But the boy just won't leave him alone.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he says as he finishes wrapping Haytham up.

Haytham goes to run unsteady fingers through his hair, stops when he comes across something crusted. He pulls it out of the strands, examines it, and feels like throwing up—of his own volition, this time. Haytham gives Connor a ragged sigh. He can't meet his eyes.

“Not now, Connor. It's not a good time,” he says hoarsely.

“There is never going to be a good time,” Connor grouses.

“I said, 'not now!'” It comes out as a harsh bark. Connor starts, but does not draw away.

“Look,” Connor says, eyes pleading. “I know you are hurting, that you do not think you are capable, but you must help me. People are dying.”

Oh, lad, you have no idea.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Haytham croaks, irritated that the boy won't just let him be.

Connor gives him an annoyed look that makes him look very much like Ziio.

“Just... Anything. Collect information. You are at Washington's side almost every day; you must have heard something useful.”

“I know nothing that can help you,” Haytham says, and it's the truth. What he witnessed today, what he saw... it will do no good for Connor to know.

“I killed a boy today,” Connor says quietly, face drawn and grim. Haytham stares at him, raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to fumble his way to some sort of point. “We were brought into the throne room after you had been taken away. He was like us; the Apple did not control him. He was fourteen, if that. Half my weight. He came at me with a knife.”

“Why?”

“Because he was told to. It amused Washington to send him at me. The boy apologized. Said that if he did not kill me, the guards would let the whole barracks dishonor his sister—his younger sister. I tried to stop him. Took the knife away from him, easily. He still came at me. I fought him off, but, somehow the blade found his stomach. He died in my arms.”

Connor's rendition is uncharacteristicly detached. He has a far away look in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else. “There will be more like him, if we do not stop this.”

So, Washington is still singling out resistant people to fight to the death. Perhaps it's an attempt to break them, make them more susceptible to the Apple's influence, or perhaps just out of pure cruelty and sadism. Washington had tried the same tactic with Haytham, when he'd first been taken prisoner, only to be dismayed by his ruthless efficiency and utter lack of remorse. It was war at it's most primitive and basest level; kill or be killed. So he killed. It was only after he had worked his way through a full dozen other prisoners that Washington had decided to try a different route.

Haytham laughs. It's an awful, cruel sound that's more like a sob than anything else. Poor, tender, dear-hearted Connor. So absurdly unprepared. So naive. His son is one of the most talented, natural killers that Haytham has ever seen, and yet even the slightest bit of collateral damage seems to unnerve him.

“A boy. A single dead boy you didn't even know has you put out.”

Connor tenses, draws back. “He did nothing to deserve what I did to him.”

“They never do. And yet they die just as easily.”

“I should have never expected you to care,” Connor snaps. “There is no room in your heart for anyone but yourself.”

He shouldn't say anything. No good will come of it. But he's hurting, miserable, and frustrated. He wants lash out, hurt someone in some fundamental and irreversible way to prove to himself that he's still a man, that he's something more than just a receptacle for scars and abuse and cum. And the most convenient victim just happens to be his own son. He can't hurt him, not physically, anyway, so he uses the only two weapons he has left—his wit, and his tongue.

“You're absolutely right; I don't care,” growls Haytham, vocal chords protesting, “I am completely depleted of sympathy for your dead boy. And do you know why? Because I watched Washington make a man cut out his own tongue today. Because I learned that Washington intends to round up your people, subjugate them, and then let them be massacred when Lee takes Philadelphia. And there is nothing—absolutely nothing that you or I can do about it.”

Connor stares at him, slack-jawed, dark eyes glittering, threatening to overspill. Haytham is instantly reminded of that wet, horrible night at Valley Forge. The night that Connor threatened to kill him.

“What? You look so surprised. You shouldn't be. This is, what, only the third, forth, fifth time Washington has threatened or managed to destroy your people—?”

“Shut up,” Connor says, dangerously quiet.

“—It's practically a compulsion at this point. I never murdered any of your kin; why did you see fit to kill me and let him live?”

“Shut up!” he repeats, louder.

“Why? You wanted the information. Why sulk over one dead boy when there are thousands to—“

Connor draws back his arm, viper-quick, all the muscles in his arm tense and coiled to strike. But he stops. He glares at Haytham teeth bared, eyes wet, and Haytham cowers, bringing up his hands to protect his face, quaking at the sight of so much naked hate.

The hit doesn't come. Connor's hand wavers, and then drops. He stands, goes to the opposite side of the room, and slides down the wall. Crosses his arms over his chest and buries his head between his knees. His shoulders shudder, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not for the last time that evening, Haytham wonders:

What the hell is wrong with me?