The Fishing Line Stitch
Kael’s ribs screamed as he dragged himself through the maintenance tunnel beneath the transit hub. The knife wound was three inches long, just below his left ribcage, and it was bleeding through the rag he’d pressed against it. The enforcers had gotten one good hit before he’d put two of them through a plywood wall and sent the rest scattering into the night.
He’d caught them in the gear room, flashlights cutting through the dark, hands reaching for the team’s skates and kneepads. They’d come to sabotage. Aethel Corp didn’t leave things to chance. The final was tomorrow, and they wanted his team crippled before they ever stepped on the glass.
Kael had obliged them with a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder for the first one. The second one had pulled a knife. Kael had grabbed the blade—stupid, desperate—and felt it slice through his palm before he twisted it free and drove his forehead into the man’s face. The third one had run. They all ran, eventually. They always did when the fight stopped being easy.
Now Kael was alone in the tunnel, the concrete floor cold against his back, the rag turning dark and wet. He couldn’t go to a hospital. The undercity clinics would ask questions he couldn’t answer. The black-market medic who’d helped them before was two districts away, and Kael didn’t have the strength to make the walk.
He had fishing line. He had a needle he’d stolen from a tailor’s shop three years ago. He had a bottle of cheap whiskey that was more paint thinner than alcohol.
He’d done this before. Twice. Once in a locker room after a league fight, once in a gutter after a gambling debt collection. The scar on his shoulder still pulled when he threw a punch. The scar on his thigh went numb in the cold.
Kael sat up, slow, the world tilting sideways. He bit down on a strip of leather he kept in his pocket for moments like this. His hands were shaking. The needle was thin, curved, meant for mending shirts, not flesh. He threaded it with the fishing line, the monofilament catching the dim light from a cracked overhead bulb.
He poured whiskey over the wound. The pain was a white-hot spike that drove through his chest and out the back of his skull. He screamed into the leather, muffled, animal. The whiskey ran pink down his stomach and pooled on the concrete.
Kael pressed the needle to the edge of the wound. The first stitch was the hardest. The needle pushed through skin, through the thin layer of fat, through the muscle beneath. He pulled the line tight, watching the wound close a fraction of an inch. The second stitch was easier. The third was mechanical. By the fourth, he was crying, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face, but his hands were steady.
Seven stitches. He tied off the line, bit through the excess, and pressed a clean rag against the wound. The bleeding had slowed to a seep. He’d live. He’d be slow tomorrow, and the pain would be a constant companion, but he’d live.
Kael leaned his head back against the concrete wall and closed his eyes. The tunnel smelled like rust and rat droppings and his own blood. Somewhere above, the transit hub creaked and groaned, settling into the night. His team was asleep in the converted shipping containers they called home. Ryn was probably dreaming about the final. Brick was probably snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Pip was probably still awake, watching match footage on that cracked tablet, memorizing every angle and trajectory.
They didn’t know their coach was bleeding out in a maintenance tunnel. They didn’t know Aethel Corp had sent enforcers to break their gear. They didn’t know the final was going to be played on a court suspended a hundred feet in the air, with neural dampeners that could slow their reflexes to a crawl.
They’d find out tomorrow.
Kael pushed himself to his feet, one hand pressed against the wound, the other braced against the wall. The tunnel swayed. He waited for it to settle, then started walking.
The gear room was a mess. The enforcers had knocked over shelves, scattered kneepads and elbow guards across the floor, dumped a bag of skates into a corner. Kael knelt—slow, careful—and started picking things up. He checked each piece of gear for damage. The enforcers had been looking for the easy targets: wheels they could loosen, straps they could cut, padding they could slash. They’d found a few. Kael set the damaged pieces aside. He’d fix them in the morning.
Ryn’s skates were untouched. Brick’s knee brace was still locked in its case. Spin’s gloves were on the floor, but they were fine. Mira’s prosthetic socket was cracked—a hairline fracture running along the carbon fiber. Kael picked it up, turned it over in his hands. The crack was small, but it would spread under pressure. Mira would lose her leg in the middle of the match if he didn’t fix it.
He didn’t have the tools. He didn’t have the materials. He had fishing line and a needle and a bottle of whiskey.
Kael sat down on the floor, the socket in his lap, and started drilling a tiny hole at the end of the crack. He’d learned this trick from a mechanic in the undercity who’d fixed his sister’s wheelchair with zip ties and prayer. Stop the crack from spreading by giving it somewhere to go. Then reinforce it with whatever you had.
He threaded the fishing line through the hole, wrapped it around the socket, tied it off. The line was strong—stronger than it looked. It would hold for one match. It would have to.
