Chapter 3: Of Pedestals and Closed Windows

I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel.

Italics: Memories and Connor speaking/thinking in his native tongue.

December 16th, 1773

So it finally came to this; this glorious moment for rebels to thieve the reigns of British taxing. In actuality, it was only tea. Just collections of loose herbs, spiced aromas. Quite a pleasantry for the midnight hour if brewed just right. However, it was the symbolism that riled these rebels to toss the damned crates overboard into the merciless black sea. So fascinating how an act of protest can massively spread the surge of adrenaline amongst multiple bodies all at once. The adrenaline surge, so delicious in its ferocious dance throughout the bloodstream, had been especially thrilling for the Native assassin, protecting the Sons of Liberty from muskets and knives. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed stopping the red coats in their blood stained tracks before ruining this planned act. This was his territory, not their own. And, like the grey back wolf, he enjoyed every fucking minute of annihilating his trespassers.

Tonight had been the night that William Johnson would watch helplessly as his herbal gold was tossed away like soiled rags. This fact alone brought a wicked smirk to Connor's chapped lips. It was all so delicious that he could not desist from tasting it on every level possible.

After being handed the honor of the last crate of tea by his new ally, the hot-headed Frenchman named Stephane Chapeau, Connor held the said crate above his head with a dramatic thrust of his arms into the smoke-filled skies, bleeding black amongst the violet clouds. Johnson watched from afar, blocked off by crowds of rioting colonists. Ironically enough, Charles Lee stood beside him, watching the now grown Native boy he once choked in the forest take action. Sadly enough, the older, balding man was oblivious to this assassin's identity. To him, it was just a mere savage playing along in these colonial rebels' game. He clearly did not see that this young man held a personal vendetta against him for the past nine years, for burning his village...and his own mother.

To Lee, this young man was just some nameless insect when Connor viewed him as the iron thorn in his heart.

With a smug look upon his distinguished face, Connor dropped the crate into the sea with an expression of mock regret. Oops. This should slow down Johnson's scheming for control. Perhaps even stop it. Even if it was just the dumping of English tea, it was something.

Secretly, in the clandestine depths of his being, Connor was relieved that he did not have to assassinate Johnson then and there. He deemed it not necessary, for the dumping of the tea felt satisfying enough. The Native assassin asserted his power over both the Britshman and the greasy waste of skin that was Lee. That alone almost rivaled the satisfaction of slitting throats for the purpose of justice. Almost.

However, the next three days would not be too kind to dear Connor.

Three Days Later

His notoriety had blasted through the skyline ever since the night of December 16th, which had been dubbed by newspapers as, "The Boston Tea Party." 'A party? Where do these people come up with these radical names? They are insane! This was no party. This was an act of retaliation.' One can assume that Connor still did not warm up to the printing press and the propaganda that spewed from that awful machine.

His deep cut frown and long white robes were memorized, detail by minute detail, by the red coat soldiers. Each turn of a corner led to a high speed chase across the city of Boston, muskets clacking and British slang bursting through the dingy air. With each throat slit with a quick slice of his razor sharp tomahawk, several more throats would appear. They were like weeds! When one was plucked, several more arose. Day three since the dumping of the tea, and Connor had managed to find himself in even more trouble after the victory.

On an early afternoon with a crisp chill in the air, the Native assassin could be found dashing down the middle of the marketplace. Where people once stared with befuddlement at the strange man in white, they were now accustomed to red coats chasing him down the cobblestone streets with muskets piercing the air. Some people had witnessed Connor's craftsmanship at carving a dozen or so of the British soldiers. Truthfully, the people of Boston did not object. Still, the occasional bloodbath was a bit much. Just a bit.

Connor dove into the nearest haystack after assassinating a pair of red coats with swift piercings of his hidden blade, penetrating the still beating hearts. A new group of red coats were close by, eager to tackle down the Native deviant. The leader of the group cackled as he witnessed Connor dive into a haystack.

