learning the ropes [arx]

Another day, another reason to shoot myself right now instead of waiting for death to come find me. I stare blankly (you know, as usual) in the general direction of his voice, to make it look as if I am listening but really, my senses are focused elsewhere, though it is hard to escape his booming voice. "What the hell do you think you are doing? Tarnishing the family name like that!" It's so hard to keep the smirk off my face that I have to preoccupy myself by clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth instead. He's pacing. And not just pacing, anger pacing. The kind of pacing that a long list of people around me do, such as: teachers, when I punch some kid in the face and break his arm because he pulled my hair and called me stupid and ugly. Another example: the guys I beat to pulps after they laugh at me and wave their palms in front of my face to see if I am actually blind. If those brutes think I'm not going to lash out and snap their wrist when they do that then they are idiots. And the last, and perfect example, my father, Enlon Hayes, one of the richest men in the District. "You don't even deserve to have the name Hayes." And right now, he certainly is proving he is the charmer, shouting at his blind and helpless daughter. Though I guess I should be grateful; this is the most attention I have recieved from him in my entire life. I focus my ears on the window at the back of his office, listening to the bird that is twittering there, sounding pretty damn happy even with all the yelling. I jump when I hear something fly across the room and find myself tripping gracefully into one of the plush chairs behind me, a little gasp of surprise crossing my lips, my heart leaping into my throat.

I swallow hard when I feel his hands on the arms of the chair and his voice comes from not too far away form my face. I turn my head away and try to focus on relaxing again. I don't like when people catch me off guard. I can imagine him glaring daggers at me right now, as if his eyes could burn through my skin and skull right to my brain so that he could kill me slowly and painfully from the inside out. Doesn't he realize that his eyes can't hurt me because I can't see them? Perception is a funny thing, and I can only perceive what I hear, so if he were growling at me like a dog, I might be ... slightly intimidated. (Growling. Now I would pay to hear him growl at me.) When I hear him chuckle in front of me and the arms of the chair squeak as he rises to an upright position again, I give a heavy sigh through my nostrils. Ugh, I feel sick. Being such a baby literally makes me want to puke. And it seems that every rare occasion that I face off with my father like this, he makes me feel weak. I've stood up to boys that towered over me, stared (sort of?) certain death in the face, and been kicked around like a ragdoll in underground fighting rings, and this man - a man I have never need nor wanted or cared about in the slightest - makes me feel weak. I feel my hands ball into fists and I seriously consider jumping up to hit him just once, strong and square in the nose. "Good to know I finally have your attention." And I begin to get to my feet when he adds, "And don't even try." and I grumble in frustration before sitting back in the chair again. Worthless. I can hear him hissing it. Disgraceful. I grind my jaw and focus again on the bird in the window. Pathetic. And I feel tears coming on. Fuck this.

I hear him begin to pace again, but this time, it isn't angrily. This time, he is in control, not just of himself, but he is in control of me too. I have never cared about him and yet he does this sort of thing to me. I have never needed him, never needed anyone, and yet here I am, fending off tears because he doesn't ... doesn't ... - what? Love me? Who needs love? I've never in my entire life needed anyone's love or generosity. I have done it all for myself. If I wanted to get the cereal box off the top shelf, I climbed up the counter despite the fact being blind made it a billion times more complicated than it needed to be. If I needed some money, I went out and stole some from the clueless minds of the District. I taught myself how to fight, and not by swinging swords at a dummy that doesn't move or throwing knives at targets, but by getting kicked and punched to a pulp by a bunch of Career boys who fed off of a little girls screams and tears. They taught me to defend myself, and with a bit of studying and practice, I learned how to twist every joint to a painful position and how to break every bone possible with my bare hands. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never impress my father. And so eventually I gave up trying. And my life after that was so much better than it was before. No rules I had to obey because I didn't care about the consequences. No one to try to live up to, no living in Aine's shadow like the rest of my siblings still insist on doing, nothing. I live for myself and do nothing for anyone but me. And then this man, a man who has never cared and still gets to carry the title "Dad." around in his back pocket, suddenly barges into my life after 14 years and makes me ache all over and feel the - guilty. No way. I am not going to sit here and listen to him criticize me and take what I made for myself away from me.

