Murder Inc.

by StoutShako42Refined

Summary:

In the era of Depression and Prohibition, no good deed goes unpunished.

It is the year 1930. As the economy continues on its seemingly never-ending nosedive, and the government continues to drag its heels trying and failing to enforce Prohibition, two young women do their best to survive in Los Angeles: where crime runs rampant and booze flows like liquid gold.

With the right skills, bonds, connections, and a healthy smattering of luck, they may just be able to pull through one the most difficult times in modern American history.

Notes:

This is something I wanted to do for a very long time: my own Murder Drones Human AU. The Great Depression is an untapped well of potential in fan fiction, especially nowadays, and I really want to give it a chance. And with conclusion of my Angst One-Shot series now within sight (at the time of writing the first teaser), I want something else to do, to continue provide entertainment, especially for the loyal readers who stuck with me from the very beginning.

Therefore, allow me to introduce you to Murder Inc.

Chapter 1: Teaser 1: Mother's Letter

December 7, 1929

My Dearest Uzi,

 

It pains me to write to you in such a state, but I fear my condition has worsened considerably. The pneumonia that started as a simple cough has settled deep in my lungs, and each breath becomes more labored than the last. With all our savings gone after the Crash, we cannot afford the doctor's visits or medicines that might help me recover. My darling girl, I must be honest with you—I do not believe I will see the New Year.

 

Your father tries to hide his worry, but I see it in his eyes. Khan has always been a proud man, even after the Great War changed him. Please try to understand him, Uzi. The things he witnessed in France and beyond haunt him still, and though he struggles to show it, his love for you runs deep as an ocean. He may grow more distant in the days to come, but know it's his way of coping with pain. Be patient with him when I'm gone.

 

Look after Doll, too. That poor child carries so much grief since losing her parents. I see how you two lean on each other, and it warms my heart. She needs you, Uzi, perhaps more than you realize. The bond between you is precious—nurture it. Be the family she has lost.

 

I wish I could have been stronger for you all. There were so many things I wanted to give you, so many places I hoped we would see together. Forgive me for leaving you to face these hard times without me. This cruel depression has taken so much from everyone, and I hate that I cannot shield you from what's to come.

 

Know that I am so proud of the young woman you've become. Your fierce spirit and sharp mind will carry you through even the darkest days. Have faith that the sun will shine again, even when storm clouds gather. Better times will come, my love. They always do.

 

When you look at the stars, remember that I am watching over you, always.

 

Your loving mother,

Nori Doorman

 

---

 

The paper trembled in Uzi's hands as she read the final words. The oven's heat caressed her face as she stood before it, the door hanging open, flames dancing inside. For a moment, she held the letter against her chest, as if she could absorb her mother's words directly into her heart.

 

"Fuck," she whispered, the single word carrying the weight of mountains. With a shaking hand, she extended the letter toward the flames. The paper caught quickly, edges curling and blackening. Uzi didn't let go until the fire nearly touched her fingertips.

 

As the last remnants of her mother's handwriting disappeared into ash, a sob escaped her throat—raw and painful. She slammed the oven door shut and pressed her forehead against the cool metal of the kitchen counter.

 

Outside, Los Angeles continued its relentless pace. Cars honked, neighbors argued, someone's radio played a cheerful tune that felt like mockery. Uzi didn't hear any of it through the roaring in her ears.

 

Three blocks away, Doll sat on a fire escape, watching the same gray December sky. She didn't know about the letter, didn't know that Aunt Nori had finally put into words what they all suspected. But she felt something shift in the air, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis.

 

Khan Doorman stood in line at the employment office, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The man in front of him complained loudly about "foreigners taking jobs," unaware that the tall, quiet man behind him had once charged German machine gun nests to protect the very freedom he took for granted. Khan thought about his wife at home, struggling for breath, and wondered how many more rejections he could endure before something inside him finally broke.

 

None of them knew that across town, in a lavish office overlooking the city, three men raised crystal glasses in a toast. "To JCJenson," the eldest said, "and to opportunity in chaos." The liquor they drank had never known Prohibition's restrictions, and the money that lined their pockets grew heavier while the city beneath them starved.

Chapter 2: Teaser 2: All in a Day's Work

Summary:

There is much work to be done on a day-to-day basis. While she serves drinks, they serve death.

