "peace in all things." How did one equate to the other? And how the hell could his ancestor believe it so completely? How could anybody believe that the murder of one person justified peace on a grand scale, how could anyone make that kind of judgment?
He shuddered.
It felt like hours later when he was finally able to pull himself together. The sun was much lower in the sky, but Lucy was still in her chair, working.
He... He'd been an ass earlier. The shock of the memory and the stress of the confinement, his emotions had gotten the better of him and he'd taken it all out on her, her, the one hope he had of getting out of here. Desmond internally groaned at his idiocy, and resolved to fix it. That she was still here had to mean something, right?
He re-crossed his legs and rubbed the back of his neck, taking a deep breath.
"Hey, you know what?" he asked, "I got a question I think you can actually answer." Desmond mentally winced at the sarcasm. He'd wanted to sound good humored.
"What's up?" she asked, looking up from her tablet. Desmond was surprised that she didn't look guarded or weary after his outburst.
"Why is it that sometimes the guys in there? Talk like they're from the future."
" 'The future?' " she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Great job at being clear, Desmond. He pinched his brow. "Yeah, I mean the present. Now, today... whatever." God, he sounded like an idiot.
"You've probably noticed that English his become the official language of the Holy Land," Lucy offered, her face suddenly understanding.
"Yeah, I was gonna say..."
Lucy put down her tablet on the arm of the chair. "The Animus is translating speech it deems vital into more modern English, so expect a few anachronisms. I could probably make it more authentic but... You ever read Chaucer?"
Like he had a standard, public education. "Who?" he asked, feeling the fool.
"... Yeah. Definitely not for you." She picked up her tablet again, a smirk on her lips, and Desmond somehow new he was being teased.
Shortly after this a guard arrived with dinner. Lucy took a ham and cheese sandwich and Desmond was left with dry tuna and no mayo. He made a face at the lack of taste, and the blond smirked again, re-crossing her legs before wiping her hands on a napkin.
"Can you tell me more about Abstergo?" Desmond asked, forcing himself to eat. "And what goes on here? Beyond the whole keeping-me-prisoner thing."
"Abstergo is one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. Their primary focus is antidepressants. There's some information on the computer over there," she added, gesturing vaguely to the Animus. Desmond looked at it hesitantly.
"But you already said this isn't about testing a drug. So what's the deal?"
"I don't like where this is going," Lucy said in a sudden flat voice, throwing her eyes up to glance at him before once more focusing on her tablet.
"So it's safe to assume the Animus is not a part of their public face," Desmond said, taking one last bite before putting a chin into his palm.
"What, you haven't seen the commercials?" Lucy asked, a smile on her face.
"Oh, my god," Desmond said, grinning right back, "she has a sense of humor." He wiped his hands and the guard took the trays and plates away, disappearing to through the door.
"I'm sorry, Desmond," she said once the man was gone. "I've got a lot of work to do." Something in her voice was different, not quite strained, but... meaningful. "Like I said, if you want to know more about the company, take a look at the computer." A ghost of a smile crossed her face, a microexpression he could read. "The telecommunication stuff is particularly interesting."
...
Victory! Desmond had to very quickly cover his wide grin with a hand, rubbing his chin and scratching his stubble. An ally, he had an ally! No maybe, no finagling, an honest to god ally! He waited a beat before getting up and casually walking over to the computer. He eyed it wearily, knowing it was hooked up to the Animus. "So, I won't screw this thing up if I browse around?"
Lucy was smirking again. "So long as you don't click on the Animus icon, I imagine you'll be just fine," she answered.
Turning off the screensaver, he took a moment to eye the desktop, looking for anything useful. The Animus icon he steadfastly avoided, but opening up an applications window he started to explore. Text editor, spreadsheet program, email, folders on "P.O.E." that were password protected, ah, a satellite icon. That probably meant telecommunications. Double clicking, he was taken to a website that spewed techno babble at him. There was a launch coming up, Desmond was able to get that, and the whole company was in a mad dash to get everything ready, using P.O.E., whatever they were, and looking for more of them. Desmond didn't know what P.O.E. stood for, but he felt satisfaction in knowing what Abstergo was looking for. Similarly, he knew what to keep an eye out for when he was in the Animus. It was a huge help, and when he glanced over at Lucy, blithely studying her tablet he could only smirk and silently thank her.
He got as far as he cold without the passwords, and he ended off with clicking on the email. He wasn't a computer whiz by any stretch of the imagination, but he did know a thing or two about TCP/IP. It didn't take long to learn that Abstergo computers ran on a closed LAN, there was no connection to the outside. Great, just great.
