Chapter 1: Rules of Survival
Rules keep dolls alive. It feels backwards considering this is a city of dolls. We’re everywhere, even if some of us wear fake names or different titles. Slut, whore, brothel worker, prostitute, artist, dominatrix, lady of the night – it all comes down to one thing. We give our body for a time so another finds whatever they’re looking for inside us.
All the same, the rules keep us alive.
- Don’t grow attached to clients in any way.
- Always carry a weapon in case things go south.
- Never trust what a paying client says or promises.
- Prioritize the regulars since they love consistency.
- Never use your real name
Nearly all the dolls I’ve known have broken the first three rules. It’s inevitable when intimacy is involved and sharing secrets and beds is intimate no matter what clients say to their partners.
As I walk towards the bar in Umbra City, I think of the consequences of breaking those rules. Bending them is one matter, but breaking them, it results in death and bloodshed rather than the money and sweetness promised. Too many dolls fall victims to their hearts since we have yet to learn to live without them.
Until they’re broken.
Then it’s shockingly easy to tame emotions and put consequences before a temporary feeling. I almost scoff as I adjust my coat.
Blending in is an art as well. A doll should know when it’s time to advertise and time to move through the city as nothing but a passing, hazy memory. Which is how I pass through the darker areas of Umbra City. I look as any other woman would, keeping my nose up as if I don’t notice shadow traders and those who call the streets ‘home.’
Chapter 2: Scarlet Bonds
Once I reach the luxurious bar, I slide into the back V.I.P. room where I’ll be meeting my client. She shouldn’t call herself that, but who am I to correct her? Slipping my fingers from my black gloves, I drink in my own fingers. Picasso could have designed them, or worn them down himself.
My left pinky no longer bends correctly and three of my fingers healed out of place, so they are cocked slightly to the side. I snort at them and curl them into my palm as best I can before removing my coat to reveal a less modest dress. The cuts outs that reveal my upper abdomen and the fact that it is backless save a small elastic line while my skirt barely brushes the middle of my thighs says more than enough.
I’m no woman of the Core. I will never be, no matter how many men say they could use me here. No matter how many propositions I get, how often I’m told I’d be the perfect mistress to have and hold when a wife doesn’t want to play.
Rolling out my neck, I push those thoughts away until the door opens and Serena Debanian walks in. She tosses her lush blonde hair over her shoulder and drops her sunglasses to reveal her reflective eyes as her red lipstick smile lights her face.
I remember when she wore pink lipstick, until the color was ruined by blood from a split lip while I held her and told her she’d be okay, that we’d survive together, forever together and there were ways to make men pay her.
She’s worn red ever since. Red lipstick, dark red dresses, never allowing anyone to see blood on her. She’s come far and survived. She survived, which gives me hope to do the same, even if in a different way, down a different path.
Chapter 3: Dolls and Marionettes
“Dahlia,” she gushes as she hugs me tightly. “Dahlia Thessalian!”
I welcome her hug and rub her back. “Are you still well?”
She sits back and presses the button to call the waiter. She doesn’t dare say a word until our drinks are in front of us. With a sigh, she leans back. “He’s cheating on me, but on the scale, it’s the lesser of issues.”
Neither of us expect love in our lifetimes. If we were meant to experience it, it’s long passed us by. Danger City isn’t the place and Dolls aren’t the people it happens to. Instead, I take her hand. “That’s good.”
“There are other issues, but aren’t there always?” She asks. “Anyway, my life is boring. I sit at home, try a new hobby each week, and pretend my husband’s mistress doesn’t wear cheap perfume.”
“Are you still in the art scene?” I ask.
She snorts. “No. The last event I went to was ruined. Luca caused a scene, went to war with …”
“His name isn’t a virus. It won’t spread to me or affect me,” I assure.
She takes a long drink of her beverage instead of saying it. Orion nearly pulled me from being a doll. He offered me something better – a comfortable home and all the safety of his name and a life as a wife. Unlike Serena, I couldn’t look past a man cheating on me. I left with the shreds of my pride and a heart ruined. Love is temporary like every other emotion, but it doesn’t pay unless one loves the other more.
I let men love me now and profit enough that I could have an apartment right next to Orion’s if I wished. I take drink of my own and pursue the menu.
“Why do you set up our meetings like a client?” I ask.
“Because I know what it’s like, especially on your side of the business,” she says knowingly.
“You say that like you’ve seen me work,” I quip, avoiding the obvious as only an expert can.