The sun was coming up by the time Kael finished. The gear was sorted, the damaged pieces repaired or replaced, the room cleaned. He stood up, felt the stitches pull, felt the blood start to seep again. He’d need to change the bandage before the match. He’d need to tape his ribs. He’d need to pretend he wasn’t hurt.
Kael walked to the container where his team slept. He didn’t knock. He just stood outside, listening to the sound of their breathing. Ryn’s was steady, deep. Brick’s was a low rumble. Spin’s was quick, nervous, even in sleep. Pip’s was barely audible, like a bird hiding in a bush.
They were kids. All of them. Ryn was sixteen, carrying a bounty on her head and a chip on her shoulder. Brick was nineteen, mute, built like a refrigerator, gentle as a lamb. Spin was seventeen, twitchy, fast, always looking over his shoulder. Mira was eighteen, missing a leg, missing a family, missing a future. Pip was twelve, too young to be here, too smart to be anywhere else.
Kael was thirty-four, washed up, broken, bleeding into a rag. He was supposed to lead them into a match against a corporate team with illegal technology and a bottomless budget. He was supposed to win. If he lost, the transit hub got bulldozed, and these kids went back to the streets.
He didn’t sleep. He sat on the floor of the gear room, back against the wall, watching the light change through a grimy window. The sun rose slow, filtering through the smog, painting the room in shades of orange and gray. The city woke up around him: the rumble of trains, the hiss of steam vents, the distant wail of a siren.
Kael changed his bandage. The wound was ugly, puckered, the fishing line standing out against his skin like a row of black stitches on a corpse. He taped his ribs, tight enough to keep everything in place, loose enough to breathe. He pulled on a clean shirt, then his jacket. The jacket was old, stained, torn at the shoulder. It smelled like sweat and smoke and the undercity.
He walked to the container and knocked. “Up. We’ve got a match to win.”
The container stirred. Ryn was the first one out, her hair a mess, her eyes sharp. She looked at Kael, and something flickered in her gaze—a question, a suspicion. He met her eyes, gave her nothing.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“I feel like shit. Get the others.”
She didn’t push. She turned and kicked the container door. “Up! Brick, move your giant ass! Spin, stop touching yourself! Pip, you better be dressed!”
The team spilled out, grumbling, stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Brick ducked through the door, his head brushing the frame. Spin was already bouncing on his toes, wired on something he’d probably stolen. Pip was last, her tablet clutched to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed from watching footage all night.
Mira limped out, her prosthetic clicking against the concrete. She caught Kael’s eye, nodded once. She knew. She always knew. The girl with the mismatched leg and the junkyard socket had learned to read people the way Pip read games.
Kael gathered them in a circle. The transit hub was quiet, the morning light cutting through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the cracked glass court. They’d practiced here for thirty days. They’d bled here. They’d lost here. They’d learned to trust the hollow echo of the glass, the weight of each other’s movements, the rhythm of a game that had no mercy.
“Today’s the day,” Kael said. “The Vipers are faster, stronger, better equipped. They’ve got neural dampeners that’ll make you feel like you’re swimming through concrete. They’ve got a crowd that wants to see you fall. They’ve got a sponsor that’s spent millions to make sure they win.”
He paused. The team was watching him, waiting. He could see the fear in their eyes, the doubt, the hope they were trying to hide.
“They don’t have what we have,” Kael said. “They don’t have the hollow echo. They don’t have the junkyard socket. They don’t have the girl who sees the game before it happens. They don’t have the mute giant who’ll break through any wall you put in front of him. They don’t have the pickpocket who can steal a win from under their noses. They don’t have the runner who’s been running her whole life and isn’t about to stop now.”
He looked at each of them, one by one. “They don’t have a coach who’s already lost everything and isn’t afraid to lose it again.”
Ryn’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kael pulled open his jacket. The bandage was white against his skin, the blood already starting to seep through. The team went quiet. Brick’s hands clenched into fists. Spin’s bouncing stopped. Pip’s eyes went wide.
“They sent enforcers last night,” Kael said. “I stopped them. I fixed the gear. I stitched myself up with fishing line. I’m going to coach this match, and I’m going to coach it standing up, and I’m going to watch you win.”
Ryn stepped forward, her jaw tight. “You should have woken us.”
“You needed sleep.”
“You needed help.”
“I needed you ready.” Kael closed his jacket. “Are you ready?”
The team looked at each other. Brick nodded, slow and solid. Spin cracked his knuckles. Pip clutched her tablet tighter. Mira adjusted her prosthetic, the fishing line catching the light.
Ryn met Kael’s eyes. “We’re ready.”
“Good.” Kael turned and started walking toward the transit hub’s exit. “Let’s go break some glass.”
The team fell in behind him, footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. The sun was higher now, burning through the smog, casting long shadows across the undercity. Somewhere above, in the gleaming spires of Neo-Avalon, the elites were getting ready for a show. They didn’t know what was coming.
