Hi folks. I'm very sorry to have originally cancelled this story, but I was getting almost no viewers and I had a more successful story to develop. Now though, I can continue this story. Having looked back at previous chapters, I have noticed that the quality of writing has dipped, and I hope to change this. I am still not set on finishing this story. I'd much rather do a revised version, but if enough people request it, then I will do my best to give this story a proper ending.

"Any ideas?" I asked Ethan, who shook his head and fired two shots blindly at the Abstergo hit squad. Gunfire sprayed the damaged plane, tearing up the hull. Across from us was Phillip, with nothing but a Brotherhood-issued pistol. Then, he turned around and dived into the front door of the burnt wreckage. I looked around. There was no way we could run down the street; we'd be shredded in less than a second. We sure as hell couldn't fight them off. Whenever one Templar went down, another one replaced him. it made no sense. Surely Abstergo wouldn't send dozens of agents to kill three Assassins.

Why? What was special about us? Or one of us?

Then I saw it, and felt like the dumbest man alive. To our right, was an alleyway. It was risky. In between the car we were hiding behind and the alleyway was an open space. Maybe about two meters or so. If they were expecting us to run, then we'd be fucked.

But there was no other option. Eventually they'd close in and gun us down. I looked back to the wreckage. Phillip was emerging from the plane, a rifle in his hands. But it was unlike any rifle I'd seen used by the military. it was shaped like any typical automatic rifle, but it was a rusty orange and grey colour, with a scope attached to the top. What was odd about it was that it seemed to give off a golden glow. Like...

Then he fired it at the attackers. It seemed to release a spray of gunfire that hit almost ALL of the targets blocking the street, leaving only a handful of confused Templar agents standing. Then, Phillip flicked a small switch on the side of the gun, and fired in the general direction of the remaining enemies. With each pull of the trigger, a bullet found it's mark, followed by a scream and a thump as a body hit the concrete.

I looked over our cover. The street in front of the crash site was covered in dozens of dead bodies, all wearing the white and red Templar colours. Beneath them was a pool of blood.

"What the hell?" Ethan said, more to himself than any of us.

"Phillip?" I called, turning to him. He still hadn't lowered the rifle, and was scanning the street.

"Phillip? You okay?" I asked cautiously.

Phillip turned to us, slowly, with a vacant expression on his face. It scared me.

"We're going," he said simply.

Phillip was silent the whole way back to the camp.

We'd found an undamaged car with some fuel left. I drove us back through the CBD and made our way east to King's Cross. Commonly known as "the Cross" by locals, it used to be the red-light district of Sydney and the home of organized crime groups. After WW2, the district became dominated by bars, nightclubs and strip clubs.

The one part of Australia that the Templars did have a strong grip on for years was Sydney (no wonder we got shot down the minute we entered the harbour in '96.) T combat the problem, the Assassins established an underground operation in the 70's in King's Cross, working with common criminals, kingpins, even corrupt coppers (I sometimes laugh at my own use of Australian slang). So when the Templars seized Australia, we already had King's Cross under our control.

Or at least what the Templars left standing. They shelled the district out of sheer desperation, leaving the surface burnt to a crisp. We had a network of underground tunnels and complexes at our disposal though, easily built with the help of the Apple of Eden.

The one that was now cutting us off from the rest of the world.

You can't help but give credit where credit is due. The Templars were smart about how they did things. Working in the shadows, presenting themselves as the good guys for decades, taking advantage of people's ignorance in order to further their cause in secret.

I respected their intelligence, but I despised their ideals.

The entrance used by Assassins was built into the ruins of a nightclub. It was nothing more than a few bricks and planks of wood, blackened and burnt. Disguised as a pile of wooden planks was the hatch which opened to reveal a ladder built into metal walls which led into the complex. The Kingdom, that's what the Assassins here called it.

Everybody silently thanked the guys who added extra space in the 80's once the refugees started pouring in. Men, women, homeless people, former millionaires. Everybody was equal. The middle levels were reserved for the 3,000 refugees who had lot everything. The lower levels were for command and senior officers, and the upper levels were for everyone else. And by everybody else I mean Assassin agents and anyone else who worked to maintain the facility.

Originally, the base had been powered by the Apple, but it also had a built-in power supply in case of emergencies. The entrance led to a short corridor, at the end of which was a door with a DNA scanner. Assassins had to place their hand on the scanner, and if they were in the database, they were granted entry. Unless they were listed as enemies.

I placed my hand on the scanner and, in a millisecond, the sign above the door read, GRANTED. The door slid open, to reveal the a wider hallway with windows to my right. On the other side was the war room. It was far larger than the one in Melbourne. More like the one in New York. At the end of the hallway was the main elevator. There were four in the entire base. In the middle of the hallway was a t-junction leading to the infirmary, bunks, cafeteria, rec room, training areas and briefing rooms.

We made our way to Room A for a mission report. Keith and Julia had flown in from Melbourne. And Keith was there to debrief us.

"Sit down, Ryan," he said. I sat down. The entire room was metal. The chair and tables were metal and it was cold. I shivered slightly. Keith turned on a recorder on the table.

"Please tell me your full name and date of birth," Keith said.

"Ryan James Williamson, born September 17th, 1975."

"Good. Now, you were assigned on a scouting mission to search for Culling survivors in Sydney, correct?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what happened."

"We split up in order to cover more ground. Around midday, I heard a plane engine above me. I looked up and I saw that it had an American Flag printed on the bottom. Then a rocket was fired from a roof. It took the plane down and we went to investigate. Then we were ambushed by Abstergo troops."

"And you escaped?"

"Yes, thanks to Phillip. He found some kind of weapon in the plane wreckage. Some kind of rifle. He fired, and all of the bullets found their targets. He took down the entire squad."

"That's interesting, because Phillip didn't mention any plane, weapon or ambush."

He gave me a look.

"Any possible reason why he lied?"

"No, none," I said, confused, "It happened though. Ethan will tell you."

"I guess we'll see," Keith replied, "Well, that's all I need. You may go."

He switched off the recorder. I made to leave, but he gestured for me to stay.

"It's good to see you, brother," he said simply, "I just want you to know that."

I nodded, and left the room.

A few days later, I got called to the debriefing room. Keith explained it to me.

"We found this guy trying to sabotage our generators," he told me, "We hope you'll be able to get something out of him."

"Why me?" I asked.

"You'll see."

They brought the prisoner in. His arms were cuffed, and he was strapped into the chair. A polygraph machine was set up by the table. There was something familiar about him. Then he looked up. His hair was far longer than when we'd last met. He looked tired and weak. But it was him. There wasn't any doubt about it. I didn't think about it, but I heard his name said aloud.

"Troy."