Chapter 1: VI? Stands for "Hell If I Know"

Sweet, sweet blackness. It's kinda nice. You know, the darkness of a dreamless, but restful sleep? The kind that doesn't waste your time with dreams? I love it. It's the one true escape I have, where no one and their stupid, probing questions can reach and pester me. Seriously, nothing beats sleeping after a hard-day's work of pawning off "reworked" electronics and trinkets, maybe even swiping some food or money (preferably both, if my victim is loaded) with my practiced hands and enjoying the day's loot and profits, followed by sweet sleep.

-SCREE SCREE SCREEE-

Which is why I hate that alarm clock.

Right on cue, it rips me out of my awesome slumber, and the perky, preppy voice of Janna, the weather lady for the Valoran Morning News starts running off as fast as a hurricane.

"We're finally looking at some seasonal change this morning, as Winter is finally moving out, leaving Spring to give us warmer temperatures and a sunny, slightly-cloudy day! Look forward to enjoying the great outdoors this afternoon, as it's great picnic weather! To wrap it all off, we can expect light rain showers this evening, but the warm air is here to stay! Back to you!"

Pft. That lady and her obnoxious cheerfulness makes my stomach hurt, and my knuckles tingle. But, I gotta listen to her every morning, as it gets me up bright and early, and knowing the weather is important. It lets me gauge what kind of day I might face, how many people might be out and wandering around the crowded streets and endless mazes of alleys. On cold, rainy days, I have a hard time attracting any customers, which means no money. And that means no food. On slow days like those, I have to resort to abusing my five-finger discount to keep myself fed. Not to mention, it's nice to know when it might rain, as that gives me a heads-up to fix up my run-down, old, splintered shack. During the winter, the roof caved in from snow, and I've had to cover it with a thin sheet. Looks like I'll have to scrape around the dump and jerry-rig a roof. Well, hey, at least I have my work cut out for me.

After slapping the "off" button on my hextech clock a few dozen times, I sit up in my small, but snug, sleeping bag, stretching away the sleep in my muscles. I look at the little patchwork kittens that are sewn onto the blue sleeping bag. I smile a bit. Sure, it isn't the toughest looking sleeping bag around, but I have always loved me some cats! They're typically the creatures I see most here at "home", in this old, beat-up, kinda-gross shack, in a fenced-off dump on the edge of Piltover. Well, other than rats, of course. Apparently this place was shut down a few years back. Seems like a waste to me, as there's tons of goodies left in these giant piles of junk. Like this shack! Just sitting here, untouched, ripe for someone to claim. Since this place is "abandoned", though, I figure no one cares if I use it for shelter.

So, remember how I mentioned "stupid, probing questions" earlier? Yeah. Someone like me tends to be a magnet for them. A six-year-old girl, living completely on her own, who lives in a beat-up, crumbling shack in the back of a deserted, run-down dump on the very edge of Piltover? That's apparently just a wee bit odd. But that's not even all of it. How about the fact that I have absolutely zero family? I have never, ever had someone to watch after me, no one to protect me, and no one to provide anything whatsoever. No Mom, Dad, sibling, cousin, or even twice-removed father-in-law or something. No nanny. Just me, and the streets of Piltover, "The City of Progress".

The thing that comes up the most, though? The fact that I have "VI" on my face, apparently tattooed in black ink, right there on my left cheek, a bit under my eye. Why is it there? When was it written on me? What does it mean?

I have no idea.

You can only hear the same questions, and respond the same way so many times before it starts to get annoying. I don't know why I have that on my face. I don't even know if it's the letters "V" and "I", or a number. It just happens to be there. No, I don't know what became of my parents or family, and I don't care, either. No, I am not scared or lonely. No, I don't think my situation is sad. No, I don't want your pity change.

I don't have time to wonder about my past, where I come from, my history, or even what my name is. People usually call me "VI", since they are uncreative and assume my tattoo must be my name. Sure, whatever, call me Vi, it sounds cool and is kinda badass. Sure, most six-year old girls don't live by themselves, fighting for food and whatever money they can grub up. But I do. I have taught myself how to rely on me, and only me, and not charity work, or what people give to me out of pity. That kind of stuff really cheeses me off.

I am perfectly capable at taking care of myself, as my very survival shows. I have taught myself how to work with electronics and handiwork, stripping down hextech parts and pieces from the dump, and using them to cobble together things I can sell in the crowded, dense market-stalls that line the endless alleys here. I prefer to earn money legit, and use my earnings to buy myself food, or the occasional piece of clothing, or whatever else I might need to support myself. But, I don't kid myself either. The people who live here in the slums understand a certain fact of life, one that I had to learn right away:

Desperate needs call for desperate measures.

For the most part, people here in the Piltover Slums are doing their best to make ends meet, spending a lot of time and effort working dead-end, low-paying jobs just to survive. Sometimes, life just pushes you a bit too far, and that, no matter how good of a person you may be, how many angels follow you around singing a choir or some shit, sometimes you just have to resort to crime to get by. You see it all the time in the streets; people being mugged at knife-point at night, pick-pockets quickly and silently swipe money from unaware victims, food from market-stalls end up missing, and prized possessions and merchandise has the strange habit of appearing in a flea market a few days after they go missing. Sometimes, some folks are desperate enough to stage a heist, which almost never ends well for anybody. The few banks that operate here on the outskirts of Piltover are highly defended, with plenty of guards from the Piltover Police Department to discourage any would-be criminals. Sometimes, they even have some shmuck from the League come and intimidate people from doing something stupid.

But hunger, poverty, and plain ol' desperation has a funny way of making folks a little too willing to do something stupid.

So, when you live here in the slums, you just keep your head down and mind your own business. If you're smart, you also keep your wallet as close to you as possible, and you gotta always know where it is if you want to keep your money by the end of the day. I've definitely have stolen my fair share food and trinkets from unguarded market stalls before. But like most people here, I live by a certain code. I do everything I can to buy my food and other essentials legit, with money that I have earned. Why? Because the people who are selling you those over-ripe fruits, thin, salted meats and half-functioning gadgets are in the same situation as you. They need the money just as bad as you do. So I always try my best to help them out, and buy their crappy wares to maybe feed them and their family for another I'm no "saint", and I'm not stupid enough to let my guard down. Many people just see me as a weak, helpless orphan girl, and assume I'm an easy target, especially kids who are a few years older, and bigger, than I am. These people try to bully me, to shake me down and take whatever I have on me. They think "Oh, it's just some weird orphan girl who lives by herself! There's no way she can defend herself! Let's go grab her shit!"

These people swiftly meet my two problem-solvers: Left and Right knuckle duster.

Life can be hard out here. But nothing can bring a smile to my face faster than seeing your would-be attacker's ugly mug morph from cocky confidence to horrified surprise….before changing again to black, blue, and maybe a smidge of crimson.

I tend to sleep the best when I have given at least a few crooks a makeover. I am who I am, and no amount of whiny soul-searching will change that. So instead, I focus on getting by, and if I have to rearrange a few faces? Hell, I think I love it.