Crouched 150 feet above deck, you shift your footing on the mast as a biting wind hits you head on. Staring past the bow, you attempt to make out the waves, but the ocean is pitch black on this moonless night.
They say this ship is unsinkable… that’s where you come in. Ever since the turn of the century, you’ve been trying to gain admission to the most legendary guild of assassin’s in all the land: The Black Hand. Finally, in 1912, you received your first assignment.
You must admit the subject of your first assassination left you quite confused. You had expected your trial run to involve a target more… human. Still, when you peeled open the wax-sealed envelope to find a third-class ticket and orders to sink an ocean liner, you took the mission with all the seriousness of a papalcide.
Having surveyed the deck from your position on the beam above the crow’s nest, you hop down, landing in a conveniently placed haystack. Springing to your feet, you decide where to go next.
Jumping from wall to railing and back, you make your way down the staircase. Arriving in a small-but-stately ballroom, you jump onto the chandelier and take stock. A movie screen dominates one wall. Leaping on top of the movie screen, you try to recognize the film being played. However, looking down from the top of the screen, everything looks upside down. Nearby, an orchestra plays accompaniment. Across the room, an audience in cheap suits sits watching.
Shoving your way to the front of the line, you force your way into the room. Several radio operators man wireless sets. A sign reads “wireless messages, two pounds per line.” Shocked at the exorbitant price, you realize someone has to die.
Having set your sights on the violinist, the only choice that remains is which blade to use. The one in your left sleeve has served you faithfully through thousands of executions. You call it “the Widow Maker”. The one on the right you primarily use for female targets, its nickname is “The Widower Makerer.”
Whipping out the left blade, you pounce through the air. You land knife-first on top of the violinist, neatly severing his carotid artery. He falls to the ground in a lifeless heap. Time seems to slow down as everyone in the room turns towards you. You have a rule of thumb for these situations: first one to scream gets slaughtered. The band stops playing, the film continues playing silently.
Everything seems to happen at once. Hordes of screaming audience members crowd the door as they try to rush out the room. Several musicians join them. Movement behind you makes you whirl around: a trombone player is about to smack you in the face with his lengthy instrument.
Springing off of the movie screen, you land on the lap of a shocked gentleman. His stupor grows as his head is neatly severed and rolls onto the floor. Before the crowd can flee, you stick out your blade-clad arms. Spinning around, you slice your blades into the flesh of dozens of people. Soon, a group of musicians subdues you by beating your head in with their instruments.
Before you sink the ship, you’re going to need to stop these radio operators from being able to call for rescue. Well, actually, there’s no real reason to prevent a rescue call. Still, since you’re here already, you figure everyone has to die.
Springing at the nearest wireless operator, you bury a blade deep into his jugular. With a cool swivel, you use your other arm’s blade to slice the neck of the other radio guy.
Both corpses still stuck on your blades, you hold them high in front of the horrified crowd. They turn to flee even before you let out a piercing howl. Climbing through a nearby window, you shake the bodies off of your blades. You’ve had a relaxing vacation so far, but now it’s time to be professional.
You punch a well-dressed man nearby, and shove him to the ground. Horrified, most people turn to flee, while a small group tries to restrain you.
With the lightning-quick reflexes of a coffee-drinking cat, you roll out of the way. However, the trombonist is quicker. As he brings his hefty metal instrument crashing into your skull, you recall the words of your mentor, “Never make a move that doesn’t involve attacking someone.” This is the last thing you think before the light drains from your world.
With a quickness that would get past all but the most expert of trombonist assaulters, you put a blade all the way through the musician’s neck. The popping sound of a man’s jugular getting punctured always makes you smile, despite years of psychotherapy. You can only savor it for a brief instant, however, as a large pack of citizens has surrounded you.
Carefully, you slip over the edge and descend down the front of the ship. Although the pitch black night prevents you from spotting the ocean, you know you’ve reached it when an ice cold wave breaks off the bow and splashes you in the rear. Shivering, you increase your grip on the ship’s rivets. You take a moment to look up and enjoy a rare viewpoint of one of history’s most majestic ships. Then you start to work on putting it two miles under the sea.
Arcing majestically through the air, you shout “I’m the King (or Queen) of the World!” then execute a perfect pike before diving far down to the ocean. The surface slaps you with the force of a scorned lover. As you plunge into the depths and icy water creeps into your robes, you realize that ice is floating around for a reason. Surfacing, you scramble up the bow and try your best to expunge the freezing water from your clothes. It isn’t even close to enough, however, and you succumb to hypothermia within the hour.
Facing down about a dozen people wielding makeshift clubs of chairs and musical instruments, you plan your moves. If you time it just right, you estimate you can slice off the heads of the front line, their bodies then making a roadblock to buy you time to formulate your next strike. Judging the distance carefully, you take a short run up. However, just when you are about to pounce into the air, you trip on a fold in the rug. Sprawling face first onto the ground, you try to get up but the mob is on top of you. After pounding you with musical instruments for the better part of half an hour, the movie resumes. However, the copious amount of blood that now coats the musical instruments makes the melody they play sound awful. Call that revenge from the grave if it gives you something to grasp onto.
Knocking down as many people as you can, you sprint back to the open air of the ship’s main deck. A large pack of angry passengers give pursuit, you only have a moment to react before they descend upon you.
Fortunately, you always pack an extra musician outfit, for emergencies just like this one. Jostling the crowd, you fall to the floor among several other well-dressed individuals. In a whir you have on your disguise: a tuxedo-clad musician carrying a Tuba. Leaping to your feat, you whirl around, pretending to try to find the assassin. The ruse works, as the crowd is perplexed as to where you have gone.
