Chapter 8: Cruel Cruel World, Part 1

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

Italics: Memories and native tongue.

Bold: Lines from the Assassin's Creed 3 game.

"It's been a battle for too long
And all my happiness has gone
Kindness erases a city of strangers
Deep down in my bones
All I wanna do is crawl back home to you

Cause nobody gets me
Nobody gets me
Nobody gets me
Like you
Everyone left me
Everyone left me
Everyone left me but you
And you're the only one
The only one, the only who gets through

And when my hope is gone
I'm feeling numb,
The only one I let though is you, you
You get me through, you
You can get me through this cruel cruel world
This cruel cruel world"

- "Cruel Cruel World" by Darren Hayes

April 1775

"M-miss, I must explain-"

"Don't you worry, honey. I have handled young men such as yourself before."

The final session of the night had involved a young Patriot who had been pressured by his rowdy comrades to spend a night with an experienced woman before pursuing upcoming training against the British. The poor thing was so frantic, he was visibly shivering and his eyes darted everywhere but MaryLynn's heavy-hooded, sultry gaze. She tried to pacify the young man with a caress of his cheek, progressing to combing his brown hair with her fingers.

"B-but, you don't understand!" the young Patriot persisted as the blonde woman's body pressed him gently against the wall.

She cooed for him to relax as she lightly ran her lips over his neck, her eyelashes tickling the skin. Strange, no Adam's apple.

The young man stiffened immensely in stance, unsure of how to register the sensation of MaryLynn's fingertips lining his collarbone.

"So nervous," she sang in a breath, her fingers trailing from his collarbone and down his torso.

Before she could reach his crotch, the young man yelped in a higher tone of voice.

"I'm a woman!"

Marylyn ceased her actions in cold blood. Stepping away from him-erm...her...the woman folded her hands before her ivory dress.

"A woman? Well, no wonder I felt no erection from you," she said candidly. "Miss, I have nothing against your wishes, and I'm sure there is a way to make love to a woman, but-"

"No, no! I am not here out of free will!"

"Oh!" tittered MaryLynn. "Well, this is odd."

"I-I-I'm terribly sorry, the other men thought I should be here before training, they don't know that I'm a woman, so I couldn't say no, they would kick me out, oh Lord what if they don't believe me-"

"Easy, there!" shouted MaryLynn, holding up her hands, her palms facing the young lady. "Please, just take a deep breath. All is well, I am not upset and you are not in trouble."

Funny. She was once the panicking woman who had to be pacified with shouts. The tables have turned. Thank you, dear Irony.

The young lady did as she was told, taking in a shaking deep breath for three seconds. She exhaled aloud in four seconds, her shoulders hunching from their once tight hold. She lowered her head, removing her navy blue tricorn hat.

"Alright…I am ok now…" she poke slowly, gathering her words and speaking coherently to the best of her ability despite her nerves. "My fellow Patriots thought it would be 'appropriate' if I spent the night with an experienced woman before heading off for duty for the first time. If I had insisted on declining, they would surely find out that I was not who I said I was."

With all due respect, MaryLynn had just thought that the young lady was a small boned lad who was much too nervous to have an erection. However, the lack of an Adam's Apple had given her a hint. Smiling sympathetically, the blonde placed her hand on the young lady's shoulder.

"You need not worry," she said. "I'm sure women love each other, but I don't think this fits the current situation."

She laughed lightly, which seemed to make the young lady smile in return. Her nervous tension was further alleviated. By this time, MaryLynn had offered a seat on her bed while she turned around her desk chair, facing the young lady as she sat down.

"Now, tell me, why did you enlist?" MaryLynn calmly asks, adjusting her ivory dress so her bare shoulders were covered.

"Well, miss, my brother ill. My mother can only do so much. So, I took it upon myself to fight for freedom. Neither of them was pleased, and Mother had forbidden me to enlist. I ended up running away, changing my name and appearance, and was accepted into the Patriot movement. My family is probably upset, but I cannot…will not…just stand by and hope this tyranny dies."

MaryLynn smiled with bittersweet undertones in her blue eyes. This young lady was willing to fight in order to protect her brother and her father. She chose to act instead of sit idly by. She watched as the young lady adjusted her low ponytail, tightening the leather ribbon. Her dark eyes lingered upon her calloused fingers. The poor thing knew that she could die if fate had scribed such a thing.

"You are very brave. It will be ruthless out there. Please, be careful. Conceal your gender as best as you can. I cannot imagine the consequences."

"Don't worry over me, miss," smiled the young lady, her humble gaze now meeting the blonde woman's. "You're awfully nice for a brothel woman. Oh my, I-I-I meant that with all due respect! It's just s-s-some women are pushy in the tavern sometimes. This one woman insisted on touching me, while I waited for my session, when I clearly declined."

"Does she have dark, dark hair? Green eyes?"

"Yes!"

"Ah. She is desperate for business. Do not take it personally, honey."

"If you say so. I do apologize if I sounded rude."

"It's alright! I don't take offense, really. I understand what you speak of. Goodness, you worry to much.."