(Chapter warning: Violence)

Afternoon light slants through the dusty windows of the Velvet Curtain, casting long shadows across empty tables. The speakeasy holds its breath between shifts, the quiet before the storm of evening revelry. A record player sits silent in the corner while gangsters and waiters in shirtsleeves and suspenders arrange chairs and wipe down surfaces in wide arcs.

 

Behind the polished mahogany bar, she works methodically, twin black pigtails bobbing with each movement. Her slender fingers grip a cloth, making small circles on the countertop where countless drinks have been spilled, countless deals have been made. The green of her eyes catches the light as she holds up a freshly polished whiskey glass, squinting through it like a makeshift telescope.

 

"Perfect," she murmurs, examining the crystal for any lingering smudges.

 

...

 

Fifteen miles away, he adjusts his position on the warehouse rooftop, golden eyes narrowed behind the telescopic sight of his Springfield rifle. Wind speed: negligible. Distance: three hundred and seventy-three yards. The target paces below, agitated, gesturing wildly at two subordinates who keep their heads bowed. A familiar emblem decorates their jacket lapels—the crossed swords of the Garrison family.

 

His finger caresses the trigger. Inhale. Hold. The crosshairs settle on the back of the target's skull.

 

Exhale. Squeeze.

 

The crack of the rifle sends pigeons scattering from nearby rooftops. Below, the target's head erupts in a spray of red mist. The body crumples like a marionette with cut strings while the subordinates dive for cover, too late and too slow to matter.

 

He works the bolt action smoothly, ejecting the spent casing. It arcs through the air, catching sunlight before disappearing into his waiting palm. The rifle breaks down into components with practiced ease, sliding into an unassuming leather case. By the time police sirens wail in the distance, the rooftop is empty save for the circling birds.

 

...

 

Back at the Velvet Curtain, the kitchen buzzes with preparation. She stands at a cutting board, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, her elegant dress protected by a stained apron. The Cook—a mountain of a man with forearms like Christmas hams—nods approvingly as she attacks a thick sirloin with a metal meat mallet.

 

"You got a good arm there, Miss," he says, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

 

She smiles politely, bringing the mallet down hard. Once. Twice. She raises the mallet high, preparing for a third strike…

 

...

 

In a forgotten alley behind the Pacific Electric Building, a man crawls through his own blood, fingers scrabbling against filthy concrete. His expensive suit is torn, his face unrecognizable beneath a mask of red. He turns over, looking up at his tormentor with the one eye that still works.

 

"Please," he gurgles through broken teeth. "I can pay—I can pay double!"

 

She adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses with a blood-flecked hand, the motion delicate and precise. Her baseball bat drags behind her, leaving a crimson trail.

 

"Darling," she says, voice light and musical, "this isn't about money." The bat rises, silhouetted against the afternoon sky. "This is about respect."

 

The wet crunch echoes off brick walls. She laughs—a girlish sound at odds with the brutality—and swings again. And again. Until what remains no longer resembles anything human.

 

Humming a cheerful tune, she retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket, carefully wiping splatter from her glasses before tucking the bat into its canvas carrying case. She steps daintily around the cooling body, mindful not to soil her shoes further.

 

...

 

The kitchen of the Velvet Curtain smells of garlic, peppers, and rosemary. She wipes her hands on her apron, surveying her work with satisfaction. The Cook has stepped away to check his sauces, leaving her alone with the prepared meats. A forgotten piece of sirloin sits at the edge of the cutting board. She picks it up, crosses to the icebox pushed up against the far wall, and lifts open the heavy wooden door.

 

...

 

The trunk of the Ford Packard yawns open like a hungry mouth. Inside, a woman in a torn evening dress thrashes against her bindings, her expensive jewelry catching what little light filters into the underground parking garage. Her mascara runs in black rivers down her cheeks as she tries to scream through the cloth gag. Only muffled whimpers escape.

 

"Mrs. Garrison," the pigtailed figure says, voice flat as a desert highway. "Your husband's organization really should have paid their protection fees." She reaches into her pocket, extracting a golden lighter that flashes between her fingers like a magic trick. "Funny how men never think consequences apply to their families."

 

The woman in the trunk shakes her head frantically, eyes wide with terror as she makes desperate, unintelligible pleas.

 

"Don't worry. We're not going to kill you." A cold smile spreads across the pigtailed woman's face. "Not unless your husband forces our hand."

