The Shenzhen sun clawed at the sky like it had a quota to hit—midday blaze turning the air into a humid fist, thick with the exhaust tang of idling scooters and the faint, greasy sizzle of street-side baozi vendors hawking steam-wrapped regrets for five yuan a pop. April 3rd, 2025, and the sprawl hummed indifferent, a concrete beast gnashing its teeth on the edge of the Pearl River Delta, where factories belched synthetic dreams into the haze and migrants from the hinterlands shuffled like ghosts in knockoff Nikes, chasing wages that evaporated faster than morning fog.
Amber tumbled through the portal's shrinking maw—two feet by one, a ragged slash wedged between a dented BYD Qin parked crooked and a lime-green Wuling Mini EV that looked like it ran on spite and recycled dreams, basically every Chinese under thirty years old these days—landing knees-first on cracked asphalt that bit back with embedded gravel. She froze there a beat, blonde waves sticking to her neck like guilty secrets, heart hammering a staccato warning—coast clear?
Eyes up slow, scanning the parking slip-off Baoshen Road—the kind of anonymous notch where airport shuttle vans idled like reluctant chaperones, Nantou's heliport hum droning distant, rotors chopping the air for the moneyed few who chopper-jumped borders without the TSA tango.
No stares, no security drones buzzing accusatory—just a knot of day laborers in faded polo tees chain-smoking Zhongnanhai under a corrugated awning, their gazes sliding past her like she was yesterday's WeChat forward. Amber exhaled sharp, the portal's ozone afterbite clinging to her LBD like a bad one-night stand, and thumbed her phone alive—screen blooming harsh in the glare, Discord pinging phantom from the void she'd just ghosted. Yi Han first, though—Insta DMs, that digital vein keeping her pre-Petals life from curdling into irrelevance.
Fingers flew—I'm here 😣 pick a sister up. Just off Baoshen, the turn before the Shenzhen Nantou Airport.
Reply pinged back in under thirty—Yi Han's avatar a pixelated fox-ear selfie from some con last year, all cat-eye liner and peace-sign bravado. Nice! I'm on my way, be there in 10. Yellow Vespa, just got off a photoshoot. 📸💰👉👌💦💦
Amber's lips quirked, vain reflex kicking in as she rose fluid, brushing asphalt flecks from her knees—thank fuck for Spanx holding the line, because crawling interdimensional ditches wasn't doing her thigh-gap any favors. Photoshoot, huh? Girl code for the grind that paid cosplay's rent—nude refs for doujin artists churning elf-goblin hookups inked raw as back-alley tattoos, or fantasy erotica spreads where the only armor was strategically draped silk and a NDAs thicker than the smog.
Amber got it—no judgment from this corner, where hypocrisy bloomed like mold on a forgotten gym bag. She'd slung garment bags for celebs who mainlined Ozempic and OnlyFans side-hustles, whispering empowerment over the clink of Veuve while the models choked down kale regrets. Personally, eww if you're doing kale. Survival's math didn't discriminate, it just subtracted dignity in yuan-sized bites.
Ten minutes stretched elastic in the heat—Amber leaning against the BYD's sun-baked hood, scrolling Insta feeds that blurred New York's sodium ghosts with Shenzhen's neon veins, Lumiere's latest story a carousel of Dubai poolside flexes that made her stomach twist envious. The story wasn't even in real time, that's a selfie from last month that's only uploaded now so that she looks like she's travelling to places.
Bitch, you'd portal-sink that yacht if I let you, she thought, thumb pausing on a thirst-trap reel of some influencer in a chainmail bikini—ironic, given the cargo she'd haul back through the veil.
The Vespa's buzz cut the haze first—a piss-yellow streak weaving through scooter traffic like a hornet on Adderall, Yi Han at the helm in a cropped tank that bared midriff tanned to caramel and denim cutoffs frayed high enough to flirt with traffic cops. Helmet tossed back mid-slide, black bob whipping wild, she killed the engine with a sputter that echoed Amber's own post-jump jitters.
"Weston, you sneaky cunt—thought you were ghosting the group chat after that Milan drop!" Yi Han's laugh cracked the air as she dismounted, all five-foot-nothing of compact firecracker energy, pulling Amber into a hug that smelled of coconut oil and cigarette ash—fresh off the lens, skin still humming from studio strobes.
Up close, the photoshoot's toll lingered—faint red pressure marks from fishnet props on her collarbone, eyes shadowed with that post-pose hollow where endorphins crashed into the invoice math—fifty shots at two hundred yuan a pop, minus the creep director's artistic notes. But her grin held steel, the kind forged in Guangdong's gig economy grind, where cosplay cons paid in exposure and nudes paid in actual rent.
Amber squeezed back, vain poise snapping into place as she air-kissed cheeks—Chanel No. 5 clashing with Yi Han's vanilla vape cloud. "Bitch, please—Milan was a fever dream of silk swatches and sleazy scouts. I'm stateside now, slinging for some indie atelier—kinda, sorta. It's complicated. You? Looking like you just escaped a Final Fantasy DLC leak or whatever lazyprocrastinator's been up lately. Spill—who's the client this time? Orc warlord with a foot thing? Tech startup bro with easy boner for sideboob?"
Yi Han's cackle peeled sharp as she looped an arm through Amber's, steering them toward the Vespa—extra helmet dangling from the handlebar like a surrendered white flag. "Worse—some doujin circle out of Guangzhou, all about interspecies diplomacy. Me as the elf envoy, him as the goblin diplomat—spoiler, negotiations get messy. Like, actual white liquid every three centimeters kind of nasty. Paid the bills, though. Hop on, we're burning daylight if you want the good rejects before the aunties swarm 'em like it's Black Friday at Shein HQ."
The Vespa snarled alive under them—Amber pillion, arms locked loose around Yi Han's waist, wind whipping her hair into blonde Medusa snarls as they merged into the scrum of Baoshen's chaos. Shenzhen unfolded merciless—tower blocks stabbing the sky like chrome middle fingers pointing towards God up above because let's be real, who wouldn't give him the birdie—billboards hawking vivo phones and vivo dreams in Mandarin pinyin glow, sidewalks choked with aunties in knockoff LV totes bartering knockoff pearls while Ubers—Didi, here—honked biblical fury at jaywalking migrants hauling rice sacks on shoulder poles.
The heat pressed close, a velvet chokehold laced with diesel and dim sum steam, and Amber felt the time-slip vertigo hit delayed—New York still nursing its ten-something PM hangover while this sprawl baked in eleven AM ambition, portals cheating clocks but not the jet-lag ghosts in your gut.
Thirteen hours yoinked, like the veil's got a fast-forward kink, she thought, self-opinionated edge sharpening as Yi Han gunned through a yellow light. Fuck EST—this is where the real flex lives—sweatshops churning history's scraps with quarter the price while the West Venmos its way to irrelevance.
First stop—the money changer, a hole-in-the-wall kiosk wedged between a bubble tea kiosk slinging taro sludge and a pawn shop hawking jade knockoffs that screamed cursed under the fluorescent buzz. The uncle behind the plexi—face creased like old rice paper, cigarette dangling perpetual from chapped lips—eyed Amber's ID and debit card like they were smuggled fentanyl, muttering rates in clipped Cantonese that Yi Han translated with a wink. "He's lowballing 'cause you're lao wai—foreigner tax. But I'll hag for ya—consider it my elf-diplomat fee."
