The start of the day was a book.

  Calli had popped open the one Jasmine had given her the other week—'She Was Made From The Sun.' She had been plugging away at it over the past couple of weeks and had made good progress. She had surprised herself with just how much she was actually able to understand; words and sentences and structures. She definitely got the gist and a bit more. But she always had a few questions for Jasmine when she'd see her. And she always took the book with her.

  She read through another chapter, before entertaining Kit; having her ass kicked by him (she feigned her failure, but boy did it make the him happy); and then dealing with Imogen as she cooed and gleamed and reminisced just how pleased she was Calli was finally, 'dipping her foot into the world of romance.' And how, 'happy,' it made her. She had to force herself not to puke.

  But after all of that, the next part of her day was Jasmine. She took her courier's jacket, and tucked the book in a pocket inside the seam. She nearly skipped to the other girl's house—well, as much as she could while still keeping a responsible vigil, and guarding herself when she thought her unbridled joy might attract unwanted attention from strangers. When she got there, she rambled about the book and what she'd read so far. And Jasmine helped her with words, phrases, or sentences she simply didn't understand. She was close when she did.

  And her passion, Calli found, as she would explain the implications and meaning induced by a certain comparison or descriptor in great detail, made her even more beautiful to look at than she already was. However, that immense passion came with the major downside of her tendency to slip out points in the story Calliope had yet to reach. So, while doing her best not to get lost in her freckled face as she glowed and rambled and shone, she had to make sure to keep a tight rein on the blonde. After she already spoiled for her what would happen to the protagonist's father. No more would be permissed.

  After book-talk, they usually made lunch. Today didn't differ. This time, it was something with pasta—another thing Calli had never had. And Jasmine taught her how to make it.

  They'd finally sat down to eat that day, at which point Jasmine seemed to drift somewhere into her thoughts. Calli had just been thinking of maybe trying to say something about it, when Jasmine cut-in, abruptly.

  "I wanna take you out somewhere," she said absently, as she stared at the bowl of pasta in front of her, poking it idly with her fork, "Like... dancing. Or for drinks, or... something."

  "That sounds like an awful idea!" Calli answered with a facetious, almost sardonic eye-to-eye grin before shoving a forkful of sauce-drenched penne into her mouth.

  "I disagree," Jasmine shot back with a smirk, "I think it's a great idea."

  "It sounds like a great idea to get the both of us in a ton of trouble. Or worse," the other said, narrowing amber eyes. "Two very, very queer women—transgender women. Going out in public." She emphasized herself heavily to make sure not a detail was missed.

  "I can easily pass for straight," Jasmine huffed. "And you just look... scrappy."

  Calli snorted and raised a brow. "Scrappy?"

  "Yeah," Jasmine nodded, "Scrappy. In a way that I just so happen to find very attractive."

  "Well, maybe I'm just... 'scrappy,' looking." Calli rolled her eyes. "But I'm also brown as dirt."

  Jasmine's lips quirked downward as she cocked her head. "Is that a bad thing?"

  Calli's answer was somewhat dodging. "It is definitely a bad thing if some jag-offs see you with a second class citizen in public." She gave a weak sigh, and crossed her arms, staring down at her lap. "...I would never want to bring that kind of attention to you. Besides–" Her grip around herself tightened. "–we wouldn't be able to be ourselves, anyway..."

  A silent moment passed. Jasmine kept fidgeting, and Calli kept shoving food into her mouth trying not to think until Jasmine finally said:

  "I know somewhere we could go..."

  Calli sighed. "Jasmine..."

  "Hear me out," she said, holding her hands up like the accused, and grinning in that somewhat cheeky way she was privy to. "I know a club."

  Calli winced and raised her brow. "A club?"

  "Mm," Jasmine hummed, "More of a lounge, I guess... But, I work there. We could go there... it'd be safe... We could be a bit more..."

  "A bit more what?" Calli spoke with narrow eyes.

  She shrugged, and smiled coyly. "Ourselves."

  Calli chuckled and shook her head. "What on Earth club are you going to that allows minorities or queers? Or where we wouldn't get kidnapped or—or drugged or some shit?" She didn't seem offended. Just genuinely bewildered. Even if her—admittedly typical—bluntness appeared abrasive.

  "A gay one," Jasmine said back simply, like it was the plainest, most self-explanatory thing in the world.

  Calli looked perplexed. "Gay? There's... what?" She shook her head, then looked at the other woman, cockeyed. "I thought you worked at a grocer?"

  "A gay club," she reiterated. "And I do. Weekdays. I work in the club on weekends. The staff all know me—know I'm queer. And my boss..." she said, giving Calli a rather suggestive look, "...definitely knows about you."

  Calli knew she was blushing, but she tried to ignore it.

  "... I... I didn't know–" She cleared her throat and reapproached. "I didn't know there was... There was anywhere, anything like that..."

  "There is. At least, this one." Jasmine chortled. "I promise it's a safe place, but... we'd have to go at night."

  Calli sighed. "I work nights..."

  In spite of her priviness to this, Jasmine's face still came to fall slightly. Though she was still smiling, poking away at her food, it was weak and definitely not genuine. "I know."

  A date; a real one. With Jasmine. In a gay club. A club where they could be queer in public.

  She hissed through her teeth, then sighed. "I'll talk to Imogen about it."

