Disclaimer: I'm kind of glad that I don't own Miss Saigon. However much I love it, it makes me cry. If I owned it...my eyes would never dry, if only because I would never stop crying.


Popular demand.

Popular demand.

What the hell did that mean?

She knew what to say, she knew what to do. That was it. She was nothing special, she had no noble motives. She once did the virgin act, the sweet, innocent make up, the lowered eyes, the soft voice, the vulnerable look. She could never quite pull it off.

She was too obvious.

Obvious was a good word for her: she was obvious in her flirtations, her suggestions, and she was even more obvious in her intentions. Fuck, everyone was obvious there. She was out to get out, and so was everyone else. And she would do whatever she had to do...she had the feeling that she was demeaning herself. She remembered being just a girl, sitting at her Ba Noi's knee, being told about proper conduct, how important her innocence was to her family and her future...but she also remembered Chu Truyen, telling her stories about that place across the world, where worries faded, where she could wander, where she could be someone.

And besides, it isn't like Ba Noi is here to see me now. It isn't like she hasn't been dead and buried for years. Her, and Father, and Mother, and Chu Truyen, and Mo Nga, and Co Trang, and Cau Tho, and Di Trinh, and Truc, Ngoc, Minh, Tri, My-Linh, Trung, all of them. Who is there to be ashamed of me except for me? My honor should drive me to live a better life, but that's a joke. Honor, in this world, in this place. And what reason would I have? What was ever my reason for being half decent? That's right, Xiung. And with her gone, what matters? The dream, and only the dream, she thought to herself.

Once upon a time, she would have felt guilty about using men like she was, as potential passports, as merely means to an end, as opposed to honoring them as her superiors as she ought to. Her superiors. Once she had believed that, but no more. These Marines were not superior to her, not even with all of their fancy guns, their fine boots, their clean clothes, their blonde hair and blue eyes. Funny, with their trousers down, they're never quite as grand, she mused.

She would have sighed, if she did not know that it was not the time for it. She almost felt empathy for the new girl, whatever her name was. Her real name, not the name that the Engineer had stuck her with; that, she knew, was Kim. Kim honestly was fresh faced, hopeful, afraid. Most of the girls still were, in all honesty. Fresh faced, not so much, but afraid, certainly. Working in a club, Dreamland of all places, in Saigon, with the Cong around the corner for all anyone seemed to know...not to mention that they were still working in a club. As for hopeful...everyone had to be hopeful. Without hope, no girl could last through her first three jobs. And though she was damned if she would admit it, Nguyen Mai, or Gigi Van Tranh, whatever pleased monsieur, still had hope.

"Number 66," she called out, thinking that this one, maybe this one would be her way out.


A/N: Ah! I forgot! I was going to mention how she felt about the whole "Miss Saigon" pageant! Oh well, I won't change it now. I'm much too lazy for all that.

And I realize that there should be accents with the names, but again, too lazy. I'm Westernizing it to "Saigon" anyway, so no reason not to Westernize the names/titles. On the subject of titles, if anyone is, for some ungodly reason, interested in what they mean, PM me.

Finally, if anyone catches the tiny little reference to another Claude-Michel Schonberg/Alain Boubil (again, live without the accents. Sorry) musical...good for you. I'd offer you cookies, but I'm not giving you my cookies.

Please review!