Disclaimer - I don't own Assassin's Creed or Prototype, they belong to their respective owners.

Incubation Period

March 20th, 1775

Alex was rubbing his forehead in an aggravated manner as he slammed his seal stamp over the hot red wax and threw another letter onto the mounting pile on his desk. He had never been this busy until the Assassins he had found jumped into his personal life. Night Stalker, or Joe by his known associates, was pretty much an okay guy who was wholly committed to Brotherhood's cause, but he was so meticulous in his reports that he could write an entire mountain worth of papers for ONE SINGLE MISSION! Next is Caleb Garrett, a gunslinger with a score to settle with the Templar who had burned his friends alive in front of him, but the man had a mouth that could rival the speed of a machine gun that made Alex wished it was possible for him to modify his eardrums to keep his non-sense sentences out. The gunner was also impossible in writing a single coherent sentence in ink and he kept on insisting in coming to Homestead to orally relay what had happened in his mission, which earned him a huge "NO" and the last recruit he had found was part of Gabriel's thief guild, a Filian McCarthy whose sole interest seemed to be on what would bring him his next meal: money, stolen money from rich people to be more precise. His reports were often written in such ways:

Location: SomeWherE aNd TheRE

Objective: STalK anD sTeaLINg SOMe sTUfFs

Results: A BIG BOON

EVEN A BLOODY CHILD CAN WRITE BETTER THAN THAT BASTARD OF AN IDIOT! Alex thought furiously as he cracked his pen in half at the memory of the amount of corrections and interrogations he had to do before he actually managed to get the whole story out of that smudge of a report. Looking down at his hand, he was regretting that he broke the twelfth dip pen of the month, adding the previous ones he had since New Year, the number had rose to 65 and counting.

He threw the broken pieces to a corner of the room and locked the files back into his drawer with the rest of the written papers that he must later sent to Gabriel and Giry, he might had an eidetic memory, but they did not. Maybe I should make a secret compartment. At least no one will find it without an effort.

Alex sighed heavily as he went for the thick ledger that he had placed aside in favour of getting rid the worse of his nightmares first. The virus was rechecking and recounting the numbers when he heard some children began shouting in the distance, a sound that was very familiar and one that he was dying to hear for a long while. He carefully slipped the ribbon marker between the pages he was working on and left his room as fast as the sudden warm gust that blew through the window.

'The Papa Bear is coming!'

Alex almost buried his feet deep into the snow-wet ground to stop himself, turning in mid-pause to glare at the giggling housewives who softly ushered their children back to their home. His glare didn't waver until their door close. One day. One day. One day.

With a heavy frown, he continued onward at a slightly slower pace. Perhaps it was better than running like a brakeless bullet train and it seemed that no one else had the idea in them to call him by his new nickname. It was almost a déjà vu, when he stood at small port, the sailors aboard the Aquila spotted his fuming face and immediately ran away from the ship as if someone had told them there was a bomb on the deck. Only a handful of people remained below deck, Alex raised an eyebrow as his enhanced hearing caught the whispered words.

''m telling ya, Captain,' Faulkner's voice said in an adamant hush-hush tone. 'He gonna tear Aquila apart just to find you. That or sink her with us inside.'

'Why do you always make Raké:ni sound like a monster,' Ratonhnhaké:ton's stern voice said in defence. Hmm... That's odd... His voice sounds...

'He will be when he sees you,' the old man muttered under his breath, confirming some of Alex's worse fear. Without thinking, he ran aboard the ship, ignoring the creaks and groans from the wood, hopefully it didn't left any kind of mark, he had long learned that while he was more or less the predator on the top of the food chain, the ones beneath him could be worse than him if necessary and with the right motivation. In this case, it would be Robert Faulkner, who would go all Davy Jones on him if he used the sailor's vocabulary.

His entrance to the captain's quarter was no different from that of a SWAT team breaking down the door with guns blazing, furious and fanatic eyes running around the room, narrowing at the sailors who all sat at one corner of the small cabin and the quartermaster's hand holding a wet cloth on the young Native's forehead. It was as he expected, the Assassin went and got himself a cold.

