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Description
July 8, 1947; Roswell, New Mexico

Brazel paced bitterly back and forth in his cell. The man was not happy about his current situation and he wasn't afraid to show it. Still, he said nothing to the two men sitting on the outside, leaning on a couple desks as their heads swarmed with worry.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Marcel asked Bromden, shaking his head in frustration.

“I don't know,” Bromden said as he swam around in his own thoughts to look for a better answer.

“We can't just keep Brazel in here forever, Bromden. Man’s got a family to look after. A family that could be in danger if Abstergo’s stalking around town.”

“I know, Jesse.”

“Maybe we should call in for some backup? I might be able to get a hold of the Feds and get a squad down here to deal with those clowns.”

Bromden shook his head. “No,” he said. “That's too much. Abstergo will see that coming from a mile away, and even if they don't, they'll still have the tools they need to bribe and bail their way out of trouble before the sun even comes up.”

“Then what do we do?”

Bromden closed his eyes and put his finger on his chin. He sat there in silence for a moment, tossing ideas back and forth in his head, until he finally came to the solution that unfortunately most of his problems ended up coming to.

“I'm going to try and get a meeting with the head honcho,” he decided. “Chances are, he’ll be around that crash site, so that's where I'll head.”

“That's really risky, Bromden.”

Bromden smirked, ever so slightly. “So were all those stunts we pulled during the war,” he said, pulling up his hood. “I'll be back in about a couple hours. And if I'm not, then you have my permission to call the Feds. If for no other reason than to get them out of here and keep Brazel and his family safe. Agreed?”

Marcel bit his lip, but despite his hesitance, he nodded. “Alright…” he conceded. “I don't like it, but I trust you. Make sure you get your ass back here asap, got it Major?”

Bromden smiled and gave a casual salute. “Roger, Major,” he told his friend. Then he turned and made his way to the front door of the RAAF’s containment facility. The large metal door echoed as it shut tight behind him and he wisped away into the darkness of the desert night, ready to get his hidden blade wet with Templar blood for the first time in a long while.

------------

Bromden had taken a jeep most of the way towards the crash site that he and the others had visited the other day. He stopped a small bit farther away from the last place they had parked, though. It was the middle of the night, and Abstergo had their eyes and ears primed all over this patch of dirt and tumbleweeds. He wanted to be as cautious as he possibly could be.

He made sure the car was shut completely off and stuffed the keys in his pocket. He looked towards the direction of the crash site, and immediately his eyebrows were raising. He saw lights over the horizon, like the kind of hue given off by halogen lights. Every now and then he'd see faint flashes that appeared and disappeared, flashes that experience told him belonged to flashlights being spun as guards did rounds. He would have to be careful, he knew. Something was up, and he was about to jump into the thick of it.

He walked towards the lights on the horizon, taking his time as much as he could and consciously avoiding the dried up desert foliage on the ground. Silence and darkness were his only disguises on this mission.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, Bromden found himself at the base of the crater at last. He got down on his stomach and quietly army crawled his way up to the edge where all the lights were beaming from. He peaked out over the rim, trying to get a decent eye full of whatever was going on.

And oh how he did.

The crater was hardly the mysterious charred blast zone it had been the first time Bromden had come here. Now the entire area was covered by some sort of makeshift base, with large tents connected by tubes at the doorways, and one particularly large tent sat in the middle of the crater. Right on top of where the pile of debris had been. To make matters worse, guards armored with flak jackets were patrolling around the entire area, their shirts emblazoned with the Abstergo Industries logo. Bromden cursed his luck. The Templars were thorough bastards, he’d give them that.

He took a moment to scan over the base, trying to think of how best to tackle this situation. He'd have to find the leader, he thought to himself. He'd find the leader, interrogate him, kill him, then book it back to RAAF. Sounds so easy when you say it out loud doesn't it?

