Jasmine shivered on the bench where she sat, not willing to bother getting up just yet. And far too weakened, even if she'd wanted to.

Her fingers lightly touched the purple of a harsh bruise, its darkness winning the fight for clarity on her cheek through the smeared residuals of a shoddy makeup job-to no fault of her own: the utmost lowest end products in addition to the their being expired for several odd months didn't make for the best conditions for a high quality face.

She knew her job was high risk. Especially being what she was. But at the end of the day, it gave her enough money in her pocket to afford food most days. And that let her survive.

Running away surely hadn't put a penny in her pocket. As a young boy in the station she was, she had her every whim tended to-groomed for perfection. But it was never enough. Because she wasn't a boy. And being destitute in the street, destined to die before she turned thirty was a better life to have than pursuing a lie for her comfort.

She had one good person in her life. One good thing that made it something worth living-made her hope that maybe, one day, she could live instead of just scrounging. That she could make a home with that woman she so dearly loved. But she was snuffed sooner than she deserved.

It should have been you.

But at the end of the day, she got what she deserved anyway. Maybe this was just the course for their kind-die young or suffer. And she suffered.

She had no skills-no prospects. But she had a body. A body she hated, but a body nonetheless. And easy enough to objectify.

Sit, smile, be pretty, and take whatever was thrown at you. Which was a lot, often. Because anyone who would employ the services of such a fetishized deplorable often hated themselves for doing so.

She pulled her hand away from her purpling cheek and stared out at the street. She startled at the sound of a voice to her side.

"How much."

She had to force herself not to sigh. Her eyes flicked up, and took in the pale, middle-aged man beside her, what leftovers remained of his hair-clinging desperately to scalp for survival-majorly white. Jasmine made a concerted effort not to show off the most purple of her bruises. She showed her other cheek where there was nothing but a small cut. Luckily, small enough that the night and whatever remained of her makeup would be serviceable in concealing it. At least, she hoped it would.

She smirked, and tried at lidding her eyes-tried to stop the shaking in her form.

She told him her rates. And then she added with a purr, "But, I'm sure we could negotiate."

The man smirked, and she hated the way it rattled her. She was usually better at this. Better at the act. Better at keeping up the lie that she wanted a man twice her age inside of her. Maybe it was just the roughness of what the last had given her. Or maybe she was finally snapping.

The man gave a nod, his face screwing up with some kind of thought. Then he seemed to elect against her negotiation offer, already fumbling in his pocket, and Jasmine knew where the rest of her night was going.

Her newly acquired client had led her back to a small, dilapidated apartment nearby to one of the notorious abandoned districts: The Developments. Those places forgotten by the government, where there lay no good housing to much of anyone. Except for, however, the lowest of dirt. Because, a roof was a roof. And if you had a tent, it could service as some variety of shelter. And this one she was near to, she was quite familiar with. Because she was the lowest of dirt: born to be trodden upon.

The older man scrambled for his keys before he finally managed to pull them out of his pocket, and slammed them into the door. He had to try for a stint before he finally managed to get it open. And Jasmine went in after him, a practiced strut to her step. As soon as she was in, the door was slammed behind her and her wrist was tightly in a slimy grasp. Once more, something that should not surprise. But it did, this time. And she let out the faintest breath of a gasp.

And that only made the man rougher.

He tugged her toward the already unfolded and heavily worn futon and threw her on it. The lights stayed off the whole time in that dingy room.

Just lay down and take it.

It's what

you're worth.

He was on her, and she tried her best to go somewhere else. Like she always did. Let her mind drift somewhere where-while her body was brutally damaged-she couldn't be hurt.

Some people tried to dialogue with her. Though that wasn't exceedingly common. Most just wanted to get what they needed: a night of self-loathing fetishization of society's garbage. A freakish man in a dress. Because she could never be a woman. She'd accepted that by now. No matter how hard she tried to pass, no matter how she primped herself, or tried to make herself softer or sweeter or less disgusting, she knew what she was: worthless, used-up, and deranged. Something to be broken and then discarded to pull herself back together. A creature.

Her mind was yanked back to the present by firm hands on her throat and her own gags as she choked.

Take it, you piece of filth.

A tug of her underwear and a hand on her member pumping harder than she would have ever wanted if she wasn't being paid. She knew her skin there had been torn at some point during the night. But it wasn't the first time.

W h a t y o u ' r e w o r t h .

She'd almost passed out before she was let go of. She felt the man's rough body writhe with her own. She was soon on her stomach, and she could feel him enter her.

Y o u

d e s e r v e

t h i s .

She whimpered. Another thing she aimed to avoid. But she was finding everything so much harder this time. And in reward for her response, a large hand shunted her head into the mattress, forcing her ass-up.

