Claire's return to reality was a jagged, painful rip, tearing her out of the Animus with a force that left her gasping. She came to, sprawled across the cold floor, her breaths coming in ragged, uneven bursts, as if she couldn't fill her lungs no matter how hard she tried. The vivid images of the Vatican's stone walls and the chilling feel of Rodrigo's blade were still fresh in her mind, blurring the line between memory and reality.
Her fingers clutched at her side, feeling for a wound that wasn't there but that her mind insisted she could feel. It burned, a phantom ache that echoed the memory of Amelia's stabbing. She rolled onto her side, curling into herself as she fought to find her breath, to remind herself that it wasn't real, even as every nerve in her body screamed otherwise. Claire's body jerked forward, pitching her off the edge of the seat.
Her knees hit the cold concrete floor with a painful thud, the impact jolting through her already rattled frame. She gasped, clutching the edge of the Animus for support, her breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. Her fingers gripped the metal frame tightly, her knuckles whitening as she tried to ground herself in the here and now, but it felt impossible. She couldn't seem to catch her breath, her chest heaving as if the air around her had grown thin and unyielding.
The phantom pain from Amelia's wound still thrummed in her side, a sharp, insistent ache that blurred the line between memory and reality. Her mind screamed that she was safe, that the pain wasn't real, but her body refused to listen. She pressed a hand to her side, half-expecting to feel the warmth of blood beneath her fingers, but all she found was the unyielding fabric of her shirt. The absence of a wound did nothing to soothe the panic clawing at her chest.
She leaned heavily against the chair, her forehead pressed to the cool edge of the Animus, trying desperately to steady her breaths. But each exhale came out in a choked sob, the tears she'd been holding back finally spilling over, blurring her vision. The room seemed to spin around her, the fluorescent lights glaring down like a merciless spotlight on her unraveling.
The hum of the machines buzzed in her ears, loud and disorienting, drowning out the frantic thud of her heartbeat. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands gripping the chair's edge even tighter, her mind a whirl of fragmented thoughts. The memory of Amelia collapsing, of Rodrigo's sneering face, of Ezio's agonized expression as he reached for her—all of it crashed over her like a tidal wave, dragging her down into a sea of despair.
She barely registered Rebecca's hurried footsteps approaching until the other woman dropped to her knees beside her, her hands hovering just above Claire's shoulders before she gently made contact. "Claire, hey—hey, it's okay. You're back, all right? Just breathe with me, okay? Focus on my voice."
Claire forced herself to nod, but the motion was jerky, unsteady, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to mimic Rebecca's steady inhalations. The air felt thick, cloying, as if it refused to fill her lungs no matter how hard she tried. Her hand pressed harder against her side, as if willing the phantom pain to disappear, but it only made her chest tighten further.
Rebecca's voice cut through the haze, firm and grounding. "It's not real, Claire. You're here, with me. You're safe."
Safe. The word felt like a foreign concept, one she couldn't quite grasp. But she clung to it all the same, clung to Rebecca's presence beside her, to the steady pressure of her hand against her back. Slowly, agonizingly, the panic began to ebb, the harsh gasps of her breath evening out as she focused on the cool metal beneath her palms, on the rough concrete under her knees.
She felt the warmth of Rebecca's hand rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades, the comforting touch a lifeline amidst the chaos. "That's it, you've got this," Rebecca murmured, her tone gentle but unyielding. "Just keep breathing. You're back in the warehouse, remember? Not in the Vatican, not with them. You're here."
Claire nodded again, her movements still stiff with the effort of holding herself together. She lifted her head, blinking against the tears that blurred her vision, and met Rebecca's steady gaze. There was no judgment in the other woman's eyes, only concern, and that simple, unwavering support made the tightness in Claire's chest ease a fraction.
"I... It felt so real," Claire managed, her voice breaking on the words. Her fingers flexed against the edge of the Animus, her grip finally loosening as the initial wave of panic receded. "I thought... I thought I was dying."
Rebecca's expression softened, her fingers continuing their soothing motion on Claire's back. "I know. The Animus does that sometimes. It can mess with your head, make you feel things that aren't really there. But you're okay, Claire. You made it back."
