A Little Friendly Eavesdropping
Aug. 27th, 2026 12:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerI could not resist using at least the beginning of the “From one man in a fedora to another” line, because how could I?
Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: To learn more, Desmond and his Novices follow the suspicious man from the temple.
Word Count: 2105
Rating: Teen
The hat guy’s more difficult to follow than the Atenist that had led them here in the first place. He’s more likely to glance back, though he takes care to do it in a way that doesn’t draw attention, as they follow the twists and turns in the temple. Fortunately, there are twists and turns, easy places to hide, and Desmond’s Eagle Vision seems to be warning him about that now, like he even needs it. He’s had a lot of experience—through his ancestors—following guys on edge. The probable Phoenician stops long enough to type out an angry message on his phone so they can duck out of sight behind a wall and at least take off the robes, which is good, because looking at where they are now, they’re back in Al-Merayah. Miriam had been worried for a really good reason about being spotted as a cultist here on the streets, and now it’s their turn. Rukh takes the break as time enough to retrieve Desmond’s bag, though he’s either using his magic status to get it or something about the bag itself is light enough to carry. Given that it’s fitting way more than it should, that’s not out of the question. Desmond’s slightly worried that Mr. Rahal was a little too loud, but other than being on a little higher of an alert the hat guy doesn’t panic, just growls a little to himself and glares at the phone and starts walking at a faster pace. He’s almost certainly meeting somebody else, and figuring out who that somebody else is could be really useful.
They start out following on the ground, at first. It’s not hard, the way the streets are laid out. There’s almost always a wall or corner or crates in the way. After a bit, Chelsea insists, “Take the rooftops.”
“You’re sure?” he asks, but he’s itching to do it.
“We will follow on foot,” Mr. Rahal suggests nervously. He really does tend to treat Desmond like some kind of celebrity, huh? It’s probably a ‘son of the Mentor’ thing, but it’s still something Desmond’s very not prepared for.
Lydia grins. “Come on, Desmond. We got this.”
They do, really. He’d noticed it before every time he’s been on the rooftops, but if he’d been told this was a city created specifically for Assassins he would’ve believed it. Many buildings have….what are they called, awnings? Pieces of cloth in between them, for shade. Some of them have shorter wooden structures meant for market stalls or places for animals, the rooftops on the side streets are close enough to jump should there be nothing else between them, and the walls tend to be short enough to make that a quick and easy proposition. Never mind the ladders or stairs or poles or windows for a boost up the generally short first stories of buildings, or crumbling pieces of wall.
Eventually, the hat guy starts walking into an alley, and someone’s definitely waiting for him there, someone important. Desmond and Lydia crouch down on the roof, while Chelsea and Mr. Rahal hide behind some piled up pallets around the corner.
At first, Desmond sees the hat and wonders briefly if there’s also some sort of secret hat society. It and the suit are the exact same kind of off-white that you’d always see in books about digs in Egypt. Then the man turns to face the hat guy and Desmond sees those withered hands, ring and all, and sunglasses on top of a weathered face, and—holy shit. Unless this is one of the other Kingdom guys, that’s Rebecca’s friend, Saïd. Which almost certainly also means that her worries were right and he had been meeting with a Phoenician. Maybe even this specific Phoenician.
“The terms for this deal will be the same as the first,” the Phoenician says, like they’ve already agreed to this, but the mummy just shakes his head.
“From one man in a fedora to another, our deal is already concluded. It has been nice and profitable for us both, but the Kingdom has no desire for a second at this time.” ...Interesting. And it can’t just be because of Rebecca, either, not if the whole group agreed to it. Maybe they didn’t realize it would be given to the Atenists, maybe they’re just second-guessing the consequences now that they see them, but either way the Phoenician doesn’t have as much power in the situation than he thinks.
“Are you afraid of the Council of Venice, or the Marya? We are dealing with the Council. We will deal with the Marya.” It...actually would be pretty easy for the Phoenicians to mess with the Council, wouldn’t it? Given that they’re kind of integrated and the Council trusts them. Though Desmond also specifically notes that the Phoenician is promising to deal with the Marya personally to Saïd when he’d previously indicated that the Atenists had to deal with the Marya on their own. Maybe the Kingdom just figured out that this particular Phoenician is more of a slimy little weasel.
