Many more months have passed and I find myself no closer to my goal from when I first landed on these shores. The secret messages, and the revelations they brought with them are disturbing to say the least, and although my brothers wish to incriminate Lafayette with the Templars, I do not believe it so. I am sure of his innocence, it is more likely he is being manipulated by our enemies, like so many others. I will have to tread carefully, and gather the evidence required to convince him of our cause. There is not much time.
The situation is growing more intolerable by the day, and something must be done. I have seen the nobles fatten themselves while women and children go starving in the streets. Riots and insurrections have broken out in the East, and the army patrols have doubled in the past year. The time to act is now. The first step is to secure this weapon they call The Apple. Thanks to my father's writings, I have uncovered many secrets about the French Templars: their names, their tactics, and their organization. With that knowledge, I will do what is right, and free this country.
I sometimes wonder, what would my father think of my efforts seeing me now. Would he be proud? Or would he simply laugh? Knowing my struggle was as futile as his? Like fighting against the rise of the moon or the tides?
Time runs short, but I will do what I have always done, what my mother and Achilles have taught me.
I will keep going forward.
Eastern France, Late Autumn 1786
The air was cool and brisk this time of year, caressing the trees and hillsides of the French countryside in its gentle wave. In better times, the roads in the area served as a hub for the surrounding merchants, who would fill the highway with their wagons filled with goods and wares.
There were no merchants now, and the road was as barren as the land itself.
A small solitary bird occupied the road, walking around the fog veiled road, digging its beak into the cold earth in an attempt to secure its next meal. The ground was frozen, although an early thaw had already produced a few puddles of mud. The bird eyed the puddles, saw a worm slithering in the brown sludge. It was breakfast time.
Then the ground shook.
It began as a low rumbling at first, but then increased as time passed. There were other sounds now. Sounds of men marching, of drums tapping, bands playing.
The bird quickly flew into the trees, and saw its meal vanish as hundreds of soldiers emerged down the road, trampling the mud and the worm which the bird had eyed. The men wore dark blue uniforms, polished with fine gold buttons. Flags fluttered through the air, as if the sails of a great fleet had suddenly sprouted legs and were marching. Thousands of boots slushed and clomped on the mud, and soon, the fog lifted to reveal even more columns of men, flanked by armoured horsemen in glittering uniforms of gold braid and lace. In the middle of the formation, half a dozen wagons rolled on, their creaky mud-splattered wheels leaving huge marks in their trace. The soldiers marched with an arrogant, confident gait, confident that no starving peasant would be dumb enough to attack this convoy.
From his vantage point in the trees flanking the road, it was an impossible sight to miss, and Connor's breath misted as he exhaled, taking in the sheer number of troops.
"Quite impressive non?" Arnaud whispered softly as he climbed the branch next to Connor's, whistling low in appreciation. "That leaves about a hundred for each of us, pretty even odds I'll say."
"What are those troops?" Connor asked, pointing to the unfamiliar mounted soldiers who wore dark green uniforms, along with brass helmets and straight heavy cavalry swords. The cavalrymen acted as scouts for the convoy, trotting their horses alongside and ahead of the French regiment.
"Dragoons." Arnaud replied. "Nasty buggers, I wouldn't want to deal with a squadron of those, especially if we're on foot. They're liable to follow you through all the French countryside if they get wind of you."
At this moment, Connor wished he had his fellow brothers and sisters from the colonies with him. Although the Parisan Brotherhood had provided him with a host of their own assassins, they were still ridiculously outnumbered considering the hundreds of troops marching on the road.
Still, this was the most promising convoy thus far, the others being too weakly defended, or producing nothing but military supplies. But to attack a column this size was suicidal, the Assassins would bide their time.
"Word has it the city is in chaos." Arnaud offered. "In chaos, there is opportunity."
Connor nodded, and within moments, the assassin's disappeared amongst the trees, running ahead of the French troops.
Secure in the knowledge that the convoy was secure, the Templar Colonel took a moment to casually light a cigar as he trotted his horse onward. The countryside was still lovely, even at this time of year, he thought, it was a shame that this excursion would have to be spoiled by a bunch of traitorous peasants.
Officially, the had taken two Guards regiments to quell the resistance, along with a squadron of dragoons. It was overkill for a simple mob insurrection, but the true reason for this heavy escort was the precious prize within the wagons.
