I STAN WAR CHEST

If you all aren't already reading my boy DangerousLines comic Alexander, I don't know what to say other than go read it! When War Chest was introduced in the latest issue, I was so jealous at the sheer perfection of the name. I knew I had to draw render her.

The only problem was that I was out of town away from my main computer. But I had a lot of downtime, so this is the best I could do with a remote desktop to show my support for an amazing series. Also, enjoy this little story that was written when the internet was too bad to do anything else. ^{(Also, forgive me because I don't know a damn thing about guns.)}

Now, this is all totally unofficial, non-canon, or whatever, I just cobbled her together from what was in my runtime and gave her a little Genie Chronicles spin.

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"Jesus, how the hell did you find this place?"

The brash voice, high and feminine, came from behind the immense mahogany and marble bar top on one side of the small room. Light strips behind the rows of bottles cast a kaleidoscopic light over the dim space, giving the speakeasy backroom a dream-like feel. There was a single low table set into a sunken section of the floor, surrounded by overstuffed couches in red leather. It was quiet with only three people in the entire bar and the heavy menace of the weapons laid out before them hung in the air like smoke.

Two women sat on the couches, placidly watching their guest rummage through the bar, who was examining the stock of bottles with a critical eye. Both were of a rarefied kind, tall and statuesque, as if sculpted by the same hand. Curvaceous and fit, they exuded a smoldering sexuality that made the speakeasy stifling.

Chloe Carraway held her whiskey in slim fingers, letting the light play through the rich amber liquid. She wore a scandalous pink and silver cocktail dress with a neckline that plunged deep to show the rich russet skin of her impressive cleavage and toned stomach. A mane of dark, natural hair floated about her head and shoulders like a cloud. Her smile flashed brilliant in the darkness.

Chloe, her voice mellow and languid, said, "Quentin has a way of finding lost treasures."

"So I've heard," said their guest.

"Are you sure you don't want some of this? I thought you'd go for it."

Next to Chloe, Rowena Carraway raised her own glass to her lips. Where Chloe was dark, her wife was fair, and she watched the scene behind the bar with concern in her bright blue eyes. Her own dress was black leather that shone as it reflected the wan light in the speakeasy and was slit up to the hip. She crossed one lissome leg over the other and traced an ankle up Chloe's shin with a sly smile.

"Hah!" A triumphant sound came from behind the bar and a supervillain emerged holding a very expensive bottle of Armagnac.

War Chest. Arms dealer, gun-runner, Amazonian legionnaire, and mercenary. She barley topped five feet tall, but was loaded for bear with an assortment of weapons hanging from the combat webbing and belts strapped to her petite frame. She was vivacious and forward, with dark eyes and short brunette hair. She wore only an army-green vest that had been unzipped down to the navel, the better to show off her namesake. Her immense cleavage rivaled Chloe's own and the young woman put on a brazen display.

"You've got good taste, Ro, but I'm in the mood for something that is truly lavish."

Taking her seat on the couch opposite to the couple, War Chest poured her brandy into a snifter and smiled across the neatly arrayed tasting board of weaponry she had brought.

"And French," remarked Rowena. "I heard your boss is making waves with the leadership over there."

"Come on, girls. You know my policy. Criminal-client confidentiality." War Chest took a draught from her glass and smirked as the heat of the brandy went down. "Besides, he's not my boss any more, I got my own outfit now."

"Aw, Dubs, that's great," said Chloe. "I knew you could do it."

The gun-runner raised her glass in gratitude. "Don't worry, though. I can still get you the hookup. Even some Alexandria private stock if you give me enough of a heads-up."

"Now, I brought the usual," said War Chest, leaning over the table to give Chloe and Rowena a view that would stop traffic. She opened a hard case to reveal rows of .50 BMG rounds to glint in the dim light. She plucked one out of the foam and held it up to them. "Armor piercing, incendiary, silver penetrator. Pre-engraved and ready to be enscorcelled. I got a new laser-engraver just for you."

Another box was opened to find a double row of squat, fat projectiles. "Chloe, I know you love the 40mm. Carraway customs, with a flechette mix of silver and cold-forged iron. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any knuckle bones from Catholic saints to put in there."

Chloe took one of the grenades out of the case and laughed. "Oh, I knew those were a long shot. They're perfect!"

"And just in, special from Ireland. Gov sends his affection. I think."

A black cloth-wrapped parcel was produced from under the table and War Chest proffered it to Rowena, who couldn't help but grin with excitement. Nimble fingers untied the cord and unveiled a finely-wrought blade that shone bright, despite the gloom of the speakeasy. It was as long as her forearm, with a slender, double-edged blade and a hilt bound in black leather.

War Chest sat back into the couch, holding her snifter in both hands and putting her boots up onto the table. "And if I understood the crazy bastard right, its got a silver blade over a meteorite steel core. He rambled about the etchings on the blade for a good fifteen minutes before he would give me the damn thing. And trust me, that's fifteen minutes more than I wanted to spend in those creepy backwoods. He had a cow that kept looking at me funny."

"Thank you," said Rowena sincerely, running her fingertips over the intricate sigils carved into the blade's mirror surface. "We were grounded from the blackouts. Otherwise I would have gone myself."

"Not much use in a fight, but whatever makes the client happy."

"Depends on what you're fighting," said Rowena with a small twitch of her lips. "Besides, it's ceremonial."

"Speaking of the blackouts... I saw your boy on the news. He's looking good for someone his age," said Chloe. She took another sip of her bourbon, smirking. "That was an admirable beating he took on live television. Quentin said he almost believed it."

"Didn't we just go over how I can't talk about it?" said War Chest, but she returned the wicked grin with one of her own, "But I will say that he has become quite...impressive."

The three women broke out into giggles as War Chest waggled an eyebrow and bit her lip suggestively. They drank and talked easily for a time, speaking of family and small things, before the mercenary checked her time and declared she had a chopper to catch.

"Gwen wired you the money, it should be in your account by now," said Chloe, embracing the small woman farewell.

"I know you aren't big bulk buyers," said War Chest, taking Rowena's hug as well, "but you always go for the weird shit. Where's the hubby? I wanted to squeeze his muscles."

"Last time Quentin came along, you called him a 'brick shithouse,'" said Rowena.

"Yeah, but you know...with love. I believe I also said I'd climb him like a jungle gym."

Chloe gave her wife a rueful look before saying, "We'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to Quentin. At least not yet."

"Oh-ho! The fam doesn't know."

"We'll tell them," said Rowena, guiltily, "we just need some time."

"Well," said War Chest, shouldering her bag and making for the door, "your secret's safe with me."

"Criminal-client confidentiality," said Chloe with a wry grin.

War Chest made a desultory salute with two fingers before leaving. "Exactly."