HOME | DD

Description
March 8, 1849; Bucktown, Maryland

The two arrived in Maryland the next day, and they got to work on locating Brodess’s plantation as soon as possible. Priscilla’s prior knowledge of the location certainly helped the search, and they were exactly where they needed to be within the hour. They looked down at the plantation from a distance. It was apparently the slaves’ working hours. The Assassins were mortified by the sights tainting their eyes.

The overseers had whips in their fists, ready to put them to use at any moment. The slaves were bent over, picking tough roots from the ground as they sweat in the burning sun. The overseers clearly weren't happy with the speed the exhausted slaves were working, as many of them stepped forward with their whips and thrashed the slaves hard. Giant bleeding gashes opened up in the poor souls’ backs as the leather sent them sprawling to the ground. The overseers barked orders to work harder, faster. The slaves had no choice but to obey. Obedience or not, there was only pain and tears to come. It made Priscilla and Aveza sick to their stomachs.

They watched from a distance, mentally making notes to set all these people free by the end of this mission. They noticed one young woman working in a patch of crops not far away. She was clearly running on fumes. Her limbs were shaking, her wounds were still bleeding from a previous beating, a large bruise on her head was pulsing. She looked pale, both from what seemed to be illness and just sheer, painful exhaustion. She could barely stand. She looked like a walking corpse.

“That's her, the poor girl,” Aveza said, comparing the girl's face with the picture given to her by Frederick Douglass.

“That's Harriet Tubman?” Priscilla asked.

“Aye. My God, look at her…”

“Look at all of them…”

Aveza nodded, slowly and with great sadness. “Human beings don't deserve to be treated in such a way,” she said. “Those Templar bastards are going to bloody pay for every single scratch they put on these poor souls.”

“You'll get no argument from me, Mentor.”

“Good.”

On the fields below, they saw Harriet's knees buckle beneath her as she collapsed, the struggle too much to handle anymore. An overseer nearby scowled.

“Hey! You!” he barked. “Get up and get back to work you wretch!”

“I… I… cannot…” she pleaded, though her ragged breath tore her speech.

The overseer responded by stepping forward with his whip and cracking it onto her back. The poor woman screamed in pain, but the overseer kept going, half doing it because it was his job, half doing it because he simply liked being cruel. Eventually, two of his comrades came over to stop his blood lust, though not because they had a heart for the poor girl. No, it was because they simply saw it as a threat to their jobs.

“Hey! John! Lay off the merchandise! Mr. Brodess will have our heads if we kill any of these mongrels without permission.”

“Eh, it's worthless anyway,” the one called John argued. “Can't even stand upright.”

“Well then take it up to the shed with the other sick ones and let Brodess know when he gets back. These Templars pay good money, and I intend to keep my salary.”

“Fine, fine.”

And so the three overseers dragged Harriet, who by now had fallen unconscious from blood loss and overwhelming pain, across the hard ground off to some other part of the plantation before tossing her into a dirty old shed like a rag doll.

The Assassins watched it all unfold, their blood rising and their trigger fingers itching. They scanned the plantation, analysing every detail, every entrance, every escape, formulating a plan. They had to get to Harriet, and they had to save these people before it was too late.

“We'll have to wait until nightfall,” Aveza said. “There'll be less security; easier to sneak through.”

“Sounds good to me,” Priscilla said. “I'll sneak into that shed while you deal with the guards.”

“Good plan, dear. Good plan. Well, we'd best get plotting. We need to make sure this goes perfect. Else things’ll get quite messy really quick…”

------------

March 9, 1849; Outside of Cambridge, Maryland

Come nightfall, the two women put their plan into action. Using the shadows to mask their movements, they slipped across the plantation. Aveza zigzaged across the area, quietly taking out any guards that threatened Priscilla’s progress. Priscilla meanwhile walked about the grounds, finding as many slaves as she could and breaking their chains so that they could go free. The slaves all thanked her immensely, and she told them all it was no problem, that it was her responsibility as a fellow human being to free them from such a vile life. She directed them where to go in order to reach full freedom, and then set off to the next group on her way to the shed.

She eventually reached the door, and of course it was locked. She looked up towards Aveza, who had just finished jabbing her hidden blade into a guard on a rooftop. Aveza signaled that Priscilla was clear but that she needed to act fast. Her apprentice nodded and pulled her lockpicks out. She bent down, which now was a quite difficult task given how she was six months into her pregnancy. Nonetheless, she fiddled with the mechanisms in the door until eventually the lock springed open, allowing her access to the filthy pit of despair and disease beyond.

She was abhorred by the sight. A dozen or so slaves, wounded and ill and on death's doorstep. The ones that weren't lucky enough to be fully unconscious were shifting and turning in their sleep, sweating in fear of whatever nightmares that had been beaten into them. It broke Priscilla’s heart.