The Apple of Eden.
The Colonel himself had never seen the Apple in action, in fact, he didn't even know of its existence until a year ago, when the Grand Master had sent messages detailing how the Order would restore the Monarchy's weakening grip on its own country.
It seemed almost ridiculous that such a thing existed, and he would not have believed it himself had he not heard how the Apple was applied in Russia during the Great Northern War. Peter the Great had used the Apple to turn his backward nation into a great empire; fighting two wars, while constructing a great capital city in the frozen marshes of the Neva. Not only that, he had also successfully won Sweden and Poland over to the Templars, at the same time, weakening Assassin's bastion in the Ottoman Empire. If one Apple could do that, then he could only imagine what a French Monarchy with such power could become.
That of course, would wait until they reached Paris.
Another officer trotted his horse beside the Colonel, and he watched quietly as the man saluted.
"No one knows you're here De Launay?" The Templar Colonel whispered."
"Non monsieur." De Launay replied somewhat nervously, "As far as the higher ups are concerned, I am still back in Paris."
The Colonel nodded, knowing that the Count would do his part to ensure the safe transport of the Apple under De Launay. It was difficult enough getting the Commandant out of the city, for Bernard De Launay was well known throughout Paris, being the commandant of the Bastille.
Although the Bastille had long ago lost it's function as a true prison, (now used only to house misbehaving noblemen) it still served as a bastion of Royalist and Templar control in the city, not to mention guarding the location of the vault.
"The Apple will remain in your possession." The Colonel ordered, quietly wondering how Vergennes could trust this inexperienced nobleman with such a momentous task, but then again, the cowardly and meek would also be the ones less likely to use the Apple for their own ends. It was a safe bet.
"Are you sure you don't want to use it against the uprising?" De Launay asked.
"No, that was never the plan." the Colonel smiled, thinking how clever it was of the count to order this punishing expedition as a diversion.
"We will do this the old fashioned way." The Templar Colonel said with relish, patting his hand on the cavalry sabre by his side "The men need their exercise, and these peasants deserve to learn their lesson, the hard way."
"Very well then." De Launay replied.
"I will provide you with an escort of my finest dragoons." The Colonel said gruffly. "See that you do not fail. Our Order depends on it."
De Launay gulped. "Yes, I will see to it."
"Then go," He nodded. "May the Father of Understanding guide you."
Seurre, several days later
The sky was blood red as the afternoon gave way to an autumn dusk. Both assassins trotted their horses wearily to the outskirts of the town, having traveled for a while. They approached slowly, noticing that already a regiment of French Regulars set up camp. At first, Connor thought they were the Templar troops, but they wore the regular white uniform of the regulars. Deciding that these troops were merely here as a garrison, they would avoid conflict whenever possible, and pass on through to the town.
The farms in the region were desolate, completely barren and dead, unlike the lush countryside of Britanny that he had seen.
They approached a check station, and Connor tensed up as several platoons of white coated infantry made their rounds. At first, he thought the French soldiers were going to approach them, but they paid no mind to the two assassins. Instead, they gathered around a mess tent with tinned cups, eager for a meal. One of the troopers even waved a casual hello to Connor and Arnaud as they passed.
From the cooking tents, the sweet waft of stewed meat and vegetables filled the air, and Connor felt his stomach growl, but he urged his horse onward, knowing he had more important tasks at hand.
He was stopped however, as a child ran across the road directly in front of him toward the mess tents. Connor had to rein back his horse to prevent running over the child, but the boy took no notice as he wandered towards the soldiers.
The Mohawk instinctively turned around and watched the child as he approached the soldiers. The boy was gaunt and thin, as if he hadn't eaten in days. And the lad stared wistfully at the soldiers as they gathered their rations and cooked food.
As one of the soldiers turned and approached the boy, Connor steadied his hand, readying his Mohawk. He had seen the French Guards in the capital and how they treated the poor and starving. If it was necessary, he was prepared to intervene and 'liberate' the food for the peasants in the area. Two platoons of French Regulars would be nothing between two assassins.
As he was ready to jump to the defense of the child, to his surprise, the guard smiled at the boy.
"It's all right, we won't hurt you. Come, tell me your name." The French sergeant said.
The boy stared back blankly, until he finally stepped forward cautiously. "Pierre."
"That's better lad!" The sergeant replied, "Are you hungry?"
