Part Sixteen: Death of a Person
"For all that you consider yourself an adult you are still a child..."
"When your mother was murdered a piece of yourself froze in fear, and even now it has not melted, and you've yet to understand that you cannot grow until you move on..."
"Don't be a child, boy..."
"You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child."
"You still don't understand the consequences of your decisions..."
"You are not yet ready for that kind of fight."
"Pitcairn was right. You are still a child."
"Oh child, please, you've killed two men. One more salesmen than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me."
Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, his head pounding and his stomach threatening to explode for the nausea he felt. He drifted off again.
He awoke again, some time later, wishing he was not in his own body.
The third time he woke, he realized he was not in the longhouse, and he couldn't understand why. Where was Ista?
And then, at last, he remembered what happened. Tallmadge, the whistle, the quest for footing around the printing press, Hickey, and guards that did not understand what was going on. Ratonhnhaké:ton groaned, deep in his throat, as he realized how badly he had failed. Why had Tallmadge not come? Were the guards that arrived his? Or a random patrol looking for trouble? Why had they been so belligerent as to not listen to him, so violent as to knock him out? And... where was he?
At last he cracked his eyes open, smell turning his stomach and filth surrounding every inch of him. His vision swam, his head was pounding, but he slowly worked himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his temple where he had been struck and trying to stop the world from spinning. He realized dimly that his coat and equipment were gone, his pistols and knives and even his hidden blades had been bereft of him. Even his moccasins were lost; his toes curled in the cool April air, and he realized belatedly that someone had left a window open. Confused, he turned and looked up to see a thin, narrow window, but no glass to block the chilly air. Only...
Only bars.
Bewildered, Ratonhnhaké:ton stood slowly, allowing time for his vision to dim and brighten as blood rushed to his head, and looked to the bars, putting his hands around them, tugging slightly, trying to comprehend what sort of construct he was in. He turned slowly, seeing that the door to the tiny room he was in was not made of oak or hickory or even pine, but of more metal bars, and beyond were more doors of metal. Blinking, still confused and slightly dizzy, he focused instead on his room, seeing the small, lumpy mattress he had been sleeping on and the excuse for a pillow, and a pail by it that stank of...
Ratonhnhaké:ton nearly threw up on the spot. Was he expected to use that? No outhouse?
He moved to the door of bars, tugging at them as he had the window, trying to fathom where he was. What kind of place was this? He could hear voices beyond, dissonant and numerous, creating a dull noise that was distracting. Then he heard a terrified, bloody scream, so loud and so close his blood shivered at the sound. Achilles never spoke of such a place, a building filled with rooms made of bars, sounds so terrible and smells so foul as to drive a person sick. Nausea overtook him, and he rushed back to the pail, but there was nothing in his stomach and he could only manage dry heaves. Spent after the ordeal, he collapsed loosely on the mattress, and was again unconscious.
The next time he woke he returned to his senses much more quickly. His head felt better, slightly, and the dizziness and nausea were both greatly reduced.
He sat cross-legged on the mattress, thinking hard as he tried to rub at his hands and arms, hoping to scrub away the grime and filth on him, trying to pretend he felt clean. He moved to his face, but felt several tender bruises and cuts, one under his eye and another at his temple. His lip had been split at some point, and he felt and found other bruises littering his body. He had been beaten while he was unconscious. Why? What ceremony could entail such cruelty?
But even as his current situation horrified him, another thought filled him with fear. What of Hickey? Washington? Had the Templar plot succeeded, was the new head of the Patriot army dead, fledgling rebels now leaderless and without hope? What of Tallmadge? Had he been captured; was he, too, in this miserable place?
"What are you lookin' at, half-breed?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, to see a man just as he banged on the door, face twisted into something ugly, contemptuous. The bars rattled, startled sounds murmuring beyond the walls where Ratonhnhaké:ton could not see.
"Where am I?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, "Why am I here?"
The man scoffed. "I knew savages was dumb, but you're a different piece of idiot all together. Were you the village idiot? All your savage squaws pity you, feed you scraps to survive? The bitch is always to blame."
"You speak in error," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, shocked to hear such brutal language. "I am no idiot and I do not know the word 'squaws.' No one was fed-"
"Shut up, redskin," the man said. "No one cares." He rattled the bars again and left, down a narrow hallway and batting at other bars, other cages. Yes, Ratonhnhaké:ton was in a cage, like pigs in a sty or chickens in a coup. The people here, they were treated as animals. Animals! Was the depravity of the white man truly so limitless? How much lower could the Europeans go in how they treated each other? Did they have no respect for one another? Was their desperate desire for money truly so consuming as to treat brothers as this? Were the slaves down south treated like this? Pressed into cages and left to live in filth and feces? Who could even conceive of such a horror?
"Never 'eard of a prison?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton stilled, recognizing the voice, the grating accent. He spun his gaze to the side, pressing his face as close to the bars as he could, looking to his right to see a pair of equally filthy hands, hanging loosely, even casually, from the bars.
"You," he said softly, emotions warring in his chest, his heart deciding what it meant and what to feel.
"You miss me, swee'art?" Thomas Hickey asked.
But Ratonhnhaké:ton realized the weight of this, and his silence was for once not born of tension, but rather relief. He stared at the pale hands, so casual even in a cage, glared at them indignantly even as he was glad to see them here instead of elsewhere.
"Wot? Nothin' to say?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton spoke the simple truth. "If you are here, then Washington is safe."
"True, true," Hickey said, acknowledging the point calmly. There was no malice in his voice, no contempt or arrogance, only a sly grin. "Thing is... I believe I'll be pardoned."
Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand those words. Pardoned? As in to excuse oneself? Pardon me? Or was there something else? He spent the night, cross-legged on the moldy floor, searching his mind of the lessons of Achilles, and his strict adherence to details. Sam Adams, too, had spoken of pardons... Yes, to do with the justice system. A complicated mess of laws that confused a fifteen-year-old Ratonhnhaké:ton daily as Achilles tried to explain debtors prisons, jails, royal pardons, lawyers, litigation, defense and prosecution. Words and phrases that whistled right over the child's head, so convinced was he that his sacred duty given to him in his vision would absolve him of having to deal with something so complicated. Ratonhnhaké:ton had understood that all of these rules would never apply to him if he was simply not caught.
Now he regretted his lapse in study, lamented how childish he had been at the time.
"For all that you consider yourself an adult you are still a child..."
Achilles' words echoed in his mind, and for a brief moment he saw himself as Achilles did: obstinate, stubborn, naive of the white man's world and unwilling to learn all the nuances necessary to live in it. Ratonhnhaké:ton was proud of his life at the village, proud of his traditions and perennially confused at the way of the white man. He was a native first and foremost, but only now was he beginning to realize that he was, in some ways, just as arrogant at the white man, to believe himself and his culture better than that of the Colonists and always pushing to explain himself to others, to make others understand that people were people, and that the only thing that was lacking was understanding.
As another scream erupted from somewhere, echoing off the granite walls, as a second guard spat slurs at him, Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that not everyone cared about the lack of understanding; he realized some of them were perfectly content to hate.
