A/N: Le chapterly advisory…

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.

Yes, I realize that this is a very late update. I apologize. I am a busy junior in high school with shit loads of homework, and recently… I've gotten back into the Game of Thrones series by George R. R. Martin…. (With that being said…. I LOVE JON SNOW!)

ONWARD!


Connor had never seen anything like it back in his world. It was the most magnificent scenery his eyes had ever beheld, and he never wanted to look away.

When Desmond had opened the door, he revealed the most extravagant view of New York the Native had ever seen. The skyscrapers kissed the skies gently as the clouds seemed to barely hover above the tops. The streets illuminated with a kaleidoscope of colors from strange steel carriages that were pulled by invisible horses that seemed to move at impressive speeds. Civilians that walked on the stone roads seemed to be the size of small insects from the view. The sunrise seemed to glow in the background, pulling the whole scene together.

And if there was anything that Connor had learned from Mr. Faulkner on the high seas, a pretty sunset—or sunrise for that matter—was an omen.

"Welcome to my fucking humble abode," Desmond griped as the he allowed Connor to pass him and shut the door behind him.

Connor glanced around the apartment in awe as strange lights beamed from the ceiling. He arched his brow at the mysterious ceiling flames, glancing at his descendant. "How are the flames being contained? That seems very dangerous."

Desmond merely cracked a smile. "It's called electricity, dude. Calm your tits; it's not that fantastic."

"But I am not a woman," Connor objected, perplexed by the modern saying.

The descendant rolled his eyes and chuckled as he clapped his ancestor on the shoulder. "It's just a saying, dude. Don't take it so literally. Just calm down and relax. This isn't your first time in New York, so just cool it."

Connor's muscles seemed to respond immediately. Relax. Was that possible? Was he able to simply relax?

He gingerly sat on the sofa that was in the front room and glanced about the apartment, his eyes immediately falling to the sight of a peculiar, flat box that was mounted to the wall. It was black and it seemed to be some sort of window, but it didn't allow him to see outside.

Suddenly, the box came to life, depicting people dribbling a ball across a wooden floor and attempting to put it in some sort of bottomless basket.

Connor jumped back in shock, his eyes transfixed onto the glass, watching the people jump as if they were Assassins. "What is this?" he asked, his stare remaining on the screen.

"It's called ESPN. It's a sports network on TV," Desmond replied as he grabbed a two small black boxes from the table in front of Connor and plopped next to his ancestor, kicking back in a reclining position. "The TV allows you to watch different shows and movies when you're bored. It's about the only thing around for any type of entertainment that's worth any money." He casted his ancestor a glance before laughing. "They're playing a game called basketball. It's kinda stupid, really. I only watch ESPN to get the scores from the baseball games. Go St. Louis Cardinals," he added as he thrust his fist in the air, John Bender style—not that Connor knew who the hell that was.

Connor tore his gaze from the screen and arched his brow. "Birds play sports?"

"No, that's just a team name," the descendant replied matter-of-factly. "Don't worry about the specifics of this stuff. Just roll with it," he advised as he pointed one of the black boxes at the screen, allowing some sort of control menu pop up. He entered in a number and waited a moment before selecting a bar with the title The Patriot.

The screen popped to a shot of a battlefield with Redcoats on one side and patriots on another.

Connor watched with interest as a man fired a cannon, and the next thing he saw, he cringed. The cannonball had taken a man's head clean off his shoulders! "That man just died!" he exclaimed frantically.

Desmond merely laughed as he held the other black box in his hand, peering at his ancestor. "Dude," he said with a smile, "it's just a movie. It's not real. That's just a character in a costume, and the actor's not actually dead. He's acting. It's called special effects."

"So, this is not actually during the Revolution?"

Desmond shook his head. "No, this was not filmed in 1776. The movie's storyline is based on the American Revolution, but there weren't such things as cameras to film it back then."

Connor tilted his head in thought as he heard and watched the sights and sounds of war. He watched as gunfire volleyed between the two sides, and it slightly agitated him. "Those men do not understand the dangers of the Revolution. They do not understand what it is to be on the battlefield with Redcoats firing rounds at you in an attempt to rob you of your life."

