The story, brewing in her head for the last few days, began to take shape. Night, and the crumbling streets of Metaltown are still with anticipation. She committed the line to memory so she could jot it down later in her notebook, now tucked safely in the satchel hanging over her shoulder. Her worn boots creaked over the frosted sidewalk, and her mittened fingers gripped the strap of her bag even tighter as she picked up the pace. A week ago she’d overheard some of the boys from McNulty’s crew talking outside of the Cat’s Tale. Metalheads in one of the factories over the beltway are tired of being pushed around, they’d said. They’re making some sort of stand. Rumors of fighting had come to Bakerstown. Not the usual violence the factory district was known for, but some kind of pushback against their boss. She’d known right then that this was what she’d been waiting for. The story that snobby editor at the Journal needed to take her seriously. He thought she wasn’t reporter material, just because she was sixteen?
