I don't own anything to do with Marvel. TW for the fic will include violence, alludes to abuse, depictions of abuse, character typical sexism, and character typical racism.

"Are you an idiot? This isn't what I ordered."

Ana smiles, making sure that her expression is edged with faux sheepishness, tinted with just the right amount of self-depreciating apologeticness. It's not a new look for her because she's in the service industry, and that means she smiles. She smiles and smiles, even when she knows for damn sure that drink is exactly what the man ordered. She wrote it down, and read it back, just to be sure, the same she does with every order.

"I'm so sorry sir, I must have made a mistake," she demures with false sincerity.

He sighs, like the weight of his world has been placed on his shoulders, shoving the glass at her in a silent command for her to take it back.

"It's a small one. Just make it right sweet-cheeks. Full pulp, not half," he says, and she forces her grin wider to compensate for the irritation she feels inside. The pet name doesn't bother her much, it's nothing compared to what some of the other customers have done, but she didn't make a fucking mistake.

She takes the glass, though. It's her job.

The moment she breaks through the doors separating the kitchen and the floor, her smile drops, and she's back to her usual resting bitch face. She looks around, but the cooks are busy, and so is the rest of the crew. She knows if she tries to grab the appropriate person for this job, her boss will rain hell down on her. That's just how it works.

So she dumps the perfectly orange juice down the sink, puts it in a plastic crate for the wash, and makes a new one herself, exactly like the last time. Full pulp, not half. The carton cheerfully proclaims it in huge green lettering all along the front, so even an idiot like her can figure it out.

Then she's back out on the floor, serving the drink with a big, fat, fake ass smile on her face.

He takes the new cup with a disapproving glance in her direction. She notices his teeth are yellow when he goes to take a sip, but somehow it works with his dirty blond mustache. The liquid touches his tongue, and he drinks a huge gulp down before smacking his lips exaggeratedly.

"Much better this time," he tells his drink, not even looking back up at her.

"I'm real glad," she drawls. "Sorry again about that."

His silence is answer enough; a casual dismissal of her service and person. He no longer requires her to fix a drink that didn't need fixing, and now she's as of much value to him as the table he's sitting at, or the carpet under his feet.

Ana keeps smiling; because smiling gets her better tips. Nobody wants a dour waitress. Just a pretty face and a pretty smile they can walk all over.

Then it's back to the kitchen for her next table. The place is busy, the usual lunch rush crowding the place. In the next hour alone she must shift out at least twenty burgers, all with some sort of tweak made (no mayo, no 'rabbit food', extra ketchup, Worcestershire on the bun and patty-') and fries. Plenty of fries. Alongside those burgers are other lunch specials, a chicken sandwich or two, and maybe a handful of salads, pasta dishes, and assorted wraps. Nothing fancy. Nothing high class. All served with a smile and a chipper, can-do attitude, for the low, low price of minimum wage.

She gets called a variation of idiot twice more that afternoon alone. Once by a suburban mother type, whose heathen of a child who wailed and refused to touch their pancakes without the eggs and bacon arranged into a smiley face on top. The again by some guy who wanted his burger well done, and blamed her for not cooking it right.

Her shift ends somewhere after the dinner rush dies out, and she never does get her break, but that's fine. Tips were decent today, and that's what really matters.

She disappears out back and breathes in the wonderful, grimy garbage air of a New York alleyway, filling her lungs with grease laden air. The smell will linger on her skin and clothes like it always does, but nobody on the subway really gives a fuck. Nobody even gives a fuck about the guy dressed in a latex kink suit either, because they're all just trying to keep their own shit together.

And really, that's the beauty of public transit, isn't it?

"Do you remember," Ana asks later that night, pantsless and exhausted. "When we were young?"

Her roommate and lifelong friend looks over from where she's been watching the news report -some re-run about an incident on the Statue of Liberty or some sort of crazy shit- and blinks her hazel eyes. Her pale skin is made nearly luminescent by the glow of the screen, and Ana finds herself admiring the volume of her friends short chestnut hair yet again.

"We're still young," Mac replies.

Ana snorts tiredly and rubs her eye, then freezes half way through to check her hand for eyeliner smudges. Belatedly, she realizes she already washed her face.

"You sound like an old man," Mac continues, shifting a bit on the couch. It was a hand me down when they got it, and frankly, Ana's pretty surprised it's still functional. "Seriously, we're still young."

"I meant when we were kids. Freshman year, when we first met, all sparkle eyes and smiles-"

This time, it's Mac who snorts, a wry expression settling on her washed out skin.

"Ana, you never used to smile. You were the angriest little shit, and I was filled with dreams of grandeur. God forbid either of us sparkle in that town," Mac amends. "The church would have burned us at the stake."

"Which church? There was like three per street," Ana recalls.

Mac nods her head agreeingly. Their town, and all the towns around them, did seem to have an inordinate amount of churches. More than could be filled with the population, surely.

"So many churches," She agrees, "And ticks."

Ana makes a face.

"Oh god, I forgot the ticks. And the chiggers. Why did you remind me?" she asks.

