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Collateral Damage

- Written by Adha -

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It had been twenty-one years. Twenty-one years since Constance had last seen her parents alive. More than two decades had passed since she had seen her father’s blood being poured out of his body in an almost beautiful waterfall that seemed to be made of the best red wine in Bordeaux. Constance only caught a glimpse of the hooded figure stabbing her father, but she did see them shove her mother over the bridge as she tried to help her husband. “Why didn’t I do anything to prevent this?” she would often ask herself in the following years, but deep down she knew that at the age of 8 she would have merely made this killer, this Assassin, laugh.

It had been twenty-one years. Twenty-one years since Constance had last seen her parents alive. More than two decades had passed since she had seen her father’s blood being poured out of his body in an almost beautiful waterfall that seemed to be made of the best red wine in Bordeaux. Constance only caught a glimpse of the hooded figure stabbing her father, but she did see them shove her mother over the bridge as she tried to help her husband. “Why didn’t I do anything to prevent this?” she would often ask herself in the following years, but deep down she knew that at the age of 8 she would have merely made this killer, this Assassin, laugh.

The details of their deaths were crystal clear in her head, they were etched onto her mind as she moved inconspicuously through the streets of Paris. The success of the lights and entertainment brought by the World Fair of 1889 had helped set in stone the occurrence of the World Fair of 1900, and the streets were bustling with activities destined to enlighten humankind or, at the very least, to dress them in haute couture. If they could afford it, that is.

As Constance got closer to Montmartre, she saw more and more private clubs for men and what was now known as cabarets.

Her contact should be here soon.

She leaned her back against the wall of a building that seemed to be the studio of one of the many painters living in the area and waited.

As predicted, her contact turned around the corner five minutes after she had arrived. Although, that was enough time for some drunken men to stumble toward her requesting a range of services few women would be willing to provide without payment and possibly desperation. Knowing full well that she could take them on if she wanted, she opted for the polite and discreet response of rolling her eyes and looking away. Luckily, they lost interest fast.

“Glad to see your punctuality habits haven’t changed,” said Constance.

Renoir looked at her and winked an eye.

“I’d never miss one of our dates. They tend to be…” He paused like he was thinking twice about what to say, "profitable,” he ended up saying.

Alexandre Renoir had been her contact for the last seven years, except for the previous year and a half since he had been in the Spanish-American war and its aftermath.

On any other day, Constance would have let that conversation flow. However, that was a very different night. It was the night she finally would get her so-longed revenge.

“Do you have what you promised?''

Renoir noticed her hastiness and decided not to push it. He had personally seen what she was capable of to get what she wanted from unwilling subjects. Or in general, when she lost her patience.

He handed her a piece of paper.

“They will be at that address in a couple of hours,” he told her.

“Are you sure?” replied Constance. The address was in a very open area of Paris, where the Exposition Universelle was being held at the esplanade of Les Invalides.

“One hundred percent sure,” he nodded, "my source is never wrong when it comes to intel about the Brotherhood”.

Constance scowled. She had always imagined the source was a Templar agent, but this confirmation made her feel uneasy. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of doing the Templar’s dirty work.

“Don’t worry,” assured Renoir, noticing her doubts. “I don’t think they have a particular interest in this person.”

Even worse—she thought—a favour.

She folded the piece of paper and placed it in the pocket of her coat.

Despite the crowds in the streets, it didn’t take her long to reach Les Invalides. Once she arrived, she took a moment to find a good spot from where she could locate her target.

Oddly enough, the buildings surrounding the Fair were not protected as much as she thought, except for the complex of Les Invalides itself. She clambered on top of the highest building on the east side of the esplanade, near the Seine River, which should be where her target would be making an appearance. When she reached the top, she sat next to a chimney, getting a marvellous view of the Fair, which looked like a stunning mandala made of light under the darkness of the night.

While waiting, Constance thought about her journey. Even though she could hardly feel anything nowadays, reminiscing about her past always brought her waves of agony. Losing her family had put her in a position no child should ever be in, orphaned.

She had needed to grow up too fast and fight to survive in more than one sense of the word. Her innocence was violently snatched away from her at a young age. She had been lucky though. She still lived. And she had learned everything she could in the streets until she found a master that took pity on her and helped her on her path of revenge.

With him, she learned the most efficient ways of killing people, how to manipulate the weak-minded without having to spend money or waste energy hurting others for little gain, although it was not something that repulsed her too much—and how to control her emotions, for the most part.

That's when the confusion started. Her master turned out to be a Templar. He had known about her parent's murder long before meeting Constance. He had used her thirst for revenge as an excuse to further the Templar's cause in France without her knowing.

She deeply regretted following his advice and his teachings. She regretted not realising he was using her. He had never cared about her. She was once again alone. There wasn’t anyone she could trust anymore except herself.

She had not liked this. In fact, Constance had made sure he couldn’t take advantage of anyone else. Of course, she killed him after he had told her everything about the Templar Order and the Assassin Brotherhood.

