The apartment was a tomb of shadows at twelve-thirty, the kind of quiet that gnawed at the edges of sleep. Queens muttered beyond the walls—distant car horns, the low hum of a neighbor's TV, the faint clatter of a trash can kicked over in the alley below.
Inside, the girls sprawled across the living room like casualties of their own ambition. Megan on the couch, one leg dangling, her snores a soft rasp. Amber curled on a pile of clothes, her manicured hand clutching a fur cloak. Lulu slumped over her laptop, glasses askew, the screens' blue glow painting her face in ghostly hues. The air was heavy with the scent of stale coffee and motor oil, the residue of their restless plans.
Alice stirred in her bedroom, the mattress creaking under her weight. A cold unease clawed at her chest, sharp and nameless—fear, paranoia, a cocktail of dread that tasted like regret. Her eyes snapped open, the darkness pressing against her like a living thing. She reached under her pillow, fingers closing around the Kimber that Monica had given her. The steel was cool, heavy, a tether to reality. She pulled the slide back slowly, the click a soft betrayal in the silence.
In the living room, Monica jolted upright, her pistol already in hand, its long barrel trained on Alice's door. Her eyes were sharp, a predator's instinct honed by years of bar fights and bad decisions. "Al?" she called, her voice low, edged with Texas grit. "That you?"
Alice's voice drifted from the bedroom, thin but steady. "Yeah."
Monica lowered the pistol, her boots silent on the worn carpet as she stood. "You okay, love?"
"Yeah… no… I don't know," Alice replied, her words fraying at the edges.
Monica moved like a ghost, hugging the wall, her pistol tilted forward, ready to meet whatever waited. She stepped into Alice's room, the door creaking faintly. Alice sat on the bed, the Kimber gripped tight, magazine loaded, her finger resting on the safety. Her face was a map of burdens—eyes shadowed, brow furrowed, the weight of overthinking etched into every line.
Typical Alice, Monica thought, always carrying the world's weight on her shoulders.
"You scared the shit outta me, girl," Monica said, sliding onto the bed's edge. "What're you doing up? We've got four hours before we're wheels-up."
Alice's grip tightened on the Kimber, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know. I've got this… bad feeling. Like something's waiting to screw us over."
Monica gently pried the pistol from Alice's hands, sliding it back under the pillow. Her voice softened, but the edge remained. "You know you can tell me anything."
Alice's eyes flicked to the ceiling, her thoughts a tangle of thorns. "This whole capitalism-reversal thing we're pulling… doesn't it feel like revenge porn to you?"
Monica's brow arched, her tone curious but sharp. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That birthday wish," Alice said, her voice low, raw. "It was a drunk joke, Mon. Just dumb shit I said because I was wasted. Now we're betting everything on it. If I back out now… does that make me a coward?"
Monica leaned back, her braid brushing the headboard. "Al, you're not a coward."
"Am I?" Alice's voice cracked, her hands clenching the sheets. "I sucked it up at Amazon, let those assholes walk all over me. That night in the alley, I just wanted out. Doesn't that make me a coward?"
Monica's eyes narrowed, her voice firm but not unkind. "Calm down, Al. That's not cowardice—that's restraint. You think I don't wanna bash my clients' skulls into the wall? Trust me, I do. Every damn day."
Alice's gaze dropped, her fingers twisting the sheet. "What if I'm tired of restraining myself?"
"Then that's fine," Monica said, her tone steady. "But you're not just thinking about yourself anymore. You're carrying the girls, too. If I was solo in this isekai bullshit, I'd go full war crime, no hesitation. But I'm not. We're in this together."
Alice's voice was small, almost lost in the dark. "What if no one respects us over there either?"
Monica's grin was a blade, sharp and unyielding. "Then we let it happen."
Alice's eyes snapped to her, incredulous. "You'd just let it slide?"
"In a world with no CCTV?" Monica's laugh was low, dangerous. "Hell no. But that's my point. I've got shit self-control. If you let me loose, I'll drag us all into deeper waters. That's why I need you to rein me in when I start my chaos spiral."
Alice frowned, her voice skeptical. "Why me?"
Monica leaned closer, her eyes glinting. "Lulu? She's all profit margins and Q1 reports. If it doesn't tank the bottom line, she won't stop me. Amber's too busy building her medieval Gucci empire—she's gonna have a side hustle by next week, bet on it. Megan? She's a mechanic, she'll enable me, probably weld me a fucking battering ram with bamboos, a lump of stone, and some duct tape. We need someone rational, someone held back by anxiety and common sense, to keep our bullshit in check."
Alice's lips twitched, a faint spark of amusement. "That's a lot to ask from someone who's basically a failed—"
"You're not a failure," Monica cut in, her voice sharp as a whip. "You're a damn good actress, Al. Life just didn't give you the stage. This portal shit? It's your chance to play the role you were meant for."
Alice's brow furrowed. "You're saying I should live a kayfabe?"
Monica's grin softened, just a fraction. "It's an option. That actress mentality of yours could carry us far."
