Connor appreciated the shouted alert regarding the redcoat about to shoot her in the back. Ducking and spinning about, she sent three throwing knives into him just as he fired the shot. Thankfully, the bullet sailed right over her head. With that, the last of the British were dealt with. Her convoy protected, she had little complaint.
Gathering up her weapons, she heard someone approach just to her right. And like all colonists, the soldier saw fit to immediately touch her with a heavy hand. Why they insisted on such rudeness was beyond her. Instinctively jerking herself away from him, she was about to let out a huff of reproach. That was until she heard the tell-tale, smug accent ringing in her ears.
“Good’en,” he chuckled, “Ya helped saved their asses, darlin’.”
Thomas Hickey?!
He should’ve been dead! Or at the very least, locked up and awaiting trial? Yet, here he was. Smirking with his usual cockiness, his lewd gaze openly raked up and down her figure. But she had far more important concerns besides that. Such as how he was likely attempting to skim supplies from her convoy.
Her fist hit true, connecting with his solar plexus. The air knocked out of him and causing him to double over, a sweep of her leg, a boot to his shin and a steady shove to his shoulder sent him splayed to his back. Dropping and effectively straddling him, she trapped his hands beneath her knees on either side of his hips as she swiftly glanced around. They had no audience, the remaining Patriot soldiers preoccupied with the clean-up. It gave her a small window of time. Thankfully, the two of them were on the edge of carnage and decently hidden by a tall grove of grass. Moreover, the setting sun lent additional darkness.
“Aye, the bitch be back, I see,” Hickey wheezed beneath her, eyes squeezed tight for a moment while he gulped down a few ragged breaths. “What, huntin’ men finally bore ya to bits? Ya finally decide to take yer rightful place, ‘ere in the wild ‘n layin’ with a wolf pack out here on the Frontier? Figures-”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Connor growled, grinding her teeth.
“Last I checked, it be a criminal offense to strike an officer of the Continentals, sweetheart,” he casually retorted.
“Yet, dead men tell no tales,” she retorted, the snap of her hidden blade reverberating in the air and rather near his ear.
“Fuck you!” he spat, eyes narrowed to slits, “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”
“Except you are a Templar,” she snarled, leaning over him and solidly bracing her forearm against his throat. Her words dancing along his chin, he could feel her hiss, “And likely stealing supplies from my supply train!”
“The hell ya getting’ yer knickers in a twist for, girl?!” Hickey sneered. “Besides, that convoy be holdin’ a king’s ransom worth ‘o goods. How in the God’s name did ya manage to get yer hands on all that precious loot?!”
“That is none of your concern!” she snorted. “Why are you escorting my goods?”
“‘Cause I be followin’ orders from me army superiors, princess!” he bellowed, jerking his hips upwards in a vain attempt to dislodge her. Rewarded with a slash of pain ricocheting up his arms as she purposely dug her knees into his wrists again, he stilled, even as he jeered. “I ain’t laid a soddin’ finger on yer blasted supplies! And it ain’t like I picked your specific convoy-”
“A likely tale-”
“It be the only tale!” he cut her off, “So ya can get right the fuck ov’er yer self already, ya dodgy bint!”
Curling her lip in derision, she bit, “Do you truly think me so dense? That it is merely sheer coincidence your patrol happens to be but a dozen or so miles from Fort. St. Mathieu?”
“Who said jack shit ‘bout the Fort?” he rejoined, “And so what if I got me a mission there? Them redcoats been killin’ me men left ‘n right all damned summer ‘n through the fall. Me commander be aimin’ to take it right soon-”
“Thereby allowing you to stab him in the back and betray the Patriots to the British?” she archly questioned, blade now pressed against his chin. “Typical Templar greed and deceit,” she uttered.
