Stop it, stop it, stop it, Airin thought as she sped through the streets. Her mind was twisting itself into knots faster than even her speed could untangle. The tattoo gun strapped to her leg clanged with every step, every laboured breath. Her sneakers’ soles scraped harshly against the ground, offering traction and release as she willed.

This is not my problem. I promised myself. I promised myself I would not go back.

And yet, what was she doing?

Going back, she thought grimly.

It was only 4 months ago that the first opportunity presented itself. Brandy had shown up at her door with a wad of cash, an address, and an invitation. She had tried to charm her with promises of safety and future jobs, but Airin had pet her cat and slowly shut the door in Brandy’s face. Brandy had jammed her foot in the door.

“Think about it,” the brunette had said, all full of artificial pep and happiness. “You could make more in a few hours than you could make in a month here.”

Airin said nothing. She couldn’t stop staring at Brandy’s arms. Her bronze skin was covered in new scars, and the scars were covered by a large tattoo spanning both forearms. Brandy pulled the sleeves of her leather jacket over her arms, pretending it was something she intended to do, but Airin could see the deep creases in the arms of her leather jacket – she never pulled her sleeves down.

“I am happy here,” she signed with a free hand. Her cat, who at the time was Bean-Bean, was swaddled in the crook of her other arm. “I like art.”

“Yeah, you like art,” Brandy had argued, “but c’mon. You’ve told me before that you love the thrill of the chase, the red-hot adrenaline that pumps through your veins when you run. You hate slowness.”

“I hate people who are slow. There is a difference.”

“You can’t possibly be happy here,” Brandy exclaimed. “You love crime and death and destruction. You call it beautiful.”

“Loving crime and doing it are two different things,” replied Airin.

Brandy had sighed, seemingly given up. “Either way,” she said, tucking a piece of paper with an address on it into Airin’s signing hand, “you’re always welcome back.”

Then, she’d walked out of the salon and rammed into a passing gentleman, stealing his wallet in the confusion.

And now, Airin was speeding towards that address, the wrinkled piece of paper clutched in her hand. Stop it, she told herself firmly again. If she let herself get sucked back into this dark hole, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever crawl out. She wasn’t sure if she’d want to.

She arrived at a brownstone. After a long second of confusion, she looked at the paper again, but her eyes didn’t deceive her. It would’ve looked like a cozy cottage for a family of 4 if the roof wasn’t fused with the underside of the ground above it. It looked like the most easy solve ever, with its brick walls covered in handholds and sliding glass screen doors without rods jamming them shut. On closer inspection, Airin could see the blades glinting from behind loose stones, the alarm wire running across anything with a seam, and faded blood, remnants of past battles, peeking out from behind the flecked paint of the windowsills. This wasn’t a rich merchant’s underground getaway. It was a safehouse for murderers and thieves.

She was debated whether to ring the doorbell. Chances were it would be rude not to, but dangerous to potentially trigger an alarm or a trap she couldn’t hear. It didn’t matter though; the door was wide open. She felt vibrations coming from under her feet. Something was being slammed into the wall. A lot.

Brandy was getting beat to a pulp.

She sized up the situation again. There was Nollie, knife teleported down a drain, a good amount of head injuries and holding an ugly wizard statue. There was her, unarmed, barely able to keep her eyes open, cut all over and considerably smaller and weaker. It didn’t look good.

She wasn’t even trying to attack anymore; all her energy was focused on keeping those fists away from her face. She briefly considered running upstairs and diving through a window, but if she ever wanted to show her face in her own gang’s territory again, she couldn’t run away from this fight.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw something move behind a stack of boxes. Brandy’s heart jumped – thank the saints. She could recognize that white bob anywhere. She was saved. But Airin wasn’t rushing to help her, she was signing furiously, her hands a blur. Either she forgot Brandy couldn’t see at super speed or she didn’t care. Brandy signed “busy,” and immediately got hit with a swift uppercut.

“What are you looking at?” Nollie taunted.

“Just wondering why ‘busy’ needs both hands, a giant sweeping motion, and for me to praise the ashen messiah to sign,” Brandy muttered.

Airin stifled an angry hum. Did she have to do everything  herself?

With a bang, the boxes she were hiding behind crashed to the floor. The brute fighting Brandy spared a look, and Airin struck.

Ink met bone as Airin stabbed her tattoo gun as deep into his arm as it would go. He howled in pain and tried to wrench her off, but he discovered she wasn’t there. She had simply let her momentum carry her forward, and tucked and rolled and crashed into the wall.

While he was distracted, Brandy shoulder-checked Nollie with all that she had, sending him tumbling backward.

“The bigger they are,” Brandy quipped.

“Come on,” Airin gestured, already fixing to run away. She pulled on Brandy’s sleeve, but she didn’t move. Airin shot back an irritated stare. Brandy smiled sheepishly, throwing her arms into a shrug. Airin huffed, “are you trying  to die before you turn 18?”

“Bro, I live here.”

Airin raised an arm, then lowered it, then raised it again. “First of all, this is gang central,” Airin signed. “Second, fine.”

Brandy’s smile wavered. “Wait, what does ‘fine’ mean? Hello? Hel – hey, what does ‘fine’ mean? Friend? Frie –”

Airin marched up to Nollie, collapsed amidst the shattered splinters of what used to be a shelf. He was moaning, and his skin was slick with sweat. Airin put her face as close to his as she dared, and in a voice like gravel and stone, laced with darkness and barely contained rage, she hissed, “leave, or die.” Slowly, she pulled the ink gun out of the large man’s arm. He was too shaken to even complain.

“I – I’m not – you’re dead,” he stammered out, but the dark veins bulging through his skin and snaking across his eyes didn’t help his point.

Brandy wasn’t particularly concerned about his threat. She poked at her chipped nails. “You should probably get to a hospital,” she mentioned. “Also, friend, ‘leave or die?’”

Airin wiped the tip of the gun on her leggings. The ink and blood had pooled together and left a dirty, reddish-coppery streak down her pants. She sighed. If only she could bottle it up. Her ink was never close enough to the colour of blood for her liking. “I do not know much English,” she signed.

The brute moaned.

“C’mon,” Brandy said, and the two girls got ready to haul Nollie to his feet.

“Maybe I’ll go run with a different crew,” he said deliriously. Brandy and Airin shared a smirk. “Maybe I’ll go find the Red Cloaks, or… maybe I’ll go run with Team Underground, or…”

“Wait, what? Hold on, back up, Team Underground?” Brandy said.

Nollie laughed airily. His skin was a sickly shade of green. Airin was suddenly very concerned about the ingredients in her ink. “Team Underground is back,” he said, coughing. “They’re back and they’re going to bulldoze all over you and your little teleporting tricks.”

Brandy chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

“You should. Haven’t you heard?” the brute said, his voice trailing off. “They stuck the president.”

Brandy laughed. “Can you believe this guy?” she said, nearly dropping the arm she was carrying. Airin wasn’t laughing. “...can you?”

“We need to talk,” signed Airin, “but after we drop him off at a hospital.”