"Denis!" Élise yelled, power walking towards him through the humid night air. The rain had only stopped about half an hour ago. "What's going on? The city seems to be in a fuss." She stopped.

"It's Robespierre, he's been arrested."

"That's fantastic!"

"No, fille, not at all. He's the one man who might have information on Weishaupt and where his special device is, the one that connects him to the Apple from God only knows where. He's scheduled for execution in the morning. Last I heard they were taking him the Luxembourg prison."

This was a quite a twist, but what he was saying made sense. Still...

"You expect us to break him out?" she asked incredulously.

"He may not even be there yet. We'll see if we can intercept them. The situations already volatile and that can work to our advantage. Come on."

They began jogging in the direction of the prison. She followed, though with no planning and only one trained Assassin amongst them, this would a difficult matter to resolve regardless. But this was too important to not at least pursue it, so much was at stake.

Angry groups gathered on both sides of the street, shaking fists and waving flags. She heard a man yell "Paris for Robespierre!" It with was retorted "Blood of Danton choke him!"

Her boots splashed through a puddle of the evening's rainfall. The dangers they were heading into still deeply worried her. Perhaps with Arno -

Then she realized why Denis would not want Arno involved. As long as the Illuminati held The Connector, the Piece of Eden would be useless to both sides. That was no doubt part of the reason he had been so loyal to the Templars these past years. For all the feelings they had confessed, they had still not come to consensus on the politics of mind-control. Did he still see the artifact as an abomination?

Yet she needed to focus. She shoed off the uncomfortable thoughts.

On the left a woman shoved another into the mud. To the right, someone was burning an effigy.

She realized she never asked what Robespierre had been arrested for.

"So...I assume this just didn't happen à l'improviste," she said as their feet pounded the damp streets.

"What didn't?"

"This arrest."

"No, he made vague threats about a purge of 'enemies of the state', and the Committee turned on him."

They turned a corner and slowed to a stop as they came upon a slew of dead National Guardsmen.

"My God, Robespierre's escort," Denis said grimly.

Robespierre still had his supporters, enough to take out at least half a dozen men.

But morbid as the sight was, this was a blessing for them. Wherever he was, it would easier to rescue him now than breaking into a prison or taking on a whole platoon of National Guards.

One soldier was alive, leaning against a wall in a narrow passage, clutching a wound. Blood was splattered on his face. His gaze was somewhere distant, his mouth agape. Denis saw him too and approached at a hurried pace.

"Sir, what's happened here?" Denis asked.

"We were ambushed," he grunted out. "Commune soldiers attacked us en route. They were trying to free the prisoners."

"Did they take Robespierre?"

"I'm not sure. The fighting left me behind. They fell back, that way." He pointed with a quivering arm.

"Merci," Denis said.

Denis turned to Élise. "If he's still in custody they'll have taken him to the Luxembourg prison. I'll head there. You follow the riots, see if you can pick up a trail."

He walked off briskly the way they had come. Élise looked pityingly at the soldier. She reached into her poach and took out a roll of bandages and a small bottle of ethanol she kept for emergencies. She handed it to him. "Go find yourself a doctor."

He groaned and began shuffling away. She looked ahead to the direction where he had been pointing. There were more dead men, most of them wore the blue uniform. She headed towards the morbid scene.

It had been three or four years since she and Arno had confronted Robespierre in the cemetery. That felt like a life time ago. Broken glass crunched under her boots. There was another man dead, this one in civilian clothing, a pitch fork in his his hands, a civilian who had joined the fray. She wondered which side he was on. Despite the stunning shift losing the Apple of Eden had caused in Parisian politics, Robespierre's support would not disappear overnight.

She was starting to believe she lost the trail when she spotted another wounded soldier, this one sitting against a wall with his hand on his gut. Élise promptly approached.

"Monsieur, where's Robespierre?"

"They took shelter in the Hôtel De Ville," the soldier grunted out.

"Merci," she said. Unfortunately, she had nothing she could give him. But the Hôtel de Ville was close. This was poetic moment, it was outside that building she had killed Jacques de Flesselles, her second mark, back when she was a fresh and young to the practice. That day she lost her innocence.

