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 reins. 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 Romagna
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. 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.

The driver shook his head. He had been on this road for the better part of the day. The constant up-and-down were beginning to get to him. This road through the mountains seemed interminable. More than anything, he wanted to find a nearby village, any place with an inn where he could find a room and a bed. This journey was taking far too long.

The sun had begun its Westering march, the sky turning a dimmer shade as it passed along. Before too long, it would burn the horizon, gradually plummeting the mountains into darkness.

The driver did not wish to be on the road that late. The contour of the mountains would start creating nigh-impenetrable areas of shadow long before the sun had truly set. Being out at night along these passes was dangerous. This was the reason why most wagons traveled in caravans between the great cities of Italy. If he did not speed the carriage along its way, he was more than likely to meet...

...bandits.

They sprung from the bushes, arraying themselves along the narrow section of road ahead like a human obstacle. They wore dirty, brown clothing and carried rusty, old blades at their sides. A few wielded what looked like clubs fashioned from thick tree branches.

The driver pulled at the reigns, urging the horses to stop at once. He lifted the edge of his cap, looking out over the vagabonds who stood in his way.

One of the vagabonds stepped out, a large axe held over his shoulder, a vein sticking out on his forehead, and held up his meaty hand.

"Arrestare! Ora!"

The driver lifted his eyebrows. He looked back and forth at the carriage. The horses had long since come to a halt, patting the ground with their hoofs and blowing with impatience. In his confusion, he looked back at the vagabond.

"I... have."

This was totally unexpected, as the vein on the man's head stuck out even further. His face filled up with a red color, and he shouted at the driver, "Non piu del tuo discorso, malandrina!"

The driver released the reigns and held up his hands in supplication. He gave his best, most disarming smile, which at any other time would have been downright charming.

"Come desideri! Whatever you say!" he said.

"What are you carrying?" said the leader.

"Eh," said the driver, worried, "Nothing much. Nothing worth speaking of at any rate."

The leader sneered, growing tired of the driver's smart mouth. "Check the wagon!" he barked.

The vagabond and his cohorts looked at the wagon, puzzled by its odd appearance. He and his men approached his slowly, a bit cautious given the fact that their quarry was anything other than worried.

A moan came from inside of the wagon. The men backed up and held their weapons ready.

The vagabond leader growled, "Who is in there? Get him out here! Instante!"

The driver sighed. He had hoped to avoid this situation. He wanted to avoid the mess it would make. His heavy boot pounded on the floor under his bench.

The groaning grew louder, followed by a loud swearing, "Cazzo! Che cosa!"

The driver winced. He had hoped not to wake his passenger. Gingerly, as though waking a child, he called down, "Eh, you might want to get up. We have... guests."

The passenger groaned again, this time in sheer annoyance.

"They are armed," added the driver.

The groaning stopped. A loud rustling came from within the slim passenger area of the carriage, most of which was wedged in the front. Accompanying the business was a low grumbling.

"Questa e una vendetta per stare svegli tutta la notte, a bere con tutte quelle cortigiane e ..."

The latch on the small door gave a smart click. The vagabonds held their weapons up, slowly encircling the wagon. They arrayed themselves, ready for whatever came out of the door.

Nothing happened.

The latch clicked again. The door would not open. There was a bit of struggling from inside. The carriage rocked back and forth as the passenger tried his best to extricate himself. The driver did his best to help the passenger.

"N-no... no! You have to turn it the other way. Just... just push the pin and... no-no-no, put it back the other way and then pull on the... eh, no, don't... Ah! Pazzo ubriaco!"

The leader of the vagabonds cried out in maddening impatience, "Per il cazzo! Someone, just open the maladetta door for the stupid stronzo!"

One of the bandits approached the side of the carriage. His weapon transferred to his other hand as he extended his arm. He reached for the latch that seemed to be giving the passenger such trouble. He leaned in close, expecting the mechanism to require a close inspection to make work. At any moment, he was prepared to pull his weapon up and hold it to the throat of whatever emerged from within.

He never got the chance.

In a splintering of wood, the door exploded outward, shattering the locking mechanism inside the door frame. It connected hard with the man's face, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. The door itself swung around hard on its metal hinges, showing the large, leather boot that had kicked it open.

"Oh, my!" said the driver, putting his hand to his mouth.

The surprise rolled back through the bandits like a wave. They stood in shock for just a moment, but then collected themselves and lifted their weapons. A few started barking angry swears, eager to put their metal to flesh.

A figure kicked a small bundle at the bottom of the doorway. Two wooden steps mounted on metal brackets unrolled toward the ground, making a neat set of stairs to the ground. He stepped from the carriage, his appearance sending the bandits back a few steps.

He was garbed head-to-toe in white, blood-red details showing on the trim of his clothing. A heavy belt, inscribed with a strange insignia, held the outfit together. A long, crimson-lined cape was draped over his left shoulder. A long, pointed hood hung low over his face. Even so, eyes as sharp as flint looked out from the shadow, taking in his surroundings.

