Sofia hadn't fibbed about his legs. Two hours later, he was back on his feet, the wheelchair tossed aside like yesterday's news. There was still a faint tingle lingering, but the orderlies swore it'd fade in no time. Cal almost welcomed it after being numb from the waist down for what felt like an eternity.
Running his thumb over the grooves of his mother's necklace, he glanced up at the thick glass wall that had become all too familiar. But this time, there were no prying eyes on the other side.
The observation area was deserted. Only his own reflection stared back at him. Yet as Cal locked eyes with himself, a change came over him. His gaze hardened, and in his mind's eye, a hood draped over his features.
Leopold Lafleche met his gaze, and Callum Lynch grinned.
The Assassin stood beside him, not lurking from behind or striking with lethal precision. Instead, he moved forward with a shout, demonstrating a defensive stance. Cal followed suit, mirroring his movements.
Learning.
Training.
Alan Rikkin was far from pleased with his daughter's approach. She was being too forthcoming, attempting to win Lynch over to the Templar cause, coaxing him back into the Animus to aid their mission.
This, in Rikkin's opinion, was sheer folly. While Sofia was undoubtedly brilliant and may have grasped the intricacies of the Animus better than he did, Rikkin understood people, especially Assassins. Some had defected to the Templar side, but most remained steadfast in their loyalty to the Brotherhood. Leopold Lafleche, unlike Baptiste or Duncan Walpole, would never betray his brethren. And Rikkin was certain that in this instance, bloodline mattered.
Callum Lynch might be charmed by his daughter's allure and calm demeanor. He might even entertain the idea of being rid of his violent tendencies. But Rikkin knew better.
In his office, alongside Tadakuni, Rikkin watched the feed from Lynch's room in silence. They observed as Callum Lynch, descendant of an Assassin, honed combat skills designed for one purpose: to eliminate Templars.
"We're playing into his hands," Tadakuni muttered. "We're only making him stronger."
This was unacceptable. It was high time Rikkin took action.
Behind him, Cal heard the door opening. He didn't bother to turn, assuming it was just another orderly. He was in no hurry to be dragged back to the Animus.
"I'm Dr. Rikkin," came a cool, precise British voice, adding, "Alan."
Mildly surprised, Cal turned. Before him stood a tall, slender older man. He wore a black turtleneck, a gray wool sweater, and slacks. His face was aquiline and elegant, the graying hair sporting what was clearly an expensive, but conservative, cut. Every line of the man bespoke money and power. He had dressed casually, but looked like he belonged in a boardroom in a power suit.
Cal could see now that this was, indeed, the man he had seen on that day so long ago. And the knowledge stirred a myriad of emotions.
"I look after things here at Abstergo," Dr. Rikkin—Alan—continued. "Like to keep things in the family, huh?"
Rikkin gave him a smile. It was practiced, charming, and completely false, though Cal was willing to bet that it had fooled more than a few people.
"Yes," Sofia's father said, with a faint chuckle. "I'm sorry if we've caused you any discomfort. Is there anything I can do?"
"Fresh towels would be nice."
Again, the warm smile that lacked any genuine emotion. "I'm certain that can be arranged."
"While we're at it, how about you let me out of here?"
The smile was devoid of pleasantness now as Rikkin ambled, hands in pockets, to the long, backless bench where he sat, spreading his hands out on either side.
"That's something I can't manage," he said, with false regret. Then the fake smile shifted, becoming wry and cunning—and much more real. He was dropping the act. Good. No more bullshit.
"I'm here to make a deal," Rikkin continued. "We need the Apple of Eden, and we need you to get it for us."
Cal had spent enough time around predators to know when he was in their presence, and Alan Rikkin struck him as one of the most dangerous he'd ever met. Cal would not trust the man, but….
"I'm listening," he answered, carefully.
The dark eyes searched his, flickering over his frame. Analyzing and evaluating. Rikkin seemed to reach a decision, getting to his feet. He gestured at the still-open door.
