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They wake up before dawn, the apartment dark and still, their heart pounding. Altaïr is the first one to get his wits about him—his reflexes are probably what woke them up—and he rolls out of bed quickly, silently, grabbing for their sneakers. They're already dressed; they never sleep in clothes they couldn't flee in.
Are we sure it's them? Desmond asks. He shouldn't even be awake. He was working until just a few hours ago.
We're not going to lie here waiting for confirmation, Altaïr growls. The others grumble a little, but his paranoia has saved them more than once. He tugs the sneakers on, shrugs into the backpack that contains their few essential possessions, and creeps toward the window: low to the ground, movements careful and slow. Probably the people after them will have somebody guarding the window; they're not stupid. But it's still a better way out than trying to make it through the apartment to the door, and then through the hallway and the stairwell—that's entirely too much time spent in closed spaces where it would be easy to get cornered.
A creaking sound on the fire escape outside makes them all flinch. You're going to kill him, aren't you, Desmond says unhappily. Ezio says nothing but he's alert by now, listening for the answer.
If I must, Altaïr says. He never sugar-coats things, and the others know him well enough that they wouldn't believe him if he tried. Desmond's response is resignation; Ezio, who is less predictable, seems satisfied. Their lips quirk with Altaïr's faint, surprised smile.
It's only fair, Ezio explains. They're not here to make friends with us.
Altaïr is paying little attention to the others. Right now it's his job to get them out of this trap before it springs, and that's a job he's good at, but it takes concentration. He watches the window, the thin curtain, the light from the streetlamp outside. Anyone who got too close to the window would cast an obvious shadow; it's one of the reasons they took this apartment. Nobody's visible there now. If they're smart, the hunters will have somebody at ground level and somebody above. The hunters tend to be smart.
Still, the group expected this, and they're as prepared as they can be. Altaïr eases up beside the window and slips a hand around the curtain, sliding the window slowly up. It took both practice and attention with a bottle of graphite lubricant to make the window open easily, soundlessly, from such a bad angle, and even now it won't give them much of an opportunity—the same smoothness with which it opens means that it will slide closed again just as fast.
From the other end of the apartment there's a tiny click, the sound of a lock being eased open almost but not quite quietly enough. Shit, Ezio contributes.
Altaïr wouldn't phrase it quite that way, but he shares the sentiment. Time to go.
He flicks the curtain aside as they rise. One foot on the window ledge, ready, out, leaping for the rail of the fire escape. Somebody starts to yell and stifles the noise almost instantly. Altaïr launches them across the alley: not down, not up. Those directions are covered. There's just enough texture in the crumbling brickwork on the other side for him to get a grip and start climbing. Muscles ache in protest; Desmond's shift at the bar didn't end until two a.m., and even if he came straight home to bed, the body just hasn't had enough time to recover. Their pursuers are probably counting on exhaustion to slow them down.
The brick next to their shoulder bursts into shards. Altaïr turns away to avoid breathing in the dust, and just sees the matte black shaft of a crossbow bolt falling to the alley below. Faster. He needs to get them out of sight.
"Desmond," someone hisses from behind them. "You can't run forever!"
Desmond's burst of panicked fury charges their limbs with adrenaline, and Altaïr uses the fuel to boost them up to the next story. Catch the window ledge, grab the corner molding, swing them around out of sight into the building's shadow. They haven't done enough of this lately. The tendons in their wrists already ache. Onto the roof, then. Up there he can run, and that's faster anyway.
When he boosts them up onto the roof, one of the hunters is there, turning at the sound of movement. A gun barrel glints in the dim light. Altaïr doesn't pause, just dives for the hunter, staying low. The pock of a silenced pistol shot echoes off nearby walls, but there's no pain—and before a second shot comes, Altaïr slams into the hunter's knees. The man yelps with pain and then scrabbles for a grip on their shirt as he loses his balance and starts to pitch over the side of the building. Altaïr jerks free and the man falls, five stories to the alley's cobblestones.
Desmond flinches, and for a second they all share his nausea. Then the remaining hunters rally and start calling instructions to each other; Ezio picks them up off the roof and starts running. Altaïr often complains that he's too sloppy, that he's not efficient, but he can get the job done. Sometimes being unpredictable is an asset, right?
He sprints across the rooftops, leaping from one to the next, taking sharp turns whenever he has something big enough to duck behind and hide the change in direction. This is serious business, yeah, thanks, Altaïr, but it's also just a little bit thrilling—any one of them would have their heart pounding at this point, but Ezio's the only one who grins about it.
After a few blocks with no sign of pursuit, he drops over the edge of a building, bringing them down to street level in a controlled fall. They have a pretty terrible stitch in their left side, and despite the cool night air they're sweating. But they got away, again. No trip back to the farm for Desmond and co. today.
We need to find someplace with people around, Desmond points out. Ezio feels a little bad, because wow, Desmond's pretty clearly exhausted.
"Don't worry, we got that handled," Ezio says, even though talking to the others out loud is another thing Altaïr complains about. It doesn't look crazy if he only does it when they're alone, right?
And for once Altaïr doesn't pick a fight about it. Get some rest, he tells Desmond. The cafes will start opening soon. We'll go find breakfast and figure out where to go from here.
Desmond broadcasts his fuzzy, sleepy relief. Wake me up before we leave town, okay? I want to know where we're going.
Ezio nods. He steps out onto the main street, turns toward downtown, and starts into an easy jog. They're just a health-conscious young man out for his morning run before work; nothing to see here. We'll let you know before anything happens, he promises. So sleep well.
Thanks, Desmond says, and then he goes quiet. Asleep at last.
Even Altaïr has to admit they make a good team.