The Third Life: A Soulless Girl

Welcome back! Spoilers: the only person of significance that dies in this chapter is Thomas Hickey.

Disclaimer: I don't own PJO or AC

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June 26, 1776

Bridewell Prison

"Connor," Jake said tersely, his smile thin, "why the fuck are you in a cell? A better question: why the fuck are you still in the cell?"

The Assassin would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling ashamed, embarrassed, and just a little humiliated at the situation he was in. Jake being here and actually witnessing it was another thing altogether, and at this point, it was all Connor could do to hope that Achilles didn't find out about this.

His relationship with the other old man had reached a sour point, and the last thing he wanted was for his teacher to have so much verbal ammunition to use against him. However, Connor could always bring up Achilles' numerous failures as Mentor of the Colonial Brotherhood. That always served to shut the man up, but Jake was a staunch opponent to that tactic, and Connor actually respected Jake, so the man's disapproval held a certain weight to it.

A weight that Connor was feeling quite tremendously right now.

"I was tracking down Thomas Hickey's counterfeit operation, but I errored and ended up chasing the man through the streets. After tackling him, we were arrested by Patriot soldiers, and I attempted to explain myself, but was knocked unconscious by a blow to my head."

"Yes, I can see the bruise," Jake said flatly, his thin smile not wavering. "Now, answer me this: I've seen you hack your way through entire platoons of British in the streets and out in the Frontier; I've seen you get shot, stabbed, and leap from four-story buildings, landing without even a flinch. So, explain to me just how exactly some random crotch-stain was able to knock your ass out?"

At the reminder of each of his remarkable physical feats, Connor winced in embarrassment, especially at the final blow there at the end. Yeah, he didn't know how that happened himself. Even he was monstrously perturbed at how easily he had been neutralized by just some guy, especially given all the other kinds of physical damage he had taken over the years.

"I do not know…" the Assassin finally offered.

Jake stared at him for a little bit longer. "Well," he finally said with a clap, "while I could post bail for you or just go get a letter from George and half of everyone else in Congress, I think this will be a wonderful learning opportunity for you in subtlety, humility, and adaptation. Try not to massacre everyone here. As amusing as that would be for me to read in the newspaper about how one man slaughtered the entire prison attendance, guards included, that would be breaking the third tenant. Bye-bye, Connor."

With that, Jake left, a very confused Patriot guard escorting him away through the prison, leaving Connor to scowl through the bars of his cell.

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There were times in which the son of Haytham really hated being an Assassin, especially in regards to the Creed, especially especially in regards to the third tenant, which demanded discretion.

"Your actions must not compromise the brotherhood, whether direct or indirect."

Breaking out of this cell and proceeding to kill every person in the prison would be rather compromising.

Or would it?

After all, there weren't any security cameras here, and if there were no witnesses to the massacre, there was no one to say that it was Connor that had killed everyone, and therefore no way to link it back to him, the Assassins, or the Homestead, therefore not actually compromising the Brotherhood.

However, morals and ethics came in to play at that point, and it was something of a cardinal wrong in Connor's book to so indiscriminately kill people who were making no move against him, actively or inactively.

So, Connor took to a game of patience, and made double his efforts to abstain from reliving himself in this filthy shithole of a place.

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After too many hours, Connor finally found his way up to Thomas Hickey's cell to kill the man and prevent the murder of George Washington, only to find the corpse of the Bridewell warden.

"Well, what have we here?" Connor turned to find Charles Lee and Hickey standing at the doorway to the cell, pistols aimed. "I though we'd finished off your kind."

Now, Connor had finally been schooled by Jake in the art of talking, hammering it into the boy's head that there was far more to the conflict with the Templars than just swords and guns. It wasn't enough to defeat them physically: you had to defeat them spiritually, mentally, and verbally. You had to understand their philosophy and their views, their ideals and values. You couldn't just launch into the simple argument of "subjugation bad, free will good." You had to be better, smarter, and here was the perfect time for Connor to finally put into practice what he had learned from Jake.