"Oui, Monsieur." The lad squeaked, his eyes sunken and hallow.
Then, one by one, Connor noticed more children emerging on his side of the road, approaching the French camp, like dark shapes gathering around the cooking fires.
"Good lord, when was the last time you had a bite to eat?" A private said sympathetically,and before long, more figures emerged from the trees, Men and women who held their hands out meekly for scraps of bread and bowls of stew.
"What are you waiting for?" The sergeant whispered. "Give them something to eat."
Connor then watched disbelieving as the French soldiers began unloading the supplies from their wagon to distribute to the starving peasants. It seemed to go against everything he had believed at this point concerning the army, but then again, he admitted, not everyone was a heartless Templar, the soldiers were as much victims as anyone in this case.
"Puts a bit of perspective into things does it no?" Connor said softly as Arnaud reined in beside him.
"Some of them are good people." Arnaud admitted. "In the end, we are all on the same side, it is just unfortunate that the Templars and the Aristocrats get them to do their dirty work."
"What's going on here?!" An officer suddenly emerged from behind the supply wagons, having noticed the gathering of peasantry in the area. Connor hesitated jumping in, tomahawk and guns blazing, for the soldiers would then be forced to defend their officer, but he also didn't want this officer to deprive the people of their food.
Helpless in the moment, Connor watched sullenly.
The young officer was thin, slightly gaunt, and looked very familiar for some reason. Where had Connor seen him before?
"These are military supplies sergeant. Load up the wagon and get these people out of here." The officer said firmly.
The Sergeant and his corporals exchanged brief glances, "but sir, these children, they're starving."
"I gave you an order Sergeant, I expect you to follow it." The officer said briskly.
"Sir...please look first." The sergeant said quietly, gesturing at the group of gaunt faced children that stared blankly at the cooking pot. Some were just sitting still with blank eyes, but to the officer, he seemed to have noticed a young girl among them as well, her eyes half sunken from exhaustion and starvation, while in her arms was what seemed like a pile of rags, but turned out to be the limp body of a boy.
It was a hard scene to swallow as Connor realized what she was carrying, and it seemed to have even made a bigger impression on the officer, who seemed to have a lump building in the back of his throat. He continued looking at the skeletal figures around him, and there was a pained look in the man's eyes as though he were going through an internal struggle with his conscience and his duty. Finally, he relented.
"Feed them..." He said softly, swallowing his breath. "Feed them all. Make sure they each get a decent meal."
Relieved, the sergeant saluted. "Yes sir."
Against the protests of Arnaud, Connor found himself walking towards the French Officer, and rather than putting a blade in his back, he placed his hand firmly on the man's shoulder.
"You did the right thing." The Mohawk said.
The officer turned around in surprise, expecting to be attacked, but once he saw no ill intent in Connor's eyes, he relaxed.
"I have a sister her age." The officer said softly. "No one should have to live like this. It's intolerable."
Connor found himself nodding in agreement. Then, at that moment, a flicker of recognition passed in his eyes.
"You." The Mohawk said firmly. "I recognize you from Paris, in the coffee shop. With Citizen Schaefer."
At the mention of the name, the officer quickly hushed Connor quiet, turning his head around to make sure that none of the men overheard.
"Sorry." He apologized. "You'll have to excuse my nervousness, it's not exactly befitting of an officer to associate himself with Jacobins. I ask that you use that name in discretion. It is true that I have...ventured there for some coffee and small talk, but the King's police and guards have eyes and ears everywhere. I'd rather not give them that impression that I'm associated with the-"
"The Radicals?" Connor asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Indeed, they are called radicals, but it doesn't mean they don't have a point; That our country is sick, and she is in need of saving." The officer replied.
"That we can both agree on." Connor smiled, then extended his hand to the officer. "My name is Connor by the way."
The officer took off his bicorne hat, and nodded politely, shaking Connor's hand. "Lieutenant Napoleon Buona Parte, at your service monsieur."
As Connor nodded, a crack of a musket shot echoed from the city, followed by several more low rumblings of gunfire spreading from the city square.
"Connor!" Arnaud shouted, pointing to the city, where already a battalion of French Guards were moving in. "It's begun!"
Napoleon nodded, as if to confirm Arnaud's suspicions.