"Sorry, miss. Just nervous, I guess. War is coming, and not knowing when it is our time to fight makes me—well, all of us walking on eggshells, so to speak. It is scary. Umm…how long is it alright for me to stay here?"

As long as you'd like. It's nice to talk to a woman outside of the business for once."

"The guys will pester me about this. What if they don't believe me?"

"We can fool them. Are you a virgin or are you not?"

The young lady flushed furiously, ringing her hands.

"Oh, I don't mean to embarrass you. It's perfectly fine. I am just gathering information. By the way, what is your name?"

"Thomas."

MaryLynn giggled.

"Your real name."

"Oh. Force of habit. It is Jeanette."

"Jeanette," the blonde woman reiterated. "I'm MaryLynn. So, for a young man who is a virgin, it would usually take time for him to become erect and remain that way due to nervous jitters. The actual sex would last about a few minutes, with him climaxing prematurely. It would be embarrassing for the young man, but, from what I have experienced, it is really their nervousness that hinders their willingness to have sex."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"Ha, ha! Well, for his first time, it can be that way. So, I think another fifteen minutes should do you some good. Are the other men here at the Maverick as well?"

"Yes. We are to meet at the Green Dragon afterword."

"I see. Let me get a pocket watch to keep track of time."

After retrieving the scratched up, copper pocket watch from her nightstand, MaryLynn and Jeanette chatted about the Patriots coming together as an army against British control. It would not be an easy movement, for most of the men enlisted were inexperienced, not to mention the artillery was not as advanced and polished as the sort that was in British possession. However, the undying cry for freedom was much too loud to just sit idly and bear the injustice dealt to the men, women, and children of the colonies. These men were eager to train and sacrifice themselves for a greater cause. This inevitable revolution would be a battle of passion versus glory. To hear such things made the blonde woman's stomach churn. A revolution was called for, but the thought of the casualties and the unknown outcome would leave thousands of people awake at night. One will just have to wait and see…and pray.

When the last five minutes of their "session" had come, MaryLynn had Jeanette stand up from the bed. She began fiddling with the collar of the young lady's military shirt.

"MaryLynn, what are you?!"

"You have to look the part if you wish to fool your men," she explained as she untucked her military shirt. "It will make your story more believable if you have visuals to accompany it."

After rumpling Jeanette's navy blue vest, MaryLynn stood back to observe her work thus far.

"A-ha," murmured the whimsical woman as another idea came to mind.

She rushed to her vanity desk to collect some crushed, dried berries from a silver jar that she would use for rouge and staining her lips a rosy color. It was not common for colonial women to pamper their face in such ways. However, when in the brothel, anything that can enhance one's appearance would bring in much more business. Besides, it felt nice to have a slight flush without actually pinching her cheeks.

Returning to Jeanette, the blonde woman dotted with her fingertips some of the crushed berries before rubbed her cheeks in circles to spread the color evenly.

"Men and women are flushed after sex, just like any other physical activity. This will feign an after-glow. Don't worry about what that phrase means, just trust me."

"I-if you say so.." murmured the young lady, feeling rather silly for having dried berries on her cheeks.

With a little crushed berry left over on her fingertips, MaryLynn spread the rest onto her lips. She licked her lips slightly to matte down the powder.

"One last touch," she announced. "May I have access to your collar?"

"Erm, I..suppose so?"

Gently, the blonde woman took old of the right collar of the military shirt, placing two kisses on the material.

"A kiss or two on the collar always rats out an unfaithful man…or a lucky man, whichever," tittered MaryLynn as she winked. "Now, just tug a few strands of hair out of your ribbon, and you are now a disheveled young soldier after a night with a lady."

Jeanette did as she was instructed. A triumphant grin spread across MaryLynn's rosy lips, her eyes crinkling with glee towards her work of illusion. After speaking with this lovely woman who did not berate her for her disguise or wasting he time, the young lady learned to trust MaryLynn. Bashfully, Jeanette rubbed her arm for comfort as she expressed her gratitude.

"I can't begin to than you; not just for understanding, but for helping me too."

"No need to thank me. Just fight hard, Jeanette. Or Thomas, whichever."

For the first time that night, Jeanette had smiled with amusement.

"Why did you choose the name Thomas, if I may ask?"

"It was my father's name. He was an honorable man back in the day, before he died."

"You will make him proud," said MaryLynn, her heartbreaking over Jeanette's eyes glazing over with sadness. "God bless you for your bravery."

MaryLynn had escorted the young lady to the door, opening it for her.

"I can try and speak with Madame about getting your money back."

"Oh, no need! Really, keep it. Besides, it was not I who paid for the night."

The pair of women laughed. MaryLynn was sad to see Jeanette leave as she walked down the hallway. She lingered at the doorway even after Jeanette disappeared down the staircase. Her heart swelled at the thought of Jeanette in battle. 'Please Lord, let it not be her that dies.' Stepping away from the doorway, she closed the door shut.

Slowly, she strolled over to her nightstand where she kept her most prized possessions. Opening the small drawer, she retrieved a thick, leather band bracelet. It was dark brown with white beaded diamond shapes woven into the material. Her smile warmed the moment she wrapped the bracelet around her tiny wrist, letting the string cords hang in the air. Connor had given this gift to her the last time he had come to visit a couple of months ago. His investigation had come to another pause, so he had stopped by for a visit and a little gift. MaryLynn's lashes fluttered shut as she relived the memory in her mind.

