The air in Alice's apartment was stale, thick with the ghosts of last night's liquor and the faint, sour tang of five women who'd collapsed into sleep without ceremony. The clock on the wall ticked toward six, its second hand a relentless march against the quiet.
Outside, Astoria stirred—delivery trucks rumbled, a distant siren wailed, and the first rays of dawn clawed through the smog, painting the room in a sickly orange glow.
Alice's phone screamed to life, its alarm a shrill violation of the morning's hush. She groaned, rolling out of her narrow bed, her Amazon polo crumpled on the floor like a shed skin. Her head throbbed, a dull reminder of Norinbel's ale and the impossible portal that had spat them back into a Walmart parking lot. She shuffled into the living room, barefoot, her cargo pants creaking with the weight of fifteen Mard coins still tucked in her pocket.
The scene before her was a battlefield of exhaustion.
Monica sprawled on the floor, the cheap rug—a thrift store find with faded floral patterns—draped over her like a burial shroud. Megan had claimed the window curtain, its gauzy fabric tangled around her shoulders like a makeshift cape, her mechanic's jacket abandoned in a heap. Amber, ever the diva, had yanked the tablecloth—a stained, polyester relic from Walmart's clearance bin—over herself, curling into a ball on the couch. Lulu was the worst off, having gutted the couch of its cushions, which lay scattered like casualties. She'd burrowed into the frame, her suit jacket pulled tight over her chest, glasses askew on her nose.
Alice nudged Monica's leg with her toe. "Wake up, you sleepy sluts. It's six already."
A chorus of groans answered her. Monica stirred first, twisting her body with a crackle of joints that sounded like a firecracker going off. Amber sat up, the tablecloth sliding off her like a discarded costume. Her $510 blouse was wrinkled, her hair a nest of frizz. "Man, I feel like shit. You need a bigger tablecloth, Alice. Cheap ass."
"Really? I feel great." Monica stretched, her PornHub hoodie riding up to reveal a scar on her ribs—a memento from a bar fight she'd never fully explained. "Oh yeah, that's the thing."
Lulu pushed her glasses up, her eyes bloodshot but sharp. "That's because Monica's perfectly fine sleeping in an alley. She could pass for a homeless person, and none of us would've known it."
Megan, already on her feet, ambled toward the fridge, her boots scuffing the linoleum. She pulled out a bottle of water, chugging half of it in one go. "Touché. You slept in a cabinet once, didn't you, Lu?"
Lulu's jaw tightened, her fingers clutching the jacket like a lifeline. "That's because I got locked inside after everyone clocked out."
Megan grinned, leaning against the counter. "So what? You made friends with the broom?"
"Just like you and your Milwaukee impact wrenches," Lulu shot back, her voice dry as bone. "We all need company during dark times."
Monica propped herself on an elbow, grinning. "You know, you could've just called me back then. I know how to pick locks, you know?"
Lulu snorted, sitting up fully now, her suit jacket falling to her lap. "Wall Street doesn't trust old-school locks. They're mostly electronic—retinal, prints, or the most basic card."
Megan's grin turned cheeky. "Sounds like a job for HURST, alright."
"And when you do, I'm held responsible for a $5,000 lock, hinges, and frickin' door," Lulu said, her voice sharp. "Unless you're chipping in, don't even think about it. We all have a job to do."
Amber stretched, her $890 boots clicking on the floor as she stood. "Speaking of jobs, I'm thinking of… not going to work today? I mean, come the fuck on. We traveled to a literal anime fantasy world yesterday, traded Marlboro Reds and a Pilot pen for literal gold coins. Can't we just… resign?"
Alice paused, her fingers brushing the coins in her pocket, their weight a quiet promise. "She does have a point, guys. I don't know about you, but if this can provide for me better than Amazon, I'm signing that resignation paper."