Desmond arched his brow as he listened to Connor's spoken inner dialogue, droning it out as he went. He tapped the front of the black box as Connor glanced at him.

It was another little TV! A palm-sized TV!

"Oh, that's interesting," Desmond muttered to himself as he stared at the little screen, giving it another tap. He wiped his hand down his face as he looked at his ancestor. "Apparently, since the Animus Mainframe can go to any location and date that is in my memory, today is March 13, 2012. That was—well, apparently is—my last birthday before Abstergo took me. Looks like I'm twenty-five all over again."

The Native knitted his brow as he dared to glance at his clothing. A black, cotton long-sleeved shirt covered his torso and arms and a pair of thick, denim jeans hung on his hips. He wore odd black shoes that were unlike anything he had seen. They were dark gray with a white checkmark on the sides, and they seemed to be held together by strings on the tops. "In what am I dressed?" he inquired with the utmost perplexity.

"Normal clothes for this time period. I was in robes similar to Altaïr's when I was in his time…" His voice trailed off, as if attempting to figure something out.

And then Desmond smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "That's why! Duh!" Muting the movie, he began laughing as he sprang to his feet and hustled into the kitchen. He brought out a short, square bottle and two small glasses and slammed them on the table. "I know what's going to happen!" he cried out with a huge grin as he poured the amber liquid from the bottle into the glasses, filling them to the brim. He handed Connor the first glass and filled the second one.

Connor took it and sniffed the liquid, the alcohol stinging his nose. "What is it?" he inquired curiously.

"Jack Daniels whiskey," Desmond replied, downing his shot and slamming his glass on the table. "You're helping me celebrate my birthday. After we do a little partying here, we're gonna freshen up and hit the town. I'm taking you to a public place, which is no doubt why there was a modern-day clothing change for you. I think that the Animus changes the one who doesn't belong if there's going to be a chance of the public seeing them," he explained as his ancestor merely looked at him. "Drink."

The wolf arched his brow as he held the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, allowing the liquid to travel from the glass to his stomach. The fire scorched his throat, which caused him to cough and his eyes to water. He immediately felt the warmth in the base of his throat that extended to the pit of his stomach, and his eyes widened as he set the shot glass on the table.

"Welcome to the modern era," Desmond cheered, pouring two more shots. "And happy fucking birthday to me, eh?"

Connor nodded. "Happy birthday," he agreed with a rasp, wrapping his fingers around his glass and swallowed his second shot. Slamming the glass on the table, he slightly smiled as his inhibitions began to sway like a gentle breeze. He seemed to melt into the couch as his muscles completely relaxed.

"I see Jack's doing his job well," Desmond remarked as he rose to his feet slowly and carefully. He crossed the floor to a bookshelf and freed a large book. He held the book preciously as he returned to the couch, lifting the front cover of the book.

The ancestor knitted his brow as he noticed that what his descendant opened was not a book but a box disguised as a book. He watched as Desmond pulled out a petite, clear contraption that held some sort of liquid. His descendant then pulled out two objects that seemed to be slim cigars crudely wrapped in white paper. Desmond put one between his own lips and flicked the contraption, a flame appearing from the metal opening. After a moment, Desmond took a long drag from the cigar and held his breath, exhaling slowly.

Before Connor could ask what the man was doing, he smelled the smoke. He knew that it wasn't a typical cigar, but he didn't know exactly what it was. "What is it?"

Desmond smiled, lighting the second "cigar" on fire at one end and handing it carefully to his ancestor. "Just take a hit from it. Don't let it go until after a little while. Enjoy it. Savor it."

The Native took the lit object and placed it between his lips, slowly inhaling the smoke. The vapors irritated the back of his throat, making him hack a lung. His eyes watered from the force of the rapid exhalation of air and peered at his descendant. "What on earth is this?" he rasped between choking.

The modern-day Assassin smirked. "Can't hold your smoke, huh?" he questioned as he took a small drag. Exhaling in Connor's face, he chuckled. "This blunt right here, my friend," he began with a gesture to the cigar in between his index finger and thumb, "is an old friend of mine. I've known Mary Jane for a while now, and she always helps after a long, hard day." He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, being careful not to knock over the glasses or the bottle. "Mary Jane and Jack Daniels are the best fucking couple in the universe," he remarked as he rolled his head in his ancestor's direction. "Try to overcome the initial fight that she gives you. She'll succumb to your taste if you'll let her."