Bidding another client godobye (a rather demanding one), MaryLynn shut the door, happy to see the slob leave her bedroom. She remained stationed at the door when a sound had gone off in the background. Her back was to the window. Did someone break in? Her breath shortening, MaryLynn swiftly lifted her foot and slid off her slipper to project it fiercely at the intruder.

A muscular forearm had blocked the slipper easily, his hooded head ducking behind his arm. Connor was found climbing through the now open window, lifting his weight into the bedroom.

"You're quicker in your throwing since you last attacked me with a shoe," said Connor with a partial smile.

"You scared me! How did you get in? I had locked the window a while ago."

"It is my specialty to maneuver about undetected," he explained, removing his white hood. "And I've been picking locks since I was child."

The sound of Connor using contractions in his English speaking was still strange to the blonde woman's ears. He had become more and more fluent in English. However, his tone of speech remained formal.

"That does not surprise me somehow. I'm so happy to see you.."

MaryLynn rushed to the Native assassin and embraced his waist. Connor was still hesitant over physical contact, but had managed to show some progress by placing a hand on her upper back for a moment or two. He had only progressed with MaryLynn, it seemed. She took no offense. To feel his warmth against her body was a lovely feeling, and a hand on her back communicated effort on his part.

"I haven't seen much of you," she admitted shyly, her voice barely there as she pulled away. "What is new with you?"

Connor sighed deeply as he explained the lack of progress in his investigation. He was able to keep track of John Pitcairn's activity, but has been lying low as of now. He knew that he was being stalked. Connor had been checking in with Sam Adams, not yet trusting the Sons of Liberty however. Sam was the only one who had proven his trust. The poor man could only provide so much inside information. Connor respected Sam for his undying efforts to work with both him and his men in these hard times.

"The Patriots are training hard. They are not experienced with war, but they are eager to learn. I only hope that they will be ready."

"They're so nervous, the poor things! I'm sure they are working very hard. I try to talk to them if one of them has a session. Their blue vests are hard to miss. It seems to alleviate them when someone is there to listen."

"You can have conversations during your sessions?"

"It's my session, is it not?"

She did have a point. Connor nodded at her counter question, satisfied. Removing his coat and weaponry, he said, "You are kind to speak to them. They are brave, but very intimidated nonetheless."

MaryLynn smiled humbly, sitting down upon her bed.

"They are going off to war for our rights. It is the least I can do. I'm frightened for them."

Once Connor had placed his belongings onto a nearby chair, he sat down beside her on the bed.

"They know what they agreed to partake in. There is no room for pity."

She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with her long fingernails. His words were firm, but there was a hint of concern. How was he able to retain such a level head in these heavy situations? Perhaps that was why he was an assassin, why he lasted this long in the movement for freedom.

Connor felt guilty for worrying MaryLynn. He wanted his visits with her to be enjoyable, not stressful. She seemed quiet, staring down at her nails. His eyebrows furrowed, hoping to think of something to lighten their time together. There was a leather band bracelet that he had made for her, tucked safely away in the breast pocket of his dusty white coat. It was woven with white beads in diamond patterns, in the Iroquois fashion. She did not possess a trinket or something rather to wear for comfort any longer. It was her decision to give Connor her crucifix. And yet, he still felt guilt. What could he do to possibly replace the crucifix necklace?

Some time ago, sleep would not grant him peace on a chilly night at the Davenport Homestead, which lead him to crafting a bracelet at two-thirty in the morning. There were some extra slabs of leather in the basement, where he would mostly train and craft pelts of different animals. Off to the dark basement, a candle or two lit, Connor went to work on slicing a rectangular piece of leather, weaving cord string through the vertical opening to either loosen or tighten the bracelet. The beadwork was next, which was a painstaking task for Connor! He had not crafted beadwork in the longest time, and he was a little rusty in his weaving skills.

When he was a child, he was shown how to work with beads of red, white, black, blue and yellow, all colors of nature and humankind alike. Clan Mother had taught him the craft when she was not counseling with troubled people or the Mohawk chiefs. After losing his mother at such a tender age, the old woman found it best that the little boy keep himself busy with something as mechanical and attention focusing as beadwork. Each piece of beadwork was special in his tribe, for they were an extension of the person wearing the piece. Once Connor/Ratonhnhaké:ton had grown older, hunting became his passion, and he had abandoned beadwork. Now, as an adult, he found that it was a slow process to perfect the weaving. However, the end result was worth it, despite the crooked lines and imperfect patterns. It was worth seeing that smile on this lovely woman's face.

As Connor now stood up and quickened his pace to reach his coat, MaryLynn cocked an eyebrow at his peculiar behavior.

"What are doing, Connor?" a soft inquiry left her lips as she observed Connor fumble with the breast pocket of his coat.

