Author's Note: So, every time I see a story that retells The Mummy with a new character in it, I get excited. There are so many possibilities there -- what can happen differently, what can be percieved differently, what the canon characters can do differently. And yet, virtually every time, I'm disappointed with another droning narrative featuring copy-and-paste dialogue segments from the script. Seriously, with all an author could do -- they usually just paste through the meat of the story so that their character can inevitably get to meet and fall in love with Ardeth. Honestly, I have no problem with Ardeth/OC stories. I really don't even have a problem with OC stories. I just wish someone would take the time to make the whole thing interesting, different, and unique. We've already seen the movie; why don't you show us the events in another way? Well, I've decided I can't wait forever on someone else to write the perfect Mummy story for me to get caught up in, so I guess I'm going to have to give it a try myself. This really isn't a rant on other authors. It's more a realization of -- "How 'bout, instead of complaining, you do something for yourself?" And that's what I'm doing.

Revision Notes: I think it's worth noting that this story has been revised. Though the first half remains virtually untouched (with the exception of a few grammatical and word choice errors), the second half (roughly, from Chapter 15 on) contains major and minor character and plot tweakings. I think the changes serve to develope Gretchen's character and make the plot generally more interesting. I should also add that I could not have done the revision without the help and critique of Nakhti.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own The Mummy. The story and characters belong to Stephen Summers and Universal Studios. Gretchen is my own invention...and I guess Ghazi is, too. Really impressive, I know.

TRAMPS AND THIEVES

"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?"
Fyor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

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Cairo's Harlot

She pulled herself from the sagging mattress difficultly, fighting the thin fabric that clung to her moist skin. Her bony, dusty feet found the floor, and something skittered away from her toes in a hurry. She stood, lifting the limp brown locks from her neck in the vain hope that a breeze might drift from the window over the nape of her neck. She had no such luck. The darkness suffocated her almost as closely as the heat did, but she knew her way about the room very well, and this route best of all.

She staggered to the window dazedly, her stomach giving sickening orders to be there soon if she didn't want a mess to clean up in the morning. Her long, bone-like fingers grasped the sill gratefully just as her throat contracted with bile. Leaning far out of the window, she vomited. One hand ventured quickly to her hair as an afterthought, pulling the damp tresses from her face as she wretched again. Her body trembled, and a cough rattled out of her throat as she straightened her stance. With the back of her hand, she wiped off a small trace of spittle that had clung to her lip, and stood there, staring out into the night. A vagabond cloud unwillingly released it's desperate hold on the moon, and a sparkling, silvered light glowed into the dirty little room. She looked down, and watched the little nocturnal fauna of her home skatter from the shimmering thread of lunar illumination. Her eyes turned to the long mirror standing just in reach of the soft beam, and she frowned at her own reflection. She wondered why she even wanted that mirror. With the money that Englishman left, she could have bought a great many things, and she bought an enormous mirror. Why? The reflection hadn't improved any.

Usually, she didn't look at herself at this time. She didn't examine herself when there was nothing to cover her lesser attributes. Her ribs were showing. She didn't care much for that. And there was a bruise...no, her fingers found on contact. That was dirt. She would have to take some of this night's earnings for a bath. She had put it off too long. It was no wonder the only man she could snag was a skinny little thief not unlike herself.

She walked over to her rouge cabinet and opened the door. She was tempted to swallow a little of that whiskey she kept around for cuts or difficult times, but opted instead for that vile mint stuff that one doctor or another had recommended to keep her teeth from rotting. As often as she vomitted, they said, her teeth wouldn't be much use when her esopha--esoph...when that tube in her throat gave out, but she argued that no one would be looking at her innards. She choked down a little of her antedote, even though she was told only to swish it, not to swallow. She supposed she wouldn't be in this state if she had never swallowed in the first place, but then that was life, and one mistake made habit for another.

With a grimace, she stood, running her tongue over her teeth to fight off some of that horrid flavor that stuck to her mouth and burned her throat. She crossed the room to the bed and laid down again. Just as her eyes began to close in preparation for a little sleep, an arm slung across her stomach and pulled her against the body beside her. It was too damned hot to be so close to someone--least of all someone she only vaguely knew and could just barely tolerate. He filled her nostrils with the acrid stench of sweat and the usual grime, and she wondered how she was expected to breathe, much less sleep through this night.

