User:KenoSarawa/Sandbox - Revision history

imported>KenoSarawa: /* THE FANTASTIC MISADVENTURES OF EZIO & LEONARDO */

2012-07-31T22:19:57Z

THE FANTASTIC MISADVENTURES OF EZIO & LEONARDO

@@ Line 480: / Line 480: @@
 "Nobility has its limits," huffed the hooded figure.
-Leonardo chuckled dryly and spurred the horses on. As they rode on into the fading light, he turned to his companion with a smile.
+Leonardo chuckled dryly and spurred the horses on. The sun sank low on the horizon. As they rode on into the fading light, he turned to his companion with a smile.
 "You are a strange man, sometimes, Ezio Auditore."
 (TO BE CONTINUED)

imported>KenoSarawa at 18:57, 31 July 2012

2012-07-31T18:57:12Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:57, 31 July 2012
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	=THE SHOP=		==THE SHOP==
	This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in present day.		This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in present day.

	==The Introduction==		===The Introduction===
	He stepped through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight barely peeked through the murky clouds overhead. Even on the other side of the river, the city's noise seemed to permeate his body. The sound was washed out by the roar of jet engines as another plane lifted off on the other side of the glass-and-steel building.		He stepped through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight barely peeked through the murky clouds overhead. Even on the other side of the river, the city's noise seemed to permeate his body. The sound was washed out by the roar of jet engines as another plane lifted off on the other side of the glass-and-steel building.

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	"You're late," was her only reply.		"You're late," was her only reply.

	==The Shop==		===The Shop===
	Ben examined his host for a moment. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She was very small, both in height and shape. Her clothing described her as something of a goth. She had her black-dyed hair - still showing brown roots - tied up in twin pigtails. She wore and old, form-fitting t-shirt underneath a lacy, black corset, the only thing about her that gave her any feminine figure. On her arms she wore fingerless gloves, tied up almost to the elbow. A pair of jeans hugged her narrow hips, disappearing into high-heel boots.		Ben examined his host for a moment. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She was very small, both in height and shape. Her clothing described her as something of a goth. She had her black-dyed hair - still showing brown roots - tied up in twin pigtails. She wore and old, form-fitting t-shirt underneath a lacy, black corset, the only thing about her that gave her any feminine figure. On her arms she wore fingerless gloves, tied up almost to the elbow. A pair of jeans hugged her narrow hips, disappearing into high-heel boots.

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	It was not the sort of answer he was expecting.		It was not the sort of answer he was expecting.

	==The Job==		===The Job===

	Charlie returned to her search. She pulled bits and pieces from various piles and out of drawers, assembling something on the table.		Charlie returned to her search. She pulled bits and pieces from various piles and out of drawers, assembling something on the table.
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	(TO BE CONTINUED)		(TO BE CONTINUED)

	=THE FANTASTIC MISADVENTURES OF EZIO & LEONARDO=		==THE FANTASTIC MISADVENTURES OF EZIO & LEONARDO==
	This is a comical story, framed by Desmond & Co.'s journey to Monteriggioni to hide out from the Templars.		This is a comical story, framed by Desmond & Co.'s journey to Monteriggioni to hide out from the Templars.

	==The Outset==		===The Outset===
	Ah, Italy.		Ah, Italy.

imported>KenoSarawa: /* The Outset */

2012-07-18T17:32:14Z

The Outset

Show changes

imported>KenoSarawa: /* The Outset */

2012-07-18T16:32:01Z

The Outset

← Older revision		Revision as of 18:32, 18 July 2012
Line 293:		Line 293:

	"Next time," said the hooded figure, "don't wake me for something like this, such a ''spreco di tempo''."		"Next time," said the hooded figure, "don't wake me for something like this, such a ''spreco di tempo''."

			"''Ehi''!"

			The hooded figure turned to the leader of the bandits, who had just shouted at him. The leader seethed with anger, his knuckles white on the hilt of his weapon.

			"Who the hell are you!?"

			The hooded figure lifted an eyebrow, "Who the hell are you?"

			The bandit gritted his teeth, taking a step forward. He brandished his weapon in a way he believed to be the most threatening. "I'm the man with the deadly weapon. If you do not wish it across your throat, you'll cut out the ''finto tonto''."

			"Funny," replied the hooded figure.

