Author's Note: Random idea I had. Enough said.

Please keep in mind that I typically do not edit my work beyond spelling and grammar checks. What you see here is the first and only draft. If you spot any discrepancies, continuity issues, or any other such problems, please let me know.

This is also my first time writing Altaïr, so I hope I got his character right. If not, suggestions are appreciated.

Edit 11/16/2912: Fixes some minor grammar issues, as well as added a few descriptions that I felt were missing after reading through this again.

Disclaimer: I own neither Assassin's Creed nor the Legend of Korra. AC belongs to Ubisoft, and LoK belongs to Bryke. I am merely toying with the characters to suit my own fangirl-ish tendencies.

Enjoy.

Republic City, Altaïr decided as he easily leaped between buildings far above the notice of the oblivious civilians below, was definitely on his list of least-liked, albeit most interesting, cities. It was cleaner than any of his usual destinations, sure, but it was far louder, more chaotic, and far too colorful for his liking. It didn't help that he could barely speak their language, let alone read it, plus his robes, still a bright white despite the amount of dust, sweat, and blood they've come in contact with over the years, kept bringing unwanted attention his way.

Like he cared.

His task was simple enough: track down the leader of the radical group known as the Equalists, and eliminate him.

He had not been given very much information to go on; all he had been told was that the Equalists were common knowledge, yet they did not always work out in the open, and that many of the people that inhabited Republic City had strange abilities unlike any he had ever seen. Beyond that, he was left to his own devices, but gathering the information he needed was overwhelmingly easy: all he had had to do was listen in on a few conversations, no real change from the norm there, and he had found out everything he needed in a matter of hours despite the annoying bit of a language barrier.

First off, the Equalist leader went by the name Amon, though it was unknown whether or not it was an alias.

Secondly, a threat had been sent out across the city via one of those… ray-dee-oh… things saying that unless the pro-bending (whatever that was—Altaïr never bothered to learn about the little nuances of the culture in Republic City, but from what he had gathered, it was some kind of tournament-like sport) finals were cancelled, then Amon would launch an attack on some part of the city.

Thirdly, based on what he had learned from eavesdropping on a conversation between two of the metal-clad guards, there were no plans on cancelling the pro-bending-whatever-it-was.

And lastly, the pro-bending-thing-he-didn't-really-care-about would be held in a giant, golden building right on the bay.

There was one thing that he couldn't quite understand, however, and that was what these "Equalists" had to do with the Templars. Perhaps nothing, but perhaps everything. And no matter much he had wanted to ask, Altaïr held his tongue for once, knowing from experience that he would most likely learn the answers anyway, either with time, or by his own means.

But that would have to come later. In the mean time, he had a job to do.

Though he would never admit it, Altaïr was almost impressed when he began approaching the stadium a few hours before nightfall. The metal-clad guards were everywhere; at all of the entrances and exits, on warships that patrolled steadily through the bay, and on strange flying contraptions that circled in the sky overhead.

And though they were not yet letting spectators into the large, golden building, it was almost laughably easy to slip inside undetected: a few coins tossed to a group of scruffy-looking children was all that was necessary to provide the few second's distraction he needed to walk right through the front door. After that it was simply a matter of finding a suitable vantage point from which he could see everything that would be happening in a few hours time.

He had only just begun scaling the side of the wide-open space that was the main room of the stadium when a few snatches of conversation caught his attention.

"—the security sweep going?"

Altaïr glanced downward to see two people, a man in flowing yellow and orange robes, and a woman dressed in the same metal uniform as the guards, standing in a doorway about thirty feet below him.

"Fine," the woman replied sternly. Altaïr couldn't see either of their faces from the angle he was at, but he could easily guess that the woman did not want to be talking to the brightly-dressed man at that moment.

"They've checked underneath the stands?" The man was rocking on his heels without seeming to realize it. Altaïr was secretly glad they were using words he knew, for the most part.

"Yes," the woman replied with an irritated edge to her voice.

"And do you have enough officers to cover all points of entry?"

