(a/n: this fic starts at a slower pace and will hit its stride at around chapter 4. if you still don't like it by then, don't bother.

a long time ago in a galaxy far far away I saw a brilliant series of fanart pieces of a ganster!AU floating around tumblr. and thus this idea was inspired. unfortunately i have not seen those pictures since, which is a pity because they're amazing.

sooo here's the 20's gangster akayona au that nobody asked for. been developing it with bios, outlines, and lists of connections and interconnections. here goes nothing.)

GODMOTHER
chapter one

It's a slow, rainy night that drums against the bar on 4th and E—nasty little shack in the Lower District of Kouka that somehow manages to dredge up a good crowd every night. Don't have much competition. Probably the reason for its success.

The Parisian Cantina, that place is called, though it's got about as much to do with France as this story's got to do with schoolkid melodrama. Furnishings are solid and clean, even if a century past their spit-polished era. Main draw of the Parisian Cantina's always been the stage: a red, royal circle of class in the back corner of the room armed with an 1880 Steinway Grand and the jazz improvisational prodigy of the decade, Minsoo. House is packed every night thanks to that kid. Not much else to do in the Lower District 'cept listen to the genius of his hands.

Crowd's much less savory. Gangsters, prostitutes, dealers, hitmen. Some planning to kill people who are planning to kill others. You don't come to the Cantina for the company, that's sure as beans.

Still, night's young and fiesty. People come here to have a good time, not to spill blood. Air's got a tang of cigar smoke, but it's crowded with chatter and scratchy laughter. Drinks and cards and beautiful women. What a time to be alive.

Door slams open.

Whole room falls real quiet at the interruption and has a look.

Shady figure steps through the door, small by the bar's average standards, but wrapped up good head to toe in a waterlogged cloak. Not much use trying to find a face beneath that fabric, not without poking 'round. And in the Lower District, the biggest mistake a civvy can make is poking 'round where his nose don't belong.

So the piano music and the poker gets on as the newcomer slips onto the nearest barstool.

Bartender peeks beneath the hood and only smiles wide at what he finds. "Been a while, pretty dame. The usual?"

"I'll pass," says a smooth, quiet voice beneath that hood. "I've got a delivery for you."

"Don't remember ordering anything," says that bartender with a wary look.

Dame slides a manila across the table. "Here."

Bartender checks it. Cash, ten thousand solid. "What's this for?"

"The repairs," says she.

Then she whips her arm, quick as a horse's boot, to the window, triggering a shot with the eager .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless hidden up her sleeve.

Bang.

Glass explodes, hit dead-center. Showers little shards like a bride's tears on her wedding day.

Whole place erupts in screaming. Every man jumps up and runs straight for the door like the Armageddon's begun. Jazz music don't stop, though, not from the piano. Minsoo's got himself nerves of steel. Comes with working in this place for a decade. Nope; he goes right on with them augmented ninths and minor sevenths. Perfect syncopation. Could've studied at Julliard, ol' Minsoo. Julliard, or West Point.

The dame shoots again, sparks all flying from the sleek little muzzle of her burner. Bang.

Next bullet catches the leg of a real posh man trying to push his way out of the crowd. Right on the calf, intentional. He flails to the ground, a goldfish outta water. Tailcoats of his penguin suit flutter in the air as he goes down. He's dressed too nicely for a bar like this. Had a lot of girls over his lap during the night, too, though they're all gone with the gunfire.

Looks like the dame hit her target, 'cus she lowers her pistol and smiles real quiet.

"What in Kouka are you doin', Dusk?!" screeches the bartender. Bit of an act. Truth is, this kind of scene ain't rare in the Lower District, 'specially with a loopy crowd during happy hour.

"If the damage is over ten thousand," says she, "you know where to send the bill."

Meanwhile, the posh man does his genuine best to drag himself out of that shack. Disappears in the panicking crowd, but the dame don't seem concerned. Not one bit.

"Right to the Hall," she muses quietly. "Good."

She sweeps to the windowsill with the mien of a queen. Nothing but confidence in that stride of hers. Bartender's much more nervous.

"Hold on, Dusk, you can't just do this—"

"Good night, Minsoo," the dame calls to the pianist. Ignores the bartender, which ain't much of a change.

Minsoo nods without one glance up from the piano. Dedicated soul.

Then the dame turns.

Jumps out the window, carelessly, like a six-foot man with hair darker than the rain-soaked streets will come flying out of nowhere and catch her princess-like in his arms.

Well. One does.

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.

.

Called Hak, that man is.

Goes by many names in the Underworld. Thunder Beast is one of them. Demon's another.

