Naomi

Being kidnapped had been a most curious experience.

Not that I had ever actually counted on being kidnapped, or anything; I'd just always imagined that my kidnapping experience, should I have ever been fated to experience one, would be much like those in the movies: perfectly-paced rock music underlining an intense, complicated action scene in which my kidnappers would rush in, kidnap me, and rush out. Then my hero would sweep in, rescue me, and bring me home, where we would take part in wild love-making, and I would live happily ever after.

Something exciting, anyway.

But, it had most certainly not been anything like that.

There wasn't a lot of rushing in, or rushing out. There had not been a hero to sweep in and rescue me, nor were there any letters to my parents demanding such-and-such in exchange for my safety. In fact, there was not a whole lot of anything, really.

It had been a cold, rainy Wednesday night. My mother, a NICU nurse at Memorial Hospital, was working the nightshift and had already left for her seven o'clock shift. My father, a private engineer, was on a trip to California after some asshat with a laser pointer accidentally built one of his generators wrong, and he had been summoned to fix it. That left me home alone, reading about cognitive memory for my psychology class with no other company aside from my ginger-colored cockapoo, Sophie.

Taking notes from my Psychology textbook had begun to make me tired, and, knowing that I had long since exceeded my attention span, I decided to just scrap the idea of studying so I could eat a cold manwich over a brand new episode of Family Guy.

At one point in the half-hour cartoon, I had heard some scuffling in the kitchen and yelled at the cat, Willow, who had a habit of jumping onto the kitchen counter to steal table scraps. After the tale-tell thuh-thunk of Willow jumping to the floor, I went back to watching my show and munching happily on my food.

It wasn't until I heard rough footsteps behind me that I knew there was something more in the kitchen than just the cat. However, I had only a very brief moment to react before something, most likely some kind of cloth bag or an over-sized beanie, covered my eyes.

I kicked and screamed, but it was useless. Despite my struggling, I felt a pair of large, beefy hands bind my wrists with what felt like those plastic handcuffs that the police were using these days, and fling me effortlessly over a very broad shoulder. I stopped struggling. Whoever it was that had blindfolded me and tied my hands together was very large, and could quite possibly break my skull in half with his pinky finger.

Overall, I was extremely confused. How had it been possible for someone to have gotten in the house without me hearing a thing? Had the television been too loud? Even so, how come Sophie hadn't barked? And what was this black thing over my head?

I heard the front door open and felt the cold January rain against my skin as whoever was carrying me had taken me outside. This prompted more muffled kicking and screaming my part, but, no matter how hard I kicked, or how hard I screamed, my captor continued on undeterred. I heard the front door pull shut and its lock flip, and then I was bouncing on my captor's shoulder as he strolled out into the night.

It just so happened that it was unusually cold that night, even for January; the bitter weather quickly sapped my body of any energy I had between screams, kicks, and attempts to wriggle free. To conserve my energy, I decided to stop my kicking and screaming long enough to wait for my captor to toss me into the trunk of the getaway car. At least in the trunk, I'd be slightly warmer, and it would be easier to make all the noise I could to let any passersby know I was being kidnapped.

But, in the end, I wasn't thrown into the trunk of a car. Instead, I was tossed into the back seat of one of those old-people-type cars, a Crown Victoria, perhaps. The seats were very large and cushiony, and smelled musty, as though the car had hardly ever been driven. Most interestingly, I recognized Chopin's "Nocturne in G Minor" playing gently on the radio.

Whoever owned the car was most definitely an old geezer.

"Now, now, Mr. James," came an old man's voice. I had been right about the car belonging to an old geezer. The voice instantly reminded me of Scar from Disney's The Lion King, "We want our subject to be comfortable and happy, not prone to catching a cold. You couldn't have at least grabbed a jacket of some sorts for her?"

Subject? Comfortable? Happy?

I felt the large, beefy hands strap a seatbelt around me, and could have sworn I felt the fingers attempt to brush some inappropriate places, to which I used my leg to kick in the direction I felt was appropriate. The hands didn't return for a while.

One forgets how easy it is to become carsick when all they see is pitch blackness and all they feel is the tossing and turning of a car ride. Time and time again, I had to swallow my nausea as I felt the car weave in and out of traffic, turning in directions I was most certainly not comfortable with, and once, I could have sworn that I felt the car reverse. I felt sick, dizzy, disoriented, and in desperate need of punching the old geezer as he continuously rambled on about subjects, the number seventeen, and "keeping enough changes of clothing in the lab." He was most definitely a scientist of some sorts, I could tell from the eloquent speech and technical terms; of course, the definite "mad scientist" in his voice was a big hint, too.

