“Wow.” Charles taps his screen again, and my reel starts over, without sound. “Nobody saw that coming. But in retrospect, maybe we should have. You have a connection to professional combat, don’t you? Will you tell us about your brother?”
I shift in my seat. I knew this was coming, but I still hate to publicly associate him with what I’ve done. With where I am. “My brother is Sebastian Wolfe. Better known as Havoc.”
The image on the screen to my left changes again to show a clip of Sebastian fighting in the Grand Championship arena—a brighter, cleaner version of the arena where I’ll be in a couple of hours. The civilian deathmatch has been a huge hit for years, and growing up, it was my brother’s dream to make it to the sand. To gain fame and fortune for our entire family.
But unlike the version I’m living, the term deathmatch is a bit of a misnomer on the civilian side. Only the championship round is actually a battle to the death, and though Sebastian has gotten close several times, he’s never made it quite that far.
“Your brother’s having a good season,” Charles tells me, and the sudden pulse of homesickness that beats through me is a brutal ache. I haven’t seen him fight since I was arrested. “I understand you trained with him, growing up?”
“Not formally, but yes. Sebastian always wanted to be a fighter. Skye wasn’t into it, but my brother and I took classes together as kids and sparred when we got older. That’s actually where my interest in anatomy began. I thought that if he knew precisely where to strike, his blows would be more efficient. I kept up with both the classes and the training, even after he made it onto Grand Champion.”
“Why didn’t Sebastian try to avenge your sister?” Charles asks, and that ache of homesickness becomes a searing spear of grief as I remember Skye laid out in her coffin. “He wasn’t there. They wouldn’t even let him out of training long enough to come to the funeral. Not that it matters. I don’t think he could have gotten close to her killer. The councilman would have seen Sebastian coming. But people are always underestimating me.”
“That may no longer be the case, after what we all saw this morning,” Charles says, and I try not to flinch over the reminder that everything that happened in the yard happened on camera. Yet there it is, playing silently on the screen to my left: a shot of me from the waist up—the edited-for-family-viewers version—wild-eyed and fierce, wielding my bloody knife at a crowd of huge, hulking, men. “That was really something. So, tell me about Graham. Did you know him before you got here?”
“No. He says we met once as kids, but I don’t really remember that.” The scene on the largest screen shows security footage of Graham pulling me away from Ray and into his cell. The footage changes to show us in bed later that night—an edited version zoomed to show just our faces, as I kiss him.
“Well then, that all happened fast.”
“I guess,” I admit. “But it doesn’t feel like that. In here, every minute is an hour. Every day is a month. On one hand, the knowledge that I might die today makes me feel like my life is spiraling out of control. The sands of time slipping through my fingers way too fast for me to catch. But at the same time, I’ve already been here an eternity. Graham and I have lived a lifetime in the past six days. A brutal, bloody lifetime.”
“Holy shit.” Charles turns away from me to look at the cameraman. “She’s fucking media gold.”
I watch from the dugout on the edge of the arena, opening and closing my freshly wrapped hands, as two rookies named Eli and Kent take the sand. If I hadn’t just seen them quietly melting down behind the scenes, I’d have no idea they’re both scared shitless. They look evenly matched to me, but if I’ve learned anything from watching the feeds, it’s that you can’t really predict who’s going to come out on top, even if you’ve seen the background reels. The stats. The posturing.
Except for Cohen Roth. He’s been here nearly a year, and he hasn’t lost a single fight. I’m convinced the only reason he didn’t come out on top last season is that, despite the warden’s claims that an automated system sets up the brackets, someone on the corporate board decided Roth could be a very big deal this season, if they kept him around. So, he sat out the championship fight, no doubt fuming off-camera, and for this entire season, he’s come down like a hammer on everyone who’s faced him.
Being out of commission for the moment must be killing him, but everyone here seems relieved. Including me. They can’t pair me against Roth until I move up a few tiers, but Graham…
I can’t even stand to think about it. He’s sacrificed so much of his own training to help me, and I know that’s going to hurt him.
