The sterile white plastic and steel of the Peregrine gives way to the bright light of a burning forest. The heat is hard on his eyes, and his balance in the boat wavers as he situates himself, shifting his weight so he can stand around the boy without tipping the whole thing. The tendrils float around the craft, and Ezio follows them with his eyes, from the air to the boy.

As far as pick-ups go, this one will be interesting.

Ezio crouches at the boy's side, resting an elbow on one knee, unbothered by his long white coat trailing in the blood. He pulls down his hood; he is middle-aged, tanned and well-manicured, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes soft. Death is always hard, even to those who laugh through it.

"Can you speak?" he asks.