Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/554913.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage, Major_Character_Death
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Damara_Megido/Caliborn
  Character:
      Damara_Megido, Caliborn, Calliope_(Homestuck), Doc_Scratch, Gamzee
      Makara, Kurloz_Makara, Dave_Strider, Dirk_Strider, Meulin_Leijon, Mituna
      Captor, Meenah_Peixes, Rufioh_Nitram, Aradia_Megido, Diamonds_Droog
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Human, Humanstuck, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School,
      Organized_Crime, Assassins_&_Hitmen, Drugs, Marijuana, Prostitution,
      Contracts, Psychopathology_&_Sociopathy, Recreational_Drug_Use, Clothed
      Sex, Dom/sub_Undertones, Bloodplay, Age_Difference, Gunplay, Implied
      Relationships, Schoolgirls
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-05 Updated: 2012-11-11 Chapters: 2/? Words: 2705
****** Vice ******
by mousaerato
Summary
     Angry, restless, manipulative, and violent 16-year-old Damara Megido
     lives a high-risk life wishing she was dead. When she makes the
     mistake of trying to work over 29-year-old Caliborn, she ends up on
     the receiving end of an interesting offer: "I can kill you right
     here, right now. Or, I can give you a reason to get up in the
     morning: Work for me."
Notes
     And now for something completely different.
***** Chapter 1 *****
                A pale and unshaking hand moved with confidence and precision,
reflected in the large, illuminated oval mirror mounted behind an old, wooden
dresser. It was painted a bone white color years ago, when the finish was
glossy and smooth, but had been reduced to near dilapidation; its three drawers
were covered in scratches, peeling at the paint and revealing the brown,
lightweight wood underneath, with chips on the corners of its top. In
comparison to the shining, flawless mirror, it was beyond repair. It served its
purpose to its owner, however.
                On the top of the dresser were carefully-organized rows of nail
polish, all vertically arranged on the left hand side. Every bottle was a shade
of red: deep rust, scarlet, blood, cardinal red, crimson and carmine, to a
sweeter, stickier red like candy apples. The next row was for the eyes: black,
charcoal, and brown eyeliners, pristine and sterilized pairs of tweezers of
varying size and accuracy, half a dozen tubes of mascara, and seemingly endless
palettes of eye shadow in browns, grays, and gilded hues, also organized to
reflect a spectrum. Next were lipsticks, similarly all red and sorted, lip
glosses, lip liner, practically endless, ended at last with the rows of face
and hair-related products: astringents, moisturizers, foundations, hairspray,
hair clips, hair sticks, heat protectant spray, styling lotions – all the best
money could buy, safely kept in a small bedroom with mint green walls and a
small bed on the old wooden floor, covered in “well-loved” manga and stuffed
animals that covered the sugar-pink and red heart-patterned sheet and matching
pillows.
                She had already finished her hair, carefully flat-ironed and
sprayed in place, pulled back into a bun that concealed her black locks’ true
length. She had secured it with countless, carefully placed pins, held and
topped with a pair of light brown hair sticks inside of the bun. Two long locks
remained at the front, framing her small, feminine face. They curled ever the
slightest bit, revealing her mixed heritage; she hated them. No matter how many
times she applied heat and irons to them, they remained curvy wisps that
refused to concede. To those who did not live in the ethnic conclave part of
town known as East Beforus, Damara Megido looked like any other daughter in the
Asian community there; to her eyes, though, she caught details that she
detested but knew how to utilize.
                She began with her eyes, her small and poised hand working with
quick and experienced ease to apply a soft bronze tone to her lids. The color
was subtle enough to pass for school, but the color was enough to bring out the
comparatively lighter shade of her eyes. They were dark brown, yes, but with
flickers of a softer, honeyed tone; her classmates’ eyes were almost always
close to black. She applied liner strategically to bring out the shape of her
eyes as well. It was, in her opinion, the feature she hated the most – the
shape of her eyes favored more her white, American father’s than her Japanese
mother’s, and it was obvious to anyone who lived around them that she was, as
some muttered under their breath, a “half breed.” Damara was certain, at 16
now, that her parents’ background differences contributed to their divorce
years and years ago. Her father had taken her little sister, Aradia, to live
with him, cutting the “half-breed” family aptly in two. A double shame for her
and her mother, but Damara managed to keep her head above water in her own
ways.
                She prepared her eyebrows with similar precision, choosing a
mascara with a reddish tint that showed in the light, working methodically
without smudge or error before curling each set of lashes. Lastly, she worked
on her lips. They were her best feature without a doubt, soft and large and
always inviting. That didn’t mean they could go without treatment, however. She
picked her favorite shade of striking crimson lipstick, opening her mouth and
getting closer to the mirror to apply it slowly and carefully. Her eyes were
fixed on her mouth, determined, cold, and critical. Not until this was done
could she leave.
