Page 6 of Scorpion

Ten years later

I might kill a man tonight.

I’ve fallen in the ring before. Broken bones, spilled my own blood on the concrete floor, yet I’ve never taken my last breath in front of people betting on my demise.

The roar of the crowd vibrates through the walls and rattles the metal lockers. Incomprehensible jeering, intermittent cheers, and collective gasps fill the space of the decrepit room. Life exists beyond the stained four walls surrounding me. But here, with the yellowing plaster and cracked basin, it feels like a place where people come to die.

Every time I sit on a bench, wrapping my hands with gauze, bandages, and tape, I picture myself stopping someone’s heart with a single strike. I imagine the crowd will explode with delight at the sight of death and the ensuing riches. I thought my mother’s wrath and my father’s disappointment were the worst I could endure. I was wrong.

This? There are no words to describe the seventh level of hell I’ve found myself in. I didn’t fall from grace; I was ripped away from it. Two and a half years ago, my wings were torn and my armor turned to dust. All within three days.

Flexing my fists, I focus on the wooden door. Any second, there will be a knock. At any moment my heart will remember it isn’t dead, and my brain will feel something other than oblivion.

I trace the scorpion tattoo hidden beneath the wrapping on my hand, with a pincer reaching for my thumb and pointer finger. Parts of it are still raised above the skin despite the months that have passed since I got it. My sister has an exact replica of it on her ribs.

Had.

What’s left of it is ash in the Atlantic Ocean. Along with the debris from the plane crash. Gaya finally got the freedom she wanted.

I had told her the heavy-handed tattoo would look ridiculous against the patchwork of all the fine line art she etched into her body the second I got her away from our parents. But she flipped me off, called me an idiot for not appreciating the reference she was making, and got it anyway.

A chorus of cries and shouts blare through the warehouse, echoing through the concrete corridors. It sends a ripple of anticipation down my spine as I roll my shoulders, stretch out the tension coiling my muscles tight.

Three consecutive knocks boom through the room. “We’re ready.”

Two words and my blood soars. Two words and I feel alive again. Adrenaline pumps through my veins and howls in my ears. My skin prickles with warmth at the impending feel of skin against skin. We all have to get our kicks somehow.

Gone is the thrill of falling out of helicopters. There’s no going back to the life I had before I failed my sister and my team.

Cheap thrills and blood money are my penance.

Unclasping my necklace, I press the gold coin pendant to my lips and try to remember the last time I saw Gaya wearing it, but the picture is all faded and murky now. I’m losing her more and more every day.

I tuck the necklace into the pocket of my pants and check that my dog tags are there. The wooden bench creaks as I rise. I have to adjust my sports bra again because the band has loosened after one too many wears, and my wallet is far too thin.

I stop at the end of the hall and peer out at the masses congregating around a center point. The exhilaration in the air is palpable.

The place reeks of cigarettes, piss, beer, and stale body odor, just like every other club I’ve ever been to these past two years. As disgusting as it is, the foul smell centers me until I notice every single minute detail of my surroundings. The weight of my leather boots. The pins holding my braid to my scalp. The woman in gray picking the pockets of unsuspecting men. Five exits: the one I’m in, the two roller doors, one at eleven o’clock, and the last at three.

Men and women from all trenches of society are here too. The Wall Street types, gang bangers, made men, and the unassuming neighbors next door.

Another city. Another fight club. Another chance to die a soldier’s death. All guts and no glory.

“Ladies and gents, we’ve got a crowd favorite up next.” The commentator’s voice booms through the megaphone, barely drowning out the sounds of excited chatter. He turns around on his stool to suck in the entire audience. “Five foot seven, with six consecutive knockout wins, and Colorado’s newest fighter.” The six knockouts happened months ago, and I haven’t had a decent win in over seven weeks. And unless there’s a stack of cash in my hands at the end of the night, I’m losing my apartment tomorrow. “She’s venomous, she’s a striker, and she’s out for blood. Give it up for the Deathstalkerrr!”

The room erupts into shouting and screaming. I glance down at the tattoo on my hand. The deathstalker scorpion.

Sergeant of the 75th Ranger Regiment. Eleven Bravo. Special Operations Forces.

Codename: Scorpion.

The sound slams into me when I shove the door open and stalk toward the center of the warehouse. People part like the sea, giving me a direct line to the makeshift ring. The rush of power that comes from the simple act used to make me heady, but it’s been a long time since the attention of the crowd has done more than spike my anxieties from being the center of attention.

Stacks of green are passed around in exchange for tokens that are quickly tucked away into pockets. The guy uses a marker on each note to check that it isn’t a counterfeit before moving to the next person to repeat the same process. I’m going to make someone rich tonight.

Some men leer, others salivate at the prospect of thickening their wallets. But some? They look like they can’t wait for me to die. It’s a look I became familiar with the second my mother birthed a daughter and not another son.

As I close in on the empty, circular space in the middle of the room, the noises drown beneath my racing pulse. Crimson and brown splatters decorate the gray concrete floor, working their way into every crevice and pore, leaving a near permanent mark of another fighter.

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