You bowl through the crowd, shoulder-tackling anyone who stands in your way. This manages to take down a half-dozen opponents, but a large pack has formed and grows in number as the mob pursues you across the deck of the ship. Reaching the dead end of the bow, you whirl around. The pack is just a few steps away from you.
You scrape your blade against the side of the ship. It makes a ridiculously loud and grating noise, but doesn’t even leave a mark. You stare at the iron hull, pondering your next move. Suddenly, your vision grows fuzzy. It is all you can do to hold onto the side of the ship as your consciousness is ripped away from you.
“Hello!” a voice booms. You try to find it’s source, but all you can see is a bright fog. “I’m Desmond.”
You shake your head, trying to clear the cobwebs, yet the fog does not dissipate.
“Don’t worry,” the voice continues, “we’ll return you to reality in just a second. I only wanted to take a minute to inform you that I’m possessing your brain from the future. Again, nothing to worry about.”
You attempt to get your brain around Desmond’s words, but can only stagger out a “Huh?”
“Normally, I would just let you continue, you’re doing a fine job. But trying to slash open the hull? That was so dumb I just had to intercede. Use your gunpowder.”
As he speaks your vision slowly clears until you are back hanging off the front of the bow.
Pulling out your handy pouch, you pack a copious amount of gunpowder tightly inside. Pulling tight the drawstring, you tie the sack to a rivet. Striking a match on your blade, you light the back on fire. It begins to smoke and sizzle as it catches fire.
A solid stealth assassin leaves behind nothing but bodies. With that in mind you set to work freeing the dozens of lifeboats. However, upon leaping into a lifeboat to slash its cords, the angry mob decides to set you adrift. You float in the sea in your lifeboat for days. Moments before a passing steam ship reaches your lifeboat, you dive overboard because you think you see something shiny.
After dashing down some stairs, you run through a doorway into a large room with a giant window against one wall. The Captain stands, steering the ship using an old-timey wooden wheel. Upon seeing you, the captain immediately dies, that’s how stealth of an assassin you are. Taking control of the wheel, you ponder your course.
Always ready for battle, you push the hidden button on your tuba. A large spear rises up out of the giant hole thing that tubas have. By blowing a deep note, you launch the spear into a nearby passenger. Unfortunately, you only thought to load this particular tuba with one spear, opting to leave your multi-chamber accordion at home. While retrieving the spear, the crowd tackles you, subdues you, ties you up, and throws you in the brig, and, in a disappointing change of heart, unlocks the brig, unties you, and shoots you.
You’ve never heard of anyone time traveling, or invading someone else’s body, or using a device called an “animus” (even though Desmond didn’t actually mention that part). Certain that you are going mad, you bore holes into opposite ends your skull with each arm. Immediately, you feel relieved as a dark liquid pours out of your skull. However, you fear you have acted too late. Your vision blurs, and your grip weakens. Obviously, you conclude, this is the work of the nefarious Desmond who lives in your skull. As you plunge into the icy water, you get quite the headrush as the holes in your head fill with the chilly ocean water. Your last thoughts are about how the ocean’s frigid temperature is probably somehow due to this demon Desmond.
Aiming to avoid the bomb’s explosive range, you duck beneath the surface of the ocean. You immediately regret this move, as the frigid water shocks your senses. You attempt to scramble back onto the front of the ship, but just as you surface, the bomb explodes. You sink to the bottom of the deep, cold sea along with the ship. Decades later, salvagers will find your body and wonder exactly why it’s face was blown off, leading to dozens of conspiracy theories about the ship. None come close to the truth, however, that it was a gang initiation stunt gone afoul.
Deciding the ocean water is too frigid to risk, you scramble up the ship. Just as you swing a leg over the ship’s deck railing, a huge explosion deafens you. You try to maintain some semblance of balance, but the shock of the explosion renders you helpless. Pitching forward, you are more than relieved to feel your body slam against hard, finished wood.
Sitting up slowly, you survey the deck. Passengers are screaming, running in every direction. The ship has tilted noticeably to one side. “Iceberg” yells one well-dressed man, who begins guiding women and children into nearby lifeboats. Several men crowd their way onto lifeboats, but still you can’t help but take note of the general civility of the passengers and crew. The way in which they sacrifice themselves to save the women and children is truly inspiring, as you slice up a nearby crew member and steal a lifeboat all to yourself, you feel a tear well up in your eye.
Grinning wildly, you turn the ship sharply towards a large iceberg. As the enormous boat plows into the sharp ice, you laugh maniacally. The sound of the ship getting a soccer-field size hole torn in it masks the sound of a group of approaching crew members. They easily overpower you and slash your throat like the ice just slashed through the liner’s hull.
With the ocean in front of you and your hands on the wheel, you realize that this is your true calling. Forget assassinations and the pure thrill of meaningless manslaughter, it’s a captain’s life for you. Pitching the ship towards warmer waters, you inform everyone aboard that this cruise is now stopping in Jamaica. Oddly enough, no one objects. That is to say, several people object, everyone in fact, but no one objects after you put knives through half a dozen objectors.
Arriving in Jamaica, you are more than pleased to find your rogue liner is popular with pirate ships. Jumping aboard a pirate ship, you begin clashing your blades against the pirates sharp scabbards.
As you murder the first of many pirates, you have an epiphany. This is your true calling: murdering pirates and stealing their loot. You spend the rest of your many decades trawling the warm seas of the Caribbean for any pirates unlucky enough to sail in your path. At some point in time, all of your horrified passengers decide to jump overboard and make a swim for safety. You’re not really sure what happens to them, as you are too busy happily fighting pirates.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE FOUND ONE OF SIX ENDINGS. THIS IS NOT THE BEST ENDING, HOWEVER, SO FEEL FREE TO PLAY AGAIN
Crouching in the shadows, you wait for hours before lights flicker in the distance. Climbing to the top of the crow’s nest, you make a dramatic leap towards the main mast of the rescue ship. Unfortunately, that is when one of the crew members decides to fire up a flare. The flame hits you square in the stomach. As your robes quickly set ablaze, you realize you have a choice to make: plunge into the freezing water and extinguish the flames, or land hard on the wooden deck of the rescue ship. Unfortunately, you soon realize you have no ability to redirect yourself in mid air, and crash into the side of the rescue ship, falling unconscious into the grips of the icy black water, below.
