Mardock Scramble

She patted her gloves gently as if to reassure him that this was indeed the truth. She stroked him like a mother stroking her baby’s face to tell it that it was special, beloved, wanted.

It dawned on Bell Wing that Balot was up to something. “Are you speaking to someone, young lady?” Bell Wing was as sharp as ever.

Balot just nodded, truthfully.

–Yes. I’m speaking to someone who helps me out.

“Your guardian angel, no doubt.”

Balot smiled. Then she turned her eyes to the table. The deserted table.

She needed to compose herself, to prepare for the man who would soon be arriving here.

As if she too were inside the trunk of the car that had contained the corpse of Ashley’s brother.

This was a battle fought over the right—the privilege—of starting everything anew.

≡

“They’re coming,” Bell Wing whispered.

Ashley led the way, taking his characteristically large strides, flanked by two other men. One of them was the man Balot had been expecting all along. The other she didn’t recognize. Ashley’s demeanor wasn’t so much that of 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.