Chu10: Hello ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, of the Assassin's Creed fandom!

My partner and I are not new to the franchise but we are in fact, new to the story-writing here – nevertheless we hope to bring you the best we can give. I know, many of us have been suggesting our own locations for the next AC to move on to, and here what we can offer is the old Wild West, with all its legendary sharpshooters, tumbleweed – all your kid fantasies brought to life in a brutal way like what Ubisoft did with AC:IV. We do hope you enjoy, and we hope we deliver on this first one out!

Remember: History Is Our Playground.

JJZ-109: How's it going motherfuckers. I'm the bad cop in this duo. Here we bring you a popular time period not frequently visited in games, and the story where Assassins and Outlaws cross paths, United and Confederate States clash in America's bloodiest war, and shocks are around every corner. And yeah, this can be a touchy time period (Civil War I mean). So harden the fuck up beforehand. This is fiction, meant to entertain. This is where Wrist-blades and revolvers meet. This is the Wild West.

Cheers: Chu10, JJZ-109

PROLOGUE: ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST

Rural California Train Lines, United States of America.

1853.

Pre-Abolition

Another day in hell. Working tirelessly on railroad lines in fear. Not just of collapsing, dehydration, or the harsh conditions…but of the people. Slave owners and construction foremen patrolled like wolves on their territory, watching lazily as every single worker or slave hammered away at the iron, ready to whip or beat anyone that so much as stepped a millimeter out of line. Then there was the ever-present threat of Natives attacking…

It was also psychological hell. Whatever reason they left their homelands, it was for a better life, in the 'Land of Opportunity'. And it was anything but. They had just escaped into a worse hell under the hot desert sun. Their efforts to escape Asia were all in vain.

Under the blazing sun the slave master stood, his moustache crinkling up with a frown, one hand resting on the hilt of a whip, and the other holding up an accusing finger and pointing it at the Chinese woman who stood in front of him.

"You there! You dare accuse me? Of bein' too harsh to yer daughter over here? Huh?" His accent rang out, true and Southern. He was a small man, but his bite was worse than his bark would ever be. His whip crack commanded authority like no other down on the railway tracks.

"Sir, sir, I never will do that!" The woman protested, her Asian accent strong. "No please, I didn't accuse you!"

The slave master laughed, a cruel sound from his lips. "Hah, pleadin' fer mercy wit' me now ain't ya?"

"No! Please sir!"

The slave master let his grip off the young woman that he was holding by the collar and stepped heavily over to the older Chinese lady, cracking his whip on the ground. The sound was enough to make the other railway workers turn their heads – but none of them dared look for more than a second, and they quickly averted their eyes, thankful that it was not them.

The first whiplash fell, hitting the older woman on her shoulder and making her scream out in pain. Skin was torn, and anyone could see that the fabric on the area had been ripped apart by the force of that whip. And just nearby her daughter yelled out at the same time as her mother.

"No! She's done nothing wrong…Hit me instead…Please!"

But her pleas fell on deaf ears as the slave master brought down another lash of agony.

"Please! Stop!" She cried helplessly, looking as her mother cried out in pain. What were the others doing? Weren't they all friends? Where were her friends in times of need?

"Help her, someone, please!"

Why was no-one helping?

"That's my mother! Please! You got to help her!" She yelled, her voice cracking. But no one, no one made a move. It was as if the whipping was happening in another realm altogether, a realm no one dared enter. The third lash came down, and it was almost unbearable for the young woman who cried out in frustration and anguish along with her mother's cry of pain and suffering.

"STOP! HIT ME! PLEASE!" She yelled, desperate to get the slave master to turn his attention away, to look anywhere else – even to whip her, maybe – just as long as he stopped hurting the person she loved the most in the world; and the only thing she had. But when the man did not turn, or even show any sign that he acknowledged her – her words turned into action. Running up and nearly tackling the man, she gripped his right arm hard, and reached out to pull the whip away from him. The man was shocked. He did not have time to react before the whip was pulled straight out of his hands. What was this? A slave fighting back? Was she - snatching his whip away?

"Give that back before I hurt yer straight in the face with this thing!" He threatened, bringing his hand to a hilt of a large knife in his belt.

"No!" The young woman shouted back, defiant now that she had his weapon in her hand. He couldn't hurt her mother now…nor could he hurt her if he tried.

"Why, you little piece of shit," he said as he drew out his Bowie knife. The blade gleamed maliciously, the stained parts reflecting the sun. "Why don't ya put that down and we can talk, eh?"

"If you promise never to hurt my mother again I will give it back."

