Memories syncing…

10%...

56%...

The grass is cold under my feet. Freezing, in fact. It must be close to winter, but not quite… that awkward time just after the rain but just before the snow. The dewdrops cling to each blade of grass beneath me, perfectly rendered and pure. I look down at them, and then I look up at the sky, grey and clotted and thick with clouds. I don't know this sky, or this grass. And yet it feels… familiar. Why is that?

I can't remember, and it scares me. I look around, getting my bearings; and then I realize my body doesn't move the way I remember. I feel… thicker, stronger, powerful. Everything is different from what I remember, but there's this niggling feeling that I've been here before, done this all before. And yet for some reason I don't feel quite sure of myself, as though I don't quite know what to do. What am I doing here, I wonder – what is my place in this world? I know I was brought here for a reason, but none of this looks or feels like home, not this sky or this grass or this cool breeze in my hair. I don't remember any of this. When did I put on these boots, and where did these clothes come from? Why is there an itchy feeling in my head and a burning sensation in my lungs? When did I get two inches taller, and why, when I clear my throat and cough a few times, do my vocal chords sound thick and brassy, like organ pipes?

It's all frightening, confusing, unreal. I feel like I don't belong in this body, or in this world, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I'm afraid, suddenly – intensely so. This isn't right, none of it is. My body is not my own, and its sensations and needs are strange to me. What am I doing inside of it? Why am I here?

"Stay calm." The voice filters from somewhere far away. "You're still syncing. It's going to be disorienting at first."

"Where am I?" My voice feels strange in my throat, far deeper than I remember. And since when did I have an accent? "What's going on?"

"Just relax."

"Get me out of here." I'm frightened now, genuinely scared. "Get me out. I don't belong here. What the hell is going on?"

"Relax. It'll make the process easier if you don't panic."

Well, that ship has definitely sailed. I try to take deep gasps of air, but my lungs and throat are not my own, and that makes the act of breathing disturbing instead of comforting. This is not my body. So how did I get in it? Who put me here? And how do I get back?

"You're almost synced now," the disembodied voice says. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know."

"Try."

I make a valiant effort to move my strange legs, but they won't budge; they feel heavy, weighted down, like pillars of wet concrete. "I can't."

"Harder. You need to believe they're yours."

"You are truly the paragon of advice-giving, O Distant Voice of God." The witticism slips out before I can stop it, and it makes me laugh in my strange new voice. There's the stupid me I remember.

My observer is not pleased. "Walk, Nathan."

"Fine, fine." I try again, and then stumble in surprise as my legs jump into motion; I'm so much stronger than I'm used to, and the abrupt burst of power makes me fall on my face into the grass. I'm sure I am truly impressing her. "Mio dio, che cigno grazioso sono," I say into the grass, and then frown. Since when did I speak Italian?

The voice sounds amused now. "Get up. You're almost synced."

"Wonderful." I struggle to my feet, brushing grass off my clothes. Every movement feels so graceful, lithe, like a jungle cat; it feels like I've been operating on low power all my life, and now someone has flicked the switch to put me in turbo. How the hell did that happen? I'm an awkward dork, not an athlete. And I still have several questions about the Italian. "Can you kindly tell me what's going on now?"

"Easy," the voice says. "Take it slow. You'll need some time to adjust before we start a sequence."

"What are you talking about?" My voice still sounds odd, but I'm getting used to these rich vocal chords. And now it appears that, against all logic and common sense and my understanding of how the world around me works, I have transformed from a dorky computer programmer into a rugged Italian god. I'm not sure whether to hate or thank whoever worked that miracle. "What did you do to me?"

"You're walking and talking, and the language and personality are starting to bleed over. That's a good sign." I can hear distant movements, shuffling and murmured voices. "Let's start you in a memory."

"Wait –"

The sunset bloomed over the hills in the distance, spreading a dim orange light over Italy. It bled over the little town nestled in the valleys, tinging the villagers with light; the cobblestones glowed like embers under Nathan's feet as he stood in the street between winding rows of houses and storefronts, speechless, trying very hard to process everything that had just happened. Where the hell was he?

He looked at the villas around him, bursting with flowers and colorful fabrics. This place was so familiar, but he was sure he'd never been here before. Why did the air smell like that, so fresh and clean? For some reason he thought it would be more… chemical, polluted. But it was so pure and thin, and he took a slow breath, acclimating his lungs to this new climate with its new scents and sights.

