For weeks he had been preparing himself for what he was about to do. He would set aside fear and uncertainty. He would let go of all dogma and superstition. He would uncover the secrets of man's inner workings. He would open himself up to a whole new world- a whole new way of thinking, a whole new way of living.

Tonight was the night.

Deep within his dank, cold cellar lit only by the flickering glow of three white candles, Leonardo dragged a rain-soaked burlap sack over to an ancient wooden table. He hastily untied the knot at the end of the sack and deposited its contents onto the stone floor. With wide, bright eyes, he took a moment to examine the freshly dead and recently acquired corpse that lay at his feet. He hurried over to his workbench and pulled out a chopping knife from amidst the clutter of ancient tomes and dusty manuscripts.

The blade flashed in the candle light as he brought it down swiftly, tearing through flesh and muscle with precision. As the artist brought the knife back up, rivulets of glistening blood began to pool and spread along the cracks in the stone floor. Breathing deeply at the sight of the crimson liquid, he swung the knife down again at the exact same spot, and that time the weakened, shredded tendons gave way to the force of his blow.

The man of science studied the severed arm for a moment and noted the speed in which it blanched paler and paler as the sanguineous puddle around it grew larger. Having no further use for it, he set the arm aside and proceeded to chop off the other arm and both of the legs.

Devoid of appendages, the corpse was a bit lighter, but no less unwieldy as he hefted it in his arms and plopped it onto the wooden table. With a sharp scalpel blade in hand, he went to work. Holding the cutting tool as though it were a paintbrush, he sliced a line down the corpse's torso from the bottom of the chest to the top of the navel. His brow furrowed in concentration as the taught skin parted easily to the scalpel's steady pressure. The artist knew that he needed to work quickly before the coppery scent of blood was replaced by the more putrid stench of rapid decay.

Leonardo's gloved hands trembled briefly after placing the scalpel back onto the table. If word ever got out about his morbid experimentation, he would surely be labeled a heretic, hung from the gallows, and left to lie as cold and silent as the very body he was dissecting. With a quick shake of his head, he pushed those thoughts aside. The knowledge to be gained, and the satisfaction of his boundless curiosity were well worth the risk.

His hands steady once more, Leonardo grabbed the edges of the gash in the abdomen that he had created and began to slowly, but forcibly pry it apart. Thick muscle yielded to his grasp, and he was soon peering down into a gaping hole. He realized that no amount of mental preparation could reign in the nervous energy building up within him. With one final deep breath, he immersed his hand inside the body- a body that, until very recently, was moving, breathing, and living.

Leonardo's mind raced at the tactile sensations of the myriad of organs he felt with his fingertips. To his surprise, he was not disgusted in the slightest, merely fascinated by the contrast between the pleasant outer appearance of the human form, and the less appealing sight of what lay beneath the flesh.

Did he dare to go further? To reach in with both hands and actually remove what he was touching? To expose it all to the light? Pull it apart, cut it to pieces, analyze it, and put it all down on paper? There was so much to do, and the prospect was overwhelming.

Suddenly a dull pounding rang loudly in his ears. It sounded so much like a beating heart, that Leonardo leapt from his chair and stared in horror at the corpse's face, half expecting it to open its eyes and rise from the table in outrage. He peeled off his bloodied gloves and ran a hand through his hair as he steadied himself. He was far too rational a man to be carried away with such hysteria. Again he heard the pounding and was able to recognize the sound for what it was. He covered the corpse with a large sheet and stepped gingerly to avoid the pool of blood at his feet.

It was very late, and Leonardo received few visitors, so unless a curious guard had spotted him dragging the large burlap sack into his workshop, there was really only one other person who would knock on his door.

Still young and relatively unknown, Leonardo was somewhat of a loner by nature. After completing his apprenticeship under a master painter named Verrocchio, Leonardo immersed himself in his work by painting, drawing, and writing down all of the thoughts that ran circles in his head. By today's standards he might have been considered a geek, perhaps even a bit of a freak, but the artist didn't mind. He was talented, and most of his paintings- the ones he revealed to the world- were flawless and exquisitely beautiful. He was also possessed of an unquenchable thirst for knowledge that helped him, for the most part, ignore the loneliness of a life relatively devoid of human contact. There were certain aspects of his life that he could not share with others, such as the dark experiments from which he had been interrupted.

Leonardo bolted the cellar door tightly and hurried up the steps to the main floor of his workshop. Not only were there corpses in that dark cellar, it was also where he kept his failed experiments, and any paintings that did not live up to his impossibly high standards of beauty and perfection. He kept them all locked away for no one to see, not even the only person who he considered to be his friend- the very person who he hoped was waiting for him on the other side of his front door.

"Good evening, Leonardo. May I come in?"

