The Hairy Situation

The Outer Worlds Spa was known for many things: the variety of services, the quality of the staff, and their generally inexpensive pricing. Both those with money to throw around for a whole care package and those who could only afford a few at a time could relax here and enjoy the same quality experience, with no judgement whatsoever. Its placement within the Inner City made it a little more intimidating for those in the Middle, Outer, and Undercity to travel to, one the staff hoped to at least lessen by being closer to the border between the Inner and Middle sectors.

One could be also understandably  intimidated if they walked into someone moaning, "Aah.... aaaah... Aaaaaaaaaah~!"

A smile formed on the massager's face as the very, very involved client finally decided to relax. It took some effort with hot stones,  the massager's strands of hair feeling out each and every bit of tension in the client's muscles she swiftly, firmly applied just enough pressure to be relaxing. The massager's hair frizzed up a bit, breaking into a sweat as the client moaned loud enough for others to think that there was an entirely different massage experience happening.

The client sat up, still smiling at her hero as she said, "Oh, Tammy, you're such a lifesaver! I felt like I was gonna hunch over with all that bad juju in my back~"

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Tammy responded as she regained her composure, smiling as brightly as the client. "You really needed a release-" Tamara heard a snigger from another part of the room and resisted the urge to glare at the offender- "especially with all that's been happening recently."

"Yeah, you'd think I'd be less anxious, knowing that a lobster isn't going to replace me and make a Human-eating restaurant or somethin' to avenge their fallen," the woman replied as she slipped into a shirt far too gaudy for Tammy to look at directly for too long. She had seen her fair share of supposedly fashionable shirts that offended her sensibilities in this line of work, but this woman's sense of fashion was consistently horrid and eyesearing. All the more reason to keep eye contact with her. "But with CarverCorp just up and pretending they're the new Don Genies and CRAY Computin' and InGens, tryin' to keep up with them is just the pits!" Her eyes narrowed, breaking eye contact with Tammy as she said, "And of course, there's that mysterious mayor... Who the hell voted for him? He's taxing us up the ass and we're not even seein the benefits! He ain't MY mayor, who the hell's even heard of him-"

Tamara's mind drifted off to other places as the woman complained, recalling Deathborn's speech as idly nodded her head, her long tresses slowly winding themselves up and wrapping themselves into two neat buns on the sides of her head. For all this woman's complaining and Deathborn's admittedly sudden entry into the race, he was a much better canidate than Dalton, least for Olympia's greater good. The rich already hoarded wealth like dragons, only using their expenditures for sports cars to show off, superyachts that they claimed would be gaining some sort of ability to fly, and multiple summer homes outside of Olympia. It wasn't sustainable, especially not with the Undercity in the state it was in, gangs capitalizing on the populace's weakness and anger against those in the Inner City. Least with taxes against the rich, they could use such things for infastructure and improving the lives of those down below.

Not that her client had any interest in it, still prattling on as she grabbed her wallet and handed Tamara a $100 bill. "Really, though, he's gonna make the Inner City look like the Undercity with these taxes! Watch your wallet, Tam-tam, because he might be out to get you, too! Good thing tips aren't taxed though, eeeh?"

A wink wink, nudge nudge later, her client strutted out, Tamara's eye twitching slightly as she crumped the bill in her hands. She sighed, her hair unwinding again as they extended out, grabbing all of her tools for her as she walked over to the sink to cleanse them. From the corner of her eye, she could see her coworker smirking, barely holding back a giggle.

"How were the lewds with Larissa, Tams?" she asked, said giggle escaping from her lips.

Tamara's hair frizzed up at the mere mention, the woman shooting a glare at her cohort. "Speak no more of this, Clara, or you'll be the next to deal with her."

"I'd be in it for the weird sexual tension going on, not whatever political issues she's gettin her panties in a twist for," Clara responded as she streched out and yawned. "I'd chalk it up to a weird moment, but she's done this, like, every single time!"

"Some are like that, but some tend to be worse than others." Tamara sighed. "Honestly, her views are more concerning than her odd quirk. Especially since many of our own clients have been echoing such a sentiment."

Clara frowned, curling a lock of red hair around her finger and playing with it as she responded. "Yeah. Nobody in the Inner City seems to like him too much. Can't say I entirely blame them. He did kinda come outta nowhere, and he's draining their swamp faster than they can fill it back up." She leaned against a wall and snorted. "Not that I care. I'd rather he take my tax money than Dalton."

