Cracking your fingers, you shut the door to your workshop happily and shoveled a pile of dollar-store cleaning products off your desk and into a bin. Another sheet of butcher paper, now, and you could start work on the trinket from Hell- literally, as you tabbed through Homer's cliff notes on the Lesser Key. Working with a string and grease pencil, you started duplicating the assorted demonology signs, before the butcher paper started deforming and warping. Slamming a rod of rebar into it, you laughed as the paper curled around the rod of iron, hissing faintly.
"
'Tis a damn tough life, full of toil and strife, we crafter-men must go." you sang, pulling out a basin of holy water and a paintbrush. Flicking the water over it, the devilish insignia and knowledge spat and burned as the outside of the paper became hostile, mirroring their work into the rebar. "
And we don't give a damn when the day is done, how hard the fires did blow."
As the paper finally gave up the ghost and turned into a thin, cinder-coated ash, you pulled on a pair of work-gloves and dusted the filth of the remains off the rod, now scarred with demonic symbols inversed in progress. Pulling out a brown paper bag, you scooped the ashes into it, before throwing the holding bag into a Tupperware container you'd painstakingly lined in tinfoil and pentagrams. That aught to hold it for… two weeks tops? Therabouts. The real bastard was having to burn the Tupperware afterwards, but it was a yard sale special you hadn't quite gotten all the mold out of yet, so no major loss. Either way, back to work.
The real trick to building a trinket, as far as you were concerned, was knowing how to take advantage of the mutability of magically sympathetic relationships. Cut a lock of your hair off, and it was still a lock of your hair, and ergo part of you. Demonic sigils weren't nearly so tied, but you still knew they were a part of the source material, and could be manipulated as such to produce a desirable effect.
Speaking of desirable effects, it proabably wouldn't hurt to balance things out a little and get some of that moonstone used up. Knocking a chunk off with your chisel, you went over to your 2x4 vice and clamped it down, before wetting it and getting the 800 grit. It wouldn't be a perfect cabochon, but you'd try to get it knocked down smooth at least. Something favored your efforts, fortunately, so it was only an hour before you could switch up to the 1000 grit, and then 1200 as you brought the top to a shine. Rouge and Tripoli polishes would come next if you had any, but in lieu of that you had shoe polish and Dawn dish soap.
"
Will tomorrow ever come? Will I make it through the night?" you sang, smiling as the stone took shape and luster under your cloth. "
Will there ever be a place for the broken in the light?"
When the stone was done, you felt happy with its end size of maybe sixty carats. Putting it on the table, you crossed yourself and said a quick Our Father as it sparkled a tad too brightly for the terrible light of the workshop. Going over to light the fire under your magical forge, you made sure it was caught well before you went over to your bins of material. It took a minute for you to find the clockwork, but it wasn't long before you did. You needed an escarpment, a gutted mechanical pocketwatch, and a flat coil spring. Said old pocketwatch had been shot up, but it wasn't like you were keeping it the same size anyway. Gutting it, you arranged the pieces carefully before replacing the escarpment and pulling out an angle grinder to knock the demon-rebar apart with. Once that was done, you dovetailed each piece together, and made a rough diamond frame, from which you suspended the internals in via silver wire and a liberal dose of alcohol. Finally, the moonstone was added by means of a piece of tinplate and a sliding pin: when completed, rather than snapping open like a standard pocketwatch, the face-shield would dip out like a snuff tin.
Smiling as it was all put together, you set it in the forge, before sealing it and lighting the fire higher. As you stoked it up, it almost felt like a punch to the gut as the pull of power flew into the furnace. Trying to wrangle the flow was like guiding a hawser with a single thread, so you tried to find a way to focus. Singing generally worked, and with this much of your good stuff on the line, now was not the time to get creative!
"Oh God of earth and altar, bow down and hear our cry.
Our earthly rulers falter, our people drift and die.
The walls of gold entomb us, the swords of scorn divide.
Take not thy thunder from us, but take away our pride."
