She recalled Mrs. Whittle's shrill voice echoing throughout the Manhattan Orphanage with perfect clarity. "Hetty! HETTY THOMAS! Mark my words, girl you are going straight to Hell!" A five year-old Pocket, called Hetty then, found it quite ironic that Mrs. Whittle considered sleeping during chores to be a cardinal sin, but not imbibing like a drunken sailor (which the woman often did).

Famous racehoise missin'!" Tornado, Pocket's closest friend, exclaimed and waved a pape at arm's length over her head. "Police are baffled!"

Pocket giggled inwardly at the so-called headline. The racehorse in question had been retired, and the 'baffled police' (who were merely surprised at the lack of thefts in Central Park lately) were from another article on the same page.

"Police shocked and outraged at numbah of muggin's and amount of thievery in Central Pawk!" Pocket added to her best friend's cry. They turned to each other and couldn't help but laugh.

It had been a relatively good selling day, especially witht he edition of the headlines about the 'shocked police' and the 'stolen racehorse'. Pocket wondered if she had earned enough money for that apple she had been eying so longingly earlier.

Ya know, ya ain't got ta use none of your money, a familiar, greedy and sly voice resonated inside her head.

She forcefully shook the thought out of her mind. No, I don't wanna do dat, she told herself firmly and couldn't gaze at the tempting apple again. She was beginning to feel rather like Adam and Eve, but wouldn't allow herself to succumb to the temptation. I don't have ta do dat anymore. I got money now.

"Hey, 'Ket," Tornado's voice invaded her inner conflict, "ya okay?"

The other girl nodded with a forced confidence and placed a smile on her lips. "Yeah, shoa," Pocket replied casually. "Say, ho's about we head ovah ta Tibby's? I'se stawved, more den dat time when I was in Harlem and..." As the two made their way through the crowded streets, she began to tell yet another one of her stories, embellishing points here and there.

"...and lemme tell ya," Pocket breathed at the memory, "dis guy was huge. Big as a train station, and we wore all of dis jewelry. He got gold chains and ruby rings, prob'ly woith a king's ransom."

Tornado shook her head slowly in disbelief. "Aw, ya're makin' up dat part."

"Of course I ain't," Pocket shot back, honesty and hurt filling her eyes. Then, "All right, I might be exaggeratin' a liddle, but trus' me, dis guy was a sight. Man, I was coitain he was gonna soak me good. But den, outta nowheah, dis oddah guy appeahed. It was like-"

"Say, you'se two headed ta Tibby's?" a familiar voice inquired from behind. Racetrack jogged up to the girls with a ready grin. "I jus' made five dollahs down at da tracks. Bet on Valentin and da hoise finally paid off. I'se been waitin' a month for dis hoise ta do somet'in' right." He, wearing a boastful grin, extracted a wad of bills from his back pocket and waved it around in the air as if to say, 'See, I win sometimes!'

Pocket giggled in delight and clapped her hands together. "Good for ya, Race! Does dis mean you'se gonna take me out ta lunch tahday?" she questioned with her most charming smile.

Race chuckled and put his arm around her shoulders. "If you'se good."

Pocket's heart went fluttering against her rib cage as the three strolled into Tibby's where they wre greeted by most of the Manhattan newsies.

"Heya, guys!" Kid Blink greeted chipperly and took a swig of his drink. The three grabbed seats and Race proceeded to brag about his win, nearly leaping up onto the table to proclaim his tale. Pocket couldn't stop giggling as Racetrack described every detail from the sound of the horses' hooves hitting the earth to the scent of the stables to the cheer of the crowd when Valentine crossed the finished line, beating out Summer Lighting by a hair.

It's weird ta t'ink dat he and I even speak now, she remarked to herself as Race was going on and on about his 'instincts' to bet on Valentine instead of his usual favorite, Paul Revere. Memories flooded her mind, and she was transported back to that cloudy Friday in March, more than two years ago....

*****

All right, Blitz, ya take Forty-Second Street," the Dodger directed a small redheaded, freckle-faced boy. "I wanna see some cash dis time. Forget about dose cheap watches you'se keep bringin' in. Do it or else."

A wave of terror washed over Blitz's features and he nodded swiftly. "Sure t'ing, boss," he murmured and bolted out of the room.

