"And I started to hear it again, but this time it wasn't the end, and the room was too quiet, oh, oh, oh. And my heart is a hollow plane for the devil to dance again, but the room is too quiet, oh, oh, oh." –Florence + The Machine, "Breath of Life"

-o-

Tracking down Pascal Morel turned out to be no easy task. The man, from what Jacqueline could gather, was a gambler of the worst sort. Money flew across France from his hefty bets and debts. He was notorious in taverns across the country, but no one seemed to know exactly where he was. Weeks passed as Jacqueline travelled from town to town, asking countless barkeeps and tavern proprietors, card dealers and bankers.

After about a month and a half of relentlessly scouring the west coast, she pinned his location to a bordello called the Princesse Rose. Instead of charging in, guns blazing, she defaulted to the humble tavern next door, the Speckled Mare. It was far overshadowed by its more spectacular, lurid neighbor. The innkeeper was a barrel-chested man with a stark red beard. He polished the mug in his hands with such force that it looked ready to break.

The reason it was taking Jacqueline so long to find her target was that she had no connections. In the Colonies, she and Connor had allies to spare. Here, she was stranded, but she didn't have the first idea how to go about collecting allies.

Sitting at the inn, her opportunity came upon her. Four men marched into the tavern and began to yell at the bearded innkeeper in a language she wasn't sure of—German? But there was clearly some bad blood; the barkeep stopped cleaning dishes and began yelling back. One of the attacking men threw the first punch, and good blow square in the nose, and things quickly escalated when the innkeeper fought back.

Jacqueline stood immediately and grabbed one from behind. He struggled momentarily, but eventually went limp. Another, a stringy man who was probably a tax collector, held up his fists threateningly. She coolly tripped him once and sent him sprawling, and it was enough to keep him down. The last two were taken care of by the barkeep, who was, unsurprisingly, a hell of a fighter. When the men who were still standing had run off, dragging their unconscious friends, he turned to her.

"Many vanks, my vriend," His accent was indeed German. "Nasty, zey ver."

"What was that about?" Jacqueline popped a few joints in her fingers.

"Zey ver accusing me of stealing some voman." He waved a hand. "Fools, ze lot of zem. Now, how I may I vepay you for your assistance?"

"I need to get into the Pink Princess, next door, and I have to be careful. Do you know any back door routes I can take to get in without being seen?"

"Hmm…nein, but I do know how you can get in. Come vith me." He beckoned, and she followed. "Alzo, my name is Johann."

"Jacqueline."

"Good to meet you, Jacquevine." Johann mispronounced.

"You seem very casual about this. Aren't you worried about what I'm doing?"

"Nein. Ve are more similar zen you tink, Jacquevine. Vord has been going around ze vest coast zat ze Assassins have veturned." He showed her his left hand, and she could see a tiny Assassin insignia branded onto his meaty ring finger. "I knew right vhen you valked in you vere vone of us."

"Then you know my target?"

"Jah. Morel." Johann spat the name distastefully and added a German curse on the end for good measure. "My associates have been following him verrrry carefully, zhoo see. I never expected a Assassin from ze Colonies to appear, howezer."

"Can you tell me where I might find allies? I'm blind and deaf here; this is the first time I've returned for about twelve years."

"Ja. Zere are many in Pariz, I know for zhure.

He led her through the back of the Mare and out into the evening, and then toward the Princess. "I know ze voman who vuns the Prinzess. She vill get you inzide."

He knocked on the back door of the Princess. There was a pause, and the door was thrown open to reveal an older woman. Heavy cosmetics covered lines of age, and dull brown hair was twisted into a hasty knot. Sharp green eyes peered out at them from the cloud of perfume that wafted out into the night.

"What do you want, Johann?" She demanded. "It's a busy night, and I have girls to look after."

"Madame, zis is Jacquevine. She needs a vay in to find somvone."

"Hrm." The madam grabbed Jacqueline's arm and dragged her into the pink-yellow light streaming out from the doorway. She was turned around and prodded, grabbed in a few places she would rather not be, and finally let go. "She's pretty enough to pass as one of my girls, but a bit stringy. Too much muscle." A bony finger prodded a firm abdomen.

"I need to find Pascal Morel." Jacqueline added, leaning away from her hands.

The madame's face changed considerably. The merchant inspecting a piece of meat turned into a greedy vulture that had eyes on its prey. "And what do you want with him?"

"I am going to kill him."

A grin made her face wrinkle at the cheeks, and exposed large teeth. "Excellent. You can come in. You can go now, Johann." She added lightly to the barkeep.

"Good luck." Johann waved, smiling past his absurd beard. "And zafety and peace, zister."