I push myself off the chair, just as he begins to speak and march out of the room, not listening when he tells me to sit back down because the conversation isn't over. I don't care what he has to say. Yes you do Clare. You keep telling yourself you don't, but you do. I run through the house and end up tripping, blinded (both literally and metaphorically! Wow!) by a sort of rage. I haven't tripped in this house since I was 8 years old. I stop at the front door, pausing at the table near the entry way where I know one of Mom's vases is sitting. I find myself breathing hard as I reach for the neck of the vase, my fingers slowly curling around it before, a memory of my Mom singing a song to me before bed and brushing my hair shooting through my brain with a bittersweet sting. Where is she now? She never called me worthless ... And it hurts so much to think about her that before I can even think I am hurling the vase across the room where it class with the wall and shatters into pieces. "Screw you, Dad!" And then I step out the door and slam it behind me, welcoming the feeling of pavement beneath my feet.

I start to walk - no, sprint - away from the house, rage turning into adrenaline that pumps hot and heavy through my veins, pushing me forward. I don't usually run, especially from a fight, but I know that this fight - this fight against myself and my own stupid feelings - I just won't be able to win. And I run and run, blindly deciding where my feet fall, guessing at how far I am from the nearest trash can or flower pot or building. I'm being reckless and I just don't care. I run and run and run until my foot collides with a something and I come crashing, hard and fast, into the ground. The air flies from my lungs and I can't even find enough air to get out a yelp of pain as my knees collide with pavement and my palms prevent me from hitting my chin. I roll onto my back as I gasp for air and faintly I hear, "Are you alright?" fall from the lips of some bystander who just got to witness me at my weakest and most vulnerable. I hate being seen like that. That's when I force myself to my feet, wiping at the blood that is dripping down my legs and picking the pebbles out of my palms and waving off the person next to me. "Fine." I manage to get out as I walk away, ducking around a few corners when I figure out where I am. When I finally pick a nice back alley to get my bearings back, a place where no one who knows me can see the great Blind Bandit frustrated and weak on the ground, my knees have stopped aching and I have managed to pick all the gravel out of my palms. I place my palm against the brick wall and flip to my back, sliding down the wall until I am sitting with my head resting on my knees. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am such an idiot. That's when I hear the rattle of a chain link fence nearby.

At first I ignore it. Probably just some kids screwing around right? Or maybe some thugs getting their fair share of some guy that tried to double cross them. But being who I am, once I hear something, the curiosity takes over. And when the curiosity takes over, there is no drawing my senses away. I lift my head and my ears hone in on the direction all the commotion is coming from. "You did this to yourself, remember that." And the voice is deep, obviously coming from a man. A big one at that. And then the sound of scuffling boots and flesh against flesh come next. I quickly get to my feet, turning my head in every direction until I find which way I need to go. My bare feet move swiftly and silently across the pavement as I move slowly, inching my way toward the voices and the ... fight? Though it sounds like an unfair one by the lack of noise. The chain link fence rattles again and I pause as I reach the corner of a building. I crouch down, staying hidden behind the corner so that no one sees. I hear another grunt of pain and then the sound of bone cracking against bone and grimace because for all the fights I have been in and watched, that one sounded pretty damn painful. I think about peeking around the corner, just to get a better angle for the eyes on the side of my head, to maybe get a guess at how far away all of this was, but I stay hidden. A voice, though it only sounds like a whimper from where I am, splutters and I know it's a girl. I strain to hear what she says, but all I get is incoherent whimpering. And then more clattering of the fence and the sound of more boot colliding with body. "You did this to yourself, remember that," comes the hiss of the girl voice and I have to smile a little when I hear another gasp of pain from one (there is more than one, I've deducted that - two, maybe three? More?) of the guys. Groin shot. Always the best place to aim.

But my bout of laughter and smirking is short lived when I hear more things colliding and a body crash to the ground. And then, just when I am about to jump out because by the sound of it somebody is going to be dying pretty soon, I hear a snap and then the voice, the sound of the boss I suppose, again. "That's enough. I expect my money in a month, Miss Evergot." And with a bit of forced effort, I manage to hear her splutter back, "It's.... Fr-Fr-Frankie." And then the silence becomes deafening as multiple sets of feet shuffle away and I hear nothing. I wait. I wait and wait for as long as my feet can stand not moving, just to be sure everyone that is in a threatening physical state is gone, and then I make my way around the corner. I approach slowly, quietly, listening. I hear labored breathing first and then my leading hand meets metal and my fingers lace themselves into the fence and I begin to climb. Climbing is probably one of my worst fears and greatest challenges, but I suck in my breath and keep a tight hold as I clamber over the fence and land with absolutely no grace on the other side. But from what I heard, this girl probably doesn't have functional eyes to see with. Apparently it takes a beat down to find someone exactly like me. I get back to my feet and let my palm glide over the fence until my feet bump into a body and I take a step back before kneeling down, my head tilted to listen to her breathing.

