AMELIA POV
[9 years old]
A tall lady towers over my head, with a scowl plastered to her face, her pin-straight black hair pinned into a violent bun atop her head. She sneers down at me, completely unimpressed with my small frame and freckled cheeks, before looking up once again at the equally as terrifying man in a black suit.
"This is the girl Eugene sent?" her French accent spitting the words like they were venom on her tongue.
That man in the suit takes his turn in sending me an equally as unimpressed look, his heavy moustache pulling at his lips as he replies, "his most promising pet it seems."
I gaze up at the two, my head tilted toward the sky due to their tall frames, and as much as I want to cry in fear for why am I here? Who are they? I school my features into a cold, unfeeling mask.
The lady reminds me of a ballerina, with her lean and supple build. If it weren't for the malicious scowl on her too-thin lips, I'd believe she were about to break out into a perfect rendition of the 'red shoes'.
She grabs my arm tightly, fingerprints turning my already pale skin the shade of paper white and drags me behind her toward what looks to be a training room.
White washed walls, no windows bar a small slit in the far wall 10ft above. Cameras at all angles, moving ever so slightly to follow the many kids sparring in the middle of the room. Equipment and training mats are scattered across the space and the stench of sweat and blood invades my nostrils.
Upon our arrival, the twenty or so kids go stock still, all eyes averting to the lady above me.
Ballerina lady addresses the room, "this is Amelia, she has come to train, the first to put her on her ass may have dinner this afternoon."
And with that I'm shoved into the space of the cruel children, only just catching my footing before I fall.
The children, as if controlled by one mind, all look at me with hungry, blood-thirsty smiles. A
Korean girl, appearing to around my age, steps onto the mat between us.
Her caramel hair pulled up into a ponytail, her pin-straight fringe falling across her eyebrows.
Dazzling black, eyes stare back at me, daring me to join her.
Without hesitation I step forward. By the cocky smiles of the surrounding audience, I am sure that this girl is one of their finer fighters, and that they have severely underestimated the threat before them.
I allow them that confidence, appearing meeker, more apprehensive than I am. It works.
The girl swings a punch to my left and I quickly jump to the right before sweeping out my leg, squatting down, and slamming into her ankles. Rather than falling, she manages to stumble to the side before attacking once more.
We both manage to score a few hits, her right eye turning purple, left wrist slightly bent out of place and my left knee searing pain up my side with every step.
Throughout the battle, I notice the beautiful girl avoid putting pressure on her left foot. An ankle injury perhaps?
It must have been old, by the faint scarring against her soft skin, peaking out just above her socks. Do I take advantage of her weakness or leave the obviously excruciating injury on its own?
Will you be prey or predator Amelia?
Eugene's voice infiltrates, knocking against my skull like a hammer to an anvil, and with that I already know what choice must be made.
I will never be prey again.
I swing a punch at the girl to distract then, quick as lightning, squat down and swing my foot forward with the force of men twice my size upon her ankle.
She immediately crumples to the floor, a hiss of pain escaping through her clenched jaw. But in our line of work, it might as well have been a scream of agonising torture.
I stand straight, averting my eyes from the broken girl at my feet and not for one second allowing regret to swallow me.
In front of me stand the 20 kids, lining up as though waiting their turn. A boy, about 13 years old, with shaggy blonde hair steps onto the mat.
Round two then.
~~~
I had won every fight that day, much to the Ballet Woman's surprise and displeasure. I take my offered plate of roasted potatoes and other vegetables, a juicy steak to the side.
Turning, I see a long, prison-like table stretching down the middle of the plain, mournful room. Not a single crumb of food in sight.
All of them look forward, motionless as they listen to their oppressors eat and wait to be dismissed with no supper.
I walk along the length of the table, passing every child with an internal remorse I cannot show, until I reach the defeated girl with the mangled ankle.
Her injuries had been tended to, that horrendous ankle strapped up tightly.
I slyly grab a potato from my plate and slip it into her lap without ever slowing my pace or looking to the side. Although, I can feel the elation and surprise in the air as she greedily slips it beneath the sleeve of her jacket.
That night I did not eat a single scrap of my dinner. Instead saving the meal to share between the 20 kids as they all came toward the large dormitory to sleep.
I had not only secured a debt from the children but a mutual respect and understanding. That we were all one and the same. All forced into a life we had not asked for, forever the puppets of those who claim us, conditioned to become dealers of death.
And this small, kind action, was only one small sign of my rebellion.
~~~
I twirl that key within my palm, staring at the blueprints in front of me as though they would reveal and secret if I looked hard enough.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I dial a number I had not touched in 11 years.It rings twice before answering and I simply skip the pleasantries, jumping straight to the point.
"I think it's time I cashed in that favour."
---
OOOO, Things are really heating up!!
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Her Shadows
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