'What. The. Hell. Happened. And,' Alex started lowly as his eyes settled on one sailor to the other at each pause until he stopped at Faulkner. 'Why. Is. He. On. A. Sickbed?'

Almost like a chain of falling dominos, one sailor looked to the other for answer before all eyes landed on Faulkner who coughed nervously under their steady gaze upon him as he stuttered slightly in his explanation. 'Well ya see. A jungle a... a very... almost a desert... too hot in the day and too cold at night. A fever's... ah normal...?'

The virus felt one of his eyelids twitched at every word the quartermaster uttered, partially wondered if he should just socked the old man to get rid of some of his frustrations. Sadly, the hit would have broken part of his skull if not his brain and there weren't anyone else in their band of misfits who could replace Faulkner. He slowly let out a frustrated sigh before he gestured at the door and ordered the men, 'All of you. Out, now. You.' Pointing at Faulkner. 'Get me a thick blanket and no more jobs until he's back on his feet. No way am I letting him sleep in this bloody cabin for another minute while he's sick.'

All the men nodded in acknowledgement, those who weren't needed immediately escaped to their freedom while the quartermaster went to the captain's side, Connor coughed heavily as he placed most of his weight on the old man, seeing the shaking legs and the deep red flush on the Native Assassin's sweating face, Alex mentally shook his head in displeasure as he immediately went to the struggling boy, ignoring the weak protest in Kanien'kehá:ka and more or less throwing the young man on his back. Instinctively, the Assassin tightened his arms around his neck, probably trying to choke him, but to the Blacklight, it was only the strength of a struggling pup. He leaned forward slightly as he adjusted his hold on the sick man who Faulkner covered him in the thickest blanket he could find to prevent the sweat-soaked Assassin from getting worse from the heavy wind outside. No one could predict March's weather, because it was no different from the mentality of a woman.

Alex mentally straightened himself in preparedness towards the smirking whispers and gossiping giggles, though he wondered if it was his already disappearing imposing image that would be ruined or the Assassin's. Thankfully, the young man's face was mostly covered by the blanket and in his slightly delirious state, he would not notice anything... he hoped...

The virus walked faster through the populated spots of the port and hurried to the mansion, ignoring the looks from the Homesteaders and travelers-alike. Alex unconsciously readjusted his hold on the Native American as he ignored the mumblings from the child and he was doing a good job at putting out the uncalled topics from the laughing housewives. Well, he was able to deal with all the incessant noises until Ratonhnhaké:ton had suddenly nuzzled his neck affectionately, his untied wild hair scratched the back of his neck and whispered in equal affection, 'You're hot.'

He almost stumbled onto the ground at the unexpected action and words, barely catching them from making acquaintance with the rocky earth on the road. Alex ignored the laughter from the mind prison, mentally stomped the life (not that it would keep them silent for long afterward) and tried to force those with the more perverted mind from making unwanted suggestions. For some reasons that the virus couldn't comprehend, his mind thought the word "hot" the boy uttered meant the informal... ahem... version instead of the temperature definition of the exact word. God! Gabriel's flirting must have rubbed off on me.

Now that was a scary thought, one that made him shivered uncomfortably.

Ignoring the jeers from some of the more unpleasant souls, Alex put all of his concentration on the road that led to the manor, but it seemed further than usual when it was only a minute or two. He would have breathed a relieved sigh when he stood on the front porch of the mansion if he weren't trying to keep the Assassin from falling off of his back. The steps of the stair groaned as much as the first time he moved into his new home and carefully brought the sick man back to his bed. The virus ignored the displeased whimper from the young man and quickly brought out every thick bedclothes that were within the closet. Hmm... I wonder if Corinne had any plucked chicken left. Maybe a chicken broth with vegetables or something creamy, like clam chowder? I should also distill some water for him, I doubt the fresh water they had on Aquila is parasites-free.

The Blacklight paused in his entire mental planning when his hand brushed over a coarse fabric beneath the mountain worth of soft fluffy bedsheets. Curious, he pulled out the material and found his eyes widening a bit at the sight of the item, but his gaze soon turned into one of great nostalgia as his fingertips lightly traced the burn marks that covered it and his nails scratched some of the charred sides and corners, recalling the last and only time he had seen it.

