Chapter 4
The Tacoma's engine sputtered to a stop in a shadowed alley, its tires crunching gravel like the snap of dry twigs. The narrow strip of earth, wedged between sagging rowhouses and a half-built skeleton of a building draped in tattered tarps, felt like a wound in the city's flesh.
Scaffolding loomed overhead, its metal bones casting jagged shadows across the truck's hood, shielding it from the restless pulse of Queens. Monica yanked the handbrake, the click sharp in the quiet, and turned to Alice, her eyes glinting with a mix of impatience and feral curiosity.
"Alright, boss lady," Monica said, her voice rough with Texas grit, like sandpaper on raw wood. "How's this portal shit supposed to work?"
Alice slumped in the passenger seat, her cargo pants creaking, the coins in her pocket heavy as unspoken doubts. The fluorescent haze of Walmart still clung to her mind—pens, pencils, possibility—but here, in the alley's raw silence, the weight of their gamble pressed harder.
She rubbed her temples, her voice low, fraying at the edges. "I don't know, Mon. It's like… willing a door to open. You picture a place, hold it tight in your head, and it just… happens."
Monica snorted, her hoodie shifting as she crossed her arms. "That's your pitch? Think real hard and—abracadabra—magic bullshit? You sound like a drunk dungeon master at a dive bar."
Alice's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement cutting through her frustration. "I'm not Gandalf, okay? I don't have a fucking manual. Last time, in that alley, it was panic, instinct—whatever. I just wanted out."
Monica leaned forward, her hair swinging like a pendulum. "So, what, we need to get jumped again? Should I pull my .45 and make you piss your pants?"
Alice shot her a dry look, her voice sharp as the gravel under their tires. "Real helpful, Mon. Just… pick a place. Somewhere you know. Picture it clear."
Monica's eyes narrowed, skeptical. "Like what? The dive bar where I decked that creep? My old high school's shitty gym? Give me something to work with, Al."
Alice sighed, her fingers brushing the coins, their cool weight grounding her. "Somewhere you've been. Somewhere you can see in your mind. Like… your house in Texas."
Monica's brow arched, her voice dripping with doubt. "Blackland? That's a thousand miles away. You think this portal crap's got that kind of juice?"
Alice shrugged, her tone steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at her. "Only way to know is to try."
Monica leaned back, her boots scuffing the Tacoma's floorboard. She closed her eyes, her face twisting in concentration, like a kid wrestling with a puzzle she didn't understand. The alley held its breath, the silence thick, broken only by the distant wail of a siren and the rustle of tarps overhead.
Seconds dragged into a minute. Then two. Nothing. No hum of energy, no tear in reality. Just the faint stink of piss and the city's restless hum.
Monica's eyes snapped open, her voice a low growl. "Fuck. Nothing."
Alice's jaw tightened, but she kept her tone calm. "Try again. Dig deeper."
Monica's glare could've melted steel. "Deeper? I'm picturing my old bedroom—pink walls, shitty Avril Lavigne posters, that creaky bedframe. Nada. Zip. Fucking goose egg."
Alice leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees. "Maybe it's not clear enough. Try somewhere that hits you harder. Somewhere you feel something."
Monica's laugh was sharp, bitter, like a blade catching bone. "Feel something? What am I, writing poetry for a fucking open mic? Fine." She closed her eyes again, her fingers drumming the steering wheel, her lips moving silently, like she was arguing with ghosts.
Another minute passed. Then five. Then ten. The air grew heavy, thick with failure, the kind that settles in your bones like damp rot.
Monica's fist slammed the dashboard, her voice a snarl. "Why the hell ain't it working? Fuck. Shit. Damn. Cunt."
Alice flinched but held her ground, her voice steady. "Timeout, Mon. Just… breathe."
Monica's chest heaved, her face flushed. "Breathe? This is bullshit. I'm focusing my ass off, and it's like the universe is flipping me off."
Alice leaned back, her mind racing. "Maybe it's your focus. Or… maybe it's a sight thing."
Monica's brow furrowed, her voice sharp. "The fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"Like… Nightcrawler," Alice said, her tone tentative, testing the words.
Monica blinked, incredulous. "The blue dude from X-Men?"
"Yeah," Alice said, warming to the idea, her voice gaining traction. "In the movie, he can only teleport to places he's seen or been to. Maybe it's like that."
Monica's jaw dropped, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You're staking our whole portal deal on a goddamn comic book flick? Get real, Al."
Alice threw up her hands, her patience fraying like cheap thread. "You got a better theory? I'm all ears!"
Monica's grin crept back, slow and wicked, like a predator catching a scent. "Alright, fine. Let's play your nerd-ass game."
Alice seized the momentum, her eyes lighting up. "Where in Blackland?"
Monica leaned back, her voice casual but sharp. "Valhalla Tattoo Studios, State Highway 276. Type it in."
Alice pulled out her phone, her fingers dancing across the screen as Google Maps loaded, sluggish in the alley's dead zone. She punched in the address, the map zooming in on Blackland, Texas—a flat sprawl of fields and highways, lonely as a forgotten promise. State Highway 276 cut through it like a scar, flanked by a warehouse, a photography studio, and not much else.