			He pulled back the cape, showing off the array of weapons tied to his belt. He laid the edge of his metal bracer against the hilt of the longsword. Beside it sat a short blade and a line of throwing knives. The bandit's eyes and mouth opened wide.

			"So, you wanted something?" said the figure. The glint of the steel reflected in his flinty eyes, eyes that seemed to stare straight through whatever they looked at.

			"Yeah," barked the bandit, trying his best to hide his surprise and worry, "Back away from the wagon. All your belongings, all your gold and jewels and valuables, they belong to us now."

			The hooded figure looked back and forth along the line of ruffians set before him. All of them, even the ones with actual swords, held their weapons like mindless barbarians, ready to bludgeon their target with all the grace of a falling ox.

			The hooded figure gave a wry grin, "I don't think so."

			"Please," said the driver to the hooded man, "Don't make a scene. You know what a mess it causes."

			The bandits were taken aback. Never before had they seen such a petulant individual, nor anyone who had taken them so not-seriously. Several of the men yelled profanities from the back of the group.

			The hooded figure sighed, "And what am I supposed to do? Besides, you'll always find some ''pezzo di merda'' to complain about."

			"Me?" said the driver, offended, "Who is the one always getting us into these situations?"

			"WHAT!?" yelled the hooded man, "So now it is MY fault we are surrounded by these... these... ''mucchi di letame''. I didn't make us take this road!"

			"Yes, you did," snapped the driver, "When you decided to get so ''martellato'' that you had to be dragged out of bed... at midday... from under three sleeping ''puttane''! Had we gotten started early - as I suggested - we could have the followed a caravan along the main highway to..."

			"''BASTA''!"

			The hooded man and driver were startled, glancing at the bandit leader. The man fumed and gibbered in utter rage. He lifted his large weapon and pointed it straight at the two of them.

			"You argue like a married couple! We were just going to rob you, beat you senseless, and leave you on the road. It was too good for you. Now, we're going to slit your throats, strip you, and hang your corpses from that tree with a sign that says, 'Too ''cazzo fastidioso'' to live'!"

			The driver started, "Oh, dear."

			The hooded figure had had enough. He reached down to his side and drew forth a gleaming longsword.

			"Are you really going to do this?" asked the driver.

			"You have any better ideas?" the hooded man retorted.

			The driver looked at the men, at their weapons, then at his passenger. "Could you use the flat of your blade, please?"

			The hooded figure gaped at the driver. He steeled his face back at the bandits, muttering under his breath, "''Stravagante'', ''seccante''..." The rest died off into growling. He turned his sword sideways, just as the driver had asked.

			The bandits all started laughing.

			"What is this?" hollered the leader, "You... against all of us. We outnumber you twenty-to-one, stupid ''stronzo''!"

			"Fine," said the hooded man, coldly, "Get fifteen more so it can be an even fight."

			Now, there was nothing for the bandit's ire save blood. He turned to his comrades and screamed murder at them.

			"''Uccideteli''!"

			Five men bum-rushed the hooded figure. He dodged expertly to the side, bringing his sword around to smack one man hard on the side of the head. The bandit crumpled into a dirty heap on the road. Without pausing, the figure bounced the sword back to strike another man in the face, who fell backward, holding a shattered nose gushing blood.

			He spun on one foot, turning the blade just enough to present part of the live edge. It fell against one man's side. His skin was not cleaved, but his breeches were far less lucky. They fell around his ankles, prompting the man to bend over to shield his exposed nether regions. The figure turned quickly and laid the flat of his blade hard on the man's bare posterior, sending him careening into a tree. The man struck it with such force that the tree shook, but his head was not hard enough and he fell to the ground as well.

			More and more, the bandits rushed at them, wave after wave. The driver struggled to keep the horses and still. They had already threatened to turn and start running, or at the very least back the carriage up until it went off the side of the cliff.



			...

			"Please, he may be an annoying ''canaglia'', but he's my friend."

			...

			"That was a bit much ''porcheria'', stabbing him like that."

