I've lost motivation in this story, a testament that my Tekken years are truly behind me. That being said, I'm still determined to not kill what I've started; I have discontinued a couple fics in the past, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. So, for the time being, this fic is running on life support. It's not my best work, and I'm phoning a lot of it in. Apologies.

Hopefully you'll at least get some enjoyment out of the base premise of Christie and Katarina as an item lol.

Christie's #1 mission today was clear: to find employment. She didn't yearn for lavish living; she wouldn't have donated all her earthly possessions to the homeless youth otherwise. Regardless, she was prepared to write the new chapter of her story, and she couldn't do that with an empty purse.

Unfortunately, her skills as an Iron Fist fighter didn't translate incredibly well to the real world...being a skilled martial artist and dancer, that left her options as little as bouncer, street performer, or...exotic dancer. She didn't mind showing skin, but still had doubts where that lie.

Thus, she did what her instinct told her. Thinking back to the simple advice of a generous passerby...

"You should be a barista. You're basically qualified. All you gotta do is be young and attractive. And you clearly don't mind showing a little oomph~"

...That's what led her to the entrance of "Sol e Pele". It was the closest one to her current living situation, and she wasn't one to complain. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the giant neon sun plastered on the sign... steeled herself, and entered.

It wasn't quite on the level of a dive bar, but still seemed slightly under par: spacious, but not well-lit, slightly dingy in places, with noticeable wear and tear. It looked like a standard quality bar that just needed maintenance. There didn't seem to be any theme or gimmick to it, save for some tropical-looking neon signs...

...That is until she saw how some of the staff were dressed.

The first tip-off was that there were only females: obviously trying to attract a certain demographic. The second, which solidified her conclusion about the subtle tropical details... the staff were all on the young side, and clad in scant bikinis of varying color, design, and "modesty". There was no specific dress code put in place, so the staff members appeared to just be winging it: some wore fuller bottoms, while others showed off copious amounts of cheek. At least one was wearing a straight-up thong bikini, and an excessively small top to match. SHE was getting the best tips.

Christie swallowed and inhaled, to take in the reality of the moment. It was a little more than she was bargaining for... she was interested in mixology, and thought she had the right personality to serve customers, and she certainly wasn't shy about flaunting her beauty. But to use sex as a marketing tool... that's one line she'd had yet to cross.

"Well... it's just the way it is." she ultimately told herself, and proceeded towards the most executive-looking staff she could find. She chose this life, and had put herself in no position to be a chooser when she now had nothing to her name.

"Um, excuse me..." Christie addressed the barista, who was wearing a bright orange sash-like top, and a tropical sarong below. She looked the oldest. "Are you taking jobs here?"

The unenthused woman responded. "Yeah, we actually just got a new spot. Talk to Mr. Oliveira; he's in the back."

"Thanks!" With a smile and polite nod, Christie navigated her way through the bar, taking notice at the patrons; several were already glancing in her direction, before she'd even donned her "uniform".


"Wow, you look better than the rest of the girls here."

The first remark from her future boss was a positive one, that made her cheeks flush. There was a brief awkward silence afterwards... which was broken when he dropped a piece of paper in front of her.

"Far as I'm concerned, you've got the job. Just fill this out. Name?"

Her insides tingled, as she immediately put pen to paper. "Christie. Christie Monteiro."

The middle-aged man put a hand to his chin. "Name sounds familiar... do I know you from somewhere?"

She looked up, but then nervously darted back down, as to not break concentration. "U-um, I was in Iron Fist a few years. Never made it far."

His teeth shone with a grin. "Oh wow, you're a professional fighter eh? Yeah, I can see you've got the body type for it. You'll fit in well here."

God... this was so embarassing. "Um th-thanks Mr. um... Oliveira?"

"Call me Rafael." his tone was uncomfortably wooing.

"Th-that's okay."

The next few minutes were mostly silent, as she filled out the paper and dealt with the discomfort of her boss looking over her (no doubt checking out her cleavage, but she knew she'd have to weather that here), but a topic came up to break the lull every few minutes.

"Are you uncomfortable with showing your body here? You know this IS a bikini bar. I'm trying to go for a sort of... tropical theme here. Umbrella drinks, daquiris, things like that. We're not too close to a beach, but I wanted to give the people a little taste of that experience, even this far out."

"No sir." she tried to put her boldness in her voice.

"That's good. You'll make a lot of money here. Now I can't pay you minimum wage, but you do keep all tips. Is that okay?"

She slightly grimaced; hopefully not enough for him to notice. "Yes sir, that's fine."

"Good, good."

Christie's hands moved with a greater haste, phoning in most of the details just to get done and be free of this situation. This would probably be the worst of it; somehow, she felt she'd be more comfortable once she was actually working the floor, keeping herself stimulated. She pictured something akin to being on the beach, which she had done PLENTY... but she was serving drinks and playing up for tips instead. It would be an adjustment.

"Alright, that about does it!" He took the paper and shook her hand. "I think you'll do fine here. Tell you what: I'm gonna go ahead and start you off five days. You okay with working weekdays, weekends? Any particular day you need off?"