Alice shook her head, her voice heavy. "Feels like lying."
"Not lying," Monica said, her tone firm. "It's… strategic omission. Deflection. Wordplay. Lying bites you in the ass later. Omission doesn't."
"Like what?" Alice asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself.
Monica leaned back, her hands gesturing like she was painting a picture. "Take those OTF knives we're picking up tomorrow. Modern metallurgy, precision manufacturing—miles ahead of medieval shivs. In Norinbel, they're master-artisan shit. How do you sell 'em?"
Alice hesitated, her mind turning. "Well—"
"Do you tell 'em who made the knives?" Monica pressed.
"No, but—"
"Do you say where we got 'em?"
"Uh, no—"
"Exactly," Monica said, her grin triumphant. "You don't lie. You omit. If you say, Oh, these came from X smith in X village, and someone starts sniffing around, we're fucked. Instead, you say they're custom orders. Which, technically, they are—Mercedes is hooking us up, right? That's a custom order, linguistically speaking."
Alice's lips curved into a reluctant smile. "I don't love it, but… it's functional."
Monica's eyes gleamed. "Better than Amazon's bullshit, that's for sure."
Alice's laugh was soft, almost disbelieving. "Feels weird when you're the one making sense. Apocalypse coming soon?"
Monica chuckled, cupping Alice's chin with a gentleness that didn't match her usual edge. "I can be sensible sometimes, too. Chin up, okay? We've got your back."
Before Alice could respond, Monica leaned in and kissed her—not a friendly peck on the cheek, but a brief, deliberate press of lips, gone in a second. Alice froze, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushing in the dark.
"W-what?" Alice stammered, her voice a mix of shock and confusion.
Monica pulled back, her grin cheeky, unrepentant. "So that's how you taste, huh? Not bad."
She leaned in again, planting another quick kiss before standing, her boots scuffing the floor. "Night night, Al," she said, sauntering out and closing the door with a soft click.
Alice sat there, her heart thudding, her cheeks burning. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as if Monica's audacity had sucked out the oxygen. She tried to shake it off, sliding back under the covers, but the moment clung to her like damp cloth. Weird. Too weird. She forced her eyes closed, willing sleep to take her.
In the living room, Amber stirred, her eyes half-open, catching the faint sound of the kiss through the thin walls. She smirked, pretending to sleep as Monica returned, sprawling back onto her sleeping bag with a contented sigh.
Hours later, the shrill beep of Alice's alarm cut through the apartment at fourt-thirty, a knife through the haze of sleep. The girls stirred, their groans mingling with the creak of bones and the crack of joints. The air was cold, the kind of pre-dawn chill that seeped into your marrow. Megan stretched, her back popping like gunfire. Amber winced, bending backward, her spine protesting.
"Oh my god," Amber groaned, her voice thick with sleep. "I feel like absolute shit."
Monica sat up, her grin infuriatingly bright. "Really? I'm feeling great."
Megan checked her phone, squinting at the screen. "Fuck, we got, what, seven hours of sleep?"
Alice stepped out of her bedroom, her merchant's tunic already half-on, her eyes avoiding Monica's. "Morning," she said, her voice clipped. "Mon."
"Al," Monica replied, her tone teasing, a spark of last night's mischief lingering.
Alice crossed her arms, rubbing her shoulders. "I'm not showering at this hour. Water's too damn cold."
Amber tied her cloak, her movements sluggish. "Don't shower. It's authentic if we stink like them."
Megan snorted, smudging oil on her hands to sell her craftsperson vibe. "Like shit?"
Lulu slid on her glasses, her scholar's robe hanging loose. "That's one way to put it."
Amber's eyes gleamed, her voice earnest. "I'm serious. Smell bad, and we're locals. Smell like Glossier? That's an inquisition waiting to happen. We gotta look and smell the part."
Megan grimaced, rubbing more oil into her palms. "Great. I'm bathing in MOTUL now."
Monica laughed, doing a quick handstand to work up a sweat, her farmer's shirt sticking to her skin. "What about me?"
Alice's grin was sharp. "You're a farmer, Mon. How about literal shit?"
Monica flipped her off, her laugh barking. "Hilarious."
Lulu adjusted her robe, stuffing a notebook into her pocket for authenticity. "She's not wrong. Farmers smell like their animals."
Amber nodded, tying her cloak tighter. "You've got horses, right? Just step in some manure. Easy."
Monica pointed at Lulu, her grin wicked. "And her?"
Lulu's voice was dry, unamused. "I'm a scholar. Ink smudges, paper in my pockets—that's my vibe. I need to know everything and make sure everyone else knows I know it."
Amber smirked. "Which, no surprise, you're already nailing—fucking know-it-all."
Lulu's eyes narrowed. "Fuck you and your clothes."
Amber's laugh was bright, unrepentant. "What's that? Fuck me and my clothes? Oh, please. These clothes? They're gonna sell out first. Not Meg's tools, not Al's pens, not Mon's knives. Quality fucking fashion."