"Too slow! Still see you!" the man in red shouted, licking his upper lip from the excitement of the chase.

Grinding his teeth, Connor leapt out of the haystack and onto the ground, his feet thrashing against the street as his upper body leaned forward to increase speed. His muscular arms pumped at his sides. Nearly knocking over a young couple about to share an intimate kiss, he turned a corner where several redcoats quickly followed in suit. Finding himself in a shaded, backyard farm with animals and a vegetable garden, Connor prepared for another showdown, his legs widening as he squatted in position. A fragile slave yelped with fright from his stance in the vegetable garden, escaping the scene as fast as his scrawny legs could take him.

Before a bloody mess could commence in the middle of a chicken coop, a high pitched scream shattered the air, forcing all other frequencies of sound to cower.

The redcoats looked around for the source, temporarily forgetting the task at hand. Connor merely shifted his eyes, locating the sound to come from the east.

The scream sounded off once again, this time accompanied by several more voices.

"Help! H-help, please! They've gone mad!"

A rather large riot had begun just outside the modest farm. The colonists were known to withhold aggression that could spark from even the slightest bit of oppression, taking action with their balled up fists and kicking leather shoes. The leader of the group turned around to face some of his men, commanding just a few of them to ease the situation. He ordered for them to be discrete about ceasing the riot. Just as the man turned back around from instructing his men, he came to find his remaining men in a pool of blood, their chests and throats gaping with blood. Connor smirked at the man's paling face, the hidden blade from the sleeve of his glove glinting in the sunlight with crimson pride. Sputtering incoherent words, the man stumbled as he ran away from the scene.

Before Connor could depart, a distinct, high-pitched whistle sounded off, capturing his attention. Tracking the source easily, he saw the back of a woman in a narrow alleyway, a large black hat atop her head. She stood with her side against the brick wall of a building, her hip jutted to one side. With her hand raised, she motioned with her index finger for him to follow her deeper into the crooks and crannies of the alleyway. Sneaky and whimsical, like the march hare that she was. Connor hesitated for a moment before he saw that the woman turned her head to look over her shoulder, her close mouthed smile and blue eyes revealing her identity.

'MaryLynn.'

Quickly observing the area for safety, Connor then made his way over to the woman who slowly began walking away. He quickened his pace to speak to her, his brows furrowed deeply.

"What are you doing here?" he said in a hushed voice, walking beside her.

She lead him to a quiet part of the alley, the busy streets of Boston just up ahead at the end of the narrow walkway.

"There is a riot just outside this alle-" he continued to speak, only to be interrupted by MaryLynn's light giggle.

"That was me, silly. I started that riot. That scream was from my mouth to feign distress to distract the redcoats. I've lived here all my life, so perhaps knowing my way around these streets can be of use to you."

Without so much as a word or a glance, Connor turned away to leave.

"Unbelievable," she commented aloud at his brash action, throwing her hands in the air. "Not even a simple 'thank you' for helping you?"

"I did not need or ask for your help," he merely stated, his heavy footsteps refusing to stop.

The dismissal...it was what Surry had spoken of when mentioning Sam Adam's dealing with the Native assassin. He had not thanked the statesman for even one thing to help aid his mission. And yet, the older man had not declared a curt rejection of Connor. He still tolerated his dismissiveness and lack of gratitude, even considering the young man as one of his own men in the Sons of Liberty. What was so appalling about camaraderie in this fight for freedom?

And he had just dismissed MaryLynn so easily, as if they had never met before, as if she never helped him before.

She huffed, anger rising as her fists clenched at her sides. This was certainly not acceptable.

"You are selfish, you know that?" she spoke up, secretly surprised by her daring streak.

This worked wonders in stopping the Native assassin in his tracks. He quickly turned around to face her, a deep scowl tugging his lips. A part of her was relieved that the hood concealed his eyes. His scowl was intimidating, but his eyes were downright frightening. Nonetheless, she forced her nervous energy away. There was no way this man was going to make her squirm before him.

