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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months

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How plausible sentence generators are changing the bullshit wars

This Friday (September 8) at 10hPT/17hUK, I'm livestreaming "How To Dismantle the Internet" with Intelligence Squared.

On September 12 at 7pm, I'll be at Toronto's Another Story Bookshop with my new book The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

In my latest Locus Magazine column, "Plausible Sentence Generators," I describe how I unwittingly came to use – and even be impressed by – an AI chatbot – and what this means for a specialized, highly salient form of writing, namely, "bullshit":

https://locusmag.com/2023/09/commentary-by-cory-doctorow-plausible-sentence-generators/

Here's what happened: I got stranded at JFK due to heavy weather and an air-traffic control tower fire that locked down every westbound flight on the east coast. The American Airlines agent told me to try going standby the next morning, and advised that if I booked a hotel and saved my taxi receipts, I would get reimbursed when I got home to LA.

But when I got home, the airline's reps told me they would absolutely not reimburse me, that this was their policy, and they didn't care that their representative had promised they'd make me whole. This was so frustrating that I decided to take the airline to small claims court: I'm no lawyer, but I know that a contract takes place when an offer is made and accepted, and so I had a contract, and AA was violating it, and stiffing me for over $400.

The problem was that I didn't know anything about filing a small claim. I've been ripped off by lots of large American businesses, but none had pissed me off enough to sue – until American broke its contract with me.

So I googled it. I found a website that gave step-by-step instructions, starting with sending a "final demand" letter to the airline's business office. They offered to help me write the letter, and so I clicked and I typed and I wrote a pretty stern legal letter.

Now, I'm not a lawyer, but I have worked for a campaigning law-firm for over 20 years, and I've spent the same amount of time writing about the sins of the rich and powerful. I've seen a lot of threats, both those received by our clients and sent to me.

I've been threatened by everyone from Gwyneth Paltrow to Ralph Lauren to the Sacklers. I've been threatened by lawyers representing the billionaire who owned NSOG roup, the notoroious cyber arms-dealer. I even got a series of vicious, baseless threats from lawyers representing LAX's private terminal.

So I know a thing or two about writing a legal threat! I gave it a good effort and then submitted the form, and got a message asking me to wait for a minute or two. A couple minutes later, the form returned a new version of my letter, expanded and augmented. Now, my letter was a little scary – but this version was bowel-looseningly terrifying.

I had unwittingly used a chatbot. The website had fed my letter to a Large Language Model, likely ChatGPT, with a prompt like, "Make this into an aggressive, bullying legal threat." The chatbot obliged.

I don't think much of LLMs. After you get past the initial party trick of getting something like, "instructions for removing a grilled-cheese sandwich from a VCR in the style of the King James Bible," the novelty wears thin:

https://www.emergentmind.com/posts/write-a-biblical-verse-in-the-style-of-the-king-james

Yes, science fiction magazines are inundated with LLM-written short stories, but the problem there isn't merely the overwhelming quantity of machine-generated stories – it's also that they suck. They're bad stories:

https://www.npr.org/2023/02/24/1159286436/ai-chatbot-chatgpt-magazine-clarkesworld-artificial-intelligence

LLMs generate naturalistic prose. This is an impressive technical feat, and the details are genuinely fascinating. This series by Ben Levinstein is a must-read peek under the hood:

https://benlevinstein.substack.com/p/how-to-think-about-large-language

But "naturalistic prose" isn't necessarily good prose. A lot of naturalistic language is awful. In particular, legal documents are fucking terrible. Lawyers affect a stilted, stylized language that is both officious and obfuscated.

The LLM I accidentally used to rewrite my legal threat transmuted my own prose into something that reads like it was written by a $600/hour paralegal working for a $1500/hour partner at a white-show law-firm. As such, it sends a signal: "The person who commissioned this letter is so angry at you that they are willing to spend $600 to get you to cough up the $400 you owe them. Moreover, they are so well-resourced that they can afford to pursue this claim beyond any rational economic basis."