“Ah, despite all my asking, you still deny me. I’m sure we could phrase it as a lesson. You’d be teaching me to tame my husband. Perhaps if I did so, he would truly be mine,” she sighs.
“Are you truly his?”
She runs her hands over her dress and her gaze drops to my fingers. “I don’t believe in ownership.”
We sit in silence for a long moment. Everyone belongs to themselves. That is how one survives this city, other dolls, and men. It’s all a woman has – herself. There are days, of course, where I wish I could lay across a plush couch and comfort myself with luxury rather than dealing and accepting pain so my later peace is all the more pleasant. There are days when I’m tempted by the tall roof tops that allow a person to believe they can fly if they time the wind right.
Temptation though, that’s something a doll manipulates, not something she gives into simply because it offers an easy solution to a life that’s anything but simple.
“Lia?” Serena asks, moving closer. “Tell me about your week.”
“I successfully ‘tamed’ – as you put it – three men. And seven tamed me. I offered comfort to a few men who are stuck in an unmarried unfulfilling life, and am trying to save a woman who doesn’t want to be saved,” I summarize.
Serena perks twice and looks me over. “They didn’t break you did they?”
“Only the skin,” I wave my hand. “Dara is gone.”
“Dara,” Serena sighs. “She was always too gentle for this city. She swore she’d leave.”
“She managed to get to the boat, but the captain didn’t accept her form of payment. She was tossed back in Mariana’s and crossed the wrong man unintentionally.”
“Ah, he read into the things. Probably his first time with a doll,” Serena says with the kind of ease that only comes with experience.
First timers are always difficult. They have no outlet for their emotions and no idea what it means to have a doll. They believe with the right amount of time and money, they can make sure we serve only them, that we are their personal play thing. None of them love us, even if they claim to. They love how we make them feel, how we act, the way we serve them.
In a world of life and death games, they fail to realize that that dolls are actresses that don’t have quite as many limits as the average person.
Dolls are actresses that don’t have quite as many limits as the average person
Dahlia Thessalian
“Is the man being punished?” Serena asks.
“Oh, yes. The club owner didn’t take kindly to one of his best dolls being ruined. I’m sure the man is breathing water at the bottom of the marina,” I assure.
“Better consequences than normal then,” Serena says with a forced smile.
Neither of us have the luxury of forgetting our past. The times when we considered accepting a brothel. Serena gave in after she received a beating rather than payment. The Velvet Cage housed her until she felt like a plucked bird, vulnerable, tired of trying to fly with clipped wings. When her now husband offered her marriage as freedom, she exchange one cage for another. At least this one lets her sleep.
Chapter 4: Asami’s Shadow
“There is a new doll working for Orion,” Serena volunteers. “She turned on Luca and took Orion up on whatever it was he offered. Some say she’s his private doll to pry secrets from others. Only forced to take a certain number of specified men a week with all else paid for.”
“How long until she realizes she’s a marionette?” I ask.
“Who knows. Perhaps years. The longer it takes her to realize, the safer she’ll be.”
“If she’s smart she’ll realize immediately and keep it in mind without saying it,” I reply with a snort. I down the rest of my drink.
“You mentioned a doll that doesn’t want to be saved. You do not mean yourself, do you, old friend?” Serena asks, her hand spreading over mine.
“Serena.”
“I can get you off the streets for good. If you want to work, you can run a school for dolls, better protect them. Or else write a book! Or be my constant companion. Imagine all the things we’d do together with my husband’s money,” she offers.
Her eyes shine with hope, but hope is a dangerous thing. It can become a knife if not managed properly and knives have a habit of cutting those they’re supposed to protect. Serena has been trying to free me from my life as a doll, to give me the comfort I crave. I’m getting older every day and with every snap of a belt or whip. I know eventually, I won’t be able to compete with the newer dolls.
“I have a few more years left in me. A few more stories to collect for you,” I say with a gentle smile.
“Then who is the doll in question? Someone I know?” She asks.
“Asami,” I answer.
Serena shakes her head. “I don’t know her.”
“She’s only started in the last five years. I suppose you left a hole to be filled,” I smirk.
She leans towards me. “Come now. I have always been good at filling holes. Mine, yours, others.”
We laugh. More than once we’d worked together. Some men prefer to watch as women please each other. They assumed – correctly – that if they were involved they’d lose something. It’s something clients often overlook.
