Hello. I'm Clay Kaczmarek. And I'm a number. Subject Sixteen. Yes, we're all reducible in the end, right Seventeen? Just numbers. Ones and zeros. I proved that. The day before I offered myself, I created this little Artificially Intelligent construct talking to you now. Using the Animus and its incredible simulation capabilities, I copied myself, snapped that copy into two dozen pieces and scattered them around these databanks. You found them, and you pieced me back together. Not bad, eh? Teamwork.
Word on the street, of course, is that Clay - the real Clay, the Assassin, Lucy's teammate - he isn't alive anymore. He slit his wrists, if I hear right. Damn shame I never got to see that for myself, but I can imagine. My head was... pardon me, HIS head was swimming with images of his last moments, for weeks, like he was rehearsing it. Planning just how he'd do it. I hear he even got around to finger painting on the walls of his cell before checking out, is that right? Mad bastard, I miss him. I really do.
Sorry, this is getting confusing. The real Clay is gone, and I have taken his place. Good enough, right? Good enough to still call me cousin, right Desmond? Very distant cousins, you and me. Because somewhere back along our extensive family chain, we both have Ezio to thank for the gift of life. Both of us are related to him. And both of us have had nice little jaunts through his memories, although I had access to far fewer memories than you did. Figure that one out. I guess that's why you're so special. You're the convergence of several amazing bloodlines.
But not me. No, I was just a promising lead. A stepping stone to get to you. Oh well. I played my part. What more can a man say?
Very little, it turns out.