Spring, 1756

Alex Mercer was easily bored and when he was bored, he would look for things to entertain himself, much as a bored child stuck in their house and alone with no parents supervising. That usually ended badly. In this case, it could become catastrophic. After all, thinking up new ideas and modifying his own genetic codes could keep his boredom at bay for an hour at most. In the end, he would only go back to square one in which he wished there was something big suddenly happening, but in this quaint little village, the biggest thing that could happen was what the hunters might had caught in this little trip. It was official, his mind was going to die of boredom while his body deteriorated by the lack of actions.

Of course, the clan mother knew his unrest and had tried several times to get him to go hunting with the other hunters again, but the animals all ran away the moment they caught his scent in the area, unless he got into the bear nest in the far northwest part of the Frontier, bears fought with tooth and nail to protect their territory if they sensed a threat. An animal was too easy to subdue and they ran on instinct and barely fought with brain, it was easy to predict their moves. The Kanien'kehá:ka women had no gossip of whatsoever and spent more time telling others what herbs they should collect and what tricks to make a new basket. Once or twice he might caught the word that some of the younger members of their group wondered if he was interested in someone else other than Ziio, but he had long put up a wall to block out that conversation, because he had no interest in a romantic liaison after what had happened with Karen Parker.

Speaking of Ziio...

A small mischievous smirk was on his lips as a little plan was formed in his mind. That was what he had initially thought about doing, but when he found the Native woman in her tent, his little prank idea got thrown out of his mind as he stated dumbly, 'I didn't know you have a womanly interest.'

Alex titled his head to the side to evade an empty basket that targeted him and wore a toothy smirk before he comforted, 'You know it's alright. At least that tells the other men in the village that you're capable to be a wife.'

The Blacklight virus' arm instantly shot up and his hand caught the stone blade aim him, not to maim, though it was certainly thrown to lay a small wound on him. He barely had time to grin when he dodged several more rock projectiles and, quickly, he tore the half woven blanket from the woman who stood angrily with rocks and sand in hands. The fuming face Kaniehtí:io wore almost made Alex wished he could wave the object in his hands and shout "Olé! Olé! Olé!" as if she was the bull that had set its eyes on a red cape. Sadly, the joke would be lost to the Kanien'kehá:ka, seeing that the origin of the jab was from the Spanish and they had settled on the southern parts of the soon-to-become America.

His entertainment last the whole day, with half of the village trying to stop his idiocy as Ziio had kept calling it while the rest tried to keep her from murdering him. In the end, Oiá:ner was the one who caught him, or should he say he allowed himself to be caught by the old woman, she kept a tight hold on his ear as she ordered him to give back his ex-fiancée's half-finished blanket and Ziio to apologize for the amount of troubles she had caused to the other villagers, because she had pretty much took anything that she could use as a projectile: fishes, sticks that were to be crafted into arrow shafts, nearly done basket, logs for the fire, etc.

Alex smiled sadly at the memory before anger replaced the blood in his veins as he swore that he would find every man who was connected to Ziio's death and end them in the most horrific way. Studying the burned holes a little closer, he wondered if he could repair it, seeing that he did make his friend spent thrice more time on it than it would normally require completing it. A small cough soon brought his attention back to the ill Ratonhnhaké:ton, he carefully tucked him in, covering him from the thinnest to the thickest blankets before putting the woven blanket on the child, and brushed off the sweaty bangs from the Native's forehead.

'Sleep well, Ratonhnhaké:ton,' he bid under his breath as he gently patted the young man's head similar to what Dr. Mercer had once did to his sister when they were little and she had difficulties to sleep. He quietly left the room to gather the ingredients for Connor's dinner and–

'Ugh,' he groaned as his hand went to hold his throbbing head, images flashed in an old black-and-white style, but it was the same place that forever haunted one experimented subject. The blinding light that was above a surgery table. The dirty blood covered the once white walls. The loud wailing cry of a baby reverberated within in room. A young woman's hand weakly stretched towards the crying infant. It must be the maternal instinct.

