Razzle-Dazzle
Author's Note: No, it isn't a joke. This is actually a fic about Scarlet. A *serious* fic about Scarlet. The idea started bouncing around in my brain after I watched "Chicago", (yes, I'm fully aware of my status as crazy...) so I had to write it to get my troublesome muse to shut up about it. I don't actually *like* Scarlet, but hey...she might as well have fics anyway. It's set sometime during the game, like...disk 1-ish, before all hell breaks loose.
Now that I've explained myself, allow me to explain that I do not own the Final Fantasy VII franchise, nor do I own any of the characters in the game. They are owned by the godlike beings at Squaresoft. As I also have significantly less money than said Squaresoft monarchs, and this has contributed to my cash flow not at all, suing me would be greatly pointless and I ask you not to do so. So ends the disclaimer.
***
Sometimes, I envy those poor bastards who live in the slums. The sun never shines on those dirty little boxes they call houses, never breaks through the windows and makes them really see what's going on. They really think they want the light...
Idiots.
My apartment may as well be a glass house, and I mean that literally. Two whole walls of the damned penthouse aren't much more than floor-to-ceiling windows. If it weren't for the fact that the walls are straight instead of curved, I would probably feel like I was being kept in a jar. The sunlight is always reflecting off of the mirrors, filling up the apartment like it owns the place.
I have too many mirrors.
There was a time when I always worked late because I wanted to get the job done. Now I work late to make sure it's dark when I come home. When the sun isn't shining, I can make my way to the bathroom without seeing my reflection. I've trained myself to find my way there in the dark, to be able to turn on the sink without seeing a thing.
That way, I can start to wash the make-up off before I have to see myself in it again.
I can hardly stand seeing my face painted like some two-bit canvas. It reminds me too much of my mother. I can almost hear her now...
"See, Sugar-Pie? Wasn't I right?"
My mother was just barely one step above being a whore. She was one of those second-rate showgirls who made up for her lack of talent by wearing sequin dresses that seemed to be kept on by nothing but the eyes of her audience. Worse, she loved her job, and didn't see one thing wrong with it. When she got out on that stage wearing nothing significant, unless she planned to peel it off sometime during the song, her smile was genuine. Every whistle, every catcall from a drunk who should've been home with his wife, seemed to bring her that much closer to cloud nine. Still, I could have forgiven her if she'd just left me out of it.
I wasn't that lucky. Most of my first memories involve sitting at a table with whoever was her boyfriend that week, watching her put on a show most parents would prefer their children never hear of. By the time I was six, she started teaching me how to help with her make up.
"I'll tell you somethin', Baby-Doll," she'd always say, "All this talk about it being a man's world out there is just smoke and mirrors. The only reason most women don't make it is they don't know how. The fact is, a woman can get anything she wants in this 'man's world'-if she can sell her look. Brains, talent, muscle...those are just the extras. Nobody really cares if a girl is good at anything. A pretty face, some nice curves, and clothes that cling in all the right places are all you really need. Put a nice little sway in your step, and you can waltz your way right up to the top."
I spent the first twenty-three years of my life trying to prove her wrong. I told her I wanted to go to college so I could end up with a rich man, so she let me. I always studied, never slept, never bothered talking to people. Most days, I didn't even bother brushing my hair. I graduated first in my class. Never once did I miss a single point on a paper or test.
I was rejected by every company I applied to, right down to tending bar.
I tried to prove to myself that there just wasn't anything out there for me. I thought that if I tried things mother's way, I would still find nothing. That way, even if I was still unemployed, I could at least tell myself she was wrong. I reapplied everywhere, and went to my interviews dressed like a perfect femme fatale.
The president of Shinra corporation fired or demoted a dozen other workers to make me an executive. He seemed to think my chest was much more enlightening than my credentials.
The rest is history.
Looking in the mirror is hard to take. Nothing I accomplished in this life ever mattered, until I slipped into my own version of mother's routine. It really never mattered that she couldn't sing; people loved her because they were dazzled by skin and sequins.
I wish the sun would just mind its own business. I don't need to be reminded of just how I put myself into the spotlight. I hate knowing that the world thinks I'm useless until I slather on lipstick and eyeliner.
I'm sick of shining like a star.
