She was running. She had been running for what seemed like ages, but here she was, running again. Trying to escape her fate - the fate that she had fought and escaped so many times before, but now it didn't seem she would get away. The one-week old baby in her arms made it even more difficult. The child's father was behind this no doubt. As she ran she began cursing him, in the five alien languages she knew, and the three she had made up. She tripped on the uneven ground, the baby went flying from her grasp.

"No!" She cried. The baby began crying as well, until it hit the ground. Then it was silent, too silent. "No, Eve," she whispered. She picked up the bundle of cloth, the unmoving bundle of cloth. Her sensitive cat like ears picked up the sound of running feet. They were going to catch her. Catch her and kill her, and she didn't care. Two sets of arms pulled her roughly to her feet. They forced her arms behind her and tied her to a post. Did they carry those things with them?

"So, you gave up," slap, "you finally came to your senses and stopped running" slap, "it won't save you, you know," slap, slap, "in fact, it only makes me want to kill you more," click, "I think I'll finish this quickly. Yes, quickly is better," the trigger came back, and her body fell limp.

"Sir, what about this? It's unconscious, bruised, but alive."

"Take it back with us of course, why waste good meat? Besides, it won't remember any of this. I wonder what the brat's name is?"

"Knowing that one it’s name will be something from the Book. You know, the one she always carried."