Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed. I simply crush on each and every character they present to the world.

Author's Note: So… I had to write this. Honestly, I wrote this some time ago, but I didn't want to give it much attention because of my fic The One That Got Away for the Vampire Diaries… It is very important that I finish that story and continue on to a sequel. So let's consider this story to be more of a hobby, considering I already have several chapters written. However, if I do get a substantial amount of people who enjoy this, I will try to update regularly.

Oh! Almost forgot. This is a Connor/OC story, but as I played AC3, I took a liking to a certain Thomas Hickey as well… What can I say—it must be encoded in a woman's DNA to love parring bad and good guys against each other for a woman. So while this is a CONNOR story, it is also a THOMAS story, for there was a scandalously amount of Thomas fics (Um, zero, if you're wondering), and I simply have to write him. This first chapter is a little more rushed than my typical introductory speed, but you know what? I want to get to the good stuff sooner rather than later.

I am out of metaphorical breath. Read on, wonderful people, and don't forget to review, for my vain heart desires it.

One

It was the same in every tavern. The air reeked of alcohol and urine, the walls and floors were coated in dirt and grime, men stumbled about on drunken feet, and whores circled around the patrons like predators. Connor noted this about his surroundings with a crinkled nose. He wondered what colonists found so alluring about these places.

Ambient chatter surrounded him. It was louder than usual; likely because Sabbath was the following day and it was time to for the laborers and business men to get their final indulgences before they could repent for another week of sin. Connor tried to opt out of such bleak thoughts, but they were rampant as of late. Either the weight of the Templar plot was finally beginning to suffocate him, or his unending anger was shortening his patience, his compassion. Perhaps both.

"Connor," a familiar voice called, loud enough to puncture the surrounding noise. "Over here."

The number of bodies in the tavern was large; Connor had to slip through a crowd to locate his contact, who sat in the far corner and nursed a large draft of beer. Trouble plagued his eyes, though, and Connor knew this was no lighthearted meeting.

"Frederico," Connor greeted, though bypassed the pleasantries. "Your message was urgent."

Frederico, a slight man of modest upbringing, nodded solemnly and gestured for Connor to sit. He was unshaved and rather mussed compared to his typical level of cleanliness. He leaned his elbows on the table and glanced around the tavern with bleak paranoia.

Connor followed the uneasy man's gaze. "Is it safe to speak here?"

"It is loud enough, yes," Frederico answered, though with obvious hesitation. "I would not have pulled you away from your mission were it not important." Connor cocked an eyebrow, urging Frederico to continue. "You may have heard tales of the thief currently disturbing the district."

"I have heard things here and there," Connor concurred. "Not much of the thief, himself, but rather his work."

Frederico nodded fervently. "Yes—yes. No one has even laid eyes on him, but he is there."

"This is what you must speak to me about?"

A heavy weight settled on Frederico's shoulders. He couldn't meet the assassin's eyes. "Nearly a month ago, you asked me to retrieve a map for you." The unsettled man drew out a slip of fabric from his jacket with a drawing on it—the very one Connor had given him. "Which would lead to this dagger with the strange symbols carved into its hilt."

Connor could feel a coil of tension knot in his stomach. He pressed his lips together. "Yes. My father has been looking for it, and I wish to know why."

Frederico still did not look up. "I—well—I had it. I had it in my possession three days ago. I drafted a letter to you to tell you this, but when I went to send it the next day—"Frederico frowned deeply. "It was gone. The map was gone."

Connor absorbed this a moment. "And you believe this thief took it."

"It seems to be the only rational explanation. Even my watchdog didn't hear a sound."

Rubbing his finger over his chin, Connor nodded. He stood. "Then I suppose I should track this thief down."

Clouds loomed over New York when Connor rode in on horseback. An hour had passed since; now rain drizzled from the skies, sliding through the humid, thick air of summer.

Connor drew his hood over his head. Frederico gave him several leads regarding the whereabouts of this thief. Considering that Connor didn't know what this dagger was for, though knew his father was desperately after it, the young assassin was anxious to find it.

After fetching a horse, Connor made his way through the city. The sky continued to open up until the rain sleeted to the ground in angry, lashing torrents. The droplets of water were heavy; they splattered against Connor's robes in a painful rhythm.

Frederico instructed him to ride into the rich district. A wall of stone had been erected some time ago, marking the exact place in which the streets ran from poor to wealthy. There was a distinct different in the houses beyond this wall, as well. Instead of poorly constructed homes, packed and overcrowded, there were large and cleanly kept buildings made from fine wood, stone, or brick. The people here were dressed more immaculately. Some may have even felt a shift in the air. But to Connor, it was all the same.

According to Frederico, the thief tended to house himself in a recently evicted home in this district. It would make Connor's job somewhat more difficult, considering the political tensions and growing taxes were taking their toll on even the wealthy. There were a number of vacated homes within eyesight.

By the time Connor was searching the fifth empty home, the rain had stopped and an eerie quiet had settled over the night. The occasional animal would break the silence, but even the beasts seemed calm and contained.

Irritation was making its way into Connor's heart. Irritation and weariness. It was just the previous day he had finally assassinated William Johnson. With every drop of blood on his hands, he grew closer and closer to his ultimate goal: obliterate the Templar order. This thief was a setback, however. He had the dagger—something the Templars wanted, and in turn, Connor wanted.

It was on his way to the next house when he realized he was being watched. The notion had struck him once or twice before as his eyes roved over his dark surroundings, seeking out a clue. He had shaken it off, deducing it to some night prowling children of the sort. But the notion crept upon him again, so strongly this time that he paused mid-step and glanced around.

When he glanced over his shoulder, back to the second story window of the house he had just searched, he met the eyes of a cloaked thief.

