Sitting down in his chair – and noting with annoyance that it smelled like the thief – in lieu of checking out the window – because the hellfiend would never be so obliging as to actually get himself killed and free Machiavelli from the torment – he settled down to study Antonio’s ‘gift.’

On the surface it seemed harmless enough, rather small, and a cursory sniff did not carry the odor of hard liquor or lethal poison. He debated with himself for a while, curiosity warring with common sense. The desire to figure out just what made this beverage so special that Antonio would use it to cover his jailbreak, combined with the knowledge that poisoning was very much not Antonio’s style – though he momentarily entertained the theory that it had actually been La Volpe, cleverly disguised as Antonio through some cosmetic means and attempting to poison him (again), before discounted that theory on the grounds that La Volpe’s backside was nowhere near as shapely and tantalizing as Antonio’s. Not that he made a habit of studying either man’s backside. At all. – finally won him over, and he found himself lifting the canteen to his lips.

Things became… cloudy, afterwards.

The next day Machiavelli concluded that the drink was a powerful hallucinogenic. There was simply no other explanation for the foggy memories of group hugs, the institution of “No Pants Wednesdays” and “Snuggle Fridays” (which were not going to continue, no matter how much his agents whined), the painting of flowers and happy suns and fluffy bunnies on the walls and ceilings of his lair (the fact that those were still there was a testament to the lasting power of the hallucinogen), the holding of hands and singing of friendship and peace with his agents and several – very confused but not unhappy – captured Templars, or the mass weaving of floral wreaths and crowns.

Espresiaccelerato-fueled hallucinating was also the only possible explanation for the visions of paying Antonio his own through-the-ceiling surprise-visit while au natural – his clothes having been shed hours earlier with the intent of ‘being closer to the blessed Earth!’ – and throwing the thief lord to the floor, straddling him, whispering absolutely filthy promises in his ear… and then passing out. That last was especially only a hallucination, since Niccolo Machiavelli most certainly would never want to have filthy, kinky, mindblowingly amazing sexy-times with Antonio. And, even if he had, which he didn’t, he would most certainly have performed far above par and left the thief wrecked, not annoyed, unfulfilled, and prone to shooting Machiavelli glances of long-suffering frustration. So, yes. The well named Drink of Madness was a hallucinogenic. There was no other explanation. And that was what he told himself daily and enforced on his agents with the threat of Unbridled Creativity.

Though if the mutinous little bastards didn’t stop calling him “Papà Happy Rainbows” he was going to forcibly transfer them to Claudia Auditore’s command and be done with them.

Anyway.

Sighing deeply, Machiavelli sat back, rubbed his eyes tiredly, and realized that – partway through the demented stroll down memory lane – he had come up with a plan that was fiendish even by his standards.

The plan in mind involved betraying the faith a close companion, drugging a typically harmless and just all around nice man with That Which Should Not Have Been Made (again), almost certainly unleashing impossible madness and destruction on a helpless and unprepared world, and was simply the sort of plan that he most definitely should not do.

But, yeah, he was totally going to do it anyway.
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