Fic: Untitled AC/MCU Thing
Assassin's Creed MCU Crossover
AN: This is something I the muse puked out a year or so ago. I'd been holding onto it incase it went somewhere, but that doesn't seem to be happening. Enjoy.
Altaïr walked through the decrepit building, the faint glow of his own intangible self more than enough to see in the darkness. He didn't bother to hide the vaguely disgusted sneer on his face. None of the inhabitants could see him, anyway. He wasn't present in the physical sense of the world. No, his body was currently resting in his study in Masyaf. After a long day of training, reports, and crafting his new armor -it was difficult replicating the treatment process he'd seen with his own limited means- sitting down for a evening with the Apple was a relief addiction.
At first the artifact had been like a temptress, showing him all the nations of the world at his feet and his brothers uncowled and proud as they guided the people. That then, must have been the trap Rashid had fallen for. But what need had Altaïr for the world when he had enough difficulties keeping his home together. With the cause of his demotion still fresh in the minds of his brothers the transition of power had not been smooth, but the sting of their Mentor's sorcery was stronger and much more visceral, personal, to all.
He'd released several brothers from their duties so that they might undertake pilgrimages to soothe their souls.
Though there was one soul that kept intruding on Altaïr's, and that was the reason for the night's explorations. Altaïr planned to leave leadership of the Brotherhood in Malik's hands while he was gone on his own self-appointed missions. He could think of no other with a mind and spirit more suited to the task, and who knew Altaïr's own thoughts even better than Altaïr himself. At times the fact was beyond frustrating. However; Altaïr knew that the other Assassins would not see Malik in the same way.
The Dai of Jerusalem had lost a brother and an arm. Running a bureau of informants, yes, but running the Brotherhood? Not everyone thought like that, of course, especially as Malik still regularly put novices through their paces in the training ring... but there were enough. Though necessary, Altaïr's precedent of replacing the previous Mentor through combat and murder wasn't exactly a good one.
Altaïr could not give Malik back Kadar, that was beyond even the Apple's power -though sometimes it hinted, somewhat desperately Altaïr thought, that if he just followed the map there was something that could- but he could give him back his arm. Or a facsimile of it, at least. Better, mayhaps.
Such was how Altaïr came to be walking through some other time and place, following the trail his Vision sought out, looking for the knowledge that would allow him to create Malik something better. He soon found scholars in traditional white robes, though the cut was as strange as everything else in the place. He passed men in uniforms, though the design was of no country he knew and bore little to no visible armor. As usual, none reacted to him following their footsteps if not their conversation. Though Altaïr spoke his mother's tongue and enough of the crusader's French to understand and be understood he did not know what language passed between the people.
Eventually, they came to a large open room, and set into the far side was a chair with thick black cords extending from it. There was a man bound to the chair. His left arm was clad in plate, no, it was plate. Altaïr moved through the crowd of soldiers and scholars as he would any other group, silent and unseen, and approached the bound man. He looked... poorly. He wore little, the cloth of his clothes thin, and shivered even as he sweat. Fever? He didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular and there was something not quite like a gag in his mouth. More like a horse's bit.
Altaïr frowned. There was something that bothered him about the bound man, but he couldn't quite place it. Altaïr leaned over and ran ghostly golden fingers down the junction where flesh became metal. There was old scarring, suggesting that the job had been botched in the past. Or had been done with less sophisticated methods that improved with time. Repeated surgeries.
The current limb was very well done. Altaïr doubted he could get a knife between the joints, checked for weak spots with his vision, and confirmed that doubt. For all that these people didn't seem to care about the building, or their people, they certainly took time to maintain the man's arm. He would need a closer study, he needed to get somewhere with the designs or open it up and see the how...
Altaïr dodged back in instinct as the man suddenly jerked, screaming, his whole body convulsing as electricity coursed through him. The Assassin glanced around, eyes flashing with insight, and spotted the hulking generator that hadn't been half as well maintained as the arm. A scholar seemed to be counting, and after reaching his appointed number pulled a lever back down to stop the flow of energy. Behind him, the bound man quieted, though the harsh breathing that made it past the bit was animal like.