“How do you feel?” Graham steps up to my side in front of the huge shatterproof window and slides one arm around my waist.
“I don’t know. I’m not really processing anything right now. I’m just trying to get my head in the game.” A couple of hours ago, freshly traumatized and riding a rush of adrenaline, I’d been ready to kill Lincoln Gray because he was willing to stand by and watch my assault. But now…
I’m fine with fighting for sport, for exercise, and for entertainment. And obviously I’ve killed to avenge my sister and to protect myself, and I would do either of those again in a heartbeat. But now that the moment has come—now that I’m in it, rather than watching it on the feeds—killing for entertainment seems…
Graham frowns, studying my expression, where my thoughts are evidently written, as clear as day. “Lincoln Gray has a death sentence, and you’re his executioner.” His voice is too low for anyone else to hear. “But if you give him a chance, he’ll flip the script. Don’t give him that chance.”
Across the room, Link sits on the floor with his eyes closed, like he’s meditating. As if he doesn’t see the other fighters, or the two dozen heavily armed and armored guards ready to shoot every single one of us at the first sign of trouble. I wish I could push everything aside like that and just focus.
But I can’t.
“You can do this.” Graham pulls me close and leans his forehead against mine. “You have to.”
We’re eye-level with the sand, in a large room that’s actually half-underground, on the north side of the arena. The tall dugout window forms part of the ring-shaped arena wall. The rest of the wall is made up of a series of tall shatter-proof screens, above which spectators look down onto the sand from curved sections of bleacher-style seating.
The live audience is made up entirely of zone one inmates who weren’t selected for today’s fights, and they look just as eager to see blood spilled as they would be to spill it themselves.
The buzzer cuts through my thoughts, and on the sand, Eli and Kent begin to circle each other.
Link and I are next.
Kaya and the rest of my production crew are gone, presumably back to my greenroom, where they’ll watch every move and get ready for my post fight interviews. Assuming I survive. Here in the dugout, there are only fighters and guards.
On the sand, Kent makes his move, a spirited lunge I have high hopes for—until Eli’s punch to the face knocks him flat on his back. He drops with one knee on Kent’s chest and starts punching. It’s over in less than a minute.
Eli stands, waiting for applause from the audience of inmates, but little comes. The bout was too fast. It’ll get him through to the next tier, but it won’t put him on the radar of any sponsors. For that, he’ll need more drama.
Or a set of ovaries, evidently.
I’m well aware that my gender has brought me an advantage, in the sponsorship department. But that seems fair, considering the disadvantage it’s brought me in every other department.
Eli leaves the arena through the south gate, where he’ll have a chance to talk up his victory on camera in the media room, while two guards head inside to drag the corpse from the sand.
Graham turns to me suddenly, his intense gaze trained on me. “It’s self-defense, Sylvie. If you don’t kill him, he’ll kill you. It’s that simple. Don’t overthink it. Don’t start feeling gui
lty, or sorry for him. There’s only one way for you to walk out of that arena alive. So just fucking kill him.”
“That’s good advice,” Link says, and I look up to find him watching us, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then he turns as the announcer calls his name, and I watch through the window as he takes the sand.
“Wolfe,” one of the guards calls. “You’re up.”
“Kill him,” Graham repeats softly. I nod and give his hand an awkward squeeze through both his wrappings and mine. Then I walk past the other fighters and head out the door, then up the steps to the edge of the arena.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says, as if I’m not the only woman here. “In our final tier one fight today, facing off against Lincoln Gray in a much-anticipated bout, we have the first female combatant ever to set foot on the sand. Sylvie Wolfe!”
A gate slides shut behind me, closing off my retreat as I step into the arena and the crowd remains oddly silent. Not bored, like they were with Eli’s victory, but…attentive. Curious. They don’t know how to react to my presence any more than I do.
