A Continuous Cycle

Author's Note: I GOT EDITORS! :D Anyway, talked with them and they helped me sort out my "chapters" and basically took my style of writing... or "chapter-ing" and threw it out the window. If you've read all the previous chapters, you won't miss anything except for the introduction of a another character about 2/3 of the way down. I'd suggest re-reading it and just tell me what you think of the new format I'm taking up. Chapters will now be longer. Anyways, I apologize for the lack of a ton of new content, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of writing after not doing so for 2 years.

Come my children, gather ‘round
Sit and make not a sound.
Say not a word lest my voice should fail
Now hear my voice and hear my tale

A tale that started on nights like these
With nothing more than rain and breeze.
Of a village caught in spring's embrace
Shadowed by a, now, well known case

They will arrive, in the night
Here for slaughter, not to fight
Of sun, moon, and cackling madness
She will choose where lies her sadness

This, the setting it shall be
To unlock the past with this key
Now listen to me and listen well
For I, Zecora, have a tale to tell.

-Zecora, Shaman and Holder of the Southern Steppes

--

A low guttural roar swept across the rugged plains, echoing in the distant mountains, the humid air adding tension to the peaceful grounds, as if the very land was holding its breath; waiting for the inevitable. Amidst the rugged terrain, a village lay nestled in an indentation in the earth. As the night dragged on, the winds dampened and a deep sigh seemed to rise from the ground as the land let up its pent up breath, sweeping across the withered and charred ground. The browned stalks of grass rose in the tender breeze, dancing along with the gentle rays of the moon. A murmur ran through the plains as the gentle wind wafted through the darkened grass. A blanket of silence and darkness lay over the lands as Night herself held the earth in her calming arms.

--

Somewhere in the distance, amongst the sparse vegetation and jagged rocks, a shadow stirred. In the dark of a willowy tree, a tall figure rose to full height and stepped from the shadows. The darkness seemed to melt off his form, crawling off him as if in fear, back into the night. As the darkness subsided, the features of a muscular stallion became prominent. He stood at over six feet tall, thick, dark, coarse hair cascaded from his cranium to form his mane, held back with a loose headband. A thick ropy scar ran from his bony cheek down into the depths of the bandana covering the bottom half of his face. His skin looked withered and dry; an unhealthy brown hue lay on his hide. Two large, feathered wings were folded on his back. Light leather armor adorned his figure, cracked and covered in dirt from travel. Mail backed gloves were set on his coarse hands and steel plated boots fastened to his feet. The dark clothing blended the stallion into the darkness, making him one with the night. From the folds of his leather garment, he pulled out a smoke-blackened dagger, its edges shed off the glow of the moon as it slid from its sheath. The scout twirled his weapon experimentally in his right hand. A light whistle split the otherwise silent grounds as the dull blade danced in the stallion’s palm.

The whistle came to a sudden halt as his fists snapped tight as he surveyed the grounds. Seeing no movement, the figure raised an armored fist into the air, the rings of steel cut lightly into his skin, causing a slight burning sensation even as the wafting current cooled the metal.

On cue, figures emerged from the lingering shadows. They seemed to melt straight out of the ground, trees, rocks, and weeds. The dark shapes slowly became apparent as equine figures, each with a set of their own wings. As one, their cloaks of darkness flowed off them, aided by the pale light, settling back into the crevices of the earth. The stallion looked behind him as the last tendril melted off the assembled ponies. A score and a half of stallions and mares stood at attention, their knives and daggers unsheathed, as his gaze swept over them.

Satisfied, he looked into the distance, inspecting the opposite side of the valley. Before long, his dark gaze caught a tiny glint peering from the long stalks of grass. He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized the vegetation. His eyes opened fully as he found what he sought. Waves upon waves of ponies appeared; marching out of the overgrowth. In swarms they appeared, one group after another, like waves crashing onto the sandy shores of a beach. Hundreds of bows, spears and unsheathed blades glinted in the dim lighting; the metallic luster from the weapons glittered in the night sky. The crashing of shields and boots rang out, slashing through the dense fog of silence. With a wordless command, the entire troop assembled into separate garrisons.

Winged Pegasus ponies wheeled overhead, keeping watch lest any of the townsfolk should attempt to take to the skies.

The Pegasus assassin smiled. His lips extended into razor sharp lines below his covering. The Legions of Equestria had arrived and the traitors would die beneath the eye of the crown princess.

