He finally shows himself, lines of code dancing across the shore with eyes as hard as steel and a crooked smile across cracked lips. Clay. You almost laugh at how appropriate his name is - solid, stable, yet so easily broken.

The ghost in the machine tells your tale, sweeping his hands as he laces the story of your imminent demise with a cordial tone and a mischievous smirk. You find it difficult to care, static clouding your mind as it wanders through centuries with a hop, skip, and a jump from Rome to Jerusalem. Arabic threatens to swirl itself around your tongue like the haze of smoke from the bar you once tended to. Was that in your lifetime or theirs?

Your compatriot seems to notice, pausing his tyrade and tilting his head slightly with a sympathetic grimace. He pieced himself back together, apparently, simply a mirage of the man who painted his magnum opus on the walls of Abstergo. You've never been an artist, but you think your mind may have swerved in the same direction as your predecessor's did.

You assure him that you are fine, as you follow him to the large stone gateway stood upon the centre of the isle.