The emails themselves looked like they were purged every month, there was nothing before September first, and only three in the inbox. He threw a glance over at Lucy, a little guilty that he was reading her personal mail, but figured she probably wanted him to have free reign. He clicked on the one that looked the least harmful, the one from Warren Vidic (a last name! Finally!) about a pen. Apparently the old fart kept dropping his pen (which doubled as an access-key? That would be useful, he knew a thing or two about pickpocketing...). Another email was Lucy asking about the threat Vidic had made yesterday about Leila. It was obvious from the response that no questions were to be asked.
The last email was much longer. It had attached some kind of privacy agreement on it, and Desmond had to read it twice before the legal double talk made sense.
"You acknowledge and agree that ABSTERGO has developed such Confidential Information by the investment of significant time, effort and expense, and that such Confidential Information provides ABSTERGO with a significant competitive advantage in its business. You acknowledge and agree that breach of this Agreement by You will therefore result in irreparable harm to ABSTERGO, the extent of which would be difficult to ascertain, and in any event money damages will be inadequate as a remedy in the event of such a breach. Accordingly, You agree that in the event of a breach of this Agreement by You, ABSTERGO shall be entitled to injunctive, or any other equitable relief as the court deems appropriate, in addition to any other remedies which it may have available."
"Whoa," he muttered, once he finally wrapped his head around the legalese. Money damages weren't adequate? Injunctive or equitable relief in addition to other remedies? Desmond was no idiot; he could read between the lines. If someone violated the privacy policy, the company basically could do anything it wanted as restitution. That meant... if they caught Lucy helping him...
He turned to look at the blond, tapping away at her tablet before pushing her hands over her head in a long overdue stretch. She was taking a huge risk.
He felt grateful.
Finished with her stretch, Lucy reluctantly pulled herself out of her chair. "Aren't you tired?" she asked. She threw a look at the computer, and Desmond once again understood what she meant.
"Yeah," he said, making a show of rubbing his eyes. "I'm getting ready to turn in. I'm sure my cell will be happy to take me."
"Always room at the inn, right?" she said, picking up her tablet and walking over to the computer, Desmond stepping aside and giving her access. She deftly closed all programs and wiped the cache memory before powering down. The blond turned and looked at him, her face soft even in the harsh florescent light.
The pair nodded, and Desmond walked around the Animus to his room, Lucy turning and moving to the exit.
the TRUTH need tell the truth must pass it on to the next subject it's all in the ANIMUS in the memory in the blood in the past I've seen it all nothing is true but this is true and they need to know so that they don't destroy everything it's all a lie twisted by history twisted by them twisted by perception only the blood knows the truth and I have to pass it on if it's in the blood then I'll use the blood it's only fair they drained my soul so I'll drain my body and pass on the truth the symbols the double fingerprint that isn't a fingerprint it's in their plans...
"Let's go Mr. Miles, time's wasting."
He groaned, rolling over in his bed before admitting defeat. Sighing, he sat up and pulled his sweatshirt back over his head. The showers at night were one thing, but he was really beginning to feel uncomfortable about wearing the same clothes. Rubbing his eyes, he still felt weird. Did he have a dream...? He couldn't remember.
Desmond got up slowly and stumbled to the tiny bathroom, utilizing facilities and taking his damn sweet time doing it just to piss of Dr. Dickhead. Finally finished, he felt slightly more awake and wandered into the spacious main room. His eyes automatically looked around for a certain hot blond.
"Where's Lucy?" he asked.
"Oh, don't worry," Vidick said, still smarmy, still smoothly confident. Desmond wanted to punch him. "She'll be with us soon."
Pouting, Desmond stared at the old fart. He couldn't keep relying on Lucy, she was risking enough as it was doing what she could. Maybe he could weasel some information out of the labcoat? Even if he got nothing out of it, at least it would look like he wasn't choosy about whom he would dig info out of. And maybe he could piss the guy off, just for kicks.
"So why you doin' all this, doc? What are you hoping to accomplish?" When it doubt, be direct.
"You turn the television on, lately? Read the newspaper?"
Desmond made a great show of looking around his spacious prison. "Never cared much for that stuff," he drawled, "too much to do here, you know?"
Vidic walked up to his desk, talking as he went. "Then, let me spell it out for you: the world's a mess! It's pathetic really. You've seen it firsthand yourself. A thousand years between you and your ancestor, and society remains just as barbaric, just as stupid." He waved with his arm to make a point, a vague gesture of distaste.
"And your point is...?" Desmond already knew the world was screwed up; that assassins wanted to make a world a better place by killing people was proof enough of that.
