"Nottingham, Sec. 5-7" by Camilla ´Motone´ Whitney

Section 5

The Word Might be Fulfilled that is Written in their Law

“We’re relocating.”  I said.  “Why are we relocating?”

“The Hoods are onto us.”  Daemon said.  “They’re getting more desperate.  Other units have begun attacks, infiltrations.”

Daemon was now leading us through the byways and along rooftops, anywhere that we wouldn’t be seen by the casual eye of the women of the night and their clients.

“We’re relocating to Europe.” I said.  Ellison glanced at me, I fell silent.  It was because of me that this was happening.  My time in the Enemy’s house… He may have been foul, but not so stupid as he seemed.  I revealed it all, through my actions, even through my silence.  My insistence on wearing the cloak betrayed to him my loyalty, my silence betrayed my paranoia, the fear of being caught.  The cloak was a trademark, he knew it was none of the cult, he knew it was not of popular fashion.  It meant I belong to a sect, an organization.  My attempts to escape, of course they didn’t elude his notice.  Why couldn’t I have been the obedient little girl and done as I was told?

“Don’t blame yourself.” Chea whispered.  “It’s not like we were going anywhere anyway.”

Was everything to fail because I was foolish enough to get captured on my first mission?  I was so stupid.  I had to set things right somehow, I had to do something to rectify this.  Yet I did nothing.  Nothing, just followed Daemon into the subway shaft.

Low grinding immersed only by the uncomfortable silence of prejudiced strangers, flashes stabbing the dark.  We sat separate to avoid suspicion, but in the same car, to ensure safety.  The drunk across the isle eyed me and I clutched the bar next to my seat, forced myself not to stare.  Or choke.

I was filled with this tremendous guilt.  Here we were, running away to Canada, because of my stupidity.  I should have tried the vegetable stew.  None of this would have happened then.  I wouldn’t be endangering my friends—I wouldn’t have friends to endanger.  Maybe, without me, this organization would be able to usurp the tyrants, or whatever it was we were doing.  I didn’t even know.  Maybe we were the bad guys and the Hoods, if they really existed, really were trying to make things better all around.

Unconsciously, I shook my head.  That could never be true.  I had seen the depravity in the cities, the poverty on the streets.  I knew there was no good in that.  Any organization is better than anarchy, I told myself.  I had somehow discovered the hidden organization, whatever was left of the ideals that this country had once been based upon.  I knew nothing of the past, only reasoned that in order for society to have a Downfall, it would need something from which to fall down.

Lurching, passengers were thrown to the ground in an emergency stop, heaped in a tangle, recoiling from each other.  Before they had a chance to remove themselves, the cars were swarming with Hoods.  I was still clinging to the bar, but I released it and fell to the ground, rolled and hid myself under the benches.  I threw the cloak over me, hoping it would cause me to blend with the shadows or at least appear to be a pile of garbage.  I couldn’t see through the fabric, but I listened.  The Hoods sorted through the tangle of people, hunted through the cars, and extracted only three, then continued to kick amongst the others as though looking for a fourth, a fourth whom they did not find because she was hiding under a bench.  Then the train slowly warmed up and began moving.

I got off at the next stop, alone.  Where were they taking them?  What would they do with them?  Remembering the Room, I knew only too well what would be done with Daemon.  I couldn’t let that happen to someone else.  Someone else that I…  No, it couldn’t be.  It couldn’t be love.  Love was a myth, a ghost, a fairy tale element from the 21st century.  Love no longer existed.  It couldn’t possibly be love.  There was no such thing.  Hadn’t they proven that love was merely a fabrication, purely chemical in nature and psychologically stimulated by ancient myths and traditions?  And yet, why did I feel such a need to save him?  Because he was my friend?  It didn’t matter.  Whatever the reason, I had to do something.