"Ezio!" A wave of happiness washed over the artist at the sight of the familiar face at his doorstep. Whenever his friend stopped by, the painter found it impossible to remain in a foul mood, and difficult to control his enthusiasm, "Of course, of course! Do you even have to ask?" Leonardo beamed, ushering the assassin out of the murky shadows and into the warm glow of his workshop, "What brings you here? Not that you need a reason to stop by. How are you? I hope that you are well."

Ezio removed his hood out of respect and produced a small, genuine smile, "I'm tired, my friend," he admitted quietly. His voice was low and gravelly, and he scratched at the short goatee that he had allowed to grow on his chin. He appeared not to have slept for days, "If you would allow me to stay, just for a few minutes, to rest up-"

"By all means, sit down," Leonardo placed a small, silk cushion on a chair and offered it to the weary assassin. Before Ezio could even place his bottom on the chair, Leonardo hurried off into his tiny kitchen, more of an alcove than a separate room, and started up a fire, "I shall make preparations for you to stay the night," he called out.

"No Leonardo. That's quite alright-" Ezio began to protest.

"And don't even think about refusing my offer. I insist!" The inventor shouted as he placed a large, cast-iron pot above the fire. In a flurry of movement, he made his way back into the main room, "Allow me to hang your attire."

"Well, if you insist..." Ezio chuckled. He knew better than to turn the persistent painter down at that point. The assassin's seemingly never-ending quest to rid Rome of the Borgia's tainted presence was taking its toll on him, and indeed he was exhausted, so he began unbuckling and removing his heavy, metal chest guard, pauldrons, greaves, and hidden blades.

There were many layers to remove, and while Ezio did so, Leonardo rushed back down into his cellar- careful to avoid the concealed corpse and the partially coagulated blood all over the floor- and grabbed two large buckets of water from his storage room. In no time at all, he was back up the stairs, just in time to gather all of Ezio's armor. He set the buckets of water on the ground, and huffing and puffing, he moved the assassin's heavy equipment across the room and placed it all atop a small desk.

"Your robe as well," Leonardo stated, catching his breath, "I'm heating up some water for you to wash up."

"You are too good to me, my friend. You needn't go through all of this trouble."

"Trouble? What trouble?" The inventor smiled cheerily as Ezio peeled off his white robe and handed it over. After hanging the robe on a hook near the armor, Leonardo carried the large buckets of water into the kitchen and emptied them into the cast-iron pot. At least four more buckets were needed to adequately fill his washtub, which meant a couple more trips into the cellar.

When he exited the kitchen to head down there once more, he bumped into Ezio, who stood wearing nothing but a pair of black leggings. The empty buckets dropped to the floor as the artist collided into the assassin's broad, solid chest.

"My apologies, Leonardo," Ezio bowed to scoop up the buckets and held them effortlessly in his powerful arms, "Let me help you. It isn't right for me to sit back while you run around trying to make me comfortable."

Leonardo did his level best to keep his eyes from lingering on Ezio's torso, made more difficult by the play of flickering light and shadow across the man's chiseled abdomen that the workshop's candles provided. Although painted by the occasional cut and bruise, Ezio's smooth, olive skin was a stark contrast to the ghostly pallor of the cold corpse Leonardo had been attending to earlier.

He quickly snatched the buckets out of the assassin's arms, "Compared to all that you have done for me, this is nothing. Now have a seat, Ezio."

No sooner did he turn to head back down to his cellar, that the buckets were snatched back out of Leonardo's hands.

"Ezio..." Leonardo muttered, his hands on his hips.

"Compared to all that I've done for you? Really, Leonardo?" Ezio gave him a crooked smile, his dark eyes were squinted and reflected the candlelight admirably.

"You saved me from that Borgia guard back in Firenze," the painter grunted as he tried to pull the buckets out of Ezio's arms, "and don't tell me you've forgotten about our little carriage ride to Venezia. I would have died if it wasn't for you!"

"Leonardo, your life was in danger because of me...in both of those instances," Being much stronger than the feisty inventor, Ezio could have easily kept Leonardo from reclaiming the wooden buckets, but he held back and allowed their little game of tug-of-war to continue simply because he found it amusing, "You translated the Codex pages and constructed the flying machine to aid me."

"Yes, but..." Leonardo was losing steam, and could not keep resisting Ezio's steady, relentless tugging, "But...all of those war machines...I designed...for Cesare...think of all the destruction they could have caused...and you stopped them!"

"Only because you informed me of their location. And the hidden blades...who was it that repaired the one and created the other from scratch? Twice! Do you have any idea how many times those blades have save my life? If anyone is in the other's debt, it is me, Leonardo. Now let me help you. This is ridiculous!" With a mighty pull, Ezio wrestled the buckets away from Leonardo and started to walk down the stairs to the cellar.

Leonardo's heart skipped a beat at the thought of Ezio discovering the mutilated corpse and laying eyes upon the multitude of failed experiments and his hidden paintings whose mistakes could not be repaired. He was supposed to be a genius and a master painter. He could not allow his friend to see any flaws. He just couldn't.

