Sometimes, you get glimpses.

Often it's more of a sensation. Fingertips brushing over a feather, the way the desert's sands caress cheekbones. The steady drum of an army's beat climbing Masyaf's ancient steps and the dying resignment that comes with it.

Reflections of scarred lips that aren't yours in cool marble, stone that is too perfect to exist in the real world.

But this isn't real, is it?

You feel somebody's gaze on your back (a feeling that is far too familiar, both for you and the ghosts inside this cage) but nobody is there when you turn to look. Occasionally there are lines of code that resemble figures, shapes, beings. But you know not to trust your senses, not any more. The sixth sense has not developed yet. That's what the spectre said, right?

There isn't much you remember from before this time - was there ever a time before this? - and even then you can't tell if they are your memories or not. A gentle touch on the arm, maps and pages reflected against prescription lenses, gentle humming joining the quick gliding of fingers over keys.

The world spinning as a blade plunges through leather and skin and bone.

The screech of an eagle throws you from your reverie along with a sensation somewhat like falling. You slowly open your eyes and are confronted with the same scene as usual as you lie with your back against the impossible surfaces inside your mind.
Or is it the Animus? Animuses? Animi?

Which is it, Lucy?