Floating in the ocean, you realize you’ll need to put some distance between you and the other lifeboats. Fortunately, you always keep a spare oar up your sleeve, just in case you want to get extra creative with an assassination. Paddling day and night, you quickly reach the shores of New York. Well, quickly is a relative term, because it takes you two months.
Arriving on shore, you are shocked when a man rushes up to you. Before you can reach out and kill him, he hands you a telegram. Surprised, you read the telegram to learn that your next assignment is the assassination of Speedy MacFarlane, maker of the popular Speedster automobile. He is in New York for the World’s fair.
Already impressed by the tall buildings of New York City, your mind is blown away when you step into the World’s fair. Booths and exhibits spin on elegant circular stages. You take a moment to take everything in. A company called Merck has a booth offering some wonder drug. Henry Ford shouts from a stage, touting a new revolution that will improve automobile production tenfold.
Across from Ford, leaning against a shiny green 1912 Speedster Cameo, stands a man who could only be MacFarlane. Either that, or he stole MacFarlane’s nametag. You scout around, trying to decide how to proceed.
Ravenous, you scoop up a handful of wet beach sand and pour it into your gaping mouth. It tastes horrible, and not at all like the fine rice dish for which you deliriously mistook the sand. You collapse at the telegram messenger’s feet and choke to death. The messenger stares at your body for a long time, wondering what that telegram could have possibly said.
Tucking yourself into a tight ball, you roll across the convention hall. You decide to make a “whoosh” sound as you do so, because you think that it makes the whole effect even cooler. Either way, decades of tumbling practice come in handy as you adroitly avoid alerting MacFarlane as to your presence. You press your body against the driver’s side door, MacFarlane still leans casually against the passenger side door, ready to explain the sports cars steam-powered engine to any interested passers-by.
Executing a wall leap that you feel is marvelous, you spring on top of the drug company’s booth. This gives you an eagle-eye view of the convention hall, although any eagles in your position would probable eschew the view in favor of ramming themselves to death against the bay windows, whose sparkling beauty you can’t help but admire.
Fortunately, a nearby hay vendor is demonstrating a revolutionary new design in making soft piles of hay. Hopping into a haystack, you peep out and survey the scene. MacFarlane, your target, still rests casually against his Speedster. At this point, you notice two large armed men hanging out nearby. MacFarlane must’ve gotten a tip and ordered protection.
“I see you spying on MacFarlane!” a voice hisses behind you. it is all you can do not to reveal your hiding place with a startled leap. “It’s Henry Ford,” the voice continues. Apparently, you aren’t the only one who likes to hide out in haystacks. “I could use your help in taking out MacFarlane.”
Stealthily unlocking the door using the skeleton key on the end of one of your blades, you slide into the plush leather seating of the sports car. Wrapping your hands around the steering wheel, you can’t help but notice how comfortable this ride happens to be. You feel a strong urge to see how fast you can drive.
Whipping out your pocket knife set, you fling a blade straight at Speedy MacFarlane’s neck. Your aim is true: the knife sinks deep into his nape. However, MacFarlane neither screams nor bleeds. Puzzled, you slowly approach Speedy. Lifting up the brim of Speedy’s ten-gallon hat, you realize that this is nothing a mannequin.
Your hear movement behind you. You react quickly enough to disable the first of MacFarlane’s approaching bodyguards, but the second plants a bullet deep into the back of your brain.
Rolling up to the Merck booth, you try a sample of their newest drug, Ecstasy. After standing around for two hours, you decide that it isn’t going to work. Angrily, you stab the booth attendant and ingest all of the substance you can find.
Seventeen hours later, you manage to pry your sweat-caked forehead off of the ground long enough to realize the World’s Fair has closed and you’ve been robbed. A moment later, you come to the tertiary realization that you have died after eating several choking handfuls of dirt.
Springing high into the air, you whip out both blades from your sleeves. Landing perfectly on MacFarlane’s shoulders, you stick the knives deep into each ear. Trying to pry the knives out, MacFarlane’s head comes off in your hands. As stuffing falls from the neck, you realize you’ve been set up with a dummy. This revelation comes too late however, as MacFarlane’s bodyguards pop out of the shadows and shoot you a bunch of times with some incredibly cool looking guns.
You leap through the open window of the fancy Ford, landing squarely in the driver’s seat. Nearby, an astonished Henry Ford stops his patter and stares at you. You give him a friendly wave, but that doesn’t halt half a dozen bodyguards from running towards your car. You notice many of them are waving pistols.
Nodding your approval is enough to make Ford continue. “I’m pretty sure that’s not MacFarlane, it’s a dummy or an impersonator or somethin’.” Using your special super-perception vision, you now notice a patch of yellow stuffing puffing out of MacFarlane’s left eye. “However,” continues Ford, “Speedy never strays far from his pet project. I suspect he’s hiding in the trunk of his car. After all, it is eight feet wide and big enough to hold an industrial steam engine.” Looking at the boot, you notice a pair of loafers sticking out from behind the engine.
You’re not sure what Ford’s game is, and you always find it best to resolve confusion with violence. You swivel around, slashing your blade through the haystack. It connects, slicing off Ford’s right arm. Ford gives his gushing shoulder a perplexed stare. You leap out of the haystack, worried someone may have seen the altercation. As it turns out, everyone in the vicinity saw the altercation, as slicing someone’s arm off is not an act that can be hidden by a veneer of hay. Hundreds of security, bodyguards, and horseless carriage aficionados descend upon you, skinning you alive, then using you for a revealing, yet tasteful display of the human anatomy.