Suddenly, one of the slaves sat up straight and looked directly at her. A young woman. Harriet Tubman.

“Who are you?” she asked, a mix of fear and confusion in her voice.

“It's okay,” Priscilla whispered. “I'm here to help. My name is Priscilla Spainhower.”

Harriet clearly wasn't fazed.

“Listen,” Priscilla urged. “Frederick Douglass sent my friend and me here to help free you all from that bastard, Brodess.”

“What motive could you possibly have for helping us?”

“Well, for starters, we just like to save innocent lives.”

Harriet gave a distrustful hmph.

“Please,” Priscilla said, taking a cautious step forward. “We don't have much time. I have multiple reasons to get at Brodess. And one of them is certainly saving your people.”

Harriet's eyes studied her up and down, deciphering every little detail about her. Her eyes fell on her bracer, and her expression shifted.

“You… you have one of those,” she said, indicating Priscilla’s hidden blade.

“Well, yes. I suppose I do.”

“Are you one of them then? One of those freedom fighters we've heard legends about?”

“If you're referring to the Assassins, then yes. I'm a proud member of the Brotherhood.”

“So you follow in the footsteps of the great Aveline de Grandpré?”

Priscilla smiled. Now she was getting somewhere. “Indeed,” she said. “My mentor even worked with Aveline herself on occasion. And now we're continuing her work.”

Harriet clearly lightened up to Priscilla, though she naturally stayed cautious. Priscilla came and sat down next to her. “We'll get you all out, no matter what it takes,” she said.

Harriet looked at her. Suddenly, her expression shifted again as a thought came to mind, and she looked away.

“Have you come to kill Mr. Brodess then?” she asked.

“Yes,” Priscilla said simply. “He has something of extreme value, something that could put the liberty of all people at stake. I intend to take both it and his slaves away from him.”

Harriet sat in uncomfortable silence. Priscilla looked concerned. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

After a long moment of silence, Harriet replied, “Mr. Brodess is a cruel man. He tore my family apart, selling away my brothers and sisters and keeping them all in chains. He beats us as he pleases, and the worst part is that he believes such acts to be righteous. He is a vile man, but I kept some glimmer of hope he could change. I turned to God for such a transformation. I prayed all night long for my master till the first of March; and all the time he was bringing people to look at me, and trying to sell me. Then it appeared that I was guaranteed to be sold, and I changed my prayer. First of March I began to pray, 'Oh Lord, if you ain't never going to change that man's heart, kill him, Lord, and take him out of the way.”

Priscilla simply looked at her, absorbing the words in sympathy. “I see…” she said.

Harriet gave her a longing look. “I suppose that makes you the angel of death,” she said. “I suppose God has answered my prayers…”

Priscilla nodded. “I suppose so…”

The two were quiet for a good long while. Priscilla’s fine-tuned hearing allowed her to hear Aveza dealing with guards outside.

“He's in Cambridge right now,” Harriet eventually said. “I overheard him say he had a meeting to attend to with his associates. You'll find him there.”

“Thank you, Harriet.” Priscilla put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You will be free soon, of this I swear.”

“Thank you. Godspeed, Ms. Spainhower. Godspeed.”

------------

March 9, 1849; Cambridge, Maryland

The Assassins found themselves in Cambridge the following afternoon. Aveza decided it was best to split up and cover more ground. Priscilla gave her her rope launcher since she clearly would have no use for it herself in her current state. Aveza took to the rooftops in order to get a bird’s eye view of the city while Priscilla utilized her social stealth skills to blend in with the crowds of people as she searched for her target.

She caught sight of him after she lost sight of Aveza. He was walking along the street in a local market, and by his side stood the associates that Harriet had mentioned the previous night. It came as no surprise to Priscilla; his associates were John C. Calhoun, Catherine Boston, and Cudgel Cormac. Brodess, Calhoun, and Boston walked tall and arrogantly, sure of their safety. But Cudgel had no such ease. His eyes scanned the crowds like a hawk, his hand close to the handle of his rifle. Getting to Brodess would be difficult with the Hunter nearby.

Priscilla shifted through the crowds, a bit less smoothly than she normally would, but smooth enough, she hoped, to seem like a natural part of the crowd. She slid into hearing range, and listened in on the Templars’ schemes.

“We must find the Temple soon, Grand Master,” Boston was saying, a cold, serious undertone in her voice. Calhoun was clearly irritated.

“I am well aware, Mrs. Boston,” he told her. “I’ve had our best code breakers sifting through all of Jackson’s personal notes for some mention of the location. Damn that man and his secrets.”