"I am fighting to grant these people freedom, and yet you claim I am selfish?" he retaliated, his large hand motioning between them.

"I am not speaking of this struggle for freedom! I am speaking of your arrogance over people who may share the same desire as you, yet you dismiss their aid completely."

Connor did not falter. His broad shoulders remained squared, his stance towering. She could see the bone of his jaw tense against his copper skin. How the hell would this woman know of his struggles? His people's struggles? She spoke such blasphemy. There was no time for pleasantries and get-to-know-you's! However, Connor's lack of movement suggested that he was listening to her.

The more his stare became intense, the more MaryLynn's anger sparked at how he looked down upon her like a helpless kitten who could not catch the mouse. Who was he to declare her useless? This woman was not backing down. Not now.

Two people, two worlds, stood up against one another, claiming their purpose as "the" purpose. It was a showdown of the prides: the pride of a man and the pride of a woman.

"Surry tells me that Sam doesn't mind you running off without so much as a 'thank you' or an extension of friendship when working alongside you. He means you no harm, and considers you as an equal! Do as you wish with him, but don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance! Do you honestly think you're the only one hurting inside? Do you think you're the only one who is affected by this God awful time? Sam cares about you, and so..do..I."

With grand steps forward, the blonde woman eliminated the distance between herself and Connor, looking up into his shadowed eyes. Her own eyes were on the verge of crowning with tears. MaryLynn fought tooth and nail not to cry in front of him. She wasn't a child. She wasn't useless.

"Come down from your pedestal, you...you brute!" she shouted, her nails cutting into her palms as her fists tightened further.

She stormed off, shoving the brim of her large black hat down over her eyes. Connor had no words to retaliate with, utter frustration bubbling in his stomach and up into his throat. All could he manage through his emotion was an aggressive inquiry.

"Where are you going?!"

"None of your concern!" the blonde woman spat, picking up her skirt and petticoat to grant her legs more leeway as she bustled away into the Boston streets.

She bit into her lip to refrain from crying in frustration. 'Do not cry in public-do not cry in public-do not cry in public,' was the mantra looping within her mind. Why did she bother to save him, only to see that he was not what she thought he was? Tempted to accept regret and hatred into her heart, she refused. She had saved him, both today and three years ago, and would do it again if given the chance. There was no room in her heart for hatred to feast away at her humanity.

And yet, it hurt very much to be rejected by a potential friend.

He remained silent as he watched MaryLynn disappear. He bowed his head, a frown cutting into his face as the woman's words replayed in his mind. "Come down from your pedestal, you...you brute!" He growled deep in his throat, grinding his teeth in vexation. 'That's not what I meant to say to you. You don't understand where I'm coming from. I didn't mean...Ugh!'

"There he is!" called the once stammering redcoat soldier from afar. "Get him before he escapes once more!"

Several days went by since the confrontation in the alleyway.

At the edge of a cliff side, tucked in the heart of the vast frontier sat the Native assassin, his legs crossed while his shoulders hunched forward. He stared at the murky lakes below, his absence of awareness giving way to his troubled recollections.

"Why?!" a pale face painted with the man's own blood pleaded for an answer. "I was only doing as I was told!"

The expression of remorse across his recruit's once angry face had struck Connor. He had given Stephane the order to kill the taxman, only to find himself empty when the killing was not done by his own hands, but performed before his eyes.

"End his suffering cleanly," was all Connor could say to Stephane, his head bowed low.

He had to look away. He could not witness the Frenchman strike his butcher knife deeper into the man's weeping shoulder wound. The gurgle of blood from the man's throat made Connor nauseous to no end. It was the first pang of remorse to shatter his angry heart.

