In the almost permanently foggy old city of Valour, along a terribly paved road that wasn’t particularly fun to traverse even by foot, was a charmingly rundown two-story building that matched well with the aged wooden architecture of the area that was inherited from the previous empire that held the city several decades ago and was actually considered antiquated and ugly by those who lived in the newer parts of the city. The only two building elements the style ever used were white clay bricks and almost black wooden beams that contrasted each other starkly even in the dull gray fog that refused to leave the streets on most days. The locals themselves were rather proud of their curious style, and even though many would have considered the area ‘low-income’ or ‘impoverished’, the streets were kept clean from both litter and crime through rigorous community efforts. Generally enforced by a group of locals who fancied themselves as some type of a militia or rebels against the current rule. Though most of the fight in them had long since sputtered out, and the actual confrontations with the military police were now done by various groups of smugglers and other criminals nested in the almost forgotten city, with the rebels simply keeping the area safe for its residents. The aforementioned building was somewhat of a hub for these peacekeepers, as its lower floor was a bar that was both affordable and generally left alone by actual authorities that seldomly patrolled the area.
The proprietress of the said bar was a rather fierce woman, supposedly in her early thirties, and by the name of Rosie. Often referred as ‘amazonian’ in hushed, fearful tones by the regulars, she was tall and robust, though had plenty of barmaid-like qualities as well, much to the clientele’s enjoyment. Her long, reddish hair was often braided and full of colorful decorative beads and the tanned hue of her skin revealed that she had in fact arrived in Valour from somewhere down south, and it set her apart from the usual pasty looks of the locals.
With Rosie, lived her daughter, Anastacia, whom she had either stolen or found as a toddler – depending on who was telling the story. What was unmistakably true however, was that the two were not even remotely related to each other, as Anastacia was the complete polar opposite of her adoptive mother: pale, scrawny and unremarkable in most aspects. She was around nineteen years of age and beyond her almost white hair and turquoise eyes, she had no features that would have stood out for anyone. Yet there was one thing she was known for, an almost unnatural ability to repair any mechanical or electronic device. Even her mother didn’t quite understand where she had picked up most of it, but it was something she could do from a very young age. It had earned her a decent enough job from a nearby small appliance repair shop where she could refine her skills and earn enough to lift her fair share of burden from her mother’s shoulders.
On yet another thus far uneventful morning, Anastacia leaned against the counter of her mother’s bar and stirred her coffee with a spoon. Mornings had never been her favorite part of the day, but she needed to leave for work regardless, and it was nothing a mild caffeine poisoning didn’t fix.
“Have you ever considered going to bed before three in the morning?” Rosie asked while lifting some stools onto the tables so she could sweep the floor before opening the bar in a few hours.
“No.” Answered Anastacia bluntly and took a sip of her drink.
The barkeeper sighed. “Do I need to remind you that I don’t like you running around at night with that weird girl? She has leaves in her hair, and I think they grow there.”
“Is that really so different from the stick up your butt?” Anastacia smirked jokingly. “Leave Xammy be, we’re just collecting plants and a whole bunch of them only bloom at night.”
“Just be careful around her and don’t agree to anything weird, that’s all I ask. Trust your mother on this.” Rosie warned her in a roundabout manner.
Anastacia rolled her eyes at what she considered to be just another addition to the overprotective advice she received on a daily basis. Understandable, considering where they lived, but misguided in Anastacia’s own opinion, as she herself knew exactly who her enemies were and had laid out her defenses against them – some of which people would have considered more than a bit paranoid, if anyone else had known.
The drowsy apprentice mechanic finished her drink in one gulp and hopped off her seat to make her exit. The repair shop she worked at was only a couple buildings away, so she usually already had her stained leather apron over her plain dress when she left the bar. During the colder months, she would toss on a worn jacket that she had used for years and had more patches in it than there was actual jacket left. However, the day wasn’t looking like a particularly cold one, so she was ready to go. On her way out, she reluctantly bumped on Rosie to receive a hug she knew she couldn’t avoid without being scolded when she came back. Wiggling free from her mother’s embrace, Anastacia tackled open the sturdy door and almost managed to hit someone on the other side with it.
Just about to enter the bar was a young woman wearing the black habit of an abbey a few kilometers outside of the city. Oddly sun kissed for the perpetually foggy and cloudy nook of the world, Sister Emilia was a very frequent visitor to the bar, though she had never ordered a drink and must have been there for something else.
