Rated T for language and future events that may eventually morph into M.

A Humanstuck AU set in prohibition-and-Mafia-infested New York City, 1926.

The genre's more like Adventure/Survival Horror/Mystery/Suspense/Romance.

Master Hussie has all the claims to Homestuck. ALL OF THEM.

=== Be the main female.

She's currently sleeping. Are you sure you want to wake her?

=== Yes, just get this story started already.

Fine.

You are Miss Vriska Serket. Young, pretty, and rich; just how you like it.

Vriska rolled over as sunlight pierced through her eyelids. Ugh. It was early, much too early for a young lady to be waking. She buried her face in her pillows for another five minutes, trying her best to fall back asleep.

Nope. Wasn't happening.

With an internal groan, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her mane of hair was sticking out in every direction. Her head throbbed, body ached, and she couldn't remember a lick of last night. What…happened, exactly?

She pawed at her night table for her eyeglasses, wanting to get a better look at the room.

Oh. Oh dear.

Was that…uh. Who was in her armchair?

"AAAAAAAA-RAY-DEE-AAAAAAAA!"

The maid entered Vriska's room seconds later, stepping around the mess that occupied the majority of the floor. "Yes, ma'am?"

"What happened last night?"

The younger girl fought the urge to roll her eyes. "You threw another 'swanky' shindig, ma'am."

"Did I?"

"You did indeed."

Vriska frowned. "Who's in my chair?"

"It would appear to be the mayor's son, ma'am."

A flush spread across her cheeks. "Did I-"

"No, ma'am, you checked out downstairs. He was in your room when you were brought up to bed."

"Oh." Vriska pushed herself into a sitting position and immediately regretted it. "Aradia, I believe I'm hungover."

"I would not be surprised, ma'am."

"I don't want to punch in today."

It was from here that Aradia's hatred for her job stemmed. Miss Serket may be less vicious when hungover, not to mention a great deal more tolerable when drunk, but when it came to asking her to do something she did not wish to—regardless of her intoxication level—she simply could not be persuaded. And, the young mistress had to attend work, fancy it or not.

And it was almost always up to Aradia to convince her.

These socialites had no clue how well they had it.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid that is impossible. You must go. You do own the establishment."

"But there'll be booze there," Vriska whined. She did not want to see another glass of anything alcoholic for as long as she lived…or at least for another twelve hours.

Aradia bowed her head. "I'm sorry ma'am, but-"

A pillow slammed into the wood next to her head.

"I said no!"

"Miss Serket!" Aradia screeched. "This is no way for a sophisticated lady to behave!"

Ooh Aradia immediately regretted that. Now she was in for it. When Vriska opened her mouth, she was sure the girl was about to fire her. Great. She needed this job, needed the money. She only worked for the devil because it paid well. Sheesh!

Vriska, instead of canning Aradia, let out a feral roar and slumped back into her nest of goose down pillows and silken sheets. "You're right. Fine."

"Pardon?"

Another pillow soared by Aradia's head as her mistress started to wake from her hangover-induced nice spell. Well, nice by her standards, anyway. The queen of the townhouse glared. "I said fine, I'd go. Now get out, fetch me some coffee."

The maid wasted no time exiting the room.

"And make it blacker than my mother's soul!" Vriska's voice echoed through the wooden door. Aradia's shoulders fell and she let out a long sigh. She was stuck in a never-ending cycle of absurdity and abuse from the mighty Marchioness of Avenue Five.

=== Jegus she's a bitch. Follow Aradia instead.

You cannot follow Aradia because Aradia has orders and cannot be bothered.

=== Fine. FINE! Follow the Marchioness of whatever! Sheesh!

You are once again Miss Vriska.

=== Vriska: Get dressed.

But that requires work. Uuuuuuuugh.

Vriska rolled to one side of her bed, completely finished with being eaten by the delightfully perfect mattress. Her feet hit the cold floor unpleasantly, causing a shiver to run through her body. One of those cool mornings, was it? Curse New York autumns!

She threw open her wardrobe doors, walking into a small boutique of clothing. She was not nearly as fashion-obsessed as one of Avenue Five's regulars, a Miss K. Maryum, but Vriska had her guilty pleasures like the rest of the world. Shopping was on the top of that list. That is, shopping for circus trinkets such as cards and dice, not clothing. Still, the pretty blue fabrics on display would always lead her astray.

