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The Assassin's Creed: Revenants
Chapter One: Wisdom and Sorrow
\*****TACR*****/
High in the air, an eagle soared.
Its feathers, brown and white in color, rippled with each flap of its impressive wings. Its eyes, a sharp and piercing gold, surveyed the land below it, watching for the faintest hint of its prey. Once it finds its quarry, the bird will strike. It will dive, talons at the ready, swooping in for the kill swiftly, decisively, and without hesitation. And once the deed was done, the eagle will make its escape, disappearing into the vast azure sky once again.
Below it, a walled city located where the desert and sea meet.
The bird veered right and began a steady descent, gliding over many buildings before landing gracefully upon the dome of a tall minaret. This tower, built from limestone and marble, stood tall in a vast city square center. This enormous and public forum was an intricate maze of stalls and tents of varying design and quality. Throughout this convoluted patchwork of wooden stands and silken awnings, hundreds of people navigated their way through this maze, bumping shoulders, rubbing elbows, and trading words.
From their stalls, merchants hollered and sung praises of their merchandise, hoping to entice potential customers and turn a profit. The air was saturated with the scent of flavorful spices, smoking meats, ripened fruits, and bodily odors. Combine these with the foul scents of human and animal waste, and the city of Mashrek has a somewhat contradictory smell. It was an odor that was enticing and nauseating, a strange dichotomy.
For an outsider, such an atmosphere would have made for a suffocating and terrifying experience.
Save for the one hiding within the tower.
No, such things did not bother him in the slightest. He had endured far worse.
His golden eyes, a sharp and piercing like the eagle perched above him, scanned the area below. Much like the bird, he, too, was hunting. However, unlike the bird, his hunt was dictated by decree, not by any sort of natural instinct of sating his hunger. No, he was on a mission, one-handed to him by his master. And like the eagle, he must ensure his prey was not made aware of his presence.
Of course, he was not going to find his quarry by simply hiding in a tower.
He descended down the tower's spiraling stairwell, exiting through a backdoor. Now standing within the structure's shadow, he observed the sprawling and shifting mass of bodies moving in and out of the bazaar with an analytical gaze. He'd be well hidden within the crowd, just another face among many others. So long as he doesn't attract any attention to himself. He'd be an embarrassment to his teacher should he be recognized by any potential threats.
Thankfully, he had a rather clever disguise to protect him.
Over his actual attire, the outsider wore plain brown robes, the same kind worn by Duodiest priests. The robe's hood was pulled over his head, covering his curly and short black hair. Under the guise of a simple priest, he will be able to navigate Mashrek undetected and unnoticed by all. Men of the cloth were often ignored by the people. All he had to do was keep his hands clasped together in reverence and chant a hymn to complete his pious façade.
It was a fool-proof disguise.
Unless he was asked to give a blessing; He doubted he can recite the Brother's prayer verbatim.
He can only hope that won't come to pass.
Regardless of the risks, the mission always comes first.
The outsider stepped out of the tower's shadow and into the light of day. Slowly, he waded into the shifting tide of moving bodies, becoming one with the crowd, as he was trained to do. He took great care to stay in character, keeping his clasped hands firm and belting out one religious chant after another. He made sure to keep his movements slow and subdued, his hooded head hanging low, for priests were not arrogant or proud when walking among the masses.
As he passed row after row of stalls and tents, the faux priest kept an eye out for his mark. With the vast area and the flood of people pouring into it, finding his target will be an exercise in patience. When his master had assigned him this mission, he had also given the name and description of an informant.
...Our informant is a man named Rashad, a merchant who sells foreign silks and satins. He is located in Mashrek, with his store located at the bazaar in the northern square. You will recognize him by his greying beard and a crescent-shaped scar near his right eye. He is a loud one, obnoxiously so. Find him, and he might be able to shed light on the darkness dwelling within Mashrek...
With only that description serving as his guide, the outsider made sure to observe every merchant he passed, especially the ones dealing in silks. But as he searched for Rashad, the disguised traveler's mind wondered about the so-called mystery his master alluded to. Of course, it was an open secret among the order that something sinister was afoot in Mashrek.
Three months ago, the Mashrek bureau stopped sending reports. There had not been a single message from its Rashiq, a man known for his strict adherence to protocol. And yet, not a single word had been heard from him. Not by messenger bird or courier, not even by way of mouth. After a month had passed, the brotherhood began to suspect that the bureau had been compromised. They promptly sent one of the order's best men to investigate.
The man never returned, and another was sent to seek the truth. That man disappeared, too. And then a team had been sent to retrieve the missing men, alive or dead, ending with the same result.
And so it was that the master sent him, a recently promoted master, to uncover the truth behind these disappearances. He needed to know whether this was the work of the Sunderer or, worse, the Invaders. Whether it was one or the other made no difference to him. To him, they were one and the same.
Oh, how he dreamt of the day when he would make the Sunderer grovel before him. To make that evil bastard fall to his knees and plead, begging like a dog for his wretched life to be spared.
And then he'll put him down like the sick dog that he is.
But that can wait for another day. All that mattered right now was completing this mission.
If he wanted to find Rashad, he must stay vigilant, undistracted by the lively activity around him.
If only the man would just reveal himself to him.
"Come one, come all, feast your eyes upon these delicious sights!" He heard a deep and rather boisterous voice holler. "The finest silks gathered from all four corners of the globe! You shall find no such treasures anywhere else. For only I, Rashad, possess them!"
