#living is so much easier not doing that shit i s2g

[hotmess-exe]

i no longer believe in code-switching. it's never an active decision to do it, but i've come to realize that has never made it any less taxing for me. the only switch i'm bothering with anymore is professional, for obvious reasons. no more switching for the room, the audience, the authority figure, the hypothetical. no more.

i'm too old for that shit!

[thewanderingtrumpeteer]

ah fuck. am I depressed?

[nightcoremoon]

there are two options.

you vote anarcho communist and extend the amount of time the concentration camps are open

or

you vote democrat and put a stop to that shit.

~but what about the bombings in the middle east~

hi this is fucking america and no matter what fuckin party runs that shit the secretary of defense and the ceo of opec and everybody with access to misssiles is gonna do that regardless and it sucks and it needs to stop but if both parties will do it then ITS A FUCKING NON ISSUE. black mamba and cottonmouth will both poison you and they can both kill you but if a cottonmouth bites you there's still a chance you'll live and the democrats are the cottonmouths.

when the liberals take over the office and ensure civil rights including voter's rights for everybody especially the immigrants it'll be a step closer to military reform and cutting the bombs budget and a step further from being literal nazis. when they reform healthcare all the people who are too depressed/anxious/psychotic/whatever to actually go out and do anything will have a fighting change at getting affordable coverage for the medications we need in order to function in society and vote and lobby and rebel against the imperialist agenda. when the queer community and the black community and religious minorities and all the marginalized groups can safely walk the streets it'll be that much easier to take steps towards the unreachable ideal of a perfect solarpunk utopia.

if you dumb motherfuckers split the vote (or even worse DONT VOTE) as bad as y'all did and the gerrymandering works again I s2g I'm snapping and breaking kneecaps and driving through the closest nazi rally I don't give a fuck anymore. vote fucking democrat, ignore the propaganda, destroy the GOP, don't fuck this up again because millions of latine lives are at stake, many of them children. if you ignorant elitist assholes cause trump2020, then their blood will be on your hands. so vote sanders or clinton or biden or fucking buttigieg, whoever the democrats decide on headlining their party. vote for them, fucking vote, don't write shit in, and do whatever you can. use your goddamn brains and think beyond the rainbow commies.

[k-p-p-d]

People STILL don't get it, so here's my longass reply since I literally just held a group discussion in class about this. POC of all races, when it comes to dating have that issue, because white people always acted superior and were in control in history and so it's engrained into cultures to think they're the ultimate goal, and being able to be accepted by a white person is like some "look ma I did it" bullshit, but it's soo bad in black culture. 1

Black men ALWAYS use white women as a comparison of "why can't y'all be like that" and as a response black women, like myself, get fed up with black men because I s2g man they're more racist against us than white people are half the time and it's easier to get white people to realize their shit and change their views than it is to get a black man to see a dark skinned "loud girl" the same way he sees a white girl who seem quiet compared to us, 2Cause they don't have as much shit to yell about or the shit they yell about isn't about black men like we do. Moms tell their kids to marry a white man because he'll protect you and treat you right where black men are dogs, and so we grow up thinking that and then have it proved time and time again by the men in our lives acting like we're trash or a second choice next to the blonde haired blue eyed girl. Vise versa with men, too, it isn't as bad but it still happens, we see them 3In a negative light and so they think fine if black girls are too good for me then fuck it I'm too good for them they're all loud overly-opinionated bitches anyway. It's a vicious cycle and we're trying to break it but so many don't even realize it. It's not that we don't like white people or don't want to date them, it's racist for anyone to not want to date someone due to skin color we're not trying to pull that shit like how can we be out here fighting for equality and doing the same shit 4We're fighting against, we just want to be valued and seen in the same light as them. Yeah sometimes it feels like just another thing white people took away from us but we know it isn't really that way. This is a problem within the black community, that involves white people, but we aren't blaming them. You gotta understand where were coming from sis, this shit involves you but it 4 

[gwinnetts-archive]

// facts that we know about maccready’s home back in the capitol wasteland:

