asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
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≈ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

≈ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

≈ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

≈ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

≈ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

≈ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

≈ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Casting her a look of loathing and hands still protecting his crotch, he snapped, “Simple; we both want that pissant, General Davenport, deader than a doornail.”

“I do not believe you-”

“So why in the fuck would I slaughter his men after he attacked your god-damned convoy, ya fussock?!” he demanded. “All ya gotta do is check their gorgets to see that they be part ‘o the General’s troops.”

Rubbing at her throbbing head, she shrugged, “Because you Templars aim to control both sides of the conflict.” Pressing her sword into his chest even harder, she warned, “Do not take me for a fool, Hickey.”

“Ya rotten, murderous ‘lil savage!” he barked, mouth twisted into a dangerous snarl and color staining his pale cheeks. “Seeing as yer such a right barmy arsehole, here then,” he reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat. Hearing the click of a pistol, he looked up to find her aiming one at his head. At least she’d sheathed her sword for the moment. Although her stony expression did absolutely zero to put him at any sort of ease. “It ain’t no weapon, ya mangy git,” he snit, slowly pulling out a heavy, half-folded envelope and tossing it up to her.

Snatching it out of the air, she kept her pistol trained on him as she opened it with one hand. Speechless at finding it from her father, she ignored the locket that fell out of the envelope and landed at her feet. Not only did the missive detail his suspicions about the fire that claimed the McCready’s home over a fortnight ago, he relayed specific orders to Hickey to infiltrate the Fort and scout it out. There was also note of the family’s suspected murderer. One Gerhard Vonstatten or “The Hessian,” as they called him. While it did not explicitly state the General’s life was forfeit, her father seemed to have no qualms should the Templar fall to a blade. Yet the Hessian wasn’t privy to any sort of mercy. Hickey was unequivocally ordered to eliminate him.

As far as Connor was concerned, the world would not miss such a monster. Or his apparent master.

Thomas used her silent astonishment to quickly roll away from her. While he was able to move to his feet, he was still kept at bay as she re-leveled her flintlock at him.

“Well,” she slowly began, stooping down and picking up the locket. Flicking it open revealed an exquisitely detailed miniature of a dark-haired man with a goatee and dressed in the livery of a high-ranking, British officer. Matthew Davenport, likely, she mused, So that Hickey may know his target. “This proves a new…development.”

“No shit, ya bugger!” he heatedly crossed his arms. Kicking over his tricorne to him, Connor gestured for him to pick it up. “So,” he groused, dusting it off, “I take it this means ya ain’t gonna kill me ‘en?”

Slitting her eyes at him, she intoned, “For now, no.”

“So how come ya ain’t put away that damned pistol, already?” he waved at her

“No matter that our goals align for now, you have not given me a reason to trust you,” she replied, even as she tossed him back the locket.

“Point taken,” he sniffed, shoving it into his pocket. “Still, I saved yer life when I warned ya of that redcoat ‘bout to shoot ya back there.”

“You had no idea who I was at the time.”

Cocking his head to the side, he let out a mirthless chuckle, “Ya be a sly one, girl.”

“No more than you, old man,” she shot right back.

“Hey now,” he held up a hand in surrender, “I ain’t exactly Father Time, ya milksop. I got ‘round bout 37 years to me.”

“Far more ancient than my twenty or so,” she huffed. Damn, he assumed she was older. Mostly on account of her humorless disposition and that steady, constantly irked countenance. Not to mention, her relentless commitment to her silly little Brotherhood. Though when he really looked at her, her face was clear of any sort of lines of age. Combined with her speed and agility, she likely wasn’t lying.

“So,” he slowly began, “Wot’s the plan then? How abouts the good ‘ole concept that ‘the enemy of my enemy be my friend?’ At least until we kill our mutual enemy, yeah?”

It took far too long for her uncock the hammer of her flintlock. And even as she shoved it back into her holster, she unsheathed her sword again. However, she held it at her side, tapping the glinting, silver blade against her leg rather than pointing it directly at him. Expression pulled in concentration, she muttered to herself in what he could only assume was the language of her people. Finally, she nodded in agreement. “It seems we find ourselves in alignment. So long as you make no attempt to kill me,” her gaze flashed in warning, “I will not harm you. At least not until finish tracking the general and his homicidal Hessian.”

Spitting on his hand and holding it out to shake, Hickey almost laughed at her look of revulsion at his action. “Usually, gents be shakin’ on such an agreement,” he clarified, extending his arm further. She didn’t offer hand in exchange, her continued silence wholly unsettling. “Alrighty then,” he withdrew with a huff, “I’ll take into account that ya ain’t no gent, I guess,” he shrugged.

Rocking back on her heels, she sheathed her sword and shoved her hand one of the deerskin pouches along her belt. He felt rather silly as he braced, only for her to produce a single eagle feather in her hand. Holding it out, she wordlessly nodded for him to take it.

Snatching it from her, he held it up to the dusky sunlight. Its colors sparkled and bounced along its fine grains of plume. “Eh?” he asked in confusion, “Wot’s this ‘en, poppet?”

“Among my people, it is the sign of a binding agreement,” she solemnly said. “When we have completed our mission, I expect its return, signaling an end to our truce. I believe that it is rather more…hygienic than your methods,” her gaze snapped to his hand for a moment. “Hence, we are allies, for you have taken it freely of me.”

“I, uh, see,” he slowly said. For some reason he had no desire to dwell on, he found himself carefully tucking it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. No matter how silly he inexplicably felt as she watched his every move.

Gesturing for her to follow, she silently fell in line behind him back to the other men. Considering who she dealt with, she wasn’t exactly surprised at his lie to Captain Moreau as to why he would be leaving the remaining soldiers in his hands. “Ya ain’t dead, ‘n the lady requests an escort back to her family,” Hickey mounted one of the dead redcoat’s horses. More spoils of war, of course. Ignoring the Captain’s dazed expression that their ally turned out to be a woman, Hickey drawled, “It be takin’ us ‘bout a week to cross the Frontier at this time ‘o the season. I’ll meet ya back at the outpost at me return. Dismissed,” he lazily saluted. None the wiser, Captain Moreau did as told.

Astounded to see Connor looting the dead for supplies before she mounted her white mare, Hickey let out a low chortle. Seemed the little prat wasn’t so high and mighty after all. Hopefully, it’d be enough to keep them from killing each over the next few days.

I do love your Thomas. Your characterization for him and femConnor is just spot on,, after taking a beating, he still hits on her.

That feather detail was just sweet.

This fill is a true diamond, anon.

Author’s Note: A better beta’d version of this story is at AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/works/894764/chapters/1727740. Or search per the same title of "Short Change Heroes." None of the fic is changed, mostly grammatical errors are more cleaned up. I do need a beta though, if anyone would like to step up…

-----00000-----

By Connor’s count, it was a few days after the First of November. Meaning the air was appropriately chilly, the sky above deep grey and constantly overcast. While it was still too warm to snow during the day, the flurries drifted down beginning at dusk and continued into evening. Occasionally, it would even sleet. Thankfully, the cold snap always broke by around the 10th hour of the morning. Thoroughly used to the brisk elements, she waved off the dampness that seemed to cling to her clothes and mare. Purchased over the last month or so in New York, her clothes were mostly new and fitted for the colder season. She’d also newly skinned the soft, leather wrappings about her legs. In her element out here on the nearly untamed wild, she welcomed the chance of pace from working in town.

However, Hickey was a city man through and through. Bound his navy blue, uniform frock coat, he kept the ends of his sister’s scarf wrapped about his chest beneath it. His long johns beneath his woolen stockings and breeches, which were securely tucked into his boots, added an extra layer of warmth. He also wore an additional tunic beneath his ruffled shirt, his cravat wrapped tightly about his neck beneath his scarf. Yet he rarely complained, save a few choice, expletive-ladden remarks upon waking up to the freezing air in the mornings and bundling down at night. His flask apparently proved enough to keep him company. Mostly due to Connor maintaining her usual laconic demeanor as they rode.

They arrived to Fort St. Mathieu within four days. Thankfully, the snowfall from last night created plenty of cover, the icy white pile high around the ramparts. Combined with the heavily forested perimeter, they were able to leave their mounts behind and hike about a quarter mile to the outer walls without being spotted. The stronghold covered some acres, one of the largest along the northwestern frontier. Nonetheless, parts of it were blackened and slightly crumbling, owning to the Continentals’ numerous attempts to lay siege to it in the Spring. While that would work their advantage, the British were on high alert. Carefully skirting the edges of the citadel to visually gauge the number of redcoats within, they found far more men stationed there than either of them expected.

Hickey rolled his eyes as Connor pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for his silence as they crept into a tall grove of trees on the eastern border of the fort. Crouching, Connor was then surprised to see Thomas swiftly and silently point to two guards patrolling with a black dog, approximately fifty yards to their left. Though she easily saw them, she didn’t realize he’d done so as well. Her face must have made it rather obvious, considering the smug, toothy grin he shot her.

Whispering her plan to go in alone and capture their target, Connor shook her head as he barked out various disagreements. Not that she was surprised at his immediate rebuttal of her plan. “You be outta ya bloody mind, girl!” he jeered, leaning back on his haunches and dropping a hand to her forearm.

“I suggest you remove your hand from my person, Hickey.”

“For the fuckin’ love of Christ, I ain’t tryin’ to molest your bloody arm!” he snorted, withdrawing his touch from her. “So ya best be sheathin’ that dagger back on ya belt. I’m just tryin’ to, I don’t know, keepin’ ya from committin’ suicide? I mean, I know it must be absolute bollocks bein’ an Assassin ‘n wot not-”

“Watch yourself,” her mouth twisted with reproach.

“Just takin’ the piss-”

“What…what does that even mean?” her nose scrunched in confusion, “I would think you contain the sense enough to relieve yourself before we arrived at the Fort!”

Hickey slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his guffaw. Mostly on account of keeping as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the patrol. Then again her bewildered expression at his turn of phrase was nearly worth it. Anything to see that constant look of annoyance or weariness drop from her face. “It means I just be makin’ a joke, sweetheart,” he reassured her. A doubtful arch of her brow and she muttered it a couple of times, as though committing it to memory. Distractedly waving for him to continue, she heard him say, “Still, there be no way in hell ya can destroy an entire fort all by ya lonesome.”

“Fort Hill in Boston and Fort Wolcott on Goat Island proved little trouble,” she shrugged, looking upwards and already beginning to calculate the shortest distance from the fortification’s outer wall via the tree line. Hand moving to her back, her fingertips brushed the feathers of her arrows. Excellent, her quiver was full. Her bag of rope darts also weighed solidly comfortable on her hip as well.

Mouth dropping open at her casual revelation, he almost stammered, “Wait one god-damned minute…that was YOU?!” When she gave him a curt nod of affirmation, Thomas didn’t know whether to prepare himself for a knife in the chest or to let out a cackle of bizarre amusement at the first real smile she flashed him upon his disbelief. Well fancy that, she appeared a right lovely lass when she bothered to wipe that near-perpetual scowl from her face.

