So I got sick again and that means the brain worms activated. Therefore, behold more unhinged Desmond Miles thoughts.
In one of my last posts here I was fantasizing of yet another EziDes story. This is...a continuation of that (maybe a crack version of it lmao idk I clung to this dream to keep from throwing up and now you must suffer with me.)
Imagine, right—Desmond, still trapped in 15th-century Italy, half-limping, half-hallucinating, and fully convinced this is some elaborate death dream. He's got Altair's armor (stole it—Ezio never saw it coming), a demon horse named Clay who only loves him, and while wandering around just sightseeing and being nostalgic, he overhears word of "the Assassin"—and just gets a little sad.
Because Ezio had to carry so much shit alone for such a long time. Like, Desmond remembers Ezio sitting in Venezia on his birthday mulling that it had been 10 years since he'd been on the quest to avenge his brothers and father and that just eats at Desmond because yeah, Ezio had allies. He had La Volpe, Bartolomeo, Mario, etc., but for SO MANY MISSIONS, he had to do that shit solo.
And so Desmond decides stubbornly (and a little unhingedly) that no, not this time. Ezio SHOULD'VE had support from the beginning. Ezio deserved better. Ezio deserved backup. Ezio deserved homies.
So Desmond, in his half-delirious glory, helps.
He quietly starts recruiting. Trains a few people. Sends pigeons messages across Italy to support Ezio from the shadows. He basically lays down the Brotherhood infrastructure before Ezio even realizes what's happening because honestly...it's just something he wishes someone had done for Ezio sooner.
But because this is Desmond "I'm losing my mind and this might not be real anyways" Miles, he decides to encrypt every single Assassin order in incomprehensible Gen Alpha slang—as a joke. Also to prevent messages from being deciphered if intercepted. (Dual purpose. Very efficient.)
We're talking full-on "cap/no cap," 'dogwater," "mid," "no rizz," "goated," "skibidi ops active" kind of nonsense.
His recruits? They have no idea what this shit means, but Desmond's so graceful, so terrifyingly competent, so mysterious and cool as hell that these Renaissance teens start thinking he's some divine ghost of the Creed—the real Altair of legend reborn.
So now, his recruits are getting pigeon orders like:
"Get your rizz up." "The plan is lowkey fire." "Don't fumble the bag." "That's not poggers." "We go full send at dawn." "That's straight dogwater, no cap."
And they think it's all actual ancient Assassin wisdom. Like, they actually think this is how Master Assassins talk in code. One of them—and bless them—actually starts a friggen codex to translate this shit like:
"goated" = elite/powerful "slay" = execute target with flair "hard L" = catastrophic failure "no respawns" = don't die "no cap" = absolute truth
Ezio eventually steals/finds one of these notes that says:
"sussy vibes. npc energy. handle or ghost. clay watching."
And is hella confused. So he goes to the only person he knows who can help decipher it.
Ezio, concerned: "Leonardo, I require your mind. I… I need help."
Leonardo, after some intense contemplation: "I believe… the 'npc' may be a political faction. Perhaps a guild? Clay… Clay is a name? A material? Could this mean a trap involving the earth? And this phrase—'ghost'—used in this context...I assume he means specters. Necromancy? Could this be related to a cult?"
Ezio, even more confused: "It says 'sussy vibes.' What does that mean?!"
Leonardo, squinting at the note: "Perhaps an ancient dialect."
And the recruits? Oh, the recruits are absolutely thriving. Every time they get a new message from their mysterious Mentor, it's like scripture:
"vibe check. mark goated. protect with your life. fr fr. no cap."
They call Desmond, "The Ghost."
They call Clay, the demon horse, "The Omen."
They start unironically saying, "No Cap. Just Creed." as like, a slogan. Like THEY THINK THAT IS THE ASSASSIN'S CREED.
Meanwhile, Desmond—dressed in Altair's stolen armor, lying backwards on Clay, eating a fig while watching the sunset—sends another pigeon like:
"Good work, kings. That was peak stealth. The Prophet's gonna need real OGs like you soon. Slay the Creed. –DM"
But Ezio "The Prophet" Auditore da Firenze is losing his goddamn mind.