Long copper fingers had pulled out the dark brown leather bracelet, the white beads glistening in the candlelight. Her eyes widened at the bracelet, finding it beautiful in its craft. It had reminded the blonde woman of the armbands that Connor would wear over his white coat. Connor looked down at the bracelet in his large hand, thinking it could have been crafted better and not have been so sloppy, in his opinion. He looked at up MaryLynn, her eyes warm as she gazed at the bracelet. A twitch of his lips had alluded to his nervousness. Firming his grip on the bracelet, he walked back to her and sat beside her on the bed. It took a few moments for him to collect his words, his eyes avoiding her own.

"I, uh," he began, running his calloused fingertips over the white beads. "I made this for you. You no longer have something to wear for comfort, so I wanted to give you a replaceme-"

She embraced him around his neck before he could finish his sentence. He remained painfully still, his dark eyes wide and his mouth dry.

"..replacement, if you like it," he slowly finished his sentence.

"You made it for me. Of course I like it."

MaryLynn realized that he had felt uncomfortable with another embrace in one night. Connor's body was stiffening, and she could feel his heart pound against her skin. She alleviated his tension by letting go of him, sitting back. He presented the bracelet to her, his palm open with fingers slightly curling over the leather. She held out her right wrist and took the bracelet with her left hand. MaryLynn slid her wrist through the bracelet, the opening widening to give way. Turning over her wrist, she attempts to tie the cord string to no avail. Her attempts were clumsy, her nose crinkling with frustration. A partial smile tugged the Native assassin's lips as he took over, brushing away her hand as he tied the string for her. He did not tie the string too tightly so as not to cut off her circulation. The natural colors of the bracelet, dark brown and soft white, had complimented her fair skin so lovingly.

"It's beautiful," whispers the blonde woman, rubbing the leather and beads to bask in the sensation. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," he says humbly, looking away.

"I will always wear this," MaryLynn continues, gaining Connor's gaze, "and I will think of you each time."

"It is not my best work. I could have done better."

"Don't reject my affection," says MaryLynn, her words bold but not brutal in tone. "I love this the way it is."

How much she burned, yearned to say to him that she loved him the way he was, no matter the flaws. Like the crooked diamond patterns of the bracelet, he was perfectly flawed.

That visit was two months ago. He never stopped working on the investigation over John Pitcairn and his plan to eliminate Patriot supplies, striking them when no defense was planned to push back the British army. Connor had behaved similarly with William Johnson as well. Obsessive. Stressed. Distant. He would lighten his mood when he would visit her. However, it was that morbid, stern face that she would see before he even spoke a word to her.

Occasionally, a messenger would come by the Green Dragon with a small gift to give to her, a feather tied to it. It was Connor's idea of a signature. He was not much of a talker, but he could certainly show how he felt better than verbally expressing it. A young man named Clipper (one of Connor's recruits as she understood him to be) was the first to drop off a necklace with rows of white and black beads. "He says that he is getting better at his beadwork, Miss MaryLynn. He hopes you like this gift." "Please tell him that anything he makes is beautiful to me. He does not have to give me anything!" "Oh, he insists! Believe me when I say that he seems gentler when he asks either Stephane or I to drop off a trinket of his...forgive me, I might use the wrong words...a trinket of his people's fashion to you." "Why, is he strict with you and Stephane?" "Well…don't tell him, Miss, but he is tough. Reasonable, but tough." "Ha ha. That does not surprise me."

The second time had been Stephane again, bearing a leather pouch with a circular beadwork woven into the center in colors of white, blue, red, black, and yellow. As always, another feather was attached as a signature. "I have been telling the boy to just propose to you! It is always a pleasure seeing you, mademoiselle, but he is the one with the affection. he should be giving you these gifts." "Does he really? I'm not labeling you a liar at all, but it is hard for me to think of him loving me. He is so reserved and private." "Give him time, MaryLynn. It is not hard to see why he does care for you. You are patient, I can tell. And patience is what is needed to deal with someone like Connor."

The feathers from each gift were collected into a bundle, bound together with a red stain ribbon. The blonde woman would place them safely in the drawer of her nightstand where she would keep the bracelet, necklace, and pouch Connor had made. Underneath the items, fraying at the edges with age was the parchment poster of a young Connor from 1770, alerting the people of Boston of his bravery. MaryLynn never forgot that mop of dark hair covering his eyes, how unruly it was when loose. Sure, the poster was printed with propaganda to help him escape incognito without trouble, but it was still a memento of when she first met that nervous boy in the alleyway.

Lately, MaryLynn had been looking at the poster as memories danced before her heavy hooded eyes. She tried as best as she could to forget the recollection of Charles Lee attempting to rape her and the humiliating walk home to the brothel. However, Connor's shy smile would sweep in her mind, reminding her of what came out of their first meeting: his return years later to be a close friend to her and someone who accepted her fully.

She thought of him often…too often for her liking. 'Come back in one piece. I don't know what I'm feeling, but you best be alive when I figure out these emotions for you.'

April 19, 1775

The night was long. If it had not been for the Sons of Liberty, Connor would have strangled Paul Revere for his incessant orders as he rode behind him on a horse. "This way, Connor!" "Go that way, Connor!" "No, Connor, not that way!" "Where are you going?" "Wait for me!" "Why are you walking away from me?"

