Visionaries - an Assassin's Creed: Mirage found family fanfic
Final day, baby !! This was the beginning to a wholesome, found family story, heavily inspired by a post my bud made about one of her dreams early this year. I was hooked on the concept, it got out of hand, but the story itself didn't carry through to its glorious end </3 One day I hope to return to this fic (if I find inspo or play Mirage again), it was about to get quite deep into spiritual concepts that really hit home for me, while also expanding more on Eagle Vision lore (because I never see anyone talk about it in depth ??). For now, I'm perfectly happy with sharing what's already here - just because it's unfinished, doesn't mean it's not worth something Be warned : side mission where Basim has a massive attitude hehe
Fic under the cut x
“There are no explanations for how or why these mysteries affect our lives. But they’re like imprints, innate, woven into the fabric of our souls so when we walk this earth, we experience the world in its true light. You see things differently, do you not? You need not say so. You read differently, that’s all. You may not know it, but you cast a weary gaze upon the earth. I do not find the same qualities among many of our brothers, meaning our creed, our ideals are taught and applied to the world but not fully understood. It takes a talent many humans have not mastered. Not all can see through the veil that is the physical — the abstract. When we gaze upon a tree, we see its roots. I do, I’ve seen you have, and Sahar will see more of it too as the time passes. I sense the same sensitivity in her. There is no value for the sense we have been given and oftentimes it may feel like a curse to be free of ignorance and exposed to the harsh light of the world and its people. Although we are few, be reassured that your experiences are not misunderstood and are shared by a select few scattered throughout this life.” — Hamid, unused excerpt
'Hasty' and 'with an agenda' were the last descriptors Basim would use to pin to his personality, but coming from the lips of his mentor, almost anything rang true. He may have pushed his limit in arguing his point, true, and as futile as it was, it was worth every word to try — he was right, he'd take that to his grave. It earned him a following jab at his apparent 'growing ambition' and 'if he cannot execute a basic task, he has no place in executing the morally corrupt'.
Within his very essence, Basim knew this was to spite him for his cheeky defiance and even so, he had worn a smile to dress the wound of being outwitted. He'd wrestled with his features to achieve such a slight feat; his face betrayed him even at the best of times, but he denied giving her the satisfaction of any visible sign of defeat.
Incisions aside, he believed Roshan to be above petty, childish constructs like dealing punishments. Today he was proven wrong. Some days she had shorter patience for him than others — that was a topic he never had the courage to broach — and despite being a full-fledged member of the Hidden Ones, his autonomy was lower than he'd hoped for. He wasn’t an initiate anymore, so where was his wiggle room? He could follow a set of directions and traditions just fine, so long as they were reasonable. What he was being subjected to, was not.
Basim wasn't impatient per se, but he found sensibility in efficiency. Anything that wasn't consuming his time in a week-long, leisurely fashion suited him. This newest task, however, was of the painstakingly slow kind.
Holding petty grudges was not worth Basim's time but neither was this supposed 'mission', so he allowed himself to be at least a little resentful towards Roshan. He didn't do mindless things, he hated mindless things. If he wasn't learning, progressing or excelling, what was the point?
If he had no respect, he'd accuse his mentors of being lazy. He didn't see anyone else claim contracts off the board, he didn't see anybody else offer to help out allies in need. The first and final verdict was: "Basim can do this." They were right. Basim can do this. Something sparked up in him, a spur of cleverness and optimism. He wanted them to validate what he already knew and he aimed to win that battle. He planned on doing this errand and doing it so well that his betters would simply have to admit: "Basim is above menial chores" and tell him he can be on his way. Then the invisible rope that tethers him to Roshan would loosen. Wiggle room. Deserved space. So his step lightened as he followed the path he was instructed to take. He'd do it and make light work of it. Although a little begrudgingly.
—
He waited outside the walls of Baghdad, leaning against the post of some merchant's stall, fading in and out of a doze. A sensible rendezvous point, excluding getting over the wall, which happened to be half the mission. It was a necessary precaution. Apparently the guards did not favour someone who looked just as suspicious as the next person that walked past. Getting past the gate was the easy part, slipping past the guards' line of sight was another. It was a post dependent attribute; those posted at gates had a heightened sense of paranoia. There was always something tense about the atmosphere when walking into a guarded gate. He knew not why. His muscles clung to the ghost of a memory of that provocative experience and that was sufficient information to remind him not to repeat that mistake of waltzing in where he supposedly didn't belong.