He couldn’t hold back a braying laugh at her words, in spite nearly having his throat slit open by the proximity of her blade. This naïve little chit…“Look ‘ere, ya moronic, ‘lil-”
“Major Hickey!” one of the Patriots called out, some yards away from them, “‘Allo, Major? Jesus, mate, where the hell is he-”
It proved the distraction he needed, her head whipping towards the direction of noise. Her shifting weight allowed him jerk his shoulder upwards while shoving his knee beneath her bottom. She faltered and slipped forward, nearly dropping flush on top of him. One of her knees shifted as well, freeing his wrist. Wrenching his arm from his side, his large palm shoved her head away while scrambling to grab at her neck. While she was fast, it was a hair’s breath too slow to spring to her feet. Yet, she didn’t allow his attempts to choke her. Throwing herself to the side, she snatched out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Since he was already in the process of squirming out from under her, the re-dispersal of their combined mass only caused them to suddenly go careening down the hill.
Exchanging slaps, scratching, punching, legs flailing, and getting in an occasional elbow here and there, they fought for dominance as they rolled. Her skills allowed her to rake her nails along his neck, get in a satisfying jab to his ribs, and repeatedly kick her boot into his calf. Unfortunately, she couldn’t unsheathe her hidden blades due to the very real danger of potentially stabbing herself as they tumbled. He proved able to smack her along the forehead, twist one of her wrists behind her head and shove a knee in between her thighs. The dagger sheathed next to his sword flew from his belt sometime during their fisticuffs, his other dagger from his boot gone missing in the earlier clash with the redcoats.
Their trip down the slope came to a painful end when they struck the large, moss covered trunk of a tree with a sharp thud. While his larger form took the brunt of the hit, it knocked the wind out of them both. Regrettably, he landed on top. Connor bit back a groan of irritation at finding his bulk nearly smothering her. The burly oaf had to have at least two to three stone of weight on her frame.
No matter; she may be a woman and naturally smaller and lighter, but Achilles never allowed such to be perceived as a weakness. He’d drilled into her head that she contained speed, stealth and most importantly, society’s perpetual underestimation to her advantage. As well as the traditions of her village, which held women in far higher esteem than these purportedly “civilized” colonists. Most of the latter expected her to immediately surrender. A pity, as it always led to their deaths whenever they crossed her.
For example, Hickey currently had her wrists locked above her head and his dead weight limiting her movement. Nevertheless, his head rested nearly on top of hers, his warm breath grazing her cheek. She could tell from his stuttering rasps and the labored heave of his chest that he was tiring of their fisticuffs. Especially so soon after the pressing skirmish with the redcoats. So she willed herself to relax beneath him. As she expected, he was caught off guard by the fight supposedly leaving her. Feeling his grip on her wrists loosen slightly and him shift a bit, she prepared herself.
“Funny that,” he drawled against her ear, “Much as I enjoy havin' a nice handle on me women, I’m a thinkin’ I prefer ya on top, she-wolf.”
“A pity, as I prefer you dead,” she panted, collecting herself.
He tiredly snickered, nose now resting along her hairline as he struggled to catch his breath, “Oh, ya wouldn’t be sayin’ that if you knew me any better, love. I got all sorts ‘o useful skills.”
“Somehow, I highly doubt that.”
Letting out a long sigh, he rolled his eyes and sat back on his haunches. It caused him to slacken his hold even more. “Ya know what, dearie?” his gaze met hers, expression sliding to bizarrely thoughtful for a quick second, “Ya always lookin' for a means to go killin’ folks ‘afore ya know their whole story-”
“As though you are worth saving.” Lifting her chin in defiance, she didn’t bother to drop the disdain from her voice, “Obviously, in spite of your second chance, you have remained with your wretched Order. Your actions speak volumes.”
“All that righteous rage bouncin’ around all up in ya,” he clucked his tongue, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child, “My, my, it’ gotta be eatin’ away at ya innards-”
Reeling back, she bashed the top of her forehead into his. Sure, it set off an explosion of light behind her eyes at the painful impact with his skull. But years of training let her follow it up with an instinctive knee to the groin. It had its desired effect, sending him howling and rolling off of her. Stumbling to her knees, she kicked away his sabre as she shakily unsheathed her sword. Regardless of her vision spotting, she pressed the point of it to his chest. “You have ten seconds to redeem yourself,” she ordered.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 11/?
