Pain in the time of presidential handovers - Pistols at Dawn Chapter 21

I wasn't lucky enough to get the promised two month break from this story. However, the more updates are posted, the quicker this story ends. We are now officially at 199, 831 words. To recap the previous chapter, Elysia had a mini mental breakdown and Depression Quest where she told her Japanese anime vampire friend she couldn't let go of her love in a previous time period. With much fist-banging, teeth gnashing and tears, Elysia struggled to comprehend where she stood in the new order. She snuggled with the man she allegedly hates, and killed the replacement of Marie Levesque before we could even get a good grasp of who she was or what her intentions were. We are entering 'Batwoman' style writing and I could not have asked for a better (worse?) interpretation of events. 

“Straighter. Like that, yes.” I took a few steps back, and watched Arno pull back the string, arrow seized between his bandaged fingers. “Look at your target, and release when you’re ready.”

His acorn-colored eyes tapered, and when he let go, “Argh-” the vibrating arrow struck one of the outer rings, making Arno slump his shoulders, “So close.” He tapped the tip of his boot against the floor, and fixed his stance again.

This is picking off where Elysia is teaching Arno archery, because we need a reason for him to be indebted to her and be in awe of her skill. I would like to mention that at this time, muskets were preferable to archery albeit there were archery clubs that began sprouting at the end of the century. It takes years to learn how to perfect a bow. While Arno is a quick learner (canonically he is; in this story, not so much), I don't see the point for these lessons aside from stroking Elysia's girl dick.

The dawn idly rose to bring the new day to Paris’ residents. Coffee was freshly brewed by Marceline who set the pushed tables together. A batch of bread was taken out, along with a concocted, vegetable soup that Arno served flawlessly with his habitual, learned skill. I rested by the counter as Arno arranged the utensils, making a small joke to a chuckling Marceline that I didn’t catch. Eventually did Charlotte and Mathias enter with a wide-awake Grisier bringing up the rear.

 I am in awe of how much food this Café has. I'm infinitely more skeptical because Elysia, not Arno, is in charge and she is unable to find the material resources to keep the business going. Coffee, bread and other commodities were insanely expensive and scarce. I don't think Les or her co-authors are aware of price fixing in this era; you'd expect them to have an inkling of it considering the main author is Hispanic, lives in California and only recently got healthcare. It's a weird case of elitism.

“A lovely morning served with the enriching smell of breakfast,” Grisier sighed happily, folding up the sleeves of his blouse. “Sit with me, Charlotte. You’ll wake up soon enough with a nice meal.”

“Mmm…that does smell good,” Charlotte commented sleepily, running a hand to move her locks away from her reddish cheeks. Her other palm held onto Grisier who opened a chair for her.

Mathias nodded at that, fixing his bifocals at his ear, “Thank you as always, Marceline. I take it the Dorian aided you?”

“He didn’t put poison in it,” the elder maid jested, making Arno shoot her a glance.

'Ha ha, we'll call the would-be and rightful owner of this establishment an attempted poisoner, aren't we quirky?'

Can I get a reason for why Arno is called 'the Dorian' all the time? It makes me think we're discussing an advertisement, not a person.

“…Good enough for me,” Grisier answered with a snort. “Then let us sit and eat. Would you like to join us, Elysia?” I stirred the spoon in my cup, and nearly did I jump when I saw Arno come up beside me, patting my upper arm fervently.

“You’ll like it! I promise,” he nearly beamed.

I sighed, “…..Alright then. If you insist.”

Arno is being uncharacteristically nice. I'd like to think the explanation for this was that he learned Elysia was a nice person because she comforted him over his guilt regarding M. de la Serre or Elise, but that's just a nothing burger. Elysia hasn't earned his kindness, and he's only propping her up because - again - all other characters have to be devalued to bring this one up.

We ate in comfortable silence. The steaming liquid of the soup settled well in my stomach, and whatever knot was there loosened a fraction from it. Come to think of it…it was a while since I even properly slept. It would explain why I didn’t feel so annoyed this morning.

Sharing the bed with Orfeo wasn’t on my agenda…but I wasn’t against it either. He was gone by the time I woke up, and I didn’t have time to give it another thought because the next second-

Why would you be against it? Those are your female hormones talking. You like what Orfeo does to you; you like the excitement he brings. All the mental grudges you hold against him disappear as soon as your pussy gets wet. Crude as it may be, it’s the simplest explanation I can give.

This doesn’t even count as proper tension for romance, because if you can’t decide whether or not you want that person, neither will the readers.

I was nudged on my arm, “Elysia.”

This Dorian had a knack of disrupting my thoughts every chance he got.

So much for respecting him oh – about a paragraph ago? Nice going with that emotional consistency. He just starts to warm up to you because you’re a person he trusts and this is how you think of him? Go eat a fuck you sandwich.

I looked over to the seat-shifting Arno, whose eyes shot to the front of the café to lure my attention there. There, a recognizable figure accompanied by two hooded figures nearby. I grabbed a quick piece of bread, and downed it with the remainder of my soup.

“If you’ll excuse me.” The others caught sight of Quemar stopping near the glass door, and knocking profoundly with the butt of his cane. I made quick stride to meet him, giving a swift nod to the group (and as reassurance to Arno standing) inside before closing the door behind me.

The Café is the civilian front for the Brotherhood. Having hooded Assassins casually stroll in through the front door is going to raise suspicions. Quemar’s civilian job is to be a lawyer. Where is his prudence? Why doesn’t Arno know who he is, when Quemar was at Arno’s initiation ceremony?

The air was chilly, the Master adorned in a heavy coat to combat it. His two, appointed followers gave us a bit of space, though stuck relatively close to ensure Quemar’s safety if needed.

“Morning, Elysia,” he greeted with a small bow.

“What brings you here early, Quemar?” I almost interrogated.

It’s uh, the civilian front of the Brotherhood? He kinda has the right to be there? You’re the owner of the establishment? You should vet who comes inside?

He brushed his tan ascot to straighten it down his chest, “Something has been brought to Mirabeau’s attention, and I am here to ask you about it.” His adamant eyes finally met mine.

My jaw tightened, “Go on.”

“We received word a high-tier Templar met her demise last night; it is unclear what the motive is, but Mirabeau has suspicion that it wasn’t an accident.”

“Is he suspecting me?” I asked coolly.

Quemar’s tone deepened, “I didn’t say that.”