"Pretty stupid idea getting in a fight like that." I comment, because despite how bad I feel for her, I just can't make anything but snarky comments come out of my mouth. Ugh, stupid pride. Always making me look like an unsympathetic bitch. And as I listen to her labored breathing and feel some of her blood inbetween my toes, I nearly spit out the words, "Come on, don't be such a baby," but I bite my tongue before the words can escape. I grind my teeth in frustration and reach into my pocket, pulling out my (well, sort of mine. It's one of those nice silk ones from the shops for rich people. Yes I stole it okay?) handkerchief. I search the ground for her hand and put the silky smooth cloth in her hand, folding her fingers into a fist around it for her and lifting her arm to her face for her. "Here, clean up a bit." I say, rising to my feet with a smirk on my face. "Even I can see you look like shit."

I can remember as clear as day the first time I got the shit beat out of me. It wasn't in the middle of the day by a bunch of grown men who were being ordered around like dogs by some loan shark who wanted his money back, but I'd say the beating as a whole was about the same. Or maybe not quite ... But still, it was a beating - that's on thing I'm sure of. It was dark outside - I could tell because the air was cool and damp. I was ... well, I was lost so to speak and I found myself just wandering around aimlessly, not retracing my steps or listening really closely like I do now, and basically I was being exactly how everyone expects a blind girl to be. I even started yelling for help at one point - ugh, disgusting. And I suppose that's what got me into so much trouble. If no one had heard me calling for help I would've just had to wait until morning when the "model citizens" were out and about to take my arm and guide me back home again. But I had yelled and yelled and yelled until I ran face first into what felt like a wall except it was breathing and it caught me before I could fall to the ground, which I knew for a fact walls did not do. I pushed myself away from the warm body only to stumble into another moving, breathing, solid brick wall and by the time I had tried to run in each direction I had discovered 4 living brick walls surrounding me. I had pressed myself to the actual brick wall then, clinging to the cold, hard, dead thing that wasn't converging on me like a pack of starving lions drooling over a baby antelope.

"What do we have here?" One of them seemed to growl, poking me in the arm and laughing when I flinched away. And of course being the righteous bitch I am being the crazy and prideful girl I am, I figured that after a few more pokes, pinches, and prods that the smart idea would be to knee one of them in the groin. Like that wouldn't piss them off enough to want to kill me. I tried to run then, shooting through the opening in the living wall and as fast as a scared blind girl can through a street she has never navigated. (Which means I was walking fast to be honest.) Needless to say the pack caught up to me pretty easy and threw me to the ground before I even had time to scream. They kicked and hit and kicked some more as I tried to beg and plead for them to stop. And by the time it was over, my ears were ringing and it felt like every single one of my ribs had been shattered into all of my internal organs. "We can't just leave her like that." I could here one of them saying. And then laughter. And I whimpered and moaned and tried to curl away from them because I knew, I just knew, that they weren't done. So I begged and begged as best I could with blood sputtering out of my lips and a shortness of breath. I begged and whimpered and pleaded but they only laughed more and more at my crumpled and broken figure on the ground. That's when one of them scooped me up and over their shoulder. I didn't even have enough fight left in me to move, I just dangled there, a completely dead and aching mess. "You're right! Trash needs to do in the dumpster." And then more laughter as I'm launched into a pile of trash and guck and smell. And after the laughter disappeared into the distance, that's when I started to cry.

Now I know I shouldn't have cried. I shouldn't have let myself look so much weaker and insignificant than I already was. And I wasn't even crying because of the firing pain all over my body. I was crying because they had called me trash. Not everyone knows how much it hurts to be called worthless, stupid, a waste of life, nearly every single day of their lives. And then, being the innocent sensitive little girl I was, it had hurt. To be thrown in the trash, to be picked up off the street and thrown away like a worthless piece of garbage - it had broken my pride. It didn't matter that I wore the family title "Hayes" because I was still blind and still worthless and still stupid and ugly and meant nothing to anyone. But somehow even with my shatter pride and ribs I forced myself out of that dumpster. I pulled myself away from the piles of trash and over the edge and fell to the ground with a dead thud and laid there on the ground all night. I would not be found in a dumpster when the sunlight came. The idea of it made me want to puke. Because I am not trash, I am a girl. I have feelings despite not wanting them and if everyone wants to call me worthless, then fine. Go ahead and say it. you can spit on me, kick me around like a ball, throw me in the dumpster, pull my hair, and call me names but I hope you know that I won't go easy on you when I kick your ass. The insults will always sting a little, yes. But never will I believe a single word you say. I'm going to prove every single person I've ever met wrong. I am not a waste of life. I am not worthless. I am not trash.