Why did this memory insist on pestering him? Connor had sought to ease the fury of Stephane Chapeau over suspected thievery in his home, only to later find himself telling the recruit to assassinate a taxman that he thought was a direct source to William Johnson's power. The assassination did not leave Connor with satisfaction as he had expected. It left him feeling empty...feeling dirtied by watching this hysterical man die. To kill a man himself had numbed him to the very core. He was trained to be a Reaper in white, an Assassin of the Brotherhood.

To watch a man being killed by another was a different story. He simply could not understand it. He was trained for three long years to become a ruthless killer! Why was this happening now? What had fueled his purpose had also began to betray his sanity.

This event had occurred a few days ago, yet it was still clear in his mind. The taxman working for Johnson was dead. Stephane executed the deed under Connor's order. It was done. And yet, the sight of a man dying, bleeding profusely as he pleaded for a reason why this misfortune had befallen him, still haunted the young man. The taxman was just another blind man under Johnson's thumb. And Connor, for the first time, felt remorse during this mission. What if the man could be persuaded to leave his position? What if he was only doing what he was told, an ignorant man with no direction?

Connor thought his mind would explode if his thoughts delved any deeper into the possibilities that will never be justified.

He did not blame Stephane at all, not even for a split second. The Frenchman was overfilled with anger, an anger that the young man knew all too well. And there he was, trying to calm down another man who shared that same incessant fury. It was not his hand that was stained with the taxman's blood, but the Frenchman's hand. However, it might as well have been Connor's hand with the butcher knife in possession since the order to assassinate came from his lips alone.

Recruiting Stephane had somewhat alleviated him, however. The mission was not as stressful when there was another man present to exchange and execute plans with. Having visited Stephane earlier today in his tavern, Connor conversed with him over an ale or two. The will to live had flickered in Stephane's dark little eyes, despite having lost his wife and child to heartless British soldiers raiding his home years ago. Connor opened his eyes, metaphorically, to the fact that he was not the only one with a tragic past. Demons lurk in just about any human being.

"Come down from your pedestal, you...you brute!"
"..don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance."

MaryLynn's words came to taunt once again.

"I am not arrogant. I am angry," he whispered into the air in Mohawk as if he were answering back to the blonde woman.

The rest of his inner speech continued within the security of his mind's walls.

'This is my fight, and I will not permit the chance for an ally, a friend, to die because of me. Maybe she had spoken a truth in her anger. Am I blind to others who seek justice just as I do? They shouldn't die because they are affiliated with me, but do I thieve them of seeking their own personal justice?'

He growled aloud, pulling his hair in frustration. He heaved air in and out, trying to ease himself down.

'I owe MaryLynn an apology,' he thought. 'I just hope she'll accept my apology. She may share a painful past as well. She did nothing but aid me, and asked for nothing in return. Mother had taught me better than this.'

Mother. Ista. The thought of his deceased mother infiltrated his mind.

Her burning flesh.

Her rotting bones.

Her final words.

He shook his head as if to rid himself of the merciless trauma. Eyes stinging with potential tears, Connor bit into his lower lip, silently vowing to make his dear mother proud in the afterlife.

He sighed aloud, stifling his emotions the way he had usually done. He could not bear to fester with painful memories in fear of refusing to continue his mission, to live. Connor decided on visiting MaryLynn tonight in Boston, recalling the building she had pointed out on the night they had reunited. Once his head had cooled from the runaway thoughts, he felt a slight puff of hot air at his fingers. Looking down, Connor came to be acquainted with a small hare. The light brown puff with long ears had sniffed his fingers and leather glove, its nose crinkled with curiosity.

"Go home," Connor said to the hare. "I have no desire to hunt you right now."

The hare, oddly enough, acceded as it ran off into the tall grass, long ears still visible as it dashed away.

"I wish I could go home as well."

Once night had fallen upon the dirty streets of Boston, the Native assassin had arrived at the Maverick. Hoping he had the correct residence picked out, Connor pulled open the large maroon door. The scent of jasmine perfume had overwhelmed his nostrils. The streets were an unpleasant, pungent smell altogether, but to mingle with the heavy floral scent was enough to make him nauseous.