 

The trunk slams shut with finality, silencing the muffled screams. She pats the metal twice, like tucking in a child, before walking away. The click of her heels echoes through the concrete chamber as she ascends the stairs, humming the same cheerful tune.

 

...

 

The Velvet Curtain transforms as evening approaches. Electric lights glow amber, turning half-empty liquor bottles into vessels of liquid gold. The gramophone crackles to life with a jazz number that slides through the air like expensive perfume.

 

She sits at the far end of the bar, work finally done. Her black dress catches the light differently now that she's shed her apron, revealing subtle purple accents in the lace. A cigarette dangles between her fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. The first sip of whiskey burns pleasantly down her throat as she watches the bartender make final preparations.

 

The first patrons will arrive soon—working men with loosened ties, society women seeking thrills, gangsters pretending to be businessmen, cops and politicians alike pretending not to notice any of them. For now, though, she savors the quiet moment, legs crossed at the ankle, heels tapping gently against the brass rail.

 

The heavy door swings open, letting in a gust of cool evening air. Three silhouettes stand framed in the entrance—a tall young man with golden eyes still sharp from his afternoon's work, a shorter woman whose wire-rimmed glasses catch the light as she adjusts them with recently-scrubbed hands, and a taller figure whose pigtails are now immaculately neat, no hint of her parking garage errand remaining.

 

"Tessa!" the woman with glasses states, her voice carrying the crisp authority of someone who has just accomplished something significant.

 

"Tessa," the pigtailed woman whispers, a slight smile playing at her lips as she slides the lighter back into her pocket.

 

"TESSA!" the young man shouts, grinning broadly as he strides forward, arms outstretched in anticipation of a hug.

 

Tessa Elliot crushes out her cigarette and stands to meet them, the whiskey in her glass catching the light like amber fire.

Notes:

And here's our favorite Aussie and trio of killers! Obviously, N, V, and J will not simply have a single letter for their names, so let's play a little game. Try and guess what names they will have. Let's say, three guesses a comment. I doubt anyone will get N's name correct. If you do, I'll shout you out in Chapter 1, when it comes out.

Chapter 3: Part I: The Great Doorman

Notes:

Finally! I've been waiting so long to publish the Pilot chapter of this work! It will be a lot of fun to try and write a human AU for MD. Based on my notes and storyboard, this will be a character-focused story instead of a story/progression-focused work, if that makes sense.

With that out of the way, enjoy!

Los Angeles reeks of desperation in 1930, the stench rising from its gutters like steam from a dead man's last breath.

 

In a forgotten alley off Figueroa Street, two young women pick through yesterday's refuse. The shorter one, with short purple hair sticking out beneath a striped bandana, kicks at an empty crate with a worn boot. Splinters crack and scatter across the filthy concrete.

 

"Find anything worth a damn, Doll?" Uzi Doorman calls to her adoptive cousin, her voice echoing off brick walls covered in peeling posters promising jobs that don't exist anymore.

 

Doll Brizhanna doesn't look up, her long indigo hair falling forward as she methodically sifts through a pile of discarded newspapers. Her neon orange eyes scan each page before moving on. "No," she answers simply, her voice barely carrying over the distant rumble of automobiles.

 

Uzi spits on the ground, a gesture of contempt for their circumstances. "Another day of nothing. You know what my old man said last night? Said the factory's cutting hours again. Like they haven't cut enough already." She jams her hands into the pockets of her patched leather jacket. "Veteran of the Great War, and what's it got him? Jack shit."

 

The memories rise unbidden – her father Khan returning from the trenches with nightmares that still wake him screaming, only to find work disappearing as the economy collapsed. Then her mother Nori, coughing blood into handkerchiefs they couldn't afford to replace.

 

"If we had money for a doctor, she'd still be here," Uzi continues, kicking the broken crate again. "But no, Hoover and his fancy boys in Washington are too busy chasing bootleggers to give a rat's ass about people starving in the streets."

 

Doll straightens up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes, unnaturally bright against her pale skin, hold a quiet understanding. "At least you can vote them out next time," she says softly. "In Russia, my parents had no such luxury. And now with the Communists in power..." She doesn't finish the thought, but her fingers tighten around the newspaper in her hand.

 

Above them, laundry lines crisscross between buildings, sad flags of poverty fluttering in the hot California breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wails, and both women instinctively tense, though neither has done anything wrong – existence itself feels criminal these days.

