In which the hurt/comfort genre is redefined as "hurt/sass"

[lifescratched]

It had been sloppy work, in retrospect. Reckless, Achilles would say. Which was why he was now sitting, bent double, behind a pile of crates in an alley, trying to stem the bleeding from his wounds. His head was throbbing, he had a bruised eye that was quickly becoming swollen, a shallow -- but bloody -- blade wound across his chest, and what had been either a bullet or grenade shrapnel that had grazed one of his arms. Connor was a mess, and he felt every inch of it.

The fight had been totally unplanned. He was passing through New York on business, intending nothing more than to run a few errands. No assassinations. But when he'd spotted a group of tax collectors harassing a poor family and threatening them with eviction, he couldn't help but intervene in the only way he could: with force.

What he didn't expect was for a regiment of soldiers, including Hessians, to join the chaos that ensued. Connor managed to escape with his life, but there was little now that he could do for that poor family. Yet another property would be appropriated to the Crown, and he'd botched his attempt to stop it.

Wincing, he struggled to his feet, one hand pressed over his chest. Somehow, he had to slip out of the city before he was discovered...