The Blacklight had realized for a while that the Redlight host's memories only surfaced whenever his own protectiveness and worry for Ratonhnhaké:ton heightened, the virus guessed that if his artificial human feelings went in synch with what his predecessor had felt when her child was in danger, these flashbacks would appear and the surge of a parent's instinct would rise as well. It almost felt like she was trying to dominate his consciousness to be the queen of the hive again. Partially, he questioned if his... well for the lack of words... mood swings... came from a subconscious link of influence from her, though he rather had no connection of whatsoever with Redlight... Actually that sounded a bit oxymoron, seeing that he was more or less mixed and made from both viruses.

He let out an exhausted sigh as he exited the building, not believing that he had found something common between him and Greene that could be counted as more humane and without being seen as public monsters. The ability to care for someone they considered important and precious to them. In an almost mechanical way, he had paid for the whole plucked chicken and vegetables from Corrine who gave him some honey and tea when he made mentions of Connor's condition as he nibbled his thoughts, wondering if it was an opening that would allow the Mother to thrive and fearing for the young man's safety if Greene decided to take over, she had no care for whosoever who might be caught in her way and the Native American would be the first target. Need to get somewhere else. Far from civilization before I begin experimenting myself, but before that, I have a war to finish with Ratonhnhaké:ton's cold.

First things first, distilled water. He had taken around five bucket worth of water from the well before he got the fire started and it was going to be a long process, seeing that the stewpot only got enough space for a medium size bowl that was around a fist and a half in terms of diameter and he would be need to renew the process several times, but at least the amount of distilled water would be equal to that of a tankard, enough for two cups of tea. He would rather have some oranges for Connor, seeing that it was the most common drink for those who had caught the cold, enough sugar in the liquid to smooth its way through the sore throat and it helped recover a small amount of Vitamin C and some others that he lost from his cold.

Oh well. It's not like there's an orange plantation in America. Alex thought with a shrug, leaving the water to get distilled in favour of going to the cabinets to hunt for spices and herbs, only to find that half of them were either empty or barely full. And Achilles needs to remember to check how many food and spices we have left. This soup will take forever to complete. Alright, let's see. Salt, sugar and pepper, check! Some grounded ginger, would be better if it was whole. A few leaves of rosemary and basil, not a lot, but should be enough for a soup. What is this? Cloves? Who the hell needs that many? Anise stars, maybe. One wilted parsley? Are you kidding me? Hmm, mustard seeds...

After a quick count of the current inventory, he, in an almost obsessive compulsive way, arranged the meat, vegetables, spices and herb in a perfect order before he went and did the same with the pots, knives and spatula. First he needed to stuff the chicken, that would be where the mustard seeds came in, which he grounded to powder and mixed it with some olive oil before he applied the paste to the chicken, making sure that he coated every bone and meat inside and lightly rubbing off some on the chicken skin, so it would taste less bland. When the first batch of clean water was readied, the virus poured it into the medium-size stewpot that was big enough to cover the chicken and left it to its own devices until it boiled while making sure that the fire was hot and burning as he fed it some more woods.

The Runner quickly went to the well and brought another bucket of water, because after the broth boiled, the fire needed to be lower before he let the broth simmer. After the stewpot looked like it was about to explode, Alex quickly doused the fire with half a bucket of water, which diminished slightly but still burning. During the simmer process, he could focus on the vegetables.

As the virus picked up one of the smaller knives, he heard the tell-tale noise of feet dragging over the floor and the faint thud of a walking cane. He barely resisted the urge to throw the knife in his hand to the Mentor Assassin, maybe he should at least let the blade grazed him slightly if he couldn't maim him, seeing that he was in no mood of any kind to deal with him and, on top of that, he needed to finish this soup before Ratonhnhaké:ton woke up from his nap. He also needed to ready some tea for the Kanien'kehá:ka and... Argh, damned this century! And its lack of modern medicines!

'Isn't it too early for supper?' Achilles asked as he went to study the pots on top of the stove.

'That's not for you,' Alex bit out before he slapped the old man's hand with the back of his knife. 'It's for Connor.'

