So I've been thinking about doing this for a while, I've just been kinda too lazy to ever do it till now. But the ideas are kinda pushing at my brain and need to be let out. So this is kinda like Ages in that it is in the same universe and abides by the same canon as Flocking Movement, only instead of a longer story, it's a bunch of shorter ones that sort of would go before Flocking Movement. This has no real update basis and while I have a bunch of ideas I want to write they'll basically only get updated when I want/I feel like there should be something more added.

Also none of them will be from Des' pov, you want Des, go read FM XD

February 1797, Baltimore, Maryland, United States of America

Baltimore in the winter could be terribly cold. It was especially cold that winter as Micheal rode his horse into the city, every breath smoke that managed to make it past his muffler. He was dressed in a smart coat and hood of the Order that protected him from the fat white flakes that drifted down to the ground in slow arching spirals from the slate colored sky, His cheeks were red from the cold but he was in high spirits despite the chill as his hose, a fine roan mare named Shear, clopped down the road, tail swishing and turning over the light cover of snow.

He wound his way through the familiar streets of Baltimore, soaking in the sights and sounds of the city, which wasn't even halted even though it was cold and snowing and people and horses and wagons and carts were moving here and there in the normal passage of city life, going this way and that, boys running all over or yelling at passersby to buy the daily paper. Micheal just passed them by as he headed towards one of the wealthy neighborhoods in the city. Though really wealthy was a more relative term here in the States. After the Revolution most people were poor, even the nation was poor. But it was worth the slow travel and pain that accompanied their freedom from the British Empire to become a new nation all in their own rights, one younger than Micheal was old.

He slid off Shear when he reached his destination, a building with a red door set into a black frame. The shutters on the first floor were closed tightly, but those on the second were arranged open or closed at their leisure. At the top third and top story there were no shutters to even close, but curtains, and only because he knew who lived here did he know that the windows on the top floor opened from the top, the bottoms bolted into the frame.

Micheal led Shear to a small common stable a few yards from the door. It was warm within and smelled of hay and horses. He saw her to an empty stall and removed her tack and rubbed her down before leaving her to rest. They'd had a long journey and she deserved a vacation as much as he did.

The red door was unlocked and he pushed it open. The bottom floor was empty, the doors all taken off of their frames, and the place spotless of even a gathering of dust. Micheal flooded up the stairs to the second floor, from which he could hear the sound of inhabitants moving around their homes. He ignored this floor too in favor for the third, taking the stairs three at a time. Here the walls were painted the color of paper and the carpets on the floor were the color of blood over darkly stained hardwood. It was at once familiar and Micheal smiled.

The den leader's office door was ajar and he bounded over to it excitedly and he rapped his knuckles quickly on the dark door. "I'm busy, go away," the den leader called from inside.

"You won't make an exception for me?" he called back, a mischievous grin stretched across his lips.

Seconds later the door was wrenched open. "Micheal!" the den leader cried and wrapped him a delighted hug. "Oh, my boy, this is the most wonderful surprise this old woman has had in a long while," Sarah Hart, his mother, said cheerfully.

Micheal laughed and held his mother at arm's length. Her brown hair was more grey then it had been since the last he saw her but she was still as radiant and healthy as ever. "You're hardly old, mama," and he kissed her cheek. She beamed at him and gently stroked his own brown hair, much darker than her own. She said he had his father's hair, the man he'd never met. He pushed the thought from his mind. He chose not to think of the dead. Especially over a dead man he'd never met.

"Oh my sweet boy, you flatter me," she cooed and gave his reddened nose a playful tug, Micheal smiled at her. "Come in," and she beckoned him within her office. His mother had been the den leader in Baltimore since he could remember, he'd grown up in this city, only leaving for the Point when he was twelve for training with a few other boys from Baltimore who's parents were of the Order. "Now let me get a good look at you lad," she tutted a bit and he pushed down his hood and pulled off his muffler so she could properly see his face. She smiled, almost sadly, at him, "Handsome as ever, when are you going to bring a lovely lady for me to meet eh?"

