"Connor, do you think you take after your mother or your father the most?"

A short-story reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr. Enjoy.

Roofing tiles snap beneath the weight of a woman clothed in black. A pair of small eyes light up in the dark as a man not too far ahead turns to gaze at his ally.

A large hand rises up from his side, a single finger extending out to their right. A small pair of lips part to take in a breath before the matching pair of eyes move to where the finger directs them.

The building across the way. Eyes flick back to the finger, which now turns downward. These eyes follow the path of the finger to see a man in a sweeping black coat trudging through the street below. In an obvious hurry.

'Go,' the man mouths, his tricorn hat casting a harsh shadow over his face, just as the pointed hood casts one over the Assassin's.

When the Assassin exhales, a cloud of warm air appears in the winter night. She takes a few quick steps backwards, refocusing on the building across the way.

A running leap lands the Assassin on the directed building. She ducks her head and rolls once with the momentum of the jump. A moment later she is running along the line of rooftops.

Two figures mirror each other, running parallel to flank their target on both sides from above. The man continues on below, oblivious to his two additional shadows.

It is in this way that Connor can relate to her father. Working together, it was as though she was being copied. Her experience and skills mirrored onto another being. Or perhaps it was the other way around. A daughter following in her father's shady footsteps.

This brought Connor little joy. Seeing what Haytham was now, the Assassin had no desire to be following in his footsteps. A man who had thrown away some of his deepest morals over time, power his ultimate desire. Yet here she was, trekking through the darkness after with him at the lead. A pair of hungry wolves stalking unsuspecting prey.

There was always one thing that put the woman at ease, though.

The gaps between buildings begin to widen as they reach the outskirts of New York. A grimace passes over Haytham's shadowy face.

Instead of dropping down to the ground as her father must, Connor's quick steps carry her into the air and into the arms of a tall tree. The branch squeals under her weight but does not break. With precision she leaps to the next branch, then to the next. She wraps her hands around a higher branch to swing to the next. One after the other, with barely a sound as she progresses. It is this skill that reminds her that she does not walk in the Grandmaster Templar's footsteps after all.

Instead, she follows in the footsteps of the mother who had come before her. Who had run at Haytham's side long before her daughter would have the chance. Who leapt through the trees overhead while he would have to stay grounded and watch from below.

Connor was Ziio's daughter, and her likeness was that of the mother whom she had lost so long ago. The Assassin would see it no other way.

The man's footsteps have sped up considerably. He has noticed Haytham behind him. As they reach the tree line, the Templar cannot hide any longer. The trees are too slim for his bulky frame. Instead the graying man slinks after their target at a steadily decreasing distance. A plan has been formed in his mind, and caution was no longer needed. Should the target spot him, he would be too preoccupied with Haytham to realize Connor darting from tree to tree overhead, ready to pounce on him once they were out of sight of the disappearing buildings.

The man finally turns his head to get a good look at Haytham. His eyes widen exponentially, familiarity passing over his face. Fear etches into his wrinkles, evident even under the shadow his own tricorn hat casts. His fingers twitch, he comes close to tripping over his own feet.

"No… Noo!" he shouts into the winter air, head snapping forward. His legs begin to work, carrying him into a run. Haytham flicks his wrist, moves into a run as well. From the trees, the Templar resembles a wolf, body poised a little lower to the ground for improved speed.

"Now!" Haytham's voice reaches Connor's ears just as she readies herself to make her next jump through the trees. Instead, she focuses her attention on the target and adjusts her momentum accordingly. Half a jump, just as he's about to pass beneath her tree.

Even as Connor leaps into the air with hidden blade snapping to attention, even as she lands upon the target with a heavy 'thud' and a yell that breaks his lungs, she believes with all her heart that she is not following after her father in his disillusioned ways.

Unlike Haytham, Connor knows how to stay her blade. Instead of digging it ruthlessly into the man's neck as her father would have, she forces his face into the dirt and presses her blade against the nap of his neck. She does not penetrate his flesh.

