Sometimes, life doesn't go the way you planned (or dreamed).

Sometimes it goes just the way you expected it would, somewhere in the back of your head where the pessimistic little whiny voice whispered to you your whole life- that you'd amount to nothing much at best and absolute scum at your worst.

At 22, she knew this as she waited for her regular Friday night appointment to show up. Mister Ampora was a sad, pathetic loser, but he was a wealthy, sad pathetic loser, and he wasn't too bad in bed either. She had long suspected he only came to her because she resembled the girl he would never have, but for five hundred an hour, you could deal. You weren't in the business of love, but of pleasure, and you had to deal with things like whiny hipsters from time to time.

The club was a familiar place, and the blond, shades wearing DJ nods to you. He knows why you're here, knows the truth and doesn't judge you too harshly for it, and for that you two are something like friends. On a bad night you can talk to him, smoke outside in the alleyway, have drinks at the bar. For such a cool guy, he's got a soft side, and you've heard him talk about his fiancée, a smiley, bucktoothed girl with sweet eyes and long, dark hair like she was a princess. And deep inside you, wish there was someone who loved you like he obviously loves her.

But that doesn't matter anymore, because Ampora's here, and he's a gentleman tonight, which means he must be in a good mood. When he isn't he can be pretty rough, and once he cried in your arms after sex, whimpering about how he was sorry. You swear he called you Feferi once, but that's okay. Like you said before, this wasn't a job for a romantic. You're a whore, a fancy, elegant, beautiful one, but that was just the gilded outside. The deal was, you fucked wealthy men who gave you gifts and cried in your bed and took you to nice hotels. It might not have been the most elegant job, but it paid the rent and that was what mattered.

As he led you to his car, you think of what you'll tell your roommate, Kanaya when you get home tonight. Hopefully she'll be at Rose's tonight, so you can slip in and change into pajamas and get to work on your homework before she gets home. You both work, although she actually has a reputable job as an intern at a fashion house and just graduated from FIT, while you're still taking online courses because you sleep in late and only study part time.

You live in a comfortable apartment, expensive, but then again, this is New York City, and Manhattan ain't cheap. Add on food, electricity, water, internet and the like, and you wonder how people can afford to live in this city.

But thoughts of your lesbian roommate and her girlfriend fade from your mind as your appointment guides you into the taxi. You'll have dinner tonight, he'll pay for a hotel room, and then he'll fuck you gently, holding you like you're an angel, and you'll make all the right noises at all the right times, fake an orgasm or two, and then let him lavish you with affection. To him you're just a doll, one that he can dress up to look like the one he'll never hold, and then the facade breaks as you shower, take off your reading glasses (he likes it when you wear them during sex), get dressed again, and he pays you, pulling out an overstuffed designer wallet (probably a gift from his parents), handing you in crisp hundreds.

Tonight, he gives you a gift- diamond earrings he knows you'll sell, but you'll wear them until you get out the door. You are his weekly fantasy, and as you take your taxi down to Chelsea, you almost pity the poor bastard.

When you slip into the apartment, you breathe a sigh of relief until you hear voices from the kitchen. You check your hair- dry, thanks to the hotels' hair dryer, and walk in. Rose and Kanaya are drinking wine at the table, laughing at something witty and just oh so slightly snarky, and they invite you to sit.

You're good, but you thank them anyway, skip the wine (you had a glass before you left for the hotel), and retreat to your room with a jar of nutella and your laptop for company.

Your roommate does not know what you do for a living. She thinks you work retail. Seeing as she works from early morning to early evening, she thinks you work a late shift. You're perfectly happy to let her believe this. Because although Kanaya is a sweetheart and a great friend, she's also the meddling, motherly type that would try and force you to do something else.

That, and her girlfriend was a shrink who would rip your psyche to pieces analyzing it and asking her why you won't give up prostitution.

But they were definitely both good people. Better than you deserve. Much, much better.


It was a long time ago. You were seventeen and in love with a geek called Sollux Captor. Weird name, maybe, but it wasn't like yours was common either. He was driving that night, back from the concert you'd convinced everyone to go to.