Let's be clear here: these kinds of lawyer letters aren't good writing; they're a highly specific form of bad writing. The point of this letter isn't to parse the text, it's to send a signal. If the letter was well-written, it wouldn't send the right signal. For the letter to work, it has to read like it was written by someone whose prose-sense was irreparably damaged by a legal education.

Here's the thing: the fact that an LLM can manufacture this once-expensive signal for free means that the signal's meaning will shortly change, forever. Once companies realize that this kind of letter can be generated on demand, it will cease to mean, "You are dealing with a furious, vindictive rich person." It will come to mean, "You are dealing with someone who knows how to type 'generate legal threat' into a search box."

Legal threat letters are in a class of language formally called "bullshit":

https://press.princeton.edu/books/hardcover/9780691122946/on-bullshit

LLMs may not be good at generating science fiction short stories, but they're excellent at generating bullshit. For example, a university prof friend of mine admits that they and all their colleagues are now writing grad student recommendation letters by feeding a few bullet points to an LLM, which inflates them with bullshit, adding puffery to swell those bullet points into lengthy paragraphs.

Naturally, the next stage is that profs on the receiving end of these recommendation letters will ask another LLM to summarize them by reducing them to a few bullet points. This is next-level bullshit: a few easily-grasped points are turned into a florid sheet of nonsense, which is then reconverted into a few bullet-points again, though these may only be tangentially related to the original.

What comes next? The reference letter becomes a useless signal. It goes from being a thing that a prof has to really believe in you to produce, whose mere existence is thus significant, to a thing that can be produced with the click of a button, and then it signifies nothing.

We've been through this before. It used to be that sending a letter to your legislative representative meant a lot. Then, automated internet forms produced by activists like me made it far easier to send those letters and lawmakers stopped taking them so seriously. So we created automatic dialers to let you phone your lawmakers, this being another once-powerful signal. Lowering the cost of making the phone call inevitably made the phone call mean less.

Today, we are in a war over signals. The actors and writers who've trudged through the heat-dome up and down the sidewalks in front of the studios in my neighborhood are sending a very powerful signal. The fact that they're fighting to prevent their industry from being enshittified by plausible sentence generators that can produce bullshit on demand makes their fight especially important.

Chatbots are the nuclear weapons of the bullshit wars. Want to generate 2,000 words of nonsense about "the first time I ate an egg," to run overtop of an omelet recipe you're hoping to make the number one Google result? ChatGPT has you covered. Want to generate fake complaints or fake positive reviews? The Stochastic Parrot will produce 'em all day long.

As I wrote for Locus: "None of this prose is good, none of it is really socially useful, but there’s demand for it. Ironically, the more bullshit there is, the more bullshit filters there are, and this requires still more bullshit to overcome it."

Meanwhile, AA still hasn't answered my letter, and to be honest, I'm so sick of bullshit I can't be bothered to sue them anymore. I suppose that's what they were counting on.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/07/govern-yourself-accordingly/#robolawyers

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #chatbots #plausible sentence generators #robot lawyers #robolawyers #ai #ml #machine learning #artificial intelligence #stochastic parrots #bullshit #bullshit generators #the bullshit wars #llms #large language models #writing #Ben Levinstein

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tarjapearce · 2 months

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The Immorality Of Love (Prologue)

Duke! Miguel O'Hara x Courtesan! Reader

Synopsis: Pretty Woman but Victorian Era Inspired ~ jskjs.

A/N: So, watched Pretty Woman a bit ago and thanks to all of you that participated in the poll, you picked a Victorian Era Inspired! 🤭 And here is it, our new wee series :'). Hope you like! Thanks to my beta reader @oharasmommymilkers00 ❤️. Feedback is always appreciated ~

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Mentions of death, character background, Angst, mentions of blood, implicit sexual activities, a bit of historical inaccuracy for the sake of the plot, Working and low class struggles, No use of Y/N, Violence, grief, social struggles.

Maybe it was the rain, the ever cold and gloomy weather that made Nueva York the antagonist of its neighbors states.

Bustling with the unceasing life through the day and night. The city never slept really, full of people chasing their dreams on a daily basis, despite dangers lurking around in every dark and forsaken corner.

