Page 5 of Mean Machine

“Right.”Universal Resilience? What the fuck was that? He knewSports Illustrated,Boxing Weekly, even the semipornographicApex Fighters—featuring “the hardest men and women on the planet,” usually in a state of undress.

“Are you familiar withUniversal Resilience?” Catherine asked.

“Err, refresh my memory.”

“Do you know100% Bulletproof?”

“Is that some kind of paleo coffee?”

“It’s our sister magazine. We cover inspirational stories about people who fail—whether it’s their fault or not—and put their lives back together.Bulletproofis more about high achievers in their field, though of course there’s overlap.”

Brooklyn almost laughed. American-style inspiration porn, then. Their angle had to be his fall from grace and his rehabilitation into a useful member of society again. God, fuck them sideways.

But the hacks’ eager, open faces told him they meant it. And their presence meant ISU had signed off on it. He cast another glance at Les. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Relax and do what they tell you.” Les patted him on the shoulder. “ISU will vet what he’s saying, though.”

“Of course, Mr Flackett,” Catherine said. “We’ll submit the first draft for review next week, which gives you two weeks for quote and fact check.”

“That should be fine.” Les nodded towards Curtis, who stood at his side, legs braced, arms crossed. “If you need any assistance, Miller over there will be happy to help.”

Well, happy only if it involved his fucking tonfa.

“I think we’ll start with the location. This is a very atmospheric place.” Catherine was already reaching for the big camera bag slung over her shoulder.

Steven looked around with clever, perceptive eyes, pausing on a pink-splattered white towel lying on the ground near the ring. Those eyes were a different kind of camera, and Brooklyn felt weird when they rested on him. What did he see? A brute? A convict? A fellow human? A fighter?

“We’ll start with a few questions to warm up.”

Brooklyn exhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders. “Why not.”

“When did you sign up with ISU?”

“Thirty-five months ago.” And two weeks, three days. But who was keeping track?

Steven exchanged a glance with Catherine, but it was hard to read. Pity? Surprise? Brooklyn opened the straps of his training gloves and pulled them off, then set them down ringside.

“What do you think about corporate stewardship, as someone under contract under those terms?”

“I focus on boxing.”

Apart from it being a publicly listed company that had stepped into the void left by government, Brooklyn didn’t know all that much about ISU. Oh, he knew ISU was one of the companies that were “monetising” the state’s “idle resources,” and prisoners sitting in their cells counted as “idle.” He knew ISU focused on sportsmen and women, mostly, but also on farm workers ever since Brexit and the impending state bankruptcy had dissuaded even the hardest-up Romanians and Bulgarians from coming over to work. After breaking a few international treaties and the dramatic spike in unrest and hate crime, nobody was queuing to be let in. In fact, those who could were queuing to get out.

Enter Jonathan Jones-Williams, previous Tory Minister for Justice who’d first helped gut the police force, then dealt the death blow to the Tory Party by starting his own shop under the “Proud Britannia” label and taking about three hundred fifty seats in Parliament with his young(ish) and charismatic persona of “National Rejuvenation.”

By instinct a privatising Tory, he’d all but abolished any legal aid funds and made short work of the penal system after months of bloody riots in the decrepit, overcrowded prisons had led to hundreds of dead, though unofficial sources said the real number was in the thousands. Finally sick to the back teeth of having to provide even the most basic of public services, he’d made penal reform a cornerstone of his bid for leadership. And once prime minister, he’d followed through with his customary brutal efficiency, very much enabled by a civil service relieved to finally be doing something constructive again after fighting through the quagmire of the ongoing Brexit process. Which led to the wholescale abolition of all prison terms under six months in favour of either a fine or community service. All suitable convicts with longer sentences ended up in corporate stewardship, which was just a more politically correct term for indenture.

“I understand you were convicted. What was the crime?” There was a hint of excitement in Steven’s brown eyes. “Was it violent?”

There were several answers to this, but only one would titillate the readers. Plus, if anybody bothered to look him up, it would be all over the net, anyway. “Yeah.”

“How do you feel about your crime now? Will you ever be able to forgive yourself for what you did? Do you think society will?”

Brooklyn grimaced. He couldn’t help it. At least the other people in the gym left him alone. Nobody asked about his past, normally. And if they did ask, he fed them the bare minimum. Convict. Violent crime.Fucked if I care.

But he did care. Cared a great deal about a head and face covered in blood. Legs on the ground that kicked, uncoordinated, like those of a dog in its sleep. “You call that a warm-up?”

“Just answer the question.”

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