Mardock Scramble

used as the moral of one of the girls’ horror stories—so much so that it became a cliche. The man at reception said so. The girls, who had grown so used to their jobs, said so. It became a mantra, an inoculation; so long as you spoke those words, no harm would ever befall you. But danger came in many shapes and sizes. It wasn’t just the unknowable future that could be dangerous—sometimes danger came in the form of shadows from the past that had finally caught up with the present. Danger could grow and expand to fill any void.

There were teenage outcasts from society, man-boys with no place in the world and at their wits’ end, who abducted middle school girls to use as their slaves. There were middle-aged, outwardly respectable government officials who walked past children’s playgrounds at the same fixed time every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young children that they were sexually attracted to. There was the Peeping Tom who had focused all his attention on one girl, and when the object of his affection failed to show any gratitude for his solicitude he raped the ungrateful bitch before dragging her to the local registry office to forcibly marry her, at which point he was promptly apprehended by the police.

A seventeen-year-old did some babysitting on the side to earn some pocket money, and she committed unspeakably cruel atrocities to over ten different children before she was caught and the alarm raised. When asked by the district attorney what could have possibly motivated her, her honest reply was that she thought that was what love was. Such was the reality of how her own parents had treated her.

People who labeled themselves as sadists or fetishists operated a network. Some of them were out in the open, appearing in the media, proud and unashamed of their otherness, and were recognized as outcasts. Different, maybe. Alien, definitely. But not necessarily dangerous per se.

But then there were the other aliens—the ones who didn’t go out of their way to call themselves sadists or fetishists. Not because they weren’t, but because they considered themselves to be absolutely normal. They had no more humanity in them than a giant shredding machine: flick their switches in the right way and they’d rip anyone to pieces without a moment’s hesitation, whether a complete stranger or their own flesh and blood.

These people weren’t particularly complicated, not in terms of what they wanted out of life. Their motivations were really quite straightforward. The only thing that was at all complicated was the process that they needed to go through to get what they wanted.

Sunny side up—the good life: no worries, no boredom, no contradictions.

A desirable goal for people from all walks of life, rich or poor. Ask a child why she had run away from the Welfare Institute, ask a rapist why he repeatedly committed the most horrendous of atrocities, and the answer would be the same: I wanted to be happy. It was the only answer there could be.

On the program Balot had watched about the aborigines, they didn’t actually show the moment the animals were slaughtered.

As is always the case on live television, they showed you up to the moment the machete was held high in the air, ready to strike. Then they cut to the scene straight after that, in which the cow was already engulfed in flame, the part where the blade ended the animal’s life being excised in order to preserve the viewers’ sensibilities.

Or was it to say to the viewer You see this sort of thing every day anyway, so why should we bother showing it to you now?

It was no more than what the viewers did—and had done to them—on a regular basis, after all.

Why did Ashley deliberately choose to enter the trunk of the car his brother died in?

It was to know the hand that brought the machete down. To understand the truth about the scene cut from the television program. To understand what had been lost.

The thing Ashley needed to know most of all was whether he still had the will to carry on living, even after the blow had been struck.

If the whole world took to arms against each other, brandishing their machetes, would he be able to survive?

There came a point in all people’s lives when their fundamental belief, their trust in the basic decency of human nature, was challenged, shattered. What Ashley needed to know was whether he would ever be able to pick up the pieces.

Balot realized that she now held a machete to her own heart. In order to discern exactly what she was made of.

And to determine which way the blade was heading. If people lived their lives under the vagaries of fate and fortune, then Balot would be the one to challenge her destiny—by working out for herself which way she needed to strike.

?

“Why…why are you doing this?” Shell groaned. He couldn’t keep it in any longer.

His eyes were wavering between two points: Balot’s face and the third million-dollar chip, which had just been placed in the pot as Balot’s next bet.

–Never doubt. No need to trouble yourself with questions.

After Balot said this she waved her right hand. Lightly. Goodbye. Then she mimed closing the door on him. Just like Shell once did to her. Shell didn’t understand what any of her charade meant, exactly. But he did understand, in a vague and uneasy way, just quite how serious was the crime he had committed.

“Are you saying that I somehow took advantage of you? Used you? For what, exactly? This is crazy! I’ve even forgotten your face, what you look like…”

Balot tapped the table to show her impatience for her next card.

She knew that Shell had just spoken the truth. She had no problem with that. If Shell wanted to believe that he was innocent, let him believe that he was innocent—for now. All Balot knew was that she had to do what she had to do to this man who treated his own memories as so many bargaining chips.

The upcard was a king. Balot’s cards were 5 and 6.

Balot hit and drew an 8, at which point she stayed.

Shell just shook his head and turned his card over.

Another ace. A glorious victory for Shell.

“I… I just wanted to help you. I gave you what you wanted. I even had a proper citizen’s ID made for you, one with a decent past, not the one you had. I saved you…”

This was Shell’s last-gasp effort at explaining his actions. It was his lawyers who had come up with this plan. Just as the Doctor had come up with Balot’s. Shell was very satisfied with this story as an explanation. Balot’s very existence was a thorn in his side; she was like the one viewer who burst out laughing at the most inappropriate moment at the screening of a serious movie. She was ruining everything!

How was he to deal with such a person?

There was only one possible answer. Silence her. That was the reason Shell kept a permanent roster of assassins in his pay.

Shell yearned for drama, romance, to fill the gaping hole that was left in him when he obliterated his memories. He wanted someone to console him, soothe the pain of the death of that part of him, to make the whole sordid process seem beautiful. And he had chosen Balot for this role.

The problem was that Oeufcoque had also chosen Balot. So that Oeufcoque could fight. To find meaning in his life—to fight in the hands of someone who needed to use him.

The little golden galloper of a mouse needed a jockey to ride him, someone who would accept him warts and all. A rider who could use him properly and at the same time appreciate him as more than just a mount to be used.

To Shell, on the other hand, Balot was no more than a sacrificial lamb to be offered up on the altar of his ambition. Balot had no intention of ever returning down that path.