He wondered how he'd get back in, now that his foggy mind was drifting in that direction. If it was him alone, he'd routinely backtrack and go back the way he came. His dismay was in knowing he would struggle to do so with others accompanying him. Again, proving he wasn't the man for such a mission. One or two allies wasn't a problem, solo tasks were preferable, though. The nature of this mission, however, entailed allies of lesser physical aptitude than he, so he was told. That side note subtly nagged at him. He found himself beginning to reroute in his head to vacate for the newcomers. What a headache. He wished he'd succumbed to sleep instead, a nap would've been more beneficial for the moment. No matter how dwindling his rest was, his thoughts continued to tick, preventing him from absconding reality and forcing him to focus on identifying his new brothers.
Picking them from the crowd wasn't an excruciating challenge whatsoever. He gave them credit if they were feigning incompetence to make an innocent first impression to the public. Basim watched them for a minute, stumbling, struggling to carry items, settling the crates down in a spot that looked 'good enough' when it very obviously was inconveniently in the middle of the road — clever. Almost believable. It wasn’t quite 'hiding in plain sight', but one could never be too careful as a Hidden One. Perhaps remaining hidden sometimes meant to call yourself to attention. Oddly counterintuitive, yet effective nonetheless.
Feeling a little guilty he hung back for so long, he approached the pair. He plastered on a smile like he was reuniting with family and not like he was wishing to be curled up, snoozing in the shaded patch he was previously sheltered by.
"Allow me," he offered kindly, taking a box out of the hands of the smaller of the two, lightening the load. His eyes snapped to the corners, searching for the small imperfection that would confirm these were indeed his allies. A little triangular carving, resembling the symbol of the Hidden Ones. He got the right people. The boost of dopamine didn't last long when he honed in on the exact situation he was placed in, regarding present company.
His 'allies' were a man and his young daughter. It all clicked into place. Every letter of the mission briefing was true and didn't hint at any grander, more exciting scheme, despite being so vague. Bothersome and disappointing. The girl — who may have been no more than twelve — shyly thanked him for the assistance but her voice faded into the background of his own internal one. He began to conspire what he'd do when he broke from the bounds of this living purgatory. Deep, undisturbed sleep. If he was lucky.
Poor hospitality, Basim. Ripping himself from his daydream, he turned to the girl's father to introduce himself. The polite thing to do.
"Basim."
"Hamid." His eyes creased with lines of kindness as he smiled. "Sahar." He gestured to his daughter, who perked up but retreated into her father's shadow. He sensed her discomfort and sent the girl a nod of solidarity. She didn't warm to the telepathic message and he understood well enough. He adjusted the crate in his arms and hugged it to his chest to prepare him for the path ahead.
Unnecessary words were not spent and hence introducing themselves, nothing else was discussed. Prearranged missions had a tendency to be smooth sailing if well-thought-out. This one was no exception, considering its low risk of running into danger. Save from the looming gate in front of them. Both dangerous and not thought about at all. No one was to blame for the gate problem, but the responsibility fell to Basim to deduce how to navigate said problem.
They neared the gate and Basim's own inner safety mechanism was already firing off warning shots. He kept himself cloaked between the man and his girl as they walked, appearing as if he was their servant carrying their luggage. Or he hoped that's how he was being perceived by the jittery guards at their designated stations.
"Just to be sure," he raised the question, inclined towards Hamid, in nothing more than a whisper to maintain the ruse he'd made on demand. "What are in these crates? If we are pulled up by the guards, I'd like to know what it is I'm carrying." Routine security checks were common but as long as Basim wasn't hauling a crate full of contraband or smuggling other living beings across the threshold, he wouldn't take issue with it. Surely not, especially with someone so young in his company. He couldn't imagine dragging a child into illegal activities. No child should be raised in an environment like that, he'd never been more adamant about anything.
