Hey, so I wasn't doing anything today, so I figured, "Why not write and publish that chapter of the Assassin's Creed fanfic that I totally haven't abandoned that I meant to have up MONTHS ago."

Thank you for being so patient with me. I am so sorry that it took this long! I also want to thank everyone that's been taking the time to comment on my work. It really makes me happy to see that people are interested in reading the crap that I write.

I also apologize in advance for the fight scene. I'm terrible at them.


Connor was planning to leave the city. He knew very well that that was where people were most likely to look for him.

Still, he could not be expected to escape the city immediately, right? It was late and after waiting around all day to talk to Kanen'tó:kon… well, the sun was going down fast.

Connor headed back closer towards his old apartment. He didn't know where he could sleep, as he couldn't sleep inside anywhere without raising suspicion about his situation and he couldn't go back to the park (everything he had seen in spy movies over the course of his life had taught him that it was not a good idea to stay in the same place more than once when you're on the run from something).

He managed to find an alleyway that was vacant of homeless people. Connor sat down next to one of the dumpsters so that he would not be visible from the alley entrance, trying to ignore the smell and the way that flies were buzzing in the air around him. He sighed, looking gloomily around at the graffiti on the brick walls.

"This is it," he muttered to himself. "This is how I'm going to be living the rest of my life. I had better get used to it."

Connor's eyes rested on some used hypodermic needles underneath the dumpster and he cringed away from them in disgust.

"You could go back," a small voice in the back of his mind suggested timidly.

He scowled. Another part of him argued that Haytham would undoubtedly be furious with him at that point and Connor wasn't sure that he wanted to deal with being yelled at by him again, like when he climbed on the roof.

Connor figured that he could go to Aveline's place, but she was likely to tell people that he was there. The only reason why he felt comfortable finding Kanen'tó:kon and talking to him was because he probably wouldn't tell people that he was there. Would he? He did seem pretty angry when Connor showed up out of the blue and told him that he had run away.

He shook his head out of his thoughts and began to dig around in his backpack for dinner, to find that he only had one bag of beef jerky left. Connor stared at it apprehensively, wondering if he should save it for later, when his stomach growled traitorously.

Connor sighed and tore the top off, helping himself to his last bit of food. He tried to chew slowly, savoring the taste and the rest of his food. All too soon, however, the bag ran out. He tossed it into the dumpster next to him and ran his hands through his hair.

Why did he run away? It's ridiculous. Kanen'tó:kon was right; Connor's fourteen. What on earth was he thinking?

Still, Connor stubbornly did not want to admit defeat. He would not go back.

He withdrew the tarp he had bought earlier from his backpack, following the dark haired homeless man's advice. If the clouds ahead were any indication, it was definitely going to start to drizzle sooner or later. Connor wrapped the tarp around his shoulders, shooting one last glance at the needles under the dumpster, before curling up on the ground. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about what tomorrow might bring…

Connor awoke abruptly to someone shouting. He leaped to his feet, the tarp dropping to the ground, as he blinked rapidly and tried to figure out where he was.

It was still dark out, and a light dusting of rain was sprinkling down from the sky. He was still in the alleyway, but he was not alone. There was a man a few feet away from Connor who looked completely disheveled and half insane. His eyes were wide as he stared at the fourteen year old boy.

The man had blond hair and blue eyes, but there was a vacantness to them that made Connor feel anxious. He was wearing a dirty, dark gray sweatshirt with one of the sleeves rolled up so that Connor could see several puncture marks and bruises. He was unhealthily skinny. The junkie shouted at Connor in an unintelligible mix of English and Russian.

"Why are you here?" was the first comprehensible thing that the man said.

"I'm sorry!" Connor gasped. "I- I'll just-"

The fourteen year old moved to pick up his tarp and backpack so that he could get the hell out of there as fast as possible. The junkie, however, moved over to Connor faster than someone of his poor health should have been able to move.

The first punch glanced past Connor's cheek. He noticed too late that it was a feint, though, and the second punch doubled him over and made him gasp for air. The man continued to shout incomprehensibly in the half-Russian half-English word salad and tried to punch Connor in the nose. The fourteen year old barely avoided having his nose broken, dodging to the side, but at the cost of being punched in the eye.

Connor threw his arms over his face, his left eye stinging. He tried to stay standing tall, blocking and dodging the junkie's flying fists as much as he could, but he was unable to ignore how his knees were shaking. The man was a lot bigger than he was, Connor had never been in a real fist fight before, and despite the junkie's weakened appearance, he was proving to be a formidable opponent. At least, of course, when he was fighting a fourteen year old.