- it’s a farm (he talks about how duncan was playing out back in the fields of “our farm”) - daisy straight up calls it a homestead

it’s still wild for me to imagine maccready with a farm, even though it makes practical sense. but it makes my head spin to know that, back in the capitol wasteland, people in the area would know it as the maccready homestead. what the fuck

anyway — i’m also here to say i’ve decided who is staying with duncan while maccready’s been gone. i was first teasing the idea of it maybe being other ex-lamplighters, because by the time duncan got sick and lucy was gone, some of the others would’ve aged out, too. and then it hit me

i’m making it an official headcanon that princess is the one looking after the maccready homestead and duncan. and i don’t think she’s the only one there, like — 

eclair, squirrel, knick knack, and knock knock could’ve all still been living in big town when maccready and princess aged out. and if we assume the paradise falls lamplighters got rescued, then penny would be leaving the same year as them, and it’s possible joseph was still there, either to keep helping or to wait for his sister (if she didn’t just... leave with him when he did. that’s possible, too, given how close they are)

so — there’s a decent gaggle of lamplighters who were all fairly close in age, and thus they all would’ve left shortly after each other. while it can be hard to keep in touch in the wasteland, and maccready and lucy clearly struck out on their own at some point... lamplighters have such a strong sense of community that it’s hard for me to imagine them not at least touching base on a semi-regular basis — and a post-good lone wanderer capitol wasteland would be more secure, so i imagine it’d be easier to do so than in the past, or elsewhere

when shit hit the fan, it just makes sense that maccready would reach out to people from his old community. and i imagine one or two of them, or one of them with their current significant other, stepped up to the plate

maccready will tell the sole survivor that they’re the only person he can trust, and that everyone he’s known since leaving lamplight has tried to stab him in the back, and that no one had ever cared about him as much as the sole survivor when they offered to help him find the cure, but like — he left his kid in the care of someone. he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t trust them. it just doesn’t make any sense

@beth: stop kneecapping characters to make the player character the most important person in their lives, i s2g

ANYWAY. POINT BEING: i like to imagine princess/angela and maccready and lucy getting on better terms as they get older, and so maybe she brought her significant other with her to the homestead to look after the farm and duncan. and maybe, just maybe, the maccready homestead has always had its door open to ex-lamplighters. i’m just sayin’

[thescentofwhiteroses]