When the van hit the side of their car, you remember their faces, screaming, and then darkness. You were the lucky one. All you got was a coma that would last two weeks.

You remember waking up, and somewhere between then and your casts getting taken off, you remember them visiting. Your face was swollen, the bruises just fading, but you were a beauty queen compared to the mess of the rest of them. Terezi, who had hit her head on the dashboard, was permanently blind. Vriska had both her left arm and eye. Tavros had lost both of his legs. Due to damage to his lower spine, it was unlikely he would ever walk again, even with prosthetics.

Sollux was in a deep coma, with doctors debating if he'd ever wake up.

Their faces showed no hate, just sadness. "It wasn't your fault, the other guy was drunk. He died on impact..."

And you cried, like the stupid idiot you were.

Goddamnit, you loved that boy, that nerdy, geeky, bipolar, idiot, genius who played video games with you and let you stay with him when your apartment building burned down. The boy you shared your first kiss with, the one that held you when your mom died. First guy you ever slept with, too. But back then it was making love, and he kissed you and hugged you and loved you for you, and ignored that you were from the bad part of town, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

You were a fucking coward. You didn't stick around for the funeral everyone was expecting. No, you packed your bags, visited your mom's grave, left a note apologizing for everything, and ran like the coward you were. You couldn't face them, their sad faces, or their lies.

"It wasn't your fault."

(.)

You realize then you've been staring at your computer silently with tears streaming down your face. Shit. That always makes you cry.

It takes you a few moments to remember who you are and where you are. You are not seventeen, you're twenty-two, a well paid hooker, not a schoolgirl (except on Sundays for Dr. Scratch) and Vriska, Tavros, Terezi and Sollux are distant memories.

You repeat this to yourself until you fall asleep, having forgotten to finish your homework. There are some nights that you just need to go to sleep and forget everything until the morning. Saturdays are always busy.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.


What you do might be illegal and immoral, but it pays the bills.

This is what you tell yourself as you inch off the thigh highs in front of your regular Sunday appointment. He's probably a pedophile, seeing as he insists you always dress and act like a catholic schoolgirl when you have sex with him. You always make sure to act like you're five too, he gets off on that, and he's always satisfied, tips every single time, leaves you the hotel room for the rest of the night so you can change into normal clothes. You're pretty sure he used to be a pediatrician or a teacher, which honestly scares the shit out of you.

You wait until the door closes and his white jacket and green tie disappear from sight before you shudder, ripping the perverted outfit off with a vehemence you can't truly explain. He might be one of your best customers, but still. He's a creepy bastard and you hate the smug prick, hate how you scrub in the shower but can't seem to get his touch off of you. You hate him, just like you hate all your customers.

Despite the rosary you wear on Thursdays when you meet the priest, you've never believed in a god. What kind of miserable, sadistic asshole would let a world exist where you have to sell your body to get ahead in life? The irony of that phrase does not escape you. And the worst part is, you're not even really letting anyone down. It's not like anyone would have expected more from a girl from her neighborhood. Well, maybe your mom and Sollux, but one's definitely dead and the other you'll never see again.

In any case, god or no god, you still hope that if there is a hell, your customers burn, pedophiles, liars, cheaters, and whores, and that if there is a heaven, that your mom doesn't hate you for everything you've done.

Most people asked her how she couldn't believe in a higher power, and the answer was painfully simple- you were a prostitute. You'd seen everything, sold your soul long ago to survive another day, grew up in a shitty part of town, surrounded by people no better than she now, or worse. You'd never known a dad, only knew that he was some Japanese business man who got into your nineteen year old mother's pants, and your mom was a miserable excuse for a parent.

Well, to be fair, she could have been way worse. Vodka might have been bad, but hey, least she wasn't a meth head. But growing up, tiptoeing around her hangovers and heating up pop tarts and bloody marys for breakfast wasn't exactly a place for the blooming of another innocent flower in a dog eats dog world.

