another {brick} in the {w a l l} [Axel]

I smirk as the child girl fingers the chunky looking camera that hangs around her neck. Under one arm is tucked a thick book, paper sprawling over the edges of each page in an organised chaos. She looks around curiously, almost as if she didn't want to make eye contact with me – like she didn't know where she was. I cock an eyebrow as she says as much. Young girls, or anyone for that matter, don't tend to come to this stinking mobhouse without another person – a regular – to ease them in. "Welcome to the Six Fingers, or what was the Six Fingers," I chorus, inclining my head in a mock bow and letting my blone curls tumble into my face. Already my hands are moving, dancing across the counter, stirring a cocktail as dainty as she is (but much stronger, to be sure). "We serve all kinds of scumbags and liars, but I can assure you that you're in safe hands here." The tall glass slides across the table, black stirrer peeping out from amongst the ice cubes like the barmen at my mother's old bars of choice would make. Though this workplace is nowhere near as clean or sophisticated, I sometimes like to kid myself.

The girl takes the drink in hand, condensation trickling over her fingertips. I study her as she looks away, from her mousy hair to her long eyelashes and umblemished cheeks to her heart-shaped lips. Everything about her screams of something more than an alcoholic shithead (as most of my customers are), but it's almost like she hides it under a mirage of cluelessness. "Where are you from, kid?" the easy way that the final word comes to me indicates my lack of qualms about serving alcohol to a potentially underage person. "I'm Qila, by the way." Like the drink.

As she swallows her first sip of the strong drink and her face screws up, I can't help but laugh. Though perhaps, subconsciously, I'm just trying to hide my discomfort as she wrote my name down on a scrap of paper and proceeded to take a photo of me. I didn't expect her to like the drink, but perhaps her time in Six will pass easier if she's… not fully aware. A gentleman swaggers up to the bar beside her, ordering a regular and coughing into a paper tissue. Whilst filling a glass, I half-listen to what she's saying; picking out the key details and storing them (like a Career has to learn to do). "Well, Lovrina Mae Dean, it's nothing to worry about. We have plenty here who don't know who they are, so you're one up on them." The evidence of my confession is slumped in the far corner, and I nod my head in his direction, hoping that, when Lovrina takes her inevitable photo, the flash snaps him out of his stupor. My customers and acquaintances are all so lost, and all I can do is help them drown their sorrows and lead them closer to death. I lean against my side of the bar, spotted, yet still shining, taps invading my peripheral vision, and arch my hands on the surface. Ten short, polished nails drum rhythmically and I glance around the room. Two men are talking in hushed voices in one corner, pointing at what looks like the plan of a large house. I know better than to obviously pry. With the situation in District One at the moment – gangs striking out against gangs, reputable families being educed to dirt and mayhem – it's hard to know who's playing on whose side, and who you can trust.

"You know, you don't have to finish that if you don't want to," my voice jumps as I laugh softly, waiting for her reply. "Have it on the house, at least." That's money out of my own earnings, for sure, but I'm drawn by something endearing about this girl. Though I'm not one for making friends, she seems easy enough to get along with. And who knows when allies who can't remember your wrongdoings will come in useful?

"No problem at all, princess," I grin as I turn my head to call another bartender from the back room of the building. Heavy coughing which crescendos gradually gives me notice that it's Ellis, the fat, middle-aged owner of this bar, who is coming to take over from me, and not any of our younger, more aesthetically pleasing colleagues. I realise that it's probably for the best – after all, I intend to make an impact on my customers, and how can I ever do that if another tender steals my attention while I'm gone? The ringing of the bangles that encircle one of my wrists matches the beat of the music, and the clatter of my heels, as I sway around the bar and remove my spirit-scented apron. "Come with me," my voice is gentle, not wanting to alert the poor child, who already seems slowed and stirred by my concoction. She's lucky it's me looking after her, and not one of the men who frequent this place to get away from their families and distract themselves from daily existence. It's hard to say how she would fare with a drunken, yet still powerful, lout lumbering after her in the night. Especially since it's so difficult to say how much of it she'd remember the next day.

I lead her slowly, without touching her but always aware, should she stumble or topple over, through a back door and into a side street. The air smells of lusty brief encounters and stale urine, but the alley is, thankfully, empty. Smiling back at her from over one bare shoulder, I wander over to a half-loose gutter, evaluating the jump and how much weight it could take. "I have half an hour before Ellis wants me back serving again," I murmur, wandering if Lovrina is even listening, or if she's just getting ready to write down more names and take more photos. It's bizarre, but, having helped urge drunks to remember their addresses so I can get them home for some two years, I can understand why it's a necessity for her. "Hey, how good a climber are you?" the dark of the evening means I can barely see her, but her tension is almost electric in the air. However, I have no doubt that she can at least see the smile that adorns my face. I guess we're about to find out.