Well, what is this sorcery? TK writing things again. And on her own! –le gasp-. I know I know. Crazy stuff since it seemed kind of impossible.

Right well, as you can see, this is NOT a Transformers story (again –le gasp-) but rather a story that's set in the awesome history spanning video game series that has me drooling over hot men in hoods. However, this story will primarily be centered on Assassin's Creed II.

No, I am not new to this series. I have been quite passionately addicted to the lore and characters of Assassin's Creed for seven-plus years now and am usually the person people go to in case of assistance about someone, something, or the in-betweens.

Ask my friends. They WILL confirm this to be true.

Speaking of friends, the premise, drama, and eventual pairing of this annoying plot bunny rose from the thousands upon thousands (and I do mean thousands) of Facebook messages that were spammed upon me because of two very impressionable people who had nothing better to do besides listen to me spout crap, encourage writing, throwing couple centric songs, and giving advice/pep talks back when I oh so sorely needed it.

And since I'm on the subject of thanking people, I would like to dedicate a lot of the inspiration of my main OC to the person who continually pestered me to create a character for a long-forgotten RP. If you're reading this, dear, thanks- without you, this character and her quirks would have never been born!

As always, if any of you notice grammar, spelling, and word mistakes, PLEASE let me know. I can only catch so many.

Much as I wish I do-I do not own any of the elements that make up Assassin's Creed. Nor do I own their (unfairly) attractive male characters. The only things that ARE mine are my original characters.

Without any further ado, I give you Assassin's Creed: Nemesis!

-TK

Summary: Something that should have been kept buried was stolen only to be dumped on a stranger. Now comes the long road of trying to find the way back home. Problem is: Will it be that easy? Federico/OC

Assassin's Creed: Nemesis

-Topkicker26-

*~Prologue~*

Bad Moon Rising

Hope you got your things together.

Hope you are quite prepared to die.

Looks like we're in for nasty weather.

One eye is taken for an eye.

Well don't go around tonight,

Well it's bound to take your life,

There's a bad moon on the rise.

December 26, 2013

It was snowing.

For Quebec, it was not quite the most uncommon thing for the current time of year. They considered themselves lucky if temperatures stayed above negative nine degrees Celsius. Sometimes it even felt colder than that with the icy winds cutting through layers like a knife. Most of the residents were used to it though, treating it like a pest, or a dog begging for food. It was just there and was better to accept the truth and deal with it than throw your hands up in the air and lament about the woes of living in such a miserable place and wishing they could move to somewhere warmer (i.e., Victoria). And yes- this did occur when it came to the commuters who had to travel between the peaceful suburb of Longueuil and the bustling city of Montréal. They were, as one could say, the unofficial experts when it came to driving in the snow, so complaining was really a silly thing to do amongst these hardened souls.

However, to the man dressed in a thick snow jacket with its fur-lined hood pulled low, slogging awkwardly through the drifts- it was quite the nuisance, slowing him down and making it that much harder to get to his destination on time. This tidbit was distressing, to say the least as he crunched through the slowly hardening snow- for he was somewhat in a hurry. And treading carefully down an alleyway was doing nothing for his short-lived patience. Of course, though, if he even thought about quickening the pace, it would be his luck to acquire such a thing as a broken leg. Couple that with the slug in his back, and this could potentially be the unluckiest day of his entire existence, brief as it was.

So... perhaps it was wiser to stay the course of going slow.

His oncoming death was not so much an if but a when. He didn't know how long he had, but he just knew deep down his life was slowly coming to an end. Even though the bastards who did this were long gone- their compatriots were sure to be hungry for revenge. Come to think of it, they were probably already on their way to relieve him of the prize he went through so much to retrieve. Hopefully, by the time they found him, his original task would be complete, and they would find their struggle to find him all for naught.

