In the stark light of the mess hall, Claire sat alone, head bowed, her mind drifting far from the bland food on her tray. Her hair fell like a shield around her face, obscuring her from the crowded room's monotony. Each bite was mechanical, tasteless. Her thoughts looped through a familiar pattern: planning, calculating, reliving regrets, feeling the ever-present ache in her muscles from her nights spent rebuilding herself in silence. This small reprieve—the garden and mess hall—was supposed to offer her some solace, but it rarely did. Today, her mind lingered on a quieter ache. She remembered that Callum's birthday had been just yesterday. Fourteen years gone, and she still knew that detail by heart.
The quiet murmur around her shifted, drawing her out of her thoughts. Her gaze snapped up, her heart suddenly hammering as she saw him—just feet away, standing in the doorway, looking disoriented, his face both familiar and foreign. It was Callum, right there, in front of her. His eyes, wide with a mixture of suspicion and defiance, scanned the room, landing nowhere in particular. He looked so much older, but some part of him was still the same boy she remembered, the one she'd tried to protect, to distance herself from. Her heart twisted painfully. She wanted to call out to him, but her voice caught in her throat, tangled in shock and years of silence.
As Claire watched from her seat, her fingers gripped the edge of her tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt caught in a surreal mix of longing and dread, her heart pounding against her ribs. Moussa's casual gesture toward her table cut through the haze clouding her mind.
"How about here, sir?" Moussa suggested, his voice nonchalant, though Claire could see the glint in his eyes—a look of quiet understanding. The words seemed innocent, polite even, but there was a subtle undertone she knew well, one that spoke volumes. Callum, however, seemed too wary, too overwhelmed to catch it.
Callum's gaze swept across the room, his brow furrowing in suspicion as his eyes fell on her table, lingering briefly before moving on, not recognizing her beneath the shadow of her hair and the years that had stretched between them. She held her breath, willing herself to stay still, to blend in, even as every nerve in her body urged her to reach out, to close the impossible distance between them.
Then an Abstergo attendant slid up to Callum's side, all polished professionalism and that false warmth she'd come to despise. "What can I get you, Mr. Lynch?" the attendant asked, flashing an overly wide smile. "It's an open menu, but we do recommend the chicken."
Claire watched, unable to tear her eyes away, as a faint, defiant smirk tugged at the corner of Callum's lips—a smirk that was so distinctly him it stirred something painfully familiar in her chest. He hadn't changed as much as she'd feared. "I'll have the steak," he replied coolly, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement that felt like a rebellious undercurrent against the too-bright, too-clean surroundings.
Moussa chuckled beside him, giving an approving nod. "Steak for the pioneer," he commented, his tone somewhere between humor and respect, as though Callum had passed an unspoken test. Claire could feel Moussa's gaze flickering over to her, sensing his quiet support, his readiness to intervene if the moment called for it.
Callum turned to Moussa, suspicion in his narrowed gaze, his wariness evident. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice edged with distrust. Claire's breath hitched as she took in the scene, feeling every bit of tension that radiated from her brother's stance.
"They call me Moussa," he answered, his smile relaxed, his manner impossibly easy considering the weight in the room. "But my name is Baptiste." He paused, letting the words sink in, before adding with a faint grin, "I'm dead 200 years now. Voodoo poisoner. I'm harmless." Moussa shrugged, his gaze dancing between Callum and Claire, lingering on her for a split second longer as if to gauge her reaction, to measure the weight of emotions she was barely keeping in check.
Claire barely heard their words through the pounding in her ears, each beat echoing like a hammer against her ribs. Callum was so close—close enough that she could see the faint lines of worry on his forehead, the tension in his jaw, and the restless way his gaze darted around the room, taking in the strange, wary eyes of everyone surrounding him. He was the same in so many ways—the same defiance burning in his expression, the same way he squared his shoulders as if ready to push back against whatever the world threw at him. Yet he was also a stranger, someone shaped by years she hadn't been a part of, years she couldn't protect him through. She didn't know where to begin, how to bridge the canyon of time and silence between them.
