A Human After All

The cell block stank of piss and rust, the air thick with the sour bite of blood drying on Scrap's sleeve. He sat on a bench that creaked like it was ready to collapse—splintered wood, one leg busted, propped up by a jagged rock.

Across from him, Duran sprawled, his bulk swallowing the space, one elbow steadying the rickety edge. He tore a hunk off a stale, gray loaf—something they passed off as bread—and slid it across the table. It skidded to a stop in front of Scrap, dust puffing off the scarred surface. 

"Eat up, kid. You're tapped out, yeah? No points left to grab your own. Can't have you starvin' on me."

Scrap eyed the bread, still as stone. His gut snarled, a low ache he'd trained himself to ignore. He'd burned his last points on that training card—nothing else to trade.

After a beat, he picked it up, snapping it between his fingers. Hard as a brick, tasted like dirt, but he chewed slow, steady. Didn't say thanks. Duran didn't need it.

Duran gnawed his own piece, jaw working like he was punishing it. His bloodshot eye drifted to Scrap, lingered a second, then flicked off toward the bars.

"Y'know, back on Earth, this crap wouldn't even pass for dog food."

"Real shit—juicy burgers, fries you'd burn your damn fingers on. Air that didn't smell like death. Then they yanked me into this fuckin' pit. Hell of a downgrade, huh?"

He chuckled, dry and low, shaking his head.

Scrap kept chewing, quiet. Earth meant nothing to him—couldn't picture it, didn't try. The Arena was it, start to finish. He swallowed, the gritty lump clawing its way down, and brushed his hands on his torn pants.

Then he stood, bench scraping loud against the stone, ready to move—when a clang echoed down the block, sharp and out of place.

Both their heads turned. Down the corridor, two guards hauled a figure between them—a woman, blonde hair matted with sweat, dragging in heavy battle armor that gleamed even under the flickering bulbs. Not the cheap stuff slaves wore—polished plates, dented but pricey, the kind you'd see up top, not down here in the muck.

Her boots skidded, kicking at the dirt, arms twisting against the guards' grip. One meaty hand clamped her wrist, the other her neck, shoving her toward a cell.

"Let—go, you fucks!"

She spat, voice raw, thrashing hard enough to make the chains rattle. The guard on her left—a squat brute with a scarred jaw—slammed his fist into her gut. She doubled over, gasping, but still swung a wild elbow, catching him in the chin.

He snarled, blood dripping from his lip, and drove his boot into her knee. A wet crack. She buckled, armor clanging as she hit the ground.

"Stay down, bitch." The second guard growled, towering over her, his baton raised.

"You ain't that shiny warrior no more—fuckin' slum rat now."

He swung the baton down, smashing her shoulder. Blood sprayed from her lip as she bit back a scream, clawing at the dirt, still trying to rise. The first guard kicked her ribs, hard, and she finally went limp, chest heaving.

They dragged her into the cell, armor scraping the bars, and slammed the door shut with a screech. She slumped against the wall, blonde hair falling over her face, one hand clutching her busted shoulder.

Duran let out a low whistle, leaning back on the bench.

"Well, shit. Guess even the high rollers get a taste of the floor eventually." He smirked, tearing off another chunk of bread.

"Hope she kept the receipt for that fancy tin suit—ain't gonna help her down here."

Scrap didn't move, eyes locked on the cell for a beat, then flicked away. Didn't matter who she was. Didn't change the pit.

He shifted, ready to step off, when something stuck in his throat—a question, heavy, unasked.

He opened his mouth, voice low, flat, cutting the air like a blade.

"Who's she?"

"What the FUCK?"

Duran choked on his bread, coughing hard, crumbs spraying across the table. His bloodshot eye went wide, head snapping to Scrap like he'd just grown a second skull.

He slammed a fist on the bench, rattling it, then sucked in a deep breath, another, staring at Scrap like he was a ghost.

"You—shit, you talk? Since when?"

Scrap didn't answer. Didn't blink. Just waited, face blank, eyes steady on Duran.

Duran dragged a hand down his scarred face, exhaling loud, still rattled.

"Alright, alright—fuck me, that's a jolt. Her?" He jerked a thumb toward the cell, voice dropping low.

"That's Kazira, if I ain't wrong. Used to be a big shot—Main Leaderboard, respected as hell. Tore through fuckers like they were paper, armor and all."

He snorted, shaking his head.

"Wonder how she ended up down here in the shit with us. Must've pissed off the wrong bastard."

Scrap's gaze drifted back to the cell, then away. He stepped off the bench, wood groaning behind him, and walked toward the corridor, leaving Duran still muttering under his breath.

Scrap's boots scuffed the chipped stone as he walked the corridor, the cell block's stink fading into a dull hum of groans and clanks. His shadow stretched long under the flickering bulbs. The bench chat with Duran was done—back to the cell, back to nothing.

Same thing, different hour.

A wet rasp cut the air behind him, sharp and ragged, like lungs drowning in muck. He didn't turn—not yet. Then came the stumble of boots, frantic, dragging, metal scraping stone.

A figure lurched from the side passage—Kazira, blonde hair snarled with blood, armor dented and streaked red.

She was a total wreck—chest heaving, one arm limp, the other clutching her side where ribs poked wrong under the plates. Blood oozed from her split lip, dripping down her chin, and her eyes burned wild, wide, like she'd clawed her way out of a grave.

How she was still moving, no one could guess—barely breathing, barely alive, a corpse too stubborn to drop.

She staggered toward Scrap, the first shape in her path, and her voice ripped out, hoarse and jagged.

"Duel me! Right fucking now!"

Scrap kept walking, steps steady, eyes forward. Her boots pounded closer, uneven, desperate, then a hand—slick with blood—snagged his arm, nails digging in.

She yanked hard, dragging him off balance, and he hit the ground with a grunt, stone biting his knees. Before he could twist free, she was on him, straddling his chest, a polished dagger flashing in her grip—sharp, pristine, nothing like the slum's rust.

She jammed it under his jaw, tip pricking skin, a bead of red welling up.

"Fight back!"

. . .

"Hit me, you fuck—do it now!"

Her breath came in gasps, eyes darting, mad with need. She wasn't asking—she was begging, demanding, like her life hung on this one goddamn swing.

A duel meant registration—blows traded, intent shown, points racked up. Her ticket back to the Main Leaderboard, back to something, anything but this shit-pit.

Scrap's face stayed blank, cold as the floor under him. His hands didn't move—no fists, no grab for the dagger. Just stared up, eyes flat, unblinking, like she was a shadow he'd wait out.

Seconds ticked. Her grip tightened, dagger shaking harder, blood dripping from her busted shoulder onto his chest.

"Fight, you piece of shit!"

She slammed her free hand into his collarbone, bone grinding bone.

"I need this—NOW! I'm not fuckin' done!"

She reared back, dagger raised, ready to carve him open if he wouldn't bite...

..then her eyes rolled—white, glassy.

A wet gurgle choked out, blood bubbling from her mouth, and she went slack, collapsing hard across Scrap's chest. The dagger clattered from her hand, skidding across the stone.

She was done—body limp, breath a shallow wheeze, teetering on death's edge but too damn stubborn to cross it yet.

Scrap instead checking if she's alive, slid his hands under her, armor cold and slick, and shoved her off—her weight thumped to the ground, a dull clang of metal on stone.

He stood, slow, brushing dirt and blood from his knees, then bent down. The dagger glinted in the dim light—polished steel, etched with faint runes, worth more than anything down here.

He scooped it up, turning it once in his grip, then straightened and walked off, leaving her sprawled in the dust.