Alice stepped in, her voice firm. "Amber, enough. Lu, chill. We're wasting time."
They shed their modern skins—PornHub hoodies, mechanic's jackets, Amazon polos, Wall Street drip—replacing them with their Norinbel disguises. Megan's hands stayed oil-stained, her tool belt clinking softly. Monica's farmer getup was rough, practical, her hat tilted just so. Amber and Alice's merchant outfits gleamed with subtle wealth, Amber's with that extra flair. Lulu's scholar robe was plain, her pockets bulging with paper, her glasses glinting with quiet authority.
Alice scanned the group, her voice sharp. "No electronics. Leave 'em here. We're not blowing our cover on day one."
Monica snorted. "No shit, Sherlock."
Alice turned to the others. "Ambs, Meg, Lu—head to Monica's place first. We'll meet you after we grab the knives."
Amber nodded, adjusting her cloak. "Fine by me."
Lulu's brow furrowed. "Who's opening the portal?"
Megan raised a hand, her grin cocky. "Let me take a swing."
She grabbed her phone, pulling up Street View of Monica's house in Blackland, Texas—the gravel driveway, the sagging porch, the stable in the distance. She set the phone down, closing her eyes, following Monica's steps from last night: picture the destination, the portal's entry, its size, the number of travelers. The air hummed, a low thrum that set their teeth on edge. A swirling black void tore open in the living room, its edges rippling clockwise, a wound in reality hovering mid-air.
Amber's eyes widened, her voice awed. "That's fucking kookie."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, studying the portal. "So that's how it works."
Megan's grin widened, her chest puffing. "Not bad, huh? I could do this all day."
Alice nodded, her voice steady. "You three go. We'll meet you in ten."
Monica leaned in, her tone serious. "Head to the stable. Door's unlocked. My brother's got the saddles on. Just load the bags and sacks, take the horses out, and wait. We'll be quick—five-minute handout in Utah."
Amber, Megan, and Lulu stepped toward the void, their bags slung over their shoulders. The portal swallowed them with a faint whoosh, closing behind them like a curtain. The apartment fell silent, the air heavy with the ghost of their departure.
Monica turned to Alice, her grin cheeky. "Ready?"
Alice hesitated, her voice low. "About last night…"
Monica's smile didn't falter, but her eyes glinted with mischief. "No clue what you're talking about."
Alice's jaw tightened. "Drop the act, Mon. What was that?"
Monica shrugged, her tone casual but evasive. "I don't know. Felt like it."
"Felt like it?" Alice's voice rose, incredulous. "That's your excuse?"
"Call it an intrusive thought," Monica said, her grin widening. "Just rolled with it."
Alice's eyes narrowed. "Bullshit."
Monica laughed, stepping toward the spot where the portal had been. "Whatever you say, Al. Let's move."
She closed her eyes, picturing a small alley near the knife shop that Mercedes worked at—the cracked pavement, the dumpster reeking of stale beer, the faint glow of a streetlight. She imagined the portal's size, big enough for two, and the void tore open, its hum vibrating through the floor. Alice stepped up beside her, the Kimber's weight a quiet reminder in her pocket.
"Ready?" Monica asked, her voice low.
Alice nodded, her jaw set. "Let's go."
They stepped into the portal, the darkness swallowing them with a weightless rush. A moment later, their boots crunched on Utah asphalt, the alley reeking of diesel and damp concrete. Dawn was a faint bruise on the horizon, the air sharp with the promise of morning.
They walked five minutes to the shop's parking lot, the gravel crunching underfoot. A man sat on the open trunk of a beat-up sedan, his feet dangling, a sandwich in one hand, his phone glowing with Instagram reels. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as they approached.
"You Mers's girls?" he asked, his voice rough, like he'd smoked one too many.
Monica grinned, her braid swinging. "Damn right."
He hopped down, shoving bags aside in the trunk to reveal two cardboard boxes—one cubical, one cuboid. "OTFs and fixed daggers in this one. Axes, kukris, and bush cleavers in the other."
Monica took the boxes, handing him a crumpled stack of twenties. "They're choppers, you swine."
The man snorted, pocketing the cash. "Whatever. What do you need all these blades for?"
Alice's voice was cool, deflecting. "Wouldn't you like to know."
He shrugged, already scrolling his phone again. "Fair. I don't really care."
Monica's eyes glinted. "Tell Mercedes I said hi. Shame you're out of machetes. They're basically mini swords. Zombie apocalypse vibes."
The man's lips twitched. "If you're into zombie shit, check out Zombie Tools. New brand, makes crazy blades for doomsday preppers with too much cash."
Monica's brow arched. "They any good?"
"80CRV2 and 5160," he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Should be solid."
"Thanks," Monica said, hefting the boxes. "Might look 'em up."
They turned back to the alley, the boxes heavy in their arms, the city stirring faintly around them. Monica pictured the Texas field—the dirt, the stable, the horses' faint whinnies—and opened the portal, its black maw swallowing them whole.