So when I'm at the top of the mountain wearing a crown and you are begging at my feet to share the peak with me, just know I will not hesitate to spit on you and watch you roll down to the bottom. Because you called me worthless. And I will smirk at your crumpled figure and laugh and ask you, "Whose the worthless one now?"

And most days I don't think about ever inviting anyone up there to the peak with me. Most people I meet call me worthless or mock me so I being alone is just the sort of life for me. And normally I don't feel much sympathy for the sorry suckers that get theirs asses whipped in the streets. This is Panem, it happens everyday, y'know? But this girl, she reminds me of me just enough to get me to care ... at least a little bit. She should feel honored by the fact that I actually give enough shits to come over here and help. Very rarely does Clare Hayes feel the need to help the rest of District One's scum. The chain link fence rattles a bit and I can feel her slowly pulling herself up by the way the fence wobbles and vibrates where my fingers are linked through the holes. It obviously takes some effort, and I suppose maybe I should've helped her up or something, but I guess it was sort of a test. If she stood on her own then at least I knew she was just as stubborn and pride-infested as I was. (And mostly that means I can at least tolerate talking to her for a bit.) And as the rattling comes to a halt and my senses stand at attention her voice comes after a bit of a pause.

“Uh, sorry about that,” she says. But I don't let the confusion cross my face. Sorry for what ...? Wasting my time? Getting beat to a pulp? I clench my fingers tighter around the fence, waiting. “And thanks.” And then she starts to laugh. Laugh. Maybe she got hit a little too hard and a few too many times on the head. or maybe she is laughing at me like the rest of the population of Panem does when I try to offer help or call myself "The Blind Bandit" or entire the fighting ring with one of the biggest, baddest delinquents of District One. I clench and unclench my jaw, resisting the urge to reach out and hit her. I try to be nice and look what I get ...

“Oh, wait...” she says, her laughter faltering a bit. “Here, I'll help you find out what's so funny.” And then I feel her hand grabbing mine and holy shit I almost just punched her out of habit and I feel the damp, bloody, disgusting, spit-ridden, cloth fall into my hand. “All yours again.” she says as more laughter overtakes her, louder this time. I feel my face involuntarily crinkle in disgust, but it doesn't stay for long. I've stepped in some gross things before, this is basically the same thing ... I guess ... I give a little chuckle then too, because despite the fact that she is truly laughing at me, I feel like I should laugh at myself. Because it is sort of funny, the whole situation. I shove the bloodied handkerchief through one of the holes in the fence and the laughter that had once captured me slowly disappears. "And the dead girl is alive apparently." I mumble, wearing a smug smile.

“Name's Frankie,” she says and I nod, having already heard her full name from the beat down earlier. Frankie Evergot. And I think maybe I recognize the name ... ? I could swear I've heard it mumbled around the back alleys more than once before, but then again, I hear a lot of names and I can't really keep track of them unless I have a voice to match them to. "Yes, I heard." I say, walking away from her, dragging my hand along the fence until I meet the opposite wall of the alley. "And it sounds to me like the wrong people know your name considering the basic death threat you just received." I say smirking in what I believe to be her general direction. "Enjoy yourself when they find you again." I know I will. The smirk grows into a full blown smile by then as I feel the tiny bit of pure evil? real bitch in my system leaking through. I chuckle and then let the smile fall. It's not funny. Getting beat up by a bunch of stupid oafs is not funny. I know. But Clare Hayes doesn't apologize - ever. I give a heavy sigh then, feeling my insides twist from the bitter taste of "nice" in my mouth. "You should really learn how to defend yourself you know." I say flatly. "It's really quite easy once you get the hang of it."

Now the real question: Do I give my real name or my street name? I bite my tongue for a second or two before deciding, still choking a bit on the bitter taste of my choice when it comes out. "Clare Hayes." I shake my head then and scrunch my nose. "Horrible, stupid, girly name really." I don't even bother extending my hand. Handshakes are too damn complicated for me.

"But, uh, I do know how to fight. Certainly better than you, that's for sure."

It's not like I haven't been underestimated before. It's been like that from the very beginning. Mom thought I couldn't handle myself playing with other kids or brushing my own hair and teeth. Dad thought I couldn't be anything but a useless piece of life with his name on it. My siblings thought I couldn't hear them talking about me through the vents or feel their eyes on me as they laughed at me while I stumbled through the house for the first time. And all the kids on the street, all the boys and girls I have fought, all the people I've stolen from - they all underestimated me. So when I hear her words, I'm not surprised. Though I have to give her some credit. She has a lot of pride for a girl who just got her body bashed and bruised.

