A/N: Le chapterly advisory…

WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG HUMOROUS CONTENT THAT SHOULD BE READ IN A DISCREET LOCATION. IF YOU ARE IN THE SAME ROOM AS OTHER PEOPLE, AWAKE OR SLEEPING, YOU NEED TO MOVE AWAY FROM THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE. YOU MAY EXPERIENCE THE FOLLOWING BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER READING THE CHAPTER: THE GIGGLES, SIDESPLITTING LAUGHTER, NAUSEA, VOMITING, PAINFUL GAS, EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA, HYPERVENTILATION, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE, FEVER, AND/OR ABDOMINAL CRAMPS.

IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, YOU MAY MISCARRY.

PLEASE ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF YOUR HEART IS HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR SEX, I MEAN, READING THIS STORY.

I would like to make a late dedication… TO MAH AMAZING SISTAH, MISS MYSHKINA! I figured since you made one to me, I figured that I would do one for your in Alty's next chapter. ^.^

I apologize that this chapter is a bazillion months late. I have been busy with many things, such as school, friends, and family—not that I truly have to explain myself to anyone. Also, this chapter gave me major writer's block, as does any chapter in which Altaïr is a main character. Truly irritating. Yes, I just admitted that Alty is the WORST character for me to write! His game was sooooo long and drawn out for me, and I didn't really enjoy it until the end! DX

But this isn't going to solve anything for me.

Eh, but that's enough of my pointless bitching, right?

I apologize for the shittiness of it all. I had to get this out before I exploded. I finally did it, though! ;)

ONWARD!

The mere hustle and bustle of the streets was all too familiar to the Syrian eagle as he followed his Florentine descendant down an alleyway, avoiding all contact with the civilians of the city of Venice. The foreigner hung his head lower, allowing the beak of his cowl to cover his eyes. It was as if he was somehow attempting to hide his already-unknown identity from the oblivious Italian citizens.

He followed at a brisk pace behind Ezio, treading carefully around whatever guards that liked to linger within the confines of the alleyway shadows—something that Altaïr was not accustomed to. He inwardly growled as he passed guards, who merely arched their brow in confusion as he glared at them, as if ready to strike at any moment.

In fact, Altaïr was following at such a brisk pace that when Ezio halted in his tracks for reasons yet unknown, he rammed directly into the Italian, sending him forward onto the stone street—face-first no less.

The Florentine man scrambled to his feet and glared at his ancestor. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "Are you trying to send guards from all directions?"

Altaïr merely shrugged. "Maybe if a force was to be dispatched, it would allow you to send word before stopping in the middle of the street for no apparent reason."

Ezio dusted himself off as he scoffed at his ancestor. "Clearly you weren't paying attention to your surroundings," he countered as he pointed to an oddly dressed man near a merchant stall. "That man there is—"

"A Templar?" Altaïr interrupted, flicking his Hidden Blade in suggestion to dispose of the menace.

Shaking his head, Ezio chuckled. "No, but just as meddlesome as," he replied with a smile. "He is one of the most annoying and irritating forms of civilians known to Assassins. He's a—"

Altaïr's eyes narrowed. "A beggar woman?"

"No!" Ezio replied, working an irritated tic in his jaw. "Can I finish?" He waited for a moment, allowing his ancestor to become absolutely silent. "A minstrel. He is a minstrel. He sings pointless songs that tend to cause internal injury to the brain by the waking moment."

Altaïr arched his brow. "He chants sorcery to hinder our movements in order for the Templars to strike in our moment of weakness?"

The Florentine eagle smacked his own forehead and wiped his hand slowly down his face in agitation. "No, you idiota," he muttered. Inhaling deeply, he placed his hands on his ancestor's shoulders, weighing them down with a firm pressure. "He is a jester of the utmost irritating kind. He is a part of a species of rats that only hinders your movements until you throw money in his face."