The engine roars to life. Mashing the pedal, the car hops off the stage and through the convention center at the breakneck pace of twenty miles per hour! Smashing through the front doors of the convention hall, you feel a rush like nothing killing has ever given you. Hitting the open road, wind riffling your robes, you realize that this is your true calling. Dreams of Speedy MacFarlane’s head on a plate forgotten, you drive the steam-powered Speedster to the nearest coal refueling station.
Your life unfolds linearly from there: you trade your car for a gig racing automobiles on the county circuit. At first, your inexperience holds you down, but you overcome it with sheer moxy and cutting off opponent’s heads. Having achieved your dreams, it is definitely a bittersweet ending several years later, when your life is consumed by a massive fire-turned-explosion caused by sparks from all the blades up your sleeves knocking against each other.
With a stealthy wiggle of your posterior, you slide into the passenger seat. MacFarlane doesn’t seem to notice. Pulling out a small knife, you lunge at MacFarlane, plunging the dagger deep into the back of his skull. The head comes off in your hands with a loud ripping noise, you see a fluff of stuffing fly from the wound. It’s a fake, before you can recover, five of MacFarlane’s body guards pepper you with bullets.
Gunning the engine, you steer the Model T towards MacFarlane. Ever the expert at the game of chicken, MacFarlane stands unwavering. Crashing into the automobile pioneer, surprisingly, your car fills with yellow stuffing. As MacFarlane’s deflated head lands in your lap, you realize that you’ve destroyed a cleverly disguised mannequin. Stoically, you reflect upon the brilliance of Speedy’s deception. This makes you forget to drive the car, as you barely knew how to in the first place. The Model T plows into the Speedster, producing a huge crunch of metal which attracts the attention of everyone in the hall. Pitching forward, you fly over the hood, landing on the ground next to the wreck. Sitting up, you dust yourself off and realize you are fine. Sadly, Henry Ford put a bomb in his car, as the ultimate theft deterrent. The explosion propels your organs against a nearby wall, separately.
Deciding you’ve had enough of wearing a dirty gray frock, you don your smooth black-and-red threads.
“Hey, you look pretty sharp!” Shouts Henry Ford, “how’d you like to help me kill Speedy MacFarlane?”
Screaming a high-pierced shriek, you run full speed at the hidden man behind the car’s steam engine. Doing a couple of tuck-and-rolls for good measure, you arrive at the auto and jump high in the air. From behind the steam engine steps the real Speedy MacFarlane. He pulls out a machine gun and aims straight for your chest.
With a quick leap, you grab Henry Ford’s left arm and pin it behind his back. From the shadows, five bodyguards leap out, all wielding guns. You put a blade to Ford’s throat, which stops the bodyguards in their tracks. You advance towards the giant steam engine built in the back of the sporty-looking Speedster. Sure enough, MacFarlane steps out and levels a machine gun straight at you.
Executing a neat mid-air somersault, you drop towards Speedy. Before you can knock the gun out of his hands, Speedy unloads several rounds, blowing open a two-foot hole in your chest. Your last thought is that assassins who use knives may be an antiquated thing.
Seeing MacFarlane draw his machine gun, you reflexively reach for the throwing knife tucked in your robe’s poofy shoulder pad. Speedy may have the advantage of first draw, but you have the advantage of experience. Everything happens in slow motion for you: The blade comes out, you flick it at MacFarlane. MacFarlane tries to get a bead on you with his gun, but your knife flies into his arm, forcing him to drop the gun. Falling towards Speedy, you put your hand on his head, doing a majestic handstand and arcing around behind him. As you land, you use your momentum to drive a knife deep into MacFarlane’s back. He falls to the ground in a growing red pool.
Job done, you contemplate how to make an escape. Five large men, you assume to be MacFarlane’s bodyguards, run towards you from all directions.
Unfortunately, it seems MacFarlane doesn’t really care about the meat shield provided by Henry Ford. Unloading the machine gun, the auto-mogul makes a fine mist of his rival’s head. From this point, it is merely a matter of firing bullets at your head until your vision fades to pink.
Hoping to knock MacFarlane down, you throw Henry Ford towards him. Unfortunately, your power mainly comes from your lithe, sinewy muscles, rather than raw strength. So, the weakly-thrown Ford comes to rest a few steps shy of its target. Luckily, it seems MacFarlane is more interested in putting bullets into Ford’s prone body than worrying about you. This gives you the time to leisurely pounce on Speedy, and fully savor slicing off a large section of his jugular.
Mission accomplished, you consider your escape. Ford’s bodyguards are joined by a handful of MacFarlane’s gun-toting men.
For years, you’ve been practicing a move which allows you to take down ten men. Finally, you see an opportunity to use it. With a flash, you flip into the nearest group. Your blade flies so fast it can’t be seen, only the swish of slicing flesh can be heard. Unfortunately, you miscounted, and although your move impressively left ten bodies on the ground, there were actually eleven bodyguards. The eleventh calmly puts a .22 slug into your back.
Pouncing from tapestry to conveniently mislaid brick and back, you quickly ascend to the roof of the convention hall. Hoisting yourself through a skylight, you safely use the roof as cover from gunfire. Surprisingly, a man is standing nearby.
“Hello!” he chirps, “
Congratulations on your successful completion of this assignment. I have your next target.”
You are surprised he managed to find you in such an out-of-the-way location, these assassins are good. He hands you an envelope. Ripping it open, you are shocked to see a photograph of Hans Ablebrook: the strongest, fastest, most artistic man in the world. You gaze at the messenger in shock, he reaches into his pocket and produces a boat ticket. “The Olympics will soon take place in Sweden,” he mentions, “you will get there by boat, because boat is the only form of trans-oceanic transportation currently invented.