"A dog running for mayor is better than that Dolton by miles."

"...Point taken." Clara watched as Tamara set her tools to dry after scrubbing them and sanitizing them to hell and back. "Anyway, you done for the day? I was hopin' you could grab me something real quick." Clara looked away, Tamara narrowing her eyes as her hair recoiled, feeling some sort of unease from her coworker. "I, uh, kinda left something important at home, and I have a client coming up who really, really hates the ones we keep here, and-"

"And?"

Clara flinched under Tamara's steely gaze. "I-I left the aromatherapy oils at home! The really good smelling ones, like lavender and lemon! I couldn't even convince my client that we have good ones here! Just one sniff of 'em and he turns his nose up and demands the GOOD ones I have!" Near tears, Clara put her hands together and bowed her head before her coworker as she pleaded, "Please, you gotta grab them for me! My tip depends on it!"

Tamara's look softened as she placed her hand on Clara's head. "It's quite alright, dear. I was done for the day, so it's no trouble. Though, how soon is this client arriving?"

Clara's eyes lit up for a split second before Tammy asked the question. "Oh, it's about an hour from now, so you have time! I have another client coming up soon for a waxing so I can't exactly leave." She quickly dug into her pockets and pulled out some keys, keys that Tamara quickly pocketed. "Wish I could say you could help me with this: your whole sorcery trick with the whole smells thing. Predigi.... Prestidigery... Presti-"

Tamara tilted her head in confusion, a strand of hair making a question mark as she said, "Prestidigitation?"

"Yeah, that thing!" Clara's eyes lit up again before she slumped again. "I wish I could say it'd help, but this man has a nose like a hog. He's rather picky about his scents."

"Perhaps we could use him to help us find truffles on the Surface," Tamara joked, though Clara flinched at the mention. "Ah well, can't be helped. You'll see your oils soon enough, but I hope your next client isn't nearly as loud as Larissa."

The disheartened look on Clara's face told the spa witch all she needed to know about the next, enough to spur the witch to skeedaddle as fast as she could.

------------------------

One might look at the sort of job Clara had and wonder why she didn't live in the Inner City. Spa workers did make quite a bit of money, especially with generous tips coming from wealthier and more generous types. Surely the luxurious living and the short walk to the spa would be worth it! But as Tamara summoned a broom and flew off towards the closest elevator to the Undercity and passed by the many apartments and houses up for sale, the witch was rather glad Clara had enough financial sense to avoid living here at all costs. It was made for extravagent living, living in excess, which was hardly necessary when you just wanted to live and pay the bills without worrying about having enough money left over to eat.

Granted, the witch did wish that Clara lived in a part of the Undercity that didn't smell of weed. Or people who shouted about "THE ORANGE MURDERER". Her hair stood on end, sensing the fear of those around, turning their heads away at the sight of her. Her first instinct was that something terrible happened here, something to put everyone on edge. She figured she could look into it in her spare time, but there was certainly no time to spare.

As she drifted along on her broom, she eventually came across the fixer-upper of a house Clara bought, easily recognizable by the many flowers blooming  in the windowsills and the pinwheel that never seemed to spin  right by the doorstep. Pinwheel logistics aside, Tamara hastily pulled out the key and opened the door, swiftly closing the door behind her and sighing at the utter state her coworker's house was in: clothes littered about to avoid, pizza boxes  stacked as if ready for a game of Jenga on the coffee table,  several CDs and video games scattered about... The witch's first instinct is to actually clean and organize everything, but she knew it would not only be rude, not only revert back to its original state after a few days, she also didn't have the time to bother with that. So came the next question: where were the oils?

Tamara adjusted her glasses and headed towards the bathroom, which was, much to her shock, absolutely pristine. It was like a holy spot, a place that could not be defiled. It was cluttered with hair products and acne-fighting creams, sure, but it wasn't dirty or filthy. A quick glance around and she found the oils after opening up the mirror. The witch couldn't help but open one of them up, wafting it carefully with one hand. Her eyes widened at the scent, which was surprisingly pleasant for something based off lemons. Strong, but not overwhelming. Certainly of a better quality than the spa's selection of aromas.

Perhaps I should persuade Karen to purchase this particular brand from now on, she thought for a moment before the hairs on the back of her head stood straight up. Her eyes narrowed, turning towards the bathroom door as she heard someone bang on the front door with enough force that she feared they'd knock it right open.