Picking out a not too prude royal blue skirt suit, she shut the closet doors to change, mind still on the unconscious mayor's son in her favorite armchair. She was already concocting a nasty lie to tell his father if the chair wasn't in pristine condition. After all, alcohol was illegal…

She'd have to do something about this mess of hair, Vriska decided as she stared at her reflection. She didn't quite fancy the idea of chopping it all off like the flapper girls, but at the same time it was so long. So unmanageable. And so 1800s.

A still-hungover but much sharper Miss Serket showed up to the main dining hall not long after ordering her maid away. There was company seated around the long mahogany table. Right, she threw a blow of a party, lots of house guests. Swell. Just…swell.

"There's our darling dame all dolled up!" There was a snicker from the other end of the table. Miss Terezi Pyrope, another of the Avenue's regulars, sauntered up to Vriska, a plate of toast and jam in her right hand.

Eventually Vriska would crack and ask why Terezi even showed up to her parties—and Avenue Five, for that matter. One thing set Terezi apart from the rest of the room; she didn't drink. Something to do with its outlawed status and taste. Yet she showed her mug around the Avenue and never missed a party. If Vriska wasn't swayed to believe otherwise, she'd say Terezi was being a good friend.

But then again, they weren't exactly friendly friends.

Friendly rivals, if you will. Civil and polite about it, but rivals.

"Don't you look ritzy," Vriska replied with a snide smile, taking in Terezi's slightly disheveled appearance. Her short hair was in a tizzy, makeup smeared, dress hanging awkwardly off one shoulder, and a dark red splotch stuck out against the pale skin of her neck like an elephant in a taxi cab. The primped girl stared at it a moment and raised the appropriate eyebrow to accompany such a scandalous mark. Her companion, confused, fussed her free hand to the spot being inspected. She gave a little gasp as her fingers found the love bite, warm to the touch from the burst blood vessels.

To Vriska's unsurprise, she giggled and gave the lady of the house her wild, trademark smile. "I guess someone wasn't behaving last night. At least it's scarf season, eh Vriska?"

"Would that someone be you or the one who gave you that?"

"Oh, that's debatable, Miss Vriss," Terezi chided. With a chuckle and a wink, she turned on her heel and disappeared before Vriska could retort.

Well, now she had some investigating to do. Maybe dig up some dirt, find something to bait Terezi with. A busy day was ahead, not even counting work. Thinking about it made her more tired. She took a seat at the head of the table and slumped over in future exhaustion.

"Is something the matter, dear?"

Miss K had one eyebrow arched, a worried pout settled on her lips. Unlike the other guests who stayed overnight, Miss K was groomed and in a fresh change of clothes. Vriska briefly entertained the thought of her carrying around a spare outfit in a carpet bag.

"Oh, no, nothing at all. Same old, same old," she lied and brought a cup of java to her mouth.

"Ah. Carry on." The mature girl looked at her in such a way it sent prickles down her spine. Miss K had the most piercing of stares, reading her prey like a picture book.

Vriska lowered her glass to rebuke her friend's assumption when a polished silver telephone was thrust in her face. "Your mum, milady," the maid with the shiny platter announced.

With a wary glance at Miss K, she picked up the handset. "Mummy?"

"Good morning, my darling daughter. It is morning there, right, bun?" her mother chirped in that sadistically sweet voice. It meant trouble; the cutesy tone always meant trouble. Vriska stood abruptly and walked into the parlor, away from the leftover company, the maid carrying the rest of the contraption following closely behind.

"Yes, it's morning here, mummy dearest."

"Good, I hope I woke you." Oh, there was her mother's normal cold tone.

"Hate to disappoint, mummy, but you interrupted breakfast," Vriska replied with feigned sweetness.

"Not as satisfying. I have business to attend to, sweets, so let's make this snappy."

You're the one stalling, Vriska thought bitterly. "What is it, mummy?"

"I have a job for you, ducky. I need you to dig up all the little gems you can about someone. Can you do that for your darling mummy?"

"I'd need a name, mummy; I can't read your mind."

"Could if you triiiiiiiied," she sing-songed. "I don't have a name, button, but a moniker. A man who goes by "The Summoner". Silly, right, dumpling?"

"You have a silly title as well," Vriska mumbled, beckoning for a pen and paper.