Looking up, he said, "Che diavolo e questa merda?"

The driver winced, "Eh, sorry. They requested the honor of your presence."

"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.

One man ran at the hooded figure, bringing his sword down. The hooded man raised his sword and deflected the wild blow. Just then, another man slashed at him from the side. The figure reached behind his back and brought out a cinquedea that clashed hard against the attacker's blade. With a push, both blades were sent sideways. He cracked the hilt of the dagger against one man's jaw and kicked the other in the stomach. They lay on the ground, groaning in pain.

The third man cried a wicked curse as he charged. The hooded figure spun quick and slashed sideways to deflect the attack. Both were startled when the figure's sword went straight through the attacker's blade, cutting it in half. The broken edge of the sword tumbled through the air and impaled into a grassy embankment.

The bandit stared, wide-eyed, at his broken weapon. The hooded figure huffed in extreme annoyance. In one quick move, he stuck his sword deftly through the other man's grip, freed the broken blade from his fingers, sent it flying into the air, sheathed the cinquedea, transferred his own sword to the opposite hand, and caught the hilt of the broken weapon. He examined it carefully.

"What is this? This is is made of iron! You attacked me with an iron piece of rifiuti! Here, let me give you a lesson."

He held up the broken sword and said, "Ferro."

He lifted his own sword in his left hand, "Acciaio."

With the man's eyes raised to meet his, the figure directed a sharp-toed kick into the man's crotch. He grabbed at his anatomical discomfort and fell to the ground, wretching.

The figure dropped the broken hilt beside the fetal man and said, "Castigo."

All around, prostrate figures littered the ground, as though God had called forth a rain of unwashed vagabonds. The figure counted. He was still missing one.

A cry of pain rang out from the other side of the carriage.

The hooded figure turned quickly. He noticed that the driver's bench was no longer occupied.

"Cazzo..."

The leader of the bandits crossed out from behind the carriage, his blade held to the throat of the struggling driver.

"It seems I underestimated you, sconosciuto."

The driver winced at the cold metal against his throat. He whimpered, "I'm so sorry, my friend, I..."

"Silenzio!" the bandit ordered, holding the blade tighter to the other man's throat. "Now then, my curiously-skilled friend. Do exactly as I say or this... this finocchio gets cut from ear to ear. Drop your sword!"

The hooded man dropped his sword without hesitation. He held his hands out in pleading, "Please, he may be an annoying canaglia, but he's my friend."

"Then you will not test me any more!"

"Quello che vuoi," he replied, growing more nervous. He looked at the driver and said, "Don't worry, amico, it will alright."

He reached behind his back. The bandit held his blade higher on the driver's throat in warning. Slowly, the hooded figure pulled out a small sack, about the size of the palm of his hand. It jingled as he moved. The bandit's eyes lit up.

"Here," said the hooded figure, "This is at least forty gold florins, a small repayment for your trouble. Don't hurt him, let us go on our way, and they are yours. You must know that, if you kill him, I will make your death a thousand times more painful. Your choice."

Thinking quickly, the bandit dropped the driver to the ground, holding his throat in pain. The vagabond slowly approached the hooded man. The figure extended his arm to hand the bag.

There was a flash of metal, followed by a sickening sound of cloven flesh. Small, gold coins fell to the ground like tinkling rain drops.

Blood oozed from the bandit's throat. A long, thin blade extended from the hooded figure's gauntlet, straight through the bag, piercing the man's flesh. With a flick of the wrist, the blade retracted. The bandit fell to the ground, gasping for breath as blood filled his throat.

The anger in the hooded figure's face faded, turned into something much softer. He knelt on the ground, holding the bandit's head in his hand, gazing into his eyes.

"I don't understand," said the bandit, coughing, "You said if I didn't hurt you, if I let your friend go, you'd let me keep the money."

"And I was truthful," replied the hooded figure, "You may keep the money. I never said you could keep your life."

"Why? Why have you done this?"

"Because," said the hooded figure, sadly, "Only a codardo uses his strength to harm the innocent and unarmed."

Understanding bloomed in the man's eyes, "I am sorry about your friend. I... my men... we are all poor and our families are starving. There is no other way for us to get money. Maybe I should have..."

"Rest now," interrupted the hooded figure, "And travel to a place where your needs are met and you may rest in contentment. There is nothing more here that can trouble you."

"You," said the bandit, pointing at the hooded figure, "You're one of them... you're one of the..."

"Si," said the hooded figure with a nod, "I am one of those who takes the lives of men."

The bandit's eyes glassed over. The hooded figure reached up and ran his fingertips down the man's face, closing his eyes. Gently, he laid his body to the ground.

"Requiescat in pace."

After a moment's silence, the hooded figure stood and walked over to the driver, holding out his hand.

He asked, "Are you alright, Leonardo?"

The man - Leonardo da Vinci - coughed and rubbed his sore throat, then accepted his friend's grasp. "Si, my friend. Thank you."

The two men looked down at the quiet, still form of the bandit leader.

