( it's an odd silence that hangs between the two of them, sheer and utter lack of understanding. marc doesn't take any notice of the mopping behind them, a mixture of it being completely uninteresting and it being completely, wholly familiar — how many buckets had he watched wash away blood and teeth and sweat and saliva? enough that the smell of soapy, dirty water doesn't mean anything.

and so lottie crosses her arms and marc waits before being taken aback, entirely, by the questions she asks. eyes widening for a second and then narrowing in a frown that screams a lack of comprehension more than it does anything else. bloggers? it's not that he doesn't know what they are, but that he doesn't know why she's bringing them up. professional fighting? that one's easier, but that doesn't mean she's going to like the answer—. )

Money. The sort of fights I did weren't televised. Had to know a guy or two to even get invited.

The sort you're thinking of are fake.