Oops! I did some research and realised I made a mistake with Stephane! He actually was born in Canada, haha. Ah, well. Details. If it wasn't already obvious, I love Stephane. He's awesome.

God, I am such a bloody tease. I love the teasing.

Happy Holidays!

W'P

"She's a rebel, she's a saint, she's the salt of the earth and she's dangerous. She's a rebel, vigilante, missing link on the brink of destruction. […] She's the symbol of resistance, and she's holding on my heart like a hand grenade." –Green Day, "She's A Rebel".

-o-

"Ow!" Jacqueline moved the hot sugar roll between hands until it cooled. She had thought that Samuel's tea mission was a little far-fetched and a lot of work at that, but it gave her a chance to wander the city a little. Connor had gone his own way to intercept some of the other smugglers, while she moved north to do the same. Having no money, she assumed it would be hard to get food, but she quickly discovered that she had three valuable assets that could get her nearly anything she wanted: she was young, she was attractive, and most importantly, she was female. It took her all of a few minutes to get the sugar roll off the baker, and all she had to do was flutter her eyelashes a little. The side of her mouth quirked up in amusement. Maybe it would work on Connor.

Casually, she "accidentally" bumped into a man carrying a large crate who was walking the opposite direction. The box tumbled out of his hands and to the ground, where it splintered apart. "Oi! Watch it!" He snapped.

"Sorry." She said, not very apologetically. Glancing back to be sure that it was in fact the right box of smuggled goods that had spilled, she continued on.

The city was bustling and happy; it was invigorating in a way. Her last extended stay at Boston had been right before one of the worst events in its short history, so she had been a tad bit wary. This was much better. The chatter and call of merchants was music to her ears. A stray dog trotted, whining, at her heels, and she dropped it a piece of the roll. She wandered here and there for the rest of the afternoon, looking in little shops and generally getting acquainted with the city.

Having grown up in a situation that forced her to learn fast or die, one of the first things that she'd been taught was that a city was alive. It lived, and breathed, and sometimes it would get sick or infected. Cities had big things that they told everyone, like church towers and townhouses. But they also had little dark secrets, like side alleys and tunnels. She liked the little secrets. Like people, the things they don't tell you are in some ways more revealing than the things they do tell you.

So as the sun sank below the horizon of beautiful buildings and the ocean, she crept into the dark alleys. Probing, asking the matted grass and squeaking, fat rats what they knew. She stalked through the dark side streets, ducking under any lit windows and listening to the faraway ocean waves and barking dogs. Before she knew it, she was deposited on the harbour. On the other side of the wharf, she saw Connor, stepping onto the dock as though he had just arrived, and she smiled. The city would always take her where she needed to go.

"The rest of the smugglers are taken care of." She said as they met in the middle. "Did you destroy the rest of the cargo?"

"Yes." He looked out to the two ships in the harbour, which held all the tea. They weren't alone; there were a few other night owls meandering along the waterside, including Samuel Adams and William Molineux, who seemed to be waiting for them to do something. With them were also Chapheu and another man she didn't know. "We must eliminate the guards on the ships."

"Right." She nodded to the one nearest the street she had come in. "I'll take this one. You do the other."

She turned to walk off, but Connor grabbed her upper arm. "Once we start destroying the tea, more Redcoats are going to turn up. Be prepared for a fight."

"I always am." She patted the hand on her arm, and he released her. They jogged off in opposite directions.

-o-

Connor took his time with the first two kills, because he knew once he was there, it was going to be a full firefight. He went around the dock house, along the edge of the wharf near the water, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the dock. The two targets had their backs to him, and he silently pulled himself up to flat ground and stabbed them both smoothly in the back of the neck.

Of course, he now stood in their places, and was spotted instantly. He ducked in time to dodge the first volley of shots and deflected the incoming sword of an officer. A quick flurry of stabs in the ribs and he had crumpled like a rag doll without anything inside. At almost the same time the officer fell, a single, loud gunshot rang out from the other ship. There was no time to slow his momentum, however, and he steadily took out each of the Redcoats, about a dozen in total. Brutally and efficiently, his feet quite literally splashed in a puddle of blood when he left the scene.