It was a substantial relief when she felt the release. Because that was quickly followed by a retreat.

She lifted her head in an attempt to breath, but was quickly cut off. The air hitched in her lungs once more as another powerful hand yanked her by the hair, hard. She was tugged off the mattress and up to her feet, and she felt a throbbing in her scalp thereafter.

"... What a fucking disappointment."

Jasmine barely registered the words being spoken to her. She was yet to know just how much of a mistake it was when her response to that statement was a simple, absent, 'huh?'

"I said, you were a shit lay, shemale!" he sneered. And Jasmine flicked her head to look at him, eyes like a rabbit.

And earned herself a strike on the cheek.

He's right.

You should have tried harder.

"I paid for you," the man sneered, "So you work for me. Am I understood."

She swallowed. "I-y-yes... I understand."

Another strike.

You earned that, too.

She grabbed her cheek. It was already bruised, but the hit made it sting even further.

"Sir."

"W-what?"

Hit.

"I. Said. Sir," he spelled. She swallowed.

"Y-yes... sir."

"Speak clearer!" he barked. And he hit her again. She pulled away on reflex, and her wrist was soon in his grasp. She felt like crying, but no tears would come. Then he hit her again. The strike hit her nose, which began to spurt.

"Yes, sir..." she rasped, breathes ragged. Yet she still wound up thrown and splayed on the hardwood.

"I am in control of you," he spoke.

Jasmine swallowed. Unknowing of what else to say, she slowly uttered after him, "Y-yes sir..."

"I am the one who gets to decide what happens."

She nodded. "Yes, sir..."

The man began pacing the floor. He shuffled his hands in his hair and let out a throaty noise, like a wild animal in a corner. Even though it was him who was calling the shots.

"My wife sure didn't think so. But-" He gave a pathetic sort of chuckle. Like he'd just remembered some fond memory. "-she got what was coming to her..."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Jasmine's blood froze cold.

The man reached into his jacket, tossed aside onto the floor. Jasmine stayed where she was. Where she belonged. On the ground like common filth.

He pulled a diminutive pistol from the textile. It was dwarfed by his hands. He chuckled. Then he held it for Jasmine, and fired without a moment of hesitation. The bullet missed, just at her legs. He shot again just in front of her, and she scrambled backwards, pressing to the wall. He plodded across the room. And she took in a trembling breath.

He knelt before her, grabbed her throat, and pinned her to the wall. She felt tears finally ebbing. Just in time for her last moments.

The man spoke in a cold, low tone. "No one would miss you if you died here. Would they?"

Not anymore.

It wasn't like she could respond. She gagged, and a tear slipped down her cheek.

"You'd do anything I say, huh?" he hummed, pressing the gun to her temple. She shuddered. She could feel her mind flickering due to lack of oxygen.

Then he let go. She came free gasping, but was cracked across the head with the steel of the small handgun. She howled, grabbing her head, and then sobbed. The man stood over her.

"Stand up," he said.

And she did, shakily. She turned to look at him. She knew her whole body must have been trembling-she could feel it. He came very close to her now, towering above her short-ish stature. His gunning arm fell down by his side. He pressed forth until there was no space left, and Jasmine backed into a wall.

She was now very aware of the table lamp just in her peripheral.

The man led her to look at him with his fingers, gently leading to stroke down her cheek. The whole slimy gesture made her feel like retching.

"Nobody would find you."

Jasmine didn't even process her own actions. She grabbed the lamp, and cracked him in the head. He yowled, and stumbled, shooting blindly and missing completely. Then she charged him, her stocky body enough to knock the man off balance.

He tumbled onto the floor. His gun did the same, clattering out of his grasp. Jasmine took it and ran.

She flung the door open with a clunk, and kept going, not daring look back for a second to see if her, 'patron,' was after her.

That is, until she ran into something.

She stumbled backward, landing ass-first onto the pavement. She gasped and looked up to see hulking there the largest person she'd ever seen. A man, with dark, black skin, gray whiskers and hair, and a mountain of a body.

She held the pistol at him, her grip weak and her aim jittering.

The mans gaze widened, and he took a step back, tossing his hands up with a single, 'woah!'

Then footsteps came from behind. She looked over her shoulder to see the man who'd bought her. He froze at the sight of the mountain before him.

Jasmine couldn't decide where to point her weapon.

The titan cleared his throat. "Evening, sir. What would you be up to around this time of night?" He looked down to Jasmine. His eyes narrowed. She must've looked a mess; bloodied and bruised. Then he shot the other, much shrimpier man a far more disdainful look than he had before. "This time of night... Chasing young women through the streets?" He shook his head condescendingly. "That's not a good look, my friend. Not one bit."