  Jasmine looked at her, wide-eyed. "Real-??" she started, before stopping herself. "You don't have to do that, Calli."

  "I know... But I want to."

  Jasmine bit her lip, brow furrowed. Then nodded slowly, smiling.

  "... Not like I'll try and stop you."

  Calli gave a wink. "Good. Now eat your food. Stop fidgeting with it."

  Jasmine rolled her eyes, skewered some pasta with unnecessary aggression, and shoved her fork into her mouth. She gave Calli a narrowed eyed look as if asking if she was pleased with herself. Calli answered with a toothy grin.

  "I hate you," Jasmine mumbled through a full mouth.

  "Well, then, you must be a masochist, 'cause you seem super determined to keep me around." She smirked.

  Jasmine swallowed, and gave her a lidded, hungry look. "Maybe I am."

  Calli felt her face heat up. Then Jasmine broke into snorts and snickers, and she still wasn't sure if she was kidding or not.

  . . . .

  "Imogen, can I ask you something?" Calli asked, halfway leaned into the older woman's office. Her brow was worried, and her lips were puckered.

  Imogen glanced up from her paperwork. She smiled to the young woman, and she shrugged. "Sure, Cal. What's on your mind?"

  Calli swallowed, toeing a few steps into the room.

  "I was wondering if, maybe..." She laced her fingers together, anxiously. "...Maybe we could... assign my route to, uh... someone else for a night?"

  Imogen's face scrunched up thoughtfully. She was just on the edge of speaking when Calli frantically cut in:

  "Just for one night! Sunday. And I won't be long! Promise! Just a couple hours! I could finish up the night afterwards; when I'm done!"

  Imogen shut her mouth, sighed out her nose, and smirked. "Calliope Lucero, may I remind you, the one—and only—reason you have a daily route with off-days is because you requested it."

  Calli frowned, scratching at her crossed forearm. She spoke stiffly.

  "Oh. Yeah..."

  Imogen rolled her eyes. "I'll split your stops between a few of our other couriers. Sunday?"

  Calli swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded, stiffly. "Sunday."

  Imogen gave a nonchalant smile. "Then, that it will be."

  In a plastic, grated bin under her desk, she shuffled, pulling out a few manila folders and tossing them on her desk. She grabbed a sheet of note-paper from a rusted, metal rack on her desk. Then a pen from an old, plain mug. Calli stood awkwardly—for some reason still astonished by Imogen's approval. Imogen looked up to her over her glasses.

  "You're welcome to stay, of course. But, you're also free to leave, Cal."

  Calli blinked. Then again. Then she shook her head and began stumbling back.

  "O-oh!" She gave an anxious sort of chuckle. "Y-yeah! Of course! Thank you!"

  Imogen gave a devious grin. "Enjoy your date next week, lovebird."

  Calli rolled her eyes and groaned. Imogen cackled, and Calli stuck her tongue out at her before she shut the door. The older smirked and rolled her eyes.

  "Youth."

  . . . .

  "Kit," Calli sighed, "I've already told you: Imogen's going to be taking care of you for tonight. Okay?"

  "... But you're not gonna be coming home at all?" Kit asked, his lips firmly folded down.

  Calli gave another tug of her shirt collar as she stared at herself in the mirror. She rubbed a thoughtful pair of hands down some folds in the spotty, worn, white button-up she'd put on. She pursed her lips and hummed uncertainly. Then she heard him again.

  "Capi?" he droned, urging. Calli sighed, furrowed her brow, then quickly took a deep breath and let the tension seep out. There was no reason to be frustrated with him; none at all.

  "I'm going out tonight, Kit," she said tenderly, turning to look at the young boy, "But I promise: we'll spend some extra quality time together tomorrow. Deal?"

  Calli tried at a reassuring, lopsided smile. Kit looked down at his lap, still frowning.

  "Is this gonna happen again?" he said quietly. Calli's grin faltered. She looked away, sighing out her nose as she stared back in the mirror.

  "I dunno."

  "What if you forget about me?"

  Calli gave a small chortle as she turned and went to the young boy, who was sat on his bed-mat, and kneeled down to his level. She spoke in a soft, gentle way only a mother could, really. Or her—to him.

  "Kit. I'm not going anywhere. Even if..." She felt some heat in her cheeks, swallowing. She shook it off. "Even if tonight goes anywhere, I will always have time for you. Always."

  She turned the young boy's reluctant face toward her. And she grinned. "I swear."

  Kit smiled, ever so slightly. "Okay."

  Calli's smile richened a little as she stood herself back up, giving one more glance in the mirror. Then back to him. She gave an all encompassing, someone showy gesture at herself.

  She was in an untucked, fraying, solid-white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and the top couple buttons undone; it was a tad loose on her. But not overly so. She also had on a short, but tastefully so—about mid-thigh length—pleated skirt. She had on her only boots, tattered and beaten and covered in filth. She had a thin, black hair-tie on her wrist, and a thin, black choker around her neck.

  She held a cheeky smirk. "Thoughts? Opinions?"

  Kit snickered. "You look nice."

  "Good—that was the right answer," Calli shot back smugly. Kit giggled.

  "Oh, wow. Do I win something?"

  Calli smirked, went to him, and pecked him on the head. "There."

  He beamed at her, and she chortled.