“I’m not afraid of them, and if I may make it quite clear I’m not afraid of you either. Frankly having you as a client is a liability, and we’ve already taken on far too many recently. It’s hard to have a wider perspective when you haven’t lived as long as I have, but you’re acting without considering the consequences. If that affects only you, well, who am I to judge? A man’s destructive habits are his own business. But when they interfere with the affairs of other clientele, especially long-standing clientele, matters change.” He starts trying to walk away, as if the matter is settled, and the Phoenician lowers his voice, trying to act dangerous.
“You should be afraid of me. So you are dead. That does not stop me from inflicting worse fates on you.” Honestly, he’s probably telling the truth about that. Probably. He’s already shown himself to be a liar, so that’s more of a guess than anything, but Desmond’s instincts are telling him that at least this particular Phoenician would put up a good fight. It’s just that, well. Those with real power don’t really need to posture like this. Even Vidic, who was more out of control of the situation than he’d thought, only bothered to answer the questions and threaten when he felt like it, not when he felt he had to.
Saïd seems to know this, too. “I appreciate that you’re a cleverer thug than most, realizing that death is not always the end it’s advertised to be, but that merely puts you in the front of a very long line of people that think they can dictate how the Kingdom does business queuing for centuries before you were born.”
“You think the power we have unleashed means nothing, but we are only getting started. Once we are done, our enemies will all be dead or suffering for eternity, even those living weapons chosen by Gaia. So choose whether you want to be on that list of enemies, dead man.” Saïd shrinks away slightly, but he doesn’t let himself get backed completely against the wall, and he seems to recover his composure slightly when the Phoenician moves to leave.
“I suppose one last stop in the café for old time’s sake is off the table, then,” he says, voice still light despite that last threat had gotten to him (maybe because the Phoenician’s vaguely suggesting the Filth and that’s the single thing that freaks out anybody in this world?), and the Phoenician just growls under his breath and keeps going, not even bothering to look at where Chelsea and Mr. Rahal are attempting to make themselves very small behind the leaning pallets. It might be worth following him, too, but Desmond has the feeling they should stay.
Saïd takes in a deep breath (do mummies even need to breathe, or is that just...a leftover habit from when he was alive?) dusts off his suit like absolutely anything had gotten on it, and walks out of the alley himself, stopping right in front of the pallets to light a cigarette. (Apparently mummies can smoke, at least, and the dry mummified flesh isn’t a fire hazard or anything with that, and Desmond’s actually kind of getting a little queasy with that train of thought. Better to stop thinking about it.)
“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how mortals get so impatient? So concerned about what people think of them at the moment that they forget about little things like cause and effect and building or tarnishing a legacy,” he asks the dry air under the sun. “I do hope that was enlightening for you,” he continues, and Desmond quickly realizes that it’s not a rhetorical question. He’d been talking directly to them. Maybe he’d seen them taking up positions, maybe he has something like Eagle Vision, who knows, but he’d actually managed to know they were there, which is cool and terrifying at the same time.
“He’s Phoenician, isn’t he?” Desmond asks, getting up from his crouch to dangle his legs over the side of the building, in full view just in case Saïd actually wants to look at him and address him.
“I believe so. A rather unpleasant man named Berihun. Oh, he didn’t come wrapped in official flags with a seal printed directly on his chest, but it pays to know who you’re dealing with and who your competitors are, and technically, he would fit both. Similarly, I’m aware of you. Desmond Miles, is it? Or do you prefer to go by Desmond al-Shami like your mother?” Okay, this might freak out Shaun a little, but Desmond gets why he’d gotten along with Rebecca and honestly Saïd could be really, really useful. He’s definitely the kind of ally an Assassin would want.
“I’m not too picky. Either works.” There’s no point in trying to lie now, and he doesn’t want to tick off Saïd.
