Seven years earlier...

"You still mad?"

"I'm not mad." In the pitch-black darkness, Rinn pulled her blanket higher.

They slept on the cold floor on opposite sides of the room, their backs against the walls. Their sleeping conditions were far worse now that they were Topside. Like in the holding center, they shared a bare room devoid of furniture, but unlike the Colony, it was cold.

A lot of things in their day-to-day lives were different now that they were on the surface in a heavily fortified complex from which they were unable to leave. In this place, more so than in the Colony, Rinn felt like she was in a prison. Instead of being left to roam the open recreational area freely, they were assigned specific tasks. To pass the time, Ian often engaged in friendly wagered fights, which he preferred to cleaning.

"But it's three days' worth. Really, I'm sorry. I reckoned I could win."

"I figured," Rinn said helpfully.

"I figured I could win that fight," Ian corrected himself. "And you didn't say nothing about me betting it this time. Why?"

It took a long time before the answer came. "Honest? I figured you could, too."

On any given day, Ian would respond with a witty quip, but this time he had nothing to say. Rinn could hear the worry in her own voice as she tried to reassure him.

"I'm not mad. I don't mind going hungry. Just do me a favor and only bet two days' worth, all right?"

"You're lying."

"Hell no. You're kinda weak on the wrestling, but in the boxing you can hold your own. If you really can't help yourself from betting, then fine. I'll starve to show my support for two days in a row—not three. Okay?"

Ian opened his eyes and looked across to Rinn's usual spot and smiled.

"You're on." Ian brightened up. They lay in companionable silence for some time, but Ian was never good at staying quiet for long. "What's the first thing you're gonna do when we bust outta here?"

"I dunno." Rinn didn't usually indulge these fantasies, but lately she'd started to join in. When she told them to Ian, they seemed possible. "Maybe get a job, save some money. Settle down. Start a family."

"A family? Really? I'm an only child, myself. You?"

"Youngest of five girls." Ian winced, but Rinn only laughed. "Shut up. The land of estrogen, I know. My father didn't know what to do with us so he figured he'd raise us like boys. My sister Rebecca and me used to go fishing every Saturday."

"Fishing? You fish?"

Rinn chuckled. "Not girly enough?"

Ian didn't give a response for some time.

"Then why didn't you say that the first thing you'd do is see your family?" Ian asked.

The response took so long to form that Rinn thought maybe she wouldn't give it at all.

"Because she...sells drugs. She's in a bad crowd. I don't think she uses them, and she's small-time, but you know, the way I see it, luck runs out eventually. I kinda figure all their luck's probably run out by now. I was the only one to amount to anything—that's what Mom said. First one to go to college and all that crap."

"Yeah?

"Yup. Worked my ass off paying for it, though. My grades were just okay, but they were enough."

Her voice quivered so she shut up.

"You all right, Yank? You sound kinda shaky." A hush fell over them, but it didn't lull Ian to sleep. Instead, it whetted his determination for a response. "Wanna know what I'm gonna do?" He whispered. "I'm gonna get a huge, fat, big—"

"Hooker, I know."

"No, you dummy. Steak. I was gonna say steak. What the hell?" He paused to digest the words, and then sat up. "Wait a sec, are you suggesting that I'm a creep?"

Rinn snickered. "Yeah, I am, because as much info as you can retain, and with how hyper you are, the only thing you chase is riches. I kinda admire it, yet I'm kinda creeped out by it, too."

Ian lay down again but didn't respond. He turned on his back and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. "And I'd kill for a cigarette."

"Don't let me find you in here trying to roll pieces of your bed covers."

"I'm not that bad. Besides, these bastards here don't seem to have 'em." Ian said, "All right. Back to what I'd do and what I'd get. I have dreams, you know, like, I dream of numbers. I bet you I won the lotto. I bought it on the night before we got packed off to this place. I'll buy a nice car with it. And I'll get you one, too."

Rinn sucked her teeth and mused, "Not that I wouldn't appreciate it, considering I've already sold my beetle, but I'd rather get some gambling self-control from you instead."

"Funny."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Ian, his tone more serious, said, "Why'd you get all quiet?"

"When?"

"A minute ago, when we were talking about your uni."

"Oh." The word lingered until Rinn finally said, "It's stupid to dwell."

"On?"

"On nothing. On things we can't change," Rinn muttered. "But my mom, she...she came to my graduation. I mean, I was studying part-time, but I ended up busting my ass to finish early. I was just thinking about how stupid that was. It didn't make a difference."