One of the blows was sloppy. Both Connor and the junkie realized it. The fourteen year old ducked underneath his arm, diving past him, and the junkie almost fell over. Almost.

There. The way was clear to the entrance of the alley; Connor could have run. He could have escaped. He was prevented, however, by the thought of leaving his backpack and tarp behind. If he did that, he would have nothing.

Connor analyzed the situation, the junkie whipping around to punch him again. Somehow, he managed to grab the man's arm and prevent him from punching him and tried to run back towards his things. The junkie swore, and grabbed Connor by the hood before throwing him deeper into the alley.

The fourteen year old tried to get his bearings, winded, as the junkie pulled a knife from a strap next to his ankle.

"Time's up," Connor thought anxiously, his eyes bouncing around the alley for something to help him and landing on the tarp.

Connor lunged for it, yanking it from the ground, while the man sprang at him, wielding the knife wildly. It was clear that he did not have very much practice using it. The fourteen year old threw the tarp at the junkie's head, snatching his backpack from next to the dumpster. The tarp covered the man, disorienting him and blocking his would-be victim from view.

He sprinted away from the alley as fast as he could, his eye, his abdomen, and his forearms stinging horribly, the latter two being the places where Connor had received the most hits. He ran and he ran and he ran until he was entirely out of breath and he had no idea where he was. Whatever part of the city he was in was completely unfamiliar.

Connor slowed to a halt and gasped for breath, wrapping his arms around his torso and doubling over, chest heaving.

"I can't do this," he whispered to himself. "I can't do this."

Connor hobbled over to the nearest bench and collapsed there. He hung his head back so that he was looking at the sky and tried to recuperate and gather his thoughts.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't be on his own like that. He was out of food, almost out of money, and Connor knew that it was sheer dumb luck that had gotten him out of that encounter with the drug addict rather than skill; as such, if he had another encounter like that one, there was no way that he would be able to get out of there… at least without his own form of combat training.

Without really knowing why he felt that way, Connor was ashamed of himself. Questions bubbled in his mind, accusing him of things that he did not want to think about. Why didn't he just stay with Haytham? Why did he think it was a good idea to just leave like that? Why didn't he tell him that he wanted to visit his mother's grave? Connor cursed his own stupidity and selfishness; he was confident that if he had told Haytham that he wanted to go to the cemetery to visit his mom he would have happily agreed.

And all of that stuff about being bad luck? Connor was upset about Kadar's death. It was the worst possible time to make a rash decision like running away. He slumped forward and ran his hands through his hair. What on earth was he thinking?

"Young man," a voice said.

Connor looked up to see a soft-faced young man with glasses, fancy clothes, and a buckle on his briefcase that read "Ned Wynert." The man peered at the fourteen year old, unamused, with his eyebrows raised.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Wynert asked brusquely. His eyes moved about Connor's face, returning to the black eye several times.

"Do you know the way to the bus station?" asked Connor, ignoring the business man's question.

Mr. Wynert looked surprised. "Yes…?"

"Can you give me directions?" the fourteen year old said. "I'm lost and I need to get back home."

The business man peered at Connor skeptically but did as he was asked. He thanked Mr. Wynert and tried not to run down the streets that he had told him about. It was still very early in the morning, and as such there were not to many people about, so he did not have to worry about bumping into people.

Connor, upon having arrived at the bus station, briefly thought about calling Haytham from one of the many pay phones available to let him know that he was on his way back before dismissing the thought. Haytham was undoubtedly, after all, going to yell at him and Connor wanted to delay that interaction for as long as possible. Besides, he needed that money for the bus and would prefer not to waste his money on calling someone he was going to see soon anyways.

He remembered what the number of the bus was that he had ridden before. Connor only had to wait at the station little while before one pulled up, the people that had been on the inside pouring out onto the platform.

The driver was a different one from before. He looked at Connor with disinterest as the fourteen year old dropped his coins into the machine and the ticket spat out, before wandering off towards the back of the bus to pick out a seat.

"It's going to be a fifteen minute wait," the driver called out.

He held his backpack in his lap and looked out of the window, waving noncommittally at the driver to acknowledge that he heard him but did not mind waiting a little bit longer. The driver grunted and shambled off of the bus to go take his break.

Connor, if he were honest with himself, would admit that he was happy to be going home.


Daniel Cross (whom you might have figured out that the junkie was) is one of the reasons that I can't forgive the Templars. Putting a nine year old in the Animus for so long he forgets his own name and then ditching him out in the countryside? That is NOT okay.