I've never been the weakest nor the most sickly slave. Knowing I'd always wanted to be a fighter pushed me to improve my strength on the construction sites, carrying materials far beyond my capacity.
My strength gradually increased over the years sometimes rivalling that of the boy slaves but if it's one thing I've learnt from the matches in the pits, it is that strength alone never made a winner.
Instead of improving what little skills I have, I spend most of my training time watching the opponent I am going to face tomorrow. His name is Michael and he has only won one match since he became a fighter last month.
This should make me less nervous but it doesn't because he is already one month ahead of me.
I sit on the benches and cup my chin in my hands as I stare at him. As a slave we are allowed to watch the fights in the pits if we complete our tasks on time. I suppose it is sick and twisted to want to watch two humans beat each other up but as it is our only form of entertainment I have made a point to make it for all the matches every week since I was fifteen.
That was when I realized I watched the fights differently from others. While other slaves would discuss how the fighters who won were just generally stronger, I noticed the little things like how some fighters had predictable moves that their opponents never noticed and how the unpredictable ones also had patterns to their movements.
Every fighter has a pattern and the ones who win have generally better patterns.
And now I am watching Michael's.
He is training with an older noticeably more experienced fighter in the ring today. I notice he jabs his right foot out every time his opponent nears him and he limps on his left one. He misses almost every time and suddenly he gets lucky and hits his opponent in the side.
His kick must be strong because the other guy clutches his side and winces before backing away.
"Good one," He praises and Michael smiles at the approval. This is positive reinforcement and I am certain he will try it again tomorrow with me. He has lost three fights in a row ever since winning his first one and it will be his last chance to win against me. If he loses, his next fight will be with a Plutonian, which is an automatic death sentence.
Like Sergeant Atmos said, there is no room for the weak here.
I try not to think about his fate and instead focus on my own. It's true that I have memorized almost all his moves and most of the fighters I have seen on the pits before but I myself have never fought. I do not know what my strengths are nor my weaknesses.
Although Sergeant Atmos had been quick to point them out during our brief training session just now.
After watching me punch a dummy over and over again, his eyes had glazed over and I didn't miss the relief on his face when he received a call and excused himself from our session.
Despite the obvious dismissal I continued my assault on the dummy till my fists were numb and then moved to the benches to watch Michael sparring with his opponent.
My eyes narrow on his left foot as he walks. His eyebrows crease in pain every time he moves that foot and then it clicks in my head.
I remember his last match where his opponent pushed him to the floor and twisted his left foot till he tapped out. Michael must have injured his ankle.
"Don't think about it too much and try your best," Sergeant Atmos sits down beside me and watches them as well. "What ever you do try not to get kicked."
I make a mental note of that.
"And your punches are weak so try to attack with your legs. Run circles around him and make him tired."
I stare at the muscles that bulge out when Michael attempts a punch. He is tall and big but Sergeant Atmos is right, his size makes him slower and he is panting more than his opponent.
A bell chimes throughout the room and Sergeant Atmos clears his throat.
"Practice is over, Aria. Good luck for tomorrow."
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My eyes will not shut as I think about what winning tomorrow would mean for me. A place as a fighter, a chance to join the army and most importantly a greater chance than I've ever had before at an escape.
All I have to do is win. An image of Michael's scrunched up fighting face crosses my vision and I feel my chest squeeze. He will die in his next match if by some miracle I win but that is the last thing I am worried about.
Instead I find myself thinking of ways to beat him. I can't let him win if it means me losing. I've waited too long for this. For a chance at freedom.
Desperation consumes me as I clutch the sheets around me and pull. This is not my home, it has never been my home. I will escape, I will return to Earth and expose the Plutonians for what they really are; a bunch of war hungry slave-drivers. And I will find my family.
The thought of such a reunion brings tears to my eyes and I choke back a sob.
I would rather die than go back to being a slave.
These thoughts consume me until I hear a knock on the door and realize it's morning. It is to my disadvantage that I haven't rested enough but I am as awake as a live wire. My nerves have taken over and I pray that I will not collapse of exhaustion on the pits.
I follow the attendant to the dressing room where she places me in a suit which has shock absorbents over the chest and groin areas. She then ties up my hair and smiles at me in the reflection in the mirror.
"There's a light meal for you over there," she says.
The light meal consists of grilled meat, some cooked algae, rhye bread and dessert. I stare at it and feel like throwing up. I am so nervous I can't eat.
She smiles and speaks in a soothing voice, "I know you may not feel like it but you're going to need the energy. Don't worry you still have time."
I realize she is right and slowly chew everything down. I wash it down with an energy drink she has given me and then I wait.
The waiting is more torturous than anything I have ever experienced. I hear my heart thumping in my chest and it nearly pops out when the door finally opens.