The other scoffed. "I'm not chasing women through the streets."

The large man looked down at Jasmine again. He had an almost pitiful look in his eyes. Like he felt some way about her. Some way that wasn't immediately hateful. But Jasmine still felt dreadfully hesitant.

"I see..." he said. "Well... iregardless, she-" He said the word very purposefully-made it stand out. "-is the one with the gun, here. So, I would strongly recommend you stop in chasing this young lady about. We wouldn't want something to happen, after all. Now, would we?"

Jasmine had elected to point back at her client, now.

The man looked down at her. Then back to the largest of them. "Like I have anything to lose..."

The large man nodded, almost sadly. "Alright..." Her reached into his own waist and pulled out a weapon of his own-a rather larger sidearm that he pulled back the hammer on.

The skeevy man fell back an inch. But then he took two gutsy steps forward.

"A-!" said the largest. The rat just glowered. Jasmine stared at him and her grip began to shake again. And he snorted.

It happened in less than a second. A hard crack against her face that left her splayed on the sidewalk. An earsplitting bang that echoed through the air. And then, darkness.

Silence.

. . . .

She woke up in a bed for the first time since she was little.

All of her was agony: sore and pained and awful. The cushion of the bed beneath her was a welcome distraction. But not enough to distract her mind from whirling with thoughts of where on Earth she was.

She lurched up, but not without a nasty sear rocketing through her head. She groaned. That's when she heard a voice from the other side of the room, following a chuckle.

"Be careful there, love. Nasty bruises on you-not to mention that steel-toed boot that lad had." He gave a, 'tsk.' "Nasty hit."

She looked to the massive man across the room, sat at a quaint, steel, circular table with a glass of some sort of amber alcohol. Panic flooded her system quickly. She scrambled out of the sheets and fumbled around in her pockets looking for the gun she'd-

Right. She was pursued. Then was kicked. And now, apparently, was kidnapped.

"S'on the nightstand," the man said with a noncommittal wave. Jasmine immediately scrambled there, pulled it off, and held the business end toward the man at the table. He turned his head and looked at her lackadaisically.

She'd had a night's rest. More than enough to resteel herself. But was it enough to snuff a life? She didn't know. She hadn't yet had to.

The man gave her a look that seemed almost... disappointed? "I'd really like it if you didn't do that."

Jasmine's aim didn't waiver. And the large man sighed.

"My name is Lucas, by the way. A very sorry way for us to meet, I'm sure."

A silence.

He gestured with his glass. "Yours?"

"Why the fuck would I tell you that?" she sneered. He nodded.

"Fair enough. Not like you've much reason to trust me."

How could he be so calm with a bullet aiming for his head? Or maybe he just knew she didn't have the nerve to fire it.

He took a slow sip of his alcohol. Then he sighed.

"If you want to shoot me, I won't stop you. If you want to leave? I won't stop that, either. Though, I'd strongly appreciate it if you did neither. I'd find that most agreeable, I think," he said simply. Another swig.

Jasmine felt her urge to shoot the man waning. Should she run? Most likely. But, some odd sense of curiosity made her so desperately not want to. She wanted to understand what on Earth this man's deal was. Why on Earth had he-seemingly-saved her? And why was he throwing lines in this conversation like death wasn't an object? Like he wasn't at gunpoint.

She lowered the gun just an inch. "Jasmine," she almost hissed.

"Your name?"

"Yes."

"It's quite lovely. You pick it yourself?"

"Y-"

Jasmine froze. So that was the deal. He was probably some sick psychopath who just wanted to fuck someone like her to know what it was like. Or to feel in power. Or to satisfy some primal, sinful urges he wasn't allowed to otherwise.

But she wasn't determined to let that happen. Not without a payment.

Her aim ridgened again. And Lukas sighed.

"If you'd sit down," he said, "I'd love to tell you a little story."

Jasmine glared at him.

"I think I'll be fine standing. And," she said, steadying her pistol, "if I don't care for it, I'll put a bullet right through that big, fat skull of yours."

The man huffed a laugh.

"Hm. Very well. I hope it amuses you then; for my sake."

Another swig. And a pause.

And then he spoke.

"S'about this girl," he said, "A young one. She was a little lost, y'know? When she was a kid. Parents hated her, loved wearing overalls. Still kinda does, honestly. Rough-housed with the boys. Nobody much liked her, 'cept for them. To them? She was just like any other boy: rough, tumble, and with a bag full of rocks in his head."

Another sip.

