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The Assassin's Creed: Revenants

Chapter Three: Den of Snakes

Sitting in a far-off corner of the room, Whitley Schnee did nothing but stare at the floor. He didn't look at the linoleum tiled floor to appreciate their design, which he absently noted to have a geometric pattern consisting of gray intersecting lines. No, there was only one reason he stared so intently at the tiles. He wanted to be sure that his sense of vision still worked. The eyes perceived the world as it was, from the shape of a floor tile to their coloration.

They were real. A tiled floor he could see and feel. The sound of his shoes clicking across their surface he could hear. The pine-scented floor polish he could smell. Of course, he'd rather not know what they tasted like. The obvious answer was that they probably tasted like linoleum and pine-scented floor polish. Again, he'd rather not find out.

But the taste would be real. As real as the chair he sat upon, the clothes he wore, and the two adults arguing in the distance.

"We cannot do that, Brianna, and you know why!"

"But we need that data, Dominic! We have a deadline to meet! And if we don't have any results by then, it'll be more than just our jobs on the line!"

Just what sort of results are they looking for that involves kidnapping a Schnee? The boy derisively thought as searing hot rage coursed through his body.

Just who did these people think they were, to kidnap the only son of Remnants' wealthiest family? That they would get away with such a crime and not expect any sort of consequences? And what kind of kidnappers was they to take a person and plug him into a machine? And said machine supposedly had the ability to make people experience the memories of their ancestors?

Before, he would have dismissed such a notion as absolute tripe, the kind of nonsense one would find in a shoddily written science-fiction novel.

But no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he knew in his gut that it was all true. Those memories had been real, because he had experienced them, complete with the sensations and feelings they invoked. And he saw it all through the eyes of an ancestor he didn't know existed, no less. Everything this Baz person experienced, he had felt himself.

He had felt the hot, dry, and arid desert wind blasting into his face, as well as the sand being crushed beneath his booted feet. He had heard the manic cacophony of the city bombarding his ear drums. He had felt the sudden, searing pain of a metal arrowhead piercing through his robes and his flesh. The adrenaline jump-starting his heart as he fought to survive...

The utter lack of feeling he felt as he watched the light fade in a man's eyes, their wet and sticky blood coating his callused and bruised hands...

Suddenly, something stirred within the frightened boy. And it was coming from his stomach.

"No-no-no, please, not agai- Blarrgh!" For the second time, vomit had shot out of the boy's mouth, staining the once crisp and clean floor.

Having heard the boy losing his stomach's contents, Dominic Culver couldn't help but grouse. "Oh, great, and the kid just puked again."

Dr. Brianna Bleach, unlike her colleague, was not as disgusted, speaking in a clinical tone. "Still, the nausea is a more preferable side-effect compared to the reactions of other subjects."

"Admittedly, yes, but it still proves that we shouldn't force another session with the boy. If we plug him back into the Animus immediately, there's a chance he'll start experiencing the bleeding effect or worse, memory disassociation."

Bleach pursed her lips, unable to counter Culver's argument. She looked at their current subject, who sat in a far-off corner of their laboratory. The boy looked a little worse for wear, with his hunched-over posture, shaking body, and his shaking eyes staring at the fresh puddle of vomit on the floor. As much as it pained her to admit it, she knew Culver was right. They couldn't extract any data from the Schnee in his current state.

She looked back to Culver, "Fine, we'll play it your way. I want you and the guards outside to take the boy to his room. I'll stay here to collect the Animus data... and call sanitation to deal with the vomit."

Culver nodded in deference and walked over to the boy. Bleach went to her desk and pressed a button. Within a second of the button being pressed, the lab doors opened to reveal two tall and burly men, dressed in tactical black, strode into the laboratory. She looked to them and ordered, "Gentlemen, would you please help my colleague in escorting Mr. Schnee to his assigned room? We're finished for today."

