September 8th, 2012, 2:00pm
She pulled the motorcycle into the warehouse, quickly closing the garage door behind her. Passing rows of cargo, she aimed for her usual spot by the truck—only to find a silver sedan parked there. Glaring at the unfamiliar car, she parked alongside it and cut the engine. She sat for a moment, noting the lack of plates and the odd silence surrounding the vehicle. The smooth extraction could mean only one thing: Lucy was back.
Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp, and Claire's mouth tightened into a thin line. She braced for Shaun's reaction, knowing her unapproved absence wouldn't sit well with him. She swung her right leg over the bike, landing firmly on the ground. Twirling the keys around her finger, she pocketed them, waiting.
"Where have you been?!" Shaun's voice rang through the warehouse, his British accent cutting through the air like a knife.
"Shaun, let it go. She's been cooped up for months," Rebecca's voice chimed from above, tempered with sympathy. Smart of her to avoid the line of fire between them.
"Missed you too, Shaun," Claire said, her voice muffled by her helmet. She barely held back a laugh at his indignant expression—red-faced, brows knotted. She didn't bother explaining and, instead, handed him a worn backpack as she brushed past him on her way up the ramp. He stood, momentarily stunned, as she continued to the upper deck, with Rebecca falling into step beside her.
As they entered the workspace, Claire's gaze shifted to the far-right corner. A man lay on the queen-sized bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Tanned skin, scar on his upper lip, hoodie and jeans—this had to be the recruit they'd risked so much to get out of Abstergo. She felt a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of what he'd been through.
Pacing near him was a familiar figure, her blonde hair catching in the overhead light. Lucy. A chill ran down Claire's spine. She tightened her jaw and turned away, heading for the kitchenette. Lucy—the one Clay had vouched for, the one who was supposed to be on their side, but who'd kept her and Clay in the dark, denied them even a chance of escape. She tossed her keys and wallet onto the table, then slid her helmet off, letting her bangs fall into her eyes.
"You went out for food?!" Shaun yelled, charging into the room.
She threw him a bored look. "So what?"
"So what? You are our most valuable asset! If Abstergo catches you again, it's over for all of us!" He was exasperated, his worry veiled by his usual bluster. She cut him off, unzipping her jacket to reveal two 9mm pistols strapped into a shoulder holster beneath. The tirade stuttered to a stop.
"I can take care of myself, Shaun." Her tone was cool, practiced. She glanced at the newcomer and gave him a quick wink, enjoying how her display of weapons tended to silence Shaun's complaints. Next, she reached down to her boot and yanked out an 8-inch dagger, twirling it in her fingers before jamming it into the table.
"And don't talk to me like I don't know the stakes." Her voice dropped a degree, barely masking her tension. "I know full well what it would mean if Abstergo got me again."
The room fell into silence for a few beats before Shaun sighed, turning toward the food with a clatter of dishes that broke the tense quiet.
Claire exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle before she began unstrapping her gear. She shrugged off her jacket, revealing a fitted tank top, black jeans, and knee-high boots beneath. As she moved, her tattoo became visible—a striking emblem on her back, where sweeping wings stretched from shoulder to shoulder, framing the Assassin's symbol inked with intricate precision between them. It was both powerful and symbolic, a mark of loyalty and resilience.
With a practiced motion, she reached up, loosening the braid that had kept her blonde hair in check. She pulled her hair free, running her fingers through it briefly before gathering it up into a high ponytail. The movement was casual, but it gave her an air of readiness, as if even a simple hairstyle change could signal a shift in her mood, a subtle assertion of control over the lingering tension.
"Claire," Lucy said, her voice attempting warmth but edged with hesitation.
Claire's gaze turned icy. "Lucy." She didn't bother with pleasantries, crossing her arms instead. If Lucy was affected, she hid it well, though a flicker of unease passed over her face.
"It's… been a while," Lucy continued, the tension between them thick and palpable.