"You think it would be so simple, Templar? You kill all the Assassins and suddenly our Creed dies as well? If that is how you think it, then your naivety is saddening."

"Naïve?" Lee's eyes flashed dangerously. "You think me naïve, boy? You, who would run around stabbing people simply because Achilles told you to?"

"No," Connor answered evenly. "I would put an end to the schemes of men who seek to control and have dominion over others because they think it will bring order to the world."

"The Templars will bring order to the world," Lee hissed. His fanaticism was taking hold. "The world needs order. Merely look at it now, embroiled in war as it is over something so trivial as tea and stamps. Free will has, and always will be, a curse upon mankind. We Templars will end that curse once and for all, and you Assassins will die trying to stop us."

"No," Connor said, still calm and in control. "Freedom is a gift, one which we choose how to use, and then with freedom comes the responsibility for our actions, whether glorious or tragic. Some of us are weak and choose to give in to the world, and others are strong and choose to transcend."

Lee's nostrils flared in anger and this boy before dared to challenge the righteous path of the Templars, and he stepped forward in an emotionally driven rage, and the only thing that saved his life in that moment was Connor's discretion and Hickey's pistol.

In the blink of an eye, the Assassin struck, disarming Lee and pinning him to the wall with a hand at his throat.

"I told you, Lee," Connor whispered into the man's ear. "I would find you."

"The child in the forest all those years ago," the Templar breathed, "it was you."

Connor pulled back from Lee, the man wheezing. The Assassin's eyes flicked to Hickey, who swallowed.

"Washington will not die."

"Washington," Lee spat. "The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it all up as he goes along. His pedigree if pathetic, his military record even more so. I could go on and on but then we'd be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits….He must be dealt with."

Connor's eyes were hard as stone. "There is more to that man that you will ever know."

He didn't know himself what exactly that meant, only that Jake kept alluding that there was far more to George than what anyone else knew, and besides. That line sounded cool in the moment.

"Right then," Hickey said. " 'Ere's 'ow this is gonna work…"

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June 28, 1776

New York

Having heard news of the plot against his life and the subsequent hanging of the mastermind, George Washington had come to see the event. Also there was a certain old man.

"Ah, Captain Swallow!"

The pirate didn't necessarily look pleased, but he still had that concerningly mad grin on his face all the same.

"Georgie, my boy! What brings you to the execution of your would-be assassin?"

"Ah…um…"

"No, seriously," Jake said, and he indeed became instantly serious. "Why in the hell are you here instead of organizing your forces and establishing defenses about the city?"

Washington swallowed, now embarrassed.

"Very unwise, George, very unwise." Jake turned his eyes back to the sprawling crowd, and he saw someone. "Excuse me, Commander."

"Yes, sir…"

Jake descended from the steps and entered the mass, working his way through to clap his hand upon the shoulder of his target.

Haytham whirled to strike, but Jake blocked, and the Grand Master of the American Rite visibly calmed but was no less on edge at seeing the pirate.

"Captain Swallow."

"Edward's boy."

Haytham's eye twitched. "You lied to Charles those few years back, during the Tea Party."

"Did I? Oh, well. Just another sin to add to the list I suppose. But enough about me. Let's talk about Edward's grandson, which would be your son."

"Yes, Connor, as I understand he's most commonly called."

"Oh, good, so you do know him. Saves on time then. Speaking of saving…"

The carriage arrived, Connor being pushed from within and then yanked upright by Hickey.

"Are you just here to watch, Haytham? Or were you planning on something else?"

Giving the old pirate a meaningful look, the Grand Master revealed a simple throwing knife.

Jake nodded. "Maybe I won't kill you after all." Then his voice dropped. "Where is Shay?"

Haytham gave the question only a brief moment of thought, since his son was being led to his death. "France. He's been hunting down the Precursor box that identified the locations of the temples in Haiti, Lisbon, and the Arctic."

"France, eh? Remarquable."

"I would use caution if you intend to kill him," Haytham warned. "He has something very precious to him now, something that he'd destroy the world for."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"His granddaughter, Cheyenne."

