[Please note that my stories are not actual depictions of the upcoming Assassin's Creed III game and nothing in the stories will actually occur during the game and will likely not be historically accurate.]
The Poison Apple
"I killed him, Lee." Connor sat in his tent, his hood down, face in his hands. General Lee sat in a chair opposite him, eyeing him cautiously. "I killed my father. My only family." He looked up. "How could I have screwed this up so badly?" Lee pulled a cigar out of his jacket and lit it, puffing it, and letting it hang from his mouth.
"Connor, you didn't know."
"WELL I SHOULD HAVE!" Connor stood abruptly, looked down, picked up the small table in the middle of the tent, and threw it out the flap. "Ow!" Yelled a Patriot. Connor fell back on his cot. "I'm an Assassin, Lee. I'm supposed to know these things." Lee stood, and said "Well, Mr. Assassin, what you need is some good old Templar killing." He left the tent.
"Yeah, the last thing I need now is to accidentally kill my long lost brother, or something." Connor muttered, lying on his cot. Lee stumbled back into the tent with a painting on a stand. He set it down in front of Connor's cot. It was a portrait of an old man, dressed in the typical British commander getup, with the Templar cross painted in red in the corner.
"Major General Grant. We expect him to be at our next battle. If we can kill him, it'll give us a very large advantage over the British, and get us one step closer to winning this war. I'll let you decide how and when you want to strike-"
"I want to kill him in front of all of his soldiers. Make my presence known to them." Lee gawked at Connor. "Are you sure, Connor? He usually has thousands of soldiers with him at one time…"
"I'm sure. Where can I find him, Lee? I need to get things off my mind." Connor stood, pulling up his hood, sliding his tomahawk into his belt. "You can probably find him in his camp…surrounded by soldiers. To the East of here…about 10 miles." Connor walked toward the tent flap, and Lee stopped him, shaking his hand. "It's been nice knowing you, Connor." Connor smiled, and without saying a word, walked out of the tent, climbed on a horse, and rode off, heading East.
The sun was setting over the British camp, and soldiers were everywhere. Sitting around campfires, drinking with their friends, some in the tents, screwing the locals. Connor heard and saw everything, thanks to his extraordinary senses. He was perched above the camp on a low cliff, waiting for the right moment. He located Grant with no trouble, as he glowed gold, standing out in the sea of red. He looked below, waiting for the hay cart that feeds the horses. He dove when the cart was below, gracefully landing in the hay, and let the enemy drive him right into the camp.
The camp went up a hill, with a pathway in the middle of it, tents on each side, and campfires between them. Connor peeked out at them through the hay, planning his attack. Grant sat atop the hill, at the master tent, sitting with his consultants. The hay cart got closer and closer, but suddenly took a sharp left.
Connor vaulted out of the cart, hay sticking to his clothing, and sprinted up the remainder of the hill, pulling his tomahawk, listening to the soldiers scream "ASSASSIN!" watching Grant get up and turn to run, jumped over the fire and lodged his tomahawk blade into the back of his head. He grabbed the body, pulling it quickly behind the large tent, and opened the jacket. He pulled the Templar cross necklace off of Grant's neck, putting it in his pouch to add to his collection, then stood up, cleaning the blood from the tomahawk blade, and slid it into his belt. He turned to run, but noticed a small, circular shape on the ground that must have fallen out of Grant's grip. He walked to it and picked it up. The object startled him as it glowed at his touch.
Connor studied the object for a moment, and then remembered that he was surrounded by thousands of men with rifles charging at him. He turned to run and almost tripped when a golden ring spread around him, startling him. He kept running, and noticed he didn't hear any gunshots. Or footsteps. Nothing but the sound of crackling fires and women screaming.
Connor stopped and turned, shocked at all of the dead bodies. Thousands of bodies. Native women ran out of the tents, missing their clothing. The bodies voided their bowels. Connor stared at the glowing object in his hand, slid it into his pouch, and got onto a horse, riding off into the darkness, a faint glow shining through his pouch.