"Mama," he groaned, sagging a little. She just laughed. "I am busy," he sighed.

"Yes, yes. Sit," she ordered, and never one to disobey his mother, or a den leader (heaven forbid both) he sat on one of the chairs opposite her desk. She hummed and walked past him, running a hand through his messy dark hair as she did and went into the adjoining room which was also her home, his old one. She came back a moment later with a bowl of warm stew and gave it to him. He chuckled, his mother did love to spoil. "Now," she sat on her desk before him, sprite as one of his sisters back at the Point, "what brings you home?"

He answered once he swallowed, "I was heading back to the Point from Jamestown," he said and spooned another bite of warm soup into his mouth. "I decided to visit."

"What were you doing in Jamestown?"

He frowned a little but reached into a pouch and pulled out a feather. It was an old practice within the Order that had recently come back into practice. Apparently an old book from the days of the Crusades had made it into the hands of the Mentor in America, for now proof of the kill was required. Such things had not been done for centuries, but most found it nice to return to the old ways. Micheal had no opinion on it, but it meant that most assassinations could now no longer be done simply from a distance, they had to be conducted on a more… personal basis, much like they had been done back then. His feather was bloodied.

"Ah," of course his mother understood and he put it away. "But why you? Aren't there Assassins in the South who could have handled it?"

He shrugged, "I don't ask. I just do," he said, Sarah smiled thinly.

"Always ask question Micheal," she told him.

"Does it matter?"

Her smile turned mysterious, "Sometimes. There are great many mysteries in this world."

"But-

"Listen to your mother and eat your soup," she said sternly. He pouted but ate his soup. "As Assassins we must always question what we see, what we know, for all that we can trust are our eyes. That is the meaning of our Creed."

"I know," he grumbled.

"So then you know the words? Or do you know the meaning?"

He sighed, this topic was not unknown to Micheal. His mother was a bit obsessive. The Creed said that nothing was true, and everything was permitted, she was fascinated by those two lines. He didn't understand why, but that was his mother and he wouldn't question her. "Both, you've told me often," he said.

"Good," she said sitting up a bit straiter. "So you're here now to eat my food and keep me company, a fair trade," and she smiled, he rolled his eyes a little but smiled back. He did love his mother, but she could be a bit strange.

—

Perhaps it was a bit degrading. He was a deadly warrior, and he was sent to buy groceries. He didn't know why he was surprised though, he knew he'd get made to do such things if he visited his mother, he knew that, and what better use of a young man than to send him out into the cold and go your shopping? Micheal was both amused and unamused at the same time.

He was going through one of the markets when he felt it first. He looked behind him, scanning the lightly populated crowd, but saw nothing. That didn't mean that his senses were wrong though, in fact, it made him feel double sure that someone was indeed there, watching him. He turned back around and continued on his way, looking for the butcher shop he was sure was on this street. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood strait on end and he whipped his head around, looking quickly. Nothing. A creeping sense in his gut told him that whoever was following him was very good at it, and at being unseen. He went to the worst conclusion first: Templar.

They wouldn't act here though. It was an open street. Too many people to witness and fight and death. If there was one thing that was similar between the Templars and Assassins it was their shadow tactics, their want to hunt in the dark and sneak about unseen. He blinked hard and after several seconds he could finally bring to bear a strange second sight. It had not come so naturally and always took a moment to bring to bear. His mother had taught him of it, she said his father had been able to do it, but he was not good at it and the gray and wavy colors always gave him a headache.

He scanned the ground around him, it was washed in gray, and no spark of red in sight. His brow furrowed.