I knew what to do.  I had to find our base camp.  There was one somewhere, this I knew.  In another forest, Daemon had said, hidden.  An entire establishment maybe?  Hiding in caves?  Probably not.  Another band just like ours, then?  A base has to have organization, a strong leader with a strong company.  Not another nomadic group like ours, but a union, one that required a whole under the instruction of a single.

I went back to our camp.  It looked untouched.  That help to lift my spirits a little, meaning that perhaps they didn’t know exactly where we were.  

I found myself searching through Daemon’s possessions, until I found the small device that he sat hunched over night after night, twiddling knobs and watching and whispering.  I inserted the earphones and pushed the on button.  

The screen lit up, slightly blue and somewhat snowy.  The view seemed blank, but there was a small amount of noise, indiscernible.  Somewhat louder was a grunt of surprise, then the view shifted and I was looking at the face of a man, older and not too attractive.

            “Who is this?” he demanded in a husky voice.

I paused, dumbfounded, then managed to stammer out an answer. “I’m in Daemon’s... group,” I said stupidly.

“Daemon?” said the man.  “Why isn’t he contacting me?  How do I know you’re telling the truth?”  

“He’s been captured,” I said.

            “Daemon, captured!  Where are you?”  

            “I’m, uh…” To tell the truth, I wasn’t exactly sure where this camp was located, or how to explain how to get to it.  I didn’t know who this man was either, but he seemed to know what I was talking about.  “I’m at Daemon’s camp,” I replied finally.

“Wait there,” the man said, “I’ll send a team to get you.”

They arrived the next day, and I was glad to see they wore the same type of cloak as I, though some were threaded with blue or orange rather than green.

Escorted to the base camp by a group of about ten, I couldn’t help but feel there was a lot of attention on me.  I was led directly to the main leader himself, the man I had talked to on the device.  I had never heard Daemon talk about him directly, and especially not by name.

“You say Daemon has been taken?  This is bad news.”  A tangy pungent scent wafted from the cup over which he growled.

“They took Chea and Ellison too.”  Not sure if he heard it the first time.

“Yes, yes, notable division members.”  Pretending he cared.  “Listen, that boy was going to be second-in-command.  Next time I saw him.”  I hadn’t seen this man in the Room, not that I had noticed.  Didn’t the Hoods know about him?  Or perhaps, Daemon was more of a threat than he was.

“He deserves it.”

The general mused as he gulped the thick liquid.  He hadn’t offered me any.  “Obviously we’ll have to organize some kind of rescue party or something.  Not that the little devil couldn’t get out by himself.  But undoubtedly, everyone needs a little help sometimes.  I may look stupid, but I’m no fool.  They’ll probably torture him, to find out where we are.  But in the end, he will definitely die.”

They had to be stopped.

“We’re sitting ducks if we don’t get those kids out of there.  You and I,” he said, “will be heading the rescue teams.”

According to our best resources, the general knew where the Hood’s headquarters was.  The expedition set out almost immediately.

Section 6

They Lay Wait for their Own Blood, They Lurk Privily for their Own Lives

Deep in the jungle where the only trees were skyscrapers and the only waterhole was a glass bottle, under a canopy of smog, we fared through paved trails. Within eyesight, but inconspicuously separate, the group of nine wended their way to a single destination, warding a stupid, but powerful, enemy.

Reaching our terminus, in an immense, confused moment of gunshots, yelling, arrows, and most of all, running, the fellowship departed a different way it came, two up-three new members, one lost. One figure, forced; surrounded by figures much bigger and darker than she.

Of all the people in the company, they had to capture me. Why was it always me?

Inside the building, I was introduced to the interrogation room.

"You know what we want to hear." A voice from the shadows; low and threatening; like a warning growl.

The air hung heavily in the stagnant pause.

The man suddenly emerged from the shadows. He looked like he could be anyone, no distinguishing features. What color was he? It was too dark. I couldn't tell, I was too tired, too much in pain. Or I was finding it less important to notice such things.

