The only thing she could feel anymore was the pump of the bass in the speakers behind her. Her ears were all but deaf to the beat, the catcalls, the foul language. The sound of ice clinking in a glass. She couldn't smell the foul, dank breath of the alcoholic who sat in the front table, every night, with his hand under the table as if no one knew what he was doing. The rancid perfume of that one 40 year old woman whose husband convinced her to come and watch the show, like it was some kind of ~experience~. The lights no longer made her skin burn, and the sweat that dripped off just made her skin feel smoother under her hands as they writhed against her own body. Eventually, she couldn't even feel that anymore. There wasn't a single glimmer of life left in her eyes, as they stared dead and sultry out into the crowd, never making contact with anyone. That had been her first mistake, the first time she'd danced at the Pretty Parlor. She saw a pair of blue eyes, and locked on, using him as a crutch to get through the night. He'd followed her all the way home, and tried to break into her apartment. When he was arrested, he raged about how it was all her fault.

The police let him out the next night. Stalking a stripper wasn't much of a crime, in the great city of Los Angeles.

Her body ground against the pole, thrusting to the music. Long, bare legs lifted up to a vertical split, and she slid around it, her leg wrapping around the pole and holding her steady as she lifted up, held suspended by nothing but the strength of her leg. Her hair fell back in a short wave as her back arched, and her body leaned all the way back. She spun, and spun, her legs the only things in charge, until her head touched the floor, that sticky, disgusting floor, and her thigh muscles clenched to tug herself up.

Suddenly, the sound flooded back into her mind.

I always feel like.. somebody's watching me..

The thick bass behind the remix, and the woman's voice as she sang those lyrics, flooded suddenly into Mary's mind, and she turned around to hide the surprise on her face. She bent down, hands touching stilettos, and her knees bent as she danced.

Why the hell did she suddenly feel so alive? Her eyes sparked wildly as they searched in the crowd. She broke her own rules, meeting each gaze head on, even as she crouched down and put her hands on the floor, cat-walking down the raised dance floor. The whistles and lewd offers - she could hear them all. Whatever had struck a chord in her needed to leave, so she could turn off and get back to work.

But those eyes, those keen, hard eyes, and that chilling smirk, coming from a hooded figure sitting at the bar, having a drink, had no intention of leaving without her that night.

-------

She was ready to call the police again, that night the nameless man had followed her home. Her mace was clutched in her hand, ready to spray, but something stopped her.

The feeling of being alive around him again.

It was enough to give him a chance to explain, with several unnecessary innuendos, that she was special. That was all Mary ever wanted, really. Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't have grasped at a chance to be special? She was alone that night, staring up at the ceiling and considering all the things she would be leaving behind. No family, no future, and another five or ten years of men groping and using her for their own pleasure, until finally her body failed her and she slowly used up her savings until she was old, and broke.

It took about an hour before she'd made her mind. She slept well that night - and every night afterward.

Thank you, Henry. Em knew he couldn't hear her, and she knew that wasn't his name. But he'd saved her life that day, and even though she died for him now, bleeding on the roof of this hotel, every day between now and then had been worth it.

-------

"This is it." He took her hand, and led her under a little wooden bridge, into the sandy beach. "This is my place. I used to come here sometimes, just to think."

The beach was littered with debris, mostly natural stuff like rocks and seaweed, though the washed up garbage from the city nearby showed up here and there. The water was murky, and there was no way to see the bottom, but to Em, it looked absolutely beautiful.

This was Julio's special place, one he'd never shown anyone, and he was bringing her here to see it. To share it. She'd never asked for one thing from him, but he made her feel like she was a queen without even trying. She kicked off her heels and headed for the water, feeling the shell fragments scratch and cut her feet as she played.

A little speck of color in the air caught her attention. She turned her head, and gasped audibly, her hands lifting to cover her mouth. "Julito! LOOK!" She screamed, reaching up with grabby hands at the multitude of butterflies that fluttered just out of reach above her. She could hear him laughing, but she ignored him and followed their wavy, lazy trail across the sky, trying to reach up and catch them with her hands. Finally, one of them broke off, and she stilled until it finally landed right on her nose.

"They like you." Julio had crept up behind her, and leaned in to whisper the words into her ear. The whisper made her want to melt, but she stood still, keeping the butterfly from flying away. He reached around and put his finger against her nose, brushing the skin of her cheek while he let the butterfly move to his hand. "I think, they are just like you, mamasita."

She turned around and stared up at him, one eyebrow lifting in a look of pure confusion. "I'm like a butterfly? Does that mean I used to be a caterpillar, or something?"

He just laughed, and shook his head. "No, it's because you are free, just like them. Free to fly away, and enjoy life." His hand lifted, sending the butterfly off of his finger, and his hand cupped her cheek instead. "That, and you are very beautiful. Muy bonita."

This was why she loved him. He had no clue, even when she looked up at him with eyes that shone with absolute, unrestrained adoration, that she had fallen in love with her fellow Hunter. But she had, and she wished that every woman could fall in love with him. Everyone deserved a Julio - no, everyone deserved Julio. If there was one, perfect man in this world, he was it - and Em loved her Hunters so much, that all she ever wanted was to share him with them all.

She wished they could all see him, the way she saw him.

Perfect.

"I have a song for you, now." He announced, and she shook herself out of her reverie to clasp her hands together and beg for it. He started to undress her as he sang it, unabashed at his obvious intent. He'd brought her here to make love to her, just as he'd done a dozen times before, and would do a dozen times again.

"Una mariposita," His voice was soft, very hushed, breathing against her neck as he pulled her shirt off. "Que del Cielo bajo...con sus alas tendidas y en el pico una flor."

"What does that mean?" Em pulled away to ask, her eyes bright, and more innocent than she had ever felt in her entire life. "Mariposita?"

"It means butterfly. You, Em. You are my free little butterfly."

Para quien son las flores, sin no son para mi? Ay mamita del Alma, yo me muero por ti..

I hear her, Julito. She's singing our song. She wants me to follow her, but I'm scared. Please, don't let me walk alone, Julito. Querido. I don't want you to die, but I can't..

I can't do this alone.

Mary Night, known as Em to her friends and loved ones, was 20 years old when she died of internal trauma on the roof of the Marriott in Times Square. Abandoned by her Hunter weapon, she had only allowed herself one, single promise; to kiss the man she loved on New Years Day.

She failed.