                 Afterwards, she blotted and applied a soft, quick gloss, and
knew she could head out to school. She was already in her uniform: a white top
with a pleated skirt in muted red that fell to her knees (which she always
hiked up about an inch) with simple white socks and black dress shoes. Her high
school was private and required uniforms; her “education” was the only gift her
father had given her since the divorce. It was, apparently, the least he could
do to calm his conscience in regards to Damara’s mother, who watched her
“precious little girl” turn into a delinquent. At least at this point, the
still-called Mrs. Megido knew better than to try to reason with her daughter,
opting instead to rationalize her behavior as wonderful blessings.
                Damara picked up her slate-colored, tattered backpack,
containing one notebook, two pencils, a pen, a bag full of emergency makeup,
and a pair of black heeled shoes, and walked down the creaky, old staircase
from her room to the main floor, completely ignoring her short, rail-thin
mother in the kitchen with breakfast for the two of them. She didn’t care much
for breakfast; the only thing Damara craved first thing in the morning was a
cigarette, and she certainly wasn’t going to get any of that in the house.
                Mrs. Megido called to her daughter from the small table in
Japanese, “Damara, sweetheart, have breakfast with your mother! You have enough
time today!”
                Damara said nothing, not even turning to face her mother to say
goodbye or acknowledge her as she sauntered out the door with a swing in her
hips, slamming the door hard enough that her mother swore she heard the glass
windows shake.
                Such a strong girl, her mother thought. A beautiful, strong,
confident girl. She took a sip of her morning orange juice, hoping that
something sweet would help her swallow back the bitter distortions she had been
telling herself since Damara hit puberty. She knew her daughter was up to no
good, probably heading to school early to start another fight. Or worse: could
she be skipping again? Maybe she could get a part time job to teach her some
responsibility and keep her close to home – oh, who was she kidding? That would
only give her a greater means to leave all the time.
                Mrs. Megido sighed, letting her face fall into her hands as she
recited a small prayer in her native language, begging God to protect Damara,
to send her hope, friends, a guardian angel – anything to keep her safe and
alive. She hadn’t seen her daughter truly happy or joyful in ages.
***** Chapter 2 *****
                Damara already had her plans in order for the day: go to
school, cut the classes she had with that Peixes girl who loved to mock her by
hiding in the bathroom, make a few quick bucks, buy herself lunch, and head out
before her afternoon classes for a quick drag and more of her work. She figured
that what her mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, but she was still extremely
careful about how she went about it.
                The only person who knew anything about her little “side job”
was her best friend Rufioh. When she finally arrived at school, taking a
shortcut through the grimy and pungent alleyways of East Beforus to St.
Andrew’s Academy, Rufioh was already waiting near her steel-gray colored locker
with a smile on his face. He was one of the only people who spoke to her in
school; both of them were, socially speaking, outcasts. While Damara looked
exotic and obviously different from most of her classmates by no fault of her
own, Rufioh tended to draw attention to himself with a brightly-dyed red and
black mohawk, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his elbows,
replacing the drab tie with his own bronze one, and placing bone-shaped pins on
the black vest of his uniform. It got him in trouble a few times, but he knew
how to charm most anyone, even with his less popular interests like anime,
manga, and card games. He was the lovable renegade, of sorts.
                It was why their classmate, a young man with the last name
Zahhak, ended up so smitten with him.
                Damara and Rufioh never conceptualized their relationship when
she started attending school with him; they were naturally outcasts, drawn
together by social forces at first, then by mutual interests. It was more of an
instance of luck than anything else, but over time, their friendship grew.
There were no real boundaries to it; Damara didn’t see a point in them. Why try
to restrain something she knew from experience to be uncontrollable, out of her
hands? Still, she felt a pang of sorrow and betrayal when she found out the boy
she had kissed and held more than once was seeing someone else. Rufioh was the
only person around her who could truly understand her, and she was well aware
that she didn’t have to say a word to him to communicate how hurt she truly
was. It was why he had become so protective of her, even more willing to help
her, and even more afraidof her as she became cold and distant. He wanted to
say he loved her in some form, but he knew what he was feeling was guilt –
agonizing and completely justified guilt, holding him to her side even as the
girl he cared about slowly became something he didn’t recognize. Still, he kept
a sanguine temperament with her.
                “Hey there, Damara doll...” Rufioh started, smiling at her as
she opened her locker.
                “Good morning.” Her tone was flat. Lifeless.
                “You’re here early...” He always spoke with a trail at the end
of his phrases, inviting people to listen with intrigue. Damara, however, was
unaffected. It wouldn’t work on her anymore.