Kael’s ribs ached. His hand throbbed. The fishing line pulled with every step.
He didn’t care.
He had a match to win.
He’d caught them in the gear room, flashlights cutting through the dark, hands reaching for the team’s skates and kneepads. They’d come to sabotage. Aethel Corp didn’t leave things to chance. The final was tomorrow, and they wanted his team crippled before they ever stepped on the glass.
Kael had obliged them with a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder for the first one. The second one had pulled a knife. Kael had grabbed the blade—stupid, desperate—and felt it slice through his palm before he twisted it free and drove his forehead into the man’s face. The third one had run. They all ran, eventually. They always did when the fight stopped being easy.
Now Kael was alone in the tunnel, the concrete floor cold against his back, the rag turning dark and wet. He couldn’t go to a hospital. The undercity clinics would ask questions he couldn’t answer. The black-market medic who’d helped them before was two districts away, and Kael didn’t have the strength to make the walk.
He had fishing line. He had a needle he’d stolen from a tailor’s shop three years ago. He had a bottle of cheap whiskey that was more paint thinner than alcohol.
He’d done this before. Twice. Once in a locker room after a league fight, once in a gutter after a gambling debt collection. The scar on his shoulder still pulled when he threw a punch. The scar on his thigh went numb in the cold.
Kael sat up, slow, the world tilting sideways. He bit down on a strip of leather he kept in his pocket for moments like this. His hands were shaking. The needle was thin, curved, meant for mending shirts, not flesh. He threaded it with the fishing line, the monofilament catching the dim light from a cracked overhead bulb.
He poured whiskey over the wound. The pain was a white-hot spike that drove through his chest and out the back of his skull. He screamed into the leather, muffled, animal. The whiskey ran pink down his stomach and pooled on the concrete.
Kael pressed the needle to the edge of the wound. The first stitch was the hardest. The needle pushed through skin, through the thin layer of fat, through the muscle beneath. He pulled the line tight, watching the wound close a fraction of an inch. The second stitch was easier. The third was mechanical. By the fourth, he was crying, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face, but his hands were steady.
Seven stitches. He tied off the line, bit through the excess, and pressed a clean rag against the wound. The bleeding had slowed to a seep. He’d live. He’d be slow tomorrow, and the pain would be a constant companion, but he’d live.
Kael leaned his head back against the concrete wall and closed his eyes. The tunnel smelled like rust and rat droppings and his own blood. Somewhere above, the transit hub creaked and groaned, settling into the night. His team was asleep in the converted shipping containers they called home. Ryn was probably dreaming about the final. Brick was probably snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Pip was probably still awake, watching match footage on that cracked tablet, memorizing every angle and trajectory.
They didn’t know their coach was bleeding out in a maintenance tunnel. They didn’t know Aethel Corp had sent enforcers to break their gear. They didn’t know the final was going to be played on a court suspended a hundred feet in the air, with neural dampeners that could slow their reflexes to a crawl.
They’d find out tomorrow.
Kael pushed himself to his feet, one hand pressed against the wound, the other braced against the wall. The tunnel swayed. He waited for it to settle, then started walking.
The gear room was a mess. The enforcers had knocked over shelves, scattered kneepads and elbow guards across the floor, dumped a bag of skates into a corner. Kael knelt—slow, careful—and started picking things up. He checked each piece of gear for damage. The enforcers had been looking for the easy targets: wheels they could loosen, straps they could cut, padding they could slash. They’d found a few. Kael set the damaged pieces aside. He’d fix them in the morning.
Ryn’s skates were untouched. Brick’s knee brace was still locked in its case. Spin’s gloves were on the floor, but they were fine. Mira’s prosthetic socket was cracked—a hairline fracture running along the carbon fiber. Kael picked it up, turned it over in his hands. The crack was small, but it would spread under pressure. Mira would lose her leg in the middle of the match if he didn’t fix it.
He didn’t have the tools. He didn’t have the materials. He had fishing line and a needle and a bottle of whiskey.
Kael sat down on the floor, the socket in his lap, and started drilling a tiny hole at the end of the crack. He’d learned this trick from a mechanic in the undercity who’d fixed his sister’s wheelchair with zip ties and prayer. Stop the crack from spreading by giving it somewhere to go. Then reinforce it with whatever you had.
He threaded the fishing line through the hole, wrapped it around the socket, tied it off. The line was strong—stronger than it looked. It would hold for one match. It would have to.
The sun was coming up by the time Kael finished. The gear was sorted, the damaged pieces repaired or replaced, the room cleaned. He stood up, felt the stitches pull, felt the blood start to seep again. He’d need to change the bandage before the match. He’d need to tape his ribs. He’d need to pretend he wasn’t hurt.
