Oh. Kay. Now, let me introduce you to the Zutara fic that I've been wanting to write for like, YEARS. Now, yes, I am abandoning Smokescreen for the time being because I don't like where it's going. Anyway, basically, I've taken the concept of Pretty Woman and made it Zutara. Whoa. Yes, it's the cliched "Boy finds prostitute on street" fic, and yes, I am writing it. Now, IF YOU ARE EXPECTING MOTHERLY, COMPASSIONATE KATARA,feel free to hit the back button, because you will not find her here. However, there will be angsty Zuko. So yay. Also, there are going to be sexual references, so little boys and girls, if you aren't mature enough to handle them... I guess you can just exit... Hopefully, this doesn't turn into a copy of Pretty Woman, but with only a few names switched... hopefully.

Disclamer: Unfortunately, ATLA doesn't belong to me, but if it did, there would be Zutara. And Taang.

Prom is property of Laurie Halse Anderson, and not me.

…

"You look like a whore." Those very words had been her undoing since the day she had started her period. From everyone, her father, her friends, and even random people on the street, no matter what Katara did, what she put on, or how she acted—it was always the same. The shy, quiet persona paired with the jeans, sneakers and long sleeved blue turtleneck—"You look like a whore." The sweet, shy personality along with the patterned sundress and sandals—"You look like a whore." The loud, abrasive attitude that came with the short, skin tight black dress—"You look like a fucking whore."

And unfortunately, when someone is told something so many times for so long, they start to believe it.

And over the years, "You look like a whore," had turned into, "You are a whore."

Her chest and posterior had grown to inordinate proportions—earning her jeers and catcalls when she paraded herself down the streets clad in either skimpy, short or revealing clothes. Her purity was gone by the time she was thirteen, and her reputation was spoilt. All a reminder of the hateful mantra that echoed inside her head in a never ending loop.

Katara was a whore. A slut. A prostitute for crying out loud. Giving herself away to the first person who asked if she wanted to have a little fun, and never dealing with the consequences.

Her friends didn't know what she was doing. Neither did her brother, Sokka. Sokka… the only decent thing in her life after their mother had died, and their father Hakoda had succumbed into alcoholism and was holed up in some apartment in Ba Sing Se. Or that's what Sokka had told her. He could've been dead for all Katara knew.

But even good things in life came and went. Sokka—he had gone and made another one of the rash decisions that he was famous for. He joined the Navy, and left Katara to fend for herself. She hadn't heard from him in years.

In sixth grade, Katara had a teacher named Ms. Quoin. She told her entire class of sixteen students that if they didn't get a high school diploma and carry on to college, they'd be on a highway straight to hell, with a short detour in Gaoling to lose all their money in the slot machines. Everyone in that class had graduated. Minus the two that ran away, the one who kept having babies, and the one crack whore. The rest, were getting by.

If prostitution had taught her anything—it taught her that she didn't need a college education, a high school diploma, or a high paying job to live a semi successful life. There were enough sexually driven, dishonorable, and filthy men out there for her to make a decent sum of money. She could afford the basics—a cockroach and spider infested apartment, clothes, shoes, food, and medicine.

Even if it wasn't in the way that her sixth grade teacher had intended, Katara was getting by.

…

Katara had never actually bought in to the ideals of chastity and celibacy that were preached by her friends and family. Actually, whilst doing the deed, all she really needed to do was spread her legs, or bend over, alter her breathing, fake an orgasm or two, and collect. She knew exactly how to send clients over the edge—moan a few times, arch her back, pant a little, and they'd be done in seconds.

Tonight was no different. Pressed against the wall in an alley next to a well lit sports bar, Katara looked down her client's back and inspected her chipping, navy blue nail polish. She was due for a touch up when she got home. She didn't even remember this guy's name. He was older—around forty five, one of those rich types, probably with a wife waiting for him when he got home. Disgusting. Curling her lip, Katara was glad that he couldn't see her face. Trying to keep a straight face, Katara ignored the ridiculous grunting noises that he was making. Inserting a few moans and digging her nails into his back, paying no attention to the hair there, she wondered how long this had been going on. Petting his ego—Just like that, baby. Keep it coming. She knew this would end soon—hoped was more like it. She was hungry, and she'd probably have a few more clients to see that night. Hurry up, she thought.

When he finally finished, Katara hiked up her underwear from her ankles, smoothed her navy miniskirt over her thighs and was on her merry way. As she stalked down the street, she transferred the money that she had made—four hundred dollars—from her bra and into her wallet.

The weather was breezy and rather chilly, causing goosebumps to rise on her exposed thighs and arms. Autumn was starting to arrive, which threatened the arrival of her birthday. Twenty three. Great.

She was getting old

Tonight, Katara would visit the Yu Yan district—a wealthy, prosperity ridden, yet strangely rough part of town. One of her favorites. The clients paid well, the police were lenient, and there was a huge selection of clubs, bars and restaurants that she could easily get wasted in.

Spirits lifted at the thought of alcohol—a trait that she had inherited from her dear father, Katara entered the first club she came across. Flashing her ID at the man next to the door, the girl headed straight for the bar.