What would a scientist want to do with me?

I had signed up to participate in an experiment for my psych class a few days before. Perhaps this was a part of it? Quite possibly. But wouldn't they have at least warned me or something, though? Not unless the experiment wouldn't work if they did warn me. I had signed the consent form, after all; they didn't need any more of my permission to do as they please.

But my gasps for air to keep from bringing up my dinner prevented me from telling Mr. Mad Scientist that I no longer wished to participate in his convoluted experiment, so I just allowed them to take me wherever it was that they were taking me. I decided I would just argue, kick, bite, and scream when I got there. According to the American Psychological Association, a researcher was obligated to send me home without an argument should I not wish to continue in an experiment. He was bound by law to obey that rule. With that in mind, I was sure that I would be at home and in bed before my mother got home around 8:30 the next morning.

At the end of what felt like a half-hour drive, the car finally stopped and I had been let out. Mr. McBeefy Hands unstrapped the seatbelt from around me and swung me over his broad shoulder again. This time, I just let him throw me around like a rag doll. As he walked and I bounced on his shoulder, Mr. Mad Scientist continued his incessant blathering about something called the "Animus Mach 6," whatever that was. I could hear a series of what sounded like air-lock doors and a mechanical voices asking for pass codes, followed by a combination of beeps and blips, and finally I was on my feet again.

"You may remove the blindfold now, but not the bindings," Mr. Mad Scientist was chuckling, "Miss Clarendon here is not ready for her bindings to be removed just yet."

Wait, how did he know my name?

I clenched my eyes shut, feeling the black bag over my head uncomfortably ruffle my eyebrows, my eye lashes, and my hair as it was lifted over my head. There was a brief moment when I caught sight of the room around me – I was in some kind of high-tech lab of sorts – before one of those goddamned beefy hands brought a cloth up to my face. I was suddenly overcome with the smell of alcohol as another hand snared the back of my hair, making it impossible for me to remove my face from the cloth.

Don't breathe it in, don't breathe it in, you'll black out…

But it's not an easy task to not breathe when you so desperately need to.

The world around me began to spin, and my legs began to feel like Jell-O. Hazy fog veiled over my vision, and I gagged on the bile rising in my throat. Unable to remove my face from the volatile cloth in order to puke, I just swallowed and swayed. Suddenly, the floor was the ceiling, and the ceiling was the floor. Through my foggy vision, I could just barely make out a mop of crazy white hair and a wrinkled face peering at me.

"Careful, careful, Mr. James," stupid, mocking, Mr. Mad Scientist taunted. How I wished I could punch him, "She is going to fall. Be sure to catch her. We don't want any more trauma…"

Mr. McBeefy Hands mumbled something incoherent behind me as I reluctantly fell back into him. I struggled to wriggle from his grasp, but it was futile. My eyelids were feeling unbearably heavy.

"There, there, Miss Clarendon, relax," Mr. Mad Scientist tutted, his voice echoing, "We will be taking very good care of you..."

The words swam viciously in my head, bouncing between in my ears and behind my eyes. My eyelids were growing even heavier; I felt like I had not slept in weeks. I fought for the life of me to keep them open. I was being kidnapped, for Christ's sake! This was no time for sleep!

But I couldn't fight the drowsiness, anymore. My eyes closed, and I felt consciousness drift away from my body.

My nose itched.

Scratching it wasn't helping. If anything, it was making the itching worse. And not only was my nose itching, but it was also running now. Great. I was getting a cold.

I felt something velvety and warm brush my face, my cheeks, my nose. It was an interesting sensation that was accompanied by the smell of dust, dirt, and hay.

What the hell?

I slowly opened my eyes to find myself staring into the large, whiskery nostrils of an enormous horse. It was licking my face emphatically. Instinctively, I rolled away from the beast, which looked at me with curious brown eyes before flicking its tail and swinging its head down to the ground to munch on hay.

Wait. Hay? Where the hell was I? In some barn of sorts…

But hadn't I been in a lab…?

I quickly felt my back for any signs of incision. Had Mr. Mad Scientist taken my kidneys?

Everything felt in tact, which was a relief, but brought on a new realization: I most definitely wasn't dressed in the lime-green Happy Bunny socks, worn sweatpants, and World of Warcraft t-shirt that I was taken from my home. In fact, I wasn't even wearing any socks or underwear for that matter, just a simple, grungy dress made out of some kind of uncomfortably stiff material.

