The night passed, cold and uncomfortable.

The big tattooed man with wild black hair had been given the unlettered name of Skull, probably from the ugly skull tattoo on his neck, that was neither anatomically accurate nor attractive. He talked the loudest of all the men, mostly to the two men who flanked him on either side. From what I gathered, they'd been caught in the same crime together. The pale, thin man with long fingers and ice blue eyes was Blue, and the one time he caught my eye, a shiver ran down my spine. Like everyone in The Letter Trials, everyone took new, unlettered names— some assigned, some declared— and I supposed I would be expected to as well.

Even more interesting, I learned the rumors were true—the Puckers were apparently too good to house their own criminals. The men here were all Puckers, the nickname for people from levels O, P, Q, R and S, who'd committed some crimes in the Puckers and had been sent down here for holding until the Pucker Letter Trial began.

Which made them my competition.

I'd always laughed at the symbolism of stripping a person of their name and letter before killing them— who cared if you were going to die in a few minutes anyways —but as I sat there in silence, trying desperately not to think about Xyla or Yaneli, I realized I hadn't really considered the ramifications of winning the lowest Letter Trial. Dagger and I would progress to the Puckers Letter Trial, the one these men were being held for. There were 5 Trials, one for each of the upper 5 sections. T, U, and V, or the Tuvs, had the bloody yet effective Tuv Pit. Then the Puckers, the Jackals, The Highs and finally, the Top. The worst crimes you committed, the lower Letter Trial you were sentenced. Only the Belly, or Levels W, X, Y and Z, didn't have it's own Letter Trial.

If you managed to survive all five Letter Trials, you were given a new letter and life on the Top. I'd heard of people winning who had been sentenced to the top two Letter Trials. But never from the bottom.

I had no idea what lay in store for the next trial, or even how many survivors ascended to the trail after, as I'd never met a Pucker in the flesh. Yaneli had told me rumors about the other levels—the usual silly tales about them having tails or horns or eating their young— but thinking of her voice now hurt like a knife twisting in my gut.

Oh, Yaneli, what would you say if you could see me now?

Though a part of me wanted to question the men around me about their section, and their Letter Trial, another part of me wasn't sure if I opened my mouth I might break down entirely. Plus I had no way to know if anything they told me would be true; it would be in their best interest to deceive me. Dagger also talked to no one, though he pulled off the silent-but-deadly act more convincingly. At times I could feel his eyes on me, and that of the others waiting for us to team up. We didn't.

The only other man who sat alone, besides Dagger, was Lizard— the one with the forked tongue and colorful head of tatoos who had hissed at me earlier. As far as I could tell this was his only form of communication. Unlike Skull, Lizard's tattoos were mesmerizing, a riot of colors with no clear pictures, just shapes that reminded me of pictures I'd seen of colorful windows in Old Earth churches. When he caught me looking at him, he hissed, but somehow I thought it was a friendly hiss.

Or maybe I was losing it. Either seemed equally possible.

Without anything else to do, men began to drop off to sleep, curling up on the cold floor, or leaning against the wall. Exhaustion weighed my eyes and limbs, but I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Every time my eyes closed, I saw Yaneli, folding over a blade, giving her life to save mine, telling me to fight, and then closing her eyes forever. Instead of sleeping I blew warmth into my hands when they started to shake, and pressed my fingers into my head when a headache pounded behind my eyes.

Even though the grief carved a hole in my chest, even though I wanted to curl into a ball and weep, I made myself like the bodies in the Chute: rigid, unseeing, unfeeling. I was a machine, and machines worked until they broke. I would repair, restructure, and fight again—because Yaneli had told me to.

The single light bulb that lit our cell wasn't enough light to work by, so when my eyes ached I simply closed them for ten seconds, and kept working by feel until I needed them again. I couldn't stop. I wouldn't think about Yaneli or Xyla or the woman in the Chute, or the other men who hadn't been as lucky as Dagger, whose bodies were likely being thrown into the Chute right now...

Slowly, slowly the night passed. When snores filled the room, long after I'd finished repairing my arm, I refused to shut my eyes. I couldn't think, couldn't let a single tear escape. I fought sleep like it was death itself.

I wasn't the only one who laid awake.