Well, this is an update showing where the modern day would've gone. Maybe. Since I've written this out, I've considered ways that I could deliver the unfinished historical segments in a more satisfactory manner than the quick summaries in the last post though I probably won't have to time to write out everything.

Cipher It was all going to plan. We had fulfilled Harry's Ghostbusters wet dream by killing some backwoods assholes, though Mac seemed extremely choked up by the fact that we had killed them. Rambled on about the virtues of "free-speech" and "patriotism" all the way up to Maine. We were back on track. If you could call mindless, wildfire acts of vengeful violence against any vaguely Templarish people we encountered a plan, really.

Then one night it all went to shit.

Javier was out, doing reconnaissance. That just left the four of us.

Harry had been watching the election news, pillow on his lap. He said that whoever won, whether it'd be Cheetos Jesus or the Sick Little Crow, the streets would be filled with ripe pickings in November. He'd give the world the true Ghostbusters sequel it had deserved for thirty-two years.

Mac piped up. Made the mistake of saying that he thought the reboot with the chicks was actually pretty good.

When the dust had cleared, Mac was on the ground. Part of his head looked like an exploded strawberry. The other part like melted Cherry Garcia spilling from an upturned Ben & Jerry's quart. Harry was hitting him again and again in the head with his katana. Until the blade broke off and Harry was left holding the hilt. Somehow Mac was still alive. Trying to debate the merits of Ghostbusters 2016 with Harry, even with ancient Japanese steel lodged in his brain, blood foaming like a pot of pasta boiling over from his mouth.

While all this unfolded Rita was giggling.

"Bloody hell, you have a thick skull, wanker." Harry was baffled.

"Look, Harry, if you can look past the bad advertising and PR and your own nostalgia you'll see that it was an amicable enough romp! It's not a crap movie, you know, like Dances With Wolves." Mac gurgled. "Or Ghostbusters Twooooo…"

"Fuck Ghostbusters 2! Fuck Cuntbusters too! Just fuck everything Ghostbusters!" Harry's head darts around the room, looking for anything he can use to finish Mac off. "Do you know what this movie did to me? I'm not even twenty-six yet and this movie's given me mid-life crisis! I thought I could trust you, Mac. You were my mate! But I now see that you're just like the rest of them. The nancy reviewers who gave this movie positive reviews. The bastards who made this in the first place. The original cast, who betrayed the sanctity of the original with cameos!"

I notice that his accent slips as he continues to rant.

"Man, it's just a movie. Cripes, this is the worst headache I've ever had." Mac tries to pull the blade out of his skull, but only slices off a couple of his fingers by accident. "You could've just ignored it, man."

"It wasn't just a movie. God, how I can validate my likes or dislikes of film if they don't match up with some movie website's arbitrary number?" Harry sits down. His accent's gone by now. "It used to be that no matter how bad the world got, Ghostbusters would always be there for us. When the towers fell, Ghostbusters was there for us. When Hurricane Katrina hit, Ghostbusters was there for us. When Fox took the sky from us, Ghostbusters was there for us. You get the drift. But now, it's not anymore and it never will be again."

"Harry dearie, what happened to your accent?" Rita is horrified by the now non-descript vaguely Northwestern American accent in Harry's voice.

"It was just a put-on, okay? For the chicks. You'd think any decent-lookin' broad would date Harry Harryson from Caldwell, Idaho unless he sounded like Roger Moore?"

"I far prefer the grittier realistic Bonds of Dalton and Craig." Mac wistfully looks up at Harry who kneels and starts to throttle him. Mac is only mildly perturbed by this.

"Shut your heathen mouth! Anyways, it's all just a put-on." Harry yells before he rips off his hair, revealing that it was a wig. "Christ, do any of you skittle-sniffing sweatbagging sawfishes know what it's like having male pattern baldness when you're only ten? This… cataclysm… changed me… into what I am today."

"Eeeeeyugh. You're not really British and even worse you're a baldie!" Rita gags. "I can't believe I slept with you."

"Well, my secret's out. But I can't let any of you leak this and ruin my rep as the top British schoolboy hitman now, can I?." Harry's dour expression is replaced by a fatalistic grin tinged with smugness as his accent returns. "Where's me fucking gun so I can rain down godly wrath upon you traitorous lads like in 2 Kings 2:23-24?"

"Right here, Harry." My hand is quivering as I point his hand cannon at him. He shouldn't have set it aside for pillow-time. I've sat back too long. Watching as everyone was like oh Harry, you're the man. Forget about ugly acne-ridden fat Cipher here, that accent alone gets us all revved up! But now, I'm going to show them not even I can be fucked with.

"Oh, Petey, Cipher or whatever your name is, put down the bloody gun. Let a real man murder you."

"Fuck off, Harry. For too long, I've been sidelined while you athletes and charmers and pretty boys hogged all the glory and women. It's the programmers, the hackers and all the other computing whiz-kids like me who shaped this century. And what did I get? Stained underwear and nothing else! This is payback for everything, jockstrap!"

"Go ahead. Make my day." Harry jeers. Mac is asking for an aspirin. Rita is egging me on. "You're such a nothing on the food chain, you're not even our fucking Ringo. You're not even Pete bloody Best. You're nothing, you hear me? You haven't got the guts to pull the tri"

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, HARRY. YOU'RE FROM IDAHO, I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU ANYMORE!"

I've never shot a gun before. All those movies, video games, they couldn't have prepared me for the recoil as it shot through my arms and throws me back. The last thing I see is Harry's kisser becoming like a red zit popping and his eyes flaring up in surprise before the lights flicker out before I hit something on the back of my head and my lights also go ou

Javier When I come back to the hotel room, I should be shocked. I should be horrified by what I see as I open the door. But after months on the road with these lunatics, I'm not amazed by what happened while I was away.

Mac is sprawled on the floor. Harry's on top of him with his lower jaw missing and a large hole in the back of his neck and he's leaking on Mac. Mac has a broken katana blade stuck in his head, and he don't look much better than roadkill. Behind them, Cipher is bent over with his ass facing up, his cheek in a puddle of his own drool.

"Hey, Javier, is that you?" Mac croaks, like he's got a wheat-thresher running in his throat, grinding every syllable into grain. "This is starting to smart a bit. Can you like rush out to the pharmacy and get me a band-aid?"

"Hee hee, you're gonna need a lot more than a band-aid!" Rita giggles, and she looks like a kid in candy shop. She touches one of his head wounds, looks at the stain on her thumb, and then sticks it in her mouth and starts sucking.

"And… a lollipop would be nice as well. Like good old Uncle Duke used to give out before they chemically castrated that poor quack. Yeah, a lollipop would definitely make me feel a little bit better." Mac sniffs.

I sigh, humoring him.

"What kinda lollipop, Mac? Tootsies? Dum Dums? The swirly rainbow ones?"