Three drinks later, she was ready to work.

Her first client was someone she had picked up off of the dance floor—a standard pretty boy, probably a high school kid here with a fake ID.

Her second, she found lurking near the bathrooms, and with a quick hookup in the biggest stall, they were done.

And with more than a thousand dollars in her pocket, Katara headed back to the bar. The people around her were alive, drinking, talking and dancing. However, Katara never really paid attention to many people around her unless they were holding out a wad of bills or a free drink. They always looked as if they were too busy living it up to care about her, so why should she care about them?

Six drinks later, Katara was struggling to walk. She staggered out of the club, finding that the noise inside was giving her a headache. Back on the streets, she stumbled through a crowd of people, pushing their bodies aside as if they were no more than stuffed animals. As she almost careened into a lamp post, a voice called out to her. Male or female, she couldn't tell,

"Hey, girl, you need me to call you a cab?"

Katara waved them off sloppily, and continued down the street. Her miniskirt was hiked up to her underwear, her heels were giving her numerous blisters, and she was somewhat aware of the fact that her bandeau was crooked.

Stumbling over to a row of dumpsters, she slipped, landing hard on her rear. Trying in vain to stand up once again, her foot twisted slightly, and she slipped- depositing her in the same position she was in earlier.

Looking around in distorted vision, she found that nothing made sense, and that she might as well give up. Convinced that she was going to die, of a bruised tailbone or alcohol poisoning, she started working on an excuse to give her mother whenever she saw her in the afterlife.

Sokka, she thought as she managed to roll onto her side limply and empty the contents of her stomach—half on the ground and half in her wavy brown hair. She missed her big brother, and his hugs, the way he smelled, how he was always showing up with a new girlfriend every other week, which previously infuriated Katara, but now she found that she just missed it. She wanted to see him again, wanted him to come back from the Navy, to tell him what she had actually been doing all her life, and to tell him that he should stop sending her money, simply because all she would do was spend it on cheap liquor.

Opening her eyes for what she thought would be her last glimpse of life; she managed to read the sign of the expensive looking high rise that was across the street from her. Azulon Apartments.

How tacky.

…

Katara flitted in and out of consciousness all night. At one point, she felt herself grow strangely cold, and wondered if she actually was dead. The next thing she was aware of was a bright light searing through her eyelids, feeling like she was floating, and wondering how the hell she was in Heaven anyway. As she tried to remember the excuse she had crafted for her mother, Katara's consciousness drained away. When she regained it, everything was dark, still and soft around her.

Opening her eyes, and immediately recoiling from the bright sunlight that streamed through the huge window to her left. Katara observed her surroundings through a pounding headache and slitted eyes. Everything was very spacious, very clean and very modern. She was stretched across a large L- Shaped black couch, wrapped in a white down comforter. Directly in front of the couch, a huge flat screen TV, along with a surround sound system, blu-ray, and an old school style VHS perched upon a squat black cabinet. There was a glass and rod iron coffee table intercepting them. The walls were red, the carpet was black. To her right, there was a back wood dining table and chairs, along with another huge window.

Sitting up, and regretting it, Katara noticed that behind her, there was a small kitchen, all glass and stainless steel, along with a short dark hallway that led to who knows where.

Taking all this in, Katara realized that in her condition, she didn't need to be checking out her surroundings. She didn't know where she was, or who owned this place. She needed to get out before the conservative, religious family that had taken her in could attempt to persuade her to stay. It wouldn't have been the first time, either.

…

Leaping off of the couch with energy that amazed her, Katara launched Operation: Get the Hell out of Here- step one, find her clothes. Until now, she hadn't realized that she was dressed in a simple, black, too-big Henley, and her underwear. Scanning the apartment, she realized that her purse and last night's clothing had been neatly folded and placed on the dining table. Striding over, she immediately snatched up her bag and pawed through it—her wallet, cheap, albeit dead cell phone, half empty nail polish and tampons hadn't been touched, and her pack of gum was only missing one piece, as it had been last night. And her clothes were all there as well—the skin tight blue miniskirt, the black bandeau, and even her heels were there too. Too weird, she thought as she held them all up to her face in turn. They were clean—having no sign of vomit or any other disgusting substance that she might've stumbled into.

Shrugging, Katara pulled her skirt on, tucking the borrowed t-shirt into it. Not her most attractive fashion choice, but much better than the slightly less suited for daytime alternative. Deciding against using the window as means of an escape, since she was still feeling the full force of her hangover, Katara gathered her things and left the apartment.

Walking down the eerily silent hallway, Katara snapped a hair band off her wrist and worked on twisting her long hair into a braid, grimacing slightly as chunks of vomit fell to the ground as she worked. Cursing under her breath, Katara came to an elevator and noting that there was no "up" button, jabbed the down button. Top floor, she thought, glad that she hadn't left via the window. Great.

Thankful that no one seemed to be in need of the elevator, and therefore couldn't see her on her walk of shame, Katara wasted no time in getting inside and jabbing the ground floor button.

