And you feel like you feelin' now,
And doin' things just to please your crowd.
When I love you like the way I love you,
And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause,
This ain't no place for no hero.
-Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Late Fall, 1776: The Frontier
It was far too fucking cold out.
Sure, it was slightly too warm for the occasional snow flurry to make it to the ground. Yet the biting chill of wind still sliced through Thomas' layers of clothes. Forcing him to hunch down on his horse, he was thankful for thick, woolen, navy blue scarf wrapped about his neck. A useful gift sent over from London, by way of his youngest sister. Also, unlike the handful of gormless sods marching beside him, he was mounted. The horse taken from a redcoat officer they'd killed when they stumbled upon a British patrol a couple of days ago, it almost made the engagement worth it. Having first pick of war loot, he immediately went for the black gelding. It was, of course, the better of the two horses that remained. Such privileges were some of the few advantages he retained as the highest ranking officer of the current troop.
After the debacle with Washington, while he never went to trial, the cloud of suspicion tainted him like the stench of a day-old corpse. So Thomas wasn't surprised he'd been relieved of his duties within the General's Life Guard. In their supposed show of mercy, they allowed him to return to the Connecticut militia. At least the bloody dipshits hadn't completely stripped him of his commission. Still, the fall from a Colonel down to a Major proved a solid shit show. Then again, he'd avoided a potential appointment with the hangman. Admittedly, Haytham had always been pretty dependable at patching over these sorts of things.
But now, he was essentially banished to guard duty on the frontier. The majority of his time spent escorting convoys, he swiftly deemed it a thoroughly unpleasant undertaking. His reduced pay barely made up for being able to skim supplies. A pity he couldn't do it with this batch. Full of bandages, bear and beaver pelts, fine clothes and casks of liquor, it was easily worth over 15,000 pounds. Unfortunately, he'd heard far too many stories about their mysterious owner's reputation for keeping a persistent eye on every cent of cargo he sent overland.
"Fuckin' hell," Thomas hissed as the flurries began turning into falling snow.
Well, at least the trail cutting through this part of the woods offered some protection. Mostly due to the shade of ancient trees overhead. However, that blessing could swiftly turn into a curse. For one, the dense woods that were perfect for an ambush from redcoats. Secondly, the escort patrolled a bit too close to Fort St. Mathieu for his liking. No matter that it remained under command of a Templar. Having received word from Haytham a few days ago, he now knew that the General Davenport was suspected overstepping his bounds. So Thomas instantly realized that he could not only be dealing with a shit ton of lobsterbacks at his heels, but likely also a turncoat to the Order.
No wonder his fucking senses were set on edge. After all, he hadn't survived over twenty years in the army to not trust his intuition.
"You look peaked, mon ami," Captain Moreau drawled, riding on his grey mare next to him. His rolling French accent cutting through the frigid air, it contained his usual combination of amusement and condescension.
"Shut ya dirty trap, Cap'n. Unless you be wantin' me cut ya tongue out?" Thomas sent him a violent sneer of exasperation. Rubbing his hands together and flexing his cold fingers within his gloves, he added, "I'm a thinkin' on things. Don't much like how silent it be."
That was another thing; the litany forest noise that usually accompanied them remained eerily silent. The howl of the wolves, the twittering of the birds, the rolling grunts of moose and deer fighting and fucking. Hell, even the crackling tingle of the snow shifting and clumping together seemed to disappear. The sun beginning to dip below the horizon and painting the sky dusky mauve and azure signaled the nearing twilight as well. As perfect a time as any for the Brits to waylay the lot of them.
The rotund blonde shooting him an initial look of disbelief, Captain Moreau settled for a smirk. Giving Thomas a haphazard salute, he lazily replied, "As you wish, Major." Spurring his horse forward, he rode to the front of the column. That left four men on foot near the rear with Thomas. Two more trotted ahead on their mounts, leaving the last two soldiers marching at the front. The troop totaled ten.
That Froggy fuck, Thomas snapped to himself. Yet, for all of Moreau's constant disdain, he at least drilled discipline into the troop of the infantrymen. It certainly made his own job that much easier…
A volley of shots abruptly rang out, causing him the instinctively duck. Hearing the addled scream of the man marching beside him, he jerked his head downwards just in time to witness the unfortunate bastard drop his kit and clutch at his thigh. Combined with the smell of smoke wrenching at his nose and Captain Moreau's voice snarling for the men to hold the line, any idiot could tell they were under attack.