Altaïr mulled this in his mind before responding with, "I see." He shrugged Ezio's hands from his person and crossed his arms across his chest—an irritating habit he was to speak with Connor about. Damn that Native…

"I know it sounds preposterous," Ezio began, "but once the minstrels receive payment, they leave, satisfied with their services."

Altaïr wasn't convinced. "But if one is to pay for his useless services, then he is sure to repeat the offence. I say we just do the simple task of treating him as a lowly Templar or despot and be done with it."

The descendant merely chuckled. "If we were to run about killing the minstrels, the guards would surely put both of us to the gallows. I, for one, do not wish to be hung." He smirked before adding, "Unless a lovely carissima was involved."

The Syrian rolled his eyes at the lewd innuendo and scoffed. "Leave it to you to create something foul in a moment of seriousness." He eyed his descendant. "If not death to the minstrel, then what action do you propose?"

"As I've said before. Throw money. Be charitable," the Italian replied and then arched his brow. "Is that not The Third Pillar?"

Altaïr did a double take. "W-what?" His eyes narrowed as he loomed close to the other Assassins ear. "Are you questioning my faith? Do you believe that I am a blasphemer?"

Ezio shook his head with a smile. "Of course not, amico. I am merely suggesting that you are stingy."

The Syrian glared at his descendant, flicking his poor four-fingered left hand. He pointed the Hidden Blade at the Assassin and pressed his against his stomach. "I could kill you. You can meet God if you wish," he said flatly.

Ezio snorted in derision. "After all I have seen thus far in my life," he began with a sneer, "I believe in no God." He pointed to the minstrel. "Show me otherwise."

Altaïr emitted a low growl from the base of his throat. He released the blade, allowing it to retreat to his gauntlet as he cut his eyes to the unsuspecting minstrel.

He knew what he had to do.

Shoving his descendant from his path, he boldly and bravely crossed the streets —and without looking both ways! How rebellious!—and locked eyes with the lowly minstrel, who clung onto his lute as if it was his child.

The minstrel scrambled in front of the Syrian with a grin.

"See the dark man hiding in the night; don't turn your back, or he'll give you a fright!" he sang off-key.

Altaïr did nothing. His mind seemed to function normally, so he decided to wait things out.

"Hear my lovely music, hear my cries! Give a poor man money for his tries!" he continued, eyeing Altaïr's motionlessness. He put on a face of determination as he strummed the strings on his instrument.

"Run to your wife! Run to your whore! Fuck her until she begs for more!

"The tyrant watches over our moves and rules the land; you look like the guy that'd run over his groin with your hand!

"A cock goes in the mouth of whores; it looks like you need one in yours!"

As the Syrian eagle continued to stand motionless, listening to the words inharmoniously screeched, he felt odd tics in his mind. It seemed to be some type of fire slowly burning at the base of his mind, seemingly growing larger with each new limerick added to the previous ones. Once the minstrel uttered a few more lyrics towards the Assassin, Altaïr knew that something had to be done. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Silence!" he snapped, causing the minstrel to jump in surprise.

The jester's eyes widened as he held his hands eye-level in defense. "But Messer Assassino—"

"Silence."

The minstrel's eyes watered in fear for his own wellbeing as he backed away slowly. His eyes seemed to trail to Altaïr's Hidden Blade, which flicked out for good measure. The poor, annoying pest ran for the hills, not looking back at the Assassin.

With a small smirk, Altaïr, who was pleased with his work, returned to the Florentine eagle. "I have dismissed the jester without any harmful infliction or wasted coin." He scanned his descendant's face for any sign of approval for his accomplishment, but all scans—even those in Eagle Vision—popped negative.

Ezio merely dragged his hand slowly down his face and then pinched the bridge of his nose. Working a tic in his jaw, he sighed deeply with a note of both annoyance and disappointment. "Amico," he began, seeming to search the tip of his tongue meticulously for just the correct wording to explain it all to the other Assassin, "you didn't pay the minstrel."