Lulu sighed, rubbing her temples. "Slow down. We need to think this through—"
Monica cut her off, her voice a low growl. "There's genuinely nothing to think about, girl. Yesterday happened. We're rich. Done. End of story." She glanced at Alice, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. "You wanted to flip the table on capitalism? This is the chance now. Literally. Now or never."
Megan nodded, setting the water bottle down with a thud. "I'm gonna have to agree with them here, Lu. Personally, I want a guarantee in life without relying too much on my honest shop. I'd rather sell condoms to medieval peasants or build a shitty hamlet a water wheel than explain the difference between LED and Xenon to my customers."
Lulu's expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. "And I agree with you all too. I just want us to be careful. I'm not saying no. Believe me, I'm all in on this get-rich-quick scheme. The ROI alone is insane."
Amber's eyes lit up, her hands clapping together. "Then what are we waiting for?! Let's just call our bosses and put in our two weeks' notice! We can do this side gig after work for an hour tops. Set a booth or a stall over there and sell Pepto-Bismol. Charge 'em twenty gold—sorry, Mards."
Lulu leaned forward, her analytical mind clicking into gear. "That could work. But if we're doing this fully and truly, we aim bigger, we aim legit. Not just LARPing as another D&D merchant."
Alice frowned, her mind racing to catch up. "You mean… establish our own company? Like our own brand? Enterprise?"
Lulu's smile was sharp, predatory. "How perceptive. Yes. If we're to be queens of capitalism, we don't hit the street. We aim for the whole market itself. We place our rangefinder down and launch that motherfucker of a Tomahawk cruise missile."
Monica laughed, a bark that echoed in the small apartment. "Since when do you even know my kink?"
Amber tilted her head, still processing. "Okay, that makes sense. I guess."
Alice's voice was quieter, cautious. "But how do we do that exactly?"
Lulu leaned back, crossing her arms. "File Articles of Organization with the Department of State's the easiest way. For our sake, we need to go the LLC route. A publicly traded company is not… isekai-friendly."
Megan raised an eyebrow, wiping water from her chin. "What about the products?"
Alice paced the small room, her boots scuffing the floor. "We need to do it safe—nothing electronic in nature. Purely analog and with an expiration date. Completely mechanical. Or just without sentience. At least with dead things, we can pass it off as better craftsmanship or superior crafting."
Lulu nodded, her glasses catching the light. "Damn right. That means no battery flashlights. No smartphones, tablets, laptops, or even fucking DeWalt power tools. At least not until we figure shit out."
Monica grinned, leaning forward. "What about guns? They're dead as fuck, completely mechanical in nature, and have some kind of expiration date—if we're counting material oxidation, rust, and gunpowder death dates."
Alice shook her head, her voice firm. "I don't want us to open a Bass Pro Shop, so… no? Lu?"
Lulu's eyes narrowed, considering. "I'll have to agree with Alice here, Mon. Guns are too far ahead; they'll tip the balance of a medieval world in less than a year. That being said, for Monica and Megan's sake, I'll allow OTF knives, multitools, and whatever non-engine saw you can get from Home Depot. Also, for my safety's sake, Alice's, and Amber's, I'm allowing you to bring your guns."
Monica's face lit up. "Finally! About damn time I—"
Lulu raised a hand, cutting her off. "Don't misunderstand me. They're for self-defense only. Bring something small."
Monica's grin faded to a scowl. "Fuck you, you had my hopes up. Fine. I'll bring a .45 and a short-barreled 12. I'll lend Megan my 9mm too."
Amber perked up, her voice tentative. "What about clothing?" The others turned to her, and she flushed, clutching her hoodie. "Oh, come on! I don't wanna get left behind. Y'all know your lanes—I'm only good at anything fashion-related. Please let me have this hustle."
Alice glanced at Lulu. "Lu?"
