The Tacoma's engine growled low as Monica eased it backward into the narrow alley behind Strandberg Auto, the tires crunching gravel like brittle bones underfoot. The shop, a squat brick building wedged between a laundromat that reeked of bleach and a pizza joint run by a third-generation Italian who'd argue about sauce viscosity with a brick wall, stood as a testament to decades of grease and grit. Its faded sign—STRANDBERG AUTO, est. 1978—hung crooked above the garage door, the paint chipped like old scars.
Inside, a Subaru lay gutted, its fenders mangled from a street race that had ended in a cloud of smoke and regret just days ago. Next to it, a second-generation Ford F-100 from the 1950s gleamed improbably, its chrome polished to a mirror finish, a relic of the Strandberg family's stubborn pride.
Megan stood at the edge of the alley, arms crossed, her grease-stained jacket catching the late afternoon sun. She waved a hand, guiding Monica's reverse with the precision of a pit crew chief. "Steady… steady. Slow and steady, Mon."
Monica's head poked out the driver's window, her braid swinging like a pendulum. "Get your fat ass out of the way, Meg. I'm operating a machine here."
Megan smirked, raising both hands in a mock stop sign. "You're operating a 110 IQ brain between beers. If you dent my wall before we turn this fantasy money into cold, hard cash, I'm billing you for the drywall."
Monica snorted, cutting the engine as the Tacoma's tailgate kissed the shop's rear door with a soft thud. "Trust me, when we're swimming in gold, I'm renting every lawyer in New York and suing you for nuisance."
Alice stepped out of the passenger side, her boots scuffing the gravel, her cargo pants heavy with the clink of Mard coins still tucked in her pocket. She tilted her head back, squinting at the sky where the sun bled orange through a haze of city smog. "Lord, give me the strength to endure my so-called friends and their ever-running mouths."
Monica hopped out, slamming the door with a metallic clang. "Alright, ladies! Time to roll up your sleeves. We're getting dirty with this one. By the time we're done, you'll know the meaning of wet and moist."
Amber, leaning against the shop's brick wall, wrinkled her nose, her venti latte steaming in her hand. "Eww, that sounds so wrong. Just… gross."
The girls—minus Amber, who stood sipping her coffee like a spectator at a gladiator match—moved to the truck's bed, where Monica's uncle's furnace sat like a rusted monument to a bygone era. It was a beast of a thing, all brick and iron, with a dubious hose snaking from its side like an afterthought.
Alice, Monica, and Megan grunted as they wrestled it down, their breaths puffing in the cool air, the furnace's weight pulling at their arms like a stubborn mule. Amber watched, her $200 manicure gleaming under the alley's flickering streetlight.
Alice, red-faced and huffing, shot Amber a look. "Hey, cupcake. You helping or just gawking?"
Amber smirked, twirling a strand of hair. "I'm watching, judging, and giggling."
Monica, wiping sweat from her brow, glared. "You're a real ass, you know that? At least give us a hand."
Amber raised her latte like a shield. "With a $200 manicure? Nuh-uh, no ma'am." She took a deliberate sip, then gestured at her laptop propped on a nearby crate. "Besides, the model's still rendering. God, I hate waiting. This 3D modeling shit ain't fun."
Megan, setting the furnace down with a thud that echoed in the alley, straightened up, her hands on her hips. "I thought you said you could work your way around CAD. Why aren't you actually working on it?"
Amber rolled her eyes, her boots clicking as she shifted her weight. "'Course I fucking can. It's just… I'm too lazy to start from scratch. I pulled this model from some autistic Redditor's file dump. I'm just tweaking the measurements and size. Don't know how good it'll be, but… fingers crossed, Hallelujah, Jesus take the wheel."
Monica's jaw dropped, half-laughing, half-incredulous. "What in all the Psalm verses is that supposed to mean? You didn't re-measure it yourself?"
Amber shrugged, unperturbed. "Why should I? It's 2025. We got AI, bitch. I set up an agentic model to handle the grunt work. Tweaked a few open-source scripts. Easy."
Alice, catching her breath, stared at her. "You outsourced your CAD duty to an AI? Are you insane?"
Amber's grin was smug, unapologetic. "Lazy and pragmatic. There's a difference. It's not hard to spin up your own AI with a few tweaks."
The furnace hit the ground with a final, bone-rattling thud, and the girls stepped back, panting. Lulu, who'd been hovering near the shop's back door, slipped away to take a phone call, her suit jacket still wrinkled from its night as a blanket. Her absence left a brief silence, broken only by the distant hum of Queens traffic and the clatter of a pizza tray from next door.