"Steady on, hold fast!" Thomas roared, unsheathing his sword and flintlock, "Take no quarter and give none, ya fiends!"
Eyes shifting and taking in the scene with ease, he could make out that the fight began forward of their column and just to left. Which meant the troop still had the solid barricade of the wagons between them and the redcoats. Admittedly, the bastards got the drop on them. But judging by the ear-splitting sound of another cluster of shots being fired, they weren't quite upon them yet. Spotting a redcoat some yards ahead of them and dashing to his right, he sniffed, led his target and squeezed the trigger. The lobcock dropped with a squeal. One of the Patriot infantryman on horseback galloped by and stabbed downwards, presumably finishing him off.
Without warning, he suddenly felt his the haunches of his mount shudder and seize beneath his thighs. The animal let out a blood curdling screech, its eyes and wild and white as it stumbled forward. Careening to the side, it nearly threw him from his saddle. But years of field experience taught him what to expect when one had his horse shot out from under him. Slipping backwards and leaping clear of the animal, he nimbly avoided being crushed as it hit the ground.
He nearly fell over the injured Patriot with a bullet in his thigh. Thankfully, the soldier had collapsed behind his downed horse. At least it gave them a proper barricade. Crouching, Thomas' hands went to the other man's sash. Roughly stripping the soldier of it, he looped around his thigh, tightening it and ignoring the soldier's screams of agony. Swiping his handkerchief from a pocket, he stuffed it into the Patriot's mouth, effectively muffling his shrieks. "Better than bleedin' out," he snorted, "Now, shut yer yap and ya may survive this." Not that he gave a shit, but their outpost was running thin on men. Fewer casualties meant more able bodies and in turn, less work for him.
His horse still letting out baleful whinnies, it nearly shattered his ankle with its panicked kicks. Jerking and trembling, its massive body heaved as it vainly tried to drag itself away. It was a lost cause, better to put the poor animal out of its misery. Doing so with a single shot, Thomas reloaded and marched closer to the front of the column.
Jesus Christ, it was plonking freezing. So much so, that when he attempted to draw his sword and run it through the lobsterback grenadier hauling ass towards him while expertly swinging a heavy ax, it jammed, nearly frozen within its sheath.
What a proper bit of shitty luck.
Thankfully, he'd just reloaded, allowing him to aim square. The bullet did its job, tearing through officer's throat. He dropped like a bag of bricks. Stooping down and stepping on the body to anchor it, Hickey yanked the corpse's sabre from its gold and leather scabbard. Making a mental note to loot it later, Thomas tested the weapon's weight. Finding it would do for now, he spun on his heel to engage another British infantryman.
Within roughly ten minutes, it was maddeningly obvious that they were surrounded. Casting his gaze about the snowy pathway and the woods lining either side of it, he let out a curse. There were outnumbered nearly two to one. Down to six men out of ten, one of them was hemmed against a tree, another soldier stumbling forward as a redcoat viciously brought down his dagger into his back. Spectacular, now his troop contained but five. The bloody Brits were quickly realizing it too, their commander bellowing orders to rush the wagons again.
Oh, bollocks, he was not in the fucking mood to breathe his last today. Definitely not in this god-forsaken, frozen nightmare of a wasteland.
"Christ on a cracker, ya tosser," Thomas muttered, snatching up a loaded pistol from a Patriot's corpse. Squinting, he fired a shot at the British soldier who was about to eviscerate the git by tree. It struck him in the lower back, causing him stumble backwards with a howl of agony. Stalking over, he ignored the Patriot boy's stammer of thanks, dropping to a knee and focusing on pistol whipping the redcoat until he gurgled up blood. A final blow, and the telltale crack of his skull splitting signaled he'd finished the job.
"Major Hickey," the green boy stammered, shakily wiping his brow and forcing his gaze away from the redcoat's bludgeoned face, "Ya…ya saved me life-"
"Best be on yer guard from 'ere on out," Thomas snarled at the little bastard, "And don't go makin' me do it a second time, you fuckin' dunce. Here," he tossed him the bloodied pistol, "Reload that and get to the wagons. Assumin' ya can manage it, ya lobcock," he derisively snorted. Palming a dagger, a pouch of gunpowder and bag of bullets from the body beneath him, he kicked the dead redcoat away.