"No! You will stay where you are, Ezio!" the exasperated artist shouted, "This is my living space, therefore you will follow my rules!" Leonardo surprised himself with the forcefulness of his tone.

Ezio cocked an eyebrow, his mouth slightly agape. He was even more surprised, and a bit taken aback, at the sudden outburst of his usually mild-mannered and jovial friend, "You're right, Leonardo. It's not my place to intrude."

"No. I'm sorry, Ezio. I should not have yelled," the flustered artist placed a hand on his forehead and rubbed his brow, "Now please, just have a seat. I'll be back shortly," He trudged sullenly down the steps and vanished into the cellar.

Once all of the water had been gathered, sufficiently heated, and transferred into the tub, Leonardo ushered Ezio into his tiny bathroom.

"There is freshly made soap in a basket next to the tub, and a robe next to the door. Take your time, Ezio," Leonardo stated quickly. Still embarrassed by his outburst, he turned to hurry out of the room.

"Grazie amico," Ezio called out as Leonardo closed the door and made his way back into the kitchen.

With Ezio still in the tub, and an impromptu meal of bread and piping hot tea ready and waiting for him, Leonardo found himself with nothing left to do. Although Ezio had assured him that he did not take offense, Leonardo still felt badly and began thinking of ways to make it up to him. Something about the assassin's robe caught his attention, and for a moment, he contemplated handwashing it, since its white surface was marred with splotches of dirt, dried mud, and flecks of old blood. He removed it from the hook gently, as though it were made of expensive, delicate porcelain. As he held it in his hands, the craziest idea popped into his head.

After a moment's hesitation, he carefully slipped it on and pushed his arms through the sleeves.

The first thing Leonardo became aware of was his nostrils being filled with a rush of Ezio's scent: thick, musky, and warm. He could practically feel the testosterone radiating off the cloth and enveloping him. Although the smell was undoubtedly tinged with sweat, it was far from unpleasant. Leonardo closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his head practically spinning from the endorphin-fueled bliss that the scent provided him. After tying the red sash around his waste, he ran his hands along the intricate patterns woven into the smooth material before moving them up to feel the ridges of the frilled collar. Lastly, he reached behind him and pulled the hood over his head.

In the corner of the room stood a floor-length mirror and he practically flew over to it to inspect his reflection. The robe sagged a bit at the shoulders, but to his surprise, he didn't look nearly as ridiculous as he would have imagined. That wasn't to say he pulled the look off the way Ezio did. Rightly so, Leonardo imagined, since no other man could pull it off with such effortless authority and style.

Leonardo's enthusiasm would not be dampened, however. He snatched up Ezio's dagger from amidst the pile of armor and weapons and began rushing around the room, swinging the blade in elaborate arcs. One moment he was leaping across rooftops, and the next, he was destroying wave upon wave of imaginary papal guards. He was sure he must have looked like an idiot parading about like he was, but he never felt such joy- never felt so alive- as he did at that moment. What made it even better was that in his own special way, no matter how fleeting, insignificant, or pathetic it may have seemed, Leonardo was connecting with his dearest friend on a level he never thought possible. By putting on the robes, he was one step closer to getting inside Ezio's head. He clamored onto a workbench and sprung into the air. He could almost feel the rush of wind, as though he were soaring from the top of a tower.

"Ahem..."

The simple, abrupt sound of a throat being cleared was enough to strike Leonardo, still in mid-leap, with the paralyzing force of a bolt of lightning. He crumpled to the floor and rolled helplessly, sending canvases, models, and various articles of clutter crashing down around him. In a flash, he jumped to his feet and shut his eyes tightly as his face flushed an impossibly deep shade of scarlet. He had his back to Ezio, and he dared not turn around.

"I...forgive me," Leonardo sputtered, fingers fumbling to untie the sash, "...for such blatant disrespect..." He turned around slowly, but could not bring himself to look at the other man, so great was his embarrassment. As he looked down at the floor, he noticed with the corner of his eye, an enormous black stain dripping down the length of the robe's right arm, from shoulder to wrist. Apparently one of the paintings he had collided with was still wet. It was oil paint, and the stain would never come out.

This couldn't be happening. He could only imagine the look on Ezio's face, who was sure to be pissed. He needed to remove the hood- to remove the robe entirely- but the hood was covering his eyes and providing him with a barrier, no matter how thin, from Ezio's wrath. He had defiled the sacred, ceremonial robe of an assassin, whose day job consisted of slitting throats and gouging eyeballs- an assassin who was approaching him now with steady and unrushed footsteps.

With his eyes shut tightly once more, Leonardo proceeded to curse himself endlessly in his head. If only he hadn't been so bold as to try on the garment. If only he could melt into the floor and disappear.

Ezio was right in front of him now. It would all be over soon. He would either drop dead from the embarrassment or die by the assassin's hands.

One of those hands came to rest on his shoulder, and Leonardo held his breath as the other hand reached out, grabbed the hood, and pulled it away from his face.