Monica kicked at the furnace's base, her voice gruff. "Damn, this shit's heavy."
Alice nodded, wiping her hands on her pants. "And old."
Monica grinned, patting the furnace like an old dog. "Well, yeah. Old school."
Megan snorted, circling the machine like a predator sizing up prey. "Old? This thing's prehistoric, bitch. My grandpa's Ford has less carbon buildup than this."
Monica laughed, glancing at the F-100 parked inside the shop's open garage. "You mean that museum piece? That truck belongs in the Smithsonian."
Amber, still clutching her latte, chimed in. "It belongs in a scrapyard."
Megan's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. "Ford slander? Unacceptable. When we split the dough, I'm taking a loan out in all your names."
Lulu reappeared, pocketing her phone, her glasses glinting under the streetlight. "With Strandberg's credit score? Unlikely."
The group laughed, the tension easing for a moment as they gathered around the furnace. Megan and Alice worked together to haul the propane tank from the truck, their movements practiced but strained. Monica connected the hose, her fingers deft despite the rust flaking off the valve. After three failed attempts—each marked by a string of curses from Monica—the furnace roared to life, its flame licking the air with a hungry hiss.
Amber snapped her fingers, drawing their attention to her laptop. "Ahh, shit…" She whistled, her voice tinged with unease. "Bad news, ladies. You might wanna check this out."
They crowded around the screen, the glow illuminating their faces in the dim alley. The 3D model displayed a massive, rectangular crucible, its dimensions stark against the laptop's dark background.
Megan squinted, her brow furrowing. "That's one big-ass Tupperware… or whetstone holder. What the hell am I looking at?"
Alice leaned closer, her voice tentative. "Is that the crucible?"
Amber nodded, her expression grim. "Damn right it is."
Monica crossed her arms, her tone impatient. "Okay, so what's the problem?"
Amber pointed at the screen, her nail tapping the glass. "This model I pulled? It's for a 400-troy-ounce bar. Not some nugget-sized bullion."
Monica blinked, her face blank. "Can you speak English?"
Lulu stepped forward, her analytical mind kicking into gear. She snapped her fingers, calculating silently for a moment. "That crucible is for a brick-shaped gold bar. It's 27.4 pounds, measuring four inches by eleven inches by two inches. That's…" She paused, her lips moving slightly. "…88 cubic inches."
Alice frowned, her hands on her hips. "Lu… English?"
Lulu sighed, adjusting her glasses. "The size changes everything. To fill that crucible, we need way more than the sixteen Mards we've got. We're talking 12,441.39 grams—27.4 pounds. Each coin's 9.15 grams, so…" She trailed off, her fingers twitching as she worked the numbers. "…1362.68 coins. Call it 1363 to be safe."
Monica's jaw dropped. She tapped Alice's shoulder, whispering, "There goes your rifle acquisitions, girl."
Alice's lips tightened, but she kept her voice steady. "We'll think of something else."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, catching the exchange. "What're you two whispering about?"
Alice waved her off, Monica winking at her side. "Nothing, just… thinking. We've got time before the company's legalized, right?"
Lulu glanced at her watch, her tone brisk. "Yeah, the papers should be done in a few hours, thanks to my guy. But I told him to hold off until tomorrow morning. Figured we've got other shit to hash out."
Monica leaned against the furnace, her grin returning. "Lu, how much is that bar worth?"
Lulu's fingers danced in the air, her mind a calculator. "At $124 per gram, 12,441.39 grams comes to…" She paused, her eyes narrowing. "…about $1,542,000, give or take. But with 99.75% purity, we lose $2–4 per gram. Still, we're looking at a mil and a half, minimum—if we're lucky."
Alice's brow furrowed. "If we're lucky?"
Lulu's voice turned grim. "Gold needs a stamp for provenance—think of it like an ID. Unstamped gold? It's scrap. Banks, pawn shops, jewelers—they'll take it, but the value drops. They'll assay it, sure, but without a stamp, we're lucky to get 90–95% of the market price. That's a hit of $75,000 to $150,000 per bar. And that's assuming the Mards are 99.75% pure."
Amber groaned, her latte forgotten. "That sounds fucking awful. My cha-ching just went poof."
Lulu wasn't done. "Then there's the furnace. This dinosaur eats 3–5 gallons of propane per hour—7 at max. At $2.50 a gallon, that's a money fucking sink. And melting gold to 1950°F with this relic? Good luck. It'll take forever to get the coins to mix evenly."