"Open up! We know you're in there, you bitch!" came a rough, deep voice. "You owe us, big time!"

Gang members? A mafia member trying to collect "protection fees?" Someone Clara slighted? Tamara didn't know which was correct, but she figured that perhaps she should have a word with her about this later. For now, she kept low to the ground, avoiding the windows and trying to assess the situation. From what she could see, there were two burly men and one scrawny one with a bulging eye. Ruffians, the lot of them. And given how the scrawny one looked as if he was going to explode from anger with all those veins, she figured maybe he needed a spa day most of all.

"If you don't show up on the count of three, I'm busting this damn door down!"

The other ones, however, needed a swift kick more than anything. She didn't want to fight them and worry Clara: she had to think of a way to make them surrender quickly enough to deliver the goods. As she looked again towards the essential oils, a smirk played across the witch's lips.

"THREE!"

She stood up now, holding up a hand and murmuring an incantation.

"TWO!"

She could smell the lemon-lavender scent spread throughout the house. Excellent. She composed herself, walking towards the door with confidence.

"ON-"

She opened the door for the men and glared daggers at them. "What on earth is this racket about?" she shouted. "Haven't you any manners?"

The burly men stared at her, dumbfounded. "Uh... youse ain't Clara," said one of them dumbly.

"Of course I'm not! Now, what on earth do you want?"

Tamara saw the mens' noses twitch as they took in the scene, though the scrawny one took one snort of it and hacked like he was about to cough an entire lung out. The feeling was mutual, given that the stench of cigarette smoke around him brutally assaulted her nostrils. "Look here, lady," the scrawny rat said, "I know she's in 'ere, and I ain't waitin another week to get paid. Drag her bitch ass out here before I make you."

His goons tried to look as ferocious as they could, but their eyelids were drooping, their hostility slowly overriden by a sense of calm and sleepiness.

"Y-yeah, go and get that Clara chick, or you're gonna- *yaaawn* get it."

The other goon saw fit to pretend he was going to punch Tamara, but she merely huffed. "She's not here, so please, if you would kindly leave? You're blocking my path and I have a very important meeting to attend."

"Like hell she isn't here!" the rat man hissed. "The hell are you two waitin for? She's a stick, you can shake some answers out of her!"

A moment passed, the men clearly enjoying the scent too much to pay attention too closely. One said, "Boss, she says the gal ain't here. Can't we just come back later?"

"Yeah," said the other as he nodded his head sleepily. "The boss ain't gonna be happy if we beat up this chick and it turns out she's right."

Before the rat man even drew his knife, Tamara's hair unraveled from their buns, every fiber of her being sensing a deep, incredible hostility. She gave him a cold look as she stomped her heel in front of the gangsters and said, "If you attempt to even graze me with that silly weapon of yours, you will regret it."

The rat man flashed her a toothy, filthy grin. "Like you'd even lay a finger of me, lady-"

He thrust his knife, his grin widening until a lock of hair wrapped around his wrist. The witch glared at him, her hair twisting his wrist with enough force for him to squeal in pain and drop the knife. The other men put up their fists, adrenaline jolting them from their aromatheraputic trance, but they took a step back. The rat man stammered a command, the men finally gaining their courage to try to strike before her hair took the form of dogs and bit down with the jaw force of a crocodile on their arms. They howled in pain, the witch quickly releasing them once they were too focused on their wounds to fight her.
"Leave," she commanded, staring down at the men like they were ants. "And never return. If you do..." There is a sickening SNAP, the rat man wailing like a child as his wrist went completely limp, her hair slithering away from the pathetic man. "A fate much worse than that awaits."
The burly men gawked at her, then looked at their friend, then back to her hair twisting into cobras ready to strike. Without a second thought, they grabbed their friend and ran as far as their legs could take them.

She sighed, her hair relaxing and coiling back up into buns as she picked up the knife. "Goodness, what have you gotten yourself into, Clara?" the witch asked no one but the wind as she beckoned her broom to her side and left to deliver the goods.

As much as she wondered about Clara's situation, she did not mention it to her upon giving her the oils. She could not bear to sour her coworker's bright mood, not when her special client was due to arrive at any minute. All Tamara could do was smile with her and bid her farewell as she headed towards her own modest home in the Middle City.

With all her heart, she hoped the mire Clara was in was not so deep she couldn't dig herself out, and that the new Mayor's plans of action would crack down on such foulhearted men.

If only it were enough.