Lulu sighed, adjusting her glasses. "Technically, fashion is the safest one out of our ideas. Medieval people will ask too many questions when they see a Leatherman. No one will question clothes with better fabric, sewing, and color. If we're using statistical and theoretical probabilities, it's significantly easier to deal Supreme than Microtech. But still, it's up to you, Al."
Alice frowned, her fingers brushing the coins in her pocket again. "Why me? I'm not the leader."
Lulu's gaze was steady, unflinching. "When we legalize our company, someone has to be the face. You're an actor; you know how to act."
Alice's laugh was bitter, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I never got the calls, you know that, right?"
Monica leaned forward, her voice fierce. "Doesn't matter. Just because Hollywood didn't sign you doesn't mean you can't act. You can act, absolutely."
Lulu nodded, her tone softening. "Also, you have the added knowledge of logistics. You can hate Amazon all you want, but it taught you something we don't. That's called insider knowledge. In your case, logistics framework."
Alice paced again, her steps heavy, her thoughts heavier. The coins clinked softly in her pocket, a reminder of Norinbel's dirt roads and the scholar's eager hands clutching her pen. She stopped, her back to the wall, and exhaled. "Alright—but I'm only doing this for you guys."
Monica whooped, punching the air. "That's the spirit, homegirl!"
Amber clapped, her eyes bright. "Okay, okay! Can we please talk about the money?"
Lulu's voice was all business again. "Assuming Monica's estimation is correct—"
"Of course I am!" Monica interjected, smirking.
Lulu ignored her, continuing. "—we can use our rough ballpark from yesterday. $124 per gram. A coin's around 9 grams. That's $1,116 per Mard. The question is, what carat are they? Gold prices are only as good as their purity. Megan, you said you know someone?"
Megan nodded, pulling out her phone. "Yeah, old customer of mine. Guy has a pawn shop down Jamaica Ave."
Alice straightened, her voice decisive. "I say we put in the call now and have him agree to a visit later at 9. What do you say?"
Lulu's lips curved into a rare smile. "It could work. We still have one Mard from the ale and inquiries, and your fifteen Mard from the Pilot pen transaction. Bare minimum, we're walking away with at least ten grand if we assume those coins are shit—14 to 18 carats. If they're 24 carats, we're bagging seventeen grand."
Megan's fingers were already moving over her phone. "I'll text the old man. What about us?"
Amber threw up her hands, her voice sharp. "I'm resigning, fuck this job."
Monica nodded, leaning back. "Yeah, I guess me too."
Alice's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Well, me and my manager's not exactly on common grounds. I can just DM him, and I'll be out by ten."
Lulu sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don't have your luxury. I need to email my boss first. I think he'll just brush it off anyway."
Amber smirked. "Sucks to be you—business wolves."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, but there was a spark of amusement there. "It's really fortunate for you guys that I'm in the business side of life, or we'd have been fucked if you played isekai merchant too fast."
Monica laughed, tossing a couch cushion at her. "Fortunate—aka convenient to the plot."
Amber's grin was fierce. "Bitch, this is our lives. We wrote the plot. Fuck the plot armor, we're buying the whole plot Great Wall if necessary."
Alice hesitated, her mind circling back to Lulu's earlier words. "Lu, you said something about LLC… what does that mean?"
Lulu leaned forward, her voice clear and precise. "It means Limited Liability Company. This company is its own thing, separate from the people who own it. If something goes wrong, you can't take the owners' personal money or stuff."
Amber blinked, frowning. "Explain it in the dumbed-down version, please?"
Lulu's expression didn't change. "That is the dumbed-down version."
"Oh…" Amber muttered, deflating.
Alice pressed on, her curiosity piqued. "Can you tell me more of this?"
Lulu nodded, slipping into lecture mode. "When you register an LLC, the law treats it like it's a person of its own. That means it can own property, have a bank account, hire people, make contracts, sue or be sued. So if the company fucks up, the company gets sued, not you personally. That's the limited liability part—it limits how much you can lose to only what you've invested. LLC owners are called members. Each member owns a percentage called a membership interest, which we can split however we want. If there are five of us, we can each have 20%, or uneven shares like 40-30-20-10, whatever makes sense."
