Author's Note: I'm normally as soft and cute as a bunny rabbit, but my story is copyright, so if you steal it and pretend it's yours, I will come down on you like the hammer of Thor. Thanks, have a nice day!

They’ve been following me for three blocks now. Thuggish men in dark pea coats and bowler hats, scuffed black shoes thumping on the cobblestones. Obviously they’re not worried about being subtle, and that makes me very nervous.

            I quicken my pace, the sound of my old boots shuffling over the street is quickly drowned out by the chug of steam carriages and the brisk clip of horse hooves passing me by. You'd think I’d be safe amidst the bustle of the market, but I’m not. When you've grown up on the streets of Cheshire the first thing you learn is that nobody cares. No one gives a toss about a guttersnipe. I could be dead in a ditch tomorrow and no one would even notice I was gone.

            I walk faster, and behind me the men speed up. My heart flies into my throat, pounding in my ears. There’s a number of things they might want with a street girl, and none of them are nice. I finger the rusted knife in my belt. I’m strong, and not a bad fighter, but there’s got to be at least six of them. There’s a break in the traffic and I use it to dart across the street, ducking between a fancy steam carriage all done up in scrolling bronze, and a horse drawn hackney.

            Someone shouts. The stomping of shoes grows louder, and I can picture them breaking into a run. I go into a flat out sprint, yanking the knife out of my belt, fingers white around the handle. My feet thunder on the stones, and I duck in between two fruit stands, knocking my elbow painfully on a crate of oranges as I go past. The oranges spill onto the road, colorful against the dirty grey stones, and I catch a whack on the back of the head from the angry fruit vendor. He screams after me,

            “Dirty ruffian! Watch where you’re headed!”

            Panic propels my muscles. No doubt my pursuers have heard the shout and know which direction to go in. Elbowing my way through the crowd gets me angry looks and the occasional smack on the back of the coat. One fellow in a beat up top hat tries to grab my sleeve, and I turn around and show him the rusted knife. He backs up quickly, nearly tripping over the long skirts of the lady he’s escorting,

            “Strumpette!” His cries ring out behind me. I concentrate on my breathing, darting a look back over my shoulder is enough to send panic shooting through me. The men are pushing their way through the crowd just as aggressively, and upon catching my eye the one in the lead calls out loudly,

            “Stop, thief!”

            A clever ploy. I double my speed, eyes darting around me at everyone I’m passing, afraid some good samartan will try to grab me. A few decked out gentlemen eye me,  considering if it’s worth it, but no one grabs for me yet. My mind is racing. I know Cheshire like the back of my hand, the next good hiding place is a few feet away. If I duck into the alleys and back gates of Hangman’s Row I should be able to lose them easily. They may be thugs but they would probably bulk at the street rabble and the stench of garbage and waste.

            “Stop her! Thief!”

            Their calls are getting louder.  I can’t catch my breath.

 I shout in surprise as a beefy farmer type raises an arm towards me, ducking out of the way before he can grab me. Round the bend, and then I see it, the first entrance to Hangman’s Row, a desolate back alley. Heart beating wildly I make for it, knowing I can jump the fences easily and leave them behind. I’ve been running from street thugs all my life, never ones dressed so nicely, but once I’m in the alleys I should be alright.

            There’s a blur in front of me, a horse and cart crossing my path. I gasp, digging my heels into the cobble stones, nearly running into the side of the damn cart. The man sitting in the driver’s seat looks down at me over the top of little round spectacles.

            “Just stop running,” he puffs out air from underneath his handlebar mustache, “I’d advise it, girl.”

            I gape at him, and turn to dart around the obstacle, but suddenly someone has me by the back of the coat. I scream, turning to slash at my attacker with my knife. But they’re all on me now, all six of them, and my hand is caught in an iron grip, and my heart is thrumming frantically in my ears. My attacker smiles at me, and I’m struck by how blue his eyes are. They’re pretty eyes. He’d be a handsome man if it wasn’t for the long scar that runs down one side of his face, puckering and twisting his skin.

            “Stop fighting,” he says through clenched teeth.

            My reply is to lash out with a lightening punch to his face. My knuckles make contact and satisfying pain shoots down my arm. Scarface backs away, hands over his gushing nose. But another man takes his place with stunning speed, grabbing both my arms this time. I scream and struggle with him, trying to get my leg up to knee him in the groin, but he holds me at arms length,

            “Someone help me with her,” he says angrily, “get her in the damn carriage.”

            Someone else seizes me from behind, hands around my waist, and I scream again, kicking and thrashing. There’s a crowd watching now, men and women standing around. Everyone from ragged street urchins to respectable middle class workers. Even a gentleman or two. But no one moves a muscle to help.

            He shoves me forward, and I bang my knee on the carriage. Pain shoots up my thigh, but still I kick backwards, making contact with his knee. He grunts, grabs the back of my hair tightly and slams my head forward. My forehead hits the side of the carriage hard and light bursts in front of me, white spots that travel across my vision like shooting stars. My head starts throbbing instantly, and I groan, sagging forward, blackness teasing the edges of the world. Threatening to close in.

            “Now,” a frantic voice says, “get her in now while she’s dazed.”

            The carriage door is thrown open, creaking on it’s hinges.

            “Good God, man.”

            “Get her in, damn it!”

            A voice from inside the carriage says, “she took out three of you. Pathetic.”

            I want to look up, but my head is too heavy. Someone is beating drums inside my skull. My hair hangs down over my eyes, obscuring my vision. Hands on my back. I’m shoved roughly into the carriage. Someone grabs my wrists tightly and a coarse rope loops around them, burning my skin. It’s too tight. It hurts. My vision is clearing. I blink frantically.

            “Bollocks,” someone says, “She’s coming ‘round.”

            Another voice, “here. Take this.”

            Just as my vision is clearing the man across from me leans forward in his seat, a black cloth in his hands, “you just sit still.” He says firmly, and then something is pushed over my head, a sack I think, and the world goes dark, “That’s better.” He says, “too much fight in this one, boys.”

            Finally I sit back, dizzy and anxious, feeling the carriage rumble underneath me. I don't know where the hell they’re taking me, but as soon as we get there they’re going to find I’m not done fighting yet.