Taking the ticket, you eye the mysterious stranger.
Whipping out your blades, you handspring towards the messenger. Quickly, he rolls on his back and lifts his feet in the air. Out from the cuffs of his ankles come two sharp knives. As you land on these knives, you realize that this kind of creativity is why the messenger is in The Black Hand.
You travel to Stockholm by boat. It’s not very crowded seeing as how a recent maritime tragedy is on everyone’s mind. The opening ceremonies, though heartwarming, provide no easy opportunity for slaughter. It is not until the actual events are underway when the crowd begin to thin. You are tracking Hans’ every move: he is currently warming up for the pole vault. Scoping the scene, you notice Hans has captured the attention of most of the crowd.
As Hans grabs his pole and gets into position, you grab a nearby javelin. The crowd collectively holds its breath as Hans runs towards the bar, expecting another superhuman endeavor. Instead, however, they are treated to a view of violent bloodshed. Just as Hans vaults into the air, you plunge the javelin deep into his chest. Hans falls to the ground writhing, moaning, and utterly failing to clear the meager bar height of eight feet.
Assassination complete, you look around, pondering an escape. However, every direction yields thousands of angry fans ready to tear you apart. You leap to the top of the pole vault bar, but from there you have nowhere else to go. The stadium of fans surges against the pole, knocking you to the ground. You try admirably to fight the thousands of angry former spectators, but the sheer force of their numbers overwhelms you within minutes.
You slip along the sidelines, attempting to blend in with the many athletes and coaches. It’s a bit more difficult to keep your eye on Hans, but his high profile should make him easy to spot.
“Johnson!” screams a short bald man straight into your face, “Get on the hurdles, now!”
Looking around, you realize the man must be talking to you.
Not wanting to cause a scene and have your identity compromised, you decide to play along. Proceeding to the dirt-brown track, you take your mark among the other hurdlers. A gunshot marks the start of the race. Caught off guard, it is a full second before you react. Leaping past the other jumpers, you land cleanly on the first hurdle. Without slowing your momentum, you pounce onto the second hurdle. Eight long jumps later, you have cleared all ten hurdles and are sailing across the finish line. Stunned, the referee’s voice cracks as he announces your time. It is four times better than the current world record. The crowd, which had mostly been focusing on the mighty Hans Ablebrook, turns their attention to you.
Nobody makes eye contact with you and lives to tell about it. You draw your blade and flip into the coach. Burying the knife in his eye, you scream maniacally. While you are pondering whether to clean the mess off of your blade or just leave it to make a really wicked stain, another of the coach’s athletes tosses a shot put six inches through your skull.
As the crowd breaks into a wild cheer at your Herculean accomplishment, your heart swells. Never before has anyone shown you this much affection, you fervently wave and blow kisses to the crowd. Taking a self-congratulatory trot around the stadium, you are showered with flowers from adoring spectators.
You aren’t the only covert assassin working the Olympics, however. An enemy gang member has been tracking you and Hans from the moment you arrived. That operative thought ahead, and entered the shooting competition. This gives him the perfect opportunity to plop a slug into your ear as you pass.
While your victory is thrilling, all this attention could wreck your mission. Hoping to blend in, you jostle your way through a pack of athletes on the sidelines. However, your coach spots you and gives you a giant bear hug.
“Yes!” he screams in his native language, “the motherland is so proud. Now, will you do the diving or the fencing competition?”
You are quickly hustled away to a nearby arena. Losing sight of Hans worries you, but you figure his celebrity status will make him easy to find again. A fencing sword is thrust into your hands. You test the weight of the wobbly blade, unimpressed. Before you can take more than a few practice swings, your opponent stands before you and your match begins.
Forgetting about Hans for the moment, you are led towards a large swimming pool. The still waters look nothing like the frigid, deadly ocean you recently endured. Making your way up to the top of the dizzyingly high platform, you shed your robes, tossing them to the adoring fans below. You reflect upon the fortunate coincidence that, today, having run out of clean underwear, you had to wear your striped, one-piece bathing suit. Arriving at the top, you jump off the platform.
Figuring a kill spot is a kill spot, no matter the weapon, you pounce towards your opponent. Inches away, you swing the foil at his neck. It collides, but the limp blade does no real damage. With instinctive follow-through you plant a foot squarely in the other swordfighter’s chest. Your opponent hits the ground, hard. You aren’t fully sure of the rules, so for insurance you jump on your opponents chest and repeatedly punch them in the head.
People flood the fencing area, pulling you off of the bloodied, unconscious athlete. An enemy assassin, who had been stalking you with such stealth that you never detected his presence, elects to take advantage of the chaos by sticking a dagger deep into your ribs. The three-part saga of your record-breaking performance, subsequent unethical display, and assassination provides the most confusing moment in Olympic history. However, since the Olympics are only about 16 years old, this doesn’t mean much.
You opponent advances with some weird foot-shuffling that you find hilarious. You run at your enemy and launch yourself airborne. Your opponent, stunned, has no response to your awesome move. They flail their foil in the air recklessly, you plant your feet on theirhead and launch yourself again, twirling around, you land smoothly facing your opponent’s back. Stabbing them in the back with your foil produces no visible wounds, but it does get the judge to award you the victory.
Soon, a gold medal is placed around your neck, which you find weird seeing as how you only fenced one match. Either way, your coach hustles up to you.
“What event will you compete in, next?”
