Yes, before anyone asks, I am going to still be working on Unconventional Alliance, but I had an idea, and that was put there by one of my reviewers. Shadow Katakura, thank you! I have been rolling this idea around in my dome since your review of said story, for a few days now, and when I get an idea, I will see if it works for me. If it does, then I will post it. If not, then well, it goes into the archives to never see the light of day again. So onward!

The wind was the first thing he felt as he began to come to from his… Desmond didn't even know what that was. All he knew was is he should be dead. The heat, the burning, and then the darkness. She said there would be no pain. Juno told him it would be quick, but the bitch lied. She outright lied to a dying man, and she knew it. And he knew pain. After living the lives of three of his ancestors, he knew pain. All kinds of pain. The pain of lose, the pain of love, the physical pain of wounds, and mental anguish of doing something against your will.

His fingers brushed the soft grass under the tips as he moved the digits. Should he be able to feel in the afterlife? Should there still be sensation in the burnt flesh that was now his hands? But something was telling him he was alive. Breathing, feeling, thinking. That was not something you should do when you were dead. Your body shut down. Electrical impulses in the brain stopped firing, causing the brain to stop functioning. The heart quit beating, but his hammered in his chest like an air-powered jackhammer going to town on a stubborn piece of concrete. He could feel the grass under his fingers; smell the flowers scent on the breeze and the wind across his face. He, in all rights, was alive.

Did Rebecca, Shaun, and his father come back and get him? Bring him back from the brink? He had no clue, but he was just enjoying laying there. It was actually kind of soft. The bed of grass behind his back that is. This was the first time since he was a kid that he actually remembered doing this. Now, he had done this as Ratonhnhake:ton, or Connor Kenway, his ancestor from the colonial America. He could remember the man lying in the shade of a large oak, or chestnut on warm summer days.

He remember Altair Ibn-La'Ahad laying in the garden of Masyaf, staring at the sky with his young sons, soaking in their childish squeals as they saw something new in each passing cloud. It was the only time he could remember in any of the man's memories that he would smile just for the shear fact that he could and no one would question him about it.

Then he remembered Ezio Auditore lying in the Tuscan sun with Federico at his side. Both boys, with their toes in the nearby river, watching the day pass them lazily by. It was those memories of his brother that kept Ezio going for as long had he did. Kept the memory of his slain family alive in his heart as he butchered his way across the country of Italy for the sake of revenge.

Peace, love, vengeance, hope, grief, strife, and duty. Those were the things that he could keenly remember about the three men that dominated his life for the better part of four and a half months. He had learned everything he could from their trials and tribulations in their lives. He learned to be an assassin from the men, and for what? For him to leave that world so easily to save people that did not even know a secret war was going on around them? For him to unleash an evil onto the world far worse that what man could do alone?

Slowly, as to not hurt his eyes, he finally opened them. The sky was a clear blue, like the sky you could only see near the ocean. The blue of the water reflecting back onto the sky, brightening the color, and damn near making it breathtaking. A color that he could stare at all day, and never grow tired of the sight.

But he knew he did not have all day. He had to figure out a way to stop Juno. To bring peace back to a world that he may have begun the destruction of. It was his job as an assassin. The three men that he learned from did not live and die for him to give up. He carried their blood, their memories, their hopes, dreams, fears, and everything else that made them who they were. He had to make sure that their lasting legacies did not die with him.

Sitting up, he looked around, trying to gather his bearings. He sat on a small cliff that overlooked the water. He could not tell if it was the ocean, a very large lake, or the sea, but he could not see the other side. No buildings were around and no sounds of the city could be heard. Where was he? He scratched his head in wonder. Was he saved by the others, or by something, or someone else?

Looking to his left, his bag sat neatly in the plush grass, along with his hidden blade. It was there, in pristine condition. Just the way it was when he touched the orb. Then he caught sight of his hands. They were whole, slightly tan, and not a damn mark on them. Looking at them from every angle, he could see that they were still just the same as they were when he was alive. But he had already come to realize that he was alive. Or something close.

"What in the hell is going on?" Were the first words that slipped past his lips.

He took in a whiff of the air, and smelled the salt on the wind. Then he knew it was either the ocean or the sea. If that was the case, which one was it? The air was moist, but not overly humid. It felt damn near tropical, but something felt… familiar about it. Something that itched at the back of his brain, wanting ever so much to be remembered, but for the life of him, he couldn't bring it to the surface.