He would never understand it. Ever.
But for the first time, he realized that he would have to accept it.
He burned all night with that revelation.
Uncomfortable with his thoughts, he stared at the cell wall, knowing that Hickey was on the other side. Was Hickey like that? Content to hate? Was his father? Charles Lee thrived on hate, that much was obvious, but were the Stone Coats all so depraved? Why did they act as they did? Why did Pitcairn speak of parlay with Sam Adams and Hancock, why were they trying to delay the rebellion? Why did they want Warraghiyagey to buy up Haudenosaunee land? Achilles spoke of the subtlety of the Templars, but perhaps now, with Hickey just as trapped as he was, there was a way to cut through the veil.
Uncomfortable in the filth, uncomfortable with his revelations, uncomfortable with his thoughts, he turned his attention to the invisible man beyond the cell. "I want answers," he said, voice soft but dangerous. "Why did Johnson try and buy my people's land? Why was Pitcairn targeting Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why does your Order support the British?"
He heard a scoff, almost a laugh, before there was a response.
" 'ow should I know?" he countered. "The Templars. Lee. The big man, 'aytham. They 'as the money. They 'as the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em. That's the only reason. Sure, they 'ave some sort of vision, for the future too. I didn't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles. They can make their plans and spring their traps, don't bother me none. They paid me so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was aghast. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity simply because it was more profitable? You would see the world eaten by the Stone Coats and are content with simply being paid?"
Another snort. "Wot else is there?" Hickey demanded from the other side of the wall. "I'm not some blind fool 'ho'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle anyway? Can ya bring it to the bank?"
"Then you are soulless," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "an atenenyarhu who would devour everything simply because someone told you to."
" 'ere now, look 'ho's talkin'," Hickey replied, a smile in his voice. "Ain't you followin' orders, too? Ain't you doing wot that old nigger wants?"
"Do not use such language," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. Even with his increasingly strained relationship with the Old Man, he would not have his mentor's name defamed like that.
"There you go again, givin' up everythin' for a bit o' principle. It ain't worth it, boy."
"Don't be a child, boy..."
"I am no boy," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled, standing up as anxious energy started to fill him. If only the wall was not between them...!
"Ain't you?" Hickey asked. " 'ere you are, in Bridewell Prison, 'oused with other prisoners of war, an' wot are you doin'? Pickin' a fight 'stead o' tryin' to get outta 'ere. You're so bothered with the little problems you don't even see the bigger problems. Look at you, takin' offense to every little thing, you must be exhausted draggin' all that principle around. An' wot 'ave you got to show for it? Nothin'."
"I have you," Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "Here in this prison as well. Washington is safe."
"Think so, do you?"
The casual way he said it did not hide the menace of the words, and the rest of the night was spent struggling to control his anxiety, trying to remain calm in the face of the fact that his work was not done. Even with Hickey in prison, Lee and his raké:ni were still out there, plotting. Benjamin Church, too, was still alive; under guard perhaps but still a danger, and now he was alone, lost in a city he had yet to see and in a prison for no reason.
The night was frigid, temperatures plummeting and no window to block the wind or fire to generate heat. Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered in the cold, missing his moccasins and deerskin leggings and thick wool coat, even his hood to stave off the cold. With even a few layers of clothing the night would be merely chilly, but with his bloody cotton shirt and well-worn trousers his teeth chattered and his nose ran and he sniffled. Next to him, he heard Hickey do the same, sneeze and cough and sound as miserable as he. To know that Hickey was so human drove Ratonhnhaké:ton nearly to insanity. Hickey could not be human, he was a Templar! An atenenyarhu that ate the land and the people. He was a demon in the skin of a man, a spawn of Flint to sow the seeds of evil, it made no sense for such a spawn to get a cold, to sneeze and sniffle and act like a human.
"As a metaphor I find it quite appropriate; but you, Connor, don't see it as a metaphor. You think it is real, that these men really are demons. I can assure you, they are men just as we are."
"No, Ratonhnhaké:ton, he is a man, just like you and I. You call him atenenyarhu to try and explain what happened when we were children."
"Oi, when are we gonna get some breakfast 'round here? I want me a nice, juicy steak!"
"Quiet!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton clenched his jaw, huddling around himself as the sun rose and the air slowly began to warm. They were wrong. They were all wrong. Hickey was an atenenyarhu. He was.
The day wore on and Hickey continued to cough and sniffle, fighting a cold that had settled in over the night before taking a nap and snoring uproariously, heedless of the cries of pain beyond their small cages. Ratonhnhaké:ton glared at the wall that separated them, trying to will it away with his thoughts before he became totally convinced that this man was not a Stone Coat at all. If Hickey was truly human, not a demon in disguise, could Ratonhnhaké:ton kill him? Really kill him?
Regret quietly echoed in his thoughts; he remembered his conversation with Achilles after killing Warraghiyagey, of realizing that the men he had killed protecting people were not atenenyarhu, but real people, just as he was, just as his ista was. Disquiet filled him as he realized the true weight of the death he had wrought. He had killed people, sons and brothers and friends and cousins and members of some community somewhere. Could he have done differently? Should he do differently now? With Hickey? But what of Iottsitíson? What did she think of the thoughts he was having?
… Was this a test? A means to see if he was still worthy of the task she had given him? Was there a lesson he was to learn in this? He wished for her counsel, or that of Oiá:ner; most especially he wanted to talk to Ista, to tell her everything that had happened and have her make it all go away as she always did, give him a stern lecture on what is proper and right and send him off to play with Kanen'tó:kon. He took a deep breath, sneezing in the cold, and tried to figure out what was going on.
Food in this place was given a new name: rations, and were pittance indeed. As the day dragged on, Ratonhnhaké:ton listened to Hickey in complete complacency, as content to be in prison as to be plotting the death of the commander. The man slurped his food, burped, sang drinking songs to pass the time, gave quick turns of phrase to the guards as they passed, blithe to the rattling of the barred doors, meant to terrify prisoners. He even asked after Ratonhnhaké:ton.
"Enjoyin' the food?" he asked, a smile in his voice that the young native couldn't see. "Right fit for a king, it is."
Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing.
"Suit yourself. Bon appetit, as them Frenchies say. Oi, you know if the French are gonna join in the big scrap out there? They 'ate we Englishmen as much as the next bloke. Figure they'll be happy to shell out a bit o' money for another scrap. Them French girls, they are a pleasure to be'old they are. Grunt better then English bitches, that's for sure."
"Do all you Templars think so poorly of your oiá:ner?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked grudgingly, offended and curious and deeply, deeply confused on how he was supposed to react to this man.
"Wot, you mean our womenfolk?" Hickey asked. "Naw, even got a lady grandmaster down south somewhere from what I 'ear. I just like takin' 'em. 'Tween that and a good mug o' beer, and I'm one happy bloke."
"So women are things to you, too? As the slaves? As the land? As the forest?"
" 'ear, now, wot'd I say 'bout principle? You aren't goin' to get me spoutin' no philosophy; ain't that kind o' man."