"Not nearly as silly. He doesn't frequent your establishment from what I've heard, kitten, so you'll have to look for treasure in other places. Now go powder your nose, pet, it's going to get dirty quite soon. I have to split, sweetums. Kisses!" The line went dead.

That woman. Sometimes Vriska was unsure if she should be proud to be related or embarrassed. Honestly, the pet names! Revolting. But then again, this was the Marquise she was talking about. The Marquise of Bath, Miss Mindfang: a British blue-blood who married and widowed early. So early, Vriska couldn't remember her father's face.

Beautiful, another person's life to snoop through. Granted, this was an order from Mumsie, and thus more important than embarrassing Terezi. Besides, it wasn't as if she didn't enjoy screwing around in other people's personal lives.

Jotting down instructions, Vriska called Aradia to her. "I need you to acquire the number of a Mr. Ampora," she said, handing her the list.

"The man who owns the rivaling speakeasy?"

"Yes, that one. I need his personal telephone. He doesn't like cooperating with me but has no knowledge of you. It should be easier if you do this and not me."

Aradia nodded and took off, pleasantly surprised by her mistress' mild behavior. She was usually in a fit after speaking to the Marquise, a fit that involved the breaking of numerous objects. A cold demeanor was very welcome in comparison.

Vriska groaned and massaged her temples as she walked back to the hall. This was the anti-cure to her hangover. More headaches, more things to worry about. In a fit state, she'd be ecstatic. Mumsie always had the best assignments. Occasionally boring and tedious, but always riddled to the bone with blackmail potential.

And difficult to execute. Always, always difficult. Mumsie wanted her darling little girl to be the toughest kid on the block. Years and years of obstacles and punishments had assured this. A tingling sensation spiraled through Vriska when she recalled the seriousness of her mother's tone. This would be a challenge if there ever was one, and she'd pay in liquid rubies if she screwed up.

"You look as though you've seen a spook." Miss K looked worried.

"No, but close enough. Mumsie's having me commit capers for her again."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't you perform criminal acts daily? Running that tavern cannot possibly be legal."

"It's not; we sell liquor. However, I've enough blackmail on the city council to stay open. Some are even regulars. Anyway, Mumsie's tasks on the other hand are…risky. Mumsie doesn't play nice."

"She's not asking…you're not killing anyone, are you?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Heavens no! No, no murders. Reconnaissance."

"On someone, I take it?"

"A man who goes by "The Summoner"? I've never heard of him."

Miss K's eyes widened, mouth curling into a frown. "Vriska!" she hissed. "He's a member of…" she looked around and leaned towards the lady of the house, voice low. "He's a Mafia boss. The Marquise is going to get you killed."

"A Mob boss?" A ferocious smile inched its way across her face. "That, that is a challenge." She sprang from her seat, almost knocking her chair over. "Miss K, my dear, I have to get to work. Thank you for this little tidbit, I'll see you later tonight?"

"Wait, Vriska!"

But she wasn't listening, eager to begin work on her new task. A mob boss! This was easily eight times more exciting than spying on Terezi for a week! She almost forgot a hat on her way out she was so enthused. Perhaps she was just a silly girl, but there was something romantic about the Mafia. The danger, the shadiness of it all.

"Take me to Mr. Ampora's, I have business with the fish-boy. And floor it," she told her driver before climbing in the back of the sleek black Lincoln limousine.

Step one: Learn which Mafia family frequented Eridan's joint.

A/N: Um, hi everyone! If you managed to get here, I applaud you for braving my writing XD
I feel like I should have an author's note because they make the stories seem more personal for some reason (well, to me, anyway), and I'd rather not be a total stranger to anyone reading.

I'm not sure I'm writing these characters right, mainly Vriska. I don't think I'm making her cruel enough. WHELP I SHOULD CHANGE THAT.

If anyone catches an grammar, spelling, or other errors, please point them out. I usually pride myself in my English abilities but I'm sure as hell not going to catch every little mistake.
And critiques! Critiques are nice :D

Sorry I gotta label you off like this but Guest One!
Aww thank you! I still feel awkward that she's not mean enough but WHATEVER! It'll sort out...I hope.

Guests Dos & Tria!
Saving space here sorry guys but you're both too kind. I hope to be writing more!...soon.

Guest Quatre!
Look at all of these languages, Guest Quatre. I can't speak any of them aside from English.
Thank you! And yes, Mindfang's speech is terrible and Tastes Like Diabetes. Which is a Trope, if you were wondering.