Author's Note: No, it isn't a joke. This is actually a fic about Scarlet. A *serious* fic about Scarlet. The idea started bouncing around in my brain after I watched "Chicago", (yes, I'm fully aware of my status as crazy...) so I had to write it to get my troublesome muse to shut up about it. I don't actually *like* Scarlet, but hey...she might as well have fics anyway. It's set sometime during the game, like...disk 1-ish, before all hell breaks loose.
Now that I've explained myself, allow me to explain that I do not own the Final Fantasy VII franchise, nor do I own any of the characters in the game. They are owned by the godlike beings at Squaresoft. As I also have significantly less money than said Squaresoft monarchs, and this has contributed to my cash flow not at all, suing me would be greatly pointless and I ask you not to do so. So ends the disclaimer.
***
Sometimes, I envy those poor bastards who live in the slums. The sun never shines on those dirty little boxes they call houses, never breaks through the windows and makes them really see what's going on. They really think they want the light...
Idiots.
My apartment may as well be a glass house, and I mean that literally. Two whole walls of the damned penthouse aren't much more than floor-to-ceiling windows. If it weren't for the fact that the walls are straight instead of curved, I would probably feel like I was being kept in a jar. The sunlight is always reflecting off of the mirrors, filling up the apartment like it owns the place.
I have too many mirrors.
There was a time when I always worked late because I wanted to get the job done. Now I work late to make sure it's dark when I come home. When the sun isn't shining, I can make my way to the bathroom without seeing my reflection. I've trained myself to find my way there in the dark, to be able to turn on the sink without seeing a thing.
That way, I can start to wash the make-up off before I have to see myself in it again.
I can hardly stand seeing my face painted like some two-bit canvas. It reminds me too much of my mother. I can almost hear her now...
"See, Sugar-Pie? Wasn't I right?"
My mother was just barely one step above being a whore. She was one of those second-rate showgirls who made up for her lack of talent by wearing sequin dresses that seemed to be kept on by nothing but the eyes of her audience. Worse, she loved her job, and didn't see one thing wrong with it. When she got out on that stage wearing nothing significant, unless she planned to peel it off sometime during the song, her smile was genuine. Every whistle, every catcall from a drunk who should've been home with his wife, seemed to bring her that much closer to cloud nine. Still, I could have forgiven her if she'd just left me out of it.
I wasn't that lucky. Most of my first memories involve sitting at a table with whoever was her boyfriend that week, watching her put on a show most parents would prefer their children never hear of. By the time I was six, she started teaching me how to help with her make up.
"I'll tell you somethin', Baby-Doll," she'd always say, "All this talk about it being a man's world out there is just smoke and mirrors. The only reason most women don't make it is they don't know how. The fact is, a woman can get anything she wants in this 'man's world'-if she can sell her look. Brains, talent, muscle...those are just the extras. Nobody really cares if a girl is good at anything. A pretty face, some nice curves, and clothes that cling in all the right places are all you really need. Put a nice little sway in your step, and you can waltz your way right up to the top."
I spent the first twenty-three years of my life trying to prove her wrong. I told her I wanted to go to college so I could end up with a rich man, so she let me. I always studied, never slept, never bothered talking to people. Most days, I didn't even bother brushing my hair. I graduated first in my class. Never once did I miss a single point on a paper or test.
I was rejected by every company I applied to, right down to tending bar.
I tried to prove to myself that there just wasn't anything out there for me. I thought that if I tried things mother's way, I would still find nothing. That way, even if I was still unemployed, I could at least tell myself she was wrong. I reapplied everywhere, and went to my interviews dressed like a perfect femme fatale.
The president of Shinra corporation fired or demoted a dozen other workers to make me an executive. He seemed to think my chest was much more enlightening than my credentials.
The rest is history.
Looking in the mirror is hard to take. Nothing I accomplished in this life ever mattered, until I slipped into my own version of mother's routine. It really never mattered that she couldn't sing; people loved her because they were dazzled by skin and sequins.
I wish the sun would just mind its own business. I don't need to be reminded of just how I put myself into the spotlight. I hate knowing that the world thinks I'm useless until I slather on lipstick and eyeliner.
I'm sick of shining like a star.