Assassins Creed

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by OverCast, Dec 23, 2011.

  1. There was once a time when our creed was followed by all. There was once a time when we had no opposing forces. There was once a time, when the Assassins' were a peaceful group. That time, is over.

    We've defeated them before, and we will do it again. We must stand together, and destroy the last remaining traces of this despicable cult. We, the Assassins, are now threatened by our very existence. The Templars, are ready for war, and so are we.

  2. Owen ran across the rooftops in the center of the city. He was on a basic patrol. He jumped across a dozen rooftops just tonight, an all time low for the likes of himself. New York really never slept. He hadn't had much of that, either. Where was that new guy, shit, he forgot the kids name already. Abstergo had a building in the center of the city, right next to the Empire State building. He couldn't fight alone, but he was not looking forward to training a new guy. This was going to be a hell of a year.
  3. Damien stood on the edge of a building. He was looking down. It was starting to make him feel sick. He had a brown complexion, that somehow looked pale and sallow, and his dark, long hair whipped around his face. He had a pained expression on his face. That wasn't surprising. The young man looked like a train wreck. His nose was badly bandaged, and his wrists had wrapped with far too conspicuous bandages. They didn't trust him. His supposed 'family' or whatever they called themselves, didn't trust him. He missed home. He just wanted to go back to his boring suburban lifestyle and slit his wrists on a sunny, suburban day. They wouldn't let him leave, of course. They said he was something else, a hashishin from the ancient order, and that he was needed. They needed all the assassins they could get. Particularly the ones descended from blood.

    Damien didn't believe in any blood ties with these people. He adjusted the hoodie on his head, looking down at the little dots of people. They were ordinary people with ordinary lives. He supposed that if he jumped right now, it would spice up their lives a little. They had never known love, not like that burning obsession found within the tattered, blood stained diary. He didn't know where the book was anymore. The assassins had told him that it had been taken away by Templars. He missed the book, the comforting feel of the old leather on his hand, his fevered mind as he tried to decipher the old French. it had become easier, and eventually, it was like he knew it all by heart. And now, the book was gone.

    Templars versus Assassins, like in the old days. He was waiting for one of them. The assassins were coming to teach him, supposedly. His hands quaked on the top of the building, furling and unfurling into fists. He grimaced. Damien rubbed at his wrists, the plaster on them sprinkled his brown hands with white. He chewed at his lip, drawing blood. Assassin blood? He couldn't be sure. He wanted answers. But for now, there was nothing to do but sit at the top of that building (How HAD he gotten up here?) and wait.
  4. Owen stopped mid run on top of a fairly tall building. He took notice of a young man standing 4 or five roofs away from him, noting that the boy met all the descriptions of his new "Trainee". Time for his first test. When Owen reached the rooftop next to Damiens', he jumped across , landing on Damien for a nice tackle.
  5. Damien was easily knocked over, his surprise showing on his face as he was bowled over. He let out a sharp yelp - an animal sound that slipped from his lips. He supposed this was the assassin he was here to meet. His mentor. They had said something like that, but all he could think of were Mikal's mentors. All three of them. They were all dead now, dead and buried outside of Masayf. And there was something terribly sad about that. But there was no time. No time for tears. He was currently on the top of a mutli-story building with some modern assassin resting on his chest.

    And Damien could do nothing but look at him. He looked at him with round hazel eyes and made a half-hearted attempt to shove him away. He didn't want to. Not really. There was something comforting in the violent gesture. It took him back to the book, and within the book there was hope. Damien felt around in his pocket, looking for his box-cutter, but he didn't really expect to find it. He didn't really want to hurt this guy. His only interest in pain was directed towards himself - for the countless times he tried to kill himself and failed. That thought eliminated the sorrow and brought only anger.