Hamid flashed a surreptitious smirk and replied, "Secrets." Basim's expression hardened. Any more vague information could get them killed for sure, his gut told him so. He itched to pry the lid open and look inside this burden to reveal these apparent secrets. Were it not nailed shut and in his arms, his thief's fingers would make that happen.
"I must know." Basim grew desperate, his alerted senses picking up every potential threat in the near vicinity. They were within the gate's suffocating grasp and Basim need not even be told. His ribcage felt as if it were curling in on itself and his physical surroundings grew dense. "Some peace of mind," he clarified, wondering if his anxieties were creeping through. He noticed it was beginning to get harder to mask fear when fatigue runs the body and mind down.
"Nothing more than dusty, old books and crafting materials, my friend, you need not worry. We'll pass the guards with ease." Basim wished he felt reassured by those words. He did not in the slightest. "Keep close, Sahar," he instructed the girl and she obliged willingly. Out of apprehension of the new environment, Basim figured.
They all crammed uncomfortably together to indicate they were associated with one another. Hopefully not condensed enough to separate themselves from the normal passersby. They walked on through the crowd, almost making it through the gate entirely before they were singled out by a heavily armoured man seated at a desk. Horribly out of place in any other circumstance, but in the moment he was booming at them to come over, nothing felt contradictory about his cladding and his passion for logarithms.
Hamid advised Basim not to say a word and leave the talking to him and Basim would've loved to verbalise his agreement, if his throat hadn't sealed itself off. His breathing ran shallow and he had to redirect all his energy towards controlling the onset of panic.
They knew his face. He knew they knew his face. Or his robes at the very least. Posters depicting his visage were all over Baghdad. Shoddy depictions at that, but sometimes that was enough for the brain to use as an identifier. His head drooped, staring at the box he held, passing his fear for submission or shame. This is the last time he ever played movers or servants, he swore to himself that. He didn't particularly mind it, but it was always the situation in which he had to do so was what bothered him most. Always a close shave from being sprung. Being that close to death left him in no control, like dangling above molten lava tied to nothing but twine. To say the least, he did not favour it.
It was a falsely polite, drab exchange of 'where are you headed?' Abbasiyah. 'What are you transporting today?' Writing materials, tools, homeware. 'What brings you to Baghdad?' The awaiting world of learning. 'Oh, Abbasiyah is wonderful for that' and 'is that your daughter? That's lovely. There's much to see, young one,' and a threatening, 'I don't want to see her out unescorted; supervise that one.' Amidst it all, not a single eye batted at Basim The Servant and he'd never been so grateful for a small stroke of luck. Hamid offloaded a pouch of coin and they passed through into the light again, into Baghdad.
"How did you do that?" Basim queried, once he'd regained the ability to breathe steadily.
"Do what?" Hamid's tongue phrased it just right to make Basim sound like the fool, although his answer was another question. "Bypass the guards? Simple. Don't act as if you've something to hide." Basim pursed his lips. This new ally had an attitude. "A little honey makes even dirt taste sweet." An odd answer, if not cryptic.
"Bribery?" A guess to decipher the riddle. That pouch of coin...
"Not at all. I paid my fee. It's all in the understanding, my friend. A bit of sympathy for the guards, uh? They get bored and tense, working tirelessly. Give them some small talk, some kindness, make their job easier for a minute and be on your way. It's not only you on edge. To change the energy received, you must change the energy being emitted." Basim almost stopped dead in the way of an oncoming camel. He'd completely froze in puzzlement. Was he a window? Was it so obvious that he was sweating through his robes? Perhaps he was a terrible actor.
"I see," he said, letting the scepticism tint his words. "Unfortunately, some of us do not have the luxury of conversation. Forgive me if I'm wary of being attacked." That, in fact, was a confession. One he didn't want slipping from his mouth.
"Ah. Not a friend of the Caliph?" A joke? "I hope this won't become a problem." The inflection indicated it was more cautious question than statement. Basim followed his eyes to Sahar, who was tailing her father, invisible in the shade of the shadow he cast. Therein lay the worry.
"Nor do I. I will do my best to keep you both safe. You have my word."
