Chain Gang All Stars
: Part 1: Chapter 5

“Another win. An offering, perhaps, to the fallen Sunset, who would surely have been thrilled with this demolition,” Wright said. And as if pulled by a cord, Thurwar stopped walking toward her Keep.

“No,” Thurwar said.

The arena plunged to a hush.

Micky Wright smiled. “What’s that, Blood Mama?”

“Don’t,” she said.

The people murmured, unsure what to expect, elated by Thurwar.

“You know I hate that word. But tell us, what’s bothering you, Your Bloodness?”

“I’m saying, that isn’t true. He would not have been thrilled.” Thurwar looked at Micky Wright and allowed herself the small delight of watching the self-proclaimed “most electric voice in all of action-sports” as his face fell for just a moment before flashing back to that perfect smile. The blood of the boy was still warm. The stadium was as quiet as she could remember it post-fight. The HMC floated closer to her lips. She spoke.

“A few days ago, I woke up and found Sunset dead on the ground far enough away from Camp that I—I only had a few moments before the Anchor pulled him away. He’d been there, all night and morning, his throat slit.” The crowd listened. “Dead for no reason. Dead and I didn’t even realize until a few minutes before the March started. I barely got to look at him. Dead and I can’t do anything about it. Don’t even know who did it. And you’re telling me he would have been happy today? Are you insane? Are you all insane?” She was screaming now. She had promised herself she would never let them hear her like this. She took a breath, found calm.

Micky Wright chuckled nervously.

“It’s a kid. A dead kid. Sun was—he probably would have cried over this. That’s all.”

Each word echoed off itself before fading into the next. When she was done, she walked over to her platform, put her arms together, and kneeled down for lock-in. She was a champion, so they offered her the dignity of bringing herself down to the Keep. Her muscles tensed in anticipation, and soon her brown wrists showed their three red lines.

Thurwar put her head down, as she always did, for Micky’s commentary. To herself she said, “Miss you, Sun. I’m sorry.” So low even the HMC inches from her mouth heard only breath.

The stadium held the messy sound of many people collectively not knowing what to say. Micky Wright hated that sound. He kicked out of his BattleBox and stomped into the arena.

“Well, there you have it, people! As if that stunning Question Match weren’t enough, now we see mourning, we see heartbreaking sadness from the Blood Mother herself.” There were murmurs, but the crowd was still far quieter than he would have liked. He ran his hands through his slick blond hair and took a deep breath before yelling into the orb before him. “After slaughtering Teacup, who—and we’ll have to get this checked—may be the youngest person ever executed as punishment by law,[*1] the Queen of the Cuff, Loretta Thurwar, has shared her outrage at the killing of the man who had the title of Grand Colossal before her! Can she keep it together?”

More murmurs, but no uproar. Wright wanted uproar.

“You beautiful, sensitive, murderous bitch!” Wright said. That got them going. The T-Gang loved when he called her beautiful, and they loved just as much when he called her a bitch. Loretta Thurwar. Easily the biggest star on the Circuit. She was almost at her three years. The average life expectancy for today’s Links was about three months, but many didn’t make it past their third week. In less time than that, if she survived, Thurwar would be freed into the population, her crimes absolved in blood.

Micky Wright had loved Thurwar. Her rise was his. But now her smug, holier-than-thou attitude toward everything made him feel a sinking in his chest. He sniffed the entitlement in her. Just look at her name—or rather her staunch refusal to embrace any of the AKAs he’d assigned her. It had started as a playful game, his offering a name and her refusing it. But at this point, it was clear that she just thought she was above him. He’d given her so many monikers—Blood Mama, General T, Bald Jesus—but mostly everyone called her Thurwar. The one name that hadn’t come from him.

Wright liked knowing that he was one of the few men in the world who could stand next to Thurwar and not feel even an ounce of fear, albeit only when she was bowed down and unable to move. Most men would have feared her even if she were dead at their feet. The beating in his heart was the pure exhilaration of being next to the star. And he was no fool—he knew she was the star, not him. That beautiful, heartless bitch. She’d caught him off guard on purpose to cause a stir.

Wright walked in short, precise steps. He reached down and patted Thurwar’s bowed head. Smooth, just a little wet. She didn’t flinch. “Who knows. She won here, but could losing Sunset Harkless be the loss that finally makes the mighty, mighty Thurwar crack?”

There was uproar again. Their screams made his cock twitch. He lay down on the Keep beside her. “Is that what’s happening, Lori?” he said in his special baby voice, one of his many signatures. “Is Mama finally crack, crack, cracking?” He could smell her sweat. He looked at her. The bold shoulder guards. The thigh armor that poked down to her left knee. The pristine bolt-leather battle gear around her arms and neck. A recent survey had found that viewers of Chain-Gang programs were most attracted to Thurwar post-fight. Since then, production had told Wright to draw out that time with her. Three HMCs floated in the air; a trio of lights circled their bodies, giving viewers access to every angle they could ever want.