			"He had it coming."

imported>KenoSarawa: /* The Outset */

2012-07-17T20:28:48Z

The Outset

@@ Line 206: / Line 206: @@
 The carriage was a monstrosity, even by Italian standards. It rode high, like the fine carriages used by noblemen or the caravans that carried travelers across the countryside. It had very few windows, only a small pair just below and behind the driver's bench. The sides of the wagon seemed to be covered with small panels, but spaced so oddly that they could not possibly be for decoration. The underside of the carriage used not a wooden keel but rather a complex, metal framing. Boxes and canvas-covered items were stacked high on top of the carriage, held in place by strong, braided cords.
-The driver sat on a high bench in the front, huddled over the reigns. His clothing was that of a Tuscan artisan, obviously cheap but well-made-up to make himself look more presentable to clients. The sun beat down on him, and he held his head low to keep the light out of his face. Despite his long toil on the journey, he hummed a merry tune to himself.
+The driver sat on a high bench in the front, huddled over the reigns. His clothing was that of a Tuscan artisan, obviously cheap but well-made-up to make himself look more presentable to clients. The sun beat down on him, and he wore his wide cap low to keep the light out of his face. Despite his long toil on the journey, he hummed a merry tune to himself.
-:''La bellezza di Romanga<br>Il suo nome era Caterina<br>Ha tenuto il suo cuore in mano<br>E nell'altro, qualcosa di piu prezioso''
+:''La bellezza di Romagna<br>Il suo nome era Caterina<br>Ha tenuto il suo cuore in mano<br>E nell'altro, qualcosa di piu prezioso''
-He laughed to himself, obviously entertained by his little song.
+He laughed to himself, obviously entertained by his little song. The horses made no response, nor did the driver expect them to. Just beneath his seat, he could hear a sound that told him his driving entertainment was not at all enjoyed.

imported>KenoSarawa: /* The Outset */

2012-07-17T19:05:15Z

The Outset

← Older revision		Revision as of 21:05, 17 July 2012
Line 203:		Line 203:

	The horses smelled less sweet. Their sides were flecked with sweat from pulling the large, wooden carriage behind them. The large wheels bounced and creaked as the wagon rolled along the mountain road.		The horses smelled less sweet. Their sides were flecked with sweat from pulling the large, wooden carriage behind them. The large wheels bounced and creaked as the wagon rolled along the mountain road.

			The carriage was a monstrosity, even by Italian standards. It rode high, like the fine carriages used by noblemen or the caravans that carried travelers across the countryside. It had very few windows, only a small pair just below and behind the driver's bench. The sides of the wagon seemed to be covered with small panels, but spaced so oddly that they could not possibly be for decoration. The underside of the carriage used not a wooden keel but rather a complex, metal framing. Boxes and canvas-covered items were stacked high on top of the carriage, held in place by strong, braided cords.

			The driver sat on a high bench in the front, huddled over the reigns. His clothing was that of a Tuscan artisan, obviously cheap but well-made-up to make himself look more presentable to clients. The sun beat down on him, and he held his head low to keep the light out of his face. Despite his long toil on the journey, he hummed a merry tune to himself.

			:''La bellezza di Romanga<br>Il suo nome era Caterina<br>Ha tenuto il suo cuore in mano<br>E nell'altro, qualcosa di piu prezioso''

			He laughed to himself, obviously entertained by his little song.

imported>KenoSarawa at 18:53, 17 July 2012

2012-07-17T18:53:46Z

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-=The Shop=
+=THE SHOP=
 This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in present day.
@@ Line 193: / Line 193: @@
 (TO BE CONTINUED)

imported>KenoSarawa: /* The Job */

2012-07-16T20:55:29Z

The Job

← Older revision		Revision as of 22:55, 16 July 2012
Line 155:		Line 155:

	==The Job==		==The Job==

			Charlie returned to her search. She pulled bits and pieces from various piles and out of drawers, assembling something on the table.

			Ben sat to the side, quietly, like a boy waiting for the teacher to tell him the bad news and he had to ask his parents to come in for a conference. He looked around the apartment, trying to keep himself occupied.

			"This your first job?" asked Charlie.

			"What?" said Ben, a little startled.

			"Is this your first contract", she added, "Your first mark?"

			"Oh, yeah," said Ben.

			"You got a plan?"

			"Of course," said Ben, "The target is coming into town day after tomorrow. I'm going to follow for three days, learn his patterns and habits. In five days, he'll be attending a function downtown, so I'm going to learn the layout of the building, as well as his itinerary. When he arrives, that is when I will strike."

			"Three days, huh? Aren't you worried about being seen?"

			Ben thought for a moment, "A little. It is a risk. Thing is, I don't want to go to the bureau leader with nothing. This contract is the only thing standing between me and full membership in the brotherhood. If he doesn't like my plan or thinks I don't have enough preparation, he can pull the plug."