He took a deep breath, then he quickly scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge of the nearest tent. He peaked out around it, checking for guards and ducking back when he saw a flashlight turn his way. He held his breath as the guard holding it stopped just short of the tent's edge, then turned back around to continue his patrol. Bromden waited until the man moved out of sight, then let out his breath and slipped into the tent as fast as he could. He tiptoed his way through the connective tube, listening for even the slightest sound that seemed to be coming towards him and looking for any little piece of tech that could serve as his cover. He popped out the end of another tent, eyes watchful, before deciding to step out back into the open.

It was a decision he immediately regretted though, as out of the corner of his eye he saw another flash of light. With a silent gasp, he bolted around the side of the tent, hoping and praying that he hadn't been spotted.

And thank God his prayers had been answered.

The guards continued the conversation they had been having, and Bromden heard them unzip the entrance to the tent and step inside.

“This is all such a crazy scheme,” he heard one of them say.

“It is pretty hair-brained, I'll admit,” is companion agreed.

“Something straight out of Buck Rogers.”

“Do you think they'll be able to pull it off?”

“After how well this test went? Doubtful.”

“It'll be really impressive if they do, though.”

“I'll eat my hat if they actually manage to pull it off and bring the thing back.”

Bring the thing back? What were they talking about, Bromden wondered? And what did it have to do with what was going on here? What was this supposed to be a test of? He got the feeling he wasn't going to get the answers to all those questions tonight. But luckily for him, the answer to another of his questions suddenly burst into hearing range. The question of where the commander was.

“What do you men think you're doing just standing around like that?” a cold, strong voice barked from inside the tent.

“Just stopping for a quick drink, sir,” one of the guards said, clearly trying to hide a slight quiver in his voice.

“Well hurry up and then get back to your patrols!” the new voice spat. “This is one of the most important operations in the history of the Templar Order and I'd rather not report back to the Grand Master saying it's been spoiled on step one thanks to a couple of lazy guardsmen. Am I understood, gentlemen?”

“Yes sir, Commander Weyland sir!” the guards said in unison.

“Good. Now get moving. I need to make sure the goods are intact.”

Bromden heard the two guards quickly shuffling away down the tent and unzipping out the other side. Meanwhile, the Commander sauntered his way out Bromden's end and made his way to another tent to disappear into. Bromden gave himself a silent pep talk in the form of a couple deep breaths, and then he quietly scurried after the man. He crept along the outside of the base, taking care to be on the lookout for patrols as he did. He made his way towards the center tent, the big one, where no doubt the Commander was marching to. He put his ear to the fabric and cursed his luck when he heard the amount of people shuffling around inside, one of which included the Commander.

“How's it looking, gentlemen?” he heard the Templar say.

“Damaged beyond repair, sir,” someone Bromden assumed to be a worker or scientist said.

“Damn. Is anything salvageable?”

“A few of the components should be. A few pieces of hardware managed to survive the crash and they can likely be recycled for future experiments.”

“Excellent. At least some good came out of this. I told that idiot Billings we need to do these experiments in more controlled areas. I'll have whoever thought NYU makes for a good testing sight castrated.”

“Should we call in for extraction, sir?”

“Yes, go ahead. Might as well before more of those hicks start snooping around again.”

“The call will be made immediately, sir.”

“Excellent. I'll leave you gentlemen to it, then.”

Bromden heard the sound of a zipper opening and closing, and he quickly followed the footsteps of the Commander. He needed more information. He needed to nip this Templar operation in the bud if he could, and get whatever he could out of it if he couldn't. He crept quietly along the tent walls, listening for the Commander's footsteps as he made his way through the winding paths and towards the nearest exit. Bromden did a quick check around to make sure no guards were patrolling in his direction. Satisfied by the lack of flashlight beams, he hurried forwards a little bit and got into position, crouching, ready to pounce. He heard the zipper open up, and the sound of shoes scraping against bare gravel.

A sound that Bromden took as his cue to pounce.