Tossing the useless foil to the side, you pull your hidden blade from your sleeve. Your opponent turns to run, but you pounce on him, plunging the dagger into his head. Pulling your gore-splattered blade from the now deceased fencer’s cranium, you raise your hands high into the air. However, instead of accolades, you are attacked by the referee and a large group of spectators. Caught off guard, you have no chance. After killing ten of them, you finally succumb to the sheer numbers of your attackers.
Whipping your legs forward, you arch your back, majestically arcing head over heels. You throw in a second backflip, adding a few twists for good measure. As you hit the water’s surface, you shoot your blades out of your wrists, creating a splashless entry into the water.
The crowd goes wild. Eagerly, they await your emergence from the pool to shower you with roses. Cheers die away into confusion as you do not emerge. You never knew this, but it turns out you can’t swim. From the bottom of the pool, you stare wistfully at all that air up above the surface.
Bringing your knees to your chest, you spin forward like a pinwheel in a hurricane. Hitting the water cleanly, you can hear the crowd roar its approval even underwater. You begin to flail your arms wildly, because that’s what you think swimming is. Unfortunately, it’s not, and you plunge to the bottom of the pool like a stone.
Olympic coordinators have organized several artistic competitions, banking on the little-explored notion that thousands of people will show up to watch some no-names paint. Grabbing a brush, you take your place at an easel (after casually murdering the competitor who was standing there and chucking their body in some hay). The firing of a starter’s pistol indicates the painting competition has begun.
You’ve always had a fancy for horse riding, ever since you were a small boy slashing the necks of your school chums. Hopping on the horse, you majestically leap over the white picket fences that line the course. Suddenly, you realize, “Hey, I have a horse.” Jumping the boundaries of the equestrian arena, you slash the neck of the horse trainer who tries to help you dismount. Riding through the spectators, you gleefully sever the heads of anyone who comes near. Galloping into the sunset, you feel more satisfied than you ever have in your whole life. Sure, you may not have earned passage into the gang you’ve always dreamed of, but you have found your purpose, your one true calling in life: to ride a horse towards the sunset until you pass out from dehydration.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE FOUND ONE OF SIX ENDINGS. THIS IS NOT THE BEST ENDING, HOWEVER, SO FEEL FREE TO PLAY AGAIN
You abandon your dreams of reaching the highest level of assassin (highest level = you’ve killed everyone who’s ever heard of you). Nothing can compare to the satisfaction of achieving your true purpose: standing in front of adoring fans who love your every move. It’s a good life, eventually you go on to co-found the National Football League and enjoy years of success, until a lightning storm comes along one day. People always second-guessed your choice to keep all of your metal blades on you at all times (even in the shower). It turns out it was a bad idea, as it turns you into a lightning rod.
Hoping to get help, you desperately wave your hands. You hope someone will come to your aid, but the crowd thinks you are waving and cheers even louder. As your vision fades to black, your last thought is of how moronic some Olympic diving audiences can be. [/br]
Collapsing on the tiles, you curl into a ball. The audience notices your state, and soon you feel strong hands pulling you up. You break the surface gasping for air. Filling your lungs, you stagger to your feet. As the crowd goes wild, you find the adoring fan who caught your robe. Punching them, you quickly regain your garments and don them. Stepping back to the track area, you spy Hans just starting the long jump.
Using the same technique you use to remove a man’s heart while it’s still beating, you paint a beautiful hillside patch of daisies. You add in a clear, blue sky and a couple of skulls. You are given the bronze, which positions you conveniently next to the other award winners at the medal ceremony. After slashing their throats and stealing their medals, the crowd is quite angry at you. However, after you use their blood to paint a breathtaking pastoral scene, the crowd is too moved to assault you. They revere you as the next Van Gogh. The rest of your life is spent living quietly in the countryside, selling any stupid drawing you can think of for millions.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE FOUND ONE OF SIX ENDINGS. THIS IS NOT THE BEST ENDING, HOWEVER, SO FEEL FREE TO PLAY AGAIN
You paint a bloody naval battle. Fervently working in the small details, you manage to paint a dozen exploded corpses floating in the water. Stepping back and viewing your completed work, you are moved to tears as it reminds you of your true purpose: slaughtering people and then painting their battle-strewn entrails. You attempt to combine these two things by attacking the audience with your paintbrush. Before you can complete your masterpiece, you are beaten to death by about 20,000 flying fists.
As Hans launches himself over the sand pit, you tackle him in midair. Rolling on the ground, you are startled when Hans pulls a machine gun from his tiny track shorts. Your heart is subsequently startled by a flurry of bullets shredding it apart.[/a]
Crouching in a haystack, you wait for Hans to run by. As he does, you surreptitiously stab him a dozen times, behead him, and then toss his body into some nearby hay.
Of the thousands of people in attendance, nobody notices your stealthy deception. You slip out of the stadium. Not surprisingly, another member of The Black Hand is there to greet you.
“You have done well, I am honored to announce your acceptance into The Black Hand Assassins’ Association.”
This is it, your life’s dream come true. You jump up and down, shrieking happily. Not at all impressed, your messenger hands you an envelope.
Your fingers tremble as you open your first mission as a member of an exclusive gang. Pulling out a piece of paper, you see your first assignment has been drawn by hand. It’s messy, hard to make out, but the two-toned freehand drawing sort of looks like you.
As politely as you can, you crumple the sketch drawing into a ball and throw it in the messenger’s face.
“I don’t need this,” he spits, “I’m investing all my money in German bonds. In 10 years, I’m going to be a millionaire. The German economy will be the best in the world during the 1920s, mark my words.”
You mark his words by punching the messenger in the mouth. The messenger is visibly angry, but then his face softens.
“I appreciate your metaphorical interpretation of the cliche,” he notes, “so I’m going to tell you that your target is the Archviscount of Austria.”
You gasp, for that part of the world has faced mounting political tension. This is a big assignment, it could precipitate a world-wide war. Honored that you were chosen, and for your first official job, to boot. Rolling on the ground as quickly as you can, you make your way to Sarajevo.