The attendant nods her head for me to follow. I swallow hard and walk with her along a narrow passageway. Then I see the opening of the tunnel that leads to the pits and the sound of people chanting fills my ears.
I feel queasy as I cross the entrance and step into the open arena. The door seals shut behind me, trapping me in this closed space with an audience all around me. The benches are filled with Plutonians and slaves as they stare at me with excitement on their faces.
The door to another tunnel opens and out steps Michael. They cheer for him but the noise has drowned out in my ears as I stare at him from head to toe. In his suit he seems larger and more intimidating than I remember.
We stand in the center of the circle and wait for the Plutonian war song to be played and the humans to chant their pledge.
I notice the Trinity in the center of the exclusive seating area. They sit behind older versions of themselves whom I guess must be the Trinity seniors. The leaders of the Plutonian army.
I catch the glaring one staring at me whom I now know as Lucian. He picks up a snack and leans back, already looking entertained.
My skin prickles with irritation but I am quickly distracted by the sound of the horn blaring indicating the match has started.
Michael wastes no time and charges at me with such fervor, I barely have time to react. He kicks out towards my side and I roll over as he misses by an inch.
This goes on for a few seconds. I skip and avoid as much as I can realizing that this is my skill but Michael is desperate and losing patience.
The next time I try to avoid him he grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards him. He then knees me in the stomach and I am suddenly out of breath. A rush of pain blinds me as I scamper away, trying to avoid his next kick.
This time I am not so lucky. He kicks my side and I nearly fall over. I manage to throw in a punch but he doesn't even react.
I skip to the side realizing I can't avoid him forever. My breaths are uneven and all I want to do is lie down and clutch my stomach but I can't. Instead my eyes focus on Michael's heavy panting and how he lifts his right leg when he nears me. He only kicks with his right leg.
And then I remember his injured foot.
Just as I anticipated he moves to kick me and this time I let him.
His foot connects with my rib cage and another rush of pain runs through me but I ignore it, grab his foot and yank it towards me causing him to lose balance.
He falls on his back and in a maddening rush I grab his injured left foot and turn it around using the force of my whole body. I land on the floor after a sickening crunch echoes through the air.
My body aches and my stomach is on fire as I crawl out from under his leg. The crowd has fallen silent as Michael sits up and clutches his foot in pain. It has already started to swell up but he gets up anyway, not willing to give up.
His face is livid as he limps towards me but lucky for me he is now unable to kick. He swings at me but I manage to dodge it. We do this until we are both tired and I can see in his eyes that he wants to give up.
This is the opportune moment to strike but I do not know what is holding me back and I am afraid of attacking him even though he is injured. Behind us the crowds are ablaze with excitement, clearly impatient.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Finish him off. Finish her off!"
I swallow the bile that has inched its way up my throat. Those words were coming from the humans.
Michael seems to have had enough of it as he charges towards me like a bull. I attempt to avoid him but he pushes me towards the wall and then wraps his hands around my neck.
My throat constricts as I see the desperation in his eyes. Through blurry eyes I see his red face and the saliva dripping from his mouth making him look like a rabid animal.
He squeezes tighter and I choke. My throat is on fire and I begin to feel dizzy. All I want to do is close my eyes and give up. If I tap out he will win, it is as simple as that but even though I am unable to breathe, my lungs are already filled with hatred and revenge.
Every gun burn that seared my skin as punishment, every person I have seen die here in vain, every empty gaze I have held with the soulless eyes of another slave who has lost hope.
I think of all these things and pinch the skin on his hands so hard that I draw blood. He hisses in pain and his grip loosens which allows me to push his hands away and slam my foot down on his broken one.
He screams and his saliva hits my face. I don't waste any time. I elbow him in the nose and use all my energy to knee him in the stomach.
He stumbles and I kick him until he is on his back. Once he is I twist his left foot further and ignore the way he wails in pain.
But he still hasn't tapped out.
I then place my foot on his throat and press down hard. He chokes loudly but doesn't tap out. I press harder because my stomach is convulsing and I am eager to get this over with.
He wraps his hands around my ankle and tries to push me away but he is much weaker now. I push again and this time he vomits all over my foot. He then collapses back onto the floor and his eyes roll to the back of his head.
I step away and stare at him warily. Is he dead?
It is all I can think about when the speaker phone booms announcing my victory.
It doesn't register that I have won. Instead I watch a group of slaves rush in to check if Michael is alive. They quickly turn him to the side and relief rushes through me when he coughs up the rest of the vomit.
Exhaustion takes over and I collapse onto the ground watching them take him away on a stretcher.
He has barely regained consciousness but when he catches sight of me his eyes focus and I see the horror in them.
We both stare at each other and it feels like I have killed him. Because we both know once he has recovered, his next match will be a death sentence.