"Order, Mr. Miles. The world needs order. That is what we're working towards, and that is what you're helping us to achieve."
Right, kidnap people, strap them to a machine, make them relive memories of ancient ancestors, it all naturally lead to order. Desmond laughed. "You expect me to believe that you're building a better tomorrow?"
"That's exactly what we're doing!" Vidic exclaimed, using both hands to gesture in what Desmond would almost name as excitement. "The human race calls out for direction. They want to know why they're here, what they're meant to do; well, we're going to tell them. And once they understand how to live their lives, everything will be better."
"... Better how?" Desmond almost didn't want to hear the answer.
"An end to all conflicts, large and small," the old man answered. Then he gave a superior smirk. "Isn't that what you assassins strive for? 'Peace in all things?' " He sat down at his desk.
That... that was just perverted. All to quickly Desmond saw his father, his lecture about "peace in all things" and that "everything was permitted" and the argument before he left. All the words and hateful things they had thrown at each other, the bitterness and now the regret, and still Desmond clung to what he had said:
"I told you, I'm not an assassin."
"Right, right," Vidic said, looking at his computer, dismissive.
The memories hurt too much. Desmond went back to fact finding. "I still don't see where I fit into things," he said, his voice sullen.
"In time, Mr. Miles. In time, you'll understand." Vidic looked up from his computer to level a look at his prisoner, his grizzled face calculating. Then he smiled again. "Or you won't. I don't care either way, as long as you show us where it is."
"Where what is?" The P.O.E. thing that he saw on the computer? What was it anyway?
"Sorry I'm late. Ready to go?"
Desmond spun around to see Lucy coming in with a breakfast tray. God, her timing sucked. He threw a look back at Vidic and saw he was diligently ignoring him and browsing his computer. Hm, he was clearly higher up on the food chain that Lucy, did his computer have more on it? He'd need the pen key... But with Warden sitting so tightly in his chair that wasn't going to happen any time soon.
Sighing, Desmond walked away from the old fart and grabbed the egg sandwich, chewing it viciously. Lucy eyed him, eyed Vidic, and nodded before going to the computer and turning it on. Desmond went threw his sandwich quickly and gulped his milk. "What a dinky breakfast," he muttered.
"Stop wasting time and get on the Animus!"
Desmond did not bother to hide his spiteful glare as he sat on the curved table, laying his head down. The visor slid into his view and he cold feel the table start to warm up underneath him. He stared at the stylized triangle as Lucy booted up the system. He studied the screen, wondering if there was something in it that might be use - he looked up to the corner of the visor, and the small string of text: Welcome, Subject 17.
He... He was number 17? There had been sixteen other subjects then, either still locked away in the complex somewhere or else dead and buried. The thought made him shiver. As the white fog filled his vision and he realized he was in the avatar of his ancestor, he promised himself that he would be more diligent. If they were looking of this P.O.E. thing, he'd watch the memories, same as them, and he was determined to figure out what it was and where it was before them. Then he would have information and he could lord it up over them and have something to negotiate with. He could do this.
He took a deep breath, and the white fog slowly dissipated, bright sun splashing over his head, the ground becoming uneven and sloped, dissonant voices filling the air and a mountain rising above him.
He was in Masyaf.
"Now trigger the memory, Mr. Miles. We don't have all day."
Irritated with the old man and his lack of answers, he started stomping around, looking for something that might trigger nostalgia or a memory. The problem was that all of freakin' Masyaf was a walking pit of nostalgia. His ancestor grew up here; there were hundreds of memories flitting about the place. Desmond could almost see afterimages of baby-ancestor running around the town with baby-Malik and infant-Kadar, hunting for flags to get to know the area. It was disturbing and hard to follow and more than a little confusing.
He was halfway to the market when he stopped in midstep.
"What an idiot," he muttered. "I've been going about this all wrong."
Leaning against a well, he crossed is arms and closed his eyes, picking through his memories of the Damascus assassination. His ancestor wasn't the kind of guy that wandered aimlessly, like he was and had been doing. The assassin marched off to whatever his objective was. With that in mind, Desmond tried to remember what that smarmy Bureau head had said. Something about more work to do...?
"Right. The old man it is," he said, looking around for a path that went uphill.
When he made it into the citadel he knew he was going in the right direction. His nostalgia had much older afterimages. Now, where was the old man? He didn't really spend his whole life in the library, did he?
Walking into the fortress and through the line of blank staring constructs, Desmond knew that he had come at a good time and that the Master would be pleased.