I wrote out this big long post that started with me apologizing for never being online and then ended up with me talking about mental health stuff (Namely how my OCD stuff being under control for the last couple years has resulted in me not always being very... Productive/motivated to do anything.) But then my phone died and I hadn't saved a draft yet. And I wasn't going to retype it all, because I'm on my phone not a computer, and was just going to say a few things but then look what fucking happened. My initial thoughts were about how lately I suck at time management, I'm having problems with not being able to focus at all, and then alternatively hyperfocusing on just one thing for hours, and it's making it so I leave work late, and then waste all my free time. And then I moved on to how also, without the terrible horrible anxious super bad feelings that came along with my obsessive thoughts that lead to compulsive actions, I am more likely to be avoidant about anxiety inducing things, because the anxiety is at a level I can tolerate just ignoring. Which led to me thinking about how my ADD brain gets overwhelmed at the thought of certain tasks very easily, and can't break things down into smaller chunks, or gets so caught up in making steps that I waste a shit ton of time, OR even better gets overwhelmed by the list of smaller tasks anyway. So then the rest of my brain is like, "fuck! this is making us anxious, better stop thinking about it, huh?" Which is a large part of the reason why I'll disappear from Tumblr periodically, because the cycle I was going through meant missing just one day made me slightly anxious, and the longer I wasn't on, the more anxious I'd get, until I would have to just avoid thinking about it, and therefore avoid getting online. This however was in some ways an improvement over how I used to be. Because it used to be an OCD thing for me, if I didn't get online, if I didn't catch up on my dashboard for the day, if I amassed too many backlogs from days I didn't catch up, my anxiety would be through the roof, and the obsessive thoughts and compulsive actions would get completely out of control. And the thing is the OCD was always the thing I was most reluctant to admit was a problem/want to change. I was so resentful of anything/anyone that prevented or even suggested I should try to stop the cycle, I think in part because fuck is it a good feeling when the obsessive thoughts and compulsive actions are properly satisfied. They feel like your entire reason for existing, so when they are fulfilled it feels so good. (And that part of the cycle is why they moved OCD out of the anxiety disorders category.) So it's just... So strange that of all the things, it's the OCD that's so well controlled now. And I s2g it was the b12 injections (which I did not get for that reason, it was just a surprising additional benefit that my anxiety suddenly chilled the fuck out) because meds and therapy could only barely touch the anxiety and panic attacks I'd been plagued with. And it's not like the OCD is completely gone, I just don't get the super horrible feelings anymore, so it's somewhat easier to stop obsessing, and if I am prevented (or stop myself) from following through on the actions that go along with the thoughts, it doesn't usually feel like the world is ending anymore, like it used to. Like I can almost forget that I even have OCD, because it's mostly really functional now, until other things get out of wack, and then the perfectionism that's linked to it causes way more problems than usual. But in general it's so well controlled/disguised that I would have to very deliberately use key terms in a certain way in order to even get that diagnosis. I've been diagnosed with it before, and I know the way I used to be about Tumblr and certain things at work in particular absolutely were the result of obsessive thoughts that lead to compulsive actions, all fueled by terrible, horrible, fucking paralyzing feelings of anxiety and panic, but it would be hard to convince anyone else that I still have it. But also it's hard because I feel like the perfectionism is part of my personality, and yet I also know how deeply it's linked to the OCD stuff. So which came first? And like, I always come back to the fact that so many things I have/feel/think are signs of trauma, but I don't remember anything traumatic enough to cause them. And so then I see stuff talking about it and I relate to it so much but feel like i shouldn't because I didn't experience any real trauma, ever, as far as I am aware. Idk, and then there's also my mother's theory that I'm on the spectrum, and I've been diagnosed with some sort sensory integration issue, but that was as a teenager, even though every other thing that psychiatrist diagnosed me with eventually ended up being confirmed by other psychiatrists/people with the licencing and training to do so in more recent years too. So I often wonder what exactly I actually have. Like, I am neurodivergent, that's for sure, and I think I usually accurately attribute various issues I have to the correct disorder of the ones I've been diagnosed with, but what if I've been misdiagnosed? Or am just missing some diagnosis? I mean, like, bipolar disorder, OCD, ADD, generalized anxiety disorder, panic attacks, whatever the sensory stuff is???? That's a lot at once. How much of it is separate things, and which things really are just parts of something else? How can I ever know for sure? I mean honestly, some of the way we diagnose things is a little arbitrary. Mainly that humans like for things to fit nicely into categorizes, but that doesn't always work, so occasionally we split up things into separate disorders that we used to consider all part of the same one, or conversely we end up combining things we used to have as different disorders into just one. And then there are some disorders that aren't exactly proper disorders, but ARE very real problems people face, and so the main reason they got named as disordered is so that insurance companies will take them seriously and cover services so people can get the help they need. Which is why labels can be helpful. I wish they weren't necessary, but they usually are. But anyway, I'm kinda a low-key mess right now, but seeing wrasslin' live on Monday night was fucking amazing, so at least I have that.

[captainkappa]

Fanfic- Tough Business to Get Into

(i s2g this is the last holiday exchange i do)

I have finally finished my secret tax goat for @hexmaniacinien !!! I had so much fin writing this, I hope all of you enjoy it as well! Thank you to @kyrfiore for betaing!

Gen. 1920s/Mob AU. Guns and alcohol a plenty (with a touch of angst, my apologies ^^;)

AO3 Link Here

The aftermath of a show was always loud. Giggling girls critiquing their performance based on both what they thought and what the director saw. The flurry of feet making their way to dressing rooms and removing make-up, getting out of those extravagant (and skimpy) costumes to more practical clothing (that was still called skimpy by some older people) in order to head out for the night. Cigarette smoke filled the air, the clear alternative ever since Prohibition hit for a legal means of winding down after a big show.

Within the chaos, Markus was always able to slip in. Not like he wasn’t allowed, he was the lights and effects director, but it made it easier when everyone was moving to go into his friend’s room without questions being asked, mainly, “Are you and Inien going out?”

Which was ridiculous, Inien had been his closest friend ever since he got into show business.

She was snarky and strong willed and would be the very definition of a flapper if it wasn’t for the fact she refused to cut her hair.

