Mardock Scramble

When the dust cloud finally settled, it was down to the final hand.

Boiled, minus his right arm and left leg, was sprawled atop Balot, who was covered in a white shell. He was watching carefully.

Balot wasn’t moving. Her face and body seemed to be covered in a cocoon, and it wasn’t even possible to tell whether she was still breathing.

Are…you..hurt?

Suddenly a clear voice echoed around Boiled’s head.

Why…does…it…hurt…you?

And for the first time in a very long time—indeed, what seemed like the first time ever—Boiled felt the warm glow that he’d felt when he first cradled the tiny golden creature in his hands.

Boiled wondered whether he was crying.

“No… I’m not hurt.”

He wasn’t crying. Not a single tear flowed from his eyes. Rather, blood dripped from the wounds in his right arm and left leg, staining Balot’s white suit red.

Nice…and…warm…

A gentle voice. A voice that contained the last remaining fragment of Boiled’s soul.

Boiled lifted his remaining hand and pointed his gun at Balot’s head, and the hammer clicked into place.

“Try and stop me…try and stop my nothingness…”

Softly, Boiled pulled the trigger.

That instant the shell flew apart. Just as Balot had aimed for, this was the one moment Boiled could no longer move his gun and was committed. Her knife thrust forward and sliced the giant revolver in two. The powder in the remaining bullets exploded, and the gun that had embodied such lethal force scattered to the winds and was no more.

Balot emerged from inside her shell and stared down at Boiled.

She brought the gun in her left hand to Boiled’s throat.

–This is what your sunny side up is…

Balot pressed the muzzle into his neck, but her face was overcome by sorrow. It was also covered in silvery powder. Her skin was developing. Even her black hair glittered silver.

Boiled didn’t answer. He just stared straight back at Balot’s face as he discarded the now useless half of his gun.

“The girl did well.” The grip of the shattered gun hit the ground with a clang.

“You should be the one to finish it, Oeufcoque,” Boiled whispered. He was close enough for Balot to hear his breathing.

Balot opened her eyes. She couldn’t help herself from yelling out. Stop it! Stop this all! But of course no sound came out. Why would it? All that emerged was a hollow whistle of air.

“I’ve spent twenty years on the battlefield. I am…most satisfied with my life,” Boiled said. His eyes were fixed on Balot.

“Stop it, Boiled!” It was Oeufcoque’s voice.

Boiled’s eyes flicked to the source of the voice, Balot’s left hand, and before she knew it his left hand, the one that had discarded one gun, was now on another—the gun in her hand.

Boiled stood up. Balot felt that she was about to be pulled up to her feet with him, but then Boiled’s PGF kicked in, and she was sent sprawling against the wall behind her.

The blow winded her. Her gloves had been ripped off. She had an uneasy feeling that something had been taken from her—something important. There was a click, and for an instant Balot couldn’t tell what it was.

Then she realized that it was the sound of life and death.

She realized that Boiled was holding the gun he had taken from her and looking her way.

The high-caliber gun that she’d had Oeufcoque turn into. It was still loaded. And the click that she had just heard was the hammer drawing back. More than that—it was Boiled’s final act of doubling down.

“Oeufcoque!” Balot tried to cry, but no words emerged.

The name of the thing she’d had taken from her.

She was filled with raw despair. Balot had drowned in the flow and now looked into the black void that was the muzzle of the gun in Boiled’s hand. What other way was there to make her cursed life clean again? She’d thrown away pain—now all there was left was to throw away the rest of her life.

Balot’s eyes filled with tears.

–I don’t want to die.

She was resisting death’s sweet, seductive murmurings with a heartfelt cry that came from all her body and all her soul. Lost in the moment, she thrust the weapon in her right arm out. She knew full well that it was a futile gesture. But she had to do something, to grasp at straws for the chance to find value in her own life. It was her right to do so, her choice.

And then:

Nice…and…warm…

The gentle voice echoed around inside Boiled’s mind. I finally have it back, he thought.

The warm glow he first felt when he’d held the golden mouse. The last fragment of his soul.

But all he could remember was the feeling of the mouse having been there. The warmth that he had once felt eluded him even now.

Boiled pulled the cold trigger, squeezing gently—and there was the sound of gunfire.

There was a wailing sound. Almost like a prayer shouted out loud at the top of your voice.

Balot’s eyes opened even wider.

The bullet that Boiled had fired had missed her by a considerable margin. It smashed into the wall far above her head.

Had he really missed? Boiled? For a moment, Balot thought he really might have. But then she soon realized the truth. In a daze, she checked the weapon she held in her right hand.

A giant gun with a huge muzzle. The weapon that had up until a moment ago been a magnetized knife had responded to Balot’s will and turned.

“Oeufcoque…” Boiled called out. That name so full of warmth and kindness.

Then Boiled started to lower his arm. As if to say that his thick, sturdy arm could no longer support the weight of a single gun. He let go of the gun even before his arm was fully lowered, and it clattered across the sidewalk.

Right arm still holding the gun, Balot watched with wide eyes as Boiled disintegrated before her eyes.

Boiled’s hand clutched at his chest. She realized by his actions that there was a large hole there. And that something was flowing out of it.

His life, Balot’s heart murmured.

The PGF that had been acting as a substitute left leg disappeared. The giant figure that had once exuded such awesome pressure now crumpled to the ground in a heap. It was such a pathetic sight that it was almost comical. Before long, the wounds where his arm and leg had been severed spewed forth blood like water from a garden hose. His chest and back also overflowed with fresh blood, pumping out with an audible gurgle. Balot listened to the sound of a life pouring out, down the drain. Into the gutter. Of all the sounds that Balot had heard so far, this was the most wretched and most dreadful.

She stumbled toward Boiled to try and put an end to that awful sound.

Boiled slowly turned his head up to Balot. For a moment, she thought he was asking for her help.

But he was doing no such thing. Boiled merely gazed at Balot and said something to her. Scarcely audible.

Balot nodded. She wanted to show him that she had understood. She didn’t know what else she could do.

Boiled’s eyes moved, and he looked down at the blackness pouring out of his body.