The blimp passes directly overhead as I cross the sand toward Link. Around the edge of the arena, screens light up to play my background reel.
“I want to fight!” the newly convicted me cries out from the courtroom.
“I see every single one of you sick bastards!” I shout from the yard, my eyes wild, my knife dripping with blood. “You better watch your fucking backs, because I’m coming for you.”
“I’m my own fucking hero,” I snarl at Link, on the pathway to the arena.
“Graham and I have lived a lifetime in the past six days,” the me from this morning says, all made-up in the director’s chair. Then, as I come to a stop in front of Lincoln Gray on the sand, the screens show a close-up of my face. “…people are always underestimating me.”
The screens go blank, and the announcer clears his throat. “Once again, ladies and gentlemen, Sylvie Wolfe!”
15
SYLVIE
They’ve dressed Link in gray, with black accents and matching black hand wraps. No shoulder armor. His stance is wide. Well balanced. At least, as well-balanced a stance can be on shifting sand.
“This isn’t personal,” he says, and I wonder if the cameras can pick that up. I can’t remember ever hearing anything on the feeds other than grunts, shouts, and the impact of each blow.
“Would you feel like you need to tell me that if I were a man?” I ask, as we begin to circle each other, fists raised.
“You’re not a man,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You might not want this to be different. But this is different.”
“For you,” I counter. “For me, this is just more of the same.”
He darts in for a jab, and his right fist glances off my jaw as I dance out of his way. I may feel that later, but right now I feel nothing but adrenaline.
We circle each other some more, and the silence from the crowd is eerie, as if they’re as tense as I am. I block it out, focusing on Link. He’s a boxer. His stance is perfect, his left foot forward, facing me at an angle. He holds his weight on the balls of his feet, his knees bent, constantly moving. In a heartbeat, he can lunge at me or back away.
He darts in for another blow, and this time he splits my lip, on the left side. I stumble back, and he presses forward, on the offensive, until I land a kick on his ribs.
He’s good on his feet. Nimble and fast. He holds his elbows in, hands up, chin down, protecting his face, yet still ready to jab. To dodge. As fast as I am, I can’t beat him on my feet. But if I can get him on the ground…
He jabs again, and I dodge. We circle. And circle. And circle.
Link throws another punch, another miss, and as he retreats, I kick, a grunt tearing free from my throat with the effort. My shin connects, hard, and he stumbles to the left. I spin into another kick before he can regain his balance, and now he’s on the defensive.
I dart in with a jumping kick and catch him in the side of the neck. He’s off balance again, and he drops his arms just for a second. But that’s long enough. I kick him in the sternum, and he stumbles backward. Then he goes down.
I drop onto him with my full weight, my knee on his chest. Ribs crack, and he grunts. I start swinging, but he’s guarding his head with both arms, and I can’t get a shot in. If he gets back to his feet, I’m in trouble.
So I drive my left fist hard into his groin. Once. Twice.
Link howls and drops one arm, trying to cradle his ruptured man parts before he remembers that despite what his body is telling him, his head is actually a more vulnerable target.
I drive my fist into his nose. Cartilage crunches. Blood spurts. I stand, and as he turns onto his side, trying simultaneously to cough blood from his throat and push himself to his feet, I see that he’s left his neck vulnerable.
This is my chance—the only way I’m going to walk out of this arena.
Don’t think. This time it’s Graham’s voice in my head.
I suck in a deep breath as I lift my right leg. Link tries to roll away from me. I drive my foot down on the side of his neck as hard as I can, just below his chin, and I hear a thin crack. In the next heartbeat, I raise my left leg, transferring all my weight onto my right foot.
His neck breaks with a gruesome snap that jars my whole body. My entire being.
Lincoln Gray goes still. His hands fall limp on the sand as I remove my foot from his neck. He blinks once. Twice. He gasps. Then the rapid swelling of his spinal cord disrupts blood flow and interrupts nerve signals leading from his brain, telling his organs to function. Without those signals, everything just…stops.
