Alice stepped on the brake pedal with the kind of slow, deliberate pressure that suggested she was trying not to break something—herself, maybe, or the illusion that she still had control. The van shuddered to a stop on the cracked asphalt of a driveway that looked like it hadn't seen a power washer since the Bush administration.
She let the engine idle for a moment, the hum vibrating through her bones like a low-grade fever. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of overripe magnolias and exhaust fumes—a New York paradox if there ever was one—nature trying to bloom through concrete, only to be choked out by the city's relentless exhale.
She took a breath. Not the kind that fills your lungs, but the kind that braces your ribs, tenses your diaphragm, and reminds you that you're still wearing your skin like a borrowed suit. Then she opened the door.
The box was light—too light for what it represented. She tucked it under her left arm like it was a child she didn't want to hold too close. Her boots crunched over gravel that had long since given up pretending to be decorative. The house loomed ahead, a brownstone with peeling paint and a security camera that blinked red like a lazy eye. She pressed the doorbell. It chimed a tinny, off-key note that sounded like it came from a toy piano left out in the rain.
She braced herself. Not for danger—New York had long since taught her that danger rarely announced itself with doorbells—but for the performance. The mask. The professional smile that never quite reached her eyes, the one she'd perfected after three months of customer service training that felt less like education and more like emotional taxidermy.
The door swung open before the chime had fully faded.
A woman stood there—mid-forties, maybe, with dyed auburn hair that frizzed at the temples and eyes that looked like they'd been scrubbed raw with cynicism. She wore a silk robe that probably cost more than Alice's monthly rent, though it was stained near the collar with what might've been wine or blood or both. She didn't say hello. Didn't ask what Alice wanted. Just glared, as if Alice's very presence was an insult to the sanctity of her Tuesday afternoon.
"Who the fuck are you?" she sneered, lip curling like she'd just smelled something rotting in the walls.
Alice held her breath for a fraction of a second—just long enough to reset her face, to smooth the edges of whatever flicker of irritation had threatened to surface. Then the smile clicked into place. Polished. Neutral. Empty.
"Package for Mrs.—"
The woman didn't let her finish. She nodded once, sharp and dismissive, and snatched the box from Alice's grip like it was contaminated. Her fingers were long, manicured, and moved with the impatient grace of someone used to having things handed to her before she even asked. She turned slightly, fumbling with a designer wallet that dangled from her wrist like a dead bird.
"Four hundred," she muttered, peeling off a crisp bill. "Five hundred. Six hundred." Her voice was flat, rhythmic, almost bored. "Six-fifty. Six-sixty. Six-sixty-five. Six-sixty-six…" She paused, as if savoring the number, then added with a smirk, "And here's the ten cents."
She didn't hand the money over. She threw it. Not hard—just enough to make it flutter to the ground like confetti at a funeral. Then, without another word, she flashed a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, raised her middle finger with theatrical flair, and slammed the door shut.
The sound echoed down the quiet street like a gunshot.
Alice closed her eyes. Just for a second. Long enough to feel the heat rise in her chest, the acid burn behind her sternum, the scream that coiled in her throat like a spring wound too tight. She wanted to kick the door. To scream until her voice cracked. To throw the money back through the mail slot and walk away like she had somewhere better to be.
But she didn't.
Because rent was due. Because the only thing more expensive than dignity in this city was the lack of it.
She exhaled—slow, measured—and bent down to pick up the bills. They were damp from the morning dew, slightly crumpled, but still legal tender. Still power. Still permission to keep breathing in a place that charged you for air if you stayed too long.
Another day, another disrespect, Alice. Great job. The thought slithered through her mind, slick and familiar. Of all places… and you picked New York. Enough with the American dreams already.
She walked back to the van, each step heavier than the last. The engine roared to life with a reluctant groan, and she pulled away from the curb without looking back. Not that there was anything worth looking at. Just another house. Just another transaction. Just another ghost in a city full of them.
The drive back to the warehouse was a symphony of urban exhaustion.
Traffic had congealed into a solid mass near 34th Street, cars packed so tightly they might as well have been welded together. Horns blared in staccato bursts—angry, futile, like animals trapped in a cage they built themselves. A police cruiser idled at the edge of the gridlock, two officers leaning against the hood, laughing as they watched a homeless man scramble after a discarded hot dog wrapper.
The irony wasn't lost on Alice.
The city fed on hunger, then punished you for being hungry.
Tourists swarmed Times Square like ants on spilled sugar, phones raised like talismans, recording every neon-lit second of their pilgrimage to the altar of consumerism. They smiled into lenses, oblivious to the fact that they, too, were part of the spectacle—just background extras in someone else's content.
And then there was the radio.
Lil Nas X... again.
For the seventeenth time that week. Or maybe it was the eighteenth. Alice had stopped counting after the twelfth. The beat thumped through the speakers like a mechanical heartbeat, cheerful and relentless, a reminder that joy could be manufactured, packaged, and sold back to you at a premium.
She hated her job. Not in the dramatic, tearful way people talked about on talk shows, but in the quiet, grinding way that settled into your bones and stayed there. It was the kind of hatred that didn't burn—it just weighed. Like carrying a backpack full of wet sand, every single day.
It paid for everything, though. Rent. Groceries. The occasional bottle of cheap wine she drank alone on her fire escape while watching the skyline glitter like a promise it never intended to keep.
It was corporeal, morally acceptable, semi-slavery—the modern compromise. You traded your time, your energy, your small rebellions, for the illusion of stability. And if you were lucky, you didn't notice the trade until it was too late.
She gripped the handbrake as the traffic halted again, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes drifted upward, past the sea of brake lights and honking sedans, toward the jumbotrons that loomed over Times Square like digital gods. They flashed ads for luxury watches, electric cars, skincare lines promising eternal youth. Bragging rights for the successful. Billboards for people who'd won the game Alice hadn't even realized she was playing.
For a moment, her imagination flickered to life.
What if one of those screens showed her? Not as a delivery driver in a stained uniform, but as the star of something—anything. A movie poster. A TV series. Her name in bold letters above the title. She could almost hear the applause, feel the heat of the spotlight, taste the metallic tang of possibility.
It hadn't been that long ago. Just two years. Back when she still believed in auditions, in headshots, in the idea that talent could outpace luck. Back when she thought New York would chew her up and spit her out famous, not just tired.
What's it feel like to not feel like such a failure?
The question hung in the air like smoke. She didn't have an answer. Only the hollow ache of something lost, something she couldn't quite name.
Then—blessedly—the radio cut out. Lil Nas X faded into static, replaced by a familiar opening chord. Warm. Bright. Unmistakable.
Earth, Wind & Fire—September.
Her lips curled into a real smile—small, private, unguarded. The kind she only allowed when no one was watching. The jumbotrons seemed to pulse in time with the music, their colors shifting from cold blue to golden amber. For a few seconds, the city didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a stage.
She let herself imagine it: her face up there, larger than life, smiling down at the crowds below. Not as a ghost, but as a presence. A name. A story.
The fantasy lasted exactly until her phone vibrated on the passenger seat.
She glanced down. A text. From Amber.
U up, girl? It's the 29th! Just four more hours and we're in the 30th! Your bday, bitch! U know what that means—
Alice exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her lips despite everything.
—don't you dare fall asleep, we celebrating! Monica found these freaky ahh booze, let's get wasted and binge the whole Lord of the Rings for the twentieth time!
