Mardock Scramble

Where she hit, the concrete shattered and a large crack opened up under her back. This was an explosion, not just a blow. Balot’s body was just the ground zero of PGF impact. The crack in the sidewalk traveled as far as the asphalt of the road, and the shock waves from the blow caused all the surrounding buildings to shudder, their windows smashing, and fire and smoke rose up all around.

When the dust cloud finally settled, it was down to the final hand.

Boiled, minus his right arm and left leg, was sprawled atop Balot, who was covered in a white shell. He was watching carefully.

Balot wasn’t moving. Her face and body seemed to be covered in a cocoon, and it wasn’t even possible to tell whether she was still breathing.

Are…you..hurt?

Suddenly a clear voice echoed around Boiled’s head.

Why…does…it…hurt…you?

And for the first time in a very long time—indeed, what seemed like the first time ever—Boiled felt the warm glow that he’d felt when he first cradled the tiny golden creature in his hands.

Boiled wondered whether he was crying.

“No… I’m not hurt.”

He wasn’t crying. Not a single tear flowed from his eyes. Rather, blood dripped from the wounds in his right arm and left leg, staining Balot’s white suit red.

Nice…and…warm…

A gentle voice. A voice that contained the last remaining fragment of Boiled’s soul.

Boiled lifted his remaining hand and pointed his gun at Balot’s head, and the hammer clicked into place.

“Try and stop me…try and stop my nothingness…”

Softly, Boiled pulled the trigger.

That instant the shell flew apart. Just as Balot had aimed for, this was the one moment Boiled could no longer move his gun and was committed. Her knife thrust forward and sliced the giant revolver in two. The powder in the remaining bullets exploded, and the gun that had embodied such lethal force scattered to the winds and was no more.

Balot emerged from inside her shell and stared down at Boiled.

She brought the gun in her left hand to Boiled’s throat.

–This is what your sunny side up is…

Balot pressed the muzzle into his neck, but her face was overcome by sorrow. It was also covered in silvery powder. Her skin was developing. Even her black hair glittered silver.

Boiled didn’t answer. He just stared straight back at Balot’s face as he discarded the now useless half of his gun.

“The girl did well.” The grip of the shattered gun hit the ground with a clang.

“You should be the one to finish it, Oeufcoque,” Boiled whispered. He was close enough for Balot to hear his breathing.

Balot opened her eyes. She couldn’t help herself from yelling out. Stop it! Stop this all! But of course no sound came out. Why would it? All that emerged was a hollow whistle of air.

“I’ve spent twenty years on the battlefield. I am…most satisfied with my life,” Boiled said. His eyes were fixed on Balot.

“Stop it, Boiled!” It was Oeufcoque’s voice.

Boiled’s eyes flicked to the source of the voice, Balot’s left hand, and before she knew it his left hand, the one that had discarded one gun, was now on another—the gun in her hand.

Boiled stood up. Balot felt that she was about to be pulled up to her feet with him, but then Boiled’s PGF kicked in, and she was sent sprawling against the wall behind her.

The blow winded her. Her gloves had been ripped off. She had an uneasy feeling that something had been taken from her—something important. There was a click, and for an instant Balot couldn’t tell what it was.

Then she realized that it was the sound of life and death.

She realized that Boiled was holding the gun he had taken from her and looking her way.

The high-caliber gun that she’d had Oeufcoque turn into. It was still loaded. And the click that she had just heard was the hammer drawing back. More than that—it was Boiled’s final act of doubling down.

“Oeufcoque!” Balot tried to cry, but no words emerged.

The name of the thing she’d had taken from her.

She was filled with raw despair. Balot had drowned in the flow and now looked into the black void that was the muzzle of the gun in Boiled’s hand. What other way was there to make her cursed life clean again? She’d thrown away pain—now all there was left was to throw away the rest of her life.

Balot’s eyes filled with tears.

–I don’t want to die.

She was resisting death’s sweet, seductive murmurings with a heartfelt cry that came from all her body and all her soul. Lost in the moment, she thrust the weapon in her right arm out. She knew full well that it was a futile gesture. But she had to do something, to grasp at straws for the chance to find value in her own life. It was her right to do so, her choice.

And then:

Nice…and…warm…

The gentle voice echoed around inside Boiled’s mind. I finally have it back, he thought.