    "Get the hell off of me," He spat, his nose aching as he spoke, "I don't know who you are and I don't care if you're some grand assassin. Why the fuck did you save my life?"
  6. "This is going to be a long year..." Owen said, extending his arm to help Damien onto his feet. He pointed towards a small warehouse, the temporary home of the Assassin's. "That, is your home until I say otherwise... Got it?!" He gestured for Damien to head over before diving off of the reasonably tall building, disappearing on in the shadows on the rooftops below.
  7. Damien looked at the warehouse. Of course, it was thousands of feet (or what felt like thousands) below him. And he had no assassin-acrobatic-whatever training. He didn't even know how he got up here in the first place. He couldn't remember. He assumed that they had dragged him up here. He didn't know what was going on, what to do, or how to solve these questions. He decided that to get to the warehouse, he would have to jump. And jumping could result in death. But that was alright too. It didn't matter anymore. Nobody gave him answers. Nobody was telling him who he was. They were keeping his life from him. And so, he would keep it from them. He would die.

    And so, he jumped. He jumped down to the warehouse and he felt a rush of life slip into him. His hair streamed behind him, and his arms unfurled. It was like he was flying, briefly, for that single moment. And it was a feeling that lifted him up - hope. He could feel the scars on his hands and wrists. It was like everything was sharp. Like everything was tangible, even the littlest, smallest thing. He took a deep breath of the smoggy air, and it almost felt clear. Deep breath. Deeper breathing. Don't gasp and sputter. Just breathe.

    Damien fell, but gently, and landed in front of the warehouse. He landed in a pile of trash bags. They really shouldn't have broken his fall, but they did. Just like the hay, he thought to himself, before wondering what his subconscious had meant by that. He swallowed, an laid amongst the trash for a moment, looking up at the sky. He laughed slightly, and mutter.

    "What world of shit have I gotten myself into."
  8. "Holy Shit!" Owen said as Damien jumped. He could still see Damien from the roof adjacent, that he jumped onto. "The kid has some balls. He's a natural. "Hey! Get your ass back up here! I changed my mind!" He screamed down the side of the building. If he can jump he needs to know how to climb. "Climb up here, just let it flow, and don't look down!" He chuckled, lets see what he can really do.
  9. "Status Report."

    Team One's light clicked on. Followed by that of Teams Two, Three, and Four. A single green LED on top of the monitor.

    "Mark initial targets."

    Again, all four lights clicked on, each activated by a man in full tactical assault armors surrounded by four like-geared individuals. No amount of flesh was exposed, and few, if any, joints were outwardly visible. The targets were fond of using blades. These Teams had no such sentimentality.

    "Begin operation on my mark."

    His eyes bored through the lenses of his mask, vision amplified by the night-vision filters and state-of-the-art HUD that singled out and locked on his target despite the darkness. His weapons were loaded, safeties were off.

    "May the Father of Understanding Guide Us. Mark."

    Five black, unmarked vans opened around a warehouse simultaneously, their passengers tearing pouring into the large, somewhat run-down building. The lead men, four subservient to the speaker, all fired off one shot in perfect synchronous, each hitting a key target, as planned. Their targets numbered two dozen, but half were down within the first five seconds. The sharp, staccato pops of automatic weapons fire tore through the collected crowd, which was comprised of a number of men and women from every apparent walk of life. The following five seconds were more interesting.

    The remaining dozen lept and darted out of the lines of fire much faster than one would ever expect. From seemingly nowhere above, one fell onto a member of Team Two, the man collapsing with a blade in his throat, another already though one of the minuscule gaps of another man's armor before the bladesman was also put down. The Speaker, the leader of Team Zero however, was just as fast, if not faster, than his prey. He lept as they did despite the weight of his armor, moving fluidly to pick off his targets as they tried to flee. They knew they could not win, but they thought the could survive.

    They were mistaken.

    A man from Team Four went down, but took his killer with him. Within a minute, the warehouse was silent once more. The gunmen now numbered twenty, five lost to tricks and blades. Acceptable losses. No time was wasted, the black-clad men moving to key positions in the warehouse, every floor, planting small satchel charges before retreating to their trucks and vanishing into the night as the building was destroyed, reduced to cinders in minutes. It would be cited as an emergency demolition, and no one would ever be the wiser.

    The leader of Team Zero removed his mask, his sharp features covered in a light sheen of sweat, voice cool, steady as he spoke into a small microphone. "Mission Accomplished. Returning to base. Five casualties, full pensions to the families." The trucks drove every different direction, the members vanishing again into anonymity, save for the Team Zero truck, which proceeded quite simply and plainly into the varied sub-basement garages of the towering Abstergo Industries building in the heart of New York.

