“It was just a game.”
Instead of enjoying the heavenly aroma of croissants, toast, hash browns and all the other confectionaries one could possibly imagine for breakfast on a Wednesday morning, you were preoccupied with explaining to Shay everything that had happened once being strapped into that peculiar machine; your supposed ‘best friend' insists it was nothing but some high-tech gaming simulation – he had explained it far better but admittedly some of the words he had used had thrown you for a loop.
Your eyes roll for the seventh time that morning and argue for the eighth. “But that doesn’t explain last night – someone was down there in the street, and then—"
“They disappeared without a trace.” Shay finished with a brief quirk of his lips.
Bastard didn't believe you.
“I'm not crazy,” you say, though your voice lacked the conviction necessary to make the statement believable, “I mean, I'm seeing the ghosts of the dead and I'm hearing voices, but I'm not insane.”
“Yes, because everyone knows that only sane people shout about how sane they are,” Shay mumbles. “By the way, a bit of froth spilled onto your chin while you were ranting about how not-crazy you are.”
You wipe away the spittle that had indeed dribbled down your chin and offer a pout. You weren't crazy...were you? Surely last night wasn't just some peculiar trick your mind had decided to play. It had to have been real. It had to. And one way or another, you were going to prove it.
Shay reaches over and gives your cheek a pinch and a pull. “You look so cute when you pout – like a toddler that’s been placed in time-out.”
You swat at his hand. “Oh, shut up, cabbage farmer – we're going to be late for school.”
His face falls at the nickname and you can't help but smile at your miniature triumph; it was a low blow, but his lack of belief in you was as equally insulting.
Picking your bag up from the floor and slinging it over one shoulder, you're just about ready to head out. But Shay's sudden spaz attack prevents you from taking another step.
“Wait ,(Y/N)! You haven't even tried my huevos rancheros.” Shay whined, reminding you of a 1950's housewife. “You want to know what my secret is? A dash of oregano.”
Your gaze drops to the dish in his hands. “That's...nice? But I'm not hungry. Now take off that damn frilly apron – it's freaking me out.”
Shay glances down at his mother’s hot pink apron with the words ‘kitchen bitch’ stitched on the front, offence crinkling his brow. “And here I am thinking we were living in the age of equality.” Both hands fell to his hips. “You should be ashamed of yourself (Y/N). I'm a strong, independent man; I can be a kitchen bitch if I want.”
Oh, he was acting like a bitch alright.
Suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, you turn your back on him and begin inching towards the door. “Whatever. Let's just get to school.”
“But what about the huevos rancheros!?”
“We'll eat it on the way!”
>>Fast forward to gym>>
Had the school been converted to a military academy and nobody told you?
You share an uneasy glance with the other students before refocusing your horror on Bartolomeo.
“Centuries ago there was a man by the name of Thucydides, and he taught a very valuable lesson: The strong do what they will, the weak suffer what they must.” Passion oozed from his every pore, admiration glimmering within aging eyes. “Truer words have never been spoken. In this life, it is fight or die! When you are running from a lion, you don't have to be faster than the lion, just faster than your friends! When you are stranded in the Himalayas and starving to death, you do not lay down and die – you wrap your hands around your beloved wife’s neck, give her a quick death, then eat her body for sustenance! That is life!”
The gym is consumed by an excruciatingly awkward silence.
What an oddly specific – and tad concerning – scenario.
There's a wedding ring poking out from the pudginess of his fingers; you can't help but wonder what his personal life was like. What would his wife think if she had heard his little speech?
Bartolomeo’s hawk-like gaze scans across the class currently huddled together, analysing each individual student – for what, you weren't certain, but you did not like the near sadistic smile curling his lips.
“It is high time you learn the true meaning of the phrase ‘kill-or-be-killed’, in the only legal way I know.” He reaches a hand into the netted sack by his feet and removes a foam ball, tossing it into the air a few times, which turns out to be rather intimidating. “Dodgeball.”
Murmurs of surprise and reluctance erupt throughout the gymnasium; Lucrezia’s crimson lips curl with sadistic glee; Jacob and Evie nudge each other with competitive grins, giggling in anticipation of school-encouraged violence; Arno looks as though he had just been given the death-sentence.