Altair stood before Al Mualim, still and at attention, as would be expected. He had just finished his first assassination since his demotion and to even the strictest set of eyes, he'd upheld every aspect of the Creed. He hoped this meant he'd be back to a senior assassin, but Altair doubted it. Still, he had come at a good time and the Master would no doubt be pleased.
"You've done well, Altair," the Teacher said, sitting at the table with scrolls and parchments. "And I am confident that this is but the first of many successes."
Good. He had pleased Al Mualim as he'd intended. It was time to move on to the next mission.
But something about Tamir's words still nagged at Altair. Even after the ride back to Masyaf. Something was... off. Perhaps the Master would know.
"Tamir spoke as if he knew you well. He implied my work had a larger meaning."
"Significance comes not from a single act, but the context within which it is performed, the consequences born of it."
This, Altair hid a grin for. This was his Master, the distant and strict taskmaster. Al Mualim had a lesson for him, one that Altair, as always, must figure out for himself. This was how Al Mualim had always been. A man one worked hard to get even the slightest of praise from. This was not the person who had coldly stabbed him in the side, be it an illusion or not. This was yet more proof to put that strange memory aside, no matter how it ate at him.
Thus, if significance was only seen through the proper context, he needed the proper context.
"Then is there more I need to know?" he asked.
"Altair, you're greatest failure was born of knowing too much," the teacher said patiently from his seat. "If I choose to withhold information, it is only to ensure you do not make the same mistake a second time."
"I see." The lesson had apparently not been learned. Altair would have to prove himself again with the next name on the list. Once all nine were done, then he hoped to see what lesson it was that he had needed so badly as to demote him.
"No you don't," Al Mualim replied coolly, standing swiftly, "And it will remain this way until you've learned your lesson!" There was a quiet sigh as the Master regained control of himself. Altair was surprised to still see the deep anger that had just flared. He'd have thought the time he'd spent away on his mission with Tamir would have cooled the burning rage. It had not. Al Mualim had merely tamed it.
The teacher turned to the small pigeon coop. "Still, you have preformed competently, and as such, I restore a rank and will return a piece of your equipment." It seemed the Master did not even want to grant Altair that. Had he really fallen so far? And Altair still wondered what he had done to anger Al Mualim so.
"Go now to Acre. There is a man who requires your attention. The bureau leader can tell you more about what needs to be done."
It was a clear dismissal as Al Mualim returned to his seat and went over the sheets before him. Altair said nothing, and picked up his short sword, good against agile enemies and for swift work. He pulled off his harness and attached the sheath, before putting on the harness again and putting the blade away. The weight of it was familiar, and he stretched forward, ensuring the harness did not catch awkwardly on his clothes before turning in anticipation of his next kill.
Desmond gasped, slightly startled and stumbled forwards. He most certainly was not anticipating a kill! With a blink he realized he was still in the library. The old man was gone, the table empty, the stool pushed aside. Desmond wondered if he would ever get used to that. He reached up over his shoulder to finger the tip of the curved blade. It reminded him vaguely of those scimitars he would see in movies, but shorter and less curved. Walking down the stairs he practiced drawing and sheathing it; it wasn't intuitive like he thought it would be, and he was halfway out the fortress before he figured out how to lift his arm, bend his back, and slide the blade into its sheath with something resembling ease.
"Geez, these guys must have been contortionists," he muttered. He was still practicing as he made his way down the mountain. As he walked, Desmond realized he was starting to recognize the layout of the town. There was a small watch tower at the upper reaches of the village, down that street was a shortcut to the market, that way lead to the stage where what's-his-name had been preaching to anyone who would listen.
Pausing, he looked around. That was the tanners, and that was the blacksmith, and... yep, that was where the basket weaver was. Was that a good or bad sign that he knew the place so well? Would he know the other cities like he knew this one?
Somehow he knew he wouldn't.
But could he use it?
He grabbed the brown mare, docile and forgettable, good cover for the Christians, and mounted it. The saddle was still uncomfortable, but he found an easy gate and made his way through the narrow mountain passes. Desmond pulled out his foggy map (and still felt stupid for saying "Map: Kingdom") and tried to study it. It didn't help in the slightest, and so he continued to ride in what his maps said as south and crossed his fingers for Lucy's markers. He found one and followed it, passing watchtowers and hearing distinctly English mutterings as he rode through villages.
"Hey, Lucy?" he asked, looking up to the sky. "Why do all the English guys sound like they're that girl in 'My Fair Lady'?"
"You've seen 'My Fair Lady'?"
"Don't ask."