Torture? What was the point? An interrogation was useless if the person couldn't speak.
The scholar at the switch pushed it back up, and the man screamed once more.
Smugly, the Apple answered, the theory unfolding in Altaïr's mind like an invitation. The same offer that had driven Al Mualim into madness and betrayal. Mind Control. Unquestioning Obedience.
Wouldn't it be easier if people stopped fighting him? He could leave them with orders to listen to Malik, instead of this time-consuming journey that may not even work, and the Apple was so much gentler. Kind, even.
Disgusted, Altaïr turned, nearly cutting the connection right then, only there was a word one of the soldiers spoke that despite the mangling of time and tongue was unmistakable. His head whipped around to the speaker, bored sneer on a uniformed man as he gestured to the bound man. Someone handed him a book, and he stepped closer and began to recite words as their prisoner repeated something that Altaïr understood even with the muffling of the bit.
”No, no, no, no...”
Was the bound man an Assassin? Does their order survive so long into the future, only to become trapped in mental chains once again?
Were they betrayed again?
“No.” Altaïr declared, and the Apple pulsed in alarm as his grip on it in his study became iron. In the other place his spirit self walked forward with purpose, and his flesh self grew weak. The man with the spell book stopped talking, weapons were drawn, and the tired eyes peered up through a cage of sweat heavy hair. He hadn't heard any Arabic, but they were mostly pale sorts, so Altaïr went with his mother's language. Hopefully it hadn't changed too much in the centuries. “Greetings, brother. Do you remember your Creed?”
The possible brother just blinked confusedly as his captors shouted nonsense.
“Right. The bit. You cannot answer. I haven't tried this before but... let me...” Altaïr reached out, and the man jerked back with wide, wide eyes as a glowing golden hand rested on his head. Light, power built between them and then exploded in a riot of color that burned shadows into gray, cold walls.
Meanwhile, back in Altaïr's study, Malik stared down at his friend and the strange new person on the floor. One looked ill. The other looked dead. Malik could not decide which was which, but knew that even dead Altaïr would be giving Assassins headaches for generations to come.
AN: This is something I the muse puked out a year or so ago. I'd been holding onto it incase it went somewhere, but that doesn't seem to be happening. Enjoy.
Altaïr walked through the decrepit building, the faint glow of his own intangible self more than enough to see in the darkness. He didn't bother to hide the vaguely disgusted sneer on his face. None of the inhabitants could see him, anyway. He wasn't present in the physical sense of the world. No, his body was currently resting in his study in Masyaf. After a long day of training, reports, and crafting his new armor -it was difficult replicating the treatment process he'd seen with his own limited means- sitting down for a evening with the Apple was a relief addiction.
At first the artifact had been like a temptress, showing him all the nations of the world at his feet and his brothers uncowled and proud as they guided the people. That then, must have been the trap Rashid had fallen for. But what need had Altaïr for the world when he had enough difficulties keeping his home together. With the cause of his demotion still fresh in the minds of his brothers the transition of power had not been smooth, but the sting of their Mentor's sorcery was stronger and much more visceral, personal, to all.
He'd released several brothers from their duties so that they might undertake pilgrimages to soothe their souls.
Though there was one soul that kept intruding on Altaïr's, and that was the reason for the night's explorations. Altaïr planned to leave leadership of the Brotherhood in Malik's hands while he was gone on his own self-appointed missions. He could think of no other with a mind and spirit more suited to the task, and who knew Altaïr's own thoughts even better than Altaïr himself. At times the fact was beyond frustrating. However; Altaïr knew that the other Assassins would not see Malik in the same way.
The Dai of Jerusalem had lost a brother and an arm. Running a bureau of informants, yes, but running the Brotherhood? Not everyone thought like that, of course, especially as Malik still regularly put novices through their paces in the training ring... but there were enough. Though necessary, Altaïr's precedent of replacing the previous Mentor through combat and murder wasn't exactly a good one.
Altaïr could not give Malik back Kadar, that was beyond even the Apple's power -though sometimes it hinted, somewhat desperately Altaïr thought, that if he just followed the map there was something that could- but he could give him back his arm. Or a facsimile of it, at least. Better, mayhaps.