“You will be divided into two teams. Cesare, you will lead Red Team – remember to use that sadistic streak God gave you. Caterina, you will lead Blue Team – remember that all good leaders rule with fear. You will each take turns picking your soldiers, then take a few moments to strategize. When you hear sweet Bianca’s war-cry, the battle begins whether you're ready or not!”
Cesare and Caterina took up position front of the class, ready to pick their favourite classmates. You choose to hover in the background, cloaked in shadow, hoping to remain unnoticed. However, your covert abilities were in great need of refinement, for something painful was being jabbed into your back, sending you stumbling forward into the light.
Lucrezia. Of course.
You should have known it was her from the get go since the perfume she drenched herself in was powerful enough to bring down every single person in Times Square; the thick, rich smell reminds you of cats, mothballs and fruitcakes, and you're fairly certain such a stench could induce a migraine if inhaled too often.
“Afraid to be picked last, puttana?”
Puttana? This time you were very much aware of the meaning of that word, which was the cause of your eyes narrowing.
Even when remaining silent and attempting to go unnoticed, still the heavily made up demon sought you out, sidling up for what can only be assumed as her next power fix – an ego boost at your expense is guaranteed. Since day one she has chosen you to feed upon like an aphid does on new Spring growth, leaving you withered and tense whilst she flutters away newly energized; the term ‘parasite’ springs to mind.
She has the nerve to touch your hair whilst she continues her verbal assault. “Perhaps you should sit this game out? It would be a shame for such a horrid face to be ruined even more.”
Unfortunately for her, your parents didn't raise you to be a doormat; in the words of your mother ‘act like a lady until some bitch tries to make a fool of you'.
You don't hesitate in swatting her hand away. “Actually, the real shame would be us getting stuck on the same team – I'd hate to miss the opportunity to knock you down a peg.”
The last thing you see – which fills you with great satisfaction – is the fall of Lucrezia’s Grinch-like grin; a softball connects with the side of your head a millisecond later. Wait. Did you say softball? How silly. You actually meant ‘cannonball' because that's what the damn thing felt like thanks to Bartolomeo’s monstrous throw.
Miniature Shay heads flutter in circles around your head, each one chirping the word ‘lucky’ repeatedly.
Once the black spots diminished, you came to realize everyone was staring – including a foaming-at-the-mouth Bartolomeo.
“Stillman! Look alive! It is your call to action! Your path has been decided on the crossroads of Destiny!”
Did all the educators within this building speak like freaks?!
With gritted teeth, your narrowed eyes flicker around the gymnasium in the hope of deciphering the man's conundrum; turns out your ‘destiny' was to be an unwilling participant on Cesare’s team.
Oh, sweet joy.
You think about objecting to being picked. To the game. To the entire gruelling torture titled gym class. But you're not so fond of death, and you're fairly certain that even allowing the most inaudible of sounds would cause Bartolomeo to murder you – death by dodgeballs does sound pretty cool though.
Cesare provides one of those finger gun actions complete with a flirtatious wink and click of the tongue – a little part of you dies at the motion.
However, you like to consider yourself an optimist, and being an eternal optimist means that you have somehow managed to locate a silver lining amidst the day’s mountainous amount of shit; Cesare chose you. Over his own sister. And not only did you derive pleasure from the fire in her eyes, but you could practically hear the boiling of her blood from halfway across the gymnasium.
You flash a smirk.
Game on.
>>fast forward>>
Teams have been decided.
Strategies have been concocted.
Students line the walls, competitiveness surging through their systems as they focus on the perfectly aligned softballs positioned in the centre of the gymnasium.
Bartolomeo has taken up position on the bleachers and continuously switches focus between both teams, hands rubbing together in unbridled excitement – he was enjoying this far too much for your liking.
“Remember,” his voice boomed, “no mercy is to be bestowed upon the enemy team; I care not if they are a friend or loved one, for there could easily come a day when you might stare down the barrel of a sniper rifle and be met by the eyes of a childhood friend – and if that happens, you will have to take that shot! For honour! For glory! Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Bianca is blown and the battle has commenced.
Students from both sides charge towards the centre at full speed, with Yusuf shrieking a blood-curdling war cry which adds to the intensity of the match. The balls are swiped up by a few lucky students from each team, with the remaining members backing up to a much safer distance.
