The Transfer ✔️

Chapter Two - Transferring

My mind goes blank. My body deflates as white noise rings out in my ears and a symphony of confusion pours through my head. Standing numbly without showing any emotions, I raise my chin to talk to the man when sound comes charging through my brain again.

"Are you insane?"

"Has the stupidity of your camp become fatal? 'Cause I'm about to kill you."

"Your camp is filth."

"Quit whilst you're ahead. You'll regret this later."

He stands, the comments not affecting his bravado. "It's her," He replies. "Or Damien. Take your pick and be thankful I'm being generous."

Silence. Absolute silence. I speak for them because I will not allow my fate will not be decided by other people.

"No. It's unjust to put our camp in a scenario like that." I blurt out, my emotions controlling my words.

"It's a scenario that your camp agreed to be in." The man protests with confidence, his emotions hidden behind his cunning mindset.

I meet his confident look with a menacing glare and fold my arms across my chest. "Surely I should be allowed to fight for my future?"

"What? You want to break another tradition? Go ahead but when you lose, well take two of your soldiers instead."

My mouth runs dry as I take in his words. Flashbacks to how ruthless his fighting was reminds me of how he doesn't care about preserving his own body. He would die fighting for victory. I take in the fragility of our camps number and look up with shock when he speaks again.

"It's Audrey or Damien. Take your pick."

Silence taunts me.

Nobody talks because the decision has already been made without having to discuss it. Damien is the preferred figure in our camp, his influence would be missed much farther than my absence could ever be.

Nobody moves an inch as I walk forward, protecting my dignity whilst I can. No hands grab me back and defend me by spitting more angry words. Nobody volunteers themselves up. There is only silence and the sound of my boots against the concrete floor break it.

The invisible line where no camp crosses unless they're fighting lies in front of me and I stop at it. Not moving a muscle, the silence from behind me screams louder than any of the cunning smirks in front of me. Marchwood think they've won. They think they've picked us apart and they'll take an easy to handle yet vital asset of Oakwood away. They're wrong. I'm not leaving with a fight; I'm arriving with a fight. A fight to prove them wrong. A need to prove them wrong.

Looking up, I make eye contact with the man and cock my head to the side. "Ready?"

His lips pull up at the corners. "Are you?"

I place one foot in front of another and cross the line, never breaking eye contact. "I'm always ready."

Somebody from the side grabs my bicep and harshly drags me to the side making a murmur runs through my camp, but I leave willingly. My last image to them will not be one of struggle. He marches me swiftly down a corridor and puts me in front of a small bus. Opening the door himself, he shows me to a seat and looks at me expectantly.

The word traitors flashes through my mind as I hear people coming, thinking it's Oakwood with my stuff. But I'm disappointed by my own camp yet again as unfamiliar faces pop up at the windows and pile in, cramming thirty of us into the small space. Despite being a bus, the seats are laid out like a subway and I make glaring, harsh eye contact with the man who led me onto the bus.