Pocket, a thirteen year-old called Hetty back then, waited calmly for her orders from the Dodger. He was not one to be crossed, even if he was in the best of moods. Hetty believed that he, the boss f the Manhattan Pickpockets, would steal from his own grandmother if given the chance. He ran a tight ship, more so than even the famed Spot Conlon of Brooklyn (or so she had heard). The Dodger considered everything to be devoted to the Manhattan Pickpockets; once you entered the old, dilapidated, abaondoned building and sighed up to be a member (after, of course, proving yourself worthy enough to join by performing several, various initiation tasks), you remained a pickpocket until death or excommunication from the group (which was considered worse than any form of demise).

The Dodger made his way around the room like a bloodthirsty panther, glowering at each pickpocket to strike fear into their hearts. At his sides were his second- and third-in-command, Spit and Dragon. Both were mamoth guys, nearly the size of two skyscrapers. Privately, Hetty referred to them as Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber. They were long on muscles and short on brains. Of course, this made them the ideal sidekicks since they weren't intelligent or ambitious enough to fight for the position of boss themselves.

Finally the boss stepped to face Hetty. He crossed his arms over his chest and and glared sinisterly at her. The girl bravely looked up at him, studying his umpleasant features. He had an elfin, heart-shaped face, with a slightly pointed shin and ears to match. He had cold eyes, almost black ice, and high cheekbones, the right of which was decorated with a long scar that he would carry for life. He had received that scar in a bar fight, taking a hit from a broken bottle. His teeth were jagged as a wild animal's would be. He was rather tall, but had such a horible slouch that it wasn't usually apparent.

"Ya gonna take the tracks tahday," he ordered firmly. "Make shoa ya get close ta da winnahs. I don't wanna repeat of last week. Ya get me?"

Hetty nodded in the same manner as Blitz had used. Last week she had only brought in a total of eleven dollars and was taken out back by Spit for a 'talking to'. She still carried the bruises of that conversation. "Yeah."

"Yeah what?" he growled viciously and Spit cracked his knuckles noisily.

"Yeah, boss," she spat out in a terrified rush.

The Dodger glared violently at the girl for a moment. "Watch dat mouth, kid. Get goin'."

"Sorry, boss," she apologized and tore out of the building in a frenzy. Man, that had been close, too close. She didn't want to come to blows with the Dodger. He was dangerous and, Hetty guess, more than a little insane.

*****

"And they're off, with Baron in the lead, follwed by Bluejay and Mercury. But Carter's Pride is coming up on the inside...." a loud, annyoing voice was announcing to those attending the races that day. Pocket alwys enjoyed working the Sheepshead Races crowd; there was always enough niose from the cheering fans and the flying horses to make her movements nearly silent, and money abounded there, bills flashing in each direction. So the girl believed that it would be a profitable day and couldn't help but grin as she made her way through the masses.

She 'accidentally' bumped into a man who was shouting wildly at Bluejay and oblivious to her motions. She easily extracted his wallet without the man suspecting a thing.

"Come on, Bluejay!" he screamed frantically. "Come on!"

Hey, fifteen bucks, she thought joyfully at the sight of a full wallet. Not bad, goil. She pocketed the cash and cautiously placed his wallet back in his pants. Then she strolled off, careful not to appear too eager to get away.

Hetty stayed there for another two hours or so to work the crowds. She had stole a sum of thirty dollars and three watches before lunch time. She was about to head off to find a meal (or maybe steal a hotdog, as it seemed to be her day for thievery) when she caught sight of two boys. Easy prey, she believed and sauntered nearer.

"...a hot tip on dat hoise ovah deah," a dark-haired boy of Italian descent was commenting to hsi companion, a young man with almost white-blonde hair. "See, dat's Raven, dat one ight deah."

"Didn't he lose in da last race?" the blonde wanted to know. Hetty was directly behind the two now, and reaching for the dark-haired boy's side pocket where she saw the familiar bulge of a wallet.

The Italian shrugged off his friend's question. "Pacin' himself, Dutchy, pacin' himself. I t'ink da next race is gonna start soon." He reached for a schedule, which he had placed in his side pocket.

He met with Hetty's hand instead.

He whirled around to face her in shock (which her expression was also filled with) and fury. "Hey, whadda ya t'ink ya're doin'?"

"Lookin' for my purse?" she suggested hopefully and didn't wait for an answer. His money grasped tightly in her hand, she turned on her heel and bolted away, with the Italian boy trailing her like a blood-thirsty hound after a fox.

"Come back heah!" he screamed madly as Hetty dashed around a corner and disappeared from sight, ducking behind several huge, wooden barrels. When he turned the corner himself, he discovered that there was no trace of the girl. Having lost the chase, he marched away while mumbling several obscene phrases.