"I reminded you because you have a bad habit of romanticizing the past," Mac says bluntly, not pulling any punches. "You want to remember the big open fields and forest, all the rivers and floating trips, but you never want to remember why we left."

Ana doesn't speak, pursing her lips into a flat line. They're still tinted pink from the garish red lipstick that clashes with her dark skin, but Ana insists customers tip more when she wears it. She pulled out research articles done in France, and her own penned out records to back it up.

"I miss it too, sometimes," Mac confides, "But then I remember that I used to work with a proud Church of Humanity supporter and that we would drive past people who had 'It's not my way, It's God's way' bumper stickers. I remember that people jokingly spat slurs all the time and that you unironically got called them more than once. I remember the factories outsourced, and people couldn't find jobs for the life of them."

Ana looks at her friend from the corner of her eyes. She looks back, steadfast and ungiving.

"We left for a reason, Ana," Mac says. "It was this apartment, with its leaky pipes and mildew, or hiding forever in a trailer in the woods."

"The racism, fanaticism, and job loss is the same here. The trailer could have worked," Ana protests. Because it is. It's definitely here in the city as well.

"The trailer would not have Lengua tacos available at three in the morning," Mac deadpanned.

And really, why is that what cinches it for Ana? Probably because the Lengua tacos from the truck by the bars is fucking awesome.

"Not unless I made them." She countered. "You may, however, have a point."

"I still miss floating trips," she adds after a moment.

She does. She misses the long, lazy days spent traveling down the river, and trying to fish from an inner tube with her collapsible pole. It was an artform she never quite mastered, but became more than proficient at.

"And I miss actual style barbecue," Mac returns, turning her head to the back to the television. The news is back on, rattling off some spiel about the imminent mutant danger, or some such nonsense. It makes Ana wonder if any of the professional's have ever taken a basic biology course because they don't seem to quite get the theory of sympatric speciation.

There is a long pause between them, filled with the quiet of the city. It's not a true quiet, with the constant drumming of their AC unit going on somewhere in the background, and their thin walls letting in the watered down shouting of the apartment beside them, but it's fine. The noises from the street are mostly blocked out by the announcers droning voice, and the ambiance wouldn't be the same without the sound anyway.

Mac drifts off somewhere in between an advertisement for Starktech far beyond their price range, and the forecast for the week, and Ana blinks slowly at her friend, knowing she needs all the rest she can get before she's due to work the morning shift. With a fond smile, she carefully worms her way off the sofa, shuts off the TV, and slips the blanket on the back of the couch around her friend's shoulders.

There are two main sections of industry in Hunt's Point. Three, if one takes illicit activity into consideration, but that's sorta, kinda, unrelated to the other two.

(Okay, not really, but to get an idea of the third, you need to know about the first two.)

The first is the Food Distribution center. With over eight hundred businesses, and around twenty-five thousand documented workers, the area is thrumming with activity at all hours. The market never really closes or opens for that matters. It just goes and goes, and it fits right in with the theme of 'the city that never sleeps'. It's also where Mac fits in.

Good from all over the world flow into this market. There's fish, fruit, vegetables, spices, dairy, meats of all kinds, and grains of every order. The whole thing is a barely operating chaos, with air that stinks or baking pavement, vehicle fumes, and spoiled produce. The warehouses stretch for long, long rows, and people come in and out, buying and selling. From raw material to the processed, packaged goods you find in a convenience store, it all comes through here by truck, rail, or sea.

The second point of business here ties in with the first. It's the industry built to support this massive undertaking. The waste management, transportation services, retail, inspectors, government overseers, distributors, buyers, and realtors all compose this second part, alongside a great many more that go unmentioned. As a waitress, Ana fits in here.

The third, and mostly unmentioned sector, is the crime that thrives in this area. Hunt's Point is a haven for illegal activity, from gangs to prostitution. Smugglers often hang around the warehouses and docks, and Mac knows for sure that there are at least three different drug dealers on her block alone. Their new neighbor across the hall -a large, built blond guy who she once saw spattered with blood- probably fits into this section as well.

There are other minor career markets as well, but widely it's known that if you live in Hunt's Point, most of your income comes from one of these three, and most often times is subsidized by one of the other two.

Work for Mac starts balls early, hours before the sun has even begun to think of gracing the world with it's light. She has to hustle in the darkness to reach the bus that drops her off at the edge of the distribution center, the hoof it to her station.

From there, it's a quick stretch, and then tons and tons of lifting and shuffling.

The loading bay is brightly lit when she arrives, already full of workers getting in, or just leaving, their shift. The constant beeping of trucks in reverse, machinery in use, and humming refrigeration units mingles with the steady barking of orders in all manner of languages, but mostly Spanish. She clocks in and shuffles over to her boss, a large mans with solemn eyes and muscles like a bodybuilder.

"Bay two, dock eighteen," he rattles off for her, and she nods tiredly and sets off to grab a trolley.

Down at the bay, the truck doors are already open, and another employee is already working on hauling boxes onto their dolly for a special shipment to be set aside. She waits impatiently for them to grab what they need before scooting forward and doing the heavy lifting.