He's halfway convinced there's a new, elite Assassin cell rising, but he doesn't know where they are or why they all speak in tongues, and why they're all so helpful.
All he knows is they leave behind clean kills, perfect intel, strange scrolls, and once, an ugly as hell pigeon carrying a scroll that simply said "we out here" with a little doodle of Altair doing finger guns.
If any of ya'll are still here after reading through my mania, here's a little treat I cooked up hehe:
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The bird landed on the rooftop ledge.
Once, Tommaso would've ignored it. It was, after all, just another pigeon in a city full of them, but that was before.
Before the blood in the alley. Before the outnumbered fight behind the butcher's yard. Before a man in dark robes had descended down from the rooftops and said—"Come with me if you want to live."
He hadn't introduced himself.
He hadn't smiled.
He'd just reached out.
And Tommaso, bruised and desperate and already halfway feral, had taken his hand.
That was over a year ago and now, Tommaso never ignored the pigeons. Ever since he was saved—no, chosen—he looked. Always. For fear of missing any of his master's many wisdoms.
And there, he saw it—the scar over the bird's eye. Jagged, ugly, familiar.
His breath caught, just for a second.
Theirs.
One of Spettro's bird.
Tommaso rose from where he'd been sitting and gently untied the small scroll from its leg. He didn't unroll it yet. He didn't need to. He knew the feel of the paper, the weight of the string, the tension in the knots. He knew the way their Mentor folded things. Tight. Clean. Intentional.
He didn't know his mentor's name—none of them did. They only called him Spettro.
The Ghost.
Without a word, Tommaso tucked the scroll into the hidden fold of his doublet and only when was sure he had no tail did the Discepolo slip into motion, moving across the tiled rooftops of San Gimignano with silent feet.
It wasn't long before he reached the base.
From the outside, it looked like nothing special—just a rundown storehouse tucked between an abandoned smithy and the city wall. The stone walls were chipped, the door was molded from water damage, and the rooftop tiles were cracked and crooked.
No one paid it much attention—not even the city guards, which was what made it perfect.
He landed on the roof and slipped through the rooftop hatch, already hearing voices as he descended down the ladder.
"—not saying I dropped the bag last time." Leonello snapped. "I'm saying you cut in before my angle was set."
"You were about to do a backwards jump from a fruit cart." Carlo replied dryly. "You'd have landed wrong and died stupid."
Tommaso paused halfway down, lips twitching. Same argument, different day.
From the conversation alone, he could see it already—Leonello (newest recruit, still wet behind the ears) being defensive and flustered while Carlo (Tommaso's second, a junior only by a month) lounged against a crate, arms crossed and smug. In the background, he heard the sound of a whetstone, likely of Matteo (the oldest in age, third in seniority) sharpening his blades, utterly unbothered by their argument.
Tommaso dropped from the last rung with a soft thud and crossed the room with purpose.
"Enough squabblin'." He said—not sharp, just loud enough to settle the air. "We've got more important things to handle."
Leonello turned, still bristling. "Like what?"
Tommaso didn't answer right away. He just reached into his doublet, pulled out the scroll, and let it unfurl with a snap of his wrist.
"Message from Spettro."
That shut them up.
Carlo straightened. Matteo looked up. Leonello, suddenly nervous, stepped closer.
Tommaso walked to the center of the room where a crate that they used as a makeshift table sat. It was cluttered with spare bandages, sharpening stones, and spools of twine and he cleared it all aside with a sweep of his arm. The others watched in silence as he smoothed out the parchment and laid it flat, pinning the corners with a throwing knife and an inkwell.
They crowded around.
No one spoke as they read.
yo squad don't let the Borgia ops catch u slippin. squad meet @ the sus tree tmrw, 2 bells past prime. plan's lowkey fire rn, but if the big cheese shows? we full send. tell Leon to stop acting NPC. get his rizz up. if he fumbles again, that's not poggers. keep it 100
Leonello's face paled first.