What the flying hell?

I looked down at my feet. They felt raw and cracked, and they were caked in sand and dirt. For a moment, it reminded me of all those times that I tracked mud through the house after wading in the creek in my backyard at home. But it had been ages since the last time I had ever gone wading through any creek, why would I have gone wading in any creek at all? Even if I had, why couldn't I remember it?

And what the hell was I wearing? Where were my clothes?

At they very least, my toes were still painted the bright pink color I liked. Somehow, I found that small detail somewhat comforting.

I took a moment to look around, fingering the hem of the uncomfortably stiff dress I was wearing.

I was most definitely in a barn of some sorts. The horse that had been trying to eat my face was contentedly munching on hay and flicking its long, ebony tail. From somewhere behind me, I heard the baying of sheep and goats, as well as the incessant clucking of chickens. Had Mr. Mad Scientist taken me out to the country, or something? Why would he do that?

The barn was dimly lit, but I could tell that it was bright outside. The sun shone through a hole in the roof, little dust mites catching in the beam of sunshine, making my nose itch even more. I tried to comfortably adjust the dress around my body, feeling self-conscious knowing I wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Though it wasn't very cold in the barn, it was still rather chilly, and the stiff fabric against my skin wasn't helping the goosebumps at all. I resorted to keeping my arms folded over my chest.

The door to the barn stood slightly ajar, and I carefully stepped over the mounds of hay to peek outside. I hoped I had been dropped off somewhere I recognized. Maybe I could even find the highway and hitch a ride to the police station, or something. Would I need to get a rape kit when they took me to the hospital? I was pretty sure that I didn't have a reason to, but I was probably going to do it anyway.

I pressed my face into the gap in the door and took a look outside. The sudden brightness of the daylight assaulted my eyes, sending spots across my vision and a headache racing to the back of my head. My body swam with dizziness.

…She may be waking…

I blinked at the voice. It sounded far away, like a dream voice. Perhaps I was only dreaming?

The spots in my vision slowly melted away, and I could clearly see what stood outside the barn. I saw a large field, and a little stone house in the middle of it. It did not look like any house that I had ever seen before in my life; it was small, with a flat roof, and had been made out of a gray stone. In the far distance, I could see golden-colored mountains along the horizon, their color resembling very much of that of the grass in my front yard in the summertime when it all died. The dull color made the mountains look strangely dead compared to the crisp, clear, blue sky.

Just a field, dead grass, and mountains. Great. Not only had I been kidnapped, drugged, and left in a barn, but I had been left in a barn in middle-of-flipping-nowhere.

I reached up and touched the barn door. It was made out of crudely-cut wood, and felt rough against my fingers. When I pushed it open, the door let out a loud, horrible creak that cut through the silence of the barn like a steak knife through butter, and sent my heart into my throat.

…Dammit, she needs to relax! She'll disrupt the wave patterns if her consciousness keeps jumping like this!

"Hello?" I sputtered. My throat was dry, perhaps from breathing in all of the dust and hay. It felt like I hadn't used my voice in ages. I got no response except for the whicker of a horse, and the clucking of the chickens. "Is someone there?"

My vision flashed before my eyes, and I felt my body lurch forward, flinging the door open and crashing it into the wall of the barn. I stumbled out into the sunlight, pain racing up my nose, into my eyes, to my ears and against he back of my skull like Jell-O on glass.

…I have to pull her out, Warren; she's not looking good…

This time I ignored the voice and tried to regain my balance. The world began to tip, to turn topsy-turvy, and I choked on a wave of vomit. It splashed onto the ground, coating my legs. The stench made my stomach churn, and I turned away. Just behind me, against the wall of the barn, was a stone trough. The sunlight sparkled off of the surface of the water, and without thinking I stumbled toward it, desperate to wash my legs and be rid of the acid taste in my mouth.

…You need to relax, Miss Clarendon, stop resisting! Ritchie, what are you doing?

…Warren, I need to bring her out, for fuck's sake! Can't you see she's dying?

The words rolled, lulled in my mind as I scooped the cold water into my mouth and spat it to the ground and splashed the vomit from my legs. It felt good against my skin, even moreso that I was beginning to feel hot; there were beads of sweat dotting my upper lip.

I slumped to the ground and held my head. This was like that time that I had drank way too much tequila during last spring's camping trip in the Appalachian Mountains. What was it that my friend had told me to do? Lie down and let it pass?