You just admitted you killed the woman. It would have been smarter to keep your mouth shut. In any case, we didn’t even learn enough about this Levesque copycat to understand her ties to Mirabeau – if there are indeed any. Mirabeau’s real life persona is loaded with intrigue and espionage. There is no need to conjure up these imaginary villains because you want to prop up your shit character.

Quemar is also admitting that Mirabeau is working with Templars, which would give the other high ranking Assassins a reason to expel him. Bellec out of all the rest would be on it.

“Did he interrogate you then?” Quemar didn’t answer. “I was preoccupied last night.” Not that I expected such an event to be ignored. However, Mirabeau’s stance spoke clear words if he had asked his most-trusted Master on an errand like this.

“If you don’t mind me asking-“

I cut him off, holding my hand up to deter his words, “I do mind, actually. Everything I do isn’t something I should disclose to Mirabeau. His paranoia is not going to go unnoticed.”

Quemar is physically in no condition to go on a goose chase: he walks with a cane, has heart issues, and has persistent gout. If this is all about Shay and his coup, that again falls at Elysia’s feet because she didn’t even know who he was despite being a Mentor for years. This casual admission she was looking for Templars and Quemar’s admission Mirabeau is suspicious of her doesn’t make this Sherlock Holmes mystery look good. You just don’t have people casually admitting these things in the open! You’re giving your plot away.

Quemar held himself, giving a sharp sigh, “He is only concerned about the safety of the Masters.”

“Does that make you his lapdog?” The air tensed, and this newfound annoyance arose in his eyes.

He stepped forward, “Listen, Elysia-“

That’s nice. Accusing your fellow Mentors that they are lapdogs and aren’t as freethinking as you shows the depth of your leadership abilities. Truly, I am in awe.

If Mirabeau was so concerned about the safety of everyone, why didn’t he tell Elysia to investigate Shay and his coup? Why didn’t he tell her who he was in the first place?

This is what happens when you have three authors and not a single one knows what they are doing with their own story.

“I can confirm: she was with me.” A gentle voice seeped in, jerking our glances over. It was Giselle, her arms wrapped in a wool, checkered-pattern shawl. Her eyes warmly regarded me, yet they almost pierced Quemar from how resolved they looked. I stepped a bit beside, observing Jaq’s tight hold onto the fabric of her dress, being very still as his mother challenged Quemar.

But whatever batting fire was within the elder Assassin had been doused, extinguished from that one look alone. He reached up to comb his full-hair back, almost apologetically when he addressed Giselle. His hands leisurely held to handle of his cane, and he erected his back a bit more to make himself just a tad taller. I raised a brow of the sudden change of his calmer demeanor.

Elysia just admitted she was out hunting Templars. She made no effort to deny Quemar’s accusation, so there is no point having someone step in for her when they know she wasn’t there. Also, Quemar can’t really ‘stand tall’ with that amount of gout. It’s going to hurt.

It must be reiterated that the Café is under Assassin control. Giselle doesn’t ‘own’ the property; those rights actually belong to Arno. If Giselle owns it, she is responsible for Elysia’s mishandling of the funds and upkeep. Leave it to a random NPC to fix a Mary Sue’s mistake.

“Good morning, madame,” he answered. “I mean no disrespect, I would like a verification, is all…”

"Then you will have one." Giselle responded as calmly, arching her neck in order to not look up at him, "Elysia and I are business partners, venturing on a proposal to renovate a property I own. We were lounging on for hours last evening with her financier to see what can be done."

“You…you two know each other. I didn’t know-“

Her lips pressed tightly, gaze unbreaking, "Is that all you need, monsieur? Or would you prefer the word of the financier over mine?"

Giselle doesn’t own the property, mind you. The Assassins do. Elysia was the one managing it – and poorly at that. This isn’t Orfeo’s cafe where the random Nigerians do the work. This is an intelligence stronghold, and an underling is telling an Assassin mentor that he has no right to be present in a building which leads directly to the Assassin catacombs.

What the fuck.

Go ahead and ask the financier; he is not going to corroborate the story, and need I remind you that Elysia casually admitted she was the one that killed the Templar agent? Can’t get any simpler than that.

“No, that is not necessary,” he shook his head, and gave another respectful bow. He caught sight of Jaq peeking his head out, who in turn jerked his head back away from view. “…Who is this?”

"My son." Giselle's words were steel, a bitter smile unfurling now. "Leave him be now, he tends to get shy around strangers." I blinked, eyebrows raised of her acrid statement.

They’re in the wrong building. Elysia’s quarters are in the Café. She doesn’t have them in Orfeo’s room. The staff all belong to this Café. Where did Jaq come from? Did he warp into existence like the annoying anime brat he is?

He gave a curt nod, “Apologies. My business here is concluded. Enjoy the rest of your day. Until then, Elysia.” He gave Giselle one last look before cutting away. The two other Assassins followed suite, avoiding our look as the three crossed the bridge over the Siene.

I commented, “Thank you, you made the morning much more tolerable now.”

Yeah. You’re really showing your fellow Mentors who’s boss.

"Don't grow too comfortable, my dear." Giselle drew her coat closer, and I only met a fraction of her harsh, judging look. "I actually came to ask about the death myself....that was Pierre's divorced wife after all and the man is...how can I put it simply…."

"He's lost his marbles," Jacques peeked from behind his mother, holding a toothy grin.

I sighed, and gestured her, "Let's talk, then."

If the Assassins are as smart as I think they are, they’d know from the rambling drunk Pierre that his wife was selling out to the Templars. If they aren’t, I wouldn’t be surprised either, because Elysia wasn’t aware her Japanese vampire buddy was a Templar banker who conveniently resided in Paris for the past decade.

What’s great about this, though, is that they are casually talking about the death out in the open – within earshot of Arno.

Jaq was left with the others to enjoy a meal himself, while Giselle and I made way to lock ourselves in Mathias’ Study. With the doors secured and the windows shut tight, I modified the story of last night's events (and made sure to leave out the part of Shay's accomplice). Giselle listened intently, and for a moment I was waiting for her to curtly respond to me the same way she did to Quemar. My hope was that Orfeo didn't tell her the full truth if she managed to expose his innocent-like expression.

Why are you telling some random person about the death of a high ranking Templar nobody when you couldn’t do it for a fellow Mentor? Your priorities are skewed. You won’t even discuss Shay Cormac or the threat he poses, and continue to act shocked at the wreckage he causes. Actions have consequences.

"I see." Giselle exhaled tiredly, "Unfortunate but I suppose that's just the way things are. Terrible to hear she was at the wrong place at the wrong time."