Amber slid over four grand of her cut—4,000 USD wired instant from the Hibiscus account Lulu'd greenlit just awhile back, pixels turning to cold yuan stacks thicker than a Tarantino script, legit Payday 2 Money Bundle level of thick—leaving four hundred in reserve for the emergencies like bribing a factory overseer or Ubering back to the portal drop if Yi Han's Vespa ate shit in traffic.
The uncle counted deliberate, bills snapping like judgment, then shoved a banded wad across the slot—twenty-eight thousand RMB, give or take, the math fuzzy in the haze but enough to fund a medieval wardrobe without flashing the full vein.
Blood money from blood money, Amber mused, pocketing the stack in her crossbody—slaver slugs laundered through Balthazar's bourgeois bullshit, now yuan for faux-feudal finery. Hypocrisy's a circle jerk, but damn if it doesn't pay the piper.
Yi Han revved the Vespa out, weaving south toward Nanshan's wholesale guts—the factory district where Coastal City's mall facade hid the real beast—labyrinthine warrens of garment sheds belching polyester ghosts, where rejects piled like the casualties of fast-fashion famines. "So, what's the play?" Yi Han shouted over the wind, bob fluttering like a battle flag. "You said bulk for some Ren Faire gig? Like, full medieval drag or just the peasant chic?"
Amber leaned in closer, voice pitched casual over the engine's snarl—evasion smooth as her contour, no cracks for Isekai's shadow to seep through. "Peasant to princess spectrum, babe—tunics, chemises, the works. Client's got this reenactment pop-up in upstate New York—think Outlander but with more craft brews and fewer Scots. Need authentic-feel rejects—no zippers, no poly-blend bullshit. Natural fibers only, stitching that passes for hand-sewn. Budget's loose, but I'm flipping for profit, so quality over quantity... mostly."
Yi Han nodded, eyes crinkling in the rearview—understanding flickering, the cosplay grind recognizing its kin without the full confession. "Gotchu. My hookup's at this shed off the third ring—sister runs the cull pile for a linen exporter. Auntie's a dragon on prices, but show her a sample pic of your reenactment vibe, and she'll slash for volume. Last time I scored there, got a bolt of wool damask for goblin cloaks—turned it into three doujin sets, cleared fifteen K easy."
The district swallowed them whole—Vespa sputtering to a halt in a dirt lot pocked with potholes that could've swallowed a scooter whole, flanked by cinderblock sheds tagged in faded Mandarin and English hybrids—Guangdong Textiles—Quality Export.
The air thickened here, heavy with dye vats' chemical bite and the low thunder of sewing machines stitching futures from threadbare hopes—migrant girls in hairnets hunched over pedals, faces masks of quiet calculus—one hem, two yuan—forty hems, rent.
Amber swung off the bike, heels sinking into gravel that crunched like old bones, the yuan wad a guilty weight against her ribs. This is the engine, she thought, vain detachment cracking just a hair—Petals exporting cap to Isekai, but it's all the same grind—sweat for scraps, portals or not.
Inside the shed—doorless maw yawning into fluorescent hell—the auntie materialized like a Cormac specter from the Blood Meridian of bargain bins—mid-forties, peroxide-streaked bun pinned with a chopstick, apron stained with indigo ghosts, eyes sharp as shears behind wire rims. She barked a greeting in rapidfire Mandarin that Yi Han fielded like a pro—introductions flying, Amber's cover story dropping seamless. "My not-really-sister's from New York, doing Ren Faire bulk—tunics, gowns, underthings. No modern trims—all natural, medieval aesthetic. Show her the linen culls?"
Auntie grunted assent, waddling to a back alcove where rejects towered in cardboard tombs—bolts of linen slubbed rough as burlap dreams, wool serges dyed in faded earth tones, cotton voiles sheer enough to scandalize a nun. Samples unfurled under callused hands—a tunic in undyed hemp, seams straight but lumpy from rushed needles—perfect for Norinbel's beastkin hauls, where authenticity trumped perfection. "Two hundred yuan meter," auntie rasped, haggling baseline set like a gauntlet thrown.
Yi Han jumped in, Mandarin loping persuasive—volume discount, quality check, your rejects are our gold—while Amber fingered the fabrics deliberate, vain expertise kicking in. This linen breathed like a sigh, no synthetic itch. That wool held drape without the pill of cheap blends.
Isekai's threads are horsehair and regret, she catalogued silent—Hargrave's dregs weaving quartz dust into shifts that chafe skin raw. This? This flips the script—Earth's surplus armoring the oppressed, one portal at a time. A gown caught her eye next—emerald damask reject, gold-thread embroidery looping faded but fierce, buttons bone-carved nubs that screamed pre-plastic provenance. "This one's a steal—how much for ten like it? And throw in chemises, linen shifts, no lace bullshit."
The dance dragged baroque—yuan tossed like poker chips, auntie stonewalling at first, Yi Han countering with cosplay sob stories, Amber chiming in English-inflected charm that softened the edges: "It's for a festival—hundreds of attendees, your tags on every stall. Think viral TikToks, Ren Faire royalty."
Prices tumbled—tunics at 150/meter for fifty yards, chemises bulk at 80 apiece for two dozen, the damask gowns slashed to 450 each for the lot—total haul cresting 15,000 RMB, leaving buffer for belts of twisted leather—no buckles, thank fuck—and hose in wool knit that'd pass for hosen without the historical herpes.
Bags bloated fast—duffels scavenged from the Vespa's saddlebag, fabrics crammed careful to dodge wrinkles that'd scream sweatshop special back home. Auntie tallied final on an abacus that clicked like doomsday tallies, receipts scribbled in ballpoint that bled ink like confessions. "Come back soon, blondie—next cull's velvet scraps. Good for elf capes." Amber nodded gracious, vain smile pinned—elf capes for goblin diplomats? Close enough—veil's the only difference.
The Shenzhen sprawl had chewed the afternoon into evening's grudging maw—six PM local, the sun dipping low and sullen behind the Pearl River's haze, painting tower blocks in bruise-purple smears while the air hung heavy with the fry-oil ghosts of congee carts and the distant bark of factory horns signaling shift's end.
Outside, the sun dipped a fraction toward afternoon spite, Vespa groaning under the load as Yi Han throttled them out—bags bungeed precarious, wind tugging at seams like impatient fingers. "Nailed it," Yi Han crowed over the roar, weaving a scooter phalanx that parted biblical. "Auntie's a hardass, but you played the foreign charm right—no hard sell, just that I'm above this but desperate vibe.."
For Amber, the time-slip vertigo lingered like a bad hangover—five AM back in New York, where Astoria's brownstones slumbered under sodium halos, the N train's wheeze a subterranean sigh for the damned. Her phone buzzed insistent in the duffel's side pocket, a vibration that cut through the auntie's abacus-click farewell like a suppressed round—Discord flare, Five Petals Gang server blooming with Alice's voice note, tagged sharp.
Sit rep?
Amber's thumb hovered a beat, vain reflex kicking in as she shouldered the bloated bags—fabrics whispering against her thigh like impatient secrets—before thumbing the call icon. The line crackled connective tissue across the veil, pixels bridging oceans and ether spite in under ten rings.
"Hey," Amber said when it latched, voice pitched casual over the Vespa's lingering sputter in her ears—Yi Han idling curbside, helmet dangling from her wrist like a surrendered trophy, eyes crinkling curious at the sudden pivot. "You're still awake? Thought the East Coast coven was deep in REM by now—dreaming of spreadsheets or slaver snacks."