Briefly, the clouds separated, showing the faintest glimmer from the waning moon, bathing the snow that was beginning to pile up on cars in an eerie tint. Almost making the buried machines look like slumbering beasts under their blankets of white. Watching the light fade back into the grey, his mind wandered back to the time where he accepted this job. Even though he knew it had only been a couple of days since then, it truly felt like forever and a year since that afternoon.

"No matter what happens-," she had suddenly started, after hours of her being unusually quiet. The absence of her soft singing voice in the morning made him speculate if not worry over what was going on to make her so nervous. Taken back by her pale face as she pushed the manila envelope across their dining room table, the thief-for-hire noticed how her pale eyes were absent of their usual mirth. "—do not touch the object with your bare hands."

Of course, after reading through the contents, he had laughed it off while patting her hand, assuring the love of his life that it would be a cakewalk, and before they knew it, they would be drinking the money they had earned away at dinner. His treat, he had smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek as she scowled.

To which he told her with a laugh, reassuring her again that all was going to be well and that they would finally start a better life together.

Looking back, all he did was grimace and kick himself. Dammit, he shouldn't have been so cocky. If only he had known. Now it seemed he was paying the price, and he doubted if he was ever coming home. He immediately clung to that last memory of his wife. Hoping, praying, she would forgive him when she heard the news.

He squinted his eyes shut temporarily, shutting out any chance for tears to form, Gods I'm so sorry, my love...

Panting from the exertion, he slowed to a stop for a quick breath and adjusted the small parcel deeper into his pocket. No point losing his prize after all that trouble, just because it slipped out of his jacket. He awkwardly tugged at his sleeve to glance at his wristwatch, afterward grimacing. 1840. Damn, still stuck since the event.

His memory was foggy as to what exactly happened after he tripped the alarm, but the one prominent thing he did recall was the brief yet blinding light that overtook him. When it became clear again, all the guards that had appeared to apprehend him had collapsed unconscious. In an adrenaline-fueled panic, he had grabbed the strange object, shoved it into his pocket, and ran, his ears still suffering from tinnitus. It wasn't until later, much later, did he realize that he had been shot.

Fishing out the note that was given to him, although already knowing what it said in its unfamiliar yet fancy cursive:

Look for the woman with the red streaks. At this time and place, she'll be there. However, do not, by any way acknowledge her, but give her the package discreetly. She'll know what to do.

This was followed by a scrawled out address, one he hoped he was nearing since most of the address signs were covered in ice, and many of the buildings looked one and the same in the night hour. Poor visibility due to the storm didn't help either.

Feeling eyes on the back of his head, he threw a quick look over his shoulders, expecting armed men stalking him. But no, nothing was there besides the slowly disappearing trail his feet had made in the snow. Yet the sensation of ghostly fingers running down his spine that only came from paranoia was still there. The irrational part of his brain was screaming at him that someone was following him, watching him from the comfort of the dark. The thief even swore he saw a shape mingle back into the darkness. The rational part, however, deduced it could have just been a hobo, a stray cat, or possibly just his brain slowly collapsing due to blood loss.

Probably the last one given his current predicament and all.

Dying sucked, he concluded with another shake of his head, knocking off some of the built-up snow from the top of his head. Whatever the case may be, he trudged on. He had to keep going and find the intended bull, even when, again not if, they were going to find and put him down eventually.

With that said, he ventured a little more before he approximately judged he was coming up to the expected meeting place, which turned out to be a small sports bar with half of the neon letters either burned out or buried under snow. All he could make out were a couple of L's, a U, and something that could have either been a K or an I. Bah, the name was irrelevant anyway since he only planned to be here for a couple of minutes.

While finalizing his approach and double-checking that yes, this was the place; he slipped a gloved hand into his pocket, feeling the rough edges of the object, a tinge of strange regret forming in the back of his head. The queer feeling immediately departed him however, as soon as he drew his hand away. On most, if not on all his missions, he barely cared as to what he was told to steal. But this... this was a first. Why such high security for a broken piece of shiny rock? What did I take? It was apparent whatever he had been charged in acquiring was way beyond his understanding, and in response, he wished nothing more than to drop it and run. But his pride wouldn't let him- a job was a job and he had to finish it. Not for his sake, oh no, but that of his wife's.

