by Pearl Foxx
Out of everything in Chance’s life, The Ward qualified as the only good he’d ever contributed to. When Enver arrived at the Ball & Joint, traumatized, broken, and just looking for a drink to forget the Trans-Atlantic War, Tane had taken in the ex-military medic and used him to fix cyborgs up as much as he could, so they could keep fighting.
Tane, Chance, and Enver had seen the opportunity to do more though.
The Ward was lined with beds, about half full of kids who’d been born in the slums and suffered from lung disease or fungal infections. There were also cyborgs recovering from injuries on the Deluge, in the ring, or anything else. And even those who just broke down because none of them were built to last forever.
“Hey man.” Chance sat on the edge of one of the narrow beds, careful not to disturb the resting cyborg too much.
“Oh shit, Chance, what the fuck?” Markus rolled over, his face swollen in so many places he looked like someone larger wore a stretched-out Markus mask.
“How bad is it?” He went to pat the man on the shoulder, but stopped, eyeing the purple and green bruise around his neck.
Markus coughed. “Not dead. I’ll take it.”
“That’s good, I’m glad to see it.”
“Enver told me what Garvan made you do. I’m sorry I had to come at you like that. He threatened my kid.”
Chance nodded. “I figured it was something like that. No harm, no foul.”
Enver walked over and slapped Chance on the back, earning a wince and glare, his hard metallic hand unforgiving against his bruises. “Get over it. You’re not the one in the hospital bed.” He chuckled and injected a blue substance into Markus’ IV.
“More nanites?”
Enver nodded and recapped the needle. “The delayed suspension worked long enough to keep Garvan from knowing Markus wasn’t quite dead—”
“Just dead enough,” the cyborg’s scratchy voice added.
“—but, he’s not out of the woods, serious internal injuries still need to be healed. The nanites had their work cut out for them thanks to the amount of damage in his neck and spine. Plus, we still need a cynker to reattach that arm. The delay cost you, but you’re alive.”
“Just alive enough,” Chance added with a smile.
“You two had this planned all along?” Markus asked, reaching up to touch his purple eye. “I should have thought of something like this.”
“You have a family to think about. Besides, I didn’t know it was gonna be you, if I did, I might not have wasted my credits on all these nanites.”
“Very funny.”
Enver chuckled. “All right, now that you know he’s not completely dead, leave. He needs to rest. Otherwise, I’ve got a sythblood transfusion you can help me with.”
Chance shuddered and stood to leave. Before he walked off though, he grabbed Markus’ shin. “Seriously, though man, I’m glad it worked. I’m glad you’re okay. You’re a good man.”
“Not as good as you,” Markus replied. “I was ready to go through to the end.”
“For your little girl. That’s a different game all together. I get it. No grudges on my end, just do me one favor, get away from Garvan. Get your family as far from here as you can, and don’t look back. Don’t lose everything and let him turn you into a killer like he did me.”
“You didn’t kill anyone,” Enver began, but Chance cut him off.
“This time. Not my first rodeo, or my first bout in the ring as Garvan’s man. And now—I’ve lost more than I realized, even trying to do right, so get out. As soon as you get that arm reattached and can walk on your own, get out.”
Chance left the Ward, feeling the eyes of the two cyborgs behind him. He didn’t want their pity. And he didn’t want Verity’s judgement. But she was still the only thing he could think about. Outside, the sun rose over the city in the distance. The early morning light blended with the smog and pollution to give the desert a purplish hue.
A familiar voice said his name in that low, commanding tone everyone from the military seemed to possess.
“What do you want, Enver?”
Sand drifted around them, collecting in Chance’s eyes, as he waited for his friend to answer. When it became painful to wait, he turned around and found Enver with sand goggles and a frown on his face. His sleek cybernetic arm and two agile mechanical hands hung at his side. “Stop being an ass.”
“What?” Chance blinked. “I came to visit the dude I was supposed to kill after saving his life. How exactly is that being an ass?”
“Not what I meant.”
Chance grumbled. Enver’s terse way of speaking was going to drive him over the edge this morning. He had no sleep, no patience, and no Verity.
“Would you stop giving me shit, or at least do it in a way I can understand?”