Tall buildings and factories reached towards the sky in an attempt of growing larger than their competitors. The bigger the better, right?

Cause that would mean to have more employees to cover up the demand, right?

Wrong.

Despite the city flooding with rich and proud buildings, little were the amount of people that actually got to experience the decent living novelty.

Something surreal, a borderline utopia for those in the slums and west district as economy only seemed to thrive in the prettiest sectors of Nueva York, keeping the rich richer and the poor, poorer. Perpetuating the cycle of endless inequity among its gaunt and empty looking denizens.

Forsaking everything in the way of those that didn't have the luck of being born in a warm golden crib. The king had been having other project in mind, leaving his initials intentions of helping, behind.

But how long ago had he promised a change?

It didn't matter. Not when hunger, diseases, poverty and other horrors chased those excluded from privilege. They preyed on the weakest and sickest, working like a self imposed reaper, specially in what was considered the live sewers of the city.

Raggedy and rickety walls extended at every turn of sight, filled with children and their parents, bathed in filth and ash coming from the polluting factories, whose machinery always reminded the poorest of how life was. Creaking, loud, cold and unforgivably unstoppable.

Clothes were either stolen from others or simply removed from the bodies that succumbed on life's hardscrabbles without much thought.

Bodies were often tossed to the river as a cemetery charged a small fee for receiving the dead. Not even a spot in the earth was allowed for the unfortunates as they barely had the enough money to eat, much less to afford for their perpetual rest.

Choosing between burying a friend or relative and eat at least one time a day for a couple of days, was the constant doubt many had.

And so, the tradition of tossing bodies at the river started. Only to be stopped a few years after as the river fed the livestock, making them sick. A shortage of food and other miscellaneous had started.

If poors already suffered, the water's scarcity walloped with all it's might the slums, pushing people into desperate ways to survive, even if it was prolonging the suffering for another day.

Overripe bodies, swarmed with flies were often found by the police in the already tattered homes, the rumor of miasma running rampant in the slums only made the west district of Paxton more susceptible to inhuman treatment by the rich.

Back breaking jobs were in every way. Laundry that had the women and even men folding over a wall at the end of the day because their back ache was too much. The factories with their ominously tall chimneys spilling the same dark filth their occupants inhaled daily; The coal mines that had turned into a living gravestone, costing lives in a weekly basis among them.

Yet, the spots for a job were the main reason there were many revolts.

The situation turned critical when some richer fellows forbidded people from the slums to work in their factories. As some stole the goods.

The Prince however came up with a temporary solution that provided some relief for the oppressed. He forced the owners to either sell their companies, or provide 50 spots for the people.

For the rich it was rather easier to hire people than giving away the fruition of hard work over decades, just cause the prince thought occasionally in others.

Many families were benefited from the initiative. Including yours. And by family it'd mean, your mother and you. Both working class ladies renting a paltry room in the outer lands of the real slums. Your father had been long gone in a mine accident, or so you were told often. But in truth, your birth had been the outcome of an affair between a nobleman and your mother.

The man died in mysterious conditions a couple of months later. A heart attack apparently.

Your mother knew a bit of everything, earning a couple of favors here and there that slowly made you go to a community school.

"Just because we're poor must we remain ignorant and dirty."

Your education and hygiene always seemed her main concern, as she always talked about how you'd be a good society lady while she scrubbed the dirt off your childish fingers. How well you'd do on your own, and how you'd get a good husband to love you and cherish you.

But your youngling brain was only focused on working enough to get food. You'd understand her wishes later.

You worked in tandem with her in the factory. Children willing to work were given a relatively small payment depending on their labors.

Yours were daily food and occasionally clothes and other things, as grown-ups received money. Some saw it as an humiliation, others as help, since the parents wouldn't have to worry about their children being used as thieves, or worse, abused out there in the streets or being malnourished.

It worked well for a while, until death cut your mother's life thread in a vicious chop. The fumes in the factories often costed the health of so many, leaving children at the mercy of church or orphanages. Another problem that was addressed as soon as the upper class started to complain about the kid's gangs that snuck in the wealthy districts.