    A secretary was waiting for him as he emerged from the truck, stripping his equipment. Each piece would be scoured of any trace of DNA, on the off chance that anyone started prying too deeply into the warehouse's destruction. Simple matter of protocol.

    'The papers are on your desk as you requested, Mr. Bishop.' A nod was her dismissal, and she vanished like a good, obedient little worker.

    Within ten minutes, Alexander Bishop was cleaned, dressed in a fine suit, and sitting in his suite / office, looking out at the New York skyline. He sipped at his drink, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips, the light of the office shining off of the small, red cross he wore on his ring finger. The Templars had won this night. And they would win again. These 'Assassins' were rats, chaos abound. A threat to the world...a threat he would eliminate. Intel was coming in from teams across the globe. They would be found. And they would be killed.

    "Your move, Mentor."
  10. Owen sprang into action when he heard many gunshots. As he approached the hideout, in which he arrived before Damien, he noticed around 15 bodies, the amount at the warehouse before he left. He ran towards the Abstergo building, time for vengeance. He climbed the tall building, taking about 20 minutes to get to what looked like the leader's suite. His eyes bulged. "Alexander Bishop. That Bastard" he muttered. He kicked the glass and swung into the building, tackling Bishop and putting his now extended blade up to his throat. "You bastard! Why should I spare your life, after your sly organizaton destroyed the lives of many others in my family. He pulled one of his knives and used his free hand to stab bishops hand, making a sort of push pin, as his knife went through Bishop's hand, and into the hardwood floor. He put a bit more weight on his wrist blade, making it harder for Bishop to breathe.
  11. Damien entered the warehouse, dazed. Feeling as if he was walking through a dream. Or a memory. He could no longer be certain. There was only sorrow. There were only dreams. He stood, from his place amongst the rubbish. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It was time for a haircut. It was time for change. And he was aware of it, stepping in his footsteps, change and memory walking hand in hand. Damien entered the building, looking down at the shards of glass on the floor. There was numbness. There was emptiness. And then, there was something. Sorrow. The remainders of a past life. The remainder of HIS life.

    Mikal walked in the bureau. His hair had been cut short years ago, and only now were the brown curls growing back on his head. He entered the bureau only to be confronted with a warm breeze from Damascus, and the rustling of paper. But there was no man. No living man. There was a smear of blood on the floor, and a feather resting about the gore. But there was no man. They papers fell around him. A bit of dust was visible as motes in the light. And everything was perfectly calm and still. There was a dagger dug into the bureau desk. And then there was a note.

    Mikal picked up the note in shaking, trembling hands. It only had one word on it, written in a sloppy hand so familiar to him.


    Damien lurched back into consciousness. He looked around him At corpses. At the templar pinned to the ground with a dagger in his hand, and at this mysterious man - who's name he didn't know, who was shoving the blade into his hand. He rested a hand on Owen's shoulder, the bandages from his most recent attempt so clear on his wrist. Damien looked at him with clear brown eyes. He was no longer this muddled, angry boy who hated everything and every one. He felt sorrow and vengeance rising up in him. Anger for what he had loved, sorrow for it being lost. He grit his teeth, looking down at Owen, "Stop."
  12. Daniel was heading back to the warehouse when he heard gunshots seeming to come from the direction of the guild den. He quickly ran there, but he was to late, as there was dead bodys all over the place. Daniel put his hands on his head and said "Oh man what happened here" Daniel then climbed a building to get a good vantage point and saw Owen running towards the Abstergo building. Daniel followed him but he was late again, Owen was climbing the building, quite quickly at that. Daniel waited for him to get back when he saw many templars entering the building, Daniel had to warn him. He quickly climbed the building before the templars, Daniel jumped in the office where Owen was and shouted at him "Owen lets go there are templars coming this way" He then walked closer to him and saw the man next to him. Daniel froze he couldnt move he couldnt say a word he just stared at the man. Daniel then said "You... you killed my parants" Daniel couldnt move at all he was just looking at the man. Then suddenly the templars got into the office they were, but Daniel didnt notice them at all.