This story was inspired by Of Love and War by Butterfly Conlon but goes in a completely different direction. I'm still not sure how I feel about the opening but it gets interesting. Please review with your reactions/suggestions! Thanks!

She walked in the light of the moon, one black leather boot in front of the other, sure. Her hands sat tensely in the pockets of her ankle length coat. A black cowboy hat was pulled low over her eyes. She walked through the bad part of town. As if everywhere in New York City weren't the bad part of town when the sun took its long nap. Through the hole in her right pocket she held the smooth metal surface that was the handle of her knife. Her beloved knife, she had never felt closer to anyone than she felt to that knife. Her messy blonde hair was held in a ponytail and hung down her back. That and her hard womanly chest provided hints of her femininity. She marched past women of the night, their chests pushed up to the bursting point by restrictive corsets. She felt no affinity with them, only disgust. She would never allow herself to be ravaged by a man.

Drunken men smattered the streets, entreating the women with reeking breath. Their strong laughter resonated from the filthy pubs that lined the streets. She hated them. But she had business here, and so she walked. A paunchy man with a fat moustache caught a glimpse of her young breasts beneath her shirt. He stupidly reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. Before he had time to proposition her with slurred words, her precious knife was at his throat. It glinted like her green eyes in the light as she glared maliciously at him.

"What the hell?" He cursed.

"Exactly, hell. That's where I came from and that's where you're gonna go if you ever touch me again," she growled. His balding forehead was perspiring and his breath was thick and fast. She could feel his fat body trembling beneath the blade. She allowed it to slowly caress his throat, feeding off his pain and fear so that she could feel strong. She flicked it away and turned with a satisfied smile.

When she was a good distance away, she heard him yell, "You bitch!"

"Fuckin' right," she mumbled under her breath.

She reached the spot with no further interference. She walked into the bar. It was dark and dank and smoky like any other New York bar. And like any other New York bar, it had its secrets. Secrets few were privy to. She walked over to the bar counter. A gray-haired old man with a tired face was taking orders from the scummy late night drinkers. He knobbed the beer tap and let it flow into a thick glass. He wiped his hands with a dirty rag and noticed her standing off to the side with her head bowed down. He glanced around at the other customers before heading over.

"Hey Ugly," He whispered, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it tonight."

"I had a few hold ups on the way," she replied, watching the beer fill up in the glass.

"I got the stuff downstairs," she nodded as the beer crested the top and began to overflow, foam oozing over the sides. He leaned in closer. "I could only get thirty-four pretty maids, I know he wanted fifty."

She traced a crack in the counter with her finger. "That ain't my problem."

"It ain't, I know it ain't. I just thought ya should know is all," he seemed flustered.

"Down in the usual spot?" She asked, looking into his eyes for the first time. He nodded. She pushed away from the counter and headed toward a side door. She turned her head. "You might wanna get that," she said, nodding toward the tap. He flicked it off and she was gone.

Ugly Sendim was called so for her pure, angelic face. The last part came from and the oft-repeated phrase, "Ugly, send 'im ta hell." She was known for her merciful killings. No one suffered long beneath her able hands.

She found the "stuff" in the usual spot, as promised. She loaded her pockets with the bullets and slid the two rusty guns into the holister on her back. She tucked the three brass knuckles into her pants pockets and strapped the four knifes to her legs. She walked out of the basement weighed down with weaponry. She hoped to God she wouldn't be disturbed on the walk back, she always bruised herself by making quick movements when she worked as a transport. But of course, she wasn't so lucky.

It was nearly dawn when she arrived at the Lodging House, tired and irritated. Why did those bastards always insist on sending her all the way to the East Side in the middle of the night, and alone no less? Just because she was a girl didn't mean she should have to do all the grunt work. She had certainly proved herself enough times to warrant that.

She walked past the empty front desk and up the stairs. Her feet echoed through the quiet space. She marched down the hallway feeling more and more irritated. If those fuckers are asleep…she thought to herself. She flung the door open, and sure enough, the boys were sprawled out across their beds. As usual, empty bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor. The boys were snoring soundly. Ugly's body ached from lugging their shit around, alone, and they were sleeping like fucking babies! She whipped out a shotgun, slid in a bullet , cocked it and aimed at a knot in the wall.

Bang! The shot echoed through the lodging house as the bullet flew to the knot. Immediately, all the boys jumped out of bed, cursing and yelling. Ugly ignored them, marching over to the wall. She'd hit the knot dead-on. At least she knew it shot straight.

"What the hell's the big idea?" Demanded Thick Throat in his nasally voice. The other boys chorused their outrage.

"Shut up, fuckers," she replied, scanning the unloaded gun across their red faces. "Is he upstairs?"

"Yeah," responded Curlup, "The three of 'em have been at it all night."

Ugly sighed and headed through the door. She couldn't help but feel nervous as she headed up the creaky steps. With their fearless leader, you never knew what might happen. It was exhilarating. As she pushed the door open she could immediately smell the sickly sweet smoke of opium. Lewis was sitting in a wooden chair, the token beer in his thick hands. Kyro was lying on the edge of the bed. He was on his back with his head over the edge, upside down. His long yellow hair hung down and nearly touched the floor. Roan Xavier was leaning against the headboard of the king size bed. He was smoking a cigarette and the smoke poured from his long, pointy noise. He looked at Ugly with deep, black eyes.

"Hello, gorgeous," he drawled, "have you brought me something special today?"

Ugly began to divulge herself of the goods, laying them out on the table. "Damn Dooley only got thirty-four pretty men, thirty-three," she corrected.

"Minus the shot we heard downstairs?" Roan asked. She remained silent.

"Why the fuck do ya call them pretty men, ya bitch?" Lewis asked in his usual slurry voice.

"Fuck off, Lewd," she snapped.

Roan got up off the bed and walked over to examine the goods. Ugly could feel his power and charisma crackle off him like electricity. He gently fingered the goods, regarding them critically. He picked up a shotgun, twirled it on a finger, testing the weight. He began to slide bullets down the holes.

"It shoots straight," she commented. He grinned at her as he loaded the second gun. Then he marched over to the window and shoved open the shutters. Light poured violently into the room. The sounds of the early morning streets followed. Ugly and the two boys gathered around Roan, ready for a display. Down on the street corner, a newsie was calling out the headlines, waving a paper high above his head. In the blink of an eye, Roan took aim and his shot echoed through the streets. The pedestrians halted in their walk and ducked, carriages dashed through the street. The little newsboy lowered his paper, regarding it with a shocked expression. It had been ripped open by the bullet. Onlookers glanced furiously around for the source of the shot, but all the windows were shuttered.

The four adolescents stood in the dark room. Kyro and Lewis were laughing hysterically. Roan had a cocky smile plastered to his face.

Ugly was suddenly exhausted. She took her leave of the boys and walked down the stairs and into the room that was hers by right of sex. She dead-bolted the door and stripped down to her t-shirt. She lay down on her thin mattress. She had a good life. She was strong, she was protected; she was free from the fears and pains of factory life and the filthiness of the life as a whore. But if she was so free, why did she feel as if she were in chains?