"We were advised to stay out here until the Guards finished with the mob. We are told that the rebels have taken the town, overruning the mayor's office and burning down the factory district. I suggest monsieur, you get out of the city. Things are becoming very ugly."
Connor found himself shaking his head. "No, I must press onto the city, there is some business we need to take care of."
Lieutenant Buona Parte was about to pull Connor back, but he sensed that the man seemed to have enough experience in battle, being a soldier himself.
"Then I wish you good luck mon ami. Until we meet again."
Connor nodded in thanks, then turned to Arnaud.
"Come! Let's go!"
Before Napoleon could say any more, Connor was already off, dashing his horse towards the burning buildings of the city.
The market square was a disaster. A charnel house of death and destruction. Soldiers and Rioters ran rampant throughout the area, fighting each other as well as ransacking the houses. The ground was littered with loot, silverware, cutlery, gold, money, clothes, rugs, as though a tornado had swept the city. Amidst the fighting, bodies began piling up on the street corners, bleeding profusely from bullet and stab wounds.
More looters ran out of a house, carrying a whole cupboard full of family heirlooms, old antiques and coins. While captured partisans, tied and gagged, were forced to watch all this on their knees, Bayonets pointing menacingly at their necks.
"This is madness Connor." Arnaud shouted above the din of battle, "Where do we even start?"
Connor at this point, gazed upwards at the rooftops, where half a dozen of their fellow brothers and sisters had gathered, waiting for his signal.
"Join the others in locating the Templar head quarters. I'll proceed on foot." Connor said gruffly.
"You're a crazy bastard, you know that?" Arnaud smirked. "A crazy magnificent bastard." The Assassin gave a brisk salute, before climbing up to the rooftops to join Augustin and his band.
With the chaos before him, Connor wasted no time in wading through it. Unsheathing his tomahawk, he immediately kicked down the door of the nearest house, where he had heard a woman's scream.
The ancient wooden door gave way with a heavy sigh, throwing up heavy clouds of dust in the small one room house. His sword made a scraping sound on the side of the door as he jumped into the room
There was a woman in the house, and Connor saw that a French Chasseur was already on top of her, ravaging her viciously. The man hit her as she screamed and struggled, and he saw the blood flowing through her legs.
Without hesitating, Connor grabbed the chasseur by the shirt and pulled him away from the woman. The man's back slammed violently into the wall.
The Chasseur, furious at being interrupted, snarled and tried to pull his sabre, but Connor gave the man a vicious kick in the stomach and a punch in his throat. The Frenchman barely had time to react as Connor heard the sickening snap of his throat as the man's head whipped backwards.
The woman huddled in the corner fearfully now, and Connor suggested she hide in the cellar, then bowed and left, there were more problems going on in the market and he guessed from the volume of the soldiers and musket fire, that it was where the fighting was raging the hardest.
As he emerged into the streets, Connor heard a new sound, the low rumbling in the distance that was all too familiar to him.
Artillery?
Shouts came from the streets now, and more pops of the musket cut through the quiet atmosphere of the late afternoon. Doors were being slammed now, and shouts from French officers echoed through the street.
"Mettez la bayonette au bout du canon!"
"En Avance!"
Connor watched in horror as he saw the scene from down the street. The rioters and the mob were running about, desperately trying to escape the French Guardsmen. Some of the mob were more aggressive, confronting the soldiers with pitchforks, muskets, torches and rocks. The officers tried their best and formed a crude firing line down the street, the French soldiers fumbled with their muskets nervously.
Muskets coughed from the crowd, and knives were thrown as well. One unfortunate regular was torn to pieces literally as the peasants came at him with pitchforks, knives and axes. His screams were overwhelmed by the explosion of musketry from the French line.
The rioters fell by the dozens, among them many women, yet the mob showed no sign of letting up and they charged the French line. Some of the men, who had just been roused out of bed, ran, while the more sturdier grenadiers met the crowd's ferocity with their own, they charged in with bayonets.
The situation on the street was chaos. It seemed as if every civilian had suddenly developed a blood lust for the French. Soldiers ran in panic from a group of men brandishing knives, while another section of a street dissolved into a fighting mass of dying men. Cavalrymen were mixed in on the action too, pieces of other regiments fought for their lives in the streets. A group of dragoons and chasseurs barricaded themselves inside a house, while others fought in the streets. Men screamed in pain as Peasants tore at them with knives, torches and even their bare hands. One dragoon had his skull broken into when an old woman dropped a pot on him from her second story window. It was sheer chaos, and the sounds of muskets firing, swords parrying and flesh being sliced filled the air. There was an awful sweet smell of burning flesh that Connor tried his best to ignore.