A murder at an exclusive, high ranking ball isn’t a case of ‘wrong place wrong time’. All of the guards saw Elysia and would recognize her. They know it’s murder.

"....Yeah, terrible." I cleared my throat, uncertain of Giselle's...possible, ironic tone. It was really hard to tell compared to Orfeo's dripping, sarcastic tongue. "I take it Pierre is......losing his marbles? As in...."

"Raving. Absolutely raving." Giselle crossed a leg lazily over the other, rubbing her temple with the tips of her lean fingers. "The police came to the café this morning. They interrogated Orfeo and Pierre's whereabouts and their alibis. They’re suspicious of Pierre...but the man balled when they told him the news. However, by the time I came to settle the matter and the police were gone...those tears melted to maniacal laughter. I think he's...processing grief differently than most others."

How would the police know to come to the Café? You spend the whole night speed running across rooftops. You were sure you’d lost them. You removed your clothes at a boarded up clothing store, and laid low for the night. Unless they recognized your face as the owner of that business, they wouldn’t know where to look first. They’d investigate Pierre first, and, knowing he’s stark raving mad, wouldn’t take him seriously. They’d likely jail him and interrogate him when he’s sober. Loose tongue, loose lips. He’d be the one to give Elysia away.

God damn it, Pierre.

"Trauma does different things to….different people."

"Clearly traumatized, thrashing in the streets and embarrassing Orfeo with his wails." I resisted to rub my face, gripping the edge of the desk as I rested my rear against the edge. “Hopefully by then, Pierre will be in a better...state of mind."

Not a good idea to let a drunk like that roam free, eh? He asked you to murder his wife, and in that drunken haze something is bound to spill out.

"Right. Well, that matter is settled, for now,” I crossed my arms. Giselle’s unbending gaze rose to meet mine, and I mildly challenged it. “…You know what I am.”

“I’ve…known for some time,” Giselle bounced her ankle faintly at this, making the frills of her dress sway. “The second you stepped in the shop; I’ve met my fair share of Assassins.”

I ran the tip of my tongue across my top teeth, “Which includes Quemar.”

“Yes.”

Do I need to repeat this? The Café is an Assassin stronghold. Madame Gouze works there and she knows all of the Assassins there. Giselle, a low ranking staff member, now ‘knows’ what Assassins are? It’s really not hard to put these puzzle pieces together.

“…..” I’m not going to flat out admit I was terrified of Giselle, “I took enough of your time as it is. Charlotte or Mathias will be with you shortly,” but I wasn’t going to test that theory out any further.

The Mary Sue is afraid of someone? Quelle surprise.

I gave her a brief nod, and exited the Study to inform Mathias of Giselle in the Café Room.

“I will see to it then, thank you,” the accountant departed with two cups of coffee placed on a silver tray.

The best thing about the silver tray detail is that in the chapter after Shay killed James, Elysia mentions how she’s allergic to silver. Apparently it didn’t occur to the author that her being exposed to that much silverware can potentially kill her.

“Then let us start prepping the café; Bridgette seems like she’s going to be late,” Charlotte commented, and gestured for Marceline and Grisier to aid her. That left Jaq to occupy himself with Arno.

“Did you know your mother is terrifying?” I asked as I stood beside the two.

Jaq stopped midway of lifting his spoon, giving me a suspicious look, “….Yes. I know. She’s my mom.”

“She sure gave Quemar a fright,” Arno rested his crossed arms on the table, trying to hide his snicker. “Made him learn some manners.”

Is Giselle black? I think she is. That explains the uppity attitude.

Eventually, the café opened and among the customers pouring into the establishment did Clement arrive. We stationed ourselves at the back of the manor. I grew concerned when Stephen remained absent. I checked the sidewalk through the iron gate, and the tiles above for his footsteps just in case…but it was clear that Stephen was running late.

“Maybe he stopped by to grab something to eat,” Arno replied, brushing and cleaning off the glass of his broken pocket-watch.

I kept my worry at bay, nodding at that possibility, “Perhaps. Either that or he slept in.” Or, he was possibly with Antoine.

Someone’s gotta bang the time travelling immortal. Did they pack any dildos?

“CHARLOTTE!” A voice rattled from nearby, and I was quick to cut across the back alley to address the frantic cry. Bridgette rushed through, trying to grab her breath as she held onto the gate that I had opened for her. Following behind her calmly was Stephen, his hand brushing her back to ease her. 

Nothing like screaming your intentions.

“Bridgette?” I held her shoulder, giving her a firm shake. “What is it?? And you-you’re late,” I signaled to Stephen.

“I was rushing over and I ran into her on the way,” Stephen defended, though he too looked alert and on-edge. “Where’s Ar- Arno.” Stephen addressed firmly as Arno, Clement and Jaq neared for closer inspection. “I found a lead for Élise.”

“You did?!” the Dorian leaned, eyes wide. “Where???” Stephen looked to me.

“Go, and be careful,” I allowed.

I’m really having difficulty understanding these motives. First, we need to address how Elise is considered Arno’s ‘sister’ in this story vs his lover, and how her Templar status is remarkably reduced. Her choice to randomly send out two of her recruits when she suspects Elise is working with Shay is a recipe for disaster; quite frankly, it’s suicide. She lost James because of her own actions, and here she is dooming two more. Luckily, we have plot armour to protect them, so nothing major will happen.

Charlotte came by our maid’s side, brushing her arm to coax her to relax, “Calm down, dear. What is it that happened??”

“The play Rose was planning- they were rehearsing. I swear to you I was on my way over to the café- I didn’t want to be rude, so I went because it was on the same path as the Market,” Bridgette responded, letting Charlotte lead her to the well to let her sit.

“Okay, I understand,” Charlotte nodded, “You’re not in trouble. What happened after?”

Who’s Rose, again?

“T-They were on the stage, the actors, a-and…and-!” Bridgette clamped up at this, burying her face into her hands. A soft sob snuck out, Marceline brushing her frazzled hair back.

“Take your time, child,” the elder maid encouraged.

“T-They shot him! They shot him on the stage!” she broke at this, and nestled her face into Marceline’s arm. “I-I saw it happen!”

Charlotte straightened up at this, meeting my gaze, “….I know it’s…”

I answered for her, “Tell me where to go.”

Don’t you think you should have told Stephen and Arno to stay for at least five minutes more to debrief them about this developing situation? It might be imperative for them to learn about who got shot at a theatre. Or is this another Red Herring that will go nowhere?