"Could have been longer," Claire retorted, meeting Lucy's gaze with an unyielding intensity. Images of Clay's hopeful face surged to the surface of her mind—his desperate attempts to defend Lucy, insisting she was on their side, a supposed "good guy" in deep cover. But all Claire remembered was Lucy blocking every chance at contact, keeping them locked away with only whispered excuses for reassurance. And when Clay died, Claire had been driven to the edge. She could still remember the look of fear in Lucy's eyes when she held a broken piece of glass to her throat, demanding release. That had been six months ago.
Lucy's jaw clenched, but before she could reply, she seemed to sense the futility of the argument. The pretense dropped altogether. "Anyway," she said, cutting the conversation short, "this is our new recruit, Desmond Miles."
Claire's gaze lingered on him, the realization settling. "So you're William's son." Her voice held a hint of curiosity and something else—perhaps a touch of sympathy that Desmond didn't quite expect.
Desmond shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah, but don't read too much into it." His tone was clipped, a subtle warning that he wasn't looking for a family reunion or any praise for his lineage.
Claire tilted her head, scrutinizing him with a knowing look. "Didn't mean to hit a nerve," she said evenly, the hint of a smirk breaking through.
Desmond crossed his arms, but he seemed to sense her continued curiosity. "Something on your mind?" he asked, a bit defensively.
"Just... thinking." She leaned back slightly, her arms now crossed in mirror to his, though her posture was relaxed. "You seem familiar somehow, like we've met before."
Desmond shifted, looking slightly thrown but trying to keep his cool. "Can't say I remember you," he replied, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
Claire nodded slowly, not entirely convinced. "Maybe. But we both know memory can be a funny thing in this line of work." She glanced toward the Animus, then back at him. "Sometimes you meet people you've already forgotten."
Desmond's gaze dropped, his fingers tapping on his arm as if considering her words. "Or sometimes it's better not to remember," he muttered, almost to himself.
She caught it, her expression softening for just a moment. "Trust me, I get that. Memories can be like ghosts, following you around whether you want them or not."
They stood there in silence for a few beats, something unspoken passing between them. Desmond shifted uncomfortably again, as if he were brushing off an unwanted feeling.
"Well, anyway," he said, clearing his throat, "I guess we've both got our... history."
"Seems like it," Claire replied, her eyes not quite leaving his. There was a tension there, an understanding—but neither of them seemed willing to push it further.
Just then, Lucy's voice broke the moment. "Alright, enough small talk.
Claire rolled her eyes at Lucy's interruption, casting her a dismissive glance. "You know, Lucy," she said coolly, "I think Desmond's earned a little more than the 'new recruit' treatment. Maybe he'd like to get a proper look around." She turned back to Desmond, her expression softening just slightly. "Come on, I'll show you around."
Desmond looked between them, an eyebrow raised, and then gave a small shrug, falling into step beside her. Lucy opened her mouth to object, but Claire had already started walking, leaving Lucy standing there, momentarily silenced.
Claire led him down a narrow hallway past rows of dusty crates and gear. "Alright, so this place is... well, a safe house, but it's more like a base we threw together," she said, gesturing around at the makeshift setup. "Not exactly luxury accommodations, but it'll keep us hidden from Abstergo."
Desmond looked around, taking it in. "Seems secure," he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
Claire smirked. "Yeah, well, we try." She motioned him toward the far wall, where maps, timelines, and sticky notes were plastered in organized chaos. "And that's Shaun's world. Or, as he likes to call it, 'the nerve center.'"
Desmond's lips quirked as he studied the wall, amused at the dense web of information before him. "Impressive," he murmured, genuinely intrigued by the depth of analysis. It was clear Shaun had left no detail overlooked.
Claire nodded, a hint of respect in her voice. "Shaun may be a pain, but he knows his stuff. He'll be the one tracking every historical thread and mapping out our moves in the Animus, keeping us ahead of Abstergo." She gave Desmond a quick, appraising glance. "He's good at what he does, even if he's always got something to say about it."
Desmond nodded, a half-smile on his lips. "Sounds like someone I'm going to hear a lot from."