He flicked his wrist, and his old hidden blade sprung out of its casing. With his free hand, Bromden leapt up and clamped his palm over the Commander's mouth, using their weights and momentums to shove them over the edge of the crater. They went tumbling down the charred dirt hill, Bromden trying his best to muffle out as much noise as possible. They came to a stop, and right as the Commander started to regain his senses after the surprise, Bromden rammed his blade into the man's chest, ending any hopes the Templar had of putting up a fight. His shout fell muffled into the leather of Bromden’s glove, and as the aura or death filled the air, time around them seemed to come to a slow stop. The dry desert soil and the insect-laden air cracked and bent, glitching and fading out until the raw silent void of the Animus simulation was all that surrounded Bromden and his prey. Ava watched, an inkling of her consciousness coming back to her, as her great grandfather knelt over the Commander.

“Get the hell off me!” the Templar gurgled, using what little strength he had to bat Bromden away.

The Assassin stood, retracting his blade. “You've got a lot of explaining to do, Commander Weyland,” he said.

“I don't have to explain jack to you, you hooded bastard,” the Commander spat.

“You’re on your last breaths, Commander. I don't think anything's going to get accomplished by using them to fume.”

“Go to hell.”

Bromden scowled, and he bent down to look the dying man in the eye. “What the hell are you Templars up to?” he asked. “That device inside that base, what is it? What is Project Mogul?”

“The first step to the future, Assassin. Something you won't be able to stop.”

“I've heard that one before.” Bromden then reached into his coat pocket, and from it he pulled out the small rod-shaped Piece of Eden that he had gotten from Brazel. “What's this for? Some sort of bomb? Were Hiroshima and Nagasaki not enough for the Order’s bloodlust?”

The Commander scoffed, coughing blood as he did. “You're as short-sighted as you are stupid,” he growled. “We've got our sights on a much higher calling than scaring the world with mushroom clouds this time… And when we succeed… there won't be… anywhere you can run…”

His eyes suddenly rolled back into his skull, and his arms went limp, his chest still. Bromden cursed his luck, and closed the man's eyes. “I'm not the one who should be running,” he said softly. “Rest in peace, Commander.”

Bromden then tucked the Piece of Eden back into his coat pocket, and stood from the corpse. He had to get out of here before someone noticed their commander was missing. He ran around the circumference of the crater, quiet as he could, moving a little bit out as he turned. He let himself be a little less cautious the farther away he got and the closer he got to his car. When he reached the vehicle, he hopped straight in, and had the engines purring in a matter of moments. Right as he spun the wheel and put his foot on the gas, he heard a distant shout coming from the horizon.

“The Commander is down! Someone's stabbed the Commander!”

By the time the shout ended, all that was left in Bromden's place was faded tire tracks.

------------

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Marcel pressed Bromden when they had reunited at RAAF. “The first step towards the future?”

Bromden shook his head. “I wish I had an answer myself,” he said.

“I don't like this… I knew Abstergo was up to something I just knew it.”

“Well until we find out what that something is, there's not much we can do but keep a keen eye over our shoulders.”

Marcel nodded. “What about Brazel?” he asked.

“Abstergo will likely bail out of Roswell once they've recovered whatever it is they crashed in that desert. I'd give it a few days for them to pack up and leave, and then Brazel should be safe to go home.”

“Alright. I'll let him know. Damn… I just wish we weren't so in the dark right now.”

“You and me both.”

“Any plans, Major?”

Bromden took a deep breath. “If you can hold down the fort here for a while, I'm going to head back to South Dakota to be with my fiance. You've got our number, so you can keep me posted if you find anything… interesting.”

Marcel nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a fair enough plan to me,” he said. “You heading out now then?”

“Yeah. Macha doesn't like it when I'm gone for too long. Had to spend all those years without me during the War, you know?”

“I feel that, Major. Go on then. I'll send you a ring if Abstergo ever rears its ugly head around here again.”

Bromden smiled and nodded in thanks. He stood from his desk, and saluted his friend, a gesture that Marcel returned.

“Until next time then, Jesse,” he said.

“Until next time.”