They give us more than money. They fill our ears with secrets, share their vulnerabilities, their kinks, and their time. Something is always exchanged. The smart dolls know where to push, know how to weaponize what they take from clients while still pretending to appreciate them. Pretending is the goal, pretending is the necessity and if a doll forgets she is pretending, she ends up paying the man.
Paying him in compliments, her time, with emotions he hasn’t earned. Those are the dolls that self-implode. They fold in on themselves like dying stars and destroy the only world they know – themselves.
I’ve found more than one at the mercy of her own hand and her own depression.
I don’t want Asami to be the next woman I have to ship to a doctor or else hold until the coroner comes. I finish my drink and Serena insists on another round. We sit in our shared silence, appreciating the moment of nothingness. It’s peaceful.
Others’ expectations weigh heavily on delicate shoulders, no matter how many years have been spent hardening them. Danger City breaks us all in one way or another. Serena cracked under the pressure of accepting a certain number of men a day and working from a menu without break.
Not to mention what she lost.
There is a reason we don’t talk about children.
“Tell me more about Asami,” Serena murmurs.
“She has a client that has grown obsessed. She would say attached, but if he had his way, he’d lock her in a tower for his own personal use. I don’t think he would hurt her, but I don’t think he will ever let her go. He wants her, Serena. To possess her. A part of me is sure that he wishes he were a ghost so he could haunt her and use her however he wishes without having to listen to her limits,” I admit.
“Someone dangerous then, and well endowed where wallets are concerned,” she guesses.
I incline my head. “He has her snared.”
“She has a knife, I’m sure,” Serena answers.
“Asami has many things at her disposal. She hasn’t gotten entangled yet, but I see her slipping. She’s allowing him things she shouldn’t while holding some lines. And, to her, as long as those lines aren’t crossed, she’s fine.”
“Meaning she isn’t,” she whispers.
“I’m not talking about you,” I assure.
She nods once.
“Serena, you chose marriage with your eyes open. You knew it wouldn’t be love. You knew it was for safety. Asami isn’t you. She isn’t me. Not yet. But this is her first test and while she’s focused on not kissing him, on not letting him consecutive days, not letting him admit his emotions, he’s …”
“Crossing lines she’s not focused on, worming his way closer to her while pointing out the lines he’s not crossing,” Serena guesses.
We stare at one another, then both drink.
We’ve both been there. All dolls reach the point where we want to believe we can be understood and loved, but men will never understand. They won’t understand that we don’t need to be saved. We don’t need their rescue. We use them the way they pretend to use us. There is no love. There is only complacency and when life is chaotic it is far easier to accept consistency and predictability, to name that love, rather than think about things beyond our control.
Asami’s getting close to that mistake, but she’s not the only one. And that’s not close to the only problem. Four dolls have gone missing this month. Some I’m not as worried about. They have their tricks and their friends, but four is too many. One a week. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a murderer focused on dolls.
Chapter 5: Missing and Forgotten
“More is bothering you,” Serena notes. “Beyond Asami.”
“I wouldn’t be alive if things didn’t bother me before they became an issue,” I dismiss.
Serena moves closer to me, and for a moment, I see traces of the woman she was before the ‘wife’ label became her new form of bondage. She takes my face in her hands and stares into my eyes in that way only she can—like she’s reading every secret in my head. She’s startlingly good at it.
Her clients were entranced by that ability.
“What horrors am I missing in my penthouse?” She asks. “What is lurking on the street hurting the girls you pretend not to care about?”
“Dolls are the only people that I can safely care about. Our lives only end one of two ways. In horror or in ownership. Sometimes both,” I say, avoiding the answer. “We should eat. You look far too thin for my liking.”
“Don’t do that, not with me, Lia,” she orders. “You’re not River with me. I pay you for your time, but we don’t pretend, not with each other. What is going on? I have some sway and while I don’t work, I make friends the same way I used to … minus the sex.”
“Perhaps you should use sex. Your husband doesn’t seem to have a problem stepping out.”
“And he’d have no problem divorcing me if he thought that I was seeing other men … or you. He saw us too often together to mistake my orgasms for real when he and I were alone,” she whispers. “Our meetings are as dangerous for me as they are with you. If they weren’t, we’d be at our own slice of haven in the Neon Grit.”
“I’ll give Rowan your best,” I assure.
“After you tell me what is really going on.”
We stare at one another until our tension grows. Unlike with our clients, Serena and I have had to pretend to be professional. We’ve had to pretend not to care about each other. Falling into her feels as easy as slipping into a tub. We’ve been through so much together and after so many intimate moments, she’s more than anyone else could ever be to me. Lovers, friends, soul mates, whatever the term, that’s what we are even if we never say it.