If such a thing as fate existed, then it appeared to favor him today.
The false priest followed the voice to its source. He soon came upon a large and luxurious-looking enclosed tent, with many people moving in and out of the opened flap that was its entrance. In front of the tent, waving his arms and singing praises of his merchandise, was a tall, middle-aged man. He assumed the man to be at least in his fifties.
The older man had a tanned complexion, much like himself, the sign of a life spent in the deserts of Bakkaya. His skin, though still somewhat smooth, was starting to wrinkle, an indicator of his age. The outsider also noticed the man's attire, a set of finely sewn and fashionable silk robes, which were quite eye-catching. And it was because the man's robes were red. A very bright red, possibly the most obnoxious shade of red he had ever seen in his life.
But then he caught sight of the man's face. He had a very thick beard that was slowly fading from black to grey. He also possessed a wide and welcoming grin, projecting his affable nature onto any potential customers. When he caught sight of the man's eyes, he noticed a distinct crescent-shaped scar near his right eye.
He was just as the Mentor had described him.
So this is Rashad, the silk merchant? The outsider thought in bemusement.
The Mentor was right; he's loud, in more ways than one.
He approached the now-identified Rashad, all while keeping up his disguise.
The merchant took notice of him and inquired, "Excuse me, Father, but what has brought you to my humble store."
He lifted his head slightly, showing his youthful face to the man. Rashad spoke in jest, "Ah, beg your forgiveness. Brother would be the more appropriate title."
The outsider replied, "There is no need for apologies, friend."
"Very well, but still," The silk seller paused and scrutinized his features before remarking. "It is quite rare for a man-of-the-cloth to seek me out. Tell me, what business brings you to my humble tent."
"The kind that is best spoken in private;" He leaned in and told the man, "Away from prying eyes."
"I see... please, follow me into my tent. There is a space behind it where we can discuss business." The merchant walked toward the temporary shelter, motioning for the fake priest to follow.
Following the merchant into his tent, the outsider beheld the many silks that the man possessed. He was honestly quite impressed by the trader's collection, organized into rows of neat, orderly piles. The threads varied in color, design, length, and texture. Despite this, they all shared one thing in common: their price, which he presumed to be quite expensive.
But the price was no object to the people inspecting the silks, of which there were many. How can so many people be packed into such a small space? He doubted he could navigate this congested mess of customers without bumping into one.
"OOF!"
He felt somebody bump into him, causing the bumper to fall onto his rear. The bumper was a man, close to his age, dressed in shabby robes and an opened cloak. He looked like a typical plebian, which was an odd sight considering the wealthier-looking crowd. Playing up his priestly charade, he offered a hand to the felled man.
"Many apologies, my son; I should have been more careful." He said as the man took his hand.
"It is no problem, Father." The man politely replied. "It was nothing but an accident."
As the stranger rose, the outsider noticed something poking out from behind the man's cloak. It resembled a shaft, wrapped in black weather, with a circular golden pommel. He immediately recognized it as the grip of a sword. What was a peasant doing with a sword?
But then he noticed an inscription upon the face of the pommel. It was a carving of a jackal's head. This symbol showed that this was not a typical blade; no, this was the sword of a mercenary. This supposed peasant was a disguised mercenary.
I need to keep my guard up here. He realized. I don't know who I can trust in this city.
Keeping a calm demeanor, he told the suspected sell-sword. "Peace upon you, my son."
"And to you as well, Father." The man said before wandering off.
As he watched the retreating form of his potential enemy, the disguised infiltrator began to suspect that things were not as they seemed. He took a quick look at his surroundings and saw, much to his growing suspicion, that there were other such 'vagrants' scattered amongst the crowd of wealthier-looking patrons. Such a sight fueled his already-building paranoia. Was he walking into a trap?
"Are you feeling well, Father?" He heard Rashad inquire as he tapped his shoulder.
Quickly recovering from his momentary stupor, the outsider replied. "Yes, my son. My mind had simply wandered. Please, continue on."
The merchant gave the supposed priest a skeptical gaze, only to shrug, no doubt chalking his behavior to nerves. The two men resumed their trek through the tent. They eventually came across an unopened flap in the back of the tent. Standing beside it was a man, dressed in plain white robes, who greeted them both with a nod. The outsider assumed him to be the merchant's assistant.
"Tarik, I have an important customer with me. Our business must be conducted in private, so please mind the store for me while we talk." Rashad told the man, confirming the outsider's assumption.
Tarik nodded in affirmation, leaving his prior position to mingle among the customer. Rashad parted the flaps as one would curtains, sunlight peeking through the opened gap. He stepped through, followed by the faux priest. Now standing in a large and enclosed enclosure, where more fabrics were stored, the two men were free to discuss their business in private.
He approached the suspected trader and inquired, "Before we begin, I have to be sure. Are you indeed Rashad, the silk merchant?"
"Indeed, that is who I am, at least, according to my wife." Rashad confirmed humorously.
When he saw that the priest did not share in his mirth, he spoke. "Oh, come now, Father. I know you religious folks possess a sense of propriety, but I didn't think you were without humor."
When he noticed that his comments didn't even force a smile, the trader's tone turned serious. "And might I ask for your name, as well as the purpose of your visit? It is not often that I receive a man of the gods as a customer."
"My name is of no importance." The outsider calmly replied. "And my purpose is you, Rashad. You have something I need, something of much value. Something one cannot get anywhere else."