Yarns go far about him: that he goes 'round with an ancient Chinese weapon, 'cus guns make business too easy; that he sleeps with one eye open; that he can stop an .80 caliber with nothing but a solid glare. Some are true. Some are false. Some are thought to be false when they're actually true. When dealing with the Thunder Beast, none ever knows.

Still, one thing's sure. If Hak moves, you dead. If Hak stays still, you even deader.

Short story shorter, you dead.

In this case, the Thunder Beast's caught his princess on the corner of 4th and E, ignoring the clubbing downpour that's filtering through his Ermenegildo Zegna. Grins at the dame, though there's a pinch of grimace in it.

"Status?" says he.

"Went off without a hitch," the dame says, climbing hastily out of his arms. "Shinah should catch him right on schedule at the Hall."

"Don't mean the mission," says he, quietly. "Mean you."

Dame's already distracted. "Alive. Clearly. We need to secure the hit. Come with me?"

"Always, Princess."

Dame tears down the street like a mollycoddled thoroughbred. Thunder Beast is on the heels of her feet.

.

.

.

Dame is someone real special.

'Course, there's sacks of special people. Presidents and officers and great-aunts three times removed that need to be remembered during those holiday family functions. You can get yourself special people all the time. Gents do. And you wonder why brothels stick around, one for each penny in the Lower District.

But the dame—the dame is something else.

Dame did her time as a princess once. Lived and loved in one of those grand castles upwind of the city hall. Fourteen sweet years she spent in dresses and finery, going to parties and eating food she couldn't pronounce. Daughter of the constitutional monarchy. What a riot.

Then one day, the dame was whisked away. Plucked out of her own home.

Culprits were gangsters. Ones that needed themselves more influence. In the Underworld, there's only two ways to get influence: violence, and money. They couldn't bring themselves to do the former, so wound up with the latter. Wanted a handsome ransom for the princess of Kouka.

Got a rejection. Nothing but a cold, hard dismissal.

Turns out the royal family didn't care two beans for the princess. She wasn't the eldest son. She wasn't even their only daughter. Might as well be two pence to a wallet.

Gangsters were at a bit of a loss. Didn't think they'd get shut down. Thought the princess was worth a lot more than she actually was.

So, what'd they do?

Had to do with a bar on 4th and E, a pianist, and a mauve dress.

Well. A story to continue for another time.

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.

.

They reach the Hall. Downtown, messy area. Not really a hall; it's an abandoned subway lined up for demolition back in the days before the city of Kouka gone to chaos.

Posh man, their target, tries to flee there on a bleeding calf. Dame and her demon don't bother rushing; they take themselves on a leisurely stroll, knowing they got all the time in the world.

After all, the mark just ends up running into the hitman.

Who's he? Well.

Hitman wears a hat angled over his beaut of golden eyes and a suit in all black to blend in the shadows like ground Italian roast. Has tattoos winding 'round his body, that one, though you ain't ever gonna know it by first glance. Got a paradox for a soul. Gentle and genteel in one moment, cold-blooded as an anvil the next. Like the Thunder Beast, he'd do anything for the dame. That ain't no hyperbole. Anything.

Who he really is—well, that's something you gotta find out yourself, after a few dates or a few years of social outings. Not that the hitman humors 'em.

Hitman has the posh man pinned to the wall in half a jiffy. With a knife through his sleeves, collar, ankle hem, waistband, and wig, that man ain't going nowhere. Pinned up like a junebug on an index card. Hitman pulls up a crate and leans against it, relaxed as can be, humming a gentle little lullaby behind his lips, golden eyes fixed on his squirming target.

"You're mad," gasps the posh man.

Hitman tilts his head quiet-like, a porcelain doll in its toybox. Says nothing.

Posh man winces, the bullet in his leg hurting like the blazes. "Tell me this," he hisses past his yellow teeth. "Who're you with? The Pirates? The Winds?"

Hitman tilts his head again. If you hush, you can swear you're hearing the tinny tone of a music box.

"You," he says, empty, "do not know."

"Well, obviously," the posh man snaps. "Why else would I be asking?"

Hitman's eyes get real cold. "You do not know her."

Posh man's face turns three shades paler than a pinch of steamed-up baby powder. "Her?" he whispers.

Clearly, even if the man don't know, he's heard murmurs 'round the network. Secret little lies about a dame with hair red as the sunset, winged by five demons from the shadows. None know her ways. None know her intent. She's a seeking bullet, that dame, 'cept she's the only one who knows her mark.

Don't make the dame any less terrifying. A lady shrouded in shadows is the only woman scarier than a fussing wife.

"Then," says the man, strangled, "you're one of them?"