Megan scratched her head, her voice dry. "Like… twenty minutes?"
Lulu snorted. "Try longer. And that's just the melt. The whole process is a nightmare with this setup."
Monica threw up her hands. "So we're fucked?"
Lulu's lips curled into a wry smile. "Super fucked, even. We need more capital. Either we sell more Marlboros in Norinbel, or we take a loan."
Alice paced the alley, her boots kicking up dust. "We've got sixteen hours, give or take. Why not run some trials first? Test the waters."
Lulu raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's the plan?"
Alice stopped, her hand brushing the Mards in her pocket. "We've got our own savings, right? Let's hit Walmart, grab some shit, and do some lightweight trading. I also wanna test this… portal power."
Amber perked up, her eyes gleaming. "I've got a grand, maybe fifteen hundred. That's a lot of thrift shit."
Alice shot her a look. "Careful, Amber. Just because it's thrift doesn't mean it's lowkey from a 15th-century POV. You think Louis Vuitton makes sense in Narnia?"
Amber's smirk was pure confidence. "Leave the fashion to me, Al. I know my shit. There's a spot on Northern Boulevard—frilly dresses, tunics, pants that scream medieval chic. Maybe some boots."
Megan leaned against the Tacoma, her voice skeptical. "I don't think I need to buy anything—"
Lulu cut her off, her tone sharp. "Yes, you do. Hammers, measuring tapes, wheelbarrows, axes—whatever's mechanical and analog."
Megan's eyes narrowed. "Lu, I'm a mechanic, not Bob the fucking Builder."
Lulu's smile was razor-thin. "Sweetie, the difference is semantics."
Megan bristled. "There's a huge difference—"
Alice stepped in, her voice firm. "Meg, just do it."
Megan threw up her hands. "Unbelievable."
Lulu turned to Alice, her glasses catching the streetlight. "What about you, Al? What's your play?"
Alice's fingers twitched, brushing the coins again. "I'm thinking pens. More Faber-Castells. That scholar yesterday was practically drooling over them. We could flip Paper Mate or Pilot for a fortune."
Monica grinned, leaning against the furnace. "Try slinging erasers while you're at it."
Lulu shook her head, her voice dry. "Graphite pencils didn't hit until the late 16th century. Erasers are a century too early."
Monica rolled her eyes. "Do you hate fun?"
Lulu ignored her, turning to Alice. "If you're serious about pens, stick to fountain pens—refillable. Grab some ink bottles, charge the nerds an extra five or ten Mards per bottle. Pelikan, Parker, Asvine—doesn't matter."
Monica laughed, shaking her head. "Lu, you're such a nerd."
Lulu sighed then shot Monica an unamused look. "I'm not, that's just your opinion."
"I'll stick to machetes and whetstones," Monica added, her grin sharp. "Inconspicuous. Farmers and peasants won't bat an eye."
Lulu nodded, her tone all business. "Good. And bring your pistols—safety first."
Megan raised a hand, her voice wary. "Hold up. Aren't you selling shit too?"
Lulu's smile was smug. "Nope."
The group erupted. "Fuck you—"
Lulu raised her hands, unfazed. "Calm the hell down, rats. Someone's gotta track sales, log what's hot and what's not. I'm doing us all a favor."
Amber's eyes narrowed, her latte sloshing as she gestured. "Yeah, by sitting on your ass while we play salespeople."
Lulu's gaze didn't waver. "Not my fault you chose to sling secondhand Gucci to isekai peasants. You wanted to reshape fantasy fashion—here's your shot. Stop bitching."
Amber's jaw clenched. "Motherfu—"
Alice grabbed her arm, her voice sharp. "Amber, drop it. It's not worth it." She took a breath, steadying herself. "Alright, here's the plan. I'm going with Monica—the Tacoma's handy. Amber, you're with Megan. Take the Ford."
Amber pointed from her eyes to Lulu, her voice dripping with venom. "Fine. But when I'm rich, I'm slapping you with the fattest Gucci bag I can find."
Lulu's lips twitched. "Drama queen. Oh, and while you're at it, grab some clothes that don't scream 2025 New York. We need to blend in."
Amber smirked. "Yeah, like my boot up your face. A scar's natural, you lowly—"
Alice cut her off, her patience thinning. "Amber, enough. Just go. Lulu, stop being an ass."
Lulu raised her hands, mock-surrendering. "Alright, alright. Sorry."
Alice nodded, her voice decisive. "We meet at my apartment in two hours. Lu, your math—1363 coins, right?"