“Splendid, splendid. Normally I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to tell you quite this much, former business partners and all, but I appreciate you actually taking the time to try to arrange an audience. No one bothers anymore. I even understand why Rebecca thought she needed more information and was so concerned about asking me about this outright, though as you can see you have found your answers. I’m hurt, but I understand. No one likes the inspector. I could easily have become difficult to deal with if accused of rash dealings.” He’s certainly more friendly than Berihun, that’s for sure, though every bit as clever and therefore dangerous as La Volpe.
Desmond considers briefly, but given the conversation, he’s pretty sure that Saïd’s not going to take offense at the question. “Would you call that,” he inclines his head at the alley, “...rash?”
“Frankly, yes, but everyone makes mistakes. The longer the life, the more you make. It’s how you deal with it afterwards that counts, and I intend to deal with it. I have a little more to do to wrap up this business, and after that, I’ll get in touch.” He waves, cigarette in hand. “I do believe that Zhara, the owner of the café, might appreciate a little business, even if it isn’t mine. After that, perhaps checking in with your allies after all those threats might be just the thing. Good day, Desmond and associated allies.”
He wanders off, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and taking out a nice shiny new phone that Desmond’s fairly sure Rebecca got him to text about...something.
Desmond helps Lydia down—honestly, with the awning or whatever right there, they just walk over that and then there’s stairs down.
“Do we trust him?” Chelsea asks immediately when they’re all gathered back together again.
It’s a good question. “...I’m definitely going to ask Rebecca about him, but I think it’s more a matter of...I don’t not trust him? He has his own agenda but I don’t think he’s working to backstab us, and I don’t think it’s a bad idea to follow his suggestions for now. He’s also blue to Eagle Vis—er, my Sight. Which means ally, though that’s been wrong before.”
Rukh nods, though it’s really unclear whether he’s answering the question or just agreeing with Desmond’s reasoning and he refuses to elaborate further. Chelsea accepts it, Lydia’s looking thoughtful, and Mr. Rahal looks like he’s trying to memorize absolutely everything like there’s going to be a test later, but none of them protest when they head back toward the Café Giza.
Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: To learn more, Desmond and his Novices follow the suspicious man from the temple.
Word Count: 2105
Rating: Teen
The hat guy’s more difficult to follow than the Atenist that had led them here in the first place. He’s more likely to glance back, though he takes care to do it in a way that doesn’t draw attention, as they follow the twists and turns in the temple. Fortunately, there are twists and turns, easy places to hide, and Desmond’s Eagle Vision seems to be warning him about that now, like he even needs it. He’s had a lot of experience—through his ancestors—following guys on edge. The probable Phoenician stops long enough to type out an angry message on his phone so they can duck out of sight behind a wall and at least take off the robes, which is good, because looking at where they are now, they’re back in Al-Merayah. Miriam had been worried for a really good reason about being spotted as a cultist here on the streets, and now it’s their turn. Rukh takes the break as time enough to retrieve Desmond’s bag, though he’s either using his magic status to get it or something about the bag itself is light enough to carry. Given that it’s fitting way more than it should, that’s not out of the question. Desmond’s slightly worried that Mr. Rahal was a little too loud, but other than being on a little higher of an alert the hat guy doesn’t panic, just growls a little to himself and glares at the phone and starts walking at a faster pace. He’s almost certainly meeting somebody else, and figuring out who that somebody else is could be really useful.
They start out following on the ground, at first. It’s not hard, the way the streets are laid out. There’s almost always a wall or corner or crates in the way. After a bit, Chelsea insists, “Take the rooftops.”
“You’re sure?” he asks, but he’s itching to do it.
“We will follow on foot,” Mr. Rahal suggests nervously. He really does tend to treat Desmond like some kind of celebrity, huh? It’s probably a ‘son of the Mentor’ thing, but it’s still something Desmond’s very not prepared for.
Lydia grins. “Come on, Desmond. We got this.”
