Meth Pit

The courtroom was suffocating. Everyone inside sat stiff, eyes forward, wrapped in their dull gray uniforms, the standard issue for polite society. No one dared to meet each other’s gaze for longer than a second, afraid they might register an unfiltered thought or trigger their personal trackers. Conversations here were clipped, always followed by a pause, as if waiting for the world to nod its approval.

The judge, perched high on her bench, her face flat as the screen embedded in front of her, droned through the sentencing. Her words were laced with that practiced neutrality, perfected by years of monitoring by the same probation trackers she was about to offer him.

“You have a choice, Mr. Jaxson,” she said without looking up. “You can wear a life tracker, which will document all interactions in your proximity and archive your movements. It will ensure you remain in compliance with the laws and customs of polite society. Or—” she paused, her face flickering with something approaching curiosity, “you can choose exile.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Exile. A place where there were no trackers, no laws to follow, but no safety nets either. No universal income, no healthcare, no surveillance to make sure you didn’t slip through the cracks. Exile meant Mars. Mars, where the outcasts of Earth toiled in brutal conditions, forgotten by the polite, subservient masses.

The judge continued. “If you choose exile, you will be extradited from Earth and relinquished of all benefits and responsibilities of society. No contact will be maintained, and you will no longer be bound by the rules of this planet.”

Jaxson smirked. He could feel the eyes on him, quiet horror mingled with the fascination of those who couldn’t fathom life outside their invisible chains.

“I choose Mars,” he said calmly, almost too softly for the room to hear.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom. The judge’s eyes finally flicked up, and for a split second, something human passed over her expression before the mask of neutrality returned.

“Very well,” she said. “You are hereby sentenced to—”

Jaxson cut her off. “You know what? I don’t need the formality.” His voice boomed across the room, echoing off the sterile walls. He stood taller, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. Since I was a kid, really. Living in this world, playing by these rules. So predictable. So… trapped.”

People in the gallery shifted uncomfortably. Some cast nervous glances at their trackers, as if the devices might register Jaxson’s words as dangerous.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I knew what I was doing when I decked my history teacher. The guy was a prick, yeah, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, I wanted out. I wanted out of this sanitized, censored, polite world, where everyone plays along with their precious rules and nobody ever thinks for themselves.”

He took a step forward, feeling the pulse of the room. Some people looked at him like he was insane. Others, like they were jealous.

“You all think you’re free, don’t you? Sitting there, dressed in gray, watching every word you say, every thought you think. You’re free like rats in a cage are free—free to run around, free to gnaw at each other. But real freedom? That’s out there, on Mars. No rules, no monitors, no one telling you what you can and can’t think.”

He glanced back at the judge, still smirking. “I can’t wait to leave all this behind.”

Jaxson squinted as he stepped out of the shuttle, the harsh light of Mars bathing him in its coppery glow. The air was thin and dry, but it carried the electric pulse of possibility. He felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. This was it—the freedom he’d been dreaming of.

“Welcome to the Meth Pit,” a gruff voice called out.

Jaxson looked up to see a hulking figure standing near a pile of crates. The man was massive, his broad chest covered in layers of dust, and a thick beard tangled with the same reddish dirt of the planet. His smile was genuine, though, and he gestured toward the cargo ramp. “Mind helping with the supplies? Everyone pitches in.”

Jaxson shrugged off his bag and headed over, eager to make a good first impression. As he lifted one of the lighter crates, he glanced at the man. “I thought you had to be self-sufficient up here. How are you getting supplies from Earth?”

The man chuckled, his laughter deep and rumbling. “Oh, we’re more than self-sufficient, kid. Way more. We sell our tech back to the ‘nice’ folks of Earth. Innovations they couldn’t dream up in a million years, thanks to all their rules and regulations. In return, they give us the stuff we need—oxygen, water, soil. Not that we couldn’t do without ‘em, but it’s easier to trade.”

“Wait,” Jaxson paused, frowning as he wiped sweat from his brow. “So you already have advanced tech? And what about materials? I thought asteroid mining was still in development.”

