The Warehouse

Chapter 1 : The girl and the e-mail

    I have a hard time waking up. The thing I use as a mattress has been destroying my back every night since I got here. Still half asleep, I search the cagette posing as a side table. Someone sent me an e-mail.
Completely awake now, I stand up. It's one of my contacts. The boy sharing my mattress tries to hug me but I push him away. I then proceed to take all of my -too few- things. Putting on my destroyed Doc Martens, I read the shiny screen of my cell one last time:

"Gurl, I've found ya something. Something good. To go legit and earn sum moneh while things get calmer, ya kno.
Get ur papers at the usual place and go to this adress. In three (3) days. And don't forget ur towel.
Urs trully, Ricochet."

I go around the spleepy shapes. Knocked out by a mix of alcohol and drugs, the all lot of them... Once outside, the orange light of the street lamps gives a post-apocalyptic vibe to the disgusting street. I put my hood on, hiding my short black hair. There is some relief to the feeling of fresh air on my naked legs. The squat was moist and too hot.
Once I get out of the neighbourhood, I take my cellphone out of the poket of my pair of black jeans shorts. I'll never forget the adress Ricochet sent me. So I put the phone on the ground, crack it my best under my heel and push it down the gutter. Then, I go the oposite direction.

Paris stinks. A lot. At least the surrounding smell of piss and garbage is masked by the scent of oil and other products in the garage. A new guy, with a long pointy nose a weird teeth, gives me a package.
"What you done?" he asks.
"I killed your mum," I answer, going away without looking at him.
That man won't survive the job long if he asks that kind of questions. Or any questions at all, really. 

I make myself comfortable at a McDonald's table; Coke and some french fries dying in front of me. I check my loot. ID card, passport, social security, it's all perfect. I just need to create myself some corresponding banking activity.
Eating my stale food, I ask myself what king of "legit plan" Ricochet has found me. Especially at the fucking Défense. I look at my reflection in the fastfood windows facing me. With my old hoodie, my threadbare Metallica t-shirt and spiked belt, I'll look stupid there. I must have some proper black jeans and a normal shirt in my bag? Or I hope I so. It will have to do.
I get straighter, changing my body language. I need to get inside my character. My name is Alexandra Mourn and as of tomorrow, I will become the new recruit of Clockwork Incorporated.