The two grunts nodded silently and held the doors open for her partner. Bleach watched as Culver led the shaking Schnee away to the door, which the two gaurds closed upon their exit. Now alone in her lab, Bleach set about doing her final tasks of the day. First, she pressed the intercom on her desk and said, "Sanitation, this is Dr. Bleach, I need some clean-up in Animus Chamber 17. Our new subject couldn't hold his stomach in."

"We'll send someone immediately, ma'am," Replied the dispatcher.

"Thank you and that will be all." She spoke in gratitude before ending the call.

With that out of the way, the Doctor could finally focus on extracting that much-needed data from the Animus' hard drive. She opened her computer and began the arduous task of sorting through clusters of data, which displayed themselves on the screen as tiny flashing sequences of ones and zeros. As the Animus loaded the required information into her computer server, Bleach couldn't help but let out a satisfied smirk.

She was not one to believe in miracles. But something miraculous did happen in spite of the setbacks she suffered. True, the session may have ended prematurely, and the boy's synchronization rate was dismal, the fact that she had been able to collect any data was impressive. Oh, and all the incredible things she had seen.

Through the memories of the Schnee's ancestor, she had been able to see the lost city of Mashrek in all its untainted glory. She had witnessed the fabled bazaars that built the city and all the different cultures that intermingled there. She had watched an actual Bakkayan Assassin fight his way through mercenaries and Templars. But most significantly, she learned there had been possible infighting in the Assassin Brotherhood.

Still, it begs the question: Why would the Assassins destroy one of their own bureaus? And why leave no survivors? Bleach furrowed her brows in consternation, unable to find any discernible reason for such an act. Then again, what use is there in understanding the motives of trained killers?

It was definitely a puzzle she'd like to solve, but it was one with missing pieces. But did she have the time to find them all? It had only been two days since the Schnee had been brought to their facility and she only had two weeks before the deadline set for her project. With the boy's disappointing synchronization rate, she calculated that it would take three to four weeks to improve it. Of course, there was one other factor that complicated the problem.

Unlike the other researchers, Bleach and her assistant, Culver, were using a first generation Animus terminal. This particular model was five years old, a dinosaur in technological terms, with none of the fancy bells and whistles that the newer Animi possessed. When she had inquired why such an antique had been assigned to her, her supervisor (and director of the company's whole Animus division), Dr. Leonard Church, explained that it was for reasons that were beyond her salary. When she demanded a raise, he countered with the threat of a demotion, which promptly quashed any further protests.

And just to rub it in, the doctor issued that threat using the same infuriatingly imperious tone he was known for.

Gods, I detest that man... Well, I'll be the one getting the last laugh once the board sees the fruits of my labor! She smirked as she took a sip of her coffee.

But even the taste of her favorite beverage did nothing to soothe Bleach's worries. Yes, the board would be impressed by the results of her research.

Who knows? Perhaps the board will be impressed enough to give Dr. Church's position to her.

With that thought in mind, Dr. Bleach found new motivation in sorting through the data. She had to make all this hard work worth something.

The lift shuddered as it began its slow descent, its progress marked by the flashing arrow pointing down. As the elevator descended downward, Whitley Schnee took a moment to assess his situation. As of now, he was being held captive in who-know-where, trapped in a slowly-moving metal box, accompanied by a rather laidback "doctor" and two guards the boy felt he needed protection from. Based on these facts, the young heir came to a rather quick conclusion.

The conclusion being that whatever plan he enacted would end badly for him. And he was sure it would be painful, at that. Then again, it wasn't like he had a chance to begin with, considering one very undeniable fact.

The fact being that Whitley Schnee was not a fighter.

Unlike his sisters, he did not possess the same martial prowess they inherited from their mother and Grandfather. While his sisters were as fit and lean as any warrior can be, he was frail and fragile like a twig. The only things she shared with his sisters were their mother's snow white hair and icy blue eyes.

Except for his eldest sister, Winter, who he knew dyes her hair.

Seriously, she's not fooling anyone, especially with those eyebrows. The boy thought humorously to himself, unknowingly letting out a small snort.

"Are you going to puke again?" Culver inquired in alarm, having heard the snort. "Just give a guy a warning so he won't get caught in the splash zone."