A police officer held you as you tried to reach for your mother's lifeless body. Imploring her to wake up from her forever rest as you were dragged away to an orphanage. You knew you wouldn't see her again, you knew they'd throw her to the river and feed the alligators and birds of prey with her flesh since she was mistaken as one from the slums.

The only memento you were allowed to keep from her in the orphanage was her golden chain. A trinket an officer gave to you before your mother was disposed off.

----

The first of the many nights in the orphanage were unforgivable cold. Girls of all ages remained within, the smaller ones cried for their mothers, others for her fathers. The eldest ones were either compassionate or bitter, there was no in between.

But you couldn't complain, you got food, a bath every day, clothes and soon established a little friendship with a girl named Aveline as you did your daily chores at the settlement. Daughter of a courtesan that was killed a couple months ago. She was fourteen, you were twelve.

At your sixteens you escaped with her, finding life in the orphanage too cruel and simply not good enough. She was eighteen, she was legally an adult and could take care of you. However, freedom didn't last much as she was arrested for disturbances and indecency, meaning being drunk on the streets as you were awaiting outside the bar.

You were dragged back to the authorities, but this time, instead of a orphanage they sent you to a convent. Trying to fix the rebel out of you, to leave a demure soul perfect for a working man.

But the solution only proved to worsen the problem. You escaped at your seventeens and to your surprise got reunited with Aveline, or Daisy as she went by on the streets.

She took you to her home, a room in the many brothels in Paxton. She had worked her way out of jail and met Madame Grevaille, that didn't hesitate into offering you a job.

"With a pretty girl like you, you'd have your own place soon!" The lady spoke, but neither her and Aveline pushed you into prostitution.

You helped around the brothel during busy nights, even after a long day at the factory. You caught the eye of a couple of noblemen as they visited Aveline, but politely, you rejected them. Mainly out of fear.

"I'm pretty sure that you'd get more money than I do. Just look at you! and look at me."

Aveline would slur sleepily as you caressed her hair. Your friend's health was slowly deteriorating thanks to an excessive lifestyle.

"You know I couldn't do it. I'm not as brave as you are."

"Imnot brave." She yawned, "I'm just a young woman that must work in the world's ancient labor to be able to eat and provide."

"I'm sorry. For being a burden." A tinge of shame washed over you upon knowing that Aveline was the one that basically carried the burden of rent in her shoulders. Even though you had a job, it didn't pay enough to help Avy, as you called her, the way you wanted to.

And Madame Grevaille was always willing to teach you the arts of seduction, to lure the right kind of gentlemen that paid more than enough to subsist for couple of weeks. Or. months if you knew how to properly play your cards.

"You're not. I know this is everything but what your mother would want for you, but... we've never been a priority to those with power unless we fill even more their pockets, my dear." She curled in your lap, relishing in your soft caresses. An appalling contrast of some of her rowdy client's treatment.

"I know. I know you don't do this cause you like it."

"The only thing I like is when they pay and leave. Except for Mr. Nimeux. That man can use me at his whims all he wants." She giggled sleepily as a fleeting memory of the man came into her head.

"Ugh, Avy, stop."

"Just saying, You'd make a whole lot of money with your virginity."

You gasped, faking offense, "Who says I'm a virgin?!"

"Oh, stop it. Jacob Billard doesn't count."

You both laughed. But deep down in your mind knew it was the only way a woman could get afloat. The new Duke seemed to be lax enough to approve a law to let women work in several other jobs. Construction included. There were revolts, as usual, but again, it proved to benefit the poor.

Your position towards royalty was everything but good, of course you acknowledged their attempts of improving the city since the king was currently busy with other royal things that couldn't wait.

But it also shaped your 'Deeds not words' mantra. You believed more in actions than fancy words.

Even though the years had passed by, there was little changes in the slums. Thankfully, you and Aveline had been able to move to the outer and west district's brothels with the help of another Madame called Susan Lewis, once you hit your eighteens.

