Assassin's Creed: The Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  “You got nothing I want if I win,” the guard pointed out, quite reasonably.

  Moussa cackled. “You got that right!” he said, then added thoughtfully, “Or do I? I got me a pair of sharp eyes and sharp ears.” He nodded his head at the door through which the hallucinating Lynch had just been dragged. “Could be useful things.”

  The guard eyed him, and then cautiously sat down at the table. Moussa lifted the cup on the right, showing him the small round ball hiding underneath it.

  The guard grimaced and pointed at the others. “Let me see them.” Moussa, grinning, obliged. “And the bottoms of all of them,” the guard added.

  “Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Moussa said, though as far as he was concerned that remained to be seen. Others were taking an interest now. They always liked to watch Moussa perform.

  That hadn’t always been the case. When he had first been brought in, drunk as a lord, he’d been mostly a simple street thief in Atlanta: lifting wallets, snatching purses, engaging in the occasional bar fight, nothing more complicated than that.

  Except for that time—or two—when he’d had to fight for his prizes.

  Cops had found the bodies, but they’d never found him. He was too clever.

  But in the five years since he had been here—was it five? It was hard to reckon time in the changeless blue glow of this place, and that damned machine played tricks on the mind—things had changed. Moussa’s natural deftness had increased a thousandfold, and whereas he had once been content to let others play the games and manipulate and control, he was now the ringleader of this little circus.

  “We don’t know who he is, what he is, anything,” Emir had said when Lynch had first come into the room, walking with that cautious stance that Moussa fully understood.

  “We all started out as strangers,” Moussa pointed out, adding, “Some of us started out as enemies.”

  Emir frowned. He could not deny the truth of Moussa’s statement, but he had the best instincts of all of them. And it was clear that something about the newcomer troubled him deeply.

  “Look how he moves, Moussa. How he holds himself. He is closer to his ancestry already than we were for a long time. But we don’t know which ancestor it might be. That makes for a dangerous man.”

  But Moussa was curious. Plenty of others had come this way with just that expression and attitude. Including Moussa himself.

  “Give him a little more time, Emir,” he had said to his friend. “The man may prove to have some noble blood in him yet.”

  He had introduced himself to the Pioneer with a second name—Baptiste. Everyone here had second names. Or was it a first name? Because as he had told Lynch, Baptiste, who had indeed been a voodoo poisoner, had also been dead for two hundred years.

  But the Abstergo Foundation had found Moussa, and through him, they had dug up Baptiste. And after all this time spent in the Animus, living through his ancestor’s memories, the sly, intelligent killer of centuries past had come to reside comfortably alongside Moussa in that man’s skin.

  Baptiste had not been a nice person. Not at all. He had been trained as an Assassin, and had been a member of that Brotherhood for thirty years. But when his Mentor was killed, Baptiste had abandoned the Brotherhood. Pretending to be his Mentor, Baptiste formed his own cult, and reveled in directing his followers to kill as suited him. Later, he would plan to join the Templars.

  And so, quite reasonably, as he had reminded Emir, the inmates hadn’t trusted Moussa. And at first he’d proved them right. He’d gone along with what the Templars had asked of him, just as his ancestor had, for some time. Until the day came that Moussa realized that today’s Templars weren’t about to keep their word any better than yesterday’s Templars had done, and that they had been the only ones to benefit from the knowledge they had ripped from him.

  Hell, the Templars hadn’t even given him cake when he had asked for it on his birthday, which was… he didn’t remember anymore. What kind of ungrateful shit was that? Too bad he couldn’t get his hands on any poison; the plants that the Templars allowed the inmates to grow were all completely harmless.

  Moussa manipulated the cups swiftly, his fingers feather-light as he touched them. The guard kept his eyes glued on the swiftly-moving objects, his mouth a thin, determined line of concentration. After a few more feints and shifting, Moussa stopped and looked at the guard expectantly.

