"So, should we just… go in?"

  In what Jonathan's hyper-awareness told him was becoming a habit, he was standing nervously outside of yet another location.

  This time, the location in question was the Pile of Misfit Boys.

  In Jonathan's defense, Craig wasn't exactly making big moves either — but this time they had a good reason to at least stop and appraise the situation.

  There had been a battle here since they were last in the area. The barricade was smashed up, the walls covered in fading scorch marks, a thin layer of smoke in the air that smelled of burned electronics — which Jonathan found oddly reminded him of home.

  "Clarence did say they get raided every so often. Guess we just missed one."

  Jonathan and his friends were quickly able to tell the battle had been at least an hour or two old, judging by heat signatures and the state of congealment of various… liquids. The defenders seemed to have given better than they got, based on shot dispersion and scorch mark to blood splatter ratios.

  One large quadrupedal automaton was still being actively stripped for parts by a couple of ratty-looking Muravex.

  The species was Muravex — five-foot rat people who also happened to look ratty. Jonathan imagined a member of upper Muravex society looking down on them for perpetuating negative stereotypes. The imaginary rat person was extremely dapper and thus adorable.

  Craig shrugged and inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction of the entrance.

  Jonathan interpreted that as "Shall we?"

  And so, they went.

  It seemed there was no real gate security other than when station forces showed up. Just inside the barricade were quite a few injured — either recently wounded or in line to be triaged. Judging by the count of those wounded, most of whom were watching the current fight, it seemed they used a swarm strategy to defend the gates.

  On closer inspection, however, many of the injuries had been caused less by science fiction and more by the science of the "sweet" variety.

  After getting into the Pile proper, they learned there were in fact two rings.

  The closest to the entrance was pretty much always active — Passengers and other augments meant faster injury and stamina recuperation, and if you were broke on a space station you really didn't have a whole lot else to do.

  The other ring was much bigger and seldom used. After asking around, it was determined that one was typically for gang or team fights, or on rare occasions big show matches — such as the regular mayoral battles, which happened four times a cycle.

  "Pal?"

  "Every 90 TUs, or 112.5 Earth days!"

  "Thanks Pal — adding Earth time was very helpful."

  "deep simulated inhalation noise You are SO very welcome!"

  Jonathan figured the adage about absence must be true whether you have a heart or not.

  Wait, did they?

  "Buddy, do Passengers have hearts?"

  "Kinda. Pretty much everything we have is distributed to make us harder to kill."

  "Huh. Good to know."

  The current fight was between two "waste engineers" named Marco and Ludovico.

  Marco was a squat toad-like creature called a Phrynel. Ludo was a Nycterian — some sort of lanky mammal with a snout not dissimilar to a dog or raccoon. Scans showed they were close in weight, but Ludo had about a foot and a half of height, a much longer reach, and claws and teeth which were apparently allowed.

  Marco didn't let that bother him. His compact frame allowed much finer control, letting him stay out of range while waiting for an opportunity. True to what Jonathan expected, he also had a powerful jump — which he used to cannonball himself shoulder-first into Ludo's abdomen, following up with a nasty ground and pound.

  Fights here didn't work as Jonathan was used to. There weren't rounds. There was a rope on the ground to show the edge of the ring, but being pushed out just got you pushed back in. There also wasn't a true ref — you could give up verbally or run away, which would end the fight, but you couldn't count on anyone to pull someone off you. Most fighters knew when to stop hitting, because it was very easy to track people down after the fight.

  Buddy had been running simulations throughout — quite useful, even showing potential Ludo paths to victory. About 53% of the sims were on Marco's side on average, though. Until Ludo was on the ground. Then it became certain.

  "If you're gonna bet, you better only do it after I've had a chance to see both fighters in action. Being tall and in shape doesn't mean you can fight."

  Buddy started giving Jonathan all sorts of tips about sizing up opponents as they watched.

  The next bout was much more even — two of the same species this time, different professions. Ceratoids. Both just taller than Craig, but considerably bulkier, with thick folded skin almost like armored plates. Neither cared much for defense, opting instead to just pummel each other aggressively.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was fun to watch for a while. But their durability eventually made it boring, and their stamina was lacking.

  Jonathan started asking random spectators questions — polite, careful not to bug the same person too much. He crowdsourced a lot of useful information.

  Normal matches almost always tried to pair on at least one of two criteria: physical stats, and role or augment level. Physical was like Earth weight divisions — fighting someone in a different weight class was usually unfair, unless you had an advantage in the second criteria.

  Role or augment level was more complicated. If you had a Passenger, ideally you fought someone with a similarly trained one. If you were a lifelong mercenary, more machine than man, you waited for someone similarly upgraded — or for the quarterly mayoral bouts, or a challenge.

  Apparently, up until recently the mayor was almost always some random soldier passing through and beating up everyone else on their way from point A to point B. But the current mayor had defended their title three times, which was a record in living memory — the last bout being only a few days back.

  Craig and Jonathan stuck around for a couple of hours watching the fights.

  They had short, mostly one-sided conversations about each bout — predictions, tactics, weaknesses. During the fights, Buddy and Jonathan tested simulation capabilities both with and without tapping into Pal, who surprisingly provided useful insight into mental state, posture, and micro-adjustments.