Description
July 8, 1947; Roswell, New Mexico

Brazel paced bitterly back and forth in his cell. The man was not happy about his current situation and he wasn't afraid to show it. Still, he said nothing to the two men sitting on the outside, leaning on a couple desks as their heads swarmed with worry.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Marcel asked Bromden, shaking his head in frustration.

“I don't know,” Bromden said as he swam around in his own thoughts to look for a better answer.

“We can't just keep Brazel in here forever, Bromden. Man’s got a family to look after. A family that could be in danger if Abstergo’s stalking around town.”

“I know, Jesse.”

“Maybe we should call in for some backup? I might be able to get a hold of the Feds and get a squad down here to deal with those clowns.”

Bromden shook his head. “No,” he said. “That's too much. Abstergo will see that coming from a mile away, and even if they don't, they'll still have the tools they need to bribe and bail their way out of trouble before the sun even comes up.”

“Then what do we do?”

Bromden closed his eyes and put his finger on his chin. He sat there in silence for a moment, tossing ideas back and forth in his head, until he finally came to the solution that unfortunately most of his problems ended up coming to.

“I'm going to try and get a meeting with the head honcho,” he decided. “Chances are, he’ll be around that crash site, so that's where I'll head.”

“That's really risky, Bromden.”

Bromden smirked, ever so slightly. “So were all those stunts we pulled during the war,” he said, pulling up his hood. “I'll be back in about a couple hours. And if I'm not, then you have my permission to call the Feds. If for no other reason than to get them out of here and keep Brazel and his family safe. Agreed?”

Marcel bit his lip, but despite his hesitance, he nodded. “Alright…” he conceded. “I don't like it, but I trust you. Make sure you get your ass back here asap, got it Major?”

Bromden smiled and gave a casual salute. “Roger, Major,” he told his friend. Then he turned and made his way to the front door of the RAAF’s containment facility. The large metal door echoed as it shut tight behind him and he wisped away into the darkness of the desert night, ready to get his hidden blade wet with Templar blood for the first time in a long while.

------------

Bromden had taken a jeep most of the way towards the crash site that he and the others had visited the other day. He stopped a small bit farther away from the last place they had parked, though. It was the middle of the night, and Abstergo had their eyes and ears primed all over this patch of dirt and tumbleweeds. He wanted to be as cautious as he possibly could be.

He made sure the car was shut completely off and stuffed the keys in his pocket. He looked towards the direction of the crash site, and immediately his eyebrows were raising. He saw lights over the horizon, like the kind of hue given off by halogen lights. Every now and then he'd see faint flashes that appeared and disappeared, flashes that experience told him belonged to flashlights being spun as guards did rounds. He would have to be careful, he knew. Something was up, and he was about to jump into the thick of it.

He walked towards the lights on the horizon, taking his time as much as he could and consciously avoiding the dried up desert foliage on the ground. Silence and darkness were his only disguises on this mission.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, Bromden found himself at the base of the crater at last. He got down on his stomach and quietly army crawled his way up to the edge where all the lights were beaming from. He peaked out over the rim, trying to get a decent eye full of whatever was going on.

And oh how he did.

The crater was hardly the mysterious charred blast zone it had been the first time Bromden had come here. Now the entire area was covered by some sort of makeshift base, with large tents connected by tubes at the doorways, and one particularly large tent sat in the middle of the crater. Right on top of where the pile of debris had been. To make matters worse, guards armored with flak jackets were patrolling around the entire area, their shirts emblazoned with the Abstergo Industries logo. Bromden cursed his luck. The Templars were thorough bastards, he’d give them that.

He took a moment to scan over the base, trying to think of how best to tackle this situation. He'd have to find the leader, he thought to himself. He'd find the leader, interrogate him, kill him, then book it back to RAAF. Sounds so easy when you say it out loud doesn't it?