Monica raised a hand, her voice sharp. "Slow the fuck down—"
Lulu didn't flinch. "No. By default, the IRS doesn't see your LLC as a separate taxpayer. They treat it like a pass-through entity, meaning the company itself doesn't pay income tax. The profits and losses just pass through to the members' personal tax returns. So each of us pays taxes on our share of the profits, like we would on personal income. No double taxation like in corporations."
Alice nodded, processing. "What about the paperwork?"
Lulu's tone was brisk, efficient. "Compared to a corporation, LLCs are chill. But we still need to file our Articles of Organization—the birth certificate of your LLC with the state—create an Operating Agreement, aka the internal rulebook, file annual reports, and pay state filing fees. In New York, it's about $25–$50 depending on the county. Get your EIN—tax ID—from the IRS. But there are no shareholder meetings, no formal board minutes, and no crazy red tape like in corporations."
Megan scratched her head, her voice dry. "Can we get the TLDR, again?"
Lulu sighed, but her lips twitched with amusement. "What it really means is we're legally protected, we can run the business however we want, we avoid corporate taxes, we look professional and legitimate, less paperwork than a full-blown corporation. In short—an LLC is the American version of Pvt Ltd Lite—simple, flexible, and perfect for small to medium private businesses."
The room fell quiet, the weight of her words settling like dust. The five of them stood there, surrounded by the detritus of their old lives—empty bottles, scattered cushions, the faint hum of the radiator. Outside, Queens roared on, indifferent to their plans, their portal, their impossible gold.
Alice slipped on her shoes, her movements deliberate. "Lu, when Amber said booth or stall, how creative can we be?"
Lulu tilted her head, considering. "There shouldn't be any limit. The only limit we should adhere to for our first trial as interdimensional merchants is our place of trade. Monica?"
Monica cracked her knuckles, her grin returning. "Most fantasy merchants use carts, set up a tent by their horses, or even rent a building in the neighborhood. I think we can skip that by using our own… thing."
Alice raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"
Monica's eyes gleamed. "Well, I know we'll be doing trades somewhere in Norinbel. It needs to be small enough for us to teleport every day but have enough space to house our products. A tent could work, but it's fabric, not solid wall. A wind that's strong enough, and we'll be chasing shampoo bottles down the turd-blanketed dirt roads."
Amber snapped her fingers. "Food trucks?"
Megan shook her head, her voice practical. "We'd have to gut the entire thing and take the engine out. I can do it, but it's not worth the time and effort for that much internal space."
Monica nodded, her grin widening. "Which is why I'm proposing… a 40-foot shipping container. It has enough internal space. It's solid-walled. Megan can cut some of the wall and install insulation, window, counter, ACs or fans, without too much investment or effort."
Megan's eyes lit up, her mechanic's mind already at work. "Yeah, she's right. Just a circular saw and some spray foam. Maybe a rubber seal here and there. Boom. Problem solved. That's your DIY stall."
Lulu nodded, her expression approving. "I think I'll have to agree with Monica. Shipping containers are deceptively simple but easily modified."
Alice felt a spark of excitement, the first real one since Norinbel. "I guess you're right. I'll call a friend of mine down at the port. I think she can pull some used ones for us."
Lulu's phone pinged, the Uber confirmation flashing on the screen. "Great. The Uber's booked, anyway. Megan, the pawn shop's open yet?"
Megan nodded, already typing on her phone. "Open. The old man, Billy, is already there. Let's go."
The shower—or what passed for one in Monica's case, which was a quick splash of water from the sink and a swipe of deodorant—did little to wash away the weight of the night before. The five of them moved with a sluggish urgency, pulling on clothes that still smelled faintly of Norinbel's dirt and ale. Alice laced her boots, her fingers steady despite the tremor in her chest. The coins in her pocket clinked softly, a reminder of the world they'd stumbled into and the one they were about to build.