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool fake leather of the steering wheel. It bit into her skin, grounding her back in the present. Her thumbs moved over the screen, slow and deliberate.
Yeah, sure. Thanks, sister. I can't wait to turn twenty four, not like my tax reduce with age. C U there—
She hit send, then slumped back into her seat. Her breath fogged the windshield in a small, transient cloud. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars inched forward. Tourists snapped selfies. The jumbotrons cycled through new ads.
And then she saw her.
A young woman—maybe twenty-two, maybe younger—standing on the sidewalk with a microphone in one hand and a camera crew behind her. She was reporting live, voice bright and confident, eyes locked on the lens like she owned the frame. There was a glint in her expression—ambition, sure, but also something softer. Hope. The kind Alice used to carry in her chest like a secret.
A pang shot through her. Not jealousy, exactly. More like grief. For the version of herself that once stood in front of a camera and believed she belonged there.
She could still hear it—the sharp clack of the slate. The whisper of the camera dolly on its track. The way her heartbeat had thundered in her ears during her first real audition, for a cologne commercial that never aired. She'd worn a white dress that cost more than her weekly grocery budget. She'd practiced her line—"You don't wear it. It wears you."—a hundred times in the mirror until it sounded effortless.
She got the part. One agent called. One shoot. One paycheck that barely covered the subway fare home.
And then… silence.
No callbacks. No follow-ups. Just the slow, quiet fade into irrelevance. Like dipping her toes into a lake, only to find the water had already evaporated.
But that was the past. And the past was a luxury she couldn't afford.
She turned the key, shifted into drive, and merged back into the river of traffic.
Capitalism hell, she thought. If only I could be the queen of capitalism… even for a day.
The apartment smelled like burnt popcorn, cheap rum, and the faint, lingering musk of five women who'd been crying, laughing, and arguing in the same ten-by-twelve room for the better part of a decade.
Alice's tiny kitchen table—plastic, wobbling on one leg, held together by duct tape and spite—had been declared the Round Table for the evening. Not because of its grandeur—it had none—but because it was the only surface large enough to hold the jug of mystery liquor Monica had smuggled out of the bar where she worked.
The jug was half-empty now, its contents a murky amber that glowed under the flickering LED bulb overhead. Shot glasses littered the surface—some upright, some toppled, one cracked down the middle like a bad omen. The five of them sat around it like survivors of a shipwreck, clinging to each other because the water was rising and no one else cared if they drowned.
"I told you!" Monica slammed her fist on the table, making the jug wobble precariously. She caught it just in time, her fingers closing around the neck like she was strangling a snake. "Stop working for that bald billionaire. You're only losing part of yourself."
She poured another shot with the precision of someone who'd done this too many times to count. Her eyes were bloodshot but sharp, fixed on Alice with a mix of fury and fear.
Beside her, Lulu exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling, where it curled like a ghost trying to escape. "She's right," she said, voice flat but not unkind. "Statistically speaking, people who work in logistics have a higher chance of premature health conditions, suicidal ideation, and develop clinical depression significantly faster—about seven times faster than the general population."
Monica pointed at her, grinning like a shark. "See? Even our resident autistic numbers savant here can see it." She poked Lulu in the ribs with her elbow. "Come on, girl. Back me up a little?"
"Fuck you." Lulu shoved Monica's face away without looking at her. "Also, correction. I'm not autistic. I'm OCPD. Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. Two completely different neurodivergences. Do you also mistake RPGs as recoilless rifles?"
Monica's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare invoke my Texan blood and gun-loving disorder into this difference argument." She leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. "Also, two can play this game. I don't need your perfectionist disorder to correct your own incorrect statement. First of all, you're talking about the launchers, not the ammo."
Lulu raised an eyebrow. "A munition is considered a rocket with or without the sustainer motor!"
"No, they aren't!" Monica's voice rose, half-laughing, half-indignant. "A rocket needs a motor—a solid, prepackaged fuel or propellant—plus trajectory-stabilizing components, and it must retain thrust after leaving the launcher. The OG-7V? It's got propellant but no motor, no fins, no smoothbore stabilization, and zero sustained thrust after initial acceleration. That, my dear, is a fucking recoilless munition. Which means your statement is—"
"INCORRECT!" they shouted in unison, then burst out laughing.
Alice, Amber, and Megan exchanged weary glances. Megan, who'd been silently refilling her glass for the past ten minutes, finally spoke. "I swear to God, if you two start debating the Geneva Conventions next, I'm jumping out that fucking window."
Amber snorted into her drink. "At least they're not arguing about whether Legolas could actually shoot that many arrows in Helm's Deep."
"Actually," Lulu began, but Monica cut her off with a dramatic groan.
"Not tonight, Satan."
Alice leaned back in her chair, watching them. There was comfort in their chaos. In the way they fought like siblings, loved like family, and drank like they were trying to drown the world outside. For a few hours, this apartment wasn't a shoebox in Queens with peeling wallpaper and a radiator that hissed like a disgruntled cat. It was a fortress. A sanctuary.
She raised her glass. "To turning twenty-four," she said, voice quiet but steady. "May it be slightly less soul-crushing than twenty-three."
They clinked glasses. The liquor burned going down—cheap, harsh, probably illegal—but it warmed her from the inside out.
Outside, the city roared on. But in here, for now, they were safe.
And sometimes, that was enough.
The hours bled into each other like watercolors left out in the rain. Midnight came and went without fanfare—no fireworks, no countdown, just the soft, digital beep of Amber's phone marking the shift from the 29th to the 30th of March.
Outside, the city pulsed on, indifferent to birthdays, breakdowns, or the quiet revolutions brewing in a fifth-floor walk-up in Astoria.
Inside, the air grew thick with the scent of spilled liquor, cigarette smoke, and the warm, sour tang of exhaustion. The jug—once brimming with Monica's freaky ahh booze, a concoction she swore was 60% rum and 40% regret and citrus—was now a hollowed-out relic, tilted on its side like a fallen soldier. Shot glasses lay scattered like casualties. Someone had tried to balance one on their nose. It hadn't ended well.
Heads lolled. Chins dipped toward chests, only to jerk back up with the startled urgency of people who'd forgotten they were still awake. Speech slurred into half-formed thoughts, sentences collapsing mid-air like buildings with faulty foundations.
Monica, sprawled across two chairs with one leg dangling off the edge, waved a finger in the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra of grievances.
"Working as a bouncer," she declared, voice thick but emphatic, "is literal hell. Like, Satan sends you a thank-you card after your first shift." She took a swig from a glass that may or may not have been hers. "I swear, if murder wasn't illegal—and, y'know, morally fucked—I'd let my Texan side do the talking. One look at some dude grabbing a waitress's ass? Boom. Chitty-chitty bang bang. Lights out. Permanently."
Lulu, curled in the corner with her knees drawn to her chest and a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, snorted. "Please. Wall Street? That's not hell. Hell has structure. Hell has rules. Wall Street skipped all nine circles and went straight to purgatory—except there's no hope of redemption. Just spreadsheets that never balance and men in thousand-dollar suits who cry into their oat milk lattes because their portfolio dipped 0.3%." She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "RDJ was right. If money is the root of all evil, then every building in the Financial District is a fucking cathedral of damnation."
