Assassin's Creed: Destiny of Souls

Chapter 4

In the sterile confines of her cell, Claire lay on her cot, her body a map of pain—her neck, back, and shoulders locked in a dull, unrelenting ache that radiated outward, making each movement excruciating. The Animus sessions had left their mark, burrowing into her muscles and bones, a silent yet brutal testament to Abstergo's control. She had learned early on to brace herself against the bite of the epidural needle, but nothing could fully prepare her for the sharp pinch, the unsettling slide of the metal breaking through layers of tissue, and the cold, weighted pressure as the anesthetic took hold. Each session carved another line of agony down her spine, a constant reminder that her body no longer belonged to her—Abstergo owned her, piece by piece.

The first few months had held a kind of reckless determination. Claire threw herself into every memory, every movement, gripping onto the hope that if she survived each session, she would grow stronger, that she could somehow outrun the damage her body was accumulating. She'd clench her jaw and grit her teeth through each entry into the Animus, eyes forward and focused. She would not break.

But with every descent into the simulation, she began to feel the erosion of her resilience, a steady degradation that seeped into her body and mind. The pain in her neck that had once been an occasional throb evolved into a relentless ache, gnawing at her muscles and shooting down her spine. Yet she kept her face impassive, masking her struggle, unwilling to give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

Then, the tremors started. At first, they were faint, fleeting shakes that she could brush off, dismissing them as just another passing side effect. But they returned, growing more insistent, her fingers occasionally twitching when her body was pushed past its limits. She'd press her palms against the cold metal of her cot, forcing her hands to still, fighting for control over muscles that seemed to hold echoes of memories not her own.

The tremors weren't constant—they came only when she was overly exhausted or after a particularly grueling session. She learned to manage them, spending hours working on her grip and the dexterity of her fingers, determined to keep her body ready for whatever fight she might face. Simple exercises became her lifeline: she'd press her fingers together, bend and flex each knuckle, anything to keep her control sharp and precise.

Then came the paralysis.

The first time it happened, Claire had thought she was dying. After a grueling session, her muscles twitching from a desynchronization, she'd collapsed on the floor of her cell, gasping for air. When she tried to move, nothing happened. Her arms, her legs, even her neck had refused to obey, as if her body had turned to stone beneath her skin. Panic clawed at her chest, helplessness unraveling her as she lay there, trapped in her own flesh. She'd fought to regain control, willing her limbs to respond, but it took half an hour for sensation to return, a slow trickle of pins and needles that crawled up her limbs, filling her with a fragile relief. But the memory of that paralysis haunted her, lingering at the edge of every session, a shadowy threat that Abstergo could shut her down completely whenever they wanted.

Every Animus session became a calculated risk, a battle against her own body's decline. She knew her captors noticed—knew they watched her with cold detachment as she struggled to regain control over her muscles. They never helped, never offered a hand or a word of acknowledgment. They simply waited for her to pull herself together, ready to strap her back into the machine as soon as she could stand. To them, she was nothing more than an experiment.

There was a rhythm to the pain, a ritual she'd come to know all too well. Each time, she braced herself for the needle, let it pierce through skin and muscle, felt the sharp sting turn into an unbearable pressure as it settled into her spine. The initial pain was blinding, like a spike driven into her nerves, but over time it dulled, sinking into a constant ache that lingered in her bones. She'd learned to breathe through it, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest, grounding herself in those small, controlled movements that reminded her she was still alive, still present, even as Abstergo chipped away at her, piece by piece.