I must have amnesia. It was the only explanation that made sense. He didn't remember who he was, or how he'd gotten here, or what this little town was called. He must have hit his head, like in the movies. What else could explain his confusion? He tried to recall his name, his birthday, anything, but it all came up blank.

"Corvo!"

He turned, blinking. A woman was weaving down the cobblestone road towards him, smiling. He didn't recognize her, but something in the back of his mind bleated, sister, sister. Did he have a sister? He must, because she had stopped in front of him and was folding her arms, smiling. "You're late, fratello. The food is getting cold."

His voice rumbled out of his throat like a train engine, far deeper than he was accustomed to, speaking words he did not consciously want to say. "Only because you stole my horse, sorella."

"Valore? She's just fine." His sister chuckled. "Fast, though. I can see why you like her. Come on, let's eat and then we can catch up."

Corvo, he thought, falling into step behind her as she led him down the street. That's my name. Corvo. It rang true, and with it a memory. Yes, I remember now. Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino. I'm from this town. It's just outside Florence, where… His memory faltered again. I don't know why, but I feel like something important is there. There's something about Florence that I need to remember. But I don't remember what.

Piece by piece, his memories were coming together, albeit in frustratingly small chunks. And there were still so many gaps, missing pieces that taunted him. What was his sister's name? How did he instinctively know what to say to her, even though he hadn't remembered he had a horse or a sister until just now? And back to that first question, the most important one of all: What on earth was going on here?

His sister led him into a villa, a sleepy little home with red carnations blooming from the flowerpots. "So, have you heard any news from the front?"

"No." Somehow he knew what to say again, even though the words baffled him. "It's been quiet since the festival. I haven't gotten any new orders."

"Figures." She set a plate of chicken and spices on the table. "Eat, fratello. You're probably famished from your journey."

He sat down, and lifted his arm to pick up the fork. And then he stopped. There was something strange on his arm, a thick gauntlet of some kind – metal, leather and steel. He turned it over slowly, trying to figure out what it was.

"You have a good blade." His sister sat beside him and cut into her chicken. "It has tasted the blood of tyrants. I wish I could have one like it."

"The Brotherhood will grant you a blade, Mila. I'm sure of it." There – that was her name. "You need only be patient."

"I've been plenty patient." She took a bite, chewing with sudden anger. "They don't know what I'm capable of. I've trained with you, bled with you. The only reason I'm not an Assassin is because they can't see past a pretty face. I don't want to be a courtesan, I want to be a killer."

Corvo's fork wavered halfway to his mouth. "Assassins are not mere murderers, sorella."

"Aren't you?" Her eyes drilled into his. "You don't consider driving a blade into a man's throat and watching him choke on his own insides murder?"

"Murder requires malicious intent."

"What do you call hunting them down like game birds, waiting for the kill? Surely you relish it. Surely it's just so satisfying, to watch them die."

Corvo spoke carefully. "I think the reason you are not an Assassin is because you would take the role a bit too… violently."

"Don't lecture me about violence, fratello." Her eyes were cold now, all sisterly warmth gone. "You've done plenty of it yourself."

He stared at her, and then down at the chicken, and then back at her. "I suspected," he said. "For a long time, I suspected. But I never let myself believe it from you."

"Oh, you knew, did you? With your omniscient Assassin eyes, did you see me turning?" She laughed. "You were smart not to eat the chicken."

Corvo lunged, but she was faster. Her hands grabbed his wrists and threw him to the ground; he rolled just in time for her to smash a chair where he had been a second earlier. He struggled to his feet, every sense sharpening in preparation for battle; she stood there, laughing, drawing a butcher's knife out of her bodice.

"Oh, I have been waiting for this," she said.

"You were never as strong as me," Corvo said, but he heard the uncertainty in his voice. She was a year older, but they had always been equally matched, one never quite getting the edge over the other; they ran as fast as each other, fought the same, plotted the same. And how could he kill his own sister, Templar or otherwise? "You wouldn't dare kill me," he tried, not really believing it.

"You'd be surprised." She slashed at him with the knife, and he dodged aside. They circled each other slowly, brother and sister, Assassin and Templar. There was a palpable atmosphere of dread in the air; one was coldly prepared for this conflict, the other utterly taken off guard. The quiet town around them seemed to be holding its breath as they sized each other up, looking for weaknesses, calculating odds the way they had both been taught from birth. It could go either way now, and if it didn't go his way, she might find out about Florence, and then –

God, why couldn't he remember what was in Florence? What was so important there?