  She gave Kit a smile, they stood, and she took his hand. He followed her toward Imogen's office, who grinned when she saw them, welcomed in Kit and offered him a place to sit. Then she shot her praise to Calli.

  "Love the skirt," she said, "You look so good in 'em, but you never wear them."

  Calli shrugged and chuckled. "Not great for climbing rooftops."

  Imogen teetered her head before nodding. "Maybe so."

  "Well—" Calli shuffled. "—I should prolly get going..."

  "You probably should," Imogen agreed.

  Calli smirked, then she felt a pair of small hands wrapping around her leg. She looked down to see Kit gripping there. She chuffed and smiled.

  "Bye," he mumbled.

  Calli's grin faltered. She nodded. "See you in the morning."

  After a few long moments, he finally let go. And she smiled at him again, before she finally left, with a wave and a smile.

  . . . .

  By the time she reached Jasmine's, the sun had fully set. And Calliope made very sure to keep her head on a swivel, so no one could surprise her from the dark. She reached her door with lungs heavy of smog and anxiety.

  Calli took a deep breath—as much as she could with the toxins in the air and in her chest—and knocked. After a few short moments, the door opened and Jasmine stood there confidently, an enigmatic little smirk on her face.

  She was wearing a bandeau that hugged tightly around her plump chest. A short, tight, pencil skirt painted her lower body, hugging the pooch of her belly and lightly digging into her thighs. A pair of short wedge pumps just barely-almost managed allowing her to reach Calli in height. Over her shoulders was a seemingly soft, woolen shrug. It fit her tightly, long sleeves going just over her palms, fingers-only sticking loose. It was semi-cropped, stopping at her waist, about at the middle of her midriff—a decently wide gap where her skirt and top didn't meet. She was worryingly jaw dropping. Calli was well aware of just how much she was gawking at her. She hadn't decided yet if she cared or not.

  She glanced down at herself. She felt almost underdressed in her slightly longer skirt and ratty old top. She swallowed a lump she'd realized was in her throat. Her train of thought was cut when she heard an angelic voice call from in front of her.

  "Calli?" it said, sweet, but teasing.

  Calli blinked. Then she blinked again. She opened her mouth for words, but all that came out was a thin rasp. Jasmine giggled, melodic and clear.

  "You're staring again."

  Calli's eyes didn't stop in glancing about Jasmine's form.

  "You're hardly—you—" Calli swallowed.

  Jasmine raised a brow. "I'm what?"

  Calli cleared her throat. "Bare..."

  Jasmine snorted somewhat derisively and smirked. "And?"

  "Are you—you feel safe going outside in that?"

  She frowned, shooting an unamused look. "Should I not?"

  Calli was dumbfounded. She shook off her confusion, and sighed. "Well, it's illegal, for starters. I don't think I've ever seen someone so flagrantly disobey every single modesty law in existence."

  Jasmine was still smirking. Whether it was wry, or because she genuinely wasn't flapped by any of her comments was yet to be determined.

  She chuckled. "Oh, no, yeah, I'm very well versed; I've mastered the art of flagrant disobedience through the most thorough of research."

  Calli gave a disbelieving sputter. "How are you not in prison?"

  "Because—I slut wisely. I only dress like this at night." she said, chortling as she came out the door in a casual, teasing strut.

  Calli's brow furrowed some more. "Still illegal."

  Jasmine gave an unserious sort of scoff. "Aren't you a drug peddler? An illegal drug peddler who's out until 2am?"

  Calli puckered her lips and scowled. "W-well, yes... But, I don't make a show of myself."

  "Show, huh?" Jasmine giggled. "Like what you're watching?"

  Calli blushed and looked away. The whole of her was red hot—not just her cheeks. "... I don't know."

  Jasmine gave an exaggerated pout and huffed. "Awe..." Then she shrugged. "Mm... There's still a whole night ahead—I think I'll be fine figuring out how to entertain you." She came to Calli with a deliberate sway in her hips.

  Calli could hear herself swallow. She avoided eye contact purely out of spite. She didn't need to give Jasmine the satisfaction—she was already perfectly aware of just what she was doing to her. Then she felt small, soft fingers unraveling her long, loosely balled ones. She didn't do anything to stop them wrapping together. Jasmine held her hand tightly. She pressed her body to Calliope's, and she leaned into her and hushed into her ear.

  "Are you mad at me?" It wasn't particularly remorseful. More coy, in some way.

  Calli sighed. "Of course not." She felt warm, soft lips feather the lobe of her ear. Then again. Her breath hitched.

  "Good," she breathed. Calliope felt the word in her whole body. But, then she pulled away. She pulled that same coy look she was so privy to.

  "Come on," she said, "Let's get moving. There's a lot I wanna do with you tonight."

  She heard a twist of something in her voice that made her heart flop about her chest. She teased after. "Think you're up for it?"

  Calli nodded meekly. "We'll see."

  Jasmine gave a smirk that twisted at Calli's heart. Hand still in hers, she began tugging her along.

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  Calli rolled her eyes and smirked as she followed her lead. They went out onto the main walkway. They moved quickly; the only sound resonating was the clocking of Jasmine's wedges on the wide sidewalk—something serving to cause Calliope much anxiety—and the sounds of distant gunshots and screaming and shouting. Those were the kinds of people out at this time of night—the streets, normally so crammed and crowded you couldn't avoid shouldering with someone barren and empty.