Huh, who knew?

He’d heard rumors of the two forts’ infiltration by a single man. Well, Fort Hill supposedly fell into the hands of the Continentals due to some madman who blew up the powder stores, killed a shit-ton of redcoats and then promptly executed its ranking officer. Fort Wolcott was attacked by a random volley of fire from some alleged ghost ship. By the time the Continentals arrived to claim it, the majority of the redcoats were dead. The couple of dozen terrified survivors kept babbling on and on about some devil spirit that also boldly slaughtered their commander. Whatever occurred, half the citadel was blown to smithereens. Of course, no one believed the Brits and their absurd tales.

So evidently, the poppet delivered not one, but two forts over to the Continentals. Anyone else, and he’d call them a bald-faced liar. But the ‘lil she-wolf was far too guileless spin such a tale. He’d already witnessed her escape her own execution. She also mowed down a handful of men attacking her convoy a few days ago, without so much as flinching or breaking a sweat. Haytham also suspected her Brotherhood of orchestrating the deaths of Pitcarn and Johnson.

William Johnson. One of a few men who’d ever bothered to give two shits about him.

Stealing a look at where she remained crouched next to him in the snowy bushes providing cover, Thomas narrowed his eyes. No, it had to be impossible; a couple of years ago, she had but 18 years to her. Not to mention, they hadn’t heard a whiff of the Assassins until she popped up in New York and ruined his counterfeiting operation. And that disaster occurred only around five months ago. Besides, William sought to protect her tribes. Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly. So why in the hell would she go killing her best hope to keep her people’s land away from the colonists?

“Hickey?” she repeated a third time, waving her hand in front of his face. A few inches closer, and it’d be considered a slap.

“Wot?!” he snapped, shoving her hand away and mind reeling back to the present.

“Stay here and wait for my return,” she ordered, beginning to rise from the ground.

She nearly broke his wrist when she instinctively twisted it away from where he grabbed her by the arm. “Ain’t no need for ya to do this by yourself-”

“Somehow, I highly doubt you particularly care should I survive or perish,” she drawled.

“You be right; I don’t generally give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout how ya go livin’ out your days,” he shrugged. Ignoring her snort of aggravation, he continued, “But if it means that I up me chances of survivin’ this? Yeah, it be best if ya don’t go endin’ up a corpse.”

“How kind of you,” she sarcastically replied, firmly shaking off his grip.

“Look ‘ere, I ain’t so full ‘o it to realize that two heads be better ‘n one in this endeavor,” he muttered. “So yeah, I prefer ya alive. At least while I still got that feather ‘o yours that be signalin’ our truce,” he patted his breast pocket.

“Was I not clear when I relayed that I have done this sort of thing before?” she frowned, jerking her head in the direction of the stronghold.

“That was just layin’ siege ‘n kilin’ whoever was fuckin’ stupid ‘nough to go gettin’ in ya way,” he retorted with derision. “This time, we be needin’ information. Directly from the General’s quarters, no less.”

“Or, I drive him out by sabotaging the fort,” she reiterated, leaning back on her knees and drumming her fingers along her thigh. “We capture him, question him concerning the Hessian’s whereabouts, and then his life is forfeit.”

Rolling his eyes, he let out a huff of disagreement. “Why ya always gotta be so damned uncompromisin’, woman?”

“It proves the best means to obtain what is required,” she instantly replied, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Counting off on her fingers, she continued, “The General is no longer a threat, we are now on the trail of the Hessian and the Fort will now be in the hands of the Patriots. Three goals achieved-”

“By the messiest means possible, poppet,” Thomas chortled.

“Thus far, I have heard no hint of an alternate suggestion from you,” she hummed.

“‘Cause ya refuse to let me get in a word edge-”

“I most certainly have not!”

“…wise,” he finished. “Aaaaand there ya go cuttin’ me off again, love,” he chuckled.

Opening her mouth to disagree, she snapped it shut at realizing, much to her chagrin, he was correct. Dropping her head and gritting her teeth, it took her a few moments to collect herself. “Fine,” she sniffed, looking up at him again, “What do you propose then, Hickey?”

“Simple,” he shrugged, “Ya go ‘n kill a soldier ‘bout me size on patrol. I swipe his uniform and escort ya in as a supposed prisoner of war. Presto-bingo, we be in beyond the walls, and without no one none the wiser. Considerin’ I was stationed here before the rebellion for a couple ‘o years or so, I know the layout pretty damn well. Includin’ where the general’s quarters be. So we ain’t gotta rush in all blind and wot not.”

Furrowing her brow, her eyes darted to the side for a moment. “That is,” she slowly replied, “That is…surprisingly straightforward. So much so, that I believe it may work without much interruption.”

“Aye!” he smirked. “Once we get what we need, ya can go blowin’ up whatever ya want. Hell, set the whole place afire ‘n slaughter as many redcoats as ya need to get all that creepy-ass bloodlust outta ya veins. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. So long as we both get outta here alive, with our limbs intact and ‘nough info to go killin’ the General and his ‘lil demon lapdog.”

She was admittedly glad he didn’t spit on his hand as they shook in agreement with his plan.

Additional Notes: "Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly."

William Johnson's common-law wife/consort was Molly Brandt, (c.1736 – April 16, 1796). She was also known as Mary Brant, Konwatsi'tsiaienni ("Someone Lends Her a Flower"), and Degonwadonti. A Mohawk woman, she was born either in the village of Canajoharie or in another village in the Ohio Country. She was also the sister of Joseph Brandt, a famous Mohawk chieftain. Joseph was a loyalist who led Iroquois against the Patriots after July 1777, when the Six Nations council decided to abandon their neutrality and side with the British. Most of Joseph's battles against the Patriots were carried out in New York, during the Northern Campaign.

Starting in September 1759, Molly bore William Johnson nine children. Eight of them survived to adulthood. Accepted by society as his wife, Molly was a legendary figure who ran his household and acted as hostess for various society functions. She also helped him maintain relations with the Mohawk and other members of the Iroquois Confederation, along with her brother. Molly was living with William Johnson at Johnson Hall when he died in July 1774. Upon his death, while his oldest son inherited Johnson Hall, Johnson left land, money and slaves to Molly, who moved back to her village, Canajoharie. There, she and her children prospered as traders and they sided with British during the Revolutionary war.

After the Revolutionary War, Joseph, his sister Molly, her children with William Johnson, and the majority of the remaining Mohawks and other members of Iroquois Confederation, moved to the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada. Still in existence to this day, it is the only reserve in North America where the six nations of the Iroquois, the Mohawk, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, live together. Molly Brandt was compensated for her losses during the war by the British. At the same time, the United States even offered to pay her to return to the Mohawk Valley in New York, due to her influence over the Iroquois. However, she refused, remaining in Canada.

Yet again you astound me with your writing! I absolutely love the dialogue between Hickey and Connor. I also adore your Hickey, he's still a lout one who can pull his own weight instead of letting Connor do all the work. Also loved his total shock over how she took two forts on her own. Anyway, can't wait for more!

I used to think this pairing was kinda squicky. But now, I'm in love with your story. I don't even care if they have more sex or not, I just want them to cause more mayhem together and bicker.

Author’s Note: Doing a little research on tvtropes, I realize that Hickey can be categorized as Chaotic Neutral. Likely, a combination of Type 1 and Type 4. More info here: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ChaoticNeutral. Anyway, chaotic neutrals are hard to write, so I did a little revising. Hope you enjoy.

-----00000-----

Connor silently strangled a redcoat with one of her snares to ensure no blood would sully his uniform. Hence, Thomas quickly changed into it, allowing them to pass beyond the gates of the citadel unhindered. The redcoats barely spared them a glance, save to jeer at the supposed prisoner.

She had to admit she appeared very much the part of the perturbed captive. She’d rubbed dirt along her face and bared her teeth any redcoat who dared attempt looking too closely beneath her hood. Her hands were supposedly bound behind her back. While Hickey’s musket wasn’t loaded, the bayonet was fixed and he prodded her forward along her back. A couple of times, so roughly that it caused her to stumble. He also contained a plethora of colorful insults, which he liberally used whenever a redcoat came within range. It helped with the pretense that he absolutely couldn’t wait to get her down to the dungeons to do with her as he pleased. A disturbing thought, uandoubtedly. But they had a mission to compete.

Unfortunately, Hickey promptly learned through the chatter of the fort that General Davenport was out on the Frontier. At least it made their mission potentially easier. Especially as they wandered towards the center of the stronghold. A large, two-story, white bricked building with blue shutters and a red shingled roof housed the officer’s quarters. Pressed up against the parapets, it granted the ranking troops a 360 degree view of the entire citadel. It also allowed them to immediately jump to the ramparts where the cannons pointed out and across the forest, in case of an incursion by the Patriots.

Untying Connor, Thomas haphazardly shoved her into a hay chart sitting along the wall of the officer’s quarters. Ignoring her murderously exasperated look over her shoulder when his hand “accidently” smacked her behind as he cheekily wished her luck, he sauntered off. Of course, he promptly started up a game of dice with a group of soldiers some feet from the cart. They loitered closest to the back entrance of the building.

Peeking out from the hay, Connor took in the group of gambling redcoats. Hickey certainly threw himself into keeping up the momentum of the game. Hooting, hollering and tossing out insults to get the men to make larger bets, within minutes he had their attention fully directed away from her line of sight. Well, that certainly lent a solid bit of assistance. Lithely jumping out of the cart, she snuck over to the door. Using her lock pick, she jimmied it open in a matter of seconds. Seeing no one, she ducked inside. Second floor, last door on the right and at the end of the hall, she mused on Thomas’ instructions. Arriving at her destination, she listened for anyone inside. Hearing nothing, she picked the lock and darted inside.

The General’s lodgings included two large rooms, one set aside for his study, the other for sleeping. The vaulted, sloped ceiling was mostly unfinished, its thick, wooden beams clearly visible. Braced up against the window sat his bulky, cherry wood desk. Outside of a few scattered pieces of parchment, a quill sitting next to them and a couple of glass jars of ink, it was bare. In fact the entire room was absent of any personal effects. Connor found it rather eerie.

She wasn’t surprised that the desk was locked. No matter, for she had her lock picks. Breaking into first two drawers revealed nothing, save the personal files of the fort’s personnel. In fact, none of the drawers held anything of importance. Spinning around and examining the bookshelf, she found nothing. Not even after shaking out the books to find anything in between their pages.

Biting her lip, she retreated to the bedroom. The walls painted a soft, light green, their crown molding was brilliant white, the floor of dark hardwood. The far corner of the room contained a vanity and changing screen. Next to it sat a four-poster bed. Large, solid and comfortable, it was piled with a handful of feather-stuffed pillows. The dark blue curtains strung between the bed posts matched the light blue sheets. Thankfully, the curtains were flung open, revealing no one within. Above the fireplace at its foot was mounted a large oil painting of the General himself. Dressed in full military regalia, he clutched a rod of rule in one hand and a golden globe in the other. His dark eyes stared out at her, proud and vain. Save the window, covering the rest of the wall were framed maps from various parts of the world. She recognized a few of them from her own travels aboard the Aquila.

