A/N: Before I begin this long-ass note, I need to address an important topic. It has come to my attention (via review and follow-up PMs) that this story needs to have warning labels attached to the chapters. So, without further delays…
WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG HUMOROUS CONTENT THAT SHOULD BE READ IN A DISCREET LOCATION. IF YOU ARE IN THE SAME ROOM AS OTHER PEOPLE, AWAKE OR SLEEPING, YOU NEED TO MOVE AWAY FROM THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE. YOU MAY EXPERIENCE THE FOLLOWING BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER READING THE CHAPTER: THE GIGGLES, SIDESPLITTING LAUGHTER, NAUSEA, VOMITING, PAINFUL GAS, EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA, HYPERVENTILATION, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE, FEVER, AND/OR ABDOMINAL CRAMPS.
IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, YOU MAY MISCARRY.
PLEASE ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF YOUR HEART IS HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR SEX, I MEAN, READING THIS STORY.
And there's your warning! This exact warning will be posted in the remaining chapters, no matter how not funny I think they are. I know that a select few are just too funny to even THINK about, let alone how they might read on screen!
Enjoy the chapter!
ONWARD!
They were being chased.
Of course they were being chased throughout Jerusalem.
Desmond swore under his breath as he leapt through another merchant stand with the guards at his heels. He glanced at the rooftops, seeing Altaïr breezing by as if this was normal for him.
Of course it was. It always was.
Seeing the Syrian Assassin hide in a roof garden, Desmond growled in frustration. The guards were still at his back, barreling down the streets like a bunch of terrorists—not that he was racist or anything. He turned a sharp corner, breaking sight for a brief moment before being discovered again.
Looking around, he noticed a large tower with a platform anchored to the top, peering over the city. Sprinting to it, he grabbed onto the jagged edges of the building and began scaling up, leaving the guards on the ground. He sighed in relief as they didn't attempt to climb up the sides of the tower to reach him.
But then they started chunking rocks at him, nailing him in the back.
He felt his grip loosening and began to lose his balance. He felt another rock hit him, this time in the back of the head, and he plummeted towards the earth, the guards cheering in victory.
And suddenly they weren't.
Desmond felt the crumpled bodies of the guards beneath him, and he scrambled to get up. He needed to blend in quickly in order to escape any more pursuits!
Spying a wagon filled with hay, he jumped inside, receiving a mouthful of the dead straw. Burying himself, he held his breath as he noticed two guards in front of the wagon.
"Where do you believe the infidel has vanished to?" one guard inquired, looking everywhere.
"I haven't a clue."
A few moments passed, and the first guard shrugged. "Well, he's gone now," he said as he and the other guard began walking away.
Desmond waited a few moments before emerging from the hay, spitting the straw from his mouth. He dusted himself off, noticing that he didn't have his normal clothing on.
He was dressed Assassin robes that were similar to his ancestor's. He arched his brow at the robes quizzically. Why did his clothes change in Altaïr's world but Altaïr's didn't in his world? It didn't make any sense.
But if any of this shit made any sense at any given point in time, his name wouldn't be Desmond Miles; it would be Sheldon Cooper. This would all be explained by advanced physics that only the Big Bang character could even begin to understand.
Shrugging off the weird feeling that somehow something or someone undressed him, Desmond began his search for the other Assassin, finding him almost immediately, even though he was blending with a group of scholars.
Desmond joined the blend, slightly bumping into Altaïr, who merely gave a sideways glance at him.
He narrowed his eyes at his descendant. "How on earth did you find me?" he whispered in shock.
Desmond slightly shrugged. "You stick out like a sore thumb in comparison to these dark cloaked scholars." He grabbed Altaïr's arm, allowing the scholars to pass them and move forward without them. He folded his arms across his chest—curse that damned Connor!—as he eyed his ancestor. "How in the world are you able to run across the rooftops with ease while I run around blindly in the streets?"
Altaïr lifted his chin arrogantly. "I am a Master Assassin. You are merely my descendant. Nothing more."
Desmond furrowed his brow. "Since you're a 'Master,'" he mocked as he put air quotes around Master, "then show me what it means to be an Assassin."
If Altaïr had been drinking anything, he would've spit it straight into Desmond's face. His eyes bugged as he seemed to choke on his own spit. "What?"
"You heard me," Desmond retorted. "Teach me to be an Assassin. I want the true training that novices are forced to endure. I don't want my skills to strictly come from reliving life through my ancestors' lives. I want to train. To get stronger. To fight Templars. I want to be the real deal," he concluded with a strong conviction about him.
The ancestor was speechless. He stared at his descendant as if trying to locate the proper words for the moment. He opened his mouth then quickly shut it. He shook his head in what Desmond guessed as denial and knitted his brow. "How could one possibly demand such training? It would take years in order for your training to barely scratch the surface of the skills it takes to become a fully-ranked Assassin."