"Heck no, I hate rainbows. Um… I guess the most preferable would be those Apple Caramel pops. But no grape anything, man. I hate grape." With that, he closes his eyes and starts mumbling the lyrics to Tom Petty's Southern Accents.

"Sure, man, sure. I'll… be back with your suckers, real soon man. Hey Rita, you wanna come with me? It ain't lookin' too pretty here."

"What makes you think I don't like it like this?"

"Well, I'll see you all soon. Hang in there, Mac." I lie. I get in our van, and start the engine. I don't wanna be here when the cops show up. Being the only ethnic minority in the vicinity of a hotel room with two dead white folks? Recipe for disaster, like microwaving aluminum or paying to watch an Adam Sandler movie.

I thought that I could do anything for revenge. That there would be no level too low to sink to. But having spent too much time with this band, I realize that sooner or later I would've become even worse than the monsters who killed my family. Maybe I already am. Fighting fire with fire can only go so far until everything's been burnt so badly it all just looks the same – black ashes, drifting away in the wind.

Dammit. I think later as I pull into a drive-thru on the way up to Canada. I don't remember the taste of my wife's cooking.

Outside, the intercom buzzes and someone is speaking.

"Welcome to Burger King. What can I get for you?"

"Do your worst, puta. I can take it all!" I snarl back.

"That'll be $8.44, at the first window please."

Margaret "You ain't a shabby shot, Maggie." Patty says, and I hesitantly look over my shoulder at her.

"Hell." She looks pained to admit what she's about to say. "You're even doin' better than I did when I was in your boots."

My jaw almost drops, I almost leap outta my boots. My fucking half-sister, master tormentor of yonder childhood days, complimented me. For a second, I wanna forget about tomorrow. Even the next minute or two. Am I dreaming or not? It feels like I've been asking this question to myself ever since I found out what Patty, the sweet little daddy's girl, really did for a living.

She watches me at the shooting range in the training facility. They call themselves the Innocents. Funny name, for a bunch of people who make their livings with bullets and knives and the occasional car bomb. Crazies that kill other crazies. I should've said no to her "job offer." But in the heat of the moment, seeing Patty paint herself with blood that wasn't hers, my guts just shriveled up.

I perforate the bullseyes, the body outlines, all with high accuracy.

"Well… Patty, you were always a close sorta girl. Figures you can't shoot for shit." Patty was the type of girl who'd when given the choice between pelting me with a snowball, or just shoving a clump in my face, would pick the latter.

"Gettin' a big mouth now, are ya? Let's see how ya do now on the advanced placement course then." She says humorlessly. The lights dim and I can hear tracks whirring in and out of position. The target boards and human outlines are gone now. Replaced by blow-ups of photographs. Photographs of real people. The first that comes down is of a man in a white jacket with red lines, and blue jeans.

"What the fuck is this, Patty?"

"This? Oh, this is Desmond Miles. He was a bartender. Nothing more, but a whole lot less. Lived a nobody's life, died a nobody's death way back in 2012. Guess the fearmongerin' got to him, huh?"

I get the feeling she's not telling me the whole story. But regardless I steady my aim. My finger hovers in front of the trigger tentatively.

"Well, what the hell are ya waiting for? He ain't real, and besides, the real Desmond's too dead to give much of a damn."

It's different, shooting something that looks like it's real, than shooting something completely impersonal. He's a man that I'll never know, that's long gone, but it don't change the fact that he was real. That someone had known him, hell, probably loved him.

"We used to tape pictures of each other on the punchin' bag back home, to hit the 'ol leather just a big harder. 'Fore Ma made us take them off, of course. Was that so different from right now?"

It's somethin' to hate someone, to hit them. That I can do. But hate 'em, punch 'em, odds are they're still gonna be there the next morning. Shooting a fella in the brain, now that's a different story.

"Yeah, it was, Patty. 'Cause doin' this to your photo would make ya good-lookin'." I pull the trigger twice. Sorry Desmond, whoever you were, if this was really you you'd be looking like a blind pirate for the rest of your life.

Patty looks disappointed that I didn't miss the mark. She must've had some of her "biting" Texan wit in store.

We stand and watch one another in silence for a bit. Finally, I clear my throat.

"Go ahead, chew me out for hesitatin'."

"What's there to say? You don't have to be Einstein to know you'd be dead in a real firefight now, Maggie. But you'd finally be good-lookin' followin' a bullet makeover, wouldn't ya?" She claps me on the shoulder, mocking congratulations, and I slap her hand away violently with a scoff.

"Maybe I just ain't a crazy killer like you, Patty."

"Oh, but you can get there. The longer you're here, it's a fuckin' guarantee." She smirks, but then her face softens, dropping my guard. "Listen, Maggie…"

"What?" I almost snap at her. I'm sick of it, this witch manipulating me like this. Drawing me in for a handshake, before pulling back for a punch.

"It's probably right, you bein' like you are right now. I hadn't expected it, with all them action movies ya like to watch, but you are what you are. Not killin' folks like it's easy as blinkin'. Bein' troubled by the deed, thinkin' deeply about it, that's all good. But this ain't a world for the good and righteous, the world where I live."

"Why am I here then? You schoolin' me on the art of John fuckin' Woo."

"It wasn't my choice, Maggie. I don't like ya, sis, but I don't hate ya enough to wish this upon ya."

Before we can continue, Patty gets a call on her earpiece.

"Shit. It's the Boss." She mouths to me.

Patricia "Get dressed." I tell Maggie when the call's over.

"With what?"

"Somethin' fancy. Like attendin' a dinner. But… but somethin' that shows a lotta leg. That's what the Boss says. He… he wants to meet you. He flew over to this facility just for you."

"Like a fuckin' dress? What for? I ain't in the mood to play Princess dress-up." Maggie's just bewildered. I see that look on her face a lot these days.

"Don't complain. It coulda been a whole lot worse, considerin' his tastes. He coulda asked for us to come not dressed at all. It's best not to piss him off. Considerin' he has buttons that could flood this whole buildin' with the finest mix of World War One death gases or bury this place so deep and long we'd be fossil fuels." I wave for her to get running to her room. She walks slowly, deliberately just to spite me.

She dresses just as glacially. I'm long done and waiting outside her room, and it's almost as bad as watching the Election news. God almighty, if there was ever anything so dumb and bad to make me seriously consider voting for the Democrats or worse the pothead boys and their big Johnsons, this was the year.

Maggie, when she opens the door, is dressed similarly to me. 'Cept her dress is black.

"Alright, Patty, take me to your fearless leader."

"Well, he ain't exactly fearless. And I don't know how anyone thought he was fit to be leader." I admit, hoping he's listening in on the bugs, as I lead her to the suite the Boss stays at when he visits the training facility.

We talk as we walk, the air between us icy.

"Be honest with me, Patty. What is it the hell, you… 'Innocents' do?"