Jake's body suddenly resonated at the name, feeling as if he were hearing a name from long ago. He filed this feeling away into the recesses of his memory, instead focusing on the present.

"Thank you, Haytham, I'll keep that in mind."

Jake departed from the Templar's side and went to Connor, intending to tell the young Assassin about the impromptu trip he was taking to France. He got to the boy just in time for this random woman to slug Connor across the face.

Jake grabbed the woman's shoulder, as he was approaching from the front of the procession, whipped her around, and promptly nailed her square in the nose with so much power that not only did she die from blunt force trauma, but she went flipping end over end across the street and into the other side of the crowd, bowling over a number of people.

"Bitch," the old man muttered under his breath.

The street went still and silent, everyone staring at Jake.

The pirate shrugged. "Equality."

Then he pulled one of his pistols and shot one of Hickey's hired mercenaries across the street right in the face.

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"Damn," the Templar said simply. "I thought I'd 'ave another day at least."

Connor was on a knee next to Hickey, still garbed in nasty prison outfit, and Jake was standing next to them, arms crossed and face neutral.

"Why did the Templars want to buy my people's land?" Connor asked. "Why murder Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why do the Templars serve the British?"

"How should I know?" Hickey asked dispassionately. The Templars. Lee. The big man, Haytham. They 'as the money, the power. That's the reason I threw in with them—the only reason. Sure, they 'ave some vision for the future, and they can sing their songs about humanity and spring their traps. Don't bother me none. They paid me, so I said yes."

Connor stared down at the man whose life he was taking, nothing but contempt and pity in his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that, boy. We're different, you and I. You're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies. Whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to 'ave a beer in one hand, and a titty in another. Thing is boy, I can 'ave what I seek—had it even—but you? Your hands will always be empty."

"Because of week mean like you, my hands will always be full. Goodbye, Thomas Hickey. Your materials here are lost, and no one will miss you."

With that final send off and a lack of strength, the Templar lapdog died, and the Memory Corridor collapsed.

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Jake nodded to Connor. "Well said, Assassin."

The present Patriot soldiers all had their muskets trained on the pair, knowing nothing besides one of them was supposed to be executed today, and the other had shot someone in the face, which had botched said execution.

"At ease, men!" a familiar voice called. "I said: lower you goddamned guns!" At the orders of one General Israel Putnam, the soldiers complied. "These men are heroes."

"Heroes is a bit subjective here," Jake said. "How's Washington?"

"On his way back to Philadelphia," the general answered. "Piffle, he said when I warned him something like this would happen. Piffle."

Jake frowned. "You don't say."

Was the pirate angry? Yes. Was it out of selfishness? Yes. This present revolution was, at least in his mind, Jake's last shot at redeeming himself so he could pass on in good conscience that he had done Mary and his crew proud, and the man leading this revolution, someone Jake had put much faith and confidence in, was apparently severely lacking.

Honestly, in the middle of perhaps the biggest war in recorded history, and Washington dismisses news of an assassination with his name on it?

Jake would be having more words with the son of Athena.

"Well, then," the pirate chirped. "General, thank you for what you've done here today."

"Thank you, sir."

"Connor and I will be on our way to Philadelphia. Washington isn't safe just yet, and I need to speak to him. General. Boys."

"Captain Swallow," Putnam saluted, and the Patriots were quick to follow suite.

With a send off like that, Jake was left wondering what history would say about him.

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Travelling from New York to Philadelphia during the 18th century wasn't a short and easy affair. Even on horseback, if the horses never fell below a full gallop, the trip would take several hours, but since riding on a horse was an uncomfortable thing after enough time, and the horses required food, water, and rest just like their riders did, it took Jake and Connor just shy of a full 24 hours to reach Philadelphia.

On the trip though, Jake told Connor about what he going to do.

"I'll be sailing for France, soon enough. There's business over there that I need to attend to."

"What?"

Jake didn't have to turn to see the expression on the boy's face. He could hear the hurt and the surprise in his voice, and it was truly touching to Jake that Connor would be so ailed by the news of imminent departure for a place so far away.