Desmond shook his head. "For a novice, maybe, but for me? No, it won't take years. A few days, maybe. I've trained during my childhood, but that was years ago. I thought I had lost everything I had learned, but surprisingly enough, being in the Animus has actually allowed my skills to resurface. I have the majority of the skills; I just need the guidance to use them properly."
Altaïr shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, slightly cocking his head. "Are you up for the challenge? It takes true dedication to take up the lifestyle of a true Assassin. Even if my blood does course through your veins, it does not mean that this will be an easy task for you. You must give me a blood oath that swears your commitment to the Brotherhood."
"Blood oath? Since when did the Assassins use blood oaths?"
Altaïr scoffed. "It is not a common ritual. Within the Masyaf Brotherhood, every Master Assassin is told in secrecy that he must only do this if and only if he was to take an apprentice under his wing," he explained, his face as solid as stone. "No one is to know of the ritual, which is an unspoken creed amongst the Brotherhood. It is uncommon for an apprentice to appear before an Assassin, for most Assassins are born into the world of the lifestyle."
Desmond snorted. "Funny you say that," he mumbled underneath his breath.
The ancestor unsheathed his dagger and held it firmly in his right hand. "Bring forth your left hand."
Desmond arched his brow. "Here? In the middle of the street in plain sight of guards?"
Altaïr deadpanned. "Would you rather climb the tower from which you fell and do it there?"
The descendant's eyes glanced at the top of the tower, which seemed to be a nice ten stories above the ground. He gulped and slowly shook his head. "Fine, just make it quick," he griped as he stuck out his left hand, palm-side up.
The Master Assassin's blade gleamed in the desert sun as he brought the point to Desmond's flesh. He slowly raked it across his palm from the base of his thumb to the base of his little finger, blood ebbing forth. Desmond winced at the pain as his ancestor did the same to his own hand without so much as a twitch.
The two men joined bloodied hands as Altaïr began muttering a phrase repeatedly in Arabic, which the American could not distinguish. Their blood seemed to—burn, possibly?—as it mingled between their hands. All Desmond could hear was Altaïr's phrase being muttered repeatedly and could feel the blood ebbing forth from the wounds and combining.
A white flash shined in Desmond's field of vision, and suddenly he collapsed with a mixed shroud of pain and confusion.
Desmond could hear the sounds of clay jars being set onto a counter in the distance. He felt the sun beat down on him, and he slowly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead as he could feel his consciousness buzzing inside him. He felt wired as if he had a jumbo coffee topped off with a large Redbull, and the jittery feeling was rather unusual for the modern-day Assassin.
The American groaned as he felt the sharp rip from his hand. Where the hell did that come from, again? Did he rip the skin from his hand when climbing that building?
His eyes fluttered open as he slowly rose from a pallet of rugs and feather pillows in the corner of a small outdoor room. He glanced around the small area, noting to himself that the only way out was to climb up the fountain and grab the edge of the opening. The stone flooring was surprisingly cool despite the constant heat from the sun, and the room was also empty.
Rising to his feet, Desmond dusted off his Assassin robes and examined his left hand, which had been wrapped in linen to staunch the apparent blood flow. He slightly flexed his hand, wincing at the feeling of the skin tearing apart even further. Closing his fist in an attempt to dull the pain, he ventured into the doorway of the small room next to him.
A relatively young man stood at the counter, counting jars and paying no attention to the newcomer.
"Um," Desmond began, slightly startling the man, "where's Altaïr?"
The man turned his head as he tapped the last jar on the shelf behind the counter. "Ah," he acknowledged as he turned his body to face the Assassin. "I presume you are Altaïr's apprentice?" he asked.
"Something like that."
The man smirked. "I see," he said as he leaned his elbow on the counter, his eyes never leaving Desmond's. "He requires a few essential tools from Masyaf and will return shortly." The man motioned to himself with his one arm. "I am the Bureau Leader of Jerusalem, Malik."
"Desmond," the American replied with a small gesture to himself. After a moment, he glanced at his left hand. "Were you the one that wrapped my hand?"
The Bureau Leader shook his head slightly. "No, it was already dressed when Altaïr brought you here. I recall that he possesses a similar wound." He arched his brow as he eyed the apprentice. "I presume that he is training you?"
"Well, obviously," Desmond retorted with a note of sarcasm. "I mean, that's what an apprentice is, right? One who trains under another?"
Malik relaxed as his eyes seemed to understand what Desmond did not. "Yes," he replied with a hint of thought. "An apprentice certainly does train underneath the teaching wing of a mentor." His eyes held a strange gleam that Desmond couldn't exactly place. "As I understand the world to work," the man began with a slight smirk across his lips, "a mentor must be assured by his trainee that he will be as committed to training as the mentor will be to teaching, correct?"
