"His heart stopped!"

William Miles spun wildly from the computer he was scanning and rushed over to the worn Animus chair that his son was resting on. "What do you mean his heart stopped?" he frantically questioned. His son, Desmond, had mysteriously collapsed when they entered their new sanctuary inside of an abandoned house.

"H-he's going into cardiac arrest," Rebecca sputtered. "I don't know what happened, he was stable just a couple seconds ago!" Suddenly, however, a sharp pain stabbed the black haired woman in the head, and a blinding golden light flashed in her vision for a split second.

"You need not to do anything," a feminine voice murmured quietly. "Leave him be."

Rebecca stumbled back in shock, hesitating, but eventually nodded when she recognized the voice. Of course, it was them. They have plans, and who knows what those are? It would be wise to let them do their thing, for now. "We need to leave him alone," Rebecca decided.

He looked at her as if she was insane…which she probably was, with the voices in her head and all. "He could die! We have to do something!"

"Leave Desmond be," the very same voice said inside William's head. "You want the Templars ridden? Very well. Leave him alone. He lives."

William was surprised at first (that may be an understatement), but then he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I will check on him in two minutes. You should go and rest." Rebecca nodded her head and stumbled out of the Animus room, rubbing her temples from the weird headache. William took one last glance at his son, and followed her.

...

He stopped at their gray, under decorated, makeshift kitchen, sat down in a worn, wooden chair near the small, scratched dining table and put his head in his hands. William was sure the voice he heard was Minerva from the First Civilization. It was the exact the same voice from the time when she "spoke through" Ezio to Desmond when the Italian had found the apple. Yes, he was there. Desmond doesn't know it, but he slipped as soon as he woke up. He assumed that his son wouldn't be too pleased with seeing the very person he spent years hiding from. Of course, the Templars choose that specific time to attack. From a distance, he watched Desmond and Lucy fight off the Templars in the matter of mere seconds.

Those two make a good team, William thought. In fact, they all make a good team. They were the very last of the Assassins after all. If they can survive the hell that the Templars placed upon them, they can survive almost anything. Almost.

But that's not the point. The question is, what the hell does Minerva want with Desmond?

A loud groan suddenly sounded from the Animus room.

He's probably awake, William thought. I'll get him a drink. He quickly grabbed a translucent, plastic cup that was stacked with the others on the granite counter and filled it to the top with water from the squeaking tap. Subconsciously balancing the water inside the cup so that it wouldn't spill, he made his way to his son.

When he entered the room, however, his eyes widened to the size of golf balls, and he dropped the cup, water spilling onto the dull, gray ground, spreading everywhere. "Rebecca!" he shouted urgently.

"What? What happened?" She rushed to the Animus room quickly.

"It's Desmond! He's gone!"

...

Desmond felt himself fall onto the stone-hard ground. Harshly. "Dammit, my back," he groaned. He winced as he gingerly picked himself up, carefully not to irritate his aching back and his pulsing ass. That was going to hurt in the morning. As he was regaining his bearings, he took a look around. The ground was black, so was the sky, and the horizon too. He was standing in a middle of a black abyss. Where in the flaming hot hell was he?

"Who's there?" a deep, Arabic accented voice snarled.

The modern teen tensed. This would have been the perfect time to fulfill his ultimate dream, the sole purpose that Desmond had set as his life goal ages ago; an entire week ago. 'It's-a me! Mario!' But he didn't say that, because the American teen was ready to piss his pants, right there, in the unknown black abyss, surrounded with weird white thingies.

"I said, who's there?" the threatening voice repeated, this time louder. Soon, this mysterious person appeared in front of Desmond's line of vision. The man was dressed in a simple and plain white garb, but with enough compartments to house dozens of weapons. The hood to the white robe was up, effectively concealing the man's face to the uninterested eye. The modern teen intentionally hunched over to study the hooded figure's face. His features were all the same as his. Except his eyes. His eyes looked as if they were made out of gold, and right now, they were filled with cold, harsh, hostility, absolutely no other emotion what-so-ever. And there is only one person that Desmond knew who could look like that.

"Altair?" he wondered. In a matter of seconds, the American found himself pinned to the floor with a cold, steel blade to his neck.

"How do you know my name?" Altair hissed.

"How the hell are you here?!" Desmond exclaimed loudly. "What even is here?!"

"You did not answer my question," the Arabian coolly replied. "I will give you ten more seconds to do so. If you fail, then I will assume that you are a Templar and kill you." He applied more pressure with his blade to the American's neck to make a point.

"WAIT!" Desmond quickly stuttered. "I'm an Assassin, like you!" Altair didn't look as if he believed him, so he slowly raised his left hand and brought down the ring finger. "See?" Altair narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but nonetheless, he stood up, sheathed his blade, and offered Desmond a hand.

