One man grabs for a handful of my hair. It’s grown out a bit since Baby cut it into a Mohawk, but it’s still short enough for me to whip it out of the way, slap his hand, and snap a punch to his jaw. The other man lunges at my middle, getting his shoulder into my ribs. I elbow him twice in the back of the neck, but he doesn’t let me go and ends up driving me toward the wall. Before he gets my back to it, I twist and run hard up against the surface, crashing him into it as I flip to my feet.
As I watch him crumple to the floor by the wall, the first man comes at me again. I drop down and sweep his legs out from under him with a leg whip. He careens into the other man just as he’s struggled to his feet, and the two of them slam, grunting, into the wall and go down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Looking around wildly, I see all assailants either down or bleeding. One of the men at my feet grabs my ankle weakly.
“Do you really want to keep going?” I ask.
The man shakes his head. Slowly, the group gets up and limps away into the Yard.
I walk to Jacks, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and smile. Be strong, Jacks told me.
I don’t have to be strong. I am strong.
“Hey, Jacks,” the girl says, “thanks for the assist. Although I’m sure I could’ve handled it on my own.”
“There were five of them, Brenna,” he points out.
“Yeah, and you only helped out with one. Your girlfriend at least took on two.” She gives him a wicked grin and turns to me. “I’m Brenna.”
“Amy.” I offer her my hand, and she shakes it as though it’s a test of strength.
“That little one”—she points to the guy still on the ground, moaning in pain—“he thought he’d jump me because I beat him in the Arena last week. It’s not my fault he’s a whiny little bitch!” she shouts toward him.
“You fight in the Arena?”
“Yep, it’s better than being some guy’s property.” She looks me up and down, trying to figure me out.
“So you aren’t anyone’s?” I ask.
“Brenna isn’t a huge fan of men,” Jacks says with a smirk. “I don’t think there’s a man alive who can handle her.”
Brenna makes a disgusted face. “I can’t imagine belonging to a man. . . . Having them touch you.” She feigns throwing up. “Why would anyone want that?” She looks at me again. “No offense, I mean, if anyone’s claimed you. It can get rough here.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, wincing. My hip still aches from my earlier altercation.
“Well, you can fight, that’s for sure,” Brenna tells me appraisingly. “But it’s an easier life to be protected.”
“Actually,” Jacks says, “Amy is mine.”
Brenna looks at Jacks, eyebrows raised skeptically, before barking out a laugh. “Really Jacks? You claimed someone.” She looks at my arm, covered by my synth-suit. “Did you tattoo your name under her ninja getup?”
“You know I didn’t,” he tells her between clenched teeth. “But she’s still mine, and you should let everyone know.”
Brenna grins. “Jacks may seem all big and tough, but he’s really the sensitive type. He tries to hide it, but I know he wouldn’t want anyone to feel like his property,” she tells me. “Well, you should keep on pretending, because life is hard here for girls. Keep your arms covered, and as long as people say you’re Jacks’s, you should be fine.” She looks away toward the weight training area. “Shit, I lost my place on the shoulder press machine. I’ll catch you guys later.”
She turns to run, and I notice a tattoo on the back of her neck, a spinal column that disappears into her shirt. That must be how she knows Jacks: his tattoo work. Watching her go, I ask, “You think she’ll be okay?”
“Yeah. Brenna will be just fine.”
I watch Brenna get into an argument with the man on the machine she wanted. After a few seconds he moves away, shaking his head, and Brenna takes over the machine. Beyond her I see another man lifting dumbbells, and the back of my neck goes cold.
It’s Tank.
He’s a machine, lifting a weight in each arm marked 50 LBS. Jacks catches me staring and follows my gaze.
“He’s a monster,” I say.
“No.” Jacks steps in front of me, blocking my line of vision. “He’s just a very, very sick man. And he’s not going to get to you. I’ll make sure of it.”
I nod and follow him, but I can’t help looking back at Tank. Man or monster, he’s terrifying.
The next day, Jacks insists that I stay in the cell while he’s at work, even though I’ve proven I can take care of myself. He seems to be scared of something—but won’t tell me.
“But you saw me,” I cry, seething with frustration. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“Just trust me.” He glances at me, then away. “Please. I’ll try to get back soon.”
He slinks the gate shut. I kick the bars. I pace for a few minutes, waiting for him to leave the cellblock, then open the gate back up and call for Pam.
“Yeah?” she says, poking her head out. “Oh, hey there, Amy.”
“You want company today on your sewing rounds?”
“Sure I do. Just got to finish up a few things. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”
I sit on the bed, and before I can again begin to feel the frustration take over, there is the sound of metal on metal at the door. . . . A knock? I look up to find the Warden staring at me through the bars. In his grasp is a handgun, the butt of which he used as a door knocker.