Corvo suddenly knew she had the upper hand, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of fear. This was not how he had wanted things to go. He had known this was coming, but he'd hoped it wasn't too late to catch her before she turned, talk some sense into her… but here she was now, grinning fiendishly at him with the pleasure of the kill to come, and he did not know what to say except, "You're out of your mind, sorella."

"I could say the same about you, working for them." She danced forward, feet moving smoothly as she jabbed at him once, twice; he ducked under the first strike and slapped the second aside with his blade, the metal woven into the gauntlet deflecting it like a shield. He could not bring himself to fight back, not yet. "What kind of freedom is it, slaving for unseen masters who tell you to follow your own path – then set it for you and punish you for leaving it?"

"I do follow my own path. It just happens to follow theirs. Can you say the same?" Corvo jumped back as she swung for his abdomen. "You are bound to them now, and they will never let you leave or stray from their path. You have no freedom, either."

"I am working for the greater good. What are you working for? Pain and suffering and death. How sad that must be, to think yourself the hero of this story."

"I am the hero," he said. "You're the villain. You are the one who causes suffering. Do you not see what the Templars do to the common people, treating them like garbage and killing them by the thousands? That is no great good. Those are not the actions of a savior of humanity."

"Maybe from your point of view." She shrugged. "But history will judge you differently. You'll see, fratello. You'll all see."

And now he could not hold back any longer. He lashed out, Hidden Blade snapping loose; it clashed against her knife with a loud scream of metal, and then they were striking and stabbing at each other back and forth across the dining room like deadly adders, each move precise and calculated. She hadn't lost her edge, he realized as he jumped back and felt the cool whish as her blade just missed his neck. She was as good as she'd always been, and that meant he was in trouble.

Her teeth flashed white as she struck at him, again and again, relentless; she was grinning, exhilarated by the fight as he blocked and countered and fought like a cornered animal. "You're good, fratello," she said, panting as she struck and he parried with a screech of steel, "but I'm better. I always was, and now I can prove it."

And he realized he was getting tired, his movements slowing. He wasn't fast enough to block her next swipe, and he yelled in pain as the butcher's knife dug into his side, cutting through him like meat; he staggered back, clutching his hip and feeling the first blood roll down his fingers and dry against his palm. Oh God, the pain was horrifying, blinding; it stabbed into him like a hot poker, drowning out everything. He swallowed a scream, realizing dimly that this wasn't right, he was supposed to win this fight, wasn't he? Why was he losing?

Mila smiled, her face alight with triumph. "If you surrender now, I might end you quickly."

He breathed deeply, trying to focus. His vision was blurring, and when she raised the blood-soaked blade for a fresh blow, he could do nothing do defend himself; every muscle felt weak, his strength waning. The next strike cut into his collarbone, slicing him shoulder to shoulder; he collapsed, and her foot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the floor and sending fresh waves of pain rolling through him.

Her voice was cold, unsympathetic. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, fratello. Rest well."

White-hot pain bit into his neck, and then –

He opened his eyes, screaming so loudly he tore his throat; oh God, the pain was still there, wracking his body as though he was being stabbed by a thousand tiny knives. He twisted, trying dimly to escape, and then realized he was not in the villa anymore – and the air smelled chemical again, and the power in his body was gone. He was staring up at a tiled ceiling, and a frightened glance down at himself revealed that he was lying in some kind of machine, trapped under a glass canopy that buzzed with alerts and loading bars, his wrists and ankles secured in metal restraints. He took deep, shaky breaths, trying to process what was going on and failing. Who was doing this to him? How did he keep switching bodies like this?

"Oh my God, Nate." The voice came from somewhere above him, familiar and fearful. "Are you okay?" Then, to someone he couldn't see, "What the fuck were you thinking? He wasn't ready for that! You could have driven him insane!"

Who was Nate? He took slow breaths, trying to calm himself down as the pain prickled away. Where was Mila, and San Giorgino, and Valore? Where was this place? He blinked to clear the haze in his eyes, and saw a woman peering worriedly down at him. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place her.

"Nate," she said. "Look at me. Can you see me? Just breathe."

"Dove sono?" His voice cracked. "Quello che é successo?"

"Relax. Look at my eyes." She took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "It's okay. Do you remember where you are?"