Ignoring the grumblings from the fuming old man who went back to his room, Alex chopped off the top part of some of the vegetables and their roots before he began peeling off the skin. Slicing and dicing them to thin pieces that looked partially transparent, he left the ingredients on the chopping board to start cleaning the cabbage and hanging the iron teapot above the fireplace. At least he was done with the preparation process, cooking would come later, seeing that the broth still needed time to complete. He just hoped that the Assassin wouldn't wake until he finished his supper. He checked every doorway in the kitchen for a moment before he spared a glance at the stewpot and laid his index finger on the thin opening, tracing it slightly and studying the small dark red drop landing into the broth.

Around two hours and a half later...

Ratonhnhaké:ton breathed heavily as he woke up, feeling the stickiness of his sweat clung onto to his clothes and the soreness of his throat had seemingly gotten worse. The Kanien'kehá:ka barely had the strength to dig himself out of the mountain of blankets that he had no recollection how they got there. The Assassin's nose soon caught the scent of something warm and delicious, making his stomach grumbled loudly and reminding him of the lack of food he had taken for the past week. When the first signs of a cold appeared he thought he could endure it, so he ignored it and simply asked the cook of the crew to bring him some tea he brought with him from his village. The next day, he asked for some sugar for his tea. Afterwards, his illness had completely taken over his weakening body, forcing Faulkner to assume command of the ship and bringing them back home.

It was difficult for him to take a bite out of whatever food his First Mate brought to him in the journey back home, water was the only thing that soothed his dry throat. All he felt during those days were an endless agony of heat and pain, he barely could respond to Faulkner's questions whenever he came into his cabin. The time he spent between slipping in and out of consciousness was the worse, because he was often plagued by nightmares of the Templars' success in claiming his homeland and dreamed of his friends' death, seeing them died in the same way as his mother did and with him being helpless to prevent it. The most horrible one was seeing his Raké:ni in her position, but unlike the others, he did not beg or order him to save him. No, the Elder accepted this fate and simply told him to not be afraid, encouraging and comforting him as he usually did in their trainings.

It was during those last few days from the sea to Homestead that Connor remembered something that he had asked his senior Assassin when they were taking a break in their earliest trainings, about how he managed to endure the wait that Achilles forced on them. Raké:ni then proceeded to tell him the story of an infectious agent, which took some explanation for him to understand what it meant, by using the reason why a simple infection could kill a man as example. The sickness spread from the injury, seeping into the blood stream, where it slowly and steadily affected everything on its road until it reached the heart, from there it spread like wildfire to every blood stream. The body itself would begin fighting back from inward, moving all of its forces, the white blood cells that were the enemy of the infection, because of the fighting that was happening from within and much like a force divided, the body would slow down to give more strength to the blood cells for their battle. Therefore, the host, such as him in his current state, would become sick. This whole process could be seen as a lesson on tactics and strategies.

As his thoughts began to blur once more, his nose caught a strong scent that slithered its way into his room, the aroma was heavenly and made his stomach growled for the first time since he was ill, reminding him of the fact that he was starving. The Assassin barely managed to crack his eyelids opened when his ears caught the sound of sure footsteps coming towards his room, as the sound drew closer so did the smell.

His eyes caught the blurry shape of a man holding a tray where the delicious smell drifted from. The black form quickly went and placed the tray on the nightstand beside his bed. He was soon engulfed by this warm feeling as he was carefully brought up to a sitting position, his back leaned against the thick pillows and a hot hand soon placed on his throbbing forehead. The rough voice of his Raké:ni softly said in Kanien'kehá:ka, 'Your temperature is lower now. You're going to win this fight soon Ratonhnhaké:ton. Don't give up.'