In lieu of vomit, Whitley Schnee let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, trust me, if I were about to vomit, you'd be the first to feel it."

Despite the remark, Culver retorted, "Oh, go ahead, but keep in mind." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Do anything like that, and I'm sure my two friends here will take offense to that."

The Schnee gazed over his shoulder and beheld the two Guards standing only inches behind him. The hulking masses of muscles looked down at him with stern and unfeeling gazes. The fact he could not see their eyes behind their sunglasses sent a cold chill down his spine. It was like he was looking at machines rather than men. And he was sure that these two machine men would tear his arms out without any hesitation if given the command. The boy wisely returned his gaze to the elevator doors.

Eventually, their descent came to an end, as the elevator doors slid open.

And what sight had awaited him behind these opened doors? It was a long and sprawling hallway with very high cement walls, grey and foreboding. Suspended by metal poles to the ceiling was an interconnected network of railed catwalks, with narrow bridges connecting one side of the hall to another, with blinding spotlights that shone down on the floor. This sight alone would have set Whitley on edge. But what truly chilled him to the bone were the people walking on the platforms.

They were many and all were dressed in the same tactical black as the guards escorting him and Culver. Unlike the two burly brutes, these gaurds were of average height and fully armored in riot gear. And nestled within their arms were rifles, black and sleek. It was then and there did Whitley realize what this place was.

It was a prison. And he was the newest inmate.

The young man shook in fear. He didn't know what was going on here. And what he did know didn't leave a very good feeling in his gut. And he was scared of what he might find in the hallway. That fear alone was keeping him from exiting the elevator. And nothing was going to force him from that spot.

"All right, kid, if you'll just follow me, I'll take you to your room." Culver said as he stepped out of the lift. When the man noticed Whitley's hesitance, as well as where his gaze was directed, he tried to reassure the boy. "Oh, don't mind my pals up there. They never use those things. Besides, they fire tranqs most of the time. And they only use them for emergencies."

"And what kind of emergency warrants all of this?" The boy demanded.

"The kind that involves unruly guests... like what you're being right now, punk." He heard one of his guards threaten.

Understanding the clear threat of violence, Whitley hesitantly stepped out of the elevator. Now wanting to risk incurring the wrath of his guards or the armed personnel walking above him, he joined Culver. The scientist led the boy down the hall, with their assigned escorts trailing but a meter away. The young heir made sure to keep that way as he quickened his pace to match his guide's.

But as he followed Culver, the Schnee finally took notice of something he had overlooked. Every twenty meters or so, they would pass a door. Every door was metallic, the lights shining above reflecting off their surfaces, and they each had a small pad situated to their left. With every door he passed, the boy felt his curiosity grow.

"Pardon me, but what are behind these doors?" He asked his guide.

"Your neighbors," Culver answered without missing a beat. The man asked rhetorically, "You didn't think all this security was just for you, kid?"

Despite the rhetorical tone, Whitley just had to arrogantly reply. "Well, I am Whitley Schnee, after all. I happen to be very important."

He heard one of his guards let out a small chuckle. He didn't dare turn to find out who had laughed. But then the guard spoke in a deep and gravelly voice, "Yeah, you are Whitley Schnee. But you're not as important as you think you are."

The boy opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by the other guard, whose voice was surprisingly more nasally. "And last I remember; your dad was the one with all the money. Your mom was born into said money. Your oldest sister, the runaway, is the youngest Specialist in the Atlas Military, and one of Ironwood's best soldiers. And your other sister is a prodigy swordswoman, one of the most talked-about singers in Remnant, a prospective huntress, and... oh, there was something else. What was it? It was at the tip of my tongue."

Culver answered for the man, "And she's daddy's current choice for inheriting the company. And what exactly does that make you, kid?"

Whitley didn't have the courage to answer that question.

Seeing the Schnee had lost his self-superior attitude, Culver resumed leading the boy to his room. The group of four walked in complete silence, the only sounds to be heard being the stomping of boots on metal grates and the occasional announcement over the PA system. Soon, they come across a door with the number 17 engraved on it.