A thin smile appeared on his lips as he sat, or more like collapsed on the bench right outside the bar, his breathing having suddenly become labored. Muttering a quiet curse as another pained breath went out of his lungs, he decided it was here that he was going to wait. He crossed his legs and arms, blowing softly down into the collar of his jacket to warm the air there as he just... watched. After a few minutes, a brief longing look in his dark brown eyes appeared as he continued to spectate the comings and goings of suburbia nightlife.

A pair of teens walked by, the storm doing little to suppress their giggling and sharing of smooches for it was obvious they were in the throes of young love. Another group passed him, this time a bunch of young men thinking that the world couldn't touch them. Slightly envious of the care-free attitude, he was half tempted to join them and go inside. Get one last drink- a scotch perhaps, or maybe a local whiskey and think on the old times before the world would go dark when he finally bit the dust...

~o~

If the man had gone inside, he probably would have noticed straight away the difference between Old Man Winter's icy presence berating him outside and the bar's warm toasty atmosphere that smelled faintly of alcohol and piss. Despite that though, no one seemed to be affected by the blizzard, via the many-colored Canadian jerseys pressing up against the bar top trying to catch the games broadcasted on the four huge mounted televisions. It was an almost hushed silence as they watched the puck dance back and forth between the opposing sides of the ice rink, the stifled silence a bizarre thing in an otherwise lively place. Suddenly the quiet aura was broken by a roar of approval as several Maple Leafs fans jumped up in revelry since their team was now leading by two points.

"A 'partnership'?"

Tristan frowned into the contents of her Jägermeister, grey eyes the only signs of her distaste as she sipped, relishing in the sharp tang of the fiery liquid. Tucked into the dimly lit corner of the establishment, she watched the tall, lean man with straw blonde hair and a telltale wince rub his ear. He was obviously uncomfortable, avoiding her scrutinizing gaze.

Continuing to ignore her, he went on. "I could have sworn only one home team was playing today. Oh no, there had to be four. I should have gone with my gut instinct and scheduled that extra room in the back at that one restaurant we like so much, but no, we just had to go to the bar because of stinking hockey." He trailed off muttering somewhat obscene French insults under his breath much to the merriment of their underlings, a small team of ten—most wearing jerseys of diverse teams and sports.

"Oh please, don't be a priss and pretend like you had a better idea in mind besides watching," dryly quipped the brunette woman next to him in false sympathy. Tristan decided to humor him— at least for now. "We are in Canada you know, and we both know how we just love our hockey."

She glanced up at the closest screen, and although no emotion escaped her, she was realistically jeering that she was one goal closer to winning a bet from her coworker if the Senators kept at their losing streak. Contrary to what she had said, though, hockey was not at all her favorite sport in the world. (She preferred watching her Chargers beat down on the Raiders). However, hockey still had its rewards, both monetary and bragging.

But that was for another time and another place. Tristan downed the rest of her drink, shaking off the burn afterward that crept down her esophagus before waving over that rather cute bartender for another. She had a more pressing matter at hand. "But seriously, Greg— what do you mean by partnership?"

The man in question uneasily shuffled in his seat before reluctantly looking at her with a sheepish disposition. An almost childlike action amusingly enough, since it was reminiscent of a toddler getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I was actually joking in hopes that the matter would wait until after we got back from vacation to talk about." Greg vented a feigned exasperated sigh as she folded her arms and fixed him a disapproving look. He snuck a look to see if she had changed her mind and seeing she hadn't, further slumped in his chair, taking another sip from his scotch trying to hide the mock pout plastered on his face. "Of course not, should have known better. I must wonder if you even take breaks after work anymore."