They piled into the Uber, a beat-up Toyota that smelled of air freshener and regret, coincidentally the same one that drove them last night. Like yesterday, the driver didn't glance back as they squeezed into the backseat, their knees bumping.
"You again?" Monica blurted out. "Small fucking world."
"Ignore her," Lulu said, slapping Monica by her thigh. "Jamaica Ave—just drop us by the Baskin-Robbins at 168th."
The streets of Queens blurred past, a gray smear of concrete and neon. The city felt smaller now, less like a prison and more like a stage—one they were about to leave behind. Alice stared out the window, her reflection ghostly against the glass.
The coins burned in her pocket, heavy with possibility. She thought of the scholar's eager hands, the dwarf's greedy eyes, the alley's flames. She thought of the portal, that black wound in the world, and the way it had answered her panic, her need.
They weren't queens yet. But they were no longer ghosts. Alice's lips curved, a small, private smile. The game was just beginning.
The pawn shop on Jamaica Avenue was a relic of a New York that refused to die, its windows fogged with grime and plastered with faded posters promising "CASH FOR GOLD!" and "WE BUY EVERYTHING!"
The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, old leather, and the faint metallic tang of desperation. Shelves groaned under the weight of tarnished jewelry, chipped porcelain, and electronics so outdated they might as well have been fossils.
At 9:20 AM, the Five Petals Gang stood clustered around a counter cluttered with scales, loupes, and a laptop humming softly, its screen glowing with charts and numbers that looked like they belonged in a chemistry lab.
Billy, the old man Megan had vouched for, hunched over a microscope, his gnarled hands steady as he examined one of Alice's Mard coins. His face was a map of wrinkles, etched deep from years of squinting at gold and dodging life's harder punches.
The coin gleamed under the lens, its crescent-moon-and-flame stamp catching the light like a tiny, defiant sun. Billy moved to a spectrometer, then a digital scale, muttering to himself as he cross-referenced data on his laptop. The girls watched, their breaths shallow, the silence broken only by the hum of the machine and the distant wail of a siren outside.
Megan leaned against the counter, her grease-stained jacket brushing against a stack of pawn tickets. "So? How is it?"
Billy straightened, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Well… you girls got yourselves a fine piece. 99.75% pure gold. 9.15 grams."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her mind already slicing through the numbers. "So not fully 24 carat gold, right?"
Billy shook his head, his voice gravelly but precise. "Technically not, but if you were to sell this, the drop in price is negligible since the difference is only 0.14%. But that'd still depend on the jewelers willing to take your stuff."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. "What are we talking about here? A thousand? Eleven hundred?"
Billy nodded, scratching his stubbled chin. "Yeah, somewhere along those lines." He turned to Megan, his brow furrowing. "Where do you even get this thing anyway? I don't think your dad's the type to hoard this kind of shit."
Megan's lips twitched into a half-smile. "It's not my old man's. And yeah, he isn't the type."
Lulu stepped closer, her suit jacket still wrinkled from its night as a blanket. "Can I ask you a question?"
Billy leaned back, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "Shoot."
"If we were to sell this, do we need to melt it down into ingots or bricks, or can we sell them apiece?"
Billy shrugged, his hands spreading across the counter. "Depends on the shop—some accept a single piece, some want ready products. If you have more, you can melt them down into a single bigger piece, you know."
Lulu's mind was already racing, her voice steady but probing. "Wouldn't that lessen the purity?"
Billy chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "It will not. The purity won't lower or just magically disappear. However, you need to account for oxygen exposure and the sterility of the crucible. This is already pure, so all you need is a furnace—make sure it's air-sealed or really well insulated—and a crucible, of course. You can find them for several hundred dollars online. Or you can just make your own crucible if you know how to work a CNC."