No, he didn't. He looked around at the white, sterile environment, then at the machine he was strapped into, a strange amalgamation of glass and metal. How had he gotten here? It felt like he was supposed to remember, but yet again, the memories were escaping him.

"The Bleeding Effect," someone said. "It's strong with him. He's confused."

"Why do you think that is?" the woman snapped. "You kidnapped him and threw him in without any mental preparation! You're lucky he can still talk!"

"It doesn't matter." A smooth, calm voice, male this time. "This is a great discovery, Kayla. We've never found someone with a strong Bottitelli bloodline before. Now we can find the Piece he hid from us all those years ago."

Corvo, Nate. Which was he? He tugged at the clasps on his wrists, trying to free his hands and failing. He was Corvo, wasn't he? Then what was he doing in this weak body, without his weapons? He wanted his Hidden Blade and his sword and his horse, and he wanted to go back to San Giorgino, not this cold, frightening place with strange people in it. Put me back, put me back!

"It's okay, Nate." Kayla looked at the man, who was lazily studying his fingernails. "Dad, give him a break. Please. Until he comes back to himself. Otherwise we're going to lose him."

"And why should that matter? If he becomes Corvo, all the better. We can interrogate him about the Piece." The man looked calmly at the technician. "Put him back in. Try the fight again. He needs to win."

"No!" Kayla jumped to her feet. "Just give him five minutes! You'll drive him insane!"

"Enough, Kayla. I brought you here to celebrate our great victory, not badger me and hinder my progress."

"Activating the sequence again," the technician said, typing on a keyboard. "He needs to get this right to achieve synchronization. We'll keep trying until he does."

"Excellent." The man chuckled, long and slow. "We'll find your secrets yet, Corvo Bottitelli. Whether you like it or not."

And then –

The sunset rose over San Giorgino, painting the white villas red. Corvo stood in the street, just as before, the cobblestones warm under his feet; but this time, he remembered, and was afraid. Now he had a vague idea of what was going on, and it terrified him. They wanted him to win the fight, these strange people who were forcing him to relive his memories. He had to win, but how? And what for? They had been looking for a Piece, whatever that meant. Where was it? He racked his memory, but he couldn't remember what they were talking about, or why they wanted it so badly. Yet somehow, he felt that he had to keep it away from them. It felt important, for some reason he couldn't explain. But why?

No matter. He flexed his arm, watching the Hidden Blade glimmer on his wrist. I am Corvo Bottitelli, and I will finish what I started.

Your name is Nathan! A distant voice screamed in his head, loud and panicked. You're not Corvo, you're Nathan! Don't you remember?

He shoved it down. He was Corvo, of course he was; he had always been. It didn't seem strange anymore.

And here was Mila, coming to meet him. "Corvo!" She stopped in front of him, smiling, the same as before. "You're late, fratello. The food is getting cold."

He smiled back, but he was guarded now; he knew what was coming for him when they reached the villa. "Si. I apologize."

"No worries." She waved a hand. "Come on, let's eat and we can catch up."

He followed her to the villa, debating how to play it this time. Couldn't he just kill her now, while her back was turned? He had to find some way. Perhaps if he stabbed her while she was fetching the chicken, or tripped her as she sat down…

But then he wondered why he was so set on killing her. Maybe he could just escape, get out of the conflict to fight another day. Would these unseen puppeteers be satisfied by that ending, or would they force him to finish her off? He didn't know what they wanted from him. How was any of this going to solve anything?

"Here you go, fratello." She led him into the dining room and set down a plate of chicken for him, same as before. "You must be hungry from your journey."

"Thank you." He sat down, warily. Now that he knew what was going to happen, he was tense, ready for the fight to come; his Hidden Blade felt warm on his arm. "How is Valore?"

"Oh, she's just fine. I may have borrowed her." Mila chuckled. "Sorry about that, I'm sure you were worried. She's tied out back."

"Bene." He cut into his chicken, trying to steer the conversation to casual topics. What if he could avoid the fight altogether, by never bringing up their alliances? "The weather's been nice."

"Yes, it has. Good for the crops, I imagine." Mila looked out the window at the sunset. "Have you heard anything from the Brotherhood?"

Avoid, avoid! "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Why?" She smiled wryly. "Something you've been hiding from me, fratello?"

"Of course not." He pretended to be very focused on cutting the chicken. "I would never hide anything from you. Would you hide anything from me, sorella?"