The woman gave an exasperated sigh. "I have the skies, the bay, and every nook and cranny of this place covered. Now leave me alone and let me do my job." Had Altaïr not been in the middle of a mission, he might have laughed at the woman's statement. If she really had ever bit of the place under watch, then he would have actually had to try to not be discovered. Such incompetence…

"Lin…" Ah, a name. Not a very important one, but still. "With so much on the line, it would be nice if we could help each other out. At least for one night."

And from there, Altaïr tuned their words out as he continued to climb, not at all worried about whether or not his bright white attire would draw attention. After all, people almost never think to look up.

So this is "pro-bending", Altaïr thought as he watched from his shadowy perch in the rafters just above the highest row of stands. The spectacle before him—or below him, rather—was undeniably awe-inspiring. To think that there were people capable of such feats as being able to command water and shift earth without touching it. He was less impressed with the fire-wielders, as he knew it was possible to conjure fire and to even exhale a plume of flames, given the right circumstances, though he had not yet figured out exactly how it was done in this case.

What he had figured out by then was that the three combatants in the gray uniforms were not playing by the rules, judging by the cries of outrage from the audience, the voice-from-everywhere-and-nowhere that was narrating every move (using a lot of strange slang phrases that made absolutely no sense to Altaïr, and the red-and-orange-clad opposing team.

The Grays, and Altaïr dubbed them in his head, were ruthless in their attacks, but they worked together seamlessly, all with a clear goal in mind, all with the same disregard for fairness.

The Reds, for lack of a better thing to call them, were stubborn, absolutely refusing to give in. The listened to each other's movements in a way that only came with trust. The water-wielder among them, the one with the ponytail, was exceptionally powerful in the way she moved.

It wasn't enough apparently, as the Grays swiftly brought the first round to a close by knocking the Reds right off of the platform, and the Reds would have lost right then were it not for the water-wielder lucky grab for the edge.

Despite their near loss in the first round, the Reds only seemed more confident in Round Two. So much so, in fact, that the round ends in an apparent tie with neither side able to shake the other.

At a wave from the official, both teams stepped forward. The red water-wielder takes another step towards her opponents, and the gray water-wielder followed suit.

The tie-breaker was over before it had really begun. The red water-wielder launched the first shot, sending a blast of water curving around her opponent's head, forcing him to dodge. While he was distracted, she kicked with her left leg, sending a second blast up at her opponent's face, ripping off his protective mask and throwing him off the raised portion of the platform in one fluid movement.

Altaïr felt one corner of his lip curl into a smirk. He liked that woman's style.

The third round began shortly after, and ended almost as quickly. The Grays were quick to escalate their cheating to exponential levels, and swiftly threw the Reds over the edge as a result.

The crowd roared in an even mixture of triumph in outrage as the Grays were proclaimed the victors for what was apparently the fourth time.

It was a short-lived victory, unfortunately.

And it seemed that Altaïr was the only one who saw it coming. His eyes narrowed as people who had, up until that moment seemed like ordinary audience members, were suddenly haloed in bright scarlet that only he could see as they began to move towards the guards, spikes of bright energy on their hands. A pair of them were moving towards the two people Altaïr had overheard a few hours prior.

Altaïr jumped, he actually jumped in surprise, when the two people dropped like stones, their bodies lit up briefly as if struck by lightning. And more of them were falling all over the place. Should he act? He wondered. No, he decided. Not yet. The masked people with lightning in their hands did not seem to be killing people, which meant they were there to scare and contain. Crowd control.

His head snapped in the direction of the playing field when the center ring opened to allow for a platform to rise out of the floor, revealing seven people, all of them masked.

And one of them wore a bone-white mask.

Amon.

The three Grays had, very stupidly, not yet taken the opportunity to leave and, even more stupidly, were trying to, out of all things, attack the seven Equalists. Not even thirty seconds had gone by when all three Grays were either on the floor tied up, or being held before the man in the white mask.

The entire audience cringed at the air-shattering screams that came first from the gray-clad water-wielder, then from his two companions as they were each brought before Amon.

All three men were limp and unresponsive as they were thrown over the edge and into the water.

Whatever Amon had done to them, it did not look pleasant, though the fact that there did not seem to be any surface wounds was some comfort.

