The Doctor gently touched Balot’s hands.
“This is a Floating Residence, Humpty-Dumpty. Part of
The Doctor’s hand gently lowered Balot’s gun.
“You’re safe, now.”
Balot felt all the tension in her body evaporate and let go of the gun with her right hand as the Doctor indicated. Blood overflowed, gushing out from every crack in the weapon.
The Doctor tried to pick the gun up, but however hard he tried he couldn’t pry it from her left hand.
As she gripped the blood-soaked gun Balot felt a darkness encroaching on her from all sides. Balot was in space. She was inside a silver egg that shone in the darkness, and she was underneath the moon. She understood all of this, neither awake nor dreaming.
The Doctor peeled her rigid fingers from the gun, finger by finger.
“We’re flying through the sky as an egg.”
The Doctor’s face suddenly went puzzled. “Which one of us just said that?”
The gun slipped out of Balot’s hands. She heard a song starting to spin around in the back of her mind.
She receded from consciousness, but the charm continued, almost like a prayer, rosary beads and all.
The Doctor was saying something. Balot felt like she had turned into an empty vessel. Her body tilted backward, and she toppled over.
And with these words she lost consciousness.
People from the neighborhood were gathering around the building, watching anxiously as fire engines appeared on the scene. A number of police patrol cars appeared, closing off the area, and the Hunters and the firemen all milled around, their roles apparently jumbled together.
Boiled cut across the melee, driven by a sense of purpose. Some Hunters tried to stop him, unsure where he was heading, but he just flashed his PI license and curtly told them that he was on the heels of a material witness and that any police questioning would have to come via the Broilerhouse. The Hunters grumbled some words of abuse, but they let him pass, and he walked on in silence.
Before long Boiled found the gasoline-powered van. An airline company’s logos were plastered across its body and smoked windows. The door was unlocked.
As Boiled opened the door, he heard the sound of a trigger being cocked.
Boiled looked at the man in the passenger seat who was holding a gun.
“I thought that someone would come. One of the gang…” the man groaned. “Do you know who I am?”
Boiled took one glance at the man’s irregular fingers and nodded silently.
“Medium the Fingernail…that’s my nickname. A hound from the greatest pack of hunting dogs in the world. Or that’s what we were supposed to be, anyway.” Medium spoke through gritted teeth. His other hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. His fingers had all been blown off from their base.
His whole body was covered with blisters, the left side of his face particularly badly. His left eye was shot through, and blood trickled from both his ears. His legs were limp and lifeless, his knees trembling.
Silently Boiled climbed into the driver’s seat. He closed the door and turned the keys that had been left in the ignition, the gun still pointed at him all the while.
The engine revved, and Boiled spoke just loudly enough to be heard over it.
“Everyone except for you is dead.”
Medium breathed out heavily, lowering his gun, his hand flopping into his lap, as if to say that he could no longer support its weight.
The vehicle drove off. Medium stared at the entry wound in the back of Boiled’s right hand.
“So, this PI called Oeufcoque, he can make himself look like his employers, can he?” Medium spoke with barely suppressed emotion.
Boiled shook his head.
“So
“He uses special technology to strengthen his employer, enhancing their combined battle skills. It’s all part of
When he heard this, Medium crumpled into a weeping wreck. “We were the perfect hunting pack! And a single bitch ruined it all…”
The gun slipped from his hand. It fell between his legs and slid underneath his seat. Medium noticed, then stared at his own hand as if to say