"How long…will you be gone?"

"Don't know," Jake shrugged. "First I've got to find a ship that'll take me to France, I task I imagine will be quite difficult given the climate. Then there's the voyage itself—no telling what'll happen there. If I make it to France, then I've got to find the man I'm looking for, which will be difficult as well, and once I've completed my business, then I've got to find passage back here, and if I make it safe enough, then there's the arduous task of finding you again…assuming you're still alive after all that."

"What is in France that is so important as to take you away from here? I thought that the Revolution was your chance for redemption."

"It is," Jake answered simply. "However, as hypocritical as this will sound, there are more important things to me than redemption. Like vengeance."

And then Connor was keyed in instantly. "You seek Shay Patrick Cormac, the man who killed your friend, Adéwalé."

"Aye."

The sting Connor felt at Jake leaving him—which brought several questions to the forefront of his mind regarding how he viewed Jake on a personal level—lessened greatly. If it were Charles Lee in question, Connor couldn't say for certain if he wouldn't leave Jake at the drop of a hat to go and kill the man.

Still, "lessened greatly" did not mean "vanished completely." Connor still didn't like the prospect of not seeing Jake again for several months to years, or even worse, never again, all for the sake of vengeance. Thinking like that, it made Connor question his own course of action, his own motives.

"I see," the Assassin said neutrally. "I hope you succeed, and that we see each other again one day."

"Relax, boy, I'm not gone yet."

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July 3, 1776

Philadelphia

As was customary of whenever he saw the pirate, George Washington's eyes lit up at seeing his hero. "Captain Swallow, welcome!"

The men that would come to be known as the Founding Fathers looked up from the document they were standing over at the Commander's greeting, and they saw the imposing figure of Jake Swallow approaching. Over six feet in height, broad shoulders, a big hat with a large feather in it, a big, muscular body clothed by an equally big leather coat, tough boots that were letting out hard thuds with each footfall, and enough pistols on him to bring down a whole battalion—four single-shots on his chest, and two double-shots at each of his hips.

Also behind the mulatto man was the smaller but no less infamous Native, one Connor—no known last name—wearing a jacket of blue and white, a bow and full quiver on his back, pistols at his sides, along with a saber at one hip, and a tomahawk at the other.

"Hello, hello, gentlemen!" Jake said with a warm smile. "What's this we have here?"

"This," Sam Adams started, "is a document we've been working on. We're calling it the Declaration of Independence."

"Oh? Formally breaking away from the Empire, are we?"

"Yes, sir," Washington said. "The war for our freedom has already begun, now it is time to formally declare it, and secure it."

Jake hummed. "Excellent, George, excellent."

"Here," the Commander offered. "It's more or less been finalized at this point, but tell us what you think of it."

Even as the document was being handed to him, Jake could just feel the bullshit in the air. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud what would be one of the most important pieces of American history.

"The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. Could you have worded that any more complicatedly? Couldn't you have just said: We're going to become our own nation now, and here's why?"

"We're aiming for eloquence, my friend," Adams explained.

"Mm-hm." Jake went back to the document.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal—bullshit—that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness —that is going to be taken way out of context—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed—" Jake snorted "—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness —that's good; I like that one, and it's going to be used as a rallying cry by future generations, and the government of that time is going to be really uncomfortable—Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes —that's going to be forgotten for the sake of money—and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed—oh, agreed. Lots of people complaining but no action being taken—But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.-Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world."

Jake skimmed the rest of the Declaration, not bothering to read the grievance section, in which the writers here outlined their problems with the King using more commas than what was necessary. Then Jake looked at George Washington, Sam Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and some other men in ridiculous powdered wigs, and set the Declaration gently upon the table.

Memories of Nassau were floating through his head, memories of other rebellions and revolutions that had so far gone unrecorded—all failed.