  Nearly every bout, Jonathan remarked about how basic these fighters were compared to those from Earth — complaining about the lack of strategy, ground games, and submissions to the point where even Buddy grew a little weary of talking tactics.

  Eventually, Jonathan felt confident about their ability to read fighters, and got up to learn more about how the betting side worked.

  He quickly tracked down the bookie.

  Name: Tally

  Species: Muravex

  Profession: Bookie

  Another rat.

  Hearing that a literal rat person was the bookie of a fight ring inside a space station favela, many people from Earth would likely be inclined to harbor certain preconceptions. They may assume this person was shifty and not to be trusted. Perhaps surrounded by shady connections and hired thugs, with a propensity for flaunting ill-gotten gains. Maybe even a couple of floozies by his side, no strangers to abuse behind closed doors.

  Well. Shame on those people.

  Tally had a no-nonsense style — garments shockingly similar to slacks and a vest. No shoes, though he did have some rather fetching button-on ankle cuffs that fit snugly around his thin legs. If spectacles were a thing in the wider universe, Jonathan was certain Tally would have big round ones.

  Tally was revered as the rat king of the Pile — not because he had his tail tied to a bunch of other rats, and again, shame on you for your bigotry — but because he had the one thing no other resident of the Pile had.

  An actual job.

  Tally was an accountant both by profession and by Passenger role. A visionary mayor long ago had set aside winnings from his fights to keep a permanent accountant on staff for the purpose of handling all things related to gambling — and thus the entire economy of the Pile.

  He had no need to cheat. The house always gets a cut. He had no need for thugs. None would dare cross the oddsmaker. And as for women? He had a lovely little partner and a brood of two up in the second tier apartments.

  "Excuse me."

  "Oh hello, what can I do you for?"

  Tally's little nose scrunched up in a mischievous look after hitting Jonathan with the filthiest joke in his repertoire. Even his little voice had a certain squeaky quality that was extremely endearing.

  "Oh, uh — sorry, I'm new here. I was wondering if you could please explain how the betting works?"

  A look of pity crossed the rat's face.

  "Sure thing!" He took a deep breath, cutely.

  Bets must be made before a fight takes place. Certain outcomes have better yields. Goods such as foodstuffs and medical supplies are acceptable in lieu of credits but must be evaluated by yours truly and Passenger-verified. Fixing actions — such as paying a contender to lose, or betting against oneself — are prohibited and punished. The punishment, as set by the current mayor, is "getting stomped into a mudhole and then stomped dry." A cut of all proceeds goes to running the establishment, healthcare, and winnings for the fighters themselves. All bets are final once the fight begins. No refunds.

  He took another deep breath.

  Outside of challenges and arranged bouts, fights are automatically curated to be as fair as possible. Gamblers must be physically present, and bets must be placed through the official interface. Placing a bet enters gamblers into the registry of potential active fighters. Fights can be refused, but gambling rights are suspended upon refusal until a fight is performed. Funds are automatically negotiated and debited via Passenger contract — failure to pay will result in punitive measures. The punishment, as set by the current mayor, is "also getting stomped into a mudhole and then stomped dry." Terms subject to change with posted notice. Whew!

  Jonathan gave the little guy a moment to catch his breath.

  "Couldn't you have just sent me a prompt?"

  "You said please. I have a personal policy to reciprocate politeness."

  "Well, thank you very much for the explanation. I'm glad you brought up foodstuffs — I'm a little down on credits right now, but I have a decent supply of delicacies and was wondering what the exchange rate was."

  Jonathan pulled a cardboard box of remaining samples out of his laptop bag.

  What happened next was the first time Jonathan felt lucky since he found a five-dollar bill in front of a gas station — that day he accidentally left his wallet at home several months ago.

  Tally apparently had multiple sweet teeth, and his eyes were boggling.

  Pal told Jonathan that Tally's heart rate and saliva production had greatly increased.

  His tail swished back and forth.

  "What shop did you get these from?"

  "Oh, no shop on the station. These are from my home planet — Earth. You know, the one that was supposed to be destroyed but wasn't. Still pretty much impossible to travel to. I guess that makes this stuff pretty rare."

  "…I see. May I?"

  "Please feel free to try them all."

  Jonathan's cardboard box was arranged like a sushi tasting — strips of various goodies lined up in neat rows. While taking stock earlier, Jonathan had learned to assign items with descriptions which could be sent to other users via whatever personal wifi system Passengers used. So Tally was quietly sniffing, scanning, and reading descriptions.

  His little fingers were unsure where to start.

  When he finally decided, he delicately broke a quarter off each sample and tasted them. Jonathan could pretty easily tell which ones were the winners when he saw Tally's foot stomp a few times in delight.

  "Okay — I've assigned credit values and expiration dates. Please review and let me know what you think."

  It was Jonathan's turn to boggle.

  "These terms are acceptable."

  "Great. Keep in mind that we are not an exchange. You can bet with these, but you cannot buy with them. Payouts will be in credits if you win. You will have to bring the goods over there prior to betting with them." Tally pointed out a supply tent. "Also… would you mind if I…" he gestured toward the remaining samples.

  "All yours."

  "A pleasure doing business with you."

  He turned to the crowd.

  "I'M GOING ON BREAK!"

  And with that, he took the box and scurried out of the Pile.