Then one of the Equalists handed Amon the shiny silver thing that made voices loud and echo-y and come from all directions at once, and Amon spoke:

"I believe I have your attention, benders of Republic City." Ah, that voice. Yes, that was his target. Altaïr had heard that voice over the ray-dee-oh thing enough times over the past few days to recognize it anywhere. The way the air around the masked man glinted gold in his vision only confirmed it. "Once again, the Wolfbats are your pro-bending champions." Alright, so the Grays were really called the Wolfbats. Whatever. "It seems fitting that you celebrate three bullies who cheated their way to victory, because every day you threaten and abuse your fellow non-bending citizens, just like the Wolfbats did to their opponents tonight."

Amon had the audience riveted with terror and awe, so much so that no one noticed Altaïr drop down from his hiding place to stand amongst the crowd. How convenient.

"Those men were supposedly the best in the bending world," Amon continued, "and yet it only took me a few moments for me to cleanse them of their impurity." Ah, so that's what had happened. "Let this be a warning to all of you benders out there: if you stand in my way, you will meet the same fate." The collective gasp of fear from the audience was enough to mask the choked gasp of one of the Equalists as Altaïr slit his throat from behind as he slowly made his way through the stands. "Now, to my followers: for years the Equalists have been forced to hide in the shadows, but now we have the numbers and the strength to create a new Republic City! I'm happy to tell you that the time for change has finally come! Very soon, the current tyrannical bending regime will be replaced with a fair-minded Equalist government. You and your children will no longer have reasons to be afraid!"

Altaïr was almost all the way down to the front row by then. "It's time to take back our city! For centuries, benders have possessed an unnatural advantage over ordinary people. But thankfully, modern technology has provided us with a way to even out the playing field. Now anyone can hold the power of a chi-blocker" now there was a word that Altaïr did not know "in their hand. My followers and I will not rest until the entire city achieves equality!"

Altaïr didn't want to hear any more. He began to run down the last few steps, preparing to jump.

"And once that goal is achieved—"

A flick of his wrist brought out his hidden blade.

"—We will equalize the rest of the world!"

He pushed off the barrier at the edge of the gap between the stands and the platform, launching himself into the air with strength far beyond that of normal men, blade poised to strike.

"The revolution has be—"

There was a dull thud accompanied by a nasty crack as Altaïr struck from above, letting the momentum from his jump drive his hidden blade into the masked man's exposed throat. With a free hand, he retrieved a white feather from his belt and, withdrawing the now blood-covered blade from the neck of his target, swiped it across the gushing wound.

"Be at peace," Altaïr murmured, as was routine. The man bled out in a matter of moments. It was possible that he tried to protest or give some justification for his actions, just as they always did, but with the mask, Altaïr could not tell. "Your work is finished." He got his feet and stepped away from the still form of the Equalist leader.

It was only then that people began to realize what had happened. The six Equalists who had been there as a guard stood there, apparently stunned (again, it was hard to tell, as they all wore masks), but after a few seconds, one of them charged forward, brandishing one of those lightning-wrapped gloves.

Altaïr's lip curled in a sneer. Too slow. A single swipe from his sword as it was unsheathed was enough to fell his attacker, and he didn't give the other five a chance to do the same, as he was sprinting for the edge of the platform before the Equalist's body had even hit the floor. With a running leap, he was back in the stands and heading up the stairs once more, determined to find a place to disappear until things had calmed down enough for him to return home.

No one in Republic City truly knew exactly what happened that day at the arena. Thousands of eyewitnesses reported a white something swooping in from above and striking Amon down mid-sentence before vanishing without a trace.

Some claimed it was a man out for revenge.

Others insisted that it was a spirit that Amon had angered somehow in the past.

A few with questionable sanity even suggested that it was Councilman Tenzin. After all, surely only an airbender could have moved like that. This theory was swiftly debunked, however, as Councilman Tenzin had still been suffering the effects of being struck with one of the electrified gloves at the time of the white being's materialization.

Not once did people even think assassin.

In the ensuing chaos, the ports were closed down for several days, but the following week, a small ship set sail for one of the outlying islands of the Earth Kingdom, and among its passengers was a silent, unassuming man with golden eyes, a scar across his lips, and a sword at his hip.

Author's Note: And there you have it! Like I said before, this was just a random idea.

Please review! I love constructive criticism, but feedback of any kind is loved and appreciated!