Mardock Scramble

an employee escorting his bosses to a gaming table as that of a jailer leading condemned prisoners toward their place of execution.

Oeufcoque gave Balot the full briefing so that she was absolutely prepared for what was to come.

–It’s Cleanwill John October. One of the leading directors of OctoberCorp. He’s Shell’s direct supervisor, as it were, but he’s also the father of the woman Shell’s planning to marry.

The man that Oeufcoque was describing was also a giant. Not just big or fat. This was something else; his body was a mass of solid flesh. The stereotype of fat people was that they tend to have happy, jovial faces, but this certainly wasn’t the case here. The man wore a black sneer that seemed to look down on all the other people on the casino floor. His eyes oozed disgust at the fact that he even had to look at Balot. Balot, in turn, found his expression so repulsive that she struggled to think of a reason why she shouldn’t just shoot him dead right then and there as a service to all of humanity.

The moment they arrived, Ashley stood stock-still and did his best to blend into the background like one of the decorative plants—he knew his role was over.

The lump of meat from OctoberCorp glowered at Balot with pure disdain.

Suddenly, Balot picked up a million-dollar chip in her hand and tapped it lightly against the table, spinning it around casually as if it were a one-dollar coin. A coin that had the OctoberCorp emblem emblazoned on it.

This seemed to have the desired effect—if she couldn’t shoot the two men dead in their tracks, this was a damn good substitute, and their reactions were almost as satisfying.

Shell’s and John’s faces went blue simultaneously. They both seemed equally fit to burst, likely to spew forth torrents of bile and rage at any moment, but they both managed to keep it in, just about, nostrils flaring, and Balot wondered how much more it might take before they spontaneously combusted.

Cleanwill John October’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke.

“Get the chips back from this girl. Fail and you’ll meet the same fate as the coin being spun round and round.”

Shell’s face went blank—he was like a hit man who had been ordered on a suicide mission—and he moved into the dealer’s position.

His Chameleon Sunglasses glinted muddy blue.

?

Shell’s posture straightened the instant he took his position at the table. It was as if his whole body had transformed into a machine.

This man was now standing before Balot because he had to. He was prepared for the inevitable. He was ready.

Shell took off his rings. His seven rings, each one adorned with a Blue Diamond. Those repulsive little jewels made from the ashes of his mother and the six young girls he’d killed. Balot had been destined for ring number eight, but here she was now, watching with a blank face as the rings were placed on the table.

Back when Balot was with Shell, it used to be her job—one of her jobs—to look after those rings during the Shows. Now the rings just lay silently on the table, their jewels shining up at her like frozen tears.

Shell put away the cards that had been used for the previous match and took out a new set.

He started shuffling—a shuffle familiar to Balot, one that she remembered from long ago. She remembered that there was a time when she had found it beautiful, elegant. That was only a few months ago, but it seemed like many lifetimes past. Now Balot could see that Shell’s movements might have been smooth and flashy enough, ideal for impressing the punters, but there was very little substance to them—he was nowhere near as skilled with the cards as Ashley, for example.

Whirlpools of numbers swirled around at the base of Balot’s left arm as the pile of cards was prepared. Balot reached out for the transparent red marker and took it in her hands before Shell had the opportunity to offer it to her.

Balot’s eyes met Shell’s for the first time since that night in the AirCar.

She sensed his eyes opening wide behind his sunglasses.

His eyes were filled with a deep, deep anger—and at the root of this was an overwhelming fear that Shell couldn’t even understand, much less come to terms with.

Balot felt the dregs of an old memory dredged up from the murky past: the memory of Shell lecturing her ever so calmly about the definition of love. The words popped into her head, then disappeared again as soon as they came—but not before she had said them out loud.

–You’re going to be the prettiest little ornament there is. Everyone’s going to admire you, and respect me. Because I have all the money and love that anyone could ever want.

Silently, Balot thrust the red marker into the pile of cards.

–Just do as I say, and everything will be all right.

A faint, scornful sneer played across Balot’s lips as she said the words, and she jerked her head at Shell—and the cards—to indicate she was ready.

Shell’s face was peculiarly shy at this moment. What was he feeling? Embarrassed? Bashful?

At the very least he seemed to recognize that the words that Balot had just spoken were quotations, phrases that he had once said to her, even if he couldn’t remember actually having said them. He had made long-forgotten promises, and now he was being held to account.

Stuck for words, Shell focused his attention on the cards at hand, cutting them, preparing them.

That handful of movements told Balot everything she needed to know about just how much control Shell could still exert over the cards—and how much control he had lost.

She waited for Shell to finish placing the cards in the card shoe, toying with the four million-dollar chips in her hands, as if to say I hold your heart in my hands.

–I’m not the impatient sort, my dear. I like to take my time.

With these words, Balot placed a chip in the pot.

It wasn’t one of the golden chips. Rather, it was an ordinary hundred-thousand-dollar chip. Shell had evidently been expecting one of the million-dollar variety, and he gulped, then eventually exhaled deeply.

–Let me peel your layers off one by one, my little one.

Balot smiled as she spoke. By now, Shell wasn’t the only one to have realized that she was quoting verbatim words that Shell had said to her, once upon a time. The others around the table were listening with keen interest.

“You filthy gutter-born whore…” Shell muttered, touching the card shoe as if in some sort of warped act of purification.

The Doctor and Ashley scowled when they heard his words. Only Balot and Bell Wing remained unaffected, unflinching.

Shell flicked the cards out of the card shoe. Violently, recklessly, like a hotheaded teen rebel quick to snap out his jackknife and lunge at the opponent who had enraged him so.

Balot dodged the blade in a deft movement, then crushed all resistance with a single blow.

–There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, my little one.

Shell continued dealing, trying to appear unconcerned.

–You look a little frightened, but don’t worry, I like it that way. It makes you look even more alluring.

Balot continued to smile a seraphim’s smile at Shell, who by now was gritting his teeth so hard it seemed like he was about to break his own jaw.

She was smiling, but her eyes blazed with her true feelings of animosity.

Balot took those hate-filled eyes off Shell for a moment and refocused on her cards. She was deciding what she wanted of him, how she wanted him. She was going to release him from the waiting—the worst part, that moment before the customer told you just how he was going to enjoy you. Just as Balot had suffered in the past.