Chapter 33
The morning of the pit is colder than the rest. Not by degrees, but by the kind of chill that wakes up under your ribs, shivers through the marrow, and tells you that today is the day something changes for good or worse.
I know the routine by now—chow, headcount, the boredom of waiting to die in increments—but my chest can’t shake the tightness.
It’s like I’m expecting a call from someone I don’t want to talk to, only the phone is my own pulse and it’s ringing off the hook.
The guards come before the bell. Two of them, Authority clones, boots black and glossy, eyes dead behind their visors. They unlock my cell with a hiss and a click, then wait just long enough for me to stand up and make it seem like a choice.
“Pit day, one-three-two,” the taller one grunts. His voice is familiar, the guy who wrote up the last fight in the showers as “disorderly conduct.”
The other just gestures down the hall. I walk, because what else is there? My feet leave cold prints on the painted concrete. The cuffs go on, then the leash—a length of chain with no give, linking me to the guard’s wrist. We move as a unit, the Authority’s favorite metaphor in living color.
They take me out of the cellblock, down a stairwell that vibrates with every footfall.
The lights here are dim, a migraine-inducing blue that turns every shadow into a bruise.
The further down we go, the louder it gets—first the echo of boots, then the low, animal roar of a crowd packed in tight, like an engine running on hate.
We reach the bottom landing and I see it: the pit.
It’s less an arena and more a scar carved out of the prison’s underbelly, a massive circle ringed with chain-link and topped with broken glass.
The floor is concrete, stained with so many layers of red and brown that the original color is a myth.
Bleachers line the walls, inmates packed shoulder to shoulder, some standing on the backs of the benches just for a better view.
Above them, Authority guards in full armor, rifles slung lazy, watching the violence with the detachment of men counting the seconds on their shift.
The air is a living thing—thick with sweat, burnt ozone, and the coppery perfume of blood spilled not long ago.
In the center of the pit, two bodies are being dragged away by a team of janitors in orange hazmat, the sort who don’t get hazard pay.
One is limp, the head at an angle not meant for mammals.
The other is screaming, kicking out with a leg bent sideways at the knee, the sound more like a dog than a human.
Nobody looks away.
My handlers unlock the leash but keep a hand at my elbow, guiding me through a tunnel of noise to the far edge of the pit. The ground underfoot is sticky; my shoes suction with every step.
They push me to a bench where the rest of my block is corralled. Stitch is already there, sitting on the cold metal with a look like she’s been here since dawn. Her jumpsuit is rolled to the waist, arms bare, the scars on her skin a roadmap of every close call she’s ever had.
She grins when she sees me. “Didn’t think you’d show,” she says.
I don’t bother with a reply. I just sit, elbows on my knees, hands steady even though the rest of me is buzzing like a live wire.
Above the crowd, a guard with a bullhorn paces the ring. He reads off numbers, names, crimes. Most get drowned out by the noise, but every so often a favorite is called and the place explodes. I tune it out, cataloguing the pit’s dimensions, the exits, the weapons—if any—scattered on the floor.
The first match is over in three minutes.
Two men, both bigger than anyone in D block, circle each other like dogs then charge.
One goes for the eyes, the other for the knees.
There’s a sound like celery snapping, and then it’s over.
The crowd loves it, howls for more. The loser is dragged off, leaving a line of red from the center of the pit to the exit.
Next up is a pair of women from E block.
One is tall, built like a wrestler, the other wiry and covered in bruises that look fresh.
The tall one starts fast, but the wiry one has something to prove.
She takes every hit, never goes down, keeps getting back up even when her nose is a fountain.
On the third round, the tall one lands a punch that sends teeth flying into the glass above, where they stick like snowflakes.
The match ends when the wiry girl gets a lucky shot to the kidney and the big one folds, gasping, on her knees.
Stitch nudges me, eyes bright. “That’ll be us,” she says. “You and me, maybe.”
I snort. “I’ll break your jaw, then wire it shut myself.”
She laughs, loud enough to draw a glare from one of the guards. “You’re good, doc, but you’re not that good.”
The program moves on, each match bloodier than the last. Sometimes it’s inmate versus inmate, sometimes the Authority sends in one of their own—always a new recruit, always someone eager to show off for the home team. The rules are simple: survive, or make it worth the price of the ticket.
After an hour, the crowd is restless. The fights are starting to blend together, attention waning. The guard with the bullhorn senses it, ups the ante.
