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The problem with innovative technology is that it doesn't take long to become weaponized.

—Professor Jareth Bakker, International Bioethics Committee

September 2098

Ander Rade decided he was going to die.

It was the only way he was ever going to escape this place. Escape the hell his life had become. Seven long, torturous years locked away without a word from anyone on the outside. Plenty long enough to realize he'd been forgotten. And he wasn't made to live in a cage. So, death it was. He'd spent the last several nights sitting awake in his cell attuning his mind to the concept of surrender. Played out scenarios in his head in as many different ways as he could possibly imagine so that he'd be ready when the moment came. He knew that he'd never be able to kill himself, though, so he'd have to rely on the violence of others. And in the fighting pit, there was no shortage of violence.

Should've been easy. Just stand there. Keep his hands down. Not fight back. It was what he deserved for all the horrible things he'd done. But a good plan never survives contact with the enemy.

Now, as Rade's opponent drove a fist into the left side of his face, the notion of surrender abandoned him completely. His custom combat- tuned endocrine system surged, pumping endorphins and unbridled rage through every fiber of his body. Pain disappeared. Exhaustion became a myth. Time slowed to a crawl as razor-sharp focus catalogued the details of his surroundings and tagged any immediate threats for elimination.

The bloated, muscle-bound mod who'd hit him was tottering back around after nearly losing their balance on the awkward follow- through, having put everything he had into the attack. Rade shook off the blow and stepped in, driving the heel of his boot into the mod's knee. A crunch, a high-pitched shriek. Cloud of dust as his opponent hit the dirt. One threat down.

A flash, something moving to the right. Rade ducked as a vibrohammer swung through empty space an inch above his head. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd grabbed ahold of the hammer's handle and pulled the attacker into him.

'Stop. Fucking stop. Just let them end it for you.'

But Rade's body was on autopilot. His right hand clamped around his opponent's chin. A violent twist, muffled crunch of snapping vertebrae. The body spasmed and fell.

Shouts from the scaffolding above the pit where spectators watched from behind electrified razor fencing, waving credit chips and cold hard cash as they cheered on their wagers. Generals, drug lords, politicians. Criminals, every last one of them.

The third and final threat came in fast and low. Rade dropped the vibrohammer and tried to will himself to be still, to ignore the blades flashing in his opponent's hands. No good. In two moves, the attacker was disarmed and pinwheeling through the air. The body hit the electrified wall of the fighting pit with a bright flash and shower of sparks. A smoking, charred husk fell to the dirt.

The fight was over and Rade was still alive. Again. Defeated by his own instincts.

He stood over the carnage scattered across the pit trying to slow his heart, calm the storm in his body. As the adrenaline faded, a piercing sensation began to needle its way into his skull, burrowing deeper and deeper until the searing agony nearly dropped him to his knees. His hands shook, his vision went blurry. Crippling pain utterly consumed him.

There'd always been an uncomfortable emptiness that came on the tail of a combat-endorphin comedown, but these fits had been getting significantly worse.

Punishment for surviving, perhaps. He clenched his teeth, focused inward, and tried to ignore the pain while the villainous crowd watching from above cheered and shouted and spat curses. Money changed hands and already new bets were being made.

The walls of the fighting pit powered down and guards stepped out onto their elevated platforms pointing stun throwers down at Rade. A suppressor drone rolled up and docked with the cage door to the pit, yellow warning strobes flashing as it reconfigured itself for prisoner transport, going from insectile in appearance to looking more like a mechanical interrogation chair. The cage door slid open and one of the guards barked orders at him though the drone's voice amp. Rade followed protocol, turning to face away from the drone, walking backwards until told to stop and lowering himself onto the drone's seat. Power cuffs clamped around his wrists and ankles, locking him in place. It was like sitting on a robot's lap, and it was every bit as ridiculous as it felt. It was meant to be humiliating. Everything in El Agujero was designed to dehumanize the inmates. Take away their sense of self. Keep them beaten, physically and mentally. Even though many of the inmates weren't considered human anyway, but that was beside the point.