Kael walked to the container where his team slept. He didn’t knock. He just stood outside, listening to the sound of their breathing. Ryn’s was steady, deep. Brick’s was a low rumble. Spin’s was quick, nervous, even in sleep. Pip’s was barely audible, like a bird hiding in a bush.
They were kids. All of them. Ryn was sixteen, carrying a bounty on her head and a chip on her shoulder. Brick was nineteen, mute, built like a refrigerator, gentle as a lamb. Spin was seventeen, twitchy, fast, always looking over his shoulder. Mira was eighteen, missing a leg, missing a family, missing a future. Pip was twelve, too young to be here, too smart to be anywhere else.
Kael was thirty-four, washed up, broken, bleeding into a rag. He was supposed to lead them into a match against a corporate team with illegal technology and a bottomless budget. He was supposed to win. If he lost, the transit hub got bulldozed, and these kids went back to the streets.
He didn’t sleep. He sat on the floor of the gear room, back against the wall, watching the light change through a grimy window. The sun rose slow, filtering through the smog, painting the room in shades of orange and gray. The city woke up around him: the rumble of trains, the hiss of steam vents, the distant wail of a siren.
Kael changed his bandage. The wound was ugly, puckered, the fishing line standing out against his skin like a row of black stitches on a corpse. He taped his ribs, tight enough to keep everything in place, loose enough to breathe. He pulled on a clean shirt, then his jacket. The jacket was old, stained, torn at the shoulder. It smelled like sweat and smoke and the undercity.
He walked to the container and knocked. “Up. We’ve got a match to win.”
The container stirred. Ryn was the first one out, her hair a mess, her eyes sharp. She looked at Kael, and something flickered in her gaze—a question, a suspicion. He met her eyes, gave her nothing.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“I feel like shit. Get the others.”
She didn’t push. She turned and kicked the container door. “Up! Brick, move your giant ass! Spin, stop touching yourself! Pip, you better be dressed!”
The team spilled out, grumbling, stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Brick ducked through the door, his head brushing the frame. Spin was already bouncing on his toes, wired on something he’d probably stolen. Pip was last, her tablet clutched to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed from watching footage all night.
Mira limped out, her prosthetic clicking against the concrete. She caught Kael’s eye, nodded once. She knew. She always knew. The girl with the mismatched leg and the junkyard socket had learned to read people the way Pip read games.
Kael gathered them in a circle. The transit hub was quiet, the morning light cutting through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the cracked glass court. They’d practiced here for thirty days. They’d bled here. They’d lost here. They’d learned to trust the hollow echo of the glass, the weight of each other’s movements, the rhythm of a game that had no mercy.
“Today’s the day,” Kael said. “The Vipers are faster, stronger, better equipped. They’ve got neural dampeners that’ll make you feel like you’re swimming through concrete. They’ve got a crowd that wants to see you fall. They’ve got a sponsor that’s spent millions to make sure they win.”
He paused. The team was watching him, waiting. He could see the fear in their eyes, the doubt, the hope they were trying to hide.
“They don’t have what we have,” Kael said. “They don’t have the hollow echo. They don’t have the junkyard socket. They don’t have the girl who sees the game before it happens. They don’t have the mute giant who’ll break through any wall you put in front of him. They don’t have the pickpocket who can steal a win from under their noses. They don’t have the runner who’s been running her whole life and isn’t about to stop now.”
He looked at each of them, one by one. “They don’t have a coach who’s already lost everything and isn’t afraid to lose it again.”
Ryn’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kael pulled open his jacket. The bandage was white against his skin, the blood already starting to seep through. The team went quiet. Brick’s hands clenched into fists. Spin’s bouncing stopped. Pip’s eyes went wide.
“They sent enforcers last night,” Kael said. “I stopped them. I fixed the gear. I stitched myself up with fishing line. I’m going to coach this match, and I’m going to coach it standing up, and I’m going to watch you win.”
Ryn stepped forward, her jaw tight. “You should have woken us.”
“You needed sleep.”
“You needed help.”
“I needed you ready.” Kael closed his jacket. “Are you ready?”
The team looked at each other. Brick nodded, slow and solid. Spin cracked his knuckles. Pip clutched her tablet tighter. Mira adjusted her prosthetic, the fishing line catching the light.
Ryn met Kael’s eyes. “We’re ready.”
“Good.” Kael turned and started walking toward the transit hub’s exit. “Let’s go break some glass.”
The team fell in behind him, footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. The sun was higher now, burning through the smog, casting long shadows across the undercity. Somewhere above, in the gleaming spires of Neo-Avalon, the elites were getting ready for a show. They didn’t know what was coming.
Kael’s ribs ached. His hand throbbed. The fishing line pulled with every step.
He didn’t care.
He had a match to win.