 

Neither of them notices the three well-dressed, golden-eyed figures who've just turned into the far end of the alley, moving with the confidence of those who own every inch of ground beneath their polished shoes.

 

"Look," Doll says suddenly, crouching beside a half-buried wooden box tucked against the alley wall. Her nimble fingers work at the rusted latch. "Something interesting."

 

Uzi hurries over, hope flickering across her face for the first time today. "What is it? Booze? Money?"

 

The box creaks open to reveal several tarnished silver spoons and what appears to be a small jewelry box. Actual valuables—the kind that could mean food for a week if they find the right fence.

 

"Bozhe moy," Doll whispers, her Russian slipping out in rare excitement.

 

"Well, well, well. What do we have here, En?"

 

The voice cuts through the alley like a knife, making both cousins freeze. Uzi turns slowly to see a slim woman with sharp silver hair styled in a bob cut standing at the entrance to their alley. She adjusts her large round glasses with one hand, the other gripping a baseball bat that she taps rhythmically against the ground. Her red scarf flutters in the breeze like a warning flag.

 

The tall man beside her smiles pleasantly, his fluffy silver hair visible beneath a newsboy cap. Despite his friendly demeanor, his eyes scan the scene like a predator. "I don't know, Vi," he replies, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Hey, what do you think, Jay?"

 

A third figure steps forward from the shadows, smoke curling around her immaculately styled silver pigtails. She takes one last drag from her cigarette before flicking it to the ground and crushing it beneath a polished leather shoe. The movement is unhurried, deliberate—the action of someone who has all the time in the world because they make the rules.

 

She reaches inside her blazer and pulls out a gleaming pistol. With her free hand, she pushes her sunglasses up to reveal eyes like molten gold.

 

"What I think," she says, her voice carrying the clipped tones of boardroom authority, "is that we have a pair of rats scrounging in JCJenson territory." She gestures with the gun. "And you know our policy on unauthorized salvage operations, don't you?"

 

Uzi's heart hammers in her chest, but her face hardens into defiance. She's faced down bullies before, though none carrying guns and wearing suits that cost more than her family's monthly income.

 

"Bite me. This is a public alley," she spits back. "Didn't see your name on it."

 

The leader—Jay—laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "Enrico, educate our trespassers on local property rights."

 

The friendly-looking man, Enrico, steps forward, his smile never wavering. "You see, ladies, while this might appear to be public property, there's been a recent... renegotiation of municipal boundaries. Everything from Third Street to Seventh now falls under JCJenson management." He gestures expansively. "Including this charming little alleyway and all contents therein."

 

Doll has silently shifted her weight, positioning herself for a quick escape. Her eyes meet Uzi's for a fraction of a second—a plan forming between them without words.

 

"So that box you've found," the woman with the bat—Vi—continues, stepping closer, "belongs to us. Along with anything else of value in this trash heap."

 

Uzi's fingers close around a pocket knife hidden in her jacket pocket. She won't go down without a fight, but three against two—with at least one gun in play—means fighting isn't their best option.

 

Jay tilts her head, golden eyes narrowing as she studies the tension in Uzi and Doll's bodies. The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

 

"What's the rush, ladies? You seem... anxious." She holsters her pistol with a flourish. "Why don't you stay for a little lunch break? We're just getting acquainted."

 

Vi swings her bat up to rest against her palm, her spectacles glinting in the dim alley light. "Yeah, we could offer you a club sandwich." She taps the bat meaningfully against her palm. "Emphasis on the club."

 

Enrico bursts into laughter, slapping his knee. "Or maybe they'd prefer to get battered and fried?" He looks between his sisters, clearly pleased with himself. "Get it, Viola? Battered?"

 

Vi, or Viola's sharp laugh echoes off the brick walls as she doubles over. "Good one, En! Maybe finish with some pound cake, eh?"

 

Their laughter fills the alley, but Jay's expression darkens. In a swift motion, she reaches out and smacks both siblings on the back of their heads, hard enough to make Enrico's cap slip forward and jostles Viola’s glasses.

 

"For Christ's sake, show some professionalism! We represent JCJenson, not some two-bit vaudeville act!"

 

In that split second of distraction, Uzi and Doll exchange a lightning-quick glance. Without hesitation, they bolt – Uzi snatching the jewelry box from the ground as they launch into a dead sprint toward the opposite end of the alley.