"You know those crackpots on the Web, at Trump rallies? Sayin' how the Illuminati brought down the Twin Towers for their Jewish Lizard banking overlords? Some of these conspiracies are true, but with less Jews and reptiles. You ever hear of the Knights Templar? The Assassins?"

"There might be a dusty Winnie the Pooh volume in my bookshelf, where I mighta glimpsed one of those terms." Maggie scoffs.

"Look, Maggie, you remember that Jackie Chan flick? Armour of God? Where he gets kicked in the little Jackie by those black chicks? Jackie runnin' around with more than just a fistful of live dynamite strapped onta him? The cool parachuting onto the balloon at the end?"

Maggie nods.

"Well, do you remember the Euro-dudes in the black robes runnin' around killin' people and stealin' artifacts?"

"Oh, so you're saying that we really do have a bunch of white folks on the loose in this world, white folks who get off running around in their little hoodies and stealing old stuff."

"Precisely, Maggie, only they're a lot more multi-cultural these days, and these artifacts come with a side order of world domination. And I guess the hoods are slowly goin' outta fashion, too. There's a whole lotta shit that wasn't taught in Mr. Butt's world history class, and their handprints are plastered all over that stuff."

"So how do your… Innocents factor into this?"

"Some absinthe drinkers found the diary of a man named Daniel Faraday 'round the turn of last century. He was a disillusioned old geezer when he'd finished writing that thing, detailing his time with both secret societies extensively. Well, they wasn't exactly in the rightest of minds considerin' their drink of choice and with their own interpretation of Danny's words, decided that there had to be a third team. To keep the others in check. At least that's how it used to be. When I first joined up. But the Boss, the current one, he took over recently… and well… shit happens."

"Like what?"

"I get the idea that the Boss ain't too interested in the keepin' others in check part of the job. More interested in the absolute authority part of the job, he is. Last op he sent me on, he had me beat some twelve-year old near braindead and steal all his stuff. In briefing, he said it was very confidential info I was getting. It wasn't until afterwards he just told me he'd been at on the receivin' end of some bullcrap called a play of the game courtesy of this kid, in that Abstergo game. What was it called, Overcooked or somethin?" I look at Maggie for confirmation.

"How the fuck would I know? I'm not into games."

"At least some part of you is respectable. Still, for the first time, I'm startin' to question my place here. Oh, the Boss played to the script at first. But then, he started pesterin' me to get you in. And now… well, who the fuck tries to get a fucking little kid killed over a fuckin' video game?"

"It's a crazy, stupid world, sis." Maggie offers me something that could be mistaken for sympathy in her eyes. Or perhaps it is. "An' somedays it seems people are fine keepin' that way, long as they don't get caught in it."

We reach the Boss's door. Before we head in, Maggie turns to look at me, fingers running through every piece on her necklace. She looks like she wants to say something, before quickly turning her head away and straightening up like nothing ever came to mind.

"Maggie… just say it."

Julie "Dengyixia! Bieshawo!" Dr. Cong begs. The lights flicker in the room where I was once held captive. Bodies of dead Abstergo security and workers are strewn about the place. Doubtless I'll see many more of them on the way out. I've got the good doctor pinned against the Animus where she's kept me for so so long that the passage of time has become strange. I look forward to ripping out its circuitry when I'm finished here.

"Don't kill me, Julie. Are you not curious? You've lived through the memories of your ancestors. Edward, Connor, Helena, Jonathan, they've all encountered my past lives before! I know so many secrets that your kind has forgotten. Just imagine what a woman like you, a blonde white plastic nothing, could do with that knowmmmph!"

"Oh shut up already." A third grader's comeback was the best I could think of? Slightly shamed, I stick the barrel of the pistol that I picked off one of the dead guards after I tore his throat out.

"I might've considered your offers. I'd sold out my stake in the Assassin-Templar war when you found me, even if you Abstergo fucks had killed all my friends. Oh, your pretty brown eyes. That little flicker of hope when I said that. But let me tell you something. Something that should be common knowledge, but I guess kids these days don't think nature docs are cool enough to watch."

I used to relish moments like these. And though I've been out of the game for so long, it's coming back like it was just yesterday I became an Assassin.

"You see, you shouldn't have threatened my kids. You should've known better than to fuck with Mama Grizzly."

Grizzly bears were always my favorite animal. So cute, yet so deadly and badass I think as I pull the trigger.

As the Doctor's body slides down, I look at my associate who had observed the whole deed silently. It's not a soppy Lifetime reunion, but I can't deny that there isn't something in the air tonight, seeing each other for the first time since he ran out.

"Hey, Li. Long time no see."

"Tried to get here as fast as I could, while my team cleared the lower floors. But I see you didn't need my help." He used to speak English with a heavy accent. By the time the new millennium rolled around, he'd mastered a perfect tone of neutrality. "Shall we take our leave of this place, Julie?"

We walk and we talk, passing by the dead.

"Didn't know you smoked." I point to the cigarette smoke trailing from the butt held between his two fingers.

"Not a habit. Reserve them for special occasions. Like funerals. Excuse me for a second, will you?" He casually shoots a wounded Abstergo security guard trying to crawl away as we pass him without even a glance. "Ah, that'll do. Now, where were we?"

"I never was good at knowing where to start. Did you have a plan beyond get in and kill everybody?"

He laughs.

"Of course, Julie. Brawn and brains, the two of us together again. We have a plan to get you out of this country and back to America before the Templars can recover from our surprise today."

I wonder what life would've been like for me, had I never discovered my secret heritage. Frustrated girl, tired of her family. Who'd pretend to be the latest cinematic action hero when she was alone and unleash hell upon every poor tree and flower she came across. Interest in martial arts and firearms couldn't have been healthy for the adolescent mind. Perhaps the Assassins had provided an outlet for my worst excesses, and allowed me to work them towards something good.

"Got room for a romantic dinner for two in there somewhere? It's been too long since I had a good burger or slice of pizza."

"You're in Shanghai, and what you want to eat most is Western fast food?" He raise an eyebrow slightly.

Another one of the Abstergo drones is crawling on his belly. Begging for someone to help. As we pass, I'm the one that shoots him this time. Is it right that we're doing this to them? Maybe not, but considering that the decade and a half plus of atrocities the Templars have inflicted upon us we do deserve a few good kicks as least.

"Hey, if you had to eat the fried rice that they were giving the prisoners in here, you'd be just itching for a greasy carton of fries smothered in cheese and chili too."

"I know a good place in town, Julie. Makes the kind of noodle that you love. Oily and spicy. If you want to kill yourself via cuisine in China, that's the way to do it. Not American."

"Old habits die hard. But when we get to America, we're having that romantic dinner. And we're gonna do more. In the shower, under sheets, like we used to do."

"What makes you think I plan on staying with you? I still… have work… to do."

"Aren't you at least a bit curious about my… our kids?"

His face softens. He hesitates.

"Yeah, yeah I guess I am. No man who thinks himself good should forget his child. I don't want them to remember me as the father who ran from them in the night, without a word."