Matteo snorted under his breath. Carlo gave an audible wheeze and took two slow steps backward, hands on his hips like he needed distance just to process it.
Leonello pointed at the scroll, scandalized. "He named me. Why did he name me?!"
Tommaso raised an eyebrow. "Maybe because you keep fumbling like an NPC."
"I do not fumble!"
Carlo muttered, "You kinda fumble."
Leonello turned to Matteo for backup. Matteo—betraying no emotion—just looked away.
Leonello groaned.
Tommaso, still calm, reached down beside the crate and pulled out the Codex—a weathered notebook wrapped in string and reinforced with thin pieces of leather. It was their working glossary. Their sacred translation log.
He flipped it open reverently and turned to a dog-eared page.
don't catch u slippin = remain vigilant lowkey fire = promising, keep quiet full send = commit NPC = soulless, insult rizz = charisma, presence fumble = failure not poggers = deep disappointment big cheese = captain/leader
Leonello, who like them, had been silently cross referencing the terminology between the notebook and their master's scroll, leaned over. "What the hell is 'the sus tree'?"
Carlo sat back. "Obviously a tree. Suspicious tree?"
"But suspicious how?"
Tommaso pursed his lips. "Could be the one near the south gate. The one with the strange lean?"
"No." Matteo said immediately. "Too exposed. No cover." Spettro would never have them meet somewhere that open.
Leonello perked up. "What about the one near the church? The one the birds never land in?"
A pause.
Everyone stared at him.
"…Okay..." Carlo said slowly. "That makes more sense."
Tommaso hummed and jotted down more notes.
"sus" = suspicious, possibly cursed "tree" = …tree. obviously. "keep it 100" = ?????
He pointed to the last term. "Still need to figure this one out. It's new."
"Honesty?" Leonello guessed. "Like, keep it honest? Or true?"
"Or maybe literal." Matteo hummed, brows furrowed. "Bring 100 florins?"
Tommaso scribbled both.
Carlo shrugged. "Could be a rating."
Leonello perked up again. "Oh—like as in perfect score?"
Tommaso wrote that down too, underlined it. "We'll ask him if we survive."
Carlo leaned back, arms crossed. "Spettro's not gonna explain it. He'll just say something cryptic and then disappear on the roof again."
Leon grumbled, still bothered by their mentor's criticism. "I have rizz."
"Cap." The others said in unison, not even looking up.
Tommaso gave Leon's shoulder a firm pat when their youngest groaned, mouth twisting with nostalgia. "Hey, every novice starts out with no rizz. Look on the bright side. Spettro believes in you. If he didn't, you wouldn't be in the squad."
Leonello made a wounded noise.
Carlo smirked. "Come on. Ready up for tomorrow. Maybe if you survive the sus tree op without fumbling, your rizz will go up naturally."
Matteo nodded sagely. "Yes. Keep it 100, Leon."
Leonello groaned louder.
Tommaso grinned.
They fell into silence after that, the kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable—just thoughtful. Focused for the job ahead.
Tommaso reached for a quill and started on a response. Carlo sharpened his throwing knives. Matteo inspected the gear pouch for quality. Leonello began to practice the same breathing routine Spettro had taught them during rooftop conditioning.
Outside, the wind stirred the shutters.
Inside, the Ghost's squad quietly prepared to slay.
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Days later and somewhere across Tuscany, Desmond Miles—dressed in Altair's armor (a little too loose at the shoulders but otherwise fitting like a glove)—was enjoying the rest of his day in silence.
He was slumped against a tree on the grass, his burnt husk of a right arm resting limp across his lap, while the other lazily fed figs to his horse. Clay, massive and smug and deeply unstable, snapped them from his palm with the same enthusiasm he used to chase noblemen's mares through city squares. His tail twitched. His eyes glinted with violence.
Desmond didn't notice. (Or maybe he did and chose love anyway.)
"Good boy." He murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion.
The last few days had been long—visiting Florence, the assassin tomb raiding, the saddle shopping, the people. He hadn't been prepared for this century despite the memories. His feet hurt. His ribs ached. He was still getting used to how committed his brain was to this death dream—like, it even remembered horse sweat and bad cobblestones. But… it was peaceful. (Mostly. At least until someone recognized the horse.)