The wolf eyed the blunt—why on the world was it called a blunt, anyway?—and sighed. He placed it between his lips once more and slowly inhaled, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs with ease. The smoke swirled inside him for a moment before he slowly exhaled, astonished how his mind seemed to slowly ease by the passing moment.

And so the ancestor and descendant sat in silence, enjoying a smoke and another two shots of Jack.

A strong buzz flowing throughout Connor's being, he felt the effects of the smoke take effect. He seemed to feel completely relaxed, a feeling that he had never experienced before. His vision seemed to blur everything together, and he couldn't focus on one single conversation—or thought for that matter.

Desmond lazily grabbed the small black box that Connor had convinced himself that it was a palm-sized TV and tapped the screen. He gasped when he saw the time that was displayed on the screen. "Dayum," he drawled, tapping Connor's arm, causing him to look up. "D-dude," Desmond groaned, pointing at the numbers. "I-it's nine o-fucking' clock in the morning!" He snorted, wiping his hand down his face sloppily. "Ya know what that meansh?" he slurred, reminding Connor vaguely of that stupid Italian when he was drunk off ale—whatever his name was.

"No," the Native replied. "What doesh it mean?"

His descendant beamed. "Time to munch! I'm shtarving, man!" He rose to his feet, wobbling. He tapped the screen on the device and held it to his ear. "Hey, Luigi!" he exclaimed. "Thish ish Dezzz," he slurred. "Bring me six pizzash. Yeah, extra everything. We're shtarving!" He promptly tapped the screen once more, putting the device in his back pocket. He glanced at Connor. "Gotta wait a few minutesh, man. Luigi gonna fix ush up!"

Within thirty minutes or less, there was a knock at the door. Desmond stumbled towards the door, practically colliding into it as he opened it. With a grin, he motioned for the man, who Connor figured was Luigi, to set six boxes on the table in front of the couch. Desmond scrambled to get out his wallet from his pocket and dropped a wad of cash in the man's hands.

"Keep the change," Desmond instructed as he ushered the man from the apartment and returned to the couch, taking the first pizza box from the stack and tossed into Connor's lap. He then grabbed the second box and set it into his own lap.

And then they scarfed down their pizzas as if they hadn't eaten in days.

(Insert imaginary time-lapse)

Connor felt like shit. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He felt completely helpless, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

He attempted to stand up, but the room spun and shoved him back in his place on the couch. His stomach churned, and he had the feeling that Jack Daniels and Papa John were going to resurrect from the grave. He dug his fingers into the armrest that was to his right as he slowly turned his head left in the direction of his descendant.

Desmond seemed to be unconscious, his body draped over the other armrest. Connor slightly leaned forward and assessed the bile that was splattered across the floor. He could tell that it had been expelled within the past hour, and he was thankful that Desmond hadn't been reclining with his head tilted backwards like he himself had been.

The Native inhaled deeply as he slowly returned to his center of balance…

And much to his dismay, Jack and John reappeared before him, blanketing his legs and feet in their glorious presence.

Wiping the bile from his lips with his sleeve, Connor sighed in relief. He felt much better, even though he was now covered in his own sickness.

His head pounded, and he knew exactly how Ezio—Aha! That was his name!—had felt after his own drunken escapade. He silently vowed that he would never drink more than he could handle again, which he didn't exactly have to worry about because Jack Daniels had yet to make a cameo in his any of the taverns to which he went.

"You lost it, too?" a voice beside him whispered though what Connor thought was a weak smile.

"Yes," he answered, closing his eyes and allowing his head to rest on the back of the couch. "I am not doing this again, Desmond."

The descendant laughed meekly as he slowly lifted himself from the armrest and copied his ancestor's position. "I don't blame you, honestly. I've forgotten how shitty it is a few after shots, weed, and food. Your body brings it all back up, and you shower yourself in it."

"Speaking of rain showers," Connor whispered, peeping one eye open as he felt his clothing being weighed down, "I need to clean myself."

Desmond chuckled lightly. "Now? Can't you just stay there for a few more hours?"