You realize that loyalty is far more important than individual thought. Without further question, you slice your own neck. With surgical precision, you remove your Adam’s apple and offer it to the messenger, who recoils in horror. With a smug sense of pride, you collapse onto the ground and bleed out.
As you walk around the parade route, you notice other members of the black hand. Sadly, you come to the deflating realization that you weren’t the only one picked for this mission. Although the Archviscount’s arrival is still an hour away, citizens are beginning to crowd the cordoned-off streets. You decide to pick a spot and settle in before the choices grow slim.
Slipping into a barbershop, you spend the next hour getting cleaned and trimmed. Your red-hot status as the newest Olympic hero is hard to hide from the shop’s nosy customers and soon you find a small crowd has gathered around you. You’ll never manage any amount of stealth with this entourage.
Ordering a sandwich, you take a seat at a table with a great view of the parade route. You are looking at your pistol, trying to figure out how to use it, when a woman approaches you.
“You’re the guy who won the hurdles! The Olympic superstar.” You wave her away, but she cannot quell her excitement. “Everyone,” she shouts, “it’s that awesome Olympic hero guy!”
Soon, a crowd has gathered around you. It swells as people who came to see the parade notice you as well. “Hey wait a minute,” shouts a freckled young boy, “he looks a lot like the man who killed Speedy MacFarlane!”
Fortunately, the crowd hushes the boy, and someone shuffles him off. Turning around, you are startled to see the Archviscount’s car passing by. You attempt to push your way through the throng of fans, but the crowd is just too dense. Leaping on top of the crowd, you attempt to spring over to the slowly driven convertible. Your athletic display sends the crowd into a frenzy, they pull you to the ground and begin grabbing your clothes for souvenirs. Somewhere in the distance, you hear an explosion. However, you never find the source, as the zealous crowd decides an even better souvenir would be a ripped-out piece of your flesh.
You creep into the boughs of a sturdy tree. Looking out, you have a straight drop onto the street, hopefully right above where the Archviscount’s car will pass. It is not long before the parade comes your way. It’s actually not much of a parade, you realize: just some police, then the Archviscount’s car, followed by more police. The procession passes under you, you’ve picked a perfect spot as you are right above the Archviscount.
Giving the worst shaves this barbershop has ever seen, you slash the necks of the two nearest people. The crowd around you, which had been adoring your every move, now recoils in fear of your next one. Flipping over to the door, you stand in front of the only exit and start throwing knives at everyone you see. The barbershop regulars are no match for your skill and soon you are standing on top of a pile of bodies. Glancing outside, you see the Archviscount’s car driving by.
Realizing you’re never going to lose the hangers-on, you try to formulate a new plan. Walking outside, you jump high into the air and spin around. Sure enough, everyone nearby notices the Olympic superstar. As the Archviscount’s convoy approaches, you step into the street drawing a huge crowd. Sure enough, the Archviscount has to stop his car nearby to avoid running over the stray pedestrians.
Landing square in your enemy’s lap, you raise your bladed arm to strike. However, a bomb comes flying in from the crowd. Turns out, the bomb was thrown by a fellow member of The Black Hand. It’s ironic because the explosion fails to kill the Archviscount, but does blow a hole in your chest big enough to bowl through.
You freeze at the moment of truth. “What am I doing?” you think, “Is this actually right?”
After a few moments, the answer pops into your head: a resounding “YES!” But by this time, the car has passed you by. Below you are a few straggling security guards. A loud explosion nearby hits you with so much force, you fall out of the tree. Stumbling to your feet you realize the explosion came from someone bombing the cavalcade. However, it seems to have missed the Archviscount, who quickly drives into the distance.
Disheartened, you kick up a cloud of dust, then consider your next move.
Locking the door, you toss each body into a storage closet. Using a huge bag of hair to soak up the blood, you actually manage to get the place looking decent. Or at least more like a barbershop than an abattoir. Proudly, you turn the sign back to “Open.” Soon enough, your first customer comes in. Carefully reminding yourself not to slice his Adams apple into wedges, you use your arm blades to give them the closest shave he’s ever had. When a shaggy-haired man walks in looking for a trim, you waste no time seating him and whisking off his hair into a neat crewcut. You can feel the excitement surge through you: THIS is your true calling.
You spend the next 25 years gaining a reputation as the finest barber in the land. Your shaves are so baby’s butt-smooth that no one even questions what happened to the former proprietor. Your shop becomes world-renown, thanks to a combination of your prowess and athletic celebrity. By the time you pass away, from a horribly fatal case of head lice, you popularize a hairstyle known as the “bloodied, hacked up scalp.”
Rallying the crowd, you do a few somersaults before pointing a finger square at the Archviscount. “Kill him!” you scream, hoping your fans won’t question your leadership. People stand around awkwardly, however. Finally, someone throws a punch at a guard, which causes all hell to break loose instantly, like it was a signal.
You take opportunity of the bedlam to duck into the shadows. As the fistfights devolve into full on assaults, someone decides to wrench things up a few ticks by throwing a bomb at the Archviscount. The resulting explosion causes the crowd to scatter, some retaining more of their body parts than others. Clearing a way through the rapidly dissipating crowd, the security leads the Archviscount down the street. You try to keep pace, but the crowd combined with your lack of an internal combustion engine causes you to quickly lose sight of the Archviscount. Frustrated, you angrily dive into a nearby pile of hay to pout. Just then, you hear voices nearby, possibly from inside the same haystack you currently inhabit.
You always hated the feeling of an empty heart on an empty stomach. Hoping to kick your blues, you trot several blocks to what looks like a promising deli. Your stomach rumbles happily at the smell of pickled meats and fresh baked bread. However, it looks like you’ll have to wait, for a line extends out the door.
