"What was your most failed assassination?"
A short-story (this isn't that short what am I talking about) reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr.
Also be wary - timeline may not be exactly correct, and locations of geographic regions may not be exactly correct to the layout of the game. I took some liberties here, so as to not go on a research rampage.
Enjoy.
Assassination after assassination. There was nothing new or exciting about any task taken, nor was there any particular challenge faced. A footrace was always won, a target always caught and disposed of with agility and precision. Quick, clean, simple. And that was how it should be – a killer should not delight in the task.
As Samuel Adams chats with other delegates around a table not too far away, Connor sits upon a windowsill with paper in hand. Every now and then she pulls her hood down lower over her face. It was hard to focus on reading this paper, deciphering Samuel Adams' crude handwriting, when he had asked her to wait as he handled an important meeting. Normally she would have taken her leave, fled to handle the task and return just as quickly. Lingering here with a confusing document in hand was making her itch.
Samuel needed a man disposed of, a regular captain. The man's actions were cause for concern – citizens had been executed if they would not quarter regulars within their homes. These actions, Samuel's scrawled handwriting states, are unacceptable and a danger to the colonies at large. Were the captain to be silenced, the problem might be postponed.
"I do apologize for my handwriting," Samuel has returned to the Assassin's side, hands folded behind his back. He wears a smile, and Connor assumes it is one of triumph. "I only hope that you have made good sense of it. I was in a bit of a rush, you see…"
"What would you have me do?" Connor keeps her voice low. Generally soft spoken, this was not a hard thing to do. But as the years had moved along, and her twentieth birthday passed, it was harder than ever to disguise the feminine appeal of her voice. Sure, Samuel and the rest of these politicians knew as of a long time past, but it was not something that Connor wanted to matter.
"My good friends tell me that our man has his base of operations in a warehouse on the edge of the city by the docks. He makes his rounds at noon, patrolling the eastern district." The man of politics straightens his coat, clears his throat, "I suspect it will not be too much of a challenge for you?"
"I will handle it," the paper is folded and tucked away underneath the blue and white long coat the native assassin wears. Next she stands, offering a nod to Sam Adams as a form of goodbye. The native was all too eager to escape the confines of this building and begin the assigned task.
"Oh, and Connor," she has cleared the length of the meeting room in few, long steps, but hovers in the doorway. She turns her attention back to her ally, raises an eyebrow in question. Adams offers half a smile, "Do be careful. He's not one easily trifled with."
"Understood," a second nod before she steps out of the double doors and into the long, decorated hallway. She brushes the shoulders of men in fanciful coats and wigs. Sam Adams hadn't bothered with cautionary statements much before. It seemed that this target would likely be more difficult than the rest.
There wasn't much time to think. Mounting a horse, the native sets off for the eastern district of New York. The docks were a sketchy place, but it was one she was familiar with.
The target was not hard to spot. A man in fanciful reds and whites marches about the impoverished eastern district, pointing his sword at all who seem to stare at him for milliseconds too long. The man is prideful and ruthless, poking his blade at orphans who pass, dirty hands raised for coins that might happen to fall into them. His face is coated in a thick moustache and beard, and a tall hat sits upon his short and curly locks. It prevents him from turning his head upwards for fear of it falling off. It made for the optimal opportunity to climb atop a roof and stalk the man as he makes his rounds. If there is anything good to note about the man, it is that he seems to be careful with his men, ensuring all of them have somewhat proper beds.
The Assassin slinks from one roof to the next, never losing sight of the tall man whose voice echoed about the tall, dirty buildings. Shingles crack beneath her weight, but otherwise she remains quiet.
Soldiers patrol the streets. Many sit on the steps to homes and eat breads and cheeses. Unfortunate wives and children linger in windows and in doorways, wearing scowls and grimaces. The men of the homes linger nearby the soldiers, hover over their shoulders.
The target has come to a stop near a small fruit stand set up outside of a home. The man operating the stand cries out in indignation as the target picks up an apple and takes a bite from it. The juices run down his beard, and when he smiles there is apple skin caught in his big teeth. Connor leans on the edge over the edge of the rooftop, eyes narrowed with intense focus.
As the two men start to bicker over the apple, Connor notices the sound of footsteps behind her. A regular patrolling the rooftops has spotted her, and is only a few feet from where she stands. He looks displeased, to say the least.
"'Ow many times I told ya rats ta stay off tha goddam roofs?" his moustache quivers as he speaks. His musket is raised. The Assassin stands and turns to face the new opponent with the slowest of movements.