--

Like vultures, the warriors gathered around the small town in a complete circle, three ponies deep, no way past their wall of smoke blackened metal.

Each one mirrored the one next to him, scale-mail fell from shoulder to knee, held together by a leather belt. A sash bearing the blazing white sun of the royal family finished the ensemble upon their torso. Plated gloves and greaves made of a thin sheet of metal with leather backing covered their limbs. A simple bowl shaped helmet with an attached, single-slit, visor completed the set. The front two row of warriors held pikes, seventeen foot monstrosities topped with a barbed head. In normal battle situations, there would be four to five rows of bristling pike heads facing an enemy charge. There was no need for caution this night.

Behind, the last row of fighters were armed with bows or simple stabbing spears. The spears, with a length of only six feet, were more suited for medium range combat than their pike counterpart.

Short swords were strapped to the left hip of every soldier in case close quarters engagements were needed.

They were ready, each of these warriors were veterans, hardened physically, and mentally, from strenuous fighting. Where once they might question their orders, the rational part of them had rotted away with the flesh of their comrades.

Their commander stepped forward, his distinction only apparent by the air of authority he carried. From his back he drew a thing of beauty. Ivory horn, drilled, polished, and carved to perfection, an instrument to carry the proclamation of the royal family. Warm, wet lips touched cold, dry ivory.

A single low horn sounded in the quiet of the night. The note was sustained, uninterrupted by breath or wavering in pitch. The humming note was taken up by another horn, then another, and, soon, the inky blackness was covered with the single chilling note, vibrating across the valley grounds. The singing of warhorns gave way to a swelling tide of voices. Like the breaking of a dam, the soldiers ranged around the undefended town sprung forth. This was no battlefield, there would be no formalities.

--

Screams of pure terror filled the night sky, ringing like the shrill cry of breaking glass. The smell of copper, the tint of life and of death, muddled by the harsh odor of rank sweat and salty tears permeated the air in a suffocating cloud.
The burning and pounding sensation in her chest matched the staccato gasps of air forced from her throat.

“Oh Goddess, oh goddess!” Caessa cried as she ran through the dark alleys of Ponyville.
The darkness of the backstreets were heightened by the brightness of the town as it was swallowed in flames.
She dashed through this labyrinth of dirt and squalor, hoping, praying to her deity to live through the night.

--

The small town, numbering less than 200, had been attacked early in the morning, before the spring sun had even pondered getting out of bed. It had been quick, no subtleness or hidden intensions. The soldiers had charged in, screaming their allegiance to Celestia, and had systematically slaughtered the inhabitants of Ponyville. First had been the Apple family. They lived on a farm on the outskirts of town and faced the first wave. The invaders had used axe and mace to crash through the thick oak doors and dragged out the family. Luckily, or not, a few members of the family had gone off to visit relatives in other towns.

Celestia’s soldiers executed the remaining family outside. First, ripping a screaming Bloom from her grandmother’s protective arms. One of them held the wriggling young pony in the air while another placed the blackened steel head against her exposed groin and shoved forward. The wail that erupted forth started ear-shattering before quieting down into a gurgling whisper as the spear ripped out the other end through the space between her shoulders. They sat back, holding down the shrieking grandmother, and watched as the filly squirmed in agony upon the oaken shaft. After a minute of the sinful show, one of Celestia's warriors stepped forward and beheaded the yellow filly. A sobbing and sickened Granny Apple was bludgeoned to death wailing over the death of her young kin. Sticking their heads upon pikes, the relentless soldiers had rushed into town to continue their murderous intentions.

One by one, families were torn from their beds to meet blade and arrow. When fires sprung and screams rose past the threshold of sleep, the town sprang into action. Doors crashed open as the ponies of Ponyville ran out to, hopelessly, buy time for their loved ones to escape.

One by one the brave stallions surged out with knives and hammers; one by one they fell to bow and sword.

Bravery and love can only go so far. There was no leadership, no organization, and no equipment.

Soldiers quickly formed into ranks, bristling pikes and spears presenting an indomitable wall, slowly pushing the simple farmers and traders that inhabited this land until their backs pressed against wood or stone and their stomachs pressed against cold steel.

Bands were formed to methodically surround and crush individuals. Within minutes, a hopeless battle became a massacre.

But their will and fire in the wake of destruction would be sung for ages to come. In a desperate act, the survivors gathered in a wall of flesh in front of the town hall. With a last scream of pure stubbornness and valor, they charged to their deaths.