A rumble from his empty stomach brought him back to this reality. He needed food, and bad. He had not eaten much before his last encounter with Juno. His nerves had been fried and his stomach tried to reject anything that passed his lips. So he had settled on some water, and a few saline crackers he had found in the food bin. They were bland, but it was the only thing he didn't want to puke back up. Rebecca blamed his sour stomach on the drugs they fed him in the Animus, but he knew it was more than that. It was his body telling him that the end was coming.

Getting to his feet, his legs wobbled and he felt like his knees would buckle at any moment, but after a few, literally shaky minutes, he took a few tentative steps. Relief washed over him as the strength began to come back into his lower limbs. Flexing his hands, he was still in marvel of the clear skin on the digits. His impulsive tattoo still ran up his left forearm. An intricate medley of tribal lines and ironically, the assassins' symbol had made its way into the design, but he was happy with the way it had turned out.

Desmond knelt down, slipping the hidden blade into the bag, then sliding it over his head and threading his arm through the strap. Once the wide canvas strap was situated comfortably between his pectorals, he decided on a direction. Setting out, he wished he had his MP3 player in the bag, but that sadly, was left on the crate next to Rebecca's station. It had died on the way back from his first and last trip to the Davenport Homestead as himself. Sure he had made hundreds, if not thousands, of trips there as Connor, but only one as Desmond Miles.

He watched the sun drift across the blue sky as he made his way through the countryside. Off in the distance he could hear the call of a horse, making him think that he was near a farm. Maybe they can give me directions to a city; he thought to himself as he let his sensitive ears pick up on the sounds of the horse. It was coming from the east and so he turned his exhausted body in that general direction.

It was at least another fifteen minutes until he saw the peak of a home in the distance. It was enough to energize his already tired body. The house got closer and he could feel himself begin to smile and his legs began to jog on their own. It was a relief to know he was not the only one out here. Maybe they would be able to give him a small bite to eat because his stomach was growling louder than a 747 on takeoff. The muscles clamped around the empty organ, making its dislike of being completely empty known to him.

Desmond spied someone working the field. The horses hooked to ancient farm equipment, plowing the fields with their master behind them, directing their movements. The one thing that popped into his mind was he was near an Amish commune. That would explain the lack of car noises, and the old-fashion farm work.

Vaulting over the fence with ease, he began to wave him hands. "Hey!" He yelled at the top of his lungs.

The man behind the plow brought the beasts to a stop, and looked in his direction. "Posso aiutarla?"

Huh? Desmond thought. The man cocked a brow, and wiped the sweat from his weathered forehead. He was clearly confused, but the words sounded vaguely familiar.

"Parli italiano?" The man asked him, and the figurative light bulb went off above his head.

Pulling on the Italian he knew from his time as Ezio, he nodded. "Conosco un po'." He made a gesture with his hand to show the man he knew a little bit. The Animus had done most of the translating for him, except a few stray words here and there, but he knew just enough to put a few simple phrases together. "Dove e la citta pui vicina?"

The older man nodded. "Monteriggioni e un cammino a nord ora, signore."

Oh no, not there, he sighed to himself, but he knew if he got there, he would be able to get to other places. Always go somewhere you are familiar with if you are lost. At least that was what he always heard. Hell, the last ten years of his life he had been trying to get lost and stay that way. And look where that landed you, moron. The little voice in his head sounded strangely like Shaun.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded his head, and faked a smile. "Grazie signore." He dare not ask for food, because now his stomach was in a tight knot.

Turning from the man, he headed in a northerly direction. Now he knew where he was, and what country. Italy was not one of the places he wanted to be. This was where they first brought him after he had been captured by the Templars, AKA Abstergo Industries. It if wasn't for Lucy, he would still be in there, reliving who knows' memories, or most likely painting the walls of his room red with his own blood. That was not a memory he wanted to revisit.

Shaking the depressing thoughts from his mind, Desmond focused on the steps that his feet were making. Left, right, left, right. It was in time. The left one fell, then the right rose up. The task was boring, mundane, but it kept his mind off of his last time here. That was how he wanted to keep it.

Desmond wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, but he knew if he did that, there would be no getting up and moving again. His legs were tired, and his mind began to wander once more. The rise to his left looked inviting for a rest under the shady trees that graced the hillside. He could just take a small nap. An hour or two, then continue on. It sounded so tempting, but yet, he knew he had to keep moving.