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

"He had it coming."

The driver started at his friend's response.

The hooded man knelt down and started gathering up the gold coins that had littered the ground. He set them in a neat pile on the man's motionless chest, crossing his hands over the riches he had earned in death.

Several of the other bandits began coming to at that time. They looked about them, dazed and confused. Then, they remembered their defeat, looking about. Several men screamed in terror and backed up along the ground as they looked up into the face of the hooded man. A few of them cried out in horror at the sight of their fallen leader.

He looked out over them, "There, you have your money. Your work here is done. Your leader has finished it with his final breath. Know that this is what the life you have chosen has lead you to. Take it - and him - and go."

The men scrambled to collect themselves. Two men picked up the body of their leader, while others rushed to gather up the gold coins. Without another word, they turned and fled up the road, as far away from the carriage as their feet could take them.

The hooded figure sighed.

He and Leonardo mounted the carriage together. Side by side on the bench, Leonardo snapped the reins and sent the horses into a fast trot.

"That was quite dangerous, my friend," said Leonardo, "But noble in its way, I suppose."

The hooded figure nodded, "We've wasted enough time. Let's hurry along before the sun sets."

"Of course," said the driver.

About a hundred yards down the road, they were surprised when a single man jumped out from the bushes.

He was dressed in torn leathers, filthy with mud and grime. He held a rusty old sword in one hand and a crazed look in his eyes. The sword tip pointed directly at Leonardo.

"Santi, non ancora!" said the hapless driver.

"Stand to," shouted the madman, "Give me all your gold, everything you have, even your clothes, and maybe... MAYBE... I'll let you live."

The hooded figure gritted his teeth, restraining himself from curses that would have made a Portuguese sailor blush. He extended his arm across in front of Leonardo and flipped a switch on his wrist.

A deafening boom echoed through the valley, sending birds flying in terror. The madman's body fell to the ground, a neat hole having been punched in the middle of his chest.

The hooded figure withdrew his arm, clearing the miniature wheel-lock firearm affixed to his bracer. He gave the switch a turn, safing the mechanism.

"Nobility has its limits," huffed the hooded figure.

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."

Driving Mr. Miles

His hand jumped. What had been a page of clear, smooth lines was now crisscrossed by a jagged scribble, going right over what had been a detailed sketch of the mountains of Italy. He had just started on the only straight elements, the beginnings of the wagon riding the highway.

In annoyance, the artist angrily scribbled over the entire page, tore it from the spiral-bound sketchbook, and crumpled it into one hand. He glanced over his shoulder, looking through the thin window into the forward compartment, a look of displeasure on his face.

The van bounced and jolted on these rough roads. If they could only take the main highways, things would be different. There was nothing for it, however, so he had to live with his work being continually ruined by the back country roads of Italy.

He tossed the paper to the ground and flipped to the next page, starting on his drawing anew.

The young woman occupying the back of the van watched the arc of the paper as it hit the metal wall. She looked up over her computer monitor at the man. Though they had been stuck back here together for hours and hours at a stretch, they rarely took the time to talk. Deciding it was time enough, she paused her MP3 player and pulled the wrap-around headphones back from her ears.

"So, whatcha doin', Desmond?" came her bright, chirruping voice.

The artist - Desmond Miles - looked up from his sketching. He was so surprised to hear another person's voice.

"What?," he said, "Sorry, Rebecca. What did you say?"

The team's computer engineer - Rebecca Crane - smiled at him.

"Sorry," she said, "Didn't mean to break your train of thought. You've been focusing pretty hard on that notebook. Whatcha workin' on?"

"Oh," said Desmond, "This." He looked down at the spiral-bound book in his hands. He still could not believe it himself.

"I'm, uh," he muttered, "I'm writing a book."

"A book?" Rebecca's eyebrows shot up.

Desmond fumed, "Hey!"

"Sorry, sorry," she said in defeat. "I didn't mean it like that. What kind of book?"

His lip curled a bit as he glanced over his artwork. Even as proud as he was at his accomplishment, he still could not believe what he was doing. The mere thought of even trying this had never crossed his mind. However, as his life went these days, many things crossed his mind that had never crossed anyone's mind before.

The Animus made all of this possible. The comfortable, recumbent couch on which Desmond sat was in actuality a complex neurotransmitter augmentation system, which projected a simulated reality on top of Desmond's own sensory apparatus. Coupled with the super-advanced computer system that sat at Rebecca's feet, Desmond was able to relive the memories of his ancestors using ancestral genetic information hidden within his own DNA.

At first, Desmond had been a guinea pig to the Abstergo Corporation, using him to discover long-lost knowledge of use to them. Now back with the Assassins, Desmond used the Animus to acquire the skills of his ancestors via the bleeding effect, the leakage of genetic, ancestral knowledge into his real-time memory.

What was a little disheartening to him was the application he had put these skills to.

"It's a..." he stumbled for the words, "A comic book."

Rebecca's eyes brightened and a huge smile crossed her pixie-like face.

(TO BE CONTINUED)