"I see. Well, if it's the more expensive silk you want, it's going to cost more than what I have upfront. But, given your modest finances, I'm sure that we can work out a price." Rashad proposed, hoping to turn a profit with whatever the supposed priest carried on him.
"I am not here for your fabrics, Rashad." The outsider began. "I seek information. Information only you possess."
"Information, you say? It is true that I've heard many things from my customers, but of what use are they to a man of piety such as you?" The merchant inquired with crossed arms, the suspicion clear in his eyes.
"I am no priest, merchant." He admitted, setting the merchant on edge. "Calm yourself, Rashad. I am not your enemy. If you doubt the truth of my words, perhaps this will prove their validity."
The outsider raised his left hand, the palm facing him. The sleeve rolled down his arm, revealing the worn brown leather bracer beneath it. He watched as Rashad's eyes glided over to the hand. The outsider resisted the urge to smirk when he saw the man's eyes widen at the sight of his ring finger.
His missing ring finger...
Wait, where's his finger?! I meant, where's my finger?! Wait, is that even me?!
What is this place? Where am I?! Why am I here?! WHO EVEN AM I?!
[WARNING: SUBJECT EXPERIENCING SEVERE EMOTIONAL DISTRESS...]
Blade hidden follower CREED city walk street evening bureau
No survivors enemy defend approaching strike blood pierce
Run escape closing in cornered sword struggle pain darkness
[WARNING: SUBJECT UNABLE TO ANCHOR/ MEMORY DE-SYNCHRONIZING...]
NOTHING what is truth EVERYTHING knowledge is sorrow
Suffering torment "mother, father... have I made you proud?" BROTHERHOOD
ASSASSINS b3W4re th3 CR- Templ4r-... 3nemy
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: TERMINATION OF SESSION...]
"Damn it, he's rejecting the treatment! We've got to pull him out!" A young woman's voice cried out in alarm.
Another voice, one tired and belonging to a man, commented. "He's not going back in after this. You know that, right?"
"Not willingly, no. But then again, the kid doesn't really have a choice." The woman spoke, her tone void of concern.
The man let out a resigned sigh and said. "Of course, he doesn't... But given who his family is, he'll probably think he does."
"He'll learn that's not the case soon. Okay, let's get him out; beginning shutdown sequence. Releasing neural inhibitors, marking memory... done. Okay, he should be waking up now."
[SESSION TERMINATED/ RELEASING NEURAL ANCHOR...]
\*****TACR*****/
White.
That was the first thing that the boy's tired blue eyes gazed upon; a brilliant, obnoxious, and irritatingly sterile white.
Even with blurry vision, the young man recognized that he was staring at a ceiling. He knew this because he was lying flat on his back. But whatever it was he was rested upon, he knew for a fact that it was neither a bed nor a couch. Whatever it was, it was cold to the bone, smooth like highly polished marble, and definitely metallic, as it rattled when he tapped his fingers. Was it some sort of examination table, perhaps? Was he at a hospital?
It was a reasonable deduction, considering that he wasn't feeling well. He felt nauseous like his stomach was turning inside out, and there was a slight ringing in his ears. But the worst pain he felt came from his head. It felt like someone had taken dozens of electrified nails and hammered them into the brain with a bowling ball.
Just what had happened to him that caused so much pain? Had he been in an accident? Was he sick and not have known? He hadn't the slightest clue. He didn't recall being taken to a hospital.
Before waking up in this place, the last thing he remembered was sitting in the luxurious cabin of a privately owned airship, drinking a glass of water given to him by the flight attendant. Seconds after ingesting the fluid, everything went dark.
It was almost like he had been kidnapped...
His eyes bulged in fear as panic gripped his heart. Was that really what happened? Had he somehow been snatched out of the air? No, that can't be possible! Things like that don't happen to people like him!
In a panic, the boy jerked his head upward.
"GAH!"
His forehead crashed into an unseen obstruction.
"Eughh... what was that?!" He exclaimed with a pained wince, shocked at the sudden collision.
The pain subsided, and he opened his eyes, narrowing them at the seemingly empty space above him. He could see the ceiling, as well as rays of light shining down on him. But that's when he that these rays were somewhat refracted like they were passing through a prism. There was something there, he can tell. Narrowing his eyes, he made out what appeared to be a faint outline. When the light's reflective glares lost their focus, he realized just what it was he was looking at. What he saw was a long translucent panel, shaped like an arc, suspended right over his head.
Was he strapped into some kind of machine?
"Mr. Schnee, can you hear me?" He heard a man's voice inquire.
He had heard that voice before.
Suddenly, a face came into his view, leaning over and peering at him through the panel. He appeared to be a bespectacled man in his early thirties, with dark skin, slate grey eyes, and messily combed grey hair. He had a lethargic look in his eyes, with very prominent bags under them. Still, he was a man that can be considered conventionally attractive.
"Brianna, are you sure we got him out in time?" The man asked in concern, addressing what he can only assume was his colleague. "Because he's looking like at me like he's got a fried brain. I can even see the drool dripping from his lips."
Fried my... What?! I'm drooling?! The boy thought in shocked and fearful surprise. Just what were these people doing to me?!
"He's simply disoriented, Culver. His body is simply trying to readjust itself. It shouldn't take more than a few seconds." A familiar feminine voice spoke, one with a very apathetic tone. "All we have to do is let him stretch his legs."