"Hold on," Connor raises her hands, adjusting her footing, "I was just climbing down."
"Oh, were ya? Well it's lookin' like imma hafta 'elp ya down now," Connor could not guess how the regular came to be so angry. Her goal is to remain calm, talk the man down. In the position she was in… she couldn't afford any slip-ups.
"Lower your weapon. I am leaving now," she keeps her palms towards him, edging her way cautiously along the edge of the roof. Below, the target has stepped away from the fruit stand, munching victoriously on his stolen apple.
"Not good enough," the regular sneers, and Connor knows this won't end well. As she flicks her wrist to draw her hidden blade, the man has run at her with his musket turned to the side. His powerful arms shove the length of the musket against the drawn blade. His strength is unanticipated, a gasp leaves Connor's lips.
The shingles of the roof have disappeared from beneath her feet. The feeling of falling engulfs her, spikes her heart rate, widens her eyes. The sky is a vibrant blue above, so beautiful in this single moment.
The next moment her back has smashed the table and the many fruits that sit upon it. A searing pain spikes up her spine, worsening as her head collides with the broken wood of the destroyed stand. A pained noise leaves her throat, and she squeezes her eyes closed. Writhing, trying to get back into her right senses.
People gather around the woman who has fallen from the sky. They hover over her, eyes alight with wild curiosity.
"Oh my, it's only a girl!" a woman's voice pops out of the incoherent noise. The Assassin's hood has fallen most of the way down, revealing her face to the world.
"Uuurgh…" she growls in pain and frustration. As she slowly sits up, fruit caked on her fingers and stuck to her clothing, she spots the target standing not too far away. For a moment she can see two of him, the two images swirling in her vision. Eyes shut tightly, a head shakes furiously. She had to get a hold on herself.
"P-Pardon… me," she coughs to the people around her as she wobbles her way to her feet. The owner of the fruit stand stares on in shock and horror.
"How odd," the target snorts, talking to some of his men not feet away, "Savages falling from the sky. New York certainly is a delightful place."
The Assassin narrows her gaze at her target, reflecting the danger her presence brings to him without his knowledge. He sees this in her face, and his smile drops.
"No," he now realizes the danger as though he was expecting someone to come for his life all along. Before his men can properly react, their captain has turned heel and begun the inevitable footrace. Hot on his heels is the native Assassin, whose steps are not as precise as normal. Dizzied and in pain, she must focus much harder than normal to keep him in her sights.
But the man is bigger and bulkier than she is, and immediately she can tell he is not a good runner. He hinders himself further by stopping to overturn boxes and barrels to slow her. A feeble attempt, because her most basic parkour skills carry her over the obstacles with no difficulty.
Ahead the ocean appears, with ships as tall as the tallest buildings sitting in the harbor. Just ahead the target rounds the corner. The gap between them is closing, and Connor rounds the corner with confidence. This will be the spot for the kill, and this man's injustice would be put to an end.
But as she rounds the corner ready to strike, something else expected happens. Falling off the roof had been one thing, an unlucky happening, but now it seemed that Lady Luck was frowning upon the dutiful native today.
From an alleyway a dog appears just as she passes. The rabid animal locks it's jaws around the Assassin's leg, tearing into the skin and muscle.
The Assassin stumbles face-first onto the rotting boards of the dock with a yowl. The dog's jaws unlock, and instead it leaps for the Assassin's throat. She turns over in time to catch the dog by the neck. It snaps its jaws at her, saliva and blood dripping from its teeth.
With an enraged yell, the Assassin drives her hidden blade into the animal's throat. The limp body is tossed aside, and finally the Assassin takes a breath.
Deep red stains white cloth. The Assassin stumbles to her feet, hissing at the pain that shoots up from the gaping wound on her leg. How was she having so much trouble? Connor couldn't help but wonder this question with more aggravation than she'd felt in a long tiem. She hadn't even fought against the target yet and already she'd sustained wounds.
To add insult to injury, she finds her target standing downwind the, staring directly at her. A few of his comrades stand around him now, wielding large axes and pistols. They exchange words that she cannot hear.
This scene spurs rage in the Assassin. She would venture into this fight at a disadvantage. It wouldn't be a good fight that way.
Thinking quickly, the native pulls a single arrow and her bow from her back. Some of the men point and laugh. At this distance, with bow and arrow? Look at the foolish savage girl!
Arrow mounted, Connor pulls the string back, closing her right eye. Not a moment later it's released, whizzing through the air.