How long had you been working at this? It couldn't have been too long, as the sun still came in through your window. The flow of power made your forge glow, the fire a mere bagatelle next to the weight of magic pushing it's way through the system in a heady thrum of the vis of life. Leaning on the wall, you considered your work, and whether or not it was done yet. No, you decided. This wasn't over yet.
"From all that terror teaches, from lies of tongue and pen,
From all the easy speeches that comfort cruel men.
From sale and profanation, of honour and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation, deliver us, good Lord."
The thought of food or drink had crossed your mind, now, sweet and tempting, as the glow of the workplace started dying. Homer had promised to make onion soup, and the girls should have brought something as they increasingly brought their favorites in for keepsafe in your refrigerator. A cold Coke right now, oh, you could sell a soul for it if you didn't know how literal that saying was. When you were done, then. When you were done.
"Tie in a living teather the prince and priest and thrall,
Bind all our lives together, smite and save us all;
In ire and exultation, aflame with faith and free.
Lift up a living nation, a single sword to Thee."
Panting, you felt the flow of energy finally cease. Letting the song end, you went over, pulling on thermal-proof leather gloves as you dug the trinket out. How misguiding a name, for such an item of power. The diamond had become clean-shaped and faceted well, bends of the rebar becoming tooling patterns as the sigil-work became an underlayer only visible in the ghost of a reflection. The moonstone was the same size as before, but now cut and polished professionally and set in a bezel of silver, blending into the work of the front and polish-circles. A hidden button served to open the face, and inside the clockwork had become masterfully gilded, the internals ticking with a warm finality. Three buttons hid at the top right of the frame, right where your thumb would rest once you kicked aside the cover.
A workmen's intuition told you this was the true worth of the trinket. The first was a straight spell focus. Anything a magical girl did, up to and including breathing, would be just better. The second, a shielding ability and second sense for danger. No weapon would surprise, nor blade strike true, nor trap detect her. Finally, and most critically, the third button would stop the time of the clock- and thus, the time of the world. Oh, the magical metaphysics would be hell to explain, and the energy cost would be measured in days of nothingness as the trinket prepared to rend the natural order asunder… but once a week? Eight seconds of liberation from the strictest interpretation of reality.
It was your best work.
You also felt like death warmed over. Grabbing a shaft of rebar to hold yourself up, you thunked across the hall and into bed like a zombie, not even bothering to shut the door before your snores carried to the rest of the hotel. If anyone asked questions, Homer would handle it.
-/-/-/-/
Two days and a leather strap to hold the watch on later, you were sitting in the commissary, looking across the table at a girl in a green skirt, gold blouse, and the stupidest fucking beret you'd ever seen.
"This is Mistletoe?" you asked, squinting at her.
"What, you expect me to bring you some shining and sparkling thing that just walked off the set of Pr*tty C*r*?" Calypso asked, snorting. "Dream on, Medicine Boy."
"Listen, I expected something more homeless, not…" you said, waving your arms around. "all this."
Mistletoe flinched a little as your hands got a tad too close to her face and food. You'd even washed them, c'mon.
"Believe me, it could be so much worse." Calypso grunted. "You owe me one, man. I even gave her first pick of the loot when we kicked over a minor Witch, and she nabbed the Costume Seed!"
"awhat." You grumbled.
"It's a magical preset doohickey that Witches make. Looks sorta like a cotton puff except gem-y, then you magic it, and boom! Costume!"
Considering Calypso was sitting there in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a men's tourist trap T-shirt that read "HAKUNA SOME VODKA" that had either cigarette or bullet holes in it, you could believe it.
"Anyway, welcome to Casa del Chicas Brujas." You said, holding out a hand to shake. "I'm Medicine Boy."
"I'm uh-" Mistletoe said, before Calypso cut her off.
"Remember, don't tell him your real name."
"But you said he was a friend!" she squeaked. "You don't tell friends fake names!"
"You do when they expect it." You said, smiling slightly. "It keeps us safer."