She was drunk the night the meth lab downstairs blew up, and you remember walking home with Sollux and screaming as you saw the flames. Screaming because you knew that instant that you were really alone. Because, shitty mom or not, you loved her, in that Stockholm Syndrome kind of way all kids with fucked up parents have with their families- as much as you wanted to scream at her for vomiting on the couch, you couldn't help but remember how she used to read you fairy tales in Portuguese, her native tongue.

You think of this as the taxi takes you back to the club. It's nine, almost, which means you have maybe an hour or so before the DJ goes up and starts the party, and maybe you can talk to him. And just your luck, he's sitting there at the counter, expecting you. Every Sunday, you chat. Irrelevant shit. Stupid shit. But he knows and he'd listen if you had anything to say, which is cool.

DJ Stridenasty is one of the best in the city, and he knows it. He's an ass, too, in his own way, ironic as it got, another hipster in your life, but this one you don't mind. He's good looking too, and you both know it. You actually tried to hit on him the first time you met, while you were rather tipsy and relatively new to the business. You expected him to lead you to his apartment, fuck you senseless, ditch you because he didn't like to cuddle. And you would have stolen his wallet or something. He seemed like a one-night stand sort of guy, cool as can be. And maybe he would have been.

You were then shocked that instead, he drove you home, and he spoke about his then-girlfriend, and it actually made you cry when he talked about how much he loved her. Even then he worshipped her, and he handed you a tissue and explained how special she was, and apologized as he parked across the street from her apartment. He was a nice guy in a world where nice guys didn't exist, and so you were his friend.

He nods at you as you sit down next to him. "How was he?"

"Horrible, as usual. God, I hate the creep. How's Jade?" You order a beer, light, because you just want to get rid of the edge from another unpleasant evening.

"Running around decorating the place. I think I'll tell her I have a pollen allergy so I can get rid of all the damn plants." He sighs, adjusting his shades (you wonder how he can see anything, in a dark club at night, with those things on). "I know I've said this a thousand times, Aradia, but you're smart and smoking hot. If you're going to sell your body, couldn't you make it legal? You would be a great model."

"It's just till I get my damn degree, Strider."

"That's bullshit and we both know it."

"Listen, I come here to relax. Can we not talk about this anymore?" You sip at your drink, frowning. He knows you well, but you wish he didn't try and convert you. But he doesn't push the issue, and you chat about happier things, and you're feeling pretty good by the time you finish the beer you've been nursing for a while. Dave nods a goodbye and disappears behind his turntables, and soon he has the entire club jumping around, despite the fact that it's Sunday and who parties on Sundays, anyway? You reach for your purse, your mind clear with a gentle softening of the harsh realities of life around the corners. You will never become a drunk like your mother, but alcohol isn't all that bad.

However, the people around you have been drinking a lot more heavily than you have. You realize this when a heavyset guy slings his arm around your neck as you stand to leave.

"Heeeeeeeeeey, babe, leavin' so soon?"

"Get off of me, you fucking creep," You hiss through your teeth, trying to pull his arm off of you. You can't cause a scene, because you're pretty sure the regulars and the workers here know what you are, and any problems and you'll have to leave. Which is inconvenient, seeing as this is one of the best places in town to pick up guys. But he's heavy and you can't do it. "I said, get off."

"You're reaaaaal pretty." He has playful hands, and they slide down to your breasts, and you hate how you inhale sharply, having been caught off guard. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you can't help but feel sick, your entire evening ruined.

"Get off!"

And suddenly he's no longer touching you, he's on the ground with his hands on his face, screaming through the pulsing sound of dance music. What? You turn around sharply, looking for your savior (you hate feeling weak, but you're too relieved to care at the moment), and find him looming over your shoulder, a hulking mass of muscle. He looks pissed off, and you see his black polo and realize that this guy must be a bouncer. A new one, because you've never seen him around before.

"It's rather rude to be touching a lady without her permission, is it not?"