"Why don't we stretch our legs?" he said. "Work that last bit of tingling out."
"Any more hallucinations?" Dr. Rikkin asked Moussa, peering into his eyes with a scope.
"Only everything around me," he quipped. She offered a smile of her own at that, then clicked off the scope and reached for a clipboard, jotting down notes.
"Your bloodwork is excellent, all tests are positive, and your eyes look fine."
"You sending me back to the machine?" Moussa asked. He kept his voice easy, his body posture relaxed, but he figured Dr. Rikkin had his number. No one was ever eager to revisit "the machine."
Sofia had had Moussa brought in for another series of tests. He was fit and healthy. She'd informed him that orderly reports stated that he mixed well with the others, ate well, and worked out vigorously. But even though he'd called on all of Baptiste's charisma, Moussa was well aware that Dr. Rikkin didn't trust any of the patients.
His eyes flickered to one of the walls. It was covered with images—old Polaroids, newspaper clippings, a timeline. Well, Baptiste inside him amended with a shrug, maybe the doc does trust one.
"No, you don't have to go back," Dr. Rikkin said briskly in answer to Moussa's question, her dark head bent over the report as she finished jotting down her notes. "You've already shown us what we needed to see."
Moussa had no desire to return to the Animus. But he was suddenly aware that he had no idea what would happen to him—or, indeed, any of them—when they were no longer "needed." And he had a terrible suspicion.
"Then can we be free now?" he asked, sincerely; none of Baptiste's playfulness now.
Dr. Rikkin obviously wasn't expecting the query and looked up at him, struggling to keep her emotions from showing on her face. She might not be as cruel as McGowen, and she certainly was a lot easier on the eyes, but she was one of them. She was the master of the Animus and decided their fates. Moussa thought he saw his answer in the simple fact that she refused to answer the question.
Shit, he thought, his stomach sinking.
Her eyes flickered away from him, and a frown creased her pale forehead. She walked over to the monitor and leaned her hands on the desk, peering at it intently.
Moussa followed her gaze. He saw the other Dr. Rikkin walking down a corridor. Her father appeared to be engaged in pleasant conversation with Lynch.
Moussa's gaze went back to Sofia's face. Whatever was going on, it was upsetting her. He didn't know if that was good or bad.
He resumed looking around at the display cases. Baptiste was on high alert, and wheels were turning in Moussa's head as he analyzed the cases' contents. Old swords, manuscripts, pieces of art. Daggers. Jewelry.
And one thing Baptiste—and Moussa—recognized: blown glass containers, small enough to fit in a man's hand, covered with decorative filigree.
His eyes still on the small items, Moussa asked, "What do you hope to gain from the newcomer?"
Sofia had clearly almost forgotten about his presence. Absently, her attention on the scene unfolding in front of her, she replied, "Something that will benefit us all. You too, Moussa."
"You've been desynching in the Animus," Rikkin said to Cal as they went past a few expressionless guards. They gave Cal not so much as a glance. It was an odd feeling. "We need you to not do that."
He had paused at the door to a room Cal had never entered and tapped in a code.
"We call this the Infinity Room," Rikkin said. The door swung open and Rikkin stood to the side, allowing Cal admittance.
The Infinity Room was full… but no one was home.
It was crowded with patients, all wearing the same gray uniform and white shirt Cal had seen in the common room. But these people weren't shooting hoops or eating chicken. They walked aimlessly, stood in place, or sat quietly. Staring… at absolutely nothing, their faces as blank as a sheet of paper. Some were old, some were young; all were broken.
The room had many chairs and beds. Some of the patients here seemed unable to move from the beds without assistance. The oddest thing about it was the ceiling. The silhouettes of birds, black against a white background, were projected against its flat surface. Cal's first thought was that the rhythmic, gentle motion unfolding above their heads was soothing to the patients. But then he wondered if anyone here could even actually see the display.