My vision flashed. The world grew blurry and slowly began melting away from my vision. I found myself lying down on something warm and comfortable. Whatever it was, it was ever-so-gently vibrating beneath my body. In the distance, I heard cursing and stomping, followed by the unmistakable sound of clicking computer keys. I opened my eyes to see a very clean, very white tiled ceiling above me. My eyes were stinging, as though I had kept them open for too long.

"Naomi."

I blinked. Was that my name? Who knew my name?

It was a male's voice, but was definitely not of Mr. Mad Scientist, nor of Mr. McBeefy Hands. This one sounded young, soft; professional almost.

"Naomi Clarendon. Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," I managed, coughing, "I can hear you fine. But… who are you?"

"Up here, Naomi."

The voice had come from above me. I followed it to find an attractive young man in a white lab coat. He was awfully pale; he obviously didn't get much sun, and had a mop of very curly, soft-looking brown hair, and deep brown eyes. In very much a stark contrast to the chaos that was his hair, he sported a very neatly-trimmed goatee. I frowned up at him.

"Good evening, Naomi." He smiled, giving a slight bow of his head, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, I think..."

"My name is Ritchie," Mr. Mophead said, briefly smiling at me and clicking a few keys on a miniature laptop that he kept on his lap.

I was about to say something to him when I was interrupted by the sound of an air-locking mechanism. From a door in the far corner of the room, the crazy white hair and wrinkled face that I recognized to be Mr. Mad Scientist strolled into the lab, his shoes rapping sharply against the tile floor.

"Ah, Miss Clarendon, I see you are awake. It seems my partner, Mr. Morgan, thought you could use a little mental rest."

"Mental… rest…?" I managed.

"Your body was overloading the cerebral hemispheres in your brain," Ritchie piped up from behind his little computer. I frowned at him, "Basically, your brain was firing too many sporadic messages in too many sporadic directions for your body to handle. Essentially, you were using more portions of your brain at one time than what is normal, and it was causing an overload. It's a very easy way to cause a brain explosion of sorts. Figuratively, of course." he shrugged and went back to tapping away at his laptop.

I blinked, "A brain explosion. How lovely. Will I be all right?" I made to sit up, but Mr. Mad Scientist stepped up to me and leaned over, putting a hand on my forehead.

"You feel a little warm, but you will be fine. Am I right, Mr. Morgan?" Ritchie nodded at the doctor, barely acknowledging that the he had even been spoken to. His fingers kept furiously tapping the keyboard, "Miss Clarendon, have you ever heard of Abstergo Industries?"

"The pharmaceutical company? Of course I have," I glanced briefly at Ritchie and his mop of hair before grinning up at Dr. Vidic, "I take the birth control you guys recently patented… what is it called, again? I forget…"

I heard Ritchie cough once, followed by a soft apology. The forced smile on Dr. Vidic's face flickered, and he cleared his throat, "Excellent, excellent. Then I don't have too much to explain to you. Miss Clarendon, have you ever heard of the Animus Mach 6?"

"No," I shook my head. It sounded like some kind of rocket, or at the very least, some kind of new electrical razor for men.

"Ah, very well. You see, Miss Clarendon, Abstergo Industries isn't just about pharmaceuticals. We're very interested in neurosciences, too," that caught my attention. I was double-majoring in history and psychology at West Harmon University. "Can you tell me what the definition of a memory is, Miss Clarendon?"

Immediately, I thought back to my psychology 101 text, "A period of time covered by the remembrance or recollection of a person and/or a group of persons. Psych 101, Professor Byrnes."

I heard Ritchie laugh quietly from behind his computer. Vidic raised an eyebrow at me.

"Very well, very well. What if I told you…"

"Perhaps you should just cut to the chase, Warren." Ritchie put his computer down and stepped from around the table I was laying on. He gently took my wrist and pulled me into a sitting position. The world spun slightly for a moment before it righted itself, "I'm sure Naomi here really wants to go to sleep. Her exhaustion levels are extremely high, and quite frankly, so are mine."

"What? Who said I'm sleeping here?" I began, but my words went ignored as Dr. Vidic glared at Ritchie from beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows. I sensed that he wanted to have a go at Ritchie, perhaps punch him in the face for being so pushy. However, I also sensed that there was a great deal of respect between the two men, and Dr. Vidic's impeccable hospitality was keeping him from acting on his impulses. In the end, Dr. Vidic tucked a clipboard into the crook of his arm, and Ritchie began digging around in the pockets of his lab coat, quietly muttering to himself about misplacing something.