She switched to Street View, swiping until the camera settled on a dirt roundabout off Ruger Drive—barren, no houses, no cars, just dust and scrubland under a wide, empty sky.
She zoomed in, the image grainy but sharp enough to show the curve of the road, the faint tire tracks etched in the dirt. Alice turned the phone toward Monica, her voice firm. "Focus on this."
Monica's eyes flicked to the screen, her expression skeptical. "Al, come on—"
"Just trust me," Alice cut in, her tone urgent, almost pleading. "Try it."
Monica sighed, her shoulders slumping like she was humoring a child. "Fine."
She stared at the phone, her eyes narrowing as she burned the image into her mind—the dirt, the empty field, the faint shimmer of heat rising from the ground. Her jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like it was her last anchor to reality. Nothing happened. The alley stayed solid, the tarps flapping above like a mocking chorus.
Monica's voice was low, edged with frustration. "Still nada. Maybe this power's just your thing, Al."
Alice's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind churning like a storm. "Try this—think about where you want the portal to open."
Monica's brow furrowed, her voice sharp. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"You're only thinking about getting out," Alice said, her voice steady but insistent. "Maybe you need to picture the way in, too. Right here, in this alley."
Monica's eyes narrowed, but she nodded, closing her eyes again. She pictured the roundabout—the dirt underfoot, the open sky above, the faint smell of mesquite. Then she added the alley—the Tacoma's rusted hood, the tarp-covered scaffolding, the sour tang of piss in the air. She imagined the portal opening right here, a black gash big enough to swallow the truck, guns, and all. Her breath slowed, her focus sharpening like a blade honed to a killing edge. She thought of the portal's size—wide enough for the Tacoma, tall enough for their audacity.
A crackle tore through the air, sharp as a whip. The alley darkened, the streetlights flickering as a swirling void of black energy ripped open in front of the Tacoma. It pulsed, alive, its edges jagged like a wound in reality, the air humming with a low, bone-deep thrum.
Alice's eyes widened, her voice a breathless whisper. "Holy shit."
Monica's grin was feral, her eyes locked on the void. "Fuck yeah."
The portal didn't give them time to gloat. It sucked them in, the Tacoma lurching forward as reality folded like cheap paper. Darkness swallowed them, a weightless rush where the world held its breath. Then, with a jolt, they landed, tires crunching on dirt. The Texas sky stretched above, bruised with twilight, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of mesquite.
Alice fumbled for her phone, her hands trembling as she checked the GPS. The map blinked, recalibrating, then settled on Ruger Drive, Blackland, Texas. "It worked," she said, her voice cracking with disbelief.
Monica whooped, slamming her hands on the steering wheel. "Hell fucking yeah!" She lunged across the seat, pulling Alice into a rough hug, their laughter echoing in the empty field.
Alice shoved her back, grinning despite herself. "No homo, Mon."
Monica coughed, her grin unfazed. "Sure, keep dreaming."
Alice's eyes scanned the horizon, the dirt road stretching into the distance like a promise of trouble. "So, where's this house you grew up in?"
Monica started the engine, the Tacoma rumbling to life. "Five minutes away," she said, pulling onto the road. "Hold tight."
The Texas landscape unfolded in a blur of flat fields and barbed-wire fences, the sun sinking low, painting the sky in streaks of blood and gold. Blackland was a place of wide spaces and long shadows, where houses sat far apart, their yards cluttered with rusted tractors and dreams left to rust. The air carried the faint tang of hay and horse shit, a world away from Queens' concrete and exhaust. Monica drove with ease, her hands steady, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror like she expected a ghost to follow.
Five minutes later, they pulled into a gravel driveway beside a weathered ranch house, its paint peeling like old skin. A horse stable loomed in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fading light. The house was modest, sturdy, a single-story sprawl with a sagging porch and a tin roof that gleamed faintly under the last rays of sun. A wind chime clinked, its notes swallowed by the evening's hush.
Monica cut the engine, her voice low. "Home sweet home."
They stepped out, boots crunching on gravel, the air cool and sharp with the promise of night. Alice's eyes darted to the stable, a faint whinny carrying across the field. Before she could speak, a sharp click sliced the silence—a shotgun's hammer being cocked.
Alice froze, her heart slamming against her ribs. Monica, unfazed, turned slowly, her hand dipping into her hoodie to draw her 1911 with a fluid motion. She aimed it at the figure behind them, her stance steady, her grin a blade's edge.
A man stood there, mid-30s, shirtless in jeans and a battered cowboy hat, his shotgun leveled at Alice's head. His face was hard, weathered by sun and time, but his eyes glinted with a wary amusement.
"License and registration, darlin'," he said, his Texas drawl slow, deliberate.
Monica's grin sharpened, her 1911 steady. "Go fuck yourself, Jack. Stay right there—I'll carve you up cleaner than a hog at slaughter."
The man—Jack—lowered his shotgun, his smile breaking through like sunlight on cracked earth. He stepped forward, pulling Monica into a bear hug, his laugh rough but warm. "Where you been, you little hellcat? Missed your sorry ass."