"Hah! Lord in Heaven, did anyone hear this child speak? Never hurt your mother again? Hahahaha! Joke of the day, ladies and gentlemen!" He mocked, swivelling his knife in one hand. "I'll show ya, girl, I'll show you how a knife works when I cut up your mother soooo badly, she'll be – "

CRACK! The whip came down hard, catching the slave master by surprise. But surprise was the least of his worries, because as every other railway worker nearby turned to look with wide eyes, the slave master had a huge, bleeding cut on the side of his lip where the whip had caught him.

"What the fu - " the man reached up to his own cheek, not daring to touch it. "What the hell is this?"

"Don't. Touch. My. Mother."

"I still got the rights to mess her up if I want, ya 'lil bitch!" He yelled.

CRACK! The second whiplash came down harder than the first, catching the man across the chest and tearing skin and fabric. There were audible gasps from the other workers, either from shock – or maybe even from secret joy that this young girl was whipping the hell out of that man that terrorized them and ran them ragged for so long.

"Fuckin' hell – "

CRACK! The man screamed out in the same pain as the older Chinese woman did. Crack! Crack! Crack! The whip came flying across several more times, with the young woman starting to enjoy every bit of it even more.

Eyes wild, hair out of place, the young woman glared sharply at the man on the ground, who has been reduced to a person curling up in a foetal position, his hands shielding the back of his head.

"Go away! Get out of my sight!" She shouted at him, her voice gaining a new tone. Was it…command?

Whimpering in pain, the slave master immediately stood to his shaky feet, backpedalling in shock with a horror etched on his face. His power was gone. The young Chinese worker scowled at him…before dropping the whip in fear. What had she done? In protecting her mother she might have just guaranteed death for the both of them…It was a rush of blood she regretted. She trembled in a mixture of rage and fear as armed railroad foremen started running to the scene. She took a feeble step back, and started to feel a tear swell in her eye. They drew their pistols and stumbled to a stop before her.

"GET DOWN ON THE GROUND GIRL!" The young slave complied fearfully. "Boy you in a heap o' shit now girl…What the hell's the matter with you? How the hell we meant to get a new line done when we got bitches like you slowin' things down. We ain't got any use for slaves that make work instead of do it…" The foreman said and pressed his revolver against her head.

'"WAIT, STOP!" This voice was American, and made the foremen spin around on the spot. A man in an expensive looking white formal suit trudged forward, panting. As soon as he reached the trio he quickly drew his chequebook, and raised the beaked white bowler hat from his eyes.

"I am terribly sorry for this, gentlemen. In order to spare this girl's life…I am willing to purchase her from you. How much will it be?" He asked and drew a pen to start writing out the numbers. The foremen's eyes narrowed.

"Would you first mind explaining who the hell you are?" The foreman pointed his revolver at him now.

"Oh, my apologies. Tom Horn…At your service." He said, shaking the barrel of the gun with his hand as if the foreman had extended it as a handshake.

"Now…how much will it be gentlemen?" He said and looked up at them.

Horn was a middle-aged man, with grey starting to appear in his thick beard and hair. His white suit gleamed in the sunlight, contrasting against the bright red tie.

"She's not for sale. Now go back to wherever you came from, mister." The foreman snarled.

"What? Of course she's for sale…You were about to shoot her." Horn pointed out.

"She's our property, and we can do with our property whatever we so desire." The foreman replied…

"Well I am willing to offer you as much as –" Horn was interrupted, as the man raised the revolver against him in a threatening manner.

"My friend…Are you getting carried away here or are you actually pointing that gun at me with lethal intentions?" Horn asked coolly, and the girl flinched.

"Last chance…Now beat it." The foreman said, and pulled the hammer back. Cla-chik.

"Oh…So this is how you want to play it?" Horn said, eyeing the two foremen down. "Fine by me."

He then suddenly burst into action, and before the girl even knew what happened, a blade was penetrating the first foreman's throat, sending blood squirting all down his previously immaculate white sleeves. The girl traced the blade down…It was coming from the underside of his wrist, out his sleeve, with his hand bent backwards as far as it could go. SHING! Then up his other arm flew, and the blade extended out. He plunged it into the chest of the second foreman before he even had time to blink.

Slowly, he released them both and let them both clatter to the ground, dead. Still with his fingers spread and wrist-blades drawn, he turned to the girl. The blades zipped back up his sleeves when their eyes met. He approached her calmly and extended a hand.

"Are you alright?" He asked, but she was too fearful to move.

"It's okay…You can trust me. I won't hurt you or your mother." With that she carefully took his hand and got to her feet, eyeing his wrist the whole time in fear that weapon may pop out again. As she stood up, she noticed a strange symbol stitched onto his hat, like an English 'A' almost…Without the line running through the middle.

"What is your name, m'dear?" He asked in a friendly tone.