Gathering up her weapons, she heard someone approach just to her right. And like all colonists, the soldier saw fit to immediately touch her with a heavy hand. Why they insisted on such rudeness was beyond her. Instinctively jerking herself away from him, she was about to let out a huff of reproach. That was until she heard the tell-tale, smug accent ringing in her ears.
“Good’en,” he chuckled, “Ya helped saved their asses, darlin’.”
Thomas Hickey?!
He should’ve been dead! Or at the very least, locked up and awaiting trial? Yet, here he was. Smirking with his usual cockiness, his lewd gaze openly raked up and down her figure. But she had far more important concerns besides that. Such as how he was likely attempting to skim supplies from her convoy.
Her fist hit true, connecting with his solar plexus. The air knocked out of him and causing him to double over, a sweep of her leg, a boot to his shin and a steady shove to his shoulder sent him splayed to his back. Dropping and effectively straddling him, she trapped his hands beneath her knees on either side of his hips as she swiftly glanced around. They had no audience, the remaining Patriot soldiers preoccupied with the clean-up. It gave her a small window of time. Thankfully, the two of them were on the edge of carnage and decently hidden by a tall grove of grass. Moreover, the setting sun lent additional darkness.
“Aye, the bitch be back, I see,” Hickey wheezed beneath her, eyes squeezed tight for a moment while he gulped down a few ragged breaths. “What, huntin’ men finally bore ya to bits? Ya finally decide to take yer rightful place, ‘ere in the wild ‘n layin’ with a wolf pack out here on the Frontier? Figures-”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Connor growled, grinding her teeth.
“Last I checked, it be a criminal offense to strike an officer of the Continentals, sweetheart,” he casually retorted.
“Yet, dead men tell no tales,” she retorted, the snap of her hidden blade reverberating in the air and rather near his ear.
“Fuck you!” he spat, eyes narrowed to slits, “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”
“Except you are a Templar,” she snarled, leaning over him and solidly bracing her forearm against his throat. Her words dancing along his chin, he could feel her hiss, “And likely stealing supplies from my supply train!”
“The hell ya getting’ yer knickers in a twist for, girl?!” Hickey sneered. “Besides, that convoy be holdin’ a king’s ransom worth ‘o goods. How in the God’s name did ya manage to get yer hands on all that precious loot?!”
“That is none of your concern!” she snorted. “Why are you escorting my goods?”
“‘Cause I be followin’ orders from me army superiors, princess!” he bellowed, jerking his hips upwards in a vain attempt to dislodge her. Rewarded with a slash of pain ricocheting up his arms as she purposely dug her knees into his wrists again, he stilled, even as he jeered. “I ain’t laid a soddin’ finger on yer blasted supplies! And it ain’t like I picked your specific convoy-”
“A likely tale-”
“It be the only tale!” he cut her off, “So ya can get right the fuck ov’er yer self already, ya dodgy bint!”
Curling her lip in derision, she bit, “Do you truly think me so dense? That it is merely sheer coincidence your patrol happens to be but a dozen or so miles from Fort. St. Mathieu?”
“Who said jack shit ‘bout the Fort?” he rejoined, “And so what if I got me a mission there? Them redcoats been killin’ me men left ‘n right all damned summer ‘n through the fall. Me commander be aimin’ to take it right soon-”
“Thereby allowing you to stab him in the back and betray the Patriots to the British?” she archly questioned, blade now pressed against his chin. “Typical Templar greed and deceit,” she uttered.