She said she has been training as a Career? Ha! I know real Careers. Hell, I live with them. I sit around the training center while they slice the heads off of dummies and swing fake swords at each other. They prance around acting like they are larger than life and refuse to lose. Sure, this girl - Miss Evergot, right? - did put up a bit of a fight and still managed to spit out defiant words, but she still lost, no matter how much she tries to deny it. And true, blood thirsty, dedicated, malicious, motivated Careers just don't lose. I don't care outnumbered they are, they just don't lose. And from where I stand, when you are crumpled in a corner and taking help from a blind girl, you've lost.

"Oh yeah? What makes you so sure? Because you saw me get my ass handed to me one time you figure even a blind girl, like yourself, could take me?" I hear the exasperation in her voice and nearly start to laugh when I hear her snort with frustration. And of course doubt. She doubts every single one of my words. Maybe if I didn't know that she was practically a beaten and whimpering puppy, I would've put her in one of my infamous wrist locks or twisted her arm until her shoulder popped out of place. But the fact of the matter is she isn't even worth my time. I'm not getting paid, there is nothing for me to gain, (besides personal pleasure of course) it wouldn't be fair considering the state she is in, and honestly, I don't want to break this girl's pride. It's a welcome change to meet someone who is as haughty and bluntly hilarious as I am. Enjoyable even. I enjoy a good competition ... May the best insult/bitchy comment win?

"I'm not that... It's just... You're..." Blind, blind, blind, blind, blind. Say it! No one ever says it. Never out loud. They think it up in their mind and think they can say it but when it comes time to form it on their tongue and let their vocal cords spit it out, they just can't. Blind. Is it really so hard to say? But despite her incapability of saying it, I still find a reason to smile, her flustered stuttering frankly one of the best parts of being me. All I have to do is make sure you notice my blank and empty stare and I just successfully made the situation unbearably awkward. It's my specialty really. "I was outnumbered, but against you we'd be fairly matched." And just as it was her turn to laugh while I stood with a bloody handkerchief in my hand, it was now my turn to laugh aloud. I mean, I had planned on playing this cooly, but I just hadn't expected how funny it would sound. Fairly matched? She thinks because she is at the moment, to put it lightly, a useless pile of blood and bruises, that now we are evenly matched. We wouldn't be evenly matched if she was back to full health, grew 6 inches, gained 30 pounds, and had a knife in her hand. She thinks because my eyes don't see that I can't see? I start to laugh harder, slowly collapsing to the ground, caught in a fit.

I laugh until my side aches and I am rolling on the ground, not even bothered by how uncomfortable the asphalt is. And when I can finally manage to get words to come out of my mouth, I still have trouble not spluttering and scoffing. "I gotta hand it to you, Fra-" Wait, I have a better idea. "Miss Evergot," I say with a teasing voice from my place on the ground. "You certainly are great at making jokes. Ever thought about being a posh, Capitol comedian?" I laugh some more, my side protesting. "Okay, okay, if you think we are so evenly matched, kick me." I put my hands beneath my head, bend my knee, and cross my legs, kicking back like I was in my own bedroom. "Come on, Miss Evergot," I prompt, smiling. "Kick me. Right in the ribs." The usual smirk on my face is back now as every ankle and leg lock and hold flash in my mind. Shall I break an ankle? Dislocate a knee? Fuck up some ligaments? The amount of possibilities is endless, and, for me, the list is like an endless bag of candy to child. "Oh and you know what? Let's make a bet. It will make it that much more fun." I flick my toes at her, the wheel in my head turning, my tongue clicking against the top of my mouth.

"If I win, you owe me a foot massage and you have to follow me to my ... job." I finish, the word 'job' making me snicker a little. "And if you win, Miss Evergot, I will get you the money you need to pay off whatever debt you owe. And trust me, I can." I say, pausing before adding. "So, if you agree to the terms, kick me. And if you don't, I'll throw in a foot massage at your end of the deal too." I say, scrunching my face and sticking out my tongue in faux disgust. "Oh and it means you're scared of a blind girl. Just saying." And then I fall silent, thinking over my mental magazine of ankle locks again, listening for the shuffle of feet.

