thorin, majestic, icondothat

[Fic] Initialize - Part II

(Part I)

Part II - Sending

The world had stumbled to its knees before William returned to the Black Hills. Not alone mind, but with Rebecca unconscious with pain and Shaun dead on his feet with exhaustion he was likely the only one who desperately didn't want to go back to the Temple.

Not that they really had a choice in the matter. One by one they ran out of safe houses and hideouts as Juno and her slaves hounded them across the globe. The Temple was such an obvious choice (and such a desperate gambit) that the Assassins prayed it would throw the goddess off their scent for a while.

The doors were still opened from their last visit, and some of the extension cords were still in place. Set up should be a helluva lot faster this time. The place is damp from the rain water that pooled in during their absence and William has to fend off a couple of disgruntled raccoons, but everyone sleeps for hours once their head hits the ground.

He and Shaun are stuck with the heavy lifting while Rebecca surveys them, nursing a nasty concussion and a few broken bones. They still have the Animus, their ace in the hole, and as soon as they get power up and running again William launches himself into the chair. Shaun looks like he wants to argue but the Master Assassin shoots him a hard glare and his vision fades to white.

"He's going to bloody kill himself at this rate," Shaun mumbles as his computer boots up. "I mean we don't have a bloody clue what we're looking for..."

"Shaun," Rebecca sighs and turns away from the Animus loading screen to fix him a tired stare. "We've lost everything. Lucy, Desmond, the other Assassins." She turns back to her Baby with a sniff and Shaun pretends he didn't see how shiny her eyes were. "We owe it to them to try."

They work together in silence while William works on increasing his synchronization.

"I miss them too." Shaun refreshes his inbox for the fourth time in ten minutes, praying for some form of communication from the outside world. He's about to open a new tab for research when he sees that the envelope icon is highlighted.

1 new message(s)

Subject: 01001000 01000101 01001100 01001100 01001111 00111111

"Rebecca!" He opens the message with shaking hands. "You'd better come see this."

(Part III....)
thorin, majestic, icondothat

[Fic] Initialize - Part I

This is another fill for the AssCreed meme. Spoilers for AC3 ending ahead!

Link to prompt: spoilers if you click


Part I - Uploading

The first thought that occurred to him was that Juno was a lying bitch. That Eye thing? It had hurt like a sonofabitch, but no one was expecting him to come back and complain afterwards, right?

Yeah, Desmond wasn't so sure about that anymore.

Was he dead? Well, that was hard to say right now...he had nothing to compare his current state with. Which was just that. Nothing. A metric ton of nothing. It reminded him of when Juno had controlled him before his coma phase, but this was all-encompassing. No sensation, no external stimuli, just him and his thoughts.

The Nothing got pretty claustrophobic after that.

Once he'd settled after a wave of panic, he decided to test his limits. He tried to move imaginary limbs. The sensation of a mental wall smacked him. He tried bringing up memories, but got nothing more than impressions of senses. It was like his mind was in a tiny black box, that may or may not have a way out.

Eventually, after trying every possible thought combination, he found something that let him out.

And if he had a voice, he would have screamed.

This was infinitely worse than the Apple possession. He had access to everything, everything and there were no filters, so it all attacked him at once. He tried to find his way into the black box again, but it was like he was in some sort of freaky lobster trap, impossible to go back the way you came in.

And that's when things got seriously weird.

 Because in the swirling matrix of data there appeared every single lobster and lobster trap he had ever seen in his entire life (admittedly not very many) along with every sound and scent associated with them. Every aspect of his memory was crystal clear, and meticulously organized. It was stunning. Yeah, creepy, weird and overwhelming, but still incredible.

He banished the lobsters with a thought. He wondered if this place worked like the Apple did, and a million threads of information attached themselves to him and he knew instantly. This was the same circuitry that had housed Juno, and she had used a secret path of programming in conjunction with the Apple to switch their places.

Now he was the mind trapped in the machine.

(Part II)
thorin, majestic, icondothat

[Fic] Spirits - Part I

Okay, so this is for the AssCreed kink meme:

So, its canon that Juno can trigger bleeding effect... Would like to see Connor, after his spirit vision with juno, being trolled by randomly triggered memories of Ezio, or Altair... Bonus points if he suddenly spews out italian at random moments. Bonus if he says something in Haytham's presence, like RequIescat in pace, that throws the daddy templar for a loop.

You can find the prompt and original fill here.

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So yeah, it's 3 parts total, with one half angst and one half light stuff each.