"Count on it," she replied, sharing a smirk.
She led him across to the other side of the room, where Rebecca's workspace was a study in organized chaos—parts, tools, and tech monitors cluttered the desk. Rebecca looked up from a delicate wiring job and gave them a quick wave before diving back into her work.
"And that," Claire said with a hint of pride, "is Rebecca's domain. If it's broken, Becca can fix it. She's the one who keeps everything running, including the Animus units."
Desmond's gaze fell on the two Animus chairs positioned near Rebecca's station. "Why two?"
Claire's eyes sparkled with excitement. "That's where things get interesting. Rebecca found a way to sync two 'pilots.' If both ancestors crossed paths in the past, then two of us can sync up and relive those memories together."
Desmond raised his eyebrows. "So... you and I go in together?"
"Exactly," Claire replied, her expression turning serious. "I'll be your co-pilot."
Desmond glanced at the Animus chairs, the tension in his posture betraying his hesitation. He looked at Claire, as if searching her expression for reassurance. "You've done this before?"
"Not with two pilots." She told him bluntly.
Desmond's gaze flickered between Claire and the Animus chairs, unease evident in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. "I don't know. I mean, the last time I was in one of these…" He trailed off, memories of his capture at Abstergo flashing behind his eyes.
Claire softened, reading his hesitation. She placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to go in right away, Desmond. Take your time. This isn't Abstergo—you're in control here."
Desmond looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but Lucy's voice cut in with a sharp edge. "We can't waste time. Desmond needs to understand what we're up against, and the only way he's going to do that is by getting into the Animus."
Claire shot Lucy a pointed look, her gaze steely. "I said he doesn't have to rush it. Shaun what's our timeline looking like?"
Shaun, who had been watching the exchange with a critical eye, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Well, considering we've only just rescued Desmond and he's barely settled in, I'd say we have a bit of leeway before we're pressed for time. We can afford to let him catch his breath—provided we get him into the Animus within the week."
Lucy's jaw clenched, but she kept silent, her expression tight as Shaun continued. "There's also the fact that jumping in too soon could backfire, especially with the psychological strain from Abstergo's... less-than-gentle methods," he added, casting a pointed look in Lucy's direction.
Claire nodded, grateful for the backup. "You heard him. Desmond gets time to adjust. And when he's ready, we'll be here to get started." She turned back to Desmond, offering a reassuring smile. "This isn't just about what's at stake out there, Desmond. It's about keeping you safe while we do it."
Desmond met her gaze, something like relief and gratitude flickering in his eyes. He nodded, seeming to draw strength from her words. "Thanks. I... appreciate it," he murmured.
Lucy's mouth opened as if to protest, but she caught the look on Claire's face and seemed to think better of it, turning her attention to the Animus. With a sigh, she muttered something under her breath and moved toward Rebecca's work area.
"You hungry?" Claire asked, turning to walk back into the kitchen.
Desmond's expression shifted, the wariness melting into something more relaxed as he nodded. "Starving, actually."
Claire led him back toward the small kitchenette, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was keeping up. As they reached the counter, she pulled open a cabinet and rummaged through its meager contents. "Not exactly fine dining," she admitted, holding up a couple of cans of soup and a box of protein bars. "But we make do."
Desmond chuckled, a dry humor glinting in his eyes. "Honestly, anything's better than the slop Abstergo was feeding me. I'll take it."
"Good to know your standards are low," she teased, cracking open a can and handing him a spoon. "Here, consider it a delicacy."
He grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing as he took the can. As they ate in comfortable silence, she noticed his gaze drifting around the safe house, lingering on the small touches that made it feel more lived-in—a map on the wall with pins stuck in various locations, a stack of books with worn spines in one corner, and a small, tattered blanket draped over the back of a chair.
"Feels more... real than I expected," he said finally, his voice low. "I mean, I knew about the Assassins, but I always thought of them as this distant... organization. This place feels different."