			"Don't worry," chuckled Charlie, "The bureau leader is not nearly as much of a hardass as people seem to believe. You'll do fine."

			Ben nodded, only a little more assured of his coming test. The weight of his task lay on his shoulders like two sacks of bricks, threatening to pull him down through the floor.

			"What about you?" asked Ben.

			Charlie looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

			Ben shifted a little uncomfortably. "I mean, have you ever had a contract. Have you ever, you know," he swallowed, "killed someone?"

			A long pause passed between them. Charlie did not look up from the table. She just froze, as though she were thinking, remembering something she did not wish to. Her hands were balled up into tiny fists, laid heavily on the table. There was a slight shudder in one of her shoulders she fought desperately to hide.

			She took in a deep breath, and answered, "I've ran support on a couple of missions, had to remove a few obstacles. We aren't called 'assassins' because it sounds cool. Killing people is what we do. Have I ever had a contract? I'll let you figure it out."

			Now, it was Ben's turn to shudder.

	(TO BE CONTINUED)		(TO BE CONTINUED)

imported>KenoSarawa at 22:39, 13 July 2012

2012-07-13T22:39:20Z

@@ Line 58: / Line 58: @@
 Ben jumped in surprise. He stepped into the cramped apartment and closed the curiously-marked door behind him.
 She turned and regarded the young man, leaning against the table, holding the cigarette between two fingers as smoke billowed from her lips. She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "So?"
@@ Line 69: / Line 65: @@
 "You're late," was her only reply.
-==The Job==
+==The Shop==
 "I'm sorry," he stammered, "It's just... You're..."
-She interrupted him, "Not what you were expecting?" She chuckled.
+She chuckled, "Not what you were expecting." It was not a question.
 "Well," he said, "I guess: no."
@@ Line 79: / Line 77: @@
 "Yeah, I'm Charlie," she said, "It's short for 'Charlotte', named after my maternal grandmother."

imported>KenoSarawa: Created page with "=The Shop= This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in pre..."

2012-07-12T19:50:15Z

Created page with "=The Shop= This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in pre..."

Páàjì titun

=The Shop=
This is an original piece of AC fan-fiction. Unlike most AC stories, it does not involve use of the Animus nor any historical fiction. Everything takes place in present day.

==The Introduction==
He stepped through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight barely peeked through the murky clouds overhead. Even on the other side of the river, the city's noise seemed to permeate his body. The sound was washed out by the roar of jet engines as another plane lifted off on the other side of the glass-and-steel building.

The young man's tousled, brown hair whipped in the sudden breeze, carrying a thousand scents from the towering metropolis, about a hundred of them offensive. Such was the natural scent of New York City. He shielded his eyes from the wind and sun, looking out from the terminal. Yellow taxis lined the walkway, each one a hive of scurrying activity, people loading and unloading luggage and children.

He lifted his hand and flagged down a cab that had deposited a family of three at the curb, now preparing to depart once more. Seeing his fare had a shoulder bag as his only luggage, the driver did not deem it necessary to open the trunk. The young man opened the back door.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans, handing it to the driver.

"Take me to this address," he said.

The driver nodded. He switched on the meter and pulled away from the curb.

The drive from the airport onto the island took longer than the young man expected, even given the driver's rather reckless maneuvers. As the cab crossed the bridge, he got a glimpse of the impressive Manhattan skyline. The brick and steel buildings opened up like a row of teeth in a great maw that swallowed him like a tiny morsel. The cab hit a main avenue and turned south.

Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulled up beside an old apartment building, nestled half-way between Central Park and the East River. It was one of those old brick-sided buildings, built before the days of steel construction and had resisted all attempts by the city to drag it into the 21st century.

The young man handed the driver a crisp, clean bill from his wallet, offering the change as a tip. The driver's lip curled in half-dissatisfaction, but offered no reply. Shouldering his bag, the young man stepped out of the cab.

Everything about the building seemed aged. It was not the feeling one got from how old something was, but rather that the building had been fermented in the sights, sounds, and scents of the many decades it sat there.

He opened the creaky, wooden door and stepped into the lobby. Two young girls played on the floor, marking up the small, dark tiles with multicolored chalk. An old, black man sat on a bench against the wall, taking a nap. An old, wooden staircase dominated the back of the room, with a small lift wedged into the corner of the stairwell, obviously added to the building many years after its construction.

