Mardock Scramble полностью

They were fireproof shutters—and odor-proof, made with the building’s particular requirements in mind.

Mincemeat realized that he was once again trapped in a small space, cornered on all four sides.

“I’m gonna fuck you up good and proper, you little bitch! I’ll rip your eyeballs out and skull-fuck your eye sockets!”

He was firing indiscriminately now, shooting everything he had in all four directions. Empty cartridges flew in all directions, and the walls were remodeled under the barrage of bullets.

Just then he felt heat behind him. Mincemeat turned around.

The shutters were right in front of his eyes.

And from beyond the shutters, more bullets came flying.

Both his knees were shot to pieces at almost exactly the same time, and he fell onto them, gritting his teeth in agony.

As he collapsed both his elbows were blown off. His front arms drooped down, useless.

Every single blow was accurate to the extreme.

And in the twinkling of an eye—literally. For each of the eighteen pairs of eyes implanted into his body were being targeted, methodically, ruthlessly. The liquid from the eyeballs was splashed around the room, and the crystalline lenses of the eyes, intermingled with blood and tears, seeped across his body in a thick soup.

Screams of despair filled the airtight chamber.

Still Mincemeat managed to stand, and even as blood and vitreous humor poured from his body, he managed to find the strength to charge the shutters like a frenzied bull.

With a violent crash the shutters buckled under the impact of Mincemeat’s shoulders. Blood splattered the duralumin surface, and as he peeled his hands off it a string of liquid lingered behind.

He charged the shutter again.

The gunfire had already stopped, but he was no longer interested in that.

Then, without warning, the shutters opened, retracting into the ceiling.

Mincemeat became vaguely aware of a small, shadowy figure.

Gathering the last of his strength he screamed and charged at the silhouette.

He became aware that the figure had multicolored hair dangling down over a pair of sunglasses.

By the time Mincemeat realized that he knew the face under the hair, the figure’s butter knife was already embedded deep in his heart.

≡

Rare was overcome with shock, but he managed to wriggle himself out from under Mincemeat’s dead body, which had collapsed on top of him.

He looked at his own knife, then screamed into the transmission device in the piercing voice of a little girl.

–What’s going on? I thought you’d managed to trap the PI in there? Why is it little Minty? Do you want me to come over there and kick the shit out of you? What were you thinking, Flesh, you stupid fuckwit!

–Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.

–What?

–That is the PI, right there.

Rare’s pale face darkened as the blood rose to his head.

–You fucking hacker! I’ll tie you down and have you gang-raped by pigs, you piece of shit!

Rare ranted on in this vein for a short while before bursting into tears of anguish and pulling the Hutchinson Knife from Mincemeat’s chest.

“Oh, you poor, poor thing, little Minty, all because that fuckwit Flesh didn’t notice that we’d been hacked…you poor, poor little darling.”

Suddenly there was a click in his ear, and a transmission began.

–Come in, Rare.

–Is that Well? The real one? Not the piece-of-shit hacker?

–Yeah, it’s me. Flesh is doing all he can to restore our secure line. What’s the situation over there?

–Little Minty…

–They got him?

Rare howled an unearthly wail as an answer.

–…I see. According to Medi, the target has run down to the basement along with the PI. They’re protected by thick shutters—Flesh is trying to find a way to open them. You head downstairs and meet us.

–Okay, Boss. Are we going to sell little Minty’s body off for parts too?

–No, we’re a band of brothers. We don’t sell our family members off. Those of us who want to use Mincemeat’s parts have the right of first refusal. Right?

–Of course. That’s right, Boss.