  The other man reached out and tapped the cup in the middle. Feigning sadness, Moussa lifted it to reveal that the cup concealed nothing, and then lifted the one on the right. The small ball sat beneath it.

  “Aww, too bad. Best two out of three,” he offered. The guard glowered, then nodded.

  Again, the cups moved quickly.

  Moussa had turned to the Assassins. It had taken time, but he had proved his trustworthiness to them. Now, he was the one they turned to. Each had his or her own skillset, their own knowledge and strengths. But it was Moussa, the trickster, the one who played the fool and the madman in order to glean information, who had the final say on things. They listened to him, trusted his judgment. He was always the one sent out to vet the newcomers. And there was something about this Pioneer that had seized his interest.

  Lynch could be the one they had been hoping for… or the one they feared above others.

  Their Protector… or their doom.

  Moussa was feeling charitable, so he slowed his motions down just enough so that the guard, this time, was able to select the correct cup.

  “Well, look at that,” he exclaimed, “I got a shiny little thing hiding out underneath this. You got some sharp eyes, man. Bet nothing gets past you.”

  “I won. So what do you have for me?”

  “Not one for chitchat, are you?” Moussa looked around, as if making sure they wouldn’t be heard, then leaned in closer to the guard. “I know something about the new patient,” he said, his lips almost brushing the guard’s ears.

  “Yeah?”

  “He likes his steak rare,” Moussa said, then pulled back, looking completely serious.

  The guard flushed beet red, but Dr. Rikkin had forbidden any violence against her “patients” unless absolutely necessary. Still, Moussa was well aware that the guard would probably find some way to get back at him, but he didn’t care.

  Inside, Baptiste was laughing his head off.

  ***

  Sofia’s stomach knotted as she watched Cal gasp and cower, strike at empty air, and shout defiance. She had seen this before, many times. The first time she had witnessed it she had been distressed by it. Eventually, though, she had grown inured to it, though she took no delight in watching. It was a necessary part of her research, and she always had to keep the end goal in mind.

  Sofia understood that this manifestation of the Bleeding Effect was terrifying and also physically painful for the patient. She also knew that it would pass with time, and that everything she knew about Cal’s psychological state told her he was a strong candidate and would almost certainly suffer no lasting harm.

  But something about Cal’s suffering felt different to her. Sofia told herself it was only because he was so important to the Templar cause right at this moment.

  “The Bleeding Effect is getting worse,” she said to Alex, who was standing beside her watching the screen. “He’s more affected by it than the others. Give him four hundred milligrams of Seroquel for the hallucinations.”

  Alex looked at her, a little surprised by her concern, but nodded and left, silent in his rubber-soled shoes.

  She stood a moment longer, watching Cal and gnawing on a thumbnail. The Seroquel should do him some good. If not… she’d have to think of something else.

  Sofia returned to her work, which had always been a source of comfort, pride, and distraction. And, she had to admit, a way to get her father’s attention and approbation.

  It was no real surprise to her that she had gravitated to science and technology rather than other interests. With the horrible shock of her mother
’s murder, her father had increased the amount of security in their two main houses in England and France, and brought in governesses and later formal teachers to instruct her. She didn’t know how to interact with her fellow humans, and computer technology had been a key part of her lessons and her entertainment.

  Despite the trauma of the nature of his mother’s death, Cal at least had had her presence in his life till the age of seven.

  Sofia had lost her mother when she was four.

  She didn’t remember much. A faint image here and there; the sound of a laugh, or a line from one of the books her mother often read aloud. The pet name of “Sofie.” The scent of lilacs and the softness of a cheek. Butterfly kisses.

  Sofia even had memories—happy memories—of her father from that time. He was kinder then, and laughed more. She remembered being swung up on his shoulders, going from the smallest to the tallest in the room, and looking up at the comforting shapes of both parents tucking her in bed.