 

Enrico, rubbing his head, spots their escape first. "Hey Jay, think our friends requested their lunch to-go?"

 

"What are you talking about?" Jay snaps, still focused on disciplining her siblings.

 

Enrico points down the alley where the two women are rapidly disappearing around a corner. "Because there they go!"

 

"Goddammit!" Jay's face contorts with rage. "After them! NOW!"

 

Viola and Enrico take off immediately, their shoes slapping against the concrete. Jay follows a moment later, pulling her gun back out and firing a warning shot that ricochets off a fire escape with a metallic ping, the sound echoing like thunder off the alley walls.

 

---

 

Uzi and Doll tear through the back streets of Los Angeles, their feet finding every shortcut and hidden passage with the instinct of those who've spent their lives navigating its underbelly. They duck under clotheslines, vault over trash cans, and squeeze through a narrow gap between buildings that their pursuers will struggle to follow through.

 

"This way!" Uzi gasps, yanking Doll down a service alley behind a row of restaurants. The smell of garbage and cooking grease fills their nostrils as they splash through puddles of questionable origin.

 

Behind them, they can hear Viola shouting directions to her siblings, her voice bouncing off the brick walls. "Cut them off at Seventh! Enrico, go right!”

 

Doll spots a narrow gap between two brick buildings, barely wide enough for their shoulders. "Here!" she hisses, grabbing Uzi's arm and pulling her into the crevice. They shimmy sideways through the tight space, the rough brick scraping against their backs. Behind them, Viola's voice echoes, growing more distant as she charges past their hiding spot.

 

"She missed us," Uzi whispers, clutching the jewelry box tight against her chest, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs. The small space smells of mildew and cat piss, but right now it might as well be perfume.

 

Doll presses her finger to her lips, her eyes scanning the sliver of alleyway visible from their hideout. After thirty seconds of silence, she nods. "Clear, I think."

 

They edge out cautiously, Uzi going first, her knuckles white around the jewelry box. The alley seems empty, the sounds of pursuit faded into the general cacophony of the city. Uzi takes a deep breath, relief washing over her.

 

"We should split up," Doll suggests, brushing brick dust from her wool coat. "Meet at—"

 

As they step out into the connecting street, a figure materializes directly in their path. Enrico Sembly stands before them, his cheerful face somehow more menacing than his sister's open hostility. His newsboy cap sits at a jaunty angle as he reaches inside his coat.

 

"Ladies! What a pleasant coincidence," he says, drawing a revolver from beneath his coat. The barrel gleams dully in the midday sun. "I'm terribly sorry about this unpleasantness. Business, you understand."

 

His apologetic smile never wavers as he levels the gun at Uzi's chest. "The box, if you would be so kind."

 

Time slows for Uzi. The weight of the jewelry box in her hand suddenly feels significant – not just for whatever valuables it might contain, but as her only weapon. Without conscious thought, her arm whips forward, hurling the box directly at Enrico's face.

 

It connects with a solid thunk against his forehead. In the same instant, Doll drops low, sweeping her leg in a perfect arc that catches Enrico behind the ankles. He goes down hard, the back of his head cracking against the pavement with a sickening sound. The revolver clatters from his limp hand as his eyes roll back.

 

"Shit," Uzi breathes, staring at the unconscious gangster. Blood begins to seep from beneath his silver hair, forming a small crimson halo on the dirty concrete.

 

She snatches up the revolver, her finger finding the trigger naturally. For a moment, she considers finishing the job. One less crook in the world would hardly be a tragedy. The gun feels heavy and right in her hand, like it belongs there.

 

But Uzi hesitates. A gunshot would bring the cops – and worse, the other siblings. Besides, whatever her moral failings, she's never killed anyone, and starting with an unconscious man seems... cheap somehow. Wrong in a way she can't articulate.

 

"We need to move," Doll says urgently, already retrieving the jewelry box from where it landed.

 

Uzi nods, tucking the revolver into her jacket pocket. "This'll fetch a nice price too," she mutters, casting one last glance at Enrico's still form.

 

They burst out onto Seventh Street, where midday shoppers and businessmen crowd the sidewalks. Uzi grabs Doll's hand, and they plunge into the sea of bodies, letting the current of humanity carry them away from danger. Men in suits and women with shopping bags barely notice the two disheveled young women pushing through their midst.