Megan's fingers tapped the counter, her voice thoughtful. "I have the machines in my shop, but I know jackshit about 3D modeling. My little brother and his girlfriend can, but they're out in Portland for a while. Probably until next month."
Amber, who'd been hovering near a display of tarnished watches, perked up. "I can do it." The others turned, their expressions a mix of surprise and skepticism. She rolled her eyes, her $890 boots clicking on the worn linoleum. "Oh, come on! I'm not all about fashion. I know some stuff too. Besides, some things just aren't possible with a sewing machine!"
Alice's lips curled into a faint smile, her hand brushing the Mards in her pocket. "What about the furnace?"
Monica, lounging against a glass case filled with old coins, grinned. "We can use my uncle's. He's retiring after my cousin got married a couple months ago. He dumped some of his stuff in a storage unit in Brooklyn. I'll get an Uber and borrow his Tacoma."
Alice nodded, her voice firm. "Well, I guess that settles it." She giggled, a sound that felt foreign in her throat, like a spark in a damp forest. "Amber, get the model ready. Megan, we're hopping to your shop, we'll use your CNC. Monica, we'll meet there at Megan's. Lulu, how long does it take to file the business form thingy?"
Lulu's eyes gleamed behind her glasses. "Seven business days. But I know a guy who can slip us in and have it done by the afternoon for some heavy cents on the dollar bill."
Billy raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a rag that looked older than he was. "You girls starting your own business?"
Alice's smile was tight, guarded. "Somewhat like that."
Billy's gaze softened, and he reached under the counter, pulling out a battered register. He opened it with a creak and placed a fat stack of bills on the desk—crisp, green, smelling faintly of ink and time. "Here… use this."
Megan's eyes widened, her voice sharp. "No way. That coin's worth a thousand, not ten grand."
Billy waved her off, his expression firm but kind. "You went easy on me when I was dry out of my money, kid. Also, you towed my truck a couple years ago. I got to witness a boy propose to my daughter. That's a memory worth more than some Benjamins. You can pay me back when this startup of yours is afloat. Take it."
Alice hesitated, her hand hovering over the stack. "Are you sure?"
Billy's smile was weathered but genuine. "Please. I think you'll benefit more from this money than we do."
Alice's hand closed around the bills, heavy with possibility and debt. She passed them to Lulu, her voice steady. "Do it, Lu. Get it done today."
Lulu pocketed the cash, her smile sharp. "You got it, boss."
Alice turned to Billy, her eyes fierce with gratitude. "Thank you very much, sir. I swear we'll be back and pay you back."
They filed out of the shop, the bell above the door jangling like a warning. The street outside was alive with the chaos of Jamaica Avenue—cars honking, vendors shouting, the air thick with the smell of hot asphalt and street food. The girls split off, Megan and Amber heading toward Megan's shop, Lulu toward her contact to file the LLC. But Alice grabbed Monica's arm, pulling her aside as the others disappeared into the crowd.
Monica raised an eyebrow, her PornHub hoodie catching the morning sun. "What?"
Alice's voice was low, urgent. "I need to talk to you for a moment."
Monica's grin was lazy, but her eyes were sharp. "Yeah, sure. You wanna go with me to pick up the furnace too?"
"No—" Alice's fingers tightened on Monica's arm. "I have something in my mind."
Monica's grin faded, her tone wary. "Spit it out."
"I want you to come with me."
Monica's brow furrowed. "To?"
"Back to Norinbel."
Monica blinked, her posture stiffening. "Why?"
Alice's jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with something between fear and determination. "This whole leader shit is too much for me. I want… to assess the market first. Do some recon and gather some intel."
Monica's eyes narrowed, catching the shift in Alice's tone, the sudden military lingo that sounded foreign on her lips. "This whole military shit doesn't fly well from your tongue. Why the need for intel?"
Alice's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "I just want to get some more information, okay? To make sure everyone is safe."