"Get in, quickly." Jacqueline was shoved inside the bordello and the door was closed and locked behind her. "You can call me Madame Emilee, or just Madame. Neither of us want you here long, though."

The room they were now standing in turned out to be bustling with other people. Girls ran here and there, changing dresses and brushing hair. They came in all shapes and sizes—plump, skinny, brunette, auburn, pale, tanned. It was a rainbow of women, bustling around in underthings and less. Jacqueline suddenly realised she may have made a terrible mistake.

"Francesca, Amelie!" Madame Emilee snapped, and two girls came rushing over. "Get her changed."

"Ah!" Jacqueline found herself being stripped down with the practised moves of people who had done this before. Her clothes were folded and tossed aside. "Where is Morel?"

"Around. The bastard only likes two things: gambling and girls." The Madame appraised her nearly bare form. "Oui, you're too lean. What do you do, starve yourself?"

"No. Ouch!" Jacqueline grabbed the nape of her neck, which stung when the hair tie was ripped from it and the long braid quickly dismantled. "What do you plan to do with me?"

"Morel likes…private sessions. I can give you to him, and you can kill him there. My girls will clean up the mess, and everyone wins."

"And what is your stake in this?" Her boots were tossed aside and her weapons belt along with them. "Why do you want him dead?"

"The man is scum, more so than the usual who come through my doors. He killed one of my girls once in a fit of rage. They can't prove it, of course, but we all know it was he. I want that bastard gone, and I want him to stay gone."

Francesca and Amelie pushed her around and pulled her into a blue courtesan's dress, tugging her limbs like they were dressing a disobedient child. Silver slippers with tall heels were jammed onto her feet. She was sat down in front of a mirror, and the girls went to work on her face. They brushed red paint over her lips and covered her face with all manner of powders, creams and colours, paying special attention to her very obvious scar, until she felt she could hardly raise an eyebrow without it all crackling away like plaster. She managed to keep a dagger hidden in her stocking.

"Good God, put some gloves on her!" The Madame exclaimed at the sight of her horrendously maimed arms. The girls dressing her grabbed navy gloves and shoved them onto her hands, up her elbows.

"I can put my own clothes on." The Assassin sneered, glaring at the blonde who was jamming faux flowers behind her ears.

"You are in my brothel; you play by my rules. Alors, you look a bit better now." Madame Emilee appraised. "You'll know Morel when you see him. Whatever you do, don't stop smiling. Now, get out there and kill him."

Jacqueline was nearly shoved out of the dressing room and into the main room of the brothel. The place was just one enormous cushion of pink velvet and rose petals. Renaissance-style artwork of erotic poses were scattered along the walls. A small band of violin and flute players made lilting tunes. Claustrophobia set in. Taking deep, steadying breaths, she unsteadily swayed over to the card tables.

The Madame had been right about one thing—she knew him when she saw him. A lank, greasy man, he had the air of a pompous businessman without any of the charm. The stack of coins in front of him was hefty, and he was clearly cheating.

"Where did you learn to play cards, Jean-Claude? Your mémé?" His joke got a cruel chuckle from a few of his equally slimy friends. The man in question bowed his head, too afraid to speak up.

"Monsieur Morel?" Jacqueline raised her voice to a sticky-sweet falsetto. The Templar turned around, and she saw a red cross embroidered on cuffs of each sleeve. She forced an unsteady curtsey, feeling the strain in her ankles. "I'm your…escort…this evening."

"Well, well, well, boys." He grinned around at his cohorts. "Looks like the game is over. Shall we?"

"This way." Jacqueline led him down the hall to where she assumed there were bedrooms and prayed one was open. There was one at the end of the pink corridor, and she let him go before her.

"Are you new? I've not seen you here before." Morel stretched and loosened his necktie.

"Er…oui, it's my first day." Now she was just making things up as she went.

"I thought so. The usual girls are all the same; voluptuous, charming, eager. Not real." His eyes searched her, lingering and greedy.

Jacqueline resisted the urge to gag. "Merci." She managed through gritted teeth.

"Let's get to it, then." He gestured to the bed.

"You, er, you first." She smiled tightly, remembering what the Madame had said.

"I like you already." Morel smirked and reached for the buttons of his shirt, and that was where she drew the line.

Jacqueline was on him in a second, quick as a flash. She shoved him onto the bed and put a hand around his throat. Her knees kept his hands pinned to the satin. "Scream and you die." She hissed. "Do you know who I am?"

"Why the hell should I?" He choked. "Now get off of me!"

"You'll remember me before you die," Her hand squeezed tighter. "Fourteen years ago, you burned my home." From below the neckline of her dress she pulled her pendant and dangled it before his wide eyes. "Templar."

