There's a ruckus tonight in the troubled streets of Boston, loud music provoking the nightlife, yet in a dusty alley, Vi finds herself being tossed from the back door of some lousy bar,

She grunts, but barely feels anything when her muscles scrape rough pavement and what could be broken glass or something more questionable. She's too drunk for this shit. People just never like hearing the cold hold truth, do they? Especially when they're equally as pissed as her.

So it seems, anyhow.

Now here she is, after another day of waking, drinking, training, fighting. Another day of winning. Of taking a beating. But oh well. It's better than staying in that crappy shelter, with nothing but the howls of other abandoned hybrids to keep her company.

Her hand reaches up, rough and calloused, struggle sunken into every crevice, never letting her forget her roots, nor her life before ever knowing pain, and it runs over the tag clipped onto a staffy ear, tugging but it'll never come off. Probably not until she dies or retires.

Property of the pit. That's all she is. Owned by no one yet everyone at the same time. No manager to steal her money, but it's up to the audience wether she stays in the game. Wether the blue tab of paper stapled to her drooping appendage stays, or goes.

Just as she's stumbling up, her shadow in street lamp light, another shilloute joins. A pause. She stills. This better not be someone else looking for a fight. Not when she's leaning against a wall, reeking of booze, and a hand clutching her side, bruises of a previous injury becoming tender once more—

"Who the he-" she begins, dangerous, low, enough with the bullshit,

Until piercing, tired eyes land on a woman. Too soft to be from Boston, too out of place for gruelling early hours of morning where only horny men and drunk women are left standing,

So what's your problem?

"The fuck are you looking at?" She finally spits, slightly slurred, tail lashing.