Her boots splashed through another puddle. It was not far. From here she would be approaching opposite the riverside. As a former Assassin she was constantly scanning buildings for paths of infiltration, sometimes in anticipation of an assignment in the distant future, sometimes as a force of habit. She had pondered this building many times. The front decorated with majestic reliefs which would do well as foot and hand holds; it also had had three doors for entry. On the sides were arched windows and balconies oriented towards the back. The building was slightly T-shaped so the rear was much like the front, albeit with less face and two doors instead of one.

Last she had checked, a building adjacent to the side she was approaching had a wooden beam that should let her leap to one of the balconies. But who ever was guarding Robespierre must have already been on the highest possible alert, so no doubt there would be at least one man at the balcony

Then as she approached she could hear something. Yelling.

"You're a goddamn traitre, you know! Robespierre's had normal people living in fear. He imposed the highest tyranny in the name of liberty!"

There was a brief silence. Then same man continued. "What? You got nothing to say for yourself? You're protecting un meurtrier!"

Was someone heckling one of Robespierre's guards?

Another voice responded: "Piss off! I'd shoot you myself for your words but I've got limited ammo."

The voice was coming from somewhere higher. The balcony? A balcony guard. Maybe the only one.

If this argument continued, it would be the perfect for her approach, another stroke of fortune. She would scout the situation from the roof. She looked towards the row of buildings adjacent, scanning for a way up. She saw her way up via a stack of boxes.

"Killing your own country men! That's all your kind is good for! What do you think Dieu will have to say when you meet Him?"

"My conscience is as clean as it's ever been! Your words don't move me!"

She made hoisted herself up the boxes made her way up to a rooftop, then keeping lower than the pointed peaks, moved to the one with the wooden beam.

"How many men lost their heads to that monster you're guarding. En fait, I see you're among them! You've -"

"You think I haven't heard all this bêtise before, I -"

She peaked over the apex of the roof. She could see the guard, yes, only one, looking down at his heckler. These were such sweet circumstances, like God Himself was guiding her to the target. This impossible mission was becoming real before her eyes. The guard looked like a Federe, with a brown vest and red liberty cap. She could take him out silently with a well aimed dart, but hitting her target meant everything. If she missed, she would set him and by extension the whole Hôtel on alert.

With great trepidation and a pounding heart, she raised her dart are, aiming carefully for his capped head.

She fired.

It flew and stuck in his head beautifully, killing him instantly. She felt a rush of euphoria, though she did not waste time waiting for a response from the heckler, she simply dashed to the beam and leapt. She soared through the air. With an Assassin's grace she landed on the balcony railing. The heckler still had nothing to say, and she saw the way the guard had got out to the balcony, it was still opened. Her luck had been wonderful so far. Now if no one spotted her entering, and maybe even if they did, she could pass as a "civilian" supporter of the cause now that she was this deep behind enemy lines.

Looking inside, the interior was as luxurious she expected; red carpet was laid across the hall, the walls were mahogany with white squares. She listened closely for the sound of any nearby conversation or footsteps. None. Once she stepped in, she would be tempted to look both ways, but she would not, for that would only make her look on edge and more like an intruder. She would go left, towards the back of the building.

Élise stepped in. She braced dearly for the sound of someone acknowledging her approach. The halls were lined with fancy couches and chairs. But none came. Walking forward, her tension faded with each step. She could not have been happier with how this turned out, but Robespierre could be anywhere.

She still listened intently for footstep or conversation, now feeling he armpits damp with sweat from the previous tension. She was close to her first corner.

She rounded it. She was immediately saw two men with rifles, National Guard defectors by the look of it, guarding a door. Another man approaching them, this one looking more like a militant.

Élise pretended to ignore them and continued walking, but it looked like they might converse and she listened closely.

"Can I speak to him?"

"No, Monsieur Robespierre wants to be left alone." He was behind that door!

"Why's that?"

She passed the guards.

"Why do you think? This blasted city's just turned on him. He needs time alone to think."

"Can you at least pass on my message?"

"I suppose. What is it?"

