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The air in Springfield, Oregon, tastes like damp cedar and stale asphalt on this Tuesday afternoon, clinging to a fragile, grey sobriety, the kind of day where the sun is just a pale suggestion behind a curtain of Pacific Northwest mist. At the NR4I skatepark, the sound of polyurethane wheels against concrete creates a rhythmic, industrial white noise. Maggie Simpson, sixteen and perpetually wearing an expression of guarded observation, stands on the lip of a concrete bowl. Her electric guitar is safely encased in a battered gig bag slung over her shoulder, but her feet are planted on a skateboard that has seen better decades. The grip tape is peeling at the edges, and the graphic on the bottom—a faded, ironic Krusty the Clown face—is gouged by years of failed kickflips.
She isn’t looking for trouble; she’s just vibrating to the internal hum of a new song bridge. Then, the hum is interrupted by the aggressive whir of an electric motor. From the corner of her eye, she sees a man—a "tech-bro" type in a high-vis vest—barreling down the flat toward her on a heavy electric longboard. He’s looking at his phone, not the line. Maggie is boxed in by the rail and the bowl's steep drop. She braces, her heart hammering a frantic jazz tempo against her ribs.
Just as the shadow of the heavy board looms, a blur of violet and black cuts through her peripheral vision. A gloved hand snatches the strap of Maggie’s gig bag, and another grips her waist with iron-clad certainty. Maggie feels the world spin. It’s a dizzying, graceful rotation. The screech of the electric board passing by is replaced by the smooth, melodic purr of high-end rollerblade bearings. She’s pulled into a tight orbit, spinning once, twice, until the momentum dissipates.
When the world stops tilting, Maggie finds herself staring into the dark, amused eyes of Cyphra "Sif" Silencio. Sif is leaning back on her blades, her hands still steadying Maggie’s shoulders. Her dark hair is pulled back, save for two streaks of dyed silver that frame a face full of sharp, interesting angles.
"Whoa, easy there, Simpson," Sif says, her voice a low, soothing alto. She glances at the man on the electric board. "Sorry about that lardass. You okay? Did he clip the board?"
Maggie looks down. Her ancient skateboard is upside down, a hairline fracture finally surrendering and snapping the wood near the tail. Maggie sighs. "It’s toast. RIP to a legend. I’m the third kid in the family—that board’s been passed down since at least 2009. Bart had it, then Lisa. It owed me nothing."
Sif whistles, a slow, appreciative sound. "2009? Damn, good it’s held on this long. C’mon. I’ll take you to my place, and you can have your pick of a new ride. My dads confiscate a lot of 'contraband' from the neighborhood kids who owe them favors. Consider it a redistribution of wealth."
The Silencio property is a sprawling farmhouse hidden behind high, modern security fencing. As they trek up the driveway, Maggie expects to see a garage full of stolen scooters. Instead, she stops dead. Beyond the gravel, in a paddock turned golden-brown by the frost, two horses are grazing.
"Horses?" Maggie asks. "You didn't mention the 'Wild West' DLC."
Sif laughs, leading Maggie toward the fence. "They're temporary guests. My dads are only keeping them for the big race coming up—the Triple Crown qualifier in Portland. They’re 'collateral' for a very expensive debt."
Maggie leans against the fence, watching a chestnut mare toss its head. The air here smells of hay and expensive leather. She looks at Sif, then at the security cameras. "So," Maggie says, dropping to a whisper. "Are they bookies or mobsters?"
Sif freezes. She turns slowly, a dry, nervous smile playing on her lips. "... Is it that obvious?"
Maggie shrugs. "I know bookies. My brother Bart’s been running a 'consultancy' since he was twelve. And I know mobsters. Fat Tony is my godfather."
Sif’s jaw drops. "Wait—Marion Anthony D'Amico? You’re kidding. My dads... Frankie and Johnny... they’re enforcers under Fat Tony. They talk about him like he's the Pope."
Maggie finds she likes the way Sif looks when she’s surprised. "Small world. So, since we're basically family... can we ride them?"
Sif’s eyes light up. "Hell yes. My dads aren't even home—they're out on some 'collection' detail that was supposed to take all day. You can ride Brown Betty. Yellow Cake knows me better."
They don’t bother with saddles; Sif claims it’s "more punk," though Maggie suspects they just don’t want to be caught lugging heavy leather gear across the yard. Sif helps Maggie hoist herself onto Brown Betty’s broad, warm back. The horse is like a living radiator, the heat bleeding through Maggie’s thick denim jeans and easing the chill of the November mist. They lead the horses out of the back gate, moving away from the clinical hum of the security fence and into a massive, uncultivated field that separates the Silencio property from the deep Oregon forest. This is a place where the world feels older. The field is a sea of wild asters—sturdy, late-blooming flowers with star-shaped lavender petals that refuse to surrender to the frost.
As they move from a walk to a trot, Maggie feels a strange, soaring sense of freedom. She hasn't felt this light since the last time she nailed a complex solo during a Wiggle Wormz rehearsal. The rhythmic thud-thud of hooves on damp earth becomes a metronome for her thoughts. She watches Sif ride with a reckless, wind-blown grace. Sif isn't looking at the path; she's looking at the horizon, her silver-streaked hair whipping behind her like a banner.
"You're a natural, Simpson!" Sif calls out over her shoulder, her voice bright with adrenaline.
Maggie doesn't answer with words. She just leans forward, pressing her chest closer to Brown Betty’s neck, feeling the powerful play of muscles beneath the hide. She steers the horse toward a dense patch of asters, the purple blooms reaching up to brush against her boots.