Claire squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely now, unrestrained. Her breaths came in shuddering waves, but she could feel her body slowly regaining its bearings, the ground beneath her becoming more solid. She wasn't lying on the Vatican's cold stone floor—she was in the warehouse, surrounded by familiar faces and the dull hum of machinery.
She forced herself to lift her head again, her gaze darting toward the still-occupied Animus where Desmond lay, his face slack with concentration as he continued to live out the last of Ezio's memories. The sight of him, still caught in the grip of the simulation, sent a fresh wave of anxiety clawing through her chest, and she shifted as if to stand, to reach for him.
But her legs buckled beneath her, and Rebecca caught her by the shoulders, guiding her gently back down. "Hey, he's okay," Rebecca assured her, her voice firm but soothing. "He's still in there, but he's fine. You need to focus on yourself right now. Just take a minute, all right?"
Claire hesitated, her gaze lingering on Desmond's motionless form before she finally allowed herself to lean back against the edge of the Animus, her head falling back as she let out a shuddering breath. She knew Rebecca was right—she couldn't help him if she couldn't even stand on her own two feet. But the fear still gnawed at her, the memory of Amelia's blood staining the Vatican floor too vivid to ignore.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to banish the lingering images, to separate the memories that weren't hers from the reality she was living in. Her breaths came slower now, the air flowing a little easier into her lungs, but her chest still felt bruised, raw with the weight of everything she had experienced.
Rebecca's hand never left her back, the steady pressure a reminder that she wasn't alone in this. And gradually, the world around her began to settle into focus—the steady hum of the Animus, the soft glow of the warehouse lights, the faint scent of oil and metal that clung to everything. It was a far cry from the cold, oppressive air of the Vatican, but it was real, and it was enough to keep her anchored.
Rebecca gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "You're doing good, Claire. Just keep breathing. We'll get through this together."
Claire managed a small, shaky nod, the corners of her mouth twitching in something that almost resembled a smile. The fear was still there, a shadow lurking just beneath the surface, but she could feel it beginning to loosen its grip on her, bit by bit. And as she glanced back at Desmond, still lost in the depths of the Animus, she took a deep breath, steeling herself against the lingering echoes of pain.
Rebecca's voice cut through the haze of Claire's thoughts, sharp and urgent. "Shaun! Get me a bottle of water, now!" Her tone left no room for argument, and Claire heard the sound of Shaun scrambling from across the room, his usual sarcasm absent as he rushed to obey.
A moment later, Claire heard the quick, clipped footsteps of someone else entering the room. She didn't need to look up to recognize the determined stride. Lucy. The tension in the air thickened instantly, like a storm front rolling in. Claire couldn't shake the memory of their last encounter, the cold press of the gun against her forehead still too fresh, too raw.
But Lucy's voice, when it came, wasn't harsh or demanding—it was edged with urgency, but there was a note of genuine concern buried beneath. "What happened? Is she—"
"She's okay," Rebecca cut in, though her expression was tight with worry as she glanced down at Claire.
Lucy's jaw tightened, but she nodded, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling on Claire. "We need to pack up. Now. Abstergo's closing in on us. We don't have time to linger."
Claire forced herself to look up at Lucy, her vision still slightly blurred, but the fierce determination in Lucy's blue eyes cut through the fog. There was no time to dwell on old wounds or lingering resentment. Not when their lives hung in the balance. Claire tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled with the effort, her muscles still weak from the aftermath of the Animus.
Lucy knelt beside her, her hands hovering just above Claire's shoulders as if she was afraid to touch her. "Hey, are you with me? You're going to need to be ready for a fight. I know you're hurting, but we need you, Claire. I... I need you."
The admission caught Claire off guard, and she found herself staring at Lucy, searching for the hidden meaning behind those words. But Lucy's expression was uncharacteristically open—her usual mask of control slipping just enough for Claire to glimpse the worry beneath. It was strange, hearing those words from her, after everything that had happened between them. But Claire didn't have the energy to question it, not now.
Rebecca shot Lucy a look as she handed Claire a bottle of water. "Let her breathe for a minute, Lucy. She just got yanked out of the past with a knife in her gut."