"Well done," the pirate said at last. "It is going to be misconstrued, take far out of context, and shat upon by future generations. It is going to be used as a tool for anarchists, a weapon for despots, and a rallying cry for a bunch of dissatisfied children who aren't getting their way despite how much complaining they're doing. The events herein described will be weighed against the future mistakes of this country, and this document will be used as an argument to get rid of the established government, time and time again, sometimes for true, grievous errors, and sometimes for minor inconvenience. The only thing we can hope for, gentlemen, is that down the line there are still good men who believe in these ideas, good men who are willing to put their lives on the line for the wellbeing and livelihood of thousands of others, and that there are those willing to sacrifice everything for freedom."

Jake then took the quill from the inkpot and signed his name upon the Declaration of Independence.

"To America, gentlemen."

"To Freedom," Connor said.

"To a Nation united under God," Washington declared.

"To Stand against Tyranny," Adams said, signing.

And then there was Franklin.

"To being able to stand in our old age."

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"I would like for you to be the admiral of our navy," George said after the signing, when he and Jake were alone.

"No," the pirate said flatly. "I have business to attend to elsewhere, and I do not have the time to spend ordering around greenhorns who don't want to have the patience to listen to an old man like me."

"Please?" the Commander basically begged like a child pining for a cookie. "The British have a ship, the Son of Neptune, captained by a William Davis, and we have nothing to match."

"Yes, I'm aware. I've been working on a plan to handle her."

"A plan?"

"Yes, George, a plan. You of all people should know about the merits of a plan."

"Well, yes, but what plan? I know who the captain of that ship is, and I know you know who the captain of that ship is, and in that territory, we have no one that stands a chance."

"Then what makes you think I stand a chance?"

"Well, er…you're…you're you. You're the Captain Swallow."

"Aye. You got any children of various sea gods sailing about?"

"Children of various-? No, I don't have any-" George cut himself off as a thought crossed his mind.

"Well, there might be one person. Have you heard of John Paul Jones?"

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"Uphold the principles of our order and all that for which we stand. Never share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work. Do so until death - whatever the cost. This is my new creed. I am Shay Patrick Cormac, Templar of the Colonial...of the American rite. I am an older man now, and perhaps wiser. A war and a revolution have ended, and another is about to begin. May the Father of Understanding guide us all….Time to get back to Cheyenne, and leave this life behind forever."

One of the most accomplished men in all of unrecorded history left the Palace of Versailles, keeping his hand mostly to himself so the blood on it couldn't be seen.

Shay was tired. Tracking down the Assassins across Europe to get the box back, everything he had done in the Colo-…in America, as it was now, the news of everything he had done becoming undone by a single Assassin, one Connor Kenway, ironically the son of the Grand Master, Haytham, and of course, his pride and joy, the center of his whole world now.

He couldn't recall ever having a child in the first place—hell, he couldn't recall loving any woman besides Hope enough to bed her, and he had never been drunk enough to try—but he didn't question it when his granddaughter, in her infancy, was delivered to him in the dead of night at his estate in New York by a woman who said she was technically his daughter in law, couldn't raise the baby girl herself, and then promptly died of exhaustion on his doorstep.

His whole life had changed that night in 1770, and perhaps it was for the best. With Cheyenne in his life, he had different priorities now, different views and outlooks, a different perspective. Granted, she was a very, very strange child, not showing in interest in anything, or any emotion at all, not even as a baby, not crying about her diaper or being hungry.

But, Shay loved her with everything he had, and nothing would ever stop him from loving her. She might've been his biological granddaughter, but at forty-five, her at six, it wasn't much of a stretch to be her father.

Shay was so blissfully deep in his thoughts of a good future with his grandchild, that when someone greeted him at the gates of the palace, he was completely absentminded in his response.

"Hello there, Shay."

"Captain Swallow, good to see you."

Shay took five more steps before he came to an abrupt halt where he stood. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around and saw the black-clad pirate casually leaning on the pillar, his mad grin firmly in place, his dark eyes glittering dangerously.

He was also discreetly aiming a pistol.

"Damn son," the pirate scolded. "Got the box back, but you orphaned poor little Arno in there, and I don't see an ounce of pity of remorse on that face of yours. Would it be justice if I kill you for Arno's sake, or would it be an injustice for the sake of this granddaughter I've heard about?"