  She let her brain focus on the rhythmic clicking of Jasmine's heals on the concrete. The sound of her light pants as she walked swiftly down the street with her. They took a right. Then a left. And then suddenly Jasmine squeaked, shoving into an ally along the side of the walkway. She joined her.

  "What?!" the scrawny girl yipped in a whisper, "What is it?!"

  "Just some gang members," Jasmine hushed. She reached into her top and pulled out a very compact handgun. It was almost the size of her hands. Which said a lot—her hands were small as it was.

  Calli's eyes widened and she reached into her own waistband, pulling out her much larger weapon—almost twice the size of Jasmine's.

  "Be quiet," Jasmine ordered. Calli nodded.

  It was completely silent—painfully so. Jasmine stood, armed, and Calli was beside her, crouched and likewise. Footsteps began growing louder. And Jasmine hissed a curse through her teeth. She glanced behind her for the briefest second, then turned back forward with her weapon readied.

  "Calliope. Get in that dumpster back there," she hushed.

  Calliope gave a single glance to confirm the location.

  "Not unless you come with me."

  "I'm right behind you."

  Calliope sighed—now was no time to argue. She did as Jasmine said.

  Low to the ground, she silently sped to the rusted, metal container, then stood and creaked its lid open slowly. She crawled up and inside, landing on a cushion of packaged garbage.

  Jasmine looked back, saw her in it gesturing, then dashed after her as fast as she could while trying to minimize the now seemingly even more deafening sound of her clicking heels. Calli reached a hand out, and Jasmine took it, using it to help her be hauled up and into the dumpster along with the other woman. In the scramble, with Calli's pull, she more stumbled than climbed into the brim. She fell atop her into the bin, and Calliope's back crushed against the cushion of abrasive trash bags.

  Calliope stared into her ice-colored eyes. Her breath grazed her face. She was so warm against her. And so soft. The air was punched out her chest as Jasmine used her as a push to reach the bin's lid. She lowered—carefully—the lid of the bin atop them. And then, in the pitch dark, Calli felt her body come back over her. Warm breath feathered the sliver of chest exposed by her shirt—just over her collarbone. Jasmine's skin was supple there, where her cheek rested on that slight bit of bareness.

  Calliope's breathes were shallow. Her hands didn't quite know what to do, fingers digging into some polyethylene beneath her. Others loosening on whatever it was that was in her hand. Then she heard footsteps from outside. Calli's breath hitched. And almost instantaneously, her hands pulled Jasmine tighter against her—one wringing through her soft, platinum locks, and the other on the back of her neck. She heard the other woman's breathing hitch as she did. And she felt her nose burrow into her collarbone, making her shiver.

  Then footsteps coming closer.

  Calli had realized now, she didn't know where her weapon had gone, but it certainly wasn't in either of her hands. A regretful hand came from Jasmine's neck and scrambled around in the dark. Then she felt a searing in it. She grunted and pulled back. She felt a warm wetness in her palm. She rubbed the wound with her fingertips and the wetness coated them. She was bleeding.

  The footsteps moved away.

  They grew softer and softer, fading into silence. And soon, Jasmine and Calliope were there, alone, in the dark. And Calli's hand loosened its grasp on her head.

  She felt weight shifting on top of her. Then dim city lights showered the two of them. Jasmine was sitting up, now, straddling Calli's hips. She looked down at her, and chuffed, smirking. Calli swallowed.

  Jasmine pulled herself off, and hopped out of the dumpster, grunting as she landed and stumbled on her heels. She still had her handgun in her hand. She tucked it into her bra again, and looked back to Calliope.

  "You coming?"

  Calliope sat up. And she blinked.

  "Um... yeah. No, yeah—I'm coming." Her eyes darted around to find the grip of her handgun sticking out from between a couple of trash bags. She also saw from one bag, a shard of razor thin glass—the culprit of her cut.

  She grabbed the weapon with her uninsured hand and shoved it back in her waistband. Then she pulled herself over the edge with her hands, wincing at the sear in them, and fell off the side, landing deafly. Jasmine studied her the whole time. Then something caught her eye, and she looked back to the edge of the dumpster.

  Calliope was caught off guard as Jasmine approached her unwaveringly. She grabbed her hand and peeled open her resistant fingers.

  "Jasmine!? What—"

  "You're bleeding..." she spoke softly. Her brows knitted. She traced the near the edges of where the wound was with her thumb. Some blood smeared onto it from where she had touched.

  Calli scoffed. "It's not that bad..."

  Jasmine chortled wryly. "Right."

  She let go of her hand. Then she grabbed her clean one.

  "Come on—I have a friend where we're going; he can help you."

  Calli chortled as she was pulled along. "What? You worried about me or something?"

  "Well, it's been almost a month—I'm too invested to let you die of tetanus now."

  Calli huffed. "Awe, is that all?"

  Jasmine chuckled. "Well, what else would it be?"

  Calli's face heated. She shrugged. "'Dunno..." Jasmine gave a snort.

  "Right."

  She let the other woman tug her for a few paces, and made no attempt to resist. Some silence later and she decided to try getting to her with something else.

  She smirked. "You're very bossy, you know."

  Jasmine chortled. "Not always."

  Calli raised a brow. "How so?"

  Jasmine glanced over her shoulder with a smirk and a wink. "Maybe you'll find out tonight."