"Have you ever killed someone? You wouldn't think it would be that hard, one thinks of it like an everyday thing; and it is, in this world. You'll just get them out of the way; take care of them, you think. If only it were that simple. When considering taking a life, no one ever thinks that the victim will fight back, maybe yell. You think it's like those old movies they used to show on television-before we took over. I guess you're too young. In the movies it's instantaneous. One stab, one bullet, and it's over. When the victim struggles it makes the deed suddenly become a whole lot harder. You start wanting to kill her just so she'll shut up. She struggles, she fights back. She may even hurt you. But you continue, crazed by some mad desire, and your sword penetrates flesh. The sword is only my particular favorite. You might choose a weapon such as a gun, or perhaps anything that happens to be laying around. But the sword, it's a weapon of sophistication heretofore ignored."

The only reverence he held in life was in a tool for death.

"The w ay it glides smoothly into a body. Maybe in the stomach, or the throat, or some random angle. The blade sticks a little, you have to push, force it in, slicing through who-knows-what, maybe a grating or even cracking if you come across bone. It comes out easier, lubricated with the thick, shiny red mortality, the tang chokingly strong. The blood runs down from the steel and your hands become sticky with death. The victim looks up at you with large, pain-filled beseeching velvet eyes, but it's too late, and she knows it. The victim is usually dead within 10 minutes. It can take as little as eight to bleed to death. Perhaps you have experienced this, maybe so many times that you no longer feel..."

I hadn't, he could tell; but he, he must have.

"Now imagine," he said, drawing menacingly close, "that you are the one being killed." He knew I already had, his eyes told me so, but in a cruel, unfeeling way he continued.

He started playing with the sword he had been holding the entire time, feeling the cold steel against his cheeks. "It must be awful, with the chilled knowledge that they are here to kill you, with the knowledge that if they succeed, before the night is done you will have ceased to exist-once you see that mad look in their eyes, on their faces. The victim always realizes what will happen right before it does; the look of fear on their faces is all-revealing. You vainly fight to keep your life; then, suddenly, the cold metal intrudes itself upon you-you have trouble breathing-you start feeling faint, weak from blood loss-you stop struggling, and things start to go black..."

He held the cool blade against my skin, face close to mine. I held his gaze, steadily and defiantly. There was no one to save me. He pushed it ever so gently, just enough to draw a bit of blood.

"I'm not going to kill you." he said, withdrawing the blade. "Not yet, anyway. No," he said, "I could have a little sport with you."

I didn't know what that meant. I didn't want to know, but I would find out.

Prisoner again. It seemed a little ironic. But this room was completely bare, absolutely bare, no way to escape. And nothing that could form a weapon.

I had been beaten, no bruises showing through the tattoo paint of my skin. Only a broken lip revealed it, the blood stark on my white lips. I had been starved, but the look only complemented my street disguise.

Whatever they had planned for me, it would do nothing. They had taken Daemon away from me and me away from Daemon. My protector. He had always concentrated more on the good of the whole.

The man came again, within a matter of days.

"You know what it is we want." he said.

"Chaos?"

"There is more order than you would think." Sharply.

They had created this destruction, the decay of economy, for themselves. The common people were rats, cockroaches, left to fend for their disgusting selves when there was no longer a government for them, to protect their lives. People were even beginning to sell each other, anything to survive. The Hoods had the power, they had the secret passwords to ascend the filth of the common and pass into their own, wicked world. The Hoods had the power at the expense of the plebeian society. I knew all this, but I didn't say anything.

"Whatever you and your troops may think about lives and liberties, you're wrong. Life should be lived by those who know how to live it. The rest of the world is just stepping stones, for the best to move to the top."

A carefully planned organization; a carefully planned devastation. Undermining society, aiming for the weakest, stupidest and most desperate until the base was reduced and the entire structure of politics, society, economy and life as it was known, crumbled.

"They're happy with their lives. They don't know any better. They like the freedom of choice, no rules restricting them. We only gave them what they wanted all along."