The Native could only nod his head weakly before a cough was wretched out of his dry throat. A small porcelain cup was pressed on his parched lips and water soon smoothed his dry throat. After he finished his drink, he felt a spoonful of a thick liquid on his mouth and gently gulped it down. Connor let his tongue slowly cleaned off whatever leftover of the divine taste from the soup within his mouth, the food seemed to renew his strength and dim the soreness and tiredness he had been feeling for days. His surrogate father gave him a few more taste before he heard the multiple cracking noises that came from someone breaking a piece of bread and watched the senior Assassin dipped it into the soup. As he chewed the soaked bread, he frowned slightly as he put more force in his chewing than usual. Seeing his frown, Raké:ni said comfortingly, 'I know it feels like you are eating a rock, but you need to take some solid matters.'

He wasn't sure if he understood half of what the older male said to him in his delirious state, so he settled in nodding his head and obediently ate every piece of soup soaked bread fed to him. After the tough bread, he slowly ate the more chewable vegetables and chicken meat in the soup, making him finally understand the feeling his crew sometimes voiced out loudly when they had finally received some ale after months without it. When he had cleaned up his entire meal, he let out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back on his pillows, enjoying the strength that had returned to his body and happy that whatever was stuck in his throat was gone.

'Alright, let's get you another shirt before you go to sleep,' the older of the two instructed as he went to pull out a fresh white linen shirt from one of the dressers. The sweat-soaked shirt was a bit more difficult to remove, it almost felt like someone was peeling off his skin than his clothing, but they managed it. Soon, he was back on his bed and was soon tucked under the thick covers once more. Raké:ni gently combed his wild hair with his fingers as his mother did when he was still a child, she also hummed Ho, Ho, Watanay to lull him to sleep, though she changed to different lullabies once awhile, some reflected her emotions and sometimes his. It was through those lyrics that he had learned English from. How he missed those faraway days.

Of all the money e'er I had

I've spent it in good company

And all the harm that e'er I've done

Alas was done to none but me

And all I've done for want of wit

To memory now I can't recall

So fill me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all

Connor's eyes widened in surprise for a second before they closed once more, letting himself enjoyed the strong fingers that massaged his scalps and the song that he had only heard in a tavern somewhere in River Valley when Faulkner had suggested them to stop to get some fresh supplies. Despite the female singer's pretty voice, she made the song sound tough and sad, but Raké:ni's rough tone made it more pleasing to listen to.

Of all the comrades that e'er I had

They're sorry for my going away

And all the sweethearts that e'er I had

They would wish me one more day to stay

But since it falls unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not

I'll gently rise and I'll softly call

Good night and joy be with you all

A man may drink and not be drunk

A man may fight and not be slain

A man may court a pretty girl

And perhaps be welcomed back again

But since it has so ought to be

By a time to rise and a time to fall

Come fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all

Good night and joy be with you all...

Alex finished the song softly, watching Ratonhnhaké:ton's chest fell into a steady rhythm and a peaceful expression settled on the often stoic and cold features. "The Parting Glass" was one of the few songs he ever paid attention in listening, it was also a piece that Giry and Gabriel, especially when there were some wines somewhere, favoured and one that the old lady would make him sang in parties whenever he actually attended them and sometimes it was used to put some of the kids to sleep, because he hadn't managed to butcher it like the ones she had tried to train him into singing, not knowing that he did it intentionally. He personally despised the idea of being used as organic record player and there was no way in Hell he would ever start singing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in this life or the next.

The Blacklight virus dabbed a partially wet cloth over the boy's forehead to clean the remaining sweat accumulated there before he put Ziio's woven blanket over her child. He gave a light pat on the rough material, part of him wondering if he could ever manage to keep this little troublemaker out of more troubles, because the first of the Battles of Lexington and Concord was slowly approaching and he was dreading it. After those battles, the American Revolution would go in overdrive and knowing Connor's bad luck steak, he would wind up in the center with Achilles' help, the Templars' advancement or just Karma deciding to screw his life up further.

I can only hope I can weather this storm before he finds himself in the eye of it. He thought and left the young man to his rest.

I never understand why the Multiplayer Avatars in Assassin's Creed 3 never appear in the game, unlike the Brotherhood and Revelations, where they make small appearances that showcase their crimes and such, so I've decided to continue with the traditions through my writings and I will try my best to incorporate all the avatars of AC3 into the story.

I hope everyone is satisfied with this new chapter and thank you for all of your continued interest and support in this story.