But the Hitman's gone back to his little lullaby. It's a soft one. Something he listened to a thousand replays too many, back when he was brought up in the lowest of the Lower District, slums where none dared to enter a single toe.

Watching him is like watching a siren that's prepping a sashimi platter for a Tuesday special. Terrifying. Mesmerizing. Makes you wish you were home. Or anywhere but here.

"Shinah," says a soft voice from down the subway tube.

Hitman raises his head, alert. Looks left and right and left again. His gaze meets two newcoming figures from the shadows: the dame and her Thunder Beast. Posh man trembles harder in his boots.

Hitman bows his head quietly. Steps back. Dame takes his place, staring the posh man in the eye with a gaze of steaming coals.

"Hello, Hiyou," says she.

Posh man steels up a glare. "You know me?" he demands.

"To think you were right under our noses this whole time." Dame laughs. She don't sound amused. "The overlord of the nadai trade, right in the Parisian Cantina every weeknight."

"Why, you want a piece of the share?" snarls Hiyou.

Dame's face settles cold as frost. "I want," she says slowly, "the nadai trade gone."

Hiyou stares. Then belts in laughter.

"Excuse me, wench. You clearly have no idea how economics work." His fear slips away like shadows on a sunny morning. "If the nadai trade ends, Kouka's going to the dogs. The income we receive barely keeps this miserable city alive!"

"I'm sure the money flow for you is extremely beneficial," Dame says drily, "but to the families who've lost members to addiction, to the citizens who've been poisoned by jealous coworkers, to the rising unemployment rate—I say that the general populace could do better without."

She's confident, but so's Hiyou. He lets his smile widen and tilts his chin forward.

"And what will you do if I decide to not comply?" says he, smooth and calm.

Dame don't budge. "Kill you. If I must."

"Hah," Hiyou grits out. "You're just a woman. You can't do anything to me."

He gathers up mucus in his throat and spits.

Dame raises her hand in a snap, catching his ball of bile on her fingers. Smirks catlike. Pushes her palm forward, smearing the mucus over his own forehead and cheeks.

Hiyou flushes, shamed. Says nothing more. Next move goes to the dame.

She can get to business if she so fancies. The Hitman's got a pretty switchblade and he's more than willing to give it up for his queen. But that ain't the dame's way.

"Maybe you aren't aware of the position you're in," says the dame slowly. She leans in, real intentional. "I thought you prided yourself on safety and intelligence. What's this, Hiyou? Why're you caught like a rat in a trap?"

Hiyou's eyes flash, but his mouth's unsteady. He don't say a word. Maybe he's learning that the dame can reflect his ammo.

"Two days ago," the dame says, "you received a death threat. You placed all your guards on high alert. You waited."

Hiyou's eyes narrow. He gets the dame's meaning. He's cocky, but he ain't slow.

"You sent it," he says. Clear.

"You celebrated too soon, sir," says the dame. Cool smile, flaming hair. "You thought the danger was over. Today, when your elite guard suddenly contracted a particularly nasty strain of the stomach virus, you didn't bother to change your... lively plans for the evening. Such carelessness."

Hiyou hisses. "That stomach flu. Also you."

Dame's smile only widens, a cracking spider web. "You should have stayed at home. But of course you wouldn't, now, would you?"

Now the dame plucks the knife from the Hitman's willing hand. She drifts the edge of the blade across Hiyou's pinned-up palm, lightly resting, no harm done—yet.

"Happy birthday, sir," says she. Voice is ice. "Your thirst for festivities is your downfall."

Hiyou grimaces. Face is still coated in half-dried mucus. "You wouldn't dare. You don't have the courage."

"Are you willing to risk it?" says the dame. Raises one brow like the aristocrat she is.

Hiyou sweats.

"Let me tell you how this works. You'll agree to close off your end of the nadai trade via our contract. Understood?"

Hiyou sweats some more. He's in a sauna while pinned up on the wall.

Dame presses the blade a touch firmer into the roots of his fingers. "And. When you have something to say, make sure you've chosen wisely."

Hiyou winces.

Then opens his mouth.

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Thing is, it ain't easy to catch the king of the biggest booming black trade in Kouka. About as easy as hunting a cheetah blindfolded in the woods with nothing but the clothes on your back.

So how do you do it?

You get a little green dragon with a tongue as glib as butter in a hot pot, a little Petri dish dotted with specimens of Escherichia coli, and a little interception at the local delivery place. Then you strike on a night of festivity, when you know that cheetah's gonna be carousing like the devil 'til dawn. After all, as festivities go, a twenty-eighth birthday's a pretty good one to strike.