The portal's black maw spat them out with a faint hum, and Alice and Monica stepped onto Texas soil, the crunch of dirt under their boots sharp as a snapped bone. The morning air swept through, cool and raw, whipping their hair like they'd stumbled into the opening shot of a gritty western. The sky was a bruise of dawn, streaks of orange bleeding into gray, and the open field stretched wide, unbroken save for the distant silhouette of a stable, its double doors ajar like a half-spoken secret.
Alice's merchant tunic clung to her, the Kimber's weight heavy in her pocket, the Mards clinking faintly as she moved. Monica, in her farmer's getup, strode beside her, hat tilted low, the duffle of guns slung over her shoulder like a trophy. Their steps were steady, determined, cutting through the field toward the stable, the grass whispering underfoot like it knew their plans.
Inside, the air was thick with the musk of hay and horse, the kind of scent that stuck to your lungs like damp earth. Amber and Megan were halfway through loading saddlebags, their movements practiced but tense. Grendel, a sleek chestnut stud, snorted with restless energy, his saddlebags already bulging with Amber's carefully curated clothes—tunics, cloaks, trousers, all folded with her obsessive precision. Megan worked beside him, her oil-stained hands securing a tarp over her haul of tools, her craftsperson's tunic patched and sturdy, like she'd been forged in the same fire as the hammers she carried.
Creedmoor, a dappled gray with eyes like mistrustful flint, stood rigid in his stall, his ears flicked back, hooves scuffing the dirt. He eyed the girls—strangers in his domain—with a wariness that bordered on contempt, his head tossing when Lulu ventured too close. Lulu, in her scholar's robe, froze mid-step, her glasses glinting as she backed away, hands raised like she was negotiating with a bear.
"Fuck's sake, Lu, you're scaring the shit outta him," Monica said, her smirk sharp as she stepped into the stable, the scent of guns and Texas dirt trailing her like a shadow. She dropped her duffle with a thud, the clink of metal echoing, and moved to Creedmoor, her hand finding his mane with a gentleness that didn't match her tone. The horse leaned into her touch, his head brushing her shoulder, tension melting like wax under flame.
"What the fuck did you do to them?" Monica asked, her eyes locked on Lulu, the smirk still cutting.
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her voice tight, defensive. "Like I know anything about horses."
Megan snorted, tightening a strap on Grendel's saddlebag. "You'd think she tried to psychoanalyze him or some shit."
Amber, wrestling with a stack of linen dresses, shot Lulu a look. "Girl, just stay back. You're making him twitchy."
Lulu's lips pursed, her hands fidgeting with the notebook in her pocket. "I'm not the one lugging a goddamn arsenal in here. Maybe he smells your murder vibes, Mon."
Monica laughed, a bark that echoed off the stable's weathered beams. "Murder vibes? Lu, he's a horse, not a fucking psychic."
Alice stepped forward, her merchant's vest catching the dim light filtering through the stable's slats. "Enough. Let's finish this and move." Her voice was steady, but the weight of the Kimber and the Mards in her pocket pressed against her, a reminder of the stakes.
The girls worked fast, their hands moving with the rhythm of a crew that knew time was a blade at their throats. Saddlebags swelled with goods—Amber's medieval chic, Megan's tools, Alice's pens and pencils, Monica's knives and axes packed tight in burlap sacks. The stable hummed with their effort, the clink of metal and the rustle of fabric blending with the horses' soft snorts.
Monica grabbed Lulu's shoulder, turning her with a quick spin. "What are you doing?" Lulu snapped, her voice sharp as she stumbled.
"Tightening your straps, genius," Monica said, her fingers deft as she adjusted the shotgun slung across Lulu's back. The PTR Jack shifted higher, its barrel vanishing beneath her scholar's robe, the cloak's hem falling clean. "Can't have medieval randos clocking our guns, can we?"
Lulu's eyes narrowed, but she didn't argue. One by one, the others followed suit. Megan yanked her straps tight, the Mossberg 590 nestling against her spine, hidden by her tunic's bulk. Amber, with a dramatic sigh, adjusted her Kel-Tec KSG, its short barrel barely concealed under her gold-threaded cloak. Alice struggled, her Benelli M4's 18.5-inch barrel and fixed stock poking through her collar, defiant against her merchant's disguise.
Monica frowned, stepping closer. "Hold on." She grabbed a roll of bandage from a nearby table, its edges frayed from years of use, and wrapped it around the M4's barrel and tube, covering the exposed steel. She tied it off with a length of twine, her movements quick, precise. "There."
Alice eyed the bandage, her brow furrowing. "Aren't you afraid this'll fuck up the gun?"
Monica snorted, brushing her braid over her shoulder. "Relax, Al. It's a damn bandage—cloth, not steel. A 12-gauge'll punch through it like tissue. We just need it to hide what your fancy vest can't and keep the dirt out. Guns are cool, but finicky as hell."
Megan glanced up from securing a sack of hammers, her grin sly. "So… Lulu?"