Jogging onto the ship, spattered in blood and panting, he saw Jacqueline on the other deck, fighting off six Regulars in her fast, acrobatic fashion. He rushed to assist her, but there was hardly any need by the time he got to her.

"Now the tea?" She asked, wiping her forehead.

"Now the tea." He confirmed. At the gangplank, Adams, Molineux, Chapheu and Revere were joining them on the ship. Each of them picked up a small stamped crate, walked to the edge of the ship, and dropped it into the water.

By the time Connor had gotten to the second crate, a crowd was gathering. A few dozen citisens at least, and still growing. Many were applauding or cheering. But with the citisens also came the redcoats, who were somewhat less happy about their endeavors. Soon, they were not alone on the ships. Footsteps rushed up toward them, making the ship sway with the added weight. Behind him somewhere, possibly the other ship that the two French members of their party had commandeered, he heard a yell and a gunshot.

He held the crate in one hand and chopped at the closest Regular with his tomahawk, and the man crumpled. Connor tossed the crate over so his hands were free, took out his pistol, and promptly shot an officer who was approaching an occupied Adams. He threw up his hidden blade in time to block an incoming sword swing from a Regular, spun him around and stabbed him with said blade.

As he was picking up a bayonet to stab a grenadier with, he glanced up, and had to pause for a moment. At the top of the other ship's highest mast, Jacqueline stood, swinging a rope dart. She let it fly, and it latched into a crossbeam above his head. She then jumped off the mast, swinging through the air and the space between ships, cape and skirts billowing. When she was nearly above him, she let go, executed a neat flip midair, and air assassinated the grenadier he had been targeting.

"Whew!" She was smiling. A drop of blood ran down her cheek and dripped from her chin like a teardrop. "This is fun!" And she was off again, tossing crates over as she went.

"Fun…?" He muttered. They were fighting for their lives. How could she possibly think it was fun?

Then the fight descended back around him, and he threw up his arm to stop an attack with his bracer. The air reeked of gunpowder and salt, with a hint of blood mixed in. But on shore, the crowd had grown to a size unheard-of, and their cheers of approval were almost deafening. Adams and Molineux were now doing most of the tea tossing, while he fought any and all redcoats who boarded the ship. They were not very challenging opponents—his faux fight with Jacqueline the previous night had been a tougher battle—but there were a lot of them.

The fight soon deteriorated into utter chaos. Just walking was a task, as he was constantly slipping in blood or tripping over redcoat bodies. He wondered how much tea the ship could possibly be carrying. They'd been on board for maybe twenty minutes at this point. Was anyone even bothering with the tea anymore? Apparently so, as Cheapheu jogged across to him with a final crate in his hands. Jacqueline strode along behind, her quiver now containing only three arrows. Blood was splashed in one long streak from her ribs to her forehead, across her face. The two French Assassins looked a little worse for the wear, being the only two on their other vessel.

"Now that was a good fight." Jacqueline picked blood from her eyelashes, blinking rapidly. "The tea has all been tossed, except for this one."

"We saved the last one for you." Chapheu said, handing the crate over. His accent was very thick, and oddly enough made Jacqueline's also sound heavier.

Connor accepted the crate, and his gaze was drawn off the wharf and across a small stretch of water. Standing in an abandoned market square, under the lamplight of a lantern stood Charles Lee, Benjamin Church and William Johnson themselves, glaring at the ships. Instead of running to kill them he walked to the edge of the ship without taking his eyes from the group. He raised the tea above his head, and the onlookers erupted into cheers. Still without looking away he pointedly dropped the crate straight over the edge.

The crowd that now surged at the shore went wild. Chapheu tapped his shoulder. "Best we get out of here, eh?"

Connor hesitated, still watching where the Templars had stood. Were they still nearby? Perhaps, if he ran, he could catch up with them. Lee had been right there…

"Connor?" Jacqueline's hand on his arm made him tear his gaze away. "Let's go."

