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...

Comments

[tacohat]

Haytham had his own trouble with the watch. A brief plot involving the theft of a written missive and a dead courier resulted in a separate patrol herding him into the same alley. The difference was that he had avoided a fight entirely, and hadn't a scratch on him. He considered taking to the rooftops, but he wasn't sure there was enough time to climb without being spotted; they were looking for him nearby. In fact, there were more around than he expected. From one side he saw Redcoats in the distance. From the other, Patriots. Their proximity made for an incendiary tension; if they came any closer to one another, there would likely be bullets flying everywhere, but at least that meant he'd probably have an easier time slipping away in the chaos, if he wasn't the one spotted first.

But as he maneuvered to slip behind a stack of crates, he was surprised by a presence already there, nearly crashing right into his broad chest. He instantly recognized the white robes in a quick glance, and without taking the time to ask questions or establish why either one was there, he grabbed his son's arm and forcefully tugged him back out of view, into the long shadows of the crates.

"I am being followed, stay low," he finally explained, his voice just above a whisper. He figured this coincidental encounter was a lucky stroke; working with Connor, they could wipe out the detachment together, if they stayed hidden long enough to construct a good ambush. He was about to explain this, when he noticed his palm was strangely wet.

"...Connor?" he asked, looking at his hand, which was covered with blood, and then at his son, finally noticing the terrible condition he was in. Haytham's expression became a grim frown.