Thief, he determined, by the way he stood on the windowsill, half out, as if ready for an escape. They locked eyes and another moment passed before either man moved. Connor bolted first. He swiveled around so fast that a gasp escaped his lungs.

The thief, jolted, scrambled onto the roof of the home.

The chase was long. Connor took off at an alarming speed, racing past late-night workers and those returning home from taverns. He followed the thief on the ground for several moments, shifting between alleyways and thoroughfares, before he jumped from crate to crate, to lamp to lamp, and finally swung himself up onto the rooftops as well.

It was not the Assassin's first chase, but it was the first time he saw his target slip further away from him, however little by little the advantage was. The tide turned in Connor's favor when they came to a gap in the row-houses; several trees acted as a trail to the other side, but the thief was clumsy. He slipped once; his hand reached out, with blind desperation, hoping to snap a branch as gravity pulled him down. Alas, he landed on the ground with a terrible snap.

If Connor thought this would deter the man, he was very wrong. Connor was barreling across the branches as the man on the ground pulled himself up and flew back into a dead sprint, ducking between shops, stands, and the occasional person. Connor followed by rooftop, continually gaining the upper hand, until there came the chance for him to leap down and pin his thief to the ground.

The impact was not as solid as Connor had expected. The man's body crumpled easily, almost frailly, to the dirty floor of the road. Connor's hands sought out the man's wrists; he gripped them tightly and trapped the thief beneath him, fighting the rest of his squirming, though oddly weak, body with his lower half.

The man squirmed and gasped and struggled beneath Connor, throwing out every limb as if to strike the Assassin and force him to falter. It was only when the man threw his head to the side once more that his hood fell back, exposing his features to the moonlight.

This was not a man.

Dark, shiny hair fell to the ground like a waterfall. Small, feminine features were contorted in pain and anger. Eyes opened, blue and bright, hostile and biting, as they fell on Connor.

Then the children began screaming.

Connor wasn't entirely sure where they emerged from, but three very small voices began shouting and screeching from behind him—from all around him, it seemed.

"Lessa! Oh God, Lessa! You get off of her, you hear! Get off!"

Two pairs of hands landed on Connor, yanking him backwards. Their strength was diminutive and rather insignificant compared to his, but his shocked state allowed him to sag backwards.

A little girl flew towards the woman on the ground, crawling into her lap and cupping her face in her hands as she shot Connor a murderous look.

"Lessa," the little girl spoke, fearful. "Lessa, are you hurt? Do you hurt?"

"No, no," the woman crooned, holding the girl to her chest protectively. The croon contrasted her features starkly; her eyes bored right into Connor's as if daring him to move, to even touch one of the children. Connor didn't even realize the little boy beside him was still clawing at his arms. "Hush, Jeremy. Hush," the woman quieted him sharply. "You'll wake the guard if you haven't already."

There was a very heavy pause, during which Connor and the woman stared at each other, and the children tugged at their caregiver.

It was then Connor's predicaments changed entirely. He just didn't know it yet.

Connor had learned many things from Achilles over the years—training his mind and body, controlling his Eagle sense and his emotions, learning tactics. He had also learned through observation (and many, many scolding's) how to act appropriately in the colonists' society.

So he had to ask himself: would one of their people attack another? A woman with children at her feet?

A barbarian, Achilles would tell him. A murderer. A fiend.

He had the overwhelming sense that he did something very wrong. And yet, his instincts—his nature—quietly refuted inside him.

When did he become so complex?

"It was just a misunderstanding," the woman was reassuring the children, all the while glaring at Connor and encouraging him to agree.

He did not know why, but he did. "Yes," Connor spoke, having found his voice. "A misunderstanding."

"But Alessa—"the little girl tried to protest, but the woman—Alessa—wouldn't have it.

"But nothing. Go back inside, Charlotte. Take your brothers with you. I'll sort this out."

Charlotte pouted, but did not object further. She gathered her skirts and followed her brothers back to the small town house they apparently emerged from.

Alessa and Connor stared in silence once more. Both were still on the dusty ground, their arms splayed out behind them. Alessa's eyes shifted down to herself; the slightest of blushes colored her cheeks as she pulled herself into a more ladylike position before standing.

"I was warned about you," Alessa finally said.

Connor shuffled to his feet, as well. He was a mass of a man; all broad shoulders, sinewy muscle, lithe movement. He towered over her by at least half a foot.

Though he was learning proper manners and the like, he wouldn't allow what was considered suitable conduct to interfere with his true mission: "You have something of mine."

Alessa was taken aback. Her fingers curled up to her palms, a defensive reaction, and her feet were firmly planted to the ground. "I can assure you I have clue what you're speaking of."

"The map. You stole it from a contact of mine."

"Stole is a harsh word…"

"Yet proper, all the same."

Alessa rolled her eyes. "Perhaps. But I'm afraid I can't help you." She started past Connor, towards the town house as if to simply brush him off, but Connor stepped in her path. All sense of wrongness and properness left him. He wanted the dagger, so he needed the map.

"I believe you can."

"Listen," Alessa said, suddenly very impatient. "This really is not the time—"

Connor interrupted her. "Who hired you?" It was suddenly very clear to him. She had been warned of him. She stole the item he wanted to procure. She returned to the very place his contact told him she'd be.

This was a trap.

The realization came moments too late. He stared into the girl's eyes, very aware of his foolishness, his brashness. Then her eyes flicked behind him, and he knew.

He immediately sought out his tomahawk and shifted to swing it, but he was too slow. Before he could get any momentum behind his swing, a very sharp sting of pain erupted at his brow, and he fell, weightlessly, into a black abyss.

Alessa is not, in fact, a mother. I thought I should mention this, should it turn some people away.

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