It was these screams of defiance that warned Caessa to the evil happenings going on inside her town. She scampered out of bed and quickly shuffled over to her open window. Flames and corpses greeted her as she looked out.

--

“Run my child! Get out, I might be old but I can still hold them long enough for you to escape!”

She jumped with fright as her sole family member burst into her room.
“Did you not hear me? Run!”

Caessa’s wits returned and she shook her head fiercely. “No grandpa, come with me!”

“Child, nothing will make me happier than knowing you live! Please go, I can barely walk, much less run, I’d only bring you death and that would shame me beyond anything!”

"I can't leave you papa! You saved me once, I can save you! I can carry you!"

At these words, a smile crinkled the leathery face of Alured Weaver. 14 years prior, he had found this sad little filly, sitting alone on the corners of the street in Canterlot, alone and hungry. He had brought her back and saved her from an agonizing death through starvation.

"My sweet Caessa, I know you are strong. But I am old. My time has come. I can feel it in my bones! It wouldn’t be long until I died anyways. Nothing will make me more proud than to die in battle defending one that I love. You have been like a child to me, one I am proud to call my own. Make it so that I will have grandchildren to carry on my name."

She never got a chance to answer as fists started pounding on their door. Her grandfather turned quickly, belaying his age. He hobbled out of her room to face the front door and drew forth an old rusty relic that had once been a sword. He took his stance, feet spread, one pointed towards the door, the other perpendicular.

“Go!” the elder Weaver spat out without turning around. "Fly like the wind!"

She had been running towards her sole family member, but, faltered, turned tail, and flew off, leaving the old Earthbound pony behind. The last visages she had of him were of that moment: tall, defiant, and proud.

Alured heard the window clatter from the back room and knew he had done all he could. His smile widened and tears leaked down his wrinkled face. He had done almost all he could for this sweet child, and, at the dusk of his days, he would do one more act for her.

The door splintered.

His arthritic limbs trembled with fatigue but he held on. Whispering a prayer to the Goddess he held his station.

The door broke down.

Alured Weaver, veteran of a war fought nearly a century ago, stood facing a battalion of Celestia's finest; young, fresh, and strong stallions the lot of them. But in that defining moment, he outshone them all. Dull gray and white became a rich mahogany pelt, weary eyes sharpened into green gems, and a smile of love transformed into a grin of anticipation and bloodlust. His rear hoofed feet left the ground as he charged towards the surprised stallions, his mouth opening one last time to cry out the battlecry of his youth.

“Heyulalia!”

--

Voices alerted the sobbing Pegasus to danger ahead.
She halted her escape and planted her back against a brick wall. She snuck a glance around the edge and bit down upon her bottom lip to stop the scream of terror from ripping loose.

Three soldiers were busy fending off an injured villager. They danced around the snarling stallion, toying with him with their spears, pricking hard enough to draw blood but not to kill. In the flickering light, Caessa made out the features of Mr. Cake, her neighbor. She wanted to rush out, to sally forth and save a longtime friend, but her knees grew weak.

Even as her will broke, so did the patience of the soldiers. Bored of their game, they struck home simultaneously, the blades passing through the soft flesh of the stallion like a hot knife through butter, locking the hapless pony against the wall. One of the invaders stepped forward and, with a quick flick of his blade, disemboweled the dying creature. Even as his innards spilled to the dirt ground below, Mr. Cake fought. His arm slashed forward, knife grasped tightly, and embedded it into the throat of his murderer.

With a gurgle of outrage and surprise, the pony fell with a clang. Both murderer and victim died together, souls locked together to walk the dark path hand in hand.

Caessa whipped her head back around the corner and panted in terror. Sweat dripped from her forehead, plastering her red and white streaked mane to her face, the pounding from before increasing instead of lessening. The staccato rhythm had permeated to her ears, the drumming sounds in harmony with the cries for help and crackling of flames.

--

“Now what have we here…”

Caessa screamed with terror as the two soldiers who she had just witnessed brutalizing a citizen standing before her.
A leather-wrapped hand lashed out, grasping her throat, and lifted her bodily into the air before slamming her against the wall, driving the air from her lungs.

“It seems we found some ‘entertainment’”. Caessa had barely turned 18, her birthday the day prior. She had no understanding of that phrase but the meaning, its intent, was clear enough.

