Said it before, and I'll say it again - Luck can be found in unusual places.

Today? She's leaning against the cold metal base of a streetlight, looking bored with that slight frown on her face, and that sulky twist to her red-lipsticked lips. She was dressed in an impossibly short miniskirt that almost seemed to be made of plastic, and a top that wasn't much better. She was holding an unlit cigarette in the fingers of her right hand, occasionally twirling it as she watched people scurry around, going about their daily business.
She needed a distraction.

Mort was yet another of the scurriers, on his way home with a plastic grocery bag clutched in his curled fingers. He shouldn't have been up and about, but there was no one to tell him not to.
He glanced briefly at Fortuna (Is that a prostitute?) then ducked his head.
There was something about him that your average human wouldn't notice: dark in color, blending with his hair, but sticking up oddly in back was what appeared to be an insect's antenna, and sticking straight up, thoroughly band-aid-ed was the stump of another.

Ahh. Distraction.

She caught him looking at her, and the sulky, bored expression on her face changed to a winning smile. Almost simultaneously, the grocery bag split and its contents fell to the ground. Fortuna pushed herself away from the streetlight, and sauntered over to Mort, smirking.

"Hey, kid." She shifted her weight so one hip jutted out, and rested the cigarette-holding hand on it. "Need a hand?"

He let out a small cry, bending down to pick up the groceries.
He looked up at Fortuna, turned pink, and ducked his head again.
"No...no, thank you, I've got it."

"Okay, then."
She didn't offer again. Instead, she just stood there with a smirk on her face and watched him pick up the mess. After a few moments, she said casually, "You do realize you've got something sticking out of your head?" and reached out to flick the band-aid-covered stump of his antenna with her shiny red fingernails.

He whimpered and jumped backwards, barely keeping the groceries in his arms.
"Don't touch that, please. It hurts." he muttered, keeping his eyes on his toes.
"Miss, are you a prostitute?"
No offense was meant. Mort was full of wide-eyed innocence.

Lady Luck has often been called a whore. But it's rare that anyone will say it to her face, even in that delightfully innocent tone that Mort was using. Her eyes narrowed - not that they were visible behind her sunglasses, anyway - and she roughly took hold of Mort's chin, her fingernails dangerously close to actually puncturing his skin.

"Now, whyever would you ask such a question, sweetness?" she inquired, in a high, mocking tone that implied that she thought he was anything but sweet.

He trembled, blushing again.
"I...it was a mistake. Your...clothes are really small and shiny, and you're wearing red lipstick. I'm sorry."

"Well, you're small," she said, smirking, "Therefore your clothes are small, and-"
A tube of lipstick appeared suddenly in her hand. She applied it quickly and messily to Mort's lips. "-you're wearing red lipstick. Does that make you a prostitute, darling?"

She let go of him, but the wicked, catty smile on her face said very plainly that she wasn't done yet.

Now his cheeks were burning with humiliation. He scrubbed at his lips with his fingertips, trying to get the lipstick off.
"My clothes fit me. They're a little too big for me. You're not small, and your clothes are." he pointed out a tad resentfully.

"And that makes me a prostitute?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Well, if appearances dictate who you are, then I believe that makes you a rather large insect, doesn't it? How disgusting." She reached out, intending to give a sharp tug on the normal-length antenna. "The bug thinks I'm a prostitute. Foolish thing."

He yelped, flinching away a little too late and only aggravating the tug.
"I'm sorry, it was a mistake." Sniff. "There are some around here. I was confused because none of them ever follow me around...and you're not one, so that makes sense. Sorry."

"Sorry's not quite good enough, babe. Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"she cooed, in a falsely kind tone. The cigarette spontaneously lit itself, and she brought it to her lips and took a drag. She blew the smoke out in a stream at Mort. "I mean, that's a really rude question to ask someone, you know? I'm so offended."

"She died. I don't rembember her."
He scuffed his feet against the pavement.
"I'm really sorry. I...didn't mean it. Can I make it better somehow?"

" 'Fraid not, kiddo." She seemed to take pleasure in saying that. "No."

She grinned at him, not looking as offended as she insisted she was. Sometimes she just took pleasure in others' misery. "I'm going to be angry with you until I feel you've paid for that remark."

He rubbed at one eye, lifting his glasses to do so (he was not crying, he was not, but why did strangers keep bothering him and hurting him and scaring him?).
"But I just asked you...but that's what I said. I want to make it up to you. I'm really sorry."

"Too late, kid." She beamed as if she'd fully accepted his apology instead of turning him down. "And trust me - you're not really sorry yet. But you will be."

She twirled the cigarette between her fingers, turned, and walked away, her high heels clicking on the concrete.

"But wait!" he ran a few steps after her. "I am really sorry!"
It wasn't just fear of retribution talking; Mort honestly felt guilty that he'd accused a perfectly innocent woman of prostitution...what a horrible thing to say.

But it was too late now, wasn't it?