The panel slid back, retreating into a small crevice. Now free to move, Whitley sat up, slowly and shakily, his neck and back somewhat stiff. Now that had he had a better view of his surroundings, he took a moment to observe it. To his surprise, the room's walls were not white but rather a crisp and sterile metal. Lining the walls were geometric patterns of blue light, which were somewhat mesmerizing in their glow.
His view of the wall was obstructed by the mysterious man he could now see was dressed in a white lab coat. The man, or doctor as it were, flashed a small light in his eyes and asked, "How are you feeling, Mr. Schnee?"
Whitley fixed the man with a glare so frigid that it could freeze water. He coldly warned the doctor, "Get that light out of my face before I shove it down your throat."
Culver, in turn, glanced over the boy's shoulder and remarked, "Great, a fully coherent that. I guess we didn't turn him into a fried vegetable after all."
Now curious as to whom the physician was speaking to, Whitley turned to look at this person. But the minute he saw her, whatever complaint he had died in his throat. He had known that it would be a woman, given the voice, but he hadn't been expecting her to be so, well, beautiful.
She possessed a refined air about her, looking more at home among the Atlesian elite than this place. She also wore a white lab coat, but she had hers open, showing the grey blouse she wore underneath. She was pretty beautiful, with short pale blonde hair that framed her face. Thin eyebrows, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her eyes, whiter than his own hair, bore into his blue eyes, piercing right through the glasses she wore. She looked as though she had stepped out of a classical painting.
But there was something about the woman that unsettled him. When she looked at him, it felt like she wasn't staring at a person. No, she regarded him more as a scientist would a lab rat. Such an implication sent a chill down his spine. He promptly quashed that feeling, hiding it with a mask of indignant rage.
He haughtily demanded, "Okay, listen up. Do you even have the slightest idea who I am? My father is an important man, so if you think you can just kidnap me-"
"Calm down, Mr. Schnee. You're perfectly safe." The woman told the boy, unbothered by the boy's anger.
"So says the person who kidnapped and strapped me into this... thing!" Whitley accused, burning hot anger coursing through him.
But then a wave of nausea washed over him as memories of what he experienced during his dream came back. But as he struggled to keep the bile from rising to his throat, a thought occurred. Had that really been a dream? A dream never followed any kind of logic and structure. No, what he experienced had seemed real, as though he were living another person's life. He addressed the two adults.
"What was that I saw? I know you were watching me, so you obviously know I was dreaming. It almost felt... real."
"That's because it is real, Mr. Schnee." Bleach told him, startling the young man.
She continued, "Well, more 'was' than is. What you experienced happened more than eight centuries ago, actually."
He sputtered incredulously, "C-C-C-centuries? What are you talking about? Are you saying that I just saw the past?"
"A rather gross oversimplification, but yes." She confirmed, shocking the boy. "The machine you're currently sitting on is called the Animus. It is a device that allows us to pierce the veil of time and gaze into days long past."
Whitley's patience was starting to fray. He demanded through gritted teeth, "Enough with the poetic nonsense, and just tell me what this Animi does! This is starting to make less and less sense!"
"Animus, Mr. Schnee. When using a tool, you should at least know what it's called." She corrected him before saying. "But you're right; I suppose I didn't explain how it functions. Answer this question, Mr. Schnee. What is a memory?"
"The recollection of a past event." The boy answered before scoffing. "Please, even a toddler can answer that."
"Excellent, Mr. Schnee." She condescendingly complimented, speaking to the boy as though he were a toddler. "Now, tell me, what exactly did you see?"
"Let me guess, a memory?" He sarcastically retorted. "Now I know you're blowing hot air. Last I recall, I never walked through the desert, and last I counted, I still had all ten fingers."
He wiggled his fingers in the air to prove his point.
"I didn't say it was your memory, Mr. Schnee. No, what you saw was the memory of another person, one who's been long dead for more than 800 years. That memory belongs to one of your ancestors."
Whitley glared skeptically at the woman.
She brushed off the boy's gaze with an amused chuckle before explaining. "Keep glaring at me all you want; it won't change that I'm right. And it's all thanks to the machine you're sitting on. And I like to think we did an outstanding job building it."
"And 'we' would be you and Mr. Sunshine there?" He commented mockingly, drawing an annoyed glare from Mr. Sunshine.
"Well, not us personally, Mr. Schnee. Do we really seem like the building types to you?" She rhetorically asked. "No, you have our employers to thank. They had some clever people build this amazing device. Mr. Culver and I use it to conduct our research."
"Research that I'm sure is quite fascinating." Said the boy sarcastically before asking. "As for your employers, well, who might they be?"
"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to divulge that information now, Mr. Schnee. Not while we're in the middle of gathering some important data."
Whitley's patience finally snapped, shouting angrily. "Data for what?! For your research? Research that you haven't explained! Look, lady, if I'm going to be held against my will, I should at least know why! So you better start telling me now or-"
"Or what, Mr. Schnee?" She interrupted, unbothered by the boy's outburst. "You're going to scream? Throw a fit? I know you're used to getting what you want when you want it, but that's not going to happen here. Whatever you'll know is whatever we deemed necessary to know. It's that simple."
"Well, can you at least tell me just what this machine does? Is that necessary to know because I certainly think it is!" The stubborn boy demanded.
"Actually, I do think he should know how the Animus works, Dr. Bleach." Spoke Culver, who had finally chosen to speak. "Though I doubt he'll believe us."