"Then, one day, that little girl was broken from the fantasy. Parents wanted'a make her a, 'respectable,' young woman. Which means, naturally, no more trousers, no more t-shirts, and finding a respectable young man to ship her off with. Preferably a white one with enough cash to be a little generous with it. Raise the family status, maybe. See, they knew their skin wouldn't get them very far. And having a delinquent daughter they couldn't even use? That won't get you anywhere, either."

The man grimaced. And Jasmine had found herself softening. She still had the gun raised. But she'd let the barrel drift downward. Lukas took another drink.

"Well, needless to say, their little girl-now a young woman-didn't care all that much for their plan. So, you know what she did?"

He looked to Jasmine as if prompting for a response. When she scowled, and said nothing, he continued on anyway.

"She ran away. She hadn't any idea what she was doin'. Somethin' stupid, probably. And it was. She got shot in the street in less than a day. Woulda died. But someone scared off her attackers. And that, was a young man. He was a kind fellow." He stirred his glass on the table. "Didn't stay long though..."

There was a silence. Then he continued.

"He worked with a particular organization. And I think that you've probably heard of it."

He looked to her for some sort of response. Again, nothing. She had a firm grasp on her firearm. It was, now, at the very least, pointedly aimed at the concrete floor.

Lukas turned back away. "The Underground. He was a courier. I found myself a nice little place there..." Then he fell silent. And Jasmine saw the remorse that flickered behind his eye.

"Then, one day, he got shot. But... no one was there to save him."

A handful of seconds came and went before Jasmine found it in herself to speak.

"You were the, 'woman.' Weren't you?"

Lukas smirked at her.

Jasmine swallowed. And Lukas continued.

"That man died that day. But me? Nah, my story wasn't done. Because, you see, bein' in a place like that? I finally got an opportunity to be. He died..." Lukas swallowed. Jasmine heard a crack when he continued. "And I decided... I wanted to be a protector. Like he was. So I became one." Stir. Sip. Set. "You know where you are right now?"

Jasmine stared him down. "No," she spoke flatly, "Of course not." She'd lowered the gun to her hip, now.

"This is that want. My dream. A safe space, where people can be without fear in leisure... 'HideAway.' This is the road to protect I've paved myself. And for anyone else who chooses to walk it with me." He gave a glance to Jasmine, and he smirked. "In addition to finding out strays like yourself."

Jasmine swallowed, shifted, then looked him in the eye uncertainly.

"But, why help me?"

I don't deserve it.

Lukas shrugged. "Right place, right time. And you certainly needed it."

Jasmine stared pointedly down at her toes, lips curled in.

"I should be going..."

Lukas shot a raised brow. "Where too?"

And she looked at him. She swallowed. "Home."

"Where's that?"

And Jasmine didn't know. She hadn't known ever since she'd-

Why did you leave me here alone?

I'm n o t h i n g without you...

At her hesitation, Lukas dared speak. "I have a proposal for you."

She snapped out of her head, her eyes narrowing at him. "Proposal?"

"Often," he said, "Others will end up coming round here. And they get to stay or leave, of course. But I always give them a choice, if I think they need it."

Jasmine huffed, and frowned. "And you think I need it?"

Lukas snorted, and smirked. And she scoffed.

"It's a job. We have a few rooms, just like this one. You see, this place used to be an old maintenance tunnel-the ship is so big, when people work in these, they tend to live in them, too, the transit to further depths of the tunnel being so long..." He shrugged. "But this tunnel was never finished. It's just this station. Tunnel continues, but there's no posts." Lukas finished his glass, set it on the table, and stood to his full, mountainous height. Jasmine's trust was there, but it was fragile. She tightened her grip on her gun. He didn't approach her, but he stood and looked at her, hands in his pockets.

"My point being," he continued, "Is that you can have a place to stay here. Shelter from the elements-and people. In exchange for working with me on my little project, here. You get to keep tips. And, performers get tips, and a dividend of show-day sales."

Jasmine cocked her head.

"Performers?"

. . . .

From the old, holey tent she had in The Developments, she took only two things. Two paltry items that were, as it was, all she had from her old life. A novel-the only book she took when she fled her home, with the title, 'She Was Made From The Sun.' The spine was worn and battered from being opened over and over again. And the pages were fraying. The cover: scuffed.

The other thing was something more juvenile. And her name was, 'Piper.' She was a small, flimsy, plush rabbit given to her by someone now gone. Her Harper.

Harper didn't have a protector when danger found her. Maybe things would have gone differently if she did.

Jasmine left the wreckage of her life behind and went into the gutter. She pushed away her thoughts, and she knocked on the steel door. The voice behind called out to her.

"Your name, or I shoot you."

Jasmine swallowed.

"Songbird."

~;~