"Eh…Zhu." The girl replied, still in a submissive manner.

"Zhu…?" Horn said and motioned for her to continue.

"Zhu Ling Jiao." She muttered in response.

"Well you know my name, courtesy of my discussion with your two ex-handlers…Who won't be requiring your services any longer." Horn said and dropped a cheque onto the foremen's dead bodies.

"And I must congratulate you, for someone so young and in a position like yours to take a stand against such brutal oppression…It ain't common. So I say this to you: Well done. Well done indeed." Horn put a hand on her shoulder.

Zhu couldn't help but feel confused. There was just so much happening at once. It sounded like she was being freed, her superiors were just killed before her, and the man that did it somehow seemed like a savior. It just seemed to unreal, out of her painful repetitive life consisting of working herself to near death on railroads daily. She blinked to check it wasn't a dream.

"I suggest you get your mother. We ride at noon." Horn said casually and spun around on his heels.

"Wha- to where?" The young Zhu asked after him.

"Somewhere safe." Horn replied.

"A-are you sure this is allowed?" Zhu asked cautiously.

"Yes I'm sure. Look Zhu…There's one thing that the people I work with say, and one thing that you'll learn in time. It is that Nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

(Western Strum)

Texas, Confederate States of America

1861

The American Civil War.

*WHACK* A glancing blow struck across his face, sending his head snapping sideways viciously and droplets of spit and blood spraying from his mouth. He didn't even wait for the throbbing to ease; casually turning his head back around to the man who punched him an irritatingly unprovoked expression.

The room was dimly lit by a few candles providing a simmering orange glow, and its only inhabitants were the four of them. The three Confederate soldiers and himself. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing that the punch hurt - and in point of fact it didn't too much. He'd been shot, whipped and beat many a time in his life, and this seemed so feeble. The soldiers were just encouraging him to shut up even longer, in the name of his larger-than-life ego. He'll say something when he'd damn well exposed how feeble they were.

"Now you plan on sayin' somethin', boy?" The Confederate Captain sneered at him.

The man just let out a breathy chuckle, not paying him any form of seriousness.

"Whatcha wanna know fella?" The man rasped in an amused tone. The Captain growled again.

"You think this is a fuckin' game, ya nigga-lovin' yankee?" The man stopped chuckling as he watched the soldier to his right draw his rifle bayonet.

At the Captain's nod, he cut the binding ropes on his captive's hands free. The man's stomach leapt...The road out of the war and back to freedom may be quicker than he thought. Damn idiots, they don't read the posters do they? He still couldn't help but feel slightly worried. As his hands were freed, he casually brought them up (without even rubbing the searing marks beforehand) and straightened the dark blue coat draped over his bare upper body. The two riflemen instantly reacted to the insolence and forced his hands down onto the table.

"Let's see who's laughin' now...Lose his finger boys!" The Captain commanded and suddenly the man's attitude changed. Now he was threatened.

"No..." He rasped and tried to yank backwards. But it was too late; they had him. He turned his head in the opposite direction sharply and squeezed his eyes tight as he felt the searing blade cut through his flesh.

"FUCK! AAAAHH!" He hissed through his teeth as the blade kept on sawing its way through. He'd had his fair share of pain in his time, but this was more knowing what was happening than the actual pain. With a nauseating snap of a bone, it was over – and fuck, it hurt. But with the extreme pain came a numbness that numbed almost all the fingers on his right hand. It felt strange – something was missing where it should be, but the remnant hurt just as much as the part that was gone. He felt the grips on his wrist begin to ease, and instinctively he turned back and opened his eyes. His right ring finger was gone. In its place was a bloodied stump of flesh, soaking the wooden table before him in his own crimson blood. The look was a little sickening.

"Now ain't that a shame...Looks like you'll never be married, son." The Captain sneered.

The man suddenly felt the amusement and smart-assery be reborn inside him.

"Really? You cut my right hand one ya stupid genius. Left is for the girls..." The man spat back.

"...And my Johnson's for your mother." The man continued with a wicked grin.

The Confederate Captain's eye twitched in rage, and he viciously drew his own knife.

"Why you Union son of a -" He started off menacingly. He was too stupid to realize his own mistake however.

Cut off ring finger or not, the man's hands were free...

Ignoring the blood and throbbing, he plunged his maimed right hand into the Captain's belt holster.

Cut off ring finger or not, the man still had the quickest draw in the West...

In one lightning fast motion he yanked out the M1851 revolver and pressed it against his chest.

BANG! A blast of scarlet liquid splashed out backwards, and soon the Captain's form followed it. The gunshot flicked a mental switch in his mind, the one that brought him into the alert, vicious and fighting one where everything moved in slow motion, one minor action at a time. The one years of living out in the lawlessness of the Frontier had induced.