Arno kept up pace with Stephen’s rapid footwork, his heart nearly ramming into his ribs with every step they took. The residents pacing along the streets were a blur beneath them. They ran with precise movement, and Arno become familiarized with where they were. The faint memory of traveling to Paris when he was a child poured into his memory bank, and the smell of lavender reinforced it.

Arno lived a decently privileged life. He made several trips to Paris. Versailles is not that far away from Paris, if Les had – again – done her research. Paris was the intellectual powerhouse of Europe at the time. People flocked there to go to work when the crops began failing and prices of bread went higher and higher. Are we also forgetting that he would have had to learn the outline of Parisian streets and rooftops while he was on missions?

Arno kneeled on the stone bench, and carefully pried the lavender blooms apart to see if there were anything hidden in the vegetation. He pulled back when there wasn’t anything further to investigate, occupying himself to look along the walls of the apartments and few open windows. No, she wouldn’t be that foolish to pick her room so close.

“Maybe we can ask around, and see if anyone recognized her.”

"Sure, you know the area better than I do. Lead on, monsieur!" Stephen swept his arm forward, moving behind Arno to let him take the lead.

So...Stephen’s intel is useless. Why am I not surprised? Elise would have preferred to speak to Arno alone vs having a straggler around. She trusts him and only him. If she knew he had company, and company whose loyalties are not concrete, she wouldn’t make her intentions known. It must also be considered that Arno has not spoken to her at all throughout this story. She is, effectively, sidelined in favour of another red head.

But alas, their search seemed futile; every apartment complex within a two-mile radius denied ever seeing someone like Élise rent a room. Arno’s hope dwindled with every complex they stepped in, Stephen reassuring him that something would turn up. Until finally-

“Oui, I rented the room to her for about a month,” the desk attendant revealed, looking through the book swarmed with signups. He got to a page, and showed Arno her identifiable signature, “Is that the one?”

If Elise is trying to be secretive, she’d bribe the hotel owner vs giving her signature. That signature would spell her death sentence. This isn’t smart at all.

Arno nodded vigorously, “Oui, monsieur! Did she say where she was going to go?”

The clerk shook his head, “Not a peep. She kept mostly to herself. Went in her room, out the room, sometimes she never came out. Then on her last day, she looked quite frantic. Paid her bill, gathered some of her things, and she left without another word. Like I said, she looked spooked."

Must be these anime Templars I keep hearing about.

Arno’s chest knotted at this, “Did she ever have any visitors? It was only her?”

“Hmmm…” the clerk then snapped his fingers, “Ahh! She did. He was a young, white man with an odd haircut. Said he knew her for a long time and they were friends. I let him up into the room, but he didn’t stay long.”

Arno narrowed his eyes, “Do you remember his name?”

‘Young, white man.’ Les, France’s population at this time was nearly 99% white. I’m sure you mean an ‘odd man with white hair who belongs in Fullmetal Alchemist’? 

Let’s see uh……..it was a strange one too, argh…” the man crossed his arms, almost squeezing himself in to force out the memory. “I think they went by ‘V’.” Élise never mentioned a person like this to him, ever. “Then the next day, she left. That man never came back to find her, come to think of it.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Arno exited the hotel, and met with Stephen who stood patiently in an alleyway, straightening up from his lean when the Dorian approached.

‘V has come to’. Unfortunately, this NPC doesn’t have as much intrigue as Big Boss does. These villains really do stretch the limits of my rolling eyes.

Arno thought for a moment, but shook his head, “No, not really. This must’ve been the only place she really trusted, and clearly has been using it for some time. Then this man shows up, and she leaves hastily? I have suspicions of this….V character.”

"Me too. I doubt he’s part of the Brotherhood..." Stephen sighed, running a hand behind his neck, "I'm sorry we were too late."

You think? He has no place in Assassin’s Creed to begin with. What the hell makes you think he’s part of the Brotherhood?

“It’s okay. You got closer than I did.” Arno exhaled at that, taking a seat on a nearby crate. He plucked the piece of lavender from his coat’s front-pocket, and twirled the long stem of it between his digits. “Thank you for telling me.”

"She's your family, of course I'd tell you," Stephen blinked, taking the space beside him. He folded his hands in front of himself, lightly tapping the crate with them, “Do you think she'd still hang around the house you guys used to live in before her dad died?"

He spent several weeks there crying his eyes out and getting drunk. You don’t think he already investigated the area?

Arno gave the stem another twirl, fixated on the bundled, rich colors despite being in the shadow of the alleyway, “I feel....I feel so sad.”

Stephen turned to him, hood lightly tucked back to expose his bright eyes, “What about?”

“About….everything that happened between us, Élise and me. It’s sad knowing that she’ll always think it was my fault our father died. And I wonder...if it’s always going to be this way.”

In-game, Elise turns to Arno when all of her allies turn against her. Here, Arno never speaks to her because he doesn’t try to extend an olive branch. Elise has effectively been written out of the story. The confrontation that gave a reason as to why Elise blamed Arno for her father’s death was scarcely mentioned or downplayed here. This is all intentional.

"Well...” Stephen cleared his throat, giving Arno a comforting pat on his shoulder, followed by a firm squeeze, “I can’t say what Élise might feel in the future, but I hope she realizes how much you love her, and how you'd never want to hurt her. Maybe one day, she'll want you to be family again, but if she doesn't…that doesn't mean you'll love her any less."

Look, it’s obvious this is a set up for Arno to go gay: by downplaying his romance with Elise, and making her seem like a vindictive bitch, he can fuck any man he wants. I am still wagering whether it will be Clement or Stephen. Maybe both. I know who’s going to bottom, though.

Arno lowered the lavender, and gazed up to Stephen, “Does that mean you and Clement will forgive me one day...?”

The brunette’s eyes widened a tad at that, and the grip he had on Arno released. The Dorian scoffed heavily at this, closing his eyes as he let the cowl’s shadow hide his expression away. He should’ve known better-

Arno has nothing to apologize for here. These two were assholes for no reason. He did absolutely nothing wrong; they were the ones who cheated and demeaned him. They should have apologized first.

Stephen was suddenly in front of him, and he clutched onto Arno’s lower arms. With a swift jerk, the Dorian almost stumbled, and found Stephen’s long arms around him. He tightened the embrace once Arno was on proper footing, his arms open of the unexpected gesture.

“Arno….” Stephen sighed, and buried his face into Arno’s shoulder with a lean. "I'm sorry I blamed you before... James chose to help you, and that's not on you. I do forgive you, even though I don't think you're to blame anymore.”