"Assassin!" Morel wheezed. Clammy hands pawed her arms, trying to get air through to his brain, but it was useless.

"I want information, Morel," She growled. "Who was in that garrison all those years ago? Give me names."

"H-Henri Girard, Richard L'Enfant, and…" He gasped for air. "Rousseau."

"Christophe Rousseau?" She snarled.

"Oui, oui…he was the leader. But you'll never find him! Even I don't know where he is!"

"Where is Henri Girard?"

"Last I heard he was further inland, holed up southeast somewhere. Agh!" He flailed when she held tighter. "H-He's clever, too clever for the likes of you, Assassin."

"I think not."

Jacqueline wasn't going to suffocate him. From her stocking she pulled the knife she had kept hidden, and quickly slit his throat. Time slowed, and she faded out of reality for a moment.

-o-

Standing in no-man's-land, she and Morel faced one another, but she also held his dying body. "What do you hope to accomplish, Assassin?" He sneered.

"I want justice to be served." Jacqueline snarled back.

"Justice!" Morel spat. He paced a few steps, and he also convulsed on the satin sheets. "You know nothing of justice. My death is one in vain, and will solve nothing."

"This is something I must solve for myself. You are a cruel man, and your end will be a relief to many."

The Templar laughed. "If you believe that then you're but a selfish child, a child with no concept of the real world. Me? I knew how things were, how they are." He smoothed back his greased hair. "I did what I liked because life is short, and humans are naught but stupid animals rolling in the filth we've made for ourselves. When I wanted money, I got it. When I wanted a woman, I took her. And when I wanted to kill, I killed!" His voice had risen to a half mad scream.

"You aren't always supposed to get what you want." She replied calmly, eyes narrowed.

"Is that really what you believe?" Pascal Morel chuckled, shaking his head and turning his back to her. At the same time he breathed his last. "Then what are you doing here?"

-o-

"Resposez en paix."

The sheets soaked up the blood while Jacqueline climbed off. Grimacing, she wrestled the silver slippers from her sore feet and tossed them aside. Spattered in blood, she caused a stir when she went back out into the main hall, especially from Morel's companions. She expected a fight, but they just gave her a wide berth. Back into the dressing room she went. She rubbed her back of her hand across her painted mouth, leaving a haunting red smear across her cheek. The courtesans backed away, but they had grown up in tough lives and didn't much mind the sight of blood. Madame Emilee looked up from a record book with a victorious smirk.

"It is done." Jacqueline placed her red-spotted hands on the desk the Madame sat at and leaned forward dangerously. "Now give me back my clothes."

-o-

Connor sat hunched over the desk in the manor's study, scratching down schedules for recently dispatched caravans from the Homestead in the record book. When he was finished, he sat back and wrung out his hand.

It had been six months, and he still kept a wary eye out for the Aquila. Some part of him was hoping that she had changed her mind and decided to return early. The manor felt emptier than ever with Jacqueline gone and Achilles sick. The silence, punctuated by occasional coughs from Achilles' room, was something to behold. Having just returned from New York and his father's company, Connor was thankful for the peace and quiet. He knew that it was nearly time to set out again, however.

A bird chirruped outside, and stopped when a breeze rustled autumn leaves from the trees. He realised it had been a year since Jacqueline had been held in that fort. It was hard to believe how fast the time had flown.

Connor stood and walked into the kitchen. The oranges were all gone, rotten and tossed out. No one had disturbed Jacqueline's room, as though she were dead rather than in Europe. With a long, joint-popping stretch, he went to Achilles' room.

"Old man." He knocked on the doorframe. The mentor was slumped, asleep in his chair, but didn't respond.

The hairs on the back of Connor's neck stood up on end in a minute shiver. The air around the old man was cold. He moved up to Achilles and gave his shoulder a small shake. A piece of rolled parchment fell from his lightly curled fingers. It whispered against the floor, and the silence in the room reached new, deeper depths.

"Achilles?" He asked the question even knowing he would not be answered, not ever again. Connor backed away a step, reeling, and noticed the paper on the floor. He picked it up with reverence and scanned through it. The words only confirmed what he knew, but he would have to read it again when his roiling head had calmed. He almost felt the need to sit down.

He was alone.

-o-

-The schedule I have planned is one kill per chapter, meaning 3 more of her hunt after this, but it's probably going to be more.

-Morel's death scene was based on the kills from ACI especially, because the targets would move and talk like a normal person as well as die with Altaïr.

-You guys reeeeeeeaaaaally gotta check out this song. It's just…love.

-Review for poor lonely Connor :(