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Tenten | Shot Seven
Third Person

Nerves surged under her skin, and if they had been snakes they would have coiled and hissed and writhed in discontent, mimicking the way her fingers twisted in the fringe of one of her arm bands. Tenten couldn't remember the last time she'd worn this little clothing in public. It was small, way too small, and low-cut, exposing all of her midriff, starting directly beneath her breasts.

Her pants could hardly be called pants, because aside from the opaque black bikini cut that covered the essentials, they were entirely fishnet. Vulnerability was not something Tenten specialized in, but if anyone took a picture of her right now, she thought she'd make a good poster child. Both of her arms folded over her bare stomach and she shivered, staring nervously around her, as if she expected some kind of attack.

She felt like a hooker.

Tenten had never performed live before. Not like this, anyway. She didn't think musical theatre was quite the same as flaunting her body in a brothel for hundreds of faceless people to ogle and lust after.

The idea of someone lusting after her was actually rather preposterous, because Tenten had never considered herself particularly attractive. Sure, she was cute enough to score a guy when she was in the mood, and no lesbian she'd ever met had ever expressed disapproval in her outwardly appearance. But it was a new concept all the same, one that would take... some time to get used to. Her shoulders shook again, and Tenten wished that her shirt--could it even be called that? It was more like a bloody bra--had sleeves. Was it really that cold in here, or was that just her nerves?

A woman who had gone on stage about ten minutes earlier strutted out, perched precariously atop two ruby-red stilettos that laced up to her knees.

Shit, was the only thing that could echo through Tenten's head as the woman approached her. That means it's my turn now, isn't it? When the other dancer addressed her, it took longer than it should usually take for her to make her vocal chords work long enough to produce an answer.

Her tiny, "Yes?" came out a squeak.

"You're up, dollface," the woman said with a wry smile. "Break a leg." Then, she strutted away, somehow materializing a pack of cigarettes into her open palm as she sauntered in the direction of the door, presumably to indulge in a smoke. Tenten thought she might have to beg one off of someone once she was done.

When she tried to stand, her legs almost buckled beneath her, but she reprimanded herself. You're strong. Suck it the fuck up, you can do this. Getting her footing, she wiggled around a bit on her uncomfortable shoes--thick heeled, because every time she tried to walk in stilettos, she nearly broke something. The entrance to the stage was like a yawning, ominous cavern that swore to eat her if she dared try an approach it, but she was about to miss her cue, and... and...

Darkness. She closed her eyes, and stepped forward.

It was only the comfort of the thin switchblade tucked neatly between her breasts that gave Tenten the courage to resist running away, and walk out onto the stage.