The Nephilim Protocol

Classes

"So, here's how we're going to escape," Ball Buster says the next day.

"Can this wait?" I ask, sipping at my mug. The coffee is dark and black. There was no creamer at the cafeteria table, no sugar. It's bitter, but I need it.

"Till when: lunch?" Ball Buster asks.

"What's to plan?" says Dolphin, who's apparently hanging out with us now. "Like I said, my dad's about to swoop on this place with his army of lawyers. He'll bail me out."

"Assuming that happens, good for you," says Ball Buster, looking disgusted. "Sort of leaves the rest of us high-and-dry, though, doesn't it?"

"I meant," I say, "can the escape wait? It's still snowing out there, like, bad."

"Well, obviously we're not gonna escape now." Ball Buster rolls his eyes. "I'm talking what we have to do long-term. Just gotta figure out how they get supplies and troops on and off."

"There's an airport," I say.

He looks at me, skeptical. "They dropped us by parachute. Why do that if there was an airport, Square?"

I'm not sure why everyone's decided my nickname should be Square. There wasn't any big incident or anything; it just seems like the whole camp decided it overnight. Apparently, even at a secret prison island for teenage half-angels, I'm considered boring. Still. Better than Chad.

"It's where I crashed down. I heard the guards who picked me up talking about it. Though where that was ..."

"Pretty sure I saw the truck bringing you in," says Dolphin, chewing slowly. "Came from off ... east, I guess."

I look at Ball Buster. "Want to check it out tonight?"

"Why are you guys even looking to escape?" Mouse says, spooning oatmeal into his mouth.

"Because that's what you do in a prison," I reply. "Literally, the first thing you did was try to run away from here."

"When I thought this place was a work-death camp, yeah. But now ... warm beds, good food, even video games ... what's the problem?" He shakes his head. "Are all Americans so whiny?"

"About prisons?" says Ball Buster as the bell rings. "Hell yes."

———

"... the name 'Nephilim' was given by the Catholic Church, whom we believe discovered your people in Palestine during the First Crusade." Ms. Clerk (no, that's not auto-translate: just her actual name) indicates the diagram on the screen. "It is a plural term, the singular form is 'Nephil.' They believed the indents in your chest were a sign of your divine nature, due to their resemblance to a cross. Consequently, they drafted numbers of your kind to serve as their holy warriors." She clicks the button in her hand. The slide rotates to show a painting of a tall, muscular man in armor, wearing a white robe with a red cross across the middle.

"The Templars." She taps the red cross. "Notice the Church's way of echoing the chest condition they thought divine. The Templars were feared warriors whose order demanded simple lives. They weren't allowed to marry or hold land. Perhaps the Church thought these rules would keep your ancestors in check." She pointedly lowers her glasses down her nose.

The kid next to me snickers. Fish, his name is—scrawny kid with big eyeglasses.

"Of course," she continues, "the Templars eventually dominated Europe with all sorts of abuses, manipulating kings and the Church alike—essentially doing whatever they pleased. If you've read Ivanhoe—and if not, you should—you know there are accounts of them robbing, murdering, raping ..."