"Perhaps, but I was going to tell him anyway. Stop me when it starts getting too complicated for you to understand, little boy." She told Whitley with a condescendingly caring tone, eliciting an annoyed growl from the boy. "What is DNA, if not the building blocks of all life? Everything that we are, from our hair to our toes and our blood, all their instructions can be found in our genetic code, interwoven and connected between that beautiful double-helix."
"I said, cut the poetics, stop beating around the bush, and just tell me how this blasted thing works!" Whitley impatiently demanded. "Seriously, why does everything have to sound like a poem?"
"I was getting there, Mr. Schnee." Bleach calmly told him, uncaring for his attitude, and bemoaned. "Teenagers, no appreciation for the good storytelling."
She continued with her story. "Yes, everything that we are comes from our DNA. But what if I were to tell you there was more to be found there than that? That does not only contain the genetic traces of our ancestors but their memories, as well? You said memory is the recollection of a past event. Well, thanks to the Animus, we can look into the past, using the memories of our ancestors." She finished with a satisfied smirk. "Do you understand now, young man, or do I need to repeat myself?"
Whitley stared at the woman for a moment, eventually speaking. "Yes, I understand completely now. I understand... that you are completely and hopelessly insane."
"Do you take me for an imbecile? Do I really seem that gullible to you?" He ranted, having lost what little patience he had left now gone. "Genetic memories, are you serious? Reliving the lives of our ancestors? This is absolute tripe! What's next? Oh, don't tell me, magic is real? That Grimm can talk? Oh, no, wait, here's a real kicker, the headmaster of Beacon is actually an immortal wizard that can control people's minds?"
Bleach watched as the boy erupted into raucous laughter, hacking and wheezing like a hyena, clutching his stomach and nearly doubling over. She had been expecting a reaction such as that, be she hadn't thought it'd be this extreme. Oh, how she was going to enjoy breaking that haughty attitude of his.
She glanced over to Culver, and he at her, an unspoken understanding shared between them. He promptly moved to the Animus' left side, where a surgical tray sat waiting. Upon it laid a small bottle and a series of syringes. As her colleague readied the shots, she looked at young Schnee.
Whitley, whose laughter had finally devolved into strained hacking, eventually realized that she was looking at him. He took a brief moment to calm his nerves down and fixed her with an amused gaze. He can't remember the last time he had laughed so hard. Not even humiliating his sister, Weiss, had left him feeling such mirth. But when he saw that same satisfied, self-assured smirk upon her face, whatever joy he felt vanished, his body overtaken by annoyance once again.
"You're telling me that you actually buy into this hogwash?" He asked in all seriousness.
"Well, if it's all tripe and hogwash, as you say, then I suppose you wouldn't be opposed to using the Animus again." She said, drawing an unamused snort from him.
"Uh, how about, no. Instead, why don't you let me go? If you do that, I promise I won't let my father release the dogs on you. I live, you live. We all live. A fair trade, don't you think?"
"Hmmm... I suppose we can do that." Bleach mused, a finger tapping her cheek. "But here's a counteroffer. You get back inside the machine, and I won't have the guards standing outside of the door come in and beat you to a bloody pulp. All I need do is press this little button on my desk, and the pain starts."
Sure enough, she moved her right finger to hover over a small white button on her desk. Whitley stared at the finger and the button beneath it and weighed his options. On the one hand, she was possibly bluffing, and he can walk right on out of here, though he can expect some resistance from the two adults. Alternatively, there was a chance she wasn't lying, and upon pressing the button, he'll be brought into a world of pain he hoped never to experience.
Without much choice, he resigned himself to acquiescing to the woman's demands.
"Alright, you win." He said with a defeated tone. "But I still call crock on your genetic memory nonsense."
He laid back down on the Animus, relaxing his body in preparation. The panel slid back over his head, flickering to life with a crisp harmonious tone. Across the screen, various readouts and diagnostics appeared, some in text boxes, others in not. He saw that it displayed his heart and breathing rate, measured his adrenaline levels, and even a real-time scan of his body. As he watched the images project on the screen, he took a moment to marvel at the impressive engineering that went into this device. He doubted even the brightest minds in the SDC's research department could ever develop something like this.
Just who could have built it?
"How are you feeling, Mr. Schnee?" He heard Culver ask, the man standing to his right.
"Like I'm trapped in a video game." He answered.
"I supposed it'd feel like that." The man commented before adding. "Also, I apologize for this."
Suddenly, Whitley felt a small prick in his right arm. He winced slightly at the sensation, though it was one he felt familiar. He had just been injected with a syringe. Whatever the little glass vial contained, he hadn't the slightest clue.
And whatever it was, he was starting to feel its effects. He began to feel drowsy like he was ready for a nice, long nap. His eyelids were starting to feel a little heavy, and his eyes were a bit blurry. A short yawn escaped his lips, followed by the closing of his eyes. A moment later, everything went dark.
With the boy now sedated, Culver pulled the syringe out of his arm. Quickly, he wiped the injection site with alcohol, followed by wrapping of a Band-Aid upon it. He checked the boy's vital on his side of the glass panel and found they were at acceptable levels.
"Did you make sure to increase the dosage?" He heard Bleach ask, to which he replied. "Yes. It will keep him under long enough for us to find what we're looking for."