The other four surviving members of their party, including Captain Moreau, had planted themselves behind the trio of wagons. At least they contained modicum of sense. They'd managed to retain five muskets and a couple of pistols between them. As two fired, the remaining reloaded, speedily passing a succession of weapons back and forth between them.
Shoving the Patriot soldier forward, Thomas again snapped out an order to assist the others at the wagons. Mind reeling for a solution, he raced towards their make-shift barricade. Peeking around a corner only caused him to let out a huff of irritation as bullet whizzed way too god-damned close to his nose. From what he could gather, the lobsterbacks were down to seven. Better odds, sure. But still too fucking many for his liking.
Backing up and reloading, he raised his flintlock to fire. That was until he abruptly felt the cold, steel point of a bayonet unexpectedly pressed to the base of his skull.
"Bad idea, old chum," a whiny, irritatingly refined voice sneered behind him. "Lower your weapon, you pillock," the redcoat continued, "And tell your men to do the same."
Well, shit on a stick, he'd been outflanked. He despised being out of options. Which was why contingencies were always of the utmost importance.
"Alrighty then, boy-o, don't get too trigger happy, eh?" Thomas brightly replied. Slowly leaning down, he placed his weapon on the ground and shoved it away. "You be in luck, me good man," he chortled, "For I ain't in no mood to die today. I'm fuckin' sure you ain't either, yeah? I mean, who wants to find they selves proverbially shittin' the bed out here in this god-damned wilderness?" His fingers slowly inching upwards as he moved back to his feet, they found their way to the top of his boot. Along with the trusty throwing knife sheathed within. "All I find me self carin' about nowadays be enough coin to get me by. I be a simple sort, ya see?" he purposely babbled on. "Me needs go 'n get met, so long as I can go buyin' a beer 'n a woman-"
"Shut your bloody mouth, you son of a whore," the redcoat snapped, clicking back the hammer on his musket.
Sighing, Thomas shook his head in disagreement. Still halfway crouched, he retorted, "See, that be ya soddin' problem, lobsterback. Ya always too busy insultin' 'n bitchin' at your alleged lessers to see what's right in front of your eyes."
"Sod off, you traitorous piece of shi-"
Shoving backwards and knocking the redcoat off balance, Thomas instantly spun about and stabbed upwards with lethal competence. Regrettably, he punched nothing but air.
The bloody hell?! The soldier had gone up and disappeared, now nowhere to be found. Hastily looking about, he gaped, genuinely aghast. Glancing behind himself, he saw the Patriots remained fortified behind the wagons, still firing and holding off their enemies. Evidently, not one of them seemed to notice his previous distress.
"What in the fuckin' hell-?!"
Without warning, the sounds of someone gagging and squirming above him hit his ears. Hand flying to his filched sabre, he halted, gaze shooting upwards.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
The redcoat who evidently had him at the end of the musket but a few seconds ago now dangled in air, roughly fifteen feet from the ground. The other end of the rope hanging him was looped around a heavy branch. Staked securely into the ground and at an angle to the tree, there was no escape. Hands vainly clawing at the rope garroted about his neck, the redcoat's legs kicked and spasmed in hideous rhythm. Eyes bulging, blood poured from his mouth. But that wasn't the worst part of it. Somehow, a large, barbed, iron dart was shoved clean through him, exiting just above his sternum.
Thomas had witnessed a whole lot of gruesome antics in his time. But he'd certainly never been privy to this sort of brutal efficiency. It was positively…inventive, if a little on the side of sheer overkill.
A blur of white suddenly sailed past him, right along the canopy of trees and just out the corner of his left eye. Before he could react, it dropped to the other side of the wagons the Continentals continued to defend. Within a few seconds, the sound of steel ringing on steel drifted back towards him.
"Fancy that," he slowly said to himself. Glancing up again, he grit his teeth at the sight of the redcoat reduced to nothing but a swinging, impaled corpse. "Yeah," he sniffed, "Better go 'n check it all out," he muttered. Jogging up the road, he arched a curios brow at finding the Patriot soldiers no longer behind the wagons. Nonetheless, the sounds of fighting still carried on.
Scooting from around a wagon, he engaged a redcoat preoccupied with reloading his pistol. Running him through from behind, he kicked him off his sabre with a grunt before twisting about to duck a punch from another redcoat behind him. Smashing his forehead into the other man's, Thomas parried his enemy's dagger as he tried to gut him. Using the opening, he sliced upwards only to yank his blade down at a grisly diagonal. It carved clean through, from ribs to navel. Screaming as his guts spilled out, the redcoat's whimpers died within the matter of seconds to a final gasp.
