Anyone who didn’t know her would assume she was defeated. She sat slumped in her chair, her hair falling in front of her face, her eyes looking sunken and dark. Some people who did know her would assume she was defeated. She certainly looked the part.
A pristinely dressed woman came into the room with a package wrapped in brown paper. After making sure that the door was closed and sealed, she turned towards the girl in the chair and approached her slowly. “We got you some clean clothes,” She said, offering out the brown paper package, “They might make you feel a little bit more put together.”
The girl didn’t move. She didn’t even look up. She just sat there, staring at the floor just behind where the woman was standing. She hadn’t even given any indication that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. The woman turned and looked at the door, her face twisted. She made some half-hearted gesture with the package. But, when no response came, or perhaps because no response game, she turned back to face the girl. She dropped down into a squat, balancing carefully in her heels. She put the package on the ground at the girl’s feet and tried to look up into her face. “Listen, sweetheart. We’re sorry about you boy toy, we didn’t want to kill him. We’re sorry that it had to come down to this. But you lost. Your team lost. We don’t want you to be miserable, that was never our goal. So please. Take the clean clothes. Eat the food we bring you. Give us a chance to show you that this can be better.”
The girl in the chair didn’t move. She stared right through the woman with a thousand yard stare. The woman threw up her hands and stood back up. “We can’t help you if you won’t let us,” she commented in a tone usually reserved for disappointed parents and teachers, “You’re only hurting yourself.” She clicked out of the room, all but slamming the door behind her.
The girl knew she wasn’t really alone. Somewhere, somehow, they were still watching her every movement. So, her movements were tiny. Small glances around the room without moving her head. Small twitches of her hands and feet, that could be mistaken for involuntary muscle movements. She tried to feel out what she could of her surroundings without giving herself away.
Because even though she looked defeated—even if they all believed that her cause was lost—It wasn’t over until ever last one of them was dead. As long as she was still breathing, she had something to fight for. And she knew something else. There was a sensor in her hand, beating out a steady rhythm now that she had folded her thumb over it. A calm, even fifty-three beats per minute. They hadn’t killed her “boy toy” as they liked to call him. He was still alive out there. And if anyone would know she wasn’t defeated, if anyone could get her out of here—it would be him.