"...You're heading to the port city of Acre, it was taken by the Crusaders during the Third Crusade. Once can assume that the area had a heavier Crusader presence. As for the lower-class cockney accent, soldiers for the Crusades were drafted by king's orders; serfs and the like were farmed out to the soldiers and anything with rank was filled up with nobility. I'm told you can hear the difference in the French and the German, too, but if you don't know the languages you might not pick up on it."
Like history ever meant much to him.
Desmond saw water, eventually, and a series of docks. Assuming this meant "ocean," he hoped he was near the "port" city of Acre, silently thanking Lucy for the hint. There was a swell of cockney English, French that he knew about every other word of, and German, which was completely foreign to him. But at least he recognized the languages, unlike Arabic he heard elsewhere that was just noise in his ears. He felt a little more familiar with the languages, even if it felt alien it was less alien that with the Saracens. He wondered idly if that was a disrespect to his ancestor, and decided he didn't care.
The trail he was on eventually left the port, but he was still parallel to the coast insofar as he could tell, and felt some measure of confidence the he was going (vaguely) in the right direction. The mountains surrounded him again; climbing so high he almost couldn't see the sky. He passed some Crusaders guarding something but steadfastly ignored it in favor of not starting a fight. He looked down at his nine fingers, and shuddered, still remembering that death dealer Tamir as he bled out in his, Desmond's, that guy's arms. He didn't ever want to get used to it.
On the trail, standing in the middle of nowhere, guarding a chest, stood a guard in chain mail, white smock with a red cross, and a red helmet. Desmond pulled his horse to a stop well away and looked; he felt he should know what the getup signified, but was clueless.
"Hey, Lucy?" he asked again. "What's that guy's affiliation? I mean, I know he's a Crusader, but..."
"That would be a Templar, Mr. Miles. Feel like killing him?"
"There were quite a few different sects of Knights in the Crusades. Templars have white crosses, Hospitalier had black crosses, etc. You should be able to determine which is which after a while."
"Great," Desmond muttered. He remembered all too well what happened last time some German Templar had gotten a hold of him. Despite Vidick's proclamations he had no intention of doing any murder while he was himself in this construct. Witnessing his ancestor poking people was more than enough, thank you. Frowning, he looked around for some kind of pass or ridge he could use to bypass the guy. Nothing.
Sighing, he dug his heels into his horse and jumped right into a gallop. He was certain he heard French, and knew the Templar had gone for his sword and was chasing him. Desmond kept up his gallop, however, eating up territory and blowing by a throng of soldiers, he rode too fast to identify them, and a watchtower. They, too, drew their swords.
"Christ," he cursed. "How far to I have to run before they stop chasing me?"
He rode up a ridge and then back down a smaller, less traveled path before he yanked hard on the reins, his horse skidding to a halt. Panting, he looked up the hill. He couldn't hear anything, and so he waited. After ten minutes of nobody cresting the hill, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, rubbing his forehead. He was surprised that there wasn't any sweat, and remembered that he was in a construct. He probably didn't do anything, even with the fixed sun at its hottest position.
Desmond rode at a more sedate pace, past a pair of archery towers and had their bows trained on him but never fired. He could hear more Crusader languages, the patrols were distinctly not Saracen, and he suddenly found himself staring at a long wall of wooden steaks, small tents lined both sides, and there was a giant hole in the ground, the bottom filled with... bodies.
"Whoa..."
He looked up to the sky.
"What... what happened here?"
Lucy answered. "The Siege of Acre. This might take a little background. Saladin had a decisive victory in the Battle of Hattin in 1187, and he took many cities after that, including Jerusalem. The Europeans didn't like that the Holy City wasn't under Christian control, and they started marshalling forces for another Crusade. At the time, Guy of Lusignan, who was the king of Jerusalem, was captured. After his release, he wanted to take Jerusalem back and so he went to one of the last Crusader ports in the area: Tyre. They wouldn't let him in, and so he took his forces and laid siege to Acre, the city you're going to. It turned into a flashpoint for the Third Crusade to begin."
"Boring," Desmond muttered, only half listening to the narration as he stared at all the corpses.
"Saladin heard about the siege and went to stop it. Guy and the Crusaders had the Saracens in the city on one side and Saladin on the other. The battle was pretty complicated, but it ended with Saladin routing Guy and the Crusaders when they dispersed to loot and plunder the city, and poor coordination lead to the Saracens in Acre to escape and join Saladin. The Crusaders technically won, but they suffered heavy losses. That was how the siege started. For the next year-and-a-season, Saracen and Crusader galleys broke or snuck through the blockade to get food to the people inside, and there was a lot of switching of possession over the port. The city, as you can imagine, was a mess in the interim."