Sensing a chance to be pointlessly mischievous, Anastacia slipped out of the door and leaned against it to block the nun’s path. “You’re out an about early, what’s the occasion?” She asked smugly.
“Good morning, Miss Anastacia.” Sister Emilia greeted the young mechanic with an awkward smile. The two were familiar enough with each other, good friends even, but Emilia’s awkwardness with her had only increased in the recent months. “I merely happened to be here on some business and wondered if Ros- your mother could use help with her morning prayer.”
A very obvious lie to anyone who even vaguely knew either Sister Emilia or Rosie. The nun was a terrible liar to say the least, and the barkeep about as religious as bag of mice – of a particularly godless sort too.
“What business?” Anastacia asked just to be obnoxious but feigning innocence.
Sister Emilia frantically looked around for anything to base her next lie on. “I was in the area for… ordering more flour for the abbey. We are almost out of… flour.”
“Where’d you order it from?” The girl immediately launched another inquiry. “Nirmarket?”
“Uh… Yes?” Emilia agreed, sounding obviously unsure about it.
Anastacia cleared her throat and grinned. “Nirmarket’s not open yet. Why are you lying to me? Are nuns allowed to lie? Is lying not a sin? Wouldn’t that make you a heretic or whatever? What do you even need flour for? Why haven’t I seen you bake anything? Why haven’t you brought me anything you’ve baked? Can you bake croissants? Are croissants even baked? Do you need flour for croissants? What else goes into croissants? Do you need butter for croissants? Does the abbey have enough butter? Why don’t you order butter and flour in the same ratio so you can get both on the same trip? Can you get butter from Nirmarket when it’s open? Can you get croissants from Nirmarket? Are they better than your croissants? What if they’re also out of flour? Will you just buy croissants then? Wouldn’t it be simpler to always do that so you can’t run out of flour? Can I have a croissant when you make them? Are you even any good at making croissants? Are croissants bread? Or are you really here just to honk my mom’s bazonkers again?” She listed stupid questions in rapid succession.
Sister Emilia tried her best to follow the rapid-fire nonsense. “Ba… bazonkers?” She uttered confusedly.
“The wall between the bedrooms is paper-thin and I’ve had to burn over fifty tapes from the hidden microphones I have everywhere.” The mechanic hinted at what she had come to know recently.
Finally catching up, the nun turned bright red. “Oh… I am so, so, sorry! I just- She’s-!” She stuttered and almost looked like she was going to run.
“Don’t worry about it, I came out of the package mentally scarred. Just learn to lie more convincingly before people start to talk, for your own good.” Anastacia laughed before suddenly pulling the nun closer by her collar. “She likes you, fuck this up for her and a whole lot of people are going to hear about ‘Sylvia’. I’ve got it all on tape, and a dozen copies of the tape that I’ve encrypted and given to people I can trust.” She whispered threateningly, let go and disappeared into the mist, leaving the nun concerned and confused.
The small appliance repair shop Anastacia worked in was quite literally a stone’s throw away, and on days with only light fog, she could see from one door to the other. The sign over the display window said ‘Old World Electronics’ in backlit letters that had never in the history of the shop actually all been lit up at the same time. Though they sold a fair number of radios and other small appliances, the bulk of the shop’s business came in the form of repairs. The owner of the shop, a grizzled old man called Gilbert, was more or less as capable at repairing as Anastacia, but there was a difference in how they did things and he himself admitted that the girl would surpass his skills sooner or later – if she hadn’t already.
Anastacia stepped inside into the shop that already smelled of solder and oil, as the owner was prone to either working through the night or waking up unreasonably early to continue whatever he had been working on in the evening. The first thing anyone would see when stepping into the shop was the nice and tidy lineup of new kitchen and general appliances, but only a few steps further, the mountain of worn machines that were either waiting for their turn or new parts was visible. Countless mixers, microwaves, radios, fans, measuring equipment and other small appliances had long since flooded out of the backroom, where Anastacia usually performed her craft. Even with the two of them working more than full hours at times, the orders piled up uncontrollably. With their extreme quality of work, more often than not resulting in at least doubling the lifetime of most machines, people were happy to wait for quite some time just to have their stuff fixed by either of the mechanics there.
