"Who are you and what do you want?" I say as loudly as I dare while raising my fists.

One of them looks in surprise at me, then whispers to the other. He has a brutal-looking haircut and an arm patchworked with tattoos. His clothes are a typical Puritans, donning white jeans and a top, and he looks extremely uncomfortable in them. Like they're a size too small for him.

"You don't need to fight us," he says to me.

Yeah, right, I think. You look like the kind of guy who'd fight me. So don't blame me if I retaliate.

"Just come with us," says the other, who wears similar clothes to the first, minus the tattooed arm.

"Go with you?" I ask warily.

"That's right."

"Go with you where?"

"You'll find out."

I hesitate, with a good reason. A magiperson can never be too careful.

"Come on," he insists. "We've even brought food."

"Food?" The temptation is unbearable.

"Yes, food," the first says, and takes out a loaf of bread from a sack he's carrying to prove it.

I lower my fists a bit. "Can I trust you?"

The second rolls his eyes. "What a lot of questions you have."

"The better to know you with," I retort, thinking of an ancient fairytale.

"True. . ."

"So answer my original question: who are you and what do you want?"

He laughs. "There's time for that later, girlie."

"Don't call me girlie!" I shout, the sting from the day I killed Holp running through my veins. I glance around, not wanting to take my eyes off my assailant for too long. "Where's the other guy?"

"Ersline!"

My ears are all I need. It's Millie Small, imprisoned in the Down opposite me.

"Ersline, don't trust them," she cries, "never trust any—"

Her warning is cut off as the first guy crosses over to her, striking her in the head.

"Millie!" I make a false punch at the second, and it pleases me to see him take a step back. "What did you do to her?!?!"

"She'll live," he sneers, fake attitude gone, enrages at his moment of weakness. "It's you that you should worry about."

I try to cuff him around the neck, but he bats me away as if I'm no more than a mosquito. 

This guy is obviously up to no good, just like my instincts told me. They're Puritans!!!!!!! my instincts scream. Puritans would never do anything good!!!

Seemingly invincible to my kicks, the first pays as little attention to me as a deaf man would to a donkey while he pins my arms to my back. I feel a bone-crushing pain sear up my arms, paralyzing them with menace.

"What. . .have. . .you. . .done. . .to. . .me?" I gasp, while my insides burn unerringly. The paralysis beings to spread to the rest of my body like a wildfire.

"Just a little pressure point," says the second unmercifully. "We found it ourselves. And that is why your puny race will never win."

I spit in his face. 

His face turning into a beetroot at this disrespect, he slowly draws out a pistol from his breast pocket, loads it and cocks it directly in line with my head.

"You know," he says casually, as if it's nothing more than commenting on the weather, "debris really need to be taught a lesson. Teach them that resistance—" he places a finger on the trigger "—equals death."

Shut up, please, I think, not daring to say anything aloud while my life teeters dangerously on the end of a gun barrel. The rest I had during my day in the Downs seems to have relaxed my body enough to withstand the pain rocketing up my neck. The Downs are nothing compared to this. 

Seeing my defeated look, the second's expression changes into one of triumphant victory. "You know," he gloats, "we really hoped we wouldn't need to Snatch you at gunpoint. But since you're a fighter. . ." he inspects me like a curious cat with a new playtoy, "you'll probably end up dead anyway."

The dreadful truth of what he's saying hits me like a sledgehammer.

I'm being Snatched.

I really, really can't delay this explanation any longer. I've gone the whole day trying not to think about the Snatch, and since I'm being Snatched, I guess I need to say it.

The Snatch comes every summer. In the past, the summer of 2102, the magifolk were accused of plotting rebellion and creating an offensive against out Puritan leaders. It was completely based on the Puritan's prejudice of magifolk. No more. But they still initiated the Room and the Snatch anyway.

Every year, four kids from our country Sylvanium, would be taken away in the dead of the night; kidnapped. Their crime: being the child of a 'known' rebel (their words, not mine), or showing signs of resistance before or during their eligibility years, 13-19. They're then called Arnisses after the Snatching. 

Like lambs to slaughter, the Arnisses are shoved into Rooms, where they would likely meet their death. All the details, however, are unknown to public. 

But why am I being Snatched? I've never been rebellious. I'm certain my parent's weren't either. 

My eyes widen in horror at the injustice of it all. . . just as the paralysis creeps into my head. It overrides my system like a hacker. 

Clutchem did this,  I think, before darkness envelopes me and everything spirals and swirls dizzily out of control. . .