Chapter One

Author's Note:

So I don't usually put introductory notes on the pieces I write, but with this story in particular I'd like to just clear some things up. Pretty much all of the characters I focus on are Multiplayer Characters from Assassin's Creed III, since I really liked to read all of their biographies and mentally intertwine their stories as I played through the game. Eventually I decided I wanted to create some sort of story using the already made character backgrounds as a foundation for this. So with that I'd like to say that a lot of the identities of these characters are not entirely thought of by me, though I have tweaked some minor facts so their stories won't match the biographies spot on.

I just wanted to make a quick disclaimer about that, though I have added my own original touches and details to their stories. Aside from that lengthy and probably unnecessary note, I hope you guys enjoy this story and seeing some of your favorite Multiplayer Characters come to life on the pages.

Tragedy. That's all Gillian ever knew.

Her home- Ireland- was not easy on the poor. If you didn't have enough coin to purchase a crumb of bread, you never would. If you fell down, there wouldn't be a helping hand there before you; chances are the man next to you was in the same predicament. The last thing that you could sell were the clothes on your person, and once done you'd only have enough money to buy your withered stockings back.

Once, when they were just living in the streets, Gillian's mother had gotten paid for men to take her clothes off- not sell nor take them. At first the girl hadn't understood the significance of the dealing, her innocent mind seeing not a reason for the simple time they'd spend away from their mother in the late hours of the night. She'd just sit there and hold her brother safe from the world until the woman came back to the place where she'd told them to stay. Upon her return their mother would always look tired but warm, and for that the girl grew jealous.

Her and little Fillan always sat, huddled around some crates covered in nothing more than a rotten quilt, waiting through the subtle night for their only parent to return. At times they begged on the street corner for money, hoping that maybe someone fortunate was living in their town of poverty and would just happen to meander by on a comfortable stroll. Perhaps drop a coin within their small hands, not nearly graced with their teen years just yet.

It wasn't until Gillian had in fact reached her thirteenth year that she understood the profession that her mother withheld. The woman had grown tired, miserable. For good reason, but the daughter never thought that those oppressions would turn onto her. She figured they'd starve to death before Gillian would be forced to travel home warm and tired too, back to her brother with the hope that she was doing the right thing.

If it hadn't been for the coerce words of her mother, reminding Gillian that they'd never make it out alive if it was just her bringing in the coin, the girl would've grown up and married a man, trusted him and loved him. But because of what she was forced to do, she shied away at the sight of anything more than her little brother. The men- they made her feel weak and helpless. They made her remember that the only thing that Gillian had to survive was them.

But it all ended one night, right when they began to withhold some form of savings from their deteriorating effort. Gillian's mother fell sick with a force so strong that she didn't last any longer than three days after her first cough. The siblings learned of death early, nearing a breaking point in any known civilized manner due to the discovery.

In the same evening that they had dragged their mother's body to a public garden, leaving her beneath a scattered pile of dead flowers, the brother and sister made an agreement: do whatever they needed to survive.

There came a routine then. They'd wake up at six in the morning, wrapped in each other's warm embrace of course, and head out to do their biddings for the world. Which, in other words, meant that Gillian would… 'work' several times a day in order to earn more cash, while Fillan would learn the ins and outs of pick pocketing. And when Gillian said he worked hard at it, it could be perceived as an understatement. He would bring home mounds of coin pouches with only a week's time; all because of when he discovered to what lengths Gillian had to go in order to make a profit.

He wanted to take care of her, instead of it being the other way around. Secretly, as he'd never told his sister the thought, he knew that if she continued to willingly allow herself to be taken advantage of, she'd only turn into their mother. And that- that was something that he wouldn't stand to see.

About a year into their new systematic approach to making good coin, Fillan was caught on the eve of his eleventh birthday.

"Thief!" An old woman had shrieked when the small blonde boy snuck his nimble fingers into her apron while she worked within an inn, the bare amount of tips she'd received jingling inside it's one pocket. He'd heard the sound almost instinctively, perking when he could just barely see the outline of a coin taught beneath the thin fabric. Not being able to help himself, Fillan immediately took his chances and stood at the bar, sneaking quick glances at the woman whenever she'd pass by, never quite close enough. That is, until it appeared she was taking a break and began hobbling back towards a rear room, passing by the boy.

Licking his chapped lips greedily, Fillan shot his hand out to snatch up the money. But in an act of mere error, his little hand got caught in the pocket. It wasn't until the old lady had a ten year old dragging with her by the demand of the damned apron did she scream out.