"To the letter," he affirmed, nodding a split second before a bag tumbled off the stack of precariously balanced luggage Hamid was hauling. He uttered an obscenity under his breath. "Sorry." Basim wasn't certain on who he was apologising to, so he kept quiet. "Did not think transport through. We'll have to carry everything the rest of the way there, if it doesn't trouble you."
Oh, it did. It did a lot. "Not at all." Lying through his teeth. Basim wasn't one to do such things. Not normally. Being crabby over this mission since the briefing had a domino effect and he'd rather be feigning kindness than maiming with honesty. He'd get over it. Whenever he forgot that it was all Roshan's fault for assigning him this colossal time waster.
From the shade, Sahar peeked out to claim the bag, as her arms were void of baggage, then slinked back to her hiding place. Hamid appreciated his daughter's help and did so verbally, whilst scanning the area for his bearings. His thorough search soon morphed into uncertainty.
Basim was tired of this. He was before, now it was painful. Any more incompetence and he'd lose his mind. For someone who spoke so eloquently, he had no idea how Hamid couldn't discern his north-east from his south-west. Wanting to move this process along, Basim suggested,
"Do you have a map?" He tried not to sound like he had better things he could be doing. Albeit true, anything to minimise lingering out on the streets would be beneficial for everyone, not just him. Hamid peered past the countless boxes and bags to his belt, where many pouches were attached.
"Uh, I don't suppose you could look?" Basim repressed a sigh.
"Of course." Of course you would, he wanted to say, but he knew better. Growing up a pickpocket didn't make him exempt from showing courtesy. He was doing his best to give his new brothers (burdens) a warm welcome, no matter how unhappy he was with the task at hand.
He put the singular crate down at his feet and sifted through the pockets for a map that might pinpoint the location of wherever they were meant to be headed. As he fixed his mitts on a square of paper that could have possibly been a map, a shriek tore through the peaceful bustle of Baghdad.
"Thief, thief! Guards! That man is stealing from his purse!"
"No, no, no. Not now." Retracting his hand in a flash, out of impulse, he scooped up the crate again. Hamid spoke a thousand words with one look, but the baseline was: 'what in the world is going on?' "We should get going," he instructed with urgency, ushering them away as quickly as he could manage with his hands full. So much for ensuring their safety.
Swords drawn, a pair of soldiers spliced through the crowd to pursue Basim and his newfound kin. He placed himself tail-end in defence, hurrying Hamid and Sahar forward with his quickened step. A struggle, factoring in the weight they bore in their arms. Basim hadn't given a second thought as to where they were going, it just had to be a lengthy distance between him and any armed forces. Not the warmest of receptions, but he'd had colder — Roshan earlier that morning, for example. Not that he had the second to spare to ruminate on that instance. Food for thought he had no time to digest.
—
They lost their pursuers eventually. Veering down countless trails and disappearing on something so simple as a bench did the trick. An old trick, yet effective to no fault. Prior to that debacle — the other part of Basim's brain not kicking up adrenaline and spurring him to run, counted at least twenty apologies to the public, all served by Hamid as they pushed past with impudence. He'd changed his tune, resting his forehead against the tower of boxes he had in front of him, speechless and more or less breathless. Basim concurred, his heaving created an offbeat overlay, loud in his ears.
Next to her father, Sahar clutched her one bag like it was precious, making almost no noise as she caught her breath. At intervals, she'd cast her gaze to Basim, full of spite that he'd broken his vow moments after pledging it. Her displeasure with him was fair, Basim accepted that. But the scrutiny of a little girl was unsettling, especially feeling it impact his perception. If he'd disappointed a kid, surely he was inadequate for this kind of job. He didn't even take a glance at her — couldn't bear to. Though his eyes were elsewhere, he could feel her emotion beginning to hang about him like a shadow, reflective of the few moments he spent in her company.
His mind spiralled, remembering friends he'd let down before. How many kids' lives he cut short from his recklessness. He didn't mean to. Just like he didn't mean to this time. Oh no. Guilt. Too deep now. The darkness was familiar, an old friend returning to visit. A resented old friend. Familiar though, and strangely reaffirming. A nightmare was his waking hours. His resting ones too (if he could call it resting these days).
