ASSASSIN'S CREED ONE-SHOTS!

#3

Haytham Kenway was walking through the dull streets of Boston when he saw some native children playing on the side of the street. It wasn't often that Haytham saw any near major cities.

Of course, the side effect of this isolation was that they weren't treated well. Even now, Haytham noted that several townspeople were whispering to each other, with the occasional glance at the group of around five kids.

Then the inevitable happened, and the ball that they were using flew towards a townsperson near Haytham. The man did not look happy.

Being children, they were completely oblivious to this discrimination, and a boy of maybe 13 winters went to collect the precious ball.

He knelt on one knee to grab the ball and looked up at the man – who was standing still right in front of him – with a apologetic smile.

"Sorry." He said politely.

Haytham was surprised that the kid even knew a word of English. Then again, it was hard to live in Boston without communicating with anyone, and English was required for that.

The man sneered, and kicked the boy in the face. The boy fell on his back, the ball no longer in his grasp. He moaned in pain. The man loomed over the child. The group of kids froze – aware of the townspeople slowly approaching them with snarls on their faces.

"You listen here, savage. Stay away from this town, or-"

The man was interrupted by Haytham placing himself between the native child and the townsperson.

"Let him go."

"Why? He's a savage, ain't he?"

The contrast between Haytham's London accent and the man's Boston one was apparent. Haytham was also aware of the man sizing up his well-made outfit. The boy still lay on the ground, too confused and terrified to move.

"He has no quarrel with you, and he is just a child. Let him be."

Haytham's words fell on deaf ears.

"He's still one of 'em!"

Haytham was beginning to lose his patience, and his voice was tight. "Sir, leave the child alone. Otherwise-"

The man's face twisted into an ugly sneer. Haytham resisted the urge to stab his face, and then beat it to a pulp.

"Otherwise what? You'll throw money at me?"

There was a chorus of laughter from the crowd of americans who had gathered to watch. Haytham remained silent, staring at the man with cold eyes.

"Otherwise I'll kill you."

The man smiled, like this was funny, and raised his fists. The crowd formed a loose circle around the native children, Haytham, and the man.

"Well then, let's not disappoint everyone. They want blood, Mister..."

"Kenway."

Haytham was aware of the child still on the ground behind him, blinking so he could see straight.

"Go." He whispered in what he hoped was a reasonable imitation of Ziio's tribe's language.

The fact that the child nodded, and yet looked very confused at the same time told Haytham that despite not having heard or seen her for over a decade, he could still use her language.

The child scampered to his feet, and ran over to his friends who gave him a hug. Unfortunately, the crowd was still boxing them in. Haytham knew if he could intimidate them, they'd scatter.

To intimidate them, he'd need to win the fight.

And that, Haytham Kenway knew, would be quite easy.

(Again, image isn't mine. PEOPLE - PUT WATERMARKS ON YOUR ART!)