AN: Omnomnom. This is my first fanfic, and - no, wait, don't go! *drags back* I've written a few before, but this is the first that I've put on teh interwebz. But it probably wasn't a good idea to write one at 10pm. Yeah. This is supposed to be humourous, but it's more just plain silliness, and yes, despite this, if I get any reviews I will continue it. Because I actually thought of a plot for something as stupid as a horses' rebellion caused by messing with the Apple. I know. Stupid, but you might like it! :D! So try it, yus?

Niccolo Machiavelli was a busy man - a busy man with things to do, people to see - and, a book to write. Il Princpe was finished now, though, and one of his many busy activities was to visit the brothel which Ezio's feisty sister, Claudia, ran - just to, ahem, check on business. Not for personal needs, or anything.

The philosopher leant over his masterpiece, sharp, bird-like eyes scanning every corner of the page before he let it rest in peace, meticulously and carefully crossing every "t" in the same elegant manner, and dotting every "i" with the same sized dot. It wasn't like he had OCD, or anything, about crosses and dots - it wasn't like he went around intercepting couriers to do this to everyones' personal letters (well, actually, he did have OCD... but not about that, just about keeping buttons as shiny as mirrors and having every hair on his head the exact same length. He had to look tidy for his job,

didn't he? For... some reason?) No, he actually was doing this for the sake of wasting time - because recently, his maldito cavallo, Vieri, had been acting funny. By acting funny, it's meant that he wouldn't allow a maldito rider to get up on his back (which Niccolo also kept as shiny as mirrors) - not that he would nudge peoples' asses with his head, he did that anyway.

For you see, Niccolo Machiavelli was also a lazy man. He was hoping that, despite the intelligence that we all know he has, if Vieri was left for a while, things would settle down and he would, though grudgingly as always, allow a rider. He wouldn't walk all the way to the brothel. Dio. (or perhaps his "laziness" is a cover-up for him not wanting the dust from the streets ruining his lovely, shineh buttons).

But he had to start his journey now, because Claudia was expecting him soon - so he had to brave the pervy horse. He stood up, brushing down his clothes, and glanced in the mirror, checking over his hair. Niccolo strolled outside of his secret headquarters (which, by the way, is situated in the banking district of Rome - that pretty, shiny mahogany door near Juan Borgia's bank). When he reached the nearby stables, Vieri was waiting politely, looking at the philosopher with respect in his large eyes (HA! he thought triumphantly). So, naturally, Niccolo, nasty grin settled on his face, muttering "I own you, beast" on the way, walked proudly to his steed, and mounted without any problems.

Apart from the fact that Vieri started a slow walk - with no encouragement from our dear Machivelli - down the cobbled street, in the opposite direction to the brothel.

"...Vieri?" Hesitantly, he poked the horse in the neck. No effect. "Vieri?" A tap on his nose. Nothing. Ok. That's it. "VIERI!" A good, hard slap on the side, that should do it, you stupid, evil, motherfu-

"NO, VIERI NO,!" Said horse was galloping like his pointless horsey life would be over in an hour down the street, knocking over civilians like dominoes in his wild path. Machiavelli wasn't a man who screamed. Never. Never. He liked calm. He liked how it made him seem authoritative and collected. But not now. He was screaming and shrieking like a little girl who'd had her favourite plushie stolen, kicking and slapping in a fit to the animal, yet to no avail. And what was that gap ahead? Oh, no.

Oh, no.

OH, NO!

The Tiber, and Vieri was headed straight for it, whinnying happily on his way. Bastard.

"I'LL GET YOU BACK FOR THIS! I'LL KICK YOU AND WHIP YOU SO HARD YOUR MOTHER'S GOING TO FEEL IT IN HER GRAVE! I'LL DELIVER YOU TO THE TEMPLARS AND LET YOU BE SUBJECTED TO THEIR FAT, GREASY ASSES ON YOUR BACK, AND-"

And at that point, Vieri skidded to a halt, hooves squeaking on the ground, and the master swordsman that was Niccolo forgot his rant and sailed uselessly over his horse's lowered head, whimpering in mid-air, and landed with a splash in the dirty, piss-filled waters of the Tiber.

