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.

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."