(Part II)
thorin, majestic, icondothat

[Fic] Hungarian dance No. 1

Let it be known that this is my very first attempt at an exclusively BBC!Sherlock fic. Based on the following prompt, of course.

"... it popped into my head that Sherlock's so epic with his violin that he could blatantly be a soloist during a piece of music.
So my prompt is, not long after John's moved in, Sherlock tells John that he's going out for the evening and not to wait up. Thinking that Sherlock's checking something out for a case, John's bored and flicks the TV on only to be confronted with a close up of Sherlock performing!"

The song that Sherlock plays is Brahms's "Hungarian Dance No. 1", hence the title. You can listen here:

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thorin, majestic, icondothat

[Fic] Dolore - Part II

(Il Magnifico)

La Condottieri

"Condottieri Condottieri!" Mario looked up from the piece of the Codex Giovanni had lent him and was in the middle of attempting to decipher. It was a coded language he could not for the life of him begin to understand, but continued to try regardless.

"I'm over here, boy. No need to shout!" The ol assassin an condottieri f Tuscana smiled at the sight of the panting courier entering his doorway. Jacopo had always been enthusiastic when it came to his work, often travelling nonstop at break-neck speeds in order to ensure that the correspondences entrusted to him were delivered as swiftly as possible. As a result, it was not uncommon for him to be quite out of breath upon reaching his destination.

"C-condottieri! I have – a message – fro I-Il Magnifico n – Firenze." Jacopo handed over the sealed letter, bent over so he could support himself on his bent knees, taking huge gulps of air. "And &ndash Messere artolomeo is here – as well." Mario let out a huge booming chuckle at the news.

"Is he now? Very well, I shall receive him now. As for you Jacopo, here is your pay, and as always, feel free to use one of the spare rooms to recover your strength. I am sure I will have something for Lorenzo in the morning." The youth nodded gratefully and hauled his aching body up the stairs as he had so many times before. As the courier left a tall, moustached man entered, his weatherworn skin crinkling around his eyes as he smiled.

"Mario! How are you old friend?" The tw mercenari ave each other a firm hug, laughing as they pulled apart.

"I am well, you sly dog. I did not know that you were coming to visit! Not that I mind, I simply would have gotten us something to drink." Bartolomeo brushed him off.

"I was simply passing through and thought I would visit you. Now tell me, how fare the Auditore in Firenze? I have not heard from Giovanni in quite some time."

"You are just in time, it would seem! I have received a letter from Lorenzo, which will no doubt contain news of my brother. He knows that it is the only way I will remain civil with him in my replies." With a slight chuckle, Mario sits, gesturing Bartolomeo to do the same.

Mario peels off the Medici seal and pulls out the parchment and, before he reads even the first word, a sense of foreboding trickles coolly down his spine. He has seen Lorenzo's steady hand many times before, and has often joked that he could read the man's mood from his penmanship. If he is feeling cool and officious, as he often is, the writing is impeccable, made of slightly slanting loops. If he is annoyed or angry, the writing straightens itself, though is no less fanciful. Should the man be furious, his writing is decidedly void of any fancy or decorum.

This letter, however, is written in a way Mario can never recall seeing before. He spends a moment dissecting the penmanship, not even reading the words. The discrete code therein would prove to be more revealing than any of the hollow words on the page.

The letters are neither straight nor slanted, and this worries him, fills him with a sense of dread. Lorenzo's hand has been many things, but it has never been unsteady or faltering. This letter is both. The lines are halting and staggered, some words broken as if the hand that wrote them were shaking too much and had to pull away before continuing.

In that moment he knows. He has not read the letter, but he has deciphered the message.

"Mario? Is everything alright?" He knows that he has to read it. H must, bu Santa Maria e does not want to! Reading it will make it real, will make what he knows must have happened true. Still, it must be done.

"Read this to me, Bartolomeo." He surrenders the letter with a slightly shaking hand. "Tell me..." The Venetia condottieri ooks concerned, but accepts the proffered document regardless.

"Dear Mario," he begins. "It is with the utmost regret that I must impart this news to you. I am afraid I have been betrayed. We have all been betrayed. In my absence, the case against the Pazzi was dropped, and your brother accused as the traitor." Bartolomeo looks up at Mario, who is staring ahead of him at nothing, his gloved fists clenched uneasily. Bartolomeo continues to read.

"Giovanni was hung for his supposed treason by Umberto, regardless of the evidence presented to him by your nephew Ezio." Bartolomeo stops, as the words have become too much to bear.