He couldn’t hold back a braying laugh at her words, in spite nearly having his throat slit open by the proximity of her blade. This naïve little chit…“Look ‘ere, ya moronic, ‘lil-”
“Major Hickey!” one of the Patriots called out, some yards away from them, “‘Allo, Major? Jesus, mate, where the hell is he-”
It proved the distraction he needed, her head whipping towards the direction of noise. Her shifting weight allowed him jerk his shoulder upwards while shoving his knee beneath her bottom. She faltered and slipped forward, nearly dropping flush on top of him. One of her knees shifted as well, freeing his wrist. Wrenching his arm from his side, his large palm shoved her head away while scrambling to grab at her neck. While she was fast, it was a hair’s breath too slow to spring to her feet. Yet, she didn’t allow his attempts to choke her. Throwing herself to the side, she snatched out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Since he was already in the process of squirming out from under her, the re-dispersal of their combined mass only caused them to suddenly go careening down the hill.
Exchanging slaps, scratching, punching, legs flailing, and getting in an occasional elbow here and there, they fought for dominance as they rolled. Her skills allowed her to rake her nails along his neck, get in a satisfying jab to his ribs, and repeatedly kick her boot into his calf. Unfortunately, she couldn’t unsheathe her hidden blades due to the very real danger of potentially stabbing herself as they tumbled. He proved able to smack her along the forehead, twist one of her wrists behind her head and shove a knee in between her thighs. The dagger sheathed next to his sword flew from his belt sometime during their fisticuffs, his other dagger from his boot gone missing in the earlier clash with the redcoats.
Their trip down the slope came to a painful end when they struck the large, moss covered trunk of a tree with a sharp thud. While his larger form took the brunt of the hit, it knocked the wind out of them both. Regrettably, he landed on top. Connor bit back a groan of irritation at finding his bulk nearly smothering her. The burly oaf had to have at least two to three stone of weight on her frame.
No matter; she may be a woman and naturally smaller and lighter, but Achilles never allowed such to be perceived as a weakness. He’d drilled into her head that she contained speed, stealth and most importantly, society’s perpetual underestimation to her advantage. As well as the traditions of her village, which held women in far higher esteem than these purportedly “civilized” colonists. Most of the latter expected her to immediately surrender. A pity, as it always led to their deaths whenever they crossed her.
For example, Hickey currently had her wrists locked above her head and his dead weight limiting her movement. Nevertheless, his head rested nearly on top of hers, his warm breath grazing her cheek. She could tell from his stuttering rasps and the labored heave of his chest that he was tiring of their fisticuffs. Especially so soon after the pressing skirmish with the redcoats. So she willed herself to relax beneath him. As she expected, he was caught off guard by the fight supposedly leaving her. Feeling his grip on her wrists loosen slightly and him shift a bit, she prepared herself.
“Funny that,” he drawled against her ear, “Much as I enjoy havin' a nice handle on me women, I’m a thinkin’ I prefer ya on top, she-wolf.”
“A pity, as I prefer you dead,” she panted, collecting herself.
He tiredly snickered, nose now resting along her hairline as he struggled to catch his breath, “Oh, ya wouldn’t be sayin’ that if you knew me any better, love. I got all sorts ‘o useful skills.”
“Somehow, I highly doubt that.”
Letting out a long sigh, he rolled his eyes and sat back on his haunches. It caused him to slacken his hold even more. “Ya know what, dearie?” his gaze met hers, expression sliding to bizarrely thoughtful for a quick second, “Ya always lookin' for a means to go killin’ folks ‘afore ya know their whole story-”
“As though you are worth saving.” Lifting her chin in defiance, she didn’t bother to drop the disdain from her voice, “Obviously, in spite of your second chance, you have remained with your wretched Order. Your actions speak volumes.”
“All that righteous rage bouncin’ around all up in ya,” he clucked his tongue, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child, “My, my, it’ gotta be eatin’ away at ya innards-”
Reeling back, she bashed the top of her forehead into his. Sure, it set off an explosion of light behind her eyes at the painful impact with his skull. But years of training let her follow it up with an instinctive knee to the groin. It had its desired effect, sending him howling and rolling off of her. Stumbling to her knees, she kicked away his sabre as she shakily unsheathed her sword. Regardless of her vision spotting, she pressed the point of it to his chest. “You have ten seconds to redeem yourself,” she ordered.