“Next up,” he calls, “D block’s own Stitch, versus Officer Kowalski.”
The crowd erupts. They know Stitch, know the way she never backs down from a challenge. They know Kowalski, too—the Authority’s pet, a man built like a wrecking ball and dumb as a post.
Stitch stands, rolls her neck, and heads for the pit without looking back. The guards open the gate, and she slides through, body loose, movements almost lazy. Kowalski is already waiting, baton in hand, a shit-eating grin on his face.
The bell rings, and it’s on.
They circle, both cautious at first. Stitch keeps her hands up, elbows tight to her body. Kowalski swings the baton, feinting high, then low, testing her defenses. The crowd jeers every miss, every stumble.
Stitch bides her time, lets Kowalski get cocky. He lunges, she sidesteps, grabs his wrist, and twists. The baton drops. She knees him in the gut, then the jaw, a one-two that staggers him back. The crowd goes wild.
Kowalski recovers, dives for the baton, but Stitch kicks it away. He charges, tackles her to the ground, and they roll, grappling for control. Stitch is quick, wriggles out, and lands an elbow to his nose. Blood sprays, painting the concrete in arcs.
But Kowalski is bigger, and meaner. He grabs Stitch by the hair, yanks her head back, and slams her face into the floor. Once, twice, three times. The sound is sickening. For a second I think she’s out cold, but her hand comes up, knife-shaped, and jabs him in the throat.
Kowalski gasps, staggers, but Stitch is on him, raining blows with both fists. She punches until her knuckles split, until Kowalski stops moving. Then she stands, shaky, and raises her arms in victory.
The crowd loves it. They chant her number, pound on the glass, throw whatever coins or scraps they have at the edge of the pit.
The guards don’t look pleased. Kowalski is one of theirs, after all. They drag his body out, then turn to Stitch. She’s smiling, blood pouring from her lip, eyes wild. She looks up at the stands, at our block, then at me.
I nod, once.
The next match is a joke—two scrawny teens from the new intake, neither willing to throw a punch. The crowd is bored, starts booing before the first minute is up. The guards end it early, tasering both and hauling them off like sacks of meat.
The tension shifts. I feel it like a weather change. The next fight will be big, or it’ll be a riot.
The guard with the bullhorn calls out, “One-three-two. Report to the pit.”
My hands go numb.
I scan the pit’s perimeter again—where Kang said the weak spot in a hold might be. I count bodies, gauge reach. If it’s someone faster than me, I’ll have to go for the knees. If it’s someone bigger, I’ll go for the throat and hope muscle memory doesn’t betray me.
Stitch is waiting by the entrance, still grinning, blood in her teeth. She pats my shoulder as I pass.
“Give ‘em hell, doc,” she says. “Make it quick.”
The guards open the gate. I step in.
The pit feels smaller now, the glass overhead pressing down, the stares of a hundred inmates burning into my skin.
My opponent is already there—a woman from B block, taller than me, but soft in the middle, arms ropy with old muscle gone to seed.
She looks nervous, but I know better. The nervous ones are the most dangerous.
The bell rings.
We circle. She’s slow, but her reach is good. She swings first, a haymaker that would have taken my head off if I hadn’t ducked. I counter with a jab to her solar plexus, but it’s like punching a tire. She grunts, then grabs me by the collar, tries to choke me with my own jumpsuit.
I twist, slamming my knee into her thigh. She lets go, but not before raking her nails across my face. I taste blood. My own, this time.
The crowd is screaming, but it’s all white noise. The world narrows to the two of us, the pit, the fists and feet and elbows.
She tries to tackle me. I let her use her momentum to roll, end up on top. I hit her once, twice, three times, the sound of bone on bone echoing in my head. She bucks me off, but I’m ready, already on my feet, breathing hard but steady.
She charges, desperate now. I sidestep, grab her arm, and twist. It breaks with a pop. She screams, and the crowd goes insane.
I finish it with a punch to the jaw, dropping her cold.
Silence, then thunder.
I stand there, shaking, blood running down my chin. The guards wait a beat, then open the gate. I stumble out, vision blurry.
Stitch is there, holding a rag to her nose, grinning like a maniac.
“You did it,” she says.
I nod, too tired to speak.
We sit together on the bench, the roar of the crowd fading. Above us, the guards watch, faces unreadable.