Hoping to lift your spirits, you trot over to the local theater. It seems two matinees are playing, today
You’ve had to put up with a lot in your lifetime. When you were a small boy, you saw your entire family brutally dismembered. Sure, you were doing the dismembering but that doesn’t dam the flood of painful emotions. Finally, the years of brutality are too much. Throwing your shoes up in the air, you run into the middle of the street. Falling on your stomach, you pound your fists and kick your feet against the ground. A loud, whiny howl escapes your lips. When this fails to garner you enough attention, you decide to assassinate the nearest police officer. In this case it happens to be a police horse. Charging the horse head on, you punch it in the face. Nonchalantly, the horse tramples you in seconds.
Holding your breath, you close your eyes in an attempt to hear the barely-audible words.
“We’ve got to change the route, Major!”
“The Archviscount wants to visit the wounded at the hospital.”
“The Wounded? Someone got injured”
“How long, exactly, have you been in this haystack, Major?”
Having other people in your haystack angers you. After all, you did invent diving into a haystack. Therefore, anyone else who does it is clearly stealing your idea and should be banished. Banished from life, that is. You blindly swing a blade through the hay. It connects with something fleshy, withdrawing your blade produces the bitter, coppery smell of freshly drawn blood. Unfortunately, you connected with the dopey Major, who never got to pour forth his character like the blood pouring out of his skull.
His assistant reacts much faster, however. Quickly drawing an explosive pack, the assistant detonates it, dooming himself but also assuring that you won’t live longer than the Major. Now that’s loyalty.
You stand in line for an hour, your stomach feels like it’s going to revolt and start eating your intestines. Finally, you arrive at the counter, ready to get service. Just then, you hear a loud explosion in the street. Not much can tear you away from the need from a sandwich right now, but the report is so loud you can’t help but glance outside. There, you see the Archviscount’s car, stalled in the street. You cheer for your streak of good luck: you can either commit the most influential assassination in history, or score a tasty sandwich.
Angry that life keeps putting obstacles between you and your goals, you stab the guy standing in front of you. Of course, the wussy sandwich shop patrons can’t handle a little stabbing, and start shrieking their heads off. Methodically, you slash each crying man-child in front of you, until you are first in line. But first in line isn’t powerful enough for you, so you stab the butcher. Jumping behind the counter, you notice the huge slabs of meat in the freezer. Attacking the meat, you feel a strange power flow through you. Suddenly, it hits you: this is your true purpose in life. Tossing the corpses in the freezer, you tidy up and begin a new life as a butcher/one man slaughterhouse.
Eventually, industry bigwigs take note of your ability to vivisect a cow in under 45 seconds. You get promoted to first man on the slaughterhouse line. When the automatic slaughterhouse is invented, you challenge it to a man-versus-machine competition. The day of the competition you work non-stop. Contest officials can barely come up with enough innocent animals to slaughter, that’s how good you are. As you cross the finish line, or slaughter the last animal, or whatever, you collapse from exhaustion and die. However, you died trying to prove your point: a machine can’t always beat a man. However, you didn’t prove anything since the slaughtering machine finished its work a clean 10 hours before you finished and collapsed.
Certain that a Charlie Chaplin film will rid you of the feeling that your life has no point, you trudge into the cinema. In fact, watching the talented actor perform stunts fills you with happiness. “Maybe the life of assassination isn’t right,” you think, “maybe the point of life is to give of yourself in order to make things easier for your fellow man.” Unfortunately, you never get the chance to test this idea, as the next Charlie Chaplin gag is so hysterical, you laugh so hard that your appendix blows open.
You buy a ticket to see the latest action-packed robbery film. But seeing the dastardly deeds of Black Bart makes you itch for the satisfaction of slaughtering innocents. Before the big finale when Bart ties a woman to the train tracks, you decide to attack everyone in the theater. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of people in the theater, most carrying weapons. You manage to eliminate everyone in the nearby rows, but you become disoriented when the lights go out and you succumb to thousands of stabbings.
You head to the hospital and hide in a pile of hay conveniently placed near the entrance. You hang out for several hours, whiling the time away by whittling hay. Eventually, the doors fly open and the Archviscount comes striding out.
Springing over to the politician, you fling your blades with the speed of a hedge trimmer. Soon, nothing remains of the Archviscount except a bloody corpse. Screams pierce the air as you sprint away from firing guards.
Your assassination rocks the entire world. The fallout from the Archviscount’s death causes a chain reaction of events which eventually plunges the entire planet into war. You proudly gain rank among The Black Hand Guild of assassins. However, you soon grow bored of killing only one target at a time.
Hoping to assuage your bloodlust, you join the army. The higher-ups take note of your brazen technique of charging head-on into enemy gunfire, and soon relegate you to a desk job. Watching the world restructure itself from your tiny desk has a marked change on your personality. You come to the realization that you won’t be satisfied unless you are destroying some sacred part of the world. You begin missionary work, which allows you to travel all over the world killing people. At the end of your long life, you are both revered for your charity with impoverished tribes, and reviled as the biggest serial mass murderer in history. All in all, a fair trade.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE FOUND THE BEST ENDING! WE HOPE THIS GIVES YOU SOME FRAIL SENSE OF CLOSURE!
The ability to effect political change is rare, but even more scarce is a fresh sandwich in 1900’s Europe. You order a tasty ham sandwich with provolone. Sitting outside, you take a bite. It is so good, it almost fills the huge void left by the Archviscount running away. But not fully.
Leaping from the haystack, you pull out your most exceptional hay whittling. However, the Archviscount’s men mistake your innocent straw sculpture for a weapon. You clutch your sculpted duck whistle close to your chest as your flesh is ripped apart by hot leaden bullets.