#swoleassassin

“Ugh! How do I tie this...!”

They were slowdancing, having finally been granted a quiet moment together amongst all the rest of the ball’s festivities. Ezio rested his head against Connor, simply enjoying this time with him. 

“I wonder if it’ll be like this...”

He didn’t finish the sentence, although he wasn’t ashamed to talk about it. Somehow, though, he felt if he said something concrete it might all slip away from him. Quickly, he changed gears from sentimental to joking.

“Of course, we aren’t going to invite the entire city.”

Ezio paused, remembering Connor could sometimes be... well, Connor. 

They’d be exactly right.

Eventually she found somewhere satisfactory; what looked to be a warehouse in the industrial sector, derelict. Stealth was discarded as she booted the tattered door from the single hinge that held it. She halted in the centre of the room, silver mask scanning the room. Her body tensed as she thought she heard whispers on the wind but nothing was forthcoming. 

A torch was promptly lit and rested between two beams, the one in the black feathered coat sat herself down, and slowly removed her left gauntlet. Inside her coat was a short bandolier of glass vials, most empty, but some were full of a red, viscous fluid. A syringe was produced, and a vial was slowly draining. She felt her heart rate increase as the needle neared.

Not like that. What a waste. Don’t waste it. It won’t work.

Her hand started to shake and her jaw clenched. She wanted to get it over with, be done with it. But that’s not what she really, really wanted.

In a swift motion her mask was pulled off, the syringe placed down and vial opened all in the space of a few seconds. She held the vial in front of her eyes, hesitating for just a moment before bringing the glass to her lips and draining it in an instant. The relief came just as fast, but what followed it was frustration. 

She slammed her armoured hand into the closest beam, causing dust to drift down. No matter how much she needed it, hated or loved it, it was a good feeling. Lucky her. After a short moment of huddling, the silence was broken again. This time her eyes widened, and a pit opened up in her stomach.

In the distance, she could hear it, something that wasn’t mere distance away; the shrill sound of a baby crying. Not here, please.

Her skin crawled as she scrambled to fit the mask back onto her head, whirling onto her feet and- smashing all but one of the full vials on her person. They exploded across the ground, instant puddles of thick red. Nails dragged across her mental blackboard. That was supposed to last, it had not been easy to obtain, but before she could do anything about it, she saw a silhouette in the door frame. Her body tensed. Why were they here? Had they been following her? Had they watched her.

No words came to her, they were never her strong suit. What could she say? She still had that knife on her person, but she was in no mood to be starting a fight. 

Barred from the freedom of being able to walk down a street at night without someone cursing him out, Hancock began to understand the allure of pariah-hood; there was something to be gained in seeing nostrils flare at your approach, commanding that sort of hatred within weaker wills. He always wanted to bark in their faces with laughter, but trading blows was never fun without any decent moonshine running through his tattered veins. The thing about being a leader was that you had to know where and when to pick your battles.

The thing about being a leader, too, was that you had people who cared to follow you. Here, the first thing anyone thought was ‘freak’ instead of ‘guy who knows what he’s doing’. Ah, well, he’d inspired folks before. No doubt he’d do it again in his own time. Not like he had a hankering for the fame or fortune bit that came with it.

Out of nowhere, he began to wonder how the folks of Goodneighbor were holding up. Not because he was here, nah, but because he’d ditched town with Vaultie to see the world and humble himself again. Ol’ Charlie would’ve had a thing or two to say about that. What’s done was done, though; he intended to go back, eventually. The Third Rail had the best (worst) drinks in the Commonwealth.

Maybe the Hanged Man would give it a run for its money. He walked in, garnered as many looks as he’d done so before, and chuffled with delight. ‘Ugly face’ didn’t have the same kick as ‘badass mayor’ but a rep was a rep and he liked being aware of his own.

The ghoul took a seat right at the counter and scared the wits out of the bartender. “Nice ‘stache.” His smirk widened when the man asked after his sentience, apologized, then went to fetch him the drink menu. Good to know not everyone had forgotten their manners.

While Stachey was away, Hancock swiveled in his seat and greeted the fellow seated beside him. “Boo. Scared ya, too, I’ll bet. Unless you’ve got enough piss in your gills to think I’m some kinda Adonis.”