Desmond looked up to the sky. "So, let me get this straight. Saladin was laying siege to the Crusaders who were laying siege to Acre? World War II Germany much?"
He thought he heard Lucy giggle. "Ultimately, more forces arrived for the Crusaders - including Richard, and Saladin had lost his chance. Acre tried to surrender, but the Crusaders rejected their offer, and so they pleaded with Saladin before offering surrender again. This time Richard took it, and Saladin conceded it. I know that during the finalization of the surrender there was a squabble over prisoner exchange, and Richard decapitated something like twenty-seven hundred prisoners, and Saladin killed his Crusader prisoners, too."
Desmond looked at the mass grave. For a long, long time.
"What... what happened after?"
"The Crusaders marched south, the coast to one side and Saladin on the other."
"And none of this is getting us to the next memory. Hurry up, Mr. Miles!"
Desmond rolled his eyes, casting one last look at the Crusader camp, and the grave, and the stakes. The lay of the land started to make sense, the archery towers, the dirt paths, the overwhelming presence of chain mail and shields and swords sticking out of the ground. And the blood. Shuddering, Desmond urged his horse forward and under a stone archway. He pinched his eyes closed, rubbing them and holding his breath, something to get his brain working again.
Wind picked up, and when he looked up he saw the battered walls of the city. If it was possible, there were even more bodies littering the ground, covered in burlap. Reining up, Desmond dismounted and just studied the gates. He saw a priest being harassed by some guards, but he knew from Damascus that that wasn't how his ancestor would sneak into a city. Besides, with all the patrols rolling around he knew that he would be completely overtaken, and Desmond was much too nauseous to try and fight off two-dozen men. Looking around, he wondered how else his ancestor had gotten past the guards.
Desmond walked up and down the walls for a bit before spying an unused guard platform sticking out of the wall. A cart was near it, and, climbing it, Desmond could just reach the support beams, using them to hoist himself up. From the higher vantage point, he could see the uneven texture of the wall, the repairs making several hand and footholds. He still wasn't the best climber, but he reminded himself that he was in a construct, this was all in his mind, and he tried to mentally decide that he was the best climber in the world, and started planning a route.
It took almost an hour and several backtracks, but Desmond was able to make his way to the heavy iron gate above the guards. There was a support beam directly below him, and with a deep breath had let go. He almost missed the beam, as it was he damn near broke his arm (or not, this was in his mind, he reminded himself). Once he secured himself, he saw the other beams crisscrossing the entire gate. He leapt from one to another, very carefully, before landing on the ground in a tight roll.
Whatever he thought of the outside, the inside was even worse. More bodies were lined up inside the gate, and the NPCs that milled about the tiny square were covered in splotches and sores of disease.
Desmond was starting to feel sick again...
He took several deep breaths, muttering, "It's only a construct, it's only a construct, that is not a child under that tarp, it's only a construct."
Passing the worst of the destruction and entering a small, shadowed alley, Desmond saw a ladder and quickly climbed it. He knew not to screw around this time. Nothing could be gained by bumping into guards or saving citizens or sitting on benches. His ancestor didn't do stuff like that, he was the right to the point type. No, his first stop would be to the Bureau, and that had to be Desmond's first stop as a result. Since he had no idea where the Bureau was, he quickly ascended to the roofline to see if he could find a brass dome, or hear the sound of wind chimes.
He was disappointed to see that the buildings were all different levels. He would have to get even higher.
Looking around, Desmond found a taller building with an eagle circling it, domed but with a cross. He also saw a bunch of archers patrolling the rooftops, and he groaned that life was being so difficult. Still, ducking here and there, he started to ascend the tower.
He sat on the beam, and like before he felt the overwhelming sense of déjà vu, of that guy, Altair, sitting on this beam, just as disgusted as he. Masyaf had suffered nothing like this, Acre had been raped and violated in every way possible and the entire landscape bore the scars to prove it...
Altair had spent quite a few months in Acre, almost a decade ago, when Baasir had sent him there to learn more of the Christians and ports, before Salah ad-Din had swept through and conquered. It had been a refreshing city, with a salty sea breeze and a strong European influence, very different from the multicultural Jerusalem he apprenticed in or the calm decorum of Masyaf, his home.
Crouched on a viewpoint now, looking out over the city, Altair was disgusted. The stench of death was everywhere and as the heat of the day continued to rise, the foul smell reached higher and higher. Even high above the rooftops, the demoted assassin could still feel nausea turn his stomach in unpleasant twists from the horrid stink. This was no way to treat the dead. Fifteen months of siege seemed to have reduced the once quaint port of Acre to a veritable hellhole. Streets and alleys that he once knew were no more as collapsed buildings changed the layout. New construction was sporadic and the remains of siege engines were still being dismantled for materials.