Monica hugged him back, her voice teasing. "Missed you too. Kinda. Not really."
Jack pulled back, mock-wounded. "Damn, that's cold."
Monica turned to Alice, her grin softening. "Alice, meet Jack, my big brother. Jack, this is Alice. Best friend, pain in my ass."
Alice stepped forward, her heart still racing, and shook Jack's hand. His grip was firm, calloused, built from years of work and no apologies. "Nice to meet you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Jack nodded, his eyes flicking between them. "So, what's the deal? Why you rollin' up in Uncle Rob's Tacoma?"
Monica leaned against the truck, her posture casual but her eyes sharp. "Borrowed it for a bit. Don't even think about ratting me out to him."
Jack's brow furrowed, his voice cautious. "Dad's out with the neighbors, hittin' the bar. You know how he gets."
Monica's lips twitched. "Let him drown in his whiskey. Don't call him. I'm just here for some… family assets."
Jack's eyes narrowed, catching her code like a hawk spotting prey. "Assets, huh? You talked to Dad about this?"
Monica's jaw tightened, her voice flat as a blade. "Not in the mood."
Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Five years, Mon. You gotta let it go."
Monica's eyes flashed, her voice sharp. "Let it go? After what he pulled? I'd rather blow the devil before I forgive him."
Jack shook his head, relenting. "Ain't no reasoning with you when you're like this."
They walked to the side of the house, where a heavy steel door led to the basement. Gravel crunched underfoot, the air growing cooler as the last light bled from the sky. Jack unlocked the door, its hinges groaning like a dying beast. They descended a narrow staircase, the air thick with the smell of oil and metal. Jack flicked a switch, and fluorescent lights buzzed to life, revealing a room that was less a basement and more an armory.
Guns lined the walls, racked with precision—pistols, shotguns, rifles, their steel gleaming under the harsh light. Ammo cans were stacked in neat rows, their labels faded but legible. A workbench held cleaning kits, bore brushes, and a half-disassembled AR-15, its parts laid out like a surgeon's tools. The room was a temple to firepower, a monument to a family that treated the Second Amendment like scripture.
Alice's eyes widened, her voice a whisper. "Holy Christ… this is insane."
Jack grinned, leaning against the workbench. "Everything's bigger in Texas, darlin'."
Alice's lips twitched, her voice dry. "More like explosive, reckless, Michael-Bay-level hazardous."
Jack laughed, a low rumble. "So, little sister. What's on your shopping list?"
Monica moved through the room like a wolf, her eyes scanning the racks with a hunter's focus. "Start with that Glock 36—clean, simple. That Springfield Armory TRP 1911. The Dan Wesson Heirloom model over there. And that Kimber—I've missed her."
Jack raised an eyebrow, grabbing the pistols. "Piling up the .45s, huh?"
Monica didn't pause. "That Beretta 92. The M9 with the taped grip—she's my girl. And that FN 509."
Jack smirked, handing her the guns. "9mm party, nice."
Monica's eyes shifted to the shotguns, her voice steady. "That Benelli M4—perfect for kicking in doors or cracking skulls. The 13.5-inch KSG—bullpup's gonna save my ass. And that short-barrel 590. I got a friend with soft hands who needs it. Girl's gotta ditch her fancy nails and fashion bullshit. And, uh, that PTR over there."
Jack's jaw dropped, half-laughing. "You're raiding the whole damn vault! What am I supposed to hunt with next week?"
Monica's grin widened, her gaze moving to the rifles. "That 20-inch .308 PSA Sabre with the SIG Sauer scope. The Hera Arms CQR, first gen. That 15-inch M-LOK handguard. Where's the Nomad suppressor? And that CQB 5.56 Tavor with the Vortex AMG."
Jack crossed his arms, his voice edged with suspicion. "What the hell you need all this for? You plannin' a Waco sequel or a bank heist?"
Monica's laugh was sharp, evasive. "In 2025? Nah, this ain't Heat. If I wanted cash, I'd be selling feet pics on OnlyFans or running a crypto hustle."
Her eyes darted to a corner, where a rifle lay under a heavy cloth, tied to a table with thick rope. Her grin turned reckless, a spark of chaos igniting. She stepped toward it, her boots echoing on the concrete.
Jack moved to block her, his voice sharp. "No way, Mon. Not that one."
Monica shoved him aside, her balisong flashing as she cut the ropes. She yanked the cloth away, revealing a beast of a rifle, its barrel long and lethal, its frame built for annihilation.
Alice's eyes widened, her voice a whisper. "What in God's name is that?"
Monica's grin was pure reverence. "Denel NTW-20. South African beauty." She tapped the barrel, then smacked it hard, testing its mettle.
Jack flinched. "Careful, damn it! That's Dad's pride and joy."
Monica's eyes gleamed. "Where the hell did he get this? And when?"
Jack rubbed his neck, his voice low. "Couple months after you bailed to New York in '20."
Monica's brow arched. "This is what his midlife crisis looks like?"