The man grinned, setting a crate down with a thud. “We’ve had that figured out for years. Pure materials, straight from the belt. Metals, minerals, you name it. They want what we’ve got, but they’d never admit it. We’ve got all we need.”

Jaxson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And did you just call this place the Meth Pit?”

The man laughed again, this time louder, attracting the attention of a few others milling around the transport. “Yeah, it’s kind of a joke for us Martians now. You see, when Earth first started sending people here, it was all the folks they thought couldn’t be ‘fixed’—you know, the ones that didn’t fit their perfect little mold. Addicts, criminals, anyone they couldn’t rehabilitate into polite society. A lot of addicts came through first. Hence the name.”

Jaxson nodded slowly, connecting the dots. “But it’s more than that now.”

“Way more.” The man tossed a crate to the side, wiping his hands on his dusty pants. “See, they thought they were sending the rejects up here to rot. But what happened instead was… well, we adapted. The people they couldn’t control? Turns out we’re the ones who learned how to survive—and then thrive. Different ways of thinking, different solutions. Innovation isn’t pretty, you know. It’s messy. But it works.”

Jaxson felt a surge of excitement. This wasn’t just a penal colony—it was a proving ground. The people here had built something more, something real, away from the suffocating rules of Earth.

The man glanced at him sideways. “Most folks who come here are scared out of their minds, believing all that propaganda Earth feeds them about how dangerous we are. But you? You don’t seem spooked.”

Jaxson smiled, feeling the weight of Earth’s chains finally lifting from his shoulders. “That’s because I’ve been waiting for this day for years. Everything back there is just… rules. Restrictions. Here, you actually live.”

The man clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. “You’ve got the right attitude, kid. You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

The large man gave Jaxson a nod as they finished offloading the last crate. “Thanks for the help, kid. Since you chipped in, let me give you a little heads-up. You’ve got something coming at you.”

Jaxson tilted his head, intrigued. “What’s that?”

The man grinned, his beard twitching with amusement. “In remembrance of the original Meth Pit, we’ve got a few trials for newcomers. Part tradition, part to shake loose whatever polite society drilled into you. And partly to see what skills you bring to the table. Just remember, whatever happens, think outside the box.”

Jaxson’s pulse quickened, but he nodded, keeping his cool. He followed the man’s gesture toward a large doorway at the far side of the cargo bay. The doors creaked open as he approached, revealing a long, dim hallway.

He stepped through and emerged into a massive, open arena. The air was dry, the ground dusty and cracked, with the faint scent of sweat and metal lingering. Bleachers lined the circular walls, packed with cheering people. Their roars echoed off the metal roof above. The sound of gears turning drew Jaxson’s attention to the center of the dirt floor, where a large tarp was slowly pulled away, revealing a pile of weapons—blades, clubs, and makeshift armor.

A booming voice came over a loudspeaker. “Welcome to the Death Pit, at the Meth Pit… who can make it out?”

The crowd erupted, the sound like thunder rolling across the arena. Several of the newcomers—the same people who had disembarked from the shuttle with Jaxson—rushed toward the weapons, eyes wide with panic. They fought each other, scrambling for whatever they could grab, driven by fear. A few others fell to their knees, pleading, hands raised, tears streaming down their faces. They sobbed, broken by terror before the trial had even begun.

But Jaxson stood still, remembering the dock worker’s words. Think outside the box.

While chaos unfolded around him, Jaxson calmly turned his back on the pile of weapons. He scanned the arena, his eyes settling on the large bay door at the opposite end. Next to it, barely noticeable, was a smaller, man-sized door.

Without hesitation, he walked toward it, ignoring the frenzied shouts behind him. The heavy, metal door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping through into a narrow corridor. It closed with a satisfying clang behind him, sealing off the chaos of the arena.

The dock worker was waiting for him on the other side, arms crossed and a broad grin spread across his face. “Nice work, kid,” he said, clapping Jaxson on the shoulder. “Told you—this place is all about thinking differently. Most of ‘em? They can’t break the habits polite society drilled into them.”

Jaxson allowed himself a small smile. “Guess I’ve been ready for this for a long time.”