He then asked, "You weren't really going to call the Guards in, are you? I know I've violated a lot of my principles for this project, but I draw the line at harming a child."
"Of course, I wasn't going to, Dominic. You know I'd never dream of doing something like that." She innocently replied with a disarming smile.
But Culver did know her better than that. He knew she was lying right through her teeth.
Disregarding her apparent lies, he asked. "Are you sure this will work? We've already taken an awful risk, taking Jacques Schnee's youngest."
"The higher-ups know what they're doing." Bleach spoke, disregarding his concerns. "As far as the man knows, his son is currently starting his summer internships with the company. Besides, we couldn't take the sisters. It would've been too noticeable."
"I know, but still, the boy is not performing as expected. Before I pulled him out, his synchronization rate was at a disappointing 52%," Culver argued. "It's not good enough for Project Proxy. And don't get me started on the risks of the Bleeding Effect."
"That is why he's with us. With each Animus session, his synchronization rate will improve. By the time we're finished, he'll be the best subject for the project." She countered before adding with a sigh. "Still, it's a shame we couldn't find the cousin. If we still had those files, we could've found them easily."
"Yeah, a pity that."
\*****TACR*****/
[RESUMING SESSION. RESTARTING AT MOST RECENTLY SAVED MEMORY]
...His missing ring finger.
But a missing finger was not enough to prove his identity.
The outsider flicked his wrist in a movement honed by years of training. But as he flicked his wrist, he did the same with his little finger. Looped around this finger, a small ring, one connected to a small string. With these combined movements, the small line was pulled, activating the spring within a hidden channel located on the underside of his bracer.
To Rashad, what happened next seemed like magic. A narrow blade extended out through the gap between the middle and little fingers, the metal glinting in the sunlight.
As the shining metal shone into Rashid's eyes, so too did recognition.
"I see... So, you are a follower of the Creed." Rashad spoke, realization dawning on him. "Well, my young friend, tell me what is so important for the Old Man to send one of his eaglets?"
"Information," The young man told him. "We have received word that the Sunderer is preparing a siege on Mashrek. He has sent an agent to weaken the city's defenses, perhaps even lure the Alwuhush. The Mentor has sent me to find this spy and eliminate him. I was told you may have a clue as to their identity."
The older man stroked his beard, "I am quite sorry, young man, for you came all this way for nothing. I'm afraid that no such whisperings have been heard within the city. The only news as of late regards the fate of Mashrek's bureau."
"Tell me what you know." The young man demanded impatiently.
"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, young Hashashin. It is a policy of mine to know the name of the people I conduct business with. Consider it a transaction, your name for the information." The merchant smiled. "A fair trade, is it not?"
The outsider fixed the merchant a scrutinizing glare, trying to detect any sign of deception on the man's face. Rashad's face was stiff as stone, completely impassive. For all he knew, the merchant was lying right through his perfect teeth. But this was also his only chance to hear any type of news regarding the fate of his brothers. With a resigned grunt, he pulled down the hood concealing his face.
Upon seeing the man's face, the trader's eyes blinked in surprise.
"Hmmm... I thought only masters were given missions. You seem awfully young to be one, friend. " The trader remarked in bemusement. " But I guess there's a first time for anything. Although I still need a name to put with that face."
"I am Baz Al-Sahra." The now-identified Hashashin said.
Rashad's eyebrows rose, "So you are a falcon of the desert, yes? A strong name that is. But your lack of a patronym is curious, though. Might you be a foundling?"
Baz's lips twitched, an all-too-familiar feeling of irritation filling him. He hoped the silk trader missed that.
"How I came to be in the order is irrelevant," Baz spoke irritably. "All you need know is that I am indeed Hashashin, with a crucial mission. You will give me the information I need. Now."
"Patience, young falcon, patience." The merchant reprimanded, not all bothered by the assassin's impatience. "Listen to me and listen well, boy. Mashrek is no longer safe for Assassins. Three months ago, your brothers at the bureau were rounded up by the city guards. How they found the bureau, I do not know. But I do know is they were all charged with Subterfuge, accused of planning to assassinate the Sultan."
"And what became of my fellow assassins?" The assassin asked though he suspected what had already happened.
"They were executed, made an example of," Rashad answered solemnly.
Upon hearing the fates of his comrades, Baz felt his body ignite in restrained fury. He swore, before his mission was complete, that he shall avenge their deaths. He hoped that whoever had framed them was the one he had been sent to eliminate. Considering his line of work, the chances of that being the case were more likely than not. But what of the other Hashashin sent to investigate the city? What became of them?
"Have you heard any rumors regarding any surviving Hashashin?" Baz asked, dreading the answer his informant might provide.
"I'm afraid I've heard rumors of many Hashashin being found out, dragged to the city prison to face their so-called justice,'" Rashad said, his tongue dripping with venom at the last word. "But there could be survivors hiding somewhere in the city. But I'm afraid the guards are hunting them down, as well as people like me who have ties to the order."
"You're an informant; I doubt your ties to the brotherhood are any stronger than that," Baz spoke skeptically, crossing his arms arrogantly for good measure.
"The bureau's Rashiq was my older brother." He had been wrong.
"My father was a Hashashin. Many in the order believed both of his sons would follow in his footsteps. It turns out that life didn't agree with me, unlike my brother." Rashad lamented with much regret. "Though, I doubt you'd understand, given you weren't born into the order."