"You know its best not to act like a fool where everyone can see," a voice said from behind him. He started, and spun, the colors swarming back into his vision so rapidly he had to blink several times as if to clear his eyes from looking at the sun. There, standing before him, was one of his brothers, though he did not recognize the man.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"You're very obvious boy," he said though couldn't be more than a few years older than him, which pissed him off. The other man had dark dark brown hair and amazingly sharp, vacant eyes. Micheal knew he was looking at someone far above his ranking status even though he wore just the simple signs of a regular Assassin. It was the way his body commanded the space, yet was easily overlooked, if this was the man who'd been following Micheal no wonder he'd looked right past him. "Don't you know your tenets?" and Micheal flushed deeply.

"You were following me," he accused.

"Not exactly hard," said the other man with a smile, one that looked as though he hadn't done so in a long while. "Come," he beckoned, "I know you're here on Sarah's orders."

"How do you know her name?" he asked, even as he followed, unable to not, something compelled him. It was not common for Assassins to know the names of their den leaders, it made things safer for the leaders who, while not defenseless, were not as capable as a full brother or sister.

"I knew her when she was young," he said.

He scowled, "Then you would have been barely a boy," he pointed out, keeping stride with the man.

"That I was," he agreed, "She is still a beauty she was in her youth," he said wistfully.

His hackles went up, that was his mother this stranger was talking of. "She is," he agreed tightly.

"Go do your shopping, boy," the stranger said as they stood in front of a door and Micheal looked, they were before the butcher. "After, I wish to talk."

Micheal eyed him, but saw no reason why he shouldn't do as asked, he nodded and went inside, buying a few sausage links and pork chops from the rotund man. The stranger was waiting for him outside, leaning against the side of the wall as though the cold or snow on the ground did not bother him. "Who are you?" he asked.

The man ignored the question, "How went your assignment in Jamestown?"

He blinked, how did this man know? Why would, someone who was obviously a Master, interested in his mission? Then a spark went off. What if he wanted to know to gauge his training? He could be one of those men from the main branch of the Order in Europe, who even the Mentor here in America abided by. If so he had no accent, but that didn't mean much as Micheal could speak fluent French without an accent as well as English in both a British and Baltimore accent. "It was a success," he said and quickly walked after the Master who'd taken an interest in him.

"That is good to hear," and he sounded… proud? Odd. "Did you see anything interesting there?" he asked.

"Interesting?" Micheal echoed, not understanding.

"Yes. Interesting."

"No," he shook his head.

"Hmm," the man said and for a blind second he feared he'd done something wrong. "Well, I suppose that is a good thing," the man sent him a smile again, this time it looked less unused, maybe like he'd been practicing while he'd been in the butcher, though it was a silly thought. "What made you stop in Baltimore?"

"My mother," he said, "I haven't seen her in almost a year."

"Yes, you were in New York for that time weren't you?"

He didn't ask how he knew, "Yes."

"Its good to see you care so deeply for her," again there was that strange proud note.

"She's all I have," Micheal confessed. "My father died before I was born."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

"I never met him, I don't really feel sad."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he agreed.

"Though my mother says I look like him, so I guess if I ever wanted to see him I'd just have to look in a mirror," he grinned broadly. The other man looked at him, an approving smile on his lips. "She even named me after him."

"Ha, such is a woman's heart," he said with a breathy laugh.

The walk back to the den was surprisingly enjoyable. The man, who's name Micheal still didn't know, asked him many questions, about everything. His training, his life in the Point and Baltimore and his missions since he'd been made a full brother almost a year prior. He was one of the youngest men to have been made a full Assassin in years, he was very good at what he did, but he knew he had a lot to learn, especially after talking with the man. Just being near him made him feel inferior and there was no doubt in his mind that this man was a Master. The man also asked after his friends, his mother, and (embarrassingly enough) if he fancied any girls, to which he told him exactly what he told his mother, that he was too busy for girls. The man had found that amazingly funny but had prodded no further on the subject.

They arrived back at the den before Micheal knew it, in which time he'd done most of the talking, but he didn't feel rude in doing so as the man had prompted him into speaking the entire way. "I have to go give these to my mother," he said motioning to the groceries he had.

"Go, I shall be here," said the man.

