The Queen's Curls

-1946- Strength

The hinges on the door don't squeak this time as a new person enters the parlour and she huffs out a laugh. "Well that's a first," she mutters.

The person in the door seems to be ready to go to war. They were covered in camouflage gear and paint, and they had three guns strapped to their body. The only thing out of place was the look of complete and utter terror on their face.

"They found me," the person said. "They found me and I'm going to get killed. Please hide me. I'll do anything."

The parlour woman nods. "Come on dear, I'll find you a place to hide, but I'm not hiding with you. I'm going to stop whoever is after you."

"No," the person says. "They'll kill you!"

The parlour woman smirks. "Have you heard of the assassin named Karma?"

The person blinks rapidly. "Yes, of course. Everyone has. She was known for-"

"For her agility and double switchblades?" The parlour woman smirks. "You got that right, dear. That was the first weapon she ever picked up."

The soldier cocks their head at the parlour woman. "How do you know that?"

The woman furrows her brows. "Shouldn't I know the first weapon is ever picked up?"

The person's jaw drops. "No way! You're Karma? But how are you alive?"

The woman grabs the person's arm and says, "I'll have to save that story for later. Right now, you need to hide, and I need to get ready. Oh and when we're done, would you like a haircut?"

x x x

The woman returns to her shop leaving a trail of blood that was both hers and not hers behind her. Her assassin's gear was damaged, her breathing was laboured and she had a limp in her left leg, but she was smiling. She had one switchblade in each hand, both dripping blood that didn't belong to her, but she was smiling.

"You can come out now, dear," she says, panting. Raising her voice seemed difficult, so she stuck to talking normally.

The soldier — a woman! — hesitantly stepped out of an alcove somewhere off to the left. Once she sees the parlour woman, she rushes over to help her walk.

"I'm fine, love," the parlour woman says, attempting to push the soldier's arm away, but the soldier holds tighter.

"I'm not going to let you limp around and bleed out all over your lovely carpet. Here. I've set up a little hospital bed for you. Let's get you settled."

And settle she did. The parlour woman practically collapsed onto the makeshift hospital bed, but before doing so, she dropped her weapons so as to not accidentally impale herself by lying down on a knife.

The woman groans and squeezes her eyes shut. "I haven't fought like that since World War XI."

"Wait," the soldier says. "XI? As in, eleven?"

"Yes, love, now can you please grab the bottle in the third cupboard labeled 'Diorine'? It's a healing ointment."

"Gotcha," the soldier says, walking over to the cabinets on the opposite wall. She plucks out a rather small bottle of a clear, slightly blue tinted liquid, and walks back over to where the woman is lying on the "hospital bed".

"This one?" the soldier asks, holding the bottle up for the woman to see. The woman nods, so the soldier continues to treat the woman's various wounds accordingly, soaking the bandages in Diorine before wrapping them around the woman's body.

"How did you manage to not get a single bullet wound?" the soldier asks, pinning a set of bandages in place. "The people out there must have had guns."