"Then call me… Sofia." Mistletoe said, sighing. "I'll know who you're talking about then, at least.
"Sofia, the Mistletoe." You mussed. "Perfectly acceptable."
"When do you think you'll have more rooms available?"
"Now, if you want." Homer yelled from the kitchen. You felt zero guilt in making him cook, since A, you were still burnt out from Monday, and B, he was actually pretty good at it. Not better than you, of course, but the girls liked it. The fact he couldn't use his Library while you used your Workshop probably didn't hurt.
"You built another room?" you asked.
"Yeah, and I also got Goodyear to pillage an Army Surplus Store on the south side of town that's been abandoned since for-fucking-ever." Homer said, laughing. "All the furniture is OD Green, but why the hell would I care?"
"Which one?"
"Room twelve."
"Awesome." You said, grinning. "Sofia, how do you feel about your ability to pay rent?"
"I'm… uh…" Sofia floundered.
"What she means to say is, she's not sure she can always make rent." Calypso said, frowning. "She's been with me in my squat since Trissa disappeared, but-"
"Trissa disappeared?" you asked.
"Yeah. Hasn't shown up for four days now. I'm getting worried." Calypso said, lips pursed. "If you've got literally anything better than Molotovs and a butter knife, I'll do whatever you want to get it."
"Anything?" you asked, grinning.
"Anything." Calypso said, sighing. "The Alchemists are stepping shit up, and we can't interdict them reliably anymore. With the Witches on the board too… it was only Sofia there being able to guarantee a kill on the leader that let us go in. I have fuck and all to attack with anymore."
Smiling, you pulled out the watch, and held it in front of her.
"This is a four story building." You said, dead serious. "If I give this to you, you're committed to scraping out the second and third floors of shit, and remediating it to where it's useable. It'll probably take you at least a month, nine to five, every day, per floor."
Calypso was literally drooling into her soup.
"Also, anything you have not nailed down at your lair." you added. "You can crash rent-free in one of the rooms once you get it cleared out, but you're still paying normal rates for the facilities."
"Done, done, done." Calypso said. "I'll bring the bag of witchy shit over tonight, and I'll start work on Sunday."
You raised an eyebrow. "Because?"
"Friday night we're going after the Alchemists. Goodyear managed to get us in contact with a team of mixed magical girls and mercs, and we kicked in enough to get them to run LZ security for the job."
You grinned ferally. "Then good hunting."
-/-/-/-/-/
It was three in the morning on Saturday that the girls got back in a shot-up old pickup. Hauling two stretchers out of the back and sliding them to a stop in your lobby, you hissed as you saw the patients. Trompdoy had gotten most of her clothes burned off the left side of her body and several hideous-looking burns, while an unknown and black-clad man was bleeding profusely. Bleeding first.
Ripping open a women's hygiene pad, you professionally shoved it as deep in the gunshot wound as you could. Trying to dig the bullet out was for fools and morons, since the damn thing wasn't gonna hurt him more unless it jiggled around or got infected. We'd burn that bridge when we got to it. Your next step was a patch of glue on top, and then a massive torsion wrap to keep the veins around it pulled tight. Terse orders got him as stable as could be, and it wasn't arterial bleeding so he'd probably pull through.
Trompdoy, the poor gal, was a more complicated job. Aside from a few patches of burned-on plastic clothing that you had to cut off while not taking too much skin off, there just wasn't much you could do about a quarter of her body being covered in second-degree blisters and a few deep third degree burns. God, those were going to suck ass to treat.
"Eowyn." You said, glaring. "She's going to need fluids, lots of 'em. If you can, we need to get some Ringer's solution, about… fuck. At least four, less than six liters. Get more if you can, and some Silvicane too for later."
Eowyn shook her head at you, sighing. "Medicine Boy… how the fuck do you know this?"
"Dad was a veterinarian." you spat back. "Fucking get a move on it, or she'll go into more shock. Pharmacies should have it over the counter."
"Yes, Chief." She said, before diapering.