Moussa's voice cut through her tumultuous thoughts, his tone low and weighted with a quiet intensity. "They're watching you," he said to Callum, leaning closer, his gaze steady. The words weren't just a warning—they were a dark truth, a reminder of the invisible chains binding everyone in the room. "Waiting to see who you are, pioneer."
A pang struck her heart, watching Callum's reaction, the way his gaze hardened as he scanned the room, eyes lingering warily on each captive studying him. He must have felt it too—the weight of judgment, of expectation. Abstergo's eyes weren't just cold observers; they were calculating, weighing every move, every word, as though his entire worth depended on what he might become.
Moussa's voice softened, drawing Callum's focus back to him, his tone intimate, almost reverent. "Have you met him yet?" he asked, his words cryptic but urgent, as if the question carried the answer to something more significant than either of them realized. Callum blinked, visibly taken aback, but Moussa's gaze only grew sharper, pressing him as he repeated, "Have you met him yet?"
Callum's expression twisted in confusion, but there was something else there too—a flicker of realization, a crack in his guarded composure that hinted at questions he wasn't ready to ask. Claire felt herself inching forward, caught in the tension that had coiled tightly around the room, each word from Moussa deepening the shadows of mystery and expectation around them.
Moussa stood, his gaze lingering on Callum with a look that was both hopeful and cautionary. "We are the last to protect the Apple, my friend," he said, his voice quiet but firm, as if delivering a solemn charge. "Pick the wrong choice, and you'll send us all to infinity." The words settled over the room like a shroud, their implications both grand and terrifying, as if their fates rested on Callum's shoulders alone.
Emir, who had been watching from nearby, leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate. With a measured reverence, he placed an apple in front of Callum. The fruit gleamed under the sterile light, a symbol of everything that had driven Abstergo to hunt them down, everything that had turned their lives into nightmares. "This… belongs to you," he murmured, his voice tinged with something almost sacred, as though this simple gesture held the weight of centuries.
The silent intensity of the moment broke like a taut string snapping. Nathan, his patience frayed and his fear simmering just beneath the surface, lunged forward, his expression fierce, words filled with accusation. "You're going to lead them right to it," he hissed, his voice a harsh counterpoint to the reverent silence that had blanketed the room moments before. His hand shot out, reaching for the apple with swift, desperate intent, his fingers curving as though to snatch it away, to protect what he believed was rightfully his to guard.
Without thinking, Callum's hand caught Nathan's arm mid-motion, his grip firm. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, everyone watching to see what would happen next. Claire felt her own heart pounding, her muscles tense as she weighed whether to step in. She could see the confusion deepening in Callum's eyes, a mix of anger and fear that hardened his expression.
"Stand down, Nathan," Claire ordered, her voice like steel, sharp enough to cut through the thick tension that had settled in the room. Nathan threw her a defiant glare but, after a moment's hesitation, finally relented, stepping back with a muttered curse. He stalked away, his eyes narrowing as they swept over Callum, lingering on him with barely restrained animosity. The others returned to their seats, but their gazes didn't leave Callum, each face a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and a hint of wariness.
The attendant chose that exact moment to bring Callum's tray, sliding it in front of him with an oblivious smile. The normalcy of the act was jarring, almost surreal, as if they were all simply here for a quiet meal and not on the edge of something far more dangerous.
Callum looked down at the tray, his jaw clenched tight, then lifted his gaze to take in the strange assortment of people around him. His eyes flicked to Claire, lingering for a moment as though trying to place her. "What the f* is going on?" he asked, his voice a raw edge, his frustration barely contained.
The sound of his voice twisted something deep in Claire's chest. Fourteen years of silence, distance, and everything she hadn't been able to protect him from. Her hand curled around her own tray, fingers pressing against the cold plastic. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to anchor him in a reality that she herself barely understood. But she held back, the gulf of time and circumstance making that impossible.
"This…" she began, her voice coming out softer than she intended. "This is Abstergo." She searched his eyes, willing him to see some hint of recognition, to remember the sister who'd once tried to shield him from a world he couldn't yet comprehend. "They have us here because of our—" she paused, searching for the right word, "lineage."