"They miss you, they still love you, they really do."

"I hope you're right. Julie, what about you? After the Purge… when we were trying to pick up the pieces, when we argued… you said you didn't want this life anymore."

"I thought I did. Honest. But I was never the type of girl who could hide and pretend to be a yuppie forever. We'll have to figure something out. Together. For their sake."

"Are they doing well?"

"Melanie's at a great college. Probably got a great, non-Assassin career lined up ahead of her. Just gotta make sure she doesn't wind up working for one of the Templar fronts. Kyle… well, I guess you should have a talk with him about academics when we get home. Do something to shake him out of his apathy."

"Don't tell me he's a straight-B student."

"Worse… he actually had a C in British Literature of all damn things for the better part of his junior year."

"Well, can't blame him. Shakespeare's a dreary, dreary read. We'll sort things out with the kids when they're actually with us. Listen, when we get back, promise me we won't have to visit your sister."

"You never did like Kelsey, did you? She could be a pain sometimes, and I know you have your things about cops, but you can't deny that she wasn't adorable in that blue uniform and cap."

"Define adorable. She's an airheaded, would-be adulteress."

"I see we're going to need a longer talk when we get home. Just what have you been keeping from me all these years?"

"It's not as steamy as you're thinking, Julie. Dreadfully dreary, actually."

The captain of security stumbles towards us with the shaggy remains of the guard, blocking off the lobby. He had a tendency to "help" the prisoners kept at this facility, although Dr. Cong had kept him off me for the duration of my stay. Templar elite, and they've just gotten blown out in the home court. They're yelling for us to stop, favoring saving their dignity over their lives. Or maybe the Templar's retirement plan, dental insurance, and other employee benefits really are just that good.

A mutual glance and nod between Li and I. Then we move.

We conduct a symphony of bullets and blood. Damn it all, it's just like falling in love all over again.

Jane Jesus Christ. What a clusterfuck that's blown up since I got assigned to this detail.

You all know how Otso Berg fell for the most obvious prank, and got himself "blackened." And then, in a misplaced belief following another prank that "homosexuality is the worst of the sexual-transmitted diseases! Worse than HIV or pregnancy! They spread their gay disease through skin contact, not just the pee-pee juice! Their gay cells are taking over mine as we speak! I must have vengeance before they make me gay for life!" (his own words) he got himself beat up by the gays of LA even worse than the blacks of LA did.

Not giving up on proving that he was still a man, Otso had himself grafted with a "Doomcock." A modern take on a weapon originated by a pirate called "Spotted Dick" who had met his end at the hands of a Captain Edward Kenway, who then stole all his stuff. But Spotted Dick's Doomcock persevered through the centuries like a cult film, even used once by Cudgel Cormac in what was his last and most embarrassing mission, until it was Otso's turn.

You wanna know how it went?

From the Inner Sanctum of the Templars, there came an order. One of the third parties was giving us trouble. We, Otso and Sigma Team, would send them a message by taking out one of their best operatives – some broad named Patricia Locke. We caught up with her at the San Francisco City Zoo. She'd been talking with some Navajo Josephine lookin' broad, unaware of our approach. We should've done it quietly, professionally, by the book. But Otso just had to use the Doomcock, make it a special occasion, announced himself like he was fucking Macho Man Randy Savage – telling her that stupid ant women were stupid for fucking with the Templars.

No, of course it didn't go well. There's a fucking reason that the first time most people used the Doomcock, it was their last.

Lost 1/3rd of our Sigma elites to the Locke woman, another 1/3rd to the animals. How did they get in exhibits in the first place? I don't fucking know. Otso himself ended up in the giraffe enclosure, where one of the longnecks got real curious.

You know what all this has led to? I'm starting to think about the possibilities regarding a beautiful four-letter word. Quit.

The retirement benefits? The insurance? Not even the authority to beat up anyone and get away with it can make this job worth it anymore.

I tried to stop the Locke woman from escaping. I had a good four or five inches on her. I figured, a good Muay Thai knee to the face and she'd be seeing stars. She'd blocked my knee like it was nothing… Then she grabbed me by the shoulders, leapt and kneed me in the… well, fuck me for not wearing the body armor that day. Thinking that something incognito would've been more tactical.

Otso, you egotistical cocksure Finnish bastard idiot. This is all your fault! You're making me lose my mind.

Fucking hell. My chest still burns. Just a slight wiggle, and it's like diving into a mudpot. I shouldn't have to feel like I'm being prodded with a thousand heated nails when I get dressed.

"Wow, Jane, you still don't look too hot. Look, do you want me to massage them for you? My gentle fingers will have you feeling like a new girl in no time. Don't worry, Baby Jane, I'll protect you from those nasty old Assassins."

Bobby, fuck off! Can't you see I'm recording this?

"C'mon, Jane, I know you must be embarrassed – snooty little New Yorker you are, getting your rear… er melons harvested by a Texan, hell, I'd be hootin' for her if she wasn't on the opposite team. But with some of my patent Southern hospitality, I'll have you feelin' like you're ridin' the high country in no time."

You know what? Forget what I said. Otso Berg's an idiot, yes. He would've eventually brought something to complete ruin, yes. But that something didn't have to be my complete dignity.

"Jane, c'mon. Don't talk to the recorder. Talk to me! I'll make you feel loved. I'm Apallalo. The party animal god."

That's not how you pronounce Apollo, and not even the right God either. This is all your fucking fault, Bobby. Your fat mouth. That's why I'm first going to use you as my stress ball.

"Ooh-la-la, Jane, so you're into the dirty and rough style, huh? Yeah, like what you're feeling? Hey, wait… c'mon, not so haaaaaaargh!"

You ever read Myra Breckinridge, Bobby? Why, let me reenact my favorite chapter, with your help!

This was the last known recording of former outer sanctum Templar, Jane Palmiotti, detailing her inexplicable mental collapse and subsequent defection from the Order. Her associate Robert O'Donnell remains traumatized by the experience and was granted a temporary leave of absence. He is of no interest to us. Mr. Shade's team recovered the device on which this was stored in an empty bag in a lounge at the San Francisco International Airport. Palmiotti's whereabouts are currently unknown. We do not know if she's considered defection, but I just might work up a few job benefits for the bargaining process once we find her. The secrets she knows could be useful. Hell, maybe I don't even need the bribes. My accent ought to be enough. Heh. A joke. But times like these, a joke's like a spring in a desert.

I've no doubts that they'll be looking for her too, however. So we're going to have to find her before they do. Of course, it'll be too much of a risk to send our own people. Rebecca, bless her heart, found this network of… well, how do I put it nicely? Dubious fellows, I suppose. Dubious fellows for hire. A penchant for theatricality, I suppose, after watching one too many heist films.