Away from the true mess that walloped nonstop the people. You got a tattoo to celebrate it. A beautiful violet on your back.

But despite moving, people's mindset remained the same. Men's specially. And the man that accompanied Aveline for the night wasn't any better.

Her room was often visited by strangers, always perfumed with rich lavender incense around the room to conceal the smell of sex in the air. Some were gentle enough to leave Avy a tip, others made every penny worth by asking the most ridiculous of things. Or so Aveline told you.

But this one was definitely being not nice to her. Despite the many times you tried to intervene with her clientèle, Aveline always told you that she was alright, that it was all part of the fantasy.

Sometimes her client was angered by the intrusion and left. This would make Avy to remain angry with you for a couple of days. However, upon hearing her calling for help, flared your alarms right away.

"You must remain quiet!" The loud slap, a bottle breaking and Aveline's shriek was more than enough for you to bolt in the room without much thought.

The man was big, a bit burly, and was definitely manhandling your best friend way too rough for her and your likings.

Aveline fought, despite her being naked, you took the broom and broke it on the man's back, that grunted and staggered away in pain. Anger and fear pumped through your veins in equal parts as you grabbed the jagged bottle and pointed it at the man.

If you were both to die, at least you'd go fighting.

"Back the fuck off!" You yelled

The man snarled and tried to reach for you, but if mingling with prostitutes and thieves had taught you something, was to defend a friend, even if you were terrified to your very core.

"You whore!"

You slashed with the sharp part of the bottle, wherever it landed. To your luck it went on the assailant man's face. Slicing flesh on his right cheek.

He roared in pain, but looked at you fascinated, angry and horrified. A chill ran down your spine.

"Get out! Now!"

Despite your limbs trembling, you sliced through the air with silent warnings, the man escaped when Aveline started to call for help through the window while you protected her.

You made sure the man had escaped and locked the door, just in case he decided to take a proper revenge on you both. Aveline's arms went immediately around you, crying with pained yelps and sobs.

"Hey" You mumbled as she wobbled,

"I'm here, it's over." You whispered while helping her to the bed, covering her bruised body with the sheets to spare her some dignity. Not that you were ignorant to a naked body, you helped Avy to get ready or draw her and the others at the brothel a bath after all.

"It hurts." She whined as you wiped the blood out of her cheekbone and nose.

"I'm sorry, Avy."

She grunted as she closed her eyes "D-Did he pay?"

Your heart sunk both in anger and sadness. This was exactly one of the reasons why you didn't become a courtesan. Too many risks, including the probability of getting beaten or killed by your clients, if not their wives.

"He didn't."

----

Madame Lewis and Grevaille were the first in appearing in the scene, they tended to Aveline's wounds and let her rest. You were in your room, racking your brain over the events, when Madame Lewis approached.

"You did a good job protecting Aveline."

"I was as scared as she was, Ma'am."

"Still, you did it well. May I sit?" You nodded as the lady sat a few inches of your bed.

"Have you... considered my proposal?"

"Against all odds. Yes. I wanted to avoid this as much as I could but... Avy is beaten, rent approaches, the factory doesn't pay me well enough and we have to eat."

"Being a courtesan is far from being honorable, dear-"

"With all due respect, ma'am, respect won't bring food to my table. I knew that sooner or later it would come to this."

"Need pushes us to do the unthinkable, dear. But fear not. If you work for me, I'll teach you the right kind of people to seek."

You heaved a defeated sigh, mentally asking your mother for forgiveness for the path you were about to take.

"Could you give me a couple of days more? I want to have enough money to buy all those things you told me I'd need."

"Of course, dear. Please let me know if you need something else."

----

"Even though I'm not that fond of you turning a courtesan, Im happy we'll finally get to leave this damned place. I was thinking in getting an apartment on Brasswood Avenue. Men in there are clean, and they're not animals like these fuckers."

Avy mumbled as you got ready to leave for work at the factory.

"I need you to help me pick some stuff, can you accompany me?"

"Of course! Will get you to this pretty store. I've befriended the owner. One of us, actually."