Altaïr's brows furrowed in confusion. "If I paid the tone-deaf buffoon, then he would resurface. He is not one that is required to reappear within the space in which I am occupying."

"But, amico," Ezio countered with a slight smile, "you may not want him back, but I assure you now, he will return. Trust me; I know from painful experience."

"How could you be so sure?"

The descendant merely laughed. "Because that is the way of life. Things happen that we do not desire, but they occur anyway." He crooked his finger and began walking.

The Syrian glowered at the Italian and followed him. Crossing his arms in distaste, Altaïr shadowed the Florentine as they wound down lengthy alleyways and crossed the stone streets. The Master Assassin could not possibly accurately predict just where the descendant was leading him, nor could he say if they were actually heading somewhere in particular. The only thing that Altaïr could accurately predict was the fact that Ezio Auditore was going to become his number one pain in the ass—other than Desmond Miles and Malik.

Ezio suddenly turned sharply around a corner, causing the Syrian to falter in his confident, yet brooding, strides.

Clenching his jaw, Altaïr glared at Ezio's occipital lobe, seeming to bore holes with his fiery gaze. Gathering what little dignity the Syrian eagle still possessed, he followed the Florentine's heels down yet another alley—one that the Master Assassin swore they had previously visited.

"Have we not already passed through here?"

Ezio held up a silencing finger as he peered around a corner. He stepped carefully around the building and whistled for his ancestor to follow him.

The Syrian emitted a low growl from the base of his throat. He was no dog to whistle at whenever anyone wanted him to follow. He clenched his fists and obeyed orders. He followed his descendant after a moment of hesitation and bit his tongue in order to refrain from a vocal outburst.

The scene in front of the two Assassins was as gruesome as the moment when Altaïr's precious ring finger was severed from his left hand. It seemed as if all of Venice's minstrels had gathered into one central location just to allow Altaïr to suffer traumatic experiences.

Altaïr's body tensed as the Florentine man glanced over his shoulder with a smirk.

"Is something wrong, amico?" the Italian inquired as Altaïr's brow furrowed.

"Are you mad?" the Syrian growled. "Do you realize what you are doing? You are subjecting me to Templar propaganda-spreaders, and their messages are intended to impede my advance on the massacre of the wretched Templar Order!"

Rolling his chocolate eyes, Ezio faced forward. "Your skills will remain intact and in whole." The Florentine man started walking toward the mass of tone-deaf minstrels, urging his ancestor to follow in suit.

The Syrian was awestruck as his Italian descendant effortlessly strode into the heart of the most horrendous crowd of minstrels that had ever plagued any Assassin. Ezio stood in the center of a large ring of the tone deaf men, being bombarded with atrociously lewd limericks that little children should never be exposed to. The Italian merely nodded his head once, twice. He then slowly reached into a pocket and then tossed coins onto the street, sending the minstrels into a joyous frenzy. The limericks seemed to stop as the lyricists quickly gathered what little coin they could and scamper away, as if to protect their earnings.

The Italian turned his head toward his ancestor with a sly smile. "Do you see how easy it is, amico?"

Altaïr arched his brow. "I do not believe that I could possibly stand that nonsense for any amount of time. I cannot follow through with your senseless training. I do not need training within the Pillars; I know where my faith lies."

Ezio shrugged. "Suit yourself, amico." The Florentine Assassin gave his ancestor one last glance before he turned on his heel and quickly vanished from sight.

Altaïr was left to his own devices, which was normal for the seemingly cold Assassin. He had been left to his own devices when Al Mualim practically disowned him and had to get back in graces with the Assassin Brotherhood in Masyaf—which, come to think of it, was exactly what he was doing before this entire "Mainframe" illusion began.