Hetty hid for seemingly an eternity before she dared venture out into the open. When she swa that the boy was no lnger around, she released a long breath of deep relief.

Man, I t'ought I was a gonnah for a second deah, she confessed to herself and turned to head in the opposite direction from which she had come. I'll nevah-

She wasn't able to finish that thought, for she immediately bumped into a tall, middle-aged man who was smirking in delight. "Sorry 'bout dat, mistah," she started to aologize but was interrupted.

"You're coming with me," he stated very simply to Hetty. "You are going to the House of Refuge for your thievery."

The girl recalled his face. It was Warden Snyder, the man who would do anything to capture kids and throw them into that rat's nest they had the nerve to call the Refuge. "No, no, ya must have da wrong goil," Hetty attempted to defend herself, but two rather ugly, smirking young men grabbed her arms. She struggled in vain, unable to break free from the two who were much older and much stronger. "Please, it ain't me!"

Then she felt as though her head cracked in two, and peaceful silence and darkness came soon after.

*****

She heard a clamor of voices before she woke, the sound pounding in her brain. Maybe I'm back in da Pickpocket building, she imagined tiredly and groaned as her eyes opened. Dis has gotta be da woist headache I'se evah had! Even woise dan last week. Eyes wise, she found that she was not, as she had prayed, back with the other pickpockets. Instead she was lying on a very plain, very uncomfortable bed and staring up at the bunk above her. A myriad of other kids, ages varied, sat in the large room. They were bragging about what they had been caught for, plotting escape, and relating other tales. A group of six kids involved in a tense game of five card draw.

Hey, dat's da kid I stole from tahday, Hetty realized when she studied the card-playing bunch, and instantly checked her pockets. Damn, empty. Dey would have ta go t'rough my stuff. She betted herself that Snyder had seized her money and kept it for himself, and that he was just as bad as the Dodger.

She moved to sit up and a voice calle out, "Hey, she's awake!" Hetty turned slightly to find a girlw ho had been playing poker running a few steps to her. The girl had flawless chocolate skin, warm brown eye, and black hair tied in a messy braid. She smiled brightly and greeted, "Welcome ta da Refuge, kid. Whadda ya in for?"

"Ya mean dis ain't da Plaza?" she questioned incredulously. "Man, I'm gonna send me travel agent a rael stern leddah of displeasah." She offered her hand. "Da name's Hetty."

"Tornado," the other girl replied and shook Hetty's hand. "Ya're a newsie?"

Hetty grinned shyly. "Not exactly," she murmured uncertainly, wondering how to go about saying that she was a card-carrying member of the Manhattan Pickpockets. "See, I'm-"

"Da goil dat robbed me tahday!" a vaguely familiar voice exclaimed furiously and before Hetty knew it, the Italian boy dashed over with an expression to match his tone.

"So we meet again," the pickpocket laughed apprehensively.

"Wheah's me money?" he demanded furiously, glowering at her.

She bit her lower lip, a nervous habit of hers, and began the explanation. "Ya see, deah's dis t'ing wheah I got t'rown in hea, and Snydah kinda took all my cash. So he's kinda got your money, too."

The boy scoffed, feeling quite helpless, and sunk to sit beside Hetty. "T'anks a lot, kid," he snapped facetiously. "I woiked hard for dat money. Somet'ing you shoa didn't."

"Lay of da goil, Racetrack," Tornado ordered firmly, more serious than Race had ever heard her. He rolled his eyes in irriation but kept quiet. The girl turned to Hetty with a friendly grin. "Don't mind him; he's just upset 'cause dey t'rew him in heah tahday. So, ya got a name beddah dan Hetty?"

"Like a nickname?" she wanted to know, to which Tornado nodded. "Yeah, ya t'ink me parents actu'lly named me Tornado? I'm really Eliza Swann. He's Sean Higgins, called Racetrack."

Hetty stared at him for a moment. "I t'ought ya was Italian."

"Me muddah was," explained, slightly more calm and personable than he had been moments ago. "Me faddah was Irish. Dat's how I'se got da Italian looks and da Irish name."

Tornado had been studying Hetty closely, her eyes narrowed in thought. "Hmm...so you're a pickpocket?" After a yes, she continued, "Well, Pocket, I'd-"

"Pocket?"

"Yeah, short for your, ah, profession."

