I'm back.
"Ah, you recognize this, don't you?" asked Altaïr, tossing the Apple in one hand as the Templar ran out of room to wriggle away. He made it pulse, the light glow around the golden orb intensifying for one moment, and the Templar flinched as if he'd been struck. "They didn't tell you we had it, did they?"
A wave of his hand locked the door, throwing up several wards to prevent anyone from entering the room under any circumstances. He didn't like to boast, but Altaïr's magical locks could last through the explosion caused by a metric ton of C4.
He sat down in front of the Templar, pinning him to the wall with magic, and threw back his hood so that he could look the foolish man in the eye. The Apple started pulsing, as if in time with the Assassin's heartbeat, and the Templar's face morphed from plainly fearful to absolutely horrified.
This only made the Assassin's smirk wider, more vicious looking.
"We should begin now, yes?" he drawled, holding out the Apple around the Templar's face level. It pulsed a final time and the world went black for the Templar.
He appeared in a garden, mist obscuring anything past ten meters in any direction. The soft strum of many harps floated through the air, along with the sounds of feminine giggling, but no matter where he looked, he couldn't see either instrument or women. He heard the wind whistle by, but the mist remained where it was, barely moving at all.
He felt content, at peace with everything and everyone. The wounds in his body no longer plagued him with pain, as if he'd been in one of the Templar hospitals for about twelve months. He smiled, enjoying himself for a moment.
Then he arrived.
"Welcome to the Garden, Templar." Altaïr appeared behind him, just like he did in their short but decisive battle. "You're the first Templar to see it since the Third Crusade."
"The Templars captured Masyaf with the help of the Mongols, at the end of the true Altaïr's time," retorted the Templar, smug in his knowledge and superiority.
"You really think the Assassins would let our original stronghold be overrun by horse riding barbarians and a smattering of men in crossed armor?" chuckled Altaïr, waving a hand to make a pair of chairs appear between them. He took his seat, arranging his robes and armor as if he wore an Armani suit rather than spelled cloth and dragon-leather armor. He gestured to the other chair, inviting him to sit. "Search your feelings, little Templar. You know it to be true."
"The Father of Understanding has guided us and his chosen few. We have defeated you Assassins on all seven continents," replied the Templar, his voice taking on a frantic edge. "We'll finish the fight and bring peace to the world if we have to stand to the last man!"
"You preach of peace, little man, but you would oppress the people rather than free them. Controlling them to force a peace is not the way. Peace without freedom of will is nothing but slavery."
The Assassin crossed his arms and leant back in his chair, confidence exuding from every action he made. "But we are not here to debate our moral principles. I want to know why you're here."
"I put you in the tournament. That was the extent of my orders," said the Templar as he sat in his own chair, trying to create the same of air of relaxation the Assassin wore about himself. Despite his outward appearance, his mind was in turmoil. The worst part was that the Assassin seemed to know it was all just an act, judging by the smile across his face.
"I don't believe you," Altaïr said, still at ease in his chair. "You Templars always know more than what you say."
"Maybe, maybe not," replied the Templar, his tone mocking but heart thundering in his ears. "What are you going to do about it?"
Altaïr's smile grew wider than ever seen before, making the Templar feel very unnerved. He leaned forward and put a finger to his enemy's forehead. The Templar felt a slight shock, much like a discharge of static electricity, just before his vision began to dim.
As the world darkened for the second time, he hear the Assassin whisper in his ear, his tone ice cold.
"This."
"Altaïr said that he was going to see one of his contacts," said Alyssandra, walking into the classroom with Padraig and Piotr following close behind. "I think he mentioned that he had Moody as a relatively close friend in the briefing he gave us. I think that's who he's going to see."
"That's what you said about the last two professors we went to see," growled Piotr, annoyed. Collecting all the red marked on the list took time and fending off the questions of the three Heads of the schools was exhausting enough. "Dumbledore has been a pain and Karkaroff is an arrogant ponce. At least the Frenchwoman has accepted 'We'll explain everything soon.'"
"I'm sure this is the last one we'll go see."
The bloodcurdling scream that emanated from the office above the classroom had all three of them looking at each other in confusion.
"I think we are in the right place," said Piotr, amused at the other's reactions. He shrugged at their looks and climbed the stairs, throwing his shoulder into the door with a smile on his face.
They walked in to see the Altaïr sitting down with his legs crossed under him and a man they've never seen before stuck to the wall with magical spikes the Assassins usually used for immobilizing techniques. The sight of him in a pool of blood from several bullet wounds was not as curious as the unblinking gaze he had on his face.
"Um… Altaïr?" asked Alyssandra, pulling down her mask and throwing back her hood as she knelt beside her friend. "Are you alright?"
