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The drone turned on its tracks and took Rade from the fighting pit, leaving the chaotic shouting of the crowd behind. Normally after a blood bout he'd be brought to his isolated cell in the lower levels, but instead he was delivered through the prison to one of the upper levels, closer to the surface. There were still no windows in this part of the prison, but he could sense the change in pressure—the atmosphere more natural, the air cleaner and less dense than what the ventilation systems pumped through the depths. Maybe he was being sold again, to some new criminal high roller who'd bring him to some other hellhole in some other forgotten corner of the world.

The drone came to a stop in the prison's interrogation wing. Rade had no idea what this was about, but he knew it couldn't be good. A dozen guards were waiting for him in full riot gear, crackling stun rods at the ready as the drone deposited him and folded back into its tactical configuration. One of the guards came forward and clipped a charge pack around Rade's waist, then connected it to a set of portable shock cuffs. They'd learned early on not to take chances with him.

They shuffled Rade into one of the interrogation rooms and sat him at a table, where they locked him in place. Once they were confident he was secured, they filed out, leaving him with two strangers who were standing in the corners of the room watching him closely. The strangers didn't look at all like the types who typically visited places like El Agujero. A man and a woman, both clearly not part of the prison staff. Green tactical cargo pants and all-terrain boots, gray button-up shirts with under-the-arm holsters complete with KZ-11 service pistols—the kind favored by agents of the United American Provinces. The man was the older of the two, maybe only a few years older than Rade. Old enough to have seen a few things. There was a sharpness behind his eyes that reminded Rade of Hab. Intelligence, cold and calculating. He feigned disinterest in his surroundings, but Rade could tell the man missed nothing.

The woman seemed to hold the higher rank, though—the way she moved, the way she commanded the space she occupied. There was an economy of motion there that led Rade to believe she was no stranger to violence. She stood with shoulders poised and feet planted like she could spring into action in a second. All business. She had dark hair, almost black, cropped to muscular shoulders, and dark eyes to match that were locked on Rade like he was some kind of prey. She glanced at a file in her hand and tapped something into the interface on her wrist.

"Prisoner number eight-oh-seven, can you state your name for the record," the woman said in English.

Rade eyed her curiously. "You're American." She ignored the comment. "Your name, please."

"You must work for one of the agencies," Rade said, ignoring her back. "Maybe even a sanctioned company. You're not here by accident. So you know goddamned well who I am."

"Regardless," the woman said, unfazed. "I'd like to hear you say it."

The urge to resist was powerful, but his curiosity was even more so. These people were the first Americans he'd seen in seven years. And they were here for something. Something that just might lead to a fate other than death in a pit. "Rade," he said, deciding to give in just this time. "My name is Ander Rade."

She watched him for a moment, measuring him. "Heard you just killed two inmates and left a third one crippled."

"Happens. They were convicts and illegal knockoff mods anyway. I doubt you came here for the entertainment, though."

"That's correct. We're with the Genetic Compliance Department of the United American Provinces. I'm Agent Morgan Moreno. This is Agent Danny Atler." She nodded toward the man standing in the opposite corner. "And we didn't come here by accident. We came here specifically to find you."

Rade had no idea what in the hell the Genetic Compliance Department was, but for the briefest of moments he wanted to believe that these people were here to take him home. Set him free. He knew better than that, though. There was always an ulterior motive. Always some other purpose at play. And he didn't quite like the sound of "genetic compliance," either.

Agent Moreno went on. "We're part of a task force dedicated to tracking down rogue mods."

"Rogue mods&" Rade said, trying out the words. They had a bad taste, like they were synonymous with something untamed and wildly dangerous. It was starting to seem like things in the outside world had changed more than he'd thought.

Moreno must have seen the way Rade was chewing on this new information; her demeanor changed. Not by much, but enough that he noticed. She shifted into a less combative stance, and there was something at the edges of her eyes that didn't match the cold exterior she put on. "I don't know what kind of secondhand information you get in places like this, but let me give you the quick and dirty," she said. "Xyphos—and every other contract company running enhanced operative programs—was shut down in 2091 when the Genetic Compliance Act was ratified, banning the practice of human genome modification under the authority of the World Unity Council.