Alice's exhale filtered through, tired as creek mud but threaded with that strategic wire—Amazon reflexes dying hard, even at oh-dark-thirty. "We're all still up. Or... were. Lulu's been stuffing herself with Red Bull and reconnaissance since the drone dump—nightlong data-digging's her kink, apparently. Woke the rest of us when she hit paydirt."
"Word?" Amber leaned against the Coastal City facade—glass cool at her back, reflecting her disheveled glow like a funhouse accusation—bags thumping soft to the pavement, yuan wad a guilty lump in her crossbody.
Yi Han killed the Vespa proper then, swinging off with a fluid grace that screamed cosplay-honed poise, eyebrow arched in silent spill? Amber waved her off vague—work shit mouthed over the line's hum—vain poise holding the line even as the jet-lag ghosts clawed her temples.
"I'll tell you when you're here," Alice said, voice dropping conspiratorial, the kind of timbre that evoked wolf-shadowed oaks and truths spilled in tickle-torment. "Better debriefing that way—maps, footage, the whole madcap mosaic. Lulu's stitching a PDF prelim on Norinbel's Inner Circle—the mage-lords' web, guilds tangled like a Cormac fever dream. Shit that makes Hargrave's pits look like a PTA bake sale."
Amber's laugh cracked low, opinionated edge honing despite the haul's weight—fabrics mocking her from the duffels, linen breaths promising flips in Mard-sized windfalls. "Tease. Fine, play the long game. But heads up—I got us some fire drip for the next run. Fifty dresses, give or take—emerald damasks that'd make a noble wet herself—about seventy-ish tunics, lost count exact 'cause the aunties piled 'em like Jenga from hell. Trousers too, wool hose that passes for hosen without the historical herpes, chemises by the two-dozen, six fucking aprons believe it or not—practical for the beastkin grind, y'know?—and a lingerie set tucked in the side pocket. Not selling that last one, but if some rich-ass noble lady swings by Norinbel and rolls a hundred Mards our way... shit, with grand-per-coin arbitrage on the line? I'm not saying no. Might even model it myself—call it Petals' Lingerie Line: Veiled Vices."
Alice's chuckle rumbled back, ragged but genuine—self-deprecation lacing the edges like jerky in a survival kit. "Great. Straight fire—Monica's gonna lose her shit over the aprons, girl's got a kink for anything that screams bouncer in a tavern brawl. I'll loop the coven in once you drop the deets. Tunics'll armor the poor better than fatfuck's tumbrils ever dreamed."
"Actually," Amber cut in, glancing sidelong at Yi Han—who'd lit a cigarette now, leaning on the Vespa with that post-shoot slouch, smoke curling lazy into the evening's humid choke— "I'm not done yet. Still places on the list—leatherworkers down in the third ring, bone-clasp guys who do clasps cheap as sin. It's already six, I'll snag a hotel or something, crash and rally for round two tomorrow."
Yi Han's head snapped up at that, cigarette pinched between manicured nails—bob swinging as she stubbed it out mid-drag, voice slicing in uninvited but warm, like congee steam on a chill dawn. "Nonsense—you can stay at mine. No hotel bullshit, my spot's small but it'll fit you and me just fine."
Amber blinked, phone muffling against her shoulder as she twisted—vain surprise flickering before the pivot. "Won't it bother you? Crashing your lair unannounced?"
From the line, Alice's tone dipped playful but probing—strategic ear tuned even through the static, weighing the variable like a risk assessment on overtime. "Yeah, I hope we're not putting some weight on your shoulders there, Yi Han. And by weight, I mean the five-foot-six, hundred-twenty-pound fashion gremlin currently hogging your bandwidth."
"Fuck you," Amber shot back automatic, grin splitting despite the jab—NYC snap honed from Fashion Week catfights and group-chat roasts, her free hand flipping the bird toward the phone like Alice could see it through the veil.
Yi Han's laugh trilled sharp, elbowing Amber's ribs light—cosplay camaraderie bridging the stranger's edge without effort. "No bother at all—boyfriend's away for the week, some tech confab in Shanghai. Place is a shoebox in Nanshan—think walk-in closet with a hot plate—but the bed's queen because sex is king, and I've got con leftovers—instant ramen, that weird durian candy that either slays or assassinates. Crash pad's yours, beats tourist traps charging expat rates for thread-count lies."
Alice's hum filtered approving, tired resolve settling like creek stones. "I mean... if you're okay with it, Ambs."
"I'm fine," Amber said, shoulders easing as she scooped a duffel—Yi Han snagging the other, Vespa bungees straining under the load like reluctant accomplices. "Need the extra hours browsing tomorrow anyway—clasps, belts, maybe snag some faux-fur trim for the colder runs. Owe you eternal boba for the wingwoman flex, though."
"A'ight," Alice drawled, the leader's sign-off weary but wired—self-deprecation whispering what fresh hell is this globe-trotting circus? even as trust banked the line. "Keep me posted—ping if the haggling turns Tarantino. Yi Han? Thanks in advance."
"You're welcome," Yi Han called, voice pitching closer to the phone as she straddled the Vespa—engine coughing awake like a hungover beast. "Tell the coven hi from the elf envoy. Safe travels or... whatever jet-setters do."
"Listen, Ambs," Alice pressed on, the call's hum thickening with the night's pull—five AM shadows pooling in her shoebox, Lulu's laptop glow a blue specter in the corner of the frame. "I'm gonna catch some pillow time before the sun hates me. Meg and I are scouting forty-foot shipping containers in Newark later at two—proper staging for the next haul, no more duffel-shlepping bullshit. Maybe even putting real work for the fantasy fast food idea. Putting Lulu and Monica on data collection and compilation duty off the drone footage and snaps. We're trying to make sense of the Inner Circle of Norinbel—the mage-lords' cabal, guilds knotted tighter than a noose in McCarthy's borderlands. I'll email you the PDF prelim once it's stitched—maps, names, weak points that scream coup bait."
"Cool," Amber said, swinging pillion as the Vespa lurched into traffic's vein—wind whipping her hair into blonde fury, Shenzhen's evening neon blooming accusatory in the mirrors. "Hit me up later. Night, boss—or morning, whatever the fuck this timeline is."
The asphalt stretched out like a scar under the early April sky—gray and indifferent, the kind of slate-blue afternoon that hung over Newark like a hangover from some forgotten industrial bender. Finally entering the 3rd while Amber was already thirteen hours ahead, 2025, and the air bit with that early spring edge, sharp enough to make you question why anyone bothered with drinking coffee straight from the glass when the real devil came from the rent notices piling up in your mailbox.
Megan idled her old-ass second-gen F-100 in front of Alice's Astoria walk-up, the pickup's V8 rumbling low and loyal, exhaust puffing out in lazy clouds that smelled like two-stroke nostalgia and the faint tang of yesterday's motor oil. The truck was a beast—1957 model, faded with dents from too many close calls in the shop yard, the kind of ride that turned heads not for style but for sheer stubborn survival. She kept the engine growling, fingers drumming the scarred wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview where a couple of kids in oversized hoodies shuffled past, one of them hawking a half-smoked blunt like it was contraband gold.
Alice emerged from the stairwell like she'd been spat out by the building itself—jeans tucked into scuffed work boots, a threadbare Carhartt jacket zipped over a hoodie that screamed I gave up on fashion in 2019, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail that had given up halfway through the day. She moved with that Amazon-driver economy, shoulders loose but alert, like she was still scanning for the next pallet to wrestle. The wind clawed at her collar as she hit the sidewalk, and she shot Megan a half-wave—tired but game, the strategic glint in her eye saying she'd already mapped three escape routes from whatever fresh hell this errand promised.
