Mardock Scramble

such a vainglorious display of her? How pathetic if she was. It was like taking a file to her heart surrounded by the perfect shell.

According to this data, Balot was currently nineteen years old. She was from a middle-class family, and if you had to use one word to describe her it would have been wholesome. There was no trace of an incident in which her brother was sent to prison for beating her father so badly he was left with permanent damage. There was no sign of an incident in which ADSOM—the Alcohol and Drug abuse Society of Mardock City— put a cap on her mother’s pregnancy rights, meaning that IVF was the only route open to her, which in turn led to a cycle of abuse driven by the inferiority complex this had given the woman.

Here, her father was a salaryman, an average office Joe. He wasn’t driven to extreme neurosis thanks to backbreaking manual labor, and the despair that he was plunged into after losing his job didn’t cause him to cling to Balot and take her virginity as if she were just another woman. Balot had been able to go to school properly, and she wasn’t subjected to sexual abuse by Social Services. And it certainly wasn’t the case that, after she had escaped from the institute along with a few others, she was forced into the even harsher position of having to sell her body and soul piece by piece.

A dream family—a dream life. Not a life in the depths of despair and hatred, where the tears had run dry.

“I’m starting to see it now—I’m beginning to understand what Shell was plotting with all his evil business with you,” Oeufcoque said. Even as they confirmed Balot’s personal details Balot and Oeufcoque both sped through the huge network, collecting any other relevant data.

“As I suspected, that man has his fingers in a number of different pies—illegal banking. According to his personal data he’s bought over 170,000 different items in the past six months. The data is fictional, of course, and no transactions will have taken place. The question is where the money has gone.”

Balot felt her bile rising when she heard Oeufcoque’s words.

“So, he gives you your forged status and arranges it to look like you’ve embezzled money. It’s written here that you’re an employee at this bank. The bank in question is closely connected with Shell’s masters, OctoberCorp, and certain government officials are involved too. First, he entered details of fake deposit accounts into the computer, complete with forged certificates of deposit. Under your name, the fake one, of course. And as long as your records are never accessed, they never come under any official scrutiny. That’s the key point. And the moment you accessed your file, many of the official procedures started automatically.”

The official procedures started automatically. One of the procedures being Balot’s death.

Why was she killed—why me? Another part of the answer to this question floated before her eyes, and Balot felt her whole body enveloped in a wave of hatred she’d never experienced before.

“So, they get your fake documents, add some fake wage slips, and drain this from the non-bank they set up specially for the purpose. We’re talking millions of dollars. It takes time, though, for the funds to be cleared. If our case is recognized as legitimate within the next week then we—and the public prosecutor—will be given leave to investigate further… I get it now, this is where Shell’s brain becomes so important. It’s likely that a ream of his memories have already disappeared. Psychelaundering rather than money laundering. So, while the legal investigation into his memory takes place, it’s too late for the investigation into the funds to go any further.”

Balot inhaled slowly. As her heartbeat started to settle, the hatred flowing around her became one with her flesh and blood, and she felt it silently beating away.

“Once the payments have gone through, as long as the memory of this case is completely wiped from Shell’s brain, there’s nothing more we can do. Although, on the other hand—if Shell’s memories are preserved somewhere…”

Balot didn’t yet understand in full the complexities of Shell’s scheme, but she did understand that she herself had started the ball rolling toward the events that would bring about her own death.

Or rather, Shell had known that Balot would start the ball rolling.

There was no one in her circumstance who couldn’t be aware of just how much they were being used, of what they were being used as.

In the end the petition that they collected together to send in to the Broilerhouse ran to a total of 280 counts of status fraud.

While they were doing that, Balot ordered another cappuccino. The youth from earlier was clearly relieved when Balot called him over and served her with a wink and threw in a free cookie.

As she was working Balot’s hands sometimes stopped, and at these times a strange song would run through her head.

Dish, wash, crash, mash.

A nursery rhyme that she’d once heard. The taste of the cappuccino in her mouth changed to the distinctive acrid taste of the explosion.

Hash, gash, josh, bash.

Once the hellish work was over—work that was like dredging through a swamp with your face—Balot sat still, unflinching, staring at the monitor. The long-decayed contents of a broken shell. No tears came. Her head was strangely cool. Even as it spewed forth its poison, her heart continued to beat steadily.

“I didn’t think we’d be able to prepare such a detailed document in such a short time.”

–I couldn’t bear any more.

“You’ve done well. All we need to do now is send this off to the Broilerhouse.”

–Send it off?

Balot was terrified. As if it had only just occurred to her that this was what they were going to have to do.

–We’re going to show this to people? This? The truth about my past?

“We are.”

The documents were suddenly collated now, turned into data ready to mail. Oeufcoque’s actions.

Balot’s whole body stiffened. She couldn’t take her eyes off the monitor. Just as you can’t take your eyes away from a sharp knife flashing in front of your eyes.

But the data wasn’t being sent. Oeufcoque was silently waiting for Balot. Balot hadn’t yet said either yes or no.

“Balot?”

–Just wait a minute. Please. Try and understand me.

Her stomach clenched. She wished there was something that could squeeze her tighter. Without it she would blow away like a fine powder, she thought.

“Balot. How about looking at it like this,” Oeufcoque said cautiously. “This is just like excavating fossils. A number of skeletons are going to emerge, one by one. But as you know, they’re all long since dead. However fierce they used to be, now they are sleeping soundly as fossils.”

–Do you really want to hurt me so badly?

Balot lowered her eyes and gritted her teeth. Oeufcoque continued on, politely as ever. “You’re living in the present, not back in the primeval era of the dinosaurs. The things that used to live are real only insofar as they used to exist. But right here, right now, you are the one who’s really alive.”

–Can you wait? Just a little longer.

“Of course, you could even delete these documents if you wanted. If that was the best way for you to deal with your fossils.”

She realized that Oeufcoque meant it. Even though there would be serious repercussions.

But Oeufcoque cared more about Balot’s feelings, right to the end.

If I said no, this person wouldn’t make me do it. She could believe this fact.

The very fact that she could believe it took a great weight off her shoulders. The conviction that you would never be betrayed—if only there was more of this, the world would no longer need its drugs or guns.

Balot took a slow breath. She straightened her back and looked at the monitor as if to accept that she was now about to die. Balot’s surroundings started to disappear from her consciousness. Soon everything was gone, and all that remained was herself and the rotten egg of her past—her josh—that floated on