Saying things means breathing life into them and that’s far to dangerous in a city where dolls have to be whatever another person wants.
“Be honest with me. I can take it. I want it. I’m tired of games and pretending and have the luxury to be done with both – especially with you,” she whispers.
I kiss her softly and press my forehead to hers. “I’m a paranoid person, Serena. It keeps me alive when it fails others.”
“Dolls are dying,” she whispers. “Is this something like the ripper from ten years ago? The one that… that…”
“Don’t think about that, Serena. That’s another life. You survived.”
“Because of you,” she insists, feeding me a less innocent kiss. Her fingers wind in my hair. “You saved my life, Lia. And gained a scar.”
“That I wear with pride,” I assure, lifting my dress to my bra to show the faint scar that curves from my sternum to my hip.
It once spilled every essential part of me into the world. I was more exposed and vulnerable than I’d ever been. There was no denying I wasn’t a doll—the man even said so. He claimed my intestines, my guts, were proof we weren’t dolls, just people—and just as much fun to break.
Serena pushes me back on the booth and kisses every inch of that scar like she’s worshiping my past pain. She traces it again with her tongue until a soft moan leaves my throat. Her hands spread over my hips.
“Stay with me, Lia. Let me take care of you in all the ways I couldn’t back then. I can’t lose you,” she begs. “I’ll do anything.”
I sit up, guiding her back and gently fix her makeup, even though I welcome the red across my skin. I hide it away so it is a secret that stays between us. It’s the only way we can have each other and that’s perfectly fine with me.
“I am safe. No one has the power to hurt me anymore,” I lie while staring into her eyes. “But I can’t leave the other dolls unprotected. I won’t.”
Serena nods, leaves me with another kiss, and I linger in a bar where I don’t belong. I’m meant for The Black Wire. I am the graffiti on the sides of buildings, fading, but still evident. I am a part of the city itself and I refuse to belittle myself or be anything that I’m not. In this city, graffiti is the mark of an unsafe neighborhood rather than art. And I am the same.
Appreciated by some and scorned by others. As much as I’d rather share a bed with Serena and let her keep the luxury of a husband to provide for her while loving her, we don’t deal in impossible hopes and dreams. They lead women astray and make people impulsive. Impulsive people lose their reason and I can’t afford to lose that.
Which is why, when I get home, I strip and look at her lipstick marks on me, memorize them, then wash myself clean of her. She can be in my heart, where no one can touch her or steal her away, but to do that, we have to hide from the rest of the world.
Loving a client is a death wish, loving another doll is a promise of a hell beyond death. So I love her in the ways I can while accepting that the fantasy of a future we’ll never have is better than anything else.
Chapter 6: Shadows in the Fringe
Once I step out of the shower, I am no longer Dahlia. I am River. I can shape landscape. I can rage and drown others. I am more powerful than my namesake and that is why I survive.
I remind myself of that as I report to another doll to help her learn how to dominate men. Her client is eager to learn how to submit and I get a percentage of her wages (increased because of me being here and the added kink), so there is no losing.
I force myself to soften every spank, every flick of my crop, and remind them of safety. Safety goes both ways. Men aren’t the only killers in this world, after all.
After that session, I check on a few girls that work corners, offering them bottles of water. Some scoff at me while itching their arms and ignoring their own dirty hair.
They crave more than money and I know their clients don’t pay them in traditional ways. But there are people in this world that don’t want to be saved. They’d rather kiss ecstasy thanks to drugs and fall into a world of their own making, a dream. It’s one way to escape Danger City.
Other dolls thank me for water and whisper secrets in my ear. One – Mars – pulls me to the side. “Something is wrong.”
“Meaning?”
“There were less dolls on the street and some are leaving for Vespera. They’re being promised more, but they never come back,” she says, eyes shifting behind me. “Someone’s feeding the shadows.”
“Mars, why don’t you let me give you a room for tonight? A safe place to sleep,” I offer.
“I’m not crazy. The shadows are getting bigger, River. They are. And they want to eat me. I see it every sunrise. When I head home, the shadows follow me. Not even the lights from the Core can stop it,” she whimpers.
I take her hands. “Go home tonight.”
“My parents won’t take me back. They won’t. They won’t,” she whimpers. “I’m too dirty for Neon Hights.”