For a week they traded similar barbs, both freezing in the chill of the late April nights, shivering and sneezing as sickness swept over them and outright killed so many in the prison. Hickey had many points of comment when women came to visit their husbands, only to be pulled aside and beaten or worse. Slowly Ratonhnhaké:ton learned the name of the prison: Bridewell, named after a similar prison in London and only just completed. The cells were filled with prisoners already because it was built specifically to deal with the overflow of another prison, New Gaol, and was quickly becoming the place Tories threw Patriots or other prisoners of war. Word slowly arrived that Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who rode 100 miles in eight hours to join the fight at Bunker and Breed's Hill, was in New York in charge of the Americans, waiting for Washington and his army to arrive. Word also slowly bled in of the war spreading to the southern colonies, South Carolina was mentioned but Ratonhnhaké:ton did not hear much in the way of detail.
Prisoners died by the dozens every night, the late April temperatures at night cold enough that exposure was a real risk. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew the dangers of the cold, and stayed active at night, doing push ups and sit ups, keeping his blood warm and spacing his work out until the sun rose and the day warmed considerably. Hickey seemed to catch his idea on the other side of the wall, and occasionally joined in. Ratonhnhaké:ton resented it deeply, and was left even more confused on what he was supposed to do. In all of his mental assessments of the Stone Coats, he had not expected to have such prolonged exposure to one who seemed and acted so... human. Hickey suffered colds just as much as Ratonhnhaké:ton, he talked and sang and made lewd jokes, swore and laughed and was – in his own way – good-natured. These were not qualities Ratonhnhaké:ton expected to find in an atenenyarhu, and he was not sure what to make of it.
But, then, as May arrived, and the temperatures continued to warm, and as Ratonhnhaké:ton started to feel settled in his thoughts, even wondering how he should act on them, everything changed.
Two men breezed through the landing of their floor, one exceedingly well dressed, impeccable in every detail, hair an iron grey of middling age. Hands were clasped firmly behind his back, eyes looking only forward. The other was slovenly to the extreme, dark hair askew, animal hair flecking off his coat, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew them both in an instant, had studied their paintings for years. He pushed himself into a corner, into the shadows, and glared at the sudden revelation that had just descended upon him.
Charles Lee and Haytham Kenway had arrived.
" 'Bout time," Hickey said from the other side of the wall, his voice light and airy and full of itself. "Three weeks I been waitin'. Thank you kindly for the rescue, gents."
"There can be no further mistakes, Thomas. Am I understood?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton breathed, his body vibrating with energy, anxiety and confusion and a dozen other emotions warring with him as he realized he was listening to his father, hearing his voice for the first time. It was smooth, crisp, a cultured accent that indicated he was from London. Stern tones brought on the impression of disappointment, a firm hand, and the faint promise of rough discipline. He sounded like his ista, far back in his memory, stern and severe, but with quiet layers underneath that could warm or scare as the situation called for. All sorts of memories flooded Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind of his early childhood, quickly warping to imagination of what his life might have looked like had his raké:ni been there. Now he had a voice to play into those fantasies, and he wondered at what might have been. Would his mother love a man with such a voice? Would she find that enticing? Comfortable? Was his voice what made her choose him? Was-
Haytham Kenway began to leave, assuming Hickey had nodded or given some other nonverbal assent to the man's question, walking stiffly past Ratonhnhaké:ton's cell before Hickey interrupted his departure.
"Wot about the Assassin?"
Haytham Kenway froze, and Ratonhnhaké:ton shrank even further into his corner, uncertain what to do, watching his raké:ni's every move, wondering if he would turn, look at him, see him in the shadows, recognize him, anything. Would he free Ratonhnhaké:ton as he was freeing Hickey? Would he try to reach out, learn about his son? What would he do?
His dramatic pause seemed to spur Hickey into saying more.
" 'E's here," the man said, voice eager to please. "They put 'im in the cell next to mine. Guess we didn't quite get 'em all, eh?"
Haytham Kenway said nothing, standing perfectly still. He did not turn; not to Hickey, not to the cell Ratonhnhaké:ton was in, he just breathed, gaze locked straight ahead of him. His face didn't change, nothing was given away, so like his ista it was nearly painful; he almost stepped into the light, just to get a closer look at that stone-cut profile. No, this person was not a Stone Coat; he was too like his mother to think that. He was wood, firm and hard, but deep inside able to bend. Like his mother. Like Ratonhnhaké:ton himself. Pieces of himself that did not come from his mother began to make sense, and curiosity burned in him. He was working up the courage to step forward, make the man look at him, see if there was love in his gaze.
But then the moment was ruined.
Haytham Kenway turned at last, casting a fleeting glance at the atenenyarhu himself. "Deal with this, Charles," he said, voice firm and cold and harsh.
"At once, sir."
And Haytham Kenway left just as quickly as he had come, and with him went Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath. The opportunity was lost, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton had an overwhelming mismatched knot of thoughts and emotions firing back and forth in his head, looking at his father and seeing so much of his mother, picturing his life as something different and realizing for the first time that he had spent his life missing more than just his mother. What did that mean? What should he do? What could he do?
Never had he been so desperate for Achilles' counsel.
And he didn't even have time to process, to work through, to understand what he was feeling, because Hickey spoke from the other side of that cursed wall.
"Wot are we gonna do?"
And unlike Haytham Kenway, Charles Lee did look in the cell, he did stare at Ratonhnhaké:ton, he did recognize the figure in the shadowed corner. Looking at the slovenly character, the dog hair and the hardened, stone eyes, Ratonhnhaké:ton's brain broke even further. Confusion mixed heavily with hatred, and even a twinge of jealousy that Haytham Kenway had turned to Charles Lee instead of him. Even that he didn't know what to do with, but his hatred won out, and he stepped out of the shadows, hands gripping the cool metal and glaring all of his emotion at the dark spawn of Hahgwehdaetgah.
"You're that boy from Cambridge," Lee said, the recognition in his voice mixed with its usual contempt. "Adams' little lap dog."
The silence drew out, one man looking down his nose and the other glaring with all his might. If only the bars were not in the way, the atenenyarhu would be killed now, and his village and his people would be safe. If only... if only...
"Hmmm," Lee said, a small, knowing grin on his face. "I think I have an idea... Yes. Two birds with one stone."
"Do tell," the invisible Hickey said from his cell.
"All in good time," Lee replied, looking away from Ratonhnhaké:ton and going back to Hickey's cell. How dare he walk away! "It's not like the Assassin's going anywhere." Such contempt! He needed to die! For the Kanatahséton! "For now we should see about getting you taken care of."
Hickey, so blithe for their time in prison, finally sounded angry. "What are you on about?" he demanded. "I thought I was gettin' out."
"I'm afraid you won't be leaving for a while, thanks to Benjamin Tallmadge," Lee said, tone dismissive. He was contemptuous even to his compatriots, it seemed. Just like an atenenyarhu. "He's been running his mouth, saying all sorts of things. You're being investigated for plotting to assassinate George Washington. Even Master Kenway, for all his influence, has not the power to release you from so grievous a charge. We shall have to handle it differently. I'm off to the Carolinas, soon, so I'll have to work fast. Now," he said, turning back to Ratonhnhaké:ton, stone gaze contemptuous. "I thought we'd finished off your kind."