"Tell me..." Mario's voice is cold and distant, whispered hollowly through his lips. "Per l'amor de Dio, Bartolomeo." His eyes are dead as he looks at his friend. The silence stretches on, and the old Assassin can tolerate it no further. "TELL ME!" he shouts, banging his fist on his desk.

They are frozen like that in a tableau for one second, and then two, before all of the anger drains from Mario as he collapses back into his chair (he doesn't recall rising) and holds his head in his hands. "Per favore, I must know what has happened to them. To the rest of my family." Bartolomeo looks guilty as he continues to read.

"His sons Federico and Petruccio were also hung. The Villa Auditore was ransacked and deserted by the time my men were able to search it. We have no news of the whereabouts of Maria, Claudia, or Ezio. My men continue to scour Firenze, but there is no trace of them, and I cannot be certain that they still remain within my walls. Yours, Lorenzi di Medici Il Magnifico f Firenze." The letter is placed feather light on the desk.

Mario is still as the words fade to nothing. He does not twitch, he does not blink, he is hardly even breathing Giovanni. Fratello! Caro Dio, non i miei nipoti...not Federico ... Petruccio, little Petruccio ... uick as a viper he grabs the letter opener and stabs the letter, wishing he could make it bleed. He stands and almost-runs out of his office and out of his Villa. Already th condottieri s the streets by the time Bartolomeo is able to catch up with him.

"Mario amici, what are you doing?" The Venetian grabs the man by his elbow, forcing him to slow his vigorous pace. He is rewarded with a vice-like grip wrenching his fingers away, the force of it bruising.

"What am I doing?" Bartolomeo is shoved away as Mario glares at him with his one good eye. "What am I doing? hat does it look like I am doing, Alvaniano? I am going to save what little there is left of my family, and then I am going to murder th bastardo ho dared kil mi fratello."

Again Bartolomeo reaches out to halt his advance, but Mario is in no mood to tolerate such gestures. As soon as he feels a hand on his shoulder, he grabs the arm, curving his back and bending at the knees, using his hips to flip his fello condottier onto his back. Bartolomeo, however, was expecting this and rolls into his fall, holding Mario and bringing the shorter man down with him.

Winded, Mario is last to rise to his feet. He would feel embarrassed, or playfully amused at such an occurrence, but not today. Today he is furious, he is violent, and Bartolomeo has all but offered to play the role of punching bag.

The street clears as the two men begin to brawl. Mario is fiercely aggressive, far more so than he would be, but his movements are tight and controlled with a lifetime of training. Bartolomeo, for the most part is defensive, allowing the less damaging blows to fall, face grim and neutral. As the fight wears on, th condotierri's attacks grow more sloppy, less precise and furious, his shoulders dropping the barest fraction and a look of pained sorrow leaks into his features.

When the fight has left Mario, the Venetian guides him back to the villa, his eyes dim with sympathy. The assassin (head of the order now, he supposes, now that Giovanni is...) manages to keep his composure until th condotierri re both in the study again.

Mario sees the damnable letter and tears it from the desk with a faint tearing noise, crumpling it up before tossing it to the flames. He falls to his knees as it lights, a puppet cut from his string. His breaths are shuddering, but there is no other sign of grief. He is empty, painfully hollow and lost.

"What am I to do?" He whispers to his friend. "What am I going to do?" Bartolomeo is once more at his side, hand gripping his shoulder comfortingly, crouched down to look into his face.

"You will be ready," he sais, eyes lighting with a righteous fire, hoping to ignite the Tuscan assassin's spirit. "Your nephew, Maria and Claudia are not dead. If they were, those Templar bastards would have let us know." A bit of steel return to Mario's spine, making him hold his head higher.

"Your family will come to you, Mario, and likely with some of thos lurido porcos n their tail. They will need your help, Mario. They will need your strength." The grip on his shoulder tightens, leeching resolve into the man. "Then, once they are safe again, we may begin to make those Templar pay for what they have done."

Mario remains kneeling for a minute longer before he rises once more, a look of grim determination hardening his features. He turns to Bartolomeo and claps him on the arm, giving him a nod and a tight smile. That was all the Venetian could ask for.

"I shall ready my men."

(Il Ladro)

ezio, mule

[Fic] Dolore - Part I

Warning, I am on a fic-finishing rampage!