The streets were filling with bodies now, some French, some civilian. All were mauled so horribly that they were unrecognizable, and Connor's boots made a sickening squishing sound as he ran through the blood soaked streets. A Guard was thrown out of a window, where a crowd of partisans impaled him on their pikes as he landed on the crowd. French grenadiers kicked a man to the ground, shooting him in the crouch before bayoneting his throat.
It was chaos.
To his left, Connor saw some French Chasseurs forming a firing line against an equally sized mob of partisans charge at him with clubs and torches. Offciers began rattling out orders and Connor wasted no time as he closed the distance.
"À gauche!" The men performed the left face with stunning precision.
"Présentez vos armes! FEU!"
The chasseurs fired, and the mob disintegrated. Men fell back with bullets in their head while others simply dropped their weapons and ran away, content to seek easier prey.
Through the smoke, Connor emerged, burying his tomahawk into the skull of one of the light infantryman. The man barely had time to fall before Connor unsheathed his hidden blade, parrying another bayonet thrust from a chasseur and pulling the man towards him. He gave the guard a swift kick to his knees, breaking the joints and sending the man tumbling down in an agony of pain. Another efficient cut of the tomahawk left another man sliced across the neck.
As Connor dispatched the final guard, shooting the man through the open mouth with his pistol, he turned to see an extravagantly dressed officer on a horse, this one escorted by another platoon of guards.
"Connor Kenway." The Templar Colonel trotted forward, resplendent in the dark blue uniform of a French Guard. "We meet at last."
"Where is the Apple?" Connor demanded, eyes darting side to side as he noticed more dragoons and chasseurs closing in around him.
"You are too late, the apple is long gone." The Templar Colonel sneered triumphantly, then pulled his pistol to the assassin. "But you, you are mine. Assassin!"
Before Connor could react, the Colonel fired the pistol, and Connor felt his shoulder jerk back as the musket ball grazed him. At that instant, he also threw the tomahawk forward, taking the Colonel's horse in the neck. The animal whinnied furiously as it fell to the ground, dropping the colonel. While the man was of no immediate threat, Connor saw that the Chasseurs and dragoons of the Colonel's guard closed in for the kill.
But he couldn't move, his body was pinned down.
Connor's world in that instant faded to white, and he saw nothing, but he heard it all. The low bird whistle, and the dying screams of the surrounding chasseurs as blades dug into backs and necks. Soon, Connor felt strong arms dragging him away. Away from the fighting and the blood.
The assassins had retreated just in time, for a new sound filled the air. Trumpets, and horns.
The cavalry had arrived.
The dragoons and cuirassiers, rumbled through the streets, an irresistible tidal wave of horse flesh, armour, and steel.
The mob broke now, every man, woman and child running for their lives. French lances dug into the backs of many rioters, while others were simply run over.
The dragoons took their time, galloping alongside the running men until they were just ahead of them, then sending a backward swipe of the sword into the men's face, cutting it in two.
Others fired carbines and pistols from their saddles, cheering as they went on.
Amidst the calm on the street, surrounded by the bodies of his dead guards was the Templar Colonel. His mount killed but he himself very much alive, the man cursed violently as he retrieved his bicorne hat from the bloody ground. He would get that assassin yet...
Connor grunted in pain as he came to, his fellow brothers and sisters camping in a nearby field outside the smoking city.
"What...what happened?" Connor felt his shoulder was on fire, and saw that his comrades had stripped the uniform jacket off him, revealing his toned shoulders and chest, but this time, with a bandage wrapped over his upper arm and shoulder."
"It was a close one Connor." Arnaud said seriously, patting Connor on his back as he came to. "But we got there just in time." He grinned.
"I told you I would save your life mon ami." Arnaud said with cocky smile. "That's one life you owe me by the way."
"You have my thanks." Connor said as the Frenchman lifted him up by the arm.
"So what now? It looks like the Apple is on its way to Paris, and they are sure to use it soon." Arnaud spat, his face bloody and bruised, he had obviously had his own run in with the French Guards dragging Connor out.