"Bluh, bah, p-please!" the man coughs and sputters into the cold mud. He twitches as he takes in the woman digging her knee into his back. The target weighs his strength against hers mentally, but all thoughts of escape are dashed when Haytham makes his appearance, hovering above Connor. The Templar scoffs down at the man, digs the point of his boot into the helpless man's ribs.

"Where is Benjamin Church?" Connor's voice is the first to come, and to make sure she's got a definite hold on the man she grabs a large handful of his hair and yanks hard on it.

The man does not reply, instead mutters some sort of prayer under his breath in a tone far faster than Connor could comprehend. But Haytham doesn't have the patience for antics.

"Be polite," the Templar leans down, and before Connor can stop him he's stuck his blade into the man's side. Over the man's yelling, the Templar adds, "Answer the kind woman's question, and perhaps you will be spared."

"A-A-Aye, I-I, I d-dunno," the man whimpers through the pain. Blood soaks through his clothing. "Church ne'er told us where 'e was goen'-"

The exasperated Templar shakes his head, putting one hand on his hip and another to touch at his own forehead. "You would think a man would know better than to lie with death standing upon his doorstep."

Connor gazes long and hard at her father, then to the man who writhes hopelessly in the mud beneath her.

"Give me the answer I seek," she lowers her voice, "And I will prevent him from hurting you."

The man's eyes meet Connor's. But there is no evidence of a lie in either set of glistening orbs. Connor's stomach begins to turn over.

"L-L-Lass, I dun… I dunno!" he breathes the words, quietly, as though it will prevent Haytham from hearing them. "P-Please dun… dun kill me. I've a fam'ly a' home, an a-"

Haytham's hand wraps around Connor's bladed wrist, and before she can stop him he's embedded her blade into his neck.

"No!" she hisses, watching the life fade from his eyes and his lifeblood splatter his lips, the skin of his neck, the hand of both father and daughter.

Immediately she yanks her hand from his, stepping off of the limp man being consumed by death. Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Why did you do that?"

"I said 'perhaps', correct?" Haytham crosses his arms behind his back, standing up a little taller and lifting his chin. "He was of no use to us."

"And so you take his life?" the Assassin raises both of her palms to the air at her sides, shaking her head. Her jaw is set, she grinds her teeth for a moment as she ponders how best to funnel the rage she feels pawing at the back of her mind. Yet another trait inherited from her mother. "Might you suggest, then, that we slaughter the whole of New York or Boston if they 'are of no use to us'? His was an unnecessary death-"

"Let us consider something, then, fair daughter," Haytham raises his brows, "Perhaps I had let you have your way. Say we had released him. Your act of good will, of sparing some meager life, would jeopardize both of our missions because releasing that fool would have run the risk of Church discovering our hunt for him. I could not, cannot, allow that."

"How would he have reported our actions if he had no knowledge of Church and his location?" she takes a step forward, her bloodstained finger pointing to the dead man who lies in the mud, "He was not lying. I could see it, in his eyes."

Haytham takes an elongated moment to stare at his daughter before a half smile controls his face, and he chuckles in his condescending tone. A shake of the head, the lowering of it, as though he cannot believe what he has just heard. These actions cause Connor to lower her pointed finger, to adjust her stance, to glare at him in her confusion.

The Grandmaster Templar tips his head up again, the smile lingering as he speaks, "What should I have expect? I should have known you'd have a softer heart than any sensible man. But I am disappointed. I would have thought that as my own daughter, as a Kenway, you might have a more reasonable head upon your shoulders that would dissuade you from listening to meager emotions."

"I do not take after you in that way, and I am glad," the native Assassin speaks her words with care, taking a few steps backwards, "I would rather have the heart and mind of my sensible mother than the cold, shriveled heart of my father."

On the brink of rage, the Assassin turns away, not bothering to hear more of Haytham's mouthy replies.

The final thing Connor knew she shared with her mother was the impermanence of her place at Haytham's side. If leaving Haytham Kenway behind did the world some justice, then she would do just that.

Just as her mother before her had.