"He's fine. He's just using legilimency." Piotr walked forward, waving a hand in front of his friend's face. Getting no reaction, he grinned at his allies. "No dilation of the pupils, no blinking. He's busy taking a walk through the man's mind."
He jumped as his hand was caught in a powerful grip, bringing it to the brink of breaking before being used as a lever to bring him to the ground in an incredibly undignified way. The impact of the ground meeting his spine knocked the breath out of him, leaving him gasping on the ground along with several bruises from the weapons and gear he had strapped to his back.
Piotr grunted in pain as his arm was twisted into a semi-painful position, mentally kicking himself for doing what he did. Altaïr goes from dead asleep or in a trance to instinctive attacks before becoming fully awake.
It took a second for Altaïr to become aware of the situation, which was enough time for the laughter of Alyssandra and Padraig to enter his ears before he went the extra step to break his supposed attacker's arm.
"You forgot again, didn't you?" he asked, releasing the joint lock he had on his brother's arm and using that grasp to pull him back to his feet. He shook his head as Piotr twisted his arm back and forth, trying to relieve the pain. "What happened last time?"
"You shattered my ulna," the giant Russian growled in reply.
"And you've learned nothing from that, have you?"
"I forgot."
"And you were nearly incapacitated once again," said Padraig, sliding the spikes out of the man they knew not. "Who's this, by the way?"
"Templar," answered Altaïr, his hands drifting to the hilt of his sword, only stopping for an instant over one of his many pockets. "He's out for now, but I believe he'll be coming around soon."
"Did you get anything out of him?" asked Alyssandra, sniffing the blood that had dripped from their enemy's wounds. It has the tang of magic to it… are they copying our ways of manipulating our own bodies with magic?
"Very much, but there can always be more," said Altaïr as he opened up a channel to speak with the rest of his brethren.
"Hephaestus, Sapte, Jacinta. Prisoner transfer from the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The rest of you, release the red listed and maintain your patrols."
Several acknowledgements were heard through his hood, whilst others merely gave a green light across his HUD. He smiled as he and other three Assassins dragged the Templar from his former office, already hearing the light footsteps of Sapte and the heavy tread of Hephaestus coming down the hall.
When he first met the tall, blue eyed, melee combat specialist/medic, he'd been surprised at his antics. But, as with all Assassins, he was never what he seemed. He acted suave and flirtatious outside serious situations, but was a force to be reckoned with in close quarters combat due to his natural ability for speed and agility.
Which is not to say he was restricted to close range, as his ability with the wrist mounted hidden gun was legendary amongst the Assassins at Langley. He also made a name for himself on many a battlefield as a medic, once again owing to natural ability. Unfortunately, his gift was only good for healing others, as healing himself took twice the effort.
While Sapte was built for speed, Hephaestus was built for power. While not as tall as the Romanian, Hephaestus was much heavier, outweighing Spate by almost fifty pounds. Altaïr was certain it was fifty pounds of muscle, seeing how the man could wield that war hammer of his with such ease. Like Sapte, he was also a master of ranged combat when necessary. His Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum revolver was never far from the mechanic.
His choice of incredibly hard hitting weaponry showed he is a firm believer in putting someone down hard and making sure they can't get back up.
Generally thought of as a bruiser at first glance, he actually was a very nice and well-mannered and easy going man, partial to music, jokes, and reading.
One of the major things that set Hephaestus apart from other Assassins is his bad right leg. While it was definitely within the Order's abilities to heal the leg back to perfection, Hephaestus had constructed a brace for the leg that made it superior to the leg of any human being. He was always tinkering with it, making it better than the last version, and was not about to give up an advantage he had just because he wasn't "perfect." As he built the brace to correct his leg, he's picked up a good amount of medical knowledge along the way, so his skills as a medic were respectable.
His speciality, however, was due to his fascination of fire and explosions. As one of the few demolitions savants, his skills in the creation and use of explosives gave them quite the edge on battlefields where collateral damage to the surroundings was acceptable.
"Sapte, Hephaestus, welcome to my parlour," said Altaïr sweeping his arm to encompass the entire room with a flourish. He jerked his head to the unconscious Templar at his feet, a look of professionalism to his face. "We need a transfer to Langley, if you don't mind."
"Templar?" asked Sapte, cleaning nonexistent dirt from beneath his fingernails with one of his custom made knives. His blue eyes shifted colors for an instant, becoming brighter, more ice like than normal, at the prospect of having another Templar under his control.
"Yes. I've gleaned a large amount of info from his mind, but I'm sure the spooks at Langley are just dying to have their hands on him."
"They will not be disappointed," said Hephaestus, his voice deep and bass. He smiled from beneath a full beard, dark brown eyes hidden beneath cowl and brow glinting with anticipation. With a small snap of his fingers, the captive Templar was lifted into the air and began to float to Hephaestus, stopping only once he was within a meter from the black and red cloaked Assassin. "I shall have him there before nightfall."