Megan leaned over, popping the passenger door with a creak that echoed off the brownstones. "Hop in, boss. Before the meter starts on my patience."
Alice slid onto the bench seat, the vinyl cracking under her like old bones settling, and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the glovebox. The cab smelled like her—grease and faint lavender from whatever dollar-store soap she hoarded, mixed with the perpetual undercurrent of Megan's WD-40 cologne. "Thanks for the lift. Traffic's a nightmare already—figured we'd beat the rush if we left now."
Megan snorted, flat and dry as a torque wrench to the ribs, and mashed the pedal. The F-100 lurched forward with a guttural bark, tires chewing the pothole-riddled street like it had a personal grudge. "Rush? In Astoria? Babe, this is just foreplay. Real fun starts once we hit the Turnpike." She flicked on the blinker—more habit than hope—and merged into the crawl toward Williamsburg, the city skyline smearing into a haze of steel and sodium behind them.
The drive west on the road was the usual symphony of suburban despair—endless lanes clogged with soccer moms in leased Crossovers and delivery vans belching fumes like they were auditioning for a dystopian flick. Google Maps chirped optimistic from Alice's phone mount, promising a breezy thirty-seven minutes to 635 Delancy, but reality had other plans, as it always did when you were hauling ass toward a scheme that smelled like felony wrapped in fast-food wrappers.
Dumbasses honked in staccato bursts—some dude in a lifted Tacoma riding the bumper like it owed him road head—while state troopers idled on the shoulder, lights flashing lazy blues over a cluster of homeless folks getting herded like stray cattle, their cardboard signs flapping in the wind like surrendered flags. Alice watched it all unfold through the passenger window, her thumb tracing idle patterns on the armrest, mind half in Newark, half drifting back to Norinbel's paths. Hypocrisy's favorite mirror—here, cops corralling the forgotten for blocking the flow of capital; there, slaver guilds doing the same with chains instead of zip ties.
Same shit, different clown costumes.
"See that?" Megan jerked her chin at a cop shoving a grizzled guy toward a squad car, the man's coat flapping open to reveal layers of newsprint insulation. "Empire's maintenance crew. Keep the optics clean for the commuters."
Alice exhaled slow, self-deprecation curling her lip like a bad habit. "Yeah. Makes our little container hunt feel almost noble." She paused, eyes narrowing at a billboard for some crypto scam flashing "HODL YOUR FREEDOM" in neon lies, either deliberately typo'd or whoever on that job was high and drunk. "Or not. Capitalism's got a way of eating its own tail."
Megan's laugh was a bark—nerve-striking sarcasm flat as the Jersey flats unfolding ahead. "Noble? Al, we're two grease monkeys eyeballing steel boxes to portal-smuggle fries into a world that thinks ale is a daily H2O. If that's noble, I'm Mother Teresa with a socket set. Next, I'm gonna birth Jesus while widening my hole with DeWalt tools." She downshifted around a merge, the tranny whining protest, and shot Alice a sidelong glance. "Speaking of—Lulu's spreadsheets ready for this joyride? Or we winging it like usual?"
Alice pulled up the group chat on her phone—The Five Petals Gang, the icon a glitchy hibiscus emoji that Amber had insisted on, because vanity demanded flair even in felony planning. Lulu's last ping sat unread—ROI projections attached. 4 Mards/meal avg—scale to 200/day = 800k Mards/yr. Factor mana interference on fryers: -15% efficiency or not, fuck magic we have electricity. Don't fuck it up. Classic Lu—sardonic math as foreplay. "She's got the kinks ironed out. Says if we hit volume, we're swimming in gemstone equivalents by the end of spring. But yeah—winging the visuals. Need to see the bones before we dress the corpse."
The Holland Tunnel loomed like a concrete throat, swallowing them into the underbelly where headlights smeared yellow veins on tiled walls, the air thickening with diesel rot and the faint, eternal drip of condensation that sounded like distant applause for bad decisions. They emerged into Jersey's sprawl—warehouse districts bleeding into strip malls, the Passaic River a sluggish brown snake coiled under graffiti-scarred bridges.
But of course, the universe had a punchline queued—-up ahead, brake lights bloomed red as a fresh wound, horns erupting in a chorus of entitled rage. At the epicenter, a white girl—fresh off some Ivy feeder school, if the Vineyard Vines sticker on her daddy's Mustang screamed anything—had tangoed her ride into a utility pole, the front end accordioned like a crushed beer can, steam hissing from the hood in petulant clouds. Cops were already circling, one barking into a radio while the girl stood on the shoulder, blonde ponytail askew, phone glued to her ear as she wailed about insurance and Ubers.
Megan slowed to a crawl, the F-100's growl muting to a sympathetic rumble. "Behold—the white girl tax in action. Bet her old man's got a lawyer on speed dial before the airbags even deflate. Meanwhile, that homeless dude back there? Gets a ticket for existing."
Alice chuckled low, the sound ragged around the edges—tired amusement laced with that strategic undercurrent, always calculating the angles even when the board was stacked. "Karma's got a blindfold and a trust fund. But hey—gives us time to brainstorm. You still think the open-sides model's the play? Or we hunting something stealthier, less hey, look at the food truck from another dimension?"
Megan's fingers tightened on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors as traffic inched forward. "Stealth? In Norinbel? Those guilds'll sniff out anything that doesn't reek of moldy stew. Open sides scream come eat, which is the point—slap on some vents for the fryers, LED menu boards that run off the solar rig, and boom—McDonald's but make it medieval. Just gotta mod the chassis for portal hauls—reinforce the floor so it doesn't buckle when we drop in a pallet of patties."
The snarl eased after twenty minutes of idling fury, the Mustang wreckage towed off like yesterday's regret, and they peeled toward Delancy Street—Interport's yard sprawling under chain-link fences topped with razor curls, a graveyard of steel rectangles stacked like forgotten promises. The place had been grinding for a long time, one of the last holdouts in a world gone soft on logistics, where containers shipped dreams from Shenzhen to Secaucus without anyone asking too many questions about provenance. Or in their case—interdimensional bullshit laundered as antique curios.
Megan killed the engine in the visitor lot, the F-100 settling with a sigh, and they hoofed it to the sales office—a prefab hut with sun-faded brochures plastered on the walls, the air inside humming with the low buzz of fluorescent tubes and the faint, oily scent of fresh weld. A sales associate popped up like she'd been spawned for the occasion—mid-thirties, sharp bob haircut and a blouse that said professional but approachable, her handshake firm with that practiced grip that closed deals before coffee went cold.
"Good afternoon, ladies," she said, smile wide as a lease agreement. "I'm Sydney. I handled your call earlier—Alice, right?"
Alice matched the grip, her callused palm rough against Sydney's manicure—Amazon reflexes dying hard. "That's me. And this is Meg."
Megan nodded, her own shake quick and no-nonsense, sarcasm holstered for now but itching at the edges. "Hey."
Sydney's eyes lit with that sales-glint, the kind honed on quotas and quick closes. "So, what brings you two in today? Looking to ship something exotic, or...?"
Alice leaned on the counter, casual as a porch swing, but her voice threaded strategic—flexible, probing for inputs without tipping the hypocrisy hand. "Containers, actually. Forty-footers. Something we can mod without turning it into a total Frankenstein."
"Fantastic choice," Sydney beamed, already keying a tablet with manicured thumbs. "We've got a killer selection—new, used, high-cube if you need the extra headroom. Follow me out back, I'll walk you through the stars."