Gilbert himself was a humongous mountain of a man, especially compared to Anastacia. Around fifty years old, but already well gray both on the head and chin, he looked like someone might have snuck in an extra decade or two into his age. He had quite the military background and the rank to show for it but refused to say anything about it when asked. It had been around seven years since he had resigned from that life and opened up the shop. Eleven years ago, his wife had suddenly passed while he was on tour somewhere and it was very easy to see that it was one of the reasons he preferred to keep his mind and hands busy to avoid thinking too much. Anastacia had lived there for a bit longer than that, but only really remembered that there was a woman called Yulia, but nothing specific about her.
Tinkering away at a jukebox behind the counter, Gilbert nodded to greet his employee. “Morning, Anna. Anything new?” He grunted.
“Not really, just blackmailing nuns again.” Anastacia smirked and hopped onto the counter to watch her teacher work. For being like a wad of sausages tied to a tree trunk, Gilbert’s hands were miraculously stable, swift and dexterous, and watching them deal with miniscule bits of electromechanical systems with zero issues was something she would never get tired of.
“Mmm. I should warn you, she’s out there again. Drove by four times already, pretty sure I saw the headlights shut off at an alley down the road. I’d be surprised if she didn’t see you come in.” The master mechanic said and glanced into the mist through the display window.
Anastacia groaned and hid behind the counter. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! And I was actually having a decent morning for once.”
“I can tell her to leave if you want.” Gilbert suggested.
“No, she’d just camp out there until I leave, and I don’t want to drag you into this.” Sighed the girl and grabbed a matchbox-sized circuit board with a small speaker and a light on it from a scrap box under the counter. She quickly wired a battery and a button to it with a bit of tape before standing up and staring into the fog.
Sure enough, a pair of headlights appeared in the distance a moment later. Cars were a rarity in their area, and the roads were almost entirely unsuitable for them. Yet, a certain stylish black classic car braved them almost weekly, always in the search for Anastacia when she was at work. The passenger had once made the mistake of trying to approach her at the bar, and it turned out to be a mistake that didn’t get repeated thanks to Rosie. While Gilbert would have no doubt done just as much to protect his apprentice, Anastacia thought he had enough troubles in his life and told him not to interfere.
The lights slowly approached the shop on the bumpy road until the vehicle stopped directly in front of the door – a highly illegal way to park, but such things weren’t really enforced in the area, especially when the vehicle in question had the insignia of The Correctional Office instead of a license plate.
The Correctional Office was a secretive part of the military that handled intelligence and acquired personnel thought to be either particularly beneficial or harmful to the country’s armed forces. They were more feared than respected by almost everyone and they most certainly weren’t liked by anyone – least of all in Valour. Through some unfortunate series of events, the office had become aware of Anastacia’s capabilities, and considered her an asset waiting to be claimed for the war effort. Not being particularly happy with the country that had taken Valour by force, even if it was years before she became a citizen, Anastacia didn’t really enjoy the title of ‘an asset’. Her only comfort in the matter was that the officer in charge of acquiring her skills for the military, was utterly fixated on the idea and would never do anything that would actually cause Anastacia to turn against them – but what she would do is constantly pester the girl under false pretenses.
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Stepping out from the backseat of the car, Correctional Commissar Stella immediately caused anyone still on the road to scatter in the fear of being noticed. In her late twenties or possibly just ageless thanks to whatever dark deeds she had committed, Commissar Stella was definitely eye-catching, though visibly uptight and downright scary. A white peaked cap was perfectly nested over her short black hair, and spotless the bloodred greatcoat on her was flawlessly fitted, as if it had been sewn on her directly only a few minutes ago. The coat’s right sleeve had been rolled all the way up, as the commissar was missing an arm on that side. According to rumors, she had cut it off with a can opener to use its bones as shivs when escaping from an enemy camp after being captured, but she herself had never confirmed the claims. Typically, she wore an extremely advanced and finely made prosthetic to hide it, but that had quickly turned into her excuse to visit Anastacia – and once again, she was carrying it in her still attached arm towards the shop.
The menacing clack of her boots hitting the street was audible all the way inside the shop, and somehow, she made even the little bell by the door that rang every time it was opened sound scary. With an intense stare in her gray eyes, she looked directly at Anastacia and was about to say something, but the girl interrupted her.