"What's wrong with her?" Leonardo's blue gaze slid to the right, to where Ezio stood with big, puppy-dog eyes and a pout on his chiselled face. Currently, he was holding his the head of his mare, Italia, in his hands while - like the proper little scientist he was - he examined her. (Italia: because he had pride.

No, I don't mean that sort of pride. Although he had that too...)

"Fix her? Please?" Leonardo emitted a sigh, and he turned to face his best friend with a hand on his hip. He had utterly no idea why his horse was rejecting the assassin. After all - he'd lent Italia to Ezio before, and he'd ridden on her to his workshop so they could study the Apple. There didn't seem to be an explanation - and this, the artist was irritated at, because Leonardo always had to have an explanation. For everything.

"Pretty please? With sugar on top?" Ezio pursued, staring at his friend pleadingly (although in the busy street where the mare was tethered, it made civilians give him a creeped out stare. Because, you know... Big, bad, scary, hooded assassin, begging like a little kid).

"It's not that simple, Ezio." Leonardo sighed again, and ran a hand through the dark gold hair he spent so long on keeping soft and tidy. "The only explanation I can think of is that she was fed up of your great big ass rubbing against her back."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny."

That's what you get for stealing my red hat, thief! The artist snickered internally, and turned wordlessly to watch the dull people of Roma. But, for once they were doing something other than walking, eating apples, or carrying random (and suspicious) unmarked crates that would explode whenever you walked into one. They were all facing the same direction; walking back hastily; pale faced and gasping; hands covering their mouths. And, strangely, holding their noses in disgust.

With a questioning glance towards Ezio - who was equally bemused - the artist walked quickly to the gathering of civilians, and waded through, shoving them aside thoughtlessly as he went to catch a glimpse. And, hell, when he did see it, he stopped in his tracks, gasped, and started moving hastily backwards too.

It was a monster, and he couldn't take his bright blue gaze off it. Tall, wet and dripping, filthy hood obscuring whatever sort of face could be there. When it moved, it staggered like a drunk toddler, and it left a slimy brown trail after it... and then, when it turned to Leonardo, it called his name in a thick voice.

"Leonarrrrdo..." And it started moving faster, staggering fast and clumsily, towards him. For a moment the engineer just stood, frozen, confused, creeped out (and, as always, fascinated by what could be a new test subject). But then, whatever senses he had buried deep down inside him kicked in and he spun round and ran for his life, utterly terrified, knocking down random people in his path. And when the fat, lumpy, skinny, normal bodies of people were removed from his line of sight, he could actually see, and then he starting yelling incomprehensibly as he ran towards his assassin friend.

He grabbed the white robes and yelled up to his friend's startled face. "EZIO HELP IT'S GOING TO KILL ME OR RAPE ME KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT OR JUST ARROW STORM IT PLEEEASE HELP ME HELP ME-"

During his panic attack, Leonardo hadn't noticed Ezio was shaking him... shaking him harder and harder. But he did notice when Ezio slapped him hard across the face, and he brought a hand to the new red mark on his cheek, a shocked expression on his face, monster momentarily forgotten.

"Get a hold on yourself, man, before I bitch-slap you again, and embarrass myself even more!" Ezio sighed, closed his eyes, and turned the disorientated Leonardo around to face "the monster". "It's just Machiavelli, and although the sight of him is quite scary, you should be used to it by now."

Indeed it was. Just a very flithy, dirty, stinky, wet Machiavelli - now with his hood down. (why couldn't he have done that before? Oh, yeah, he got a sick kick out of scaring the normal people of Roma shitless).

"Sorry," he grunted to a now exhausted Ezio and a slightly pink Leonardo. "It's my damn horse, Vieri... you'll never guess what it's done."

At the words "damned horse" the assassin and artist exchanged a weird deja-vu kind of look. But, they turned back to Machiavelli, and politely listened to his long, long story.

Maldito cavallo: Damned horse (at least, I hope it means that).

Yay. So, if you did like it, for whatever reason, review... otherwise I'm unlikely to carry this on. It will eventually make more sense (I promise!) and a plot will come together (IF I GETZ A REVIEW!) So this is more of an introduction to the idea of horses rebelling against the assassins... I'll stop rambling now.