                Without making eye contact, Damara made a quick exchange of
items in her backpack for the ones in her locker. She stuffed her schoolbooks
into the topmost shelf, quickly picking up the bright red, tight dress hanging
from a small bar underneath. She folded it up and placed it with the black
heels in her backpack. Rufioh watched as she zipped her backpack up and put it
back on, concerned and scared. Still, he knew he had to try. He brought an arm
around her shoulder and asked her in a hushed tone, double-checking if anyone
else – especially Peixes -- was within earshot.
                “There are better ways to make money. Why you gotta do thatof
all things?”
                She sneered at him, gazing at him confrontationally. “It’s
fun.”
                “I know that’s not true—“
                “It is.” There was a thrill, a dark sense of amusement and
power, in knowing she could make grown men salivate and listen to her every
whim. Sure, she didn’t experience any joyor pleasurefrom it, but that wasn’t
really the point. She simply had to look pretty, pretend, and do what she was
asked; most men assumed she was stupid, and she let them believe that. They
were more than happy to give her whatever amount she asked for.
                Rufioh changed his strategy, realizing she wouldn’t break under
that kind of scrutiny. “You could get arrested!”
                “I am 16. If a man touches me, it’s his fault, not mine,” she
responded caustically. She started to walk to their shared homeroom a few yards
ahead, Rufioh never allowing her to get ahead of him. He had been wanting to
ask her about this for a long time, even though he knew he had no place to say
too much given his own shady relationships.
                Rufioh sighed. “What kind of men even...paygirls for that? I
mean, they gotta know you’re not 18—“
                “That’s part of the thrill for them.”
                “Fucking sick – I mean, freaking sick,” he said as he quickly
corrected himself, not wanting to swear. “Them,not you.”
                “No need to flatter me.” She knew what she was: a little empty
slut, a broke and broken girl like Meenah Peixes loved to remind her of. Her
mother couldn’t work; she was too out of it and traumatized from her last job
and her divorce. Her father’s money barely kept the roof over their head, and
if she was being honest with herself, Damara never really felttogether in the
first place. She couldn’t truly place why. Regardless, she did what felt right,
and if flirting and baiting some old morons kept money in her pockets, then
that was simply what she would do.
                “Doll, look,” he cooed as he held open the door for her,
allowing both of them to enter the empty classroom, numbered 216. “If it’s just
money, I mean, we ain’t got much, but—“
                She cut him off, raising her voice just enough to give it
bite.“I do notwant yourpity.”
                He understood immediately. “I just want to help you out...”
                “A little late,” she replied as they both sat down. Rufioh
looked like he had been shot through the chest by her response.
                “Are you, you know...being careful, at least?” His eyes moved
to look at her wrist. Dammit, she had forgotten to cover it this time.There was
a round, blue and brown bruiseon her right wrist, obviously from being
manhandled.
               There was no avoiding the topic this time. A few times, some of
the men were a little rough with her. They tended to pay extra, though –
something about not wanting to break a “precious China doll” – and so she
learned to live with it. She was so concerned about her face that she must have
let it slip her mind.
                “I’m not getting pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking,” she
offered, trying to find some way to deflect his questions.
                “I know you’re not,” he snapped, finally getting the courage to
hold her small wrist in his hand, bringing it up to his brown, coppery eyes. “I
meant this.”
                Damara sighed and looked down. “It’s not important.”
                “You’re important!”
                “Coming from you of all people?” Rufioh frowned again; he
couldn’t seem to win. Even then, Damara knew better than most of her exact
place in the social structure of their town. She was insignificant, broke, a
leech. She wouldn’t live long – or at least many privileged folk hoped she
wouldn’t. It was something she had simply come to accept.
                “...Fine,” he forfeited. “You ever at least think about...” he
whispered, “getting like, a pimp or something? Don’t they protect their girls?”
                She couldn’t help but laugh bitterly; the sound made Rufioh’s
face become rigid with unease. “No.” Damara still had a bit of pride in her,
wanting some bit of control over her life, even if it was a path to
destruction. She couldn’t imagine giving herself up to some random, shady,
probably broke and filthy peddler who wouldn’t really care about her. Rufioh’s
suggestion was completely self-contradicting.
                “Just take care of yourself, doll...” He wondered if she was
going around and hooking up senselessly because of him. Maybe it was the
divorce she mentioned. Maybe it was something else. Maybe she really did just
enjoy the thrill of it, but he still didn’t like knowing his best friend – his
former girlfriend, maybe – was going around with strange men doing God only
knows what. He really wasn’t sure how she managed the two lives – it was like
she could manipulate time itself.
                When the warning bell rang and their instructor – a male in his
late fifties who always seemed to give her passes to leave if she wished – gave
Damara the quick once-over as she stretched suggestively, Rufioh suddenly
understood exactly who her clientele were, and why she could get away with
everything she did. It made him sick, but there wasn’t much he could do. He
always knew her as so kind, so vulnerable, and so bright. Yet there she was,
painted up and playing with her skirt, and he swore he could see the light in
her eyes dim a little bit.
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