“Wait! Don’t say anything!” Anastacia suddenly yelled and rushed to the commissar’s side with the scrap circuit board. She slowly moved the piece of junk around Stella, pressing the button on it to cause a sound and a flash of light every couple of seconds. “I can’t believe it! It finally works!” She pretended to celebrate and held the button down for a few seconds.
“What marvels have you created now, Anastacia?” The commissar asked, seemingly intrigued by what was in reality a worthless piece of scrap wiring and parts.
“I call it the H.W.W.S.G.H.L discombobulator Mark III.” Anastacia lied and kept waving around the noisy contraption.
Commissar Stella tried to get a better look at the wiring but was very deliberately being kept from doing so. “Pray tell, what might it do. It has quite the mouthful for a name.”
“Oh, it detects Haggard Wenches Who Should Go and Hug a Landmine.” The mechanic said proudly and glanced at the commissar’s rolled up sleeve. “…again.”
As Gilbert concealed a chuckle by coughing, the rise in Stella’s blood pressure was almost audible, but her mask-like smile that showed nothing but malice at its purest and did not falter in the slightest.
Anastacia held the button down for at least ten seconds, blaring a loud beeping noise the entire time and stared Stella directly into the eyes. “The readings are off the charts, but my professional opinion is that a hearty dose of fuck off should at least temporarily aid with it.” She advised the commissar. “The over-the-counter stuff should do, but I have a sample pack right here that I think you should take, since it’s such an acute case.” She continued the mocking and pretended to dig around her pocket but only flipped the bird when she pulled her hand out.
Though evil, menacing, ruthless and otherwise just generally a terrible human being, self-control was not something Stella lacked. She sidestepped around the young mechanic and waltzed over to the counter to place her prosthetic on it.
“I came here to have my arm repaired. The necessary correctional office paperwork is prepared and approved – as usual.” The commissar explained her business in the store in an uptight but at the same time nonchalant manner. She placed the prosthetic along with an official-looking form on the counter, very deliberately away from Gilbert, as she was expecting Anastacia to solve her problem.
This had become almost a weekly ritual for them. Stella would appear as soon as Anastacia arrived to work, present the paperwork she had both written and approved herself and which basically required compliance from any business it was presented to as a part of the war effort in any of the number of long-term wars against both rebels and other nations the empire had going on at all times. Every time, she used it to have Anastacia fix a reoccurring problem with her prosthetic, with the very obvious undertone of trying to convince the mechanic to loan her unique gifts to the good of the empire. There was nothing Gilbert or anyone else could do about it, and the problem was going to persist for as long as Anastacia kept working there.
Anastacia groaned and reluctantly dragged herself back behind the counter. She crumbled up the paper and tossed it directly at the Commissar before taking a look at the fake arm. The prosthetic itself was more of a piece of art than a replacement for an arm, if it weren’t for the person it was attached to, Anastacia wouldn’t have minded having to spend so much time with it. Its surface was made from beautifully carved pale ivory framed with darkest ebony and shiniest gold the mechanic had ever seen. Each piece in it fit in its place perfectly, leaving no cracks or edges into the smooth seams between them. The simple mechanism built inside it, which locked and released the fingers with a twist of an engraved silver ring on its wrist, were exact enough to shame the most expensive pocket watches in the world, and despite years of service, the parts showed absolutely no sign of wear. There was no way such an artifact would have been build with a flaw so flagrant that it required weekly maintenance, yet that appeared to be the case – or perhaps the problem was intentionally caused by its owner.
The young mechanic gently removed one of the ivory plates, showing great respect for the device itself. She moved the fingers one by one and observed the movement of the mechanism inside. “Yeah, the tolerances on the thumb are fucked again. It’s almost like some moron keeps bending it too far back to have an excuse to harass someone who wants nothing to do with them – either that or you’ve been trying to score style points when shooting orphans by holding the gun incorrectly again.” She commented on the nature of the problem.
“Tolerances? Woe is me, for I understand nothing about such things, if only I had a reliable mechanic within my ranks.” Stella acted out her weekly line and overly dramatically leaned back while touching her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I don’t see why you’d need one, any idiot with a couple of small tools could fix this in two minutes. You’d have a lot more time left for war crimes if you didn’t drive all the way here every time.” Anastacia explained, knowing just how little weight her words would have on the matter. “Could probably even train a monkey for this if you wanted to.”
