Rikkin sat in his office, lost in contemplation, savoring the rich aroma of Hennessy Paradis Imperial swirling within his snifter, when his daughter stormed in. He had anticipated her arrival sooner, but McGowen had relayed Sofia's instructions to inform both the head of security and her father that she was "unavailable until further notice." Rikkin had begrudgingly accepted that, though his patience wore thin. It was understandable for Sofia to take time to assess the situation and ensure Lynch's safety. But now that she was here, he demanded answers.
Though his daughter's anger was contained, Rikkin had learned to recognize it. It simmered in her eyes, evident in her body language as she stood before him, her lips pressed tight and her arms folded firmly across her chest. But he harbored his own anger. He had observed her interaction with Lynch, the way she held his hand and spoke to him with a tenderness he had never seen before. It was a behavior he could not reconcile with the gravity of the situation at hand.
His countenance mirrored hers, rigid and unyielding, as he demanded, "What happened?"
"He desynched," she answered tersely.
Irritation flared within him. "I know that, why?"
"He wasn't ready." She refrained from uttering the words "I told you so." It was unnecessary; he knew she had warned him. She continued, "We lost him. We lost control of the Animus. We don't know where he went, what he did… nothing."
Sofia leaned forward, her hands pressed firmly against his desk, her eyes ablaze with intensity. "What if we lose him again?"
Rikkin remained silent. The implications were dire. If they lost him again... they would lose everything.
Cal found himself in a nightmarish scenario, a convergence of crucifixion and drowning. Confined within a cage, his feet bound together and his arms splayed wide, he was engulfed by water. Terror surged through him as his lungs screamed for air. Above him, barely discernible through the aquatic haze, was a flicker of gray amidst the aqua-blue, illuminated by sporadic beams of light. Gray, white, and then a face emerged from the murky depths.
Leopold.
Cal's scream was muffled as water rushed into his mouth, replacing precious air with suffocating liquid. Panic surged within him, his chest heaving with the effort to expel the water invading his lungs. But then, abruptly, he blinked, finding himself not submerged but floating atop the water's surface. An orderly stood nearby, calm and composed, waiting patiently for Cal to regain his composure before gently guiding him back underwater.
He pieced together the chaos of the fight, flashes of movement and clashes of steel blending together in his mind. The screams of combatants, the thundering of footsteps, and the metallic tang of blood filled his senses. Each strike felt like a desperate bid for survival, each parry a dance with death. In the frenzy, he found a grim satisfaction, a sense of purpose amidst the turmoil.
Cal awoke to the sensation of a mask snugly covering his nose and mouth, the steady flow of oxygen bringing a sense of relief as he lay submerged in the warm, saline water. The attendants had explained something about electricity and galvanic stimulation, enough for Cal to grasp that this was meant to be a treatment, not a form of torture. Despite his discomfort, he insisted they remove the mask periodically to regain a sense of control, each removal accompanied by a brief ascent to the surface.
Below him, a dim blue light radiated from the depths, casting an eerie glow in the room walled with black metal. The gentle steam rising from the water added to the surreal atmosphere. If he hadn't been restrained in the cruciform cage, Cal might have found the experience oddly tranquil.
Uncertain of how much time had passed, Cal felt a glimmer of clarity returning to his thoughts. The hallucinations had ceased, a sign that perhaps, amidst the chaos, there was some truth to the attendants' intentions.
They didn't inquire about his well-being, and he didn't offer any details voluntarily. As they hoisted him up for what felt like the fiftieth or perhaps even the thousandth time, a figure loomed over him. But this time, it wasn't Leopold. It was Sofia, and he realized she was tangible, not just a hallucination. Whether that was a positive or negative development, Cal couldn't quite discern amidst the swirling uncertainty.
Sofia entered the recovery room, her frustration evident in her demeanor. Despite the financial support provided by the Templars for her research, she had always strived to distance herself from the political entanglements surrounding the Templar Order and Abstergo Industries. Until now, she had largely succeeded, a feat nearly as impressive as the scientific breakthrough she hoped to achieve with Cal's assistance.
Checking Cal's vital signs before fully entering the room, Sofia was relieved to see that he was recovering satisfactorily. However, she remained uncertain about her actions during his desynchronization. The overwhelming surge of emotion was unfamiliar territory for her.
"I can't feel my legs," Cal remarked calmly as Sofia approached the edge of the pool where he lay.
Sofia mirrored his composure. "The paralysis is temporary," she assured him.
Cal seemed to accept this information before posing a question. "What's the bad news?"
"You desynchronized. It caused a neurological split, but we managed to get you through it," Sofia explained, pausing briefly. "This time."
As Cal met her gaze, the shimmering reflections of the water danced over his body, his eyes reflecting fear and pain.
"I'm going to die in there, aren't I?" he asked, his voice heavy with resignation.
Sofia didn't respond immediately. Instead, she sat down beside him, crossing her legs and leaning forward.
"No," she answered after a moment. "Not if you go in there of your own free will." She offered him a gentle smile, but he turned his head away from her, his gaze fixed on the shifting light playing across his face.
"We can put an end to pain, Cal," she continued, her words sincere. "For everyone."