It was easier, however, to just leave people guessing about their relationship status so they wouldn’t question other parts about Markus’ life… and Inien’s, for that matter. Performers were far too nosy.

So, he would slip into her dressing room while everyone was too busy to notice.

Tonight, Inien was quiet, which in Markus’ experience was never a good thing.

Especially with that look on her face, that vacant stare that meant she was thinking of something.

She sat up straight in her chair. “I’m bored… let’s start selling liquor.”

He barely registered himself standing up as he tried to process what his friend just said, “Inien…”

“What?” she said, innocently fixing her hair in the huge mirror in front of her.

“You don’t just sell alcohol. And why would you even want to do that?”

“I told you, I’m bored,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“You’re on Broadway!” He gestured wildly at her dressing room around her. “How is that boring?”

She shrugged and turned her chair to look at him. “It has for me, and besides, I’ve already thought part of it out.”

“I… how?”

“My cousin, Colvin. Even though he’s still in far east, he’s just as annoyed about Prohibition as we are, probably moreso because the U.S. was a huge import for him.” She explained casually, reaching for a cigarette. “So we started talking about getting his product over here. At first, I would’ve been selling to other speakeasies and splitting the profit with Colvin.” A small flick and she lit her cigarette. “But I’ve been thinking, why not run it myself? Cut out the middle man, make more money overall, and maybe even get out of Broadway once I have enough dough.”

Markus pinched his nose and let out a breath. “Yes, that’s very business savvy and all. But,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “You are still talking about illegal business! Who’s to say this doesn’t go completely wrong?!”

She shrugged, letting a stream of smoke pass through her lips. “I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

He sighed, lowering his head in his hands as she put on her coat. “You. Are. Incorrigible.”

She turned to him after straightening her collar. “And you are incapable of thinking outside the box.”

Looking up, he was just able to catch the door shutting behind her. “Oh no, no, no,” he muttered, grabbing his coat and following her.

She was easy enough to catch up with. She had barely made it outside the building when he caught up with her.

“So, what are you going to do now?” he asked, falling into step with her.

“I need to talk with someone.”

“Okay, if we’re going to do this, you need to be less cryptic. And tell me shit like this earlier.”

She looked up at him, smirking, “ ‘We?’ ”

“Of course, we both know I’m the better talker out of the two of us. And you need all the help you can get if you’re going to do this.”

“Alright, we’re meeting someone with experience in this business. He’s had brief interactions with my cousin, so that’s how I know him. He agreed to help set this up.”

“Wow, sounds like a good guy.”

Inien snorted loud enough for people passing by to look over at them. Markus stared down at her confused.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Oh nothing. You’ll see.”

“Again with being cryptic.”

-=-=-=-=-

The man lived in a tenement house, which was a fancy word for the shittiest apartments you could ever think of. Overcrowded, dark, and dirty, it ended up being the homes to most immigrants upon coming to the New World. Markus and Inien both glanced to each other, both knowing the other was thinking of their childhood spent in one. Markus had been the lucky one, only spending about eight years in one as his family moved upstate to work as live-in servants to a politician. Inien hadn’t been so lucky and spent her entire childhood in one till she was eighteen.

“Come on, he said he had the afternoon free today.” Inien bounded up the steps, the excitement of starting her own speakeasy overriding the memories that threatened to spill over. Markus followed close behind.

This tenement house was made out of an old, four story house that had been a rich man’s house before he moved out to the cleaner countryside. Now it was packed with mainly Russian immigrants. As Markus and Inien climbed the stairs, they couldn’t help being be jealous of how cleaner this house was in comparison to the ones they lived in. The government had made tenement housing more bearable to live in. Not comfortable by any means, but there were windows and it didn’t feel like the flu would wipe out an entire building in a night.

The man’s room was on the third floor, last door on the left side. After passing a large family loudly speaking in a language neither Inien or Markus could understand, they knocked on door marked 47 by two mismatched numbers.

There was a long pause as no one answered. Markus was about to knock again when the door flew open, revealing a man with slicked back, black hair and wearing a wrinkled white button up and vest.

“What do you want?” he asked, looking between the two of them unamused.

Inien stepped forward. “Hi, my name is Inien. My cousin told me to come here in order to start up my… business.”