Arno let go of the flower between his fingers, and returned the embrace tightly that his face almost sunk into Stephen’s hood, “….Thank you, Stephen. I appreciate your honesty.”

Well, well, well. It appears Stephen will be the top. Arno conveniently forgets his connection to Elise in favour of a random gay asshole. As we all know, gay men have zero use for women. They’re just feckless bitches with disgusting bodies.

An important part of these pairing is gaslighting: Arno is expected to apologize for things he didn’t do, and be responsible for things others do. Shoehorn it in and you get what you’re reading.

They broke apart, Stephen rubbing his eye off briefly before fixing his hood, “I’ve been trying to be more honest with you since our last fight. Smaller groups like ours should stick together and support each other. Which...I need to get better at doing, so I'm sorry about that too."

“Yes, you’re right. I will keep it in mind...and I accept your apology too.” He smiled at that, though it faltered.

Stephen already knew, “As much as I would like for Clement to come around, you’ll just have to give him more time to talk to you.”

Arno nodded, “I understand.”

Stephen has never apologized for cheating, nor has he apologized for treating Arno like shit. Notice how Arno has to be the one to do the heavy lifting and ‘character change’. This isn’t Arno. This is cuckboy Arno. He wouldn’t apologize for things he actually didn’t do, because he isn’t a dumbass.

Stephen hooked an arm around the Dorian’s shoulder, giving a small smile, “Since Élise isn’t here, we should head back to the café and see what new problem awaits us there.”

“I can only imagine what it will be.”

If you had waited, you’d know someone got murdered at a play. But that’s just me.

I had never been in a building like this before, nor did I ever think I would be.

The space was vast, and smelled of cloth and linen when we were let inside. The various voices that trailed from the wide stage echoed against the curved walls of the amphitheater, clearly puzzled and distraught of the bloodied scene it procured.

...The Café doubles as a theatre. Paris also has some high quality opera houses. You mean to tell me, in all of your years of living in Paris, you haven’t been to a single one? You were in charge of a business where income was split between coffee and running plays. Goddamn, how fucking dumb can you be?

Clement and I steadied ourselves along the shadowed walls, eying the police authorities who were investigating the surroundings of the laid corpse. He looked young and lean, a dancer no doubt and the male lead of the actors from the testimonies given. No motive was identified as the police questioned every person on the stage. Clement recognized the costume designer and friend of Charlotte, Rose Bertin whose tears glistened her freckled cheeks. She wiped her eyes off with her napkin, shaking her head profusely as she exchanged further words with the detective. Another, slender woman stood beside her, who hung her head down and had her pale hands curled to her chest. 

Rose Bertin was one of the wealthiest women in the city. She designed dresses for Marie Antoinette and other women of the court, and designed dresses for the future empress Josephine. I highly doubt that court intrigue and murder would shock her, not with the, oh I don’t know, mass riots and stampedes which afflicted other areas of the city?

“This isn’t what I planned today, by the way,” I pointed out, rubbing my mouth firmly as I continued to survey the space.

"I know...but it's not everyday actors are getting killed on stage," Clement noted.

The silence settled between us, but I wouldn’t exactly call it comfortable; our disagreement with Arno’s involvement must’ve have struck a cord with our bond, and it was evident it wasn’t going to fix itself overnight. James’ absence still hit too close.

1. Having random actors getting killed on stage should concern you, especially if they begin popping up after Shay returned to France.

2. Of course Arno’s ‘struck a chord’ with your bond; anything he does is a crime to you.

3. You are still responsible for James’ death.

"By chance, did you manage to find anything about Mirabeau?” I asked.

"No...I haven't." Clement shifted awkwardly, and I was almost positive he really didn’t want to talk to me much today, "

He's been holed up in there lately....people come in and out. There's never a time when its empty."

I highly doubt a novice like Clement is going to know what Mirabeau is doing. Elysia doesn’t even know he is a member of the Third Estate. He also dies three months from now, but that’s just me.

Clement made a low sound, nodding his head slowly and scratched along his wrist abashedly, "...Arno told me that Master Quemar stopped by the cafe earlier today."

I scoffed, shaking my head, “Your old Master? He did, yes. Mirabeau sent him off like some sort of canine to go fetch a bone.”

"What about? 

It feels...odd that he would send Quemar of all people to stop by when he could have called you to the Bureau."

Quemar isn’t in the best health to go running after clues. He’s got gout, remember, Ms Lore Down Pat? Poor heart, too.

“He wanted to know my whereabouts last night.”

“What for?”

“Clearly, the man doesn’t trust me.”

Clement looked rather displeased of that, "I fear his paranoia is working with his stress. He’ll push everyone away if he keeps that up."

1. You more or less admitted to him what you were doing.

2. No one trusts Elysia. She’s an absolute bitch and considers herself her only concern.

3. Elysia did a good job of pushing everyone away, especially since she nearly drove them into poverty with her shit handling of the Café.

Les doesn’t know the meaning of irony.

I solidified his concern, “

You definitely don’t want to be working alone, especially with a threat like Shay being out and about. Don’t you agree

?” I looked to Clement, and watched his eyes narrow at me deliberately from my double-meaning suggestion. He cut his eyes away from me. “

I have something to discuss with all of you, but clearly…” I gestured with a swift nod of my head to the departing officers and detective, “that will have to wait.”

Too little, too late. Elysia hadn’t a clue as to who Shay was, let alone what his capabilities were. James is dead because she thought he wasn’t an issue. She just sent Stephen and Arno out on a goose chase without even telling them there was a murder at a theatre. Priorities.

“

It all seems like a blur now; we were rehearsing for the next performance. Everyone was doing what they were assigned to do. I was speaking to Bridgette, because I ran into her, and I wanted to give her something to take back to Charlotte’s. In the middle of that, we were coming out from the backstage door, and heard the gunshot

.” She sniffed at this, wiping away the leaking tears, “

A woman from backstage was running away, down the aisle and she went out the door. No one got a good look at her because it was her first day here. We were all so busy trying to set up, we assumed she was doing what she was supposed to do

Well then, case closed. The person you vetted on the ‘first day’, and whom you likely committed to memory, just so happened to run out the door with a gun. Always suspect the new guy first.

“She was a recent hire? What did she look like?” I asked.

“She was blond, blonder than me,” Rose commented. “She had her hair in a specific braid, and very blue eyes. The director said she went by the name of ‘V’."