Ratonhnhaké:ton had an easy response on his lips, his hatred having built and built and built, glaring at this evil demon that he couldn't keep his words in his mouth. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" he growled, gripping the bars and spreading his feet, his body unconsciously preparing for everything. "To rid the world of all who do not share your views."
And Charles Lee laughed.
He laughed as if Ratonhnhaké:ton's accusation was actually funny, as if so serious a statement somehow held humor. Charles Lee was amused by Ratonhnhaké:ton. Hatred boiled anew, and Ratonhnhaké:ton thought he would explode like black powder for the negative energy filling his body. If he could just reach the man...! He gripped the bars tighter.
"Guilty as charged," Lee said once he was satisfied. "Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important." Then the contemptuous grin again, gaze cold as stone, an adult looking at a child. "But what would you know," he queried, "beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you and the tales you tell yourself."
To dare speak of Achilles in such a way...! His toes curled into the stone.
"I know that the people wish to be free," he growled, "and that men like Washington fight to make it so. You would kill the very hope of the people in your attempt to trample them under your feet. You only wish to eat the world, you are cannibals, atenenyarhu, inhuman devils, and I will stop you from killing Washington."
Charles Lee scoffed, his face darkening into something even uglier, his dirty face becoming twisted, his voice dropping as contempt turned to hatred in its own right. "Please," he said, "The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it up as he goes along. His pedigree is pathetic – his military record even more so. It was an unequivocal accident that he was able to reclaim Boston last month, more a function of English incompetence than any real skill. I could go on and on but we'd be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits." Lee took a breath, calming himself from his own fury, and Ratonhnhaké:ton saw an opportunity, saw that Lee's own anger had distracted him. His iron grip on the bars softened at last, moving slowly, very slowly, so that no one would notice.
"He must be dealt with," he continued. "You as well. I will abide no more flies in the ointment."
Ratonhnhaké:ton struck, thrusting his hand through the bars and grabbing at the filthy cravat, getting a solid grip and yanking, hoping to slam Lee's head into the bars, disorient him enough to get a grip on his neck and squeeze.
It did not occur as he planned, however, Lee had apparently anticipated the desperate gambit and was more than prepared to reverse the outcome. A grip clenched onto his wrist, stronger than Ratonhnhaké:ton anticipated, even realized, and twisted, leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton to twist himself to prevent his arm from being broken. It was a rookie mistake, one a novice would make, and he saw too late that his opportunity was not an opportunity at all, but a mind full of hatred pushed beyond rational thought. Now off-balance and trying to prevent injury, another fist reached through the bars, Lee's hand grabbed at Ratonhnhaké:ton's shirt, yanking him as the young native had hoped to do and pulling him to the bars. He felt something in his arm explode in pain, and his temple slammed into the bars with such force that his vision filled with stars. He grunted in pain, and then fists were on his neck, and all too suddenly he was once again six, once again being strangled by an atenenyarhu, once again about to be eaten.
The echo of his childhood reverberated in more than the chambers of his mind; as he struggled for air he saw recognition dawn on Lee, a curious look crossing his face.
"All those years ago," he muttered before his eyes widened. "The child in the forest was you."
Satisfaction filled Ratonhnhaké:ton, even as his vision clouded with the lack of air. The demon remembered him. "I said I would find you," he gasped, teeth bared.
And Charles Lee laughed. Again.
"And so you have," he said, voice filled with contempt. "But not quite as you had expected, am I right? You know – all of this might have been avoided, had you only done as I'd asked. Ah, but what's done is done."
The fists on his neck let go suddenly, and before Ratonhnhaké:ton could gasp for breath his shirt was grabbed again and he was slammed into the bars, even harder this time since he was not resisting the pull, and he knew no more.
"All of this might have been avoided, had you only done as I'd asked."
Whatever pain he felt the first time he awoke in the prison paled in comparison to what he felt as he opened his eyes anew. His arm was swollen at his elbow and his ribs threatened to crush every breath he took. Blood filled his nostrils, and he saw pools of it on the floor. Movement was incomprehensible, every jerk of his muscles sending agony through him. One eye was swollen shut, and he felt the throbbing weight of an anvil slamming into his head repeatedly. He had not just been rushed against the bars, someone had opened his cell and beat him.
No one came to help him. A man, the warden, came only to express his disgust.
"Look at all of you," he said, voice nasal and as arrogant as Lee's. "Pathetic, dirty wretches. You're naught but swine suckling at the teats of civilization. Thieves and scoundrels, all. And do you acknowledge this? Do you repent and beg forgiveness? No. You elect, instead, to commit new and more terrible crimes inside what should be a place of rehabilitation. You bide your time, awaiting the day of your release, that you might corrupt anew."
That was only one of his favored topics, of which there were many, and Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly came aware things he had never considered.
"The worst part is that the good people of New York are forced, quite literally, to pay for your crimes. Where do you think the money for this prison came from, hm? For your outfits? Our wages? Resources wasted because you refuse to contribute to society. You would rather dwell in its margins, living off the hard work of others. We'd be doing everyone a favor if we simply put you all down! Then our money might be spent on more productive things... ah, but it seems our current leaders lack the courage to accept this truth. So you are spared, that you might leech a while longer."
The vitriol was expressed over and over, sinking into Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, echoing Charles Lee's words: "All of this could have been avoided, had you only done as I asked."
… Was it true? Was Ratonhnhaké:ton wrong in some way? Should he have pointed Lee in the direction of his village? Would that have stopped the fire? Was it true that he was merely a leech to the white man's world, incapable of living in it fully? He had failed to save Washington, Lee was off to execute the plan through some nefarious means, were there other failures he didn't know about? Was Achilles right, was he still a child? What more had he missed, how else had he failed?
"And if a few of you might die or go missing, who would notice? Who will care, and why should they? You are wasted on the world."
The words were flung at him over and over, and even as his bruises slowly healed, as his head began to clear, the words eventually sank in, and Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know what to do or how to think.
All he had done, all he had ever tried to do, was make the world safe for his people. Since the death of his mother all he could feel was anxiety, the danger that lurked in the creeping expansion of the settlers. All he wanted was to soothe that feeling, to feel like it was safe, was that so wrong? How would showing the village to Lee have made anything different? The Stone Coat still would have eaten everything in sight, with the help of Johnson and Hickey and Church. His mother would still have died, why did the atenenyarhu try to pin all the suffering on Ratonhnhaké:ton? Where was the logic of it?
… And why was he wasted on the world? Why did his being from a different culture, a different world, make him so unworthy? So beneath everyone? Why was it so important that people looked and sounded and acted alike? Why did that warden assume so much? That he leeched off society, that he planned on corrupting people, that he refused to contribute? What did the warden know, what proof did he have that Ratonhnhaké:ton, or anyone else trapped here, were of such a persuasion?