"How's about we call her-" Racetrack was suggesting bitterly when Tornado swiftly clamped a hand over his mouth and cast him an icy stare. "Try it and die, Racetrack," she warned and Hetty gathered that this was no empty threat.

Pocket. Hetty rather liked the sound of that. "Pocket," she repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Dat's not bad."

"Pocket it is, den," Tornado laughed gleefully. "So ya-"

Her next question was interrupetd by a familiar whisper. "Heya, Racetrack, Tornado," the famous Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan newsies, called to his two friends. Pocket was impressed that sucha distinguised newsie didn't merely send out one of the others to rescue his friends. She also knwe perfectly well that if she Dodger knew she was in the Refuge, he would let her rot until she was released, nd then would have Spit and dragon take her into a back alley to teach her a lesson. "What's hangin'?"

"Ya mean besides you?" Tornado laughed and headed towards the window. "Heah ta break us out, Cowboy?"

"Yeah, so keep ya voice down, will ya?" he demanded and extracted a long key, which glimmered in the moonlight, from his shoe. He pssed it through the bars to another newsie, a younger one, saying, "Ya can get away t'rough dat hallway, go left, and den right. Ya'll come to a staircase and at da bottom of dat's a long hallway. Go right. Den deah's a door, which dis key'll unlock, too, and it leads ta da courtyawd. Ya'll have ta be careful deah, but I'se shoa ya can get t'rough widout too much trouble. Right now, Snydah's checkin' on da floor above ya, so ya gotta move fast. If ya do, ya won't have no problems from him. Good luck, guys. I'll meet ya at da gates."

Racetrack stood and, to Pocket's great surprise, grabbed her hand. She cast a curious glance at him, so he went on to explain in exasperation, "I'se not gonna let ya jus' get away wid stealin' me money. You'se gonna pay me back."

"How?" was Pocket's disbelieving question, while she was being dragged by Race through the maze of hallways.

"I don't care, as long as I get my money back," he snapped.

Tornado pipped up, "She can sell papes wid us. Dat outta get your money back in no time."

Another newsie, a taller one, stared at Pocket skeptically. "I don't trust her," he remarked while scowling at the girl. "She's a thief. Do we really wanna have her around our stuff?"

"I'll personally watch her," Race promised and flung another glare at Pocket. "She's not gonna get away wid anyt'ing 'til she pays me back."

Pocket didn't know what to think as she and several other newsies crept around the Refuge, cautious of every distant sound and shadow. She wasn't ure of this 'being a newsie' plan. After all, she was a member of the Manhattan Pickpockets and one of the best purse cutters around. Then again, she'd never actually enjoyed working for the Dodger. He was ruthless and the other kids were just as tough. Maybe dis newsie t'ing might jus' woik out aftah all....

"Say, Pocket, you awake?" Midnight inquired and wave a hand in front of the girl's face. "No, better question- you on this planet?"

The girl returned to reality with an embarrassed grn. "Yeah, jus' t'inkin'. Ya know, dis reminds me of da time when I was spendin' da night in da Village, wid dese kids I knew from the orphanage. We were walkin' alng when all of da sudden, out jumps dis huge dog. I'm tawkin' about a monster dog; he had teeth as big as butchah knives, was as tall as a bunk bed, and drooled an ocean, which was pretty disgustin'...."

*****

Pocket aimlessly wondered how long she could stand out in the rain and not catch pneumonia. The gentle sound of pattering on the roof incrased steadily until it was a downpour, an icy wind whipping raindrops against the windopane. She sighed and leaned back against her pillow, partially glad to have the extra time to rest since the newsies obviously couldn't sell in this weather (Kloppman wouldn't allow it, even if they wanted to), but upset that she would lose a day of selling.

And I'se so close to making enough money to buy dose shoes, she commented to herself with a frown and turned her head slightly to see Aussie in the bunk beside hers. "Heya, Aus," she murmured tiredly.

Aussie smiled at her in return. "G'day, 'Ket, Blimey, I'm so used to gettin' up at predawn hours that it's weird to 'ave the extra time now. I feel like I should be doin' somethin'. Like i'm as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kickin' contest."

From the bunk above Pocket, Tornado groaned, "No, not da mice... I gotta get me hat first..."

Pocket and Aussie looked at each other for a split second before falling into a wild fit of giggles. "And she says she don't tawk in her sleep!" Pocket howled in delight.

"Wonder what else she'll say," Aussie gasped and the two girls stifled thir laughter to listen, but Tornado had already awakened due to their shrieks.

