"What's in it for me?" Cal asked as they strolled down the corridor, passing by orderlies in white amidst the backdrop of gray stone arches and tree trunks that may or may not have been actual wood. He was becoming accustomed to the peculiar blend of corporate and creative, historical and antiseptic cleanliness that defined the environment.
Still, he grew weary of the cool blue, gray, and white palette surrounding him. A part of him longed for the blazing sun, the explosive and urgent yellows, and the taste of dust in his mouth. He couldn't discern if this yearning stemmed from memories of his childhood in Baja California or if it was Leopold's midnight stroll in Japan infiltrating his consciousness.
As they turned a corner, he glimpsed a large screen displaying a talking head on what seemed to be a news show. There was something oddly familiar about the neatly styled gray hair, sincere expression, and piercing brown eyes. His gaze fell to the name scrolling under the face: Alan Rikkin, CEO of Abstergo Industries.
Ah, he thought. No wonder you have a seemingly unlimited budget, Dr. Sofia Rikkin.
"There are legal ramifications, obviously," Sofia was saying, "but once my research is complete, there's no reason to keep you here."
Cal slowed, stopped. Sofia turned to face him.
"I get my life back?" he asked, uncertain that he had understood her correctly.
Sofia smiled at him, hands primly clasped behind her back, her eyes bright, as if she were giving him a present on Christmas morning.
"Better," she said. "A new one."
Given what he had seen here, Cal had no question that Abstergo was capable of it. A new life. A fresh start. With, perhaps, none of the hot, irresistible yearning for violence to plague it.
She gestured toward the door where they had stopped. "You're hungry," she said. She made no move to follow him. Keeping his eyes on her, he moved to the door, and then stepped inside.
What Cal assumed was the common room was similar to everything else he had seen thus far in the Abstergo facility. Orderlies wore white; the patients wore the same white T-shirts, gray pants, and gray V-necked top as Cal did. It was hard to believe that they were all murderers—Assassins, as their ancestors had been. Among them, he noticed individuals dressed in traditional Japanese attire, subtle markers of the descendants of Onmyoji, adding an air of mystique to the room.
The walls were slate gray, and Cal immediately spotted the mirrored glass, behind which he knew security was observing everything. There were a couple of guards in the room as well, keeping to the sides, trying—and failing—to be unobtrusive. The room definitely had similarities to the prisons in which Cal had spent far too much time.
Still, it was a somewhat more pleasant sort of environment. There was exercise equipment, and two men were taking turns shooting hoops. Cal heard the distinctive ka-pok, ka-pok of ping-pong. Over it, he could hear birds chirping. A variety of foliage, from trees to shrubbery to fruits and vegetables, appeared to be thriving.
The thought of food made Cal's stomach rumble. But he couldn't settle down into this environment despite his very real hunger, and found himself facing the mirrored walls, trying to peer within.
As he was staring at the guards he couldn't see, someone approached him. It was the black man with a neat white beard. He was smiling. He stood exaggeratedly straight, one arm held stiffly behind him. He stepped back a pace or two, sweeping his other arm out grandly toward one of the group tables.
"How about here, sir?" he said, as if he were the maître d' of the place. Cal looked at the two tables as the man patted an empty spot on the bench. "It's an open menu, but we do recommend the chicken."
Keeping his eyes on the man, Cal slid onto the seat. Across from him was an older Asian man, his long gray hair falling in a tight braid halfway down his back. He paid Cal no attention.
A young orderly approached, her voice and manner pleasant, her hair in a tidy, professional bun.
"What can I get you, Mr. Lynch?" she said, smiling. "It's an open menu, but we do recommend the chicken."
The man's eyes danced, but his face remained solemn.
"I'll have steak," Cal said, never taking his eyes from his odd companion.
"Steak for the Pioneer!" the man exclaimed, as if instructing the orderly in her duty. "And how would sir like that cooked?"
Cal turned to the orderly. "Walk it through a warm kitchen."
The orderly left. The man, uninvited, immediately sat down beside Cal. He brought up three small cups from seemingly nowhere and placed them on the table, lip side down, in a tidy row.
"Who are you?" Cal asked. He remembered noticing his companion's picture in Sofia's research lab, but the name escaped him.
The man picked up the middle cup with deft fingers. "They call me Moussa," he said, using the cup to point toward the mirrored glass. He leaned in conspiratorially to Cal. "But my name is Baptiste."
His dark face took on a strange, serious expression. "I'm dead two hundred years, now," he said. Then he added, his voice lowering, "Voodoo poisoner." He held Cal's gaze for a long moment. Cal tensed, ready to defend himself. Then Moussa's face dissolved into an impish grin. "I'm harmless," he laughed, giving Cal a wink.
No, you're not, Cal thought. You're a killer, just like me.
Cal felt eyes on him, and his gaze wandered to meet that of a tall, gangly young man with tousled brown hair. The kid didn't flinch or look away, instead staring intently at Cal with a hard look on his face. Nathan, Cal remembered; he had also been in the garden when Cal had stumbled in, still fighting the drug in his system.
"Ah," Moussa said slyly, "they're watching you." He looked past Cal in the other direction. Cal turned to see that someone else was staring at them: the Asian woman, Lin, her long, sleek black hair tied back in a ponytail. She, too, stared at Cal with open suspicion for a long moment.
"Have you met him yet?"
Moussa's question brought Cal's attention back to him. Cal did not reply. Moussa repeated the question, his expression hardening, his words deliberate.
"Have you met him yet?"
There was nothing of a playful, "harmless" trickster about him now. When Cal still did not answer, Moussa wordlessly rose, plunking down his three small cups that, Cal now realized, were designed to perform the old "find the missing ball" trick.