You hover in the background and grimace at the abrupt carnage; dodgeballs hurtle through the air with the intent to maim. Students of both sides scramble to avoid being hit, a few of the more unfortunate individuals crying out in pain due to their inability to dodge.
Arno weaves skittishly through his team mates shielding his head. You were in the process of wondering exactly how long he would survive with that strategy when Yusuf seems to materialise from thin air and takes the poor French student hostage, proceeding to use him as a shield.
“What are you doing?!” Arno’s panic is palpable.
“What needs to be done,” Came Yusuf’s deliriously giddy response. “It’s nothing personal, arkadas.”
Arno’s eyes were wide with fear, and with good reason – dodgeballs sliced through the air like heat seeking missiles, each one making contact with his poor string bean body.
The assault came to a merciful end and Yusuf relinquished his hold on Arno, allowing him to wither to the floor, as deflated as an old balloon.
Bartolomeo roars his approval from the sidelines.
“Extra credit for thinking outside the box, Yusuf!“ Bartholomew bellowed.
You’re so absorbed in the sight of Arno limply dragging his freshly tenderised body off court that you fail to notice Lucrezia lurking along the centre line with a ball in hand, malevolent glee having contorted her features; by the time you do take notice, the ball has already left her freshly manicured hand.
But then the unexpected happens.
Before contact can be made, Cesare glides across the gymnasium floor with the same level of desperation as a man in need of a toilet and skids to a halt directly in front of you, shielding you from the incoming danger.
A sickening crunch of what you uneasily assume to be the breaking of bone tortures your ears, the ball having made impact with Cesare’s nose. Lucrezia remains rooted to the spot with a boggle-eyed look of shock – she was just as surprised with this outcome as you were. Tentatively, you lean forward and peer over his shoulder, wanting to catch a glimpse of his face.
What you saw was a nightmare.
Blood erupts from his nostrils and drenches the front of his polo shirt – not to be crude, but in that moment he reminds you of human tampon. Again, not trying to be crude. And if that wasn’t horrific enough, a sudden cry bursts unexpectedly from his lips and he sinks to his knees, cradling his broken nose.
The game comes to an unofficial and merciful end.
Bartolomeo strides towards Lucrezia with a gut-jiggling laugh. “Excellent work Lucrezia. You’ll be getting an A for this; you took out your own brother without an ounce of sympathy – broke his nose even. Have you thought about a career in the military? Maybe the police force?”
Cesare writhes about the floor spluttering profanities in his native tongue – at least, you assumed they were profanities – whilst Bartolomeo casually discussed career opportunities with the other Borgia sibling, who, by the way, appeared terrified for her brother.
You loom above Cesare feeling oddly concerned for his well-being, or maybe it was guilt derived from the knowledge that the ball responsible was initially meant for you. Either way, you felt compelled to help him. He did protect you after all, and didn’t deserve to be in pain.
“Um, Mr. Bartolomeo, Cesare looks really hurt. Maybe I should take him to the nurse’s office?"
Bartolomeo doesn’t even bother to glance in your direction. “Hmm? Oh, I suppose. The last thing I need right now is another complaint of negligence. What does that even mean? So what if the kid disappeared? We have the buddy system for a reason, and it is not my fault if some children choose to ignore my warnings.”
Choosing to ignore that disturbing revelation, you gingerly help Cesare onto his feet, sympathy rising at the sight of tears glistening on the ends of his lashes. He looked so vulnerable in that moment. Nothing at all like the arrogant alpha male he chose to behave as.
“It’s gonna be alright.” You soothe with what you hoped to be a comforting voice. “Keep your hands on your nose.”
Cesare blinked rapidly – no doubt trying to clear his eyes of tears. “I’m not crying.”
That sounds as though he were repeating an oft-stated maxim.
You lead him towards the gymnasium doors. “I never said you were. But, even if you were, there’s nothing wrong with that. Everyone cries. Hell, I broke my Nintendo, I cried for a week,” you joke, hoping to elicit some sort of positive reaction.
He seems to cheer up, at least if only for your benefit.
YOU ARE READING
Assassin's Creed High-School
Fanfiction(Assassin's Creed Reader Insert) Begin your new life as a student now attending Primrose High, the islands' local high-school. Who will you meet along the way? What trouble will you get up to? Find romance with you BOC (Boy Of Choice).