As long as people were alerted of oncoming British attack, all was well. He could deal with Revere's neuroticism. Pitcairn would not get away with sneaky, underhanded tactics to eliminate the Patriots and unsuspecting colonists.

Now, on this foggy morning, all was deathly silent in the town of Lexington. All that was left to do was wait; the dreadful wait for the first fire to be shot. Connor never felt so anxious and sick waiting for a battle to begin. He knew it would not be clean. He was used to slaughtering red coats, but an actual battle with dozens of men fighting alongside him? This was rather new, as much as he did not wish to admit it.

Hearts were racing as men stood their position, awaiting their fate. They all prayed for the fire to be shot so that the battle could just end, along with the prolonged torture of fear and the unknown. An older man by the name of John Parker limped as he paced back and forth. It was his duty to not only command these men, but to motivate them. His eyes were dark and narrow, squinting vigorously as he gazed upon each face before him.

"Stand your ground, men! Don't fire unless fired upon! But if they men to have a war, let it begin here!"

Connor enters the scene, his anxiety melting away as he walked with broad strides. His presence was commanding and firm as he made his way to John Parker, the man leading the Patriot soldiers in battle at Lexington. Connor stopped in cold blood as his eyes shot open at the sight of John Pitcairn across the way, ready with his men.

"Pitcairn!"

So the portrait comes to life. Strange how one can memorize a face by staring at a painting. And yet, when the face comes to life, it is almost like sorcery. The villain does exist.

Pitcairn rides up before his men. In a thick Scottish accent, he shouts, "Disperse, you damned rebels! Lay down your arms and disperse!"

Here comes the initiating fire of arms from the Regulars, their muskets more advanced and polished than that of the Patriots. Patriot soldiers freeze for a just a moment in utter horror before retreating the scene. Some men remain in their stances, bearing the first shootings in the battle as they brace themselves behind bouders and trees.

"What the deuce are you doing?! Hold your positions!" John Parker screams in a raspy voice as men abandon their promise to fight.

To avoid the deadly kisses of the silver bullets, Connor pulls the old man away as he continues to curse the cowardly soldiers to Hades.

"Cravens! Traitors!"

Connor pulls them both to safety behind a large boulder, crouching. He speaks of the unfortunate facts to John Parker. There was no time to be angry and judge those who could not take the pressure of battle.

"They are not coming back. You will have to make do with those who remain."

The older man is disgruntled by the calm words, huffing aloud. He was a man of experience, why was this…this boy going around telling him how to act?

"Don't you lecture me on how-"

He stops speaking to look around. All is silent. The Regulars have stopped firing for a split second.

"Return fire! Return fire!"

The remaining Patriots fire their muskets as told, sucking in what could be their final breaths.

"You need to get to Concord and warn the others. Show this to whoever leads there. Should be a man by the name of James Barrett."

He quickly hands Connor a letter from his breast pocket. The older man was already breathless, but fought tooth and nail to remain stationed with his musket. Connor took the letter, a look of alarm on his face at the thought of leaving this man behind.

"Go on now!"

He had to trust that they would be alright. He had trust that they could survive. What else could he do when he didn't even believe his own idealistic thoughts?

Dashing down the dusty pathway, Connor pushed through retreating Patriots, locating an unoccupied horse. Yes, this would be the quickest way! He had to get to Concord and warn the militia before it was too late. His heart was racing, the beats reverberating in his ears. He could feel the heat in his face and neck as he rode the horse down the pathway, winding around corners. The amount of men that had retreated was unbelievable. He could not blame them for running, but simultaneously he was disappointed in their lack of courage, their lack of belief in what they had sworn to fight for. No matter. No time for judgments.

People were screaming. Men were calling to one another to remain together to reach Concord. It was chaos. Amongst it all, Connor retained a hard focus on his path to reach this James Barrett. All sound was blocked out. It was as if he were deaf to the screams around him. All that his brain could register was the end goal, the letter safely tucked in his breast pocket. Obstacles in the form of people running amuck had evoked a growl from his lips. His knuckles were white with fury as his grip tightened. 'Must…reach…there…'

Finally, up in the distance, there stood a couple of men in long coats with two Patriots soldiers. One in red. One in brown. He had recognized the man in the brown coat from last night's meeting of the Sons of Liberty that he had interrupted alongside Paul Revere. Pulling on the reigns to cease the ride, a wild whiney leaving the horse, he had leapt off the saddle and rushed his way over to the gentlemen. Interrupting their conversation, he had warned them with broken breaths.

"Blood has been spilled in Lexington…and there's more to come. The Regulars are on the march."

The man in red, who he assumed to be James Barrett, had slowly made his way over to Connor is calculating strides. His smirk was condescending as he gazed upon Connor, thinking him a Native boy with no clue as to perform in war.

"You don't say? Why do you think I've men up here?"

Connor did not take too lightly to James' sarcasm and arrogant smirk. He basically implied that Connor was foolishly ignorant. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a snarky remark to the older man. He didn't have time for this clash of the egos!

"Go home, 'fore you get yourself killed. I've enough to worry about without some green boy looking to play at hero."