  And Calli felt her heart fall into her stomach.

  . . . .

  Jasmine had led her for some time without complication. They'd come to an almost barren district. A series of developments abandoned due to cost. The area of the lower districts they never finished. There was an alleyway between two, condemned housing towers. Jasmine led her into that gap, to a solid metal door at the very end of it.

  It seemed to be an entry to some sort of maintenance tunnel, leading down into the steel ship deck below. There was, on it, a digital lock. But it was degraded—Calli doubted whether it was liable to still function. Or if it was just sitting there, loose.

  Her eyes studied the door. "Is this... it?"

  Jasmine gave a sort of scoff, then shot her an unamused look. "I think I'd know."

  Calli nodded stiffly. She gave a rigid, wavering smirk. "This wasn't all some long play to, like... harvest all my organs, was it? Turn me into some crime-lord's concubine? Interrogate me where my secret base is?"

  Jasmine scrunched her nose, and Calli couldn't help but chuff at her. "One, ewe. Two, no, I wouldn't wanna share you–"

  Calli blushed.

  "Three, fucking, no—I'm not planning to sell myself out." Jasmine huffed, pulling her fingers from Calli's as she crossed her arms and glared. "This is the place. Trust me; I work here."

  Calli recovered quickly and smirked. "Yeah. You work here—harvesting organs."

  Jasmine stuck out her tongue and gagged. Calli chuckled. Then found herself getting distracted again.

  She never noticed it was that long.

  Jasmine glanced at her and smirked.

  "You can have a taste once you're not risking infection."

  Calliope sputtered, Jasmine giggled.

  Jasmine took Calli's clean hand in hers, before she parted the door—the lock, evidently, not functional in any meaningful way—and tugged Calli down the steel steps within. She let go of her for just a moment, and went back to tug the door shut behind them, before reconvening.

  She led her again. Their shoes clunked against the steel steps, echoing out through the whole of the area below. When they reached the bottom, Calli truly processed just where they were.

  A rusted, metal tunnel. It was spacious enough to allow the two of them to walk side by side, if Calliope wasn't steadfastly in file with Jasmine. But it wasn't exceptionally large in any way. Assuredly not like the ditched sewer The Underground was established within. She hadn't a clue how something like a club could be down here and be at all enjoyable. Let alone comfortable.

  Tubing of some sort protruded from the wall like varicose veins. And they followed it, rounding a corner before Jasmine finally stopped them at a degraded, rusted, iron door. The tubing interrupted to make way for it.

  There was some vague pounding from beyond that door. Calli couldn't put a pin on it—it was too obscured to make out. But it was rhythmic, which made her believe it must have been music.

  Jasmine wasted no time knocking, and the action echoed throughout the tunnels. A gruff voice came from the other side.

  "Name. Or you get shot."

  Calli stiffened.

  Jasmine smirked. "You know who I am, dumbass."

  There was a click. Calli pulled back. Jasmine squeezed her hand reassuringly.

  Then the door opened, and the music was full and decipherable.

  A man stood there in the doorway. Not as harsh in looks as his voice made him out to be. But built enough to be frightening. He had dark, dark skin, but his hair was near white. He had a trimmed beard and dark, brown eyes. He was dressed simply: a t-shirt, tattered slacks, and a pair of black dress shoes. Crows-feet showed his age.

  He smiled when he saw Jasmine there, and she smirked back a hand on her hip. Then, he looked to Calli. And gave her a long, pointed, piercing look. She would have pulled back further if she could have. But she couldn't decide between that, or keeping her firm hold of Jasmine. The latter finally won out.

  "Was worried you wouldn't show, Songbird," he spoke in a rich, cool tone—not as blood-boiling as when there had been a door in between them.

  She chuffed. "Like I'd ever ditch you."

  He smirked. Then he stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter with a tilt of his head. His absence revealed a spacious bright, brilliant room, filled with crowds of people writhing and cheering. Bright flashing of pink and purple, the loudness of music, singing, laughter, and cheers.

  The room was large, unfinished, and rusted like the tunnel outside. The walls as well. The focus of everyone was on a stage on the farside of the room, on which was a man, dancing and singing and barely dressed. Calli grimaced.

  Luke chuckled, speaking louder over the amount of ruckus, "Not a fan?"

  Calliope looked up to meet his eyes, and shook her head. "No."

  He chuffed and nodded. "I sure am."

  Calli was about to groan, the same way she would when Imogen talked about men, when something clicked for her.

  "You're gay." it wasn't really a question—more just a statement.

  He raised a brow and smirked. "What? Don't look it enough for you?"

  Calli moved for rebuttal before Jasmine cut in.

  "She's just a little—" She shrugged. "—low on exposure, I guess."

  Calliope looked off, analyzing the rust pattern of the wall, until she gasped as Jasmine took her balled, bloodied hand.

  "Speaking of her," she said, prying open her fingers for Luke to see, "she somehow managed to tear herself a new hole in her hand earlier tonight. Think you can fix that up for her?"

  Luke narrowed his eyes at the lithe woman. She was quickly back to the rust. He vaguely leaned down and briefly analyzed the wound. Then he shrugged, and teetered his head thoughtfully.

  "Sure. How'd she cut it?"

  "Some glass in the dumpster, earlier," Calliope answered, flatly.