With a sigh, Altair glanced at the streets below him and saw a large pile of hay. Without a thought he leapt with complete faith in his abilities, landing in the soft straw and waiting for the sounds to still around him before leaving. He had seen many tall steeples and formerly domed mosques that now bore crosses. He could use these to remap out the city.
It took a good portion of the day, wandering around just the one district. It was fortunate that many of the tall structures he ascended often had hay under them, making it easier to leap down and then find a ladder to climb the roofs once again for speed, instead of constantly climbing back down. He stayed to the rooftops for quickness, but was unsurprised to see archers occasionally patrolling. The roofs were half flat-clay structures he traversed in Masyaf and Damascas, the rest were the slanted wooden build of the Crusaders. The devastation was immense. Buildings were still caked in smoke and scorch marks. One row of buildings anywhere in the town would be half caved in and remained open and rotting like the dead bodies that lined the streets.
Many of the steeples he had climbed he had originally assumed to be churches, but instead turned out to be watchtowers with bells to sound the alarm in case of an attack. The bodies he saw often were missing limbs and had crows and other birds feasting on the remains. Below him he could hear many cries of the poor, "Please, sir, I need the money!" and "I'm so hungry, can't you spare any coins?"
Any news that came to Masyaf from Acre during the siege had been fleeting at best. Whenever a pigeon or messenger could be snuck in Al Mualim would get glances of what was going on in the besieged city. Altair was starting to wish he had reviewed those reports before coming. He would have been better prepared.
He stayed another moment, standing in the remains of a barely standing minaret looking over the city. The siege over and negotiations almost done, for less than a week. Acre had a great deal of healing to do. With a sigh, he spied a cart of hay and leapt down, angling himself so that his regained short sword would not harm him in landing. As in Damascus, he hit the bottom of the cart hard, but suffered no injury this time.
The bureau was not far and Altair was soon climbing a ladder of a stand-alone, domed building in front of probably the only square that didn't look ravaged. The wind chimes were quieter than Damascus.
Altair easily dropped down to the home-like garden, listening to the fountain and looking at the potted plants. He would never admit it, but seeing a touch of home in the destroyed city was a welcome relief. He entered the Bureau and was pleased to see Jabal was still the rafiq, toiling away at his books, studying. The rafiq had aged considerably since Altair had last seen him. His beard was no longer streaked but a pure grey to offset his hood.
In fact, the rafiq was wearing his hood.
That did not bode well. Only those who went out on active duty still wore hoods. It was their means of anonymity. A rafiq or dai was always considered wise enough to no longer need active duty, but to teach the next generation. Just what had happened in Acre during the siege?
"Ah, Altair. A little bird told me you'd be paying a visit."
That was not the easy-going rafiq Altair knew, but one weary of hardships and burdened by responsibility. The siege had clearly not been kind to him.
"Al Mualim has ordered the execution of Garnier de Naplouse and so here I am," Altair remained respectful. Ibtisam had mocked Altair's lack of respect of the rafiqs. Altair was not like that. He just did things as swiftly and efficiently as possible. He knew Jabal, and gave him the respect he had earned and deserved. "What can you tell me of him?"
"He is the Grandmaster of the Knights Hospitalier, and surely keeps his quarters in this district. Beyond that, I cannot say." Jabal stood, putting his book away and pulling out a new one. "I have not been able to leave the Bureau for three months and my men dare not come. This building is watched. None know, but they suspect. I cannot help you. I suggest you search the city, see what you can learn from the people."
Altair's frown deepened. The brotherhood was compromised? That was unacceptable. Nor was it Altair's concern. He was here for Garnier and that was it.
"Tell me where they gather and I will see what I can find."
"A public garden north of here, or what's left of them, is as good a place as any to begin, in fact I suggest you do," Jabal turned a page in his book, not looking up. "One of my journeymen has been staying up there. He should have some information if the Crusaders haven't found him yet. There's an abandoned market northwest as well that bears watching. And Maria of Yehoshafat's church to the west remains a popular meeting place. These three locations should be sufficient for your needs."
"I appreciate the information, rafiq. It will be put to good use."
"See that it is." Altair turned but Jabal stopped him.
"Altair, a moment." The demoted assassin turned and was surprised to see that old Jabal was directly behind him. Altair hadn't heard him coming.
"I know of your demotion and of your wrongs. Frankly I don't care what Al Mualim plans for your redemption or whatever missions send you my way. But you are a loose arrow that will go whichever way pleases you." Jabal looked at him with hard and weary eyes. "You will not do whatever you will here in Acre. This is not the city you remember."