He took a deep breath, then he quickly scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge of the nearest tent. He peaked out around it, checking for guards and ducking back when he saw a flashlight turn his way. He held his breath as the guard holding it stopped just short of the tent's edge, then turned back around to continue his patrol. Bromden waited until the man moved out of sight, then let out his breath and slipped into the tent as fast as he could. He tiptoed his way through the connective tube, listening for even the slightest sound that seemed to be coming towards him and looking for any little piece of tech that could serve as his cover. He popped out the end of another tent, eyes watchful, before deciding to step out back into the open.

It was a decision he immediately regretted though, as out of the corner of his eye he saw another flash of light. With a silent gasp, he bolted around the side of the tent, hoping and praying that he hadn't been spotted.

And thank God his prayers had been answered.

The guards continued the conversation they had been having, and Bromden heard them unzip the entrance to the tent and step inside.

“This is all such a crazy scheme,” he heard one of them say.

“It is pretty hair-brained, I'll admit,” is companion agreed.

“Something straight out of Buck Rogers.”

“Do you think they'll be able to pull it off?”

“After how well this test went? Doubtful.”

“It'll be really impressive if they do, though.”

“I'll eat my hat if they actually manage to pull it off and bring the thing back.”

Bring the thing back? What were they talking about, Bromden wondered? And what did it have to do with what was going on here? What was this supposed to be a test of? He got the feeling he wasn't going to get the answers to all those questions tonight. But luckily for him, the answer to another of his questions suddenly burst into hearing range. The question of where the commander was.

“What do you men think you're doing just standing around like that?” a cold, strong voice barked from inside the tent.

“Just stopping for a quick drink, sir,” one of the guards said, clearly trying to hide a slight quiver in his voice.

“Well hurry up and then get back to your patrols!” the new voice spat. “This is one of the most important operations in the history of the Templar Order and I'd rather not report back to the Grand Master saying it's been spoiled on step one thanks to a couple of lazy guardsmen. Am I understood, gentlemen?”

“Yes sir, Commander Weyland sir!” the guards said in unison.

“Good. Now get moving. I need to make sure the goods are intact.”

Bromden heard the two guards quickly shuffling away down the tent and unzipping out the other side. Meanwhile, the Commander sauntered his way out Bromden's end and made his way to another tent to disappear into. Bromden gave himself a silent pep talk in the form of a couple deep breaths, and then he quietly scurried after the man. He crept along the outside of the base, taking care to be on the lookout for patrols as he did. He made his way towards the center tent, the big one, where no doubt the Commander was marching to. He put his ear to the fabric and cursed his luck when he heard the amount of people shuffling around inside, one of which included the Commander.

“How's it looking, gentlemen?” he heard the Templar say.

“Damaged beyond repair, sir,” someone Bromden assumed to be a worker or scientist said.

“Damn. Is anything salvageable?”

“A few of the components should be. A few pieces of hardware managed to survive the crash and they can likely be recycled for future experiments.”

“Excellent. At least some good came out of this. I told that idiot Billings we need to do these experiments in more controlled areas. I'll have whoever thought NYU makes for a good testing sight castrated.”

“Should we call in for extraction, sir?”

“Yes, go ahead. Might as well before more of those hicks start snooping around again.”

“The call will be made immediately, sir.”

“Excellent. I'll leave you gentlemen to it, then.”

Bromden heard the sound of a zipper opening and closing, and he quickly followed the footsteps of the Commander. He needed more information. He needed to nip this Templar operation in the bud if he could, and get whatever he could out of it if he couldn't. He crept quietly along the tent walls, listening for the Commander's footsteps as he made his way through the winding paths and towards the nearest exit. Bromden did a quick check around to make sure no guards were patrolling in his direction. Satisfied by the lack of flashlight beams, he hurried forwards a little bit and got into position, crouching, ready to pounce. He heard the zipper open up, and the sound of shoes scraping against bare gravel.

A sound that Bromden took as his cue to pounce.