They trailed her through a side door into the yard proper—a vast concrete expanse under the bruise-purple sky, rows of containers stacked three-high like metallic sarcophagi waiting for the apocalypse. Wind whistled through the gaps, carrying the metallic tang of rust and the distant rumble of semis queuing at the gates. Some units gleamed factory-fresh, plastic sheeting crinkling under their boots; others bore the scars of hard miles—dents from rough ports, faded paint peeling like old skin.
Alice's boots crunched gravel, her mind spinning the calculus—haul this beast through a portal slash, drop it in Norinbel's merchant sprawl, weld in the arches and fryers. McDonald's in Isekai—satirical gold, exporting the golden arches to a world where drive-thru meant dodging wyvern shit. But the dark underbelly gnawed—beastkin flipping patties for Mards while guilds skimmed the tips, quartz dust swapped for sesame seeds. Survival's arithmetic—unforgiving as a margin call.
Sydney waved them toward a cluster near the chain-link, her heels clicking authoritative. "This here's our newest arrival—landed yesterday from Rotterdam. Forty-footer, one-trip condition. Clean as a whistle."
Alice circled the unit—seafoam green, still wrapped in that virgin plastic that screamed untouched by the world's grind. It loomed solid, a steel monolith with double doors at one end, the kind that swung wide like indifferent jaws. "Seems solid. What do you think, Meg? Got that tank vibe without the war crime aesthetics."
Megan crouched, running a grease-blackened nail along the undercarriage—pragmatist eyes clocking welds and torsion bars like a coroner at an autopsy. Her voice came flat, laced with that nerve-striking sarcasm that could strip paint. "It's a brick shithouse, alright. Frame's beefy—could haul a pallet of anything without flinching. But these sides? Solid plate. I'd have to torch 'em open for windows, vents, the whole serving circus. Two days with the plasma cutter, easy—plus weld tabs for the fold-down counters."
Sydney tilted her head, curiosity polite but probing—saleswomen's sixth sense for the hook. "If I can ask—what's the endgame here? Hauling gear for a build site, or...?"
Alice shot Megan a glance—input flowing, flexible as ever—then turned back with a half-smile, self-deprecation softening the edges. "Food setup. Street-vibe joint—think food truck on steroids. Quick-serve, no frills, but with enough elbow room to sling meals without elbowing customers."
Sydney nodded, gears turning visible. "Ah—smart play. If it's food-focused, I'd steer you toward the open-side configs. We've got 'em in new and used—pre-cut panels, roll-up doors. Way less fab work on your end."
Megan straightened, dusting her hands on her jeans—realist nod acknowledging the angle. "Huh. Yeah, Al—that's not half-bad. Saves me from playing welder roulette."
Alice's brow arched, tired resolve flickering as she eyed the unit anew—envisioning it portal-dropped in Nomence's torchlit alleys or open fields, pink H branding the side while beastfolk queued for quarter-pounders, trading quartz flecks for ketchup packets. "Price tag?"
"Starts at eight grand for the used ones—ten-five for new, like that blue beauty over there." Sydney gestured to a cobalt unit two rows over, its hue popping against the gray like a bruise on bone. "New Jersey and New York crowd eats that up—coastal cool without the coastal price gouge."
Alice hummed, strategic pause hanging as she paced the length, boot heels echoing hollow off the steel. "Thoughts, Meg? Pre-fab openings worth the upcharge?"
Megan leaned against the chassis, arms crossed—sarcasm threading her pragmatism like rebar in wet concrete. "Makes sense if we're pinching pennies on labor. I'm cheap, but not free—cutting sides clean is a bitch without the right jigs."
"Can we peek inside?" Alice asked, already reaching for the latch—leader's instinct to touch the bones before the flesh.
"Absolutely." Sydney yanked the right door wide with a metallic groan, the hinges singing smooth on fresh grease, sunlight slicing in like a scalpel. Alice stepped up first, the interior yawning cool and empty—a steel cavern echoing their footsteps, ribs of bracing overhead like the skeleton of some gutted whale.
She paced the length, mentally overlaying the blueprint—counters along one wall, fryers humming on solar juice, fridge units stacked with patties that'd fetch four Mards a pop—dwarven barkeep's benchmark, straight from the local horse's mouth. Space for a bike, yeah—but also for the hypocrisy—slinging American excess to a world where bottom ones starved on crusts, magic-less dregs ground finer than the quartz they mined.
"Nice spread," Alice murmured, voice low in the echo—tired satisfaction edging in. "Feels workable."
Megan ducked in after, kneeling to tap the floor panels—hollow thunks reverberating like a judgment. "Width's generous—seven-eight, easy clearance for shoulder-to-shoulder service. Length? Shit, you could park a full Schwinn in here and still have room for the shake machine." She rose, flexing her fingers—mechanic's itch for the mod already firing. "We slap in subflooring, insulate the walls with foam board—boom, climate control without melting the MDF."
Sydney hovered at the threshold, tablet poised like a shield. "Exactly—thirty-nine-five long, seven-eight wide, seven-nine tall. Leaves you shy of twenty-four hundred cubic for the guts. Plenty for HVAC, coolers, griddles, even a little office nook for the register."
Alice nodded, flexible accord flowing as she absorbed the specs—self-deprecation whispering what fresh corporate sin is this? in the back of her skull. "Meg? Build-out thoughts?"
Megan's palm slapped a wall panel—solid resonance, no give. "Floor's plywood over steel—beef it up with marine-grade, toss in rigid foam for the chill factor. Sides get vapor barrier, then stainless skins for wipe-downs. HVAC? Roof-mount unit, ducted low. Fridges, fryers, counters—cashier booth in the corner for that order here flow." She paused, sarcasm spiking flat. "Not counting the electrics and gear? Twenty K in reno, easy. Slap the container on top? Thirty grand total. We're talking welders on overtime, not weekend warriors."
Sydney's smile didn't falter—sales armor thick as the steel around them. "We offer financing if cash flow's tight. Low APR, flexible terms."
Alice waved it off, tired but unyielding—the group's loaded status a punchline they told themselves between portal jumps. "Nah, we're good on funds—just timelines are a chokehold. Schedule's tighter than a noose."
Megan tugged Alice's sleeve then, pulling her toward the door—pragmatist whisper cutting the echo. "Yo—side chat?"
Alice followed, boots scraping the threshold, the yard's wind slapping cool against her cheeks. "Shoot."
"Why the fuck you tell her we're loaded? We ain't—Lulu's still crunching the coin flip from Balthazar, and Amber's silk run's radio silent from her sleep."
Alice's grin quirked self-deprecating, eyes flicking back to the container like it might sprout legs and bolt. "Didn't lie, Meg. We are loaded—just not in fiat right now. Portals gonna portal."
Megan's brow furrowed, sarcasm nerve-striking like a slipped wrench. "And? Logistics, boss. We're slinging four-Mard meals like the barkeep benchmarked—scale to five K a day? That's a fuckton in gold slugs. But ROI? We need the box now, not after the first rush."
"Hold up," Alice said, strategic pivot snapping focus—her voice dropping, wind swallowing the edges. "Dwarven average's four for a full plate—shit stew and ale. We undercut at three for a pounder combo, upsell shakes at one-fifty. Hit volume in Nomence's underhalls, where bottom ones scrape for scraps? We're printing Mards. Millions, long game—quartz trades for fry oil, gems for the McFlurry knockoff."