However, it seemed that her good luck for the day was over. A few seconds into its descent, the elevator halted, and the doors opened with a pleasant ding and a rush of cool air. In stepped a small, dark haired girl of about seventeen, dressed in a simple pair of short shorts, combat boots and an oversized green sweater that was managing to slip off her slender shoulders. It was clear by the milky tint to her green eyes that she was blind, but that wasn't the strange thing. The strange thing was that she was so sure of herself in her movements, and the fact that she had a cream and brown lemur perched on her shoulder.

The lemur chirped.

"What're you looking at?" the girl asked, her tone was sharp and abrasive, laced with an attitude that wasn't uncommon for someone her age.

"Uh, you have a lemur on your shoulder." Katara said, uncertain if speaking was the right thing to do.

The girl turned to face Katara; however her eyes were looking in the wrong direction entirely. "Yeah, no shit, Sugar Queen."

"Er…why?" she asked, ignoring the irritation of being called Sugar Queen.

"He's my seeing eye lemur. Well, actually not really, he's Twinkle Toes' pet, but I'm just borrowing him for the day. His name is Momo."

"Twinkle Toes?" between the lemur fiasco and the nicknames this girl was spewing, Katara was growing more confused by the minute.

The girl waved her hand dismissively, "Never mind. You must be new here, Sugar Queen. I'm Toph Bei Fong."

Bei Fong? Like, million dollars spending, name dropping socialite family Bei Fong? Katara thought, feeling her eyes widen involuntarily. Even lowly prostitutes like her knew about that family. They were always gracing the headlines with their attendance at formal events, and how they always donated millions of dollars to worthy causes. And this blind girl apparently was their heiress. "Katara." She stated.

"Got a last name?" the girl asked.

"Hasook."

"Never heard of it." She stated shortly, as the elevator dinged, announcing the arrival of the ground floor. As soon as the doors opened, Toph stomped out, lemur in tow, with a step that clearly said 'get out of my way, or I'm gonna stomp on your bitchass.' Katara followed, weaving her way through the multitude of people who had scrambled to get out of Toph's path. She could see it in the distance—the revolving glass door that would lead to freedom. She was almost there! Thank God.

Unfortunately, a tall, slim, woman who's pale, heart shaped face was framed in glossy black hair blocked her path. She was looking over her shoulder at something Katara couldn't see, and was almost knocked over when Katara bumped into her. "What the…?" the woman asked in a flat voice, looking down at her, with gray eyes framed in smudged black eyeliner, a bored expression on her face, "Ugh," she muttered, sidestepping Katara and continuing into the lobby, muttering something about how boring everything was as she passed.

Shaking off the strange woman's gloomy demeanor, Katara successfully exited the revolving door, standing on the busy, sunlit street, looking left and right to get her bearings.

"Look, Uncle, I can't work tonight! Get Jin to cover!"

Katara turned her head, and to her left she saw a pale man with shaggy dark hair leaning against the building, yelling into his iPhone, and holding a lit cigarette in one hand. As he turned his head, Katara caught sight of a pinkish scar running through his left eyebrow, and all the way through his eye, like someone had tried to slice his face open. Cringing, Katara turned the other way, and started walking down the streets. However, not before seeing the sign on the apartment complex—Azulon Apartments. Realizing she was in the same spot as last night caused her to do a little victory dance in her head. It'd be easy enough to get home. Now, for some breakfast—there was nothing like some greasy, fattening food to ease a rumbling stomach.

…

Katara wasn't usually a big eater. Normally she stuck to her food pyramid, getting the recommended doses of grains, fruit, veggies, and protein—everything she needed. But once in a while, she just had to splurge. And today was one of those days.

She'd taken a cab out of the Yu Yan district and wound up sitting in a linoleum covered booth in the fast food restaurant that was down the street from her own filthy apartment building. Katara had ordered a breakfast bagel, hash browns, pancakes, sausage, fries, and a birthday cake milkshake.

Healthy breakfast.

Digging in, she gazed out the window and saw nothing interesting. Just the familiar surroundings that came with home. As she reached up to rub the necklace that always hung around her neck, her heart stopped. Then, it leaped up into her throat.

Her necklace was gone. Not just any necklace, mind you. Her mother's necklace that she had worn ever since she died. Ever since Katara was fourteen.

Katara checked again, this time clawing at her throat. She then shoved her hand into her cleavage, only to find nothing. She searched her purse, unsuccessfully. It was impossible. She'd never taken the necklace off—ever. Not in years.

Katara's mind raced, retracing her steps. She dimly remembered having it in the alley, and in the club.

Heart pounding, Katara quickly crammed the last of the hash browns into her mouth, and grabbed her milkshake. The nearest bus stop was only a few blocks away. Fumbling in her purse for her pass, Katara prayed that the necklace was laying coiled in the garbage heap across the apartment complex, because there was no way in hell that she was going back in that place ever again.

…

Kicking a garbage bag aside, Katara scowled. She had been searching for the necklace all motherfucking day, and she was still unsuccessful. Cursing out loud, Katara forced herself to face the grim truth. She'd have to go back to the apartments. And find her mother's necklace. All the while wearing the stolen shirt of the one who had pulled her off the streets.

Fabulous.