“The Assassins are one step ahead of us,” Brodess said. “They have the advantage of knowing where the place is and how to access it.”

“Yes, but we hold the Key. As long as we keep that hold, our plans will continue to run smoothly.”

Cudgel pulled a face, one that Calhoun didn’t much care for. “Thoughts, Master Cormac?” he said disapprovingly.

“No no, carry on,” Cudgel said with a scowl.

“Out with it, boy. Report to your Grand Master.”

“Very well then, sir. Put quite frankly, you’re fools.”

“I beg your pardon?” Boston said, irritated as well by his disrespect.

“You’re all fools. You’re all arrogant. Worse, you’re bigoted. That Key is valuable to the Order, yes, but I don’t trust it in the hands of such an unprogressive lot as you.”

“Cudgel, we’ve been over this.”

“I don’t think my grandfather would’ve ever allowed the Key to be given to such a cruel excuse of a man.” He indicated Brodess, who took immediate offense.

“How dare you!” he said. “I do what I do to keep the very backbone of Southern society from snapping! Your grandfather would do no such thing. Need I remind you that it was Shay who willingly handed the Key over to the Assassins?”

“Aye, to keep it from scoundrels like Andrew Jackson.”

“Well, Jackson is dead now,” Calhoun argued. “And we intend to right the wrongs of his reign. We will balance this society and keep the nation from ripping itself apart. Need I remind you of all the conflict going on in Congress over the status of slavery in the territories we acquired from Mexico? It’s an absolute mess! Idiots like those senators and fools like those civil rights advocates need someone like us to snap them into reality. There’s a natural order to things, and it simply cannot be allowed to be unravelled on some ridiculous ideal of freedom.”

“Then you’ll forgive me, sir, for not wanting to rest on such a tapestry.”

Cudgel and Calhoun glared at one another.

“We live in a time of delicate matters, Cudgel,” Boston said. “Our country is still young, still in desperate need of guidance, still under constant threat of descending into chaos because of people like the Assassins who would just throw liberty about like candy instead of seizing its reins. Is what you see oppression? Perhaps, in a fool's eyes. But in reality, it is protection. Women, slaves, the Natives, they all have a place in society, and they need to be kept in line.”

“The line to the slaughter house?” Cudgel argued, his blood rising fast. “Look, I agree drastic measures must be taken sometimes in order to maintain peace. But there's a limit, there's a point when too much blood has been spilt. My grandfather taught me that.”

“This coming from the man whose entire life was founded on spilling the blood of our enemies,” Brodess retorted.

Cudgel glared at him, then at his companions. There was a mutual sense of hatred in the air, and Cudgel wasn't going to have it. He turned his back to them and walked.

“Master Cormac!” Calhoun called after him. “Cudgel!”

But Cudgel kept walking, ignoring the Grand Master. Priscilla realized too late that he was walking right in her direction. He came closer, he was going to see her. There'd be no doubt about that. She tightened her muscles, praying she'd have an opening to strike back when he spotted her. He came closer, shoving gently past the crowds, and he got close enough for her to smell the blood that had been washed out of his coat. He looked directly at her, and it was clear from her expression that he knew exactly who she was. Priscilla braced herself…

But an attack never came. Cudgel simply looked at her for a split second, then cast a subtle glance back at his fellow Templars, then back at her.

And then he simply walked away, not even acknowledging her once. He simply left.

Priscilla let out the breath that she realized she had been holding. Why did he not kill her right there and then? She shook her head. It didn't matter, right? Right now, she needed to focus on Brodess. Especially now that her biggest obstacle was out of the way. She started moving a small bit closer to the other Templars, who thankfully did not catch sight of her like Cudgel had. They went back to bitterly discuss between themselves.

“Damn that man,” Calhoun spat. “I need a drink…”

“There's a lovely little tavern nearby,” Boston said. “We could drop in there.”

Calhoun chuckled. It sounded like a choking cat. “I like how you think, Ms. Boston,” he said. “I think we shall.” He turned to Brodess. “Coming, Master Brodess?”

“I’d love to, Grand Master, but unfortunately I must return to my home as soon as possible. I don't like being away from my merchandise for too long. Without their master around to scare them into submission, they can begin to get… ideas.”

Calhoun and Boston nodded. “It's no problem, Master Brodess. I understand completely. Go on ahead. Hopefully we will be able to meet up again soon.”

“Indeed, my friend. May the Father of Understanding guide you.”

Calhoun and Boston nodded. “May the Father of Understanding guide you,” they parroted. And with that, the two left to head towards whatever tavern had been mentioned previously, leaving just Brodess. Alone.

He checked his pocket watch, realized the next train was going to leave soon, and speed-walked down the street. Priscilla followed close behind.