Jack snorted. "Better than a Corvette. His credit score wouldn't survive that."
Monica's grin didn't falter. "Don't care if he buys a fucking yacht. I'm taking this beast."
Jack stepped in front of her, his voice firm. "I'm stopping you right there. That ain't a toy, Mon."
Monica's eyes twinkled with mischief. "What kinda Nerf gun fires 20mm rounds, genius?"
Alice's brow furrowed, her voice cautious. "Is that bad?"
Jack's tone was grim. "It's an anti-tank round. Same shit warships use in their Gatlings."
Alice's eyes widened, her voice sharp. "Monica, we can't take that! It's a war crime waiting to happen."
Monica waved her off, her grin unyielding. "It's fine. This'll clear any roadblock we hit."
Alice's voice rose, incredulous. "Be serious! That's a death machine, and I'm not driving the getaway van for it."
Monica shoved Jack again, her voice fierce. "Step aside, big bro. You're in my way."
Jack held his ground, his hands raised. "Mon, Dad'll have my head."
Monica's grin sharpened. "I'll have his first."
Jack's laugh was strained, his eyes flicking to Alice. "Easy for you to say. You're in New York, dodging his bullshit. I'm stuck here."
Monica leaned in, her voice low and wicked. "Let me have it, Jack… or I tell Anne you got a kid on the side that ain't Jack Jr."
Jack's face paled, his voice sharp. "You wouldn't dare."
Monica's eyes sparkled. "Try me."
Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. But don't scratch it. Dad's been a bear lately."
Monica's grin widened, triumphant. "Also, I need twenty grand. Venmo it."
Jack's jaw dropped, his voice rising. "For what? You show up after five years just to rob me blind?"
Monica leaned against the table, her tone casual but firm. "Knives, Jack. I need 'em. Cough it up."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "I ain't got twenty grand lyin' around."
Monica's smile was razor-sharp. "Anne does, use her account. Ask her."
Jack's face twisted, exasperation bleeding through. "Mon, what the hell's going on?"
Monica glanced at Alice, her voice steady. "We're starting a business. Me and my girls. Call it Hibiscus for now."
Alice blinked, caught off guard. "Hibiscus?"
Monica waved a hand, dismissive. "Placeholder. We need weapons. Knives are step one."
Jack's brow furrowed, skeptical. "Blade HQ, I'm guessing?"
Monica's grin flashed. "You know it."
Jack shook his head, his voice dry. "Same vendor, different day. What, you buildin' a mercenary outfit now?"
Monica's tone was evasive, her eyes glinting. "Private business, Jack. B2B, somethin' somethin'. Just send the money. I'll pay you back double, swear on God."
Jack sighed, pulling out his phone. "You owe me big, Mon." His fingers moved across the screen, and Monica's phone pinged with the transfer. She checked it, her grin widening.
"Done," she said, turning back to the guns. "Let's load up."
They worked fast, their movements sharp and urgent. The pistols—Glock, Springfield, Beretta, FN—went into a heavy duffle bag, their weight straining the straps. The shotguns—Benelli, KSG, 590, PTR—followed, their barrels clinking like a toast to chaos. The Tavor and PSA Sabre were disassembled with care, their parts wrapped in a thick blanket, rolled in plastic, and taped tight. The Denel NTW-20 was a monster, its components hauled to the Tacoma in two trips, each piece handled like a holy relic. Five thousand rounds of ammo—.45, 9mm, 12-gauge, .308, 20mm—were stacked in cans, dumped into another duffle bag, the truck's suspension groaning under the load.
Jack stood by, his arms crossed, his expression torn between pride and dread. "That's a hundred grand you're takin' from Dad's stash."
Monica slung the duffle over her shoulder, her grin unrepentant. "Worth every cent."
Monica turned to Jack, her voice softening for a moment. "Listen, I'm comin' back tomorrow mornin' with the rest of my girls. I need to borrow Creedmoor and Grendel—your horses—plus some saddlebags and burlap sacks for a couple days. Can you keep Dad off my back?"
Jack's brow furrowed. "Horses? What for?"
Monica's tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. "Where we're goin', it's remote. Trucks don't cut it. Horses are old-school."
Jack crossed his arms, skeptical. "What's in it for me?"
Monica's grin returned. "The twenty grand I borrowed… and another fifty."
Jack snorted. "You don't have fifty grand."
Monica's eyes gleamed. "After this job, you'll see."
Jack's lips twitched, intrigued despite himself. "Alright, I'm curious. No promises, but I'll try to drag Dad fishin' or somethin'. Just bring those horses back without a scratch."
Monica nodded, her grin sharp. "Deal. They'll be pristine, I swear."
They stepped into the night, the Texas air cool and sharp, the stars piercing the sky like bullet holes. Monica pulled Jack into a quick hug, her voice soft. "See you around, Jack."
Jack hugged her back, his voice low. "Stay safe, Mon."
Alice and Monica climbed into the Tacoma, the engine growling to life. They drove back to the dirt roundabout, the road unlit save for their headlights. The field was empty, the silence heavy, like the world was holding its breath. Monica parked, her hands steady, her eyes fixed on the spot where the portal had opened.