Altair bristled at that, but said nothing.
"There are three rules for you here in Acre, Altair. Only three, and each of them is of the utmost importance." Jabal stood straight, his arms behind his back. "The first I have hinted at. Do not come here unless absolutely necessary. No one knows of this building, but if the Christians keep seeing someone on my roof, watching will become suspicion."
The old rafiq let out a tired sigh.
"This is still a sanctuary and one you'll need after your mission as it is the only place where you can truly hide. But you cannot stay while investigating. There are plenty of derelict buildings if you need rest."
Altair nodded. He hadn't stayed at the Damascus Bureau either. This would not be a problem.
"Second, for your own sake, do not drink any of the water here. Rely on whatever you have in your skin only. Not even the water here at the Bureau or the fountain out front."
Altair blinked. "What?"
Jabal scoffed, his face lined with intense anger. "It seems that the Christians truly know how to inflict suffering without even lifting a blade. They left rotting corpses in the river. Our water, even here at the Bureau, is tainted with disease." The rafiq looked away, the weight of the past fifteen months dragging him down. "Even now, people throughout the city are dying because of the siege, because we are still besieged by disease. I have sent an apprentice upriver with a cart and barrels to restock our own supplies, but it will easily take a week before he returns." The rafiq rubbed his temple. "Assuming the damned Crusaders don't confiscate it on the way back. It will be good practice of stealth for him," Jabal muttered.
"I understand," Altair replied. With the full heat of summer already resting around them, this would make his time here a challenge. His waterskin was not even a third full after a long day of climbing towers to remap the city. He had not thought to ration his water and this would cost him.
The rafiq stood tall once more, his face more serious than any Altair had seen before. "Lastly, you will stay your blade or I will gut you myself and throw you to the animals that reside in human skin. The people here have only just gotten freedom. The Saracens that were stationed here when Salah ad-Din conquered have mostly left, but there are some who weren't soldiers still around. The Christians don't trust them and blame them for the sieges. If even one innocent person dies by your blade, fighting will once again break out in the city and the slaughter that will take place will likely have another battle here."
Altair nodded. The city had suffered enough. He was not to bring any more. "I understand."
Jabal frowned, and in a blink had both Altair's hands behind him and kicked him to kneeling. "I say you do not," Jabal said firmly. "You have always gone about things your own way. I don't care about that. I do care about this city and the hell it has become. I do not say this lightly. The people out there hold the answers you seek, not I, not this Bureau. And those people are animals that only barely are holding their humanity. You will not aggravate the situation. Guards are still killed by the civilians, you can slaughter them to your heart's content, but you will not kill the citizens themselves. Am I clear?"
Altair did not grunt or show any weakness. The old rafiq clearly still had his moves. Would have needed them if he did active duty as the hood implied and Altair did not appreciate being taken to school when he was the best assassin in the Order, especially since the only reason Jabal bested him was because Altair had not expected it. "As you wish," he replied calmly.
Jabal held him a heartbeat more before releasing him. "It is a few hours until nightfall. Once it is dark, leave. And don't come back until you have finished planning."
Altair only nodded before going to the shelves to find a European book to brush up on the languages.
Author's Notes: We should probably mention now that we are not nearly as well researched for this fic as we feel we should be. Any an all historical information we mention in this fic is gotten solely from wikipedia - and at best those were nuggets. If anyone out there is some kind of expert in the Third Crusade, or is a history buff in general, please let us know if there's anything we got wrong or left out. We want to know.
... For someone who protests over and over that he isn't an assassin, we always found it a little strange that Desmond never really reacts to the fact that he's reliving a guy mercilessly killing a long string of people. We wanted to touch on it, even just a little, and use it to explain his outburst to Lucy that evening. It's also a general attempt in the "Make-Desmond-Noticable" project. For all we see him in ACI, his sequences are sadly a yawn in comparison to Altair and Ezio, and in ACII he barely shows. Brotherhood, well, that's its own story. :D
And now we meet and flesh out another rafiq. This one had a name, which surprised us since none of them shy of Malik were named, but Jabal is what's listed in the Assassin's Creed wikipedia, and so we used it. Acre itself is almost it's own character, what with bodies and destroyed buildings, drunks at the docks, etc. The characters of the cities is, perhaps, our favorite aspect of the Assassin's Creed games. From the merchant capital of Damascus to the multicultural Jerusalem to the rich art and architecture of Florence, every city is memorable and unique it its own way. We couldn't come close to capturing it, but we tried.
As always, let us know what you think.