And so he trudged on. One foot in front of the other, keeping him moving towards the stone and mortar walls that his eyes caught in the distance. It was not far. Maybe a half hour at most. He could rest once he was safely in the walls. Then he could call someone to let them know he was alive and to find a way to get him.

But his thoughts were soon taken from him. A sound caught his hearing once more, and made his now severely empty stomach drop. It was the sound of steel against steel. The sound that haunted his dreams some nights from his time as Altair, then Ezio and lastly Connor.

For what possessed him to run towards the sound, he had no clue, but his body responded, and he ran. Up the small incline and into the trees, the clashing of steel got louder as his shoes ate up the distance. His breathing was labored, but he kept pushing on. Sliding the pack around as he dodged trees, Desmond pulled out the one piece of equipment he had on him, and slipped the straps over his wrist.

How he managed to tighten it as he ran full tilt and not run into something was beyond him, but he did. Having it there was like finding a missing piece of what he was. Who he was. He was an assassin. This was what he was born to do. This was what he was made for. He was created to help people, to save them in their hour of need. To be something more than just a damn bartender, who shoved his head in a sandbox and prayed the world would overlook him. He came from a long line of men that wanted to see the world the way it should be, and he, oh he knew now, he was no different.

Not bothering with pleasantries, he let his body slide down the slope, and right into the fray. Flicking the blade out, he opened himself up to the ancient blood that flowed through him and the strange sixth sense that was called Eagle Vision. Any person that was incased in red was a target. Blue was a friendly and a potential innocent. Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. The first tenet of the Assassin Order.

He found the first red, and swiftly rammed his blade into the man's chest. Feeling the blade sink into the flesh was a slightly new experience for him. The warm life-giving liquid washing over his hand was disconcerting, but he knew that feeling. The way his enemy fell to the blade of the assassin. No, that was Altair's memories. He was Desmond Miles.

Pulling back, he felt a slight tug on the blade as the body that was still attached to it dislodge itself from the slender silver blade, and fall to the ground, sightless eyes staring off into the distance beyond the veil. Spinning around, he saw another target, and rushed them, laying open their exposed throat with that severely sharp blade that had been his constant companion for years.

No, that was Ezio's thoughts. Desmond had only had it for three months at best. He received it when the first safe house had come under attack from Abstergo agents hell bent on killing the four of them.

Feeling the wind from an incoming blade, he rolled to the right, reaching for his sword or tomahawk that he always had at his side. Only to find that they were missing. No, he never had them. Connor was the one that carried those types of weapons. Desmond only had his hidden blade. Given to him by Lucy Stillman, who got it from the assassins, who passed them on down the line from when Ezio had retired. He was Desmond Miles, and he was the assassin this time. Not Altair. Not Ezio. Not Ratonhnhake:ton. He was just Desmond, and no one else.

The bloodlust drained from him as he killed the last red in his reach. The others fled, claiming they would get their revenge one day. Yelling a few obscenities he could recall from his days as Ezio, it made him smile.

"Thank you for your assistance, signore."

It was as if his head began to do the translating for him. That would have been helpful an hour ago, he thought to himself with a scowl. Turning around, he looked into a set of brown eyes that looked remarkably like the set that was in his own head. Damn near the same scar he had received in a bar fight two years previous.

Swallowing the dryness in his throat, Desmond nodded. "No problem."

"My name is Ezio Auditore, and I wish to thank you for…"

And that was all she wrote. Once the name Ezio Auditore left the scarred lips in front of him, Desmond felt his eyes roll back into his head, but nothing else.

Posso aiutarla? – Can I help you?

Parli italiano? – Do you speak Italian?

Conosco un po' – I know a little

Dove e la citta pui vicina? – Where is the nearest town?

Monteriggioni e un cammino a nord ora, signore – Monteriggioni is an hour walk north, sir

Grazie signore – Thank you, sir

Alright, I need to know what you think. There are plenty of stories out there of Des going back in time to meet Ezio, but it is always the older Ezio. You know like from AC: Brotherhood or Revelations. I wanted to be before Ezio had ever heard of the name Desmond. Hopefully I kind of kept him in character and didn't go too OOC with him. The bleed still happens but he can control it in some ways. Let me know what you think. The name could change if I can come up with a better one.