in my head

[madimpossibledreamer]

Okay, massive notes here:
I'd been kinda interested in Assassin's Creed on a limited basis because I got to watch my roommate play it, but I didn't get to see most of the story or anything.  Just started watching Let's Plays of it for who knows what reason mid-December, and man okay the story is complicated and kinda flawed in parts but it makes for a really cool playground.  And then I got to II and was like...hmm, okay, there are similarities to Ollie's story from Arrow, but since I haven't really seen much of the show, I'll just leave it as a plotbunny for someone else to write. 9,973 words and two universes later and I'm still writing, so you can see how well that worked.  Where it stops, we'll see.  I have no clue at this point.  Also, I've only gotten through III, though I already have some things spoiled for me, because the internet is one massive spoiler.
Oh, yeah, I'm also...well, technically not jobless, atm, because I'm still on the payroll supposedly even though I'm not actually scheduled or getting paid, so that's fun.  I have no clue why that's a thing that's happening, but I guess it looks better on my resume so I'm not complaining.
Abstergo’s not as overreaching in these universes, or the fact that Ollie’s famous wouldn’t stop them.  Partly, they’re dealing with superheroes and notoriety—Wayne Industries, for example, is a big threat, and while Bruce isn’t an Assassin he’s eerily good at getting in the way.
Some abuse of google translate, plus my own knowledge (some of Spanish, some of actual Italian).  That'll probably be true of every story, until Ollie gets it together.  If anything’s wrong, please tell me and I’ll fix it.  I wouldn't, usually, but in this case it's kind of an important part of the story, so I'm keeping it.
~Dreamer~

Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed
Summary: Ollie tries to make his way home.
Word Count: 1186
Rating: Gen

           If I keep repeating all this in my own head, maybe I’ll stay here.  Maybe I won’t fade again.  My name is Oliver Queen.  I’m known as a billionaire playboy who can’t keep his head out of his ass (or other peoples’), and, at one point, that had been pretty much spot on.  I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, and I’m not entirely sure of my own sanity at this point, so I’m trying to hold on, breathe meaning into the facts of my life, at least long enough to anchor me in reality until I can get back to someone who can help me.  The press calls me the Hood, but those who know me better call me Assassin.  I’m one of the soldiers standing in the way of a secret war.
           My father was an Assassin, but he gave it up to have a family.  The past always has a way of finding us, though.  No matter how far we run.  We can only choose to turn and face it with dignity, let it teach us, or forget it and die, painfully.  I learned that, at Monteriggioni, thinking my adventures were done—
           Remember. Focus.
           I came back to Starling City, to rid it of the vermin they call the Templars.  To finish the work my father abandoned.  Problem is, I forgot the greatest strength of the Assassins.
           There’s a reason the Templars keep trying to kill all of us.  The ones who remember our heritage, anyway.  The ones that don’t can be used, but the ones that do?  They’re trying to break our Brotherhood, because honestly the only strength we have in the face of superior technology is our bonds with each other.  That’s why recruitment is so imp—
           I’m not recruiting.  I’m Oliver.  Though maybe I should be recruiting.  Strength in numbers.
           I pushed everyone away, thinking I was protecting them.  Even the ones I had helping me in my lair.  But I was an idiot.  They were all already in too deep.  Tommy’s the son of a Templar.  Laurel fights invisible battles against the Templars in my city every day—the same battles I fight, only her arrows and Assassin’s blades are words and evidence.  The same Assassin blood in my veins also runs through Thea’s.  Digg lost a brother to the Templars.  Felicity had already had several recruitment offers from Abstergo companies—with her skills, it was only a matter of time before they acted.  At this point, only the influence of Queen Consolidated is keeping her safe, and even then, they’d taken Walter, so that’s not even a given.
           If I am to win, I need to talk to them.  Teach them.  If we are to survive—if I am to survive—if the Creed is to survive, it needs to be a joint effort.  I understand this now.  Leonardo, Malik, they deserve to—
           I’m drifting again.
           A kiss.  Tommy’s alive, I have to believe that—
           Focus.
           Pain.  But worse than that.  I can’t move; I’m helpless.  I’d struggle against my bonds, but they’re not outside my skin, they’re inside my body, stealing the control from myself.  I’d say it’s the Apple, but I don’t see any of the usual golden power.
           A face.  Hated, Templar, comes into my vision.  “I killed you,” I manage, voice not my own, and spit.  At least I can do that.  It’s not much, in the—
           Can’t breathe.  Pretty sure he just stabbed me—again—my hand needs to recover; I’m best with the bow—
           Si, focus on that, that’s different, and there’s an admiration not my own for that skill—
           My head is pulled back by the hair.  “You failed to kill your target, Assassin,” he mutters into my ear, cruel delight twisting the word the way Templar sounds to my ears.  I don’t need to know who I am, only that he is a Templar and I am an Assassin.  An age-old conflict—
           Nothing is true
           —playing out here and now. 
           If nothing is true, if everything is permitted, I can kill him, as many times as it takes.  Most people die just once, but Templars are all the same, particularly if they have a Piece of Eden.  I just need to think, transfer thought into deed, and then, requiescat in pace.
           “But then, I was trained by your Brotherhood, so I saw your actions coming.”  No—worse than a Templar, an Assassin traitor.  “Admittedly, your Nanda Parbat branch has some…interesting notions.  Like the death of all other Assassins who will not bow to the leadership of Ra’s al Ghul.  The Templars offered me my vengeance, and I took it, but interestingly, the League is far more Templar than even the Templars I work with.”
           His words make very little sense.  I only know what I’ve read, and large parts of the journal are gone, now, with only an impartial list of names and a quick summary of a decades-old conflict broken in places by words fed to the fire.  His words horrify, for this Ra’s al Ghul is following in the footsteps of Al Mualim, and may already be in possession of a Piece of Eden—
           “You know, watching you grow up, I was nothing but thankful I had a son, safe from Assassin hands and greedy eyes.”  He pats me on the cheek, gentle and fatherly, and it does nothing but burn  I can no longer even scream.  “Guess I was wrong, too.  At least one of us has time to fix our mistake.”
           I scream, waking.  My thoughts are too loud, there are too many, I can’t get some quiet to think
           I’m lost in what I assume is a city, but it is nothing like my dear Firenze or even Roma or Monteriggioni or Venezia.  It’s loud, and there are strange inventions, like carriages with invisible steeds, and there are buildings taller than I have ever seen before.
           If I climb, perhaps, perhaps my thoughts will be my own.  At least, I can get my bearings.  I can’t help but think it’s ugly—
           watch it this is my city a voice snarls in my own Firenze tones, and I almost lose my handholds and fall, and then I see one of those steedless carriages—car, that’s a car, it’s safe
           Tail it.  I can do that.
           I do until it stops, and then I climb down and open the door and fall into the backseat, and allow myself to relax, fully, for the first time in a long time.  I’m safe, the way I only am in Assassin strongholds, in La Rosa Colta or La Volpe Addormentata or Masyaf or—
           The front door opens, and the madonna drops what is probably a cup, and whispers in a voice that I judge to be akin to screaming, “Ollie, you’re dead.”
           I don’t know the words.  They’re certainly not Italian.  But at the same time, I know them, understand them, in a way I can’t—I shouldn’t—
           “Che è stato un errore,” I tell her, surely she’ll understand, and then—
           I fall again, only there’s nothing waiting for me this time.