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Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm sure this was probably for a fic challenge, but i cannot find anything to suggest so.
There was one spotlight trained onto the courtyard, its lightning blue glow illuminating every inmate in sight. Michael’s face was basked in the light and it defined his features as he squinted against it. He balled his hands up in his pockets, pinching the material on is dark blue hoodie between his fingers and then stepped out into the light. Five minutes after entering Sona, he’d entered the light. Five minutes earlier he had left everything he knew.

The cheering grew louder. It echoed around the space before him and off of everybody in front of him. There was no room to move between the bundles of hot, sweaty prisoners, each one shouting as loud as the one before. One stumbled backwards, pushed by another, and the massive, over stretched and stained shirt he had been wearing, had been torn to shreds.

Michael froze when the man turned around, towering slightly above him with a low growling rumble in his throat. He smiled but looked drunk, his eyes rolling back in his head as he struggled to maintain his balance. Eventually he toppled forward, his tattooed body exposed and stained with a red watery blood that dripped from various open wounds over his body. He sported a black eye that had begun to bruise over an older injury, the mark still green around his eye socket, and he coughed blood over Michael’s shoulder as he stumbled forward.

Michael caught him as best he could, gripping to his inky elbows and supporting his weight as he fell to the floor. The man exhaled hard as he hit the ground, rolling onto his back, limp against the crumbling grey concrete. Michel looked up from the man briefly, holding in a gasp for what he saw before him.

Men of all ages, sizes and skin tones were fighting. It was barer than bare knuckle, every man fighting to survive. Every man for himself and Michael had just walked into the pit. He shot a quick glance to the man at his feet who outweighed Michael by at least fifty pounds. With a trembling hand that was still wet from the warmed rain, Michael pressed two fingers into the man’s neck but was met with nothing.

“He’s Dead, Michael,” a voice sounded from behind him. It was low, tainted with adrenaline surged fear and Michael recognized it immediately. Flicking his gaze upwards, Michael looked back to the man and retracted his hand back to his body as he stood up.

“Yeah, Alex, he is,” Michael agreed, somehow feeling a sadness for the criminal lying at his feet. He had never met the man, never shaken his hand or been on the receiving end of his burly, bruised knuckles, and yet he felt remorse for his corpse gently moulding itself into the floor. Slowly, he turned to the rogue agent and a tiny smirk played its way across his lips. “You seem to be on the wrong side of the wall,” Michael noted, stepping around the body to stand next to Mahone.

There was almost no height between them, both as lean and tall as the other, and yet, they looked far from at home in the prisons of prisons. A crackle of a laugh fell from Mahone’s lips and he pressed his palms to his face to muffle the sound. His eyes darted around the arena nervously, taking in the beaten and the bloodied surrounding them, each lining up to be next in line to fight. It was the entertainment of the wicked. There was a slight satisfaction in knowing that the man standing next to you could be weaker than you and you could prove it, however, there was no rules or regulations. It wasn’t Fight Club and neither of them was Ed Norton or Brad Pitt.

They were both on the wrong side of the wall and if they didn’t stick together, the last five minutes of their new, incarcerated lives would have been meaningless.