Based on the game Assassin's Creed...
Assassin's Creed: Revolution
Prologue
The British camp was stationed in Canada, consisting of five hundred men. They were placed there as an obstacle, should the rebelling colonists try and launch another attack on Canada. Though the camp was small, the soldiers were elite. Besides; they were just there to merely slow down an American force, giving time for a larger British force to arrive and finish the job.
A guard, standing at the edge of camp, held his musket tightly. It was fairly cold. He knew winter would soon arrive; bringing with it sickness, cold, snow, ice, maybe some death. But his camp was supplied. They had plenty of food, clothes, medical supplies even. The Revolution would be easy to win. Even though they had been fighting for three years, there was only so much a group of makeshift soldiers could do. They would break. It was just a matter of when and how.
"James," a voice whispered to the guard.
James turned to see a young soldier, fully dressed, holding his gun, "It's my shift."
"Oh, yes, indeed. Take care, Grant," James said with a nod, walking past the young man to his tent. A thud! caused him to turn his head sharply in the direction of the other soldier.
He was on the ground, unmoving. His chest did not rise and fall as if he were breathing. A lone, hooded figure stood over the body, not even armed it appeared. James could not see well through the dark. The person's face was concealed in shadow under the hood, and anything attached to him - weapon or no - remained unseen.
James gasped, his eyes growing wide, "You... you monster! You killed him!" he cried, making his voice very loud on purpose. In fact, he pretty much screamed it at the top of his lungs.
"Your life is mine, too," he muttered in a solemn tone, drawing a short sword, glinting in the faint moonlight, revealing the red liquid on the end of the dangerous blade.
James yelled and raised his musket, pulling it past half cock. He never had time to pull the trigger. The man lunged and drove the ice cold blade into his abdomen. James gasped, feeling as if though the wind had been knocked out of him. He felt the blade in him, and then a sharp, terrible pain that made him scared. Scared of death.
"Nothing personal," the assailant told him, shoving the dieing British soldier off of his blade.
James gasped and gagged, a tear falling down his cheek. He might die. No, he would. He tried to scream, but made only a pathetic groan instead. He tried to grab the killer, but was too slow and missed. By now, other soldiers were waking up and yelling. One ran over and saw the two bodies and the hooded figure and started calling more soldiers over.
James saw the killer slice his head clean off, and then he started to feel sick, and then dizzy. He did not know how much time had passed. It may have just been minutes, but realizing his hopeless situation, every single second was an agonizing year to James. He heard screams and gunshots and blades smashing into each other. He could not help them. His stomach was hurting, and he was feeling lightheaded. His vision blurred, and that was it. He had died.