Next to where she stood was a tall bookshelf that reached the ceiling. Filled with books and scrolls, its bookends were an array of knickknacks: large, pale colored seashells, bits of pretty crystals, a small clock, a heavy mug upon a saucer and a model ship within a bottle.

Frowning all she would have to search, Connor began her deed in earnest. Ten minutes later, all she’d stumbled upon was footlocker under the bed.

Without warning, the door in the other room unexpectedly creaked open. Not a good sign, she furiously mused, slamming the footlocker closed and kicking it back under the bed. Great, now she had to find a good hiding spot…

-----00000-----

Thomas frowned as he silently stepped into the general’s quarters. The place looked as though a hurricane hit it. The desk drawers were yanked out, a handful of quills lay broken on the floor, the books in the shelves haphazardly tossed everywhere and opened. “Bloomin’ moron,” he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He thought the daft chit would at least have the wherewithal to know how to properly search a room. The first rule? Always leave everything looking exactly as it was before. Otherwise, why alert the target that you knew precisely what you’re up to?

Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he let out a litany of curses. This area looked even worse. The blankets and sheets were yanked from the bed, the bookshelf in utter disarray. The general’s portrait was mounted backwards and crooked on the wall, its back slashed through. The wardrobe next to the bed was open, the clothes tossed to the floor and bottom drawers completely removed. He could even make out the scrape marks in the dust along the floor where something had obviously been quickly dragged from under the bed.

“Connor, ya daft bugger!” he muttered to himself.

“Yes?” she murmured behind him, noiselessly dropping down to the floorboards.

Completely caught off guard, he swung his musket around and cocked back the hammer, only to have her lash out smack him across the face hard enough for his grip to loosen on his weapon. While he effortlessly blocked her foot to his stomach with his forearm, he didn’t expect her to duck to the floor and send a spin kick to his thigh. Lurching, he dropped the musket with holler of reproach. However it never hit the ground, for she snatched it out of the air and spun about it in her hands in order to use its stock as a modified club.

“Oh!” she exclaimed mid-strike, purposely adjusting her swing so it went wide and didn’t connect, “It is you! I-”

“Do ya EVER fuckin’ THINK ‘AFORE YA BE FUCKIN’ HITTIN’?!” he bellowed, slapping away her hand of assistance as he clutched at his thigh. “Ya balmy bitch!”

“I did not realize it was you!” she huffed, dropping the musket and sending it clattering to the floor.

“Yeah?! ‘Cause all the other mangy gits up in this ‘ere fort know yer name?!”

“That…is a valid point-”

“No shit!” he hissed. “Christ!” he brought a hand to his face, “Ya almost broke me fuckin’ nose…again!”

Cocking her head to the side, she quickly declared, “Forgive me. I never meant any harm-”

“Which be why ya was ‘bout to go knockin’ me block off, ya blighter?!” he straightened up, furiously pointing at the musket. “Mother-fuckin’ Connor be strikin’ again!”

She shrugged, “You should have identified yourself-”

“How could I if you were nowhere to be fuckin’ found?!” he barked. Straightening out his crimson coat, he gingerly poked at his cheek. Thankfully, it was only blooming into a bruise rather than a fractured bone. The little wretch hit nearly as hard as a man, after all. “And where in the bloody hell was ya hidin’ anyways?” he snapped.

He looked above him as she mutely pointed upwards. Apparently, she had plenty of time to scramble up the walls and conceal herself in the rafters before he came in. “I dropped down when you asked for me.”

“For the love ‘o fuckin’ God!” he balled his fists together at his sides, “Just…ugh. Just learn to think ‘afore ya strike, woman!”

“I will take your concerns into account,” she sniffed.

Turning her back to him as he rolled his eyes and slurred more curses, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the footlocker again. Crossing his arms and leaning against a bedpost, he watched with increasing annoyance as she scanned the various letters and scrolls only to throw them over her shoulder. “Ya know,” he sneered, snatching up his musket from the floor, “Ya could at a bare fuckin’ minimum go attemptin’ to make it look like ya ain’t tossin’ a room.”

“Tossing?” she questioned, barely paying attention to him as she continued.

“Burglarin’. Stealin’. Combin’ through someone else’s shit,” his mouth twisted in derision. “I mean, god-damn, could you be any more obvious that this tosser’s room just got searched? I thought the whole point of ya silly-arse Assassins be to go workin’ in the shadows ‘n whatnot. You be as bloody obvious as a dolled up whore in the middle ‘o a cockfight!”

Letting out a long sigh of impatience, Connor paused and looked over her shoulder. “What exactly should I have done better, considering your supposed expertise?” she sarcastically asked.

“How ‘bout bein’ a bit more meticulous?” he waved about. “Mayhaps, I don’t know, not fuckin’ wreckin’ the place?”

“There is no time,” she retorted, tossing another letter away.

“It be better than leavin’ traces of ya stench all ov’er the place-”

“I would prefer not to get caught,” she interrupted, “Especially since we do not have any idea when Davenport will return…and what is this?” Finishing her scan of a letter bound together in a packet with a red ribbon, she grinned. Quickly reading the remaining ones, she jumped to her feet and stuffed then in the inner pocket of her coat.

“Hey now, wot’s this then?” Thomas’ eyebrows shot up. Shoving himself off the bedpost, he said, “We be partners for now, so ya better get to tellin’ me wot’s goin’ on.”

“Are you familiar with an Eleanor Mallow?” Connor questioned, shoving the footlocker under the bed. Wiping her gloved hands on her pants to clear the dust, she began heading towards the door.

Smirking, Thomas drawled, “Fuck yeah, I be. She be a Templar. And the General’s notoriously pretty-ass daughter. Got quite the mouth on ‘er too-”

“Different surname?”

“It be confusin’ folks so they don’t be knowing she ‘n her daddy’s ties to each other,” he threw up his hands in surrender, “Wot of it?”

“Per a letter received from her roughly a month ago, she is the one who passed on the General’s orders to the Hessian,” Connor solemnly replied.

“Really now?” Thomas doubtfully replied. “That be a real fuckin’ laugh, considerin’ that she never be actin’ as a mere courier no more. Not since she be a kid.”

Connor curled her lip, snorting, “You people use children as couriers?”

“Hey now, not me,” Thomas waved away her disdain, “Just ‘ole Davenport. He be…a strict sort with the girl. Me understandin’ be she be quite the ‘lil brat growin’ up. With ‘ole pop being all military, he decided to go teachin’ her some discipline.”

“Typical,” Connor spat with a scowl.

“Anyways, Ellie’s daddy be trustin’ ‘er ‘nough to go givin’ her missions to complete on her on for years now.”

“Hmm,” Connor pondered. “It seems, judging by their correspondence,” she patted her jacket where she’d put the letters, “Their last communication was a fortnight ago. He speaks of a new target, in Boston.”

“Who?”

“That is the problem,” Connor worried her lower lip with her teeth, “He does not explicitly state it. We should go,” she quickly said.

“Gimme a second,” he demanded. He wanted to get one last look at the room. Mostly to steal anything worth a few pounds.

“Make it swift,” she ordered, already at the front door.

Wandering towards the fireplace, Thomas suddenly stopped in front of the metal grate intended to shield the hottest part of the flames from the room. The bloody hell? he thought to himself.

“What?” Connor asked, poking her head in the doorway, “Why are you just standing there? It is imperative that we leave-”

“Shut-up,” he rejoined, waving a dismissive hand at her. Ignoring her expression of censure and backtracking, he couldn’t help the satisfied grin that came to his face. For one of the long floorboards sprung back a bit too easily.

Dropping to his knees, he didn’t bother hold back a smirk at her rather ingenious ploy. For most, the loose plank would be undetectable to a casual observer. And even then, that was assuming that they’d ever see it, a near impossibility since the bucket holding the fire poker and other tools sat over it. Forced to use his dagger, it took some minutes to pry the loose wooden plank from the hardwood floor. Removing it revealed a small space only about six by six inches and four inches deep.

“Jackpot!” he crowed, pulling out a stack of parchments.

Not only did they contain a list of names with their lines crossed out, it also included the McCreadys’ name and address. Two more names below theirs were crossed out. The next one on the list had a circle drawn around it. Beneath those were a couple of scrolls containing additional names and locations. Within the margins were dates extending back roughly a year or so. Thomas found he recognized none of them, which was a feat and of itself considering his extensive network of smugglers throughout the colonies.

Shoving it into Connor’s face with smug aplomb, he watched with mild interest as her eyes widened at one of the names that shared the list with the McCreadys. “This…this is William de Saint-Prix,” she cried. Well, for her, it was the equivalent of an exclamation. To anyone else, it sounded more akin to distant aggravation combined with a healthy dose of indifference.

“Wot the hell do that mean?” Thomas enquired.

“I know him,” Connor swallowed.

“One of ya precious Brotherhood’s?” he cleared his throat.

“This is highy useful information,” Connor declared, completely ignoring his question and rapidly changing the subject. Squaring her shoulders, she handed him back the pile, adding, “You appear to have some use after all.”

“A flippin’ ‘thank ya Tommy,’ is too bloody much to ask now?” he snit.

She apparently didn’t hear him, already out the front door and sneaking her way down the corridor.

Hauling ass after her, he intentionally made plenty of noise on his feet, whispering behind her, “Now can we go get the fuck out of here?”

“Of course,” she distractedly said. Flicking out one of her hidden blades, she unsheathed her tomahawk at the same time. Neither action made a sound.

“Good ‘en,” he flashed a cocky smile, “Now, ya can go do your murderin’ and whatever the hell else ya do when ya take over one of these things for the Continentals.”

He had to admit that her bright grin at such a prospect made him a bit uneasy. Probably because her grisly business resulted in her looking the happiest he’d seen her in well, ever.

What a homicidal little fiend.

LOL Hickey is bold for slapping an Assassin Mentor on the ass like that. Their bickering never gets old, and I love how Hickey reprimands her about making a mess in her search... whereas in the game Connor would just have to switch to eagle vision and follow the floating magnifying glasses on the ground... or wait was that Desmond using the animus... I don't know. Anyway, another amazing chapter - the suspense is killing me, can't wait for the next chapter!

Christ on a cracker, her sheer brutality was a sight to behold. From his position along the ramparts above her, it dawned on Thomas that he’d never witnessed her in true one-on-one combat. Back at the convoy, he was distracted with keeping himself alive. In New York, his primary objective was escaping her pursuit when she fled the gallows. In prison, she wasn’t particularly healthy and clearly operating out of desperation when she attacked him in his cell. But now? He had a superior view of Connor going to work on a half-dozen redcoats vainly making an effort to capture the person responsible for blowing up their power stores.

As soon as the explosion rocked the stronghold, the bells sent up the alarm. At first, he thought her absolutely daft in the head for not attempting any sort of escape. However, it simply allowed her ample time to prepare herself for the coming skirmish. And boy howdy, was it a fucking bloody one.