  But once the bright light that was Mama had winked out of her daughter’s life, everything had changed. Sofia would wake at night screaming, terrified that the “Sassins” had come for her father, too, and she would be all alone in the world. She’d wanted her father to come to her room on those awful nights, to scoop her up and tell his Sofie that the Assassins would never come for either of them, that he would keep her safe.

  But that had never happened.

  Sofia—no longer Sofie—had been largely left to her own devices. Her father had a global corporation to run, after all, and had duties she had only begun to learn about as a teenager in his role as a Grand Master Templar. As the years passed and Sofia began to contribute more and more to advancing Abstergo’s Animus technology, he had given her more important tasks and titles.

  The Madrid center was hers. Except, like all things, it wasn’t, really. “Not to ourselves, but to the future, give glory,” was a commonly heard phrase among the Templars. It was a lovely thought, but more often than not, it was to the Elders and to Alan Rikkin that glory was given.

  Sofia heard soft footfalls behind her and smelled her father’s aftershave. She smiled to herself. Speak of the devil, she thought.

  “He has to go back in the Animus,” Rikkin said without preamble. Sofia looked up from her work. “Now.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Can’t you see what’s happening to him?” Sofia asked. “The Bleeding Effect is hitting him very hard. He needs more time before he goes in, for us to prepare—”

  “We don’t have time,” Rikkin interrupted, cold and deliberate.

  A chill went through Sofia. “Why?” she demanded. What was her father keeping from her?

  He did not answer. It would not be the first time. Sofia understood the demands placed on him, though she did not know the particulars. There were certain things he was not permitted to say, questions he wasn’t allowed to answer. Although, the older she grew, the more she wondered if it was less that his hands were tied than that he simply liked to keep secrets.

  This time, though, she knew it wasn’t the playing of a game that made him hold his tongue. Something had happened. Considering he had flown back to London last night to report to the Elders, she made the assumption that they had told him something that had forced this new urgency upon him.

  The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. His brown eyes were fixed on the screen.

  It was not a pleasant sight. Despite the medication, she had prescribed for him, Callum Lynch was now curled into a tight ball on the floor, rocking back and forth. Alan Rikkin was used to being in charge, to having all his orders obeyed immediately and without question. Father and daughter had butted heads before. He was not a scientist, he was a businessman. And he was more interested in results than in… well, in anything.

  “Send him back in, Sofia. Not in a couple of days, not in a few hours. Now.”

  Sofia knew she could not risk growing too attached to her test subjects. But she was also their protector, and she made a decision.

  “You know as well as I do that he’ll die in there if he isn’t ready.”

  “Then see to it that he is.”

  She closed the distance between herself and her father, turning her face up to him defiantly.

  “I won’t risk his life.”

  That got his attention. He looked at her for a moment his expression… sad. Then, reluctantly but firmly, he said words that chilled his daughter to the bone.

  “Then I’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

  Sofia stared at him as he walked out without another word or a backward glance, and groped for her chair, almost collapsing into it. She gripped the back of the chair till her knuckles turned white, forcing herself to breathe deeply.

  When she was eight years old, she had found a stray dog. He had been a mutt, absolutely crawling with fleas, big and gangly and uncontrollable, but she had fallen in love with him on the spot. Her father had told her that under no circumstances would Oscar, as she had named him for no reason she could fathom then or now, be allowed to stay.

  Sofia wasn’t a girl of many tears, but she’d flung herself on the animal, sobbing her heart out. She’d felt the matted fur against his cheek, his body heat against her, his heart beating quickly. For the first time since her mother’s death, Sofia experienced a connection to some other living creature, one that needed her, that she could take care of, as her mother had taken care of her.

  Of course, she couldn’t articulate such a complicated thought at that age. All she could do was cry, and cling to Oscar, and beg.

  Sofia promised her father she’d take care of everything. She would feed, bathe, and train him. He would be a good dog, she had vowed. The best dog. Oscar would be grateful to have been rescued, and he would love her.

