Nada's Escape

9- Announcement.

It's been a day since Finley has slipped me the note and it's the first time since that I've managed to grab a moment alone with all the fighters. Amy leans against her broom on my left. Something about the fizz of her bleach blonde waves around her face makes it look as though she's just stepped out of the surf.

Next to her the younger fighters, the three musketeers as I like to call them, slide a mattress by at a snail's pace. Fern, Laura and Josie with hair of midnight, brown and lighter brown, turn their inquisitive eyes to me. The colour of their eyes is leached by the stream of sunlight through a slit-like window at the back. I crouch below them, hidden for a time.

"As some of you know," I whisper, brushing invisible dust into my dishpan. "Jayne was the oldest and strongest fighter here until about a year ago. The Huntsmen decided she was 'too old to be converted', but we know the truth. She was only 16 years old. About a year ago her stay in Seven was 'officially terminated'. I have recently found out that she was kept in a cell under that Huntsman village we saw the other night and is now, regrettably, dead."

The last word falls flat and there's nothing left to say. The faces of my fighters, leaning over me on brooms or clutching mattresses, echo the doom of the statement back to me. Their eyes remain glassy in quiet remembrance and I give them a measly ten seconds to mourn her.

"I've learned something else too. Something worse than even that. If we don't escape or pledge within eleven days we will all be terminated too." They can't withhold their surprise this time. Amy blurts out an exclamation and Laura drops to her knees. I wince as Fern and Josie's exclamations follow soon after.

"Fighters..." a warning growl sounds from one of the wardens as he stalks over. "No plotting!" I slip Finley's note into Amy's hand as I rise from my crouch.

"No, not today." I reply and it's an order to my fighters as much as a response to the warden. I raise my hands in faux surrender.

Unfortunately, lethargy still holds my body to trial. All my fighters are the same. They are slow to react, returning to sweeping and working, tilting their heads down until I can barely see the dark rings under their eyes. We need to lay low for a few days to rebuild our strength. We are going to need it soon.

Once the hall has been transformed back to a dining space and we gobble down breakfasts of dry bread and butter, everyone trudges across the courtyard. I am unenthused to melt in the schoolroom under scorching heat and boredom. I slip into the back, inadvertently snagging the teacher's attention. It's still the tall, bald one then.

"Nada, no excuses today I see," he reprimands, but lightly. I don't acknowledge the comment besides turning my head to look the other away.

"Yes, you're right. It's too hot for geometry yet. Hmm... Instead I'll tell you the tale of the Seven." I sigh loudly. Marigold, the last teacher had told us that one before. Over and over until the cadence of her cheerful voice was burned into my mind.

"Resco's ancestors were called to the Huntsmen cause in the time of the Holy Roman Empire," began the tall man folded grasshopper-like into a chair at the front. "Baden's were on the banks of the Tigris when called, Letitia's originated from the Russian steppe, Loiza and Ayshford's claim was as old as civilisation on the Ganges Plain, Elvira's from the iron works of the Bantu people and Lucy-Anne was a friend to all of them, a fierce warrior, but had no Huntsmen heritage of her own."

This is nothing new to me and so while he drones on I scan the girls splayed at desks before me to gauge their reactions. My fighters, even pale-haired Amy at the very front, are drooping, either disinterested or tired I cannot tell.

Macie, neatly brushed hair shining even in the dim room, is rapt, eyes devouring the information. Carefully placed behind Macie are her two companions. The enthralled one sits straight, frowning vaguely at the black board and the other glances to Macie every few seconds, struggling to copy her idol's effortless expressions.

The three musketeers as I like to call them, squish behind the desk built for two in front of me. The give each other coded looks and fold and unfold their arms in an endless dance. In the centre of the room, just a few untroubled kids, sit those who haven't picked a side, for or against the Huntsmen. They're fence-sitters; fencers.

Opposite them the two weeper's gazes are as vague as the enthralled one's. Except the weepers are marked by red eyes and sallow distraught cheeks. There have always been weepers in seven, those who can't manage their fear, their sadness and their depression so they never do anything at all. My heart truly wells with remorse that those girls were picked to be taken here. They don't deserve this.