"Thief! Someone, thief!" Fillan didn't spend more than a second within that inn, hearing a couple shouts follow him out of the front door angrily. Scared, the boy ran endlessly through the streets until he finally found their little makeshift tent, located in a lesser traveled back alley on the town border. Gillian was standing idly there, blankly tossing a coin into the air and then back to her hand, barely even noticing the huffing and puffing coming from her brother as he approached.

"Tá fadhb againn," he had exhaled out deeply, resting an arm against the brick wall beside him. Gillian peered up at the boy, brows furrowed with worry as she slipped the coin in a pocket of her ratty, plaid dress.

"Speak in English, boy," Gillian scolded him lightly, remembering when their mother had expressed the need for the change from Gaelic to the more popular language. Though her attention wasn't directed unto the minor notion, but rather the apparent problem that her brother had found himself within. "What happened?" She asked.

"Sorry," he said quickly, brushing off the comment. "I've been caught."

And from there, the siblings decided their time in Ireland was to come to an end. A rather abrupt one. There was nothing there for them. No family. No friends. No home. No solace. Leaving was the only thing that they liked about their country. Seeing it on the deck of an America bound ship was even better, feeling like their stomachs weren't growling. Like they had a job that paid well. Like they had a home to go to afterwards. Like they had a family living there with them.

Like their life was alright. Just… okay.

When they arrived to that dream, seeing an American coastline meet their eyes that enticed the most wild feelings of relief and delight, Gillian and Fillan both went hard to work on getting themselves secure in their new life.

The sister immediately found herself within a paying job at a quaint tailor shop, and the boy was making a surprising amount of coin for working as an extra hand in a carpentry business. Gillian couldn't believe the amount of success they had experienced in just the first year of living in the divine land.

Everything was going perfectly. And then he came into her life.

Gillian had sat there in the front of the store, having a casual conversation with her friend as she fashioned a dress with lace trim the day he waltzed in.

"It's a beautiful fabric, especially considerin' the price," the redhead said, toying with the lilac colored lace in observation, noticing that despite it being a strong build and having great saturation, it was a little stiff. Anything that wasn't pliable with ease was hard to work with, but it was cheap and that's what they were going to work with for that very fact. "But it's a little tough, you see." She held up the small strip up to her friend's view, twisting it only to find that it would pop out of her hand at the test of flexibility.

The other girl, Faline, made a face as if realizing something for the first time. "Ah," she said, dragging a rag over their wooden counter top. "Makes sense to me, since Gretta suggested we buy it." Gillian could've laughed at the gullible mind of her friend. Of course the rival tailor shop to theirs would recommend a, for the most part, unusable product. And it didn't help further that Gretta was an overtly cruel and bitter young woman. Had she not been graced with an almost supernatural beauty, Gillian was sure that the adversary would be considered an outright witch in most eyes.

It was often that she trotted into their shop, passive aggressively mocking them or belittling their way of creation before just simply leaving to return to her throne. There wasn't a dull moment whenever she decided to come around, just a tense one.

"Oh my Lord, how is it that ya've gone an' taken any advice from Gretta?" The redhead asked with an airy laugh, taking the lace and tossing it into the basket in which it had arrived in.

Interrupting their short conversation, an older man entered the shop, dressed in a combination of red and black between a long trench coat and high booted shoes. To Gillian, he looked as though he held a position by authority. You could tell just by seeing the cane he withheld in his one hand and the monocle tucked tight between his cheek and brow bone. Both accessories were lined with some form of gold, including the pocket watch that Gillian could just barely see from her angle in the front of the shop.

He didn't quite say anything at first, just peered around at the interior of their store with something that looked like an instinctive observation over curiosity or evaluation. It wasn't as if he was pondering whether or not he'd spend his money well, but rather spying on the room itself, like one would when expecting something. Why such a thing would become a reflex, Gillian did not know, but she could identify that it was just a small habit that he did in every room he walked in.

And then he turned to her, looking at the teenager with deep blue eyes that bore in her green ones. She couldn't look away.

"Could I delight you with a product, sir?" Faline asked the customer politely, seeing as he was eyeing her friend up like he was some sort of wild person. His gaze didn't waver even after he began speaking.

"Yes, I'd like to place an order for another coat," he said, dazedly almost. Gillian continued to toss back her stare, not giving up on whatever was occurring between them. She was uncomfortable and confused, but refused to allow this man to intimidate her in the way she figured he was attempting. And as much as she despised it, he must've recognized the effort and continued on himself.

Behind the counter, Faline all but yelled her bidding, trying to get the man's attention- or in the least his damned eye contact. "Wonderful! I will grab a parchment and quill!" Then she was off into the back room, leaving the two challengers alone, all to themselves.