"Yeah, it's called a binge-watch of Supernatural with some tequila and imagining Dean Winchester buckass naked in a big tub of liquid caramel going 'lick me.' Tristan bluntly replied without so much as a blink, earning herself a choke and a cough from Greg. Briefly smirking, she leaned back in her seat, triumphantly humming 'Gotcha!' in her head.

Her amusement died as fast as it had come and fixed him with a hard look. "Okay, joking aside, quit stalling Greg."

"Fine since you insist," the man grumbled, wiping at his mouth before running a hand through his sandy hair with a deep sigh. "I got a call from Abstergo Entertainment this morning— wishing us congratulations about our success with La Muerta and all that. I won't bore you on the details, so long story short- they want us to help work on their next game." He pulled out his smartphone, tapping at its surface before stowing it away again. With his hands now freed, he immediately occupied them by latching it around his glass and taking a long draught from his ale.

He gave a satisfied sound before sending her a rueful smile. "If you wish to look at it over the holidays, be my guest, but give it at least a day before you say 'hell no,' please?"

"Of course. So long as it has nothing to do with terribly accented pirates like their last game, I am open to anything," Tristan huffed, not appreciating how he automatically assumed she was going to say nay to the idea of another project so close to their most recent success. Barely three days, and she lost count of how many people were tapping at their smartphones playing the new platformer hit. For a project with a lot of setbacks, it surely was paying off now.

Despite his earlier mood, Greg just chuckled while shaking his head. "From what I've read from their report, far from it actually— think it like Legend of Zorro meets Robin Hood mixed with some good ol' fashioned Prince of Persia. They're hoping that by teaming up with us, they can extend out to mobile platforms."

The woman paused in her drink. "Oh, really?" She echoed, an eyebrow quirked in false curiosity as she set the glass down. Much as she liked the concept, the idea of being under the scrutinizing gaze of another more prominent company, especially that of Abstergo, made her balk a little. That bloody conglomerate had its hands in everything. Pharmaceuticals, technology, video games… Hell, last she heard they were even thinking of tinkering with health monitors.

"Like I said," her co-founder spread his arms with a secretive smile on his lips. "If even the tiniest bit interested. just take a look over it and give me a ring- or you know—wait until we get back from vacation." He couldn't help but grin at her as he continued, "You know- that funny thing normal people do to get away from work."

The woman threw a rather indignant look as she huffed again, flicking some stray food particles his way. Without even looking away, she snatched her recently arrived drink, drained it, and then proceeded to slam it down while pushing herself away from the table. "Which is starting now, thank you kindly," she curtly said while grabbing her jacket and scarf. As she zipped up and grabbed her black canvas messenger bag, she glanced up at the TV screens briefly before nudging Greg with an elbow. "Tell me how the game ends, by the way; I still have a bet with Anthony that his precious team is going to flop, and I very much plan on collecting my winnings when we get back next week."

Her only answer as she left for the front entrance was the faintest noise of an affirmation from the man. The sound quickly being swallowed as another cheer of half revelry, half groans shook the bar. She shook her head with a laugh, before sucking it back in with one breath as the sudden drop of temperature slapped her across the face. Reluctantly the woman left the warmth and hospitality of the establishment, letting the door close with a slow and cumbersome slam behind her. Adjusting to the sudden cold under the dark purple awning, she quickly flipped the hood over her already freezing ears. Why did I move here again...? She rumbled, burying her nose into the blue and black scarf wrapped around her neck as she reluctantly started down the street, the top of her hood quickly being hidden by a wintry canvas of white.

Briefly, she reminisced to her old childhood town in California. Where she could get away with just wearing sweatpants and a shirt and not freeze to death while going out to get the mail. And not far away was a fantastic little hole-in-the-wall place that served the best tacos.

As Tristan half-stumbled, half-walked through the thick drifts, hoping to catch the last bus for the ride back home and suddenly craving tacos, Stan Bush yelled, "You've got the touch!" from her jacket. Stifling a grin and barely missing a beat, she dug around in her pocket for her iPhone in all of its plastered Supernatural stickers glory. Sure enough, it said 'Cat' and her grin only widened. "Gift must have finally come in," she mused out loud, swiping the screen and bringing it to her ear. "'Ello?"