Savagely kicking the first soldier in the groin, she sent him doubling over. It allowed her to easily follow up with a swing of her tomahawk to the back of his neck. Sidestepping his falling corpse, she lashed out with her blade and caught the soldier standing dumbfounded behind him in the stomach. Slicing upwards with a flurry of thrusts left him essentially eviscerated and gurgling on his own blood as he died. Thinking her distracted, a third redcoat vainly tried grabbing her from behind. His mistake, for she reeled back an elbow into his ribs. As he cursed her, she twirled around and gouged point of her tomahawk up into his chin while at the same time kicking out at his knee. Judging by the sickening crunch, she broke the bone. Ignoring his ragged screech of horror, she yanked out her weapon only to slit his throat with her left blade.

As he fell into the crimson tinted snow, a fourth redcoat tripped over his body. Landing with a heavy thud on his back allowed Connor to leap onto his chest. Pressing her knee into him, she hacked him to death without a second thought. Back on her feet within a blink of an eye, she shook off a fifth soldier’s punch to her side while ducking his cohort’s bayonet to her chest. It seemed to trigger her rage, for she took on both of them at once.

Ducking under the first man’s second swing at her, she dropped to a knee, spun about and sent her tomahawk into his stomach. Whipping him in front her, he caught a bullet to his chest intended for her and shot by the soldier who tried to initially bayonet her. Yanking her tomahawk out of the first lobsterback sent his blood spraying all over her coat. Popping back up to her feet, she stabbed out with her hidden blade. It finished off the second man with a knife through his eye. Her malicious snarl echoing in the frigid air, she thrust him off her blade.

The sixth soldier had the sense to flee and return with reinforcements as soon as the skirmish began. So as Connor recovered, she was abruptly faced with a line of redcoats loading their muskets and preparing to fire. Thomas swore he could hear her let out a demented cackle, but he couldn’t be sure. About to shout a warning at the firing of line of redcoats, it was immediately apparent there was no need. Somehow hearing the sound of a redcoat attempting to outflank her from behind, Connor’s hand snaked out and yanked him in front of her. It all happened in the few seconds it took for the redcoats to shoot.

Tough luck for the soldier, who was now turned into a dead, human shield. Callously shoving him away and using the remaining soldiers’ panic at killing one of their own, she snatched up a spare musket and leapt into the fray. She finished them off in the matter of a few minutes. It mostly consisted of her being viciously pragmatic. Running through one man with a bayonet, at the same time, she pulled the trigger and shot through a second one behind him. Then, she utilized the musket stock as a club. Swinging it in wide but accurate arcs, she deliberately caused the remaining enemies to fire on each other in a chaotic attempt to shoot her. Anyone reckless enough to get within arm’s length met the gruesome end of her hidden blade and tomahawk. Evidently, her favorite tools of death.

Upon completion of her macabre task, there were roughly fifteen or so dead bodies lying crumpled in a heap. About a third of them were ranking officers. The alarms bells mysteriously quieted, it proved eerily still.

“Connor?” Thomas muttered after a long while.

Spinning about on her heel, she instantly relaxed at seeing who addressed her. Letting her bow go slack, she returned her arrow to her quiver. “Why are you still about?” she asked, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her coat splattered with blood, its crimson waves dripped down her face and neck. Pools of it gathered at her feet, stark and livid against the blinding white snow. Scattered around her, redcoats lay twisted at grotesque angles. Their necks snapped and slit, limbs bent back at odd angles, their eyes stared up at the sky, sightless and clear.

A vague memory flared to Thomas’ mind. Primarily of his mother’s tales of the old Gaelic gods and goddesses, spoken to him in the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh. The deities the people of his homeland worshiped before the Christians came from over the sea, a thousand years ago. Of the Morrígna, the three witch sisters of war. Of Nemain, she who reveled in frenzied bloodlust of combat. Of Macha, the stern, unyielding queen of war and sovereignty. Of Badb, the shape shifting crow, she who foretold the omens of death in battle. Fairytales, that was all they were. The fantastical musings of a harried woman with too many mouths to feed and too little means to ensure their hands remained occupied long enough to keep the lot of them out of trouble.

Yet, as he watched Connor calmly clean her weapons of the men’s blood and completely ignore the carnage, his senses twitched. The abrupt caw and squawking of a nest of ravens perched in the tree above them only added to it.

“Hickey?” she repeated a second time.

“Yeah, wot?” he sharply retorted, eyes snapping to her. At least she’d managed to wipe most of the blood from her face.

“You are wasting time-”

“I be waitin’ for ya,” he casually replied, forcing himself to sound utterly blasé.

“You should not have-” she challenged, only to pause and rephrase her words. “You should head back to our mounts. I will catch up with you shortly, for I must find the commander.”

And kill ‘im, Thomas mused. “Agreed,” he shrugged. Heading out, he missed Connor’s puzzled expression at his silence. No matter, she had other things to attend to. Namely, ridding the rest of the stronghold of any remaining redcoats.

-----00000-----

There were on the road for roughly a day or so before Thomas broached the subject.

“So uh, how exactly do ya be gettin’ word to the Continentals that the fort now be theirs now?” he spurred his horse a bit to catch up with her.

“After everyone is eliminated, I always search the prison first. As per usual, there were roughly twenty or so Patriot prisoners of war,” she steadily said. “They are always all too pleased to ride out on freshly acquired, British horses to let the nearest Continental troops know that they may occupy the citadel.”

“That be makin’ sense. Anyway, sweetheart,” Hickey called out before taking a long gulp from his flask. How he managed to do so without looking at the road where his mount was trotting admittedly baffled her. “It be but only a day’s trek or so from a tavern where we can go fillin’ up our supplies. Lucky for ya, it also be the same place that Eleanor usually be stoppin’ at ‘afore she heads to the cities for her missions.”

“How exactly are you aware of all this?” Connor asked with dubious inquiry.

“‘Cause me contacts be leavin’ her and others of our lot the necessary supplies. Out ‘ere in the wild, that tavern be a safe ‘lil stopover. And I,” he waved at himself with a flourish, “Just happen to be knowin’ the barkeep on a personal basis. I say we try our luck their first ‘afore we head to Boston.”

Shaking her head is disagreement, Connor shot him a pointed look. “So you,” she accusingly pointed at him, “Expect me to wander into a tavern full of Templar agents. Not only that, but also stay my blade and exit it completely unscathed?”

“Ya acquitted yerself pretty fuckin’ well back at the fort,” Hickey jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“They were not my forsworn enemies out for my life, no matter the cost,” she retorted.

“I got yer back, hon-”

“A likely story, considering the tavern is most certainly not neutral territory.”

“It ain’t like no one be aware of ya affiliations on sight,” he shrugged. “Hell, I didn’t give a shit about ya until 'bout five months ago, back in New York. So quit bein’ so bloody paranoid, love.”

Connor found herself without much of anything else in the way options. For now, all she could do was trust a Templar to lead her on the path to warning William de Saint-Prix that his life was in imminent danger.

-----00000-----

Author’s Notes:

...the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh - na hÉireannaigh translates to "the Irish people" in Irish Gaelic. Despite his Cockney accent, Thomas Hickey is listed as originally from Ireland. So I assume he would be familiar with his native language. As well as old tales of ancient Irish/Celtic gods.

While use of Gaelic wasn't explicitly forbidden in Ireland, the Tudor Conquest of the country beginning with Henry VIII in the 16th century started the decline of the language. Officials from England generally suppressed its use and considered it a threat. The Great Famine of Ireland from 1845–1852 resulted in further decline, mostly due to Ireland's significant decrease in population. During this time period, Ireland lost 20–25% of its people, due to a combination of starvation and immigration. Only recently has there been a resurgence of Irish Gaelic.

Wow, I love your Thomas Hickey. He's certainly a more reliable partner than what I had expected of him. Even more so than Haytham, who has a bad habit of picking fights and letting Connor finish them. Speaking of the Grandmaster, I wonder if he'll make another appearance and meet his child earlier than expected.

Heh, also I do love Hickey's horrified awe of watching Connor in a fight, and comparing her to a goddess of war, death, and destruction. But uh oh, he's bringing the Wolf into a den of vipers... I doubt that's going to end well.

Writer!anon here. Yeah, Hickey’s a lot of things, but he is admittedly loyal. Certainly more so than Benjamin Church. After all, in canon, Hickey still tried to kill Washington and complete his mission in spite of the odds against him. He also did his best to retrieve Johnson's box at the beginning of the game. To me, while he's not loyal to concepts, which are too complicated and pointless to a simple bloke like him, he's loyal to people who either keep him alive, out of prison or pay him enough to make the risk worthwhile. Only because that sort of loyalty helps him personally.

So for now, while he finds Fem!Connor mouthy, naive and dour, she's kept him from getting killed so far and her skills will come in handy against someone as psychotic and brutal as The Hessian. There's the added bonus of her being nice to look at. And perhapse Haytham may reward him a nice bit of coin for relaying back to him an up close and personal report of how a top assassin operates? After all, Hickey’s a pragmatist first and foremost, and Connor is worth more alive than dead...for now.

Some parents make their kids take out the trash. Haytham makes his take out redcoats. Problem?

Unlike the taverns in the city, this one was barely more than a large, two-story log-cabin. Lacking a name written on the blank wooden board hanging from an uneven beam on the second floor, it appeared relatively innocuous. Almost blending into the woodland surrounding it, only the forested, slate grey cliffs at its back made it stand out. Its logs covered in moss, while the windows weren’t of real glass, they were comprised of thinly sliced vellum. The bright, yellow light spilling from them cast the air in a pale, luminous glow. Despite being multiple days’ trip from any major city, it was absolutely packed. Likely because it was one of the few specks of civilization out on the frontier, save a few scattered homes and barns surrounding it. Men and women gaily congregated around the front door. Their laughter and loud voices echoing into the night, the smell of alcohol and pipe smoke tickled Connor’s nose.

“It be better if I be goin’ in first,” Thomas casually declared. After stabling their horses next door, they cautiously made their way up the stone path. “That way, ain’t no way anyone can go linkin’ us together.”

“Fine,” Connor vaguely shrugged. Scanning the scene, she focused on taking in the number of people milling about, as well as all visible entrances and exits of the tavern.

“See, there ya be go again, always questionin’ me-”

“I said fine,” she reiterated. “Surely you are not deaf?”

“No need to go gettin’ all smart ‘n shit,” he sneered, shooting her an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

Rolling her eyes, she gave a dismissive wave as she jogged to catch up with his longer strides. “Then perhaps you should listen to what I say.”

“Why in the bloody hell do ya have go be so flippin’ mouthy?”

“I only follow your own example,” she shot right back.

Running a hand over his face in frustration, he snapped, “Whatever. Let’s just go get this fuckin’ over with, yeah?” With that, he stomped up the path and slipped in through the front door.