Ian closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head. "Rinn, the overachiever. Don't you get tired of being perfect all the time?"

"Overachiever? Watch what you say," Rinn cautioned.

"But you are, though. You always gotta be perfect and perfectly safe, and I bet you sold that car because it had a dent in it and—"

"My mom was dying. She only had a few more months. I just wanted to graduate for her; that's why I upped the classes. And that's why I sold my car—to afford all the stuff she needed. And it's karma, because when I saw those guys beating you, I actually walked away. I walked the hell away because I couldn't be late. But I thought about what she'd say, so I went back."

They didn't speak; for a while. Rather than risk putting his foot in his mouth, Ian simply lay still.

"On tomorrow's fight," Rinn said, using her best 'Cheer up, Ian' voice, "let's bet three days of food rations. Just this once, 'cause I know you can win."

Ian propped himself up on his elbows. "Hey, thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"No worries. Figure if you don't make it, I'll get a lot more food by taking your rations after you're dead."

Ian flopped back down with a hearty laugh. "I know you fucking would, too."

"Sure, I'd pour some water on the floor, you know, like they do in the rap videos with beer, in your memory and shit. But damned if I wouldn't dig into those extra rations all eager."

Present...

Ian rubbed his brow and then his eyes, taking stock of his surroundings. A tunnel.

A fight? In the tunnels? Where the hell am I, anyway? What tunnel was so far off the grid that we could do fights?

Fights were nothing new, and once upon a time, they were Ian's forte. Three years ago, since getting slapped with the receptors, he'd cut back. He had to. Back then, even with the receptors dormant, someone needed only scan his files to see his classifications. There was no convincing some that he wouldn't explode in a match. Today...he wasn't all that sure.

It was around the time he found Red—she found him. If not for her training, his muscle-for-hire jobs would have all dried up.

The tunnel was large, so big a tank could fit through it. Most Colony tunnels resembled this place. What surprised him was the color of the cement. the Colony was over one hundred years old, but rarely was a tunnel gray. Most were off-white, especially civilian areas. Where he sat now, was dingy and dark from lack of use. One or two splotches on the ground were suspect.

"Fights," he muttered, "in the tunnels."

There were thin-framed metal bleachers behind him, and directly before him sat his opponent.

For a moment, Ian wondered if the pain of the receptors were causing him to hallucinate.

Whatever the reason, he now sat some distance away from something he'd thought was a myth.

"An imp," Ian muttered to himself as he scowled, annoyed. "Fuck me."

The situation was startling for a number of reasons. He finally had to face facts: this wasn't some low-end client who wanted to scare him for not completing a botched job. No, this person, whoever he was, wanted him dead. There was no room for negotiations as of now. Otherwise, he saw no reason why he'd be delivered to the one creature in the entire Colony that didn't answer to any laws. Imps.

When Ian saw the green-skinned creature unfold from its crouch, he knew he wasn't going to make it home.

As much as he wanted to know who was trying to dispose of him, that knowledge was less important than the fact that he was about to fight—or, more accurately, about to die trying to fight—a damn imp. His biggest regret would be not knowing who the jokester was, because he was certain the promise of possibly getting his hands around the bastard's throat would help considerably in motivating him to stay alive.

His vision hazed, his head pounding, all thoughts drifted to Rinn. "Look how close I came to it, Rinnie. I came so close to being able to tell you I'm sorry. Now look where I've ended up."

Something landed at his feet, tossed down like so much trash. His things.

Ian focused on his bag—his weapons. There weren't many left. Still, he bent at the knees, keeping his eyes on the imp as he reached down for it.

What surprised Ian the most about this tunnel were the metal bleachers behind him. Those shaky gray steps held a high-end clientele, all more than eager to see a man eaten by an imp in real-time.

Patricia was nothing if not economical. Getting rid of her pest in an entertaining way—Ian was almost impressed. Vehicle after makeshift, sometimes handmade, vehicle pulled to a halt some meters away. This was a scheduled time—Ian'd bet any money the notice went out as soon as they'd laid hands on Rinn. He amounted to a nice witness on the chopping block. And Carlos had dutifully delivered him up.