We've already used them once. They somehow did what we thought was impossible. A four-man crew selected from a larger group, entered the Abstergo offices in Washington D.C. where their master server of extracted DNA was stored. Somehow, they walked out. Blew right through the Abstergo security, one of them wearing nothing but a fancy suit and using… a rocket launcher and a minigun. At this point, I don't know if I'm witnessing a criminal revolution or another piece of Shia LaBeouf performance art. Maybe there is no difference between the two.

To say that this DNA we now have has been useful is underselling it, I suppose. Not the sanest thing, hiring criminals to do our work. Look, Assassin collaborations with criminals historically haven't always gone well – weep at the tale of poor Hope Jensen. Worse, connect the bloody dots between the Rooks and Thatcher. But they get the job done, no denying it. If they could do something like this, getting one woman will be as simple as knocking up a jewelry store.

Galina says that since they're criminals, we don't have to have their deaths heavy on our conscience. Not like the Initiates. We can just use them like spears and shields until they're broken, then toss them away and find someone new to begin the process again.

Yes, Galina, but we didn't have to bloody pay the Initiates.

Signing off, Shaun Hastings

Kyle "Meow." The cat purrs as he follows me down the basement steps. I sit down at the bottom, looking at relics of lives past. Mom always told me when we were down here that she didn't know why she kept any of this. Some of it was hers, and her ancestors. Some of it belonged to my father, and his ancestors. We had nothing to do with the Assassins anymore, and he wasn't around no more either. What was the point of keeping any of this?

But she never threw away anything, I reflect as I stroke the cat. Happily, he licks my palm. What it would be like to be him. Blissfully unaware of real world problems. The only thoughts in his life being I'm tired. I'm hungry. I want to go outside. I want to run away forever until I get hungry then I come strolling back like nothing happened. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Maybe despite all she said, there was more than just a tiny part of herself that couldn't let go.

We could make lots of money selling this to museums. Lie, don't tell them the truth. Of what they are.

Family heirlooms, from across the whole passage of time. A crusade-era crossbow. A tomahawk dating back to the birth of the American Assassins. A genuine tommy-gun that gunned down mobsters in streets of Chicago. Peacemaker revolvers inscribed with the words of the Creed, in a dead tongue. A broken hidden blade, the mechanism snapped and the metal rusted, stolen from an envoy slaughtered at Guangzhou in 879 AD. The katana of a truly wicked man, lifted from his corpse in the ruins of Nanking, before the last of the Assassins fled or fell in the doomed city.

I know all the stories by heart. Recite them word for word.

A life I tell myself that I want. But maybe I've been lying to myself as well. For all I know, I'm just a lazy bastard. Daydreamer, waiting for a call that'll never come and one that I'll never be willing to make myself.

Then the doorbell rings. I shake myself out of my funk. Decide to answer it. It better not be that creepy woman again. Or my ex.

It's nothing that I could've predicted, who's behind the door. I've never seen him smoke, I think. I don't need him to take the shades off to know who he is.

"You plan on just staring forever, or are you going to help your mother with her bags?"

Or shed a tear, I realize, as he removes the shades to get a better look at me as I scurry to the driveway.

"Kyle, how you've grown." I hear him whisper.

When I was a child, I thought my parents had the answers for everything. And that when I grew up, they'd give me a handy dandy notebook that'd have the answers as well. Clueless, directionless as I am, I still have a scrap of hope as I see her approaching the house. Looking the happiest, liveliest than she's been in years. Like she did in the college photos she told me not to look at. Maybe it's not something that's just handed to you. Learning who you are, what you're meant to do, can only come from one place.

Michael When I was a kid, my father hit my mother so hard he left her sprawled out on the kitchen floor for an entire night. I remember, quite acutely, huddling in the corner in fright, hoping he wouldn't notice me as he finished eating his cold dinner and drinking his warm beer. Hoping Mommy would wake up and that it would all be okay.

I tried not to be my father. He was a warmonger, a bribe-taking policeman, a possible racist, a definite sexist, and drinker of Heineken. He'd be walking specimen of humanity's finest to this day, had I not bashed his head in with a shovel right after I got divorced. He'd been drunk as usual, past the stars on his Heineken. Made it easier. Denouncing his example I decided to be a philosopher, a writer, and the worst thing I'd ever drink would be Diet Pepsi Lime. I decided I would be nice to my wife. Nice to my kids. Nice to everyone! I'd never root for any one team in particular, I'd love them all. Even the dolphins, you squeaky fucking circus attractions of the sea.

Well, it obviously didn't go to plan. You don't have the latest Michael Reed bestseller in your hands, now do you? In fact, there is no fucking bestseller. There never was, and you'd be lucky to even find my books in a bargain bin or garage sale.

It wasn't Heineken that I started drinking. No, fuck that shit. I drank Pabst. Blue. Ribbon.

I told Patricia once that unlike her father, I never cheated on my wife. I'm sure that pushed a few buttons. I didn't even hit my daughter or yell at her funny. Except that one time when she was ten. Coincidentally she was out for the entire night. I was drunk though, so excuses excuses excuses.

Maybe the divorce, my daughter calling me a fucking asshole to my face (her first swear word – more Daddies should be proud of that moment), those were all blessings in disguise. I realized a connecting thread between all the miseries in my life. Daddy hitting Mommy, nobody buying my books, Sadie hating me, Jess divorcing me, these all made me miserable 'cause I wasn't in control.

It's a long, lurid even scandalous story how I got here. Too long to tell. But here I am. In control. I guess it's safe to say I've turned out even worse than Daddy Dearest did. I'm pretty sure he never killed anyone who didn't deserve it but then again he was a cop so who knows? But enough talking to myself. I've got two beautiful. Heh. Sexy. Drop dead stunning. Ladies over for lunch.

In the red corner, Patricia Locke. 5'3, blonde bombshell. Silky smooth, like vanilla ice cream, and she never seems to get sunburnt. Her blue eyes flash like lightning, a snap of leg like poetry, the last thing you see before you die. Efficient worker. But also something like a bear that just won't get along.

In the blue corner, Margaret Locke. 6'2, raven-haired half-breed. Bronze, caramel legs like redwoods. At last, the fly is tangled in my web. Innocence withered away via cynicism, ready for utter corruption. By my hand. This will be fun. An experiment I've never done before. My own attack tiger.

I could've been happy with just Patty there, but why settle for one when you can have two? Who's to tell me off? I still haven't taken my second-in-command advisor out of the freezer yet. Oh, poor poor stupid RC. You spoke up one too many times.

"Hey, hey, ladies. Looookin' good! You oughta show your legs more often, Patty! Make yourself comfy! I got chilled Pabst and blintzes coming up first!"

"Michael…" Patty speaks up, trying to kill the mood as always. "We need to talk, okay?"

"Don't call me Michael, sweet sister. You don't get that privilege no more, Patty, despite what I said on that night we shared. Only my wife ever did that. And my dad. And my literary agent. And they were all assholes. You don't want to be assholes, okay? You two nice girls, wanna stay nice girls. Call me Boss. Or… Big Boss. Otherwise… you won't get dessert!"