"We are the last to protect the Apple, my friend," Moussa warned as he walked away. "All the rest… most of them are on their way to… infinity." And he made a waving motion with his hands, grinning one last time.
Another man, bearded and heavyset, walked up to him. Cal recognized him as Emir. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and his expression appeared to be genuinely pleasant. Smiling, he said, "'So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.' This belongs to you."
And he held out an apple. It was smallish, a little green, a little red; clearly a product of the on-site garden rather than a big-box grocery store. Cal's mouth watered at the scent of the apple, and his mind flashed back to that golden moment, lying in his mother's arms as she quoted Robert Frost.
And another voice, also female, also kind: The Templars call it the Artifact; the Assassins, the Apple.
And then there was that bizarre comment of Moussa's about "protecting the Apple."
He took the apple. Emir's dark eyes searched his, looking for something, then he nodded and wandered off.
Cal watched him go, baffled, and shook his head.
First this place was a lab, then a torture chamber; now an insane asylum.
He sensed someone coming up on his other side. Fingers closed on the piece of fruit. Without removing his eyes from Emir, Cal's hand shot out and closed on the would-be thief's wrist. Casually, Cal turned to see Nathan, quivering with intensity.
"You're going to lead them right to it," Nathan said. His voice suggested not just outrage, but personal affront.
"No," Cal replied in an exaggeratedly calm voice, "I'm going to eat it."
An appetizing smell announced the orderly approaching with Cal's steak. She set it down in front of him, a look of concern on her face, but did not intervene in the standoff. Nathan released his grip on the apple and walked away, but not without an angry backward glance.
The orderly melted into the background. Cal stared for a moment, then shook his head.
"What the fuck is going on?" he muttered, laughing a little at the craziness.
He shrugged and cut into the meat. In the midst of all the madness, it was a comfort to see that at least the kitchen in this place understood how to prepare a steak. It was rare, cool in the center, and smelled like heaven. Red juice poured onto the plate. Cal's mouth flooded with saliva as he popped the first bite into his mouth and chewed. The wonderful, slightly iron flavor of the juicy—
—bloody—
—a face, hidden in a hood, turning slowly toward him, grief and regret in his face even as the blade dripped—
Agony knifed through Cal's temple and he dropped the fork, pressing his left palm into his eye as if to physically force the pain back. He was trembling, his breath coming in quick gasps, but he didn't want anyone to notice.
As he was still trying to gather his thoughts, a figure approached him — distinct from the rest due to their traditional attire. The flowing robes, intricate patterns, and the calm demeanor unmistakably marked them as an Onmyoji. Abstergo had a peculiar policy; while Assassins were not allowed to don their iconic attire, descendants of the Onmyoji were granted the freedom to wear their traditional garbs.
The Onmyoji stopped in front of Callum, their gaze steady and assessing. "You seem troubled," they remarked, their voice carrying the wisdom of ages.
Callum shot them a wary look. "I could say the same about this place. Why are you allowed to wear that?"
The Onmyoji chuckled softly. "Tradition is a powerful tool, young one. While the Assassins' symbols might represent rebellion against Abstergo, our garbs resonate with peace, spirituality, and order. In a way, it aligns with Abstergo's goals."
Callum frowned, trying to understand the complexities of the politics at play. "So, you're not a threat to them?"
The Onmyoji's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, every tradition has its secrets. But for now, we coexist. Remember, sometimes the quietest waters run the deepest."
The cafeteria's clamor dimmed as Callum focused on the robed figure before him.
"Centuries ago, in the era of the Warring States, paths first crossed," the Onmyoji began, their voice steady and measured. "The Assassins, with their creed of freedom and resistance against control, often found themselves at odds with the Onmyoji, seen as protectors of the natural order and balance."
Callum's eyes narrowed, absorbing the weight of the shared history.
The Onmyoji continued, "While the Assassins were skilled in combat and stealth, we Onmyoji wielded the arcane arts, bending spirits and energies to our will. Our conflicts were not just of blades and shadows but also of ideology and purpose."
A distant look crossed the Onmyoji's face, as if recalling ancient memories. "There were times of alliance, where our goals aligned. But more often than not, our methods and beliefs clashed, leading to confrontations."
Callum shifted uneasily, realizing the depth of the divide. "So, why are you telling me this?"
The Onmyoji met Callum's gaze squarely. "Because here, within Abstergo's walls, the past's echoes can still be felt. You must tread carefully. While we may all be prisoners of this place, old grudges have a way of resurfacing."
Callum glanced around the cafeteria, now acutely aware of the subtle glances and whispered conversations.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "And who do they think I'll be?" he asked, his voice edged with a mix of defiance and curiosity.
The Onmyoji leaned in closer, their voice barely above a whisper, "Some believe you will follow in your ancestor's footsteps, embracing the Assassin's creed. Others think you will be swayed by the allure of the Onmyoji and Gensokyo. But most are simply curious, wondering if you will be a friend or foe."
Callum clenched his fist, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "I didn't ask for any of this," he murmured.
The Onmyoji nodded sympathetically. "Few ever do. But destiny has a way of choosing us, even when we don't choose it."
With a last lingering look, the Onmyoji added, "Remember, every step you take will be scrutinized. Every choice will have repercussions. Choose wisely, Callum Lynch."
And with that, the Onmyoji turned away, leaving Callum amidst the sea of faces.
The cacophony of the cafeteria seemed to intensify around Callum. The clinking of utensils, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional laughter – it all blended into a discordant symphony that underscored his confusion. He'd spent enough time in prison to understand those dynamics. He couldn't afford to appear weak, not now, not in this pit of vipers, or they would destroy him. Cal forced his breathing to slow and brought the pain down from unendurable to merely excruciating. Better. Slowly, he lowered his hand and looked around.