Amber, folding a cloak with surgical care, nodded. "For a second, I get that sentiment."
Lulu's glare could've sparked a fire. "Fuck all of you."
Monica's laugh was sharp, unrelenting. "Yeah, but guns are straightforward. You take care of 'em, they work fine. Lulu? You could pamper her like a damn princess, and she'd still find a way to dunk on your credit score and tank your investments."
Lulu's hand twitched toward her Beretta, her voice a hiss. "I'm not one for violence, but I'm tempted to shoot you right now."
Alice's patience snapped, her voice cutting through like a blade. "Let's just go. We can argue when we're there."
Amber raised a hand, her cloak swishing dramatically. "One sec, we're missing something…" She nodded at Megan, who grinned and grabbed a shovel from the stable's corner. With a quick scoop, she smeared horse shit across Monica's boots and streaked it onto her farmer's trousers, the stench rising like a curse.
Alice sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ."
Monica shot Megan a look that could've melted steel. "You know, some smiths lose a finger or two. How 'bout I pull my kukri and cleave some of yours, eh, beautiful?"
Megan's grin didn't falter, her hands raised in mock surrender. "Sorry, bro. We gotta look the part."
Alice's voice was sharp, exasperated. "Monica, enough. I swear to God, I'll run you over with my old van. Amber, do the honors and open the portal, or so help me."
Amber giggled, her hand waving theatrically, her focus sharpening like a lens. She pictured the grassland near Norinbel's woods—the open dirt road, the endless green stretching under a sky untouched by smog. She imagined the portal's entry, its size big enough for two horses and five girls, their goods strapped tight. The air thrummed, a low buzz that set the stable's beams creaking. A swirling black void tore open, its edges rippling like a storm-tossed sea, the stable's dim light bending around it.
Grendel and Creedmoor snorted, their hooves scuffing the dirt in panic. Monica moved fast, her hands on their manes, her voice low and soothing. "Easy, boys. Just a little magic bullshit."
Amber approached Grendel, her cloak billowing as she tried to mount him. Her first attempt was a clumsy scramble, her boots slipping on the stirrup. She tried again, her manicure catching the saddle's leather. "Fuck," she muttered, frustration flashing.
Monica rolled her eyes, stepping up and grabbing Amber by the waist, hoisting her onto Grendel with a grunt. "You're welcome, asshole."
Amber settled into the saddle, her voice a mock whine. "Be careful! I'm delicate."
Alice climbed onto Creedmoor with ease, her merchant's tunic shifting as she swung her leg over. She reached down, pulling Lulu up behind her, the scholar's robe bunching as she settled, her grip tight on Alice's waist. "Don't fall," Alice said, her tone dry.
Lulu's voice was tight, her glasses slipping. "Not planning on it."
Alice glanced at Monica and Megan, who stood by the portal, their bags slung over their shoulders. "What about you two?"
Monica grinned, her farmer's hat tilted back. "Me and Meg'll walk. Unlike you pussies, we're not that soft."
Megan raised an eyebrow, her tool belt clinking. "We're not?"
Monica shrugged, her grin unfazed. "Well, shit, I don't know. You tell me."
Megan's laugh was rough, her hands on her hips. "I know I ain't. It's you I'm worried about, hence the question."
Lulu's voice cut through, sharp and annoyed. "What the hell's wrong with you two?"
Amber, adjusting her cloak on Grendel, chimed in. "Yeah, what she says."
Alice's patience was a fraying thread. "Come on, we don't have time for this. Let's go."
They moved toward the portal, the horses stepping cautiously, their ears flicking at the void's hum. Monica and Megan walked beside them, their boots kicking up dust, their eyes scanning the stable's shadows like hawks. The portal swallowed them with a faint whoosh, the darkness folding around them like a heavy curtain.
Reality lurched, a weightless rush that twisted their guts. Then, with a jolt, they landed, boots and hooves crunching on soft earth. The grassland stretched before them, a sea of green under a sky so wide it hurt to look at. Green rolled in every direction—emerald blades swaying in the breeze, patches of wildflowers bleeding color into the earth, the distant woods a dark smear against the horizon. Unlike New York's concrete and exhaust, this was raw, alive, the air sharp with the scent of grass and damp soil. A dirt road, rutted and worn, stretched west toward Norinbel, its path vanishing into the haze like a promise of trouble.
Monica tilted her hat back, her grin wide as she inhaled. "Sweet isekai, we're here again."
Amber clutched her chest, her face pale as she processed the medieval air, the stench of horse shit mingling with the earth's clean bite. "Oh, God. I need a minute."
Megan snorted, adjusting her tool belt. "I've smelled worse cars."
Lulu, still gripping Alice's waist, adjusted her glasses, her voice dry. "The aroma's… pungent."
Alice chuckled, the sound low and rough. "Pungent's a fucking understatement."
Monica's laugh was a bark, her eyes scanning the grassland. "You'll get used to it. This is just 15th-century Harlem. I've seen worse hoods than this."
Lulu leaned forward, her voice sharp, all business. "Alice, what's the play? Where to first?"