  "I can work with that." Calli felt a chill down her spine at his next words. "I was hoping to have a little chat with you, anyway." Then he turned to Jasmine, and he chuffed. "You, however, should go on now, Songbird—you've got fifteen."

  Jasmine's brows hopped a bit on her head. She looked to Calli and gave her hand a squeeze, smiling softly. Then she let go and dashed off, turning around a corner and down a hall—the only in the room.

  Luke put a guiding hand between Calli's shoulder blades. She tensed at his feathering touch. "Alright—let's get you patched."

  And he led her toward and down the exact same hall.

  . . . .

  He lead Jasmine down to the room at the utmost end of the hall. The very last one. She'd seen that there were, in fact, a handful of doors down that way, ending here. All of them had windows, likely left by the original constructors. But they were all boarded or taped or otherwise obscured.

  The room she was in was exceedingly simplistic. A bed, a dresser, a table in the corner, and a light. But all more than many places she'd been. She'd figured the room must have belonged to Luke. This was likely all he had.

  Very little. But still more than her.

  She had been invited to sit on the bed, which she did. Luke had gone to a round table on one side of the moderately sizable room. From the floor beneath it, he'd grabbed a box she'd assumed was a medkit. It was unlabeled and unprofessional looking, leading her to believe it was self amalgamated. But, from it, he grabbed a very small, rattling box she figured full of needles, and a small spewel of surgical thread. He set them on the table, picked out a needle, and was currently working on threading it. Then he spoke.

  "So, Calliope," he said levely, "Jasmine's told me a lot about ya."

  Calli swallowed. "Yeah?"

  "Mhm."

  Once the thread had made its way through the eye, Luke grabbed the single chair from next to that round table and drug it in front of Calliope. He fell into it—every action he took felt imposing. Maybe it was his size. How deftly he moved in spite of it. Or maybe it was nothing more than the way he'd been looking at her earlier.

  He gave a limp gesture with his free hand for Calliope to hand him her injured one. She gave a meager scoff and rolled her eyes.

  "I can do my own stitches."

  Luke stopped, shrugged, then handed her the needle.

  "Have at it," he chuckled. And she was about to. But Luke didn't move. He just hulked there.

  "... You're gonna stare at me the whole time?"

  Luke leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was wondering if we could have a little chat. Think that'll be alright?"

  Cayden rolled the needle between her fingers. Then huffed out her nose, finally stabbing into herself. She winced imperceptibly. "Depends what about."

  "Jasmine," he said. Calli nodded.

  "What about her?"

  There was a silence, the only sound Calli's clench-toothed hiss as she dug into herself again. Then Luke spoke.

  He sat back up. "So. How'd you two lovebirds meet?"

  Calli's jaw set. She slid the needle through her flesh again.

  "I met her at work," she said simply.

  Luke's brows gave a thoughtful pump as he nodded. "Oh yeah? Where do you work?"

  She stopped and fidgeted breifly with the needle. Then she went back in and spoke vaguely.

  "I'm a delivery woman."

  Luke laughed and shook his head. "You don't have to be coy, sweetheart. Everyone knows about The Underground here. You folks are sort of a household name, y'know?"

  Calli froze again, sighed, and then kept sewing.

  "I don't blame you," Luke assured, "I can certainly imagine your hesitation."

  She huffed, then nodded. "Yeah."

  Luke smiled. "So," he said, "You're her courier? Jazz's?"

  Calliope nodded, eyes trained on her hand. "Yeah."

  Luke grinned, nodding. "Pretty admirable work."

  "It's not much..."

  Luke frowned, his brows knitting. He shook his head. "No," he said, "It is. Your work saves lives, Calliope."

  She sewed. "Calli's fine."

  Luke chuffed. "'Calli.'"

  Calli didn't answer. But she let out a semi-humored huff, and smirked.

  "'Bout a month now, yeah?"

  Calli nodded. "That sounds right."

  "How's it been?"

  Calli stopped sewing. She held the needle in one hand and gave a mild scoff.

  "Listen, dude, I know you're trying to get at something. You can just say it instead of having to pussy-foot me into it."

  Luke smirked and raised a brow. "Hell of a mouth on you, huh?"

  Calli deadpanned. "Ask Jasmine." Luke winced. Calliope cleared her throat. "I think we were discussing your point?"

  Luke nodded. There was a stint of quiet before he spoke.

  "She talks about you a lot, y'know. It's been four or something weeks. She only works here Sundays. But every single time, it's you. Almost all night."

  Calli felt the blood rush her face. She kept sewing. Then something pinged to her.

  "You knew I was a courier."

  "Of course."

  "Then why did you ask me?"

  "To see if it was true. You're attempt to... 'pussy-foot,'" he annunciated. Calli rolled her eyes. "—Was pretty solidifying."

  There was a pause. Calliope kept suturing. Then the large man before her sighed. "She falls like a brick, Calli. Like a rock in the air." Leaned again. "...she doesn't always have the best judgment of character. She's very committed. She'd prolly do most anything if you asked her. That can, uh..." He tottered his head. "She can get herself fooled pretty easy. Gets herself into trouble."

  Calliope only breifly paused her sutures. Then she continued.

  "What are you saying?"

  "She can't judge character. So... I'm her contingency."

  "That seems a little demeaning."

  "Trust me," he grumbled, "I have good reason."

  She pulled the needle through again. There was very little left, now.

  "I'd hope."