“V?” I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not really a name.”

So ‘V’ is a gender swapper. Initially described as male, with pale hair, now ‘he’ is a ‘she’. This anime plot is getting exciting!

“That’s all I was told,” Rose blew into her linen cloth, shaking her head. “I-If we had been more careful, and more vigilant, we might’ve seen something, anything! Now Oskar is dead

….” The silent girl next to her snaked her arms around Rose’s, and practically buried herself against the designer’s side. Rose sighed at this, and brushed her golden, chestnut tresses back. “I’m so sorry, Franziska.”

Vetting is a thing, you know. And murder isn’t exactly uncommon in Paris.

Rose turned to the one named Franziska properly, but what I didn’t expect was for Rose to start…signaling with her hands and repeating my sentence back to her in another language. It looked like she was putting symbols together, but it was so fast that I couldn’t catch anything cohesive. The other woman finally lifted her pink eyes, and gestured almost hesitantly back her answer, then let her straight hair hide her face again.

You are hosting French plays, that have gone on with zero issues, and one of your stars cannot speak proper French? Ho hum. I’m loving these explanations.

“You’re correct. She knows a moderate amount, but it helps to repeat things for her.”

“English?”

“No.”

“Is she mute?”

“Yes, she is but she can hear fine. Her brother was her translator, and taught me how to sign language back to her.'

Who hires a mute at a theatre/opera house?

I nodded, “Okay. If she’s not from here, where is she from?”

“She and her brother are from Austria,” Rose revealed. “Some of the actors here are also from there, but again…I don’t know why this all happened.”

An Austrian to boot! I’m sure Les did all her research correctly when she discovered that the French and the Austrians were, oh I don’t know, bitter enemies at this time? Or that Austria declared war on France?

“….Tell her I’m sorry, for what happened.”

Rose took a moment, but replied back in her sign language again.

“I got picked on a lot, for looking different. For being born different. For not being the same as everyone else.”

‘I get picked on so that gives me a reason to be a murdering bitch that drives away other people and drive my own employees into poverty’. Peak Batwoman logic.

“NO.”

“Dorian-“

“Absolutely- NO.”

We occupied the Training Room, a pair of cushioned benches providing us a seating as Arno paced around. He turned his back to me as I got up to hook my hands on my hips.

How convenient that Elysia is going to use Arno, her least favourite student, as bait in a plot to draw out a theatre murderer. Because only twinks dance, am I right?

“You’re the only one here who is trained in the arts,” I commented. “And I know that comes with some sort of dancing and theater experience. We need that for this mission.”

He isn’t, actually. He was trained in math, science, and fencing. Not that that matters because this Not-Arno is a cuck.

Arno groaned at this, “...I hate you. I hate you both so so so much-“

“Then it’s settled.”

Oh yeah, that’s definitely how a man acts.

“Thank God,” Arno exhaled at that, mildly shooing away Stephen’s gaze. “Are we heading over there soon?”

I nodded, “Yes...but before we do, I have something to say.” After close inspection of the closed doors, I recalled the events of last night’s party invasion, and what I came across with the demised Colette, and the second individual who was with her named Vince. The trio took a moment to reevaluate the new information, and Arno’s eyes widened with a snap of his fingers.

“V! Vince! It’s the same person!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “It has to be!”

Everyone here has room temperature IQ and there is nothing you can do to convince me otherwise. You just so happened to forget there was a guy named Vince, Elysia? Really?

You also won’t tell the Mentors what you’re up to but will tell your recruits? Makes absolute sense.

"It makes the most amount of sense," Stephen agreed, "and the simplest reason is most likely the truth."

This story should’ve ended at 2,000 words. That’s the truth. Nothing is fucking happening.

I hummed thoughtfully at this, “…That’s also a possibility. Yesterday, I went on the whim of a small clue James gave me, but it was enough to bring us closer. Continuing to collect smaller pieces is all we have right now.”

"Hmm....you're probably right. Sorry, I've just...had a strange feeling about this. Like we're tiptoeing through bombs planted underneath the ground.  Who knows what little thing we might uncover may blow up one. I wouldn't want for Quemar or Mirabeau to come after you again because they were tipped off..."

Too late. Quemar is suspicious and you already admitted you eliminated the Levesque copycat. The murder of a high born woman at a fancy party is going to spread through the city and the Mentors are going to find out. Sophie will, because she’s a big time member at female social clubs, and Quemar is a lawyer. These things spread. And newspapers exist, by the way. This wouldn’t be a best kept secret.

Arno translated it back to Stephen, and Stephen’s eyes looked to me next.

It says a lot when an Assassin in France cannot speak French. 

“Quemar came to see you...is that true?”

I sighed, running my hand across the top of my hood, “Yes, he was here.”

"Hopefully he doesn't bring Mirabeau's attention to us," Stephen grimaced slightly.

Too fucking late.

“I gave a convincing lie.”

Stephen rocked his heel back and forth, "It's not like we haven't been doing the missions he's assigned us....within reason."

Clement frowned at that, "Merely being cautious, is all."

No, you didn’t. You didn’t give any reason as to why you weren’t there. Giselle covered for you with her tough minority sassiness. That would just make me even more suspicious.

Arno nodded regardless, “Clement is right. He’s the only one who’s been inside the headquarters, and close to actually see the consequences up close if we get caught, while Stephen and I have been running our asses around.”

I listened intently, “Okay. Then my question is, what do you want to do, Clement? Do you wish to take a break from us, or occupy yourself with Mirabeau's missions to give us cover? That's okay with me."

"....I prefer keeping an eye on Mirabeau for now. If he has Quemar doing tasks for him...then that has to be distilling some mistrust amongst the others if it hasn't already," Clement rubbed his chin carefully.

Running your asses around accomplishing nothing, that is. I don’t expect anything less.

Do I have to keep reiterating that Quemar is the least healthy Mentor here? He has heart problems, gout, and needs to walk around with a cane. He physically cannot do all of the things Mirabeau wants him to do. Go ask Bellec to do the job.

Elysia has already sown distrust among the Mentors because of her attitude. She doesn’t like or appreciate any of them, yet expects them to appreciate her. I’m waiting for someone to tell her to fuck off.

“I agree. Fortunately, we now have a name and somewhat a description of the person named Vince. We run into him again, there's a chance we might come across information about where Shay is; the man is clearly secured somewhere, and its only by invitation." I translated it back to Stephen.

Finding the Anime Aryan shouldn’t be an issue. Just ask him if his brother has a mecha suit.