They do, really. He’d noticed it before every time he’s been on the rooftops, but if he’d been told this was a city created specifically for Assassins he would’ve believed it. Many buildings have….what are they called, awnings? Pieces of cloth in between them, for shade. Some of them have shorter wooden structures meant for market stalls or places for animals, the rooftops on the side streets are close enough to jump should there be nothing else between them, and the walls tend to be short enough to make that a quick and easy proposition. Never mind the ladders or stairs or poles or windows for a boost up the generally short first stories of buildings, or crumbling pieces of wall.
Eventually, the hat guy starts walking into an alley, and someone’s definitely waiting for him there, someone important. Desmond and Lydia crouch down on the roof, while Chelsea and Mr. Rahal hide behind some piled up pallets around the corner.
At first, Desmond sees the hat and wonders briefly if there’s also some sort of secret hat society. It and the suit are the exact same kind of off-white that you’d always see in books about digs in Egypt. Then the man turns to face the hat guy and Desmond sees those withered hands, ring and all, and sunglasses on top of a weathered face, and—holy shit. Unless this is one of the other Kingdom guys, that’s Rebecca’s friend, Saïd. Which almost certainly also means that her worries were right and he had been meeting with a Phoenician. Maybe even this specific Phoenician.
“The terms for this deal will be the same as the first,” the Phoenician says, like they’ve already agreed to this, but the mummy just shakes his head.
“From one man in a fedora to another, our deal is already concluded. It has been nice and profitable for us both, but the Kingdom has no desire for a second at this time.” ...Interesting. And it can’t just be because of Rebecca, either, not if the whole group agreed to it. Maybe they didn’t realize it would be given to the Atenists, maybe they’re just second-guessing the consequences now that they see them, but either way the Phoenician doesn’t have as much power in the situation than he thinks.
“Are you afraid of the Council of Venice, or the Marya? We are dealing with the Council. We will deal with the Marya.” It...actually would be pretty easy for the Phoenicians to mess with the Council, wouldn’t it? Given that they’re kind of integrated and the Council trusts them. Though Desmond also specifically notes that the Phoenician is promising to deal with the Marya personally to Saïd when he’d previously indicated that the Atenists had to deal with the Marya on their own. Maybe the Kingdom just figured out that this particular Phoenician is more of a slimy little weasel.
“I’m not afraid of them, and if I may make it quite clear I’m not afraid of you either. Frankly having you as a client is a liability, and we’ve already taken on far too many recently. It’s hard to have a wider perspective when you haven’t lived as long as I have, but you’re acting without considering the consequences. If that affects only you, well, who am I to judge? A man’s destructive habits are his own business. But when they interfere with the affairs of other clientele, especially long-standing clientele, matters change.” He starts trying to walk away, as if the matter is settled, and the Phoenician lowers his voice, trying to act dangerous.
“You should be afraid of me. So you are dead. That does not stop me from inflicting worse fates on you.” Honestly, he’s probably telling the truth about that. Probably. He’s already shown himself to be a liar, so that’s more of a guess than anything, but Desmond’s instincts are telling him that at least this particular Phoenician would put up a good fight. It’s just that, well. Those with real power don’t really need to posture like this. Even Vidic, who was more out of control of the situation than he’d thought, only bothered to answer the questions and threaten when he felt like it, not when he felt he had to.
Saïd seems to know this, too. “I appreciate that you’re a cleverer thug than most, realizing that death is not always the end it’s advertised to be, but that merely puts you in the front of a very long line of people that think they can dictate how the Kingdom does business queuing for centuries before you were born.”
“You think the power we have unleashed means nothing, but we are only getting started. Once we are done, our enemies will all be dead or suffering for eternity, even those living weapons chosen by Gaia. So choose whether you want to be on that list of enemies, dead man.” Saïd shrinks away slightly, but he doesn’t let himself get backed completely against the wall, and he seems to recover his composure slightly when the Phoenician moves to leave.
“I suppose one last stop in the café for old time’s sake is off the table, then,” he says, voice still light despite that last threat had gotten to him (maybe because the Phoenician’s vaguely suggesting the Filth and that’s the single thing that freaks out anybody in this world?), and the Phoenician just growls under his breath and keeps going, not even bothering to look at where Chelsea and Mr. Rahal are attempting to make themselves very small behind the leaning pallets. It might be worth following him, too, but Desmond has the feeling they should stay.