"Ya're both nuts," she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I does not tawk in me sleep."

Shadow, who had also waken up due to their noise, cast them a stare which could have reduced them to stone had they (particularly Pocket) not already been immune to it. "Would it kill ya ta shut up?" she demanded and, without waiting for a response, flopped back down on her pillow.

Pocket, unfazed by the usual irritated bertaing, turned back to her best friend. "Ya do so tawk in your sleep, ya know. Ya were dreamin' 'bout mice and a hat, huh?"

"I...ah...cray goils," Tornado finally muttered after finding herself unable to come up with an explanation.

Suddenly the sound of Kloppman yelling at the boys was heard quite clearly. "Get up! Get up! Rain's stopped, sell the papes! Carry the banner! Mush!" The girls suddenly realized that it had ceased raining, now only the final few raindrops splashing to the ground.

Violet, the leader of the Manhattan newsgirls and always the first to get out of bed, swung her legs off of her bunk and stood. "Come on, guys before he starts to shout at us, too. maybe the nuns'll even be out there."

The prospect of breakfast got everyone moving. Pocket could almost taste the bread and too-weak coffee as she washed her face. "I'm stawved," she admitted as she changed into her usual shirt and pants, the ones which were decorated with many patches and poor attempts at resewing. "Maybe da nuns'll give us real food dis mornin', too, like bagels and juice and pancakes and-"

"And dat's doubtful," Shadow responded realistically.

Midnight, who was tying her shoes, shrugged. "You never know, Shadow."

"Yeah, they could give us pancakes and I'm gonna be the Queen on England," Twink agreed with Shadow. She brushed her long, tangled blonde hair with Painter's comb and then grabbed her boots.

"A new monarch," Cricket, recalling her childhood in England, laughed. "I wonder what you'll do to Buching'am Palace."

Pocket giggled and bowed very deeply to Twink. "Your majesty, would ya buy me last pape?"

Ivy, who had been nearly silent as usual, spoke up in her timid manner. "That isn't a bad impression of a bow, actually," she complimented.

"Thanks. Of course I know how ta bow 'cause when I was eight, I was invited to da mayah's ball. Even his own daughtah couldn't dance as great as I did-" Pocket proclaimed, a proud expression on her face. But when she gazed around to see everyone stifling a fit of giggles, a frown quickly replaced her grin. "What? Ya don't believe me?"

Aussie shook her head and answered for the group, "Mate, ya couldn't lie straight in bed." Off everyone's confused stars, she sighed in exasperation and explained, "She's a real liar, mates. Australian expression. Now, come on. We can't let the boys get all the papes."

*****

Several hours later, Pocket wished it hadn't downpoured that morning. Now, even thuoght he fall sun was shining brightly and warming the city, there were still large, muddy puddles filling the sidewalks and thus making it impossible to sit. She sighed and frowned deeply. This didn't seem to be a promising day. She didn't have a selling partner (no one to talk to), the headlines were boring, and the fresh pair in the fruit cart across the street was terribly tempting. The nuns hadn't shown that morning due to the rain and Pocket was sure her stomach was grumbling loud enough to be heard on the other side of the moon.

Two days in a row, a devious voice remarked inside her head. Ya gotta eat, Pocket. Why don't ya jus' saunter up ta da cart and take it? No one's gonna notice, it's jus' a liddle ol' pear.

"No!" she firmly declared aloud, drawing some odd stares from passing men and women. She chose to ignore their looks and the voice. I can't jus' steal it, she told herself. I promised myself I wouldn't do dat again.

"Heya, Hetty!" a vaguely familiar voice called to her from down the block. She turned to see a redheaded boy with freckles dotting his face rushing towards her. He grinned brightly and waved, and for a moment Pocket couldn't place the boy. Then it came to her. "Blitz!" Now he recognized him, who had grown so over the past two years. "How's it rollin'?"

"Not bad, not bad," he answered, slightly out of breath from his run. "I t'ink I lost da bulls, who were followin' me rom Fifty-Eighth Street. Oddah den a 'tawkin' to' I got from Dragon last Monday"-he revealed a huge bruise on his arm-"I'se doin' all right. How about you'se?"

"Pretty good myself. No breakfast dis mornin', but I can't complain. Got ta sleep in 'cause of da rain. Course fat also means that I didn't get ta sell da mornin' edition."

He grinned brightly at her and asked, "Ya joined da newsies? I hoid dat but didn't know it was true."