The big orange boxes proudly proclaim the qualities of the fruits inside. Roma tomatoes, grown somewhere in the midwest and ready for sale. She stares at the letters as they jumble in front of her eyes, and tries to remember if she remembers any tomatoes farms where they lived. Mostly, she just recalls corn, soybeans, and cows.

It's four in the morning, and she has another eight hours of this.

Somewhere in between hauling watermelons, and stacking crates of pomegranates, the ambient noises of the dock take a stranger turn. It's not the sharp bark of an order or the lower murmur of trolleys being dragged, but the scuffing of shoes, and a low warning in Spanish.

Usually, Mac would ignore it. Whatever goes on between other people is none of her business. She's no good samaritan with a heart of gold, or even a small town girl with stars in her eyes anymore. The local going on of gangs is nothing to her, and it's actually pretty hazardous to get involved. Usually, she just blocks out the working girls around the buildings and the roaming groups of men that squat around the trucks, or in between the warehouses. She even goes out of her way to avoid them.

But this morning, Mac is weary and frustrated. She just wants to get her work done with, and not have to tiptoe around the dock to avoid danger.

So she drags her trolley right back up to the truck, peers around the side of it, and takes note of the man being herded to the edge of the raised concrete by a local. Getting a good look at the intended victim, she almost turns back. He's almost asking for it, looking like that. Who wears a suit and tie in this fucking neighborhood? It's bad enough he looks like some suburban dad, with receding dirty blond hair, and skin paler than her own, but to top it off with a suit?

Mac spits on the ground in indignation. No wonder he's ended up here.

"Oiiii!"

The assaulter pauses and turns to glare at her. He's not a stranger, which is a surprise, but she's almost certain he was supposed to have clocked off an hour ago.

"Miguel, my friend, I have to unload this truck," she states, half chastising, half pleading.

For a second, he looks passingly sheepish, but then the bravado is back, alongside the hard stare. She notices he has a hand still in his pocket. Either a gun or a knife. For her sake, she hopes it's the latter of the two. Knives have a shorter range.

"And I have to make money," he snaps back waspishly.

She doesn't answer, because deep down, she knows that he realizes she is trying to do the exact same thing. Only, right now, he's about to mug a guy, and she's trying to haul about five thousand pounds of fruit.

"Cage is dock manager right now," she says, and it more of a warning than anything else. Not only is Cage a hardass, but he's a stickler for rules, and he generally doesn't tolerate nonsense on his shifts. He also likes to keep work fairly fast paced, and he'll bust her non-existent balls if he thinks she's slacking.

Miguel swallows, and he looks like he's weighing his options. He just needs a push.

"Look, Miguel, if you shove off, I'll get you a free meal at Ana's," Mac offers temptingly.

He's intrigued, but he doesn't want to admit it.

"A meal? This guy will have more than a fucking meal's worth on him," Miguel barters back.

Mac rolls her eyes. They both know it was more than a meal.

"But does he have Ana? She talks about finding a man, you know," Mac lies through her teeth. Ana could not give a singular fuck about finding a man. "And she always did like your Abuela."

For a moment, his jaw shifts, and Mac thinks he's about to refuse. But something must get to him -maybe it's Ana's big, fake smile, or Mac's reminder that he could get his ass in trouble,- because he drops his hand out of his pocket and backs up a few steps.

"Abuela loves Ana," he agrees, casting her a suspicious glance. "You better not be playing me."

"I ain't got time for playing. I can get you a meal, and maybe a date. That's it," she responds, crossing her arms. As it is, Ana is going to kill her, and she's going to have to buy her friend off with a bunch of food. Which means stopping by Fulton market, and searching through stinking heaps of fish.

She grimaces at the thought, side-eyeing the suit. He doesn't look worth this trouble. Why is she doing this again?

"That's enough," Miguel says in finality, taking a glance back up at the dock. He flashes her a smile "Good luck with work. Tell Ana I will stop by tomorrow."

Mac scowls as he quickly disperses back into the night, disappearing in between trucks. He's not a bad guy, really. Arrogant and cocksure, definitely, but a good worker, at least.

"Thank you," says an even, totally unaffected voice. It takes Mac a moment to realize it's coming from the other guy.

"You sir," she starts, turning back toward him, "Are an idiot. If you're a buyer, go through the front. You shouldn't be here dressed like that unless you're selling coke. And if you are selling coke, you're in the wrong neighborhood. Nobody has money for that here."

He blinks, seemingly taken aback by her candor. He's more amused than shocked, though, if his placid, customer service smile is anything to go by.

"I'm not dealing drugs, no," he informs her.

She raises a hand to her temple because even the way he talks is too nice for this area.

"Just...get to the front. And be careful," she sighs. "I got work to do."

He nods, or maybe it's more of a polite bob of his head, she can't tell. It doesn't matter either way because this is probably the last time she'll ever see him anyway. He's just some random dude, and she probably should have just let him get mugged.

At least now she can work in peace.