Brodess started ducking through alleyways, believing them decent shortcuts to the train station. From Priscilla’s perspective, they were the perfect place to rid the world of this scoundrel. And that's exactly what happened. When they were out of sight from any potential witnesses, Priscilla darted up behind Brodess (as fast as she could with a baby in her belly at least) and before he could scream she covered his mouth with one hand and used her other hand to jab her hidden blade into his spine. She felt his scream die on her palm as she lowered him to the ground and time seemed to slow.

History was replaced by the raw digital void of the Animus, and I got a little bit of consciousness returned to me as I watched my ancestor stand over her prey.

Brodess winced and grunted in pain as he began to bleed out. “Damn you, Assassin,” he spat.

“Courtesy of Harriet Tubman,” Priscilla said coldly as she retracted her blade.

“Who?”

“The poor slave girl, one of many I might add, whose lives you destroyed with your abuse.”

And suddenly Brodess began to laugh through his choking.

“Ah, so that's what this is about,” he said. “The child's come to save the pets.”

“They're not pets, they're people.”

“Ha! They're not even rats. They're property.”

Priscilla scowled. “I don't have time to argue, Brodess. Tell me: where is the Key?”

“The Key? To the Precursor Site?”

“No, the one to the cookie jar. What do you think?”

“I don’t have it, Assassin.”

“What?”

“We caught word your kind was in the area, so Mrs. Boston had it shipped somewhere safe.” He smiled. “Your journey here was for nothing, girl.”

“No. Not for nothing. For now that you're gone, your slaves will be set free, and your influence over the slave trade will crumble.”

“And with it so will the foundation of the country. Slavery runs our farms, keeps your workers up north fed. Take it away, and all will fall to mayhem.”

“You can plant your own crops damn well enough. You're just too bigoted to accept that people who aren't like you are equals. They're human beings, just like you.”

“No, not like me. I'm better, you see. Better than all of you.”

“The whip scars on their backs suggest otherwise.”

“I keep society afloat. Those wretched slaves only pollute it.”

“And how would they do that, hmm?”

“By their mere dirty nature, girl. Tell me, should I invite my cattle to the dinner table? Should I allow my pigs to roam about our cities? No. Because they'd only get in the way, unable to fathom the richness of humanity.”

“You have a twisted view of humanity, Mr. Brodess.”

“Maybe so, child… But at least that view keeps my kind separated from the mud that people like you… like them… would… drag in…”

He breathed his last. His head dropped to the ground as his body went eternally still. Priscilla bent down with some effort and closed his eyes. She grabbed a white handkerchief and dabbed it in his wound.

“Order is more inclusive than you give it credit for,” she said calmly. “Rest in peace.”

With that, she turned from the body, walking back down the streets that quickly replaced the Animus void. Priscilla’s mind quickly refilled the gap in my head left by my fading consciousness, and she set off to meet up with her Mentor.

----------

March 10, 1849; Bucktown, Maryland

“I can't believe we lost the Key again,” Priscilla said bitterly as she and Aveza stepped off their carriage.

“We'll find it, dear. I promise,” Aveza said. “We'll get to work on finding a new lead, but right now we need to focus on saving innocent lives.”

Priscilla nodded. There was so much on her plate. She just wanted to have her biggest problem gone. But still she had to wait.

They arrived at the plantation that night, eager to let the slaves know Brodess was dead and they had a chance to escape. And that was exactly what Priscilla told Harriet Tubman when she snuck back to the shed.

“The time to run is now,” she told Harriet. “Brodess is dead, and we can easily help eliminate any obstacles to your freedom.”

“What of the others?” Harriet asked. “What of my family and friends? Brodess’s widow still lives. She will certainly try to separate us again.”

“No she won't. We'll keep our agents posted around Maryland to keep the Templars busy while you and your people make a break for it.” She put a hand on her shoulder. “You can do it, Harriet. You have to believe that.”

Harriet looked at her, taking in her expression. And after a moment of silence, she nodded knowingly.

“Okay,” she said. “We'll try. We'll wait for the perfect moment, and then we'll run.”

Priscilla smiled. “Atta girl!” she said. “And if you ever need help, just give us a call. We won't hesitate to help.”

Harriet couldn't help but smile. Priscilla could see the reality of the situation was finally sinking into her mind. Harriet suddenly started laughing joyfully, then lunged out and hugged Priscilla. “Thank you, Mrs. Spainhower,” she said. “For everything.”

Priscilla merely smiled and hugged back. “It's no problem, Harriet. Glad to help. Just think, my friend, soon you will be free.”

As the two hugged, Priscilla couldn't help but lighten her attitude. She lost the Key again, sure, but at least she was saving lives. And what could be more precious than that?