 

"Keep your head down," Uzi hisses, though Doll hardly needs the reminder. Her cousin has already pulled her long indigo hair forward to partially obscure her distinctive eyes.

 

They weave through the crowd with practiced ease, using baby carriages and newspaper vendors as shields. When they reach the intersection, they dart across against the light, ignoring the blaring horns of automobiles forced to brake suddenly.

 

On the other side, they duck into another network of alleyways, these unfamiliar but offering blessed anonymity. Uzi's lungs burn as they finally slow their pace, putting enough distance between themselves and the Sembly’s territory to breathe easier.

 

"Think we lost them?" Doll asks, leaning against a wall to catch her breath.

 

Uzi nods, feeling the weight of Enrico's gun in her pocket. "For now. But they'll be looking." She pulls out the jewelry box, examining it properly for the first time. The lid is dented where it connected with Enrico's skull, but the box itself seems intact. "Let's see what was worth nearly dying for."

 

Uzi's fingers work at the dented latch, but before she can pry it open, a sharp cry pierces the air—a woman's voice, tinged with fear and anger. Both cousins freeze, heads snapping toward the sound.

 

"Please, stop!" The voice comes again, closer this time, from around the corner.

 

Doll's eyes meet Uzi's. "We should keep moving," she whispers, ever practical. "Not our problem."

 

But something in Uzi's chest tightens. She's walked away before—everyone in this godforsaken city has. You mind your business if you want to keep breathing. Yet the desperation in that voice pulls at something buried deep beneath her cynicism.

 

"Just a look," Uzi mutters, already moving toward the sound, the jewelry box clutched in one hand while the other slides into her pocket, fingers wrapping around Enrico's revolver.

 

Doll sighs but follows, silent as a shadow.

 

They peer around the corner into a narrow service passage. A man in a rumpled suit has a woman backed against the wall. His meaty hand grips her wrist, twisting it as she struggles. The woman is dressed too fine for this part of town—a tailored black dress with a corset-like structure hugs her figure, and despite the circumstances, her styled black twin tails remain nearly perfect beneath a large, tilted bow.

 

"I told you," the man hisses, alcohol heavy on his breath, "Mr. Tanner wants his money. Think you're too good to pay your debts just 'cause you got fancy friends now?"

 

"Take your hands off me," the woman demands, her voice remarkably steady despite her predicament. "We don't owe Mr. Tanner anything. And he doesn’t own this part of town."

 

The man laughs, an ugly sound. "That ain't what his ledger says, sweetheart."

 

Uzi has seen this scene play out a hundred times before. Smart money says walk away. Let the rich lady handle her own problems. But her hand is already drawing the revolver, her feet carrying her forward before her brain can catch up with her instincts.

 

"Hey, asshole!" Uzi's voice echoes off the brick walls as she levels the gun at the man's head. Her grip is steady, her stance wide—like she's been holding guns her whole life instead of just the past five minutes. "I think the lady asked you to let go."

 

The man's head whips around, his eyes widening at the sight of the revolver. "This ain't your business, kid."

 

"I'm making it my business." Uzi cocks the hammer with her thumb, the metallic click impossibly loud in the narrow alley. "Now let her go before I paint these walls with whatever passes for your brains."

 

Something in her eyes must convince him she means it, because he releases the woman's wrist and steps back, hands raised. "Jesus, alright! Crazy bitch."

 

"Keep walking," Uzi says, gesturing with the gun barrel. "And tell your boss he can take his ledger and shove it up his ass."

 

The man backs away, face contorted with humiliation and rage. "You just made a big mistake," he spits before turning and hurrying away, his footsteps fading into the ambient noise of the city.

 

Only when he's gone does Uzi lower the revolver, her heart pounding against her ribs. She's not sure what possessed her to intervene—only that something in her couldn't stand by and watch. Not today.

 

"You alright, lady?" she asks, sliding the gun back into her pocket.

 

The woman straightens her dress, rubbing her wrist where angry red marks are already forming. Despite her disheveled state, she carries herself with unmistakable poise. Up close, Uzi can see that her dress isn't just fine—it's expensive, the kind of garment neither Uzi nor Doll could hope to afford in a lifetime of honest work.

 

"Thanks to you," the woman says, her voice warm with gratitude. "That was quite brave. Not many people would step in like that." Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, study both Uzi and Doll with interest. "May I ask your names?"