The young man checked the crumpled piece of paper. Beneath the address read the number "1307". Seeing that several floors lay between himself and his destination, he opted for the quicker path and stepped into the lift.

It was the most cramped lift car he had ever been in. Two people could barely fit in here, three if they did not care about personal space. He looked over the numbers.

His head cocked sideways upon seeing the numbers go from twelve to fourteen, the highest floor. He then shook himself, realizing that almost no building has a "thirteenth floor". Due to rampant superstition on the part of laymen, building owners numbered the thirteenth floor with the number fourteen, lest they be all but unable to find tenants.

The young man pushed the button labeled "14". The outer door closed, which was little more than an iron gate. The lift creaked and moaned as old motors lifted it from its bed and carried it up into the building. The young man counted the floors as they passed. As they drifted by downward, he noticed something about the building: the lower floors showed far more wear-and-tear, yet were noticeably cleaner. The upper floors, on the other hand, still had old wall paper and fixtures, but were covered in the kind of grime that only came with the passing of many years. Obviously, the lower floors showed far more activity - people moving in and out - as the stairs were the only way to bring furniture up and down. Those who lived on the upper floors would be far more inclined to stay put and avoid the trouble.

The lift stopped at the top of the stairwell. A bell sounded, which was quickly muffled by the old lift engine engaging its brakes just a few feet above him. The iron grate slid away.

The young man looked up and down the hall. Eight doors led off of it. Four doors lay to his right, numbered 1401-1404. He turned left and walked that way. He checked the doors as he passed: 1405, 1406, Roof. The last door on the left looked different than the others. The raised, metal numbers that should have read "1407" had been torn off, with the numbers "1307" carved into the door's face.

The young man pocketed the unusual directions and tapped lightly at the door. He could hear a faint sound coming from inside, probably a television. Footfalls came toward him, and he could hear about a half-dozen locks being undone as the door was slowly unbolted from its frame.

The door slid open just a crack, held in place by an old, metal chain. The young man had to look down into a single, bright, blue eye that peered out at him. It was a young woman, almost a foot shorter than he. She glared at him for a moment, studying him. He was struck and found it difficult to say anything.

After a moment's silence, the young woman asked, "What do you want?"

The young man shook himself, "Oh, uh, I'm sorry. I'm looking for Charlie." He reached in his pocket for the crumpled paper again, "The number on the door..."

"Who are you?" she interrupted.

"I-I'm Ben," he replied, "Ben Laird."

The woman looked him up and down once more. Finally, she shut the door with a smart thud, undid the chain, and threw it open once more, already turning to walk back down the hall into the living room.

Ben stood, stupidly, in the door for a few more seconds.

The young woman stopped at a messy work table. She pulled a cigarette from a nearby packet, put it to her lips, lit it, and took a deep drag.

"In or out," she sighed, "Either way, shut the door."

Ben jumped in surprise. He stepped into the cramped apartment and closed the curiously-marked door behind him.

The apartment was not very well furnished. A large work table dominated the living room, covered in electronics equipment and the like. An old, torn easy-chair sat in the corner, facing a stack of milk crates which held up an old television. The television sat at half-volume, and a re-run of The Powerpuff Girls filled the apartment with thin, tinny noise.

Ben examined his host for a moment. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She was very small, both in height and shape. Her clothing described her as something of a goth. She had her black-dyed hair - still showing brown roots - tied up in twin pigtails. She wore and old, form-fitting t-shirt underneath a lacy, black corset, the only thing about her that gave her any feminine figure. On her arms she wore fingerless gloves, tied up almost to the elbow. A pair of jeans hugged her narrow hips, disappearing into high-heel boots.

She turned and regarded the young man, leaning against the table, holding the cigarette between two fingers as smoke billowed from her lips. She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "So?"

Ben looked into the living room, the kitchen, and down the hall into the bedroom, quite surprised to find them alone. He stared at the woman once more and asked the only question his brain could form in its puzzled state, "You're Charlie?"

"You're late," was her only reply.

==The Job==
"I'm sorry," he stammered, "It's just... You're..."

She interrupted him, "Not what you were expecting?" She chuckled.

"Well," he said, "I guess: no."

She took another drag from the cigarette and extinguished it in a metal ashtray.

"Yeah, I'm Charlie," she said, "It's short for 'Charlotte', named after my maternal grandmother."