Gillian wasn't expecting him to speak.

"What's your name?" He asked with haste, like he was suddenly in a rush to be somewhere. The girl paused, allowing the question to register in her mind while she overcame the shock that he'd began interrogating her so suddenly, and under no reason. She swore she'd never seen the man in her life, to which made her wonder what his true purpose there was.

"Ah… G- Gillian," was all the redhead supplied. The conversation set her in a very uneasy feeling, like she really shouldn't have been doing any more than helping him pick out a new hat.

"You're Irish," he stated, rather blatantly. Gillian didn't quite understand how the man could be so conclusive about the fact, considering she'd only said her name and not much of an accent can be identified through it's pronunciation. Maybe it was just the red hair and green eyes, then the littering of freckles upon her cheeks and exposed arms; through that he must've been able to make a wild yet completely accurate guess.

"Yes?" She said, cocking her head lightly, brow raised.

"You speak Gaelic?" He asked. She nodded.

"You have a husband?" She shook her head.

"I'm sixteen," Gillian declared, hoping that maybe it would back the man off of whatever approach he was trying to make.

"Lot's of girls your age have husbands," a knowing look crossed his face, lining his lips with the smallest of smiles. It made a strange feeling inside her stir, and she didn't like it.

"Not all girls are the same." He nodded along with the statement, finding it's relevancy valid in their conversation.

"Yes, as it turns out to be. If not a husband, under which man do you live with?" Why was he so adamant about discovering this divine secret of who she was sharing quarters with? And what did it matter? Gillian had never spoken to the man before, let alone have been in the same country as him for most of her life. Their exchange together shouldn't have reached passed a simple greeting in the doorway of their shop.

The girl was tempted to, with a rather rude attitude, end their conversation there and continue working on beating their lace in. But there was a form of curiosity lining Gillian's mind, forcing unwanted questions that required unwanted answers to her mouth.

"A carpenter. Please, for what reason do ya' inquire about me so?" She tried to ask as nicely as she could without coming off close to how she really felt: put off. Perhaps he'd be more inclined to give her an explanation if she'd act attached to wanting to have their peculiar conversation.

It seemed that the girl had struck a cord in the older man, his posture loosing it's obedience and falling slack while his eyes were overcome with something that she knew he hoped to hide. He somehow was thrown into a vulnerable state, she could tell, more then with his next words.

"You remind me of my daughter," he told her, clearing his throat as if he was embarrassed to be making the connection aloud, confessing something that probably should've been left deaf to Gillian's ears. She almost wished her curiosity to be damned to hell for making their revelation so much more uncomforting. What was she even supposed to say in answer to that statement?

"Oh," was all that Gillian could think of before their silence dragged on too long. The man seemed to notice her faltering faith in whatever was happening before them, pulling a fore finger and thumb to stroke over his rough textured chin. Gillian could see it as a nervous tick, as if he was no longer in control. Fillan did it too, often times when he was struggling to make decisions, especially back in Ireland. There his hand was practically cemented to his chin, constantly in a state of worry or distress.

"I lost her, you see," he said with a saturated solemn, though when the sound of Faline returning could be heard, he adopted the rushed tone once more. "We haven't much time, do you want to make a difference in this world, girl?" By then, the man was so close to Gillian's face, back arched like that of a scared cat as he embarked on questioning her beliefs.

Stuttering with shock, she blathered out, "I- I, yes. Yes?"

"Do you want to have riches? Do you want to help those without?" He asked further, forcing Gillian's attention to be caught. Of course she wanted riches, that's all she'd ever craved for, for almost ten years of her life. She desired beautiful dresses made of the finest of silks and velvets, a mansion big enough to hold the entirety of their poverty stricken town of Ireland, and, most of all, she wanted her and Fillan to be secure. To not have to worry anymore. And she wanted to help others who only wished to protect their loved ones, but were blocked by a simple material item in trying to do so.

Confidently, she couldn't help but to say, "yes."

"I greatly do apologize for that wait sir, it appears I've spilt the ink all over myself," Faline laughed- or more like cackled- still trying to be loud, especially when she spotted the man all but hunched over Gillian in an almost threatening kind of way. The redhead herself was craned back, squashed in the wooden chair she'd sat in, as if struggling to put as much space between herself and him as possible.

Much to her delight, the customer averted his attention to the girl and began meandering back over to the front counter. As he approached, Faline smiled brightly and dipped her quill in the messied inkwell, hand setting a piece of paper flat there. "So, what is it that you wish to order?"

"A coat. For a young woman."