Mardock Scramble

Balot ran, and as she did so she gave up on the idea of trying to predict Boiled’s next move. Just as she would give up on a busted hand in blackjack and turn her mind to a new hand that she might stand a chance of winning. Instead of trying to second-guess Boiled’s position, she would make sure that her own position was as good as it could be. She continued toward her perfect position, the place she knew she could use, and as she did so she fired off a number of shots at Boiled as a feint, to try and distract him from her maneuver.

Balot was seeking the perfect moment, a single opportunity. She needed split-second accuracy and willpower to find the chink in Boiled’s armor, so that she could fire her arrow of Paris at his Achilles’ heel.

All while Boiled was in turn cutting off her escape routes and looking for his opening.

When Balot tried to slip behind a pillar, Boiled was one step ahead of her. He broke into a run across the wall and jumped. He was like a giant jaguar on the trail of a fawn in the headlights. It was the danse macabre. He landed on the ceiling and took three more leaps, as if he were moving along a carefully choreographed path. With his final step, his upper body spun around, and he thrust out his gun in a final pose.

With the muzzle trained on Balot’s unprotected back, he put his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

That same instant the darkness all around flared up white, and the brightness assaulted Boiled’s eyes.

Balot had snarced one of the lights in the ceiling, judging the timing just right.

Boiled’s eyes narrowed. The light was coming from right below him, making it impossible to see Balot in her white bodysuit.

Boiled’s eyes darted from left to right to try and locate her, his finger hovering over the trigger. Just then he heard a loud noise somewhere overhead, on the floor.

He honed in the muzzle on the sound and fired. Then he gasped. A reflex action, without thought or meaning behind it.

Boiled’s shot pulverized its target. Only thing was, the target was the cell phone that Balot had placed on the floor just a moment ago. She had snarced its ringtone to play. Balot herself, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Boiled realized immediately that he was in a trap. He prepared to move but found his whole world plunged into darkness again. Balot had used her snarc for the third time in quick succession, turning the lights off again.

Boiled lost his bearings, so sudden was the darkness in which he had been engulfed.

He realized what Balot was up to.

She was right underneath him. Both arms above her head, pointing her gun right at him. She had given up trying to anticipate his movements and in doing so had found herself the perfect position. She had doubled down, staking everything. But even as Boiled had temporarily lost the use of his eyesight due to the sudden light and dark, his years of training and experience as a soldier kicked in, and he was able to anticipate Balot’s next move.

Balot fired her gun so quickly that fire seemed to dance around the muzzle. A fraction of a second later, Boiled crouched down, activating his PGF, using it as instant body armor.

Balot’s first few shots squeezed past, just before the impenetrable shield had been fully activated. Bullets pierced Boiled’s right arm and leg, causing fragments of material from his jacket to flutter to the floor. But that was all. The rest of the bullets had their flight paths diverted, creating a ring of bullet holes that encircled Boiled on the ceiling where he crouched.

Even as his body took the bullets, Boiled removed his gun from under his right arm and aimed. He wasn’t relying on his eyes anymore, but even so he had a perfect shot at Balot’s chest. Balot sensed Boiled looming in the darkness and shuddered.

Had the first few bullets that had slipped past the impenetrable shield managed to hit home in Boiled’s head or heart, the outcome might have been different. Or if the bullets had been of a higher caliber, powerful enough to blow off his arms and legs… But now was no time for excuses. The simple fact was that the moment Boiled had worked out Balot’s position based on her actions, he’d seen through her. Her double down had failed spectacularly. Bust.

Balot scrambled away as quickly as she could, desperately trying to put distance between herself and her giant oppressor. She was also simultaneously snarcing her gun to make it larger, give it a bigger aperture—all unconsciously, of course; it was a manifestation of her earlier shiver of fear.

A deadly roar assaulted her. A bullet slammed into her left breast and she went flying backward. It was almost as if it were the noise itself that was forcing her back.

Balot was saved by her positioning. She smashed into one of the taped-up glass windows.