As soon as the word, "Deal." rolled off her tongue, I was ready. I knew by the way she had piped up at the mention of a bet. Like I was feeding some crazy addiction. I guess I should've anticipated that. If this girl had someone big and bad enough for a hit crew, then she certainly owed quite a bit of money. And the only way someone owes that kind of money to anyone around here is if you gambled - and lost. And I certainly have dealt with my fair share of gamblers, most of them angry with me. Blind girl vs. six foot giant - they never seem to pick the right one. But that was the whole point wasn't it? To make myself look innocent and harmless and easy to beat so that I can reap the benefits of others' quick and frankly stupid assumptions. So, to see her lash out and grab a tight hold of at such an "incredible" deal really is no surprise to me. And because of my highly trained blind girl intuition, I knew when it was coming.

As soon as she said it, I heard the shuffle of her feet, the way one foot scrapes against the ground on the wind up and then silence sweeps through the air as her foot comes flying nearer and nearer to me. The smile on my face has turned to hard concentration, my mind kicking into survival mode, just as it always has during a fight. One fight, one best, one goal - Win. I move swiftly, pulling my hands from under my head in anticipation of her foot. It's a rather ungraceful move, my guess at where her foot was a bit off, but I still manage to scramble for a hold of her ankle. Her foot collides with my arm and I move my hands until they clutch her ankle and then I yank hard enough so that she falls to the ground in what I can only presume now is a useless heap. She picked the wrong fight ... again. But I'm to into this game we are playing, too far gone to feel a shred of sympathy for her, so I move quickly, taking advantage of the grip I already have on her ankle, feeling for the pressure point in her leg that I need. I move, her strength surprising for someone who I know for a fact is not in any condition to be fighting, but I still manage to get her foot where I need it to be.

I sit up on my knees, holding her ankle under my arm, placing that hand on my opposite forearm and then placing my opposite hand on her shin before leaning back, a smile spreading on my face. The perfect execution of straight ankle lock. I remember when this used to happen to me. Some smart fighter would know how to use a lock instead of just throwing a fist aimlessly and of course I didn't know any better. I screamed and plead for him to stop, the pain radiating through my leg nearly unbearable. I later learned that it was the pulling of a tendon that made you feel like your ankle might completely break. I laugh a little, letting up the amount of pressure I am putting on her ankle. "Alright so I win," I start, my breathing rapid with the amount of effort I am putting forth to keep her completely still. "Unless of course you want a broken ankle as proof that I won." I lean back again, applying more pressure just to prove my point before letting go. I stand then, brushing off the little rocks that managed to get stuck to my knees. "And Miss Evergot," I add, searching for a hair tie in my pockets to keep my hair out of my face. "I like you, so let's not abuse that privilege. Sore losers are a real turn off." I say, a bit of a smirk on my face as I sweep my hair together and tie it back in what I can only assume is not and aesthetically pleasing fashion. But this isn't a beauty contest. These are the streets of District 1. (But being told you're pretty would be nice, right?)

I make my way to the wall then, looking for where the fence is, lacing my fingers through the holes and begin to climb the fence, slowly but surely, trying hard to make it look like I am not terrified of the whole climbing thing. "Come on, Miss Evergot. Time to go to work." I say in a cheery, bright manner as I clamber over the top of the fence and manage to touch ground safely on the other side where I came from. "Hope you didn't have any plans," I say, dragging my hand across the wall, beginning my way through the road map of twisting turning alleys that I have come to memorize. "We're going to be out all night." I say over my shoulder, making sure I hear her footsteps behind me before I start to move a bit faster, deciding not to give a further explanation of what we are going to be doing. Just another night in an underground fight ring ... plus a little pickpocket work. I smile, the anticipation threatening to kill me. The Blind Bandit is in business and sure as hell isn't quitting until she is dead.

The pavement beneath my feet is hot, but as I have walked around barefoot nearly my entire life, I don't feel much of anything. But I do feel myself growing excited. What a prosperous and proper life I live - getting excited to beat the shit out of people. Or maybe it's the other underlying reason. Proving my father wrong every night. Proving my brother and sisters wrong. Proving my mother wrong, even if she is not here to witness. Proving the world wrong. Not sure if that is my reason or just a little benefit that branches off the "beating the shit out of people" reason. Whatever. I guess I shouldn't be trying to pick apart why I do what I do. Those questions are just too ... loaded for me. I'd rather just stick to hitting things now and asking questions later. Especially with circumstances the way they are - Dad with his hands on my throat and a girl who is clearly not all that trustworthy (at least with money) at my heels. Not sure if the bet was all that great of an idea, but when I think of the money that all of this could get me I feel myself growing a bit more comfortable with my decision. Besides, even if her sticky, greedy fingers get a hold of the money and she runs, I know exactly who I need to find in order to find her again - a big man named Sal.