She turned the corner and took a seat on an ornate chair, bowing her head and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. If she could silently eliminate those two guards, she would be in. They had made the fatal mistake of concentrating too much of their protection towards the front of the perimeter. She knew where to stab them to prevent their screams, but the simple sound of them falling to the floor might set off the others. Still, what other choice did she have? Could she lore them away from the door somehow? A distraction? But that would just create the same problem, something to rile the others. Could she tell them a lie that would get them to part from the door? Not likely, she was suspicious enough. She waited for the conversation to end, it was something about the ill health of someone else inside the building.

The conversation ended, and the militant began walking in her direction. She kept her gaze on her lap. He turned the corner, and, thankfully, passed her without any comment.

Élise gave the departing man one last look, then rose from her seat. Luck and skill had brought her this far, but it could still go south.

She turned the corner. "Hey, who are you?" the closer one asked as she approached. She scanned their belts for any keys. She saw none.

"A friend. I have some important news."

"Really?"

Now she was right between them. The one on the right looked about forty years old, while green eyes and a gaunt face. His partner looked perhaps ten years younger, eyes dark brown and oily skin. This would be their last day.

She punched her blade into both their necks. They clutched their throats, and after some graceless throws fell to the ground. As one went limp she grabbed him to slow his fall, but the other fell alone, and the sound might as well have been broken glass to her ears.

Robespierre had not reacted, though. That was good. She reached for the handle. It was locked. Damn. She immediately got to picking, her focus intense as only fortune could save her from someone coming upon her. All those years of training and practical application of "locksport" could save or kill her at this moment. Her heart pounded. But the tumblers -

Click.

She promptly entered, whipping out her pistol.

Robespierre was not there. What revealed was some kind of antechamber. There was a fire place, and a bust, and a couch, and another door straight ahead. She presumed he was in the next one. Maybe that is why he had not heard the thud.

She grabbed the knob. Unlocked. She threw the door opened.

Robespierre looked like he saw a ghost. At last, she was face to face with the man who had once mocked her at the cemetery while holding the Templar's sacred ancient treasure, who had first revealed her allegiance to Arno, back when he still considered her a bitter enemy.

"You..." he said, terrified.

"Oui, moi. Your hold on the people of Paris is over. Now you're about to face that guillotine you're so fond of, unless you come with me."

"For what purpose?"

"To answer our questions. Where is Weishaupt? Where is Der Strekcer? Where is this new First Civilization site you found?"

Robespierre put his hand on his chest and huffed in disbelief. "You think me a coward? Motivated by selfishness? Everything I did here...I sacrificed my safety, my peace of mind, for the greater good. I did none of this for myself!"

"And what have you done? Fractured our order? Put tens of thousands of men to the guillotine? Started a war that's killed hundreds of thousands? Empowered monsters? You slaughtered so many and yet I offer you mercy. Can't I appeal to your conscience, do you feel no regret?"

"Virtue without terror is impotent," he said simply.

"No, virtue with terror is. You see that now."

There was a silence.

Was he stewing on her words? What if he did talk, right here? The would be remarkable.

But a dreaded thought entered her: Her mind wandered back to Arno. Her dearly beloved Arno who, last she had broached the subject so long ago, still saw mind control as an abominable practice. If the Templars knew where Adam Weishaupt kept his machine, if they could take back control of the -

She jumped as someone barged in from a door to her left. It was Denis, pistol in hand. How the hell did he -

"We don't have much time. Barras is coming!" he said.

"Denis, how-"

He approached Maximillien perpendicular to her, anger on his face, pistol pointed and ready to shoot. "Where's Weishaupt?"

Robespierre turned his head half way to Denis said, "I will never talk."

The pistol thundered. He cried out and fell to his knees with a shattered jaw. Denis pushed a quill and paper on the desk behind him towards him.

"Then write."

Élise was momentarily stunned, but she collected herself and got closer to see what he was writing.

P

O

L

A

N

D

Just as he was finished, gun fire rang out below.

Denis grabbed her arm. "Come on."

She jerked it away defensively. She did not quite know why, maybe she just did not like being touched. But her gaze fell back on Robespierre, pityingly, while chaos continued below. Then her eyes went back to the paper. That information was scant, but that could be -

"Now, fille!" Denis called.