 

Uzi hesitates, street instinct warning against giving information to strangers—especially well-dressed ones. But something about the woman's direct gaze disarms her.

 

"Uzi," she answers finally. "And this is Doll."

 

Doll gives a slight nod, her orange eyes wary as she takes in the woman's expensive attire and confident bearing.

 

"I'm Tessa. Tessa Elliott." She extends a delicate hand, then smiles when neither woman moves to shake it. "Well, Uzi and Doll, you've done me a tremendous service today."

 

Tessa reaches into a small purse that hangs at her side and withdraws something green and crisp. "Please, allow me to express my gratitude."

 

She holds out a bill, and Uzi's eyes widen as she recognizes the denomination. One hundred dollars. A Benjamin. More money than she's seen in one place since before the Crash.

 

"Take it," Tessa insists, pressing the bill into Uzi's stunned hand. "It's the least I can do."

 

Uzi stares at the money, unable to form words. Beside her, Doll's usually impassive face shows rare astonishment.

 

Tessa simply winks at them, adjusting her tilted bow. "Until we meet again," she says, turning to walk away with the confident stride of someone who's never had to question their place in the world.

 

As she reaches the end of the alley, Tessa allows herself a small, private smile. She wonders how her Jaybird is doing on patrol today. Jayden has been so tense lately, so focused on business. Perhaps tonight Tessa can help her relax, take her mind off JCJenson matters for a while. She hums softly to herself as she steps out into the sunlight, leaving the two stunned women behind her.

 

Back in the alley, Uzi finally finds her voice. "Holy shit," she breathes, staring at the hundred-dollar bill in her hand. "Did that just happen?"

 

Doll peers at the money, her expression guarded. "Who pays strangers a hundred dollars for chasing off a debt collector?"

 

"Someone with money to burn," Uzi replies, carefully folding the bill and tucking it into her inner jacket pocket, right next to her heart. "Or someone with something to hide."

 

The jewelry box suddenly seems less important as they consider the implications of their unexpected windfall. A hundred dollars could mean real food, a fresh set of clothes, maybe even a month's rent paid in advance.

 

"We should get moving," Doll says softly. "If that woman is connected to the kind of people who throw around hundreds like pennies, we don't want to be found here."

 

Uzi nods, patting her pocket to feel the reassuring bulk of both the money and the revolver. "Let's fence this box first," she says, "then figure out what to do with our small fortune."

...

...

...

“WE WERE SO CLOSE!!!”

 

A metal trashcan flies across the alley, slamming into the brick wall with a deafening clang. Garbage spills across the filthy concrete as Viola Sembly's boot connects with another can, sending it skidding.

 

"Fucking hell!" she screams, her voice echoing off the narrow walls. Her silver bob swings wildly as she paces, fists clenched so tight her knuckles have gone white. "We had them! They were right there!"

 

Nearby, Enrico sits slumped against the wall, gingerly touching the back of his head. Blood has matted his silver hair, and his normally cheerful face is drawn with pain. The newsboy cap lies crumpled beside him, stained with dirt and dried blood.

 

"Those little bitches could be anywhere by now," Viola continues, viciously throwing a discarded whiskey bottle. It shatters against the opposite wall. "Anywhere in this godforsaken mess of a city!"

 

Enrico winces at the noise, his golden eyes following his sister's violent trajectory across the alley. "Vi, maybe we should—"

 

"And they took your gun!" She whirls toward him, her large glasses flashing in the dim light. "Your gun, En! Do you have any idea what Jayden's going to say about that?"

 

The mention of their older sister makes both siblings go quiet. In the sudden silence, distant traffic sounds filter down into the alley—horns honking, engines rumbling, the occasional shout. Life continuing as normal while their world teeters on the edge of disaster.

 

"We have to report back," Viola finally says, her voice dropping to something almost like defeat. She adjusts her glasses, a nervous habit she's had since childhood. "Jay will be waiting, and she'll expect results."

 

"And we have none," Enrico finishes, his usually cheerful voice flat.

 

The unspoken truth hangs between them. Jayden Sembly does not tolerate failure, not even—perhaps especially not—from her own siblings. The last runner who'd lost JCJenson merchandise had been found floating in the harbor two days later, missing several important body parts.

 

"We could..." Enrico hesitates, then plunges ahead. "We could lie."

