Jameson is dead, lying in a pool of his own blood on a cot where Hickey should have been. Instead, Hickey’s standing with Lee in the doorway wearing matching wicked smiles, and he doesn’t even know if they’re aware what they’ve just taken away from him.
Jameson’s dead, and Connor wasn’t the one to kill him.
“I thought we’d finished off your kind,” says Lee – and the words cut through Connor two-fold.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To rid the world of all who do not share your views.” Connor takes a step towards them. They’re armed and he is not, and even if he was he’d hardly be in a fit state to fight. Logic dictates that he should keep his distance, but Connor’s world is a red-tinged haze and the people in front of him need to die.
“Guilty as charged,” Lee says with a slight chuckle – then his voice becomes cold once more as he levels his pistol at Connor’s chest, “Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important.” He eyes Connor like he did all those years ago, as though speaking to someone – something – beneath him. “But what would you know, beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you and the tales you tell yourself.”
Connor knows pain, and he knows anguish, and he knows white-hot rage. “I know that the people wish to be free – and that men like Washington fight to make it so.”
“Please. The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it up as he goes along.” Charles takes a step closer, gun still pointed straight at Connor’s heart. “His pedigree is pathetic – his military record even more so.” Lee takes a deep breath, his expression becoming slightly less manic. “I could go on and on but we’d be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits. He must be dealt with. You as well. I will abide no more flies in the ointment.”
“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” says Hickey. “First we bind you and bring you to your cell. Then tomorrow you go before the court, accused of plotting to kill good ol’ Georgie. Maybe we could pin the murder of that one on you too.” He points over to where Jameson’s body lies, and bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “You had incentive, after all.”
Hickey’s words send a jolt through him and Connor rams himself into Lee, adrenaline fuelling him where everything else has run dry. If he could just disarm the man, he could…
But Lee knocks him back with surprising strength for a man of his size, pinning Connor against the door frame by his neck. The scene is far too familiar, and Lee’s eyes widen.
“All those years ago… The child in the forest was you.”
“I said I would find you,” Connor forces out, the words cracking slightly.
Lee looks almost gleeful. “And so you have. But not quite as you expected, am I right? You know – all this might have been avoided, if you’d only done as I’d asked.”
He stares at Connor for a moment. Connor’s vision is growing cloudy, his lungs begging for air. Suddenly, Lee releases him, and Connor falls to the ground in a wheezing heap.
“Leave us,” Lee tells Hickey stiffly.
“What–”
“Leave us.” There is no room for argument in his tone, and Hickey leaves with only a backwards look, closing the door behind him.
“You look so much like him, you know,” Lee says. There’s almost something fond in his voice, and Connor is repulsed even though he knows the fondness is not directed at him. “Something about the jaw.”
He presses the barrel of the pistol against Connor’s cheek, following the contours of his face.
“He signed your death warrant, you know. I was worried that he might have some… misplaced sentiment.” The pistol stills, positioned just below Connor’s chin. “How does that make you feel, I wonder?”
“I feel nothing,” Connor says. It’s almost the truth. He’s long understood that Haytham is the enemy, and it’s hardly a surprise that Haytham would feel the same way about him.
It’s apparently the wrong thing to say – Lee’s eyes narrow, and the gun is pressed harder against Connor’s skin. “You may look alike,” he says coolly, “but there is clearly little of Haytham in you. He would never have been so…” His gaze wanders over to Jameson. “Pitiful. You honestly couldn’t take care of a guard when the opportunity presented itself?”
“This coming from the man holding a gun,” Connor snaps.
Lee gives an exaggerated sigh. “That is one of the many differences between your people and ours. You talk of nobility, of honour. We take whatever opportunities present themselves and we are victorious.” He shifts the barrel of the gun towards Connor’s mouth, and presses hard. “Open.”
“Why would I do that?” Connor says through gritted teeth. “You intend to have me killed anyway. I have no reason to give in to your whims.”
“Oh, you will die, that much is certain. But you have such a limited perspective. The Davenport homestead…”
Connor tenses.
“I thought that might strike a nerve. Yes, it would be unfortunate if someone had it burned to the ground… so much unnecessary loss of life.”
“You wouldn’t,” says Connor. Lee shrugs, and the gun brushes against Connor’s split lip.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Something glints in Lee’s eyes. “Are you willing to risk it?”
Connor thinks of flames, and the smell of burning flesh, and the bastard in front of him who made it happen.
He opens his mouth. Lee forces the pistol in as far as it will go, and Connor gags when it hits the back of his throat, the taste sour and metallic.
“Tch. Sloppy. And I’d hoped some practice would have done you good.” With his free hand, Lee grabs Connor’s face. “Suck on it.”
He does. This time he can’t even find peace in the dark recesses of his mind – every time he tries, his thought snap back to the man in front of him. Time has not been kind; there is something feral about Charles Lee now, and the only thought that gives him some relief is that at least people will be able to see him for what he is, beneath the fine clothes and finer words.