"Don't you want to come inside? It's rather cold out?"

He smiled slightly, "No," he shook his head. "Its best if I not. Now go," he motioned and Micheal scampered up the stairs into the den, banging the toes of his boots on the mat just inside to rid them of snow and practically ran up the stairs. He didn't quite know what gave him such speed or urgency, but excitement flooded through his entire body.

"There you are," Sarah said when he arrived.

"Here you go mama," he said breathlessly and put the groceries on the desk before turning to leave.

"Micheal," she called when he was half way out the door and he checked his momentum to turn around. "What's the rush?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"I met a Master in the market," he said quickly, "We've been talking and he's waiting for me downstairs."

"Really?" she asked surprised and curious, "What's his name?"

"I don't know, I kept forgetting to ask. But I don't want to keep him waiting, I'll tell you later," and he left before she could call after him.

When he got outside the street was empty. Micheal frowned deeply. Where had they gone? He scanned around, including looking up, but the street was very much empty. He'd barely been five minutes, where was he?

He turned when he heard the sound of horse hooves. There was the man, leading his horse out of the stables. Micheal went to join him quickly. "You're going for a ride? In this weather?" he motioned around them, while it was not snowing, it was still cold.

"Yes," he said in an amused tone.

Micheal was silent for a few seconds, "I will join you if you don't mind," he said.

The man just shook his head, "No," he said. "My time here is done, it was good to finally meet you my boy," he seemed sad but Micheal didn't know why.

"Oh," Micheal said with a frown.

"Give this to your mother," and he held out a leather bound journal.

"Huh? Why?" he asked even as he took it.

"Just do it," he took a deep breath, "I knew your father too, it was his. He left it in Philadelphia a long time ago. I've been keeping ahold of it till I could give it to her."

"Oh," he was still confused. "Will I see you again?"

The man mounted his horse, a stallion with bright black eyes, "I don't know, will you be able to?" he asked in a tease and Micheal flushed.

"I will," he said firmly.

"Then that's all the answer you need," and he pulled his horse's head in a direction.

"Wait," Micheal called and the man turned, but didn't stop his horse. "You never told me your name."

The man smiled brittlely, "They call me Hawk," he said and turned back around, giving his horse a tap on the flanks to put him into a canter. Micheal stood watching him, journal in hand. A strange emptiness filled him, as if he'd just lost something precious and important, though he didn't know why.

Once Hawk was gone he went back inside and up to his mother's office. "Well, that was quick," she said, the groceries were gone and she was sitting at her desk going over some papers.

"He left," Micheal said with a frown.

"Ah," she nodded.

"He said to give you this," he held out the journal, she furrowed his brows at it. "He said it was from my father," he eyes widened and she snatched the journal from him so quickly it startled.

Sarah sat back and opened the journal, "Oh Micheal," she said softly and Micheal knew she didn't mean him, but the father he'd never met, and the only man she'd ever loved. She'd never remarried, and had kept her married name, instead of taking her maiden name when he'd died. It was as though, to her, he never had. "Did he say where he got this?" she asked, looking at him, her voice cracking.

"No," he shook his head as she flipped through the pages, and he could make out the neat penmanship of the Order cipher. "He said he's been holding onto it since Philadelphia," he knew that his father had died in Philadelphia, during the war for independence, but nothing beyond.

She smiled painfully, "Yes, I suppose he was," she said and wiped at her eyes. "What was his name? Did you find out?"

"He said his name was Hawk," he recited.

"Hawk," her smile was less painful then before, "Silly man," she whispered. Then she stood, "Dinner will be ready in a few hours, have some time to yourself, I need to be alone for a while," she said. He blinked but nodded and left. He turned back to look at the darkly stained door in confusion. What was in that journal? Who was this Hawk, and what did he mean to his mother? Why was he interested in Micheal? How did he know his father? So many questions, but he knew few, if any, would be answered. Though he supposed that that was the irony of the Creed, he could never know anything, he could only ever suspect.

-fin-