“Ah, you are Inien, yes, yes, now I remember. But who is this man?”

Without skipping a beat, Markus took of his hat and bowed low. “Markus Tannhauser Velafi. At your service. I’m her… business partner.”

The man looked unimpressed by the grand gesture. “Yes, but how do I know you won’t sell us out.” At the confused looks he got from the other two, he stepped forward. I’ve talked with Inien, I don’t know you.” His Russian accent grew thicker with every word, every step he took. Before Markus realized, he was against the opposite wall with the Russian man’s stare keeping him in place.

“Look,” Markus started, “I’ve known Inien for a while. Even if I’m still unsure on someone who’s never had experience in this, throwing herself in the business, I’m not going to go behind your backs.”

It took a moment, but the man stepped away and walked into the apartment. “My roommates won’t be back until night, we’ll be okay.”

Markus gave Inien a worried look before she shrugged and followed. He took off his hat before following into the small apartment.

“Wait!” Markus said suddenly, pausing midstep. “What’s your name?”

A beat of silence. “Just call me Thog.”

Markus nodded as Thog started talking about setting up.

Even though he knew Thog didn’t trust him wholly, and Markus was still on the fence on the legitimacy of this mob business, he was still glad Thog was there, or else Inien would have no idea what to do. His knowledge was easily seen in his planning, how he seemed prepared for any situation; cops come in to the bar, being seen carrying crates after dark, all of it Thog had a way out which made this idea… feasible.

“Alright then, all we need is a base of operations, right?” Inien asked.

“Mhm, and I know the right place. It’s a coffee shop downtown called ‘Number Seven’.”

Markus and Inien exchanged a confused look.

“A coffeeshop?” Markus asked.

Thog grinned, for the first time since meeting them. “No one would suspect a thing. The owner is… a character.”

“But, is there going to be enough room in the basement?” Inien piped up.

“For now, we can out-source later, but this will be a good enough base of operations.” Thog leaned forward, seemingly growing more excited as the plan came together. “Now, if we send for the shipment this week, this means it’ll arrive in about three weeks.”

It was Inien’s turn to grin widely. “There’s a big opening night around then. Don’t you think the cast would enjoy some ginger water, Markus?”

Markus stared at her before slowly shaking his head, a small smile growing.

“Ginger water sounds like something I’d be more inclined to say.”

-=-=-=-=-

The cast did enjoy the alcohol, no questions asked. Markus didn’t want to say it out loud, but the successful first selling made him more confident in this speakeasy business. It still scared him that he now owned a gun and had learned how to (sort of) shoot it as per Thog’s request.

“Jobs can get… rough” was all Thog gave as explanation, rubbing his left shoulder. He and Inien had simultaneously decided not to ask.

True to his word, the job did get rough. Second time the trio went to fetch the shipment, cops were patrolling. Markus had broken into a cold sweat the moment a flashlight’s beam passed by his feet. Quick thinking and stuffing his’ handkerchief in his mouth to keep him quiet rewarded them with the alcohol they paid for.

The bakery had also proved to be a decent base. Ol’ Inny was the character Thog promised, his ramblings petering off from English into Swiss and then into a weird combination of the two languages. Those who entered often wanted to buy what they need and leave, ignoring any signs of illicit activity.

They were all happy their business was off to a good start.

Something had to go wrong eventually.

It was their first European shipment, the good stuff from Colvin. Thog had predicted their profits to jump after these wares were bought. They needed this shipment to really bring the cash rolling.

The night seemed perfect, enough moonlight so they could see in front of them, but not enough to be spotted by the passing cop on the street opposite from the wharf.

Inien managed a handshake between the people unloading the goods before Markus turned, a noise setting him on edge.

“Did you-”

“As wary as we should be, it was probably a worker dropping something,” Thog supplied, pausing before putting an uncertain hand on Markus’ shoulder. “You need a nap once we get this shipment in the basement.”

He could only nod in agreement before turning to help the workers load the wares in the trunk parked nearby.

Markus managed to lift one of the smaller boxes when they all heard a “Hey!”

All heads turned, to a cop, who couldn’t have been more than 25, holding a gun. HE looked more scared than they were.

