User:KenoSarawa/Sandbox

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.

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 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.

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

She chuckled, "Not what you were expecting." It was not a question.

"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."

"Oh," offered Ben.

He looked over the environs.

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.

"Actually," said Ben, "This is nothing like what I was expecting."

Charlotte followed his gaze around the room, "I have to admit, it is a bit lived-in, but it's home. What did you think you would find?"

"I don't know," he answered, "Something else. Not this. Maybe... maybe some kind of hide-out filled with high-tech equipment."

The only equipment he could see was a set of electronic laboratory equipment that probably dated back to the mid-80s, an old soldering iron, a clamp that had been modified into a table-top lathe, a hefty power drill, and an old police scanner. The only thing that looked as though it had been built within the last ten years was a worn laptop sitting on a wheeled stand beside the work table. A rut in the carpet showed how the stand had been wheeled back and forth from the table to the easy chair, where Charlie could work while watching television.

"You obviously haven't been to many hide-outs," observed Charlie. "We're not so well-funded as that. This is just a support shop. I get the equipment I need and little else."

Ben noticed an old, yellowed, land-line phone sitting next to the easy chair. "You don't even have a cell phone?" he asked.

Charlie shook her head, "Too risky. You know about their cell phone surveillance system. They'd be able to see everything inside the apartment. Fortunately, this building is so old, the waves don't go through the walls very well."

"Right," said Ben.

It was Charlie's turn to examine Ben. He was a bit skinny, but even-built. His jeans were fairly new, lacking the signs of wear and fading that denim gathered over time. He wore a white t-shirt with a gray, zip-up hoodie. With his baby-smooth face, shaggy hair, and messenger bag, he would have easily passed as a college student. No one in a crowd would give him a second thought.

She did not like the silence that kept falling over them.

"Relax, kid," she said, "I don't bite. You wanna have a seat?"

Ben eyed the stained and faded easy-chair with suspicion. Not wanting to abuse such hospitality, he half-sat down on the armrest. It only served to bring him a little closer to eye-level with Charlie. He offered a weak smile as thanks.

Charlie huffed sardonically. She turned to dig through the detritus that covered the work table.

"You fresh off the farm?" she asked.

Ben straightened up at being asked a direct question. He fumbled for a moment at an answer, "Uh, no. I didn't come from the farm. I was recruited a year-and-a-half ago in Detroit."

Charlie looked over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "Funny," she said, "I'd take you for farm stock any day of the week. You're too damn clean."

Ben glanced down at himself. It was the only time in his life he had ever been insulted for being groomed, with the exception of his hair. He took issue with it, as he had been meaning to get a haircut. Looking at Charlie's backside, hunched over the work table, Ben was struck by a sickening thought.

Was he where he needed to be?

"You're right. This is nothing like I expected," said Ben, "How do I know you are what I think you are?"

Charlie stopped and turned to him, "Say what?"

"How do I know," said Ben, searching for the right words, "You are... are a..."

The eyebrow returned, raising up as though to scrutinize Ben from a different angle.

He spit it out, at last, "...an Assassin."

Ben nodded apprehensively, gesturing to the gloved hand propped on the edge of the table.

Charlie looked down at her left hand, then back up at Ben. With a sigh, she started undoing the laces that ran along the underside of her forearm. Pulling the black threading free, she slid her hand out of the fingerless glove, lifting it up for Ben to see.

Around her ring finger showed a characteristic dark mark, a burn. It ran all the way around the base of her finger, just above her knuckle. She turned her hand over, opening her palm toward him. On the underside of her ringer, nestled in the crease of the knuckle joint, was a brand in the shape of a broken arrowhead.

It was the symbol of the Assassin Brotherhood.

Ben shivered just a little. He did his best to hide it, but to no avail. Whether he was relieved at the sight or made all the more nervous by the revelation, he could not say.

Something else on her arm caught his attention. His eyes traveled down to her wrist, where he could make out a series of crisscrossed scars, dark and knobbly next to the porcelain-white skin.

Charlie felt the moment sufficed to answer Ben's question. She pulled the glove back over her arm and tied the laces back in place.

"Satisfied?" asked Charlie.

Ben shrugged and nodded. Then, another question crossed his mind.

"Wait a minute," he interjected, "What about me? How can you be sure I am who I say I am? I'm just a novice. I won't have one of those fancy marks."

Charlie smiled at him, her expression both warming and warning at the same time. "Ben, if you weren't who you said you were, do you really think you would've gotten in or out of here alive?"

It was not the sort of answer he was expecting.

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)

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.

The Outset

Ah, Italy.

The vista of the mountains was spectacular. The wind swept through the green hills, stirring up leaf and blade. Sweet fragrances rolled off the mountain sides. A lonely eagle called, searching for either prey or mate. Maybe both.

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
Il suo nome era Caterina
Ha tenuto il suo cuore in mano
E nell'altro, qualcosa di piu prezioso

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