As soon as his mind registered the Captain had been shot, he yanked the hammer back on the revolver and withdrew his body from in-between the two flanking soldiers. BANG! The first soldier instinctively fired his musket, and hit his comrade opposite him. The man watched his expression transform into one of horror and grinned slightly, before holding the pistol up to him. BANG!

The interrogation room shootout was over already.

Blowing the smoke off the stolen revolver, the man stood up and casually paced over the creaking wooden door. Crouching down he began searching the body of the captain, and eventually came across the stack of cash messily rolled up in his bloodied coat pocket.

"Thanks for that partner." He said casually and exited the room.

On cue, lawmen were running to the scene with rifles in hand, all trying to squeeze through the tiny makeshift jail door. The man snapped his arm up and leveled his stolen pistol 'BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG! He blasted the remaining four rounds away, slamming his left hand down on the hammer after each shot. The storm of lead sent splashes of blood and flesh bursting out of the lawmen's forms, spraying the doorframe red and creating an eerie red mist behind them as they fell.

The man tossed the spent revolver away...And casually approached the locked cabinet on the other side of the small wooden jail office. He tore the doors off their hinges. He couldn't be bothered searching for keys. Inside was all the confiscated possessions of past prisoners, clothes, weapons...the lot. The man scratched his chin...Before removing his old blue Union Army coat. Enough of that shit. He was going to be free now again...

The man was no regular soldier. He was a gunslinger. A bandit. A criminal. A criminal who's only pardon was to serve in the Civil War...And now he'd escaped that. The Confederate soldiers were daft enough to be seduced by that Reward on the posters and defy orders to collect it. Their mistake. And it bewildered the man even more that they'd managed to read the name and reward, but not the warnings? Morons.

After a while of rifling through the confiscated goods...He'd eventually come across his possessions. A brown leather belt, with a silver buckle, and twin leather holsters. In each holster was a new Remington 1858 revolver. His most prized possessions. He didn't bother looking for the money; the reward he'd stolen from the Confederate Captain was enough. And lastly...but most importantly, was his hat. A cowboy like him was nothing without it.

Then he began picking out some clothes. He was back to his old ways now; the US Army clothes would no longer be required.

Meanwhile, out in the deserted main strip of the dusty Texas town, the Sheriff walked forward with spurs a-clinging, and shotgun held over his shoulder. Flanking him were his two deputies. No one comes into his town and starts creating this sort of trouble and racket. It was blatantly obvious what had happened. He could see the lawmen dead in the bloodstained doorway, and just about the whole town heard the gunshots. Those soldiers never looked too bright, and he felt irritated the Marshall had let them handle their captive. If three trained and enlisted soldiers couldn't contain him, then he sure as hell would.

"You in there! In the name of the law... Get out here with your hands up! You're outnumbered and outgunned. Let's make this nice and simple huh?" He called out, and readied his shotgun in case.

"Very well then. Here I come sir!" The man called back.

Then just as the first rays of orange sunlight started to pour over the desert horizon and down the street...the man stepped out of the jail doors, with the warmth on his back.

Spurs clinking against the ground, and with his brown hat lowered over his eyes he stepped out and forward with the sun spilling over his shoulders. The Sheriff gulped a little at the sight of him, and tightened his grip on the shotgun for reassurance. He wore tall brown boots, faded blue jeans, a light brown sleeveless utility shirt and a leather holster with two intimidating looking guns inside them. His right hand was completely bandaged up and bloodied, while the left held onto a sheet of paper.

As soon as the man stopped in the middle of the dirt road, he turned to face his three opponents. The gentle wind waved through what hair of his was visible, and his long shadow extended from his feet all the way to those of the Sheriff due to the sunrise.

For a moment there was silence.

Then the man casually raised his left hand, and released the sheet of paper. The wind carried it fluttering over to the other side of the showdown where the shadow ended. It fluttered to a stop right at the Sheriff's feet. The Sheriff looked down at it and read, and felt his heart sink.

Looking back up now the man was smiling evilly, with both hands now floating above his thighs.

The sheet read:

WILLIAM BRONSON

WANTED:

DEAD OR ALIVE

2014

The small group of Abstergo employees crowded around the monitor burst into applause. That was just plain awesome.

"Great work man!" One exclaimed and slapped his colleague on the back. "That footage was quality…this what you're going to present to the boss?" He continued.

"Yeah…All raw footage as well." The employee replied.

"Wow…I honestly can't believe our luck." The first said and paced behind his friend in the office chair.

"Well you know… two times the donors, two times the footage baby…"

"We're going to make a fortune out of this."

How was that to start us off? This has been Chu10 and JJZ-109, and as always...Have a nice day.