Megan exhaled slow, arms crossing tighter—realist chains rattling. "Easy, cowboy. That's the dream pitch, but we ain't tested shit. Clothes flew off shelves—pens, knives, Amber's tunics? Gold. But food? What if Isekai's all vegans or gluten-phobes? Elves shitting rainbows on wheat, orcs gargling ale for breakfast. Their slop's moldy meat and potato mush—we swap that for sesame-seed salvation? Maybe. But test waters first, yeah? Market drop with prototypes—fries and sliders, no full menu."
Alice's chuckle bubbled low, ragged around the exhaustion—tired accord bending to the input. "Fair. Solid rig, though—let's wrap and ping Lulu. Say we're scouting, need another Norinbel pop-up for taste tests."
Megan nodded, glancing back at Sydney—still hovering patient as a vulture. "Seeing we can't drop cash today? Best to bail graceful. No skin off our asses."
Alice's eyes narrowed, actor's instinct flickering—self-deprecation fueling the improv. "What about her? Can't ghost without a line."
"You're the thespian, Al. Spin it."
They ambled back, Alice's stride easing into casual dismissal. "Hey, Syd—got anything punchier than this swing-wide setup? No shade, but front-hinged doors eat space—we're threading tight quarters."
Sydney tapped her tablet, brow furrowing efficient. "Tight footprint? Let me think... Ah—fresh batch from China. Buddies over there hooked us up. Follow?"
Megan side-eyed Alice as they fell in step—sarcasm twitching her lip. "China, huh? What a coinkydink. Amber's probably haggling silk in Shenzhen right now. Or fucking dudes with 100K followers, I don't know. Knowing her, it's both."
Alice stifled a giggle, the sound bubbling traitor—tired levity cracking the strategic mask. "Fuck off. Yeah—doors that pop up, maybe? Serving flow without the choke."
Sydney led them deeper into the yard, past a knot of suits jawing with another rep—deals diced in murmurs and handshakes—until they halted before a blaze of orange. The container screamed visibility—high-vis citrus that'd make OSHA cream itself, forty feet of steel swagger with side panels that unfolded like a luxury sedan's gullwings. Hydraulic arms held the doors aloft, twin slabs yawning open along the full length, front and rear still rocking the classic double-swing for cargo hauls. It hulked there under the chain-link shadow, a beast begging for mods.
"This one's hot off the boat too," Sydney said, gesturing grand. "Forty long, standard dims. Sides fully deploy—"
"Like a goddamn Mercedes AMG GT," Megan cut in, circling with mechanic's hunger—eyes tracing the pistons, the weather seals. "Hydros on point—no slop."
Sydney laughed, light and looped-in. "Spot on—like the AMG, but for hauling dreams instead of horsepower."
Alice stepped closer, hand trailing the orange plate—cool metal humming faint under her palm, wind whispering through the open maw like Norinbel's indifferent stars. "Deploy speed? We need quick—rush hour's a bitch in tight spots."
"Five seconds flat," Sydney replied, demoing with a fob click—the arms hissing smooth, doors folding flush with a definitive thunk. "Up or down, no fuss."
Megan ducked under the chassis, flashlight app blooming on her phone—pragmatist dive into the guts. "Electrics? Draw on those rams?"
"Five kW pull—24V, 200 amps. Beefy, but scalable."
Alice blinked, self-deprecation flaring. "English, Syd?"
Megan surfaced, wiping phantom grime. "Full juice bar, Al—and that's pre-load. Fryers, LEDs, POS system? We're talking a generator's wet dream just to idle."
Sydney nodded, unfazed. "Solar's your friend—panels on the roof, batteries in the belly. Ties right in."
Megan's mind whirred audible—realist calculus spinning. "Tech-wise? Yeah—roof's got the span, even deployed. Panels bolt to the frame, no sag. Batteries? Underfloor rack, maybe—lift the whole shebang a foot-and-a-half on cribbing."
Alice paced the open side, boots echoing into the void—envisioning the sprawl: hydraulic whoosh at dawn, orange blaze drawing the guilds' eyes while portals whispered patties from Queens. Dark fantasy's punchline—capitalism's franchise invading a world where value meal meant bartering limbs for bread. "Lift means fresh foundation—reinforce with I-beams, stainless cross-bracing?"
"Three days, tops," Megan said, sarcasm flat but approving. "Slap bars, weld plates—solid chunk, no flex. Wiring runs clean through the frame."
Alice nodded, flexible thread weaving the plan. "Pin it. I've got angles brewing." Then to Sydney, "Sticker?"
"Fifteen K base. New blood—worth every dime."
Alice whistled low—tired math ticking. "Double the last. Roadblock city." But the strategic fire banked hot—self-deprecation fueling the bluff. "Timeline to button it today?"
"Ten minutes paperwork—if funds clear by close, four-thirty sharp."
"Cool. Repaint gig?"
"Absolutely. Vision?"
"Pink. Hibiscus blooms—big, bold, wrapping the sides."
Sydney's tablet flew—quotes blooming. "Three hours spray, five dry. We open seven—tomorrow pickup?"
"Book it." Alice thumbed her phone, firing Sydney the deets—Hibiscus New York LLC, the satirical shell Lulu had armored against audits. "Invoice drop— we'll snag it four-ish. Deal?"
"Fantastic. Papers incoming."
They shook—Sydney's grip lingering victory-sweet—and peeled toward the lot, gravel crunching underfoot like brittle bones. Megan leaned in close, voice a pragmatist hiss. "Plan, Al? Fifteen K's a gut punch—we're scraping Mard dust till Amber's silk flips."
Alice's grin wicked, tired resolve sharpening. "If I scored you a Porsche—"
Megan's eyes lit, sarcasm spiking eager. "Model?"
"911 GT3 RS—let me land the punch. Flip potential?"
"Chop shop or clean? New? Quarter mil retail. Gray market, no papers? Fifty K base, hundred if I hit the right fences. Automotive hobbies crowd—chop the VIN, swap plates, they're suckers for Teutonic tears. Whose ride?"
Alice's chuckle cracked dark—self-deprecation tasting like portal ozone. "Whose ride? Those Balthazar clowns—Dane's white whale, the one that shadowed Lumiere's pink Lambo."
Megan barked a laugh, nerve-striking flat. "The coin vultures? Poetic—launder their blood money back into our grill fund."
"You know fences?"
"Please—shop life's a Rolodex of regret. Gearheads with garages deeper than their morals."
Alice's phone was out, thumbing Amber's line—strategic die cast. "Karma's circling the drain anyway. Tradition, right?"
"Tradition," Megan echoed, sliding into the F-100's cab—the engine roaring awake like a grudge rekindled. "Call the vain bitch. Dane's address—Monica's gonna cream for the smash-and-grab."
The F-100's cab thrummed with the low growl of worn pistons and the faint crackle of AM radio static—Springsteen's gravel-throated lament fading into a car ad for some electric lemon that promised salvation in kilowatts, as if batteries could wash the grime off America's underbelly.
Alice slumped in the passenger seat, Carhartt jacket unzipped just enough to let the heater's dry blast hit her collarbone, phone balanced on her knee like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. The Discord app glowed spectral blue against the dashboard's jaundiced tint, Petals channel a chaotic scroll of half-baked schemes and emoji shrapnel.
Megan kept one meaty paw on the wheel, the other nursing a thermos of truck-stop sludge that passed for coffee—black as the Passaic's undercurrent, bitter as a torque spec she couldn't hit. Her eyes flicked from the road's hypnotic weave to Alice's screen, pragmatist sarcasm curling her lip like smoke from a slipped weld. "You actually gonna greenlight this joyride? Or we still pretending we're the Robin Hoods of interdimensional bullshit, not the Bonnie and Clydes of felony porn?"