"No," she said, but there was knowing laughter in her eyes as she took a bite. "Never."

Well, this was going well so far. "Any gossip in town?"

"Not particularly." She shrugged. "It's not very exciting here."

"Sometimes that's a good thing."

"You haven't touched your food," she said suddenly. "Is something wrong with it?"

He looked guiltily at his plate. "No, of course not. I'm, er – not very hungry."

She smiled, but there was an edge to her voice when she said, "I didn't poison it, you know. You could at least try a bite."

"Of course. I'm being rude, aren't I?" He speared a piece on his fork. "You must have put quite a lot of time into making it."

"I did," she said, watching him with hawklike focus.

It was now or never. He made as if to bite – and then in one quick motion flipped the table. The food and cutlery went flying, dishes shattering on the floor; Mila had one second to yell in surprise before he lunged, driving his Hidden Blade into her stomach and tackling her to the ground.

And just like that, it was over.

He laid her gently on the floor as she went into her death spasms, clutching uselessly at the hole in her torso; her mouth opened and closed, like a fish. Her eyes stared up at him, wide and panicked, as he held her head in his hand, so it wouldn't hit against the floor. "Shhh," he said, and took her hand in his own. "Rest now, and do not be afraid. You will be at peace soon."

She gritted her teeth, blood leaking from her mouth. "I'm not scared."

"I know," he said. "You never were."

"Mio fratello." She groaned, spasmed once more, then went still; a final breath hissed out of her, and her hand slipped limply from his own. He gently closed her eyes with his fingers, then kissed her forehead.

"Requiescat in pace, mia sorella," he said, and then the memory faded around him, the villa crashing down into whiteness.

He opened his eyes, gasping; it felt like he'd just surfaced from deep water, his head ringing. Everything was blurry at first, but he squinted, and things came into focus; he saw Kayla hovering above him, staring at him in concern, and beside her Stefan Giordano, smiling coldly. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, utterly unmoved. "She was easy to kill after all."

No, she hadn't been. The pain of it still lingered even after the memory was gone. He closed his eyes, feeling tears sting his eyes as he dimly comprehended what he'd just done; he had killed his own sister. He'd had to do it, but that didn't make it right.

"Nathan," Kayla said. "Do you remember your name? Do you know what year it is?"

Who was this Nathan they kept talking about? And what was that odd, choppy language they were speaking? "Non capisco," he said, tugging impatiently on his restraints. "Lasciama andare."

"Oh no," Kayla said. "You really did get the Bleeding Effect hard."

"No matter," Stefan said. "He's synchronizing wonderfully. Let's keep this up. Next sequence, please."

"Got it," the technician said, and starting tapping on the – keyboard? Was that the word for it? Corvo stared at it, and suddenly realized he had no idea what it was, or what this machine he was strapped into did. When had this technology come into existence? The most complicated machine he'd ever seen was a printing press, but these modern, magical devices defied all explanation.

Mio dio, he thought. Have I traveled to the future? If only my Mentor could see this.

The technician frowned. "That's strange."

"What?" Stefan turned to her. "Aren't you supposed to be starting a sequence?"

"Well, I'm trying. It's not letting me." She tapped urgently on the keyboard. "What's going on? I'm getting locked out of the system…"

"What did you do?" Stefan hissed, rounding on Kayla with fury in his eyes. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I didn't do anything!" Kayla stammered, but there was a look in her eyes that told Corvo she was lying. He had always been good at seeing through disguises, masks and lies – it was part of his training. "I don't know what's happening –"

"Sir!" the technician said. "The Animus – someone's hijacking it –"

With a quiet whir, the machine powered down, and Corvo's restraints snapped open – and with a loud pop, all the lights in the building turned off. In an instant, everything was dark as night.

And darkness was where Corvo worked best.

He lunged off the table and spun, crane-kicking the technician in the small of her collarbone – his Eagle Vision outlined her in the shadows. She went down like a sack of potatoes, and he whirled towards Stefan next, but the Templar was ready for him. His savage kick at the man was seized in incredibly strong fingers, and then Corvo was thrown to the ground violently, cracking his head on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed and gasping for breath.

"Now, now," the Red Crow said, silkily. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Corvo Bottitelli. You don't want someone to get hurt."

"Templare," Corvo spat.