Desmond let out a breath and closed his eyes for a second, ignoring the little voice in his head that was going, Are you sure this isn't real?
Which—no. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous.
It was just a death dream—his mind was just replaying fond memories before he kicked the bucket because the brain was weird like that. He told himself to just enjoy it while it lasted and see it for what it wanted to be.
Just a sky he could look up into and believe in. Just air in his lungs that didn't burn. Just a little quiet, a little sun, a little rest.
A little mercy before whatever came next.
Desmond blinked when something landed on his boot, slow and bemused. He glanced down and there, a pigeon perched on him like a king. It was hideous—scraggly, grey-brown, with one good eye with a scar down it that made it look vaguely threatening in that silent way.
And there was only one stray he'd picked up that looked that way.
"Oh hey, Shay." Desmond mumbled, nudging his leg out so the bird could hop closer.
Shay fluffed up like a wet dog and let out a wheeze that might have been a coo—or a death rattle.
Either way, Clay immediately lunged for it.
"No!" Desmond caught the bridle with his good arm just in time. "Not him. That's our mailman, remember?"
Clay snorted and jerked his head with all the attitude of a diva denied a snack.
Desmond shook his own head and reached into the pouch on his hip—new leather, nice stitch work, something he'd bought just yesterday in Florence after a round of absolutely essential shopping. A saddle for Clay. A satchel. Some dried fruit. A sword that he probably could have gotten cheaper elsewhere, but had felt right anyway.
And today?
Today he was outside. Breathing clean air. Sitting on grass. Sending notes to his own little baby assassins.
It was a good day.
Probably the best one he'd had in years.
Desmond smiled, soft and tired, as he pulled out a blank scroll and a quill. It was hard writing with his lap as a table with his non-dominant hand despite being ambidextrous, but he made it work—and his recruits were already used to his shorthand writing style anyways.
yo squad. u did gud. next linkup = near Forli. clay's buggin. keep ur heads low. Prophet's on that solo grind, help him if u see him. fr fr.
He beckoned with his shoulder and all that Pavlovian training paid off when Shay flapped over to perch on his right shoulder. Gingerly, he tied the scroll to Shay's gnarled little leg with one hand, using his teeth to pull the other end of the string tight.
"There ya go." Desmond hummed. "Come back safe. Got some non-GMO bird seed with your name on it."
The pigeon perked up and with a wheezed battle cry, launched itself sideways into the sky.
Desmond tracked him with his eyes, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
His bones ached, his right arm where he had touched the Eye was still useless and felt like shit even on good days, but despite all that, he felt…okay. Sore and worn but okay.
It was strange.
He hadn't felt this okay in a long time.
The breeze brushed past him, warm and golden and light. His satchel was full of things that belonged to him and florins to last him the next couple weeks. Clay had a saddle and a brush. Desmond had fruit in hand and the sun on his armor.
It felt like living. Like he was finally being allowed to live again, even if just for a little while. Even if none of it was real.
"Not bad, huh?" He murmured to the horse, popping the last bite of a fig into his mouth.
Clay huffed.
Then, with perfect, casual malice, he kicked a nearby bush and nearly bucked Desmond's satchel into the tree had he not caught it in time.
"Dude."
Clay tossed his head, proud.
Desmond snorted and shoved at his neck. "You're literally insane."
Clay whinnied and blew air through his nostrils hard enough to flap Desmond's hood.
Desmond rolled his eyes but didn't stop smiling. He offered him a piece of dried pear from his pocket—one of several treats he'd bought in San Gimignano—and clicked his tongue as Clay devoured the treat smugly.
"I am absolutely spoiling you." He sighed, but there was fondness in his voice.
Clay tilted his head as if to say, I deserve this!
Desmond huffed. "Right, but you didn't organize a field op just to build team synergy and steal an assassination job off Ezio's birdfeed, so maybe try being a little more humble, yeah?"