Connor took another look at the city in the distance, the crowd was long gone, and the street was quiet, only this time filled with the bodies of hundreds. Upturned carts and broken doors and windows decorated the scenery, and everything imaginable, vases, clothes, curtains, beds, were thrown into the streets, in tatters. Pillars of smoke rose from the district, evidence of the grim battle and slaughter that had taken place.
So many had lost their lives today, and Connor knew there would be hell to pay.
"We head back." Connor said firmly. "I believe it is time I pay the Count of Vergennes a visit."
Animus Database - Tactical Archive by Shaun Hastings - Napoleon Buona Parte
MEMO TO BRITISH HIGH COMMAND
There is a young French officer you need to watch out for. I know, he is just a lieutenant, and newly promoted at that, but my instincts tell me this guy is nothing but trouble, and I mean TROUBLE. His name is Bonaparte, and he just has a certain flair and charisma - trust me on this one, you'll be much better off if you can find a way to get rid of him quietly. Just send agent 004 or 005 out here quickly for a "liquid affair" and no one will be the wiser.
Animus Database - Tactical Archive by Shaun Hastings - Bernard-René de Launay
The marquis Bernard-René Jordan de Launay was born on the night of 8/9 April 1740 in the Bastille where his father was governor. At the age of eight he was appointed to an honourary position in the King's Musketeers (mousquetaires du roi). He subsequently entered the French Guards (gardes-françaises), a regiment permanently stationed in Paris except in time of war.
In 1776 de Launay succeeded M. de Jumilhac as Governor of the Bastille. The years that he spent in this position were uneventful, though on 19 December 1778 he made the serious mistake of failing to fire the cannon of the Bastille as a salute on the birth of a daughter (Madame Royale) to King Louis XVI (a career killer if I've ever heard of one!). Until 1777 he was Seigneur of Bretonnière in Normandy.
Animus Database - Tactical Archive by Shaun Hastings - Chasseurs
The Chasseurs à pied were the light infantrymen of the French line. They were armed the same as their counterparts in the regular line infantry battalions but were trained to excel in marksmanship and in executing manoeuvres at high speed. Used mainly for skirmishing and scouting, these elite light infantry regiments were taught to think on their feet in a fight, sniping from cover and fighting in pairs whilst harrassing enemy lines, rather than having the courtesy standing still in a straight line to make it convenient for the other side to shoot them (I tell you, war is not what it used to be).
Animus Database - Tactical Archive by Shaun Hastings - French Dragoons
Dragoons are essentially mounted infantry, who were trained in horse riding as well as infantry fighting skills. However, usage altered over time and during the 18th century, dragoons evolved into conventional light cavalry units and personnel. Dragoon regiments were established in most European armies during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. The name is possibly derived from a type of firearm (or because they can also breath fire, I tend to forget which) carried by dragoons of the French Army.
Unlike their city-bound cousins, the French Guards. French Dragoons are mounted on fast horses, able to chase down their prey through miles of open frontier country if necessary. (A horse does wonders when retreating!)
Nerdman3000 : Thanks nerdman ;) and of course, I will try to reference past games as much as i can, although i actually haven't played AC1 yet :S i started with AC2 haha, so one day i will get to that game!
NinjaxSketcheartx Yeah, i was very disappointed with how Haytham's story ended in AC3 :( it had to be more complicated than that! hence this :D And you are on the mark with Lafayette, this won't be pretty indeed :o
East Coast Captain : I can see the war of 1812 being a very real possibility for Connor, although I'm not sure he can still fight at 58...ezio himself had his last game when he was like 51 right?
will zona I agree, despite how the story and the writing for AC3 went, i think Haytham cared more for his son than we may even know, as evidenced by forsaken the novel :)
HoldenCaulfied : Thanks for the feedback, glad you like it :) I actually will cover mainly the French revolution, Napoleonic wars we will see. I never played the multiplayer so i will try to incorporate the Frenchman if i can once i research more!
Mer3Girl: nerd moments will never be held against you XD in fact, they are encouraged. Glad you're loving the descriptions! And i consider it a great compliment that you are thinking of the controller as you read the fight scenes :D i try to make them fluid. Yes, i wish they showed more of Ben Franklin as well as Connor's better side in the story. but that's what fanfics are for XD
TheScoutAssassin: THank you scout! yes, the knowledge Haytham imparts will have an impact later on. But who said this story was ending soon? :D more ground to cover!