-o-

There was a small celebration back at their "headquarters" tavern. There was still much work to be done, of course, but the first step had been a large and successful one. Everyone but Connor had a drink. He got one as well, but didn't have much of it. Jacqueline had come to realise that their first experience with alcohol had had different affects on them: it made her determined to overcome her intolerance, whereas it made him avoid it altogether.

The female Assassin clashed her tankard to Stephane's. "For justice!"

"For liberty!" They both drank. "I must say, you did a fine job fighting those Regulars today."

"As did you." Jacqueline replied, with a light cough. Their conversation was being spoken in all French, as they were both nostalgic for the language. The three Englishmen ignored them, and Connor simply glowered over his untouched ale. "Your food must try to run away, the way you wield that cleaver."

"My father was a cook." He shrugged. "I am a cook. I know how to swing a knife."

"Apparently." She finished off her ale before it got warm. "So, how is Montréal?"

"Wonderful!" Stephane exclaimed. "It is like another France! Not like here, where just our accents are reason enough for prejudice." He scoffed. "Fucking British troops. No respect, no tolerance! All they care about is the Crown and themselves."

"Mm." She hummed. "Hopefully, this will be the beginning of the end. What we did here today, this is our revolution. You, and me, and everyone here. This is what we started. And when we finish, we will be our own country, where every man and woman is free."

"Now that is something I can drink to." He raised his tankard and took a sip. He looked to Connor, who was looking bored and introverted. "Do you not drink, my friend?"

Connor looked up and blinked a little blankly. "He asked if you drink, Connor." Jacqueline said, switching to English, something Stephane had failed to do.

"Oh. Not often, no." He looked briefly concerned. "Should I be?"

"It's quite all right, Connor." Stephane laughed, and casually passed the ale to Jacqueline. "I did not take you for the drinking type, anyway."

Connor reached over, however, and moved the drink back away from her, getting a huff in response. "I can drink if I want." She protested. "It's a time for celebration."

"But we will be leaving for the Homestead tomorrow morning." He pointed out. "I do not need you complaining about headaches and nausea the entire way."

"You're not Achilles, Connor." Jacqueline pouted, but didn't try to go after her drink again.

The evening wore lazily on. Samuel, Molineux and Revere left at around the same time for their various houses. Stephane stayed and talked with the Assassins for a while longer, but Connor insisted they leave and find an inn. Their roles were often reversed when she drank, and he became the reluctant voice of reason. They bid Stephane farewell, and left the tavern.

The street, lit with golden lamps and the sounds of horse hooves on cobblestone, tilted around in her vision. She was at the stage of drunkenness where she felt happy and warm, but not disoriented and nauseous. Connor's hand felt warm and steady on her shoulder as he guided her across the street. Fortunately, there was an inn just down the street.

The innkeeper, a plump older woman, did not seem surprised to see customers so late. She looked up from a records book and smiled, fake and practised. "Hello loves, one room or two?"

"One." Jacqueline chirped before Connor could even open his mouth.

The woman kept smiling and marked something down in the book, then reached under the desk for a key. "Here you are. It's the first door on the left."

Connor took a few coins out of a pocket and set them on the desk. Where he had gotten money, Jacqueline could not fathom. The innkeeper took the coins and gave a few back as change. "Thank you, dear. Have a good night."

They walked up to the designated room, Jacqueline a little unsteadily. She tried opening the door, failed, and Connor took the key from her. She walked in and lay down on the bed. There was a bad atmosphere coming from her cohort.

"Why did you ask for one room?" He asked, sounding irritated.

"It's cheaper," She began ticking off her fingers. "We can wake each other up faster. And I didn't know you were so concerned with what other people thought." She looked up at him. He wasn't looking at her, and his face was a little red.

"I am not." He said defensively, and with a tone of finality.

Jacqueline shrugged and let her head fall back. "Very well. You're not. Would you like to flip a coin for the floor, or would you like to share the bed? After all, you don't care what others think of you."

There was a pause. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of looking for his reaction. In fact, the pause grew so long it became uncomfortable and she started to doze. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was actually considering it.

Then, "I will take the floor."