This was the first time in months that Thurwar had said anything after a battle. And if he was honest with himself, her reticence had hurt his feelings. He was her hype man. They’d become stars together. He’d shown her the best love a performer can show, brought his absolute A game to each and every one of her BattleGround appearances. And now she couldn’t be bothered with him. It stung. But no matter. Soon she’d be gone, and he’d still be the voice of the fastest-growing program in the world.

Wright pointed and one of the holo orbs nudged its way underneath Thurwar’s bowed head. Her heavy breathing echoed like a great wind through the amps. He let the subjects in the stands listen to their queen breathe. Wright could feel them getting off on it. They loved everything about her. Literally. During LinkLyfe, there was not a single part of Thurwar’s day that viewers didn’t tune in for. She was the brightest among so many supernovae, and somehow, her star was growing still.

When he couldn’t take listening to her breathe anymore, Wright snapped back to his feet. “Talkative as ever,” he said with a chuckle. He dusted his pants and patted Thurwar on the head one last time.

“Thanks to Wal-Stores, Sprivvy Wireless, and McFoods for sponsoring season thirty-two of Chain-Gang All-Stars. As always, all of this was made possible by CCNA, GEOD, Spigot Correctional Systems, and TotemWorks, the best in corrections. Also, major shout-out to ArcTech Security.[*2] ArcTech, the coldest in tactical security systems. Tune in next week to see Mark Marks and his Pale Bruiser take on Levi Paul and his sword, Lickem-Splitem. And be sure to cast us your reactions to Queen Thurwar’s big moment. See you at the next BattleGround!”

—

Before she was escorted to the transport van, where she would wait for her gang in enforced silence, Thurwar would greet the people who were, as they always were, waiting for her. The guards took her out of the arena through a freight exit, the heavy, pale doors pushed open with a metallic scrape.

Her eyes adjusted to the late sun; the people screamed. She stood in sweats, a crewneck.

They had signs with her likeness. They said they loved her. They screamed her name like they owned her. A mass of hundreds gathered behind a metal barricade.

The soldier-police led her toward the crowds and she breathed in slowly. The shame was setting in. They roared, and she was relieved. Relieved that the sound of their adoration could take her mind from the fact of her continuing.

Her hands were loose and easy, set to green. The guards looked at her. She nodded, and they followed. The metal barriers strained against the people’s excitement. Their hands shot out like weeds. She walked along, letting them touch her. They rubbed her head, felt her arms. She let them, even leaned into them, extended her arms back toward them. She touched their skin, so impossibly soft. Their clothes, their hair. If it were possible to take a piece of her, they would have. They pinched her. Rubbed, pulled. Small men pretended it was an accident when their fingers grazed, then grabbed, her chest.

Thurwar. Thurwar. I love you. Fuck you. Thurwar. Cunt. Murderer. Queer bitch. Here. Here. A picture. Picture! Please. Thurwar. Right here.

They slapped her neck, pulled at her sweatshirt, and she rolled along, sometimes stopping to hold someone’s hand. Really hold it. The guards watched but kept their attention lax. She was Thurwar after all. She stretched to touch a child sitting on their father’s shoulders. She didn’t know if the heat she felt was her hating herself as the people who paid to watch her imprisonment begged for a chance to touch her. It was as if they needed to feel her with their own hands to know that she was real. What did they think could be gleaned from her skin? She could get drunk on their wild want. They made her feel like she was someone else. Someone deserving.

She saw a man and a woman at the barricade. The woman’s tan-brown skin was glowing soft purple around her eye. She had a black band on her head. The man she was with was tall and his T-shirt had been wrung around so that the neck dropped down, revealing his dark chest. They screamed too, and the woman’s voice cut through the crowd; it spoke to her in a way that suggested she’d known her, before. She sounded desperate and familiar.

“Loretta!” the woman said. She was in her twenties, probably. Thurwar looked at the woman and the man, who was helping her clear space as they nudged closer. “Loretta!” She reached a hand out. “You are worthy, Loretta!” Thurwar felt herself reaching for the outstretched arm. “You are worthy!” The voice sounded desperate with energy that pierced through the rest. It was the voice of someone calling out even as their throat tightened, even as they fought for their own life.