Mars isn’t a rarity. Plenty of girls from the Core fall for the wrong man, upset their parents, do something to end up disowned. Without their family connections to fall back on and without the option of marriage to men who want a shiny woman to show off, the only place that will take them is the Fringe. Pimps and Madams seem welcoming and safe until the punishments and demands start to tip the scales.
“Try for me? Tell them you’ll behave, that you want to go home,” I suggest. “I’ll give you money for a bus.”
She shakes her head. “They won’t. No one will. They black listed me. There’s a restraining order.”
Chapter 7: The Mayor of the City
So I bring her to Black Wire. I let her taste safety. The Neon lights here soften shadows and the inviting interior seems to lower her shoulders. A few other dolls are taking refuge here, curling up and calming.
I notice Asami isn’t among them. Naomi is. Most call her the ‘mute’ doll, but she’s a better survivor than others would believe. As feral as a street cat when backed into a corner. I see more familiar faces as I focus. Roxanne linger in a corner, watching with her one reflective eye. The surgeon that was working on her helped himself to her body, thinking the anesthesia had fully worked. She was the last doll he touched, she made sure of that and her pimp helped.
Still, she wears her hair over her reflective eye more often than not. Plenty of us are broken in various ways. Cut down by life in ways that are unique, yet all the same. Women drawn to support themselves because shattering isn’t an option. When pressure tries to weigh us down, we push back.
Then there are dolls like Lacy. She’s new and hopeful. She’s learning on a curve, but enjoying the experience more than she hates it. Sure, she’s already questioning why we fake orgasms and refuse the constant pleasure of clients we like, but she’ll learn and I’ll be there when the lesson becomes painful.
“What is this?” Mars asks, pushing her natural red hair back.
“Black Wire,” I say gently. “Rowan owns it and he’s a good man. We don’t work out of here, we don’t pick up clients, we rest.”
She looks at me, confused by that comment. Then she sucks her bottom lip. “I can’t stay. He’ll be mad.”
Her pimp. Her time belongs to him, her body belongs to him. Everything she makes is his first and hers second, after he takes his cut. She’s owned and her fear, the fading bruises around her neck, they remind me why I refuse the comparative safety of a pimp. They tend to protect their investments.
“He will deal with it because I will ensure you’re compensated for your time,” I dismiss.
Serena overpaid me again. I can afford to give Mars an hour when she provides me information from the darker streets. “What’s going on with the shadows?”
Chapter 8: Ghosts and Secrets
After giving her some water and food, she explains about ghosts haunting her, telling her to turn down a few men. She says they offer her X instead of money and her pimp would charge her for the hour and for the doctor’s visit after taking that kind of drug, but she’s never tempted because the ghosts tell her that she won’t survive it.
I’m sure that’s her gut talking, not ghosts of dead dolls. Once we die, we die. If there were ghosts, murdered dolls would follow their killers and make them insane. There would be more spirits than people in Danger City. What space is there for ghosts and why would they choose to stay here for anything other than revenge?
“The city belongs to dolls,” Mars hisses. “They pull strings in the Core, own the streets here. There’s one that left bruises on me.”
She touches her throat. “She calls herself Avenue and she owns a whole road – not just a corner. If another doll walks there, she’ll do this. And she said this is just a warning. She feeds the shadows too.”
“How are the shadows fed?” I ask softly.
Mars shakes her head. “You think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I’m not. The shadows eat more than anyone else in Neon Grit. They’re always full, but always want more. It’s only when they’re overstuffed and sick that bodies are found.”
“Do you know who’s killing?” I revise, finally understanding.
Mars looks around, then glances at the food. I put my hand on hers when I see her try to take it and run. “You don’t have to answer and you don’t have to leave either. Eat it all and don’t waste a thing. You can even nap.”
She calms a fraction once I transfer funds to her and I leave her at the table with a loving pat to her head.
I give the dolls I see often a taste of gentleness when I can. One minute of care, one small good deed might keep them alive another day, might give them what they need to beat depression, or remember they are a person who deserves to control their future.
Chapter 9: A Doll’s Legacy
If I had my way, they would all be like Asami, but that is an empty hope and I don’t place my faith in empty things. Reality is too harsh to argue with and I’ve lost the will to try. One day, I’ll take Serena up on her offer and slip into retirement with what I’ve saved and gained through networking.
Until then, I’ll remain the mayor of the City of Dolls and protect those that allow me that honor. As long as I am here, as long as Rowan and I have our agreement, no doll needs to feel alone. All she needs to do is trust another for a few minutes, and ask for help.
Of course, that’s easier said than done in a city like this.