Shaun, still hovering nearby, added with a nervous glance toward the Animus, "And we're sure Desmond's not coming out anytime soon? Because I'd rather not have him in a similar state while we're trying to make a hasty exit."
Lucy's lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. "He'll come out when he's ready. We just need to be prepared for when he does. We don't have time to spare."
Claire managed to take a few sips of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat, though it did little to calm the racing of her heart. She felt a strange duality within her—a sense of urgency thrumming in her veins, urging her to move, to act, even as the pain of Amelia's last moments clung to her like a shadow. But as she swallowed back her fear, she found a sliver of clarity amidst the chaos.
She would not be caught off guard again.
With a deep breath, Claire forced herself to her feet, ignoring the unsteady tremor in her legs. She caught Rebecca's eye, nodding her thanks before turning her attention to the weapon rack that stood against the far wall. The familiar weight of her bow staff called to her, a weapon that had become an extension of her own body during her years at Abstergo.
Lucy watched her with a wary gaze, but she didn't intervene as Claire reached for the staff, her fingers closing around the smooth wood. It was cool beneath her touch, grounding her in the present, and for a moment, the haze of pain lifted. She slid the staff onto her back with practiced ease, her movements becoming steadier with each passing second.
Rebecca, always quick to read the room, shifted into a more business-like tone. "If we're packing up, we'll need to secure everything in the truck. We can't leave anything behind for Abstergo to find."
Shaun, ever the pragmatist, muttered as he gathered up some equipment, "If they're as close as Lucy says, then we might have company sooner rather than later. We should be ready to greet them with a few surprises."
Claire nodded, her focus sharpening. She reached for the twin pistols she kept hidden beneath the weapons rack, feeling the weight of them settle into her hands like old friends. The familiar click of the magazines sliding into place was a comforting sound, a promise of protection, of control. She holstered the guns at her sides, her body remembering the motions even through the lingering fog of the Bleeding Effect.
She caught Lucy watching her, and for a moment, their gazes locked. The tension between them crackled in the air, but there was something else there too—an unspoken understanding, a truce of sorts. Claire inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the gesture Lucy had made in placing the gun out of reach earlier. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start.
Lucy's expression softened, just a fraction. "Get yourself ready, Claire. We're going to need every ounce of fight you've got."
Claire swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the weapons at her sides. She wasn't sure if she could fully trust Lucy—if any of them could—but for now, there was no choice but to work together. Desmond's safety, their survival, depended on it.
She forced a small, wry smile onto her lips, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You'll get no complaints from me."
With that, she turned away, heading toward the back of the warehouse where the rest of her gear awaited. As she moved, she felt the weight of the others' eyes on her—Rebecca's concern, Shaun's curiosity, Lucy's lingering unease. But she pushed it all aside, focusing on the rhythm of her own breath, the familiar weight of her weapons, and the determination that burned in her chest.
Claire moved with purpose through the dim back room of the warehouse, gathering everything she and Desmond would need into a large, worn duffle bag. She could feel the adrenaline thrumming through her veins, sharpening her focus and pushing back the exhaustion that threatened to pull her under. Her hands worked quickly, almost mechanically, as she grabbed her weapons, a few changes of clothes, the portable chargers, and the notes she had taken during their time in the Animus.
She didn't think about the fear gnawing at the back of her mind, or the way the warehouse suddenly felt too small, too suffocating. Instead, she shoved everything into the bag with more force than necessary, yanking the zipper closed and tossing the strap over her shoulder. Desmond's belongings—his jacket, the few personal items he'd brought with him—were the last to go into the bag, her movements slowing slightly as she tucked them inside. She paused, her fingers lingering on the worn leather of his jacket, before zipping the bag shut.
She swung the heavy duffle onto her back and made her way back into the main room, her senses on high alert. As she re-entered the space, she caught sight of Desmond still slumped in the Animus chair, his face pale and slick with sweat. Panic clawed at her chest for a moment, wondering if he was trapped in the memories, lost like Subject 16 had been.
She dropped the bag by the door and hurried over to him, falling to her knees beside the chair. Her breath caught as she reached out, her fingers brushing over his forearm in an attempt to ground him, to anchor him back to the present. His pulse was strong, but his expression was twisted in pain, and for a brief, terrifying moment, she thought he might be slipping away from her.