He's got his hair tied up (it's kind of on the long side) and he's wearing square shades that look cracked. Might be the lighting in here. You notice his nose has been broken at least once, and it's crooked. The light bounces off his dark skin, and it shines because he's somewhat sweaty. But it's his way of speaking that you notice first, measured out and extremely elegant for a guy who just decked someone in the face, hard enough to knock him out of his seat. He stoops over briefly and unceremoniously picks him up from under the armpits, and then proceeds to drag him outside via a side door, muttering something about people and how they get after a few drinks.

He comes back a few minutes later, wiping his face with a towel. Maybe it's best if you leave... you scoop up your bag and head towards the exit as inconspicuously as possible, but a gentle hand catches your upper arm and you turn. It's the bouncer. He coughs once to clear his throat before he speaks.

"Miss, are you alright? There are a lot of unsavory types in this place at this time of the night." He nods his head at the door. "Like the previous man. I apologize for not having come to your aid earlier."

You simply nod. You're used to this shit, you get paid for it. "Thanks for that."

"Er, my shift just ended. Would you, perhaps, allow me to accompany you outside?"

You eye him warily. He's got sixty pounds on you, easy, he's at least an entire head taller than you, and he's made of lean muscle. He looks like he might have been a boxer at one point- that would explain the crooked nose. If he wanted to hurt you, there's no way you could beat him in a fight.

But oddly enough, he doesn't scare you. You've always been an excellent judge of character, and that kind of sixth sense has always come in handy in your line of work. He seems gentle, if maybe a bit impulsive, and you nod. "Sure."

If he hits on you, you could always tell him it's $500 an hour and that unless he's willing to pay, then he should fuck off. And you have pepper spray in your bag, although the shades would block the worst of it. You theorize pointlessly as he leaves the club with you, your hand clenching your purse in a vice grip. Just in case. It never hurt to be safe. You press two on your cell phone, speed dial for a taxi. It's kind of late and you're not risking anything by taking the subway home.

It's weird waiting next to this sweaty dude. But it's a bus stop and there they are, one for his bus, the other for her ride home. You reach into your purse and light up- cigarettes sooth your nerves and this guys is definitely making you jumpy- and then you jump slightly as he breaks the increasingly awkward silence.

"If I were to be so bold, may I perhaps enquire your state of being? I've worked as a bouncer at many other establishments, and women are usually rather shaken after being harassed in such an unsavory manner."

His brow creases as he speaks, and you sigh. He does seem like a sweet guy. Most people wouldn't bother asking. Probably because most people either know what you are and don't give a shit, or just don't give a shit in general about some pretty broad, assuming you're used to this kind of bullshit. And you are. But it still stings when they bring it up. It's nice to have someone who bothers asking.

In retrospect, it's probably really pathetic that you're so secretly touched. But you are.

"I'm okay. I mean, it's not like I'm the only girl who's ever gotten hit on and harassed in a bar- although that guy was a creep. Um, thanks for asking." You pause before you continue speaking. "Are you new? I go here a lot, and I've never seen you before. You're kind of a gentleman, which is pretty cool. I mean, most bouncers are just all brawn and testosterone."

A small smile tugs at his lips at your last comment. "Oh, yes, I'm new here. The other establishment I worked at closed a while ago, but my employer recommended me."

"Is this your only job?" It never hurts to be friendly with the bouncer. Plus, he seems like the decent sort.

"Uh, no. I work as a mechanic during the day. Anything from cars to computers, I can fix. I work in-" He coughs. "In Brooklyn."

"Really?" Hmm. Maybe some brain behind the brawn too. Not too shabby.

"Yes. " He smiles again. "I presume I'll see you again?" You turn in confusion. Behind you, your taxi has just driven up. Looks like you've got to go.

"Probably!" You give him a vague smile and even more vague wave as you step into the taxi. Might as well have him know who you are. "I'm Aradia Megido. I'll see you next weekend, I guess."

"I'm Equius. Equius Zahhak. I look forward to seeing you again, Ara- Miss Megido." He awkwardly waves back as you close the door. Odd guy. But you don't mind.