Alice's eyes narrowed, her mind turning as she scanned the horizon. The dirt road stretched west, toward Norinbel's distant walls, but a memory flickered—a smaller settlement, just half a mile out, past a stone bridge where the river ran cold and clear. "Norinbel's a mile and a half west," she said, her voice steady. "But we saw that village just outside the gates, right after the bridge. Half a mile, tops. Let's hit that first, see what we can sling."
Monica nodded, her boots scuffing the dirt as she patted Grendel's flank. "I'm with her. That hamlet's small—hundred souls, maybe. Not like Norinbel with its seventy million fucking people. Less thugs, less chance I gotta crack skulls. Keeps our accountant happy."
Lulu's glare was a blade, but her voice was grudging. "Screw you, but yeah, what she says."
Alice flicked Creedmoor's reins, the horse moving forward with a reluctant snort. "Alright then. Let's go."
Monica tapped Grendel's hindquarters, the stud stepping lively, his saddlebags swaying. She and Megan marched beside the horses, their boots kicking up dust, their eyes sharp on the surrounding green. The grassland hummed with life—crickets chirping, a distant bird's cry, the faint rustle of something moving in the brush. The girls' disguises blended with the world, their weapons hidden but close, the weight of their gamble heavier than the bags they carried.
The road stretched ahead, its ruts deep from centuries of feet and hooves. Norinbel loomed in the distance, a faint smudge of stone and smoke, but the village was closer, its thatched roofs barely visible beyond the bridge. The air carried the faint tang of woodsmoke and river water, a world untouched by asphalt or neon. Alice's hand brushed the Mards in her pocket, their cool weight a tether to their plan. They were merchants now, or close enough, ready to hawk their wares in a world that didn't know it was about to be played.
The dirt road wound through the grassland, its ruts guiding the Five Petals Gang toward the hamlet, a cluster of thatched roofs and weathered fences nestled against the river's bend. The stone bridge lay behind them, its arches moss-slick and ancient, the water below glinting like a blade under the midday sun. The air carried the tang of turned earth and sweat, the hamlet alive with the rhythm of labor. Dozens of villagers worked the sprawling farmland, their backs bent over rows of barley and rye, hands caked with soil. Children darted through the fields, their laughter sharp and fleeting, while teens dragged hoes with sullen faces, their eyes flicking toward the horizon as if dreaming of escape.
The villagers noticed the girls' approach, their movements slowing, hands tightening on tools. Some stood wary, eyes narrowing at the strangers—two on horseback, two on foot, saddlebags heavy with unknown goods. A few gripped sickles, their blades glinting with purpose, ready for trouble. Others, older and weathered, relaxed slightly, their shoulders easing as if they'd seen worse threats than five young women in merchant's garb. The horses, Grendel and Creedmoor, snorted softly, their hooves kicking up dust as the girls neared the hamlet's edge.
A man, mid-forties, broad-shouldered and grizzled, paused his work guiding a plow horse through the field. His tunic was patched, his hands calloused from years of toil, but his eyes were sharp, catching Lulu's scholar's robe from across the distance. He raised a hand, his voice carrying over the murmur of the fields. "Easy, folk! I've met these lasses afore." The villagers hesitated, some lowering their sickles, others still watching like hawks. The man handed his plow's reins to a boy nearby and strode toward the girls, his boots sinking into the soft earth.
Alice leaned forward on Creedmoor, her merchant's tunic shifting, the Kimber's weight a quiet comfort in her pocket. "Hey, isn't that the dude who bought your Marlboros?" she muttered, her eyes flicking to Lulu.
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her lips twitching. "Yeah, it's him."
Amber, perched on Grendel, let out a low laugh. "Small fucking world."
The man stopped ten paces away, his hands resting on his hips, his gaze sweeping over the girls and their horses. "Well, hullo again," he said, his voice rough but warm, tinged with the lilt of a world that didn't know asphalt or engines. "What brings ye five to our humble stead?"
Lulu shifted behind Alice, her voice steady. "We're just passing through, heading to Norinbel."
"Norinbel, eh?" The man's brow lifted, his eyes narrowing as he took in Alice and Amber's merchant tunics, their gold thread catching the sun. "Can't say I'm shocked. Days past, when I saw ye fresh-woke in the grass, I reckoned ale had bested ye." He grinned, a crooked thing, and nodded at Alice. "Merchants, are ye?"
Alice met his gaze, her smile practiced, merchant-like. "We're merchants, alright. Do you live here, sir?"
"Born and bred," he said, gesturing to the fields. "Farming this and that, as ye see. Always been." He turned to Lulu, his grin softening. "Never pegged ye for a scholar, lass. But then, plenty young folk take odd paths, long as it spares 'em the plow."
Lulu's lips quirked, her hand brushing her Beretta's hidden grip. "I try to be… not so conspicuous."
The man squinted. "What's that now?"
"Not obvious to the public," Lulu said, her tone dry, academic. "Not standing out."