It was a one in a million impact. I don’t think I could repeat it if I tried.
For a second, I can’t move. I just stare down at him, stunned.
Then the audience bursts into a foot-stomping, fist-pounding uproar, held back from the arena by a thick web of metal, like chain link.
“And…Sylvie Wolfe is the victor!” the announcer shouts, as if he’s caught up in hysteria too. “We’re seeing history here, ladies and gentlemen!”
Movement catches my eye, and I look up to see myself on-screen all around the arena, stomping on Link’s neck with my full weight. Over and over again. Replayed from every possible angle.
This morning, I hated him. But now, as he lies here on the sand, dead, humiliated, I feel nothing but…numb.
A gate opens on the south side of the arena. I’m supposed to go through it, so they can come for Link’s body. So I can talk to the cameras. But as I walk across the sand, empty handed, stone-hearted, I look up at the crowd cheering for me, more moved by the violence of the moment than by the fact that I performed it, and I search out the faces I saw this morning. The men who held me down. The men with their pants unzipped, waiting their turn. The men who watched. Who were content to let it happen.
When I get to the gate, I turn to face the crowd one more time, and I throw my hands up, but not in victory. I flip them all a two-handed bird, giving the cameras several long seconds to focus on my statement.
Then I turn my back on them all and walk off the sand.
“That was glorious!” Kaya is beside herself when I step into the greenroom, escorted by half a dozen armed guards who, I could swear, are looking at me a little uneasily now. “It was such a neat death. Neat, as in clean. Tidy. Which I, personally, love.” She lays one hand over her heart as she escorts me toward the makeup chair. “But a couple of your sponsors have already asked if perhaps you could spill just a little more blood next time.”
I can only stare at her. “Where’s Graham? Take me back to the dugout.”
“You can’t go back. You’ll disrupt the fighters’ focus. And anyway, you’ve got another interview lined up. But he knows you’re fine, hon. He saw the fight. We got great shots of his reactions.”
I contemplate running for the door, but the guards would shoot me in a heartbeat. And for all I know, they mig
ht show Graham the footage. That would disrupt his focus.
So, I sit in the chair and let Margie redo my makeup. Kaya instructs her not to cover up my bruised chin or touch my split lip. And they won’t let me change, because despite Kaya’s complaint, there’s a nice splatter of blood—both mine and Link’s—across the front of my otherwise bright white outfit.
When Margie’s done with me, Renee brushes out my hair and somehow manages to make my curls look…tame. Then it’s off to the media room again.
This time, the reel playing on the screens in my cubical includes Link busting my lip and my fatal step on his neck. As well as footage of me flipping off the entire stadium, shown in slow motion, before I turn and stalk out of the arena.
It’s surreal to see the whole thing play out on screen. I wonder if my family watched. I wonder if my father had his friends over for beer and pizza, while my mother hid in the kitchen with a bottle of wine, waiting for him to tell her that I’m still alive, as he does during Sebastian’s fights.
I’ll probably never know.
I spend what feels like forever answering Charles’s questions on camera, but as the guards escort me back to the greenroom, where someone has set up a table and Kaya has fixed me a huge plate of food from the buffet, I can’t actually remember what any of my answers were.
All I can think about is how Link died beneath my foot. How Graham might be dying this very second.
“Eat up, hon.” Kaya sinks into the chair across from me, holding a bright pink drink in a martini glass. I don’t know where she got it. There’s no bar set up in here.
“Is that for me?” I ask as I stab a slice of barbecued sausage with my fork.
“Oh, um… No, I’m sorry. I can see if we have some iced tea, or maybe something carbonated, if you’d prefer. I understand they only have water in the bullpen, but…
“Please. Just a sip. It would really calm my nerves.”
Kaya looks around, to make sure there are no cameras aimed at me. Then she hesitates a second before setting the drink down between us.
Champion Page 15