ASSASSIN'S CREED ONE-SHOTS!

#6

Connor opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a cloudless sky. At least, he assumed it was a sky. It was completely white.

His hands dug into the soil beside him and he felt the soft texture of dirt, informing Connor that this wasn't a dream.

Connor stood up, looking around. Everything was the same colour. The soil he'd felt was white. The sky was white. The trees had a soft pearly glow. Nothing had any colour.

Connor looked at himself. His robes were white, but they still had beige straps and blue accents. His hands and what he could see of his chest possessed their dark brown colour.

Even without checking, Connor could tell that his bow was gone, along with his quiver and tomahawk.

Great. Now what?

How had he ended up here? Connor scratched his head, puzzling over it for a moment. Then it clicked.

He was dead.

He'd said goodbye to his children, telling them he was out for a hunt. Then he'd encountered a bear, and then – and then – nothing.

Connor still remembered everything, which was a relief – but he couldn't help but notice that he appeared younger. Roughly the same age as when he fought in the revolutionary war.

Connor trudged through the muddy grass (which was still white) and eventually came upon a town. He stood in the square, watching the emotionless people go about their day.

It had to be Boston. There was a certain atmosphere that Boston possessed. But something was wrong. In the past ten years, Boston had developed rapidly.

However, it was clear to Connor that this recreation was still undeveloped. Again, it looked like it was from the revolutionary war.

It was if someone had remembered what the city had once looked like – and they had changed it to match. Along with Connor as well, it seemed.

But who would only remember Boston from decades ago?

Well, Connor reasoned, If I'm dead, then it would make sense that someone who died in the revolutionary war ended up here first, and created this place. And they would've known me too, otherwise I wouldn't look like this.

Someone who fought in the revolutionary war.

Someone who died and lived in Boston.

Someone who knew me.

Oh god.

No.

It can't be.

Connor stiffened, unable to stop himself from gasping. He whirled around and raced through the Boston streets, searching for something that he couldn't admit to himself.

His thought rammed into each other, smashing themselves into fragments.

Where-

I need-

Say sorry-

Please-

Suddenly, Connor came to a screeching halt.

A man was standing on a white pier, watching the waves crash against the shore. He had his back to Connor, but what instantly marked out this man as unique was one specific detail.

His outfit had colour.

From his position, Connor could only see a dark coat, a navy-blue tri-corn hat with a gold trim and grey hair tied into a ponytail with a red ribbon.