"Ready?" Alice asked, her voice low, her fingers brushing the Mards in her pocket.
Monica nodded, her grin fierce. "Let's get home."
She closed her eyes, picturing the alley behind Alice's apartment—the graffiti-stained walls, the overflowing dumpster, the faint hum of Queens' pulse. She imagined the portal opening there, a black void big enough for the Tacoma, the guns, and their reckless ambition. The air crackled, the void tearing open with a low hum, its edges pulsing like a heartbeat.
The Tacoma lurched forward, swallowed by the darkness. A moment of weightlessness, then the crunch of gravel. The alley reappeared, tarps flapping, streetlights casting their sickly glow. Alice checked her phone, the GPS blinking back to New York.
They drove to Alice's apartment in Astoria, the city's pulse thrumming around them. Monica parked, the Tacoma's engine ticking as it cooled. Alice grabbed the duffle bag of ammo from the truck's bed, its weight pulling at her arms. Monica hoisted the bag of pistols and shotguns, her movements practiced, almost casual.
Alice glanced at the truck's bed. "What about the big ones?"
Monica knelt, pulling the plastic-wrapped blanket of disassembled rifles from under the truck. She slid it beneath the chassis, tying it to the spare tire compartment with a rope. "The girls wouldn't get it," she said, her voice low. "Not yet. I'll talk to Megan about a hidden compartment once we get that shipping container. For now, this duffle's all we got."
Alice frowned, her voice cautious. "Won't moisture rust them?"
Monica snorted, standing up. "Thick blanket, plastic wrap, duct tape—oxidation's real, but it ain't that fast, Al. You sleep through science class?"
Alice's eyes narrowed, but her lips twitched. "No need for the shade, Mon."
Monica grinned, slinging the duffle over her shoulder. "Let's move. I'm beat."
Alice's voice was firm. "Bath first, then sleep. You stink, and I'm not letting my apartment turn into a roach motel."
Monica laughed, her boots crunching on the gravel as they headed for the stairs. "Fine, mom. But if Amber's hogging the couch, I'm kicking her ass to the curb."
The stairs to Alice's apartment creaked underfoot, each step a groan of old wood protesting the weight of their boots and the bags slung over their shoulders. The hallway smelled of mildew and yesterday's takeout, a faint tang of soy sauce lingering from the neighbor's door. Alice led the way, her cargo pants heavy with the clink of Mard coins, the duffle bag of ammo dragging at her arm. Monica followed, her own duffle—stuffed with pistols and shotguns—thumping against her thigh, her hair swinging like a metronome. The city's pulse thrummed beyond the walls, a distant siren weaving through the hum of Queens at dusk.
They passed doors marked with peeling numbers, the paint chipped like the city's patience. Alice fumbled her keys, the lock sticking as always, and shoved the door open. The apartment was a cramped shrine to survival—a sagging couch, a coffee table scarred with cigarette burns, and a kitchenette that hadn't seen a deep clean since the Obama administration. The air was thick with the scent of coffee grounds and motor oil, a testament to the girls' chaotic orbit.
Inside, Lulu sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop tethered to two portable monitors like a command center for a one-woman war. Her fingers danced across the keys, categorizing Amber's thrifted haul—tunics, trousers, cloaks—each tagged with prices and potential profit margins. A half-eaten cheese and lettuce sandwich sat forgotten on a plate, crumbs scattered like confetti. One monitor flickered with the VIX index, its jagged lines a silent scream of market volatility. Lulu's brow was a furrowed trench, her glasses catching the blue glow, her focus unyielding as a blade.
Megan sprawled across the couch, her boots dangling over the armrest, a sanding block tossed carelessly on the floor. The tools she'd bought—hammers, chisels, measuring tapes—lay in a neat pile, their brand names ground down to anonymity, ready for Norinbel's markets. Her jacket, still speckled with oil, hung over a chair like a shed skin.
Lulu didn't look up, her voice sharp as she chewed. "What took you so damn long?"
Monica dropped her duffle bag by the couch with a heavy thud, flipping Megan off. "Nice to see you too, bitch. Scooch over."
Megan shifted, barely, her smirk lazy. "Make me."
Monica plopped down, propping her boots on the coffee table, the wood groaning under the weight. "Keep talking, Meg. I'll use your face as a footrest."
Amber, perched on a stool by the kitchenette, sipped a fresh latte, her manicure catching the dim light. "Y'all said half an hour late. It's almost eight. What gives?"
Alice set her duffle down, rubbing her neck, the weight of the day settling into her bones. "Yeah, my bad. Had to figure out the portal thing with Mon."
Lulu, still glued to her screens, swallowed a bite of sandwich. "Where'd you go?"
"Texas," Monica said, her grin sharp as she leaned back, arms crossed. "And for the record, Alice didn't teach me jack shit. We got lucky. This portal crap's like Nightcrawler's mutant power. Step one: know the place. Step two: picture it clear as day. Step three: think about the portal's size and who's going through. Step four: pray to whatever god's listening."
Megan snorted, stretching her arms above her head. "Talk about a cheat code. Convenient superpower is convenient."