"Homer!" you yelled. Had to keep moving, keep treading water. "Water, and make a few weak batches of Gatorade, one tenth strength. It ain't the real deal, but it's good enough."
Looking Trompdoy in her pain-shocked eyes, you grit your teeth. This was going to be hell to work her through, but you'd do your best. That was all you had left, these days.
-/-/-/-/
Saturday morning came in like a hangover, probably from the cheep gin you'd used to try and chase away the memory of scrubbing out the third degree burns on Trompdoy's torso. Those were going to be hellishly deep scars. Sitting in the commissary with a look like death, you realized after three cups of coffee that across from you was the mercenary leader from last night.
"Hello, Medicine Boy." He said amicably. Bastard was seventeen at oldest, with a hint of a moustache and the sort of eminently punchable face you hated, complete with off-yellow skin typical of an Italian who didn't get enough sun. "Good work last night, no?"
"Fucking shitshow probably, I don't know." You growled. "Whataya want?"
"To leave a card, and thanks for putting Monroe back together." He said. "My name is Antonio Diovolo, leader of the Gray Skies group. If you're ever looking for work or need to hire some extra help, give us a call. Don't worry about the masquerade, either- everyone knows who we are."
You nodded, and glared at him. Taking his card, you held on to it for a minute, before he finally fucked off and left. Good. It was time for bitterness and coffee, before saving lives and carrying on with the rest of the day. What else was left to hit?
"Fuck." Muttered Eowyn as way of greating, nursing a cup of coffee and a plate of Costco hash browns. Truly, you spared no expense for the successful warriors of old.
"I already know it was a bad night." You groused, before wrapping your hand around the mug and cursing. You'd hit a bad spot, and burned your right… forefinger…
Damn phantom limb bullshit. You didn't even have that finger to burn anymore!
"Well, we burned the alchemists out root and branch, so outside Trompdoy getting blown to shit by a napalm trap, we did pretty good." Eowyn muttered. "So, option for you."
"Oh?"
"Trompdoy and I hauled in as our share of the loot four things. Some kind of cursed sword thing, which you can probably document and scrub up to sell; some grenades of assorted types; and most interestingly, this."
'This' turned out to be a little red stone thrumming with power, which your own machinations told you fuckall about as you stared at it with the sort of piercing gaze known to start drills and send people scattering.
"The fuck is it?" you asked, holding it up to the light. A sanguine light came out the other side, playing across your face and the table as your rotated the cabochon surface between your fingers, frowning slightly. "It's got a lot of power, but for what?"
"We have no idea." Eowyn said, shrugging. "Figure we can try and hawk it off to you, see if it'll cover rent."
"Throw in some cash for Trompdoy's medical expenses, and you could talk me into taking it."
"Great." Eowyn said, sighing. "Swing by my room when you've got the time. Also, do you mind if we replace your furniture?"
"No? I mean, why would I mind?"
"Because I found an IKEA catalog and I want a real fucking bed you cheapskate landlord."
You winced. Yeah. Might want to get on that some day. Not today, since you felt like sloshed shit, but some day.
/-/-/-/-/-
Votes
Eowyn & Trompdoy's Rent
[] Cursed Sword (Will result in a T3 Wand after spending a turn to Research)
[] 5x Alchemist Bombs (Will result in 5x T2 bombs after spending a turn to Research)
[] Strange Red Stone, 5x Mundanes (Will result in ???, which will have 25% odds per item of becoming ??? or a T5 Trinket and 50% odds of becoming 10x Demonic Stuff after spending a turn to Research)
Invite Mistletoe to your Hostel?
[] Yes (Gets Sophia the Mistletoe, a new Magical Girl. May not be able to make rent.)
[] No (No new girls added)
Build a Tool
[] Trinket
-[] Write in Level, between 1 and 3.
[] Wand
-[] Write in Level, between 1 and 1.
[] Bomb
-[] Write in Level, between 1 and 1.
[] No, you want to work on your building instead
[] No, you want to improve your workshop instead.
[] No, you want to research an item instead.