The target takes the arrow in his left pectoral. The men's faces around him shift from humored to horrified. As they react to the arrow buried into their howling superior's chest, the Assassin replaces her bow on her back and runs for them, forcing the pain in her leg from her mind.
Two regulars fall at once. The hidden blade his shoved into the neck of the first, the blade of the tomahawk embedded in the second man's skull. The two drop as the superior is sent running again, a few of his cowardly comrades following in his steps. The cowardice sends a scowl flashing over the Assassin's face, and the pursuit continues as she cuts down the remainder of the brave men who try to take her on.
Connor's vision blurs again as the pursuit carries them farther north, into swampy lands. With a bloodied leg she can hardly keep up with the men. The captain with the arrow in his chest begins to slow down, but the Assassin fears that she will still not be able to catch up to him. Trudging through the slippery mud, it seemed that Lady Luck was determined to do her in.
Ditching all other options, the Assassin pulls her pistol from her side, raising it to fire. To end this man who hadn't even raised a hand to her and was already beating her at this stupid chase game would bring Connor some delight.
But even then it seemed that she would not be successful. Her next step taken is into a hidden hole beneath the mucky swamp waters, which sucks the Assassin into the mud. She takes a quick breath before she is completely submerged.
The waters are thick with muck, impossible to maneuver or swim properly in. Panic floods Connor's senses. Desperately she claws for the surface from whence she came. Her fingers find it, but there is nothing to grab onto except for more mud. The hard-packed dirt beneath the mud that she can find flakes away beneath her fingers, and the truly solid earth is too far out of reach.
Just as the Assassin loses hope for survival, resigns herself to a watery grave, a hand plunges beneath the muck and encircles her own. The grip is strong, and Connor feels the relief as she is hauled up outta the muck.
"Up yeh come," a familiar voice falls on Connor's muck-filled ears as her head is pulled out of the muck. Her body follows, and she claws desperately at the harder ground she is pulled too. Coughing and sputtering, she has never felt so heavy – caked in muck, the white of her outfit dyed brown.
"J-Jacob," she spits, pawing at her eyes to try to see. Once she has cleared her vision she gazes up at her rescuer, who kneels beside her.
"Zat vas a little too close for comfort," the man offers as much of a smile as he can muster in this odd situation.
"The… captain," she stumbles once again to her feet, but this time there is someone to hold her back in her by now useless endeavor.
"Long escaped," the man's heavy moustache quivers as he speaks, his hand wrapped around Connor's forearm. It was no mystery that the Assassin had a problem with being touched, but he meant no disrespect. "Give it up. Zat man vill 'ave his time."
A moment of silence passes before the man adds, "Yeh aren't lookin' so sharp, friend. Call it quits for now. Ve shall pursue 'im later."
As much as the Assassin didn't want to admit defeat, there was little choice in the matter. Caked in mud, leg bleeding out, back and head screaming, she figured Lady Luck would spare her no more today from the clutches of disaster.
Outside of the courthouse, Jacob does the kind favor of dumping water over the head of his superior. It was, perhaps, the most refreshing thing Connor had ever felt. She scrubs desperately at her face, runs her fingers through her hair.
"Zere is no saving your clothing," the man snorts under his breath as he takes the next bucket of cold ocean water from a servant woman who offers it.
"There is no saving that man, either," the Assassin spits. She pulls the gloves from her hands, wipes at her mouth and chin. "I will find him and make him pay for throwing me into the depths of hell."
"Quite the tongue you have on you, Connor," Benjamin Franklin is among other politicians who stand on the steps of the courthouse, watching with odd interest as Connor takes the bucket and begins to scrub at her face more thoroughly. Samuel Adams also stands nearby, looking displeased. "Never have I heard a lady speak such harsh words."
"I will not be defeated. He did not even turn to face me, simply ran like the coward he was," she retorts with a force unusual to her speech. Jacob scratches at the back of his neck, unsure of how to approach the situation, as many were. Connor was determined on a different level than ever before.
Failure was not a concept the native thought was appealing in any way. It was a bad mark on her record, on her dependability, and she would not rest until it was remedied. The fury she felt as she scrubbed the mud from her skin, as a doctor tended to the gaping and dirty wound on her leg, was unexplainable. It had been her first failure, a feeling that seemed to sting for days on end. Mood fouled, the normally soft spoken Assassin yapped about her plans for retribution over the days of recovery.
And when the time came, the native exacted her revenge. The man's foolish choice for a hat became the trophy that sat upon a mantle in the main hall of the courthouse.