Cassandra "Imp" Smith

First I'll be needin' yer full name, honey. It's for my confidential records. Lord knows none o' the goils actually uses 'em.

Cassandra Smith. If ya hafta know.

So what do people actually call ya? An' why?

Cassie, occasionally. Imp, mostly On account of my bein...tiny. *and troublesome*

Age an' birthday? Just estimate if ya ain't sure, hon.

I'm 16. Born in May. That's all ya really need to know.

Now you's gonna give me a physical description. Height, build, hair, eyes, the clothes ya wears--everythin' down to the last freckle, ya hear? *gives you a sober look* If one o' my goils goes missin'...well, it pays to be prepared, I always say.

I'll go missin eventually, I always do. Don't always come back. But, I guess...I'm short. Under five feet. And kinda slimish. Brown hair, light eyes, kinda grey, kinda blue. And I usually wear a grey dress, although it's kinda tattered, and I'm in the market for a new one. *will get around to stealing another dress sooner or later*

I know you'll be sellin' papes, but are ya doin' any odder kinda work? If so, I gotta know about it. *gives you a sharp look* Yes, even that.

So, sometimes I don't make it back here at night. It ain't really any of ya business. I ain't sellin anything. And if I come home with things that ain't mine, also ain't of ya business. I don't actually bring anything in here, so...leave it alone. *shrugs* I just like a different bed every once and awhile, no harm. These idiots never even realize anythin's missin.

What's yer personality like, dearie? Sweet, grumpy, shy, outgoin', overly fond o' the boys? *smiles* It's all perfectly fine here in Greenwich Village.

I'm told I'm prickly. *shrugs* Don't see as how I'm supposed to care, though. I speak my mind, and I admit I lie if I need to, I ain't afraid of a fight, and I'm good with a knife. I can defend myself, and I don't really like "boys", as ya put 'em. They're useless. Wait a bit, and they've figure out what they're doin with their lives. That's when they're worth goin after. I guess ya could say that's the kinda girl I am.

Now, most o' the Village is real keen on the arts. Got any special talents I should know about? If ya sing, dance, act, draw, paint, write, or sweep a stage, I guarantee the goils'll find ya some extra work. *winks* You can tell me about any non-artistic talents while you's at it.

I'm quick with the fingers, if ya know what I mean. *laughs* Bein a smartass, and stealin are about the only things I'm good at. Don't worry, though, I don't take from them as has less than me. No point. So, I wouldn't bother to steal from anyone else around here.

Any ghosts hauntin' ya that I should know about? I don't mean the kind that supposedly haunts the attic--I mean the bad things that follow ya from yer past, or the bad habits ya just can't seem to shake.

My pops is probably lookin for me. He's got a real nasty scar, care of my knife. He had it comin, bastard. And other than that...like I've said, I've got a habit of puttin my hands on shiny baubles. Not interested in breakin that.

Who d'ya know in the area, hon? Friend or foe, I wanna hear about it. An' have ya got any fam'ly left?

My pops is still alive, if he ain't drunk himself to death yet. And I've got an older brother, we call him Indian. He's in prison. Grown-up prison. *grins* He'n some of his friends were robbin this watch shop, and he knifed some idiot that tried to stop 'em runnin. He was gonna give me this gold watch, with pearl. It was real pretty, but the coppers caught 'em, and they all got locked up. Indian got 10 years, cause the guy he tried to gut lived. Otherwise, he'd've hung. But, he's four years in, and ain't had any time tacked on, so he'll be out in a couple of years. I visit him, one a month. He punches the other guys when they whistle at me, it's funny.

Other than that...no, I ain't really got friends around here. I'm still kinda new, and folks tend to think I'm...prickly. As I've said.

Seein' anyone special, dear? *smiles slyly*

*drawls* Know any rich older guys lookin for a pretty girl to wear on their arm? No? Then, nah. I ain't.

Now, last of all, baby, I need ya to tell me why you's here. Where'd ya come from, an' what kinda life did ya have before?

Pops was a bastard, a drunk, and he beat all of us. Ma was quiet, and sweet, and weak, and let him. Indian was in and out of the Refuge for most of my life. Few years ago, pops beat ma so hard she never woke up. His drunk copper friend got the other cops to call it an accident, and that was that. Indian was in jail already, and I ran. Found myself here. That's all there is to tell. *shrugs, yet again*