Swallowing the nausea down, he made his way down a narrow hallway paneled with aged wood. Upon the walls hung frames of pressed blood roses and violet stalks. Despite being drained of water, the colors of the pressed flowers still possessed a vibrant hue. However, they were far from living. The roses and violets were like that of decorated corpses in a mortuary: put on display for the living to marvel at the imitation of life in death.

Dark eyes were drawn away from the framed flowers once Connor passed through a threshold into a large foyer. A few feet away stood a large, curvaceous woman with fire red curls pinned atop her head. Her back faced him as she looked up the staircase in front of her. She appeared to be vigilant, listening in on whatever she was listening for. Connor cleared his throat to gain her attention.

Turning around, the woman did not bat an eyelash at the towering man. Quite frankly, she looked him up and down before addressing him, a pencil thin eyebrow cocked at a high angle.

"Yea?" she said. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for MaryLynn. Does she live here?"

"She does. Do you 'ave an appointment with her, sir?"

"No. She had granted me permission to visit her."

"Ha! I've heard tha' one before. I may be gettin' up in years, but I'm not stupid."

"I am only here to visit her per her request. Bring her here to prove my words."

"Are you bossin' me around, boy? Ay, I don' think so. I've seen those Wanted posters, no mistake there. And the bulk of weapons you 'ave concealed there don' help you either. I appreciate you helpin' those rebels with those taxes, boy, but I'm in no way allowin' a dangerous man near my girls."

"I was given permission by MaryLynn to visit her," Connor repeated himself, his patience leaving him. "Let me through."

"Try an' pass me, an' I'll filet you like haggis and serve you to hell hounds! Don' think I won' do it!"

And thus, Connor left with a scowl. The dead flowers bid him goodnight from their glass homes as his heavy footsteps passed by them. 'What is it about that old woman and disliking me? I have done nothing wrong!' He was given permission, and he did not threaten the sassy woman.

Shutting the door behind him with a heavy "thud," Connor looked up at the building before him. Two windows in front. He dashed to the left side of the building. Three windows on this side. Possibly two other windows in the back and three more on the right side. Connor discerned that MaryLynn was located in one of those rooms on the second floor. He knew that she was not at the Green Dragon tavern. He had already looked before approaching the Maverick.

The scowl quickly curved into a smirk as he began to scale the wall of the building. 'I win, old woman.'

The first few windows revealed either a quiet room or a woman's shriek, strange animal-like noises coming to a silence. Despite being highly inexperienced, Connor was not a fool as to what these ecstatic noises indicated. He knew that there were men and women having sex in these rooms. No wonder that older woman was so protective. These women were part of her business. Connor was unsure of how to feel about a business such as this. However, he did not judge the profession, knowing that hard times called for desperate measures. Still, he wondered why a woman would sell herself. He deemed it to be none of his business, and did not know these women personally to even begin to discern what kind of people they were. Besides, he had never engaged in sexual intercourse.

The man was a virgin, pure and simple.

Scaling his way to the last three windows on the right side of the Maverick, he knocked on yet another window. A woman with black tousled hair, who was dressed in only her white linen pantaloons and bodice, had come to meet him at the window.

"Oh my!" she shouted. "You do know there's a door below, right?"

"Do you know where MaryLynn is?" Connor questioned, his inquiries never failing to sound like firm demands.

"Oh. Her," mumbled the dark haired woman, her green eyes rolling. "She is the second window from the right of this one."

Seizing the opportunity to gain a new client, the woman began to twirl a lock of dark hair around her fingers as she admired Connor's bulky physique beneath his long white coat.

"You're that man that's been stopping the British taxmen around here. Would you like to come in and relax with me, darlin'?"

"No," he curtly dismissed the woman in a deadpan voice, working his way to the desired window.

"Damn that woman!" seethed the dark haired woman as she slammed the window panes shut. "Now she's got them climbing the damn building for her!"