They don't like it; it was a life of fear and greed. People killed others over mishaps, mothers sold their babies to survive. You trusted no one, not your parents, not your next door neighbor-assuming, that is, that you even have a place to live-you never even looked at anyone on the street, for fear of them taking it the wrong way.

I'm just a girl, that's all. Why am I mixed up in all this? I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the world thinks I'm a killer, even this man, convinced of his own propaganda… Why did it happen to me? There must have been a reason, but what?

"You and your people only seek to destroy the delicate equilibrium we have created."

"Kill me if you like. I would rather give up life than endanger our plan."

"Stop being altruistic, it will get you nowhere. Fortunately for you, I have contrived a plan to stop yours before you even get to see the inside of a real torture chamber."

During my stay with my friends in the forest, Daemon had tried to teach me archery. My aim was terrible; he turned to swordsmanship. This was a sport I came to excel in, even as Daemon in archery, Chea in stealth and Ellison in hand combat. It was this I would have to turn to when the time came. I loved the blade as much as my captor did; I just didn't show it as foolishly.

Pacing furiously in my cell, I searched my pockets for the hemlock. The plan was hideous, it was dastardly. What had I done with that hemlock? Suicide wasn't the answer, but what did it matter, I would die sooner than later anyway. My parents-they were fighting to the very end. I saw them. My parents. Strange that I should continue their legacy so accurately without even realizing it. They were such strong advocates against the Hoods, and here was I, in the same situation, but so unintentionally. The Hoods had already killed my parents; they would not have the satisfaction of having the daughter die because of them as well. The worst thing I could do to defy their will, was simply to live.

Section 7

She is More Precious than Rubies, and All Things Thou Canst Desire are not to be Compared Unto Her

When the man returned again, he had come for me. Bound, I was taken to be auctioned. In a coliseum, one much bigger than the first; and consequently, filled with many more people. It was a shooting contest: choose your own weapon. No guesses as to the prize. Many greedy men eyed me, still in my street disguise, my hair by now shaggy past my shoulders; but there was to be no handling until after the contest. I glared down at them, letting them know with my eyes that I was in no way condoning these actions. It didn't scare many people off, I didn't expect it to. There were some men who didn't look at me at all; I suppose just wanting to show off their skill.

There were many weapons; they interested me more than the people baring them. Machine guns, rifles, shotguns, handguns, but there, in the midst, I saw a quiver resting on a back. Daemon, the fool! Surely he realized it was a trap! I couldn't call, couldn't attract attention to him. It was folly. What was he planning? Beyond a doubt the Hoods would recognize him; how could they not? He would be, after all, the only person stupid enough to use a bow and arrow at a shooting contest.

The first pigeon was pulled, and decimated in a matter of seconds. I turned my face away from the brutality. Different reports were sounded; I recognized each to the type of gun. Then, the familiar zing of an arrow and a thunk. I looked up to see the clay pigeon with a steel-tipped arrow stuck straight in the middle of it. The pigeon wobbled in its arc to the ground and was recovered. There was a murmur of confusion from both the audience and the contestants. I looked toward my captor, he was signaling. In a sudden rush, Daemon was surrounded. Despite my robes, I leapt up, grabbed my captor's sword, and aided in the massacre. A friendly voice nearby, with a friendly sword, told me to hold still and sliced through my bounds. I couldn't see to whom it belonged. The place was suddenly flooded with Hoods and my people, dueling to many grisly deaths. I had never killed before, but for some reason it didn't bother me. I didn't see faces, individuals, I only saw enemies versus friends. This was war. Daemon found me somewhere in the chaos and we left the fighting. I don't know how it ended, but I do know my captor was killed somewhere in it.

We recuperated in the forest. I kept the sword. We said nothing as we sat by the fire, but our thoughts were of the same thing. With the leaders of the Hoods gone, the road was paved to a new beginning. We leaned comfortably against each other and the stars, for the first time in years, seemed happy.