“D-Drop it!” the cop yelled again, addressing Inien, about to pay the boat workers.

No one moved.

“I-I swear it!! I-I’ll shoot!” The gun was shaking. “3! 2!”

Markus couldn’t hear the rest, blood pounding in his head as he ran, going for his gun. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to do, just knowing there was no way this man was going to hurt Inien.

There was a bang! and Markus stopped.

He heard someone scream, but it wasn’t him. People were moving by him and when had he fallen onto the salt-encrusted wood of the dock? He only knew it hurt, oh Gods it hurt, how could something hurt this much?

He barely noticed the gunfire above him, only able to flinch every time he heard another shot.

Inien and Thog’s voices were muffled, like he’d been throw underwater.

From yards away, he could hear Thog yell, “I know where to take him!” before the pain brought him under.

-=-=-=-=-

It wasn’t clean, but it was clean enough. It wasn’t easy to get to, but considering how much blood was pouring from Markus’ hand, there was no other option. It wasn’t cheap, but it was better than explaining to nurses how he’d gotten a bullet in his hand.

The “underground hospital” actually just the basement of an abandoned building, the only traces of what it was were the chipped paint of “Alaran” on the front. They were allowed one day in this shit hole. One day before Markus had to give up the cot to another low life who couldn’t explain their injuries to professionals.

Inien stayed by his side the whole day, silently contemplating the bandages covering the 5 stitches in his hand. Thog, for once, was not so quiet.

“We weren’t ready. We should’ve prepared for. We need more people; people who know how to fight, at least one doctor…” He sat down on the other side of Markus, head in his hands. “Why am I even this concerned about you people? This isn’t my business.”

She glared at him. “Well, you’re basically family now after the shit we’ve been through. You’ve been a part of this since day one.”

He went quiet. They both did. They knew they had a lot to do; they had already lost money, only getting half the stock in the resulting shootout, recruitment of more people, selling what they could, establishing what exactly was this work relationship they had, but it could all wait.

-=-=-=-=-

Markus was now left handed now, still able to move his right hand, but the limits made it virtually impossible to use it for more than pointing and gesturing. For now, that was good enough as he and Inien descended the stairs to the club. Two weeks of scouting for new people led them to believe a man by the name of Gregor Hartway was the best for them.

He already had experience, being one of the front men for the Outriders, a notorious gang that had once ruled upper Manhattan, but one night had changed all that. Gregor was one of the few remaining people.

Markus and Inien gave the password and the entry fee as they entered. The place was huge, room for a bar, several tables and chairs, a dance floor and enough walk space to not feel crammed. Soft lighting gave the place a warm atmosphere despite the crimes everyone was committing but just standing there. The place was bustling, which was not a surprise for a Friday night.

The two walked toward the bar, eyes scanning the place for their man.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Markus stopped Inien with his good hand and quietly gestured with the other. “Is that him?”

He guided her line of sight to a shorter man with a ponytail sitting off in the corner, smiling to himself.

He wore simple clothes, a white collared shirt with pinstripes and brown slacks held up with red suspenders. From where they were, they could see the top of some blunt weapon leaned against an extra chair.

Inien nodded and the two started toward him. He only looked up when they were in front of him.

He smiled. “Hello.”

Markus smiled back, sticking his bad hand in his pocket. “Hello, my name is Markus Velafi, this is my associate Inien, and we were wondering if you’d like a job.”

Gregor paused. “That was a quick introduction.”

“We have limited time.” Inien said plainly as Markus picked up the conversation. “We need someone who can handle himself in a fight and we heard you were the one to talk to.”

The other man smiled. “What’s the job?”

“Helping to protect a bar like this, but better.” Markus winked.

“We want you in,” Inien deadpanned. “The pay’s good. What do you say?”

Gregor scratched his chin, considering it. “Can he come?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Who’s he?”

“He means me.”

The sudden voice behind her sent her nearly twenty feet in the air. She stumbled into Markus, who was equally unprepared for the new voice. The man calmly walked to Gregor’s side, a wide grin on his face.

“W-Who are you?” Inien asked, setting herself right.

“I’m Zalvetta, a pleasure.”

