Ezio Auditore di Firenze looks out over the city of Florence from his vantage point on the roof of the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral. His pristine white hoodie casts a shadow over his face, obscuring a menacing scowl. It’s a beautiful morning in the cradle of Renaissance, but he doesn’t give a shit. Something has got him pissed.

Cheer up, Ezio! It’s so beautiful up here! Only you and the birds can see the entirety of the Arno river, that shimmering snake that winds through the poor quarters of Venice, reflecting the brown brick fascade of the Palazzo Pitti, the marble columns of the Midici Chapel, and the bell tower of Campanie.

No one else has this view – no other human alive can climb that well. So why the frown, mister? Is it because someone capped your pops in cold blood?

Or is it because the age of rooftop bar-b-que has begun, thereby making your entire stabby-stabby-run-and-climb strategy completely worthless?

“No need to freak out just yet, Ezio. Remember: it’s the Renaissance,” the chiseled nobleman tells himself with the kind of awareness that comes only by being possessed by an annoying bartender from the future. “A lot of things are being invented right now. This is probably just another fad, like Humanism.”

His keen assassin eyes zero in on the roof of the Battistero di San Giovanni. A dozen monks merrily drink wine and roast lamb on a spit. One of them does a barrel-stand and gets vino all over his tunic. They all laugh.

“Looks like fun,” Ezio says. He catches himself. No, Ezio. Bad assassin. Thank God no one was around to hear that. Of course, now that everyone hangs out on their fucking roof all afternoon, it’s a lot more likely that someone will next time.

There’s another bar-b-que on the roof of the Orsanmichele just a few blocks away. Drunken weavers collaborate on an NC-17 tapestry while a fat guard teaches a teenage girl how to play the harp.

“What indulgence!” Ezio shouts. And why not? Up here, on the roof, no one can judge them. They can finally let loose and treat themselves to lamb and loom without fear of persecution. It was only a matter of time before they discovered that every party gets a shot of crazy when it moves to the roof.

Ezio catches his breath. His mind races. It isn’t even a holiday! It’s Friday afternoon! Why aren’t all these people at work? How is he supposed to murder the heads of his rival families when he can’t parkour from rooftop to rooftop with incredible ease?

He imagines the worst case scenarios: getting a fork in his eye; slipping on a mustard spill; his robe catching fire in a bed of hot kabobs.

He suddenly feels outdated. He needs to stab some strangers in the neck. Set fire to an orphanage. Choke a nun. That’ll make him feel better.

“Hey, guy. Guy on the roof. Hey. Over here, guy!” someone says in a gruff voice that echoes across the plaza. Ezio peers in the distance. Niccolo

Machiavelli stands on the roof of his house, a goblet in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette in the other. “You got a light, guy?”

Ezio sighs. Like his life wasn’t hard enough. He considers blasting this Italian motherfucker away with his wrist cannon, but decides against it. Instead he leaps from his perch and freefalls into a conveniently placed bale of hay.

He lays there for a minute. Breathes in deep. Some things never change.