Cal recalled Moussa's bizarre comment before he had left Cal alone in the common room: All the rest… most of them are on their way to… infinity.
Cal looked at Rikkin, but the other man's face was unreadable. He looked again at the occupants, and then, carefully, moving slowly, he stepped inside.
Those who shuffled through the room moved to avoid him, but otherwise it was as if he wasn't even there.
This was, without question, the most horrifying thing he had yet seen in this place. Violence, as Sofia would be quick to point out, was something he understood. It was urgent, immediate. It was alive.
This…
"What have you done to them?"
"They call it 'splitting,'" Rikkin explained. Cal wanted to look away from the empty shells, but didn't seem to be able to tear his gaze from them. "It's what happens if you don't enter a regression of your own volition."
You desynchronized. It caused a neurological split, but we got you through it. This time.
The words had been chilling enough when Sofia had spoken them earlier. Now, Cal's bowels clenched as he understood the fate that he had eluded. This time.
With seeming casualness, Rikkin removed something from his pocket and regarded it thoughtfully. Cal struggled not to react, but sweat broke out beneath his arms and his palms as he regarded the metallic contraption.
"Do you recognize this?" Rikkin asked rhetorically. "It's an Assassin's blade."
Oh, yes. He recognized it.
In the cool, soothing blue light that appeared to be ubiquitous throughout the rehabilitation center, the blade appeared sterile. The almost mystical aura it had radiated in Cal's memories—both those that were his own from that awful day and those that belonged to Aguilar de Nerha, who had a completely different relationship with the weapon—was utterly dispelled here. There was no intricately crafted gauntlet concealing it, and the inner workings of its spring-driven mechanism, which appeared almost childishly simple, were laid bare for anyone to see.
Cal remembered how easily, quickly, cleanly he had been able to activate or retract the storied weapon of the Assassins. How it had felt, to plunge it into a bare throat and experience the patter of hot blood spouting from the carotid artery on his hand as he pulled it back.
How it had looked on an ordinary late afternoon three decades past, with blood running off its tip to drip onto linoleum.
Rikkin pressed something on the device. The sharp shing of the blade's activation, and the startling speed with which the lethal metal sprang forward, snapped Cal back to the present.
"This is the actual one your father used to take your mother's life," Rikkin continued in a conversational tone. He was examining the blade—admiring its construction, weighing it in his hand, as if fascinated by the thing.
Absently, almost as an afterthought, he added, "He's here, you know."
Rikkin lifted his eyes from the weapon. They were cold as a snake's. Cal understood immediately that Rikkin did not simply mean that his father was here, at the facility.
He meant that Joseph Lynch was in the Infinity Room.
So this is the deal, Cal thought. He said nothing, but looked out again at the room full of things that were once people. But this time, he was looking for one of them in particular.
His searching eyes suddenly stopped their quest. A muscle in his jaw tightened and he swallowed hard.
"A mother's death, Cal," Rikkin said quietly. For the first time since Cal had met him, the man sounded genuinely regretful. "It's not something a boy should ever be made to see."
Cal turned back to Rikkin. The older man stepped forward, extending the blade hilt-first to him. Cal stared at it. He could knock it to the ground and spring on Rikkin. He could step back—walk away.
Drip.
Drip.
Red on the linoleum.
A giant man, a hooded man, staring out the window.
Slowly, Cal extended his hand to take the blade. Deftly, Rikkin turned, moving the weapon out of Cal's reach and placing it with great precision on a gleaming metal table with curved edges. He stepped back and looked at Cal, a hint of a smile quirking his thin lips.
Then he turned and sauntered out of the room. Cal continued to stare at the blade, barely registering Rikkin's departure. His arm trembled, ever so slightly, as he reached out and gripped the base of the knife. He had expected it to be cold, but it was warm from Rikkin's touch. And it was warm and growing warmer as Callum Lynch turned around and began to slowly make his way through a sea of shuffling zombies.