Megan, who'd been quietly tracing the rim of her glass with a grease-stained thumb—old habit from the shop—nodded. "Yeah… I get it. Being a mechanic? People act like you're some kind of wizard when their car starts, but the second the bill comes? Suddenly you're a thief. Like, no—I didn't invent the price of a timing belt. I just told you what it costs." She sighed, the sound heavy with years of swallowed frustration. "I run an honest shop. Always have. No upsells, no fake diagnostics. Just… fix it right. But nobody appreciates that. A little thank you wouldn't kill 'em."
Amber, draped over the arm of the couch like a discarded scarf, let out a dry laugh. "Try fashion. It's a blessing and a curse wrapped in silk and dipped in cyanide." She gestured vaguely toward the window, as if pointing to some invisible runway in the sky. "One minute you're sketching designs in your notebook, dreaming of Paris Fashion Week. The next, you're fetching coffee for a woman who calls you darling while docking your pay for being two minutes late." She paused, blinking slowly. "And I dropped out of college, so I don't even have a degree to fall back on. Just… errands. Endless, soul-sucking errands for a top fashion icon who probably thinks sustainability is a type of yoga. You know what? I'm gonna sue Warner Brothers for their portrayal of Rachel Greene in FRIENDS. That character is as fake as a Tom Ford discount."
Silence settled for a moment—not uncomfortable, just tired. Heavy. The kind of quiet that comes when everyone's too drunk to lie anymore.
Then all four turned, almost in unison, toward the figure slumped at the head of the table.
Alice.
Her forehead was pressed flat against the cool plastic surface, one arm dangling off the edge, fingers brushing the floor. Her breathing was slow, uneven. Half-asleep. Half-drowned in something deeper than alcohol.
She looked… broken. Not dramatically, not theatrically—but in the quiet, everyday way that accumulates like dust until you can't see the surface anymore.
Monica's voice softened, losing its edge. "You holdin' up, sweetie?"
Alice didn't move for a long moment. Then, with a shuddering inhale, she lifted her head just enough to speak. Her words were thick, blurred at the edges, but clear in their despair.
"No."
Just that. One syllable. But it carried the weight of everything.
"I want out," she whispered, voice cracking. "I really… really want out."
Tears welled in her eyes—slow at first, then faster, spilling over without permission. They traced paths through the exhaustion on her face, glistening under the dim light like tiny, shattered stars.
"But I can't," she choked out. "God forbid I quit. This job… it pays for everything. This apartment? The sad microwave meals I pretend to enjoy? The headshots? The agency fees? The subway fare to auditions that never call back?" She let out a wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. "All of it. All of it comes from… from that van. From handing boxes to people who look at me like I'm trash."
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears and mascara. "I just… I wanted to act. Not deliver. Not smile on command. Not count out six hundred and sixty-six dollars like I'm some kind of demon cashier. I wanted to perform. To tell stories. To make people feel something. Joy. Wonder. Anything but… this."
Monica was out of her chair before Alice finished speaking. She knelt beside her, arms wrapping around her shoulders in a hug that was equal parts comfort and armor. "Shhh, baby girl," she murmured, rubbing slow circles on Alice's back. "You're allowed to hate it. You're allowed to cry. Hell, you're allowed to scream into a pillow for three hours if you need to."
Alice leaned into her, trembling. "Birthdays are meaningless now," she said softly. "Just another day I have to survive. The only real fun I've had… is right here. With you guys." She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on each of them—Amber's tired smile, Megan's steady eyes, Lulu's quiet nod. "My wish? It's stupid. But… if wishes were real… I'd wish for us to flip the table on capitalism. To be the queens of it. Not its slaves. Just… for a day—or hell, for a lifetime!"
She fell silent, the weight of her own words pressing down on her. Then, as if embarrassed by her outburst, she pulled back slightly and shuffled over to Megan, resting her head gently in her lap.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "Didn't mean to… ruin the vibe."
Megan ran a hand through Alice's hair—calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. "You didn't ruin nothing," she said. "We're all drowning. Might as well hold hands while we sink."
Monica, ever the mood-lifter, grinned through her own exhaustion. "You know what this sounds like? In some circles—Japanese circles—it's called isekai." She gestured dramatically with her empty glass. "Where some dumb, bland, formulaic asshole gets yanked out of their miserable life and dumped into another world with cheat codes and superpowers. Suddenly, they're the hero. The chosen one. The logistics queen of a fantasy realm."
A weak laugh bubbled up from Alice. "Logistics queen? That's my superpower?"
"Damn right," Monica said. "You could organize the royal supply chain. Optimize dragon feed distribution. Streamline elven postal routes. You'd be essential."
Lulu, perking up, tapped her cigarette ash into an empty shot glass. "If I got isekai'd, I'd overhaul their entire economic model. Introduce compound interest to medieval villages. Run statistical analyses on goblin migration patterns. Maybe even develop a predictive algorithm for when the Dark Lord's gonna have a midlife crisis. Paylater? 50-50 between constructive and catastrophic."
"Useful," Amber drawled, though there was a spark in her eye. "Meanwhile, I'd be over here trying to convince centaurs that capes are so last millennium. Honestly, if I got the chance, I'd revolutionize fantasy fashion. Chainmail corsets? Yes. Velvet cloaks with hidden pockets? Absolutely. Practical yet chic."
Megan smirked. "And I'd build the damn world better. Got a broken siege engine? I'll fix it. Need a steam-powered golem? Give me a week and some scrap metal. My shop's small, but my imagination's got horsepower."
Monica raised an imaginary sword. "And I? I'd be the royal executioner. Or a mercenary. Or… hell, a hitman for hire. Violence is my love language. A troublesome noble? .50 to the forehead. An overly zealous religious order? Gasoline, benzene, styrofoam—homemade napalm the fuck outta 'em."
Alice snorted, wiping her eyes again. "Yeah, no. We'd all be dead by Tuesday if you were in charge of diplomacy."
"Fair," Monica conceded, flopping back into her chair. "But hey—at least the afterlife would be interesting."
They laughed then—not the loud, performative kind, but the soft, exhausted chuckles of people who've seen too much but still find each other funny. The kind of laughter that says, We're still here. Barely. But we're here.
The jug was empty. The bottle was dry. The night had given all it had to give.
One by one, they drifted.
Amber curled up on the couch, using a rolled-up hoodie as a pillow. Lulu slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, back against the fridge, cigarette long extinguished in her fingers. Megan stayed where she was, letting Alice sleep in her lap, her hand still gently stroking her hair. Monica dragged a blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it over them all like a net.
Outside, the city never slept. Sirens wailed. Taxis honked. Somewhere, a radio played another song Alice would hate.
But inside, for a few fragile hours, there was peace.
And in the hazy space between wakefulness and dreams, Alice imagined it—not as escape, but as rebellion. A world where they weren't cogs, but creators. Where their labor wasn't extracted, but celebrated. Where turning twenty-four wasn't a countdown to burnout, but a beginning.
She didn't believe in wishes.
But for the first time in a long time, she let herself imagine one.
And in that imagining, they were all queens.
The first thing Alice felt was the cold.
Not the damp, metallic chill of her fire escape at three in the morning, nor the stale, recycled AC of the warehouse break room—but a deep, earthy cold that seeped through her clothes and into her bones like it had a right to be there. She groaned, eyelids fluttering open to a world that made no sense.
Green.
Everywhere.