  And if he would let her have Oscar, she, Sofia Rikkin, would be a good girl, the best girl. She wouldn’t let her grades slip, she’d do everything her teachers asked of her. Eventually, her father had relented, but said he’d hold her to her promises.

  Sofia kept her word. She bathed Oscar, and fed him, and worked diligently on housetraining him. She even taught him to sit and stay. Then one day, while she was taking him for a walk, he’d slipped his leash to go after a squirrel. He refused to come when she called and finally, she cornered him and made a grab for his collar.

  He’d been overexcited and frightened, and, not unexpectedly for a stray animal, had bitten her. It hadn’t been a bad bite, but it had broken the skin. Bleeding, Sofia had gotten the leash reattached and they had gone home, blood streaming down her arm.

  Her father had gone through the roof.

  Sofia had been bundled into the car and taken to the Rikkins’ private physician, where she had received ten stitches. She still had the scar, and now, as she stared at the monitor, at Callum Lynch curled up weeping, shivering, and striking out savagely at enemies that existed only in his mind, she found herself tracing the almost-invisible white line on her wrist with a thumb.

  She’d gotten stitches.

  Oscar had gotten shot.

  When she had found out and confronted her father, all he had said was, “I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

  Growing up, looking back on the incident, Sofia had rationalized that her father had indeed been upset at the thought of his only child being attacked by an animal—even one whose reaction to the situation had not been unexpected or even severe. She had told herself that, so soon after losing her mother, her father couldn’t bear to think of anything bad happening to his daughter.

  But now, she understood. Alan Rikkin hadn’t been an overprotective father trying to protect a beloved child. He had been exercising his right to control the situation.

  He had been telling her that he had the ability, at any time, for any reason, to eliminate anything—and anyone—that was precious to her, if he so chose.

  Cal Lynch wasn’t the first casualty of Alan Rikkin’s need to control his daughter’s life.

  He was just the m
ost recent.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cal had revived, and eaten; they brought another steak to his room, cut into pieces so that he wouldn’t require a knife. He felt better after he’d had some food, and for a while he wondered if he’d beaten the hallucinations.

  But he hadn’t. Now Cal stared into the room at the end of his, where the guards kept constant vigil. This time, they weren’t the ones regarding him.

  This time, it was Aguilar.

  Cal was tense and alert, sweat coming off him in rivulets, but the Assassin did not attack. He simply stared at Cal for a long moment, then stepped into his room.

  Through the glass.

  Cal stared for a moment into his own face, but one that was harder, adorned with both scars and tattoos. This is a hallucination. It’s not real. What happens in the Animus is not real, not for me. This is just the Bleeding Effect.

  He was surprised the image was so calm. Perhaps his mind was working through this and was going to have the Assassin speak to him. Instead, as he had done before, the Assassin lunged.

  But this time, Cal was ready. He got his left arm up in time to knock aside Aguilar’s attempted stiff-handed jab at his throat, and his right to strike hard at the Assassin’s second attempt. Aguilar feinted, then whirled and kicked out, his foot barely missing Cal’s stomach.

  Cal was no stranger to brawling. He had gotten into more fistfights than there were stars in the sky since… since that day. But now, for the first time since the Bleeding Effect had descended upon him, twisting reality and grabbing him by the throat, Cal was in control of his actions. Before, the images of Assassins had simply terrorized him: whispering accusations, stabbing him, slitting his throat. His brain had been flooded with unreasoning fear. But this time, things were very different.

  He knew how Aguilar had behaved previously, when he was trying to kill Cal. He had succeeded then. This wasn’t an attack—at least, not like the others had been. Dimly, Cal realized that this was… sparring. Training.

  Dodging a kick. Blocking a strike. Executing his own punches. He fell into the motions easily, comfortably. This kind of fight, he knew. In this kind of fight, he could hold his own.