We both talk about it.

Arabella didn’t seem enthusiastic at first, but after allowing her to use her voice in the discussion, you found her to be quite usual for ideas. Even though you both equally offered some imperfect ideas to resolve the issue. However, this was boiled to one strong agreement. Sneaking in would be impossible— it would be easier to maintain a single-use identity.

Your throw-away personality was going to a trader issuing out girls with duel purpose functions. What products do you have in hand? Arabella, of course.

The whole idea seemed relatively foolproof, but at the same time, the gamble, despite Arabella’s earlier warning, seemed stupidly high. However, as your conversation went on about alternatives, it became blatantly evident that there was no other choice play to be made. Arabella continues, recommending a custom mask that either she or one of the others can make; she briefly suggested that maybe you could have used the title of the Automatic Rifle Syndicate but then thought otherwise.

They had as many allies as enemies, so adding more to the table was pointless. An Independent contract would have to do for this called-upon-situation. You can play that role well.

In the meantime, you carefully spent the next few days living an uninterrupted lifestyle. At first, the loss of enforcement wasn’t noticed, but as more and more of the raider faction filtered in, the decay of standards drifted into everyone’s lives. By the fourth day, it was obvious that you had **** but to do as you planned.

Gwendolion and Mikko were easy to deal with and seemed to understand what was expected of them. Though, you can’t help but still worry about what will happen to them if your plan turns sideways. It’s easily buried, however. The likelihood of your plan falling apart wasn’t entirely high. As long as you keep your head cool and your thought process clear of distractions, that is.

Your attire is casual. Jeans, half-length boots, and a jacket adorned with a pistol belt, stacked as expected. First-aid, extra magazines for your sidearm, and some other pouches. It wasn’t the 1870s, but it wasn’t uncommon for someone in this fashion to be walking around. The only uncouth thing about you was the mask's black fabric with tinted eyepieces.

Arabella, being a type of “product,” was dressed much differently. She had a shirt skirt on with leggings and a corset that revealed much of her cleavage and endorsed her slim hourglass figure. She had her fox-tone hair long and out of her face. The twins helped with the makeup, so by the time she was done, she looked exactly like the others once were; A Fuck Toy Object. You fix a lease on her and take her outside. The atmosphere is full of tension. Steadily, your heart starts to race. There is no turning back now.

You held your breath in. And you kept it in your system until you couldn’t hold it any longer. All the oxygen left your lungs in one deep breath. There were a lot of people here. They seemed to be your typical waster, but they were numerous and all armed to the teeth with equipment. Sure, they are different in quality, but you know they didn’t obtain these things by making them. They were looted, war trophies and tools retrieved from battles and clan wars.

Arabella remained close to you, especially as she gathered the attention of some of the men, who quickly resorted down to catcalling and whistles. Sometimes, they’d even draw close and make comments about her to Arabella’s face. She’d sometimes giggle, but always she looked away. The idea of having these guys getting their hands on her made your skin crawl.

At the precinct, it didn’t get any better. The leftover officers that were in charge were left out front, tied up, and executed for the townfolk to see. There were also a few contractors there, but none of them were Scarlet, which intensified the tension you were already experiencing.

You tugged on Arabella’s lease, which made her take a few steps forward. “Stay close,” you whispered, darting your hidden eyes to one of the armed guards out front, drinking with a thick cigar between his fingers.

He saw you but then fixed his gaze on Arabella. He held up a hand and waved a few others nearby to come over. He spat and smudged his smoking cigar on his wrist as he regarded you. He was bulky, and his biceps were veiny. “Fuck are you?”

You shifted your weight. “Selling product.”

The man didn’t leave Arabella’s cleavage when he regarded you with his words, but now he looked at her longingly. “You don’t say?” He reached out, but you tugged Arabella backward.

“I’m looking for you boss.”

“You’re gonna find anything until I get to get a closer look at your product,” he said. “You going to let us good hands-on with the product, or is the performance of your shit just that?”

You looked at Arabella and noticed her tail was deathly still.

“It’s for your boss,” you explain, not intending to budge.

The man flashed his pistol belt– a 6-shooter, but you couldn’t find any details about it that would make it memorable. “And this could be for you if you think you’re going to go anywhere without my go-ahead.”

Arabella coughed and rolled her fingers on the leather lease against her neck. “Just get this over with,” she whispered to you. “We’re wasting time…”