"Sure, I guess."
"I see. And I also realize that in order for some mentors to trust their new trainee, the mentor must bring forth some type of challenge or vow, correct?"
Desmond arched his brow. "I suppose?"
Malik's smirk broadened across his lips. "Often times the challenges or vows usually are sealed in blood, are they n—"
"That is enough," Altaïr warned the Bureau Leader as he entered the small room with a stern glare. "I do not appreciate your prying, Malik," he growled, clenching his fists. "It is not your place to ask questions. It does not concern you if this man is in fact my apprentice or not." He glanced at his descendant. "You," he pointed. "Follow me," he commanded as he turned on his heel and exited the building.
Desmond gave a last glance towards Malik, who was merely smirking at him, and he stepped out of the room and into the small outdoor room with the sunroof entrance.
He noticed Altaïr's robes slightly hanging from the top ledge of the entrance, telling him that he was to climb out. Stepping on the fountain's edge, he found handholds and footholds all the way up, straining to pull himself up onto the roof.
Once up, he glanced at his ancestor, who was pulling out a sword, dagger and throwing knives.
"These are your only friends in this lifetime. Your blades will save you from all dangers—if they allow it," he said as he handed the blades to his descendant. "You will be trained efficiently in the art of wielding a blade," he explained as Desmond put away his new "friends." Altaïr's lips slightly curled into a small smirk. "But first," he began, shielding his eyes from the sun and looking into the distance, "you must master the art of surveying the area."
Desmond's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly mean fucking viewpoints, can you?"
"That is exactly what I mean, apprentice," the ancestor sneered. He motioned for his descendant to follow him as he leapt from that rooftop to the next.
Desmond inwardly groaned as he followed the Master Assassin across the rooftops of Jerusalem.
"Shit," he hissed as a guard patrolling the rooftop on which he had just landed began to yell for him to get down. He looked ahead at Altaïr, who didn't even flinch at the remarks. Desmond decided to follow suit and ignore the guard as his legs pounded on the shingles of the roofs. Making the next leap, he rolled upon impact with the rooftop, grunting. On his feet again, he glanced ahead once again at his ancestor, who acted as if nothing was behind him. He seemed completely at peace with running a good thirty feet from solid ground.
No wonder Altaïr made Desmond undergo a blood oath.
Desmond saw the tower nearing in his field of vision, and he inwardly cheered. Leaping over this stretch of buildings was going to kill his muscles, and he knew it. He also knew that he had to remain strong and not be a pussy like Altaïr.
Or at least not be one in front of Altaïr.
The remaining rooftops seemed to blur together as the trainee leapt after his ancestor from rooftop to rooftop. Landing on the final one before the tower, Desmond slowly jogged to Altaïr, who calmly and silently waited for him.
"Well, I see you kept a good pace," the ancestor remarked with a slight sneer.
The descendant narrowed his eyes at the other man. "So what now?" he asked with an irritated tone in his voice.
The ancestor gestured to the tower. "We climb," he declared matter-of-factly as he jumped the small gap from the edge of the rooftop to the nearest handholds and footholds and began propelling himself upwards with a slight smirk.
Desmond growled in frustration and followed suit. He heaved himself up the tower, his muscles straining. His hand seemed to rip even more, but he ignored the pain that it caused him as he quickly scaled the side of the tower, heaving himself over the top edge.
Atop the tower, the descendant raked a look across the landscape, wincing at the great height. The buildings seemed to blur together into one mass of gray. The people streamed below looked more like ants or gnats from the height, which made Desmond's stomach queasy.
Inching away from the edge slowly, the descendant glanced at his ancestor. "Why exactly are we here?"
Altaïr merely smirked. "We are here for one reason and one reason only. To observe. To watch. To listen. This is the most important aspect and tool at Assassins have at disposal. An Assassin must always observe his surroundings before striking and must do so in first priority." He tiptoed to the ledge that jutted over the city. Crouching on the beam, he scanned the area before glancing behind him at the trainee. "And once one has observed, one can depart the scenery." Standing up, he flashed Desmond a mocking smile before performing a Leap of Faith into the wagon of hay below.
Desmond's forehead broke out into a sweat. He inched onto the wooden beam and peered below him. He scanned the rooftops, the streets, and the alleyways. Everything seemed a tad too geometrical for his taste, as if he was still in New York. He slowly rose to his feet, peering at the wagon of hay.
Altaïr stood nonchalantly a few feet from the cart. It seemed as if he was actually waiting patiently for the trainee's Leap of Faith, which surprised Desmond.