"Good, good. Al Mualim will be pleased," said Padraig, having recovered enough not to burst out laughing every time he opened his mouth. "How's the leg? Is that a new version?"
Hephaestus nodded, sweeping back the cloak to show off the magical mix of steel and leather that made other legs inferior. "Yes. Mark 7.3, actually. I had help from Muyassar, which is why you can see several new runes."
"This is all very nice and all, but shouldn't we be going?" asked Sapte, now flipping the knife from hand to hand in graceful arcs, growing larger and more complex after each pass from left to right and vice versa.
"You have Jacinta to wait for," replied Altaïr, nodding towards the doorway.
The white and purple cloaked Assassin smiled as he tossed his knife into the air and spun on his heel, turning to face the petite Assassin who entered the room.
"Jacinta, how are you?" asked Sapte, his voice changing from annoyed interested. With the sound of steel on leather, his knife fell into its' sheathe with nary a glance. "Did you have a good patrol?"
She allowed a small smile to cross her lips as the exuberant Assassin swept over to bestow a kiss on her hand, which she repaid with a quick hug. "Yes, it was a good patrol. Nothing out of the ordinary, even to our standards."
She brushed Sapte's hand off of her shoulder as she became aware of it. He'd gotten very good at being undetectable, even with the number of upgrades she had done to her rune arrays. "I hear that we are needed for a prisoner transfer. Is this him?"
"Yes. Templar plant. Said he was here to put me in the tournament and that's all." The assembled Assassins all let out a small burst of laughter at the claim. "I rather doubt it."
"Giving him to the spooks, are we?" asked Sapte, now on the other side of Jacinta with his other arm around her shoulders. He smiled flirtatiously at the smaller Assassin, who raised an eyebrow at his antics before shrugging out of the embrace. A quick elbow to his ribs had his breath out of him for a second, stalling his attempt at another sentence. "Oof! Do I at least get a few minutes with him?"
"That's up to the spooks, isn't it?" asked Piotr, handing Hephaestus a pair of gold ingots. "Some of your best, if you don't mind."
"Done," the German replied, reaching into his belt pouch with his left hand whilst placing the bars of precious metal in a hidden pocket beneath his armor. After a second or two of searching, Hephaestus pulled a cigarette case from his pouch and handed it Piotr. "Enjoy."
Piotr nodded in thanks as he pulled a single cancer-stick from the pack before he stowed the rest beneath his bracer. A snap of his fingers had a flame hovering in midair above his thumb, acting as a stand in for his cigarette lighter. He breathed, letting out of cloud of smoke as he sighed. "I knew I forgot something at base."
Altaïr walked to the door, plucking the cigarette from Piotr's lips as he passed. "I'm going back on patrol. At zero-hundred hours, we meet to discuss our plans and the info from the Templar."
"Hey, that's mi-" began Piotr, though he trailed off as his brother in arms apparate without a sound. He shook his head before pulling another from the pack, enjoying his nicotine fix. "Let's move."
The three Assassins assigned to the Templar's transportation each laid a hand on the floating Templar, turning him into a portkey. Sapte smiled as Jacinta pulled a rose from behind her ear with a look of amazement and shock across her face, having not seen the Romanian Assassin put the flower there.
"How did you d-"
They disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the Irishman, the Russian and the dhampir to go back to the office, ready to strip the place of all the Templar's trappings.
"All these dark wizard sensors have Moody's mark upon them," said Alyssandra, peering into the Foe Glass, looking at the shadows that flitted around too fast most people to see more than a blur. She catalogued the faces and turned away, inspecting the array of sensors strew about the shelves and desk. "Do you think he's still alive?"
"It's a possibility, as he knew things only Moody would know," said Altaïr, listening in to the conversation.
"Dumbledore's going to need a new DADA professor," said Padraig, withdrawing his lock picks and flipping open the trunk at the first lock to a well-organized set of books about magical creatures and potion texts. "Who gets to tell him that?"
"I'll tell him later. Focus on the investigation for now," replied Altaïr. He cut the communication, leaving the three to discuss amongst themselves.
"Alright." Padraig threw open the trunk at the next lock, revealing a different pile of books, all magical dueling tomes and defence against Dark curses. The subsequent locks were all the same, only the sixth being used for storage of his clothing.
"How many books can one man have?" asked Padraig as he slipped the picks into the last lock and worked the tumblers. He frowned, as the final lock of the trunk was much more difficult.
"Is there any magic in the locks?" asked Alyssandra, concerned.
"No, but I'm using the lock picks all the same. You never know with the Templars."
With a twist of the metal strips and a small click, the lock sprang open. Padraig threw the chest open for the final time and looked in.
"Well… I found Moody."
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