"Welcome to Room 17, Mr. Schnee." Culver told the room's new guest.

The man entered a code into the small box hanging to the door's right. The moment he pressed "enter", the door slid smoothly back, disappearing into a thin slit within the door frame. Without the door obstructing their way, Culver led the boy inside.

The very second he stepped into the room, Whitley Schnee found himself utterly repulsed.

Just like the room he had previously woken up in, everything was white. And like before, this shade used was one he would describe as a brilliantly obnoxious and irritatingly sterile white. If he had to name this particular shade, his two choices would have been "Asylum Ivory" or "Straitjacket White". He thought those names appropriate, given his current situation.

Beyond the color, all the boy can say about his new quarters was that it was quite minimalistic. The room was quite small, with a freshly-made bed and a small nightstand with a built-in alarm clock. To his disgust, the sheets upon the bed were just as white. To the left of the bed was a closet, which he was unsure had already been filled. Across from the bed, he saw a large plasma screen television, possibly measuring at seventy inches. In a corner of the room, he beheld a small bookshelf bereft of literature. Finally, he noticed an opened doorway which revealed a small bathroom, complete with a shower.

"What do you think of your new accommodations? It's not five-star, but we did the best with what we could." Culver remarked, earning a small derisive snort from the boy.

"It's... something." The boy couldn't think of any word that'd properly express his feelings about the room.

"Don't worry, all of rooms look like this. We don't give special treatment to anyone. For now, feel free to make yourself at home." The doctor made his way toward the door. As he stood in the doorway, he told the boy. "Oh, and you'll be meeting your new neighbors tomorrow at breakfast, which is at 9:30 AM in the cafeteria. After that, you all get at least two hours of recreation time before we put you back in the Animus."

He was about to make his exit when he snapped his fingers. "Oh, and I've been asked this before, No, we don't have any cameras in these rooms. You're guests, not prisoners. But remember, if you start trouble, there will be consequences."

While mostly relieved that he'd have some privacy, the boy couldn't help but shudder at the prospect of being punished. It'd be in his best interests to stay in his host's good graces.

"With that out of the way, I leave you to your own devices. Curfew starts in three hours. Sleep tight." With those final words, Culver exited the room, the door sliding back into place with an audible lock.

Whitley stared at the door for a good long minute, wanting to be sure there'd be no further interruptions. When it became clear that there wouldn't be any unannounced visits, the boy finally allowed himself to relax. He plopped himself onto the bed, where he felt a sensation that was welcome and familiar. Rather than the cold, smooth, and rigid surface of the Animus, what he felt was indeed a mattress; a warm, comfortable, and soft mattress that folded to the contours of his body. The boy hummed in blissful satisfaction as he nuzzled himself further into the fabric. Oh, he will never take beds for granted ever again!

But even as he found comfort within these satin sheets, the boy couldn't help the foreboding feeling building in his gut. Nothing about this seemed real. After everything he experienced today, he didn't know what was real or not. Understandably, the young heir was starting to question his sanity. For all he knew, he actually was locked up in some asylum, strapped in a straitjacket, ranting madly to no one, his shouts absorbed by the cushion-lined walls.

And yet, here he was, resting comfortably within a so-so bedroom in nice, warm bed. All of which were provided to him by a mysterious group that had kidnapped him just so they can pick apart his ancestor's lives. And they accomplished that with technology that shouldn't even exist. Culver said he may be a guest, but the boy knew that was nothing but a lab rat.

A rat trapped in a den of snakes.

Suffice to say, He had trouble getting sleep that night.

Finally, we have the third chapter. Admittedly, it was short, considering it was a transitional chapter. As for the next update, expect it sometime in January. Until then, I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season. The next chapter of the Invincible Whitley Schnee will be uploaded at the end of the month.

Edit 11/30/21: Due to the enormity of the chapter, as well as circumstance beyond my control, Chapter 24 of Invincible Whitley Schnee will be released on December 10. I apologize for the inconvenience; I just don't want another two-part chapter.