There are many kinds of killers in the world. There are those few who take the lives of others for amusement, or to have some sick feeling of control over fate. The kind that never see anything wrong with killing to begin with. Many people assume these are the most dangerous sorts of killers, wild animals that cannot be controlled or taught otherwise.

Then there are the sort of killers, the sort that do it for a purpose. The cold, calculating men and women who sit in rooms and plot earnestly the deaths of their enemies. Sometimes there is little that differentiates them from the first sort of killer, but usually they still feel some measure of human emotion over their kills. They try to balance the weight of the executions with the benefit of what is gained. Occasionally they even succeed. The conviction that your motives are pure, conviction so strong that you can follow through, walk up to a man and put a blade through his neck as easily as that, is a wonderful and horrible thing.

Somewhere in this second category, on the line between soldier and psychopath, are the assassins. Leonardo believed their cause just, just as they do. He had seen first hand the destruction the Templars had wrought, the lives ended and the worlds demolished for their greed or their cause.
The assassins of old had all been the second sort of killer. And the assassins of the present were trying to mimic them. But they hadn;t been raised into the task of killing men to end conflicts. They had been driven too it, some when they saw family or friends murdered, some when they realized that they hated the government enough to risk their lives in opposition. But even then, all knew, maybe had always known, that they had the capacity to be killers.

Leonardo had no such predilection. He abhorred violence in all forms. The only way he could bring himself to craft the weapons from the plans Ezio brought him was to focus on the technological advancement, the amazing complexity of the machines. To remind himself that Ezio would probably kill with or without Leonardo's assistance, and this way he was giving Ezio's targets the mercy of a quicker death. His gadgets saved his friends; lives and put the Assassins one step closer to ridding Italia of the Borgia.

Most of the time these excuses quieted his conscience, and he could resume his work. If he was honest, it helped that Ezio's victims were high up officials, or nameless guards, both robbed of their humanity in eyes of the common people. The Borgia and their supporters probably thought of the Assassins in the same way. But where they saw a mysterious hooded menace, Leonardo saw a man who had had any semblance of a normal life torn from him, and was forced to kill. A man who bled and could die just as easily as those he hunted.

That evening had started out normally enough. Leonardo had just began to sketch out a commission when a frantic knocking on his door startled him out of his thoughts. He had had enough of these interruptions in the past month to know who it probably was.

The inventor sprang to his feet and opened the door. Ezio stumbled in. He was clutched his side. Dark blood had already seeped through the fabric of his robes. His face was contorted into a snarl of pain.

"Ezio!" Leonardo exclaimed, stepping forward to support his friend. Just as he reached out a hand Ezio was shoved forward by a triumphant-looking guard who had just turned the corner into the doorway. It was one of the fleet footed sorts that could run even faster then assassins. The sword Ezio had been carrying was knocked from his grasp when he hit the ground. The guard's weapon arced plunged the fallen assassin, to finish the job. In the position he was in, Ezio didn't have a prayer of being able to reach his blade and block the blow.

Leonardo's mind raced. With the trajectory the blade was on, the strike would likely puncture one of Ezio's lungs. His friend had recovered grievous injuries before, but it was unlikely he could survive being run through at that angle.

Before he really knew what he would doing, Leonardo snatched up Ezio's sword. How many times had he seen the assassin cleaning blood and gore from it? He had always forced himself not to think of families that would be left bereft, the children who had lost their fathers, the wives who had lost their husbands, to this sword.

Never had he imagined he would ever wield it. It was a very good quality blade, well balanced. Much heavier then it looked, and Leonardo knew in a proper fight he would be disarmed in seconds. But the guard was caught up in the triumph of finally catching the elusive assassin.

He didn't want to kill. But men were often driven to kill. He called himself a coward, and now he would be a coward no matter what. A coward to ignore his morals if he killed the guard, and a coward who had stood by and watched his friend die.

Ezio, who stood for so much to others. He brought hope to the assassins, and struck fear into the hearts of the Templars. A symbol to both sides, human to only a few. Leonardo was one of those few, and he wasn't thinking about the symbol or what the assassin stood for. He was thinking about Ezio, his best friend, just a man who was bleeding out on the pavement.

High and mighty notions had to be tossed aside. Leonardo wasn't the sort of man who could kill and think it was the right thing. He couldn't kill in the name of some cause. He probably couldn't even kill to protect himself.

He could kill to save his friend. With a sudden jerk of his hand he drove the sword into the guard's neck.

All of this transpired in seconds. The guard crumpled without a word. Too numb to think of what he had just did, Leonardo dragged the body into his workshop and slammed the door. He left the dead guard there, and ran to Ezio.

It was some time later, when Ezio was out of danger, that the realization of what he had done hit the inventor.

He cradled his head in his trembling hands, and cried.
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