Lulu adjusted her glasses. "Spot on. But we don't need to wait for a full bar. Each Mard's worth a grand, easy. We can sell a few to pawn shops or jewelers, and re-arm with cash before the next trip."
Alice's eyes lit up. "You got contacts?"
Lulu nodded. "Some dudes who'd buy coins, no questions asked. My rent's due, so we better get paid."
Amber chimed in, her voice bright. "I know some douchebags looking for gold for their Versace knockoffs. I'll hook us up."
Lulu's smile was sharp. "Great. Everyone needs to bag at least nine Mards for a safety net."
Alice exhaled, the weight of the plan settling on her shoulders. "Guess we're salespeople now."
Monica tilted her head, her voice low. "Alice, about the portal thing—is it just you, or can we all do it?"
Alice shrugged, her hand brushing the coins in her pocket. "Shit, I don't know."
Amber leaned forward, her latte forgotten. "It'd be way easier if we could all hop around. $45 for an Uber in this city is a fucking crime."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, her mind clicking. "Alice triggered it on her birthday, blackout drunk, running from that alley. Might be tied to emotion—fight or flight."
Megan scratched her chin, her voice thoughtful. "So, what? It's wish-driven spatial manipulation?"
Alice smirked, her tone dry. "Think Harry Potter's Room of Requirement."
Amber grinned. "Portal of 'Portation?"
Monica laughed. "Cheat of Convenience."
Lulu's voice cut through the banter, sharp and focused. "Whatever it is, it'd be better if we all had it. Alice, back in the alley—what were you thinking? Anything specific?"
Alice cupped her face, her eyes distant. "I don't know. I was panicking. All I wanted was an escape. Flight won."
Monica's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but why Walmart? Why that one?"
Alice shook her head, her voice soft. "No clue. Instinct, I guess. It's so random it loops back to convenient."
Lulu nodded, her tone brisk. "Alright. Let's test it. We need somewhere private, unbothered."
Amber snapped her fingers. "Bathrooms?"
Lulu's lips twitched. "Lowkey, but it'll do. Bathrooms are everywhere."
Monica slung an arm around Alice, her grin wicked. "Looks like this girl's hitting a Walmart bathroom with me."
Amber rolled her eyes. "Can you not make it weird?"
Monica winked. "Hater."
Alice nodded, her voice steady. "Sounds good. Lu, head to my apartment and try it solo. I'll text my doorman to let you in."
Lulu gave a curt nod. "See you all in two hours."
The group split, their footsteps echoing in the alley. Alice and Monica climbed into the Tacoma, the engine rumbling to life. Amber and Megan headed for the F-100, its chrome glinting like a promise. Lulu disappeared toward the street, her phone already out, her mind churning through numbers and plans.
The Walmart in Valley Stream hummed with the chaos of late afternoon, a fluorescent-lit purgatory just south of Queens. The air was thick with the scent of stale popcorn and cleaning fluid, the aisles a maze of overstuffed shelves and harried shoppers. As Alice and Monica stepped through the sliding doors, the tail end of a brawl greeted them—a tangle of flailing limbs and shouted curses, abruptly broken up by two security guards in ill-fitting vests.
One man, a wiry guy with a busted lip, stumbled backward and landed near Monica's boots, his breath heaving. The other, a hipster in a scarf that screamed Brooklyn, was dragged out by security, his protests fading into the din of the store.
Monica smirked, nudging the fallen man with her toe. "Wow. Didn't know the club fights followed me here."
Alice rolled her eyes, her cargo pants shifting with the faint clink of Mards in her pocket. "Just a coincidence, Mon."
Monica bent down, hauling the man to his feet with a grip that was more efficient than gentle. She brushed off his jacket, her grin sharp. "You okay, bud? You got bitch-slapped by a hipster in a scarf. You should be ashamed of yourself."
The man, still catching his breath, wiped blood from his lip. "Yeah, I'm fine. Crazy asshole cut in line, that's all."
Monica's laugh was a low bark. "You fought over some petty inconvenience?"
The man bristled, his voice rising. "Hey, it's about principle. It's about—"
Monica cut him off, her smirk widening. "Drive? Power? You stay humble, you devour?"
Alice grabbed Monica's arm, pulling her aside. "Mon! Sorry, bro. My friend's… not right in the head."
The man chuckled, his tension easing as he pulled out his wallet. "Yeah, it's fine. My sister's the same." He hesitated, then offered, "Thanks for the help, I guess. Anything you girls want?"