"You better be lucky you're in Canada, or else I would be crushing your ribs and popping the natural pillows on your chest right about now."

The grin she was currently wearing was making her face hurt, and it only became worse as it spread even broader. "Awww I miss you too, I take it you like it?"

There was a snort before another bout of squealing blasted into her ear. By some miracle, her hearing continued to function enough to hear the reply. "Bitch, are you kidding?! I fucking LOVE him!"

Of course, by "him," she was referring to the original Generation I die-cast Jazz from the TV show that her friend loved so much. It had taken a couple hundred bucks, three cups of coffee, and late-night bidding on eBay, but dammit she had gotten it in the end. Tristan was having a hard time not smiling at the sheer joy that her friend was expressing. "Haha, I'm glad you do- oomph excuse me."

She threw an apologetic look sideways as the man who had just bumped into her shuffled past, muttering what sounded like a 'sorry' before trundling off, soon disappearing into the folds of the night. Shrugging, she continued on her trek to the bus stop. She was so glad for her snow boots. "Sorry-," she put the phone back to her ear, adjusting her bag's strap. "I just bumped into someone who apparently doesn't know what personal space is. So what's up in your neck of the woods?"

~o~

A couple thousand miles in not-as-freezing-as-Canada-yet-still-cold Texas, a red-headed woman was doing a happy shuffling dance as she tried to multitask talking on the phone to best friend and adjusting the newest member to her Transformers collection family. "Oh, you know— the regular boring same old rock stuff. How's Canada?"

"Besides a boring videogame conference. Cold. It's like negative eight degrees out here right now. I can't feel my hands despite my gloves if that tells you anything," a slightly annoyed brunette grumbled on the other end.

"... 'Eight degrees'? Is that Celsius or...?" If her friend thought that was 'cold,' she was seriously living in the wrong country. And she was about to declare it too when she was promptly cut off.

"What?" Tristan confusingly asked before she emitted a quiet snort. "Ugh no. Fahrenheit, I mean. I don't know what it is otherwise- just because I live in Canada, doesn't mean jack squat dammit." There was a pause before a muttered 'what the hell-?' was heard. She probably walked in on something that was making her scrunch up her nose in either disapproval or disgust.

"Cat," otherwise known as Catherine, couldn't help a quiet chuckle. "I think you should get your priorities in check then," she mused, plopping on her bed and barely resisting the urge to bounce excitedly again. She had been dying to get that toy for years now, and now her friend's lateness for getting her a Christmas gift was forgiven.

"Seriously, thank you, Trish, he's so freaking awesome," she giggled in happiness.

A crackling garble was her only response, which was then followed by unnerving silence that seemed to go on and on.

She frowned as she pulled the phone away to see if she had perhaps dropped the signal at some point. Nope, it said it was still connected. The redhead was slightly suspicious it was yet another prank thought up by her former roommate to fuck with her. Probably trying not to giggle on the other end.

Bitch.

She gave it only a couple minutes for her to get the laughs out before she finally asked, "Trish, are you there? Stop playing around. Trish? Tristan...?"

It was only the low moan of the wind that answered her... If only Cat knew the only signs of her friend were two footprints and a phone slowly being buried by the ever-oncoming snow.

*~End~*

A little boring I know, but I hope it at least warranted your attention enough to give it at least a read! ;D But I promise the next chapter is a little more exciting than this- both character and plot-wise (and definitely not nearly as cold as Canada.)

Also, if any of you have read either of T.M. Wolf's Assassin's Creed Chronos or These Paths We Tread- then you should recognize who 'Cat' exactly is. I heavily recommend both for their realistic takes. Though, be warned some future material of this story maaaaaaaay or may not appear in hers.

Who knows ;D

Anyway, chica love you and hope you liked the cameo!

Until next time

-TK