Swiveling around, Thomas saw the white-clad ghost of the forest finish off another redcoat by drawing his dagger across his jugular. Shoving back a second redcoat's punch, he sent his foot flying into his stomach, only to brutally knee him in the chin. It sent the redcoat to the ground, a bloody mess of flailing limbs. A running kick to the head finished the job. However, the hooded figure didn't notice the final lobsterback aiming head-on at his back with his flintlock.
"Shot behind ya, mate!" he bellowed.
His apparent ally fluidly twirled about. A flash of silver flew from his hand at the same time the shot rang out. Flinching, Thomas narrowed his eyes as the two froze.
The redcoat wheezed, staggered backwards and then promptly collapsed onto the grass. Three throwing knives protruding from his chest indicated his obvious demise. Yet his bullet must have gone wide, for the other man appeared no worse for wear. Rolling his head and cracking his neck for a bit, he strolled over and began collecting his weapons. For the rest of the redcoats were dead.
After ordering Captain Moreau to direct the remaining troops to check for any injured, loot the bodies of the enemy and get the wagons ready to move, Thomas took in the hooded stranger for the first time. Strange, now that he was closer, despite the height, it was rather obvious that this was no man. Not judging by the natural sway of those hips. Nor, the touch of those tits along her front. Interesting, that.
Swaggering over, his thoughts were already cooking up all sorts of ways to show cunning lass his appreciation. Preferably, with him between her legs and her desperately panting out his name. Ideally, repeatedly. "Good'en," he chuckled, nodding to the remaining Patriot soldiers as he dropped a heavy hand to her shoulder, "Ya helped saved their asses, darlin'."
Caught completely off guard as the woman rudely shoved off is hand, he let out a yap of surprise as she twisted around to face him. He'd recognize that mouth and smattering of freckles across her cheeks anywhere. Those devilishly dark eyes were also a dead giveaway. Not to mention, her patented sneer of contempt as she caught him in her stunned gaze.
"Motherfuckin' Connor?!"
Yep, judging by how she immediately clocked a punch to his gut that sent him doubling over, the little psychotic knew exactly who he was as well.
Connor appreciated the shouted alert regarding the redcoat about to shoot her in the back. Ducking and spinning about, she sent three throwing knives into him just as he fired the shot. Thankfully, the bullet sailed right over her head. With that, the last of the British were dealt with. Her convoy protected, she had little complaint.
Gathering up her weapons, she heard someone approach just to her right. And like all colonists, the soldier saw fit to immediately touch her with a heavy hand. Why they insisted on such rudeness was beyond her. Instinctively jerking herself away from him, she was about to let out a huff of reproach. That was until she heard the tell-tale, smug accent ringing in her ears.
"Good'en," he chuckled, "Ya helped saved their asses, darlin'."
Thomas Hickey?!
He should've been dead! Or at the very least, locked up and awaiting trial? Yet, here he was. Smirking with his usual cockiness, his lewd gaze openly raked up and down her figure. But she had far more important concerns besides that. Such as how he was likely attempting to skim supplies from her convoy.
"Motherfuckin' Connor?!"
Her fist hit true, connecting with his solar plexus. The air knocked out of him and causing him to double over, a sweep of her leg, a boot to his shin and a steady shove to his shoulder sent him splayed to his back. Dropping and effectively straddling him, she trapped his hands beneath her knees on either side of his hips as she swiftly glanced around. They had no audience, the remaining Patriot soldiers preoccupied with the clean-up. It gave her a small window of time. Thankfully, the two of them were on the edge of carnage and decently hidden by a tall grove of grass. Moreover, the setting sun lent additional darkness.
"Aye, the bitch be back, I see," Hickey wheezed beneath her, eyes squeezed tight for a moment while he gulped down a few ragged breaths. "What, huntin' men finally bore ya to bits? Ya finally decide to take yer rightful place, 'ere in the wild 'n layin' with a wolf pack out here on the Frontier? Figures-"
"I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Connor growled, grinding her teeth.
"Last I checked, it be a criminal offense to strike an officer of the Continentals, sweetheart," he casually retorted.