Description
March 8, 1849; Bucktown, Maryland

The two arrived in Maryland the next day, and they got to work on locating Brodess’s plantation as soon as possible. Priscilla’s prior knowledge of the location certainly helped the search, and they were exactly where they needed to be within the hour. They looked down at the plantation from a distance. It was apparently the slaves’ working hours. The Assassins were mortified by the sights tainting their eyes.

The overseers had whips in their fists, ready to put them to use at any moment. The slaves were bent over, picking tough roots from the ground as they sweat in the burning sun. The overseers clearly weren't happy with the speed the exhausted slaves were working, as many of them stepped forward with their whips and thrashed the slaves hard. Giant bleeding gashes opened up in the poor souls’ backs as the leather sent them sprawling to the ground. The overseers barked orders to work harder, faster. The slaves had no choice but to obey. Obedience or not, there was only pain and tears to come. It made Priscilla and Aveza sick to their stomachs.

They watched from a distance, mentally making notes to set all these people free by the end of this mission. They noticed one young woman working in a patch of crops not far away. She was clearly running on fumes. Her limbs were shaking, her wounds were still bleeding from a previous beating, a large bruise on her head was pulsing. She looked pale, both from what seemed to be illness and just sheer, painful exhaustion. She could barely stand. She looked like a walking corpse.

“That's her, the poor girl,” Aveza said, comparing the girl's face with the picture given to her by Frederick Douglass.

“That's Harriet Tubman?” Priscilla asked.

“Aye. My God, look at her…”

“Look at all of them…”

Aveza nodded, slowly and with great sadness. “Human beings don't deserve to be treated in such a way,” she said. “Those Templar bastards are going to bloody pay for every single scratch they put on these poor souls.”

“You'll get no argument from me, Mentor.”

“Good.”

On the fields below, they saw Harriet's knees buckle beneath her as she collapsed, the struggle too much to handle anymore. An overseer nearby scowled.

“Hey! You!” he barked. “Get up and get back to work you wretch!”

“I… I… cannot…” she pleaded, though her ragged breath tore her speech.

The overseer responded by stepping forward with his whip and cracking it onto her back. The poor woman screamed in pain, but the overseer kept going, half doing it because it was his job, half doing it because he simply liked being cruel. Eventually, two of his comrades came over to stop his blood lust, though not because they had a heart for the poor girl. No, it was because they simply saw it as a threat to their jobs.

“Hey! John! Lay off the merchandise! Mr. Brodess will have our heads if we kill any of these mongrels without permission.”

“Eh, it's worthless anyway,” the one called John argued. “Can't even stand upright.”

“Well then take it up to the shed with the other sick ones and let Brodess know when he gets back. These Templars pay good money, and I intend to keep my salary.”

“Fine, fine.”

And so the three overseers dragged Harriet, who by now had fallen unconscious from blood loss and overwhelming pain, across the hard ground off to some other part of the plantation before tossing her into a dirty old shed like a rag doll.

The Assassins watched it all unfold, their blood rising and their trigger fingers itching. They scanned the plantation, analysing every detail, every entrance, every escape, formulating a plan. They had to get to Harriet, and they had to save these people before it was too late.

“We'll have to wait until nightfall,” Aveza said. “There'll be less security; easier to sneak through.”

“Sounds good to me,” Priscilla said. “I'll sneak into that shed while you deal with the guards.”

“Good plan, dear. Good plan. Well, we'd best get plotting. We need to make sure this goes perfect. Else things’ll get quite messy really quick…”

------------

March 9, 1849; Outside of Cambridge, Maryland

Come nightfall, the two women put their plan into action. Using the shadows to mask their movements, they slipped across the plantation. Aveza zigzaged across the area, quietly taking out any guards that threatened Priscilla’s progress. Priscilla meanwhile walked about the grounds, finding as many slaves as she could and breaking their chains so that they could go free. The slaves all thanked her immensely, and she told them all it was no problem, that it was her responsibility as a fellow human being to free them from such a vile life. She directed them where to go in order to reach full freedom, and then set off to the next group on her way to the shed.

She eventually reached the door, and of course it was locked. She looked up towards Aveza, who had just finished jabbing her hidden blade into a guard on a rooftop. Aveza signaled that Priscilla was clear but that she needed to act fast. Her apprentice nodded and pulled her lockpicks out. She bent down, which now was a quite difficult task given how she was six months into her pregnancy. Nonetheless, she fiddled with the mechanisms in the door until eventually the lock springed open, allowing her access to the filthy pit of despair and disease beyond.

She was abhorred by the sight. A dozen or so slaves, wounded and ill and on death's doorstep. The ones that weren't lucky enough to be fully unconscious were shifting and turning in their sleep, sweating in fear of whatever nightmares that had been beaten into them. It broke Priscilla’s heart.