Lulu's fingers paused, her eyes still on the VIX graph. "Convenient or not, I'm impressed it hauled your asses two thousand miles, back and forth, no hiccups. That's some serious range."
Alice shrugged, her hand brushing the Mards in her pocket, their cool weight a grounding force. "Not exactly hiccup-free. Felt a bit queasy after."
Megan raised an eyebrow, her voice dry. "What, like interdimensional jetlag?"
Alice's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Could be. God knows what's going on with this power."
Amber set her latte down, leaning forward, her eyes glinting with curiosity. "Okay, but what were you two doing in Texas besides playing portal roulette?"
Monica's grin widened, a predator's gleam. "Guns."
Lulu snorted, finally glancing up, her glasses reflecting the monitors' glow. "Of course. What else would you do?"
Monica unzipped her duffle with a flourish, the sound of metal clinking like a toast to chaos. "Got something for each of you."
Lulu's brow arched, her voice sharp. "I told you small guns only."
"And I listened," Monica shot back, her tone mock-offended. "9mm and .45 are small, okay? Only exceptions here are the 12-gauge shotguns."
Megan sat up, her eyes narrowing. "Shotguns? Plural?"
Monica nodded, pulling out a Mossberg 590 and tossing it to Megan with a casual flick. "Precaution, Meg. In case we get jumped by a pack of magic-slinging weirdos—"
"Wizards," Amber cut in, her voice dripping with disdain. "They're called wizards, you brute."
Monica rolled her eyes, undeterred. "Point is, we stay safe. If—God forbid—one of us goes down, the rest can fight and bolt."
Lulu's lips pursed, her tone skeptical. "That's a bit dramatic, even for you."
Monica's grin turned sharp, her eyes locking on Lulu. "Lu, I've never seen you throw a punch. You're not ready for what's out there. When the day comes, you'll be thanking me for saving your ass."
She rummaged in the duffle, pulling out weapons with the ease of a chef plating food. "Meg, you've shot before. I'm lending—not giving, lending—my 590. Here's your sidearm, Springfield Armory TRP 1911, with a suppressor. Don't fuck it up."
Megan caught the shotgun, pumping it twice with a grin, mock-aiming with one hand. "Bam."
Monica turned to Amber, tossing her a Kel-Tec KSG and a Dan Wesson pistol. "Ambs, this KSG's short-barreled. And here's your Dan Wesson."
Amber caught the pistol gingerly, her manicured nails gleaming. "Mon, I don't do guns."
"It's easier than your fancy camera shit," Monica said, her tone impatient. "Point and shoot. Done."
Amber's nose wrinkled, her voice a whine. "My hands aren't built for violence."
Monica leaned in, her grin wicked. "Tough luck, princess. You're gonna want these close when we're on the other side. That KSG? Short barrel means you just aim in the general direction, and the spread does the work. And that Dan Wesson? Modded to hell—muzzle brake, custom grips. You could shoot it one-handed, gangster-style, and it won't jump out of your dainty paws."
Amber inspected the pistol, her reluctance fading as she traced its sleek lines. "Okay, I hate the idea of shooting someone, but… this is kinda fire. The finish is giving luxury vibes."
Monica smirked. "Damn right. That's a six-grand limited edition premium piece. Had to outbid some asshole online for it."
Lulu's head snapped up, her sandwich forgotten. "Six thousand dollars? For a gun?"
Monica shrugged, unfazed. "Guns are like guitars, Lu. Start cheap, then you learn what quality costs."
Alice's voice was dry, her eyes on the pistol. "That's four months' rent in New York, Mon."
Monica turned to Alice, pulling out a Benelli M4 shotgun and a Kimber Super Match pistol. "Al, this Benelli's yours. I trust you with it more than these clowns."
Amber's eyes narrowed. "Wow, nepotism much?"
"It's favoritism, dumbass," Monica shot back. "Learn the difference."
Alice hefted the Benelli, her brow furrowing. "Why do I get the big one?"
Monica's grin softened, just a fraction. "You're the leader, Al. Gotta keep you strapped. And here's your sidearm—Kimber Super Match."
Alice's fingers brushed the pistol's slide, catching the scratched letters: M-O-N-S-T-R-R-R. "Monica, this says 'Monstrrr.' This was yours?"
Monica's voice was quiet, her eyes distant. "My mom's. She passed a couple years back. I don't shoot it much. It's better in your hands. She'd want it used right."
Alice hesitated, the weight of the gun heavier than its steel. "You sure? This looks… personal."
Monica nodded, her tone firm. "It's twenty-five hundred bucks, not as fancy as Amber's, but it's solid. Take it."
Alice's grip tightened, her voice soft. "Alright. It's heavy, though."
Monica's grin returned. "Piece of cake compared to mine." She pulled her own pistol from her waistband, brandishing it like a trophy. "AMT Hardballer, Longslide. Same beast Arnie rocked in Terminator."
Amber's eyes widened, her latte forgotten. "That thing's huge. You look like a kid holding it."
Monica laughed, twirling the pistol with a flourish. "Big gun, big vibes."