"Look," I almost can't contain myself. I want to laugh so badly and make some blind joke, but I decide against it. More time for that later when she realizes I am not as defenseless as I seem. “My name. It's Frankie, ok? I don't call you Blindy or anything like that so...” Again, I could almost laugh. But instead I just keep walking, letting nothing but a wide grin show that I was listening at all. The fact that she had to request that I call her by her desired title says that she really isn't in any position to ask. And yet she did. Pride. That's what that is called. Pride in a name, pride in who she is, pride even when it should have been knocked clear out of her and shattered on the ground after she got left beaten down in a corner and then again when I blind girl beat her at what she thought was her own game. But no - she was still alive and kicking, polishing that pride like some kind of armor, trying to undent it and hide the scratches from view. (Now who does that sound like?)

Being called anything but the Blind Bandit it pretty much the worst thing in the whole world. Clare is a sissy name. Hayes is a family name that I only like to recognize when I want to feel powerful. Blindy was one of the ... most unoriginal insults I have ever heard but somehow, despite all the years of dealing with the taunts and the names and the getting spit on and kicked down, it still hurts everytime I hear anything like that. Not that I let anyone know that. Weakness is not something that someone like me should have. My greatest weakness is already visible to the entire world, I can't afford to have anymore than that. So I only grin at her words. And then I let myself mumble under my breath, almost a whisper, probably something only I can hear. "Alright. Frankie it is." But she is soon onto a different subject, trying to make my armor much less shiny and tarnish it until it is duller and even more dented than her own. I don't think she realizes that is impossible yet.

“Let me guess where you work, alright? It'll be easy. I bet... I mean, I'm sure I'll get it on the first shot.” Again, I have to fight to keep myself from spluttering or laughing outrightly again. I settle with a wide grin, dragging my hand along the brick, the brisk pace I set earlier becoming a leisurely walk as we get closer to where we are supposed to be. I let my hand leave the wall, count the 8 steps in my head, reach out to feel the edge of a dumpster, turn myself ninety degrees to the right, walk another 10 steps to another brick wall, before continuing on through the labyrinth (or at least to some it is) of back alleys. I nod over my shoulder, my voice dripping with a particularly high amount of sarcasm. "Oh, I'm sure of it. Tell me, what is it that I do? Humor me." I reach a corner and follow the next wall, counting 12 bricks over before kneeling and wiggly a brick loose from the wall, reaching in the hole to grab some of the money I had managed to pickpocket during the week before putting the brick back and continuing on my route to the door that is only a few turns away.

“You work in one of your daddy's boutiques where only pretty girls can work so they can sell expensive little handkerchiefs to suckers with too much money.” At this I have to laugh, at least a little, before I can manage to get a grasp on what my whole plan had been. Remaining silent and not explaining will have a better effect later on. It's always like that. Proving someone wrong is just part of the fun of all this really. Stunning them into silence, whether by knocking them unconscious or surprising them with my "natural talents." Though I feel like if she judged me by my name, her assumption would be entirely correct. Rich dad is correct, his owning lots of fancy stores around the district is also correct, and me cheating old, rich people out of their money certain is a common task of mine. However, the fact that she suggests I work for my dad is certainly laughable and ... did she really just say that I was pretty? Have my ears finally deceived me? The last time I heard anything like that was before mom had died when she would whisper it against my forehead before I went to sleep. So ... a compliment? What the hell ... ? I shake it off, concluding that it was just meant to throw me off, make me feel inferior - just a stupid, rich, pretty girl who worries about her hair and boys and fashion. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So wrong.

"I applaud you. Getting everything perfectly right on the first try. Congrats! Perhaps you really should've used the word 'bet.' Could've made a fortune." I say, smiling over my shoulder as I make it to the door at the end of an alley. I knock three times before I hear the rusty screech that signals the peep hole sliding. "Hey, Jasper." I say, before he replies with the familiar, "If it isn't Miss Blind Bandit back for more." I smile and bow before I hear the lock slide open and the heavy door swing on rusty hinges. "Oh, and she's with me." I add quickly as I walk through the do, hearing Jasper protest at her presence. And then I hear the door swing shut again, the lock shift into place, and the distant yelling and screaming that is associated with ring fighting. I reach behind me then, grabbing at Frankie, and pulling her by the arm when I happen to find it. I pull her closer and whisper. "You hear that?" I say, moving forward, not really caring if she is uncomfortable with my grip on her arm or not. "That is the sound of my work. Also the sound of money. And trust me, it has a sound, I hear it all the time." I smile before dropping her arm and continuing to the small, industrial elevator that will lead us down to the main event. Or where I will become the main event.

"Best be ready to have some fun, Frankie. I suggest smiling." I say, giving my best and brightest, though a bit exaggerated.