"No."

His descendant shifted and pulled out his device that had summoned the pizza and tapped the screen. "Holy shit," he whispered. "It's seven thirty." He slowly rose to his feet and assessed the damage done to his apartment. "I've seen worse than puke covering my floor," he muttered as he maintained his balance. He casted a look at his ancestor and slowly motioned for him to stand. "Come on. I'll show you how the shower works."

Connor groaned as he gripped the couch to support him as he carefully rose to his feet, gaining his footing. He followed his descendant down a hallway and into a bedroom.

Desmond walked to a closet where he grabbed some clothing that hung on odd-looking triangles and threw them on the bed. He then opened a dresser, pulled out various undergarments, and threw them on the bed. "Pick out anything you want. I don't care. We should be about the same size. You're broader in the shoulders, but other than that you'll be fine in my clothes."

Connor sifted through the clothes, pulling out a charcoal long sleeved shirt, jeans, and undergarments.

Desmond picked out his outfit, ushered his ancestor to the bathroom, and explained meticulously how to use a shower. After explaining the workings of indoor plumbing, which was a complete miracle to Connor, Desmond sighed. "I trust you know how to use soap?"

Connor nodded, thankful that there was at least one thing in this time period that he was familiar with.

"Okay, just don't use all the hot water," Desmond said as he exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Connor set the clean clothing down on the edge of the sink. Peeling off the filthy clothing, he stepped into the shower, turning on the hot tap, instantly feeling the scalding water burn his skin. He adjusted the water temperature—just how Desmond showed him—and scrubbed himself clean from head to toe.

Stepping out, he dried himself off and donned the clean clothes. As he exited the bathroom, steam escaped around him and followed him to the main room of the apartment, where he found Desmond finishing the cleaning of the floor.

His descendant looked up. "Done already?"

The wolf nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, thank you."

Desmond made a gesture of acknowledgement as he cleaned up the floor. He put away the bucket in which strangely colored water settled and vanished into the bathroom to shower.

Connor crossed the room to look out the window. The view from the apartment astonished him. Everything looked so foreign to him, and he wanted to be amongst its people. He could travel the streets for hours and still not comprehend even a quarter of its wonders. The lives of the streets seemed to be absolutely enchanting, and he hoped that Desmond was going to take him amongst it all.

Connor had been so transfixed by the magnificent view of the city that he didn't know how long Desmond had been standing there beside him before he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Enjoy the view?" the modern-day man asked, a strange scent rolling off him.

"Yes, very much so," Connor replied. He sniffed the air for a moment and cocked his brow. "What is that smell?"

"Cologne," he replied as he whipped out a small bottle, pointing it at his ancestor. "Close your eyes. It burns," he instructed as he began misting the other in the fragrance.

Before long, Connor noticed that the scent covering him was strangely familiar. It smelled of… a forest? How in the world can people of this era capture the scent of a forest inside a small, glass bottle?

"Okay," Desmond concluded, putting the bottle on the table. "You ready to hit the town?"

"I suppose."

(Insert magical time lapse)

The music reverberated throughout the dimly lit room, and it started to give Connor a headache.

He sat on the edge of a bar stool next to his descendant, slowly sipping on a mug of beer—that seemed to be what he was accustomed to in the taverns he occasionally visited, so he knew his limit. He glanced about the room, seeing people from all walks of life dancing in the center on a lit floor. He turned away as a pair of young women noticed his gawking.

And much to his dismay, he then heard the small sound of giggling and heeled footsteps heading in the Assassins' direction.

A feathered touch travelled from the back of his neck and down the center of his spine, sending chills throughout his body. The scent of roses wafted behind him, and he felt the presence of one of the girls.

Glancing to his descendant, he noticed that Desmond was receiving attention from the second girl in a similar manner.

"Hey, cutie," the rose-smelling girl whispered in his ear. She slid into the bar stool beside him, placed her hand gingerly on his forearm, and smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye.

He glanced at the girl and inclined his head. "Hello."

"I'm Jen," she introduced and then pointed at the girl that was occupying Desmond's complete and undivided attention. "And that's Val."