You stared at her for a moment.

"Have you picked your name yet?"

"My name? What's wrong with my name?"

"Well, it's pretty but you need like an alter ego, so in case police gets hungry with our money, you give them a fake name."

"I don't know. I didn't know I needed one."

"What about... Violet? Like your tattoo?" Aveline secured your apron on your back as you combed your hair.

"Hmm. Doesn't sound bad."

"Then Violet is it!."

You took your pouch of money and hid it.

"Remember as soon as you leave, come meet me at Millport's Avenue. We'll go shopping!"

Avy sung and you chuckled.

"Goodbye, Miss Daisy."

"Goodbye, Miss Violet."

You left, without knowing those words would turn into a bitter reality.

---

Four pm and still no signs of Aveline. Five soon arrived, and Millport's avenue was bustling as usual with people but today it seemed crowded.

"A woman was found dead. Dear god..."

You blinked at the overheard information. But soon the police's rushed steps alerted you as they turned into a familiar corner.

Heart pounded in your ears the more you approached. Breath hitched as you waded in the small crowd that gathered in an alley you crossed during the mornings.

"Back away! Leave the police work, dammit!" One of the police officers yelled at the journalist and curious that gathered to witness the macabre scene.

Tears couldn't help but flood your eyes upon your sight landed on the ever familiar blonde strands that you sometimes found in your hairbrush.

No...

Now stuck to her face, thanks to the bloody glue that stained not only her neck but the cobblestone floor too. A deep gash in her throat had been done. Your best friend had been murdered

"Aveline!!" You cried and rushed to her side. But the police prevented you from going further.

"Stop!"

"Avy! No! Let me go! She's my best friend!" You sobbed in between struggles against the officer's arms, that were everything but comforting to your aching soul.

Everyone watched in horror as Aveline's body was covered, her horrified eyes remained in your mind. Forever burnt into your memories. She died being afraid and not of an old age and rich as she had confessed you once.

The police interviewed you, but what was the point, knowing the investigation would turn into another cold case? Like the many before? None was really safe.

Madame Lewis and Grevaille visited you that night, but their comfort was little. There was no solace you could find in them. You had lived with Aveline for three years. Her short life had ended at twenty two, her mother's story resonatiin her own. And there was no signs of the culprit nor the police's intentions to find him.

But life kept going. The world wouldn't stop for a moment to give you truce to mourn.

Madame Lewis took you in since the rent on your place was too much on your own. It felt like receding big time. But what could be done?

Aveline shared your body size, but even so, you refused to steal from your freshly murdered friend. The only thing you did was to save her most important things in a bag. Papers, some books she loved despite them being intact.

It gave Avy a sense of importance, since she always adviced you to be as knowledgeable as possible. That some men loved that.

And the praying beads she stole from the sister that loved to spank the little girls back at the orphanage you both met in.

Madame Grevaille kept the jewels and dresses as a payment for what Aveline owed her. Despite the cold hearted action, she allowed you to keep one thing of each.

You kept a pearl necklace a nobleman had gifted Avy once and made you promise to keep it safe, and a black cashmere shawl she always put on when parading herself in the streets.

It was your own way to have her close.

Aveline was no more. Forever lost into a man's derangement. So many doubts plagued your mind, but one thing was certain, you were to leave Paxton's district. One way or another.

------

Night had just started, and you had just finished your makeup. A bit of powder on your cheeks, rouge on your lips in subtle yet inviting way always did the trick, some violet perfume misted your skin, giving a delicate yet enhancing aroma.

Dress in a perfect blue and white with black frills, Black stockings and boots, Avy's shawl draped on your shoulders along a matching bonnet.

You took a bag and left your apartment. Located in Brasswood Avenue, a relatively middle class area in Tevinter's district. Just like Aveline always wanted.

Five years had gone by since her murdering, five years that had you working your way out of Paxton, to finally be comfortably living in the outskirts of Manhattan.

And still, the courtesan mantle never left you. Thanks to it you could afford what you had, your clients were middle and upper class men that paid you enough to not suffer hunger or insecurity.

