bairnsidhe

Nzinga Marton opened her shop at exactly 4 am every day, rain or shine.  She set out bolts of Dyneema and Kevlar under the special recessed lights, she tweaked the fall of the mannequin's capes, and then she flipped her porch light on in silent invitation.  Her store wasn’t exactly advertised, nor was it what you’d call well-traveled, but her clients were loyal and they paid well.

Well, as long as she didn’t ask any questions.

Like why Sanaa “Sunshine” Thompson, the Channel 7 meteorologist showed up at 4:15 needing a replacement set of UV blocking rip-stop gloves.  Nzinga knew exactly why she needed to stock that particular shade of gold satin finish that looked exactly like Solarflare’s skin.  She also knew that nobody would benefit from her outing the solarpunk superhera.

As Sanaa was browsing the new boot selections, the doorbell rang and Nzinga let in Daniel Brody, smelling faintly of gunpowder and mournfully presenting a trench coat to her.  “Can you fix it?” he asked.

“As long as it isn’t mutative or biohazard.  I don’t repair anything damaged by suspicious liquids.  That’s how Pinnacle Designs got shut down.”

“No Ma’am,” he said respectfully.  “Standard issue nitroglycerin and burns.”

“Alright, make nice.  I’ll be done in a minute.”

She went in back and repaired the holes in the anti-hero’s signature coat, and scrubbed out the bloodstains for good measure.  Her talent of mending anything that could be mended with a moment of focus flared cool and slippery in her fingers, a line of spider silk weaving the world shut one inch at a time.  She carried the coat back out, took his payment and his thanks and as he left, Sally Corrigan stepped in past him, her red-blonde hair looking sun-bleached on her left.

“It’s an emergency, my last sports bra got roasted.”

“Come on in, we’ll get that fixed.  I’ve got another customer, that’s not going to be a problem,” Nzinga said, clearly not asking.  She didn’t care if Schist and Solarflare were nemeses, she just refused to have her shop leveled.

“Nope, I just want a bra.  I’m not here for anything else.”

“I have your standard order in back, it was only a matter of time before you damaged the last set.”  Nzinga sighed.  “You are awfully hard on your lingerie.”

“It’s not my fault the super elastics are so expensive!  If I could afford enough to let them rest more I would, but you know I don’t always get a say in when I’ll suddenly… have an issue.”

Nzinga hummed.  “You can’t call the fellow who helped you with the changes?” she asked.  “If you’ve still got control problems, that could be serious.”

“It’s not my control, it’s my triggers,” Sally confessed.  “I’m allergic to everything, and one strong sneeze’ll do it.”

Nzinga nodded sympathetically, because what else can you do when you learn that the local villainous troll can be undone by hay fever?  She grabbed the boxes and set them on the counter for Sally to pick a color, then rung up Sanaa’s order.  The meteorologist slipped an extra two hundred under her card.  Nzinga looked at her.

“I know the pain, and I’m looking good on money right now,” she explained, with a glance at her generous, ratings-drawing chest.  “We don’t agree, that doesn’t mean we should be petty or spiteful.  Thanks for the boots.”

“Have a nice day,” Nzinga said and as Sanaa walked out, she slid both the black and the ivory that Sally was debating into the nice white boxes.  “You’re covered, Miss.”