Waiting for roughly ten minutes while Hickey got settled, Connor eventually made her way through the front door as well. Surprisingly, it wasn’t easy to separate him out of the crowd. Letting her vision slip into her instinctive perception, she noticed a few soldiers shining in red. While no one glimmered in blue, the rest of the room gleamed in neutral grey. In the matter of a few seconds, her internal senses allowed her to locate Hickey sitting at a table in a dark corner, outlined in gold. Of course, he chose one only a few feet from the back door. With a fanorona board in front of him and a pint of ale in his hand, he easily blended in with the other patrons. Dropping down in the seat opposite, she appeared a mere stranger challenging him to a game. Especially as she shoved a few pounds across the table to him. Ordering an ale from the elderly barkeep completed the illusion.

The liquor seemed to cool their tempers, the two back to distant civility as Hickey arched a surprised brow and asked, “Ya partake, love?” Glancing down, he moved a black fanorona piece into her territory on the game board between them.

“On occasion,” Connor replied, “Not mention, one cannot simply sit in a tavern and appear unengaged. It would look suspicious.”

“Point taken,” Hickey retorted, finishing off his second pint.

Jumping a white piece over his black one and capturing it, Connor took a sip of her ale. “Ugh,” she recoiled, wrinkling her nose. Gingerly moving it to the side, she pouted, “It seems this is not quite as good as other brews. It cost nearly twice as much as well.” Taking a long drink of water, she washed down its tainted flavor.

Thomas immediately found his gaze fixed on her mouth, entranced as her tongue darted out to lick away a final drop.

“Hickey?” she repeated for a third time, narrowing her eyes.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, his grip on table tightened as he exclaimed, “Was’sup?”

“I asked if you wanted anything from the bar?” she nodded at it.

“I…no. I ain’t in no need ‘o nothin’.” Tapping his temple, he smirked, “Gotta keep me head clear for ‘ole Eleanor, yeah? The barkeep said she be rentin’ a room last night. Still here, apparently.”

“Suit yourself,” she lightly jumped up from her seat.

Hearing the door of the tavern open, Thomas craned his head around. Letting out a low chuckle, he shot Connor a devious grin. “Well would ya look at that? It seems the pretty ‘lil poppet has gone ‘n made ‘er appearance.”

Slightly shorter than Connor, Eleanor Mallow’s lithe figure certainly made heads turns as soon as she crossed the threshold. Clad in pristine white breeches, the gold buttons twining up the sides sparkled in the dim light. Over that, she sported a captain’s redcoat. Trimmed in forest green about the sleeves and down the front, its gold buttons matched those along her trouser. Beneath it, she wore a matching forest green waistcoat. Also trimmed in gold, it lay over her white silk tunic and cravat. Tilted on her head at a jaunty angle, her gold-trimmed, black, beaver fur tricorne made her appear that much more alluringly rakish.

Her dark locks loose and curling about her shoulders, they framed her patrician face. Her wide, dark and heavily lashed eyes, dark brows, high cheekbones and full mouth reminded Connor of gilded portraits she’d seen in the some of her richer contacts’ homes. But the most importantly, her attention focused on the Templar’s weapons. Eleanor bore a gleaming silver spadroon, a parrying dagger and a flintlock on her swordbelt. The assassin could only assume that she knew how to use them.

“Miss Mallow, I presume?” Connor asked, gaze sweeping over the other woman in predatory appraisal.

“Yep,” Thomas nodded in simpering agreement, grin widening to a rapacious smile, “They be callin’ ‘er ‘The Red Coat.”

“It is no matter,” Connor waved in dismissal. “In the meantime, that is your cue. I shall remain at the bar.”

“Ain’t got no qualms with that,” he lazily saluted. Watching as Connor pushed her way through the crowd, Thomas glanced down at the half-played game of fanorona on the table. While Connor captured more his black pieces, she made two mistakes that he would be able to use to his advantage with roughly three moves.

He could only hope the same would prove true upon questioning Missy Mallow.

-----00000-----

Thomas’ head jerked up at the unexpected sound of a commotion. A man’s lecherous chuckle was quickly followed by the loud noise of a slap. “How dare you lay your filthy hands on me, sir!” Connor’s voice lashed out against her apparent harasser.

“Ya high and mighty bitch!”

Her curse in her native language hit Thomas’ ears, causing him to spin around in his chair.

“Someone you know?” Eleanor leered from her seat at the table across from him. Languidly tracing the tip of her finger around the rim of her tankard, she shook her head in disbelief as the hubbub seemed to rise.

“Nope,” Hickey briefly smirked. Connor could handle herself just fine, and getting Mallow’s information fit into his personal endgame. “So…good ‘ole Gerard be headin’ to Boston?”

“Perhaps,” she idly shrugged, “Perhaps not. What’s it to you, my dear Tom?” she slid forward in her chair and unceremoniously dropped her elbows to the table. Clasping her hands together, she rested her chin on them, arching a brow of promise.

“Eh, Haytham needs a bit ‘o clean-up to go gettin’ done. Word be, ya pop’s been enjoyin’ Gerard’s services. A hell of lot, in fact, wouldn’t ya know?”

“That so?” she questioned, pulling back her lips a bit to flash him a playful frown.

“Seems to be the case, dearie,” he downed another tankard. Slamming it on the table, he thumbed back his tricorne a bit further on his head. Rocking back in his seat, he haphazardly threw his legs up on the table, let out an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms above his head before clasping his hands behind his neck. “So, seein’ as I need to be findin’ our murderin’ ‘lil pal, where do he be, hon?”

Roughly an hour ago, he sidled up to her at the bar with little trouble. Flirting with the comely little thing was easy enough. They’d dealt with each other in the past, Thomas her usual purveyor of weapons and cash she needed for her missions. So it appeared nothing was amiss as he pretended to randomly recognize her. Lying about being on his way to Fort St. Mathieu to speak with her father concerning Haytham’s supposed need to hire the Hessian, he lured her back his table. Her first drink quickly turned into another. Combined with a hell of a lot of come-ons and charm on his end, she finally cracked. Revealing enough for him to know that she was on her way to Boston, he probed deeper. Yet she refused to reveal where in Boston the Hessian preferred to hole up.

“Oh, ya done pissed us off now, wench!” another voice from the bar rang over the crowd, interrupting their conversation.

“Remove yourself from me at once!”

Connor’s words were quickly followed by another smack, a flurry of her curses and then a grunt of pain. High pitched, Thomas could only assume it was hers. Gritting his teeth for a quick second, he steeled a flirtatious smile to his face and continued chatting with Mallow. He had a mission to complete, after all.

-----00000-----

While there was no real danger, Connor was plenty irritated.

She’d dealt with far worse than these three rough looking sorts. Their attention focused on the bartender currently cursing at them to get fuck off his property, they weren’t paying her any heed at the moment. While they were only a bit taller than her, they all had a solid look about them. Dressed in the tell-tale mismatched clothes of sailors, no doubt they’d been in their share of bar fights. That much he could surmise from tales of the Aquila’s crew. The fourth and youngest of them supposedly held Connor trapped against the bar, her back pressed to his chest. Fingers cruelly digging into her shoulders, he cursed as she jerked back and shifted her weight away from him. His mouth then stretching into a devilish smile, his yellowing teeth were crooked and foul. A dirty, dark blue stocking cap barely covered his dark blond locks.

“I believe I told you to unhand me,” Connor ordered, voice cold and stony as her eyes darkened with rising fury. “If you leave me be, I will not be forced to engage you,” she shoved back against the sailor. It did little, save knocking his balance off kilter enough to allow her to get her arms free from her sides. Then again, that was all she needed

“Shut ya trap, ya bloomin’ moppet!” he young sailor scowled at her. His features lean and sharp, they were made all the more menacing by the sneer on his face as he snapped his attention back to the barkeep, who chided him to lay off of it.

“I ain’t wanting no trouble up in ‘ere,” the barkeep warned with a shake of his meaty hand.

Looking the balding old man up and down with derision, the sailor let out of a snort of obvious disgust. Meanwhile, the corner of Connor’s mouth twitched with a repressed snarl at the feel of a bruise beginning to bloom along her cheek from where he’d struck her roughly a minute ago. Normally, she would’ve kicked him in the shin, punched him in the nose and then snatched him by arm to shove him away. Either she’d wrench it far enough behind his back to break it in at least two places. Or perhaps, upper cut him in the chin and knock out handful teeth to finish him off. But glancing back at Hickey and Mallow deep in conversation, she knew her mission came first. Even if her patience was quickly wearing thin.

“For the love ‘o God, get yer bloody hands off the woman!” the barkeep he snorted in front of her, slamming down an empty tankard along the hardwood of the counter.

“Go fuck yourself, ya bastard!” another sailor of the group hissed.

“You have no right to speak to him in such a way,” Connor commanded, voice dropping to dangerous menace.

“What’s it to ya, half-breed?” the man holding her spat. Her blood boiled at his insult as a glob of tobacco-laced spit landed nearly on top of her hands on the bar. “That it, dearest?” he hissed in her ear, his alcohol-soaked breath causing her to swallow back a gag. “Are ya fuckin’ this old geezer, then love?” he jerked his head in the direction of the barkeep, “He got ya all wet betwixt yer legs every night? He like the feel of yer mouth on his cock, suckin’ away for all yer worth? No wonder I don’t want ya now, ya Injun whore-”

The sound of his scream reverberated throughout the tavern as the bottle she swiftly snatched off the counter collided with the side of his face. The sheer force of it caused it to shatter into pieces. A collective gasp rang up from the crowd at the sight of blood streaming from his nose as he staggered back. Bringing a shaking hand to his bloodied, shard-filled cheek, his icy blue eyes narrowed in hatred and disbelief.

“Y-y-you hit me!” he pathetically screeched, his hand seizing out to grab her, “Oi! The w-wanton ‘lil…chit…HIT ME!”

“It is no less than you deserve,” Connor barked, her heartbeat roaring in her ears as she smoothly sidestepped his attempted grasp at her. FUCK ‘im ‘n his bullshit, Hickey’s voice randomly echoed in her head, I’d of shoved two bottles all up into ‘is mangy fuckin’ mug, the pikey git.

Spinning on her heel and brandishing the broken bottle, she easily jumped out of his reach at his lame attempt to punch her. Unfortunately, she also was met by the solid expanse of one of his cronies at her back. Snatching her by the hair, he wretched her head back. She responded by elbowing him in the ribs, forcing him to release her in surprised pain. The shock of her follow-up stomp to his foot then sent him crashing to the floor. Kicking him in the family jewels for good measure, she snarled in warning at his remaining friends.

Now, the entire place was as still as a tomb, everyone’s eyes glued to the escalating scene playing out before them. Save the first man’s whimpers of pain and the litany of curses flying from his friend’s lips as he rolled about on the ground and grasped at his crotch, no one said a word.

“Hey-o, sweetheart?” Hickey’s voice inexplicably cut through the anxious silence, somewhere behind her and to her left.

“Yes?” she snorted, grip still firmly on the bottle in spite of her rush of adrenaline. It wasn’t as though she was going to risk taking her eyes off of the remaining two sailors to directly address him.