Suddenly, one of the slaves sat up straight and looked directly at her. A young woman. Harriet Tubman.

“Who are you?” she asked, a mix of fear and confusion in her voice.

“It's okay,” Priscilla whispered. “I'm here to help. My name is Priscilla Spainhower.”

Harriet clearly wasn't fazed.

“Listen,” Priscilla urged. “Frederick Douglass sent my friend and me here to help free you all from that bastard, Brodess.”

“What motive could you possibly have for helping us?”

“Well, for starters, we just like to save innocent lives.”

Harriet gave a distrustful hmph.

“Please,” Priscilla said, taking a cautious step forward. “We don't have much time. I have multiple reasons to get at Brodess. And one of them is certainly saving your people.”

Harriet's eyes studied her up and down, deciphering every little detail about her. Her eyes fell on her bracer, and her expression shifted.

“You… you have one of those,” she said, indicating Priscilla’s hidden blade.

“Well, yes. I suppose I do.”

“Are you one of them then? One of those freedom fighters we've heard legends about?”

“If you're referring to the Assassins, then yes. I'm a proud member of the Brotherhood.”

“So you follow in the footsteps of the great Aveline de Grandpré?”

Priscilla smiled. Now she was getting somewhere. “Indeed,” she said. “My mentor even worked with Aveline herself on occasion. And now we're continuing her work.”

Harriet clearly lightened up to Priscilla, though she naturally stayed cautious. Priscilla came and sat down next to her. “We'll get you all out, no matter what it takes,” she said.

Harriet looked at her. Suddenly, her expression shifted again as a thought came to mind, and she looked away.

“Have you come to kill Mr. Brodess then?” she asked.

“Yes,” Priscilla said simply. “He has something of extreme value, something that could put the liberty of all people at stake. I intend to take both it and his slaves away from him.”

Harriet sat in uncomfortable silence. Priscilla looked concerned. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

After a long moment of silence, Harriet replied, “Mr. Brodess is a cruel man. He tore my family apart, selling away my brothers and sisters and keeping them all in chains. He beats us as he pleases, and the worst part is that he believes such acts to be righteous. He is a vile man, but I kept some glimmer of hope he could change. I turned to God for such a transformation. I prayed all night long for my master till the first of March; and all the time he was bringing people to look at me, and trying to sell me. Then it appeared that I was guaranteed to be sold, and I changed my prayer. First of March I began to pray, 'Oh Lord, if you ain't never going to change that man's heart, kill him, Lord, and take him out of the way.”

Priscilla simply looked at her, absorbing the words in sympathy. “I see…” she said.

Harriet gave her a longing look. “I suppose that makes you the angel of death,” she said. “I suppose God has answered my prayers…”

Priscilla nodded. “I suppose so…”

The two were quiet for a good long while. Priscilla’s fine-tuned hearing allowed her to hear Aveza dealing with guards outside.

“He's in Cambridge right now,” Harriet eventually said. “I overheard him say he had a meeting to attend to with his associates. You'll find him there.”

“Thank you, Harriet.” Priscilla put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You will be free soon, of this I swear.”

“Thank you. Godspeed, Ms. Spainhower. Godspeed.”

------------

March 9, 1849; Cambridge, Maryland

The Assassins found themselves in Cambridge the following afternoon. Aveza decided it was best to split up and cover more ground. Priscilla gave her her rope launcher since she clearly would have no use for it herself in her current state. Aveza took to the rooftops in order to get a bird’s eye view of the city while Priscilla utilized her social stealth skills to blend in with the crowds of people as she searched for her target.

She caught sight of him after she lost sight of Aveza. He was walking along the street in a local market, and by his side stood the associates that Harriet had mentioned the previous night. It came as no surprise to Priscilla; his associates were John C. Calhoun, Catherine Boston, and Cudgel Cormac. Brodess, Calhoun, and Boston walked tall and arrogantly, sure of their safety. But Cudgel had no such ease. His eyes scanned the crowds like a hawk, his hand close to the handle of his rifle. Getting to Brodess would be difficult with the Hunter nearby.

Priscilla shifted through the crowds, a bit less smoothly than she normally would, but smooth enough, she hoped, to seem like a natural part of the crowd. She slid into hearing range, and listened in on the Templars’ schemes.

“We must find the Temple soon, Grand Master,” Boston was saying, a cold, serious undertone in her voice. Calhoun was clearly irritated.

“I am well aware, Mrs. Boston,” he told her. “I’ve had our best code breakers sifting through all of Jackson’s personal notes for some mention of the location. Damn that man and his secrets.”