"Yet, dead men tell no tales," she retorted, the snap of her hidden blade reverberating in the air and rather near his ear.
"Fuck you!" he spat, eyes narrowed to slits, "I ain't done nothin' wrong!"
"Except you are a Templar," she snarled, leaning over him and solidly bracing her forearm against his throat. Her words dancing along his chin, he could feel her hiss, "And likely stealing supplies from my supply train!"
"The hell ya getting' yer knickers in a twist for, girl?!" Hickey sneered. "Besides, that convoy be holdin' a king's ransom worth 'o goods. How in the God's name did ya manage to get yer hands on all that precious loot?!"
"That is none of your concern!" she snorted. "Why are you escorting my goods?"
"'Cause I be followin' orders from me army superiors, princess!" he bellowed, jerking his hips upwards in a vain attempt to dislodge her. Rewarded with a slash of pain ricocheting up his arms as she purposely dug her knees into his wrists again, he stilled, even as he jeered. "I ain't laid a soddin' finger on yer blasted supplies! And it ain't like I picked your specific convoy-"
"A likely tale-"
"It be the only tale!" he cut her off, "So ya can get right the fuck ov'er yer self already, ya dodgy bint!"
Curling her lip in derision, she bit, "Do you truly think me so dense? That it is merely sheer coincidence your patrol happens to be but a dozen or so miles from Fort. St. Mathieu?"
"Who said jack shit 'bout the Fort?" he rejoined, "And so what if I got me a mission there? Them redcoats been killin' me men left 'n right all damned summer 'n through the fall. Me commander be aimin' to take it right soon-"
"Thereby allowing you to stab him in the back and betray the Patriots to the British?" she archly questioned, blade now pressed against his chin. "Typical Templar greed and deceit," she uttered.
He couldn't hold back a braying laugh at her words, in spite nearly having his throat slit open by the proximity of her blade. This naïve, little chit…"Look 'ere, ya moronic, 'lil-"
"Major Hickey!" one of the Patriots called out, some yards away from them, "'Allo, Major? Jesus, mate, where the hell is he-"
It proved the distraction he needed, her head whipping towards the direction of noise. Her shifting weight allowed him jerk his shoulder upwards while shoving his knee beneath her bottom. She faltered and slipped forward, dropping flush on top of him. One of her knees shifted as well, freeing his wrist. Wrenching his arm from his side, his large palm shoved her head away while scrambling to grab at her neck. While she was fast, it was a hair's breath too slow to spring to her feet. Yet, she didn't allow his attempts to choke her. Throwing herself to the side, she snatched out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Since he was already in the process of squirming out from under her, the re-dispersal of their combined mass only caused them to suddenly go careening down the hill.
Exchanging slaps, scratching, punching, legs flailing, and getting in an occasional elbow here and there, they fought for dominance as they rolled. Her skills allowed her to rake her nails along his neck, get in a satisfying jab to his ribs, and repeatedly kick her boot into his calf. Unfortunately, she was forced to sheathe her hidden blade due to the very real danger of potentially stabbing herself as they tumbled. He proved able to smack her along the forehead, twist one of her wrists behind her head and shove a knee in between her thighs. The dagger sheathed next to his sword flew from his belt sometime during their sparring, his other dagger from his boot gone missing in the earlier clash with the redcoats.
Their trip down the slope came to a painful end when they struck the large, moss covered trunk of a tree with a sharp thud. While his larger form took the brunt of the hit, it knocked the wind out of them both. Regrettably, he landed on top. Connor bit back a groan of irritation at finding his bulk nearly smothering her. The burly oaf had to have at least two to three stone of weight on her frame.
No matter; she may be a woman and naturally smaller and lighter, but Achilles never allowed such to be perceived as a weakness. He'd drilled into her head that she contained speed, stealth and most importantly, society's perpetual underestimation to her advantage. As well as the traditions of her village, which held women in far higher esteem than these purportedly "civilized" colonists. Most of the latter expected her to immediately surrender. A pity, as it always led to their deaths whenever they crossed her.
For example, Hickey currently had her wrists locked above her head in his hands and his dead weight limiting her movement. Nevertheless, his head rested nearly on top of hers, his warm breath grazing her cheek. She could tell from his stuttering rasps and the labored heave of his chest that he was tiring of their fisticuffs. Especially so soon after the pressing skirmish with the redcoats. So she willed herself to relax beneath him. As she expected, he was caught off guard by the fight supposedly leaving her. Feeling his grip on her wrists loosen slightly and him shift a bit, she prepared herself.