"Good dog." Stefan kicked him in the abdomen as he tried to rise, and he went sprawling, hissing in pain; his body was so much weaker than he was used to, and his training had not prepared him for this situation, battling in a time he didn't understand against an enemy whose tactics and fighting style were alien to him. "Now roll over."

"You first," Kayla said, and then Corvo heard a deafening silence; prone on the floor as he was, he only saw dim flickers of them in the darkness, his Eagle Vision faltering in his pain. What was going on?

"Oh, Kayla," Stefan said at last, and Corvo could hear his soft laugh in the silence. "I always wondered if they had drawn you in. You can't challenge me, either. Did you really think I'd ever let you get better than me?"

"I'm not going to fight you," Kayla said. "We are."

Corvo sensed his signal, and scrambled to his feet, just in time for Kayla to dart forward. Stefan blocked her first blow lazily, as though this was all just a show put on for his amusement; but then Corvo came at him from the side, and his calm smile faded into a scowl as he battled both of them at once, moving in a blur as he deflected Kayla's roundhouse punch and ducked under Corvo's fierce jabs, trying to sneak attacks in and failing as one of them caught his fists and forced him to contend with them alone. Sweat beaded on his brow as he blocked Corvo's kick, but moved too slow for Kayla's left hook and took it in the throat; he stumbled back, wheezing and rubbing his Adam's apple.

Kayla raised her fists, grinning, as Corvo moved to stand beside her. "What's this I see? The Crow losing his feathers already?"

"How very noble," he spat, rubbing his flushed neck. "Two on one, is that it? Look how very honorable Assassins are."

"Don't bait me. You made me show my hand in the first place, taking Nathan like that."

Corvo frowned. Really, who was this Nathan she kept bringing up? It sounded like someone important, but he couldn't recall why it rang a bell in the back of his mind. Probably nothing.

"We're leaving," Kayla said. "I'm getting him away from you. You'll never touch that Piece if I have anything to say about it."

"You're not going anywhere," Stefan said, and started forward, shaking out his fists for a second round. Corvo raised his own, ready to tangle –

The lights blazed back on, searing into his eyes. All of them stumbled, agonized; their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the sudden burning brightness stabbed into Corvo's eyes like daggers. But he was the first to recover, and took his moment, darting forward to aim a punch at Stefan's face. The Templar caught his wrist and twisted hard, and he heard bones crack; Corvo roared his fury and pain and kicked blindly upwards, his foot driving into the bottom of Stefan's chin. The Templar stumbled back, snarling with pain and clutching his jaw; blood dripped from his mouth, the impact having driven his teeth into his tongue. Corvo backed away as well, holding his broken wrist and trying to ignore the pain that rippled through it.

"I'll find you." Stefan choked it out as he surveyed them both, his mouth twisted in a snarl of pain; he looked even more frightening with blood oozing cherry-red from his lips, giving him the look of a deranged cannibal. "You can run, but you can't hide. Scuttle off if you want, but I'll find you. I'll always find you."

Kayla seized Corvo's good wrist, tugging him towards the door. "Come on. Hurry."

"Run," Stefan spat through a mouthful of blood, watching them make a mad dash for the exit. "Run, Kayla. I'll come for you, and you won't be able to hide. No one escapes me, not even you."

They sprinted down the hallway, Kayla keeping a bone-tight grip on his arm; her face was white, panic in her eyes as she yanked him towards the doors. "Come on. Come on come on. We need to go now."

Corvo understood her now, for whatever reason; he had no choice but to let her drag him onwards, out into the sunshine. The brightness stung his eyes, and he winced as she pulled him across the parking lot, towards a great machine that he vaguely remembered as being called a car. "Where are we going?" The English was seeping back into him, bit by bit, but he couldn't remember why he knew it.

"Somewhere safe. Away from him." Kayla threw open the passenger door and shoved him inside. "Sit. Hurry."

He sat, cradling his broken wrist, and watched as she ran around the car and jumped into the driver's seat. "What's going on?"

"I'll explain everything. But first we need to get out of here." She screeched out of the parking lot, brakes howling in protest as she shot away from the building and onto the road. Corvo watched her operate the machine, fascinated. "Please tell me you still remember you're Nate."

"Who?"

"Jesus, Nathan, you're really far gone, aren't you? Come on, you have to remember. Your name is Nathan Rolding."

He frowned. "My name is Corvo."

"No, it's not." She looked at him fervently as they sped down the highway. "It's not. You have to remember. I need you to be okay."