It was too hot for a desert night. In the three? Five. In the five years she'd been in Cairo, she'd never known the night to be so hot, nor the air to be so heavy. Surely it wouldn't rain. She'd never seen it rain here before.

She could feel his breath on the side of her face, slow and measured and peaceful. He slept, at least. She tried to close her eyes, but her eyelids seemed to itch with the want to remain open. She stared into the darkness for a very long time, her thoughts racing from one point to the next, and taking on memories that she may dwell on or may not. Too many of them went sour with pain, so she simply changed her mind to suit another musing, until it should find fault with her and cause her to hurt.

She wondered, vaguely, when it was she would die. She could feel her hip boring sharply into the mattress, and her ribs against her elbow. She figured she was too skinny to be pretty any more, and her eyes were probably too lifeless to convey honest emotion. She coughed, and mused over the time when that tube in her throat would give out, and what would happen then. She figured she would starve to death before gaining the satisfaction of knowing.

She had lost her appetite for most things. When she ate, she ate very little, because the feel of food between her teeth and the ground mill on her tongue set her ill at ease. She would choke down what she could, and lay down to sleep so that she would not vomit it up. And she wondered what sort of life this was, and if this was normal. It wasn't likely, even for a prostitute. Surely the callgirls in France lived more comfortably than this. She had given up on France some time ago. Most of the Legionaires had convinced her of that.

She hadn't seen a Legionaire in some time. Well, up until a week ago or so. She had entertained a brawny American with the most endearing blue eyes. He was a Legionaire, or said he was. He didn't seem the type to say such a thing to appear more dashing. He had a sort of...a sort of charm that comes directly from not knowing what dashing is. Something Irish ... O'Connell. His name was O'Connell. He was not the first O'Connell she had run into, but he was the first real American with the name, and he had intrigued her for the span of that night. She hadn't really thought about him since, until then. Something in her wondered if he'd be back again.

This man now...the one with his arm about her waist--he was a Legionaire, too, he said. But she was somewhat familiar with him, and he said a lot of things. He was most certainly the type to say something like that to appear charming. He hadn't been born with any charm. He had a face like a weasel and a body like a disease, but then she probably possessed these things as well. She hadn't always been this way. But it had been long enough to feel like it.

Her mind wandered aimlessly back to the Englishman. The drunkard that had left enough for her mirror. That was over a year ago, and she'd only seen him once or twice since. It would be her luck that rich, drunken Englishmen would only visit her once. She wished vaguely that he would come see her again, if only for his money's sake.

The morning light was stretching through the window, and doubling its strength in the reflection of the mirror. She threw the man's arm off of her suddenly, hoping to send him out and gain herself an hour or so of sleep.

"Wake up, johnny, it's time to go home."

His eyelids lifted heavily to stare at her in a threatening, cold shard of icy blue steel. His gaze wandered darkly to the early dawn, and came to rest on her face again.

"Menj a pokolba," he retorted, closing his eyes again. "I'm sleeping until noon."

His jolting, squeaking English jerked a frown on her face, but she'd rather he try his hand at her language then to mutter nonsense in Yiddish.

"Not here, you ain't."

His eyelids lifted again, and he glared back at her. "You're a whore, right?"

She met his glare evenly. "For last night, I better be."

He was too tired and hung over to assume insult. "And when a man pays for a girl until noon, he's in the room until noon, is he not?"

For whatever reason, foreign pronunciation of English irritated her to no end.

"Yes," she answered shortly, running her fingers through her hair. He may have smiled, if it were the right time of day.

"Good. Then I'm sleeping. Now if you'd kindly shut the hell up, I won't bother you anymore."

She ran her tongue over her lip and settled herself in bed, her cause defeated. Plaintively, she retorted, "Just...don't touch me, then. So I can sleep."

He was far beyond irritation. He simply lacked the energy to act upon it. "If I bought you until noon, I'll touch you if I want to until noon."

She let out a sigh, cursing her big, stupid mouth as his arm snaked around her waist for the sake of malice. One of his necklaces was boring sharply into her spine. She didn't say anything this time. She would wait until noon, and demand extra.