But then, with a sharp intake of breath, Desmond stirred. His eyelids fluttered, his hand twitching as if he was fighting his way out of the memories that clung to him like shadows. Claire held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and when his eyes finally opened, she felt a surge of relief so intense it nearly stole her breath.
"Hey, hey, it's me," she said, her voice low but urgent, trying to keep the tremor out of her tone. She cupped his cheek for a moment, her thumb brushing over the stubble along his jaw. "Desmond, focus on me, okay? We don't have much time. Lucy says the Templars are close. We have to move."
Desmond blinked rapidly, his eyes focusing on her as if she were the only thing tethering him to reality. He groaned softly, running a hand over his face as he tried to push through the lingering disorientation. "Templars?" he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. "They're here?"
Claire nodded, her grip tightening on the armrest of the chair. She forced herself to maintain eye contact, trying to steady him with the urgency in her gaze. "Yeah, and we need to be ready. Can you fight? Are you up for this?"
He drew in a deep breath, and she could see the determination settle into his features, the strength that had carried him through so many battles flickering back to life. He nodded slowly, pushing himself upright with a grimace. "Yeah... I'm okay. Just give me a minute."
She watched him closely, searching for any sign that he might be hiding the pain that she knew too well from her own experiences in the Animus. But Desmond straightened his back, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to his feet, and she couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride at the resilience that had kept him alive through everything.
Before she could say more, Lucy's voice rang out across the room, sharp and commanding. "Alright, Shaun. I need you and Rebecca to get everything in here packed up and loaded into the truck. You and I'll deal with the Templars."
Desmond cast a wary glance in Lucy's direction, his expression hardening as he processed her words. "What, they're here already?" he asked, his voice low but filled with an edge of frustration.
Shaun, who had been frantically gathering equipment into a storage crate, shot Desmond a grim look. "It was only a matter of time before they discovered us. To be honest, I'm surprised it took them as long as it did."
Lucy moved toward them, her movements brisk and efficient. She pulled a small armband from her pocket, the hidden blade glinting in the low light, and tossed it to Desmond. He caught it, sliding it onto his forearm with practiced ease. "Let's go," she said, her tone brooking no argument.
Claire took a step back, giving Desmond space as he adjusted the blade and flexed his fingers, testing the weight. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the battle-ready focus settling over his features like a mask. And despite everything—despite the fear gnawing at her gut and the chaos that threatened to swallow them whole—she felt a surge of reassurance at having him by her side.
She grabbed the strap of the duffle bag and slung it over her shoulder again, catching Desmond's eye for a brief moment. There was no time for words, but the look they exchanged held a thousand unspoken promises—of survival, of determination, of standing together no matter what came next.
Desmond reached out, squeezing her shoulder once, a small but steadying gesture. She reached up and grasped his fingers, squeezing them back. "Stay close," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. "We'll get through this. WE have another safe house that we are going to head to."
The warehouse became a hive of activity, the air buzzing with tension and urgency as they prepared for the imminent attack. Claire tightened her grip on her bow staff, feeling the familiar weight settle into her hands. The cool metal, polished smooth from years of use, felt like an extension of her body—something she could rely on when everything else seemed uncertain.
Desmond adjusted the blade on his forearm, his movements precise and controlled, but Claire caught the flicker of worry in his gaze as he glanced her way. She offered him a tight nod, trying to convey a sense of confidence she didn't entirely feel. "I've got your back," she murmured, her voice low and resolute.
He gave her a brief, grim smile. "And I've got yours."
Suddenly, the air outside the warehouse crackled with the sound of boots on gravel, the unmistakable hum of vehicles rumbling in the distance. Rebecca shot them both a wide-eyed look from where she stood by the van, her hands moving quickly over the equipment as she packed up the last of their things. Shaun paused just long enough to mutter a curse under his breath before ducking back to help Rebecca with the loading.
Lucy, already positioned near the main door, held up a hand, signaling for silence. Her expression was steely, her focus locked onto the approaching threat. Claire tensed, her muscles coiled like a spring as she moved to stand beside Desmond, ready to face whatever came through that door.
