The Demon Inside

''They say to watch yourself. That if you expose yourself too much, you'll be taken. You're mind will be twisted, mutated into something it was never, ever supposed to be.  You'll be an Angel.''

Short Explination so I Don't Drive You Guys Crazy (Hopefully)
So this is a dystopia fic where most people are dreadfully poor. The King, named King George ((bonus points if you guess why that's his name =) )), is a controlling tyrant, who rewards whoever follows him greatly. But only if you are a duke, or noble, or something like that. Peasants are nothing but a way to get money for him. If you are part of his Army, you are called an Angel. It's one of the worst insults you can call anybody. A Devil is someone who is against the King, and a Demon is a rouge Devil. Things are incredibly dangerous, and only growing worse.

Meet Kiyra, (KIY-ra), who is trying to help her mother and father support their five children family. She is considerating becoming a Devil, but someone changes her whole view on her life.

Is being an Angel really so bad?

Chapter One
"Get her!"

Kiyra really hated it when she was caught. It was just one orange for gods' sake people! Not the end of the world! She muttered angerily to herself at she came to a dead end.

"And here we go again," she said, sticking out her tongue childishly at the stone wall. She stepped quickly forward, then spun to the left sharply. Ducking into what looked like a small niche in the wall, she called out the codeword:

"King George is the Devil, not us."

Click.

Abruptly she dropped, falling maybe four feet.

"Ouch."

Shaking slightly, she pushed herself up, feeling the wall to the faint light ahead. Careful not to trip on anything, she emerged ina small dirt room.

"Sup?" was all she offered, before striding over to a table with a stubby candle on it. If you had been sitting in the chair across from her, you would've seen a girl about sixteen, with long stringy black hair, a grimy face, freckles, and a ever present sisiter grin. Her black-brown eyes were slitted, and mean. There was a scar in the shape of a cross on her left cheek, a light mark on her tanned face. Her clothes were ragged, but practical, with a simple dirty white shirt, a boy's pair of brown shorts, and a cut off half way brown apron tied around her chest. A simple, battered, brown satchel was slung across her, and clearly had something in it, judging by the slight buldge.

"Hello Kiyra," the man who was sitting in the chair you mentally occupied. "Back already?"

"Clearly," she said, giving him a dry look. "So what do I get?" She pulled out a dyed green shirt, long sleeve, a shiny apple, and a banana. Okay, maybe she was lying when she said it was just one orange.