“Ah, but this is only the beginning of my problems! There are countless weapons, vehicles and equipment that spend more time waiting for repairs than in use. Someone like you could no doubt singlehandedly solve our troubles!” The Commissar explained suggestively and loomed over the comparably short mechanic with a very unnerving grin on her face.
Anastacia shot a piecing glare at her and continued working while speaking. “That’s because machines do not want to be used for war, no matter what they were built for. They break down because you force them to do horrible things. I’ve told this to you a hundred times, but you still choose not to understand.”
Stella chuckled. “This again? If that truly is the case, perhaps someone would be able to convince them to cooperate? We have the resources to give them whatever they want in return, we just need someone to… negotiate with them – and naturally the negotiator’s wishes would be granted just the same.” She said, obviously not believing a word Anastacia said.
“You might not have a problem with sending both innocent men and helpless machines to do your dirty work for you, but I won’t take any part in that – I’d rather die than send a single cog or a transistor to get shot or exploded or whatever.” Anastacia vehemently declined even the idea of helping Stella.
The commissar watched her work for a while, keenly admiring the skill with which the mechanic conducted the repair. For the hundredth time, her advances were met with hostility, but that never seemed to worsen her mood or even tame the menacing smile on her face. Over the course of her visits to the shop, the commissar seemed to have learned absolutely nothing, and she always came back with just as much enthusiasm for recruiting, even if she had already used the same lines of bargaining a dozen times.
Suddenly Stella grasped the sleeve of Anastacia’s worn and scuffed dress with her remaining hand and pretended to inspect the needlework on one of the repaired seams. “You know, those under my direct command are granted some perks for their service. Custom tailored clothes being the most basic of them – be it uniform, work clothes or casual wear. Surely even you can appreciate such things, and as I said, it’s only the beginning. Personal quarters, a driver to take you anywhere you please, runners to do the menial work for you as you focus on the bigger picture, finest meals the empire has to offer… and of course, an extremely hefty salary. If nothing else, that should pique your interest – a little birdy told me that your guardian’s establishment isn’t exactly exceedingly profitable…” She spelled out her suggestion with words that couldn’t have sounded more venomous even if a snake had spoken them. “Neither you nor your guardian would have to think about money ever again, I would personally see to that.”
“When you put it like that…” Anastacia said all of a sudden and grasped the commissar’s hand with a glimmer in her eyes. “…it sounds so fucking creepy and like you’re coming on to me.” She finished her sentence and smeared oil on the commissar’s hand.
“Would coming on to you help? Because if so, the backseat of my car is soundproof. We could-“ Stella immediately jumped on the new idea she hadn’t considered yet and unhesitatingly pointed at her car.
“GIL! HELP! STRANGER DANGER!” The mechanic screamed and ducked behind the counter.
The owner of the shop had followed the banter quietly while working on his own projects, he knew Anastacia could generally deter the military official on her own but didn’t enjoy having Stella in his shop any longer than needed, so he was more than happy to put an end to it for the day. He moved over to the prosthetic and closed the part his apprentice had just finished fixing.
“Madame Commissar, your arm is fixed and ready to go. Please leave, and on your way out, take a look at the sign over the door. You seem to have mistaken my shop for a recruitment office again.” Gilbert stated calmly and handed over the prosthetic after wiping some oil off its pristine surface.
Stella’s smile immediately vanished when dealing with the old mechanic. She rolled open her sleeve and with a few experienced movements pushed the prosthetic through it. As the artificial arm attached to her shoulder, the locking mechanism hummed pleasantly, and the arm’s fingers squeezed into a fist. Even Anastacia hadn’t been able to figure out what powered the prosthetic’s movements, but it seemed to have some preset positions it would switch between on its own based on its owners needs.
“Major, you know just as well as I do that a word from me and all that can be changed.” She threatened without even a hint of the previous enthusiasm left.
As the commissar said that, the lights of the shop flickered and the fire alarm on the ceiling let out a beep. Machines around the store, intact, broken and unpowered whirled awake, filling the room with radio static and several differed kinds of mechanical and electronic murmur. The engine of the commissar’s car coughed as it started on its own and the driver tried to pry open the door that was now firmly locked for reasons unknown to him. The hammer of the heavy revolver on Stella’s hip clicked as it jerked backwards. The freshly repaired prosthetic ignored its owner’s whishes as it quickly grabbed the revolver and pressed the tip of the barrel against Stella’s forehead.