He blinked, his brows furrowing. "Lineage? What the hell does that mean?" His voice was tinged with a mixture of confusion and anger, and for a second, she saw the young boy he used to be, staring up at her, trying to make sense of things he was too young to understand.
"They think our blood holds… memories," she explained, the words feeling inadequate. "Memories they can use. To find something they want." She cast a quick glance at Moussa, who gave her a subtle nod of encouragement, his expression a quiet show of support.
Callum shook his head, incredulous. "Memories in our blood?" He laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "This sounds like some sick sci-fi nightmare."
"It does," she admitted, feeling a bitter smile tug at her lips. "But that doesn't make it any less real." She hesitated, the years of separation weighing on her, each one filled with her attempts to keep him out of Abstergo's reach. She forced herself to meet his gaze, the same familiar defiance sparking back at her. "They've taken people like us, people with… connections to the past. And they won't let us go until they get what they want."
His face hardened, his eyes darkening with a mix of anger and fear. "You're saying they're using us like… like lab rats."
Claire nodded slowly. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
He stared at her, his gaze lingering on her face as though trying to reconcile the sister he'd once known with the scarred, battle-worn woman sitting across from him. "Claire…" he started, his voice trailing off, uncertain, as if her name itself was foreign on his tongue.
She felt a sharp pang at the sound of her name, the way he said it, as though dredging up some long-buried memory. "It's been a long time," she whispered, trying to keep the emotion from cracking her voice.
"Fourteen years." His voice was soft now, a barely audible murmur, as though he was calculating the lost time, the years that had slipped through his fingers without any explanation. He stared at her, searching her eyes as if expecting answers to everything he'd been forced to endure alone. "Why didn't you… why didn't you come back? Why didn't you find me?"
The words stung, each one a reminder of the years she'd tried to protect him by staying away, by keeping herself hidden. "I tried, Cal," she said, her voice thick with a weight she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years. "But Abstergo… they got to me, and I knew… I knew if I stayed away, they'd leave you alone. It was the only way to keep you safe."
He shook his head, a mixture of hurt and disbelief flashing in his eyes. "Safe?" He let out a bitter laugh. "You think disappearing for fourteen years kept me safe? Do you have any idea what I went through?"
Her heart clenched, guilt twisting in her stomach like a knife. "I know, Callum," she whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I know… I just thought—" She swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. "I thought it was the only way."
He looked away, his jaw clenched tight, his hands curled into fists as he processed everything she was saying. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the chasm between them, but the years hung heavy, the choices she'd made casting long shadows over every word.
Moussa, sensing the gravity of the moment, stepped back, giving them the space they needed but lingering close enough to act if needed. Claire watched as Callum's expression shifted, the anger fading into something more raw, something vulnerable that she hadn't seen since they were kids.
"I needed you," he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. "When Mom died, when they came for me… I needed you."
The words cut through her, an ache settling deep in her chest. She'd known this moment would come, the confrontation, the raw truth of everything she hadn't been able to give him. And now that it was here, she found herself hollow, the explanations she'd held onto feeling inadequate.
"I'm here now," she said, the words hollow even to her own ears. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'm here, and I'll do whatever it takes to get us both out."
Callum's gaze softened, just barely, his anger tempered by a flicker of the boy he used to be, the one who'd looked up to her with trust. "Then start by telling me everything. No more secrets."
Claire took a steadying breath, eyes meeting Callum's as she prepared to lay bare the truth, the tangled story that had separated them and forced her to stay hidden. She could see the anger and confusion in his expression, a mirror to the pain that had burdened her for so many years. He deserved the truth, and she'd held it from him long enough.
Claire took a deep breath, her gaze steadying as she prepared to unravel the years of secrets she'd kept, the truths she'd been forced to hide.
"Our family wasn't… normal," she began, her voice low but unwavering. "Our parents were part of something ancient, something far older than any of us could imagine. Mom and… your father, they were Assassins."