A short man with a greasy face broke between them, reached up, and touched Thurwar’s clavicle before letting his fingers find her nipples, which he pinched lightly, purposefully. Thurwar looked down at him. He grinned, then faded into the crowd. She said nothing. She searched for the woman with the bruised eye, was terrified that she’d lost her in the forest of humans. She knew that this woman was different. She knew it by the sound of her voice. The way she carried her name, her tears. A lot of people cried in her presence, but this was different. This woman seemed like her care could be true, something real, not a moment to consume. Thurwar slowed down so as to let the woman find her again.

“Loretta.” This time from farther left than she had been. Thurwar whipped her head around and found the young woman still reaching out, her hand in a tight fist. She leaned forward and arms flooded over her shoulders, neck, chest, and back. The more she gave, the more aggressively they grabbed. Pulling on the cloth of her sweatshirt. Thurwar, Thurwar. Finally, her fingers found the woman’s. As she reached, she felt the woman’s hands, soft but not impossibly so; they opened into her, and the two women clasped each other.

“I’m a friend. I want you to know what’s coming,” the woman said, or Thurwar thought she said. There were so many voices all screaming for attention. And then she let go and watched as Thurwar continued down the long line of adoration, now with a small piece of card stock hidden in her hands.

“Sir?” one of the soldier-police said.

Thurwar’s heart throbbed. She wondered if the men had seen the transaction. If the contraband would be taken from her before she’d even had a chance to look at it. She gripped tighter.

“Yes, Daniels,” the leader of the troop said.

Thurwar set her jaw. She decided that this was a thing she would not let go of. She would rather be Influenced than release the gift in her hand.

“Was wondering if I could get a picture?” the officer called Daniels asked. “With Thurwar.”

“Do you think that’s appropriate on a work shift?”

“I understand, sir, it’s just—Jakey is a huge fan and…”

Thurwar watched this interaction. This bartering over her body.

“Well shit, don’t make me some kinda asshole, then. Take your helmet off at least. Give me your camera.”

“Thank you, sir.” Daniels took off his helmet, revealing his brown hair, matted in sweat to his head. He ran his fingers through the wet strands a few times.

“I look okay?” Daniels asked.

“For Christ’s sake, Daniels,” the lead said.

“Okay.” Daniels turned to Thurwar. “Do you mind smiling?” He posed with his fists on his hips near his gun and baton and Influencer.

“I do mind,” she said.

“Oh, of course,” Daniels said, and he adjusted himself a little, allowing for an inch more of room between them as the lead took the picture. Thurwar, despite herself, smiled as a flash of light captured their images.

“Thanks,” Daniels said.

“Anytime,” Thurwar said.

The men unlocked the van and she walked inside. It was empty.

“I’m gonna set your lock to blue. You understand what that means?”

Thurwar resisted the urge to say something snide—of course she understood that blue lock meant silence. That if she spoke while her wrists were set to blue, she’d feel a crippling shock. It was hard to forget the things that hurt you. You didn’t often forget the shape of your cage. Instead she nodded and said, “I understand.” She wanted to be alone.

“All right,” the lead said. “Good job today,” he added, and pressed some buttons on the black Slate controller in his hands. A single blue line appeared on each of her wrists. The doors closed.

Thurwar sighed silent relief. She was alone. The rarest luxury in her life. Before she opened her hand she rested in herself, in this moment in which she was unseen, unwatched. She let herself come down from the high of the crowds. How had she, a person who, before any of this, had wrung the life out of a good woman, become this person whom people thought they loved? She deserved the M on her back. And because of what she’d done she didn’t just believe that she didn’t deserve adoration. She didn’t believe that she deserved to exist at all. And yet she continued.

She opened her hand, stretched her leg out, let blood flow to her knee. The card stock was crumpled but the words on it were clear. On top of the paper it read “CHAIN-GANG Season 33.” She scanned what was written beneath the heading, and any good she had left in her was ripped away. She felt as though her insides had liquefied and a galloping adrenaline seared through her chest. She heard the fanfare of a crowd outside. She wiped the tears from her eyes. She ripped the note in half and put both pieces in her mouth. The card stock tasted of dry earth.

But by the time the van doors opened to deposit another Link from the Chain, Thurwar was almost smiling.

*1 George Stinney, Jr., actually. Young, Black in South Carolina. Of course, of course. On June 16, 1944, fourteen-year-old George Stinney, Jr., became the youngest person ever executed by the United States. He was charged with the murder of two young white girls who’d been killed by a railroad spike to the head.

Seventy years after electricity pulled his life apart, he was exonerated.

Since 1973, at least 186 who were wrongly convicted have been sentenced to death.

*2 The Coldest in Tactical Security. ArcTech™ is an American arms, defense, and carceral technologies company with multinational interests. CEO Rodger Wesplat is the son of Tomas Wesplat and Monica Teasley-Wesplat.

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