C/P mob AU, complete with an all lowercase, aesthetic title that may or may not have anything to do with the story.

This chapter is a Snowball for Clover. Hopefully I'll be able to write more chapters for more snowballs before the deadline. If not, I'll probably still finish it and squeeze everyone in somehow or another.

Part 1 - Opening Gambit

The Docks, 3am

The air was cold as ice cream, but not nearly as pleasant to swallow. Clover breathed out icy puffs and stomped her boots into the snow to keep warm. How did she ever land in a place like this, she wondered. Once upon a time she was a good kid. Respected by her teachers, admired by her classmates, adored by her parents and friends. Marching band, chess team. Hell, she was even on the honor roll.

But all that was before The Professor set up shop in their quaint little town, pushing her product without compunction or remorse, and the whole community went plunging down the tubes. These days you couldn't go two blocks without running into some emaciated cookie-head, strung out on thin mints or samoas.

Hadn't she tried to stay on the right side of the tracks? Clover had deluded herself that she could stand close to the fire without getting burned. But one little nibble of those sweet pastries and there was no going back. Now she was in up to her elbows in the deadly trade, taking whatever orders The Professor handed down in hopes of another fix. As she rubbed her frozen fingers she knew nothing would ever soothe her stinging skin, or her stinging conscience.

Clover sniffed and bunched up her nose. "It's ten degrees outside and still smells like mildew."

"I love the smell," Belle, her partner, enthused. Belle enthused about everything. "I love the salt spray and the seagulls pooping everywhere, I love everything about this place!"

"Shut your traps, both of you." The Professor, face hidden within the folds of her trench coat, pointed to a deserted loading zone. "They unpacked the crates over there. There should be nine of them – half do-si-dos, half tagalongs."

Clover's brow creased. "But that's…."

"Are you questioning my arithmetic?"

"No, ma'am." No one ever questioned The Professor. Rumor had it she never even used a calculator.

The snow crunched under Clover's boots as she marched to the first crate. She pried open the lid. "Empty!" Only drifts of lonely sawdust remained.

"What do you mean by 'empty?'"

"I mean they're empty, boss! Nothing's inside!" Clover pried off the lid of the second crate. Then the third. The fourth. "They're all empty!"

Belle bent her body in half to inspect the sides of the crate. "These crates are fabulous! Such solid construction! But I can't figure out why they've all been marked with the letter 'N.'"

"Stop looking at it sideways." The Professor's face was unreadable. But a thin trace of nascent fear crept into her voice that made Clover shiver. "It's not an 'N.' It's a 'Z.'"

"What does it mean?" Clover asked.

The Professor turned her back to the henchwomen. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, face upturned to the quiet, starry night as she began ambling towards their idling van. "It's a calling card." Nothing else was said on the matter, though Clover thought she heard a butterfly whisper on the wind: Have you finally come in from the dark, Zoey? Have you finally come back to play?