  A few more plunges, and she was done. Luke pushed his chair back and stood, ambling to the table on the other side of the room. From the box there, he took a pair of medical scissors. He came back to Calliope. He handed them to her. And she took them cooly, and cut the thread.

  He sat again, and almost leaned close to Calliope's face. "All I'm saying is, Calliope: I wonder just how much concern The Underground would have for another missing courier."

  She was observing her work, when she froze there. She looked at him.

  "Was that a threat?"

  "Hopefully one I won't have to follow through with. I'm a bit busy," he said with a shrug.

  She flipped the scissors in her hand so the handle faced Luke, and handed them back.

  "I think you'll be fine," she flatted.

  "Oh, I'll be fine either way. You seem to think it more trouble than it actually is." He shrugged. "More just... annoying..."

  She looked at him, unimpressed. "Trust me. I doubt you'll have to bother"

  "Hope that's a promise."

  Calliope looked him straight in the eye, and spoke with level. "I won't hurt her." Her eyes fell to the cut on her hand. Then to Luke again. "She's worth more than that."

  Luke narrowed his eyes at her. Then he sighed, stood, and shrugged.

  "Then hopefully we won't have anything to worry about." He gave a glance at a clock on the wall. Then he sauntered for the door. He looked back at Calliope and gestured with his head for her to follow him. "Now then. Jasmine had something she wanted you to see."

  Calliope stood and went after him, keeping a fair distance.

  "What's that?"

  Luke opened the door and went, and Calliope gave him an upturned brow as she toed after.

  They entered the main area. The stage was empty, the music was off, and people were mingling.

  Luke quickly split from the woman tailing behind him and made his way into the crowd, calling over his shoulder, "You might wanna find a good view!"

  Calliope gave him a raised-brow, lips mouthing wordlessly. As the man disappeared somewhere into the crowd, she sputtered and tossed her hands defeatedly. She stood in brief flusteredness before something pulled her gaze—the vaguest splotch of color in the corner of her eye. It drew her in, and she found herself slowly pacing toward it.

  A poster—framed—among others, with some text and a rather familiar face on it.

  She gave the image a good, hard look.

  It held the minimalist render of a near bare bodied woman. Plump, blonde, and freckled, leaning on a hand with her other supporting her. As she leaned, her back was arched, and her legs were curled up next to her. She was the bare minimum of, 'clothed:' a laced, white bra, frilly and elegant, and some lacy, high rise panties. She wore stockings, white and translucent. Her face, in the rendition, was blank, other than the freckles on her cheek, nose, and her perky, small lips smirking back at her. Calli swallowed. She read the text there.

  '~Songbird~'

  'No fucking way,' was the only thing rattling in her skull. Then a voice called out into the room, and any residual mutters or conversation wisped away to swift silence.

  "Ladies, gentleman, and otherwise!" it called; Luke pulling his best shot at a showman. "It is my utter pleasure to welcome to you all our act of the evening! Bring your hands together for our own little Songbird!"

  'No. Fucking. Way.'

  Calli found herself shoving a path through the crowd, some balking and scolding her when she did so. Many others she shouldn't have even been able to move in the first place, in a desperate attempt to reach the stage. And when she did, The lights went dark. There were some mutters in the crowd, and she was one of them as she cursed to herself, shooting her eyes around the inky black. Until the lights suddenly flared back on.

  And her gaze flicked to the stage.

  Jasmine. Jasmine March. She could immediately recognize the blunt, near-white ends on the back of her head. She appeared to be in a bathrobe. Calves bare and wedges still on.

  She turned her gaze over her shoulder, and smirked, and Calli's heart tried to jump into her throat. Her lips were dyed a deep, bleeding red with lipstick. Her eyes were painted with winged eyeliner and vibrant mascara that somehow managed to make them look even bluer than they already were. The whole of her face was finely done. But not enough to obscure her dusty little freckles—that, or they'd been recolored in over. But they seemed a little too real for that.

  She turned, and she strutted, and Calli stared in silence like an idiot while other people cheered and hollered beside her. Jasmine came closer to the edge of the stage. Closer and closer until she was almost right in front of her. Then, she gave a sly wink, and Calli swore she looked at her when she did so. And she opened—for a sliver of a second—the front of the bathrobe that'd been held shut until then. And Calli felt the heat in her face as she saw the vaguest glimpse of bare, soft skin.

  She turned, striding back to the rear of the stage. And the robe fell away.

  Calli gawked at the barness of her back. It was arched. Soft and dimpled, a roll in the center where it most harshly bent. Her eyes traced where a lace bralette dug into the softness there. Jasmine raised her arms up in a smooth, sensual motion over her head to crescendo above her.

  And Calli's eyes followed them the whole of the way.

  As the, 'Songbird,' let her arms fall, Calli watched her untie a taught ribbon that was burrowing into the cushion of her lightly dimpled thigh, and pull it away with a swift swish, and some whistles and cheers.

  Then she turned again. Her bralette had no dip, wrapping around her chest fully. Instead, a very large, heart-shaped cutout where the cleavage of her generous, pressed chest was exposed. Lacey briefs, nearly transparent in parts with sheerness, clung to her shaped lower form. They hugged just below her navel. Calli suddenly felt the need then to flick her gaze away. She looked at the ground, other people, the side of the stage; whatever she could to avoid her eyes lingering on the features of the woman she knew there performing.