Gregor piped up, giving no reaction to the surprise entrance. “We’re kind of a team. I’m good brute force-”

“And you can imagine what I’m good at.” Another wide grin.

Markus looked to Inien. “We do need people…”

Inien looked directly at the two of them. “You’ll have to split a paycheck till our… business gets rolling.”

Zalvetta looked displeased, but Gregor looked hopeful, which seemed to sway his friend.

“Deal.”

-=-=-=-=-

“I’m surprised that went so well,” Markus commented as they exited the club. “Two for one? I’m calling that a good day.”

Inien didn’t look so impressed. “We still need a doctor.”

He rested his good hand on her shoulder. “Inien…”

“Don’t!”

Markus paused. “I’m fine, you realize that, right?”

Silence. They kept walking through the streets like that, letting the sounds of the city wash over what had been unsaid between them since that night.

“I don’t want it to happen again,” Inien finally said.

“I know, but if we can’t find one soon, it won’t be the end of the world, okay?”

“…Okay.” Markus gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before shoving that hand into his pocket.

Luckily, they had found the person who they were looking for. She was spoken highly of, those in the Alaran hospital had attested to that. Her ability to heal was unmatched by any other person who bothered to lend a hand there. It was a shock that she wasn’t an actual doctor, but no one asked questions. It was part of the policy.

What they had been able to find out was she worked at a printing press near the outskirts of the city. Her specific job was unknown, but a building was all Markus and Inien needed.

Even more luck fell upon them when they found her loitering around the outside, on a lunch break. Her white hair was in disarray, with ink splotches all over her trousers. Despite that she still held herself with some air for authority. Out of all the workers walking around, she stood out.

As they approached, she looked up at them, narrowing her eyes.

“What do you two want?”

Inien shrugged, “We need a doctor.”

“ ‘ow good?”

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘ow good of a doctor? I never got my degree.”

“Kicked out?”

The woman grit her teeth. “Money problems. Father refused to pay the rest, I didn’t have enough, I dropped out just before I would ‘ave graduated.”

“Well, we don’t care about that.” Markus cut in, glaring at Inien briefly before putting on another charming smile. “I’m Markus Velafi and we’ve heard you’re very good at what you do.”

The woman stared at the two of them. “Who’s the patient?”

Markus gave Inien a quick glance. “It’s more so we want to hire you for when the situation is needed. We want you to be on hand in case we get hurt.”

Inien butted in, slipping Ashe the number for what could be her paycheck. The number made her eyes go wide, but she schooled her expression quickly.

“What’s the business?”

“It’s a speakea-”

“I’m in.”

Markus and Inien shared a look.

“Really?” Inien asked.

The other woman nodded. “I haven’t had a drink in forever. You bet your ass I’ll take the job.”

Inien grinned and held out her hand. “Alright then, what’s your name.”

“Aesling, but call me Ashe.”

They shook hands.

-=-=-=-=-

From there, their business only grew. The basement area under Ol’ Inny’s place was turned into storage as they found a larger place, under a bakery run by a woman named “Dont,” where they had plenty of room to turn it into a proper speakeasy.

Thog, while still essentially the co-head of the place along with Inien, ran the bar, ignoring Markus when he tried to get him to flip bottles and put on a show. He’d roll his eyes, but when the bar emptied, he’d try flipping an empty bottle, just to see if he could do it (He couldn’t). Ashe helped him on the busier nights, when she wasn’t stitching someone up in the back or threatening someone with surgical equipment (Inien hadn’t expected her to be so good at it. It both scared and intrigued her).

Gregor and Zalvetta turned out to be key as more shipments came in and they needed a path clear of police. Their skills also became useful as people started not keeping up their promises.

Markus turned to be the sole employer, finding more people to build upon their so-called “empire” as Inien liked to brag. He found Firi, a flapper and a girl good wit organization, at a dance class. Batty, their bouncer, he found in alley as she beat up the man who tried to rob from her. Moren… Markus never told them how he found Moren, avoiding the question with wild gestures and a blush across his face. He slipped dollars to the orphan kids so they would make quick deliveries and return with all the cash owed.

All the while Inien sat back on her throne (it was the least rickety chair in the place) and grinned, ecstatic her once crazy idea had pulled through.

It was good to be the Queen.