Alice waved him off, her voice firm. "It's nothing. We're good—"
Monica leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "How 'bout a Snickers bar, and we call it even?"
Alice groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "God help us all."
The man laughed, a tired sound, and handed his credit card to the cashier, tossing a Snickers onto the conveyor belt. He tapped his PIN—2-0-0-1, Monica noted with a raised eyebrow—and slid the candy to her. Monica took it, leaning in to plant a quick peck on his cheek.
"Don't misunderstand," she said, her voice teasing. "Just a girl saying thanks."
The man grinned, his face flushing. "I can live with that."
Alice tugged at Monica's sleeve, her patience thinning. "You done? Let's go."
Monica winked at the man, tossing a mock salute. "Ciao."
They wove through the aisles toward the Home Office section, the store's fluorescent glow casting harsh shadows on the linoleum. Shelves groaned under the weight of pens, papers, pencils, and pads, a chaotic shrine to bureaucracy.
A mother and her daughter browsed nearby, the girl clutching a pack of glitter gel pens. The mother's eyes flicked to Monica, catching the glint of a kukri handle peeking from under her hoodie. Her face tightened, and she grabbed her daughter's hand.
"Let's go, sweetie," the mother said, her voice low and urgent. "It's not safe here."
"But, Mom!" the girl whined, clutching her pens.
"Let's just go, honey," the mother insisted, steering her away.
Monica scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Paranoid bitch. It's a kukri, not a fucking AK! Come back, I don't bite!"
Alice shot her a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. "Sometimes I forget you radiate serial-killer vibes."
Monica grinned, unrepentant. "Serial killers, Alice. Plural. I'm from Texas. We spilled a lot of blood two centuries ago."
Alice's voice was dry. "That wasn't a compliment."
They stopped in front of a towering display of pens, the shelves a riot of color and brand names. Monica's eyes widened, her fingers brushing a pack of fountain pens. "Sweet Mother Mary… that's a lot of nerd sticks."
Alice scanned the shelves, her hand resting on the Mards in her pocket. "We're on a tight budget. Haven't sold the gold yet. We need to be smart."
Monica picked up a pen, twirling it between her fingers. "Who needs this many pens anyway—"
"Monica," Alice cut in, her tone sharp.
Monica raised her hands, mock-surrendering. "Chill, Al. I hear you—we're literally two feet apart." She turned, her grin softening. "What's the play?"
Alice's eyes roamed the shelves, her mind racing. "I don't know. Lulu's right—fountain pens are refillable. Sell ten in Norinbel, and we can keep slinging ink bottles for profit."
Monica's gaze drifted to a set of coloring pencils, her smile turning predatory, a capitalist glint in her eye. "What about Van Gogh? Picasso?"
Alice shrugged, her voice distant. "I don't know. Never liked old art. Fun fact, some paintings go for millions."
Monica gestured behind her, and Alice turned. A tin of Faber-Castell Polychromos Artist Colored Pencils—120 vibrant shades—gleamed under the store's harsh lights.
Monica's grin widened. "I don't know about you, but I think we could inspire the next great artist."
Alice checked the price tag, her stomach sinking. "These are almost $400."
Monica raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"I've only got thirteen hundred bucks right now." Alice glanced back at the tin, her mind churning. "God knows what these'll fetch in Norinbel. But we need more than one set for Lulu's data. That's three, maybe five grand." She picked up an Ambition fountain pen, her fingers tracing its sleek barrel. "This is $143—$145.75 with tax, for fuck's sake."
Monica grabbed another Ambition, a different finish, her voice confident. "Feels higher quality than that Pilot G2 you sold. If that got fifteen Mards, this'll pull fifty, seventy easy."
Alice's jaw tightened. "That's a thousand bucks for six pens."
Monica's grin didn't falter. "I can help with that."
Alice narrowed her eyes. "You don't have that kind of money."
"You're right—I don't." Monica's hand dipped into her hoodie pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet—the same one the man from the brawl had held. "He does."
Alice's voice dropped, incredulous. "Are you serious? Theft?"
Monica shrugged, her tone casual. "Semantics."
"That semantics could land us three years."
Monica waved her off, her grin wicked. "It's fine. We'll dump the wallet after checkout. Come on, who uses 2001 as a PIN? He's as bad as we are for being a sympathizer."
Alice hesitated, her eyes flicking to the shelves. "This is morally deplorable, but… we gotta start somewhere."
Monica's laugh was sharp, approving. "Aye, my kind of girl. Go wild, boss. Splurge."