Alice's thumb hovered, tired resolve etching lines around her eyes—strategic calculus spinning dark, self-deprecation whispering what fresh felony feather even as the math demanded motion. The container's orange blaze lingered in her skull, hydraulic arms yawning like indifferent promises, fifteen thousand's a gut punch to their Mard-dust coffers. Balthazar's wire had bought time, not empires—silk flips pending, drone recon ripe but raw.
"Gotta eat the sin to spit the satire, Meg. Portals don't run on vibes." She mashed send—@Amber whereabouts of Dane's crib? 🤔🤔🤔—the ping slicing the channel like a portal's afterhum.
Five minutes bled into eternity, the truck bucking over a seam in the concrete, Megan's thermos sloshing judgment. Amber's avatar bloomed, her reply a velvet hook laced with vain delay. Lighthouse Rd, Kings Point. White house 👏👏 daddy's folly on the Sound. Pic DMing—don't scratch the foyer marble, it's imported. Attached to it—a grainy snap of colonial sprawl, manicured hedges boxing a facade that screamed old money laundering new sins, garage wing peeking like a stable for mechanical thoroughbreds.
Alice forwarded it group-wide, thumb flying again—@Monica you up for fire? 👊👊—the words casual as a bodega run, but weighted with the night's unforgiving arithmetic.
Monica's reply detonated instant, Texas thunder in emoji form: flame stack, skull crossbones, a GIF of Stone Cold flipping the bird mid-Stunner. Put up or shut up gurl 💪.
need sum wheels repo, white Porsche 🤑🤑, Alice hammered back, the cab's rattle underscoring the keystrokes like distant thunder over Norinbel's wilds.
kill no kill? 🥱 Monica's retort, unhinged glee bleeding through the pixels—prideful predator scenting blood, or at least chrome.
alive u sick fuck 😥, Alice fired, a crying emoji chain trailing like guilty sweat—self-deprecation bubbling in her gut, strategic veto soft but ironclad. No bodies, not here—not when wolves had sufficed for Tharren's end, his tickle-tantrum truths scattered to the indifferent stars.
Lulu's icon flickered in—sardonic specter from SoHo's fiber-veined perch—her voice note crackling through the phone's tinny speaker before the text landed. really? fucking gta? 😑The words dry as a margin call, dehumanizing the felony into data points—risk vectors, yield curves, the cold math of grand theft in a city that ate felons for breakfast.
we need more $$$ containers hella exp lol 😱😄, Alice typed, the LOL a brittle shield—tired laugh masking the churn, fifteen thousand looming like Hargrave's tumor-mines, quartz veins begging for capitalist picks.
A GIF dropped from Lulu—confused Jackie Chan mid-head-scratch, brows furrowed in that universal what the actual fuck of Wall Street whistleblowers. no shit sherlock, captioned below, her numbers-brain already auditing the fallout—felony exposure at 12%, resale yield 6x if clean, tax drag on black-market flips a soul-sucking 28%.
I'll tell you the details l8r, for now we steal 💀💀🤣, Alice closed, the directive landing heavy—leader's yoke settling, flexible but final, inputs woven into the weave.
Monica's all-caps erupted like a brawler's haymaker: not illegal! we robin hood, bitch! 😈 And that's the bottom line because I said so Pride thrumming, fucks queued on her tongue even in text—Texas tornado unbound, violence-first ethos twisting theft into manifesto.
Knock the guards only! Do not kill! 😭😭, Alice hammered, emojis a frantic dam against the unhinged tide—strategic plea echoing the wolves' mercy, bloodless where possible, survival's sums savage but not senseless.
they'll live, Roman Reigns will make me god ☠️, Monica volleyed, a wrestling GIF chasing it—Ripley mid-Riptide, opponents folding like cheap lawn chairs.
Amber's chime cut the frenzy, vain exasperation dripping: god help us all, we fucked 🙏. Opinionated drag, above the fray but fraying at the edges—Shenzhen hagglers still fresh on her acrylics, silk bales whispering promises of bulk flips while her coven ghosted for the next drop.
deliver to Megan's pals in Ironbound, I'll get you the address l8r 👍, Alice signed off, pocketing the phone as the tunnel's concrete jaws loomed again—Holland's underbelly swallowing the cab whole, tiles slick with the day's indifferent drip, horns muffled to a subterranean growl.
Megan glanced over, sarcasm nerve-striking flat as the river's black mirror below. "Tex on tilt? We're either legends or cellblock brides by midnight."
Alice's chuckle cracked low, ragged around the exhaustion—self-deprecation pooling like the tunnel's condensation. "Legends pay rent. Let's hope your friend's fence holds tighter than Dane's ego."
Kings Point clung to Long Island's Gold Coast like a scab on old money's elbow—manicured estates sprawling under November's skeletal oaks, the Long Island Sound a slate-gray whisper beyond hedgerows tall as guild walls. Lighthouse Road curved indifferent, sodium lamps flickering awake against the gloaming, casting elongated shadows that clawed at white clapboard facades like Tharren's fractured laughs echoing from wolf-scavenged oaks.
Monica materialized in an alley's throat two blocks shy of the target—a quick slash-portal from her walk-up's fire escape, the void's ozone tang dissipating into the chill like cigarette regrets. The air hung heavy with salt and the faint rot of fallen leaves mashed into gutters, the distant lap of waves mocking the night's petty larceny.
She moved spider-quick down the sidewalk, black ski mask tugged low, black gloves swallowing her knuckles, cargo pants sagging under the weight of Lulu's PTR slung cross-body. The Jack squatted heavy in her grip now, 12-gauge bullpup short for CQC spite, chambered with rubber slugs because Alice's crying emojis weren't just flair—no kills, not here, not when portals trumped lead but karma tallied the stains.
Live rounds rode her belt in a mag pouch, backup for the unyielding, but the directive burned hot—non-lethal, Tex, or we're folding the op before the petals bloom red. Her braid whipped the wind like a lash, farmer's hat ditched for hoodie's shadow, Muay Thai stance loose but coiled—violence-first enthusiast, HEMA-certified, with a Stone Cold kink that turned raids into ring bells.
The white house loomed at the cul-de-sac's crown—colonial monstrosity, columns flanking the portico like judgmental sentinels. Two security goons patrolled the perimeter—rent-a-thugs in ill-fitting polos, holsters sagging at hips like afterthoughts, one nursing a vape cloud that smelled like synthetic cherries gone sour.
Monica ghosted the treeline, boots silent on dew-slick grass, the PTR's stock kissing her shoulder as she ranged them—chest shots for the drop, head if they twitched trigger-happy. They'll live, she'd texted, prideful vow, but the unhinged spark flared: Roman Reigns god-mode, spears folding fools without the spear's finality.
She breached the drive's blind spot, low crawl bleeding into a sprinter's burst—twenty yards melting under Krav Maga economy—and the PTR barked muffled thunder, rubber slugs punching the first guard's sternum like a freight elevator drop. He folded backward, gasp wheezing wet, vest blooming black petals as he cratered the pea gravel.
The second spun, hand clawing leather—9mm Beretta blooming flame—but Monica's left forearm sliced air, a thumbnail portal yawning fist-sized, edges fraying smoke-black. Bullets dove the void—popopop dumping into some random Isekai thicket, maybe startling a goblin mid-shit or pinging off Hargrave's quartz veins—and the guard froze, bamboozled squint cracking his jaw like a glitch in the matrix.