Desmond inhaled deeply, swallowing the fear that he was going to break something upon impact with the hay. He inched towards the ledge, holding his arms wide open, like that one old song. He sprang from the platform, closing his eyes and feeling the wind rushing passed him. He turned his body forward, so that when he landed, he wouldn't paralyze himself.
Crashing into the hay, he ingested a fair share of straw, inwardly growling. Spitting the hay from his mouth, he dug himself out and glared at his ancestor. "Do you enjoy eating dead grass?" he inquired, his voice coated in sarcasm.
Altaïr shrugged. "You acclimate to your surroundings," he replied matter-of-factly. He began walking from the scene, causing Desmond to run after him in order to catch up.
Ending his jog, Desmond walked beside his ancestor. "So now what? What's next on your torture agenda?"
"You will wield your blades."
The descendant arched his brow quizzically. "You and I are going to swordfight?"
The ancestor shook his head as he noticed a bench. Sitting down between two women, he nonchalantly blended. Peering passed his descendant, he lowered his forehead. "ASSASSIN!" he exclaimed in a disguised voice.
Desmond knitted his brow as he glared at the man. "What the fu—"
"INFIDEL!" a guard bellowed as he rounded a corner with a small pack behind him. "GET HIM!"
Desmond drew his sword and held it firmly in his hand in a defensive stance as the pack of feral guards drew closer, who also drew their blades.
A guard lunged at the apprentice, and blades clashed. The two parried as the other guards attempted to slash at the trainee with no avail.
All of the knowledge that Desmond's brain had stored was flooding back to him with such a speed tat it almost gave him a headache. He slashed at one guard, sending him spiraling backwards and to the ground as another guard nicked him on the arm, blood ebbing from the wound. He winced at the pain as he rammed his blade through the center of one guard, causing him to gargle up blood as his breath fleeted from his lungs. Yanking his sword from the body, Desmond turned to the other three guards, his sword glistening with blood.
He watched their movement carefully, and when one attacked, he evaded impact and hacked at the man's carotid, blood splattering on his robes. Desmond slashed at the two remaining guards, sending them reeling. He then quickly sheathed his sword and flicked the throwing knives at them, piercing them in the heart.
The bodies landed with a solid thud, and Desmond strutted over to his mentor with a smug grin plastered across his face.
Altaïr rose to his feet, motioning for the trainee to follow. Leading him through some back alleyways, the ancestor glanced at his descendant. "I did not realize that you were more trained than a standard novice."
"I told you that I had training growing up," Desmond retorted. "I just needed the guidance to put the skills to use." He glanced at his bandaged hand and lifted the cloth, revealing a delightfully scabbed slash across his palm. He narrowed his eyes at his ancestor. "Was the blood oath really necessary? Because it fucking hurt, and it still does."
Altaïr slightly smirked. "I required the assurance that you were going to follow through with what I was going to put you through." He shrugged. "I guess I could have simply asked for your word, but…"
Desmond deadpanned. "You could've what?"
The ancestor raised his hands in defense. "I figured that a blood oath was more appropriate, on account of your stubbornness. In any case, it truly wasn't necessary." The corners of his lips slightly lifted. "Frankly, the entire 'blood oath' nonsense isn't a practice amongst the Brotherhood. Honestly, I simply desired compensation for your stunt in that damned sea."
Desmond clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "All of that for payback?" He worked an irritated tic in his jaw. "It's a wonder that you haven't been kicked out of your Brotherhood for your stupidity."
The ancestor merely snorted in derision.
"Anyway," the American continued as he folded his arms across his chest, "what are you going to show me now? You've shown me how to wield blades and how to freefall from a fucking tower. What's next?"
The Syrian shrugged. "There's nothing more I can teach you."
Desmond deadpanned. "Are you fucking kidding me? You make me pass out during a fucking blood oath, which wasn't even real, and you only show me how to fight and fall? What kind of an Assassin are you?"
"Obviously a better one than you, inferior whelp," Altaïr retorted as he walked across a main street to the doors of a large building. He smirked as the doors opened, a steady stream of white-robed scholars flowing forth, enveloping the Master Assassin.
And he was gone. Poof. He vanished from sight.
"Fucking bastard," Desmond muttered as he began his apparent last lesson from the Master: Find the white-robed bastard in the midst of white-robed scholars.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the huge nod to the AC1 cut scene before the main menu! :D Oh, how I love it! :3
I just want to take the time to thank all of those who have read, reviewed, fave'd, and followed this story! It makes me so happy when I see a new review or a new fave/follower. It encourages me to continue to write this story! I honestly didn't think that I'd get much feedback, but, here I am, getting more than I originally thought! Thank you all soooooo much! :D
Thanks for reading! :D Please review! :D