Monica crossed her arms, her expression skeptical but intrigued. "Okay, okay. That's kinda smart. What do you have in mind?"
Alice glanced over her shoulder, ensuring the others were out of earshot. "Later today, after we melt the coins into a brick and sell it, I want you with me. I want to see how far this… portal superpower thingy can get us."
Monica's eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean?"
"I'm saying that if this power can jump us from Earth to Isekai and back, does it only work to a specific point, or can we open it anywhere on either world?"
Monica tilted her head, processing. "Okay, that… makes some sense—kinda, sorta. I don't know, it still sounds dumb."
Alice's smile was small, almost reckless. "I know, that's why I'm curious. I mean, if we can jump anywhere Jumper-style, it would be huge. That's why I wanna try jumping us from New York to your old house in Texas."
Monica let out a low whistle, her grin returning. "I mean, no offense, it sounds sweet but kinda reckless. And that's me saying it. Look, I have no qualms filling a fantasy noble's head with .308 or .50 if they wanna fuck our new hustle, but the idea of going to another world with a Barrett screams overkill."
Alice's eyes were steady, unyielding. "I know, it's just—for precaution's sake."
Monica sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "Alright, look. We'll try it out. I'll ask Megan to build me a hidden compartment under the container's floorboard. I'd wager a million buckaroos that neither Amber nor Lulu would like us bringing that much American flavor to the other world. I'll ask my dad about the rifles—I think he'll allow me to get the Tavor, but anything bigger might be a problem. He's an ass—paranoid ass."
Alice frowned, her mind racing. "Is it good? This… Tavor?"
Monica shrugged, her voice casual but knowledgeable. "It's… okay-ish. 5.56—not my cup of tea, but the 13-inch barrel will do us just fine since it's for CQB. Personally, if you're serious about this precaution bullshit, we need one in 7.62, one in .300 Win Mag, and one in .50 BMG. The last one's absolutely overkill, but that's what gets the job done. That said, the cheapest one's $6,000. I'd recommend the HTI—hits just as hard as any other Barrett at a lower price tag of $7,500."
Alice's fingers brushed the Mards again, their weight grounding her. "Okay, I have an idea. How about we hit the store and get ourselves some Faber-Castell pens? If that scholar from the other day was serious, then pens might fetch us a decent chunk. We can flip $300 into $50K, no problem."
Monica's grin faded, her voice dropping. "Alice… slow down. There's this thing called a tax stamp. Also, another bummer, .50-cals are illegal in this state. It's not in Texas, but illegal here. There's also the fact that you'd have to wait… I'm not keen on waiting."
Alice's eyes gleamed, a spark of audacity igniting. "How about buying one in Texas, then we jump to New York and stash it in the container before Amber or Lulu notice? Would that work?"
Monica's grin returned, slow and wicked. "Should be, since the gun's address is in Texas. Or, better yet… we can buy one from this one dude from San Antonio. Me and him go way back."
Alice's brow furrowed, her voice cautious. "I assume this means illegal gun?"
Monica's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Sure… but it's fast." Her expression sobered, a rare flicker of worry crossing her face. "Look, Al… are you sure about this? Stonks and haute couture aren't gonna be happy about us taking the backroad."
Alice's jaw tightened, her voice low and fierce. "Then we have to make sure they don't know anything about this."
Monica nodded, her grin returning full force. "Alright then, leader. I guess we're shopping for some fountain pens."
They stepped back into the street, the city's pulse thrumming around them—honking cabs, shouting vendors, the distant wail of a siren. Alice's heart pounded, not with fear but with the raw, jagged edge of possibility. The Mards in her pocket felt like a promise, a key to a world where they could rewrite the rules. Norinbel waited, its streets filthy and alive, its markets ripe for the taking.
And Alice, for the first time in years, felt the ghost of her old dreams stir—not for a stage, but for a throne.