These stallions were not fully sane. They had seen death, both on their hands and in their hearts. They had just lost a comrade and had helped kill many innocents, there would be no pity, no holding back, no sense of morals.

She started to struggle, lashing out with her arms and legs, managing to catch her captor in the stomach.
A startled “oomph” was heard and the grip around her throat slackened. But, as soon as it did, it tightened once more, crushing her throat.

Fresh tears sprung to her eyes from the pain and she gave an incoherent gurgle, drool slipping out of her open mouth.

“You fucking bitch…” the soldier coldly whispered in her ear. “I’ll enjoy this.” He threw her to the ground and gave a swift kick to her midriff. As she doubled over in agony, he keeled down and spread her legs.

“Hold her!” He ordered his partner who proceeded to grasp her arms, forcing them together above her head.

Her eyes widened with horror as she heard her fabric being ripped open, the charcoal pelt upon her face paled as the cool spring breeze caressed flesh.

Once more, she bit her lower lips, trying not to let go.

“Very nice.”

Her teeth lost hold and she screamed.

--

General Shield stepped into the blood-slickened street in front of the town hall.
The unicorn, known as the Shining Armour of Celestia’s army, snorted with disgust. The scene was appalling. He had served in the Imperial army for the better part of two decades, he had seen corpses rotting upon a field, maggots causing gray flesh to squirm as if alive, crows taking their pick of the tender eyes and spilled guts. Yet those had been combatants, ponies trained in the art of combat, knowing that, one day, they would meet their end on the field to the glittering end of a sword. These were townsfolk, ponies who had never known the atrocities of war or had laid their arms to rest, pursuing a life of building instead of destruction.

He hated doing this. But he was bound; had sworn his sword to the sun princesses on the day he reached stallion-hood. He would stick with his pledge to death, but it didn’t mean he liked what he did at times. Fighting for his country, his lady, those were honourable deeds… but this murderous raid would forever stain his soul.

Reports had come in a week prior about Luna's agents and commanders hiding out in the town. Celestia’s board of war had sent word to him within the hour to strike, to crush this town and, hopefully, sever a few important limbs off of the rebellious army.

His job was done, but it wasn’t a success, not in his eyes.

“Gather the bodies and give them a proper burial. They deserve that, at least.” The Shining Armour of Equestria snapped.

“Yes, my lord!” was the response of the horde assembled behind him.

As his stallions rushed forward to complete his commands, he stopped his lieutenant.

“Lieutenant, show me to the prisoners.”

“Aye aye.”

The blue maned general walked into the temporary prison and looked upon the score of huddled figures.

“Nineteen stallions, one ma-“

His voice stopped abruptly as he looked at the tear-stained mare before him. It wasn’t the glistening eyes that caught his attention, but the defensive position she had as well as the blood and liquid leaking from her nether regions.

“Bridges.”

The lieutenant looked up in surprise, he was never referred to by his name.

“Yes general?”

He gulped hesitantly. His commanding officer’s eyes were flinty, the normal aquamarine color now had a deep purple tint to it, nostrils were flaring with rage, and his teeth were grinding so hard it was palpable.

“Bring me them.” His order came out one word at a time, pausing before each word.

“Sir?”

“Bring me the ones who captured that mare!” He roared in rage.

As his lieutenant ran off looking for the ponies, he knelt down before the whimpering pile on the ground as the other citizens of, what was once Ponyville, looked on.

“There, there. Please, don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. I apologize, I’m so sorry. My troops were given specific instructions not to…” he stopped awkwardly.

“Here, take this, clean yourself up a little.” He whispered reassuringly as he handed the ash colored mare a handkerchief before turning around politely, giving her some privacy. He looked over at the other prisoners and cleared his throat loudly as he saw a few were still looking on. As they quickly turned their backs, he heard soft shuffling behind him as she wiped herself with the cloth.

A knock sounded the return of his subordinate. The Shining Armour looked at the shattered door frame and saw Bridges standing with six other soldiers behind him.

“Sir, I brought the ones, as you requested. These two,” he stated, pointing at the two directly behind him, “brought the mare into custody. The other four were part of their squad but got separated. The others are either getting their injuries looked over or perished in the fight.”

His eyes still seething, Shields barked, “Which one of you violated her?”

He never needed an answer, the two Bridges had originally pointed out broke out into a sweat as soon as he had finished speaking; they looked at each other in fear.