Callum's brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, listening.
"They belonged to a Brotherhood sworn to protect freedom by any means necessary. Their mission was to keep powerful artifacts—the Pieces of Eden—out of the wrong hands. The Templars, like the ones who run Abstergo, believe in using those artifacts to control people, to bend the world to their vision of order." She paused, letting him absorb the weight of it. "That's what the Brotherhood stands against."
She could see him processing, his eyes flickering with a mix of disbelief and anger. "So… everything? Mom, and my father… they were fighting some ancient war?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "It was dangerous, and it eventually caught up to them." Her voice softened as she added, "Mom made a choice, Cal. A choice to keep you safe from this world, to try and protect both of us. She made Joseph help her… end her own life."
He looked away, the weight of her words pressing heavily. She could see the memories stirring in his eyes, the confusion he must have felt as a boy, the trauma of that night resurfacing.
"After that night, I tried to protect you from afar, but things spiraled," she continued, feeling the ache of it as she spoke. "When Abstergo started hunting me, I didn't have a choice. I had to stay away, to keep you out of their sight."
She paused, her mind flashing back to the years after, to Aiden and Paul, the makeshift family she'd built in the shadows. "Two men from the Brotherhood found me—Aiden and Paul. They were like brothers to me. They trained me, helped me survive, kept me out of Abstergo's reach. We stayed on the run, moving from place to place, but in 2007… Abstergo finally caught up."
She swallowed, her voice growing hoarse. "They took me to their facility in Rome. I was… Subject 13." Her eyes met his, the memories flooding back—the sterile rooms, the hum of machines, the relentless drills as they dug into her mind. "They kept me there for years, forcing me to relive the lives of Assassins in my bloodline. They wanted everything I knew, everything I could give them."
Callum's fists clenched, his jaw tight as he listened. "And you escaped?"
"I did," she nodded. "In 2012, some Assassins managed to get me out. They brought me to their team, where I trained with others like us, people who were still fighting. It was there that I met someone… Desmond." She paused, feeling the familiar ache of loss. "He was like us—a descendant of Assassins. We went through the Animus together, side by side, unraveling the pieces of our pasts."
"Your husband?" Callum asked, and her heart twinged.
Claire's breath caught, and she looked down, her fingers stilling on the ring as a rush of memories flooded back. "No," she said softly, her voice barely audible. "We never got the chance. Desmond sacrificed himself to stop a catastrophe, a solar flare that would have wiped out everything. It wasn't just a choice—it was his destiny, and he walked into it knowing what he'd leave behind." Her hand instinctively reached up to the ring around her neck, the last remnant she had of him.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the memories of those years hanging between them.
"So," he said finally, his voice steady, "this isn't just about survival. It's about… finishing what he started?"
She nodded. "For all of us. To make sure Abstergo doesn't use what's in our blood to control people. To honor the people we've lost along the way."
He took a shaky breath, his gaze searching hers. "And me? Why did they want me?"
"Because you're my brother. You share our lineage," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "And because I made a deal about six months ago. My cooperation for your release from prison." She chuckled at herself.
Callum's expression faltered, the shock settling in his eyes as he absorbed her words. "You… you made a deal with them?" His voice was soft, disbelieving, as if he couldn't quite reconcile the weight of her sacrifice.
Claire gave a small, resigned nod. "Yes. They told me you'd been sentenced to death, Callum. They were going to move up the date. I'd spent so many years staying away, trying to protect you from afar, and… none of it helped." Her laugh was hollow, self-mocking. "I thought if I could keep them from reaching you, I'd be keeping you safe. But when I realized that wasn't enough, when they threatened your life—I couldn't stay silent anymore."
His gaze dropped, lingering on her as if piecing together the story, the years of pain she'd endured without him knowing. Then, his eyes flickered up, and for the first time, he really looked at her—at the scars lining her skin, the ones she couldn't hide.