Not the sickly, filtered green of Central Park through smog, but a vibrant, almost aggressive green—trees with leaves so full they looked painted, grass thick and dewy under her cheek, the air humming with the buzz of insects and the distant call of birds she couldn't name.
No sirens. No bass thumping from a passing car. No Z100—thank God.
She pushed herself up on trembling arms, her head pounding like a drumline had taken up residence behind her eyes. Around her, the others stirred.
Monica was the first to speak, voice hoarse and thick with sleep—and suspicion. "Okay, either that booze was laced with LSD, or I'm having the world's most detailed hangover hallucination."
Lulu sat up slowly, already scanning their surroundings with the sharp, analytical gaze of someone who'd spent years parsing spreadsheets for hidden patterns. She reached out, fingers brushing a blade of grass. Then another. She pinched the dew between her thumb and forefinger, watching it glisten.
"This isn't a hallucination," she said quietly. "Hallucinations don't have tactile consistency. They don't have temperature gradients or capillary action in plant tissue."
Amber groaned, clutching her head. "Please don't science me right now, Lulu. My brain feels like it's been microwaved."
Megan, ever practical, was already checking her pockets. "Phones are on," she announced, holding up her cracked iPhone. "But zero bars. Not even emergency service. And GPS says location unavailable." She frowned. "That's… impossible. Even in the subway tunnels you get some signal."
"Unless we're not in New York anymore," Alice murmured, still on her knees, staring at the dirt road that wound through the trees like a forgotten secret. "Hell, I don't think we're on Earth—our Earth. This not-New-York gave me fantasy world vibes."
A beat of silence. Then the theories came fast and furious.
"Narnia?" Amber offered weakly.
"Please," Monica snorted. "If this is Narnia, where's the talking lion? Also, I didn't walk through a damn wardrobe."
"Middle-earth?" Megan suggested.
"Too many trees, not enough hobbits," Lulu countered.
"Westeros?" Alice tried.
"Girl, if this is Westeros, we're already dead," Monica said grimly. "And I did not sign up to be raped by Lannisters before my morning coffee."
"Neverland?" Amber whispered hopefully.
"Doubt it," Lulu said. "No flying children. No ticking crocodile. Also, statistically improbable."
They were still bickering—half-drunk, half-terrified, fully disoriented—when the sound cut through the air like a knife.
Hoofbeats.
Slow. Steady. Unhurried.
They turned as one.
A man rode toward them on a chestnut mare, its coat gleaming in the pale morning light. He looked to be in his late forties, weathered but strong, with sun-creased eyes and calloused hands gripping the reins. Slung over his shoulder was a hoe. Tied to the saddle was a bundle of wheat, golden and dry. His clothes were rough-spun—linen tunic, leather belt, boots caked with mud. He reined in his horse a few paces away, eyes widening slightly as he took in the five young women sprawled by the roadside.
They must've looked like aliens to him. Alice still wore her delivery uniform—stained blue shirt and vest, black cargo pants. Monica was in cargo shorts and a hoodie—PornHub Amber's $890 Stuart Weitzman boots gleamed absurdly against the dirt. Lulu had on a crisp white button-down—now wrinkled—and black slacks. Megan's mechanic's jacket hung open over a grease-streaked tank top.
The man's gaze flickered over them, then quickly dropped to the ground, as if embarrassed by their strangeness—or their curves. He cleared his throat.
"Lost, are ye?" he asked, voice gentle, accented in a way none of them could place—rural, melodic, vaguely British but not quite.
Lulu, ever the strategist, stood first. She smoothed her shirt, offered a small, apologetic smile. "Yes," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "We… got separated from our caravan last night. Celebrating a friend's birthday. There may have been… excessive ale involved."
The man considered this. Nodded slowly. "Aye, not uncommon. Women drownin' their sorrows in drink, wakin' up in strange places. Happens more'n ye'd think." He gest'ted westward with his chin. "Nearest town's Norinbel. Two leagues that way. Follow the road—it bends near the old mill."
"Thank you," Lulu said sincerely.
He nodded again, turned his horse—
Then stopped.
Because Lulu had pulled something from her jacket pocket.
A pack of Marlboro Reds.
She tapped one out, lit it with a cheap plastic lighter, and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around her face like a veil.
The man's eyes locked onto the cigarette. Not with judgment—but with something closer to hunger.
He hesitated. Then, almost shyly: "Might I… ask what that is you're smokin'?"
Lulu exhaled slowly. "Tobacco. Rolled in paper."
His eyes widened. "Real tobacco? Not the bitter leaf from the southern groves?"
"American blend," she said, though she had no idea if that meant anything here. "You don't have anything like this here?"
He dismounted, approaching cautiously. "Would ye… be willin' to part with some? For fair coin?"
The girls exchanged glances. Confused, but intrigued.
Lulu shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"
She handed him the pack—minus the one she'd lit. He took it like it was sacred, turning it over in his hands as if deciphering runes.
Then he reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out ten small, gleaming discs.
He placed them in her palm.
Gold.
Not costume jewelry. Not fool's gold. Real, heavy, warm-to-the-touch gold coins, each stamped with a symbol they didn't recognize—a crescent moon cradling a flame.
"Ten Mards," he said. "Fair price, I reckon. Tobacco's scarce in Norinbel these days. Haven't seen proper leaf since the spring caravan failed to return."
He mounted his horse again, tipped his hat, and rode off without another word.
Silence.
Then Amber whispered, "Marlboro Reds cost eighteen bucks."
Monica snatched one of the coins. "What the hell's a Mard?"
Lulu's mind was already racing. "Currency. Local. He called it Mard. Plural Mards." She turned to Monica. "Weigh it."
Monica scowled. "Why me?"
"Because you're the Five Petals Gang's resident gun nut," Lulu said flatly. "You can tell the difference between a 9mm and a .45 by feel. You once identified a counterfeit bullet by its balance in a dark room. Don't pretend you don't have muscle memory for mass."
Monica huffed but held the coin between her fingers, rolling it, testing its heft. "Feels heavier than a 9mm round… but lighter than a fifty-cent piece." She narrowed her eyes. "Nine to eleven grams. Leaning toward nine."
Lulu nodded. "Conservative estimate—9 grams per coin. Gold price in 2025 is roughly $124 per gram." She did the math in her head, voice dropping to a whisper. "That's $1,116 per coin. Ten coins… $11,160."
A beat.
Then—slowly—a smile spread across Lulu's face. Not a happy smile. A predatory one.
Amber gasped. "We just turned an $18 pack of cigarettes into eleven grand."
Megan's eyes lit up. "If tobacco's worth that much… what about everything else?"
Alice, still dazed, looked down at her phone. At her jacket. At the half-empty bottle of hand sanitizer in her pocket.
"Deodorant," she murmured. "Painkillers. Lip balm. McDonald's. Anything from Walmart…"
Monica grinned, sharp and dangerous. "Oh, we're not just visiting Norinbel. We're going into business."
The walk to Norinbel should've taken twenty minutes. It took nearly an hour.
Not because of the distance—two leagues was, as Lulu helpfully translated, "about one and a quarter miles in freedom units"—but because of Amber.
"Absolutely not," she declared, arms crossed, as the first patch of mud appeared on the road. "These boots cost more than my rent. They are not touching dirt."
Monica rolled her eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Without warning, she hoisted Amber over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Monica! Put me down!" Amber shrieked, kicking uselessly.