Finally. She was to be in this room. Suddenly, he experienced slight nervousness. No matter. It was his duty to apologize to the blonde woman, and that was what he was going to do. He knocked on the window glass three times. The first two knocks were audible and confident, while the last knock was hesitant.

There was a faint glow of candlelight from inside the room. He saw MaryLynn look up from an open, leather bound book resting on her lap. Her eyes widened at the sight of the unexpected visitor at her window. Putting aside her book, she slowly rose from her bed, cautious in her footsteps. Opening the window panes towards her, MaryLynn looked at Connor with raised eyebrows.

"Connor? How did you..?"

She did not finish her question. It was obvious that he had scaled up the building. She shook her head of the previous inquiry, her blonde curls bouncing about.

"Why are you here?" she decided to ask him an inquiry more suited to this impromptu situation.

He does not answer her immediately. His head turned away. Connor was accustomed to pulling his weight up cliffs and buildings alike, so hanging from the window sill was not an issue. It was beginning to formulate his apology that hindered the young man.

"You can come in, but you better have an explanation ready," MaryLynn stated in a soft voice, stepping back to grant him space.

It was a risk that she took to grant him entry into her bedroom. She knew of his slaughtering of the redcoats and taxmen by word of mouth. It was not exactly done in a discrete manner. He was an expert with weapons, and these said weapons adorned his waist. Despite this, she knew that he would not harm her. He had no reason to.

Connor climbed into the bedroom, his eyes still avoiding the blue pair that sought him out. Standing up, he forced himself to look at the blonde woman. There she stood, crossing her arms before her bosom and an eyebrow arched high. No, she did not forget their heated argument from several days ago. She was dressed in a white linen nightgown, the collar hanging over her bare right shoulder. Draped down her torso was an onyx beaded rosary, a silver crucifix glittering in the moonlight. The rosary had captured his eye, curious about the foreign jewelry winking up at him. Retracting his gaze from the rosary, the Native assassin opened his mouth, only to shut it with hesitance. This was much more difficult than just interrogating a man! Here, he was baffled.

"I am rather tired from my last client, and don't intend on standing up all night," MaryLynn stated firmly, jutting out her hip with a hand placed upon it. "What is it?"

His mouth opened.

His mouth shut.

He looked down at his hands.

He picked at his leather gloves.

He tried to open his mouth again, beginning to form a word...only to shut his mouth once more.

The blonde woman was losing her patience. What in God's name did he want? She sighed aloud, throwing her hands up in the air.

"If you insist on standing there, then I'm going to bed," she declared heatedly, hastily making her way to her rumpled bed. "Goodnig-"

"Sorry."

He finally spoke.

"Wh-what?" MaryLynn stuttered, ceasing her footsteps to look at Connor intently.

Connor sighed aloud, his shoulders hunching forward as he looked the blonde woman in the eye.

"I am sorry...for my behavior from days ago."

"Oh, Connor. You came all the way up here just to apologize to me?"

He nodded, retaining a meaningful gaze on her candlelit face. MaryLynn was touched. Beneath all that pride of his, the Native assassin meant well. This was an honorable act; a rather odd act, considering he came through a damn window instead of a door; but an honorable one nonetheless.

Exhaling though her nostrils, she smiled up at Connor with raised eyebrows.

"Now, was that so hard to do?" she asked with a playful tone to her breathy voice.

His nervous gaze left her face for his hands, his eyes further hidden beneath the pointed lip of his hood.

"Yes," he grumbled, biting the inside of his lip.

Author's Note: Yes...they ended up having a little tiff. No worries, it's out of their systems for now, so they will get along from here.

Thank you to those who have read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story thus far! I greatly appreciate your time to do so. As you can see, there will be skipping of moments in the actual game because I do not want to drag the story by writing out every sequence we all know and love from Assassin's Creed 3. My ADD can't take that, ha ha.

Remember the number 1001 for the next chapter. ;)

Have a lovely week, everyone. Best wishes.

~take care