Souls Through Time (EzioxOC/DesmondxOC)

Chapter 12 - Claire

Claire let out a slow, unsteady breath, her gaze drifting down to her scrubs. The light blue fabric was now streaked with blood from her nosebleed, the stark contrast against the pale material making it painfully clear just how intense her experience in the Animus had been. The sight made her grit her teeth—a visible reminder of her failed attempt to help Desmond, to keep that precious connection intact.

William noticed her frustration and nodded to the small overhead compartment where he had stowed their spare items. "I packed an extra set," he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of sympathy.

Claire nodded her thanks, stepping away from the group. The confines of the plane's small bathroom offered her a brief reprieve, the door shutting out the others, leaving her with only her reflection. She tugged off the stained scrubs, the cool air biting against her skin as she changed. Her movements were mechanical, each action deliberate, as though she could regain some sense of control by focusing on the simple act of getting dressed.

When she finally slipped into the fresh scrubs, she took a steadying breath, her thoughts drifting back to Desmond, to the Black Room that was now lost to them both. The anger simmered beneath her calm exterior, an intense determination taking root. She couldn't reach him, couldn't guide him directly anymore—but she could still find other ways to help.

As Claire slipped into the fresh scrubs, she caught her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. The fluorescent light cast a harsh glow over her features, emphasizing every bruise and cut that marked her face. She took a closer look, her gaze tracing the faint purple bruising around her cheekbone, the swelling from her ordeal in the Animus leaving a tender ache under her skin. Her fingers lightly brushed over the stitched cut along her cheek—though healing, it was still an angry line across her face, a constant reminder of how dangerous their mission had become.

She pulled her fingers away and sighed, her gaze shifting to the messy strands of blonde hair that framed her face, stray pieces falling from where they'd been hastily pulled back. Reaching up, she combed her fingers through her hair, wincing slightly as her nails snagged on a few tangled knots. The motion was soothing in its simplicity, her hands moving methodically, smoothing down the wild strands until she managed to tame it. She gathered her hair, twisting it into a low bun at the nape of her neck, securing it with a tie she'd kept on her wrist. The tightness of the bun helped ground her, a sense of order she could control in a situation that felt increasingly chaotic.

She took a step back, studying herself with a detached curiosity. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked worn but unbreakable, the bruises and scars adding a layer of resilience that went beyond her years. She wasn't the same woman who'd started this journey, and it showed—each mark was a testament to her determination, each scar a reminder of her resilience in the face of everything she'd endured. The life of an Assassin had never been easy, but these recent days felt different, heavier.

Another deep breath, and she forced herself to refocus, pushing down the thoughts that threatened to spiral. She needed to stay steady, for Desmond, for herself, for the team that was counting on her. The frustration and the loss of the Black Room weighed on her, but she wouldn't let it control her. She'd been through too much to let a setback define her path forward.

Squaring her shoulders, Claire turned from the mirror, her gaze lingering briefly on the reflection that stared back. The bruises around her eyes had deepened, shadows of exhaustion etched across her face, and the stitches running from her cheek to her ear looked a little better, though still tender. Her blonde hair, disheveled and wild from the long hours on the plane, was in desperate need of taming. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands, tugging gently until they fell into something resembling order, then gathered them into a low bun at the base of her neck, securing them as best she could.