"Relax, princess," Monica grunted, adjusting her grip. "Your baggage is being handled. Consider it my birthday gift to Alice—free entertainment."
Amber groaned, but stopped struggling. "Fine. But if you drop me, I'm billing you for dry cleaning."
Alice walked beside them, still clutching her phone like a talisman. Megan fell into step beside her, kicking a pebble down the road.
"You think this is real?" Megan asked quietly.
Alice looked at the trees, the sky, the way the sunlight dappled through the leaves like it had all the time in the world. "I don't know," she admitted. "But back there… I was crying because I felt trapped. And now?" She glanced at her friends—Monica carrying Amber like a grumpy knight, Lulu already mentally cataloging trade goods, Megan scanning the horizon like she was looking for engine parts in the wild. "Now I feel… possible?"
Megan smiled. "Yeah. Me too."
They crested a hill, and there it was.
Norinbel.
Lulu adjusted her glasses, the morning sun glinting off the lenses. "Alright, Five Petals," she said, voice low and steady. "New rule—nothing leaves our pockets unless we know its worth. We observe first. Then we trade."
Monica set Amber down gently at the town's edge. "And if anyone tries to fuck with us?"
Alice looked at the half-used pack of gum. At the tiny bottle of vanilla extract she kept for baking.
She smiled.
"Then we sell them capitalism," she said. "One overpriced luxury at a time."
The dirt road into Norinbel stretched like a scar across the earth, rutted and uneven, as if the land itself resented the weight of so many feet. The air was a living thing, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and something sharper—manure, maybe, or the sour tang of despair baked into the cobblestones.
The metropolis sprawled ahead, its skyline a jagged mix of timbered shanties and crumbling stone towers, their roofs sagging like tired shoulders. Millions of souls, the girls had guessed, and it felt like every one of them was elbowing for space in a city that couldn't decide if it was a capital or a cesspool.
The sidewalks, if you could call them that, were slick with filth—horse dung, spilled ale, and worse. A faint sheen of grease coated everything, as if the city itself were sweating.
Monica led the pack, her chucks stomping through the muck with the reckless swagger of someone who'd faced worse than a dirty street. "Holy Jesus," she said, her voice cutting through the din of hawkers and cartwheels. "This place is huge."
Amber, trailing behind, clutched her $450 hoodie like a shield, her eyes darting over the crowd—humans, elves, orcs, dwarves, and stranger things still, their faces a blur of hunger and suspicion.
"Huge, yes," she snapped, dodging a puddle that smelled suspiciously of urine. "Including the huge-ass F score this shithole would've landed if the fantasy FDA ever paid a visit."
Lulu, pale and swaying, pressed a hand to her stomach, her hangover amplifying the assault on her senses. Her glasses fogged slightly from the humidity, and she squinted at the chaos around them—vendors shouting over cages of squawking birds, a one-eyed orc haggling over a basket of shriveled roots, a pair of elves in threadbare cloaks whispering in a tongue that sounded like wind through broken glass.
"Oh, God," Lulu muttered, her voice tight. "I wanna throw up."
She stumbled to a stop beside a wooden post where two horses were tethered, their flanks steaming in the morning chill. The animals snorted, eyeing her with what might've been pity. Alice and Megan flanked her, Megan's calloused hand rubbing slow circles on Lulu's back.
"Breathe, love," Megan said, her voice steady, like she was coaxing an engine back to life. "You're tougher than this."
Lulu's face twisted, her skin taking on the greenish hue of someone fighting a losing battle with nausea. "This is worse than Highbridge," she croaked. "That's it. The Bronx just got humbled real quick."
Amber snorted, her $890 boots clicking on a rare patch of clean stone. "Right? I can't believe I got anime-teleported to another world wearing $2,400 worth of clothing."
Monica laughed, a sharp bark that drew stares from a passing group of dwarves, their hammers clinking against their belts. "You wear $2,400 worth of fucking clothing?"
Amber's eyes narrowed, unamused. "$890 boots, $510 blouse, $250 skirt, $450 hoodie, $200 Lise Charmel lingerie. Do the math."
Megan, still rubbing Lulu's back, rolled her eyes. "No wonder you fashion enthusiasts are broke. Ain't no way I'm buying a $200 bra and undie." She reached into her mechanic's jacket, pulling out a battered can of Axe body spray. "You want me to spray you some of this, love? Might help."
Lulu shook her head, swallowing hard. "No. Save it. We need to conserve everything until we know what's valuable."
Her gaze flicked to the building beside them—a ramshackle structure with a sagging roof and a sign that read "The Rusty Flagon" in chipped paint. It was less a saloon, more an eatery, its windows clouded with grime and the faint glow of candlelight. The bigger question was—if this is a fantasy world that is not Earth, why can they read the sign? Shouldn't they not understand what it says?
"What do you say we get a drink? I want to know what we can buy with ten of those… Mard things."
Alice nodded, her Amazon polo clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. "Let's do it. But we stick together. This place feels like it bites."
They pushed through the swinging doors, and the noise hit them like a physical force—a cacophony of laughter, shouts, and the clatter of mugs. The Rusty Flagon was a fever dream of a tavern, its air thick with the smell of sour ale, burnt meat, and something faintly metallic, like blood or rust.
Tables were packed with every kind of creature—human warriors with scarred faces and chipped swords, elves with longbows slung over their shoulders, dwarves hunched over tankards, their beards trailing into their drinks, orcs slamming fists on tables as they roared with laughter or rage.
The crowd was a living mosaic, chaotic and vibrant, but it froze when the girls stepped inside.
Eyes turned. Conversations died. A dwarf mid-sentence choked on his ale. An elf's hand twitched toward her quiver. The girls' clothes—Alice's delivery uniform, Amber's designer ensemble, Lulu's wrinkled office attire, Megan's grease-stained jacket, Monica's PornHub hoodie and cargo shorts—marked them as outsiders, aliens in a world of linen tunics and leather armor.
Whispers rippled through the room, sharp and suspicious, like knives being drawn in the dark.
Monica, never one to let a room dictate her mood, stepped forward, her Chucks squeaking on the sticky floor. "What?" she barked, her voice carrying over the silence. "Have you people never seen travelers before? Want me to chisel your eyes outta your sockets? Back to your meals and drinks, folks. Damn curious jerks."
The crowd blinked, then obeyed, as if her sheer audacity was a spell. The noise resumed, though the glances lingered. Monica smirked, satisfied, and led the way to the bar counter, where a dwarf barely taller than the counter itself was wiping a mug with a rag that looked dirtier than the floor.
The barkeep's beard was a marvel, long and gray, trailing down to his belt like a waterfall of ash. His eyes, small and sharp, flicked over the girls with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "What can I get for ye?" he asked, his voice a gravelly rumble.
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her nausea momentarily forgotten. "What can we get for… ten Mard?"
The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow. "Fifteen mugs of ale. Or one decent room in an inn that don't got a hole in its roof."
Monica elbowed Lulu, grinning. "Calculator."
"Fuck you," Lulu muttered, not looking at her. She did the math in her head, her voice low. "That's about $75 to $105 for the ale, based on our earlier trade. Probably more for the room." She slid four Mard across the counter. "Can we get five mugs for now?"
The dwarf took the coins, his fingers deft despite their thickness, and shuffled toward the kegs behind him. "Splurging a bit today, are ye, ladies? What's the occasion?"
