Three (Article 5 #3)(98)

Each floor had an inner track that allowed viewers to look down into the courtyard. Soldiers lined the railing, gawking, raining their cheers down into the courtyard. I couldn’t help but be awed by their numbers—thousands, maybe more. All the soldiers each region could spare, here to celebrate the FBR’s victory.

This was where Three would attack.

Finally, we reached the center of the courtyard, where several rows of chairs surrounded a square chain-link cage. Two soldiers dragged a man’s limp body out of the gate while those nearest called for the girls to join them. On a high platform to the right was a table, and seated in the center was the Chief of Reformation. He was flanked by two soldiers on each side, men like him—older, with stars on their jackets. Surrounding them was a blockade of guards standing shoulder to shoulder, leaving a distance of ten feet between the crowd and the table.

A few of the officers pointed in my direction and I immediately lowered my head, fearing I’d been caught.

“Send the girls up,” called the chief. “And refill these drinks!” He slammed a glass down on the wooden table while those nearest to him laughed. The party had already begun.

A few of the bravest pushed to the front of the line, and after being patted down climbed the steps up to the platform. Most of the other girls hung back, making their way through the three rows of seated soldiers that surrounded the cage.

On the opposite side the prisoners, their identities hidden by the black canvas bags over their heads, were dragged to a stand. Still latched together, they stumbled across the cement paddock in front of the cage gate. The soldiers on the floors above booed and shouted their insults, a hateful melody that made my ears ring.

Two men from the line, beige prison uniforms already clinging to their backs with sweat, were thrown into the center of the arena. I tried to get a closer look as those in the seated rows stood to watch the spectacle.

“Traitors!” called a man nearby.

“Dogs!” shouted another.

The hiss of a microphone cut through the noise, and then the chief’s sinister voice, amplified from the speakers positioned at the corners of the courtyard, filled the night air.

“My fellow soldiers, a week ago, these two men wore the same uniform as the rest of us.”

The crowd hurled their insults.

“They claimed allegiance to the Reformation. To the president. To everything we work so diligently to protect.”

My chest rumbled with the deafening roar of the soldiers.

“They betrayed us. All of us. Without reformation they are nothing but animals, with no structure, no higher purpose, ready to bite the hand that feeds them. Without order they turn on each other, and tear each other apart.”

Two soldiers ripped the bags off of the prisoners’ heads at the same time. They blinked at the harsh overhead lights and tried to gain their bearings as their cuffs were removed.

One had dark skin, the other, light. I froze.

“Fight!” chanted the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The few stories I’d heard of Chase fighting in Chicago refreshed in my memory. The thought of him being forced to do battle for the entertainment of others disgusted me all over again. As I looked around, a new pity slashed through me, this one bright and sour. Violence and brutality to teach compliance, to enforce morality—that was the MM’s way.

At first Marco and Polo drew together, back to back, as if they might fight whatever came their way. I’m sorry, I thought. Sorry they were here, that they’d been caught, that I’d even thought of the Statute hijacking. They had made their decisions long before me, but I couldn’t help but feel responsible for this.

“Only one of you is coming out,” said the Chief of Reformation.

Marco glanced over his shoulder at Polo. His partner’s lips were moving fast, saying something I couldn’t make out over the shouting. And then Marco, already injured, hobbled away, turning so that they were facing each other. Polo tried once, twice, and then one more time to get close to him, his arms open and pleading, but each time Marco jerked back.

“Fight!” demanded the crowd.

The men began to circle, Polo’s steps quick, Marco’s strained and awkward. Polo was still trying to reason. Even from where I was standing I could see that he still didn’t understand.

“Fight!”

I shoved through, getting closer to the fence. Close enough to hear Marco say, “I’m sorry, brother.”

He attacked Polo as though he felt no pain, and as they fell to the ground the courtyard erupted in cheers.

I watched, frozen, unable to look away. It was a trick. They had a plan. Marco would no more hurt Polo than I would hurt Chase. I told myself this even as Polo’s nose broke, as his blood soaked the floor of the arena.

Marco fought like a man possessed. He punched, screamed, and even cried, and as Polo’s body went still under him a moan, filled with despair, tore from him.

The soldiers had to drag him off of his friend. And even as they did, he refused to let him go.

“Brutal!” clapped the chief, no longer magnified by the microphone. “Absolutely brutal!”

At a nod of the chief’s head, one of the soldiers removed his weapon, and shot Marco in the back of the head.

My knees gave way and I fell back into the first row of soldiers. A man caught me around the waist and latched me in place on his lap. I could barely struggle; the horror had rendered my muscles useless.