Magnificent Mags looks she was expecting the second coming of Stalin, but instead, all she got was Carrot Top. Petulant Pat is being a crabby crabhead as usual, with her arms crossed. Oh, what lovely arms and hands you both have. You gals won't be wearing those looks of disgust long, once I get really into the groove. I wonder what the main course shall be, once both ladies are sufficiently charmed.

"Michael, I don't give a fuck about dessert. You can take your sugar and spice, and snort them 'till you're a droolin' 'tard." Patty slams her hand down on my desk, shocking her sister. I'm not disturbed. It's all showboating. Like an opossum hissing or a gorilla beating its chest. I'm not a dumb animal that'll fall for the act. I'm Michael Reed, and I'm in control here. "Now, Michael, you're goin' to listen real good to what I gotta say here."

"Nuh-uh, Patricia. Again with the 'Michael' business. I'm the Boss, sweetie. You know, why don't you speak up, Maggie? Don't be shy. You look a lot nicer than Miss Scratch and Tear here." I blow her a kiss.

"What do you want, creep?"

Well, it's a start.

"Well, I was ponderin' a three-some after the starters. But just imaginin' the two of you, wailin' on one another and sayin' the nastiest names ten-year olds can think of, it got my blood flowin' in a different direction." I imitate their accents, mockingly. "Those dresses look like they can tear and strip real sexily. Why don't the two of you… slap and roll around for a bit. Kiss a little, if you girls are into that sort of thing. You probably are, you're millennial brats from the South after all. Blending subversive experimentation with proud tradition. While I watch and enjoy a cold Pabst and a rather exquisite, lovely chutney made from your brother's brains. He finally couldn't take it anymore, his job. And so I harvested his remains so that though he failed the great state of North Dakota in life, he might still be of use to me."

"What. The Fuck. Did. You. Do." Patty is outraged, hearing of dead Ronnie. Maggie looks like she was expecting something like this to happen.

"Relax! I'm just fucking with you, Patty. C'mon, have a sniff. It's just cranberry. But you know, this is something I totally could do if I wanted. I got the power, ya'll."

"I ain't touchin' anythin' you've handled with your fingers. Now listen. I want out for my sister."

"Out? But dear Patty, she just got here. She hasn't even settled in yet, and you already want to throw her out!" I coo, and turn my attention to Maggie.

"See this, Maggie? Your sister's back to her old tricks. The white man continues to screw over the poor Indian even to this day. Have you seen what's happening in North Dakota? Your brother probably is trying to spin the gassing of innocent protestors, the desecration of their sacred land as a tourist attraction. Just another round of cowboys and Indians to the world, something to unfold on TV screens. Something to be scream and be outraged about, while doing nothing from the comfort and security of your smartphone screens."

"You look like you got enough clout to do somethin' about it." Maggie replies coldly.

"Yeah, I guess I could. Kidnappings, tortures, explosions, and other general acts of larceny would probably get a lot more done in this day and age than Gandhi-style. That's the way the world runs. Wait for enough crazies to bomb and shoot something, and then promise the people you'll make it safe again. Then you're in office and you can have a front row seat as the world burns. But you know, I don't care enough to lift a finger for anyone beside myself. I know that human decency, American decency especially, is dead. I tried to be a nice guy, but you know, I'm a lot happier being the bad guy. Serve yourself, all-you-can-eat, survival of the fittest."

"You're crazy."

"Look, sister, the point is the world is always going to fuck your kind over and over again. The aboriginal American has long tipped past the eve of destruction. Your sister, likewise, is always gonna be looking to make sure you can never get ahead. By the time she's happily retired with all her blood money, you'll still be waiting tables. But I can tip the scales for you. Unlike the world, I'm perfectly… heh, ready to change for you, goddess."

"Maggie…" Patty speaks to her sister, ignoring me. This is starting to upset me. I'm thinking of chucking this beer onto her lovely white dress. Wouldn't that upset her. I'd relish it.

"It's time, isn't it?" Maggie replies. Now both of them are ignoring me. I am definitely not enjoying this any longer. I hope I have enough beer left in this can for the two of them.

"Yeah, sis. It is." The two girls approach me. Lay one hand on my shoulders. It's not the gentle massaging touch. It's more like the mafia-before-they-garrote-you sort of touch.

"What are you two rascals up to?" I keep my cool.

"We had a talk before we came in, Michael. A kinda talk we've never tried before. Didn't exactly sort our all our issues with one another, but we did get an idea for ventin' our frustrations."

"What kind of idea. Does it involve a ménage a tro"

That's when they punch me. At the same time. Knocking my chair over. Spilling my beer and chutney all over me.

"I pretend you're her, and she pretends you're me. Somethin' like this messed up the 'ol punchin' bag pretty good back home. I wonder what wonders it'll do for you, Michael."

I don't have time to scream or protest before they're working me over. It seemed a lot sexier in my mind, being worked over by hot girls in skimpy dresses. But now there's just really blood and spots of blackness and there's nothing sexy about this at all. Was there something that I did to deserve this? I wonder helplessly as Margaret holds me up, and Patricia introduces my crotch to a spitfire of kicks.

Josh "The stuff on this is recorder... It's just something else entirely." I comment, in-between mouthfuls of pastrami. I can't believe that sandwich place closed. Just like that. Out of the blue. It had fed us well with spectrums of meats rolled up lovingly in Dutch Crunch the day we landed in San Francisco. This pastrami, between slices of whole-grain, can't exactly replicate the entire feeling but this is in memory of you. Sandwich shop. You never will know how you helped save the world.

"And to think I was pondering a trade to the winning team." Terra says. Mr. Shade raises his eyebrow as he hears her.

"What? It was a joke… I can… do that, you know. Ah, fuck it. It wasn't funny anyways." Terra flips her hair and looks away. Piia Terra gets real moody, when she hasn't had coffee. Like a rabid turkey. If I had a name like hers, maybe I'd flip too.

"Seif. Josh. Get ready. We got an unidentified message coming. Start monitoring the feed, get the IP address, anything. And get ready to run fast if we have to." Shade barks as the main screen of the set-up we use for live conferences with the other Assassins.

"Hello, Mr. Shade. Remember me?" Middle-aged woman, blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail. Green eyes, still a looker for her age. Playing with a familiar looking tomahawk in her hands.

"Fucking hell. Is that you, Julie? How the hell did you escape from Abstergo?"

"I had help. That, and I remembered how good I was at killing people." Julie Sawyer smiles, and even though it's just a screen-feed my spine shivers seeing her lips curl ever so slyly.

"That I haven't forgotten. Not one bit." Mr. Shade frowns. I'm sensing some extremely brown and gray stories in his past, involving her.

"Hey, hey, why so dour? I only killed when it was necessary."

"And I recall you taking great liberty with the definition of that word. Many times."

She sighs mockingly.