Then, with a thunderous crash, the front entrance burst open, the metal door bending under the force of a battering ram. Abstergo agents poured into the space, their faces masked beneath helmets, their weapons raised. Claire's pulse quickened, adrenaline surging through her veins as she moved forward, stepping into the open space at the center of the warehouse.
Without hesitating, she swung her bow staff in a wide arc, catching the first agent across the side of the helmet with a satisfying crack. The blow sent him stumbling, his weapon slipping from his grip, and Claire pressed forward, her staff a blur of motion as she engaged with the next attacker.
Her movements were fluid, each strike delivered with the precision of a seasoned fighter. She jabbed the end of the staff into an agent's solar plexus, following it with a sweep that knocked his legs out from under him. The man crumpled to the ground, and she pivoted, her staff coming up just in time to deflect a baton aimed at her head.
Desmond was a few feet away, taking down agents with swift, calculated strikes of his hidden blade. His movements were less refined than hers, but there was a raw power to the way he fought—a determination that mirrored her own. She caught glimpses of him in her peripheral vision, moving through the chaos like a shadow, his blade flashing in the dim light.
Claire focused on her own fight, ducking low to avoid a swing from a burly agent, then snapping up with a sharp jab to his ribs. He let out a grunt, doubling over, and she drove her knee into his chin, sending him sprawling. But there was no time to savor the small victory. Another agent lunged at her from behind, and she spun, bringing her staff up just in time to block the blow.
Her muscles ached, the strain of the battle already taking its toll, but she pushed through the pain, her mind clear and focused on the task at hand. The warehouse echoed with the sounds of the struggle—grunts of effort, the clash of metal against metal, the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the ground. She lost herself in the rhythm of the fight, letting instinct take over.
One of the agents closed in on her, reaching out to grab her wrist. She twisted sharply, breaking his grip, and slammed the butt of her staff into his jaw. He staggered back, dazed, and she finished him off with a spinning strike that sent him crashing into a stack of crates.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Desmond locked in a fierce struggle with a particularly tenacious opponent. The agent had him pinned against a metal support beam, his baton raised for a crushing blow. Desmond struggled to free his arm, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Without thinking, Claire launched herself forward, planting one end of her staff into the ground and vaulting over it to deliver a kick to the agent's back. The force of the blow sent the man stumbling forward, releasing Desmond from his hold. Desmond wasted no time, driving his hidden blade into the agent's side before shoving him to the floor.
He glanced at her, breathing hard, gratitude flashing in his eyes. "Thanks for the assist."
She managed a breathless grin, swinging her staff to parry another blow. "Anytime."
As the chaos of the battle continued to rage around them, the familiar, chilling voice of Warren Vidic cut through the noise, sending a cold shiver down Claire's spine. She froze for a moment, her grip tightening around her bow staff as she turned to face the man who had haunted her nightmares for years. Vidic stood at the entrance of the warehouse, his posture relaxed but his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction.
"Mister Miles! This is an unexpectedly pleasant turn of events!" Vidic called out, his tone smooth and mocking. "And here I thought I'd have to waste more men on you! Kind of you to save me the trouble."
Desmond's expression darkened, his jaw clenched as he took a step closer, positioning himself between Vidic and Claire. "What do you want, Vidic?" he demanded, his voice cold with barely restrained anger.
Vidic smirked, spreading his hands wide in a mock display of innocence. "For you to come home! We miss you terribly. There's still so much work for us to do together!" His gaze shifted to Lucy, a glimmer of malice in his eyes. "And I see you've brought along some old friends. How delightful."
Lucy, standing a few paces away, glared at Vidic with a fury that Claire had rarely seen in her. "It's not happening, Warren," she spat, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Vidic's smirk twisted into something darker, more menacing. "You continue to disappoint in every conceivable way, Ms. Stillman. I saved your life, once. Do you remember? And THIS is how you repay me?"
"You saved me so you could keep experimenting on people—destroying their lives—and for what?" Lucy shot back, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and something Claire couldn't quite place—regret, perhaps, or guilt.
Vidic's laughter was a sharp, grating sound that echoed through the warehouse. "Oh, this tired argument again. As I recall, you were there—at my side—every step of the way… Their blood is on YOUR hands just as much as MINE."