"Very well," Dr. Vidic cleared his throat, "That was a very nice textbook answer you gave me, Miss Clarendon, but I have research that suggests that memories may just be more than a 'remembrance' or a 'recollection.'"

I cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. Ritchie apparently could not find what he was looking for in his pockets, and patted his lab coat down before glancing at Dr. Vidic.

"Light pen?" he said simply.

Dr. Vidic rolled his eyes slightly and gave a little sigh as he pulled a long, shiny black object from his coat pocket and handed it to Ritchie. I heard it click and a miniature light blinked on at one end.

"More than just a remembrance?" I repeated as Ritchie took my face in one of his hands, prying my left eye open and shining the bright light into it. My vision was immediately assaulted by pink and green spots.

"Exactly. Our research suggests—"

"Wait, wait, you said you're interested in neurosciences? I know what you're going with this. We were discussing this in my psych class last week. Don't tell me you actually believe in that genetic memory crap," I added as Ritchie looked deep into the eye he was shining the light into. I could just barely make out the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips.

Dr. Vidic sounded put off, "Oh, but we do, Miss Clarendon! Very recently, we have uncovered some amazing evidence that shows a great significance in its existence. What do you suppose you saw before you awoke in the Animus Mach 6?"

"That could have very well have been some sort of new virtual reality video," I countered. Deep down, however, I really wasn't sure what any of it had been.

Dr. Vidic chuckled, "I promise you, by the end of your next session, we will have proven to you that genetic memory exists. That is, in fact, why you're here."

I tried to glare at Ritchie as he shined the light into my right eye, assaulting the other half of my vision with pink and green spots. It was hard to concentrate on what I wanted to say, "You want me to help you do a study on genetic memory? You want me to experience my ancestors' memories?"

"Something like that, Miss Clarendon. You see, we here at Abstergo Industries are always looking for a brighter future, and a better tomorrow!" Dr. Vidic grinned broadly. Ritchie squinted into my eye, as though noticing something that wasn't normal. But he didn't say anything about it, only tapped on a few keys on his miniature computer. Dr. Vidic continued, "We believe that our ancestors had a… well, for the lack of a better term, an ingenious… method of society. An eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. No constant judicial appeals for murderers and child rapists, or wasted taxpayer's dollars on keeping them alive for years and years after their sentencing..."

I considered launching into my speech about the apparent mental illnesses found in said murderers and child rapists, and how those constant appeals were buying our scientists time to study these behaviors in order to find methods of prevention, but I held my tongue. Ritchie had put his miniature computer on the edge of the table I was sitting on, snapped a pair of latex gloves on his hands, and was quickly examining my ears and throat with his light-pen before putting it away and tossing his gloves into a nearby trashcan. He sat back down on his chair, and pulled his computer back into his lap. I wondered what he was taking notes about.

Dr. Vidic stepped up to me; I could almost feel the hem of his lab coat against the top of my feet. It made me feel very uncomfortable that he was standing so close.

"The Animus Mach 6 allows us to extract the memories of our ancestors, so we can simply study society first hand. These experiments have greatly helped sociological and psychological research for the past two years! In the next three… who knows? Imagine a place where a simple node on the forehead could determine whether a man actually committed a crime, or if he was just a simple witness! The judicial system could be that much more efficient—"

"But does any of this really justify your kidnapping me?" I blurted, "Whatever happened to just coming up and asking me to participate in this study?"

Dr. Vidic folded his hands behind his back and began to walk away, "You did sign the consent form, did you not?"

So it had been part of an experiment, after all.

"Consent form or not, Doctor, you still had no right to go into my home and kidnap me. A simple phone call and a meeting location would have worked just as well."

Dr. Vidic looked like he was ignoring me. This made my blood boil.

Ritchie loudly tapped on his keyboard a few more times before snapping the mini laptop shut and folding his hands behind his head. He let out a breath.

"If I may make a suggestion, Warren?" he piped up, swiveling his chair. The top buttons of his lab coat were unbuttoned, revealing the distinctive green 1-Up Mushroom from Super Mario Brothers video game on a black shirt he wore underneath it. Dr. Vidic looked at him, forcing a look of interest by rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is it, Mr. Morgan?"

"Perhaps we should let Naomi rest for the night. That way, she can have some time to decide whether or not she still wants to participate in the Animus 6 Project. Should she choose to continue to participate, we will move on from there. Should she not, we will find someone else. There were plenty of other people who were just as qualified as her to perform in the experiment."