"Well," Ian said with a sigh as he reached into his bag to take inventory of his blades. "Wished this on myself by the looks of it." His fingertips grazed a hook, but he thought better of it and selected one of the shorter daggers. "Got my fucking unwinnable fight at last. But it serves you right, Ian. Serves you bloody—"

"You certainly are building the suspense," Patricia's voice boomed from the bleachers. "Deloris here does love to play with his food, so make sure and flail around a little. It's more fun that way; the crowd loves it."

Patricia spoke so loudly that Ian looked back to the bleachers to make sure the woman was, in fact, at a distance. She seemed far away at first, then close, then far again. He'd been so focused on the imp—and the prospect of dying—that he hadn't thought to check his left hand.

He tossed the dagger from one hand to the next.

The imp, dressed in coveralls of all things, moved—that is to say, Ian saw the creature's red, nearly orange, hair as its head bobbed, following the blade. Ian tossed the knife from left to right hand to confirm the imp was fixated on it.

"Oh, so you like shiny things, huh?" Ian wiped his face with the back of his hand, brushing the sweat from his eyes. "Right. Don't suppose you're bloodthirsty but unable to actually draw blood like the Elementals, huh?"

Something stung his cheek. It distracted him, and when he looked back at his opponent an instant later, the imp was gone.

The clattering of clawed feet drew Ian's gaze upward where he saw the creature directly above him, its feet anchoring it to the ceiling.

"Well, I'll be damned," Ian marveled.

Looking up for long wasn't an option, because Ian started to get dizzy. The creature jumped down from the ceiling, its body twisting so that it landed on its feet.

When the imp sat down, crossing its legs at the ankles, Ian narrowed his brow, confused. The creature did a strange thing: it began to suck on its right middle finger. Ian was well aware he was in no position to make any sort of assessment, but if he didn't know any better, he'd think the thing was showing him that idle digit on purpose.

There was something on the imp's finger, and it took a second more for Ian to touch his cheek and make the connection. His fingertips came away bloody, the redness making his body go rigid and cold. He'd been cut. The damn imp had cut him, and it was so fast he didn't even know he'd been struck.

That answered his question about whether the thing could draw blood. Maybe imps were failed attempts at man-made E's, but this was no damn E.

In an instant, Ian loosened his grip on the dagger, allowing it to fall. He'd been cut so quickly that he hadn't even seen the imp move, and if that was the speed he'd have to contend with, his chances were poor. He judged from the shallowness of the wound that the imp either moved too fast to be accurate, or worse, was as precise as it had wanted to be. Either way, the faint hissing noise drew Ian's focus.

The noise came from the creature, and if the wicked grin it wore was any indication, the imp intended to drag this out.

The crowd had cheered for the imp's first strike, but there was no cheering now as Ian stared at his opponent. He knew it was because he had a shocked look on his face. What were his options? What was he supposed to do? The idea of running was simply laughable. If the thing was that fast, he wouldn't get far.

He considered letting the creature pounce on him. Maybe he could do some sort of damage when it was at a close range. That thought sparked yet another: this was his first time seeing an imp—a real honest-to-God, man-eating, green, leathery-skinned, redheaded imp—but he'd heard about them. Imps were usually small, but they could grow well past six feet. He knew their leader had height on his side. Imps were also all male, and he needed a minute to reconcile this with the name Patricia had given it. Imps were man-made abominations that were experimented on either in the womb or a test tube. Abominations with tough skin and heightened rejuvenation. Abominations he had to figure out how to kill.

Ian wiped his eyes a second time, his vision clouded. He wondered about Deloris, and which method was involved in bringing this monster to life. Never in his five years in the Colony had he heard of imp fights—and he'd been down on his luck more than once. Hell, he was certain that a few desperate occasions would have had him seriously considering it. Now, faced with an actual imp, he was glad he'd never had that option before.

He tried to grip the knife, but his hand was empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied it on the ground by his right foot. He wasn't the only one interested. The way the creature eyed it made Ian wonder: since imps were failed attempts at making man-made E's, did they react as adversely to metal as E's did?

With that knowledge, Ian calmed and smiled. He had an advantage, then. He decided to let it pounce. Now that he knew what speed he was dealing with, maybe he could catch it. He might lose an arm, but he was sure he could sell something—maybe one of his remaining weapons, or even a memory—and get enough credits to pay for the repairs. The Colony could build him a new arm or leg, especially if he took Met up on his solution for the receptors and joined the ELETEs. They'd jump at the chance to patch him up and throw a badge on him.

He exhaled, his breathing calm. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "It's either you eat me, or they eat you, Imp, but somebody's getting fed tonight. So come on!"