“Ya mind if ya duck a bit? It’d be real fuckin’ helpful right ‘bout now.”

Without hesitation, she did as asked, only to see the flash of the first man’s fist barely miss her head. Out the corner of her eye, a heavy wooden fanorona board swiftly snapped into view. A blur of speed saw Thomas wielding it with ruthless, calculating grace. Creating a breathtaking display of brutality, he first snapped its edge into the first man’s throat, only to spin it about in his hands and then smash it completely into the other side of his face. Her attacker hit the floor like a ton of bricks. Clutching at his throat, he gurgled for a few nauseating moments before falling unconscious.

“Well, that seems to have solved the issue at hand-”

She had no time to finish her astonished exclamation before all hell broke loose.

The crowd roared for blood as the remaining two sailors charged Connor from either side. For a normal person, the two thugs going up against a lone, quiet spoken, 20 year-old woman would prove a disaster. However, Connor was no stranger to standing her ground. Admittedly, the encounter lasted less than a couple of minutes or so. But as Thomas witnessed it, it seemed to play out in spectacular slow motion. It was made all the more absurd by the fact that the musicians in the corner of the tavern abruptly struck up a frenzied tune that seemed to match the ferocious action of the fight.

Easily ducking the first sailor’s punch, Connor shoved him away by the shoulder while fluidly side-stepping the second one’s attempted kick to her shins. A flash, and her fist connected with the first sailor’s chin. Dazed, her opponent wildly lashed out, which only resulted in Connor catching his fist in mid-air. Effortlessly bending back his wrist at a sharp angle resulted in a sickening snap that seemed to reverberate off the walls around them. A moan of horror from the crowd filled the room, mingling in bizarre harmony with the sailor’s howl of agony. Tears streaming from his eyes, he doubled over. It proved an unfortunate reaction for him, as it easily allowed Connor to knee him in the head. Effectively breaking his nose and sending him toppling over, Connor then grabbed him by the neck only to slam him down into the table next to her. The sailor and the table collapsed to the floor in a bloody, screaming heap.

Assaulting her from behind, the second sailor landed a lucky punch to Connor’s left side. “That’ll teach ya, ya red sonofabitch!” he crowed in triumph as the Native stumbled backwards. A follow-up punch caught Connor on the side of the jaw.

Yet the assassin regained her footing in less than a blink of eye. Gracefully throwing her weight to her other foot, she spun about and snatched the sailor by the shirt. His eyes widening in horrified astonishment, he vainly tried to duck out of range. Regrettably for him, his luck had run dry. Connor’s speed allowed her reach easily overmatch his own. Bobbing another attempted punch, Connor viciously twisted his collar hard enough to cut off his supply of air, leaving him clawing at his throat. Without further ado, she flung him into a support beam behind her. He hit the solid wood with horrifying precision, a loud snap of something on his body breaking (his back?! Thomas’ mind raced). A pathetic wheeze and the sailor crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.

Thomas couldn’t deny a rather large, primal part of him found this wanton play of destruction violently striking. Well, except when the sailor that Connor cuffed in the crotch apparently recovered enough land a punch to his face and then make a running leap onto his back. He barely flinched, shrugging it off easily enough.

Letting out a venomous growl, Thomas threw himself backwards to shove the sailor into the wall next to Connor. Nearly toppling over on her, the battered man stumbled to his feet. He only had time to let out a single, rattling gulp before he was knocked to the ground by a chair Thomas hurled right into him. Striking with him so hard that it split into a near dozen pieces, the bar stool was rendered utterly useless. Well, except for a rather large piece that lodged itself straight through the man’s forearm. Never one leave anything unfinished, Thomas stalked across the room and ended his hysterical shrieks of terror with one final backhand to the face, completely knocking him out.

Scrambling forward to avoid stepping on the four bloodied sailors, Connor was left speechless. Particularly as Thomas swiftly yanked her up against his side and dragged her behind him by the wrist. “Alrighty, so I be thinkin’ it be best if we get fuck up outta ‘ere,” he hummed.

“What about Mallow-?”

“I gots wot we be needin’,” he cut her off.

Glancing around at the destroyed table, wrecked chair, a few shattered liquor bottles and the blood-spattered floor, Connor nodded, “It seems best that we, uh, leave.”

The angry silence of the patrons didn’t help either. Not when they were quickly making their way to the front door in what she could only assume was an attempt to block their exit. Fortunately, Thomas’ sheer size and her own air of menace managed to stop them from completing the task. Regardless, she grimaced as a couple of them yelled out various foul racial slurs against her. Luckily, they cleared the door and made it outside before anything escalated into a second fight.

“So,” Thomas chuckled, thumping her on the back, “Ya just beat the ever-livin’ shit out of that lot.”

“Yes,” she stiffened at his touch.

“Three men-”

“Only two,” she retorted, “You stopped the first one when you smashed the fanorona board into his face. The fourth one made the grave mistake of leaping onto your back.”

“Huh?” he shrugged, “I believe ya be right. Still, ya probably up ‘n killed one of ‘em-”

“Hardly. Though they will all likely suffer some permanent injury,” she replied, sounding utterly nonplussed. He let out a loud guffaw at her apparent apathy.

Stopping in his tracks so quickly that she collided right into his back, Thomas suddenly spun about to face her. By now, they were a good distance away from the tavern. But one could never be too cautious. Especially as he spotted a group of soldiers marching towards them. “Aw, shit on a stick,” he declared in irritation. Grabbing Connor by the forearm, he whipped her around and shoved her into the alley on their rights. Her back sharply hit the brick wall, causing her to wince at the impact. “Sorry ‘bout that ‘en,” he murmured as he fluidly shielded her with his body with his own. Bracing his hands against the bricks on either side of her head, they appeared as though lovers taking a private moment to a casual passerby.

Connor certainly found herself fully aware of the solid expanse of his chest pressed to hers. It was made all the more evident as he unexpectedly let his head fall to rest on her shoulder. Not to mention the heat radiating from him in the frigid night. His breathing slightly hitched and white in the icy air, it tickled the side of her neck. Yet the acrid smell of sweat, ale and blood littering his overcoat from the earlier fisticuffs wafted beneath her nose as well.

Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Connor hissed, “What are you doing-?”

“Shut it,” he hushed her, causing her to let out a snort of disagreement, “And stay.” Placing a hand to her arm, he turned her so that she see could the soldiers marching by. Thankfully, they paid no mind to the two, continuing onward.

“Well then,” she breathed, “That makes sense.” Thomas said nothing, outside of giving her a quick nod.

By now, the adrenaline had run its course through both of them. Connor found herself tiredly slumping against him, her hands limply hanging at her sides. His head still upon her shoulder, Thomas closed his eyes for a few seconds and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you badly injured?” Connor murmured, feeling him take a deep sigh against her ear.

“I should be the one askin’ if they fucked ya up any,” he replied. Leaning out from the alley and checking one last time for any soldiers, he pushed himself up off the wall. Gaze sliding to her face, he stopped on the mottled bruise on her right cheek, just to the side of her nose. Eyes narrowing, he reached out to take her by the chin. However, he stopped short and abruptly dropped his hand. “Considerin’ your face-?”

“I have tangled with far worse,” she huffed, fingers gingerly touching her bruise.

“Yeah,” he sniffed. Bridewell he mused as Connor silently shook her head in agreement. “Still,” his eyes flashed with mischief, “Ya didn’t fuck up too bad. Fightin’ that bunch and ya not murderin’ ‘em counts for somethin’.”

“They were but drunken troublemakers,” she adamantly replied, “Certainly nothing worth ending their lives over. Teaching them a lesson will suffice.”

“Still,” he rejoined, “Ya came out with a couple ‘o punches and a bit ‘o bruisin’.”

“No worse than you,” she steadily replied. Without thinking, she reached up to inspect his injuries. Fingertips breezing across the bruise on the underside of his jaw, she lightly brushed his injured lip as well. “That should not have happened,” she said at seeing him wince. Rocking back on her heels, she shook her head in dismay and frowned, “I should not have dragged you into that group back there.”

“Hell, it was a bit ‘o mad fun,” he insisted with a crooked smile. “‘Sides, I haven’t had the pleasure of a right proper bar fight in a bit. Gets the blood all riled up and goin’, wouldn’t ya know?” he suggestively waggled his brows.

“Oh, come now-”

“Ya never know, sweetheart,” he cut her off, moving to exit the alley, “Ya should go mixin’ it up like that more ‘n more. Maybe go coolin’ ya bloodlust down a bit-”

“You two ‘lil heathens! On them!”

Letting out an annoyed sigh, Connor spun around and slit her eyes at the earlier patrol they avoided now doubling back. This time, tearing along the dirt road and screaming bloody murder at them. Somehow, she could only assume word of the bar fight seemed to have spread.

Without hesitation, she scrambled up a barn and out of sight.

“Wot in the bloody-?!”

“Flee, you fool!” he heard her hiss above him. A shadow along the skyline and she was gone.

I loved this chapter! Poor Fem!Connor must get hit on a lot, and I loved how concerned Hickey was for her, and of the course the close contact at the end where they pretended to be intimate to avoid the soldiers. Cannot wait until they become intimate for real!

“Well ain’t that fuckin’ rude!” Thomas groused, splitting off in the opposite direction. Regrettably, there were only just over a dozen or so homes and barns to use for concealment here along the outskirts of town. Also, the moon was three-quarters full above. So sticking to the darkness was that much more difficult. Luckily, this was far from his first brush with the authorities.

Retracing his way back to the inn, he elbowed his way through a cadre of couples lounging, drinking and getting handsy with each other along one of its walls. Bordered by the stables on the other side, it formed a confined alleyway. Catching his breath, he slumped back against a stack of crates about midway through the alley.

His fingers snaked to the dagger sheathed next to his sword as a hand hitched him to the ground by his coat sleeve. Naturally, she slapped away his strike. Hard enough for him to lose his grip and allow her to pluck his own weapon from him. Mercifully, Connor only handed it back to him without a word.

“Jesus bloody Christ!” he sniped as she wrenched him down into a crouch beside her, “How in the hell did ya be findin’ me?!”

“Practice,” she flatly replied, swiping a finger in front of her mouth and signaling for him to remain quiet. Holding their breaths, they waited for a couple of minutes. Finally popping her head up over the crates, she saw no soldiers in the vicinity.

“Look ‘ere, love,” Thomas muttered.

“You were saying?” she asked, cautiously moving from their hiding spot. Dusting herself off, she slightly rocked back on her heels as he hauled himself to his feet.

“I know how much ya hate bein’ touched-”

“By strangers,” she corrected, adamantly pointing at him as he turned to face her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he waved, frantically looking around before closing the space between them.

She took a step backwards, only to find her back hemmed in by the wall. In spite of it, no sense of threat itched along her spine. Nor did she feel specifically trapped. “You are not exactly a friend,” she deliberately replied, “Far from it, in fact.”

“Still, ya ain’t gonna stab me then?” he flashed her a distantly vexed grin.