“The Assassins are one step ahead of us,” Brodess said. “They have the advantage of knowing where the place is and how to access it.”

“Yes, but we hold the Key. As long as we keep that hold, our plans will continue to run smoothly.”

Cudgel pulled a face, one that Calhoun didn’t much care for. “Thoughts, Master Cormac?” he said disapprovingly.

“No no, carry on,” Cudgel said with a scowl.

“Out with it, boy. Report to your Grand Master.”

“Very well then, sir. Put quite frankly, you’re fools.”

“I beg your pardon?” Boston said, irritated as well by his disrespect.

“You’re all fools. You’re all arrogant. Worse, you’re bigoted. That Key is valuable to the Order, yes, but I don’t trust it in the hands of such an unprogressive lot as you.”

“Cudgel, we’ve been over this.”

“I don’t think my grandfather would’ve ever allowed the Key to be given to such a cruel excuse of a man.” He indicated Brodess, who took immediate offense.

“How dare you!” he said. “I do what I do to keep the very backbone of Southern society from snapping! Your grandfather would do no such thing. Need I remind you that it was Shay who willingly handed the Key over to the Assassins?”

“Aye, to keep it from scoundrels like Andrew Jackson.”

“Well, Jackson is dead now,” Calhoun argued. “And we intend to right the wrongs of his reign. We will balance this society and keep the nation from ripping itself apart. Need I remind you of all the conflict going on in Congress over the status of slavery in the territories we acquired from Mexico? It’s an absolute mess! Idiots like those senators and fools like those civil rights advocates need someone like us to snap them into reality. There’s a natural order to things, and it simply cannot be allowed to be unravelled on some ridiculous ideal of freedom.”

“Then you’ll forgive me, sir, for not wanting to rest on such a tapestry.”

Cudgel and Calhoun glared at one another.

“We live in a time of delicate matters, Cudgel,” Boston said. “Our country is still young, still in desperate need of guidance, still under constant threat of descending into chaos because of people like the Assassins who would just throw liberty about like candy instead of seizing its reins. Is what you see oppression? Perhaps, in a fool's eyes. But in reality, it is protection. Women, slaves, the Natives, they all have a place in society, and they need to be kept in line.”

“The line to the slaughter house?” Cudgel argued, his blood rising fast. “Look, I agree drastic measures must be taken sometimes in order to maintain peace. But there's a limit, there's a point when too much blood has been spilt. My grandfather taught me that.”

“This coming from the man whose entire life was founded on spilling the blood of our enemies,” Brodess retorted.

Cudgel glared at him, then at his companions. There was a mutual sense of hatred in the air, and Cudgel wasn't going to have it. He turned his back to them and walked.

“Master Cormac!” Calhoun called after him. “Cudgel!”

But Cudgel kept walking, ignoring the Grand Master. Priscilla realized too late that he was walking right in her direction. He came closer, he was going to see her. There'd be no doubt about that. She tightened her muscles, praying she'd have an opening to strike back when he spotted her. He came closer, shoving gently past the crowds, and he got close enough for her to smell the blood that had been washed out of his coat. He looked directly at her, and it was clear from her expression that he knew exactly who she was. Priscilla braced herself…

But an attack never came. Cudgel simply looked at her for a split second, then cast a subtle glance back at his fellow Templars, then back at her.

And then he simply walked away, not even acknowledging her once. He simply left.

Priscilla let out the breath that she realized she had been holding. Why did he not kill her right there and then? She shook her head. It didn't matter, right? Right now, she needed to focus on Brodess. Especially now that her biggest obstacle was out of the way. She started moving a small bit closer to the other Templars, who thankfully did not catch sight of her like Cudgel had. They went back to bitterly discuss between themselves.

“Damn that man,” Calhoun spat. “I need a drink…”

“There's a lovely little tavern nearby,” Boston said. “We could drop in there.”

Calhoun chuckled. It sounded like a choking cat. “I like how you think, Ms. Boston,” he said. “I think we shall.” He turned to Brodess. “Coming, Master Brodess?”

“I’d love to, Grand Master, but unfortunately I must return to my home as soon as possible. I don't like being away from my merchandise for too long. Without their master around to scare them into submission, they can begin to get… ideas.”

Calhoun and Boston nodded. “It's no problem, Master Brodess. I understand completely. Go on ahead. Hopefully we will be able to meet up again soon.”

“Indeed, my friend. May the Father of Understanding guide you.”

Calhoun and Boston nodded. “May the Father of Understanding guide you,” they parroted. And with that, the two left to head towards whatever tavern had been mentioned previously, leaving just Brodess. Alone.

He checked his pocket watch, realized the next train was going to leave soon, and speed-walked down the street. Priscilla followed close behind.