Lulu set her sandwich down, her voice sharp. "At least I don't have to—"
Monica grabbed her shoulder, cutting her off. "Hold up, accountant. You're not skating by."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, her tone icy. "I'm not a fighter, Monica. My job's numbers and ledgers."
Monica's grin was unrelenting. "You think fantasy bandits give a shit about your spreadsheets? They'll gut you faster than you can say tax season. Especially you."
"Especially me?" Lulu's face twisted, offended. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Monica leaned in, her voice low and wicked. "No offense, Lu, but a short, stacked, F-cupped number-cruncher who can't throw a punch? You're bandit catnip. They're coming for you first."
Lulu recoiled, her voice a hiss. "Gross. I'd eat a bullet before that happens."
"Exactly," Monica said, shoving a PTR Jack shotgun into Lulu's hands. "This is your boomstick—shortest barrel here. Point and pull. And this"—she handed over a Beretta M9—"is a 9mm, low recoil. I modded the barrel, tweaked the front end. You'll barely feel it."
Lulu stared at the guns, her expression a mix of disgust and resignation. "Fine. What about the rest of those guns?"
Monica zipped the duffle bag close, setting it aside. "They're for emergencies. In case shit went sideways, we still have some backup."
Alice cleared her throat, shifting the focus. "Amber, you got our disguises for tomorrow?"
Amber perked up, hopping off her stool with a flourish. "Way ahead of you." She grabbed a stack of thrifted clothes from a nearby chair, handing them out with the pride of a curator. "Here's the vibe."
Monica's outfit was pure farmer chic—rough brown trousers, a loose linen shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat that screamed Texan stereotype. Megan's screamed medieval craftsperson, complete with a leather tool belt slung low, her tunic patched but sturdy, like she'd just walked off a blacksmith's forge.
Lulu's was understated, a scholar's robe in muted gray, blending into the background like a shadow. Alice's was a merchant's getup—rich burgundy tunic, embroidered vest, trousers tailored just enough to stand out in a Norinbel market. Amber's matched Alice's but dialed up with charm—gold-threaded embroidery, a flowing cloak, and boots polished to a subtle gleam.
Monica held up her shirt, her brow furrowed. "What the hell is this? I look like I'm about to herd cattle."
Alice turned her vest over, her voice skeptical. "This isn't exactly what I pictured when you said medieval merchant, Ambs."
Amber crossed her arms, unapologetic. "Look, I had to be specific. No synthetics, no modern zippers, no plastic buttons—nothing that screams 2025 Earth. Natural dyes, hand-stitched vibes. You're blending in, trust me."
Megan snorted, adjusting her tool belt. "Blending in? This feels like a D&D cosplay gone wrong."
Amber's smile was pure confidence. "Fashion's my lane, Meg. You all look like you belong in Norinbel. I wasn't about to sling an Amazon uniform or some PornHub hoodie over there. And let's be real—have you seen Amazon's clearance? Thirty percent off, and I'm still broke."
Megan's grin was sharp. "You're on your fourth credit card, Ambs. You ain't buying shit."
Lulu glanced up from her monitors, her voice dry. "Speaking of buying, what'd you two get?"
Alice opened her Walmart bags, spilling their contents onto the coffee table. "Coloring pencil sets—Faber-Castell Polychromos, 120 shades. Fountain pens, Ambitions. Refill inks, A4 and A0 paper, 2B pencils, and some one-foot rulers."
Monica leaned back, her boots still on the table. "I got nothing."
Megan's brow arched. "Didn't you say you were getting knives?"
"Yeah," Monica said, her tone dismissive. "Walmart's selection was trash. Never shopping there again."
Lulu's eyes narrowed. "So you're empty-handed?"
"Not quite," Monica said, her grin returning. "Got a friend at a knife shop. She's hooking us up tomorrow morning, pre-dawn. Well, kinda. I haven't called her but I think she's down."
Lulu's fingers paused on her keyboard. "Where's this shop?"
"Pleasant Groove, Utah," Monica said, casual as if she'd said Brooklyn.
Amber's jaw dropped. "That's, like, a thousand miles away. How's that gonna work?"
Monica shrugged. "I'll ask for a rush order. Mid-range knives, nothing too fancy."
Lulu's voice was sharp. "Before dawn? Why so early?"
Monica leaned forward, her tone serious. "Fantasy logic, Lu. Think like it's the 15th century. No artificial lights. Sun's up, you're up. Sun's down, you're out. Dawn's prime time—more foot traffic, more buyers. Perfect for us LARPing as merchants."
Megan nodded, impressed despite herself. "Smart. But how're we hauling all this? A car's gonna stick out like a sore thumb in Norinbel. I mean, let's be real—they see Tacoma? That's soulless magic powered by a demon."
Monica's grin widened. "Already thought of that. Asked my brother to lend us two horses—Creedmoor and Grendel. We'll slap saddlebags and burlap sacks on 'em. Horses are old-school. No one's gonna blink at five girls with trade goods and a couple of mares."
Lulu's eyes lit up, a rare spark of approval. "That's actually solid. Good call."
