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Title: Compartmentalise
Famdom: Assassin's Creed (II/Brotherhood)
Rating: T for mentions of sex and alcohol
Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft.
A/N: Wow, look at that I'm alive and stretching writing muscles ever so slightly. I had some spare minutes and comment-fic had a nice prompt, so this happened. I got into the AC fandom 2 weeks ago, as the games got a major discount. I've played AC2, am working on Brotherhood and have watched AC1. So, you'll find no spoilers for later games here, as I haven't gotten around to them yet. ^^; So, yeah, baby steps. Concrit welcome. ;)

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He’s woken from fragmented images of dreams by a cheerful yet brusque female voice which calls the nonsensical command: ‘up and at them, lazy bones, no time to waste.’ The first thing he notices is the ache pounding in his head. Considering he fell asleep in the Rosa in Fiore entangled with the warm bodies of Leola and Pia after consuming a fair amount of wine, this predicament is not surprising. Yet his senses insist something else is wrong, so he stays still and categorises. When he dozed off earlier, it had been to the scent of wine, sweat and sex. As he inhales now he smells mostly damp, metal, grease, caffè and odd perfumes.

“Come on, Desmond! Get up, or we’ll eat your deluxe breakfast.” Her tone is sharp but with a kind undertone, like Rosa’s. Her voice, which he can’t recall hearing before today, bounces off walls too spacious to belong to a small chamber in Claudia’s brothel. Was he drugged and taken somewhere by Borgia’s men? He spares a moment to worry about the fate of his mother and sister if that is the case, while the arm under his pillow seeks out the knife he hides there… and meets only linen. Unarmed yet not cuffed. His captors must be very confident. A man joins the woman in her conversation; their voices are at his back. He slits his eyes open while these people banter and he stares dumbfounded at the sight before him. He lies before the statue of Wei Yu, with his Medici cape and a sword within arm’s reach.

Even as his mind wonders about the presence of ivy and the sad state of the marble floor, he lunges for the sword and pivots to face his adversaries in a battle ready crouch. Though it effectively halts their conversation, he can’t begin his interrogation as his vision suddenly greys out and wavers around the edges. Ghostly images of both known and unknown events and vivid, solid memories alike overlap his vision in dizzying blurs as the headache peaks to abnormal heights. During his disorientation the strangers overpower him with shamefully ease and do in fact drug him with some foul smelling concoction.

The last thing he hears before darkness claims him makes no more sense than anything else they have uttered so far. The man curses. “He’s getting worse. Trust the idiot to take compartmentalising to the extreme.”


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