He flicked his wrist, and his old hidden blade sprung out of its casing. With his free hand, Bromden leapt up and clamped his palm over the Commander's mouth, using their weights and momentums to shove them over the edge of the crater. They went tumbling down the charred dirt hill, Bromden trying his best to muffle out as much noise as possible. They came to a stop, and right as the Commander started to regain his senses after the surprise, Bromden rammed his blade into the man's chest, ending any hopes the Templar had of putting up a fight. His shout fell muffled into the leather of Bromden’s glove, and as the aura or death filled the air, time around them seemed to come to a slow stop. The dry desert soil and the insect-laden air cracked and bent, glitching and fading out until the raw silent void of the Animus simulation was all that surrounded Bromden and his prey. Ava watched, an inkling of her consciousness coming back to her, as her great grandfather knelt over the Commander.

“Get the hell off me!” the Templar gurgled, using what little strength he had to bat Bromden away.

The Assassin stood, retracting his blade. “You've got a lot of explaining to do, Commander Weyland,” he said.

“I don't have to explain jack to you, you hooded bastard,” the Commander spat.

“You’re on your last breaths, Commander. I don't think anything's going to get accomplished by using them to fume.”

“Go to hell.”

Bromden scowled, and he bent down to look the dying man in the eye. “What the hell are you Templars up to?” he asked. “That device inside that base, what is it? What is Project Mogul?”

“The first step to the future, Assassin. Something you won't be able to stop.”

“I've heard that one before.” Bromden then reached into his coat pocket, and from it he pulled out the small rod-shaped Piece of Eden that he had gotten from Brazel. “What's this for? Some sort of bomb? Were Hiroshima and Nagasaki not enough for the Order’s bloodlust?”

The Commander scoffed, coughing blood as he did. “You're as short-sighted as you are stupid,” he growled. “We've got our sights on a much higher calling than scaring the world with mushroom clouds this time… And when we succeed… there won't be… anywhere you can run…”

His eyes suddenly rolled back into his skull, and his arms went limp, his chest still. Bromden cursed his luck, and closed the man's eyes. “I'm not the one who should be running,” he said softly. “Rest in peace, Commander.”

Bromden then tucked the Piece of Eden back into his coat pocket, and stood from the corpse. He had to get out of here before someone noticed their commander was missing. He ran around the circumference of the crater, quiet as he could, moving a little bit out as he turned. He let himself be a little less cautious the farther away he got and the closer he got to his car. When he reached the vehicle, he hopped straight in, and had the engines purring in a matter of moments. Right as he spun the wheel and put his foot on the gas, he heard a distant shout coming from the horizon.

“The Commander is down! Someone's stabbed the Commander!”

By the time the shout ended, all that was left in Bromden's place was faded tire tracks.

------------

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Marcel pressed Bromden when they had reunited at RAAF. “The first step towards the future?”

Bromden shook his head. “I wish I had an answer myself,” he said.

“I don't like this… I knew Abstergo was up to something I just knew it.”

“Well until we find out what that something is, there's not much we can do but keep a keen eye over our shoulders.”

Marcel nodded. “What about Brazel?” he asked.

“Abstergo will likely bail out of Roswell once they've recovered whatever it is they crashed in that desert. I'd give it a few days for them to pack up and leave, and then Brazel should be safe to go home.”

“Alright. I'll let him know. Damn… I just wish we weren't so in the dark right now.”

“You and me both.”

“Any plans, Major?”

Bromden took a deep breath. “If you can hold down the fort here for a while, I'm going to head back to South Dakota to be with my fiance. You've got our number, so you can keep me posted if you find anything… interesting.”

Marcel nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a fair enough plan to me,” he said. “You heading out now then?”

“Yeah. Macha doesn't like it when I'm gone for too long. Had to spend all those years without me during the War, you know?”

“I feel that, Major. Go on then. I'll send you a ring if Abstergo ever rears its ugly head around here again.”

Bromden smiled and nodded in thanks. He stood from his desk, and saluted his friend, a gesture that Marcel returned.

“Until next time then, Jesse,” he said.

“Until next time.”