FIVE MINUTES

Another ledge. Another rooftop. Another leap to her feet. Ziio glides the roofs — slick as a pond-skater, yet unyielding like a crow as it flies. Nothing can deter her from the warning tower. If she can only reach the bell, she can have both Templars and Assassins evacuated. Enemy saved, yes, but allies rescued also.

Cannonballs crash and miss her, never very narrowly. It is not enough of a distraction. Ziio rips the hood from her eyes and — her vision full — tears with a beating heart for the nearest wall. She will not look down. She will not look back.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

She must not look back...

"Ista!"

She mustn't —

Ratohnhaké:ton? It cannot be. The voice Ziio hears does not come from below her — but above her. She stops.

"Mother!"

It is him. Ratohnhaké:ton is reckless as he jumps the roof above her. His shirt is stained with blood of a nondescript...and his hair is windswept; stuck to his forehead with sweat...and tears? Ziio cannot see from this distance. Smashing a few tiles along the way, her son makes his way towards her.

"My son?" she reaches out to him, only to have both shoulders gripped violently.

"Mother, listen," he pants, having climbed to the roof in a matter of seconds, "we have to retreat. Right now."

"I know. I am about to sound the alarm bell in the tower!"

"No, the risk is too great!" he cries. "Even standing on this rooftop is dangerous; they could destroy it at any moment. Please, Mother. We have to spread the word by ourselves."

"Ratohnhaké:ton, there is no time —"

"It is our best chance! What of the artefacts? What of Charles?" His voice grows faster, more frightened, with every background movement or sound. "We still have the chance to see the survivors safe. Is that not enough of a reason for you?"

Crash. Another shot; both of their heads jerk to life. Ziio's mind, in a frenzied flare of the battle, jumps to one thing. It makes her heart slip from her chest, through her hands and onto the battlefield.

Haytham.

Ratohnhaké:ton did expect a comeback; instead the woman nods — puts her hands over his — and pushes him away reluctantly. "Go on, then. You begin north; I will scout south."

He knows the reason; of course he does. The precious Precursor items are south, and (more importantly) Haytham. Part of Ratohnhaké:ton wants to shake his mother. It wants to curse her for thinking so irrationally as to save her lover first. Then the boy-Assassin remembers: he was no better in warning his mother first. That was not logical; that was sentiment-based.

His mother watches as he nods, turns, and sprints across the rooftop which she just crossed. Halfway he stops; tiles skid and clutter to the ground many feet below. "Mother?"

"What?"

"Be careful. I know where you plan to go — and whatever Charles has in store for Father...it is bound to be even worse for you. Please be mindful."

Looking at his glossed face, Ziio sees the sweat as tears of concern. An ember of pride glows within her; she smiles at her beautiful son. "I will."

Both Assassins turn to run, but in opposite directions. Ratohnhaké:ton has already jumped another ledge; he is closer to the ground than to Ziio within moments. The latter takes a moment to rub her eyes, opening them with a new goal.

Haytham is the one she will save first. With every thud of her boot against the slate, she fears his heartbeat is getting slower. Her hair creating a windswept shroud, she prepares to unveil herself to her enemy. Her rapist. The man whom she know deserves to die — yet his downfall is not the first task on her mind.

How will I do this?

Ziio loathes acting spontaneously, but an Assassin must be flexible. She bounds across a gap between two buildings, her hand barely catching the brick ledge. Her body hangs for a stunned moment. With her natural strength the woman leaps up to another window ledge. Another. Across. She raises her gloved hand to reach a third...

Boom.

Ziio's thoughts are not on her surroundings; not on the cannons. Not until she glimpses a ball in the corner of her eye. It is soaring close; dangerously close. It eclipses the bloodstained sun —

Alarmed, she prepares to lunge.

Crash.

A direct hit. The might of the metal bullet turns brick to liquid. Ziio braces, terrified, as the wall around her begins to buckle with an unbearable smash. The ball sinks straight through the viscous brick above her.

She dares to open her shaking eyes...only to see how high up she is; only to see slate and mortar swooping like a curse. Her heart thrashes wildly; her fingers twitch with the effort to hold on.

Crunch. Crunch.

The bricks miss her narrowly. The building vibrates — trying to shake this mere insect on the wall — and spews even more roof tiles. Three of them graze Ziio's robes roughly. She gasps, raising one of her hands to shield her face.

No use. Her immense strength notwithstanding, the Assassin's fingers tremble with the effort. The ledge underneath them shudders — and one by one, the bricks tumble to the ground far below.

Do not let go! she screams to herself. Do...not...let...go!

The framework of the building finally gives up. With a moan it falls from the top down, Ziio still clinging in vain. She cries out involuntarily as her body topples. Her eyes scrunch shut, preparing for death. For agony...

They are the longest three seconds of her life. When her frame feels the thud of ground, the pain does not hesitate. Her entire right leg throbs furiously; so much that she is momentarily blind and mute. With every kicking beat of agony, she notices more. On a bed of rocky debris, she feels the stones jabbing in her back. Her head distorts all of this, still registering the several slate blows.

Ziio prays for a moment that she has not fractured a bone. She knows it to be hopeless. Of course she has. Her foot and shin, most likely. She dreads opening her eyes to the sight...

The moment her flooding eyes open, so do her lips as they whimper. She does not want to lie here...but she can hear nothing but the banging of her heart. She can feel nothing but the protest of her shattered limb. She blinks, desperate to de-blur her vision. She cannot. All she sees is the red sky above, and the remainder of the fuzzy bricks falling...or is that blood in her eye?

Blood...
Haytham...

The thought of him suddenly alerts her. She cannot stay here. She must get up. She must find him, somehow. But how? Will she be able to walk?

Through a storm of suffering, her head yells: Ziio, you must. Even if you crawl to the South Tower, you must. Haytham will die. Is that what you want? Haytham will die!

She rolls painfully onto her side, elbows forcing her to her feet. Almost immediately she collapses back down onto the rubble. Her head delays her vision by a second at least, rocking like a ship in the worst of storms. Slowly her hearing comes and fades. She remembers this feeling from the fire in 1760...but she won't let it trap her. Not this time.

She puts her left foot forth...and her right snaps after it. She quickens her pace, trying, begging herself to ignore the torture of walking. She must.

Crash. Crash.

The cannons sound like no more than pops in the distance to her. She is too ill to wonder if her son is near, but assumes he is safe. He is Ratohnhaké:ton, after all.

Walk, Ziio screams to herself over gasps, walk!

Over the batter and shatter of war, this vain, brave soul limps to the South Tower. She knows it may take her minutes at this pace...but she must do it. She must. She must. She must.

No-one else plans to warn Haytham, at risk of allowing Charles to escape.

If not me, who will?