The Syrian ground his teeth as he exhaled in irritation. All he had to do was find his descendant and kill him. Well, now that he had his next target in his mind, he had to—

A sight interrupted Altaïr's demented thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed a two-toned blur scramble out of sight—or at least attempt to. The Assassin scanned the area, not moving from his spot. He pivoted on his heel, his eyes combing over every surface and civilian, not seeing anything of sus—

"Minstrel," the Assassin whispered almost inaudibly as a bouncing, rotund man plucked his lute and locked eyes with the Assassin.

The faded words of a limerick reached Altaïr's ears, and every fiber in his being screamed for him to run. Or at least throw a knife in the annoying distraction's stomach so the Assassin could find his next target.

The minstrel came within five feet of the struggling Assassin and began to screech his songs at the top of his lungs.

It was apparent to the Assassin that this particular minstrel was different than the rest. This particular minstrel had to be a test from that damnable Italian Assassin! This was all a test to see if Altaïr could comply with the Third Pillar!

If that was what he must do to finally show that Italian that he, the Master Assassin, was just as human as he was, then he'd just have to grit his teeth and allow the money to be thrown…. Right?

Shaking his head slightly in an attempt to dull out the pathetic excuse for roadside entertainment, Altaïr dug into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around one gold coin. Pulling it out slowly, he slightly waved in the minstrel's eyes for a moment, immediately silencing him. The Assassin's lips curled slightly as he realized that he had the man's attention. The coined hand went to the left then to the right, the minstrel's eyes following the entire time. The Assassin reeled his arm back and threw the coin as far from him as he could, the minstrel quick to follow it before someone else could notice.

Once the minstrel was disposed of, the Syrian barked a slight laugh as he exited the area in pursuit of his true target: Ezio.

Walking the Venetian streets, Altaïr scanned for his descendant, finally finding him talking amongst a group of scantily clad women.

"And so I said, 'If you believe my knife is long, wait until I wield my sword!'" the Italian joked, making the women giggle giddily.

"Oh, Ezio!" one woman exclaimed, her hands lightly touching his bicep. "You should really join us for a little while. It would be fun, right girls?"

The other three women squealed in excitement and began chattering.

Suddenly, the woman who suggested the activity looked past Ezio at Altaïr. She arched her brow as Altaïr closed in on the group. "Um, Ezio? Is this your brother?"

Ezio turned his head and caught witness of his ancestor.

Altaïr flicked his wrist, allowing his Hidden Blade to send a warning to the women. "I did not fail your test."

Confusion passed over the descendant's face. "Test? What test are you talking about, amico?"

"The screeching minstrel. Do not deny that you set up the man's actions as a test so that I would be forced to be generous with my money."

Ezio's lips curled into a smirk. "You paid a minstrel for his services?"

"Yes. I have passed your test."

Ezio's smirk spread into a full-out grin. "There was no test. I merely walked from you to these belladonnas. You were charitable on your own, amico."

The Master Assassin's face dropped. He had done that on his own? It was not a test? He had given his money when he had no need to? He closed his eyes and worked a tic of irritation through his jaw. He twisted his neck from side to side slowly, hearing deep pops from his spine. As he opened his eyes, he narrowed them on his target.

Ezio's smile vanished as his ancestor lunged for him.

Both ancestor and descendant fled through the streets, knocking others out of the way.

Altaïr was charitable, alright. He was going to graciously and generously give Ezio fatal wounds without a second thought.

That's what the Third Pillar was, right? Being as charitable as possible? If that's was Ezio wanted, then he would have it.

FINALLY. IT HAS TAKEN ME SINCE FUCKING AUGUST TO WRITE THIS SHIT. IT IS FINALLY FINISHED.

Augh! That was difficult to write! I'm sorry that it's so fucking late, but DAMN. I HATE writing Altaïr's parts. They bore me to fucking tears. Akbdfoidhnfujbndf!~!

Anyway, thanks to all who have read this, whether you are a returning member or a newb! I still love you all! :D