Claire's blood ran cold at his words, the memories of Abstergo's sterile halls and the endless hours trapped in the Animus flashing through her mind. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her grip tightening painfully on her staff as she forced herself to focus on the present. Vidic's gaze flicked to her then, a twisted smile curling his lips as he took a step closer. "And look who else has come back to me. Claire. It's been far too long. You know, we've missed your... potential at the lab. Why don't you come home, hmm? There's still so much we could learn together."
Claire's stomach twisted with revulsion, but she met his gaze head-on, refusing to let him see her fear. "I'd rather die," she hissed, her voice barely more than a snarl.
Desmond's hand brushed against her shoulder, a brief but grounding touch, and he took a step forward, his eyes blazing with anger. "You need to stop him," Lucy urged, her voice tight with urgency.
Desmond nodded, a grim determination settling over his features. "I'm on it."
With a burst of movement, Desmond launched himself at the nearest group of guards, his blade flashing in the dim light. Claire moved beside him, her staff whirling through the air as she struck down anyone who dared to come near. The battle raged around them, but Claire kept her focus locked on Vidic, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury. Every movement, every strike, was a desperate attempt to put as much distance between him and Desmond—and between herself and the memories he dredged up.
Vidic's voice rang out again, taunting and cold. "Our resources are infinite while yours dwindle by the minute. What were you thinking, Ms. Stillman? You can't hide from us. Is this really necessary?"
Claire bit back a bitter retort, channeling her anger into the swift, precise movements of her staff. She took down one of the remaining guards with a sharp strike to the back of the head, sending him sprawling to the ground, before turning to find Desmond locked in combat with the last of their attackers.
With a final, powerful strike, Desmond dispatched the guard, sending him crumpling to the floor. He straightened, catching his breath as he turned to face Vidic, his hidden blade glinting ominously in the flickering warehouse lights.
"Uh-oh, Doc," Desmond said, his tone darkly mocking. "Looks like it's just you and me now."
Vidic's smirk faded, but the cold malice in his eyes remained. He took a step back, his hands raised as if in surrender, but the arrogance in his voice betrayed him. "Enjoy your victory, Mister Miles—temporary as it is."
As the adrenaline from the battle began to wear off, the urgency of their escape set in. Rebecca's voice rang out sharply, cutting through the tense air. "Desmond! We have to go!"
Claire glanced at Desmond, her heart still racing, bruises forming beneath her shirt from the blows she had taken during the fight. She could see the weight of everything in his eyes—worry for her, the tension between him and Lucy, the sheer gravity of what they had just faced. She reached out, giving his arm a quick squeeze. "Come on, Desmond. We're not done yet," she said, forcing some steadiness into her voice even though her hands still trembled slightly.
The scene around them blurred as the warehouse doors swung open, spilling them into the cold night air. Shaun and Rebecca worked frantically, loading up their gear into the back of the van. Claire moved to help, her muscles protesting each movement. She threw bags into the vehicle, her mind buzzing with the images of Vidic's twisted grin, his mocking words lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
"Here, I've got Lucy," Desmond said, his voice a mix of frustration and concern as he helped the still-stunned Lucy into the passenger seat of the van. Shaun's face was pale with anxiety, but he quickly masked it with his usual sarcasm as he glanced between them. "There you are! Come on, mate. Hurry up and get in. We're on the clock here."
Desmond gave a curt nod, then turned to Claire as she finished throwing the last of their gear into the back. "You okay?" he asked, his voice lower, rougher. She could see the worry in his expression, and she tried to muster a reassuring smile, even though her whole body ached from the fight.
"I'll live," she replied, glancing towards Lucy, who was leaning back in her seat, her face tight with pain. A part of Claire wanted to feel satisfaction seeing her like that, but she couldn't bring herself to. Not after everything. "Let's just get out of here."
They climbed into the van, the doors slamming shut behind them, sealing them inside the cramped, tension-filled space. Desmond sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed with each bump in the road. As the van roared to life and lurched forward, Rebecca's voice cut through the darkness, her tone laced with worry. "Here we go. I've got you all hooked up. Got a long drive ahead of us. Figured you might want to play around with the Animus on the way..."