"Again, my heritage is irrelevant. I grew up learning the Hashashin way of life." Baz spoke irritably, his patience starting to wear thin. "As for my mission. It was handed to me personally by the Mentor's right hand. Should that not be testament enough to my skill?"
"The Mentor's second-in-command? I thought only the Old Man assigned the missions." The merchant spoke confusedly.
"I'm afraid that the Mentor has taken ill. Our healers say he probably has a few months left." The young man clarified. "But that is for another time. I've given you my name, so give me the information you have."
"I'm afraid I'm unable to do that, young man," Rashad told him.
"And why is that?"
"Because he's been stalling for time."
He heard the sound of metal scraping, along with the rippling of a leather sheath. Baz quickly turned on his heels, throwing off his disguise. The brown robes flew into the face of his attacker, who struggled to remove it. The Hashashin drew his sword, its metal blade glistening in the sunlight, and stabbed his assailant through his gut. The man let out a strained gurgle, his hands clutching his pierced stomach, blood seeping through his clothes and the discarded priestly robes. The young man retracted his sword, his would-be killer falling to the ground, dead.
The instant the body hit the ground, the tent's fabric walls ruffled before being ripped apart by swords. Through the long gashes cut by the blades, bodies began to worm their way through, some waving their swords and others daggers. Baz looked behind him and saw that Rashad had already fled further down the alley. Returning his gaze onto his coming attackers, he pulled out some throwing knives. The man quickly took aim and threw the blades, piercing the hands or knees of his would-be attackers. The murderous men promptly recoiled and clutched their wounds, giving Baz the opening he needed to escape.
He looked to his left and saw a stack of crates resting against a wall. He ran towards them and jumped, using them as leverage to jump higher onto the wall, his hands gripping onto the cracks and crevices in the sandstone wall. With an ease that can only come from years of harsh training, he ascended the wall, climbing to the rooftop. Now free of a confining alleyway, he observed his elevated surroundings. To his luck, the roof he was currently standing on was part of an entire connected block of buildings.
He turned right to run across these many rooftops, only to feel something pierce the back of his shoulder. He tumbled to the roof's floor, the dust and sand staining his once pristine white robes, and gazed in the direction from where he had been hit. Standing on another rooftop were a group of archers, their bows readied and aimed at him. He shuffled to his feet, pulled the arrow out of his shoulder, and resumed his escape. Wave after wave of arrows flew past him as he ran. Despite his wound, he still had the energy to leap from roof to roof.
But just as he reached the last rooftop, he was confronted by a group of four swordsmen. They all wore rather shabby clothes, a mishmash patchwork of brown, gray, and black fabrics. They drew their swords, which Baz noted had golden pommels. From behind the men, another shoved his way through. The wounded man recognized this particular mercenary as the one he had bumped into inside Rashad's tent. The mercenary drew his sword, along with his fellows. Baz answered in kind.
The men charged with their swords raised high, ready to cut Baz to ribbons.
Baz raised his sword and parried his first opponent's strike, which he followed through with a kick to the man's stomach, forcing him back. Another mercenary lunged, but he deftly twisted his body to dodge. Now behind his would-be killer, Baz raised his sword up and brought it, slashing deeply into the man's back. The slashed swordsman let one final gasp and crumpled over dead, his back bleeding and sword still clutched in hand.
Having seen what had become of his comrade, the third mercenary charged, his sword clashing with Baz's. Sparks flew as metal collided with metal, meeting each attack with a counter, the role of the attacker going back and forth. Their movements were quick and practiced, a proper dance of the blades. Their dance came to an end when the Hashashin pulled out a knife from his belt, which he used to slice his opponent's throat, cutting right through his jugular. The man gripped his opened neck, gurgling blood and gasping for air, before he stumbled clumsily off of the roof, falling to his death.
Now, it was just him and one final mercenary. The same one he had bumped into. The man stood his ground, observing the Hashashin with a calculative gaze, searching for the right opening to attack. Baz decided to take the initiative and charged him, his sword arm poised for a lunging attack. However, the mercenary was prepared as he positioned his blade in a way that the bridge deflected his opponent's. He followed up by tripping Baz while also shoving him to the ground.
Baz fell to the ground but was able to roll away, taking up a crouched position. The mercenary kept his stance, staring him down. It was then that the young master realized that this man was not like his fallen comrades. His footwork was flawless, and he left no opening in his stance. This man has killed before and has done so many times.
"If you surrender now, you will be offered quarter. There's no need for further bloodshed." The mercenary calmly proposed.
Baz scoffed at the offer in disgust, "Did you say the same to my brothers before you cut them down?"
"They refused. Just do the smart thing and give up."
"I'll pass!"
Baz lunged, his sword aimed at the man's head. The mercenary adjusted his position to protect his head. This proved to be a mistake as the Hashashin dropped to his knees and slid across the roof, sliding right under the man's arms. Baz planted the pommel of his sword into the man's stomach, causing him to lurch forward and drop his sword. Tossing his own aside, the young warrior traded his blade for fists as he delivered a swift uppercut to the mercenary's chin.
The mercenary staggered back from the impact. The mercenary was shocked by the change in tactics. Baz promptly punched him in the face, thinking that'd be the end of it. But the mercenary did not budge from his spot and instead grabbed his opponent's wrist. With a fierce tug, he pulled Baz's arm down, causing the man to stumble downward as well. The mercenary punted the man's face with his knee, breaking his nose.
