Page 80 of The Atom Between Us

It lingered, closer than skin.

And when I finally slept, I dreamt of survival—not as a theory, but as something that wanted to be lived.

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.