Shay's eyes narrowed. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me. Don't waste your time talking."

"Please, boy, I taught you that. If I was going to shoot you, I wouldn't have bothered saying anything to you in the first place."

"Then what do you want, Captain?"

Jake's grin got a little bit bigger. "I want to meet this enigmatic grandkid of yours."

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Saying Shay was on edge was like saying the North Atlantic was cold. He could be dead right now, his absentmindedness easily costing him his life with Jake right there. The only thing that had saved was the man's interest in Cheyenne, and Shay could only thank Haytham for telling the man whenever he had.

Cheyenne was Shay's most closely guarded secret, having only told Haytham about it. What must've happened was that Jake confronted Haytham in America—and there was no telling how that went down—and the Grand Master told Jake about Cheyenne. Shay couldn't be mad at his Templar brother, because imparting that knowledge to Jake was currently saving his life.

As Shay walked the streets of Versailles, he did entertain thoughts of turning and fighting, but that day in 1758 was still fresh in his mind, after news of Adéwalé's death had reached Jake, and the man, nearing his sixties, had fought both Shay and Haytham, two men well in their prime…

And kicked both of their asses like redheaded stepchildren.

Besides, at the moment, Shay was only armed with his Hidden Blades and a few toys in the pouches of his belt, while Jake had enough guns on him to take on the sum total of the Gendarmes, and no telling what other surprises on his belt, and probably his own Hidden Blades. Sure, he was much older now, but so was Shay, and he wasn't sure of his chances.

It also wasn't like Jake was going to kill Cheyenne…probably. The man was rather unpredictable, but killing children wasn't necessarily his style. Necessarily, as in there was Kingston decades ago. Plenty of children had died then.

Shay cleared his mind and brought it into focus. He needed to be worried about the here and now; Jake was right behind him, pistol discretely ready to go off at a moment's notice. He was leading the pirate to his most beloved person, and there was a possibility that there was going to be a battle.

Yes, Shay had brought Cheyenne with him to France for this last mission because he could not leave that girl with anyone. He had tried, but she had this strange disposition to where he was the only one she listened to. Any of the attendants at the manor in New York? Forget it. She ran circles around those people, always managed to find her way into the locked armory to play with the weapons therein.

Shay had a nearly had a heart attack when he came home from a mission one day and found her staring down the barrel of a flintlock with a knife in her mouth.

Even if he told her to stay out and then left, she got in. The only time she actually obeyed him was when he was right there, which was why Shay was quite worried about this mission, because he brought her to keep her away from all the dangerous pointy things, but without supervising her directly, there was no telling what the little hellion had gotten herself into back at the hotel room he had purchased for a few days' rest.

Swallowing to himself and preparing for battle, Shay ascended the stairs of the quaint hotel, Jake behind him, produced the key for the door, and entered.

"Cheyenne?" Shay called into the room as he entered. "Grand-père is back!"

At the silence, the Templar's heart skipped a few beats, but then he relaxed when he heard the patter of little feet.

Around the corner came his pride and joy, his little mon ange. Six years old, her raven hair pulled into a pair of little French braids, her skin a healthy olive, making it difficult to say if she was Italian, Spanish, a savage of the New World, or she just spent a lot of time outside. She was wearing a simple beige, sleeveless gown, and a pair of tough sandals. However, it was her eyes that were her most striking feature.

Ignoring how dim and empty they looked, almost like there was nothing going on inside that head of hers, they were the most beautiful shade of green you'd ever see.

Cheyenne wasn't looking at Shay. She was looking right at Jake, and he right at her. The Templar looked back between the two, noting the complete lack of expression on either's face as they stared into each other's eyes.

They were completely entranced.

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Jake was sitting in a chair, Cheyenne curled in his lap, napping, and Shay didn't know what to think of anything right now. He should've been just a little hurt that his granddaughter was giving her attention to someone else, a complete stranger at that, but he was too stunned by the fact that his granddaughter was giving her attention to a complete stranger.