"I can vouch for him," the man in the brown coat spoke up.

He had been more than familiar with Connor's successes in protecting the Sons of Liberty. This was not some mere boy who wanted to play; he was a man who knew how to strategize and remain calm in the midst of battle.

"John Parker as well," said Connor, whipping out the letter for James to see.

There was a slight smirk on his lips, having something over James after his little talk-down. James took the letter and read as he walked away. While he was busy, the man in brown had stepped up to Connor to engage in a hushed conversation.

"Where's Revere?" whispered Connor in a haste.

"Captured."

"What?"

"Fear not. That man's no stranger to sticky situations. He'll be fie, I'm sure of it."

Connor's throat tightened. Yes, the short, stout man had irked him to no end the previous night, but he was still helpful. Spirits help him escape his current situation. Pray that he lives.

James cleared his throat for their attention, having finished with John's letter.

"You ladies finished gossiping? Parker seems to believe that you're not completely useless. So I suppose there's a thing or two you might be able to help with.."

The man in brown tried to conceal his grin. It was amusing to watch the men stare each other down, ready to tear each other's throats out.

"When the fighting starts, we'll need to hold those positions there. They're critical to the defense of Concord."

James points to three spots, one before bridge, one to the far left and one to the far right. He sighs deeply, his lips thinning out as he sealed them.

"Good boys, not used to soldiering. They need someone with experience to direct 'em. That something you can do?"

Connor nods, appreciating the hint of respect he was slowly gaining from the older man.

"You best be telling the truth," James warned. He would not be warming up anytime soon.

"You have my word," Connor swore, looking James square in the eye without hesitance.

"Then I suppose all that's left to do is wait.."

No sooner than later did Regulars by the dozens come marching in. A group of them came approaching the bridge. One Patriot's eyes widened as he turned around to warn James.

"Sir!"

"MAN THE BARRICADES! No," he stops Connor by the wrist as he starts to ride away on the horse. "Ensure my men hold those positions! If the Red Devils break through, we're finished!"

Finally, a chink was found in James' emotional armor.

"What would you have me do?"

"Listen carefully. The Redcoats will form firing lines. Order the men to shoot just before the line is ready. Too soon and they'll miss their targets. Too late and the enemy will open the fire first."

"Understood."

"And if any of those bastards make it through, engage them. You must keep my men alive!"

And so the first battle begins. It begins under his command, and no one else's. His heart had long forgotten how to pulse, his blood running cold. Cursing to himself, Connor forced himself to go in and fight. What happens, happens. There was no looking back now.

The first lines came in the direction of the bridge, where the center Patriot firing lines were stationed. Oh, how desperate Connor was to fire and be done with his nerves! However, it was not beneficial or militant. Raising his hands high in the air, he called out to the Patriots, "Wait for my signal!"

The men did as they were told, though their arms were visibly tense as they aimed their muskets. Once the first firing line of Regulars came close enough to the bridge, Connor commanded for the men to shoot, his arm slicing the thick air as he lowered it.

"Fire now!"

The first firing line went down like rag dolls. Perhaps the least skilled Regulars were sent out first, for the battle only became more difficult. There were Patriot casualties, but the number was not alarming. This was more than a miracle, for there were less than a hundred men on the side of the colonists; easily outnumbered by the amount of Regulars marching in with muskets.

"Now!" Connor would call out, rushing amongst three of the positions of Patriot soldiers.

They came in by the dozen, never-ending in their march. The Native assassin refused to stand down. He had to continue his command even if men were falling to the ground. There was no way they would tear his men down, tear him down.

'Not today. Not today! Not on my watch! Do not fail. Get here. Get over there! Quick! Damn this horse, go faster!' His thoughts were just as concise and sharp as the silver bullets piercing the air.

Noise.

All he heard was noise.

Gun shots.

Screams.

Bodies hitting the ground.

Red.

All he saw was red.

Red coats.

Red blood spilling.

Red..

Red..

Red.

'Let it all stop,' he silently prayed, pushing to reach the left position to command open fire. The Regulars were getting close now, even if the numbers were dying down.

He could have sworn that he had an outer-body experience amongst the battle. He could somehow recall standing away from the intense scene, watching himself command Patriot soldiers. He could see the look on his own face. Teeth bared. Lips thinning. Jaw tense. Eyes…his eyes were aflame, dark as the deep earth. He was a man desperate for victory and death all at once. He could hear the words he spoke, but did not feel his lips move as he watched himself scream in the air for fire. However, it was not his voice. It was the voice of Ziio, his mother.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton...This anger in you. What have you become? It is frightening."

Connor returned to his body fully conscious. What he had just experienced was nothing like he had ever experienced before. Was this the Sky World tampering with his mind? Were the spirits trying to tell him something? Was it his mother trying to grant him perspective?

He could never tell, and probably never will be able to tell.

Before he knew it, Regulars were retreating in cowardly dozens. The adrenaline never stopped pumping. He was still in a mode of battle and could not believe what was happening before his eyes.

"We did it! They're turning tail!" shouted a more than relieved Patriot, raising his musket in the air.