The familiar clink, chink, clink, screech of the elevator is comforting. I haven't been down here for awhile now, at least not since the situation had gotten so ... sour. It wasn't like my brother and sisters knew anything about my life or what I did during the day because the truth was, none of them cared. I'm sure if you asked them, they would think I was up in my room right now, "doing whatever blind girls do." It was almost a joke that I happened to be in some fighting ring where people were yelling and shouting, and sweat was about the only thing you could smell while they threw knives at targets, back flipped through the air, and slashed swords at dummies. It makes me smile. Helpless little sister happened to have more experience than any of them, even with their career training. So they can swing a sword? Suddenly they win the award for Best Career/Child ever? Huh. Don't mind me while I break an ankle or seriously fuck up some tendons in the wrists, it's no big deal really. That really is just the warm up of my routine after all.

Ask anyone in this place about Clare Hayes and they will look at you with either a look of confusion or one of disgust. ("Hayes? You mean those filthy rich assholes that sit around all day selling jewelry?") But if anyone even utters a single breath about The Blind Bandit, they will instantly be quizzed on my latest moves and who I will be beating next. It's fun really. I mean, in my humble opinion, I should be given a thrown and crown in this place. Hell, I will even be the generous person I am and provide the jewels to encrust the crown. I think it's only fair that I am rewarded a bit, what with all the business I pull in. The people who organize the fights and handle the money and betting should be paying me a bigger cut of their profits. But I can't complain. I love fighting (or rather, I love proving everyone who looks at me wrong) and when I don't make enough money to buy myself what I want, I always have my little con business to back me up. Plenty of the people down here have seen me in action in the streets. Feign helplessness, take the arm of some innocent passerby in the streets, reach into their pockets as they coo over how much of a "poor thing" I am, and viola! - instant riches. My wallet and pocketbook collection really is extensive. Lots of rings, watches, and even some fairly useless letters manage to make it into the bottom drawer of my dresser. Mom used to always scold me for hiding things down there, but I would keep doing it anyway. She would always dig in their during the week and pull out little trinkets that I had managed to find and put them back in their place. Now that she is gone, everything has just sort of piled up in that bottom drawer. That may be the one reason I wish she was still around.

I'm jolted from my thoughts when someone shoulders past me. I have to fight the urge to turn and spit at them. Despite my status, their are still worthless, stupid, big-headed jerks in this place. Instead I just crack my neck and straighten myself back on the path I was walking, involuntarily sticking closer to Frankie. Stupid weakness of mine, but I can't help it. Something to hold onto makes everything so much easier. I make my way towards the place where bets are placed, and place my money on the table. "Same as usual?" The gruff man whose name is still a mystery to me asks. I think I hear him smiling. I remember the first time I told him i was betting on myself. He was silent for a moment and then took the money almost gingerly from my grasp. I had still been a bit ... soft-hearted then. Timid really. He just told me good luck and patted my hand and that was that. I won. It was my third win ever. I have bet on myself ever since. "Same as always." I say with a nod before walking away to where the next contestants manage to get shoved into fights. I can already feel my heart beating faster and I begin to thrum my fingers against my thigh in anticipation. It was louder than it had been in months!! People must be down here for some new big new guy, cheering on someone who had been in the ring for awhile now. Good. I think to myself. I get to break some poor guys spirit tonight.

"What's first for your job tonight? I'm ready for as much fun as you are." Her voice is strong, borderline stubborn, and I turn towards her with a grin. The girl certainly does put on quite the show. "Alright, for starters you are going to describe in great detail the person who is winning the fight right now," I begin, gesturing somewhere over my shoulder. "Then we can start in on the real fun." I grab her shoulder and turn her away from the crowd of shouting people now, hushing my tone to a not so quiet whisper. "While I go and fight the brute in there, you are going to be a fancy little pickpocket." The crowd roars and I know the final blow has just been given in the current fight. I'm up next. Desire to crunch some bones heats my blood and I turn so I can hear the going-ons of the competitor. "And watch me." I say, turning my attention back to her for a moment. "It can help with your ... predicament." And for maybe the first time today, this week, heck maybe even this month, I am being sincere in the most meaningful way. (I know those men will come back when she doesn't have the money for them. And I can't help but feel sorry for her - just a little bit.) I give the softest smile I can manage before I crumble into the usual sass. "Wouldn't want them to break that pretty face of yours again." I start pushing my way through the crowd then to the front lines. Prepped for battle. Ready for action. "Okay, if you know him just name him. If you don't, just describe him." I explain over the now chanting crowd. "And then you get to work." I say with a smirk.