"I can't do this," he said, his tone devoid of protest or despair. It was a simple, blunt admission, and Sofia felt a pang of hurt.
"Yes, you can," she replied. He looked at her then, wanting to trust her but clearly wary. Sofia felt another pang of disappointment. She remembered her childhood vigil, the wild creatures, the lost chances.
Taking a breath, Sofia considered her next step. She knew her father wouldn't approve, and it could backfire spectacularly. But something inside her insisted it was the right thing to do.
If he was to trust her, she had to trust him. Trust him to understand what he was being asked to do.
"I want to show you something."
Within twenty minutes, the orderlies had removed Cal from the recovery pool, bathed him, dressed him, and placed him in a wheelchair. He met her at the door of his room, his frustration and resentment at his current helplessness palpable. Sofia attempted to push the chair, but Cal refused, gripping the wheels himself and staring up at her defiantly.
"Where to?" he asked.
"The Animus Room," Sofia replied. His face hardened, and she added, "You're not going back in."
"You're right. I'm not," Cal replied. He let her lead; his previous trips down the corridors to the room had not been conducive to making note of the turns.
She had dismissed her team, so they had the room to themselves. Natural sunlight filtered in from above, but most of the rest of the area was bathed in the cool blue of the after-hours lighting.
Once they reached the Animus Room, Cal permitted Sofia to roll the wheelchair next to a cabinet before she unlocked it with a set of keys and removed a single item. She looked at it for a moment. Her back was to Cal; he did not see it. This was her last chance to change her mind. Once she gave it to him, what she would set in motion could not be halted.
She took a deep breath and stepped in front of Cal, offering the necklace, its pendant gently swinging from its silver chain, to him.
He looked at her first with mild interest, but as his eyes fell on the necklace, she saw recognition flow over his face like water.
An eight-sided star with a diamond shape in the center. Etched on it in black was a symbol that looked almost like the letter A, if that letter's lines had been made from stylized, slightly curved blades.
Cal had seen this pendant every day for the first seven years of his life. The last time he had laid eyes upon it, the silver lines on the pendant had been etched with dripping blood, and the chain had been tangled around a dead hand.
The memory thrust itself into his vision: the hyper-clarity of each fat drop glistening on the tip of his mother's fingers before falling slowly with a soft plop to the linoleum. The tinny sound of Patsy Cline, a bizarre soundtrack for a horror show.
The warm hues of the room, of his mother's strawberry-gold hair.
The emptiness in her dead eyes.
Anger and sorrow, more dangerous and powerful than the rage, washed over him. But it was his rage, his sorrow, and he would not share it with the woman who stood before him now.
Slowly, he lifted a hand and took the necklace.
"Where did you get this?" he said, his voice a rough whisper.
"My father recovered it from the scene of your mother's murder. He brought it here for safekeeping."
A muscle twitched near his eye. His mind went back to the fleet of black SUVs that had roared up in front of his childhood home. The pale, angular featured man with the black sunglasses and dark clothes in the passenger side of one car. So… it had been Alan Rikkin, the man the child Cal had seen speaking on the television, after all.
The man who had fathered the angelic-looking woman who, impossibly, was currently regarding him with compassion in her large eyes.
"Safekeeping," Cal repeated, disbelieving. "You stole it."
"It's your mother's necklace," Sofia replied. "I wanted you to have it."
She truly had meant this as a kind gesture. She couldn't understand what it was doing to him. Briefly, Cal's thoughts flitted to the old photo, of another smiling, murdered mother, this one with the little girl who would grow up to stand in front of him, handing him his own murdered mother's necklace.
Cal focused on her words. Her father had been present; he had recovered it.
"Why was he there?"
"To save her."
Sofia was still compassionate, but she answered in a straightforward manner. It helped him stay calm. Cal knew she knew that. Even so, he could feel the façade cracking; could see his vision blurring with tears.
"From who?"
"Her own people."
"What's it got to do with you?"
Something flashed in the blue depths of her eyes. "Assassins and Templars have been at war for centuries. I aim to change that."
It was almost funny. "That's right," Cal replied, exaggeratedly. "I forgot. We're all here to combat aggression."
Their gazes were still locked, and the urge to spout gallows humor faded beneath true anger. He kept it in check, under control, as he replied, "I don't think I like your methods. I don't think I like Templars that much, either."
That seemed to sting, somehow. Sofia replied, "I'm a scientist."
"I'm here to be cured of violence." Cal shook his head, adding, almost sadly, "Who's going to cure you?"
"I'm trying to create a society without crime. We can remove violence from the human genome, but we need the Apple to do it. Our choices seem our own, but they are governed by what has come before us."
"You see what you want to see. Prisons are full of people like me, and it's people like you who run them."
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
Cal was done. She couldn't see it. Dr. Sofia Rikkin, scientist, had tried to be open and aboveboard with him—as much as someone in her position could be. But like many clever people, she had grown quite adept at lying to herself—or, at the very least, she had cultivated willful blindness. Sofia truly believed in what she was trying to do, and her eyes pleaded with him to believe it, too.
He was no longer angry. He just felt sorry for her.
Cal reached down to the wheels of his chair and began to propel himself back the way they had come, leaving her with a final, scathing comment.
"I think you're missing something."