I...really don't know where this came from. Sorry.

Don't own. Otherwise I would hardly be satirising its appalling presentation of women in this insolent manner now, would I?

A WOMAN? - an exploration of typical gender roles in 12th century Syria

Altaïr, master assassin, stumbled back from Robert de Sable's vicious swordstroke, narrowly avoiding a demure gravestone in his path.

Majd Addin was barely cold in the ground, yet here was his killer, coldly ending more lives atop the regent's final resting place!

Righting himself hurriedly, he sheathed his beautiful Syrian sword and prepared to use the elegant knife entrusted to him by his master Al Mualim, in the hope that the change in fighting style would leave the Templar Grandmaster reeling; but his attack was relentless and Altaïr found himself looking for any advantage that could end his nemesis' reign of terror.

He found it as a cold sneer left Sable's helmet, and his iron guard dropped. Without hesitation, Altaïr scaled the stone that had almost ended him, and sprang clean over Sable's helmeted head. As the templar span, encumbered by his heavy armour, the assassin landed and swept his more lightly reinforced legs from under him. Sable let out a strangely girlish squeal as he crashed to the ground, and Altaïr allowed himself a small indulgence in the form of…amusement. Mustn't let this…amusement become a habit now, he berated himself.

Dropping lightly to his opponent, Altaïr roughly grabbed the front of his white surcoat. "I would see your face before I kill you," he intoned soullessly. Grabbing the heavy red great helm, he tore it from Sable's head and tossed it aside.

But underneath was not the face of Robert de Sable, his sworn enemy. Underneath was the face of a woman.


Lucy Stillman watched in concern as Desmond spasmed and twitched in the Animus. The scandalous revelation that his ancestor had uncovered seemed to have brought him closer to desynchronisation than ever.


"What is this sorcery?" Altaïr exclaimed, managing to avoid that minefield known as emotion. For once, his curious accent impediment that the other assassins bullied him about didn't even bother him.

The woman replied with some petty statement. Altaïr didn't listen, as he was above such small matters as a female opinion. He stood up, considering the situation. Dead bodies of soldiers around…himself holding bloody weapons…a woman straightening up in front of him...ah. Everything made sense after all. He just had to control the situation.

The creature blinked as he put his weapon away. "Well then, my Lady," he attempted to smile winningly. "There's your little problem sorted. Now I'm sure you could have handled the big men yourself, but aren't you glad that a gentleman appeared and rescued you from their masculine clutches?"

"What are you – " she began to ask.

Altair schooled his expression; maybe he was scaring her. He bent to her level, widened his solemn eyes and asked, in the quiet tone one uses on a tearful toddler with a breech leg full of wee, "Did they try to force themselves on you?"

"Why you-!"

"Now now, no need to give me adoring thanks!" He paused expectantly. The woman waited in nonplussed silence.

"This is where you introduce me to a suitable man who runs your life; he and I discuss worldly and serious things and repayments, while you put a jar on your head and take a stroll." he offered helpfully. They just seemed to be getting dimmer. "After all, we need to let you believe that you are an independent and strong young lady, otherwise you could have a womanly fit of pique." Altair topped off his explanation with what he guessed to be a jaunty wink.

The woman, to his bafflement, narrowed her eyes. This, Altaïr's male intuition knew, was a sure sign that a womanly fit of pique was on the way. "You didn't save me. Until a few seconds ago, you were trying desperately to kill me, assassin."

"Trying to kill you?" Altaïr was mortified at the waste of effort involved. "I would never harm a female such as yourself. You are simply too irrelevant and small-minded to ever appear in my beautifully elegant and intelligent schemes. Even if that involves running around like some sort of courier…" Altair trailed off, aware he had lost the point somewhere. "Well, I'll be on my way, sly temptress." He moved to push past her; after all, her frivolous female daydreams were clearly muddling her further. But his illustrious testosterone-powered strength was somehow terrifyingly ineffectual against the duplicity of women. She stood insolently, barring his important way.

There was only one explanation. Altaïr felt a prickling between his shoulder blades, and sweat broke out on his brow. Must. Escape. "...you say I wasn't rescuing you, weak and feeble woman? Then you will have no coin from me, wretch!" He averted his gaze imperiously, and waited for her to go away. There was no other defence against such merciless predators.

Maria Thorpe, Templar sister, stared at the lunatic with his hand still on her shoulder. She stared some more. She debated kneeing him in the groin and running, but that would be unladylike. Bloody etiquette.

She went for insulted. "How dare you call me a beggar, you dress-wearing murderer? Are you actually stupider than you look? I am a proud sister of the honourable Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon! I shall have you hanged, you…" she spluttered, unable to find a word that described the murderer in question, "ragamuffin!"

As she stared, baffled, the veins on the assassin's forehead began to bulge. His eyes became bloodshot; his fists clenched so hard the hilt of his sword bent slightly; his face became a shade of puce normally associated with cardiac arrest. "I…do not understand," he whispered, his expression wild and haunted, "how can a woman… be so wilful?"

She sighed. "Quite easily, it seems." And then Maria Thorpe, sister of the Order, drew her sword and ran Altair Ibn La-Ahad through, before his head exploded.

He tensed and gurgled slightly. "I think I love yo - urgh..."

Maria wrenched her sword from him and backed away slowly, before breathing a sigh of relief that she would never, ever be a man.


Desmond woke, switched off the Animus hurriedly and, ignoring Lucy, swung to face Warren Vidic. "Did that actually happen?"

She looked at him with more worry. "I don't think so, Desmond. In fact, I don't know what-"

"Argh! Not again! SILENCE, WENCH!" he bawled suddenly. A little bit of dribble flew out.

Lucy blinked. Why did the Bleeding Effect always land her with cranks?

She walked calmly over to Desmond and struck him square on his temple with the heel of her hand without another word. As he keeled over silently, Vidic turned from the window that always inexplicably fascinated him and eyeballed her quizzically.

"You know, these womanly fits of pique are getting worse…"


"Sorry, dear."

Yeah. So, sorry about that; I had to get it off my chest.

Slania, over and out. Before someone kills me for this.