General Shields snarled, “twenty lashes each.” He turned and looked at the, still, quivering figure laying behind him. The look of absolute terror, the paleness that had settled upon her skin, enraged him further.

“Make that thirty. They will march in the back and help with the supplies. Half rations. Take them in!”

The other four soldiers each grabbed one of the rapists’ arms and hauled them off.

Shields marched out of the prison in a huff. “The 66th Regiment will take these prisoners to the mines. The rest of us will march back to the capital.”

--

Jack was busy toiling away, doing all she could to remain inconspicuous, to not draw the attentions of the prison guards patrolling around them, spears and shields in hand.

Two weeks prior, word had reached the camp that “new recruits” would be arriving and that the “volunteers” would be from Ponyville and its outlying villages. Her first thoughts were of her family and her farm. She prayed to her goddess that Bloom and Granny would be amongst those arriving on the caravan. Better a temporary slave than dead she had always said. But this was a time of war and fanciful thoughts had to be left in the past. If her family didn’t step off the prison cart, then she would make sure the perpetrators paid with their lives.

These thoughts had been swimming through Jack’s mind for the better part of the month and, despite her stance on the subject, she couldn’t help the feeling of dread creeping, ever so slowly, up her spine. She was in a constant state of irritation, cold sweat continuously pouring down her body, her nights interrupted with vestiges of a cold, empty barn. When the time came, it felt almost anti-climactic.

The convoy had arrived, twenty ponies stepped down in chains, none of them were of the Apple family.

A fellow member of their hidden alliance put a comforting hand on her shoulder, clasping it gently, soothingly.

She found that it was unneeded. There was just a coldness there, no sadness. Her grief had, unbeknownst to her, been swept away with the cold sweats and the sleepless nights. Now there was just a hardening, a growth to her determination.

She took the time to survey the group, taking in any information on potential recruits for their hidden unit. A score of ponies: nineteen stallions and one mare. Not surprising. The males of their species were bigger, stronger, and lasted longer to the harsh treatment by the hands of the Empire. They were usually taken back to camp, the females raped, tortured, and killed on the spot.

Jack scanned the crowd, many a familiar face amongst them, all of them looking defeated. Her gaze fell upon the sole mare, who’s thighs were clenched tightly in a protective manner, arms hugging her own bosom, hands clasping their opposite shoulder. But the fire, the fire still burned in her eyes. Where the others showed emptiness, utter defeat, this one still had a spark of anger, a spark of madness in her. Jack smiled. This one would do, she’d do just fine.

--

The work was monotonous. Up came the whips, up came the picks. The whips whistle down, the picks descend. Up came the whips...

Two hundred forty-seven, two hundred forty-eight...

Caessa counted out each fall of the whip, each sharp gasp of pain from the ponies around her.

Two hundred fifty-three, two hundred fifty-four...

She took a deep breath and relaxed her muscles.

Swish! Crack!

Despite knowing the blow was coming, she still flinched. She just gritted her teeth and continued her task. Tears had long dried from her eyes, replaced with rock dust and sweat.

A young filly next to her screeched in pain and received a swift kick to the backside, sending her sprawling. The unfortunate victim quickly dashed back onto her hind legs and continued her work, not another sound passing her lips.

Caessa was weary. It had been three weeks since Ponyville had been ransacked, three weeks since her people had been methodically slaughtered, three weeks since she had had her purity violated. The thought still brought bile racing up from the recesses of her body, still brought cold sweat to break out upon her body, her hairs to stand on end. To make matters worse, her perpetrators were two of the guards at this work camp. Everyday she was reminded of her shame, everyday her will broke a little and the fires of hate and self-disgust flickered ever higher.

She hated this place. Despite the death and crimes committed here, it was the idea that she was helping her nemesis gain greater power that really irked her. The stone cut from this mountain side was shipped all the way back to Equestria to supply Celestia’s armies with material for fortification, for missiles used by their siege artillery, for roads to pave the way for the crown princesses’ beasts of oppression.

--

Jack watched Caessa walk off towards her “room”. She had been watching Caessa for about a week and decided now would be a good time. Jack followed the other mare into the rundown shack that constituted their living quarters. She watched as the red and whited haired pony settled down.

“What’s wrong sugarcube?”

Caessa jumped with surprise, spinning to meet her aggressor with fists raised.

“Woe there nelly!” Jack cried jumping backwards. “Reflexes like that will get ya’ killed
‘round here.”

“What do you want?” was the whispered reply.