Why did the settlers always think the worst of those around them? How damaged was their world that they could think that?
But... was Ratonhnhaké:ton's any better? Stealth, spying, assassination, murder? He was an Hirokoa, he killed people – not demons, but actual people – to further his simple goal of keeping his people safe. Was that any different? Any worse, or better either? Achilles spoke of an ancient Mentor, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and his writings of a man named Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, who had spent his life studying the Creed. Nothing was true, everything was permitted.
What did it mean?
What did a phrase like that mean? It had passed through hundreds of years, dozens of languages, thousands of people, virtually untouched. What did it mean that nothing was true? That everything was permitted? How could it guide a person through their deeds, bring solace to the death that one wrought? Achilles had spoken of the Creed often, explaining that it was none of these things, merely an observation of life itself.
"Times change, Connor," he had said. "And with the times so do the people. To say that nothing is true is to say that truths mold and change with the times. To say everything is permitted is to say that what is a sin in one land is boon to another. To you the thought of possession is nearly incomprehensible, the idea of owning land and resources reprehensible. That is your truth. The Colonial truth is that all of these things are for sale, and are a measure of a person's success and wealth. What is impermissible to you is permissible to the English, or the French. The Creed is not a religion, but an acceptance of the world as it truly is: an illusion."
Ratonhnhaké:ton, now years later, began to understand the words in more than just principle and abstract thought experiments. He understood now, at last, what it meant to live the Creed. Hickey was right, in a way; Ratonhnhaké:ton could not afford to correct every indiscretion of the Colonists, they would not have their truths rewritten, and they had long ago permitted themselves to perform inhuman acts of cruelty on one another. No, he could not stop all of them, and so he would have to accept them. Quietly. With dignity.
As Achilles did, so often when a traveler or new homesteader realized a man of such dark skin could own land. It was why he held his freeman papers and his deed on his person at all times. It was why he said nothing when slurs were hurled at him. Achilles had accepted a long time ago that the world would not change for him. Slavery had existed since the inception of the Colonies, and hundreds of years of tradition would not break with one man.
And yet...
And yet...
How could a person ignore wrongdoing and still call oneself a person?
If the world would not change, then should not Ratonhnhaké:ton, should not everyone, change the world and make it a place were such transgressions were not made? People such as Pitcairn, or Johnson, or the abusive guards would still exist, Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to acknowledge that, but surely the numbers of such depraved people would be reduced if the world was a better place? Was that not the goal of the Hirokoa to begin with? To prevent tyrants such as his raké:ni, or atenenyarhu such as Lee, from being in control so that the people themselves could make the better world? Was that not what the Continental Congress did? Listen to the will of its people and do as the people decided? Is that not what this war was about? Not suppressing a rebellion, as the English believed, but to have the right to have a say in one's own government?
No. The vitriol of the warden, the snide comments of Hickey, the contempt of Charles Lee could not dissuade him. His mission had not changed. His goal had not changed. He had not changed. He still would kill the Templars; he would still protect his people.
Now, however, he better understood why.
The month of June dragged on, and the tiny confines of the cell did not just channel the cold, it channeled the heat as well, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton was grateful for the glass-less window, he could just catch the breeze and pretend to be cool.
Some of his injuries were healed, but new ones had been added. It was not uncommon for the guards to enact cruelties on the prisoners they were supposed to be guarding.
His arm worried him the most, the swelling had not gone down and moving his fingers and hand were nearly impossible. Fever came and went as his body tried to fix the damage. He realized over time that he had not heard from Hickey in days, perhaps weeks as time blurred together for him. He glanced at the wall and the man beyond it, wondering what had happened.
But then, Hickey was at the bared door of his cell, a lazy grin on his face as he stared down and the weakened twenty-year old. The Templar was free.
" 'Ere is 'ow it's gonna work," he said. "Tomorrow, you go before the court, accused of plottin' to kill good ol' Georgie. Once that's all squared away, well then..."
And he offered a sickly grin, lifting his hand up above his head, making a fist and a small yanking motion, a cute sound effect slipping out of his mouth. "Nice knowin' you, 'Hickey.' "
"Right this way sir, so sorry for the confusion," the warden said, and Hickey turned, face smooth and grateful.
"No problem, sir. I knew it was all a misunderstandin'. Imagine, little ol' me confused for Thomas Hickey!"
"No..." Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, weeks of sickness and beatings having weakened him severely. "No you are wrong. That man is..."
"Quiet, Hickey! Or do you need another beating to get it through your savage skull? Filthy redskin!"
And his target walked calmly off, free to do as he had originally planned:
Kill George Washington.
In his sleep he saw Duncan, standing at the cell and giving Last Rites for a white man, his words interspersed with code words for escape. It was a nice dream, until,
"Up! Up with ya! I said get up!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton got to his knees slowly, his arm throbbing and weakness threatening to send him back to the darkness. He had dignity now, he understood how to handle the bigoted cruelty. He said nothing, working himself to his feet, and standing tall, towering over the guards. He swayed on his feet, dizzy with the motion, but he refused to fall or faint, simply breathing deeply, accepting what was about to happen to him. His broken, half-healed arm was twisted agonizingly behind his back as his hands were tied behind him, thick rope digging into already abused wrists.
"Walk."
The command was coupled with a shove that sent him stumbling out of his cell, but he once more stood straight, walking as he could and refusing to fall when armed men tried to push him into being faster. He would act with dignity.
As Achilles had.
He understood the value of it now.
"Bye now!" someone said from their cell, knowing full well what an escorted, bound man meant. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not respond, merely held his head as high as he could, putting one bare foot in front of the other. He was lead down the stairs, his legs stiff from inactivity, and down a series of narrow halls before a door was opened, and he was shoved mercilessly into a wood-covered wagon. His arm exploded in agony, and he could not stop the grunt that fell from his lips, and for the life of him he had no memory of the wagon ride as he tried to fight off the waves of pain of his freshly broken arm.
He had only just gotten control of his pain when the wagon stopped is unknowable ride, and a guard climbed in, grabbing his broken arm and using it to lift him to his feet. He very nearly fainted from the pain, and his time spent idle made the guard lose patience and shove him out of the wagon. He angled his fall and landed on his good side, the sharp motion of the impact blinding him with pain for a moment. Weakness overtook him, and he had not the strength to get his legs under him.
The dissonant noise of shouts and cries of people, hundreds and hundreds of people, filled his ear, confusing him, and rain pelted at him. He realized dimly that he had not been outside since April. What month was it now? What day, what week? How long had he been caged?
" 'Ello Connor."
Wood. Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately thought of wood and willed his face into a mask of the False Face Society, giving nothing away. Hickey grabbed his broken arm and hoisted him up, the pain overwhelming and almost impossible to bottle up. He managed to stay conscious however, and refocus on the atenen—the Templar's words. "Didn't think I'd miss your goin' away party, did ya? I hear Washington 'imself will be in attendance. Hope nuttin' bad 'appens to him."
The plan fell together quickly in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, why Hickey had taken his own name and placed it on the young native, and why he was here at the trial.