Brodess started ducking through alleyways, believing them decent shortcuts to the train station. From Priscilla’s perspective, they were the perfect place to rid the world of this scoundrel. And that's exactly what happened. When they were out of sight from any potential witnesses, Priscilla darted up behind Brodess (as fast as she could with a baby in her belly at least) and before he could scream she covered his mouth with one hand and used her other hand to jab her hidden blade into his spine. She felt his scream die on her palm as she lowered him to the ground and time seemed to slow.

History was replaced by the raw digital void of the Animus, and I got a little bit of consciousness returned to me as I watched my ancestor stand over her prey.

Brodess winced and grunted in pain as he began to bleed out. “Damn you, Assassin,” he spat.

“Courtesy of Harriet Tubman,” Priscilla said coldly as she retracted her blade.

“Who?”

“The poor slave girl, one of many I might add, whose lives you destroyed with your abuse.”

And suddenly Brodess began to laugh through his choking.

“Ah, so that's what this is about,” he said. “The child's come to save the pets.”

“They're not pets, they're people.”

“Ha! They're not even rats. They're property.”

Priscilla scowled. “I don't have time to argue, Brodess. Tell me: where is the Key?”

“The Key? To the Precursor Site?”

“No, the one to the cookie jar. What do you think?”

“I don’t have it, Assassin.”

“What?”

“We caught word your kind was in the area, so Mrs. Boston had it shipped somewhere safe.” He smiled. “Your journey here was for nothing, girl.”

“No. Not for nothing. For now that you're gone, your slaves will be set free, and your influence over the slave trade will crumble.”

“And with it so will the foundation of the country. Slavery runs our farms, keeps your workers up north fed. Take it away, and all will fall to mayhem.”

“You can plant your own crops damn well enough. You're just too bigoted to accept that people who aren't like you are equals. They're human beings, just like you.”

“No, not like me. I'm better, you see. Better than all of you.”

“The whip scars on their backs suggest otherwise.”

“I keep society afloat. Those wretched slaves only pollute it.”

“And how would they do that, hmm?”

“By their mere dirty nature, girl. Tell me, should I invite my cattle to the dinner table? Should I allow my pigs to roam about our cities? No. Because they'd only get in the way, unable to fathom the richness of humanity.”

“You have a twisted view of humanity, Mr. Brodess.”

“Maybe so, child… But at least that view keeps my kind separated from the mud that people like you… like them… would… drag in…”

He breathed his last. His head dropped to the ground as his body went eternally still. Priscilla bent down with some effort and closed his eyes. She grabbed a white handkerchief and dabbed it in his wound.

“Order is more inclusive than you give it credit for,” she said calmly. “Rest in peace.”

With that, she turned from the body, walking back down the streets that quickly replaced the Animus void. Priscilla’s mind quickly refilled the gap in my head left by my fading consciousness, and she set off to meet up with her Mentor.

----------

March 10, 1849; Bucktown, Maryland

“I can't believe we lost the Key again,” Priscilla said bitterly as she and Aveza stepped off their carriage.

“We'll find it, dear. I promise,” Aveza said. “We'll get to work on finding a new lead, but right now we need to focus on saving innocent lives.”

Priscilla nodded. There was so much on her plate. She just wanted to have her biggest problem gone. But still she had to wait.

They arrived at the plantation that night, eager to let the slaves know Brodess was dead and they had a chance to escape. And that was exactly what Priscilla told Harriet Tubman when she snuck back to the shed.

“The time to run is now,” she told Harriet. “Brodess is dead, and we can easily help eliminate any obstacles to your freedom.”

“What of the others?” Harriet asked. “What of my family and friends? Brodess’s widow still lives. She will certainly try to separate us again.”

“No she won't. We'll keep our agents posted around Maryland to keep the Templars busy while you and your people make a break for it.” She put a hand on her shoulder. “You can do it, Harriet. You have to believe that.”

Harriet looked at her, taking in her expression. And after a moment of silence, she nodded knowingly.

“Okay,” she said. “We'll try. We'll wait for the perfect moment, and then we'll run.”

Priscilla smiled. “Atta girl!” she said. “And if you ever need help, just give us a call. We won't hesitate to help.”

Harriet couldn't help but smile. Priscilla could see the reality of the situation was finally sinking into her mind. Harriet suddenly started laughing joyfully, then lunged out and hugged Priscilla. “Thank you, Mrs. Spainhower,” she said. “For everything.”

Priscilla merely smiled and hugged back. “It's no problem, Harriet. Glad to help. Just think, my friend, soon you will be free.”

As the two hugged, Priscilla couldn't help but lighten her attitude. She lost the Key again, sure, but at least she was saving lives. And what could be more precious than that?