He chuckled, scratching his beard. "Ye scholars and yer fancy tongue."
Lulu's eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "How's that fancy? It's a basic adjective."
The man waved a hand, dismissive but good-natured. "Ain't many 'round here readin' books 'cept merchants, scholars, nobles, and royals. We work with what we got, lass."
Amber snorted, adjusting her cloak on Grendel. "Apparently, not a lot—or rather, next to nothing."
Alice shot her a look, her voice low. "Amber, that's not nice."
Amber shrugged, her gold-threaded cloak swishing. "Am I wrong, though?"
The man laughed, unfazed. "No offense taken, lass. Anyhow…" His eyes flicked back to Lulu, hopeful. "Got more o' them tobacco rolls ye sold me last time?"
Lulu's hand twitched toward her pocket, where a pack of Marlboros sat, a smoker's habit never far from reach. She caught herself, her mind spinning. In this world, logistics were a nightmare—supplies trickled in, scarce as rain in a drought. Tobacco wasn't just a vice; it was a luxury, a rarity that could fetch a fortune if played right. She saw the angle, the spark of artificial scarcity, a trick as old as capitalism itself. "Tobaccos are hard to come by right now," she said, her voice measured, truthful enough—they were in Isekai, not Earth, and resupply was a gamble. "But I'll see what I can do when we pass through again."
The man's face fell, but he nodded, unsurprised. "A shame, but I'll not fault ye. Herb rolls like yours don't grow on trees. Most come 'cross the sea, far and few." He brightened slightly. "Still, if ye got one on ye—"
"I'll sell you a pack, don't worry," Lulu cut in, her smile sharp. "Fifteen Mards."
"Fifteen?" His eyes widened, his voice rising. "Ye sold me the last for ten! Outrageous!"
Lulu leaned forward, her tone cool, unyielding. "That's the price of scarcity. Want it? Open your pouch. Don't? Sulk in the corner."
The man muttered, "Drat," but his hand hovered near his belt, where a small leather pouch hung.
Alice giggled, her merchant's mask softening. "It's alright, sir. We'll be visiting Norinbel often in the coming weeks. Planning to set up shop there, after all."
"No jest?" The man's brows shot up. "Youths like ye? I'll be damned. Highwaymen not pilferin' yer goods?"
Amber slapped her saddlebags, stuffed with clothes, her grin fierce. "Jacking us? We'll needle their heads 'fore they touch us."
The man's laugh was deep, skeptical. "Big words, lass."
Amber's eyes glinted. "Not big if you can back it up."
Alice leaned toward her, whispering, "You can't fight for shit, though."
Amber smirked, whispering back, "Yeah, but he don't know that."
The man nodded, impressed despite himself. "Mayhap it's time we had reliable merchants 'round here. Supplies dwindle fierce these days."
Megan, adjusting her tool belt, spoke up. "Why not head to town and stock up there?"
The man shook his head, his face darkening. "No can do, lass. The Ready Guards hold sway o'er the city's imports."
Monica tilted her hat back, her voice sharp. "Ready Guards? What's that?"
The man's eyes widened, surprised. "Ye truly ain't from here, are ye?"
Lulu's tone was dry. "We're travelers, after all."
"Greater Nomence Ready Guards," the man said, his voice low, like he was sharing a secret. "They're the region's militia—patrol, defense, warfare, policin'. Four cities, hundred and thirty-some million souls. Takes a heap o' men to keep it safe."
Alice's brow furrowed. "If one region's got four cities, who governs it?"
"The Greater Nomence Federal Assembly," he said. "Each city's got councilors, senate members, both Houses. Nomence was forged on freedom—no single soul gets final say, no matter how small the matter."
Amber leaned toward Alice, her whisper sharp. "That… sounds like fucking America."
Alice nodded, her voice low. "Yeah, the coincidence is wild."
Lulu's eyes narrowed, her scholar's mind turning. "Freedom? Does that include rights for non-humans?"
The man's face softened, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Aye, all are equal here. No one's special. But not all lands hold that truth."
Megan frowned, her hands on her hips. "Yeah, we heard somethin' in a Norinbel tavern. Dwarf barkeep mentioned human supremacy or some shit. What's that about?"
The man's jaw tightened, his voice dropping. "He spoke true. Beyond Nomence, non-humans are naught but chattel. Subhuman, they call 'em. Trash. Slaves."
Monica's eyes flashed, her voice low. "But not here?"
"Aye," the man said. "That's why no region trades fair with Nomence. We're half-dead, coin-wise. No one wants elves or goblins workin' honest jobs. Most non-humans keep their heads down, work quiet-like. Gettin' yer employer sacked ain't no way to earn a livin'."
Amber whispered to Alice, her voice tight. "That's… literally just America."
Alice's lips pressed thin. "Yeah, it's scary. Just swap elves and goblins for Mexicans, Asians, expats."
Lulu's voice was sharp, cutting through. "That's why the daily wage is fourteen Mards here?"
The man nodded grimly. "Other regions pay fifty, easy."
