Jason stared at the mirror.
The man looking back wasn't a survivor. He wasn't the guy who crawled through the mud in Alcatraz or shoveled coal on the Behemoth.
He was clean.
The suit was Italian wool, charcoal grey, tailored to within a millimeter of his life. The shirt was crisp white silk. The tie was blood red.
It fit perfectly. Alta had his measurements from before the war. That terrified him more than the robots.
He picked up the lapel pin from the dresser. It was the Silver Legion insignia—a fasces bundle wrapped in wheat. The symbol of Pelley's fanatics.
Jason pinned it to his lapel.
He turned it upside down.
It was a small thing. A petty thing. But it was the only middle finger he had left.
"You look like a corpse at an open casket," a voice said.
Jason turned. Sarah was sitting on the edge of the bed in their assigned quarters—a luxury suite with bars on the windows.
"I look like management," Jason corrected. He checked his pockets. Keycard. Encryption dongle. A pack of pre-war cigarettes.
"Where are you going?" Sarah asked.
"To get my staff," Jason said. "A CEO is nothing without his heavy lifters."
He walked out the door.
The service elevator descended into the bowels of the Rouge.
Floor -1. Floor -2. Floor -3.
The air grew hot. The smell of lavender vanished, replaced by the copper tang of old blood and unwashed bodies.
The Pit.
The elevator doors opened.
A massive man blocked the way. He wore the black uniform of a Legion Captain. His face was a map of scars, and he held a shock baton like a baseball bat.
Captain Drax.
"Restricted area," Drax grunted. He chewed on a toothpick, looking Jason up and down with pure disgust. "Suits stay upstairs. This is the zoo."
"I'm here for the prisoner," Jason said. "O'Malley. Release him."
Drax laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. He spit the toothpick onto Jason's polished shoe.
"The Irishman?" Drax grinned. "He's booked. Tonight is fight night. The workers need entertainment. Alta wants blood on the sand."
"I'm Head of Operations," Jason said, his voice flat. "That makes him my asset."
"You're a guest," Drax stepped closer. He was a foot taller than Jason. "Down here, I'm the law. And the law says the Irishman fights until he stops twitching."
Jason didn't back down. He didn't flinch.
He reached into his jacket pocket.
Drax tensed, raising the baton.
Jason pulled out a datapad. He tapped the screen.
"Captain Drax," Jason read. "Payroll ID: 44-Alpha. You have forty men in this sector. You pay them in silver flakes and extra rations."
He looked up.
"I control the logistics now, Captain. I control the food shipments."
He tapped the screen again.
"I just rerouted your sector's meat delivery to the incinerator. If you don't open that gate, your men eat soy paste for the next month."
Drax's eyes narrowed. His grip on the baton tightened.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me," Jason said. "You think your men will stay loyal when they find out you cost them their steak dinner?"
Drax looked at the datapad. He looked at Jason's cold, dead eyes.
He lowered the baton.
"Open the gate," Drax snarled to the guard in the booth.
The heavy iron bars slid back.
"He's all yours, suit," Drax whispered as Jason walked past. "But if he dies in the ring, don't ask for a refund."
The arena was a circle of rusted shipping containers stacked three high.
Floodlights blazed down on the dirt floor.
Hundreds of workers in gray jumpsuits hung from the railings, screaming. They were gaunt, dirty, and desperate for violence.
In the center of the ring, Patrick O'Malley stood alone.
He looked bad. His left eye was swollen shut. His shirt was torn off, revealing a map of bruises on his ribs. He was breathing hard, blood dripping from his nose into the dust.
Opposite him stood three men.
They were hulking brutes, pumped full of combat stims. They wielded sledgehammers wrapped in barbed wire.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the crowd chanted.
The first brute charged. He swung the hammer in a wide arc.
O'Malley didn't dodge. He was too tired.
He stepped inside the swing. He took the wooden handle to the ribs—CRACK—but he didn't fall. He headbutted the brute. The man crumbled.
The second brute swung low, aiming for the knees.
O'Malley jumped, but his leg buckled. The hammer clipped his ankle. He went down.
The third brute raised his hammer for the killing blow.
"Stop!" Jason shouted.
His voice was amplified. He had grabbed the announcer's microphone from the podium.
The crowd went silent. They looked up at the man in the suit standing on the shipping container.
The brute with the hammer hesitated.
Jason jumped down. It was a ten-foot drop. He landed in the dirt, the impact jarring his teeth. He straightened his tie.
He walked into the center of the ring.
"This man is promoted," Jason announced. He threw a white silk handkerchief at O'Malley. "Wipe your face, Patrick. Shift starts in ten minutes."
The brute laughed. "He ain't going nowhere, suit. Match ain't over."
The brute stepped toward Jason, raising the barbed hammer.
"Get back, Boss!" O'Malley tried to stand, but his ankle gave out.
Jason didn't move. He stood his ground.
"You swing that hammer," Jason said calmly, "and you're unemployed."
"I don't work for you!" the brute roared. He swung.
It was a clumsy, drug-fueled strike.
Jason didn't block. He didn't have the strength.
He pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster. A sleek, chrome-plated revolver provided by Alta.
BANG.
He didn't shoot the man. He shot the hammer.
The bullet struck the cast-iron head of the sledgehammer mid-swing. The impact shattered the wooden handle. The heavy iron head flew off, spinning into the dirt.
The brute was left holding a splintered stick. He stared at it, confused.
Jason leveled the gun at the brute's forehead.
"You're fired," Jason said.
The brute dropped the stick. He backed away, hands up.
Jason turned to the crowd. They were silent, stunned.
He looked at the hundreds of starving faces watching him. He knew he couldn't win them with fear. Drax had fear. Alta had fear.
Jason had something better.
"Listen to me!" Jason yelled, his voice echoing off the containers. "My name is Jason Underwood! I run Operations now!"
He pointed at the guards on the catwalks.
"These guards? They eat steak while you eat slime! They drink clean water while you drink rust!"
A murmur went through the crowd.
"That changes today!" Jason shouted. "I'm unlocking the Reserve Freezer! Tonight, everyone in the Pit eats protein! Real meat! No credits required!"
The silence broke.
A roar went up. Not of anger, but of hunger. Of hope.
"Meat! Meat! Meat!" they chanted.
Drax watched from the gate, his face pale. He realized his mistake. He had let the fox into the henhouse.
Jason holstered the gun. He offered a hand to O'Malley.
"Can you walk?" Jason asked.
O'Malley grabbed his hand. His grip was like a vice. He hauled himself up, spitting a tooth into the dirt.
"For a steak?" O'Malley grinned through the blood. "I can run a marathon."
"Good," Jason whispered, leaning in close so only O'Malley could hear. "Because we're not just eating. We're recruiting. Find the men who hate Drax the most. I need a shadow crew."
O'Malley nodded. The soldier was back.
Jason wrapped O'Malley's arm around his shoulder. They limped toward the exit.
The crowd parted for them. The workers reached out to touch Jason's suit, as if he were a saint.
Jason didn't flinch. He let them touch him.
He looked back at Drax.
Jason smiled. He tapped his upside-down lapel pin.
Your army is my army now.
They walked out of the light and into the tunnel.
"Nice shot, Boss," O'Malley wheezed. "Aiming for the hammer?"
"I was aiming for his knee," Jason admitted. "Gun pulls to the left."
O'Malley laughed. It was a painful, hacking sound.
"We're in deep, aren't we?"
"We're in the belly of the beast, Patrick," Jason said. "So let's give it indigestion."