I try to hide my stiff stance as others walk by. I look up at the sky pretending to wait for directions on what to do like the rest of them. The electronic voice in my head has been prattling off my weight and height, eye color, and the fact that I was last seen dressed as Rune, his imposter.
The grip on my arm tightens when the wordCAPTUREflashes across the picture of me. “This human is wanted for questioning in the death of our General. She will be taken alive and used as my donor,” the voiceover states. I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut. “Mytrustedguards are looking for her as we speak.”
“As for other discussions…” a voice cuts through as a tickertape of text scrolls below a bright picture of a masked man. “Our inventory is multiplying. We will be able to finish final extraction and fulfill what we originally set out to accomplish.”
A wave of rumbles quakes across the field as the men cheer.
My eyes meet Rune’s. I try to focus on my hate and my need for my sister, because this Pious dude just brought it to a whole new level. And I’m about to lose my mind.
“Before the next setting of the sun, each of us will be secured a mate for an offspring and our race will live on.” That’s when the gates open and in walk the women. My once beautiful, sweet sister leads the crowd.
They barely look alive. Their bottoms are encased in tight metal leggings and they walk jerkily, their faces frozen in a state of shock. Each of the women struggle to move steadily. Some fall and continue to crawl in disturbingly jerky movements.
I can’t look away from Claire. I have a vague recognition of how enormous the crowd of females is but my focal point remains on my one and only sister. She twitches violently with each step—hands and arms swing in wildly exaggerated arcs—her fingers bend and twist awkwardly at each joint like she’s in a tremendous amount of pain.
The most demeaning part is that each one of these women wear no other clothing. Their breasts are on obscene display for these filthy perverted creatures. Every girl is stripped bare, save for the metal pants that seemed to robotically control the movements of their legs. Their bare feet are caked with mud and blood.
My sister’s empty eyes stare back at me. Her hair is falling out in long strands, half bald like she had just finished a shitty round of chemo. Her swollen lips hang open loosely and are framed with bright purplish bruises that mar her cheeks and jaw.
I’m frozen in horror and the only thing that snaps me out of it is my own voice screaming her name.