Alice's restraint snapped. She grabbed one, two, five, ten items off the shelves, tossing them into the cart with reckless abandon. Fountain pens. Graphite 2B pencils in bulk. Five tins of Polychromos pencils. Stacks of A4 and A0 paper, their edges crisp and gleaming. The cart overflowed, a monument to their audacity.
Alice turned to Monica, her face lit with a smile Monica hadn't seen since before the Amazon grind—a raw, unguarded spark of joy. "Done."
Monica chuckled, unwrapping her Snickers. "You look like a kid on Christmas, all giddy and shit."
Alice's smile didn't fade. "You said you wanted knives?"
Monica's eyes gleamed. "You sure you wanna shop for knives with me? It's like buying a jacket with Amber." She mimicked Amber's voice, her inflection perfect. "Oh, this material's mid. Oh, I don't like the shape. Oh, this looks fine, but damn that $500 price tag. Oh, this. Oh, that. Oh, bitch, shut the fuck up."
Alice laughed, the sound startlingly bright. "That's scarily accurate."
Monica smirked. "Yeah, it's called being friends. You learn shit about each other whether you want to or not."
Alice shook her head, still grinning. "I swear I won't ask too many questions. Go wild, my violence-addicted friend."
A short while later, they stood in the sporting goods section, surrounded by racks of knives—machetes, hunting blades, pocketknives. Alice's eyes widened. She'd expected a simple split—kitchen knives, military knives, big knives. But this was a world unto itself, a shrine to steel and precision that Monica navigated like a priestess.
Monica moved with a quiet intensity, her fingers tracing blades with the reverence of a collector. She picked up a machete, tested its weight, and set it down with a scowl.
"Too light."
A hunting knife followed, its handle gripped and released.
"Grip's shit."
She judged each blade with surgical elitism—carbon steel, stainless, Damascus—her knowledge a mix of hobbyist obsession and Texan instinct.
Alice watched, half-amused, half-awed. "You're… intense."
Monica picked up a machete, her voice low. "This is garbage. Bottom-forge shit."
Alice blinked, trailing behind. "They look fine to me."
Monica snorted, setting the blade down with a clink. "To you, uninitiated. I'm in the hobby. These steels aren't worth their tags. Let's go."
Alice frowned, glancing at the shelves. "Go where? We're not done."
Monica turned, her grin sharp. "I am. These knives are trash. We'll buy somewhere else."
"Where?" Alice asked, her voice edged with exasperation.
Monica's eyes gleamed. "Where else? When Walmart, Home Depot, Cabela's, Dick's, and Bass Pro fail you, there's one place that doesn't disappoint."
Alice's brow furrowed. "Texas?"
Monica laughed, a short, barking sound. "For guns? Hell yeah. For knives? Utah."
"That's almost 2000 miles away," Alice said, her voice flat.
Monica's grin didn't waver. "That's the beauty of knives, love. No legal bullshit, no waiting periods. We hit an online shop, and if you know someone, that 4–7 business day delivery turns into twenty hours."
Alice raised an eyebrow. "You know someone?"
Monica's smile was pure mischief. "Please. If it's got anything to do with violence, I always know someone. It's proxy shit, but it works. Let's go—we're done here."
They pushed the overflowing cart toward the checkout, the wheels squeaking under the weight. The cashier, a bored teenager with a nose ring, barely glanced at them as she scanned the haul. Monica slipped the man's credit card through the reader, punching in 2001 with a smirk. The transaction cleared, and they hauled the bags to the Tacoma, dumping the wallet in a trash can by the exit.
Outside, the parking lot was a gray sprawl, the air heavy with the hum of idling engines and the distant wail of a siren.
"Ready to test that portal, boss?" Monica asked, her voice low.
Alice's lips curved, a spark of audacity igniting. "Let's see how far this thing can take us."
The Tacoma's engine roared to life, and they pulled out of the lot, the city's pulse thrumming around them. Norinbel waited, its markets hungry, its streets alive with possibility.
The boutique on Northern Boulevard was a temple to excess, its racks dripping with fabrics that screamed money and taste. The air was thick with the scent of lavender diffuser and the faint, chemical tang of new textiles, the kind that clung to your skin like a second-hand promise. Mannequins stood like sentinels, draped in silks and linens that cost more than a month's rent in Queens, their blank faces judging the unworthy.
Megan trailed behind Amber, her oil-specked mechanic's jacket a stark contrast to the polished hardwood floor. Her boots scuffed the ground, each step a protest against the world of "fashion shit" that could buy a new alternator and still have change for a burger.