Alice frowned, leaning against the counter. "Excuse me?"
He chuckled, filling a mug with frothy ale. "Most folk 'round here make fourteen Mard a day—bare minimum wage in this part of Emelgard. Dumpin' four Mard on ale ain't the wisest choice for young lasses like yerselves."
Alice's eyes narrowed. "What's an Emelgard?"
The dwarf paused, his mug halfway to the counter. "What's an Emelgard, she says? The continent you're standin' on, o' course. Ye oughta know that."
Lulu cut in smoothly, her voice calm but probing. "We don't. We're not from… these parts."
The dwarf snorted, handing over the first mug. "Yeah, go figure. The way ye strolled in here? Not local, that's for damn sure." He pointed at Monica, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Especially you, lass. Not many gals got the stones to yell at men twice their size, triple the muscle, and ten times the body count."
Monica chuckled, leaning forward, her bravado unshaken. "Oh, don't you worry about me, midget. I'm HEMA-certified. That orc by the door? I'd have his head off before he even touched me."
The dwarf giggled, a surprisingly high-pitched sound. "Mercenary, are ye? Bounty hunter? One of those fall'n knights in disgrace?"
"I'm from Dallas," Monica said, as if it explained everything. "By default, I'm superior to seventy percent of you fuckers."
He handed over the remaining mugs, still chuckling. "How's yer magic, then?"
The girls froze. Even Monica, mid-sip, went quiet, her eyes narrowing. Alice felt a prickle at the back of her neck, like the air had shifted, grown heavier.
The dwarf raised an eyebrow, reading their silence. "By the look on yer faces, I'd wager ye can't perform magic?"
Lulu tilted her head, cautious. "Magic… as in Fireball spell magic?"
He nodded, wiping another mug. "At least ye know the term. If ye can't wield magic, ye're in the bottom one percent 'round here. Fodder. Rats. Even the greenest Academy apprentice could roast ye alive with a basic fire spell."
Monica smirked, undeterred. "Won't matter much when I load those hippies with .45s."
The dwarf's brow furrowed. "Don't know what these… forty-fives are, but they ain't beatin' magic."
Lulu leaned forward, her analytical mind kicking into overdrive. "How common is magic here?"
"Common as breathin', girl," the dwarf said, setting the mug down with a thud. "Everyone's got a spark, even if it's just enough to light a candle or mend a torn cloak. Those with real power? They rule. The rest just survive."
Lulu's eyes gleamed behind her glasses. "Can I ask more questions, barkeep?"
He sighed, glancing at the other patrons clamoring for his attention. "I got other customers, lass. Not just ye five."
Lulu slid five Mard across the counter, her smile sharp. "You said fourteen Mard's a day's wage. I'll give you five if you humor me for a moment."
The dwarf's eyes lit up, and he pocketed the coins with a grin. "Suppose I can spare a bit o' time for ye fine ladies."
Lulu didn't hesitate. "First, this Mard currency. Why gold? Why not copper?"
The dwarf leaned back, scratching his beard. "Copper's better for conductin' magical flow. Gold's useless for that—shiny, but about as practical as horse shit. Least shit can fertilize soil. Gold's just… there. So we use it for coins. Call 'em Mards, the global currency."
Alice frowned, her mind racing. On Earth, gold was aerospace, electronics, medicine—worth a fortune per gram. Here, it was pocket change. "What about silver?" she asked.
"Silver's worth more'n copper," the dwarf said. "Conducts magic half a magnitude better. Nobles use it for dinin' wares, and it's got a knack for killin' blood-suckin' undead."
Monica perked up. "Vampires?"
"Ain't no other kind," he said, smirking. "But if ye're askin' what's worth the most—stones. Gemstones. Even the smallest"—he held up his pinky, indicating a third of its length—"fetches five thousand Mard. Depends on the stone, o' course. Some conduct magic better'n others. A gem can mean the difference 'tween a Fireball that singes yer skin and one that roasts ye to ash."
Alice nodded, filing it away. "And this place—Norinbel. What's its deal?"
"Norinbel's one o' the four cities in the Nomence region," the dwarf said, wiping another mug. "We're in the south. Noringrad's north, Nobesil's east, Noutava's west. Nomence is the biggest region in Emelgard, right in the continent's heart."
"Region, like a state?" Alice asked.
"Ye could say that," he replied. "But Nomence is the garbage heap o' the continent. Other regions ban non-humans—elves, dwarves like me, orcs, nymphs, fairies, ye name it. Out there, they're enslaved, killed, or worse. Here? Everyone's free. Land o' the free, they call it."
Amber, who'd been sipping her ale with a grimace, set her mug down. "Then why's it look so fucking bleak? The streets are a nightmare. Smells like actual shit."
The dwarf's expression darkened. "Freedom ain't free, lass. No region trades with a place that lets non-humans roam. Economy's half-dead. Can't feed forty-one million mouths when trade's a ghost."
Alice's jaw tightened. "So the other regions are human supremacist?"
"That's what I said," the dwarf replied. "Noringrad, Nobesil, Noutava—thirty, thirty-two, twenty-seven million souls, respectively. All human, or close enough. Nomence takes everyone, and we pay the price."
Lulu slid the five Mard across the counter, her promise kept. The dwarf nodded, pocketed the coins, and turned to serve a bellowing orc at the far end of the bar. The girls sipped their ale—bitter, warm, and oddly earthy, like drinking soil after a rain.
They were about to leave when a figure approached, his robes tattered but clean, his face sharp with curiosity.
"Ladies," he said, his voice soft but insistent. "May I inquire about something?" His eyes locked onto Alice—or rather, the bulge in her cargo pocket.
Monica's hand twitched, sliding into her hoodie where her Cold Steel kukri rested, an old habit from nights spent breaking up bar fights. She didn't draw it, but her fingers curled around the handle, ready.
The man, a scholar by his ink-stained fingers and wire-rimmed spectacles, pointed at Alice's pocket. "Madam, that thing in your pocket. What manner of tool is it?"
Alice blinked, pulling out her pen. "This? It's a pen. A gel ink pen. Pilot G2."
The scholar's eyes widened. "Gel ink pen? Pilot Gee-two? I've never heard of such a thing."
"It's like a quill," Alice said, leaning toward Lulu. "Right?"
"Quill," Lulu confirmed, her voice flat but attentive.
Alice handed the pen to the scholar, along with a crumpled Walmart receipt from her pocket. "It's finer than a quill. More precise. More comfortable. Try it."
The scholar took the pen, his hands trembling slightly as he scribbled on the back of the receipt. The ink flowed smoothly, dark and sharp, unlike the watery scratch of a quill. His eyes lit up.
"Fascinating," he murmured. He reached for a small purse at his belt. "Would you part with this tool?"
Alice felt a spark—a sudden, electric surge of something she hadn't felt in years. Opportunity. The ghost of her old dreams stirred, whispering of spotlights and stages, but this was better. This was power—plain and simple.
"How much are you willing to give?" she asked, her voice steady, almost playful.
The scholar stroked his chin. "A quill starts at five Mard. Higher-grade ones fetch ten to thirty. This… feels like a fifteen, twenty Mard tool. But it's pre-owned. I'll offer twelve."
"Fifteen," Alice said without hesitation.
"Thirteen," he countered.
"Fifteen."
"Fourteen."
"Fifteen."
He sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. "You drive a hard bargain, lady."