Amber's smile was sly. "Horses mean I can pack more clothes. And I don't have to walk."
Alice rolled her eyes. "Lazy ass."
Amber flipped her hair. "Don't hate the player."
Alice turned to Monica, her voice firm. "Mon, call your friend. See what they've got ready."
Monica pulled out her phone, hitting speaker as she dialed. The line rang twice before connecting.
"Hello?" The voice was crisp, faintly surprised.
"Mers, it's Monica," she said, leaning back.
"Texas Monica?" The voice—Mercedes—sounded amused. "Been a minute."
"Yeah, listen," Monica said, her tone all business. "I need a custom rush order for tomorrow morning, like, pre-dawn. Knives and machetes."
Mercedes paused, the sound of papers rustling in the background. "Tomorrow? I can check stock, but I can't promise everything's ready. What's your budget?"
"Twenty grand," Monica said.
A low whistle. "That'll get you some blades. Price range per piece?"
"Four-fifty to six hundred," Monica replied. "Fixed blades, dagger shape, twin razor edge, five-inch minimum. S35VN, N690, MagnaCut—your call."
"Nice," Mercedes said. "I've got Extrema Ratio Adras and Arditis, some SOG Pentagons, Heretic Nephilims if you're feeling fancy."
"I'll take five of each," Monica said, her voice steady. "Machetes?"
"Don't have good ones in stock," Mercedes admitted. "No Tramontinas either."
Monica's brow furrowed. "Seriously? What're we chopping with?"
"What do you need 'em for?" Mercedes asked.
"Wood, mostly. Maybe some thin iron plates."
Mercedes hummed. "Axes might work better. Got Halfbreed axes at $450 each, Stroup at $400. Extrema Ratio KHs are on sale—$585 MSRP, down to $465, N690 steel. For budget, I've got TOPS CUMA Kage and Bestia in 1095, $325 and $280. Avoid Condor—they're getting shitty reviews these days."
Monica nodded, calculating. "I'll take five of each—Halfbreed, Stroup, KHs, CUMA Kage, Bestia."
"Anything else?"
"OTFs—double action, gravity. Microtech or Reate."
"Out of Reate," Mercedes said. "But I've got Microtech Heras, four-inch curved blades, M390MK. Fast as hell, $580 each."
"Five of those," Monica said. "Don't ship—I'll pick up tomorrow, five a.m. sharp."
"Five a.m.?" Mercedes sounded skeptical. "You in Utah?"
"Not yet," Monica said, her grin audible. "But I will be. Can you get someone to open early?"
Mercedes sighed. "I'll try. Might cost extra."
"I'll sling your guy $200," Monica said. "Wire you the money now, you get my stuff ready. Deal?"
"Deal. I'll text the bill."
"Thanks, Mers. Later." Monica hung up, pocketing her phone. "Done."
Lulu closed her laptop, her voice brisk. "Guess that settles it."
Alice nodded, her mind already racing ahead. "Alright, recap. Me and Mon portal to Utah tomorrow at dawn, grab the knives. You three head to Monica's place in Texas first. We'll meet you there."
Monica pulled out her phone again. "I'll text you the address."
Alice continued, her voice steady. "We saddle up the horses, load the bags and sacks, then portal to Norinbel. Start at that grassy spot where we first landed. Everyone clear?"
Megan leaned back, her arms crossed. "Solid plan."
Amber raised her latte in a mock toast. "Cool."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her tone pragmatic. "Simple enough, all things considered."
Monica grinned at Alice, her eyes glinting. "Look at you, taking charge like a boss."
Alice's lips twitched, a flicker of pride breaking through her exhaustion. She glanced at her phone—9:20 p.m. "Get some sleep. We're up at 0400, out by 0430."
Amber groaned, slumping against the counter. "Guess we're crashing here again."
Monica leaned toward Alice, her grin teasing. "Yo, Al, want me to bunk with you?"
Alice snorted, heading for her bedroom. "Hell no. I'm claiming my room. Go cuddle with Meg, Ambs, or Lu."
Lulu's eyes narrowed. "Hard pass."
Amber laughed, tossing her hair. "You kidding? I'm not sleeping next to gunpowder Barbie."
Monica threw up her hands, her laugh sharp. "Drama queens, all of you."
The room settled into a tense quiet, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like a storm cloud. Alice paused at her bedroom door, her hand on the frame, the Kimber's weight still heavy in her mind. The apartment hummed with the girls' restless energy—Lulu's fingers tapping her keyboard, Megan's boots scuffing the floor, Amber's latte cooling on the counter, Monica's grin a flicker of defiance against the unknown.
Outside, Queens pulsed on, its streets alive with the grind of survival, indifferent to the portal waiting to tear them into another world. The Mards in Alice's pocket seemed to hum, a faint pulse of possibility, as the clock ticked toward dawn.
Tomorrow. We'll claw our way up to the top. As queens. As rulers. And we'll turn the very gear that grinded us into the vehicle that drives us. Alice twisted and turned in her bed, her mind drifted as scenarios of herself and her friends becoming powerful.
One step closer. One giant leap for us.