“Waste my time all you want, stalk me and bother me as often as you feel the need to – but threaten my friends and I will see to it that your precious little army is torn down back to stone age and forced to throw rocks and sharp sticks as nothing more complicated than a hammer will ever work for them again.” Anastacia spoke unusually coldly from behind the counter as the prosthetic slowly squeezed the trigger. “Remember that if, for a fraction of a second, I think that killing you would solve anything or make anyone’s life here easier, I would feel nothing when spreading whatever the hell you have inside your head across the walls. The only reason I haven’t done that yet is that I know assholes are an inexhaustible resource. I kill you and I’d have to deal with whoever figured out I killed you, I kill them and soon enough your entire branch of military ends up in a pile outside, then whoever takes over this area in your absence will start to pester me… There’s just no end to it.”
A wide grin sprouted on Stella’s face as her own limb and weapon was turned against her. She made no effort to move her head out of the way or grab the revolver, the threat was entirely inconsequential when she was able to witness Anastacia’s prowess over technology – if anything, such a thing only increased her resolve to keep on trying.
“Your own gun and arm are begging me to pull the trigger and I think I can be convinced to do so, so maybe you should fuck off and leave us to our work?” Anastacia suggested as the gun’s trigger mechanism creaked on its final steps before releasing the hammer.
The commissar chortled delightedly and showed no clear signs of anything besides amusement over the very real danger her life was in. She dug a folded wad of money out of her pocket, tossed it on the counter and grabbed the revolver from her prosthetic by putting her thumb in front of the hammer and preventing it from going off. Without saying anything, Stella turned on her heels and marched out of the shop, waving farewell to Anastacia once she got into her car.
“Fuckass insane hag!” Yelled Anastacia in return and threw the wad of cash at the window she could see her stalker through. Of course, she would get the money back, but only after Stella had left.
Gilbert picked up the crumbled form from the floor and placed it into a drawer with a whole stack of identical ones, just in case they could be used later. “That’s Commissar Stella for you alright.” He agreed and placed his massive hand on his employee’s head. “Do you want to take the rest of the day off to cool down?”
“Nah, I’d rather just hang out with you and work on clearing our backlog.” The young mechanic sighed and hopped onto the counter to watch her mentor continue tinkering with the jukebox.
“You’re such a strange kid. Most folk your age would’ve already left if I even hinted that they didn’t need to work, gone out to do whatever dumb stuff they’re about these days.” Gilbert commented while slowly kneeling in front of his current project.
Slowly improving her mood again, Anastacia inspected one of the parts Gilbert had taken out of the jukebox. “I’ve got stuff planned with someone, but only in the evening. Besides, doesn’t hanging out with you count? Are we not friends? I know I’d come over even if you didn’t pay me, maybe not every day, but still.”
“Suppose we are, if you’ll have a boring old man like me. I’m just glad someone’s interested to learn what I have to teach. Even if the said someone occasionally points a gun at what is technically a customer.” Admitted the old man and handed a new part to his apprentice.
Gilbert was among the first few people to know about Anastacia’s abilities over machines and the one who saw her use them the most often. Neither him or the girl herself really acknowledged them anymore, as neither knew why she had them or what to do with them, so the easiest thing to do was to not worry about it.
They spent the day much like every other weekday, Gilbert quietly working on the jukebox and Anastacia much less quietly going through the mountain of broken machines that needed to be repaired. A few customers stopped by to pick up their kitchen mixers and the like. For lunch Anastacia dropped by her home and picked up something Rosie had made for her and Gilbert to share. At the time Sister Emilia was still at the bar, hiding in the corner table with a glass of water and praying Anastacia wouldn’t see her, but she did.
Content with her current life, whenever Anastacia’s mind came across the promises of wealth or power that were thrown at her frequently, she couldn’t help but to laugh out loud. Even if she wasn’t morally opposed to working with The Correctional Office, there were no real improvements to her life they could offer. She had a home, a family, friends and all the machines she could ever hope to have time to fix. Sure, money came and went somewhat unpredictably, but if she and her mother ever needed money, Anastacia was resourceful enough to find a way to make the ends meet. There was nothing that would ever get her to even consider Stella’s offers.