He leaned forward, his hand almost instinctively reaching out before he stopped himself, his fingers hovering near the faint marks at the back of her neck. She knew the ones he was staring at: the tiny, circular scars from the repeated injections, the invasive epidurals forced upon her to keep her sedated and compliant during her Animus sessions. Callum swallowed, the emotion heavy in his voice as he asked, "Are these…?"
Claire's throat tightened. She could see it in his face; he knew exactly what those scars were. He'd been through his first session not long ago, the bruising on his neck visible under the edge of his shirt, a fresh reminder of his own pain.
She nodded, holding his gaze, letting him see the truth. "From the Animus. Years of being stabbed in the neck hasn't been kind to my body." She reached up, rubbing the back of her neck, the ache slightly throbbing. She looks up at him, reaching over to turn his chin slightly, wanting to know if they had put him under yet. Her heart sank when she saw the familiar bruising at the base of his skull. "I didn't want this for you."
Callum's expression shifted, a shadow passing over his face as he took in her words, the weight of everything she'd endured pressing down on him. He glanced away, jaw clenched, trying to mask the turmoil simmering beneath the surface, but the tension in his posture betrayed him.
She let her hand fall from his chin, the fleeting contact feeling achingly inadequate for all the years of separation, the endless moments she had spent fearing he would be dragged into this nightmare. Seeing the fresh bruising on his neck—the telltale sign that Abstergo had forced him into the Animus already—made her chest tighten with a fierce ache.
Claire watched his face, saw the storm of emotions flicker through his eyes—anger, grief, confusion, and something she couldn't quite place. She realized how much she'd dropped on him, how she'd turned his world inside out with everything she'd told him. She could feel the intensity of his struggle to process it all, and her own heart ached at the weight she'd added to his shoulders.
"It's a lot," she murmured, her voice gentle, trying to ease the shock she saw in his expression.
He turned back to her, the lines of his face softened by exhaustion and a new vulnerability. "It feels like I woke up in someone else's life. I don't know where to start, or how to even begin to believe any of this." His voice cracked, the admission feeling raw, as though he were sharing something he hadn't fully allowed himself to feel.
"I know. But now you're here. And I am going to fight like hell to get us out of here."
A flicker of something warmer softened his gaze—a faint glimmer of trust, or maybe hope, although she could see him still wrestling with all she'd laid bare. She watched his shoulders relax, just slightly, as if her words had carved a small foothold in the chaotic terrain of his thoughts.
"Fight like hell…" he repeated, almost to himself, a wry smile ghosting across his face. The hint of humor faded quickly, though, replaced by a gravity she hadn't seen in him since he was a child. "I don't know how to fight like you do. I don't know… how to be any of this."
"Then learn. The Animus is good for more than just digging through memories. Once you've lived their lives you have their knowledge and their skills. It will take a few weeks to get a plan solidified for an escape. Use that time to learn as much from Aguilar as you can." She said, his head turned a little shocked.
"How do you know that's the ancestor they are having me look at?"
"He's from mom's side. And I'm a woman so they couldn't explore his past." Claire said, giving him a cheeky grin.
Callum blinked, processing her words, and a flicker of curiosity mingled with his initial shock. "So… you're saying I could actually learn what he knew? How to move like him, fight like him?"
"Exactly," Claire replied, the corners of her mouth lifting. "The Animus doesn't just give you memories—it gives you muscle memory, instincts, skills. It's terrifying, but it's also… powerful. You're not just watching his life; you're living it. Everything he learned, everything he mastered, you can make a part of you."
He let that sink in, his brows knitting together in concentration. She could tell he was grappling with the surreal idea, both wary and drawn to it. After all, it wasn't every day that you learned you could inherit the skills of a legendary Assassin.
"What about you?" he asked, the question carrying a weight she hadn't expected. "How many have you lived through?"
"Too many." She paused, her gaze drifting as memories surfaced. The thrill, the fear, the visceral power that had come with reliving her ancestor's memories. "The lines start to blur if you're not careful. "But… once I stopped fighting it and let myself learn from her, I felt a strength I'd never known." Her eyes met his again, resolute. "You'll find that, too. Just trust yourself."
"Then I better make it count."