"I'm all right." He rubbed his broken wrist gingerly. "But I need to set this."

"We'll take care of that." Kayla blew out a slow breath. "You're really telling me that you're Corvo Bottitelli? The Assassin of San Giorgino?"

"Yes," he said, warily. "I've always been, haven't I?"

"No. You haven't. Aren't you wondering how you got here?"

"I assumed the Templars had some kind of time-bending Piece of Eden, or built some sort of time machine…"

"Time machine. Well, that's one word for it." Kayla sighed. "It's called the Animus. It's a machine that lets a person relive the memories of their ancestors. But if someone isn't mentally prepared for it, like y – like Nate… they can lose themselves. Become their ancestors. And that's happened to y – to Nate. You think you're Corvo now, but you're really Nate. You're living in his body. He's a person just like you were, who was thrown into the Animus against his will. And I really hope he'll come back to you eventually."

Corvo was quiet for a moment, processing this. "So this really isn't my body," he said at last. "That's why I feel so weak, and out of practice. This isn't where I'm supposed to be."

"No, it's not. But since you're here, maybe you can help me." She eyed him. "Do you remember where you hid the Piece of Eden my father wanted?"

"Your father?" Oh. Well, that would explain a lot. "That Templar – he was your father?"

"Yes, unfortunately. His name is Stefan Giordano, but they call him the Red Crow. He's very dangerous, like you saw. He thinks he's stronger than he is, of course – hubris has hindered many a Templar – but you saw how we could take him, when we worked together. But he's still dangerous, and we can't underestimate him. He'll be looking for us now, and you. He wants the Piece of Eden you hid. So tell me, where is it?"

Corvo took a slow breath. He had his memories now; he remembered, but he wasn't sure he could trust her, not yet. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I still don't know who you are." He studied her, searching for signs of betrayal, looking for what he had seen in his sister. "You helped me, but that might have been part of the plan all along. I won't tell you until I know you can be trusted."

"So you do know."

"Si. I know."

"Can you at least tell me what it is?"

"No."

"Is it an Apple?"

"I will not tell you. This pursuit of yours is fruitless."

"Oh, fine. But it was worth a shot." She pulled into the parking lot of an apartment complex and shut the engine off. "Come on, Na – Corvo. I have to pack some things and grab my brother, and then we're out of here."

"Are you an Assassin?" he asked, getting out of the car. "Or a Templar?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm both." She shrugged as she headed for the door. "Do I have to pick a side?"

"Perhaps not." He watched her buzz to unlock the front doors. "But sometimes being impartial is a choice in itself, and not always a good one."

"Listen, I'd love to debate philosophy with you, but we have places to go, people to meet and a Piece of Eden to get before the Templars do." She looked back at him as they stepped into the lobby. "You don't want the Templars to get it, do you?"

He didn't, but he wasn't fully convinced she wasn't on their side. "It would… be better for it to stay out of their hands."

"Then help me. Simple as that." She led him to a door and jammed a key into the lock. "Do you have to make it complicated?"

"Maybe not," he said, but his heart was hammering. He still didn't fully understand what was going on, or who this daughter of a Templar was working for, or how he'd gotten stuck in someone else's body hundreds of years in the future. But one thing was clear: the Templars were still active, all these centuries later. The war had not ended in Italy, with the rise of the Master Assassin whose legend was known and repeated by every Assassin then and since. It had not ended with Ezio Auditore da Firenze, his Mentor, one of the greatest Assassins to ever live.

Florence. Now he knew why it was so important. That's where we hid it, all those years ago. The Piece of Eden. But if he was in America now, this strange land across the sea – how would he ever get back? And even if he could, what if someone else had gotten there first?

So many questions, not enough answers. He needed to get them from Kayla Giordano, this peculiar woman who called him the wrong name and knew all these things he didn't. It didn't matter if she was Assassin or Templar or neither or otherwise: she was his only ally in this strange new world, and he had no choice but to trust her until he figured out where his Brotherhood had gone in this frightening, Templar-ruled future.

But if she turns out to be a traitor… If she went the same way as Mila, his sister, his beloved sorella whom he had been forced to trust and forced to kill – well, then she would meet the same fate. He couldn't tolerate another betrayal.

One false move, Kayla Giordano. One misstep. I need you for now, but I'll be watching you very closely. You won't get anything past me, I've seen too much and trained with the master of deception. No one gets to fool me anymore.

He would make sure of it.