Constance had also demanded he tell her about her parent's death, but all her now-dead master said was that her father had had some dealings with a Templar merchant from the outskirts of Paris. She had tried to find this merchant to get more information, but by the time she reached his business, he was no longer among the living. Frustrated, Constance had taken odd jobs as a hitwoman and mercenary, which is how she met Renoir. He needed some time to gain her trust, but he managed to get as close to her as anyone could.

She had learned to identify Templars and Assassins and made the world a better place by ridding it of two or three on her quest to find her parents’ killer. She loathed both groups. They were constantly focused on their affairs and their war, turning a blind eye to the consequences of their actions and the havoc they wrecked in ordinary people’s lives. They only acted for their own benefit. If she could, she would take on both groups and eliminate them to stop their war from affecting innocents.

A gentle whistling followed by a loud explosion brought her back to reality. It was already 10 pm, as it had been deafeningly announced by the fireworks. This meant her target would be making their appearance soon enough.

She observed the esplanade, scanning every cluster of people she could see until someone caught her attention. Someone wearing a long coat, a red sash under their belt, sturdy old boots…and a hood. It was them. The hooded figure.

Constance's heart was rattling in her chest, but she took a deep breath and descended swiftly from her viewpoint. She did not want to startle her target, so she followed them through the crowds.

The Assassin seemed to be in a rush.

A meeting, perhaps?

They walked into the esplanade and wheeled left on a more secluded street. Constance could feel her pulse in the tips of her fingers, which only wanted to reach for her dagger. After a few minutes, they suddenly arrived at an open space. Something that looked like a semi-private garden, with a beautiful gazebo in the centre, which could accommodate a big tea party in it. The Assassin walked into it and stopped dead. Constance observed from the shadows behind a knobbly tree.

“You’re not particularly good at tailing, did you know that?” The Assassin’s voice sounded clear as day despite the noise of the fireworks. “Do me a favour and come here so you can tell me what you want, which I doubt it’s to rob me,” they said. The Assassin had noticed Constance’s posture and gait. They knew she wasn’t just a random thief.

Constance came out of the shadows and into the kaleidoscope of light that illuminated the garden. The Assassin observed her and took a few steps in her direction.

“Have we met before?” They asked cautiously, taking a few more steps towards her. “I don’t think any stranger has ever looked at me with such hatred.”

Constance felt she was about to lose it. Her blood was boiling.

“You killed my parents,” she managed to splutter.

“Ah, I see.” The Assassin exhaled. “I take it that you actually know what I am and what I do.”

“I do.”

“Then I apologise for your loss.” “Truly.”

“That’s not good enough.”

The Assassin had feared it may come to this. Constance was now walking slowly inching towards them.

“Careful now,” they warned her. "You don’t want to go down this path”.

“You threw me into this path the instant you decided to rip my parents’ lives away from me just because they had some kind of relationship with a Templar agent. Doesn't your Creed dictate you to keep your blade away from the flesh of the innocent?”

The Assassin’s expression warped and looked as if they were in pain.

“It does,” they admitted, “however, certain targets must be eliminated in order to keep people free of the control of those who only wish to enslave them. These decisions are never taken lightly, believe me.”

“Oh, wow, my eight-year-old self would have been very consoled by that,” Constance scoffed. “Nothing is true, everything is permitted, right? Adding more bodies to your kill count and even more orphans to the streets. How do you even sleep at night?”

“This is something every Assassin reflects upon. We are aware that there might be consequences to each of our acts. And yet, we think that in the big picture, these assassinations are necessary to preserve free will.”

“And my mother? “Did she need to die to preserve free will?” Constance scoffed in disgust.

“It’s possible, however, with every assassination there’s always the possibility of collateral damage. It’s something that will always weigh heavy on my heart.”

At this point, the Assassin seemed sincere, but red fog clouded Constance's mind.

She burst forward and feinted to the right hoping to confuse her opponent. It worked, but only briefly. The Assassin quickly recovered and intercepted her dagger inches from cutting their throat by engaging their Hidden Blade. Constance side-stepped to the right, this time for real, and tried to destabilise them by kicking his left knee.

This time the Assassin wasn’t quick enough. It seemed like old age had caught up to them. Their knee bent backwards with a nasty crunch, the Assassin let out a howl of pain and Constance then vaulted on them like a feral animal.

“You know. You blame me for the path you have taken, but you still had the choice of not going down this path,” croaked the Assassin.

“I guess we both needed to make difficult decisions that take lives,” she said firmly. And then, in one flowing motion, she cut their throat.

She gazed into their cold, dead eyes as their life ebbed from their body. She didn’t feel relief; she felt anger. She should have made them suffer.

She stood up and looked at the corpse with disgust.

Then, she noticed shadows flitting across the garden. Hooded figures, perhaps three or more.

“We all have to face the consequences for our actions,” said an almost inaudible voice behind her. “Now it’s your turn.”

She heard the distinctive sound of the hidden blade engaging, she felt the acute tip pierce her back, ribs, and then her heart. The world turned dark around her. No more agony and no more hatred.