Opening her mouth to reply only to shut it again, she cocked her head to the side, gaze flashing a bit. “That depends on your next actions-”

Both their heads whipped around at the dreaded noise of redcoats cursing and bellowing out to search the alleyway. Most of the drunks cursed them as they were shoved to the ground and into the wall. The sounds of muskets being loaded and boots tramping along the road promptly followed. Summarily taking in that the end of the alley was too far away to flee to without arousing suspicion, Connor let out a rumble of aggravation before craning her head upwards.

“Up!” she gestured, “We go over the rooftops-”

“‘Cept I can’t fuckin’ climb, sweetheart!” Thomas whispered in exasperation, already slipping down the alleyway, “Well, not half as suicidal ‘n bedlam-y as ya always be want to do, ya nutter!”

Head twitching in disagreement, she began pulling herself upwards and setting her feet along the crevices of the bricks. “So,” she sniffed, glancing down at him, “What do you propose, Hickey?”

“That we be-”

“Over there!” a redcoat thundered.

“Oh, for the bloody love of Christ!” Thomas rolled his eyes. Snatching out, he yanked her down from the bricks by the waist of her breeches. Not expecting resistance, she flailed for a second. It allowed him the drop her on her feet, grab her by the shoulders and spin her about to face him. As he manhandled her scrambling form up against the wall, he barely ducked her instinctive punch to his chin while jerking his hips away from her knee to his crotch. “It don’t be makin’ no sense if we split up!” he hissed, “So stop movin’ ‘bout so bloody much!” ”

Growling, she bared her teeth until the sound of trashcans getting knocked over and a stray cat yowling in protest hit their ears. As the patrol closed in, he dropped his hands to her upper arms “Don’t ya fuckin’ go shankin’ the shit outta me for what I’m ‘bout to do, poppet!” he ordered.

Her eyes widened at the feel of him suddenly pressed up to her. His calloused thumb dropping to her chin, she argued, “What are you…mmph!”

Oh. So that was why he insisted on telling her not to kill him.

His mouth claimed hers, though not nearly as rough, sloppy or frankly as utterly dreadful as she assumed he would be. If anything, he simply pressed his lips to hers. It was also rather difficult to ignore how his other hand languidly trailed down her back. Instinctively leaning up into him, she strived to match his cues. For like in all things, she absolutely refused to let the challenge go unanswered. He apparently approved as she parted her lips and opened to him. Pulling her closer, his other hand tangled in her hair. Her own hands limply hanging at her sides, she didn’t know whether to feel gratified or dismayed at how his startling moan sent a strange sort quiver tingling along her skin.

She’d been kissed before, back in her village. When she and Kanen'tó:kon were but silly youths, pawing and groping at each other in the usual, teenage explorations that came with the confusion of maturity. Thankfully, they promptly realized they preferred their deep and abiding friendship to all else. Besides, he viewed her more as a brother than a potential marriage prospect. She thought the same of him, thoroughly content in their enduring bond.

But this was miles different from whatever she’d done before.

Feeling herself start to slide along the wall, she reached out and fisted her hands into the collar of the coat. He responded by firmly bracing his legs on either side of hers and lightly pushing his hips forward. His fingers moving from the small of her back, he dipped beneath her long coat and lightly stroked up her side. Thumb coming to rest along her ribcage, he began drawing random little circles along her waistcoat. Her breath hitched at the unexpected spasm of ticklish pleasure, allowing his tongue leisurely slip against hers. He tasted of gin and apples, heady and wholly singular.

Withdrawing for a tick only to lean back in and lightly nip along her bottom lip, he let out low chuckle, deep in his throat.

“Connor?” he repeated again.

“W-what?” her dark eyes snapped open, pupils dilated. Freckled cheeks practically crimson, her hands somehow found their way up to his neck. Not to strangle him this time. Far from it, in fact.

“They be gone,” his voice danced along her cheek, thumb still trailing along her side. “We should go ‘n get the fuck outta here, yeah?”

She inexplicably leaned into his touch as his other hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and beneath her hood. “That…would be best” she swallowed.

“Um-hmm.”

Pushing himself off the wall, he gave an exaggerated bow and gestured with a flourish of his hand for her to lead to way. Inwardly cursing at how wobbly her legs felt, she was thankful for the darkness. It allowed her to use the excuse of feeling along the wall to explain away why she moved so slowly. Then again, the handful of redcoats that abruptly appeared behind them at the opposite end of the alleyway created an excellent distraction as dwell.

Too bad they had their muskets pointed straight at them as they ignored everyone else milling about.

“Duck and run!” she hissed.

“Don’t ‘ave to go a tellin’ me twice!” he grunted.

Bobbing and eluding the gunfire, they sped out of the passageway and into the dirt streets. Swiftly scaling a barn, Connor lost the patrol’s line of sight within a few moments. Tailing Hickey from the rooftops as he ducked in and out of the faint moonlight, she had to admit her approval at finding him able to lose his pursuers almost just as quickly. It created less trouble to deal with on her end. Doubling back on his path, he ducked into some stables. Waiting for a bit, he popped back out into the open again. At the same time, Connor deliberately let herself drop into view from the roof of a home right in front of him. This time, he didn’t startle at her unexpected appearance.

Instead, he cocked his head to the side and smirked, “So ya all in one piece?”

“Decidedly so,” she nodded in agreement. Ignoring her primary need to shrilly ask what in the hell he thought he was pulling back there in the alley, she forced thoughts back to the task at hand. “So,” she cleared her throat, willing her voice to sound thoroughly neutral, “What did Miss Mallow have to say for herself?”

“Perhaps that ‘I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery,’ should suffice?” a vicious, familiar snarl hit Hickey’s ear out of the shadows to his left.

Anyone else, and he would’ve found a couple of his teeth knocked out by her strike to his jaw. Thankfully, he evaded the hit, dashing backwards into the alley and reeling back for an assault. But without warning, a flurry of white zipped in front him, causing him to stop short. For Connor hurled herself right into the Red Coat’s midsection. The force of it sent both of them to ground in a painful flurry of kicking, scratching and punching.

Neither of them seemed to land a solid hit, rolling and scrabbling around in the dirt. Suddenly, Eleanor sent up an infuriated howl. Jumping back off of her, Connor rapidly unsheathed her French cutlass. Strangely, rather than attacking, she waited. Patiently tapping the glinting, silver blade against her thigh, she also unsheathed her dirk. Their finely honed metal sparkling in the moonlight, it was evident both weapons cost a pretty penny.

Clambering to her feet, Eleanor’s hand went to the back of her head. Eyes slitting to dark threat, she hissed, “Your ‘lil minion ripped out my hair, Thomas!”

“Your failed attempt to do so with me first is all you have to blame,” Connor nonchalantly replied, in spite of her glower.

“And since when did you start getting your lurid jollies from fucking the forest fruit, my dear Tom?” Eleanor sharply replied, ignoring Connor.

“I firmly suggest that you shut your-”

“Come’en now, ladies,” Thomas shot the General’s daughter an enticing grin as he passed a hand in front of Connor, cutting her off. “Ain’t no reason for things to go and gettin’ all ugly up in ‘ere.”

“I do not require you to defend me,” Connor grit her teeth, advancing on the Templar.

Eleanor snickered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ah, I see, she’s quite the insolent one.” Eyes flicking over the Connor in apathetic evaluation, she shrugged and unsheathed her spadroon and parrying dagger as well. “Hmph," she curled her lip with derision, "You’ve always had a particular appreciation for the impertinent, presumptuous types that never seem to know their place. A pity,” she whirled her weapons in her hands before testily cutting her sword through the air, “I always thought you considerably loyal to old Kenway. Then again, here you are, prancing about town with an actual assassin.”

“Ya don’t know the half ‘o it,” he sneered, baring his teeth in warning.

“Don’t I?” Eleanor raised an elegant brow of question. “No matter how tight the quim, nor how much she enjoys being on her knees in front of you, I doubt your betrayal to the Order will be worth it.”

Connor’s malicious grimace of rebuke making his eyes going wide, Thomas cracked his knuckles and barked, “Now, ya just wait one fuckin’ minute, ‘ere-!”

“Stand and deliver, Miss Mallow,” Connor boldly commanded, going into an offensive stance and shoving Thomas out of the way.

“Oh my, the Indian mongrel knows the rules of a duel?” Eleanor exclaimed with false surprise. “Too bad that I shall have to kill her, Tom. A supposedly civilized savage could be worth its weight in gold. Particularly back in the cities.”

Connor lashed out first, diving forward with flawless balance and arching her blade upwards. Yet Eleanor effortlessly met her strokes, winding back and crossing her blade with Connor’s. A handful of flicks of her wrist and she pressed the assassin backwards. Connor slamming into the brick wall of the alley, it allowed the Red Coat to slice off one of the buttons of her long coat.

Looking down in exasperation, the assassin clenched her jaw. Letting out a loud exhalation of boredom, the Templar rolled her eyes and taunted, “You are so amateur! At least endeavor to keep me awake whilst I end you, eh?”

Well, she certainly didn’t take too kindly to the flash of Connor’s dirk suddenly grazing her cheek. Mouth dropping open with a gasp, Eleanor reached up to feel a line of blood starting to form along her face. “Nice try,” she scowled, wiping it away, “Except you missed.”

“Hardly,” Connor sniffed, “Do you really think my aim so poor that I could not take out your eye at a mere five paces?” Looking over her shoulder for a brief moment, she arched a brow at Thomas, taking in how he casually leaned against the wall.

“Ain’t me fight, darlin’,” he drawled. “Hell, ya be the one who be callin’ her out,” he shrugged and crossed his arms at Connor’s scowl.

“Why am I not surprised?” she droned.

“Yeah, don’t go feelin’ so bad,” Hickey shook his head in agreement from where he stood a good distance away from them. “If I be a bettin’ sort, which I very well be, me pounds be goin’ on you, frankly. Sorry, sweetheart,” he winked at Eleanor, who fumed in disbelief, “Nothin’ personal. ‘Cept ya haven’t gone ‘n had the privilege of seein' that maddenin’ one in action,” he indicated at Connor. “No matter the asinine odds, she don’t never be backin’ down, ‘tis all.”

“Enough of this mindless chatter!” the Red Coat bellowed, stomping her foot in indignation. “En garde!” she charged headlong, swinging her blade with efficient, deadly aplomb.

Eleanor may have been trained by the best swordsmen money could buy. Nevertheless, as Thomas could easily see, she was quickly turning into no match for Connor’s approach. Obviously incensed now, the assassin’s technique boiled down to mostly using her cutlass as a bludgeon to beat the ever-living shit out of her enemy. Sure, Eleanor technically landed more hits with the point of her double-edged spadroon. Hacking at Connor’s torso definitely caused her light infantry coat get slashed into a few pieces. Regardless, Connor retaliated every single strike. An unanticipated ram of her shoulder or a well-aimed kick to her lower half after nearly every thrust of her cutlass constantly sent the General’s daughter either brutally flying into the wall or stumbling against the ground. If not for Eleanor’s fancy footwork, she would’ve been dead in the matter of a few minutes.