They moved through a crowd that was too numerous to count, and turning a corner he saw not a courthouse, but a gallows. He turned fevered eyes to Hickey.
"You said there would be a trial," he accused.
"Ah, no trials for Traitors, I'm afraid," Hickey said brightly, a man enjoying himself. "Lee an' 'aytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!"
Wood. Dignity. Achilles. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to effuse them all, turning to Hickey with a thick layer of calm wrapped around him. "I will not die today," he said simply. "The same cannot be said for you."
He would kill Hickey. Not because he was a Stone Coat, but because his scheme would stop the revolution before it even began. Stop his people from being safe. Stop the freedoms of the Americans as they fought with their capitol in London to be heard. He channeled that serenity into his voice, quietly making his promise, and knowing that by just declaring it it would be done. As the Sky Goddess commanded.
"That's enough! Keep moving!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to walk through the crowd towards the gallows. The noise was incomprehensible, curses and slurs and vulgarities, all mashed together in a bloodthirsty chorus of hatred. This was the Colonist at their worst: thirsty for blood, thrilling at the thought of carnage. This was the base instinct that made people atenenyarhu, Stone Coats that ate not people, but each other. Ratonhnhaké:ton learned a new facet of the truth.
… Oh. Nothing was true.
He very nearly smiled at the revelation.
The summer shower was pouring, the clouds white and high in the sky, giving a humid scent to the air and a watery mist along the ground, the sound of rain very near lost under the shouts of the incalculable crowds.
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up and saw Washington up a series of steps, two guards at his flank, the mountain of a man looking out over the crowd with a stoic face. Somewhere deep in his mind, an eagle screeched, eyes drawn to someone falling in the crowds, but he didn't understand why, and Hickey shoved him into the narrow gauntlet, hands reaching out to abuse his beaten body even further. His broken arm was in agony, and his vision hazed several times as he tried to stay tall as he walked to the gallows. The muddy stone street cut into his feet, the rain getting in his eyes and he unable to wipe it away. His hair felt oily, slick, and moving hurt. The gallows loomed higher and higher, the noose hanging lazily from its perch, a man there already playing to the crowd, savoring the approach of his victim.
The thin gauntlet got narrower and narrower, the crowd pressing in amongst themselves to get a look at the traitorous half-breed, to see the face of the redskin savage traitor that was about to die for their entertainment. Curses that he had never heard before were thrown at him, people spitting at him and giving rude gestures, rocks and rotten fruit sailing through the air; all of which he endured as quietly as possible as his vision continued to swim, as his weakness threatened to take him before it was time. Hickey was at his shoulder, toothy grin and happy wave to the crowds, enjoying his work. Ratonhnhaké:ton had one chance, if he could make it to the base of the steps... if he had enough strength...
A tiny, frail, slip of a girl filled his vision, poorly made fist pulling back and clipping his jaw.
He could not even handle that small exertion of force, and he fell to his knees, eyes blind with pain, sweat streaming down his brow, as he tried to breathe and stay conscious.
He couldn't do it. He was not capable of stopping this madness. There was no hope...
A shoe entered his field of vision, and a dark hand weathered with age.
"You are not alone," a thin papery voice said. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't dare look up as he recognized the voice, did not dare give away just who was with him. Everything in his mind turned off as he heard those words. You are not alone. His breath quickened, anticipation flooding his chest as he realized that his trials were over, that Iottsitíson had seen his struggles and answered him.
He risked glancing to the side, seeing the crumpled hat hiding Achilles' eyes, aged mouth pressed into a frown.
"Forget about me," he said softly, afraid to speak too loudly. "You need to stop Hickey." It was all that mattered. The plot needed to be stopped. It was not necessary for him to live through this hanging, the others would finish his work. He was but a pawn in the Sky Goddess' game, others would fulfill her needs. Did they even know the danger? That the plot was to happen today? "He's -"
"Up you go!" Hickey said brightly, once more grabbing his broken arm and using it to lift the weakened Ratonhnhaké:ton back to his feet. "Don't wanna be late, now do we? Ya just had to be a hero, didn't ya? You and Georgie both. Now you'll see what it gets ya: a pine box and l'il else. All that bloody 'principle's' about to 'ang ya."
Hickey shoved him up the steps, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggling for balance before he was led to the trap door.
The hangman had already started his speech. "Brothers. Sisters. Fellow Patriots. Several days ago we learned of a scheme so vile, so dastardly - that even repeating it now, disturbs my being." The man gesture grandly to Ratonhnhaké:ton, a burlap sack in his fist. "The man before you plotted to murder our much beloved General."
The crowd booed loudly, arms waving and motion rippling over the bodies. Thousands were packed into this square, and their vitriol was palpable.
"Indeed!" the hangman agreed. "What darkness or madness moved him, none can say. And he himself offers no defense. Shows no remorse. And though we have begged and pleaded with him to share what he knows," the sack was placed over his head, the dim light of the overcast rain making him just see through the material, "he maintains a deadly silence." His eagle pointed out Hickey, at the base of the gallows, watching with an anticipatory sneer, his true colors bleeding through. The noose was added next, tightening around his neck, echoing his childhood and making fear flood his body. He held himself perfectly still, trying to think of wood, of Achilles, of the hope that the old Mentor would save Washington.
"If the man will not explain himself - if he will not confess and atone - what other option do we have, but this? He sought to send us into the arms of the enemy. And thus, we are compelled by justice to send him from this world. May God have mercy on your soul!"
There was a stiff sound the sensation of falling, and then the desperate need for air air airairairairair an eagle screeched somewhere and his eagle shrieked back and he was falling again and landing and mud and air he needed air hands on his neck no go away but the noose was loosened and at last he could breathe. He gasped, sucking in as much air as he could, only he breathed in rain and he rolled over to cough it all up, his arm limp at his side and air at last air!
He took in all the air he could pull for his lungs, coughing and gasping and aware of little else.
A hand touched his shoulder, and his eagle broke though his cacophony of disjointed thoughts, and only one remained standing.
Hickey was going to kill Washington.
Today.
Now.
This instant.
He looked up to see Achilles, a look on his face Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen before, and his beloved tamahaac in his hand. Ratonhnhaké:ton reached for it weakly, silently begging to be allowed to finish his work.
Achilles' face had not changed, that look still locked in place, before he handed over the hatchet and offered a whispered, "Go."
Everything was distorted, sound blocked out for the racing beats of his heart and his ragged, desperate gasps of air. It felt as though the world had slowed down somehow, everything was slow, warped, hard to interpret. The crowds had all but dispersed, whatever had been done to save Ratonhnhaké:ton from hanging having terrified everyone into fleeing for their lives. Rain was everywhere, hard to see, hard to smell, hard to understand, but his eyes locked onto Hickey, and everything else fell away.
Hickey, for his part, was shocked to see the Hirokoa alive and appear from under the gallows, and with an annoyed snarl he turned and dashed full tilt for the steps that held the Patriot Commander.