Megan's brow furrowed. "If the pay's shit, why do non-humans still come here? Doesn't add up."
"It's a trade, lass," the man said, his voice heavy. "Out there, they're killed on sight, raped, sold, worked to death in mines. Here, ye're poor—but free."
Monica snorted, her disgust plain. "Sounds like California, alright." The girls chuckled, a dark, shared understanding passing between them.
The man's face darkened further. "It's worse elsewhere. Other kingdoms don't care if ye're young or sickly. Long ears? Off to the mines or forests. I've buried elves, demons, dwarves younger than ye. And the Magic Institution—they're the worst."
Megan's voice was sharp. "How worse?"
"Kidnapped non-human young'uns," he said, his voice a growl. "On their tables, cut open, poked at. Gods know what devilry they're workin'."
Lulu's glasses glinted, her voice cold. "That much cruelty can't be good for trade. No rebellions? No one's toppling these monarchs?"
The man shook his head. "Many hate it, but what can they do? Kings and queens are sadists, sure, but their charm keeps the Mards flowin', the lands prosperous. Speak out, and ye're dead."
Monica's face twisted, her hatred of feudalism a fire in her gut. "I feel like committin' a Geneva violation right now. Al, let's just go there and—"
Alice's eyes flashed, a look so fierce it silenced Monica mid-sentence. "We talked about this. We don't get a say, Mon. Calm yourself."
Monica's jaw clenched, her voice low. "They're still human. A bullet to the face—"
Alice's glare was a blade, her voice ice. "Go against me, and I'll make your breakfast taste like glass shards and chainsaw belts. Do. Not. Test me."
Monica backed down, her eyes wide, stunned by Alice's sudden dominance. The man watched, his brow raised but silent, sensing the tension.
He cleared his throat, shifting the mood. "Trust me, lasses, if we could, we would. But kings and queens hold the merchants' leashes. They say who trades, who don't. No merchants, no supplies—no clothes, no tools. Half the wives here wear rags, torn and threadbare. Textile trade's near dead, and we need garb, fast."
Amber's eyes lit up, her merchant's instincts flaring. This was her moment, her clothes-packed saddlebags a goldmine in a world starved for fabric. "Well, well, well," she said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "What a coincidence. We just happen to have clothes ready to sell."
The man's face brightened. "Truly? Ye got garb?"
Amber shot Lulu a gloating look, her pride a living thing. "Of course!" She slapped her saddlebags, the clink of metal beneath the fabric a quiet threat. "Got some in these bags. Mixed sizes, ages, colors—somethin' for everyone."
The man nodded eagerly. "If ye got aught for the women, we'd be mighty grateful."
Amber's grin widened, her eyes flicking to Lulu, rubbing it in. "Yeah, sure. I know I've got some. I'll check the bags. Why don't you gather the folk, 'specially the ladies? We'll set up tarps, display the collection for browsin'. That alright, Al?"
Alice nodded, her merchant's mask back in place. "I don't see why not. We're merchants, after all—we trade goods."
The man clapped his hands, turning back toward the fields. "Grand! I'll fetch the folk." He strode off, calling to the villagers, his voice carrying over the hum of work.
Amber threw her fists up, gloating at Lulu. "Told you, bitch. My clothes'll sell first, and I was fuckin' right. Take that."
Lulu rolled her eyes, her voice dry as bone. "Hilarious. Congrats, you just opened the first GAP in Isekai history. Happy now?"
Amber's laugh was sharp. "Gotta start somewhere. Balenciaga didn't blow up overnight."
Lulu muttered, "Whatever."
Alice giggled, her voice cutting through the banter. "Alright, listen up. We're headin' to the yard. One or two tarps, display everything. Let 'em browse, they'll buy willingly."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, all business. "What about pricing?"
Alice's eyes narrowed, her mind sharp. "We stick to our merchant cover. Supplies are rare, so we jack up the market price by thirty percent. Too low, they'll gawk, and we'll look sus with high-quality goods. Charge premium, we're locals. For now, we need to learn this world's economy, get enough coins to flip back home. We need capital, remember?"
Lulu nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
Alice turned to Megan and Monica, her voice firm. "Meg, Mon, I saw carpenters and hunters when we rode in. Should be safe to spread your goods too. You won't outdo Amber, but it's a start."
Megan shrugged, her tool belt clinking. "Sure. I'll sling hammers and shit, see what they bite on, what's worth what."
Monica adjusted her hat, her knives hidden but close. "Yeah, I'll try too. OTF and hunters ain't a perfect match, but better knives might catch their eye. I'll take the shot."
Amber clapped her hands, her energy electric. "What're we waitin' for? We got customers to satisfy! Let's fuckin' go."
The girls moved toward the hamlet's yard, the horses' hooves thudding softly, their saddlebags heavy with promise. The villagers watched, some curious, others wary, their sickles lowered but not forgotten. The air hummed with possibility, the scent of earth and opportunity thick as the girls prepared to hawk their wares in a world that didn't know it was about to be hustled.