Back at the theater, I introduced both Arno and Stephen (despite not needing it) to Rose, though most importantly to the heavily-mustached, convinced director. He was very lanky, not much taller than Arno except the help of his beret hat. We stood in the center of the stage; Arno being inspected as he was dressed out of his Assassin robes. A bind was wrapped tightly around his waist and hips to really reinforce his thin figure. He couldn't hide the blush across his face, instead watching the director with narrowed eyes with his scrutinizing, silent inspection.

This description right here shows me that this isn’t canon Arno. He is described as having a ‘thin figure’. He doesn’t. He has a lean, wiry figure. His muscles are not as large as, say, Connor’s but he still has some. His shoulders are quite broad and he has thick thighs. Him being described this way cements the idea Les wants him to he a quintessential French twink.

"Well?" I gestured with a somewhat, impatient flick of my hand.

"Hmmmmmmm...." the director said for the fifteenth time, now going the opposite direction. ".....Not great...."

Arno glared. Stephen curiously pouted, trying not to.....laugh or snort. I couldn't tell which.

"But not bad either. He will have to do,” the man gave in and went to seat himself in the front row of the stage.

Rose came beside Arno, giving him a sympathetic pat on his shoulder, "He does that to everyone, don't take it personal."

"....Never DREAMED of it," Arno huffed, tightening the ribbon holding his hair.

And this confirms it. I can just hear the squeaky lisp in his voice. This isn’t Arno Dorian, this is PrEP Dorian.

“I’ll be back with Franziska, one second.” Rose hurried herself off, signaling to the director the same thing. He waved for her to be quick. Arno faced us with his face almost plastered red.

“You owe me for this.”

“No, it’s your contribution to finding our target,” I corrected. “I’d say you’re doing your pull of the weight.”

He’s been doing all the hard work while you get the credit. Safe to say he reserves the right to remain pissed. He’s being used and abused; later, his asshole will be used and abused.

Rose came back, and beside her was Franziska, who looked entirely like a different person than before. Her skin was white as snow, and her peach hair was pulled back in the tightest and straightest ponytail I’ve ever seen; it gleamed like a pond-stone. Her cheeks were speckled with pink blush, and her eyes were wide and sky blue. Her lithe body was dressed in a single bodysuit of sorts, her chest and waist bound the same way Arno’s was. A pair of ballet shoes that strung up her limbs pronounced her long legs, despite being Arno’s same height.

Leotards were only adopted in ballet in the 20^th century. These suits were not comparable to the ballet suits we see today. They wore wide skirts and corsets at this time.

Les, I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: Do. Your. Fucking. Research.

I blinked, “Sounds like you have some theater knowledge in you. Was Arno right about his guess?”

Stephen glanced over, "Not... exactly? I took classes to dance in a ballroom with music like waltz, but I never took theater. I've just watched a lot of…plays. That is the closest I can describe them, sorry."

“Ahh…I didn’t know that. That’s interesting-“

Stephen took classes in ballet yet never stepped foot in a theatre, where opera houses hosted plays...ho hum.

“AGAIN!” the director shouted from across, motioning Arno with his rolled up script. “Hold her like vase, not a tree!”

I pressed my lips together, “I highly advise to avoid the theater career, if you can.”

"Yeahhhh..." Stephen drawled out, wincing as the director yelled again. "I do not envy Arno at all."

Arno is a quick learner. Or he should be. What I’m reading here is his doppelganger, a French twink who is incapable of doing or learning anything.

“I feel like it’s….too soon.” Too personal, I thought. “Eventually, I will, but for now….I want Arno to focus on finding Élise, and for Clement to…….come to terms with himself. To not doubt us.”

"And Clement will definitely doubt me, what with Toni being my beau," Stephen commented, tone a tad bitter.

A house divided cannot stand. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if Clement realized his co-worker is screwing a time travelling Japanese anime vampire. Minds and cocks will be blown.

“He…he doesn’t have to trust us,” I answered, earning Stephen’s look. “I understand that, really I do. But I can tell there’s hesitation; I know something is on his mine. He doesn’t want to say it. Not having James around makes it really hard….I don’t know how he did it.”

This is how I know Elysia is a poor leader: she doesn’t inspire trust in anyone. If you want a solid team, you need to inspire trust or loyalty. She’s too busy doing the opposite by fomenting distrust and vocalizing her hatred of everyone around her, be they inferior or superior to her. She’s an utter disgrace. She has no place being the protagonist.

Quemar scoffed, and motioned his cane toward the wall, “I said move.”

“You can walk around, you still have your legs,” the Assassin held his ground. Quemar’s ire eyes narrowed dangerously, but Clement didn’t move despite moving his eyes back down to the book in his grasp. Quemar motioned closer, and Clement wasn’t surprised by the rough bump against his shoulder. Clement collected back his stance, and glared behind just in time to see the door closing behind him. He worked with what he could; eventually, with too many people now emerging in the hallway, Clement decided to move his newfound information somewhere else.

Nothing says ‘I am keeping a low profile’, like refusing to move when a Mentor orders you to. Try doing that shit with an older Ezio and you’d get a fist to the face.

It appeared Mirabeau has been stressed with finances and the Second Assembly as of late, adding a tall list of things he had to focus on. While Clement didn’t get all the information, he got a small piece that stuck out. An unnamed donor being given to the Creed…perhaps if he could trace it back, maybe it’ll lead to something Clement could work with.

Mirabeau is not going to leave his financial records in the Assassin library. Does Les remember that he managed to smuggle letters to the King without the other Mentors knowing? He never announces his intentions. This mystery plot can only be sold as far as you’re willing to accept it.

Clement neared, lifting his gaze over Bellac’s shoulder to inspect his binder, "...I assume Quemar has been asking a lot of questions around, hasn't he?"

“AAHH…..jesus.” Bellac jumped in place, and his hand gripped the front of his robes, the other steadying himself against the table. He stared at Clement incredulously, “You bloody gave me a fright, boy. Elysia needs to tie bells around all of you. Except Arno, his loud mouth already does the job."

I highly doubt Bellec would be surprised that Clement is there. He’s one of the more experienced Assassins, and would probably pick up that he was being followed. He did train Arno, after all.

“I'm...researching some things, financial records if there's been any donors lately and who it might be."

“Oh…she got you on some kind of secret mission, eh?” Bellac scratched at his chin, quirking his mouth, “

Don’t think I have anything that can help you out. The one who might would be Sophie; she’s got her hands all over the place in the Brotherhood, especially if it involves paperwork."

