#(I made up his badge number. Mid for Mid.gar. 07 for sector 7. 49 the year he was born in VII)

[phantomarchive]

@dogof-war whoops my hand slipped

She was young when he saved her, and she’d learned some hard truths of the world back then. Some men don’t care what happens to the world, to the soft and good people in it; and some will fight to save that innocence, even at the cost of their own lives and freedom. Heidegger had saved her. She’d memorized his badge number as he’d held her close, out of the line of fire and sight of the madman that had kidnapped her for unspeakable evils she learned about far too early in life.

MID-0749

The numbers are engraved in her mind even now, ten years later. Would he be proud of the woman she’s become? Would he care? He can’t write her back, and she doesn’t know if he’s even getting the letters anymore; and if he is, does he care? Or does he just see it as a stupid little girl who’s held on just a little too tight for a little too long? She can’t help it, though. He saved her. She was able to live her life because of him, even if that life has seen plenty of ups and downs, she’s alive and studying to get out of this hellhole of an apartment in this corrupt city, however that needs to get done.

The pole has become a friend of hers. By day, she studies while taking small acting gigs in whatever soap opera needs her, but by night, she grinds a pole for money, smiles at the men surrounding her stage, tempts them with thoughts of what if tonight more comes off, and they throw cash at her and she pays her bills and gets groceries and tucks some away for tuition. She’s become good at it, the pole a fellow athlete helping her body become stronger, until it isn’t just dancing, but training. She’ll be a lawyer someday, though her toned body implies vigilantism. Maybe both. Like Batman.

The thought - not the first time she’s had it - brings a smile to her face, and it looks sultry as she winks at a man close to her, his eyes traveling from her chest to her face, a grin overtaking his face with the attention she gives him. He won’t get more than that tonight except maybe a sweep of her dress she’d taken off at the beginning of her performance. A stage actress in an old style show, full skirts and corsets, until she carefully pulls it off, one lace at a time, until she’s in the corset with her breasts nearly bursting from them, a fitted pair of panties that threaten to reveal much to the world were they not snug enough not to. Accessories and bits of flair add jingling to the sway of her hips and accentuate her figure somehow more than what little she wears.

This is her life right now, and when she gets home, she’ll write Heidegger another letter before passing out, falling asleep, and waking again to put on her glasses, pull her hair into a messy ponytail, and set herself up for studying the afternoon away. Such a stark contrast, but Jessie has seen some of the other girls outside of their jobs, and it seems they all take comfort in the layers of clothing they wear off the stage.