"I am Connor; that is Desmond," he replied rather timidly as his muscles tensed. He couldn't place it, but something threw him off about this girl. She seemed familiar, but he couldn't recall where he had possibly could have seen her.

The brunette lightly giggled as she glanced at her friend. "Hey, Val!" she called out, snapping her fingers.

The blonde looked up as she was draping her arms around the modern-day Assassin. "Can't you see that I'm busy with this sexy beast?"

Jen snorted. "Yeah, I can, and I presume that it's the same as I'm with this cutie, right?" Receiving a nod from the other girl, she wrapped her arms around him as she rested her chin in the crook of his elbow. "I can tell this one's a little shy but just needs a little push. What about yours?"

Val grinned devilishly as she inhaled Desmond's neck. She pondered for a moment before she slightly wiggled her eyebrows. "He's a partier, that's for sure! I think he's celebrating something today." She gave him a once-over and winked. "Today's his… birthday. He's a birthday boy."

"Ooh," Jen replied, the twinkle in her eye gleaming. She returned her attention to Connor. "Tell me something. Are you two related? You look like you do."

Before he could answer, Desmond interrupted Connor's train of thought.

"He's a relative on my dad's side. The relation's a bit distant, but he's more family than most."

Distant relation was spot on. About 200 years distant.

Jen and Val shared a grin.

Val nudged Desmond's side. "So do ya wanna get out of here?" Her voice dropped a few octaves to seduction. "I'll give you the best birthday present you've received all day; that's a promise," she added with a wink.

Desmond glanced at Connor, practically giving him a pleading look. He seemed to mentally scream and beg his ancestor for this birthday opportunity. It was his second shot at his twenty-fifth birthday before the Templars took him, and both of them knew it.

The ancestor hesitated as he timidly glanced at the rose-scented girl. She pouted her bottom lip, as if siding with the descendant. Her cerulean eyes seemed to beg him for his company. She blinked a couple of times in a row as she extended her bottom lip out further.

Tearing his gaze from the pleading girl, he returned to the pleading descendant, who seemed to possess the identical expression. Connor rolled his eyes slightly.

"It is your birthday, Desmond," he replied. "You are the one to plan the festivities, not I."

And with that response, Desmond bolted to his feet, wrapping his arm around Val with a smile. "Well, when you put it like that…" He motioned for Connor to follow as he led the girl towards the exit.

"C'mon," Jen purred as she slid down from her stool. She lightly tugged on his arm and led him after the other couple, finding them outside.

The four travelled from the nightclub to Desmond's thankfully-clean apartment.

Val led Desmond directly into the bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.

And that left Connor to his own devices with Jen, who pulled him down to the couch.

He mentally prepared himself for the inevitable events to come. He had done this before—only once, though. At least he'd had experience below the belt—pun intended—before tonight. He wasn't panicking or anything like he had when that other night took place—although he didn't show it.

The girl merely smiled as she peeled off his shirt, gasping as she observed his rippled torso. She traced the defining lines upon his chest and abdomen. "Oh, God," she quietly whispered to no one in particular. The corners of her lips curved upwards, linking her hands around his neck as she brushed her lips across his.

He slightly smiled as the brush turned into a kiss and then melted into another. He wrapped his arms around the girl's waist and pulled her closer as she straddled his hips. He felt her fingers entangle themselves in his ebony locks as he constricted one arm around her small waist, seemingly pulling her into his torso. His other hand trailed up her back, sending chills across her skin. She broke the kiss with a giggle and peered into his eyes.

And in that instant, he knew exactly of whom she reminded him—not that Ezio would be happy about it.

Cristina.

Now, he wasn't sure if that was merely coincidence or if it was actually Cristina's descendant, but honestly…

He didn't care.


A/N: Hmmm… Connor gets lucky twice within the first half of this entire story? What? Teehee! Maybe he's been asking me for too much, no? And why is it always Cristina? I haven't the slightest idea...

I swear, I get WAAAY into writing some of these, and I can actually hear some of the things that I make them say! I can honestly hear Connor say, "It is your birthday, Desmond. You are the one to plan the festivities, not I."

Is that a bad thing, or is that just a sign that I'm actually a half-ass decent writer?

I hope you liked the chapter! Please give me some feedback! :D