Baz fell to the ground, his nose busted and bleeding. Despite the pain, he quickly picked himself up and held his arms up, settling into a boxing stance.
The mercenary, now on the offensive, swung his fist at the Hashashin.
Baz dodged the man's fist and spun on his feet, grabbing his attacker's outstretched arm. Using all of his strength, he threw the man over his shoulder. The man landed roughly on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Wasting no time, Baz knelt and planted his knees on the man's stomach, his right arm on his neck.
Without any other choice, he decided to use his Hidden Blade.
He flexed his left hand, his small finger pulling the string tied to his bracer. A sharpened blade, hidden under the leather bracer, shot out. He reeled his hand back, his expression cold and subdued. He brought his arm down swiftly, jamming the blade right into the man's forehead, piercing through skull and tissue and straight into the brain. The man's eyes twitched, and his body shook before finally going still.
Baz pulled the blade out, blood pooling out of the freshly dead cadaver's opened skull. The blade retracted back into its hidden channel. Exhausted, he rose to his feet, his lungs hungry for air and his muscles strained. His body was practically screaming in pain. But he still had a chance to escape.
He moved to the edge of the rooftop and observed the street below him.
It was packed with people and horse-drawn wagons. That's when he saw a horse dragging a cart full of hay coming from the left. He knew what he had to do.
As he waited for the hay cart, he steadied his breathing. He cleansed his heart of fear and his mind of doubts. He stood up straight, spreading his arms out and drawing his legs together. He closed his eyes and acknowledged the potential end of his life. He had surrendered to the possibility of his death should he time his jump incorrectly.
High above, an eagle soared.
With one step, he jumped from the roof.
A leap of faith.
And so ends the first chapter of this story. You had no idea how hard it was to write this.
Well, not that it's published; I can finally get started on the next chapter of the Invincible Whitley Schnee.
As for how the Assassins and Templars fit into the world of Remnant, well, you'll just have to wait and see what the next chapter will bring.
As for the past setting, I took great care to research various cultures in creating Ancient Vacuo *Spoilers*. I thought it was a great chance to do some world-building, which I feel the canon series did not do enough.
As for the setting, well, this is the period that Baz lived through.
The Conquest of Malik the Sunderer, First King of Vacuo. Taking place approximately 736 years before the Vytal Treaty (816 years before the events of RWBY).
As for the meaning of Baz's name, well, it was explained by Rashad. Baz comes from an Arabic word meaning "Falcon," which keeps in line with the most Assassin Main characters having names evocative of birds. Al-Sahra means "The Desert," so his name would be "Falcon, The Desert." As for the lack of a patronym (An indicator of his father), well, that's a spoiler.
I would go into more detail, but I'm exhausted. So here are database entries written by Dominic Culver, one of the doctors overlooking Whitley's Animus Sessions.
ANIMUS DATABASE
Alwuhush: One of many terms used to describe the Creatures of Grimm in the past. During Malik's conquests, Grimm attacks were not as frequent, though they still occurred. Such was their rarity that many people within the many walled kingdoms thought them a myth.
Bakkaya: Just one of many ancient names for Vacuo. When this name was used, the region was divided into several kingdoms. Each Kingdom had a unique culture and tongue, each ruled by a sovereign and their families. Of course, many people chose to live outside the city walls, preferring the nomadic life of their ancestors. There were a total of 40 kingdoms, each varying in size and strength, though the five most prominent kingdoms were Arslan, Bastet, Kenyte, Masrur, and Scheherazade. A tenuous peace endured for a few centuries.
This would all change when a warlord named Malik united the tribes of the north into a mighty army, proclaiming his intent to rule the land as its sole ruler. A 20-year age of conflict would ensue, known in history books as "The Bloody Sand," fought between Malik's armies and the Alliance of the Five Kingdoms. However, the war would be put on hold with the arrival of the Crusaders. This was followed by the commencement of the First Holy War. Malik and the few remaining free kingdoms called a truce, united in their struggle against the invaders who came from the East.
*Spoiler Alert: Malik screwed them all over in the end. He was kind of a tool.
*Upon discovering ancient documents, Malik was written as having established Vacuo close to 1,000 years ago. Later studies showed this to be a gross overestimation, for Vacuo was founded circa 760 years before the Vytal Treaty.
*The Kingdom of Kenyte would fall close to 500 years before Vytal, the survivors banding together to form the modern Kenyte nomadic tribe.
The Hashashin Brotherhood: A secretive order with a headquarters located in the south, the Hashashin inspired fear and awe with their methods. Trained from early childhood in the art of stealth and combat, the warriors produced by this order were a force to be reckoned with. While often portrayed as heartless murderers and heathens by their enemies, the truth was that the Hashashin followed a creed with a strict code of ethics, which had three tenets. All members of the brotherhood were expected to live by this creed. The maxim of which was not revealed until reaching a certain rank.
*Fun fact: Their order's name is from where the word "Assassin" was derived. It came from a corrupted annunciation used by non-native speakers.
*The leader of the order was known as the Mentor.
Mashrek: A port-city on the northwestern coast of Bakkaya, Mashrek was considered an important trading center. Merchants and politicians came to peddle their wares from all across the known world, building upon their influence, brokering alliances, and mingling among every culture and tongue. At least, that's how records recovered from ancient texts described the city. There was some mention of a terrible catastrophe that befell the city. Mashrek's ruins have yet to be discovered, despite the various archaeological searches throughout the centuries.