Fandom Assassin's Creed
Pairings: implied Lorenzo/Giovanni
Warnings: poilers for ACII? Also, canon character death and resultant grief.
Summary: his is an old fic of mine that I've finally completed for the AssCreed kink meme. Hell knows where the original prompt went with my original entry, but here's the prompt: 

Ezio cannot be the only one who was so horrendously destroyed by the Auditore execution. I want to see some Assassin's broken on hearing the news - angry, griefstricken assassins. Mario to turn the villa upside down or something. Volpe to be ablaze, really lose it at one of his theives and have them think he's crazy. As many people as you want - I just want it to be more than Ezio's pain, but the Order's.

Il Magnifico

He blinked, and he was too late. It would be the one fact that he would never be able to escape for the rest of his life, however long it was now.

He had failed him, hi ragionere, hi assassino, hi amici, his ...

Lorenzo yells a curse and throws whatever he happened to lay his hands on to the wall, smashing the fragile (and rather expensive) treasure to pieces. Looking at it, he finds it somewhat poetic; it was broken, shattered into tiny irreparable shards, much like his ...

Another fit of anger overtakes him and he grabs the files on his desk, tearing them apart one by one, sending some drifting into the fire, like feathers. This thought, the thought of feathers snaps him out of his rage, draws him from the fog enough to realize that the file he has in his hands right now was written by him. By G-

He can no longer see the writing, and hears a drop of something fall, blurring the loop of and 'l' (Lorenzo) and the tail of a 'g'.

Th principe, one in all but name, dabs at the offending moisture; first on the parchment and then on his face. (He will never admit where it came from. There was only one person, one man he would have, but he is no more.) His name is saved, but the other's...

Name. Names. There was something important about names, abou his ame that he was overlooking. It was vital, somethin he ould have wanted most of all. He thinks of that man, tries to picture him smiling and sleeping and frowning, to hear him talking and laughing, to recall his scent. All he can recall now is the sight of his empty face; purple, with his tongue lolling, eyes blank and listless. He hears only the creak of rope heavily burdened, the caw of carrion, the stench...

He was not alone. There were more: Frederico, Petruccio! Ezio, Maria, Claudia Dios mio, how could he have forgotten? A spark of energy, a daft glimmer of hope ignites his blood.

"Guards! Guiseppe! Come quick!" There is the sound of frantic footfalls before one of his captains is in the doorway, eyes alert in case of trouble.

"Il Magnifico, what is the matter? Are you hurt?"

"You must assemble yourself and your most trusted men and go to the Villa Auditore. Search everywhere for them. If they are not there, then tear down all o Firenze ntil they are found, and bring them to me. Bring them here."

"Si signore, as you command." A clank of metal on metal and Guiseppe is gone, shouting orders that fade as he hurries to do his master's bidding.

He sags into a chair at his desk, suddenly very, very tired. He runs a hand through his hair as he eyes the destruction he has reeked across his study. Was it not here only a few weeks ago, no, mere days ago that he sat here with him and Umberto That traitorous snake, I will make sure he suffers.

He knows it is an idle threat, for the moment. He blinked, and now the city is gone His ity is gone, a ghost of what it was, and its memory soon to be no more than a regretful whisper of what it could have been Don't yousee, amico mio, Firenze needs you. Italia needs you. I...

The next few hours drift by unnoticed as he stares as the now salt-stained file on his desk, the eagle feather quill in his ink pot, that damned bust he had received as a gift many a year ago...

Everything reminds Lorenzo o him. Ever since that day all those years ago as a child, when he had been certain that he was lost to a watery grave, pulled out by a foolish boy with grey eyes and the cheekiest grin he had ever seen on a boy, he could not imagine being anywhere else. Somehow, that boy wove himself into his life, sharing laughs and jokes and dreams, as well as nightmares and bloodshed.

"Il Magnifico." He had not heard his captain knock, never mind crossing the room to his desk. Lorenzo clasps his hands in front of himself and does his best to look composed. "Mi dispiace, but we could not find them. There is no trace of the Auditores."

Numb, he is numb as the captain takes his leave. Denial clouds his mind. How? How could things have gone so wrong so completely? He loses feeling in his hands, in his face, in his limbs until he is nothing but a slightly twitching mass of half-sensed nerves. Perhaps there are tears on his face, but he cannot feel them. He is dazed, and does not notice himself as he pulls from a secret drawer in his desk a white neck tie, one he would never admit to owning, not even t him. A name the ame finally breaks through the fog and he grips onto the piece of cloth like a life preserver, chocking back sobs.


(La Condottieri)