Whilst men were cheering, raising their muskets up in the air in unison, Connor sought out James, making his way across the bridge. It was a deadly sight as he walked among dead bodies soaking in pools of blood, blood as red as their coats. Reaching the other side, he was met with the horrid sight of Patriots lying dead. Were they painted in their own blood? Or was blood mixed with the corpses of the Regulars? They shed the same blood despite their opposing sides.

"Takes a true monster to do something like this.." said James in a grim voice as Connor walked up to him.

Was he a monster? Was Connor the monster?

"…At least they're gone."

"I should have struck when I had the chance…Do you know where Pitcairn could've gone?" Connor inquired desperately.

"Back into the withered bosom of the British, no doubt—so that he might regroup and plan his next atrocity."

"I need to find him. Every day I wait, more will suffer..!"

James understood Connor's obsession, his incessant pain. Losing men was not something one wanted in war. It was inevitable, yes, but it never made it any easier as time passed. His folded hands had unraveled.

"Chin up, friend. Many who should've died today now live because of you."

"And what of them?"

He gestures an open palm at the dead Patriots. They could not be saved. HE could not save them.

"We do the best we can with what we've got."

"It is not enough," Connor firmly says, ready to burst despite his ironclad control of his emotions on the field.

"Hmm. It never is," says James, patting Connor on the shoulder with a heavy hand. How was he able to speak so calmly? Had age and war truly desensitized a man?

He knew. He just could not teach a young man the lesson. He had to learn on his own like any other soldier or general. And so he left Connor to his thoughts. The bodies surrounded him. He felt trapped, taken by the loss of not just Patriots or Recoats, but human beings. He took part in all this. The enemy was defeated for now, but at the cost of his allies.

Dear Spirits, what is this thing called War?

He couldn't return to Achilles. He couldn't reveal his pain, being told that he was brash and young; that he still needed to learn how to keep his heart out of his mission. He didn't want to deal with friends at the homestead asking him questions on why he was so shaken up. He didn't want to take on any more favors. He just couldn't do it right now..

He ground his teeth, biting away the tears threatening to fall. Up in a treetop, the leaves cocooning his body from the outside world, he wished he could just remain there and hide forever. No more favors, no more war, no more losing men that had families! What kind of assassin was he? What good was he?

He was on the verge of a breakdown, and there were no more defenses left in his body to retaliate the human emotion.

Later that night, MaryLynn tossed about, the sheets twirling around her bare calves. She growled in frustration, hitting the pillow with her fist. Sitting up, dressed in her undergarments (a cotton, square-collared bodice and pantaloons), MaryLynn rubbed her eyes, her head hanging low. This was ridiculous. Why could she not fall asleep? Was it the amount of Patriots coming in for sessions? Was it their anxiety that they would reveal to her, the blonde woman trying to console them? There was not much she could do but ease their worries both physically and mentally. In all honesty, it wore her out to sell both her body and her mind.

However, it was the least she could do. She would find a way to bear through it if it meant that these men were fighting for freedom. Not just men, but even a woman. She thought of Jeanette once in a while, wondering if she was still alive. She would never know, really…

A weak, sporadic tapping at her window had startled her. It was not a consistent tapping, but a quiet, desperate sort. The dark figure at the window was easily identified. She rushed to the window, kicking away the bedsheets to reach Connor. He returned again! He was alive!

Unlocking the window to open the panes, she came to meet a Connor that she had not met before. His face was concealed by the lip of his white hood, but his lips were downturned. The blonde woman had said not a word, sensing a heavy mood surrounding her dear friend. She backed away to allow him to step inside. Slowly, Connor entered with heavy feet, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered in defeat. His body language communicated that he was about to collapse any minute. Nervous, MaryLynn was not sure what to do. She felt helpless when he wouldn't say a word to her or even look at her.

"Connor, what's wrong?" she resorts to inquiring on his mood.

He couldn't speak. His lips parted, but no words found his eager tongue. He felt his chest clench tightly, his eyes stinging like acid as the recollections of those fallen patriots on the field flashed before him. He shook his head before a sound escaped his lips in what could be determined as a gasp.

Then came the falling to his knees, his head lowered as all his emotional defenses shattered.

Finally, the tears came pouring from his dark eyes, a heavy gasp for air rattling his broad upper body. MaryLynn stood motionless in silence as she watched the Native assassin crumble before her. She had never seen him cry. Without questioning for a single moment, the blonde woman eliminated all distance between them. Before she could attempt to kneel before him, Connor had grasped her small waist in a tight hug, burying his face in her plush lower stomach. In the two years that they had known each other, this was the first time Connor had reached out to touch her, not to mention break down and fall to his knees before her very eyes.

MaryLynn pushed his white hood over his head, sailing her palm over his heated scalp. His sobbing became heavier. He did not howl in his cries, only shake violently and gasp aloud for air. His large hands had splayed over her lower back, his grip never faltering. She had no clue what had happened to cause such a reaction in this usually stone-faced man. Was Pitcairn found? Did the Patriots go into battle? Did any of them survive?

MaryLynn gasped, her blue eyes widening as her heart ceased a beat.

Jeanette. She was with the Patriot soldiers.