Clement opened his mouth before clamping it shut. He had almost forgotten that Sophie might have information that he could use...he'd just have to form it in a way that wouldn't draw suspicion. Master Sophie adhered to the tenets of the Creed far closely than anyone else.

 Yes, Clement. There’s another important female member of the Brotherhood who isn’t Elysia. Shocker, that. Also, Clement announcing his intentions like that to Bellec is going to clue him in on what Elysia wants.

When you lower the collective intelligence of other characters to prop up another, you aren’t writing as smartly as you think you are.

Clement hesitated, drumming his fingers against his side, "....I had heard that Quemar stopped to visit Elysia earlier this morning. She thinks Mirabeau doesn't trust her."

Bellac’s eyes narrowed at that, a hand on the table as he threw the other in disbelief, “You’re joking me. Is that the truth?”

Wow, Bellec sure is out of the loop, isn’t he? Didn’t he have a chat with Elysia in earlier chapters on how he was suspicious of Mirabeau, too? Odd how that was forgotten.

"I'm only repeating what I heard. Did he ask you about a Templar being murdered?"

His cheekbones hardened at this, “He did….yes. Wanted to know where I was wiping my ass, what time, and if anyone around happened to be watching. I….that’s a little alarming to say the least."

And Elysia casually admitted she was there. Guess Bellec was kept out of that, too.

"It was a Templar after all.”

“Not that. We haven’t had a Templar mission for weeks,” Bellac added. “What source told him a Templar died?”

"I'm not sure..."

...Shay is in the fucking city, and you mean to tell me you have never had a Templar mission?

Holy shit. This is getting worse as the year goes on.

Clement took a careful sip, “What’s on your mind?"

Bellac lowered his cup, rubbing at his beard in a thoughtful manner, “Mirabeau’s been on an edge as of late. One I haven’t seen; Quemar didn’t look thrilled to accept the notion that he’s being sent out like some kind of maid. The man’s a stick in the mud, but he isn’t stupid."

"I heard his personal finances have taken a strain with Brotherhood business, and probably his own. Doesn't help that he's day in at the Assembly and nights are spent here."

Mirabeau’s debts were well known to the public. That means, by extension, the Brotherhood would know that as well. Second, Elysia was the one managing the Café and it was her duty to bring in revenue. She failed at that. Mirabeau cannot be blamed on poor finances alone.

As one of the most popular politicians at the National Assembly, of course he’s going to be busy. Top notch IQ here.

The Master shrugged at this, splaying his fingers out, “Beats me. Quemar hasn’t exactly...recovered from his pathetic attempt of halting Shay. He’s more of a receptionist right now. Must be odd, considering that’s where he put you last time when you were under him, huh?"

You seriously thought a dude with heart problems could stop one of the most lethal Templars alive? Boy you tried to reach for the moon and fell off a cliff. Anyone with a brain could have told you that was suicide.

Clement dug his fingers against the cup, gazing to the liquid bitterly. He took a sip to try and draw himself more time to think, "No...he's an older man after all...he should've been resting more a long time ago, what with his heart condition and all."

Oh so NOW it’s mentioned.

Bellac waved his hand at this, “Between you and me, that’s deserved on Quemar; a whole team eradicated within the hour, and he’s left purposely alive to carry that. I tried to....” he sighed heavily at this, letting his arm gently plop on the table, “.....I tried to warn them, but none of them listened. And now we’re here, in this goddamn mess of a Creed.”

I love this lampshading. No seriously. It’s fucking amazing how Les casually admits her story doesn’t make any sense at all.

"I hope so, monsieur." He Clement took another sip, thinking, "Do you think it'll get worse before it gets better?”

Bellac have him a side look, “That depends.”

Boy, is this ever prophetic.

Well, my initial glance at this chapter was correct: this 9,000 word entry was little more than an extended dialogue session. In truth, there is nothing wrong with dialogue driven stories; the hitch is that they get the message across in the shortest time possible, vs inane ramblings about nothing. Les isn’t aware that her characters talk and talk and yet nothing is revealed about the story or character intentions. Let’s look at the case of Quemar: it took until the end of the chapter for her to admit that his heart problem made him a poor ‘maid’ and that he is responsible for the failed Assassin assault on Shay.

You would think this would have been highlighted early on in the story as he continues to be the prevalent threat. But as time goes on, we have detours that have nothing to do with the plot: we have murder mysteries where Arno’s twink body goes on display in ballet costumes and Elysia sowing distrust everywhere she goes.

About that: when Quemar asked her if she knew anything about a Templar dying at a high end party, Elysia asks if Mirabeau ‘suspects her’. Why would she say that if she truly had nothing to do with it? Mirabeau would know she was looking for Shay. He would know she wanted to avenge James. He would know she wanted to find out who these Neo Templars are.

Supposedly. I don’t think I’ll grasp what these motivations are. They’re contradictory.

I definitely need to talk more about Arno here. His in-game character is constantly undermined and re-written to get this sassy, stereotypical gay French twink character I cannot sympathize with. His intelligence, drive, talent and even Assassin training is erased to lift up the Mary Sue protagonist. His role in these murder mysteries make no sense; in fact, they have no role to play in this story whatsoever. I still do not know what the main plot is. Is it about the French Revolution? You’d never think you were in it, based on how much food Elysia sells and how peaceful everything is. It is about the Brotherhood? You’d never know, based on how Elysia diminishes the role of everyone else. Is it about history? You’d never know, with time travelling Japanese anime vampires and an author who doesn’t know when the Eiffel Tower was built.

Hell, you’d never know this was an Assassin’s Creed story unless you read tags. It’s got nothing to do with it. You have chapters of words upon words, dialogue upon dialogue, and characters talking about nothing and you get a 200,000 word tome. Assassins aren’t acting like assassins. France isn’t French. A revolution isn’t revolutionary. Instead, learn about how a Jewish lawyer with a heart condition and gout led the charge against the most infamous Assassin hunter in their lifetime and killed dozens; learn about how Elysia casually told him she murdered a high profile Templar and told no one about it to ‘own’ Mirabeau.

Yeah, Mirabeau is secretive. That’s his entire character arc. But what I’m seeing here is a hamfisted plot where he comes off as a Bond villain: over-the-top, ludicrous, and stopped in his misdeeds by a long eared, Zelda James Bond.

This wasn’t ‘shaken, not stirred’. This was ‘put the baby on top of the laundry machine and watch it bounce’.