 

Viola stops dead in her tracks, then spins toward him with such speed that her silver hair whips across her face.

 

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" she screams, storming toward him with her hand raised. "Lie to Jayden? Do you have a death wish?"

 

Enrico flinches but holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Just hear me out, Vi! Please!"

 

Something in his voice—the desperation, perhaps, or the pain—cuts through Viola's rage. She lowers her hand, chest still heaving with anger, but listens.

 

"Do you really want to face Jay's wrath?" Enrico asks quietly. "Tell her we not only lost those two, but that one of them knocked me cold and took my piece?"

 

The question hangs in the air between them. Both siblings know the answer.

 

A shiver runs through Viola's slim frame, followed quickly by one through Enrico's broader shoulders. The memory of Jayden's last "disciplinary action" is still fresh—the cold calculation in her golden eyes as she broke their new recruit's fingers one by one for skimming from the register.

 

"What's your bright idea, then?" Viola asks, her voice now hushed, as if Jayden might somehow hear them from across the city.

 

Enrico straightens up slightly, flicking a speck from his collar. "We tell her we caught them. Roughed them up good as a warning, then let them go."

 

Viola's brow furrows. "Why would we let them go?"

 

"Because," Enrico says, warming to his plan, "alive and frightened victims can tell stories. Spread the word about what happens when you cross JCJenson. Dead men- well, women, tell no tales, but two terrified girls can warn everyone they know to stay clear of our territory."

 

A slow, reluctant smile spreads across Viola's face. She reaches down, offering Enrico a hand up. "Sometimes you're not as dumb as you look, little brother."

 

He takes her hand, grimacing as she pulls him to his feet. "Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

 

As they dust themselves off, the lie takes shape between them—the details of the invented confrontation, the fictional pleading of their victims, the merciful restraint they'd shown as representatives of JCJenson's interests.

 

"We'll need to be convincing," Viola says, straightening her scarf. "Jay can smell bullshit a mile away."

 

Enrico nods, replacing his bloodied cap at a tilted angle. "I'll let you do most of the talking. You've always been better at lying than me."

 

"A skill honed from years of covering your ass," she retorts, but there's no real bite to it.

 

They stand together at the mouth of the alley, preparing to return to the speakeasy where Jayden will be waiting. The afternoon sun catches on Viola's glasses as she looks up at the sliver of sky visible between buildings.

 

"What do you think Cook's making for dinner?" Enrico asks, his thoughts already turning to more immediate comforts. "I'm hoping for that beef stew with the dumplings."

 

Viola doesn't answer. Instead, she closes her eyes briefly, lips moving in a silent prayer that their hastily constructed plan will be enough to save them from Jayden's wrath. When she opens them again, her face has hardened into its familiar mask of ruthless confidence.

 

"Let's go," she says, stepping out onto the street with her head held high, as if they're returning in triumph rather than defeat.

 

"And hopefully ‘Lizabeth will be singing tonight," Viola adds, almost as an afterthought. "Been a while since we had decent entertainment."

 

Enrico nods and follows, his cheerful facade sliding back into place despite the throbbing pain in his skull. Together, they walk toward the heart of JCJenson territory, their shadows stretching long behind them as the sun begins its descent toward evening.

 

Three blocks away, Uzi and Doll hurry through crowded streets, a hundred-dollar bill burning a hole in Uzi's pocket and a stolen gun pressing against her ribs—unaware that back in the alley, their pursuers are constructing a fiction that will soon tangle with their reality in ways none of them can predict.

Notes:

I will sneak in a few references and easter eggs in well, pretty much every chapter. See how many you can spot and include them in a comment! I will post the answers in next week's chapter!

Translation:
Bozhe moy = My god

Notes:

Those who have read my other multi-chapter work J-unction of Madness will know that I loathe writing multi-chapter works. So why make one if I know I won't be able to give this story a proper conclusion, too? I do not know. But I know I love this fandom, I love my readers, and I love this idea I came up with, and it would feel like a waste letting my ideas sit in my head and be forgotten come the time I inevitably lose interest in Murder Drones.

Therefore, I wish to write them down and turn them into something that can be seen and enjoyed for years to come. If you wish to continue with the foundation I have built, feel free to turn it into your own story. Just... let me know and give proper credit, and I will have no problems.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Stout's Murder Drones Collection