That would never happen, and as Clipper dived into a man with a musket and Stephane threw his butcher knife across the way at something Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't see, he, too, sprinted full tilt after the would-be killer. The chase was all too apparent for anyone watching, and the guards at Washington's shoulders did their job well, grabbing their charge and pulling him back.
After untold weeks locked up in that death trap of a prison, after suffering infections and beatings and savagery, after surviving a hanging, Ratonhnhaké:ton was very nearly weak as a kitten, but Hickey had spent all of those weeks in prison as well, had been as sick as Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Hickey was older, less fit, and now slower than the younger and faster Ratonhnhaké:ton. It was no contest.
A weak swing brought the tomahaac into the man's shoulder, and the spray of blood diluted quickly in the rain as both men fell, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggling for air to supply the exertion he was doing. He struggled to his knees and crawled to Hickey. His strike had rung true, even weak as it was; it had hit an artery, and Hickey was bleeding out.
"Dammit," Hickey muttered. "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked down on the man. It was all that was left in him to do. The blind hatred had burned out weeks ago, and all he could feel was the thin vapors of contempt, mixed with pity and disapproval.
Hickey scoffed as he always did. "Don't look at me like that," he slurred. "We're different, you and I. You're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies. Where as I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand and a titty in the other. Thing is, boy, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. You? Your hands will always be empty."
He died.
Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned back, job over, and nothing was left in him. He looked up blearily to see Patriots surrounding him, muskets raised, and he was too tired to even feel fear. His job was done, that was all that mattered. If he died, well, at least the Old Man would no longer be bothered.
"At ease, men! At ease! I said lower your goddamn guns! This man's a hero!"
The young native looked up to see Israel Putnam, whom he'd met at Bunker Hill and spoke to on occasion, chewing on a cigar as he often did and waving his hands, habitual curses making the men lower their arms. Putnam gave one glance at Ratonhnhaké:ton and offered a wry grin. "The General can be so stubborn sometimes. Piffle, he said, when we warned him something like this would happen! Piffle! Then Tallmadge goes shouting to anyone who'd listen what happened to you, and we all see you at the gallows instead of this waste of skin."
He kicked the corpse, disrespectful of the life that had been taken.
"Stop," Ratonhnhaké:ton said weakly.
"There you go again, givin' up everythin' for a bit o' principle. It ain't worth it, boy."
Perhaps it wasn't, but Ratonhnhaké:ton would give this man respect as he did not for the others. If the world needed to change, then he needed to be the first to start it, to show the world the proper way to be.
Putnam was not so understanding. "He wanted to kill the Commander. Nearly killed you as well. He was a scoundrel."
"But still a man," he said softly his voice raspy and hoarse, still clinging to the air it breathed.
"Hmph," the Connecticut man snorted. "You're nothing, if not consistent."
Clipper was there, working through the crowds, as was Duncan and Stephane, and Achilles' dark shadow could be seen in the crowds. Safety was only feet away, but there was one last thing to do. "Where is Washington?" he asked. "I need to speak with him."
"Bundled off as soon as your execution went sideways. He's likely on his way back to Philadelphia by now, to get orders from Congress. Something wrong? Besides all of this I mean?"
His vision was dimming, there was nothing left in him, but he needed to do this one last thing. "He is still in danger," he said, hearing fading into a high-pitched ring. "Hickey did not act alone..."
But the world tilted, and he knew nothing after that.
Desmond took a deep breath thank you I can breathe! as he sat up from the Animus. Surviving Charles Lee strangling Ratonhnhaké:ton as a child had been easier because there had been more memories between the strangling and actually leaving the Animus. But now, having just survived a hanging (and how did Ratonhnhaké:ton's neck not break?) and even with the partition firmly closed in his mind, Desmond tugged at his shirt and hoodie, trying to make more space around his neck and the phantom pain of what Ratonhnhaké:ton had just endured.
It was like he could still feel the noose, scratching and digging into his jugular, his windpipe closing, gasps becoming futile, and the weight of his entire body being supported only by his chin.
Desmond shook his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose. That was over. Closed off. But good God that was still terrifying.
He needed a distraction. Desperately.
He glanced over to see William looming behind Shaun and knew he hadn't been brought out of the Animus for a simple break.
"Everything alright?"
William turned, face as impassive as always. "Shaun has located a second power source," he explained. "I've asked Rebecca to charter a flight for us."
Well this was certainly going to be a distraction. "Where to?"
Shaun turned and offered a grim smile. "Brazil. São Paulo to be precise. It may not be Rio, but I expect we'll have some fun there."
Desmond offered his own grim smile. "That would rather depend on your definition of 'fun'."
Shaun's smile brightened. "Indeed."
Desmond stood and started to stretch, amazed that being in the Animus for days on end didn't reduce his fitness. Instead, it seemed to keep improving it. He dropped into exercises to get used to his body and feel where the new limits were while everyone else started planning the trip to São Paulo.
Unlike going to New York, they were going to fly, obviously. What wasn't so obvious was the round about route they were taking. Their tickets were to Rio de Janeiro and then the almost six hour drive to São Paulo. But that didn't get into the fact that the flight wasn't even direct. Rather than driving down to New York City, they were instead going to drive west to Buffalo and have several connecting flights. All to avoid detection by Abstergo.
Desmond shrugged between isometrics. It would take longer, but avoiding detection was key.
Rebecca was already done booking the flight and was starting to pack some essentials.
"So, bikini or one piece?"
William scowled at here. "I doubt we'll have time for the beach," he stated.
"Bikini, definitely," Shaun replied with a somewhat lecherous grin. "Even if it's late spring, the beaches will still be phenomenal."
Rebecca gave a light chuckle, and Desmond smiled at seeing a peaceful moment between the two after all the stress everyone had been under. He finished his exercises and started to pack his own stuff. He did a quick search for the weather of São Paulo and found that he really didn't have anything that would work. With daytime temps pushing eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and nights hovering in the upper sixties, his cool and cold-weather clothes weren't going to cut it. Jeans and a t-shirt, sure, but he'd need the hoodie to hide his face, so he'd need to have a lighter one than the warm thick one he'd been wearing to survive the chill in the caverns.
"Unless the rest of you have summer-wear handy," he said, "we'll need to go clothes shopping when we arrive."
Any response or solution someone could offer was cut off when Shaun growled an irritated curse. "This is annnnnnoying," he grumbled.
Desmond walked over. "What is it?"
Shaun kept scowling at the computer. "Abstergo is definitely on to us. Most of the power sources I was tracking are gone. Guess they're rushing to snap them up now that they know what we're up to." Shaun shook his head. "We've got other cells scouting for us, running interference, trying to grab anything they can." He leaned back with a heavy sigh. "It's just hard with our numbers and their resources."
Desmond glanced around the massive cavern, his eyes narrowed as his DNA from Those Who Came Before whispered. "We only need two more," he said softly. "The one you just found that we'll get, and one other."
Shaun looked to Desmond, eyes wide and brows raised. "Oh?"
Desmond nodded, "That should be enough power for what we need. Not enough for the whole facility, but enough to get that gate open."
"You know, I'm not even going to ask how you know that."