Claire nodded, understanding. "It's because the Brotherhood isn't just an organization. It's a family. We look out for each other, we take care of each other. Sometimes it's messy, and sometimes we fight like hell, but... it's home."
Desmond looked thoughtful, swirling the soup around with his spoon. "I guess I never really saw it that way," he admitted. "The Brotherhood was just... the Farm for me. A compound in the middle of nowhere with way too many rules and way too much... intensity."
Claire gave him a knowing look, sensing the undercurrent of something deeper. "I was only there for six months," she said, her voice softening, "after my father died. It was... strange, being around people who all had this singular purpose, like they'd been born into it. I didn't know how to fit into that."
Desmond glanced at her, his curiosity evident but tempered by an understanding born from shared experience. "Six months, huh? I was there until I was sixteen. The whole 'no electricity, off-the-grid, live-by-the-code' lifestyle," he said with a wry smile. "Thought my parents were conspiracy nuts by the end of it. Couldn't wait to leave."
"Sounds like you managed pretty well," Claire replied, though she could imagine the isolation he must have felt, trapped between loyalty to family and a need to find his own way.
He laughed, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Useful skills, I guess. Managed to avoid the Assassins when they came after me. Spent a while bouncing around, hitching rides, figuring things out." His gaze drifted, as if he were remembering the faces and places he'd seen. "Some guy I met finally told me to go to New York. Said it was the place to disappear."
Claire studied him for a moment, surprised at the resilience she saw beneath his casual tone. "So that's what you did," she murmured, piecing together the quiet survival he must have endured. "Found a way to blend in, stay hidden."
Desmond shrugged, though there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. "Yeah, but I guess you can't outrun your own past forever."
She nodded, understanding the weight of that statement more than he knew. "Believe me, I get it." She paused, her gaze falling to the spoon in her hand.
Desmond's gaze softened, lingering on her as she spoke. "Abstergo, right?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah," Claire replied, her voice steady, though the memories stirred just beneath the surface. "They came for me before I even knew what was happening. Six years of... well, you know." She glanced away, feeling the familiar weight of those years press on her.
Desmond gave a slow nod, a look of understanding in his eyes. "Not exactly a great initiation into all this," he murmured, his tone edged with sympathy.
Claire let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "No, not exactly. You know, I spent all that time trying to figure out how to survive, and when I finally got out, the world felt... alien. I'd been gone for so long, it was like I'd forgotten what normal even looked like." She paused, then added quietly, "If there even is a 'normal' in this line of work."
Desmond leaned back, his expression reflective. "I get that. Thought I could stay out, keep my head down, just live a regular life. But it's like you said—you can't outrun it." He hesitated, the vulnerability in his eyes making him look younger, more uncertain. "Sometimes I wonder if I should've just stayed at the Farm."
The admission surprised Claire, and she met his gaze with a look of quiet understanding. "Maybe. But I think sometimes the only way to know what you want is to walk away from it first." She glanced around the safe house, her eyes landing briefly on the Animus. "Funny, though, isn't it? No matter how far we go, it pulls us right back."
Desmond smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "Seems like it. Guess that makes us... what? Some kind of reluctant heroes?"
Claire laughed, a genuine, if brief, sound that broke the heaviness in the air. "Reluctant, maybe. But heroes? That might be pushing it."
"Guess I'll settle for 'reluctant,' then," Desmond replied with a grin. For the first time, he seemed to relax completely, as if in her presence he'd found something that resembled camaraderie, maybe even acceptance.
The silence that settled between them this time was less tense, filled with a mutual understanding. They didn't need to fill it with words; they'd both lived enough, run enough, to know that some things just didn't need explaining.
After a beat, Claire shifted, giving him a gentle nudge on the arm. "Well, reluctant hero, if you're ready, there's a whole world of memories waiting to be unraveled." She nodded toward the Animus, her tone lighter but still cautious, inviting rather than insisting.
Desmond took a deep breath, glancing at the machine, then back at her. "Yeah," he murmured, a steely determination settling over him. "Let's get this over with."