Connor’s growing aggravation was becoming more and more evident. For most, it would signal increasing negligence in her form and missed hits. Then again, Thomas knew better by now. Especially when she hastily swapped out her sword for her trusted tomahawk and hidden blade. Thinking she had an opening as Connor traded weapons, Eleanor gracefully lunged and sought to strike the hilt of her spadroon into her opponent’s forehead. As Thomas had witnessed in dealing with her in the past, this would usually allow her to take advantage of their break in defense. Snatching them by their shoulder and stabbing them through their stomach always finished them off.

Of course, Connor was having none of that. Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet at the last possible second, she slid to the side and nimbly twirled about. The feint left her foe punching out in a completely opposite direction from where she assumed Connor would land. In turn, Connor had an almost laughably wide opening. So she settled for solidly backhanding Eleanor square across the face.

Her head snapping back with a painful groan, blood spilled down the Templar’s mouth. Staggering away, she retreated from Connor’s reach in stunned shock.

Thomas had never heard Connor curse. Well, not in English. However, judging by her implacable glare and the way she skillfully looped the handle of her tomahawk along her fingers, he could only assume she was sending a silent, “Fuck you” in the other woman’s direction. Alright, so he couldn’t hold back a cheeky grin as the assassin casually rocked back on her heels. Looking on as Eleanor spat out a glob of blood, she waited for the Templar to recover. It only seemed to make her adversary even more incensed.

Wiping at her mouth, Eleanor’s livid gaze slowly looked up from her bloodied hand. “You don’t threaten me!” she snarled.

“I have done no such thing,” Connor flatly replied, flexing her fingers before tightening her grip on her hidden blade, “For threats are futile. Markedly, when made in lieu of promises. For example?” her stare darkened with admonishment, “You threatened to kill me and you have failed so far. Apparently, Miss Mallow, you fare poorly when it comes to keeping your word.”

Chest heaving with barely repressed rage, Eleanor scoffed, “Leave it up to a vulgar cunt like you to act in such a wretchedly uncivilized fashion!”

Thomas flinched at the expression of unbridled hatred that flew to Connor’s face. Nonetheless, despite the rush of blood tainting her cheeks and how her shoulders stiffened, she remained silent. “Oh, so you’ve no words for me?” Eleanor sourly smiled, whipping her sword through the air with a flourish, “I am not surprised. No doubt, your command of the English language is wanting, to say the least, barbarian.” He could hear Connor’s growl, low and deep in her chest in all of its wolfish rapacity. Still, she remained rooted to the spot, patiently waiting for an attack.

Screaming in frustration, Eleanor sprinted forward and somersaulted behind her nemesis in less time than it took to let out a breath. Yanking her rival by the collar in midair, she aimed to drive her sword clean through her neck. At the same time, Connor refused to be deterred. Throwing all of her weight backwards, she reeled back and smashed her head right into the Templar’s face. A crack reverberating in the air could only signal a broken nose. Judging by the Red Coat’s screech of agony, it looked to be so. In spite of it, Eleanor smartly tossed her spadroon to her other hand and whipped it downwards. Kicking out, Connor parried the sword blow meant for her thigh with her ax. Twisting the edge of her weapon so hard against the Templar’s blade that sparks flew, she punched Eleanor in the gut at the same time.

Her expression painted with venomous threat as the Eleanor doubled over and went careening to ground, Connor pressed her foot into the Red Coat’s wrist, keeping her weapon at bay. “Yield,” she ordered, looming over her and raising her tomahawk in warning.

“You rotten ‘lil bitch!” Eleanor hissed. Her breath ragged and painful, blood poured down her lips and chin from her nose as she yowled, “How dare you!”

“I will not ask you again,” Connor demanded, eyes bright with deadly intent. Leaning more weight into her foot along Eleanor’s wrist, her gaze hardened at the other woman’s frayed, guttural gasp. “You know as well as I do,” she impassively added, “Only a little more pressure and your bones in your wrist and arm shall begin to break.”

“Well then,” Eleanor viciously sneered, hand dropping to her coat, “I hope you appreciate my artistry.”

“What are you-?”

A shot roared in Connor's ears, causing the assassin to brace and flinch. Yet she didn’t feel the tell-tale sting of a bullet hitting her flesh.

“Are ya shittin’ me?!” Hickey’s voice painfully rang out behind her.

Panic rising, Connor spun on her heel and fixed her sights on him. It didn’t make any sense, he didn’t appear injured in the slightest. In fact, he frantically gesticulated at the ground while spewing out a litany of curses.

At her back, Eleanor started screaming and begging, crying out for help. Connor’s awareness shifting back to the Templar, she jumped and twirled around to find her on her feet again. This time, she made no move to engage Connor. Snatching up her weapons and retreating in the opposite direction, Eleanor sing-songed, “Enjoy dealing with the patrol, you mangy dogs!” Letting out a few more screams of false distress, she paused to add, “I don’t believe they’ll take two kindly to an indolent drunk and a filthy savage murdering one of their own, yes?” Without further ado, she took off skittering up the side of the building.

“The fuck you waitin’ for?!” Hickey bellowed as Connor dashed over to him. Calling heed to yet another patrol closing in on them, he snapped, “We gotta scram!”

“I assumed she shot you!” she exclaimed, scrutinizing him for any sign of injury.

“Naw,” he shrugged, “She put a bullet in ‘im,” he pointed at the ground. Lying at his feet was a dead redcoat, his lower neck torn away by the bullet. Dropping to her knees, Connor checked for his pulse along his chest, though she knew it was futile.

“Ain’t nobody got time for that, love,” Hickey lugged her to her feet by her upper arm. Focusing her attention on the patrol of soldiers rushing towards them, including one mounted on horseback, he shunted her down to the other end of the alley way. “Looks like me snoggin’ ya won’t be distraction ‘nough this time neither,” he winked at her as he broke out into a run, “A damn shame that be!”

“Thank the gods,” she sniped back, right on his heels.

This group of soldiers wasn’t nearly as forgiving as the previous others. The open terrain here at the very end of town and their mounted officer didn’t help either. Not to mention, they were far more infuriated by the murdered redcoat they stumbled across after the two fled. As a result, Connor and Hickey found themselves crashing through a cornfield and deeper into the landscape. The rush of the river somewhere ahead of them, they both headed in its direction, plunging into the forest. Normally, they’d easily give the slip to the authorities by separating again. Then again, splitting up and having to regroup would only result in a waste of time…

“Whoa, look sharp 'ere, girlie!” Hickey yelled, grappling out and nabbing Connor by the hood of her coat mere seconds before she went careening over the side of the cliff in front of them. “Fuck all!” he cursed as she windmilled her arms, only to crash into him and send them both sprawling to forest floor him in a heap. “Omph!” he painfully gasped, “Why in God’s name do ya be weighin’ a helluva lot more than ya be lookin’?!”

“Muscle, I may only assume,” she distantly replied. Nimbly rolling off of him, she leapt to her feet and reached down a hand. He took it without question, dragging himself upwards.

“No shit,” he exhaled, staring over the wooded precipice they stood on and took inventory. Not like it was much, admittedly

Forced to jump back as clumps and dirt and rock broke away beneath his feet and went tumbling down into the ravine, Hickey shot her a look of vexation. A solid thirty foot drop down the sheer side of the overhang and into the river greeted them. While the water wasn’t moving particularly fast, its temperature could prove disastrous considering it was mid November. Nevertheless, with the patrol closing in some yards behind them, they didn't have much in the way of options.

Mouth pressed into a thin line of determination, Connor uttered, “I hope you have the ability to swim-”

“Sure, but-”

“Feet first and run into the jump,” she interrupted, already backing away from the bluff. “It is relatively flat along its side, so you should not hit your head. Swim to the other bank and then we shall double back for our supplies and horses so that we may make camp and dry off. Otherwise, we may find ourselves in poor health from the cold.”

Eyes widening in unreserved alarm, Thomas stammered, “Ya be outta ya fuckin’ mind!” Frantically waving out to the empty air in front of them, he exclaimed, “Ya have no flippin’ clue how deep it be. What if we go hittin’ our legs on the bottom? Or me head cracks open like a rotten melon against them rocks?” he pointed at the opposite shore.

“Judging by the patterns of the current, the water gives way to plenty of depth," she shrugged. "We will have ample room to dive.”

“How in the bloody hell-?!”

They both hurled themselves to the ground at the sound of a volley of bullets blasting around them and thudding into the trees. Looking up from where he lay and meeting her stubborn gaze, Hickey gaped as she resolutely replied. “It is our only option.”

“Ya fuckin’ daft in that ludicrous head ‘o yours!”

“Am I?!” she snorted, jumping to her feet.

“Why can’t ya just go fightin’ ‘em off?" he bellowed, getting to his feet as well, "Ya know, go ‘n murder the shit outta ‘em like ya usually do?”

She furiously nodded in rebuke, “The ground is quite unstable here," she stubbed her toe into the crumbling earth, causing more to break off and sift down over the lip of the ledge. "We are also far too close to the edge-”

“That you want to FUCKING JUMP OFF OF?!”

“All the better to control the angle-”

“Ready!” the redcoats thundered behind them.

Head whipping around, Hickey could easily make out their uniforms through a thin grove of trees only about twenty feet behind them. A fuckin' rock and a hard place, that was how this was playing out. Absolute bollocks to put it in laymen's terms. “I most certainly ain’t gonna go hurling meself off a bloody mountainside!” he vehemently denied, throwing his hands up to the heavens for emphasis, “No fuckin’ way, no fuckin’ how!”

“Aim!” the ranking officer on horseback screamed out the order.

“You are willing to die for that notion?” Connor ground out.

“Hell to the fuckin’ no. Just-”

“FIRE!”

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she took charge. For again, she moved far too fast for him to track. So all he could discern was her tightly hooking her arm around his and launching them both off the cliff top as the bullets danced around them. Using her momentum and his stunned disbelief at her latest, maniacal gambit, she sent them hurtling over the edge. Nauseatingly weightless and arms flailing, the chilly air whistled past his ears.

At least he had the wherewithal to not go screaming like some pathetic coward, he could give himself that.

Thomas didn’t recall much as his feet slammed into the frigid water. But he did make an oath on the minuscule scrap of what little was left of his soul; God and his angels on high as his fucking witnesses, should he drown or otherwise perish, he’d haunt balmy git for the rest of her god-damned life. That was final.

Author’s Notes

“I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.” – Quote by Aeschylus (c. 525/524 BCE – c. 456/455 BCE), an ancient Greek poet and author of tragedies such as the Oresteia trilogy. Considering Eleanor Mallow’s background, it can be assumed she received an excellent education, which would have included study of the great Greek and Roman ancient plays and authors.

Spadroon – Eleanor Mallow’s weapon of choice per canon. It’s a light sword that was popular with military and naval officers, though more during the 1790s versus the Revolutionary War era.

Loved the fight between Connor and Eleanor, though without a doubt that Connor is the most badass of them all.

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