If Lady Luck is on your side, you'll get yourself a cheetah within the hour.

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The night stills in the Underground. It's quiet and lovely, the kind of sundown where you take out pantry candles and sing carols that resolve into something major in the key of C. Almost like there was never a gunslinging, never a little exchange with a knife, never nothing less civilized than a middle-of-middle-class life.

Far in the lowest of the Lower District, the slums of Kouka, there's a nasty little corner, hot and dry and full of seedy people. That corner's called the Harborough Cauldron by anyone who wants to know. It don't even warrant a name on the city map. City would like to forget that it exists.

Harborough Cauldron; not a place for dames or gents or, really, any human worth his salt. Attracts weird folk, strangers with black hearts and black souls and too many crimes to count on their scarred fingers. But it's where the dame made her place, down in the lowest corner of Harborough Cauldron, down below the potholes and the bars and brothels, down where she can dress up an underground cavern with a tablecloth and lace curtains and call it home.

Dame's there now, rocking on her rocking chair. She's sewing something on a cushion, humming between her lips. Can take the princess out of the palace, but can't take the palace out of the princess.

Thunder Beast is with her. He's the only one. Rest of the Den—that's what they call it, but, like the Harborough Cauldron, it don't have a name on no map—is empty. Happens during busy seasons.

Walls are rough, moss patches up the dirt floor, and pipes of plumbing run across the ceiling like rusty little rifles. The whole place is a giant bite carved out of limestone. Ain't no windows, and furniture's a scant few. Seven cots there are, lying scattered around the Den like hair shed from a housebred poodle, and just one rocking chair. Then the stove, a pair of cabinets, a squat little table, and a bunch of old shipping crates from Kai. And that's it. That's the Den. But it's home.

Dame's little humming ditty changes. Thunder Beast frowns when he hears it, looking up from his careful purview of the dame's .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless.

"Why are you humming that, Princess?" says he keenly.

Dame's eyes flutter behind her lids. She knows he ain't asking because he don't know.

"No particular reason," she says evasively.

He smiles wry. "Ha. Sure looks it."

Gnaws on her lip, dame does. Few can make her unsettled. Thunder Beast is one of those privileged few.

Thing is, the melody's Shinah's favorite lullaby; Shinah's only lullaby. Bit of a morbid tune. The dame recounts the lyrics, though they don't need no recounting to be worth remembering.

"Little boy Bennie with one gold coin
Thinks of fancied stuffs.
Golden carriage, well-good marriage
With nice Middle girl he loves.

Little boy Bennie with one gold coin
Walks down to the Lower.
Alley rats jump on his hats
And he don't move no more."

Thunder Beast watches her all quiet as the words sing from her lips. Waits one line, waits two, waits six. Seventh line is when the dame starts to tremble. Pitch flexes on that middle part, dipping a touch too low, and her mouth widens broad and her eyes get wet.

Dame stops short. Bows her head. Thunder Beast don't budge.

"Hak," whispers she.

Dame ain't the dame no more. Dame's just Yona, twenty four years young with too many seasons of palace etiquette and smiling nice, and not enough seasons of cutting fingers off of trade lords.

"Princess," says Hak gently. He ain't the Thunder Beast no more, either.

"I hate it," says Yona. "I... I just..."

She crumples her fingers inward and shudders against her own figure. Hak moves smooth from his chair. Kneels in front of her. He don't tease her, he don't console her. He's just there.

"I wish there was another way," Yona mumbles.

Hak don't mention that cutting fingers is mercy. He don't mention that a little severing of a little digit is nothing next to a slug in the gut. He don't mention the things he's done, or what Shinah's done, all for the dame.

"How do you do it?" Yona asks. "How are you so strong?"

Hak's mouth twitches. Little grimace, little smirk. "There's different kinds of strength, Princess," says he. "The world needs yours, too."

She slows her breathing. Regains control. Tries to get back the dame. "Let's hope," she says quietly.

Hak withdraws. Goes back to his cot with the .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless. Yona leans back in her chair and keeps right on singing. This time, it ain't Shinah's lullaby.

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Middle District. Clean, simple, ordinary. Hiyou's pacing down the street, fresh-hired guards at his flanks. All his fingers intact, but not his pride.

"Have me take down the nadai trade?" He barks laughter. "I'll show you, you little vixen. You'll wish you'd never messed with Hiyou."

(a/n: in case you haven't noticed, worldbuilding is a conglomerate of korea x america x italy, and there's references to actual piano brands / suit brands / gun brands. hope it wasn't too confusing.

thanks for reading! ideally this ride will be pretty enjoyable. please consider leaving a review, as each one really makes my day.)