"Funny that," he drawled against her ear, "Much as I enjoy havin' a nice handle on me women, I'm a thinkin' I prefer ya on top, she-wolf."
"A pity, as I prefer you dead," she panted, collecting herself.
He tiredly snickered, nose now resting along her hairline as he struggled to catch his breath, "Oh, ya wouldn't be sayin' that if you knew me any better, love. I got all sorts 'o useful skills."
"Somehow, I highly doubt that."
Letting out a long sigh, he rolled his eyes and sat back on his haunches. It caused him to slacken his hold even more. "Ya know what, dearie?" his gaze met hers, expression sliding to bizarrely thoughtful for a quick second, "Ya always lookin' for a means to go killin' folks 'afore ya know their whole story-"
"As though you are worth saving." Lifting her chin in defiance, she didn't bother to drop the disdain from her voice, "Obviously, in spite of your second chance, you have remained with your wretched Order. Your actions speak volumes."
"All that righteous rage bouncin' around all up in ya," he clucked his tongue, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child, "My, my, it' gotta be eatin' away at ya innards-"
Reeling back, she bashed the top of her forehead into his. Sure, it set off an explosion of light behind her eyes at the painful impact with his skull. But years of training let her follow it up with an instinctive knee to the groin. It had its desired effect, sending him howling and rolling off of her. Stumbling to her knees, she kicked away his sabre as she shakily unsheathed her sword. Regardless of her vision spotting, she pressed the point of it to his chest. "You have ten seconds to redeem yourself," she ordered.
Casting her a look of loathing and hands still protecting his crotch, he snapped, "Simple; we both want that pissant, General Davenport, deader than a doornail."
"I do not believe you-"
"So why in the fuck would I slaughter his men after he attacked your god-damned convoy, ya fussock?!" he demanded. "All ya gotta do is check their gorgets to see that they be part 'o the General's troops."
Rubbing at her throbbing head, she shrugged, "Because you Templars aim to control both sides of the conflict." Pressing her sword into his chest even harder, she warned, "Do not take me for a fool, Hickey."
"Ya rotten, murderous 'lil savage!" he barked, mouth twisted into a dangerous snarl and color staining his pale cheeks. "Seeing as yer such a right barmy arsehole, here then," he reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat. Hearing the click of a pistol, he looked up to find her aiming one at his head. At least she'd sheathed her sword for the moment. Although her stony expression did absolutely zero to put him at any sort of ease. "It ain't no weapon, ya mangy git," he snit, slowly pulling out a heavy, half-folded envelope and tossing it up to her.
Snatching it out of the air, she kept her pistol trained on him as she opened it with one hand. Speechless at finding it from her father, she ignored the locket that fell out of the envelope and landed at her feet. Not only did the missive detail his suspicions about the fire that claimed the McCready's home over a fortnight ago, he relayed specific orders to Hickey to infiltrate the Fort and scout it out. There was also note of the family's suspected murderer. One Gerhard Vonstatten or "The Hessian," as they called him. While it did not explicitly state the General's life was forfeit, her father seemed to have no qualms should the Templar fall to a blade. Yet the Hessian wasn't privy to any sort of mercy. Hickey was unequivocally ordered to eliminate him.
As far as Connor was concerned, the world would not miss such a monster. Or his apparent master.
Thomas used her silent astonishment to quickly roll away from her. While he was able to move to his feet, he was still kept at bay as she re-leveled her flintlock at him.
"Well," she slowly began, stooping down and picking up the locket. Flicking it open revealed an exquisitely detailed miniature of a dark-haired man with a goatee and dressed in the livery of a high-ranking, British officer. Matthew Davenport, likely, she mused, So that Hickey may know his target. "This proves a new…development."
"No shit, ya bugger!" he heatedly crossed his arms. Kicking over his tricorne to him, Connor gestured for him to pick it up. "So," he groused, dusting it off, "I take it this means ya ain't gonna kill me 'en?"
Slitting her eyes at him, she intoned, "For now, no."
"So how come ya ain't put away that damned pistol, already?" he waved at her, popping his hat back upon his head and adjusting it to the side at a rakish angle.
"No matter that our goals align for now, you have not given me a reason to trust you," she replied, even as she tossed him back the locket.
