"Damn right I'm not," she says, trying to edge away. All she needs is a good distraction, and she's sure she could run somewhere with enough place that she could curl up in a tight little ball to hide. "You're one of them," she practically spits. She isn't hurling an accusation of being a murderer (well, not quite) at the woman, it's an accusation of something else, something that scares her far more. "I've heard what they do to the girls they steal away, I'd rather die than be used by the people who want to destroy us." Sure, everything she's heard about the rebellion is hearsay that was said to scare them, but it's worked.

She steps back a little bit more, almost like some sort of small, scared animal, not noticing that there's a dip from something (who knows what, and she's not sure she wants to know), that she steps into, falling backwards and losing all sense of grace and poise as she lands on her rear, still trying to desperately try to crawl back, away from her. "My parents would die of shame if I joined them."