Madame Lewis's advices had taken you this far. The carriage dropped you to your usual spot, only to walk for a few minutes before arriving at your clientèle's location.

Beautifully decored homes, and buildings Aveline used to boast about, were now your daily route. Donning the streets with your presence and violet and citrus infused perfume. Five pm was a good hour to start, tonight's goal was to make at least enough to buy that rose perfume you saw at a shop in the Manhattan area.

A smell that would definitely attract royalty even.

Some men stared your way, discreet yet leering smirks hidden behind a polite facade. Some had their companions, whose disdainful and undignified stares were more than expected. Specially if their husbands stared for too long.

Others, despite the rich-looking clothes and apparent status, sent whistles your way. Those were the kind you avoided as they often either ended up paying half or got violent if something wasn't done their way.

Your type would be men, that barely glanced your way or gave a brief scrutinizing gaze, widows or recently divorced, cause one way or another you'd end up their contact list.

Some had been clients over the years, some stopped as they remarried or have kids, only for them contacting you again to have an outlet from their domestic life.

Even women had joined in your repertoire. But au contraire of men, they only called for talk. It was rare when they indulged you physically.

Thanks to that, you gained a bit of reputation within those inner circles that somehow shared a table at social gatherings. Everyone knew their role as pretenders, even you.

Getting attached to clients were out of the list. Thankfully none you shared your charms with had said intention, and it was perfect. It worked in immaculate harmony with your rules and profession.

Clock hit soon six pm and the streets seemed a bit less busy. Soon, the smile of a familiar face came your way

"Hey, Vi!"

Violet. The name had stayed for good. The persona you transformed yourself almost every night in had taken over to stay. Your own persona way too dormant and comfortable in a corner to wake up, letting life happen.

She stopped coming out to life's stages ever since Aveline's murder.

"Any news so far, Jeannie?"

Jeannie or Jeanette, your occasional roomie and new friend. A similar story of yours, with the only difference was that she never really knew her family and was too rebellious to be kept in the convent or orphanage.

She was tall, a ginger with the most adorable set of freckles you've seen so far. Beautiful green eyes and would easily pass as a noblewoman with the right set of clothes adorning her model like body. Jeanette was gorgeous.

You took her in after you found her in the streets of Millport, beaten, with a black eye. Her client had been too rough with his fantasy and her madame was everything but helpful.

You got her to Madame Lewis which gladly took her in. And now, after shooing away another intruder in your zone, she hugged you. Her cherry perfume tickled your nose, announcing it's presence to your demure floral scent.

"None. Been waiting here for quite a while. Just drunkards, until a gorgeous nobleman asked me to wait here for him."

"Oh? What did he look like?"

"None like the hunks you attract, thats for sure."

You chuckled.

"I've got a feeling tonight's gonna be a good night."

"I hope so. I need that new perfume and some new ribbons."

"Oh? You wanna go for the top dogs?!"

You giggled, and shook your head.

"No, well, yes. Maybe. I smelled it? And I went to heaven. Can you imagine the effect it could have in a man?"

"More money, obvious."

Jeanette giggled but quickly stopped upon looking at a carriage approaching.

"That's your cue, Violet."

"You think?"

Some people gasped upon the carriage suddenly hopping on the walk, startling some. Horses neighed, uneasy.

The carriage rider hopped off, muttering a flurry of Spanish gibberish while grabbing his luscious hair in an angered fit. Tall was a measly word to actually describe him.

His fancily dressed chest heaved as he backed away from a neighing horse. Defeated and irked.

You watched curiously as the man pulled out a map from his pocket and glared holes at it. Confusion was evident ad he turned the paper around

Jeanette elbowed you softly. Making her signaling less obvious as if saying 'Stop playing and go for him'

"Fine. If I get killed, you know who to blame."

You hushed before adjusting your corset and cleavage, Jeanette pinched your cheeks to give them a bit more of blush.

"Relax, it's gonna be a good night, remember?" Jeannie winked your way and pushed you on your way, gently.

With a deep breath, and your shawl secured, you approached to the man.

----

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