He’s not sure how long he stays like that, how much time passes until Lee withdraws the gun and brings it crashing against his temple.
FILL [6/?]
Jameson’s dead, and Connor wasn’t the one to kill him.
“I thought we’d finished off your kind,” says Lee – and the words cut through Connor two-fold.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To rid the world of all who do not share your views.” Connor takes a step towards them. They’re armed and he is not, and even if he was he’d hardly be in a fit state to fight. Logic dictates that he should keep his distance, but Connor’s world is a red-tinged haze and the people in front of him need to die.
“Guilty as charged,” Lee says with a slight chuckle – then his voice becomes cold once more as he levels his pistol at Connor’s chest, “Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important.” He eyes Connor like he did all those years ago, as though speaking to someone – something – beneath him. “But what would you know, beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you and the tales you tell yourself.”
Connor knows pain, and he knows anguish, and he knows white-hot rage. “I know that the people wish to be free – and that men like Washington fight to make it so.”
“Please. The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it up as he goes along.” Charles takes a step closer, gun still pointed straight at Connor’s heart. “His pedigree is pathetic – his military record even more so.” Lee takes a deep breath, his expression becoming slightly less manic. “I could go on and on but we’d be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits. He must be dealt with. You as well. I will abide no more flies in the ointment.”
“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” says Hickey. “First we bind you and bring you to your cell. Then tomorrow you go before the court, accused of plotting to kill good ol’ Georgie. Maybe we could pin the murder of that one on you too.” He points over to where Jameson’s body lies, and bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “You had incentive, after all.”
Hickey’s words send a jolt through him and Connor rams himself into Lee, adrenaline fuelling him where everything else has run dry. If he could just disarm the man, he could…
But Lee knocks him back with surprising strength for a man of his size, pinning Connor against the door frame by his neck. The scene is far too familiar, and Lee’s eyes widen.
“All those years ago… The child in the forest was you.”
“I said I would find you,” Connor forces out, the words cracking slightly.
Lee looks almost gleeful. “And so you have. But not quite as you expected, am I right? You know – all this might have been avoided, if you’d only done as I’d asked.”
He stares at Connor for a moment. Connor’s vision is growing cloudy, his lungs begging for air. Suddenly, Lee releases him, and Connor falls to the ground in a wheezing heap.
“Leave us,” Lee tells Hickey stiffly.
“What–”
“Leave us.” There is no room for argument in his tone, and Hickey leaves with only a backwards look, closing the door behind him.
“You look so much like him, you know,” Lee says. There’s almost something fond in his voice, and Connor is repulsed even though he knows the fondness is not directed at him. “Something about the jaw.”
He presses the barrel of the pistol against Connor’s cheek, following the contours of his face.
“He signed your death warrant, you know. I was worried that he might have some… misplaced sentiment.” The pistol stills, positioned just below Connor’s chin. “How does that make you feel, I wonder?”
“I feel nothing,” Connor says. It’s almost the truth. He’s long understood that Haytham is the enemy, and it’s hardly a surprise that Haytham would feel the same way about him.
It’s apparently the wrong thing to say – Lee’s eyes narrow, and the gun is pressed harder against Connor’s skin. “You may look alike,” he says coolly, “but there is clearly little of Haytham in you. He would never have been so…” His gaze wanders over to Jameson. “Pitiful. You honestly couldn’t take care of a guard when the opportunity presented itself?”
“This coming from the man holding a gun,” Connor snaps.
Lee gives an exaggerated sigh. “That is one of the many differences between your people and ours. You talk of nobility, of honour. We take whatever opportunities present themselves and we are victorious.” He shifts the barrel of the gun towards Connor’s mouth, and presses hard. “Open.”
“Why would I do that?” Connor says through gritted teeth. “You intend to have me killed anyway. I have no reason to give in to your whims.”
“Oh, you will die, that much is certain. But you have such a limited perspective. The Davenport homestead…”
Connor tenses.
“I thought that might strike a nerve. Yes, it would be unfortunate if someone had it burned to the ground… so much unnecessary loss of life.”
“You wouldn’t,” says Connor. Lee shrugs, and the gun brushes against Connor’s split lip.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Something glints in Lee’s eyes. “Are you willing to risk it?”
Connor thinks of flames, and the smell of burning flesh, and the bastard in front of him who made it happen.
He opens his mouth. Lee forces the pistol in as far as it will go, and Connor gags when it hits the back of his throat, the taste sour and metallic.
“Tch. Sloppy. And I’d hoped some practice would have done you good.” With his free hand, Lee grabs Connor’s face. “Suck on it.”
He does. This time he can’t even find peace in the dark recesses of his mind – every time he tries, his thought snap back to the man in front of him. Time has not been kind; there is something feral about Charles Lee now, and the only thought that gives him some relief is that at least people will be able to see him for what he is, beneath the fine clothes and finer words.
He’s not sure how long he stays like that, how much time passes until Lee withdraws the gun and brings it crashing against his temple.
He welcomes unconsciousness with open arms.