"Now, Shade, I didn't go through the pain of tracking you down because I wanted to argue the semantics of what happened in Stockholm for the millionth time. I'm here to talk about the future. You see, I can't stay here at home sweet home long. So I'm thinking it's maybe time I got back into the game. You're not oversaturated with Assassins these days, after all. Any help is good help, right?"

"What about your kids? The reason you actually started acting sane for a change."

"Eh, they're grown-ups now. They can take care of themselves. And I'd advise you against trying to use my cubs as leverage in the future. Now, am I in or not?"

"I'll see what I can…"

"Don't bother. See you soon. Oh, and buy a couple of bags of kitty food, will you?" With that, she disconnects.

"Crazy bitch is having another heterosexual life crisis." Mr. Shade sighs.

Ryan Another day at the office for Sven and I, but I can't complain. When you're personal assistant to the world's first canine CEO, you should be proud of the history that you're helping make. And what a menagerie of help we've been hiring. There's Stella Sasha Sanchez, a German shepherd from the other side of the border, Sven's bodyguard. I think this diversity hire has really helped our rep on the market and media outlets, especially in the Latin American sector. Bin Bin, a panda bear intern from a highly estimable Chinese university, our secretary. He's nothing but an adorable ball of black and white. Except for that one time he decapitated some "Tempuralar" courier, bit through his neck like it was bamboo. But he had just come barging into the office at him with paperwork in a menacing manner, which we all agreed justified the self-defensive reflex, so Sven had the case of manslaughter thrown out of court with his influence as Abstergo CEO.

What the hell is a Tempuralar anyways, and why are they so interested in my dog? It's his damn company, he should run it as he pleases.

"Woof." Sven remarks as we go over a lab report from some crazy scientist, Alfalfa Grammarbook, I think his name was from the science division.

"I agree, old buddy. I dunno what the hell this shroud is supposed to accomplish, but what it is doing is putting a drain on our own resources. This budget is bloating beyond control, by golly!"

"Bark!" Sven suggests something, and I listen in closely.

"It seems cruel, but you're right that this shroud experiment has no practical use for the consumer. No hook, no aesthetic, nothing that would have them lining up to buy this at Christmas. Both of us outgrew our smelly 'ol security blankets long ago, so I see why you say Alfalfa here shouldn't be exempt. Yes, I'll have the security team down to the labs asap, Sven. Have them throw that shroud into the furnace, just like the Apple that wasn't a real apple from last quarter. Geez, whoever called that thing an apple was more sadistic than the guy who invented plastic fruit!"

"Aaaroo." Sven howls, and I smile knowing that his wolf ancestors must be looking down upon him with pride.

With his paw, Sven slides a dossier over to me.

"Hmm." I wonder aloud. "Who in tarnation is Otso Berg? Another Tempuralular in our company, huh? Eesh. This dude's record makes bad guys on the A-Team look good. Sven, what do you want with him?"

"Hrrmph."

"What – kill him? Sven, what's gotten into you?"

"Woof."

"You don't like bullies? And through him, you wanna send a message our company doesn't tolerate bullies in its employ? Sven, I know bullies aren't cool but it's also not cool if you're dropping to their level! Killing's not nice, man. That's what bullies do."

"Arf?"

"C'mon, Sven, just 'cause some people are rotten apples don't mean the whole barrel's gone wrong. Bob a bit, and I'm sure you'll still find more good apples than bad ones. You're the CEO of Abstergo. The world's biggest company, covering everything from medicine to entertainment to national defense. Everybody's watching, and if you don't set a good example for the rest to follow, how can we ever accomplish anything beyond perpetuating this cycle of hate?"

"Woof…"

"Cut him and his family off from employee benefits for a year? Okay, I guess that sounds like a reasonable alternative to killing him. I don't see how that could harm him, his family can probably do well for themselves without free rare expensive medicine for a couple of months, but it will teach him a lesson about being nice. A lesson learned with hurting anyone is great! I'm glad you saw the light, buddy."

"Bow-wow."

Sven and I shake, paw to hand. Compromise, learning to work with and love one another in spite of our minute differences, that's what we really need to make ourselves great again.

Zee You cannot say that the Assassin lifestyle has not been without its thrills and perks. One session in the Animus alone can provide just as much entertainment as a lifetime of Playstation, and it has the bonus of splicing sword-fighting, sharp wit, and other fun things into my reflexes. Dairy farmers fear me now! But I always did wonder just how well I would measure up once I was no longer playing through a simulation.

"Here is the mission. We've tracked down William Miles. He's been working as a clerk at a New Jersey Quick-Stop. Completely inconspicuous. But then he made the mistake of being a hero. Four masked men in clown masks had attempted to roll the joint over. William's instincts, his years of training must've kicked in. He got his face on the news. Now the Templars have sent none other than Otso Berg to retrieve William. We cannot let him fall into enemy hands. Iron Sheik, your cell is the closest to his location. Get going."

And so that's how it started. Now I'm holding onto M for dear life as she blasts down the road on a motorcycle, swerving in and out of traffic. Six chugs along behind us, on a chopper. I briefly hear someone yell a string of expletives our way, before there's the sound of skidding and crashing their way.

"M! How come I did not get my own bike?"

"You know how long it'd take you to learn to ride one of these? Especially considering this isn't something leisurely like pizza delivery we're doing. Not like riding a bicycle, where crashing will skin your knee at worst. Crash on this and getting paralyzed from the neck down is probably the nicest thing that could happen."

"Why not have the Animus teach me months worth of lessons in an hour? I'd be riding like a pro in no time!" I insist.

"Zee, were any of your ancestors bikers?"

"Well, no. But the Animus can load the memories of others not in my lineage, can it not?"

"Oh, we've tried that before. But it's a risky process. The Bleeding Effect can get bad enough when it's just your lineage. When you have time, look up the case of Clay Kaczmarek in our network's archive. Now imagine adding DNA that isn't your own to the mix. You'd never know it from the Helixes and the other mass-market model gaming Animi, but you know why Abstergo goes through research analysts like college students and condoms? The Animus models they use in their offices… they decided to cheap out on a few protective features."

"I've read articles about the long backbreaking hours and grueling work in exchange for the great pay at Abstergo Game Development branches. But I never imagined!"

"No one knows where the researchers we can't extract go. Shaun Hasting has theorized they wind up at Camp Bondi in the Abstergo Sydney branch. Where these researchers are kept like animals and experimented upon. Abstergo's will never be short. Everyone's begging to intern there. Where the money and future are advertised to be."

"Um…" I look back at Six, who's exchanging birds with passing cars. "….he was just a cab driver, wasn't he? When'd he learn how to drive a motorcycle?"

"You can ask him about his past. I'm not about to open that can of worms."

The rest of the ride is rather uncomfortable, pulsing towards our destination at breakneck speeds. I'm unsure of how tightly I am to clutch onto M for safety as she ferries us. I wish to be a respectable gentleman, you see, and not intrude on her privacy too greatly. Ugh. I am regretting drinking that Coca-Cola and eating that curry before heading out right now!