“Oh nothin’, jus’ introducin’ myself! Name’s Jack, Apple Jack my friends call me, but you can call me AJ!”

“… Whatever you say… Jack…” Caessa returned with narrowed eyes before turning back to stare, once again, at the wall of her “living quarters”.

“Now no need t’ be so aggressive here, they do the job jus’ fine. I jus’ needed someone to talk to, ya’ know, someone who knows anythin’ about what happened to mah family.”

Caessa remained unmoving, staring intently at the blank wall, memorizing every curvature, every mark.

Seeing she wasn’t making any headway, the honey colored pony turned and strode out. Just as she had cleared the doorway, she heard a rasping, hushed reply.

“They’re all dead… You say you’re an Apple? Apple Jack? Well your family is deader than this rock wall I’m looking at.”

AJ watched as the ashen mare turned, moving out of her cross-legged position to sit facing Jack, arms on knees and leaning forward.

“Your sister went first. They dragged her from the barn, screaming and crying, still in her goddam nighty. Picked her up, off the ground, took a spear, and rammed it through her groin until the end came out between her shoulder blades. They left her writhing and shrieking before cutting off her head and sticking it on a pike. Your grandmother lost her head wailing over - OOMPH!”

Caessa gave a cry as the air rushed out through her mouth, launched by a swift uppercut, courtesy of AJ.

“Look ‘er’ sugarcube, I don’t know what you went through ‘n’ I’m mighty sorry about it, but that’s my gosh darn family you’r’ talkin’ about!”

The two stared at each other, Caessa’s gray gaze passed through the swollen flesh around it, matching the coldness of the hay-maned pony across from her.

The staring continued for a few long seconds before Caessa tore her gaze away.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend you it’s just… it’s just…”

Jack’s eyes softened as she took in the pony huddled before her.

“Look… I ‘polize for hittin’ you. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” AJ whispered reassuringly as she sat down beside Caessa.

Caessa looked up, past the white and red tendrils that had fallen over her face, and told her story.

--

Silence was the golden rule at the work camp. No singing, no talking, and no loud exclamations of anguish. Obey the rule or suffer the consequences. Punishment ranged widely here depending on the fickle tastes of the Warden at the time.

Since the townsfolk from Ponyville had arrived, twenty-three unfortunate victims had been picked to feed the whims of their caretaker: thirteen stallions, ten mares.

Eight of the stallions had been sentenced to death via meathook. Two burly guards carried each body onto a stage, willingly or not. Hooks were shoved into the hapless stallion’s back, hooking under a rib, before the injured pony was shoved to fly into open air, to hang until they bled to death, or, their ribs broke under the increasing pressure and they fell to the ground, to die from internal injury or, if lucky, a merciful death from a soldier.

The remaining and fortunate five were simply executed on the spot, the pieces of their corpses buried by their sobbing fellow prisoners who knew well enough that their fate would, soon, be the same.

Compared to the mares, the stallions had it easy. Each one was passed over to the barracks to serve the whims and needs of their guards. The ones who survived the ordeal were forced back into service. Not one came back unchanged, not one allowed themselves to live another night after their torturous ordeal.

--

In spite of these atrocities, the prisoners held fast to the belief that, one day, they could once again watch the sunrise as freeponies, without being afraid of losing their heads before it touched down past the horizon.

There was one group amongst the hundreds held captive here. They were a group who had the least hope and, yet, the most. Expectations of rescue was nonexistent, instead, they believed in the power of their own will, their own muscles, their own wits. They had formed, slowly, from stallions and mares that had had enough of being denied the barest rights of life. Numbering only twelve at its formation, they had been growing day by day. Whenever someone caught a member’s interest, they would be assimilated into the group, hoping, one day, for the chance to give their captors their just desserts. Now, over a hundred strong, their chance for escape grew ever closer.

“I tell you, that girl has fire. A small one, but it’s still burnin’. She’s determined she is.”

“So you’re saying we can use her?”

“No, I’m saying she can be a great addition to our cause.”

“She was attacked, watched her friends and family die, and raped multiple times… and you’re saying she can help?”

“You forget that we all went through that! Yes, I’m sayin’ she has that determination to get what she wants, to see things done. And I say we bring her int’ the fold.”

“Have it your way AJ… but she better not lose her cool.”

“Oh she won’t, she wants them to bleed…”

“As do we all.”

“Exactly.”

“… Bring her in tonight…”