What is a man but the sum of his memories?

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 offed myself, I created this little Artificially Intelligent construction talking to you now. Using the Animus and its incredible simulation capabilities, I copied myself, snapped that copy into a dozen little pieces and scattered them around. You found them, and pieced me back together. Not bad Eh? Teamwork.

Word on the street, of course is Clay--The real Clay, the Assassin, Lucy’s teammate-- He isn’t alive anymore. He slit his wrists, if I heard 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? See I’m not anything Special though. Not me, No I was just a promising lead. A stepping stone to get to someone else. Oh well. I played my part. What more can a man say?

Very little, It turns out
(Face claim: Wilson Bethel