  Then she felt light, soft fingers guide her head straight and up. And there she was. Kneeled, leaning over the edge, fingers of an outstretched hand trailing along her cheek.

  "Hey there, courier," she purred. Calli swallowed.

  "Hi..."

  "Enjoying the show?" The way she bit her lip, grinning, already well aware of the answer, made Calli's mouth dry.

  She couldn't find the words. Just stumbles and stutters. And then, she didn't even have to try. A ribbon wrapped around the back of her neck, and a quick tug pulled her stumbling into soft lips and mindlessness. Again. And again. And a light lap at her lips that made her chest stop before Jasmine quickly pulled away and began strutting on the stage again, twirling the ribbon in an almost ethereal way. Calli just stood there, frozen, her heart threatening tearing out her chest. She hadn't even noticed the entire room screaming; whistling, cheering, shouting at the two's brief moment of palpable, public chemistry. Her eyes flicked back to Jasmine and the rhythmic way her hips swayed and the flesh around her thighs moved with each step and she felt that warmth again crawling from her core and into her stomach. Jasmine strutted deliberately to the right of the stage, and took a microphone handed to her by a smirking Luke. She stood tall—well, as tall as she could, given she wasn't. But the stage made her seem such and the heels helped, too. She clopped along as she made her way to center-front.

  She stopped. And she held up the microphone to her lips. And post a feathery breath, she began to sing.

  And time stopped.

  Calli had always thought of her this: that everything she did felt like—sounded like—music. This must have been why. Because when she began to sing, there were a few more whistles, chirps, and hollars. But in seconds the room became completely silent. Everyone stopped and stared at her, a ribbon bundled in her hands as they wrapped around the wireless mic. Small lips pressing out words in a slow, tender, mellow way. Intentional and pronounced and perfect. Of course Calliope wasn't surprised she was a good singer. Of course she was. But it still pierced right through her heart. And Calli felt it wrap around her. Then something else echoed in her. Something that made her ever so slightly resent herself.

  She was jealous. Seeing the woman on stage there, beautiful, bare, poised with purpose, and now beginning to click light and slow around the edge of the stage, voice like gentle honey and body exposed almost fully. She felt bounces of undue possession. She didn't want to just be seeing her in performance. She wanted her—this—all to herself. She knew she had no right to feel such a way. But nonetheless, she did.

  But that wasn't the only flavor of jealousy she felt. She wished she could be like that. Like her. Maybe not exactly—she didn't think she'd much care for the presentation. She couldn't dance, anyway. Or sing. She wasn't a performer; not like Jasmine. 'Songbird.' She wasn't really Jasmine anymore. Not while on stage. Not quite.

  She became a persona. The same person, but not all of her. A much louder portion of her nature.

  Calliope was jealous. But most primarily and certainly, jealous of her sheer confidence. The ability to be there, be a being such she was—untucked and presenting and un-modest and a sly little smirk on her lips the whole of the time. Everything detested—forbidden. She wasn't allowed to breath, let alone be happy. But she did both anyway, without reservation or fear or even the slightest twinge of regret.

  It was resonant. She was there with a smile. Sexual, and provocative, and downright offensive. And she controlled the room to relish in it. Her existence was an act of rebellion. This performance was as it was: an act of defiance. Protest.

  It almost didn't register when her smooth words stopped pouring out. And when, with a wink, the lights in the room turned black again. And when they returned, she had disappeared.

  Calli's eyes darted around stage, before a ghosting touch traced her shoulder. And a feathery voice puffing against her ear. She could hear the coy smile in it.

  "Hey."

  Calli swallowed roughly. "H-hi..."

  Those hands came to wrap around her neck, hugging her gently. She felt a rounded little nose pressing its warmth against the skin of her neck and a soft body pressed into her back. Then she heard Jasmine again.

  "Did you enjoy the show?" Her breath tickled Calli's neck.

  Calli swallowed again. "I... I did."

  A kiss to her neck, and she shuddered.

  "Good," Jasmine spoke tenderly. She felt the widening grin on her neck. Then she pulled away. Calli turned to look at her. She had on her robe, but it was still undone. And all of her was there. Calli knew how dark her cheeks were. She did her best to look past her, not at her, her breath shuddering. She heard her chuckle.

  "I'll be right back." With a wink, she strode away through the crowd, heels clicking, and receiving some pats on the back, praises and claps and whistles. She beamed, waving to Luke, who was standing there with the microphone in hand and grinning. And she went down that small hall. Calli unwittingly followed a few steps. Just enough to see her wander into one of the rooms.

  Jasmine shot a final glance over her shoulder, and saw the scrawny woman dumbly gawking at her. She winked, smirked, and went through the door. A breath she didn't know she'd been holding forced out of her chest.

  She'd never felt like this before. She wasn't even quite sure what it was exactly that she was feeling. She felt happy, she thought. She felt... strong, in a way. Proud. Safe. Something, she thought, she could only describe as a feeling of power. One she'd not known before. An un-beheld solidarity. A sense of security. Like someone had simply grabbed her ear and screamed at her, 'You're perfect. Don't be what you aren't. Not for anyone.' Her lips twinged up. She smiled. And then she laughed—cackled. She felt she must have looked batty. But she couldn't be even slightly bothered to care. For the first time in the whole of her life...

  She felt free.