Because honestly, that was exactly what the Sus Tree Operation had been.
He hadn't meant to—not really.
He'd just been checking the Medici coop—half-curious, half-bored—when one of Ezio's contracts had slipped loose. Something about assassinating five Borgia henchmen with stealth kills only. High value, decent payout.
Desmond had read it twice. Then a third time.
And then… he'd taken it.
'Ezio's in Venezia, anyways.' Desmond had thought with a nod to himself. His ancestor had enough on his plate. He probably wouldn't even notice a single assassination contract missing. Besides, Desmond's recruits needed practice and the florins. He was hoping to fully kit out the recruits and if there were any extras, maybe even have a rainy day fund for when Ezio inevitably found himself penniless in Rome.
"Teamwork makes the dream work." Desmond muttered under his breath, vaguely ashamed of using his novices for labor and stealing Ezio's contract, but not at all sorry. "I'm just being proactive. It's like Brotherhood internship hours."
Clay flicked his tail like he agreed. (Or like he didn't care, so long as he got more snacks.)
Desmond leaned back against the tree, his good arm folding around his middle. The leaves above rustled gently in the breeze. The air smelled clean and the last of spring's rain.
In a weird way, Desmond was happy. Tired, still convinced this was his death dream, but glad for the chance to do something again. Something that felt like it mattered.
He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face.
They'd leave soon. He wanted to get to Forli by the end of this week. Maybe scout out a potential meeting point. Maybe leave a carved message in the wood near the stables for any of his recruits who might pass through. Maybe even leave Ezio a gift, for when he passed that way.
He had no grand plans. No endpoint. Just movement.
But this—this strange wandering life, with missions and maps and pigeons and apricot pits in his pockets—
It was his.
And he liked it.
He didn't even notice when Shay looped back overhead, squawking like his tail feathers had caught on fire or when the villagers outside Florence started whispering again.
"The demon was spotted near the tree line!" "No, an angel! I swear I saw him dive off the bell tower and fly!" "He was talking to the devil horse again!"
Desmond exhaled and stretched, back popping, joints aching. Then, remembering his earlier promise, he patted his hip and whistled—low, sharp, two quick notes, face turned towards the sky. "C'mon, Shay! Told you I'd pay up."
He held open his left pocket, which he'd stuffed earlier with a modest mix of dried corn, pumpkin seeds, and something labeled 'high vitality blend' that a merchant had sworn birds loved. Desmond had no idea what was actually in it, but if something happened to Shay, he knew where the merchant lived.
For a second, there was silence.
Then—with a wheeze and an unhinged war cry—Shay dive bombed like a sack of bricks straight into the open pocket.
Desmond jolted with a laugh, half taken aback by the force. "Oh god—okay, okay! Rabid bird secured!"
Shay gave a triumphant cough-coo and vanished into the pouch, tail feathers sticking out wildly like a very ugly brooch.
Still smiling, Desmond reached up and scratched behind Clay's ears. "Alright, break's over. Let's go see what's up in Forli. Wonder if Caterina's killed her husband yet."
Clay flattened his ears like finally, and then—before Desmond could gather the reins—the horse bolted.
They launched down the hill in a blur of hooves and grass and startled birds, Desmond's satchel flapping, pocket bird rattling. Desmond let out a yelp and instinctively threw his arms around Clay's neck, clinging on like a very frazzled backpack.
"You asshole!" Desmond wheezed, half-laughing, half-panicked. "I didn't say now!"
Clay snorted as if to say, you didn't have to, and picked up speed.
The wind rushed in Desmond's ears. His hood flew back. The world blurred past in streaks of green and gold, and somehow, clinging tight to a smug, overgrown hellhorse with a feral pigeon in his pocket and more about-to-be-stolen assassination contracts waiting in Forli, Desmond felt it—
Joy.
He laughed, breathless and bright, and let the dream carry him.
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I started this specific post as a joke. Now there's a codex, lore, and I'm actually starting to care too much.
Anyways, stomach bug's(???) gone so back to my wip lmao
Thank you for indulging in my hijinks. Let us pray it does not happen again.