Such was how Altaïr came to be walking through some other time and place, following the trail his Vision sought out, looking for the knowledge that would allow him to create Malik something better. He soon found scholars in traditional white robes, though the cut was as strange as everything else in the place. He passed men in uniforms, though the design was of no country he knew and bore little to no visible armor. As usual, none reacted to him following their footsteps if not their conversation. Though Altaïr spoke his mother's tongue and enough of the crusader's French to understand and be understood he did not know what language passed between the people.
Eventually, they came to a large open room, and set into the far side was a chair with thick black cords extending from it. There was a man bound to the chair. His left arm was clad in plate, no, it was plate. Altaïr moved through the crowd of soldiers and scholars as he would any other group, silent and unseen, and approached the bound man. He looked... poorly. He wore little, the cloth of his clothes thin, and shivered even as he sweat. Fever? He didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular and there was something not quite like a gag in his mouth. More like a horse's bit.
Altaïr frowned. There was something that bothered him about the bound man, but he couldn't quite place it. Altaïr leaned over and ran ghostly golden fingers down the junction where flesh became metal. There was old scarring, suggesting that the job had been botched in the past. Or had been done with less sophisticated methods that improved with time. Repeated surgeries.
The current limb was very well done. Altaïr doubted he could get a knife between the joints, checked for weak spots with his vision, and confirmed that doubt. For all that these people didn't seem to care about the building, or their people, they certainly took time to maintain the man's arm. He would need a closer study, he needed to get somewhere with the designs or open it up and see the how...
Altaïr dodged back in instinct as the man suddenly jerked, screaming, his whole body convulsing as electricity coursed through him. The Assassin glanced around, eyes flashing with insight, and spotted the hulking generator that hadn't been half as well maintained as the arm. A scholar seemed to be counting, and after reaching his appointed number pulled a lever back down to stop the flow of energy. Behind him, the bound man quieted, though the harsh breathing that made it past the bit was animal like.
Torture? What was the point? An interrogation was useless if the person couldn't speak.
The scholar at the switch pushed it back up, and the man screamed once more.
Smugly, the Apple answered, the theory unfolding in Altaïr's mind like an invitation. The same offer that had driven Al Mualim into madness and betrayal. Mind Control. Unquestioning Obedience.
Wouldn't it be easier if people stopped fighting him? He could leave them with orders to listen to Malik, instead of this time-consuming journey that may not even work, and the Apple was so much gentler. Kind, even.
Disgusted, Altaïr turned, nearly cutting the connection right then, only there was a word one of the soldiers spoke that despite the mangling of time and tongue was unmistakable. His head whipped around to the speaker, bored sneer on a uniformed man as he gestured to the bound man. Someone handed him a book, and he stepped closer and began to recite words as their prisoner repeated something that Altaïr understood even with the muffling of the bit.
”No, no, no, no...”
Was the bound man an Assassin? Does their order survive so long into the future, only to become trapped in mental chains once again?
Were they betrayed again?
“No.” Altaïr declared, and the Apple pulsed in alarm as his grip on it in his study became iron. In the other place his spirit self walked forward with purpose, and his flesh self grew weak. The man with the spell book stopped talking, weapons were drawn, and the tired eyes peered up through a cage of sweat heavy hair. He hadn't heard any Arabic, but they were mostly pale sorts, so Altaïr went with his mother's language. Hopefully it hadn't changed too much in the centuries. “Greetings, brother. Do you remember your Creed?”
The possible brother just blinked confusedly as his captors shouted nonsense.
“Right. The bit. You cannot answer. I haven't tried this before but... let me...” Altaïr reached out, and the man jerked back with wide, wide eyes as a glowing golden hand rested on his head. Light, power built between them and then exploded in a riot of color that burned shadows into gray, cold walls.
Meanwhile, back in Altaïr's study, Malik stared down at his friend and the strange new person on the floor. One looked ill. The other looked dead. Malik could not decide which was which, but knew that even dead Altaïr would be giving Assassins headaches for generations to come.