She nodded in return. "Ya hiod right, Blitz. Joined up a few years go aftah gettin' caught and stuck in da Refuge. Name's Pocket now; it was weird ta heah ya call me Hetty. So, ya still in da Pickpockets? Is da Dodgah still da leadah?"

"Yeah, who else? We'se t'ought ya was taken off somewheah, Hetty," he replied slowly. "Ya nevah came back."

"Yea, well, it's just dat theah's dis kid and he made me pay him back for..." she trailed off, understanding what the boy was getting at. Her stomach performed a series of cartwheels as she tried to explain, "It ain't my fault, really. It's jus' dat I got caught up in dis, Blitz. Please don't tell da Dodgah, okay? Can ya promise me dat, Blitz?"

He stared at the girl uncertainly for a moment before muttering, "I guess. Jus' be careful, ya know? The oddahs, they'd-"

"I'll be fine," she assured him with a bright, grateful smile. "T'anks, Blitz. So, ya wanna hang around for a wile? I'se got some more papes ta sell, but den I'm gonna have lunch. Ya can come if ya wanna."

The boy shook his head and mumbled an excuse. "Nah, I should be gettin' ta woik. Da Dodgah has me on da Central Pawk crowd tahday, not my usual beat. I'll see ya around, Hetty." He smiled and turned on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd like a good pickpocket.

Pocket wasn't sure just how she felt about seeing her old friend. He had been such a nice kid, quiet and sweet. But something, perhaps that twisting in her stomach which was not related to hunger and which wouldn't leave her along, told her that there as more to this meeting than just a simple hello. Then she shook the doubtful thoughts out of her head, scolding herself, Come on, 'Ket. What's gonna happen? You's being way too paranoid.

"Extry! Extry! Horrible accident on da train tracks! Read all about it...!"

*****

Blitz strolled into the near-crumbling building, whistling a lively tune his mother had taught him an eternity ago. It had been a good day- easy stealing and a talk with an old friend. He had always liked Hetty, even her wild stories. When he entered the building and caught sight of the Dodger's icy glare, eyes boring into the redhead, Blitz ceased his song.

"Heya, boss," he greeted, trying desperately to hide the shaking in his tone.

"Heya, Blitz," the Dodger snarled and began to circle the boy as other pickpockets lookedo n anxiously. "So how was da day, Blitz? Make any money?"

"Yeah, boss, right heah. Twenty-t'ree bucks and fifty-nine cents." He swiftly displayed the money, and Dragon grabbed it out of his trembling hand.

The Dodger merely glanced at the bills and coin before returning his nasty gaze to the younger boy. "Anyt'ign else happen tahday? Like ya was walkin' down da street when all of da sudden, ya looked up and saw your old pal, Hetty? And don't lie ta me, kid!"

Blitz was unable to speak for a moment out of sheer terror. When he foudn his voice again, he spat out, "How'd ya know?"

"Theah's nothin' I don't know about, Blitz. Rememah dat."

"I was gonna tell ya, boss, honest," Blitz quickly tried to reassure the unpleasant-looking boy, but the dodger silenced him with a single menacing stare. Then, eyes still on the redhead but speaking to his cronies, he ordered, "Boys, take Blitz out back for a liddle chat. Make shoa he knows what dis tawk's about. Make shoa he don't forget any time soon."

Smirking in wicked delight, Spit and Dragon grabbe Blitz's arms before the boy could do anything in protest. "I'se sorry, boss, please!" he begged as the two giants dragged him out of the building and into a back alley, where they proceed to beat him until tears burst forth and he fell into a peaceful unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, the Dodger stalke around the building, deep in thought. He had to do something about Hetty, a sign to all of the other pickpockets of the extent of his wrath and strength. No one was allowed to walk out on him. Slowly, an idea formed- a very evil idea. Yes, this would prove to be very interesting, and even more entertaining.

Watch out, Hetty, he thought as a sinister grin spread across his lips. It's payback time.

The Dodger made a fist and smashed his hand through a nearby, wooden table, sending splinters and fragments of wood everywhere. "ALL RIGHT, EV'RYBODY IS GOIN' ON A LIDDLE MISSION TAHNIGHT!" he screamed to all of the pickpockets, who immediately leapt to attention at the sound of his raging voice. "We'se gonna give Hetty a liddle visit...."

(Echo: Well, here's the first part of Annie's ((aka: Athena)) fanfic, please give her some feedback! This is her first posted fanfic and I think it's pretty good! *smiles*)

Part 2
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