A/N: *sigh* I know this little heart to heart seems especially awkward here. I've tried to integrate final words/confessions/memory corridors/whatever conversations as believably as possible, but this one was hard to do. When I started this story, I considered putting the "confessions" in their own little subsection, corridoned off by horizontal lines, but I figured that would be too jarring. I considered leaving out the "confession" entirely in this chapter, but ultimately those seem too important to Assassin's Creed.

Also, if you are wondering why the title looks funny, that's because there's a character limit for the chapter title.

Riding under a clothing covering, crouching between barrels of wine and over a sack of New World spice, Arno had heard much banter between the driver and whoever sat next him during the ride through Paris. Jean and Charles were their names, two fair-haired young men looking about Arno's age, maybe a few years older. He had only got a brief glimpse of them before sneaking into the cart at the outer rim of the city, but he was learning their voices and personalities well.

"I'm telling you, this all worries me," the man in the passenger seat, Charles, said. "The state taking The Church's silver and melting it down? God's wrath is coming."

"God wasn't so kind to us before all this, now was He?"

"Don't talk like that, Jean! It was human decision that brought our nation into debt! A decadent and warmongering royalty!"

"Eh, tout ce que. Silver, isn't that mammon or something?"

"In tribute to man, maybe. Not to God."

"The Church has always been in it for themselves, anyway. God's just their mascot. A fancy sliver cross' not much different from a fancy silver watch."

An interesting perspective, but Dorian had more pressing matters to think on. Mirabeau's life was at least within their grasp. It could not be much further. Almost a year of planning and pursuit, and Arno was about to make it happen.

The streets bustled outside, unaware of the true contents of this wagon.

Then the wagon stopped. The thrill of an approaching assassination began flowing through his veins.

A presumed gate guard spoke. "Shipment from Spain, right? Jean? Charles?"

"Ouias, that's us! Let us through!"

The large iron gates creaked opened.

The horses clopped a short way in before stopping.

"Monsieur Riquieti! We got your drink and spices!"

"Splendid, gars! Splendid!" It sounded like he was out on his front balcony. "Leave it out back, by the cellar door. I'll have your payment tout suite!"

Perfect. Things were going exactly as he expected. If Mirabeau was presenting the payment personally, that would be an opportune time for the kill.

The wheel clacked along the cobble stone of the yard. The most obvious means of assassination was to pop out from behind the cloth covering and fire his pistol. From there, escape should be little trouble. He had scouted the area surrounding the mansion three times.

Arno could feel the wagon turn. They would likely stop out back, near the entrance to Mirabeau's wine cellar. If Mirabeau did not present himself, Dorian would have to infiltrate the mansion: a much more arduous feat.

The vehicle stopped, and the Assassin unholstered his pistol, the tool of fate, the maker of his target's last day.

Somewhere inside his fancy palace, Gabriel Riquieti, Comte de Mirabeau, was gathering his coins. Or rather, he had probably finished collecting and was coming down the stairs right now. From his balcony to his bedroom to the upper hall to his stairs. Gabriel, of course, did not realize the gravity of this hour. Nor did Jean and Charles.

The back door creaked open. Someone stepped out.

"Good work, boys! So we agreed to-"

Arno popped out, into the opened spring air. There was his target: dark coat, powdered wig, round belly, buckled shoes. He fired.

The gun bucked and roared, and ripped a hole through his coat.

But the portly noble still stood. Arno was not satisfied with the angle of impact.

He had to make this count. He was not going to come back here any time soon. The Assassin launched himself, and pounced upon Gabriel Riquieti. His rotund form fell hard against the stone, before the Assassin thrust his blade into his flesh.

"Putain de merde!" the driver cried. "Gardes! Gardes!" The horses brayed and recoiled before running off wildly.

A man on top of high society was now bleeding on the ground, a young, gruff twenty-two year old standing over him.

"So it's done," Mirabeau said, almost resignedly. "I knew even the voices of sobriety and moderation would be doomed in these mad times." He winced and inhaled and exhaled heavily. "Who are you, pray tell? Assassin, or Illuminatus?"

"Illuminatus?"

"Assassin, then. Have you no thoughts beyond your five-century old grudges?"

"We don't fight for revenge, we fight for the freedom of mankind."

"Strange way of doing it, boy." He winced and breathed hard. "You sound just like them."

"Them?"

"Have you not heard the hateful words of Marat? The fanaticism of Robespierre? Some people here are thirsty for blood. Yet they dress up their blind rage in noble terms: liberté, égalité...fraternité. They are not so different from you." He looked to the side and coughed a few times.

"Robespierre is one of yours," Dorian said angrily, recalling that he had heard Joseph speak the name. Why was this old fool moralizing so much?

"Was one of ours. I've always been a voice of reason, a voice of sobre...sobriety...and...and a liaison between the reactionary and the revolutionary. I've held rivers of blood at bay. You'll see that soon e...soon enough."

His muscles relaxed, as he met final rest.