Eventually, they slow to a halt in the very heart of the field. The silence of the afternoon is heavy and peaceful, broken only by the horses huffing great plumes of white vapor into the cold air. The lavender of the asters seems to vibrate against the grey sky, a defiant splash of color in a dying season. Maggie looks at Sif. The girl looks softer here, away from the concrete and the skateboards. The silver in her hair catches the pale light, and there’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek that Maggie finds inexplicably endearing.
Maggie reaches down, her fingers searching through the stalks until she finds a perfect, resilient aster. She snaps the stem, the sound sharp in the quiet. She nudges Brown Betty closer to Yellow Cake until their knees are almost touching. With a delicacy she usually reserves for the most fragile strings of her guitar, Maggie reaches over. Her fingers brush the cold skin of Sif’s temple as she tucks the flower behind the girl's ear. The purple petals look like a crown against the dark hair.
Sif’s breath hitches. Her dark eyes, usually so full of snark and iron, go wide and glassy. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into the touch, her hand coming up to cover Maggie’s for a fleeting second. Then, Sif leans in further—a quick, impulsive tilt of the head—and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Maggie’s cheek. It’s a tiny spark, but it feels like a lightning strike. Maggie feels a hot, crimson blush creep up her neck—the dizzying, electric spark of a first love that she hadn't known she was looking for.
Then, the heavy clack-clack of a high-end rifle being shouldered cuts through the silence like a gunshot.
"Get off the horses. Now."
Maggie’s blood turns to ice. Coming from the house are three men, and they don't look like they just finished a game of cards. They look like they crawled out of a war zone. Frankie, the smaller of Sif's dads, moves with the twitchy, lethal precision of his Special Forces background. His nose is crooked and clearly broken, a fresh smear of dark blood staining his upper lip. His knuckles are raw, split open, and matted with someone else's blood—a testament to the violence he’d unleashed to protect his partner. Johnny is limping heavily, his face pale with the kind of agony that comes from a long-sustained back injury being violently aggravated. He’s leaning slightly on a cane, his free hand hovering near a holster. They look jaded, exhausted, and incredibly dangerous.
Maggie looks down at her own gear—the dark, Wicca-inspired skate gear, the combat boots, the oversized band hoodie. To these men, she looks like a trespasser desecrating their multi-million dollar "collateral."
"Sif," Johnny growls, his voice tight with pain. "What did I tell you about the racehorses? These aren't toys. And who the hell is this?" He eyes Maggie with a cold, predatory suspicion that makes her feel like she's already in a shallow grave.
Maggie’s stomach drops. Holy shit, she thinks, I'm actually going to die in a field of flowers. Her knees knock against the horse's ribs. She looks at Sif, who looks terrified, and then at the two men who look ready to dispose of a witness. But then, the third man steps forward from the shadows of the porch. He is older, dressed in a charcoal overcoat, moving with a quiet, terrifying dignity. Maggie’s terror flashes into disbelief, then pure, radiant relief. She slides off Brown Betty with a clumsy, frantic dismount, landing in the asters and sprinting past the wounded enforcers.
"Uncle Tony!" she cries out, her voice cracking with the sudden shift in adrenaline.
The fearsome head of the Springfield Mafia stops. A rare, genuine smile breaks across Fat Tony’s face as he opens his arms. Maggie crashes into him, and he gives her a firm, paternal hug, his expensive wool coat smelling of cedar and espresso.
"Margaret," Tony says, his voice a gravelly rumble. "It has been too long. Your father tells me you are focusing on the 'jazz-fusion' now."
Frankie and Johnny stand paralyzed. Frankie wipes a drip of blood from his broken nose, his Special Forces training failing to provide a protocol for "Boss's Goddaughter is Riding the Collateral."
"Uh, Boss?" Frankie ventures, his voice dropping an octave in respect. "You know the girl?"
"This is my goddaughter, Margaret Simpson," Tony says, his eyes narrowing as he takes in their disheveled states. "She is family. Frankie, go fix your face. Johnny, see the chiropractor I put on retainer. You both look like you've been dragged through the gutters of Shelbyville."
Johnny lets out a breathy, pained laugh, leaning harder on his cane. He looks at the lavender flower tucked behind his daughter’s ear, then at the way Sif and Maggie are looking at each other. The "killer" mask slips, replaced by the weary eyes of a father.
"Nice flower, Sif," Frankie says, his voice softening. "You know the aster represents 'daintiness' and 'patience' in the old country? Or maybe just... a very specific kind of affection?"
Sif turns a shade of red that rivals a maraschino cherry. "Dad, shut up. You're bleeding on your shoes. Maggie came with me because some lardass destroyed her board at the park."
Johnny catches on next, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face despite the pain in his spine. He looks at Maggie. "So, Margaret, you need a new skateboard? Forget the 'confiscated' pile. We’ll get you something pro-grade. After all... we're practically family."
Maggie smiles, her hand going to her cheek where Sif had kissed her. The "maybe-love" was back, stronger than the "holy-shit-I'm-gonna-die" fear.
Fat Tony laughs. "Come, let us walk. I wish to hear about this 'Wiggle Wormz' and whether your drummer is as incompetent as most are."
As they walk back toward the house, Sif lags behind, catching Maggie’s eye. She touches the aster and winks. Maggie’s blush returns, but this time, the grey November afternoon feels like the brightest day of her life.