"...Apologies then, but you are dressed very strangely." Desmond frowned, feeling a bit insulted.

"This is how we dress in my faction of Assassins!"

The Syrian Assassin sent him a strange look. "...There are no other factions."

"HELLO? HEEEEELLOOO?" a deep, Italian-accented suddenly voice bellowed through the darkness.

"Be quiet! What if there are Templars around here?" another voice, but softer, snapped.

Desmond scanned his surroundings. He managed to spot two distant figures, both clothed in white, walking towards them. Both were wearing overly decorated Assassin robes. He turned on his sixth sense. Both were glowing blue. So they were truly Assassins. They must be...

"Ezio? Connor?" The distant Assassins stopped in their tracks.

"Who's there?" Connor called out, suspicion mixed in with his voice.

"I am a friend," Desmond replied.

"That's what they all say," he heard the Italian mumble. "Let me kill him."

"Wait, he is speaking the truth. Use the sense," Connor hissed back. Ezio followed through, and he muttered something unintelligible, most likely unflattering, and followed the Native American to Altair and Desmond.

"Can you tell us where we are?" Ezio questioned.

"No. We can't," Altair snapped impatiently. "Now make yourself useful and find an exit."

Ezio, taken aback by the Arabian's harsh reply, looked Altair up and down distastefully. "Pardon? Who do you think you..." Ezio trailed off, eyes widening in recognition. "Wait! You're Altair! The Assassin who was kill-"

"Okay, that's enough chatting," Desmond cut in, realizing where this conversation was going. "We don't need to be talking about this, how about we find an exit? Yeah, that's a good idea let's go," he said, albeit a little lot too fast, and began to walk forward.

"Wait," Connor cautioned. "We do not know your name yet. It is of better taste to know each other first. I am Ratonhnhake:ton." Upon seeing the thoroughly perplexed faces of the other Assassins, he added, "You may call me Connor."

"I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze!" Ezio announced proudly.

The Arabian Assassin narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he complied, as the people in front of him were also Assassins. "Altair."

"Desmond, at your service," Desmond answered. "Now, let's find a way out."

Suddenly, ground shook. "You will not find anything," the mysterious, feminine voice sounded through the darkness. "You are on another dimension." The voice paused for a second, for dramatic effect. "The dimension of time."

Desmond looked up, searched for the source of this voice. "Why are we here? What do you want from us?" he asked. Desmond wanted answers. He wanted them now.

A golden, pixel form of a woman materialized behind them.

"For you to succeed."

The four Assassins tensed and spun around in surprise. "What do you mean, succeed?" Ezio asked.

Minerva looked at the ancient Assassins. "Your current future is dark. Unsatisfactory. Shameful. However, your expected failure cannot and will not be tolerated."

"Failure? Explain," Altair commanded.

The First Civilization woman looked at Desmond. He sighed. He did NOT want to see their reactions to his explanation. "Altair, you died while fighting Robert de Sable. Ezio, you were killed during the attack on Montegorinni. Connor, you were assassinated by your father during your search for Benjamin Church," Desmond concluded. "Oh, by the way, we're related," he added as an after-thought. Sure enough, he found himself pinned back down on the floor.

"You lie!" Altair accused, holding Desmond in a choke hold.

"He is not," Minerva confirmed. Desmond was able to breathe again. Altair spun around to face Minerva.

"What sorcery is this? Answer me!" Altair demanded harshly.

"Calm the shit down, man. It's the truth," Desmond hissed. Altair looked at him disbelievingly.

"I believe him," Ezio admitted. He received a glare from the Arabic Assassin. "Something that I've learned throughout my experiences, is that nothing is impossible."

Altair pondered about this for a moment. "I suppose.."

Minerva decided she had enough of the lowly human arguments. "Failure is not acceptable," Minerva continued. "You must succeed. To do it once again."

"If we failed before, what makes you think we won't fail this time around?" Connor wondered.

"You will have each other," The golden woman responded.

"You mean-"

"You will start in one time, succeed, then start again in another time," Minerva informed. "From beginning to end, you will change history. Change it from what it is now, to what it should be. Safety and peace, Assassins." With that happy thought, the woman dissolved into golden pixel and particles.

A door appeared in front of the group. On the door was a label that read, "Solomon's Temple, Jerusalem, 1191. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad."

Altair squinted at the label, shrugged, opened the door, and stepped in.

Ezio and Connor glanced at each other and followed Altair. Desmond was now alone. What a fucking shitty morning, he thought, before he entered the portal between the past and present.