Desmond nodded, though he cast a wary glance at Claire. "Alright, but I've got some questions first. I mean—what the hell was that in the Vault?"
Lucy twisted in her seat to look back at him, her expression shadowed by something that Claire couldn't quite read. Regret? Fear? Whatever it was, it didn't sit right with her. "What you saw proves everything I was afraid of," Lucy said, her voice steady but with an edge of something that made Claire's stomach twist. "The Templars aren't our biggest threat. Not by a long shot."
Desmond frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece it together. "So... what, the sun is? What's it going to do? Cook the Earth?"
"I doubt it," Lucy replied, though there was a trace of uncertainty in her voice. "But... I don't know. There's been some speculation that the Earth's magnetic field is weakening... A sufficiently strong flare could flip the poles and cause a geomagnetic reversal. It's all theoretical. But if it happens—the planet could become geologically unstable. Very unstable."
Shaun, busy with a laptop in the back, looked up from his work, his face lined with skepticism. "It's meant to be the stuff of pseudo-science—but clearly something catastrophic happened to the people of the First Civilization. And that woman—Minerva, was it?—she seemed to think we were due for a second round."
Claire leaned back against the cold metal of the van wall, trying to wrap her head around it all. Everything they had fought for, everything they had endured—was it all leading up to something even worse? She glanced at Desmond, seeing the same doubts mirrored in his eyes.
"So either way we're fucked," Desmond muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
Lucy's expression softened slightly, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I don't know yet... We'll keep reviewing the tapes. And you can keep digging through your memories. Maybe there's more to discover."
Desmond let out a weary breath, his shoulders sagging as he nodded. "Alright. Guess I better get started..."
"Desmond, wait," she said, her voice firm but laced with concern. Her grip on his arm tightened, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket as if trying to anchor him to the present moment. "You need to give your mind a rest. We've barely had time to process what happened back there. You can't just jump back in."
Desmond turned to face her, his brow furrowed, frustration simmering in his dark eyes. "Claire, we don't have time to waste. The more I'm in there, the more we learn, and with Vidic and the Templars—"
"It can wait until we get to Italy," she interrupted, her voice firming even as her chest tightened at the thought of what they had faced earlier. "You're no good to any of us if you burn yourself out. And after everything we just went through... You need to take a break."
For a moment, he stared at her, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. He could see the determination in her eyes, the unspoken worry that lingered there, and finally, he let out a resigned sigh. "Alright," he said, his voice losing some of its edge. "I guess... I guess you're right."
She nodded, relief washing over her, and she gestured to the back of the van where a couple of duffle bags were piled. "Come on, sit with me. We've got a long ride ahead of us."
They moved to the back of the van, settling down amidst the bags and equipment. The space was cramped, but it provided a strange sort of comfort—an enclosed haven amidst the chaos of their lives. Desmond leaned back against the cold metal wall, closing his eyes for a moment as if savoring the chance to simply breathe without the weight of memories pressing down on him. Claire settled beside him, the warmth of his shoulder pressing against hers.
For a while, they sat in silence, the sound of the van's tires on the road a steady rhythm that filled the space between them. Claire rested her head against Desmond's shoulder, feeling the tension gradually melt away from her muscles, though her mind still buzzed with the events of the night—the fight, the gunshot, the fear in Lucy's eyes, and the look on Vidic's face when he recognized her.
"Thanks," Desmond said softly after a while, his voice breaking the quiet. She turned her head to look at him, her blonde hair falling across her face. He reached up, gently brushing a strand behind her ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "For stopping me back there. I think... I think I needed that."
She managed a small smile, though it felt fragile on her lips. "It's what I'm here for," she replied, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "Besides, it's nice to have a few minutes where we're not running or fighting for our lives."
He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound vibrating against her, and she found herself smiling a little wider in response. The weight of everything they had been through still hung over them, but for now, there was a sliver of peace between them—an understanding that they didn't have to face this alone.
They stayed that way, leaning into each other's presence as the van sped through the darkened roads, carrying them toward whatever came next. And for the first time in a long while, Claire allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they would make it through this together.