"No sir, I can do anything." Christie smiled.

"Good. You'll do fine here. Do you have money for a swimsuit?"

...Crap. That's where a problem arose. She only had a few precious reais to her name, and a bikini definitely didn't take priority over having a bed to sleep in, or not starving.

Christie clutched her arm meekly. "I uh... don't have a lot of money."

His eyes widened. "Whaaaa, really? What about all your bigshot Iron Fist money? Didn't you get paid for fighting?"

"Well sir, you don't get paid a lot for losing." she replied humbly. "I never made it far enough to matter."

"Ahh, that's a shame. I'm sorry to hear that. Well just talk to Vivianne outside; she's the head barista. She can help you out."

"Thank you sir." Christie nodded, and turned to walk away.

"I look forward to seeing you work, girl!"

She was thankful to get that part over with. It would take time to accept this part of the job; she didn't take him for a creep or abuser of his position, but being surrounded by sexualized girls would naturally incline him to check them out whenever they interacted. She was going to be looked at, no matter what.

She went back to the bar, to the orange-wearing barista. "Umm, are you Vivianne?"

She turned and half-smiled. "Yeah that's me."

"Mr. Oliveira mentioned you could help me out with getting a swimsuit?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms. "You can't buy one?"

Her stomach knotted. "N...no. I don't have any money."

Vivianne signed. "Well that's fine, I got an old one I don't wear anymore. It's...kinda worn. But the people here'll like that sort of thing."

The knots tightened. It was hard to get used to this. "Right..."

The barista could sense Christie's discomfort, and the senior employee finally acted like one, placing a hand on her shoulder and speaking lowly.

"Listen...I know it seems like a lot, but you'll get used to this place quickly. Trust me. Just remember one thing: don't let em put their hands on you. We do this job, but we're still human beings. And don't sweat the boss looking at you, he's just gonna do that."

It wasn't much of a pep talk, but it worked wonders; Christie felt herself ease off, just enough to feel like she could come back the next day. Sometimes it only took the simplest of statements, from someone who'd been there, and knows.


THE NEXT DAY...

Welp...day one.

It was a far cry from the bright lights and spectacle of Iron Fist, where everyone knew who she was...here, she was but one of many, and only a select few would point her out and maybe recognize her. All the girls were on equal terms here: all equal pieces of meat. It was a very believable testament to the level of poverty she had deconstructed herself to. Serving booze in a bikini... such a ways from battling the likes of Steve Fox and Ling Xiaoyu in hand to hand combat.

But this was okay. This was what she wanted, in a way. To be free from that old life. To be free from the bad memories it carried...

"Hey, you made it!" Vivianne, the head barista almost seemed to smile. "Here. You can have it."

She handed an aqua blue assortment of cloth into Christie's arms. Christie spread it out, looking at the entirety: it looked small.

"Go in the bathroom and get changed. You'll work the bar with me today."

Christie smiled best she could, took her new "uniform" and made her way to the women's restroom.

As soon as she was surrounded by four walls and silence, her nerves were allowed to run rampant...why was she so nervous?! She'd fought in revealing outfits in front of millions of viewers before, but something about this felt...different. Perhaps it was just being out of her natural habitat.

Funnily, her thoughts kept going to that driver from two days ago. A stranger, by all definition. Though all she did was recommend a job, Christie found herself hypothetically wondering how that woman would handle this situation... she'd probably just laugh, and boast about her wide assortment of admirers, never paying them further mind.

She chuckled. A woman that she had one car talk with, she felt like she knew so well. Even, well enough that Christie was compelled to measure up to her idealized impression of the woman. SHE wouldn't be here, sweating this.

With that motivation, Christie steeled herself, looked in the mirror... disappearing into a stall, she slipped off her shorts, her one pair of lime green panties she was forced to wash everyday. She wrapped the blue bottom around, securing the two side knots, before removing her shirt and bra afterwards. As she fastened the knot in the back, she looked down at the rather large canyon of cleavage the bikini was providing; not as much as some things she'd worn to the beach, but more than she'd ever fought in. She typically showed underboob in her fighting garments, but here...it felt like her breasts would spill out of this thing. She was also concerned about how thread-bare this thing was getting, probably from years of washing... she could see her nipples poking against it, and was silently praying that the cloth wasn't transparent in the right lighting.

"You can do this Christie... it's just a swimsuit...in front of a bunch of drunks."

She stepped out, and went to the mirror, scanning herself up and down. It was definitely chest-heavy. She turned and looked behind her shoulder to view the back: it wasn't a thong or a sexy Brazilian cut, but it was scrunching up something awful. Whatever cheek she was showing now would probably double by the end of the night. It felt incredibly light on her, but as far as she could tell, there was no transparency in the worn cloth.

She laughed at her own hypocrisy. If this was the beach or a fighting ring, she'd have no trouble with this whatsoever. It felt silly to feel so naked and out of place.

"It's no different...it's no different."

She shut off the part of her brain that registered this irony, and accepted the fact that, for the time being...this was her new life.