"Point taken," he sniffed, shoving it into his pocket. "Still, I saved yer life when I warned ya of that redcoat 'bout to shoot ya back there."
"You had no idea who I was at the time."
Cocking his head to the side, he let out a mirthless chuckle, "Ya be a sly one, girl."
"No more than you, old man," she shot right back.
"Hey now," he held up a hand in surrender, "I ain't exactly Father Time, ya milksop. I got 'round bout 37 years to me."
"Far more ancient than my twenty or so," she huffed. Damn, he assumed she was older. Mostly on account of her humorless disposition and that steady, constantly irked countenance. Not to mention, her relentless commitment to her silly little Brotherhood. Though when he really looked at her, her face was clear of any sort of lines of age. Combined with her speed and agility, she likely wasn't lying.
"So," he slowly began, "Wot's the plan then? How abouts the good 'ole concept that 'the enemy of my enemy be my friend?' At least until we kill our mutual enemy, yeah?"
It took far too long for her uncock the hammer of her flintlock. And even as she shoved it back into her holster, she unsheathed her sword again. However, she held it at her side, tapping the glinting, silver blade against her leg rather than pointing it directly at him. Expression pulled in concentration, she muttered to herself in what he could only assume was the language of her people. Finally, she nodded in agreement. "It seems we find ourselves in alignment. So long as you make no attempt to kill me," her gaze flashed in warning, "I will not harm you. At least not until we finish tracking the general and his homicidal Hessian."
Spitting on his hand and holding it out to shake, Hickey almost laughed at her look of revulsion at his action. "Usually, gents be shakin' on such an agreement," he clarified, extending his arm further. She didn't offer hand in exchange, her continued silence wholly unsettling. "Alrighty then," he withdrew with a huff, "I'll take into account that ya ain't no gent, I guess," he shrugged.
Rocking back on her heels, she sheathed her sword and shoved her hand into one of the deerskin pouches along her belt. He felt rather silly as he braced, only for her to produce a single eagle feather in her hand. Holding it out, she wordlessly nodded for him to take it.
Snatching it from her, he held it up to the dusky sunlight. Its colors sparkled and bounced along its fine grains of plume. "Eh?" he asked in confusion, "Wot's this 'en, poppet?"
"Among my people, it is the sign of a binding agreement," she solemnly said. "When we have completed our mission, I expect its return, signaling an end to our truce. I believe that it is rather more…hygienic than your methods," her gaze snapped to his hand for a moment. "Hence, we are allies, for you have taken it freely of me."
"I, uh, see," he slowly said. For some reason he had no desire to dwell on, he found himself carefully tucking it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. No matter how silly he inexplicably felt as she watched his every move.
Gesturing for her to follow, she silently fell in line behind him back to the other men. Considering who she dealt with, she wasn't exactly surprised at his lie to Captain Moreau as to why he would be leaving the remaining soldiers in his hands. "Ya ain't dead, 'n the lady requests an escort back to her family," Hickey mounted one of the dead redcoat's horses. More spoils of war, of course. Ignoring the Captain's dazed expression that their ally turned out to be a woman, Hickey drawled, "It be takin' us 'bout a week to cross the Frontier at this time 'o the season. I'll meet ya back at the outpost at me return. Dismissed," he lazily saluted. None the wiser, Captain Moreau did as told.
Astounded to see Connor looting the dead for supplies before she mounted her white mare, Hickey let out a low chortle. Seemed the little prat wasn't so high and mighty after all. Hopefully, it'd be enough to keep them from killing each over the next few days.
Author's Note:
Gorget – The crescent-shaped, metal neck chain that was part of most European officers' uniforms, up until around the mid-19th century.
"The burly oaf had to have around two to three stone of weight on her" – A stone is a British form of measurement that equals around 14 pounds.
As canon Connor is a lot taller and heavier than most men in-game, Fem!Connor is taller and heavier than most women of the era, around 5'5" or so. She has the competent body of an athlete, a bit curvy but mostly muscular and with an average bust line. Basically, light enough to free-run without a problem, but strong enough to stab a man clean through with a sword. Or stop him dead with a few hits from her heavy weapon. Meanwhile, Thomas Hickey looks pretty burly. Not to mention, he's been a soldier since 1752, so he'd know to handle himself in combat. I'd put him around 6'0" and about 170 pounds. So weighing about three stone more than Connor means he's around 28 to 42 pounds heavier than her.