Outside, Megan's Ford F-100 sat parked under a streetlight, its bed loaded with a tarp-covered arsenal of tools—hammers, pliers, chisels, L-squares, spirit levels, clamps, measuring tapes, five of each, meticulously chosen from a hardware store down the block. The truck was a relic, but it was hers, and it carried her haul with the same stubborn pride she wore on her face.
Megan grabbed a pair of ripped denim shorts from a rack, her fingers smudging the price tag. "$250 for shorts? Fucking insane."
Amber, flipping through a row of dresses with the precision of a curator, didn't look up. "That's the world of fashion for you, darling."
Megan snorted, tossing the shorts back. "For that much, I could buy a whole-ass battery for a Prius."
Amber's eyes flicked to a cream-colored linen dress, its hem embroidered with delicate gold thread. "And how much do those cost?"
"Cheapest ones are around $220," Megan said, crossing her arms. "You'd still have thirty bucks for lunch."
Amber's lips curled into a smug smile as she lifted the dress, holding it to the light. "Leave the shorts. We ain't got $250 for a single piece of clothing."
Megan grinned, a rare moment of agreement. "Damn right."
Amber's fingers danced across the racks, pulling out the linen dress with a reverence that bordered on obsession. "Oh, this is divine. Who the fuck would sell this? I oughta hang them for blasphemy."
Megan leaned in, squinting at the price tag. "$28? That's where your thirty bucks goes."
Amber's laugh was sharp, a blade wrapped in velvet. She flagged down a shop assistant, a wiry woman in a black blazer who looked like she'd been trained to smile through an apocalypse. "Excuse me, darling," Amber purred, her voice dripping with Rachel Greene-level narcissism. "I need your expertise. I'm curating a collection—something timeless, something that screams understated elegance but could pass in a medieval market without raising too many eyebrows. Think peasant chic, but make it fashion. Linen, cotton, maybe some wool, but nothing synthetic. Natural dyes, earthy tones—ochre, sage, indigo. No zippers, no elastic. Buttons are fine, but wood or bone, not plastic. And I need tunics, trousers, dresses, cloaks, the works. Oh, and boots—ankle or knee-high, leather, no modern stitching. Can you pull that together?"
The assistant blinked, her smile faltering under the weight of Amber's demands. "Uh, sure. Let me grab a few things—"
"And make it quick," Amber added, snapping her fingers with a flourish. "We're on a schedule."
Megan, standing behind her, looked like she'd swallowed a wrench. "Clueless," she muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning the racks with a mix of confusion and disdain.
Amber didn't stop. She moved through the store like a hurricane, pulling garments with the fervor of a woman possessed. A sage-green linen tunic with wooden buttons. A pair of loose brown trousers, their weave tight but soft, perfect for blending into Norinbel's muddy streets. A deep indigo cloak, heavy enough to ward off a fantasy world's chill but light enough to fold into a cart. A rust-colored dress with a cinched waist, its hem just shy of scandalous by 15th-century standards.
She grabbed a second dress, this one a muted olive with long sleeves, its neckline modest but flattering. Then another—cream, with subtle embroidery that could pass as hand-stitched. Her arms were soon piled high, and the first assistant, now visibly sweating, called for backup. A second staff member, a lanky guy with a man-bun, scurried over, his arms filling with Amber's selections.
Megan watched, her jaw tightening as the pile grew. "Do you even have the cash for all this?"
Amber's smile was pure mischief. "No."
Megan's eyes widened. "Then what the hell?"
"We'll put half on my Capital One," Amber said, tossing a burgundy scarf onto the pile. "The other half on credit cards."
Megan's voice dropped, incredulous. "Aren't you already at your limit?"
Amber shrugged, inspecting a pair of leather ankle boots. "Well, yeah. But I've got four cards."
Megan blinked, her brain short-circuiting. "Say what?"
"It's my vice," Amber admitted, her tone unapologetic as she added a wool shawl to the heap. "I get lost in a shopping spree. It's a whole vibe on its own."
Megan's laugh was half-disbelief, half-horror. "Lost? Girl, you're not lost. You ventured into a Borneo jungle and came out on the fucking moon. You're lost on lost… on another lost—lost-cubed. Do you even pay these debts?"
Amber's grin didn't falter. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes?" Megan's voice rose, drawing a glance from the second assistant.
"Yeah," Amber said, tossing her hair. "I'm not gonna elaborate on that one."