The servants at the manor were people Cheyenne had known all her little life, and she didn't have a problem kicking them if she felt irritated or threatened enough, or if they got too close to her.

"What's your plan, Shay?" Jake asked.

"My plan? My plan is to go back to New York, gather up everything valuable at my manor, and sail away with Cheyenne to a land where are there are no Templars or Assassins. My plan is to retire and have no more part of this madness, and raise my granddaughter to be a good person, with clean hands."

"A land without Assassins and Templars?" Jake cocked his brow. "There aren't many places like that left, boy. You have anywhere specific in mind that's hospitable to the human being?"

"Alaska."

"That's…that's a long way. That's half a world away from New York—just on a map. Getting there…you'd have to sail all the way down the coast, down past Mexico, Brazil, the whole of South America, and then you'd have to come all the way back up from the bottom of the world. That could take anywhere from several months to a couple of years."

"Aye," Shay said. "Plenty of time to teach Cheyenne about sailing, reading and writing in English, French, and Spanish, math, history, and how to handle herself. Plenty of time to teach her about the world, and all the colors in its tapestry."

"Tapestry used to be beautiful, mate," the old pirate said wistfully, harkening all the way back to the talks he had with Adéwalé. "Then it got too big. Got too involved with other tapestries. Too much mixing, too much difference, too much clashing of ideas, cultures, and opinions. All that disunity, mate….That's why the world's better off small. Small communities, where everyone has to know each other, help each other, and get along and settle their differences to overcome whatever challenge there is."

Shay was almost hurting on the inside seeing all the age suddenly appear on Jake's face. All the wrinkles suddenly becoming more pronounced, his eyes sinking in, looking tired and worn, and his posture slumping, the weight of so many years of mistakes and hardships settling down on him pound by pound.

Seeing this great and respectable figure, a man that had been through and done so much for the world, look so old and weak….

"Hell, Shay," the pirate halfway joked. "Maybe you should forget living on the land. Just stick to the Morrigan, go everywhere, see everything, keep your wits about you, etc. You've got the money and the means to go see the world in all her beauty—you've got the opportunity fewer than a hundred men in all of history've got: make a living out of travelling, and able to bring your family with you."

Cheyenne was still asleep in Jake's lap, the tip of her pointer having made its way to her little mouth.

"…I'll keep that in mind, Captain."

Jake nodded and gently removed the little one from him, handing her over to Shay, who accepted her with the utmost care.

The pirate and headed for the door. "Good luck, Master Shay Cormac."

"I make my own luck, Captain Jake Swallow."

The pirate smirked over his shoulder. "Of course, you do."

Jake left France just after the turn of the year; he had a John Paul Jones to talk to.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That's a wrap for this one. Hickey dead, jabbing at the gameplay continuity, Jake's hope for the future of America (keep that in mind, because Percy's going to remember it), and he finally met up with Shay, where we got the first appearance of Cheyenne Cormac with a humongous plot hole of an arrival that will not be filled in, because it's not important to the story.

If you've been looking too far into things, you'll have by now noted that each life has taken place in separate time periods. Faris back at the end of the 12th century, Virgil during late and early 15th and 16th centuries, and then Jake during the whole of the 18th century. Cheyenne living during this time is the first and last time that two Past Lives will overlap.

The reason for this is that I want Jake to die at a certain time, but since it's already canon that Cheyenne was old enough to be an active member of the Brotherhood, catching both Arno's and Zoё's romantic attentions, bringing her in at the time of Jake's death would put her before puberty at the start of Unity, and despite the fact that we have several thousand year old gods knocking up humans just a few decades old, pedophilia is not condoned in this story.

Hence, the need for her to be alive and six years old at this time. That makes her two years younger than Arno. You can look at dates yourself on the Wiki to figure things out further.

Now, Cheyenne is the 'soulless girl' per the title and that's because she doesn't have a soul on account of her soul currently occupying Jake. When he dies, she will come alive. Simple as that.

Next chapter is a naval battle and an epic surprise. At least, what I think is an epic surprise.

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