"Not really," Alice said, her smile sharp enough to cut. "I'm the only one with this kind of tool. That gives me the right to set the price, pre-owned or not."
The scholar laughed, a dry, scholarly chuckle. "Merchant talk, eh? You work for a businessman?"
Alice thought of Amazon, of the van, of the endless boxes and sneering customers. "Yes," she said, her voice cold. "I am."
"Very well," he said. "Fifteen Mard." He counted out the coins, their golden gleam catching the candlelight.
Alice handed over the pen, pocketing the coins. "It's still new. Good for about twenty pages, nonstop. After that, it's out."
The scholar nodded, clutching the pen like a holy relic, and shuffled back to his table, already scribbling furiously. The girls exchanged glances, their mugs forgotten.
Lulu's predatory smile returned. "Fifteen Mard for a $2 pen," she whispered. "That's sixteen grand—fuck me, 836,900% ROI."
Monica grinned, her knife hand relaxing. "We're not just surviving this shithole. We're gonna own it."
Amber adjusted her hoodie, her eyes gleaming. "One overpriced luxury at a time."
Megan clapped Alice on the shoulder, her calloused hand firm. "Nice work, logistics queen."
Alice felt the weight of the coins in her pocket, heavy and warm, like a promise. The city outside was still a festering wound, but in here, in this moment, they were no longer ghosts. They were players. And the game was just beginning.
The air outside the tavern was no kinder than within, heavy with the reek of sweat and offal, the streets of Norinbel pulsing with a restless, predatory energy. The Five Petals Gang stepped into the throng, Alice's pocket heavier with fifteen Mard—gold coins that felt like anchors, tethering her to a world that was both alien and intoxicating.
The crowd parted reluctantly around them, eyes lingering on their strange clothes, their foreign swagger. Men with scarred faces and hands resting on sword hilts watched from corners. Elves whispered behind delicate hands. A dwarf spat into the dirt, his gaze hard and unyielding.
Monica led the way, her stride purposeful, her eyes scanning the street like a hawk over a field. Fifty paces behind, shadows moved—boots scuffing on cobblestones, cloaks shifting in the dim light of oil lamps. Six men, maybe eight, their steps too deliberate to be casual.
Monica's neck prickled, the same instinct that had saved her from countless bar fights flaring to life. She kept her voice low, her lips barely moving. "Don't look, don't turn your heads, don't make it obvious," she said, her face forward, her tone as steady as a blade. "We're being followed."
The words hit like a cold wind. Alice's stomach tightened, her fingers brushing the coins in her pocket as if they could ground her. Amber's breath hitched, her $890 boots faltering on the uneven road. Lulu's hand twitched toward her glasses, a nervous tic she couldn't suppress. Megan, ever practical, kept her eyes on Monica, but her grip on her adjustable wrench tightened inside her jacket.
"Relax," Monica said, her voice a low growl. "They haven't made us yet. Keep your bones cool."
Amber's eyes widened, her voice a strained whisper. "Cool? Cool? Mon, I'm not built for this. I'm fucked!"
"No, you ain't fucked, love," Monica said, her gaze never leaving the road. "You're just scared, and that's alright. Trust me. I'll cover you all."
Lulu, still pale from her hangover, forced her breathing to steady. "Not a good idea. You're one person. How many are following us?"
Monica's lips twitched, calculating. "If I had to guess… six, eight maybe."
Alice frowned, her heart thudding. "How do you know?"
Monica's eyes flicked to the side, catching the faint reflection in a trough of murky water by a horse post they'd passed thirty feet back. "Heard half a dozen boots step out after us when we left the tavern. Ballparked it. And that horse feed back there? Reflections in the water told me the rest."
Amber's voice rose, sharp with panic. "Reflections in the water? That shit looked like mud. What kind of reflections did you even catch?"
Monica smirked, unperturbed. "You learn a lot when violence solves your problems, sweetheart." She nodded toward an alley ahead, a narrow gap between two sagging buildings, their timbers blackened with age. "See that alley? Go there. Follow my lead."
Amber's hands shook, clutching her hoodie. "This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy."
Alice grabbed Monica's arm, her voice low. "What are you going to do?"
"Kill—" Monica started, but Lulu cut her off, her tone sharp.
"No, you will not kill them," Lulu said, her eyes blazing behind her glasses. "We're not from here, you silly goose. Dropping bodies will attract attention—unwanted attention."
Monica rolled her eyes, her stride unbroken. "Luv, we're five white girls from 2025 New York wearing modern New Yorker shit in a medieval fantasy world with magic that thinks a $2 Pilot pen is worth as much as the minimum daily wage. We attracted attention the second we walked into this shithole. You think these Chuck Taylors of mine are native to this place? You think they have PornHub in this dodge?"
Lulu's jaw tightened. "I'm just saying we need to be careful, the hell is wrong with you? We don't know what kind of repercussions are waiting."
"Fine, I won't kill them," Monica snapped, throwing up her hands. "Happy now?"
"Slightly," Lulu said, her voice dry.
Monica turned to Alice, her expression exasperated. "Alice, any ideas? Mrs. No-Fun-Allowed over here's limiting what I can do to protect you all."
Lulu snorted. "Don't be such a drama queen. You can knock a man out with one punch. This should be Tuesday for you."
"That's drunk guys and rich fucks with a hard-on for strippers," Monica shot back. "Not men in leather armor, gambesons, and swords. The only way we walk out without killing is with me on a 15th-century gurney, sporting a nasty hematoma and a fractured C6. I'm a bouncer, I'm built to hit back, not just receive—that's Johnny Knoxville and Jackass if you think the other way 'round."
Lulu crossed her arms. "We could just ignore them."
Monica's eyes narrowed. "They won't ignore us. I got a feeling. The kind that belongs in a Star Wars one-liner."
Alice hesitated, her mind racing. "We could… incapacitate them?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. The others turned to her, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. Alice, the pacifist, the rational one, suggesting violence? Monica's grin was slow and wicked. "Goddamn, girl. Where'd you get that crazy-ass idea? You sure you're not me?"
Lulu blinked, processing. "That could work—if Monica can execute it perfectly."
Monica's grin vanished. "You saying I can't handle my own weapon?"
"I didn't say that," Lulu said, her tone even.
Amber's voice broke through, trembling. "Guys, focus! I'm dead scared here."
Monica's eyes softened, just for a moment. "Just go to the alley and find a place to hide. I'll go high and pull an Ezio on them."
The girls followed her lead, their steps quickening as they veered into the alley—a narrow, shadowed corridor strewn with broken crates and reeking of stale piss. Monica split off, her Chucks silent as she scaled a rickety ledge, then a window frame, climbing to the roof with the ease of someone who'd dodged bouncer duties one too many times.
The others ducked behind a stack of crates, horses tethered nearby snorting as they shifted, their bulk obscuring the girls from view. Megan crouched low, her adjustable wrench gripped like a club, her eyes scanning the alley's entrance.
"Stay down," Monica hissed from above, her voice barely audible. "I'll dispose of them."
The wait was agonizing. The alley was a claustrophobic trap, its walls pressing in, the air thick with the stench of rot and horse dung. Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate, growing closer. Six men, maybe eight, their shadows stretching long in the flickering light of a distant lamp.
"Come out, come out," a voice called, low and mocking. A human, his accent thick, his tone dripping with greed. "This don't need to turn bloody."