Megan shook her head, her voice dry. "You don't have to. I can smell the IRS sniffing your spending habits from here."
Amber smirked, grabbing a pair of beige linen trousers. "You sound like Lulu. What a bitch."
Megan snorted, leaning against a rack. "You're preaching to the choir."
The assistants returned, their arms overflowing with Amber's requests—more tunics, cloaks, and dresses, all in earthy tones that could pass in Norinbel's markets. Amber inspected each piece with surgical precision, her fingers tracing seams, testing fabric weights, and rejecting anything that didn't meet her exacting standards.
"This linen's too thin," she said, tossing a tunic aside. "This dye's too vibrant—screams synthetic. And this?" She held up a pair of trousers, her nose wrinkling. "The stitching's too modern. Next."
The first assistant, her smile now a grimace, nodded and scurried off for replacements. Amber turned to Megan, her eyes gleaming. "This is how you build a brand, Meg. We're not just selling clothes—we're selling a fantasy. Medieval chic, but make it aspirational. These peasants will eat it up."
Megan raised an eyebrow, her voice flat. "You're insane—"
Amber's laugh was bright, unrepentant. "Insanely brilliant? Yes. That I am."
By the time they reached the checkout, the cart was a mountain of fabric—tunics, trousers, dresses, cloaks, shawls, and six pairs of leather boots, all carefully chosen to blend into a 15th-century world while screaming quiet luxury.
The clerk, a tired-looking woman with a name tag reading "Cheryl," scanned each item with the efficiency of someone who'd seen it all. The total flashed on the screen—$2,670.50.
Amber didn't flinch. "Split the bill, please. Half on this card"—she slid her Capital One across the counter—"and half on this one." She added a second card, its surface scratched from overuse.
Cheryl nodded, her fingers flying over the register. "One moment."
Megan crossed her arms, her voice low. "This is financial suicide."
Amber's smile was pure opportunism. "That's for the other side to decide. Right now, I'm seizing the moment. Like a carrion but make it fashion. I'm opportunistic."
A ping broke the silence—Amber's phone lit up with a text from Alice. She read it aloud, her brow furrowing. "Done shopping. We're testing the portal. Blackland, Texas. Be back half hour late."
Megan's head snapped up. "What?"
Amber tilted the phone toward her. "Alice. Says they're done shopping and heading to Blackland, Texas, or some shit."
Megan's face twisted into a confused expression. "Texas?"
Amber shrugged, already typing a reply. "God knows. I didn't ace geology."
"Geography," Megan corrected, her voice flat.
"Whatever," Amber muttered, her thumbs still moving. Another text from Alice popped up a moment later: "Get guns. Monica wanted more pew pews. We're testing the power. You guys should too."
Amber glanced at Megan. "She says they're getting more firepower."
Megan's brow furrowed. "All the way in Texas? That's, like, fourteen hundred miles. She's got her .45 and 9mm at her place. That's not enough?"
Amber rolled her eyes, tucking her phone away. "Like I care what guns are good for killing. It's Monica. She probably thinks The Walking Dead should be real life. That's how fucked in the head she is."
Megan scratched her chin, her voice thoughtful. "But how are they getting to Texas? That's a hell of a drive."
"They're testing the portal shit," Amber said, her tone dismissive. "She says we should too. Let's hit a gas station bathroom or something."
Megan smirked as Cheryl handed Amber the receipt. "Alright, princess."
Amber grabbed the bags, her arms straining under the weight. She shot Megan a look. "Excuse me, Meg? Aren't you gonna help carry these to the truck?"
Megan's smile was pure revenge, her eyes glinting with the memory of Amber's refusal to help with the furnace. "Oh, I'm sorry. My hands are too dirty for your fancy fashion shit. Don't wanna leave MOTUL on the seams, do we?"
Amber's jaw dropped, her voice rising. "But these are heavy! I'm not built for this."
Megan laughed, already heading for the door. "So was the furnace, bitch. Now I get to enjoy my non-manicured nails in peace."
Amber's eyes narrowed, her voice a hiss. "You… you bitch!"
Megan tossed a grin over her shoulder, her boots clomping on the hardwood. "See you outside, Prada. Don't keep me waiting."
The boutique's doors swung shut behind them, the evening air sharp with the bite of autumn and the distant rumble of Queens traffic. Amber struggled with the bags, her arms trembling, her $890 boots clicking defiantly against the pavement. Megan leaned against the Ford, her tarp-covered haul of tools gleaming under the streetlight. The city pulsed around them, indifferent to their plans, their portal, their gamble.