Fortunately, we arrive before I can find out how my vomit looks on M's jacket. Unfortunately, I find out what it looks like in the face of an Abstergo operative as we pass by. Looks like we got here just in the nick of time! The Abstergo operative realizes what's just splattered him, gotten into his mouth, and he lets loose some of his own into the face of a female comrade. They begin passing vomit back and forth like a game of ping-pong.

"Get ready to move, Zee!" M orders as she skids the bike to a stop. As her drift slows, I leap into a flip, somersaulting to the ground.

"Assassins! Kill the" One of the Templars is yelling but then there's the revving of a motor and he's screaming before he turns into red mist.

It's Six, and he's commandeered a chainsaw! Controlling his bike with nothing but shifts of his body! The man must have been a daredevil before he was a cab driver and Assassin!

"C'mon kiddies! You millennials all dream of that perfect bod, don't you? I'll give you a make-over, on the house!" Six roars as he chases after the scrambling Templars, deflecting bullets with his blade or swerving out of their path.

"Let's go, Zee!" M yells as we run towards the entrance of the Quick-Stop where Intel has claimed that this William Miles has taken up work. What a strange place for my first critical mission, one that may influence the future of the world. It's a store that promises a Quick-Stop for groceries, although the plaster is crumbling and full of cracks and all covered in graffiti. The window is boarded shut, with a torn sign reassuring passersby that the shop is open flapping in the wind. Next to it is a video rental store, of which I had no idea still existed, in even greater dismal condition, the windows all blotted up with odd stains.

"What the he" Three Templars are guarding the door. M quickly stabs one in the throat with her hidden blade, dodging a blow from the other as she does so. She elbows him in the spine, and as he staggers she pulls her blade out of the other Templar and stabs him in the back of his neck going all the way through. Even though they are the enemy and would not hesitate to do the same to me, I wince as their bodies fall.

"Take care of him! I'll handle Otso Berg! He must be inside, holding William hostage!" M barks as she kicks the door open and runs into the Quick-Stop. The last Templar, burly and pissed off, lurches towards me. Oh, what an inglorious end this could be!

"Um… surrender?" I kindly offer. He only roars and rips out a baton that cackles electricity. This baffles me, for he also has a gun on him that he could just as easily and far more quickly shoot me with, but for whatever reason he insists on engaging me like medieval times. Still, electricity doesn't look like it's something I can shrug off easily!

"No! My diamond is unbreakable!" I tell him, using my Animus-induced reflexes along with my natural parkour talents to dodge his baton when he lunges for my crotch and I kick it from his hands. The brute grunts as we both dive for the electric wand, and I manage to reach it in the nick of time, shoving it into his mouth.

"How does your own medicine taste, Pikachu?" I ask as he convulses, and when his body jerks still, I leave the baton still convulsing with static in his mouth and I run into the Quick-Stop.

"William! We're here to…" I stop mid-sentence. I join M in gaping at a loss for words.

It's by far the most bizarre of the bizarre sights I have seen since I joined the Assassins. Behind the registers, I can see two men hiding. They're all middle-aged, dressed like it's still the Ninety-Nineties. Perhaps desperately still trying to clutch onto something? Perhaps it's the environment that does this! This New Jersey seems like a desolate place, and even as a proud Portuguese I must say not even Spain seems as horrid a place to live!

"Shit. All I said was that I thought The Force Awakens didn't hold up once I really started thinking about it. Then all hell breaks loose." One of the men, wearing a backwards cap, says as he takes a bite of a Snickers bar and surveys the carnage.

"Shut up, Randal! More crazy people are here! They got guns and stuff!" Another man, growing multiple chins and losing lots of hair, yells to Randal. "Jesus Christ! I wasn't even supposed to be here today!"

"Damn, Dante. You're just saying that 'cause they're Mexicans, aren't they? Shit, Dante, you're a lotta things but after all these years together I wouldn't have pegged you as a racist profiler. Just hot damn."

M and I exchange a look, and decide it'd be wise to not correct this Randal that we are in fact not Mexicans but Egyptian and Portuguese respectively.

Shelves are overturned, merchandise strewn about the place. The man I assume to be Otso Berg is sprawled out in the eye of the storm, looking like every single one of his bones has been broken. His weapons – a claymore, a katana, a naginata, a pair of nunchaku, a Bowie knife and what appears to an Abstergo-manufactured lightsaber have all be shattered into pieces.

"William… did you just… kill an elite Templar with nothing but a…" M asks the man who plants and wipes an undamaged mop in Otso's face.

"All the flash and hype don't mean anything if the weapon doesn't deliver. The M16 taught me that… and thousands of other good American boys… the hard way." William Miles mumbles as he wipes his brow. Something's off. He seems in the distance, his speech slurred and his expression unusually happy. "I'll take something tried and true like this old fashioned utensil… like Enzio Audiosuntory used to use… over these fancy broken toys… any day of the week."

"Um… we've never met, but we've come to take you back." I tell hi.

"Well, that's chill, dawg! I don't know you either, bro!" William chuckles. "Nice accent! I see the new Assassin recruitment drive's going strong, that is cool as Vanilla Ice!"

"What the fuck did you people do to him?" M snaps at the other hostages.

"Lightened the mood up with my famous fucking Doobie-doobie-doo snacks. Man, it was his going-away party but man, party's are supposed to be parties. Not freaking funerals, yo. William, he motherfucking king of the brownie eaters!" Two more hostages, emerging from the bathroom. One blonde and tall, the other fat and bearded. Fashion senses quite antiquated for both. Holding bags of marijuana and edibles. "Man, am I glad that's over. One more minutes hiding in there with Tubby Steamboat… the horror! The horror…"

The blonde one mouths off a lot more nonsense. The fat one just silently observes everything.

"Hey…" He notices M. "You wanna free sample? Just one hit, and you'll be partying in nirvana with 72 hot hunks in no time!"

"I'll have to think about your offer. Some other time." M just wants to get out of here as fast as possible. She wraps her arm around William's, who's still panting and wiping Otso Berg's face with the mop.

"Woah, Silent Bob, you hear that? Desert Rosie there said she'd think about the offer! I think I might have a chance with this one!" He tells his companion, who only shakes his head.

"Let's get you out of this place, William. We got lots of work to do. Saving the world's no dinner party." M tells William as we escort him from the Quick-Stop.

"Who's going to be driving? I hope it's Bear again!" William continues to happily slur nonsense as Six pulls up to us in a pizza delivery car. I won't question how he found it, or what happened to the Templars he was chasing. "Say, any of you got food? I'm hungry!"

Whew. Mission complete. I wonder how this will look in my diary.

Author's Note: I have not seen the new Ghostbusters movie and probably never will. These views expressed by these characters are theirs and theirs alone, and are not endorsements or statements of any kind.