Another voice, rougher: "Just give us your coins, and no one gets hurt."
The girls held their breath. Amber's hands shook, her Chanel perfume a faint traitor in the air. Lulu's fingers twitched, clutching a pack of matches she'd pulled from her jacket. Alice's heart pounded, her mind racing for a way out, any way out.
On the roof, Monica waited, her body coiled like a spring. The men huddled closer, their boots scuffing the dirt as they searched—under wagons, between logs, anywhere five girls could hide. One of them, a wiry man with a pockmarked face, paused near the crates, his nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of Amber's perfume.
Amber whispered, barely audible. "Damn you, Chanel."
The man's rotten teeth flashed in a grin. "Found you!"
Monica moved like lightning. Her kukri flashed from her hoodie, slicing through a rope tied to a barrel above. Oil—thick, viscous, smelling of tar—poured down, dousing the men in a glistening wave. They cursed, stumbling, their hands slick as they tried to wipe it from their faces.
The pockmarked man, closest to Amber, looked up, confused. "W-What was that?"
Lulu didn't hesitate. She flipped open her matches, struck one, and tossed it.
"Monica! A hand?!"
The oil ignited with a whoosh, flames leaping across the men's clothes, their screams sharp and panicked. Some ran, diving into the muddy horse trough to douse the fire, their cries turning to gurgles as they flailed in the filth.
Monica slid down the roof, her kukri a blur as she landed. She drove the blade into the shoulder of the nearest man, the steel biting deep before she yanked it free and slashed his other shoulder. He collapsed, howling, his arms useless.
She moved to the next, her movements precise, surgical—slashes to wrists, ankles, a finger severed in her haste.
One man after another fell, their weapons clattering to the ground.
Lulu's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and furious. "I said don't kill them!"
Monica, mid-swing, didn't look back. "Did they die? No? Then shut the fuck up!"
She drove her kukri into another man's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. The blade lodged in the wood, half-buried in his flesh. She tugged, but it held fast.
One man, still burning, his leather armor smoldering, charged toward the crates, his sword raised high. Monica reached into her cargo shorts, pulling a balisong.
With a flick of her wrist, she flipped it open, grabbed the blade, and threw it. The knife spun, a silver blur, and buried itself in the man's neck, the tip punching through the front. He staggered, blood bubbling from his mouth, and fell to his knees, gasping.
Monica freed her kukri and jogged to the crates, wiping the blade on her shorts. Lulu was already on her feet, her face a mask of fury. "I SAID NO KILLING, YOU DUMB BITCH!"
Monica gestured at the writhing men, most still alive, clutching their wounds. "They're not dead, you worrywart! See?" Her eyes fell on the man with the balisong in his neck, blood pooling beneath him. "Well, except that dude. Oh, my balisong!" She yanked the knife free, worsening the wound. "My bad, bro."
Lulu gasped, her fist clenched over her mouth. "He's going to die!"
Monica shrugged, wiping the balisong clean. "Collateral damage, so what?"
Before Lulu could explode, shouts echoed from the alley's entrance. "There they are! Guards, guards!"
Lulu's eyes widened. "Oh, come on!"
Alice didn't think. Her hand shot out, grabbing Lulu's wrist, then Amber's, then Megan's. Monica was already moving, her knives sheathed. Alice's mind was a storm—panic, instinct, a desperate need to escape. She thought of safety, of home, of the wide-open parking lot behind the Walmart where she'd parked her van a hundred times, the garbage enclosure where no one ever looked.
And then it happened.
A swirl of darkness bloomed before her, blacker than night, a maelstrom of shadow and void. It wasn't a black hole, not exactly—no pull, no gravity—but it pulsed with an unnatural energy, like a wound in the fabric of the world. It materialized in less than a second, and Alice, acting on pure instinct, pulled the others toward it.
They fell through, a sensation like plunging into cold water, weightless and disorienting. The world twisted, folded, and spat them out. Alice and Amber landed hard, face-first into a plastic bag of wet leftovers, the stench of rotting food overwhelming. Megan, Monica, and Lulu hit the concrete, their knees buckling as they sprawled across the ground.
Alice coughed, spitting out a piece of soggy bread. "Everybody okay?"
Amber retched, a banana peel stuck to her cheek. "Disgusting! Eww! There goes $450."
Monica, clutching her shoulder, stood slowly. "What the fuck just happened?"
Megan and Lulu struggled to their feet, brushing gravel from their clothes. Lulu's eyes widened as she took in their surroundings—a chain-link fence, overflowing dumpsters, the faint hum of a distant highway. "Guys, you gotta take a look at this."
Alice wiped her face, her heart still racing. Monica and Amber followed Lulu's gaze, their mouths dropping open.
They weren't in Norinbel.
They were in a Walmart parking lot, the garbage enclosure reeking of trash and motor oil. The skyline was familiar—not Queens, but Bayonne, New Jersey, the sodium lights casting an orange glow over the asphalt.
Monica blinked, her kukri still in hand. "What the fuck? Are we… back?"
Amber rubbed her temples, her voice shaky. "My head hurts. I saw a black hole thingy."
Megan nodded, her wrench still gripped tight. "Yeah, we fell into it, remember?"
Amber's eyes were wild. "So what, a portal just opened, swallowed us, and spit us out interdimensionally?"
Lulu turned to Alice, her voice low. "Alice, do you know anything?"
Alice shook her head, her mind reeling. The coins in her pocket felt heavier now, a reminder of the world they'd just left. "I… I don't know. I wasn't thinking straight—just about getting us out of that alley. My mind went to Walmart, the back lot, the garbage enclosure. Next thing I know, this… blackhole, wormhole, whatever-hole, opened up, and we're here."
Amber threw up her hands. "So what? We have portal superpowers now? Somebody fucking tell me something, anything that makes sense!"
Lulu shook her head, her exhaustion palpable. "Fuck this. I'm calling an Uber."
Monica raised an eyebrow, her knives sheathed but her posture still tense. "You chickening out now?"
Lulu's eyes flashed, her voice sharp. "I'm tired, okay? My brain's spinning with too many hypotheses. I need to FUCKING SLEEP IT OFF, MON! Give me a goddamn break."
They stood in silence, the hum of the highway filling the void. Lulu fumbled with her phone, her fingers trembling as she booked the ride. The Uber arrived ten minutes later, a dented Toyota that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and regret. The five piled in, their silence heavy, unbroken. The driver, a middle-aged man with a bored expression, didn't ask questions.
Lulu slumped back and clicked her seatbelt. "Astoria. Queens. Just drop us at the lights. 21st St and 30th Rd."
As the car pulled onto the highway, the lights of Bayonne fading behind them, Alice stared out the window. The coins in her pocket burned against her thigh, a reminder of Norinbel, of the fire, of the portal that had saved them. She didn't understand it—not the power, not the world, not the strange, electric possibility that pulsed in her veins. But for the first time in years, she felt something other than exhaustion.
Alice glanced towards the front seat, towards Lulu. "Hey, Lu. How much was it?"
Lulu rubbed her neck, exhausted. "At least $1,116 apiece. But that's still a rough estimation. We'll head to a pawn shop tomorrow, okay? I'm dead tired right now."
"I know this old man, old customer of mine," Megan said. "He might be able to price test it for us."
"Great," Lulu replied. "Text me the address later."
They weren't queens yet. But they weren't ghosts anymore, either.