#cloakedfigures

The second trip to Paris had not been the success they had been hoping for. Many were injured and even more had died. Still they had raided and plundered most of the surrounding area. It was on his return to camp that he heard a soft squeaking noise from a copse just off the path they were taking. He handed over the items he had collected to one of his men and ordered them back to camp while he investigated. Withdrawing his ax, Bjorn approached slowly. He was startled to find remnants of a small campsite. The fire had died, bedrolls were laid out, and most intriguingly was a beautiful young woman bound to a tree. “Bonjour?” He didn’t know much of the language spoken here but he knew a few words and phrases. 

The raids were becoming hit and miss. Other worlds had learned to hide the young and the beautiful when an attack was impending. As such, the Hunt had become a far greater privilege over the years. When the prisoners of war were taken to the Chambers, a large prison with state of the art medical facilities, they became property of the government.

The Chambers were attached to the Grounds. The Grounds were a circular artificial space comprised of over five acres of land. The Grounds themselves were a natural greenspace, cultivated to be much more. A small river, sometimes swelling big enough to be swum, and at other times, a shallow stream, ran through the space like a diagonal slash. The foliage was tall enough to make any person feel lost and put them out of sight of the massive walls that encircled the Grounds. The only route in and out of the Grounds was through the Chambers. 

In the Chambers, the young and beautiful were restored to good health and fed well. They were plied with just enough drugs to make the impending violation of their bodies a less physically traumatic event. But no one volunteered for the Hunt. It was a terrorizing event in anyone’s life. This year’s crop had been gathered over the last year and were about to be freed into the Grounds. The Prey were outfitted with good sturdy boots, warm clothing and a small bag containing the essentials to survive. They used to give them far less but then the Hunt was over too quickly. Now that it had become a spectator sport, with cameras linked throughout the space, people placed bets on which pairs they foresaw as successful and how long each Prey would last.

Ivar was among the youngest Hunters. In his first tour, he had acquitted himself well, saving the lives of several people in his unit, including his commanding officer. She had recommended Ivar for the Hunt - feeling that a good little housepet would shave the rough edges off the difficult man. 

So here he stood, waiting for the gates to open. He watched as the Prey were released. The other Hunters hooted and hollered but Ivar remained eerily silent. He watched as the fair-haired object of his attentions disappeared into the woods. She would be his. He was sure he had seen his destiny. Finally the doors slid open with a glowing sign above them “Good Hunting.”