"What do you mean, qualified?" I interrupted the little strangled noise that Dr. Vidic made through his nose.

Ritchie shrugged, still swiveling his chair, "You were not the only one who signed up for the study. But, you were one of the only ones who met our psychological testing criteria, and had an extensive knowledge of history, which is why we picked you first. You are a double-major in Psychology and World History at West Harmon, right?"

I nodded at him. Dr. Vidic had gone silent. Ritchie blinked casually and folded his hands between his spread legs, twiddling his thumbs, "APA standards, we can't make you participate, as much as we want you to. However…" he looked at his watch, "It's one in the morning, and I really would like to catch some Z's before I have to be back here at eight."

Dr. Vidic let out a whistling breath through his nose, but nodded, not even trying to mask his disappointment. Nothing could correct that screwed-up expression.

"Very well. Mr. Morgan, please take Miss Clarendon to her provided quarters. Miss Clarendon, you will rest for the night, and make your decision whether to continue to participate in this experiment. In the morning, should you choose not to continue to participate, I will have my bodyguard, Mr. James, escort you home."

I noticed a large man, definitely Mr. McBeefy Hands, standing beside what looked like the door that led out of the lab. A light at the top of the threshold cast the doorway in a weird red glow. I supposed that meant the door was locked. Mr. McBeefy Hands gave a nod my way, but I didn't acknowledge it. Ritchie cleared his throat, making me look at him, and he held a hand out to help me slide off the Animus. As I did so, Dr. Vidic cleared his throat and began toward the door that Mr. McBeefy Hands stood next to.

"See you in the morning, Mr. Morgan, Miss Clarendon."

Ritchie bid him good night, though I could have sworn I heard him call Dr. Vidic a prick under his breath after he did so, and he lead me to a door at the opposite end of the lab. A green light shone in the top of the threshold. Unlocked. That was simple enough. I noticed that there was a second table very similar to the one I had been laying on as we walked through the lab. It looked bigger, bulkier; like an older model, perhaps. Unlike my table, there was a full-sized computer next to it.

"That's the original Animus Project," Ritchie explained as we walked through the unlocked door. It had opened automatically.

"The original Animus Project…?"

"Yes. The original. There are only three Animus Projects in the entire world. We have two of them. You should feel lucky; you're one of the first subjects to try out the new model."

Somehow, that didn't make me feel better.

We walked into a corridor that led to four air-locking doors, two on each side. Three were glowing red; the fourth, green.

"This lab was originally meant to accommodate only one subject at a time," Ritchie began, "It has since been remodeled. The old conference room was taken out so the lab can accommodate up to four. This one is your room. Subject Seventeen is in that one," he pointed to the door furthest down the corridor on the left side. "You will not be seeing him much."

I had been compelled to ask Ritchie where Abstergo now held its meetings to discuss nonsensical psychology, now that it didn't have a conference room, but stopped.

I was not the only participant here?

"Subject Seventeen? He doesn't have a name?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose personal information regarding other subjects. Should you be interested in any of their research with Dr. Vidic, I can only tell you what Dr. Vidic will allow me, which is information that is already on public record."

The door automatically opened when I stepped inside, and I took a look around. The room was small, slightly cramped, and came with a single bed, a desk, and a bureau. Much to my discontent, everything was gray and white, making me feel like one of those clones in that movie, The Island. A door on the opposite side of the room was left wide open, displaying a toilet and a shower. At least Abstergo had been nice enough to give me a bathroom…

"Subject Seventeen is working with Dr. Vidic on a different Animus Project. Yes, there are more than one Animus projects going on at the current moment. His other assistant, Lucy, handles that case with him." I heard a series of beeps and blips behind me, and turned around. Ritchie was dexterously pushing keys on a box attached to the wall next to the door. A light at the top of the box glowed blinked from green to red.

He's locking me in here…

I suppose I wouldn't want me roaming free around the lab either. But still, locking me in? I glared at Ritchie's unusually cheerful demeanor.

"Breakfast will be brought to you at eight, be ready to let us know of your decision at eight-thirty, sharp," he said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "Dr. Vidic likes to get started bright and early. And I hope you decide to participate in this experiment. Have a great night."

"Good night," was all I could offer as I watched him step out the door. Did he have to lock me in here? The door let out the whispering sound of whizzing air, and slid shut behind him, leaving me alone in that horribly strange, gray-white room.