That's it. The jinni. That's what it reminded him of. Sahar's glaring mirrored that of his personal demon and that was a terrorising sensation he thought no person could replicate. His chest was tightening a few notches again, squeezing his lungs, twinging a few heartstrings. His bottom lip jutted out. Perhaps it wasn't just Roshan who was overly sensitive today.
Having had enough of the restrictions, Basim stood up abruptly, without the crate he was responsible for lifting and began a pace in a seemingly random direction. Inner turmoil was no easy conquest. External ones, however, he could deal to and that was a better place to start.
Those posters with his features scrawled on them posed a problem for any future moves he or his companions wanted to make. First thing to tackle: getting rid of those. From there, he hoped, their journey would be less a superfluous plight and more a meaningless meander.
"Where are you going?" Hamid's voice strained with worry. When Basim's reply was dead air, he called out, "Basim?" Suppose his vigour returned.
"Posters. I have to get rid of them," he stated. He didn't mean to sound short and snappy but his patience was wearing thin. His faux perky disposition was corroding.
"Oh, a known face, are you?" His jokes grated on Basim. He wasn't certain if it was the condescending undertones or the fact that it was something he would've said on the other end of the stick. "If you don't mind my curiosity, I'd like to see one. Local art sparks my interest, even if it is so small as a wanted poster." Basim gritted his teeth and prayed no other sign of frustration seeped through. Movers or tour guide, Basim did not sign up for this test of willpower.
"If you can call it art," he muttered. "All right. Keep in sight, I'll show you." Hamid sprung out of his seat with renewed energy. He entrusted the safety of their possessions to Sahar, who was told specifically to stay seated and keep watch until they got back. He felt her uncomfortable presence on him again the second he turned away, leading her father to wherever a poster may be. Being rude wasn't in Basim's nature, but in that beat, he was grateful to be parting ways with her temporarily. Maybe in that time she could fix her sulky demeanour.
—
Fascination was an odd thing, tailored to the individual through innumerable factors. For Basim it was classical literature and the wonders of the sky above. For Hamid... it was an unintelligible scribble based off who knows what. Some eyewitness who had a hard time remembering faces? Because he was sure he appeared nothing like that in his reflection. They said that was the door to narcissism. They may be correct in this case. Though who was he to complain? The less the image looked like him the better.
Basim scrunched his nose, staring at what Hamid could possibly be so enraptured by. There was a likelihood that there were just some things he'd never understand. For once, that notion didn't string him up. Instead, he gazed off into the blur, blank as ever, save from fatigue's dark circles.
"The line work is incredible, the use of colour is eye-catching — an interesting piece," he mused, then paused to lower his voice for only Basim's ears, "if not a little inaccurate." Basim idly nodded in reply, humming a tune between an agreeing 'yes, thank you,' and a sarcastic 'yes, thank you'. The sooner he could dispose of the target on his head, the sooner they'd all be safe to roam. Not that Hamid was too concerned with that at the minute.
Impatient and bored to no imagination, Basim took hold of the edge of the sheet of paper and yanked downwards, shredding the poster in one satisfying tear. On automatic, he balled it and shoved it in a pouch, out of sight, not bothering to look at how they failed to do him justice.
Hence would be the appropriate time to walk away. A hundred times over he'd have done so. Had Basim had the energy, this unimportant instant would have followed trend. Unaware to himself, his psyche sailed off to distant shores once more, starting a new life away from unreasonable mentors, silly missions, sleepless nights, odd companions and bounties on his head. That was a life worth living. He'd have played the scenario out too, were it not for an obnoxious cough that erupted from beside him.
Another civilian out to try their luck and challenge the limits of Basim's sanity. A stream of accusations flowed from their mouth, whirling around Basim but not threatening enough to strike an alerted response. He phased out of reality again with hooded eyes, unamused. Amusement must have been what this civilian was lacking, for creating all this fuss served no other purpose and drew no eyes their way. It was him on the poster, yes, but his refusal to entertain the drama outweighed his instinctual reflex to be honest.
To his relief, words that would have been wasted were preserved and better utilised by Hamid, whose bearing suddenly exuded a graceful, disarming authority.