Saïd takes in a deep breath (do mummies even need to breathe, or is that just...a leftover habit from when he was alive?) dusts off his suit like absolutely anything had gotten on it, and walks out of the alley himself, stopping right in front of the pallets to light a cigarette. (Apparently mummies can smoke, at least, and the dry mummified flesh isn’t a fire hazard or anything with that, and Desmond’s actually kind of getting a little queasy with that train of thought. Better to stop thinking about it.)
“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how mortals get so impatient? So concerned about what people think of them at the moment that they forget about little things like cause and effect and building or tarnishing a legacy,” he asks the dry air under the sun. “I do hope that was enlightening for you,” he continues, and Desmond quickly realizes that it’s not a rhetorical question. He’d been talking directly to them. Maybe he’d seen them taking up positions, maybe he has something like Eagle Vision, who knows, but he’d actually managed to know they were there, which is cool and terrifying at the same time.
“He’s Phoenician, isn’t he?” Desmond asks, getting up from his crouch to dangle his legs over the side of the building, in full view just in case Saïd actually wants to look at him and address him.
“I believe so. A rather unpleasant man named Berihun. Oh, he didn’t come wrapped in official flags with a seal printed directly on his chest, but it pays to know who you’re dealing with and who your competitors are, and technically, he would fit both. Similarly, I’m aware of you. Desmond Miles, is it? Or do you prefer to go by Desmond al-Shami like your mother?” Okay, this might freak out Shaun a little, but Desmond gets why he’d gotten along with Rebecca and honestly Saïd could be really, really useful. He’s definitely the kind of ally an Assassin would want.
“I’m not too picky. Either works.” There’s no point in trying to lie now, and he doesn’t want to tick off Saïd.
“Splendid, splendid. Normally I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to tell you quite this much, former business partners and all, but I appreciate you actually taking the time to try to arrange an audience. No one bothers anymore. I even understand why Rebecca thought she needed more information and was so concerned about asking me about this outright, though as you can see you have found your answers. I’m hurt, but I understand. No one likes the inspector. I could easily have become difficult to deal with if accused of rash dealings.” He’s certainly more friendly than Berihun, that’s for sure, though every bit as clever and therefore dangerous as La Volpe.
Desmond considers briefly, but given the conversation, he’s pretty sure that Saïd’s not going to take offense at the question. “Would you call that,” he inclines his head at the alley, “...rash?”
“Frankly, yes, but everyone makes mistakes. The longer the life, the more you make. It’s how you deal with it afterwards that counts, and I intend to deal with it. I have a little more to do to wrap up this business, and after that, I’ll get in touch.” He waves, cigarette in hand. “I do believe that Zhara, the owner of the café, might appreciate a little business, even if it isn’t mine. After that, perhaps checking in with your allies after all those threats might be just the thing. Good day, Desmond and associated allies.”
He wanders off, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and taking out a nice shiny new phone that Desmond’s fairly sure Rebecca got him to text about...something.
Desmond helps Lydia down—honestly, with the awning or whatever right there, they just walk over that and then there’s stairs down.
“Do we trust him?” Chelsea asks immediately when they’re all gathered back together again.
It’s a good question. “...I’m definitely going to ask Rebecca about him, but I think it’s more a matter of...I don’t not trust him? He has his own agenda but I don’t think he’s working to backstab us, and I don’t think it’s a bad idea to follow his suggestions for now. He’s also blue to Eagle Vis—er, my Sight. Which means ally, though that’s been wrong before.”
Rukh nods, though it’s really unclear whether he’s answering the question or just agreeing with Desmond’s reasoning and he refuses to elaborate further. Chelsea accepts it, Lydia’s looking thoughtful, and Mr. Rahal looks like he’s trying to memorize absolutely everything like there’s going to be a test later, but none of them protest when they head back toward the Café Giza.