Dear Lord, what of the young lady? Her eyes began to crown with tears. She had met the young lady only once, but it was her determination and bravery that made the blonde woman remember her with admiration.

"I could not.." Connor spoke, his voice muffled by the cotton material of MaryLynn's bodice. "..they did not…I should have-"

"Connor," she whispered, now knowing fully well what had happened. "Connor, you did what you could."

"It's not…sob…e-enough!" he shouted, his tears pouring, soaking her bodice. "I sh-should have...sob…struck Pitcairn when I h-had the chance!"

The cotton material bunched in Connor's hands. He couldn't do it. He couldn't save the dead. Why? Why couldn't he do it this time? Yes, many men were saved because of him. However, what of the men he could not save? What of their lives? Their families? He couldn't change their fate no matter how hard he fought, how vigilant he was under British attack. James' words did not ring true to him. He could not "chin up" as the older man had told him. Men were dead because of him.

Her tears shed along with his own. She struggled to remain calm.

"Stop hating yourself…for the love of God," whispered the blonde woman, her hands sailing back and forth over his scalp and around his ponytail.

The Native assassin had fallen to his knees like a broken down child weeping into his mother's clothes.

"Make it stop," he murmured in a quiet voice after he rested his cheek against her stomach. "Make it all stop and leave me be."

"I'd take it all away if I could," whispered MaryLynn in return. "I'd bring back the dead if I could."

"But you cannot. You cannot bring them back. You cannot bring her back. I could not save her either"

"Who?"

"My mother."

And there it was: his "Achilles' (no pun intended) heel." He could not save his mother, so he vowed to save everyone else.

"Stay here until you are ready to face the world again."

"I may never leave."

"I will stay here with you, then."

She gently pulled him away from her stomach, nudging his arms to loosen his grip. He obeyed, his head still lowered in defeat. MaryLynn helped him stand up, a pitiful attempt when he was twice her size. With the same gentle manner, she removed his belt of holsters and pouches, his guns and his tomahawk. Setting them aside, she slid off his long white coat, her hands grazing over his broad shoulders. He was burning up from the weeping he had undergone.

Taking him to the disheveled bed, she sat down, encouraging him to rest his head in her lap. He did so, having no energy to retaliate her words.

"You will be fine," she cooed. "Stay until you are ready to leave."

Her lap was so warm and soft against his cheek. His hand rested on her knee as he lay on his side, finding a quiet paradise against this woman's body. He never wanted to leave that spot. However, when the sun rises, he would have to leave her once again to face the cruel, cruel world.

It was his duty. For now, however...it was nice to feel the warmth of another person. Oh..so..nice..

May 1775

The past two weeks were utterly miserable. Her stomach was a mess, prompting her to vomit sporadically at random times. Her diet was the same, nothing strange. Having vomited during a session, beyond humiliated, she had to arrange for a visit with the physician. Once she had alerted Madame, the look on the older woman's face became grim. MaryLynn could not understand why, though. What was so terrible about a sour stomach? After the examination in a private room, the physician had pulled Madame aside to speak with her outside of the room. MaryLynn grew restless, irritated over the fact that she was not involved in the conversation. This was her body! She demanded to know what was wrong!

Only the physician had reentered the room, his words hesitant. The wrinkles in his face seemed to deepen as he bestowed the news to the anxious woman.

"Ms. Mortenson…I believe you are pregnant."

Author's Note: Yup. I went there. Not ashamed. Anyway, here's part 1 of what I have planned. I did not add the Battle at Bunker Hill to this chapter because it would be much too long. This chapter was revised a few times, and new ideas kept coming in. So, I decided on separating the Battles into two chapters.

Connor's breakdown was always planned in my head. As calm as he can be, and as short lived as his anger seemed in the actual game, there was no way that his character would NOT experience a meltdown. Losing men in battle is a huge trigger for him, especially since he is still haunted by his mother's death and not being able to rescue her. His trauma was pushed too far in this opening battle to the Revolutionary War, and I wanted to show his broken side. He will be better adjusted next chapter, but being that this is kind of his first time dealing with casualties under his command (and not just two people, more than that), I would imagine him experiencing symptoms of PTSD.

As for MaryLynn, she is pregnant. Sometimes contraceptives do not work, and it was not unheard of for prostitutes to become pregnant. What made it so difficult was being thrown out on the street (due to not being able to work) and not knowing who the father was. Please don't worry, MaryLynn will be not thrown out of the brothel. You will see what I mean, and unfortunately it will be depressing what ends up actually happening.

Work is busy as usual. Stress is stress, but hey, welcome to Adulthood. :P I love all the messages you are sending me! Thank you for your undying support and patience! I must say Connor has truly been a stress-relief to write. I feel as if my own doubts and stress go straight through him, and it only makes me love him even more.

Thank you, and sending all my love to you! To my Guest reviewers: thank you so much! I just wish you had accounts so I could PM you my gratitude! Actually, I wish had an option for Chapter pictures, not just Story pictures. I've made graphics of MaryLynn and Connor for fun, and would love to post some.

~take care

P.S.: Connor is NOT the father. How's that for some trashy daytime television? ;)