Nigga, what the fuck? his eyes screamed, vape tumbling forgotten.
Monica didn't pause—unhinged glee coiling her lips under the mask, prideful as a fresh Stunner—and the PTR thumped again, rubber kissing temple with a meaty thwack. He ragdolled sideways, skull caroming off a hydrant with a dull gong, out cold before the echo died. Confusion's gift—portals as plot armor, physics' middle finger to lead's logic.
She slung the Jack home, shoulders rolling loose, and closed the gap—wrestling now, Rhea Ripley raw—first guard groaning fetal, she hooked his collar and drove a knee to the solar plexus, exhale whooshing defeat as darkness claimed him proper. The second got the full mount—gloved fists raining measured hell, hooks to the ribs cracking like dry twigs, a BJJ armbar hyperextending just shy of snap—sleep, motherfucker, dream of overtime pay.
Footsteps skittered from the portico then—a maid bursting forth, mid-forties, apron askew, her shout a frantic cascade of Mexican Spanish. ¡Dios mío, ladrón! ¡Llamen la policía!—panic's poetry, rosary beads clinking at her throat as she fumbled for a landline ghost.
Monica scooped a nearby urn—porcelain behemoth heavy with faux orchids—and chucked it low-overhand, the vase whistling arc to crack the back of her skull with a brittle crunch. The woman folded silent, petals scattering like guilty confetti, out before she hit the stoop—no kill, just lights out, Alice's directive a tether on the violence-first leash.
Sorry, madre!
The garage wing yawned adjacent—automatic door half-ajar on some tech-bro oversight, LED strips humming cool blue over polished concrete. Monica slid the breach, PTR sweeping shadows—prideful pulse thrumming, fuck yeah, petal power—and the beasts waited.
Dane's white Porsche 911 GT3 RS squatting low and lethal, carbon-fiber weave glinting like a scalpel's edge, twin turbos promising 500 horses of Teutonic heresy. Flanking it, a McLaren 720S in midnight blue—720 horses of British spite, dihedral doors folded shut like a supercar's folded dignity, the kind of ride that whispered I lap Nürburgring for breakfast to anyone dumb enough to listen.
Monica's grin split feral under the mask—unhinged avarice flaring, Texas drawl muttering to the void. "Fuck this shit. One for sale, one for myself." She punched the key box on the wall—glass shattering like brittle vows, shards tinkling accusation—and palmed both fobs, leather keychains warm as fresh sin. The PTR's mag dumped rubber for live 00 buck—clackclack chambering hell—and she hosed the cams—ceiling domes popping like overripe zits, sparks dancing brief as a slaver's scream under wolf fangs.
No traces, no tapes—portal piracy, clean as Norinbel's creek after the bloodwash.
She vaulted into the McLaren first—door scissoring skyward with a hydraulic sigh, butter-soft Alcantara cradling her frame like it resented the intrusion. The dash bloomed alive under her gloved thumb—start button yielding a predatory snarl, V8 twin-turbo bellowing awake, exhaust barking blue flame through titanium tips.
Oh, baby, Monica breathed, prideful thrill coiling low—fucks and shit queued, but the machine's poetry silenced them, 720 horses itching for the leash. She slashed a full-maw portal beside the chassis—void yawning indifferent, edges humming ozone—and punched the pedal, the 720S lunging through like a hellhound off-chain, tires chirping smoke on the alley's far side—an empty Queens lot she knew from bar crawls, chain-link rattling as the maw imploded behind.
Breath steady—unhinged afterglow buzzing like a fresh tat—Monica slashed back, the garage's blue glow swallowing her whole. The Porsche waited untouched, white whale gleaming accusation. She slid behind the wheel—firmer seats, race buckets hugging her hips like a jealous lover—and the flat-six hummed to life, turbo whisper promising grip over glory.
Portal slash again—smaller this time, efficiency's edge—and the GT3 threaded the needle, emerging on a shadowed side street off Poinier Street, Amtrak Hunter Yard's freight ghosts rumbling distant under sodium haze. No sirens yet—Dane's trust-fund cocoon still snoring through the breach, maid's rosary dreams undisturbed.
The drive to Ironbound was a nocturnal prowl—Newark's warehouse veins pulsing under overpasses scarred with graffiti scripture, the Passaic's rot mingling with the Porsche's new-car fug—leather and carbon, ambition's cologne. Monica tooled it low-key, ski mask ditched for hoodie's cowl, the PTR stowed trunk-deep amid emergency flares and a forgotten yoga mat.
Megan's deets pinged mid-merge—Roy's Auto Salvage, 147 Lafayette. Bay 3. No chit-chat.—and Monica ghosted the lot, gravel crunching under the GT3's rears like brittle bones under boot.
Roy waited in the bay's throat—fifties grind, oil-blackened Carhartt mirroring Megan's, a Chesterfield dangling unlit from lips cracked like drought earth. His shop squatted low and mean—chain-link fortress ringed with rusting hulks, air thick with weld-spit and the faint sizzle of angle grinders dying for the night. He'd been looped by Meg awhile back.
Hot drop incoming. White 911 GT3 RS. No questions, wire to Hibiscus NY LLC. Chop it quiet. Roy's nod was all business—pragmatist kin to Megan's flat realism—as Monica killed the engine, door swinging wide with a definitive snick.
"Strandberg's bird," he grunted, circling the Porsche slow—eyes clocking the widebody flares, the carbon aero kit whispering six figures in parted-out sins. "Clean haul. Tags ping hot?"
Monica vaulted out, braid slinging like a whip's end—prideful swagger unbowed, the McLaren's phantom rumble still thrumming her veins. "Hotter than a Texas chili cookoff, but the VIN's your funeral. Megan says you flip prime—engine, sus, brakes, the whole Teutonic wet dream."
Roy hawked a laugh—dry as arc-flash residue—patting the hood like a favored dog. "Chop life's gospel, baby—strip to the skeleton, sell the meat piecemeal. GT3 RS? That's prime rib—flat-six pulls 80K easy on the Euro black market, sus kit 20, ceramics another 15. Dash, seats, the PDK box? Cherry for tuners chasing that Nürburgring ghost. Whole bird flips 100K parted, no sweat—tags and numbers? We ghost 'em overnight, plates swapped by dawn. Wire hits the LLC tonight—call it 90 after my cut, clean as a remelt."
Monica's grin cracked wide—unhinged satisfaction pooling hot, fists flexing phantom on the PTR's grip. "Fuck yes. Tex delivery service—petals gotta petal." She clapped his shoulder—BJJ firm, not crushing—then walked out of the shop and to the streets.
The portal yawned at the lot's edge—void's maw indifferent, Queens' sodium calling her home—and Monica lunged through, the 720S trailing smoke-scent and supercar spite. Back in the walk-up's gloom, she ditched the mask and gloves in a duffel then fired the group.
In Kings Point, the white house slumbered fractured—guards stirring groggy under floodlights, maid's rosary tangled in orchids, Dane's dreams undisturbed till the wire's absence dawned. Sirens wailed distant, indifferent to the theft's satirical swipe—trust-fund chrome parted for interdimensional arches, capitalism's cold cleaver slicing both ways.
Norinbel's torches guttered over quartz pits where bottom ones swung picks till marrow screamed—magic-less dregs, one percent of the damned—while here, portals bridged the bullshit, Mards and Benjamins blurring in the grind's unforgiving weave.