No one bit their lip or rubbed their eyes. Not once. The complete lack of sadness tore at Clay. He told himself if he wasn't buried in Italy, and was someplace closer to home, more people would have come. But he knew on some level that it was probably a lie. He had no siblings, his mother had left. No extended family that he knew of. His co-workers from the accelerator had long since lost touch, even then, he wasn't close to most of them. He had always been something of a loner, but no one expects a funeral this... desolate. What of his Assassin brothers? He dismissed the idea quickly, though. His team had consisted of three members. Himself and Lucy were both present, of course. He hoped a trained member like Rebecca knew better than to come out in the open like this. Though he counted her as a friend, he knew she had to keep hidden above all else.
Still, the lack of emotion ate at him. He was dead, and no one seemed to be losing sleep over it. Dead. Not on vacation for the weekend, or out the the store. He was never coming back. His father would never see his boy again. Clay found himself the only one with any humanity. The only one choked up, and not even for the right reason at a funeral. He wanted to be missed. Everyone wants to be missed. To know they've left a mark, that they've touched the people around them somehow. Clay knew he had, and yet... where was his proof? Who would be his witness?
His eyes fell to the small cremation box in the front of the room. To think, all he once was, was in a little box no longer than his forearm. Though, his forearm was in it too. He took in some air to sigh with, finding the breath to be surprisingly difficult. It made sense, he supposed, that a dead man would have a tough time breathing.
Was this it, the end? Sure, thirty wasn't a full life, per se, but it was his entire life. Every memory he's ever made, every step he took and every word he said, is remembered like this? In a small church just outside Rome, with a song he hated sung by a woman he'd never met? He still didn't want to die, he never wanted to die. He just wanted out, he was desperate, and alone. The only comfort was in hollow words from a traitor, the only council was a Goddess telling him to kill himself. He had no choice, no freewill. Isn't that exactly what the Assassins fought for? Freewill? Right to life, freedom, and choices? There was so much he still didn't understand. So much he still hadn't seen. He had been given an ultimatum- die on Juno's terms, or die on Abstergo's.
Juno had told him to help Desmond Miles. She had shown him what he would do, and he had rejected it. Why wouldn't he? The picture she painted for him left his skin crawling. And yet, he accepted in the end. After everything he had seen, everything he experienced. Through someone else's eyes or not- he had felt everything from guillotines to bullet wounds. What choice did he have, but to accept? His body wouldn't be able to withstand Abstergo's search for much longer, though they would try regardless. And his mind had all but left him. Abstergo had drained him of his soul- all that was left was for him to drain it's vessel.
His thoughts were interrupted when the lady started to sing another song. An unfamiliar one to Clay, though he suspected it was a hymn. Harold and Lucy stood once she had finished, and turned to leave. They didn't regard one another, and, he supposed, they had no reason to. They hadn't been introduced by him, and he didn't know how else they would meet. Harold stopped briefly to thank the minister and shake his hand, but didn't linger. Clay wondered to himself who had payed for this ceremony. It wasn't much, and the box was painfully simple and wooden. Save for a small metal plaque with his name on it, it was little more than a large breadbox.
Everything he once was, fit into a glorified breadbox. What a humbling thought, that was. He had become nothing more than fertilizer- worm food- in a little wooden box.
Bill must have slipped out earlier, his seat was vacant before the song had even began.
Clay tailed Lucy, realizing he was making a habit of it. Ah, well. If it bothered her, she could call the Ghostbusters. Lucy left the building and turned the direction opposite whence they came, to an isolated grassy hill. She sat under a tree near the top and sighed, leaning against it. Clay made himself comfortable beside her and leaned back on his elbows. The view here was impressive, he had to admit. The angle of the hill gave them a breathtaking view of the city.
There was a lot to look at, really. Clay was soaking in the details when he heard a soft noise nearby, something like a whimper of a small dog. He turned to see what it was, and saw Lucy had covered her face with her hands. Still, she stifled it back, but muffled sobs betrayed her. Why did she hold it back? She finally had the solitude to let herself cry- but she fought it down. Clay moved up close to her and tried to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. As expected, there was no reaction to the touch. Though she felt solid and warm under his hand- as she always had- he must have felt cool and airy. Negligible to the slight breeze. Though he wouldn't ask for her to be unhappy, he still caught himself with a little smile at her tears. At least someone would miss him.
He sat there a while, just sitting with her. They were finally outside, and together. He didn't want to leave. Didn't want her to leave.