Chapter Text
Pel's lobes itch, under the fake ones. She's careful not to scratch. She's careful to slouch, and to always speak in a raspy voice, and to laugh when the other waiters make jokes about the stupidity of females.
There are times, of course, when she'd like to tell them all exactly who she is and exactly what she thinks of them. When those times come, she makes herself remember how much worse it is on Ferenginar. At least the women here can wear clothes. At least they can leave their homes on their own and speak to whomever they please. At least they're all free workers, not indentured servants, and they can't be thrown in jail for daring to earn a bit of latinum for themselves. The dabo girls are lucky, despite the leers and rude comments and occasional slaps on the ass they get from customers and waiters alike. Those slights are nothing compared to how bad it could be.
Still, when she sees Quark slip his arm around a discomfited dabo girl, it's not just jealousy she feels. There's disappointment too, and the urge to yell at him or throw something at him or grab him by the lapels and shake him. She knows him well enough by now to know that he could do better, and sometimes does.
A Ferengi without profit is no Ferengi at all. That's why she's out here, and it is worth it, even if sometimes she has to remind herself why. She wants to be a Ferengi. She wants to chart her own course, find her own opportunities. If faking her identity is what it takes to be treated like a real person, then that's what she'll do. She is no one's possession, and she won't live in a cage - at least, not a physical one.