[ac] third time's the charm

[tanyart]

Rating: PG
Characters: Connor, Malik (gen)
Notes:  The continuing saga of random people from the future magically appearing in Malik's bureau. He's so done by the time Connor drops in.  Sort of metafic rather than a character study, ahah.


The man behind the counter was not as surprised as Connor would have given anyone credit for, considering that he had dropped into the room out of thin air without warning. He floundered a bit in the pile of floor cushions, the crystal sphere dropping from his hand to roll over the fountain’s grate covering. Meanwhile, the man simply stared at him with a look of exaggerated patience, waiting for Connor to regain his bearings. It was a polite gesture, though there was something distinctively peeved about it.

Connor reached for the sphere, placing it into his back pouch. Above the fountain was the symbol of Assassins, so he felt reasonably safe, if not unnerved about being transported to an unknown place. He took the older stranger to also be an Assassin, or at the very least an ally since the man’s silhouette shone blue under his vision.

“Hello,” Connor greeted cautiously.

“Hello. You speak English, then?” the man asked after a moment, his voice heavily accented. “The one who came before you did as well, weeks ago.”

He waved his right arm vaguely in the direction of the lattice ceiling. Connor was not sure if it meant that his predecessor came from the roof or appeared through magic as he did.

“Before me?” he asked, standing. He had planned to remain in the room, but the stranger motioned for him to come into the inner chamber. Connor saw no reason to refuse and walked inside, noting the scrolls and weaponry with growing unease. Something about the items spoke of an entirely different place, and even time. He eyed one of the swords mounted to the wall; it looked to be well kept, but the tampered steel looked off and imperfect, as if made by very, very old tools.

“Yes. The first was an Italian. You are the third man to have landed in my bureau by sorcery,” the stranger said, annoyed. “You cannot imagine how inconvenient that is for me.”

“I was not expecting this to happen,” Connor said, matching the man’s irritated tone with his own.

“Oh? And what did you expect, meddling with magical artifacts?” The man rolled his eyes. “Find a seat. Take a nap. Do not touch anything on my table. You will disappear soon enough, just as the rest have.”

Connor hastily drew back his hand from the unfinished map. The city it depicted meant nothing to him. “I was not going to touch anything, and I am no child, to be sent to a corner without explanation. Where am I?”

The stranger regarded him in a way that reminded Connor of Achilles at times when Connor was in a querulous mood.

“Well, I certainly know whose bloodline you come from now,” he said, unimpressed, and continued before Connor could say anything, “You are in Jerusalem. The year is one thousand, one hundred and ninety-one. I will allow you to have your moment of surprise or panic, but do not take too long; I have several things to accomplish today, and none of it includes playing nursemaid.”

And, just because it was expected that he would react in a shocked manner, Connor made a tremendous effort to not be surprised or panicked. He breathed in to calm his speeding heartbeat, and let the air out slowly. “I see,” he said, voice flat.

And he was baffled when the man suddenly begin laugh, soft and barely audible from behind a raised sleeve held guarded in front of his mouth.

“What?” Connor asked, unable to check back his anger at the man’s amusement.

The man lowered his hand, but raised it once more to rub at his forehead. He shook his head, looking a little embarrassed. “I apologize. You remind me of someone, which makes you a little predictable, unfortunately. I do not mean to dismiss your… unique situation. As I have said, there were two others before you. Both, I believe, returned to their proper time and place within the same day.”

“Just like that? How?”

“They had the...” he paused, speaking a few words of Arabic. “…Apple? Artifact? I am unsure of the translation. In any case, Altair had the same device.”

Connor looked up sharply. “Altair?”

“Another Assassin, such as ourselves. He was here and disappeared the moment you appeared. He was toying with the Apple, despite my multiple warnings to not touch the thing. We had been arguing before you came, so I am afraid you caught the ripples of my anger.”

It was not exactly an apology, but Connor was fine with the explanation. The name Altair had sent bells ringing in his mind, of Achilles’ many history lessons about the Assassins. His mentor had only mention Altair once or twice, and left Connor to dig through the books for more. They had a fight about it, long ago; Altair had been able to take back the Order, while Achilles almost allowed it to diminish. Remembering the look on Achilles’ face, Connor felt his cheeks heat with shame and sharp regret.

“I have read about Altair ibn La’Ahad, if this is the same person you speak of.”

The man snorted. “He is not as glorious as the texts make him out to be.”

Connor tilted his head, considering. Fragments of the pages he had read from Ezio’s writing were hard to remember, as he had not been so interested in history at the time, but there were a few passages that stood out, most of them tragic. “No, I suppose not. Not now, I think.”

“So you say,” the man said, his words pessimistic but not quite unbelieving either. “I am Malik, by the way. And you are?”

“Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

“Very well, Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Malik said, parroting back the name without a misstep or complaint. “Either you heed my suggestions – sit down, relax, nap – or, if you are anything like Altair, ignore me and run the rooftops and get into trouble.”

“Um,” Connor said, recognizing the tone of a long-suffering rant. “I think I will stay here, if you do not mind.”

Malik raised an eyebrow, watching as Connor retreated back into the outer room.

“My mistake,” he said, going back to his map with a short laugh. “You are not like Altair at all.”