Desmond chuckled. "So you finally worked things out with Rebecca?"
The historian scowled. "Not really," he muttered. "But we still have our moments." He sighed. "I just don't know how to help her."
"Be there for her and don't break anything," Desmond replied, thinking of how he himself was dealing with Lucy's death. "You can't fix everything yourself. But you need to make sure you don't destroy the supports you already have."
Shaun scoffed. "And when did you, the isolationist loner, become an expert?"
Desmond rolled his eyes. Rebecca needed Shaun and Shaun's methods of dealing with anything were snarky comebacks. Well if that was how he was going to be, Desmond just walked away. He went back to his computer to start doing research on São Paulo. Then he noticed the date. November 25, 2012. Three days after November 22.
"Dammit," he muttered. "Missed Thanksgiving."
William was walking by and paused. "Somehow I doubt you had people to celebrate Thanksgiving with," he said.
Desmond frowned and scowled, but didn't dare say anything to break the almost softer relationship he finally had with his father. "You don't need people around you to be thankful for things."
"And what were you ever thankful for?" William asked. His voice was still cold, but Desmond thought he heard some underlying curiosity and decided to accept the hidden olive branch.
"You're right, Turkey Day wasn't one I'd spend with others. But that doesn't mean I didn't have my own traditions," Desmond replied, trying to hold back some of the bite in his voice. "Aside from the Parade, I always spent Thanksgiving at the homeless shelter."
William raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Rolling his eyes, Desmond turned to focus on his computer and not look at his father. "Yeah, Dad. Believe it or not, some of the bullshit you pounded into my head stuck. I was no philanthropist, believe me, but I did believe in helping people. I may not have believed that killing people was helping them, but making sure those with nothing had the dignity of a decent Thanksgiving? I could do that. Always snuck out booze from Bad Weather and mixed cocktails. The owner knew what I was doing but pretended not to notice every year, even when she bought more alcohol and left it out for me to filch."
"I'm... surprised," William said softly.
"I was and am a reclusive hermit, Dad. You pounded that in very well," Desmond replied. "But reclusive doesn't mean heartless, and it doesn't mean disconnected. Maybe you're right, maybe my life was shit in a shitty job with a shitty apartment and a shitty future, but it was still one that I chose."
"Yes," William said softly. "I suppose so."
Desmond sighed and turned. "Look, I-"
William waved him off. "It's fine. I suppose I never thought about it like that. I just saw you as a runaway, giving up responsibility and the ability to do something to fix the world to go do selfish things that produced nothing. But I guess I didn't really know you."
Desmond bit back the first and second sarcastic response that came to mind. "Assassins fight so that others can stumble along and learn the truth of the world. That Nothing is True and Everything is Permitted. When all one can do is simply survive, there isn't exactly much time for reflection on society as a whole. So while I may not have believed in the Creed, I did think that survival was not what people should have focused on."
They shared a quiet moment together and then William was back in leader mode. "Shaun's continuing his search for additional power sources. I'm working to coordinate with the other cells, having them do recon and watching for Abstergo. Rebecca's been monitoring your sessions. I'm hoping to duplicate some of the recordings and send them to other cells for further research. I'm also hoping there's a way to bypass some of these memories, but synchronization seems to dictate your progress in chronological order. Hopefully, some day we'll have a way to move through memories more quickly. Would certainly save a lot of time in situations like this."
Desmond worked not to roll his eyes and only nodded, turning back to his computer again to ignore his father.
They were on the road, heading to Buffalo, New York, within an hour, huddled in their coats, yet packed for summer. Except for Desmond. William and Shaun were both in front of the van, and Rebecca had very loudly stated that she was going to sleep in the back on the way to the airport. It was a three and a half hour ride and, rather than sleeping, she was very quietly talking with Desmond.
"Shaun is really getting on my nerves!" she hissed. "You'd think with everything that's going on, the guy would stop being such a douche! Maybe he thinks it's funny. Or maybe it's part of his snarky British 'charm'. Or maybe it's how he deals with the stress. Whatever it is, it's getting old real fast. We've got enough to worry about," she spun her finger to indicate everything, "you know, end of the world and everything..." She shook her head. "You'd think he'd show a little restraint or maturity or something!"
And so on and so forth.
Desmond listened quietly, knowing that this was what Lucy would normally do, only with advice. And while he tried to give advice to Shaun, Rebecca was more delicate. Shaun's reaction to Lucy's betrayal and death was just to be more Shaun. Rebecca wasn't handling it nearly so well, and was easily swinging into depression. Desmond recognized the signs. After all, depression made people turn to alcohol, and the Bad Weather had seen many depressed drunks over the years. Thankfully Rebecca wasn't turning to alcohol, but her main support system, Lucy, was what had been destroyed and then ripped away. She was struggling to find a new support that met her needs and Shaun wasn't conforming to what she needed. Nor could he, not when he was also dealing with the same problem.
"Sorry," Rebecca mumbled. "Not like you need to hear me venting. You've got enough on your plate."
"Really, Rebecca, it's fine," Desmond replied, putting an arm around her. "I may not know what to say, but I do know how to listen."
Rebecca chuckled. "I guess I should get that sleep I said I was going to get."
Desmond shrugged. "I'm still all ears if you need me."
Her smile was softer, and a little sadder. "Please don't say anything to Shaun."
"Say anything about what?"
She chuckled again and finally lay down.
Author's Notes: INTENSE chapter is INTENSE.
The obvious first: however cool the prison level of the game was, consider what you do: meet Washington's biographer, start a fight to steal a key that doesn't work to make a fake key to plant while the real one is stolen to break you out. Logic = null. Also, it is a huge distraction from the emotional content of the memory: meeting Haytham for the first time. And so it was eighty-six'ed.
For fifteen chapters Ratonhnhake:ton has not known how to think of his father, and so he shies away from the thought; and it has now come back to bite him as he sees his father and has no idea how to react - all those thoughts he should have had earlier all crash into his head all at once leaving him a tangled mess. Whether he knew it or not, though, he had expectations - any child does when meeting a parent for the first time - and Haytham failed to meet any of those expectations. That Haytham sees Charles as a son does nothing to help.
Ratonhnhake:ton also finally has his deep meditation on the Creed and what it means for him. He'll touch on this later but it boils done to a sentence he's said repeatedly: how can one see evil and not do something to stop it? He had a huge evolution on seeing what the Templars are, but he has not changed his opinions on what they DO. He's started to grow up. There's not really much to add, the scene writes itself.
Also, there is no way in hell that either of Connor or Hickey survived exposure in the prison in the months of April. Temps in New York dip to the forties at night in April and in Connor's thin excuses for clothes he would have been dead the first night, healthy young buck or not. We tried to make it work. Honestly Connor would be dead several times over because disease was so rampant, especially because he's a Native American and their immune system was absolutely not prepared for the onslaught of sickness the Europeans brought with them. More on that in later chapters.
And Desmond snuck in there, too! Not much to say, the bulk of the next chapter is about him. Speaking of which:
Next chapter: Desmond and Cross. Connor and PTSD.