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The streets of Persephone were crowded, despite the cold. Out by the port, vendors were setting up their night markets and ships were closing up for the night, or taking off. All of this activity seemed lost however, on the women of The Quivering Hills. The building stood on the corner, on the other side of the port, away from the hubbub and chaos. The building was old and its paper walls painted red. No one came and went through the sliding doors at the front, nor did anyone light the paper lanterns hung from the front overhang. It was a quiet night there, a night of mourning.

"Are you sure you have to go, Pumpkin," the young woman asked. She couldn't be more than fifteen, her green eyes searching in the diffused lighting. She carried a wooden bucket full of dirty water, her red hair pulled back from her face with an old rag. ​

"Didn't think this was gonna be easy," the woman replied, smiling a bit. She lit a cigarette and glanced about the room. So many women here, so many unrealized dreams. So much unrequited love, and so much loneliness.

"You oughta know we ain't lettin' you go that easy," another woman said. This woman was markedly different than the first. This woman wore a gown draped with frills and her waist was clinched with a corset. In fact, most of the women appeared in the same dresses. On first glance, they appeared as expensive garments, decked with all manner of accouterments. But the one they called Pumpkin knew better. She knew that although this place looked wealthy, and although all of these women were beautiful, there was a deep sickness within each of them. Some were wasting away from love's disease, while others wasted in their sadness. No one was here because they wanted to be, even if all of their own choices brought them here.

Funny, though, how those choices didn't seem like choices at all.

"Our Pumpkin's destined for great things," an older woman said. Her skin was dark and her eyes were pale. And although she didn't have primary sight, she often found that that wasn't the sight that was important. She didn't wear the same dress as the others. They all sat with their legs bent under them, but this woman seemed to command the room. Her gray braids were tied back tightly from her face, and she wore but a simple, silken kimono. They said she had the second sight, and that she knew things that others couldn't. Mostly, though, those were stories to keep the lawmen away.

"I don't know about that," Pumpkin said, looking down at her hands. Her own clothes were markedly different. She wore a simple, black leather suit that clung to her body. Her heavy boots felt uncomfortable underneath her, as she mimicked the others with her hands in her lap and her legs bent delicately. Her hair, blonde like her father's, was pulled back from her face. There was a gun sitting next to her.

"We know you'll do great," the old woman said. She smiled and extended her arm, patting Pumpkin's leg. She didn't need to add the second part to that sentence - because you have to. She didn't need to remind Pumpkin that she was their only hope.

Of course, none of them were getting out. Their lot in life was to be the end that men found. They wouldn't be getting their collective revenge on those who had hurt them, and all of them there had been hurt. But one of them could. One of them could avenge her past, and in doing so, each of those women and girls would be vindicated.

A tiny girl, small and insubstantial, moved about the assembled. She was another washer girl, like the girl with green eyes. But Pumpkin knew her fate. When she was old enough, she'd become another one of their number. She would share her bed but never her heart. All at once, Pumpkin's eyes filled with tears. She often pretended to be stronger than she was. She would save those tears for the dark of night, but never let them spill over into the morning. Her eyes, eyes like her mother, were almond and dark. She'd never seen her mother's eyes, but she had been told they were just like her mother's. And how fitting, she thought. To end up like her mother.

The little girl stood in front of Pumpkin and brought her tiny thumb to Pumpkin's cheek, wiping the tear away. Even as small as this one was, she knew the reality of their life. She knew the taste of tears, and she knew the pain of loss. How many of them died in a week from disease? How many of them succumbed to drink? And how many had this little one watched depart? She was unmercifully wise beyond her years.

"It'll be hard," the girl breathed, now cupping Pumpkin's face with her hands. "Here," she said, pulling away. She passed Pumpkin a necklace she'd made, likely from components pilfered from the johns who came and left things here. "But if anyone can do it... It'll be you," the little one said, smiling at Pumpkin.

Pumpkin held the necklace in her hands and looked down at it. They'd all given her so much. They'd given her more than anyone ever had, and they were but lowly whores, she thought. What did that say about the Verse? The necklace was a precious thing, but it was unremarkable. A smooth rock was fastened to the leather, and Pumpkin immediately pulled it over her head. She tucked it under the stiff leather of her suit. They had went without food for her, without electricity at times. Because, and she was reminded again, if she did not succeed, none of them could.

"I'll never forget any of you," Pumpkin said. "As long as I live."

"Don't talk that way," the old woman said, puffing away, the cigarette holder held between her fingers. "You'll come back to us and tell us of your victory."

Pumpkin smiled. This had been her home for more than six years and these women came to be family to her in a way she'd never known. She had come to them with nothing but the pressed Alliance uniform and a fear of dark spaces. "I can't ever repay you."

"You can," one woman said.

"Bring us the head of the man who hurt you," the old woman said. "Zara Velsik," the old woman said, moving to sit in front of Pumpkin now. She hadn't heard her own name spoken in so long, it took her by surprise. "You were born under a troubled sign. You know better than most that life is hard and it will only get harder. Give your heart to no man, and suffer no man to live."

"I'll do this," she said. She wasn't Pumpkin anymore. She was Zara, once again.

"We know, my girl," the old woman said. And although Zara was no girl any longer, she felt so small in the woman's dark stare. Her gnarled had was on Zara's cheek now, and she passed her thumb over Zara's skin. "You will do great things."
_

Zara shouldered her pack, ducking out into the snow. She could see her breath as she walked. She strode with purpose, feeling stronger and looking stronger than she was. She assumed that between the rifle at her back and the scar that marred her face, no one would challenge her. And it was that she was right. She made it to the port with no incident. The cloak fastened at her neck and the cowl about her face hid her features. Dressed in black, she blended well with the shadows. But looking upon the port, and realized just how far she'd come. She could hide in the shadows all she wanted, but the shadows were not her home. Not originally.

How long ago had she been wide-eyed Zara Velsik from Beaumonde? How long ago had she been the daughter of Gregor Velsik? How long ago had she had a bright future?

She didn't need the power of foresight like Madame had. She knew what her future held. It was, she knew, a one way trip. She'd never see her family again, and a part of her was happy about that.

Most of the ships were large, full of all sorts of questions, all sorts of wandering eyes. She tended to favor a small ship, a nondescript ship. After all, on a bigger ship, who knew who might recognize her? Who knew what Alliance busybody might want to thank her for her service? Who knew what petty criminal from Beaumonde might feel like settling an old score? And although this road she was headed down was a one-way trip, she'd have liked for it to be as boring and as mundane as possible. After all, wouldn't do any good to her if she ended up dead. There was one man in all the Verse, one man who must die.

She couldn't risk being detected before then.

The night was brighter here, with all of the floodlights from the ships on, all of the fires in trashcans. Zara stopped at a booth and bought a cup of steaming cider, strong and pungent with alcohol. She sipped it, passing in and out of the crowd. Sometime later, though, she'd stopped. There was a pile of crates and she sat atop one of them, not noticing any of the ships around her in the moment. She lit a cigarette, watching people pass from behind the shadows of her cowl. None of these ships seemed that great, but she supposed that it didn't have to look nice.

She rested her feet on a sturdy crate she'd been pulling along with her. Everything she needed was within the crate. If nothing else, the contents would get her where she wanted to go.

Now, if only she could find a ship...​