Day 3 Evening

[Belle]

The cold air of Chicago was brisk against her skin as she bounded down the few steps from her front door. Pausing to open the waist high swing gate, Belle zipped up her hoodie and tightened her gloves, pulling her hood over her head. She ran, down the street, up the avenue, trudging through the half-melted slush of the almost-but-not-quite spring of the windy city.

Kids chased her as she passed. It was a ritual, a game they played, the rules of which were never explicitly laid out, but whose goal was understood: if they caught her, she had to buy them candy.

She didn't let them catch her this time. She was at the end of her conditioning, the fight was in just a week. Her stomach twisted in knots from hunger, she still outran them easily, their eager footfalls fading into the distance.

She kept on going, through the twisting maze of the concrete jungle. People called out to her, cheering her name. She waved. A couple years ago, she would have stopped to indulge in the worship. But today she kept going.

Just one week.

She reached the steps of the courthouse and vaulted up two at a time. Her body was coated in sweat as she reached the top, her parched lips cracking in the cold. She turned back to watch the dawn break over the tangled web of aging buildings, monuments to a better time. Chicago was a small stage, but it was her's. She would do them proud.

~+~+~+~

The glove smashed into her face. She felt something crack, blood spurting out her nose and down her lips. Her opponent had put himself between her and the ref - he couldn't see what was happening as another hook sailed.

Belle jerked her head back, missing the glove, only for the arm to curl harder, catching her in the side of the head with an elbow. Her eyes went white. She felt the ropes against her back, her tired arms swinging over to keep her from falling. More blood, running down the side, down her neck. So foggy ...

The ref was yelling. The dark figure of her opponent had receded, replaced by a talking mouse in white and black stripes.

"Are you okay to go?" the mouseman demanded.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Wasn't the hero supposed to win? She could hear them all around her, the voices chanting her name, willing her to go on. But could she? Her legs were trembling.

Again, the mouse. "Are you okay?

"Belle."

Belle snapped back, her head thudding against the tree she was resting against, sending vicious stabs of pain through the reopened wound in her head. Protoman's scarf was stained dirty brown with dried blood.

"I can keep going," she whispered. "They need the belt."

"...What?"

Her eyes focused. Slowly, she fumbled towards realization. The island. Right. "I'm fine," she mumbled.

The mouse seemed unconvinced. "I'm sure you are," he said. "But just in case, we're going to wait a bit before we move, okay?" He offered a sad smile. "We really need to get you a helmet."

She tried to smile. Instead, all that came out was a grimace. It was easy to forget how many muscles were part of that until some of them were swollen.

"Well, we'll get you something," Mickey promised. "Maybe ... Maybe something in the survival guide will help."

"Mickey," Belle said, her words feeling a thousand miles away in her mouth. "That's not a survival guide. It's pornography. Porn. Smut. Boobies. Hoohas."

Mickey's eyes widened. "Oh no," he whispered. With a solemn expression, he put a hand on her shoulder. "It's worse than I thought. Don't worry, Belle, I'll make sure you get through this!"

"Vaginas, Mickey," she slurred. It seemed very important that she got this point across.

"Blues?" Mickey called. "I think she's starting to speak in tongues."