Enver sighed and dragged a gleaming metal hand through his unruly hair. It hung back a little around his shoulders, a high and tight military look grown out and uncut. “I’m happy to go against Garvan with you. I don’t want to see you or anyone else hurt in that ring. It’s the only reason I stick around. But I didn’t do all this just to see you still miserable. Whatever you’re being stubborn about, whatever crawled up your ass and died so your face looks like you have bowel cancer, get over, or fix it. We took a huge ass risk here, and we could both still end up in Garvan’s sights. What’s the point if you aren’t happy.”
It was the most words Chance had ever heard Enver say at one time.
“She thinks I’m a killer.”
“Did you tell her what we did?”
“She didn’t give me the opportunity. The look on her face…”
“For fuck’s sake Chance, you can’t expect people to know the truth if you don’t tell them. If she saw what I saw in that ring and doesn’t know about the nanites, you’re lucky she doesn’t run screaming from the sight of you, all bloody and bandaged up like that. Speaking of, I really should give you a few stitches on your cheek, that butterfly bandage isn’t gonna do the trick.”
“Scars are sexy.”
“Maybe,” Enver shifted his stance. “You know what’s not? Being a fucking pussy. Now go talk to her.”
Chance looked down and studied his feet, unsure of what to say to the brutally direct assessment of his situation, but Enver wasn’t wrong. When he looked up, the slight man had turned his back and was heading back into tend his patients.
“Thanks.”
Enver replied with a grunt and disappeared.
Chance walked back into the city, the sky ablaze with color. It would rain later, maybe even send some fresh water out here in the dropoff. The deserts would never see the fresh water though. They never did. It evaporated too fast in the scorching sun.
He took his time entering the city, strolling through the different neighborhoods and taking in what was an unexpectedly nice day in Cyn City.
People avoided him wherever he went, even venders turned away and pretended not to hear him, as he tried to grab something edible for breakfast. When he finally had coffee in his cybernetic hand, his human one too bloodied and sore to hold onto the cup’s heat, he had to admit he was wasting time. Wandering the slums wasn’t going to get him any closer to Verity.
She’d left him that morning, or at least she’d said that was her plan. The only option was to go to her apartment and hope she would give him the chance to explain, pray to whatever gods might be out there looking over people on other worlds—because this one had been long abandoned—and hope he still had a chance to win her back.
Chapter 22
Verity
At the door of her apartment building, Verity gave a wistful sigh. It had been nice staying with Chance. Not just the nicer apartment, but sleeping next to him, feeling his arms around her. That was what she wanted, not this run down, water-logged shitty apartment she could barely afford.
Imogen smiled, bags in her hands. “Glad to be home?”
Verity returned her friend’s smile and made her way up the rigged-up stairs and
into the building.
The smell hit her first. Cigarette smoke from Wicksham’s apartment wafted from under the door, mold and other algae grew in the perpetually soaked apartments on what was supposed to be the first floor, but no one could live down there anymore. Even Wicksham’s damp carpets didn’t compare to the slimy muck that covered everything on the first floor.
The two women climbed the stairs, bags of food and fabric heavy in their hands, but when they reached the door, Verity had no need to dig in her bag for her keys, the door was already open.
“Here,” she whispered to Imogen, handing her bags back and pulling her keys out so she could wrap her fist around them, the key stabbing out from between her knuckles, ready to do battle. Adrenaline rushed her system. Had Garvan come for her anyway? She couldn’t fight off cyborgs, even if she put up a hell of a fight. She’d done it once because he was drunk and alone.
Fear reached up and wrapped its fingers around her throat, stopping her from entering the small apartment she called home.
“Who do you think it is?” Imogen whispered, louder than she realized, and Verity heard movement in the apartment. Before she could think about it, she kicked in the door, hitting someone in the face with it, and strode in.
The moment she entered the space the scent of cigarettes, copper, and salt filled her sense, and she felt weightless for a moment before her stomach bottomed out.
The smell assaulted her first. On the floor in front of her was Wicksham, his blood spreading across the wooden floor like a stain.
“No!” She rushed toward his body, but someone grabbed her by the hair.
“Two for the price of one,” a familiar voice said, wrenching her around so she could see Elder Grayson haul Imogen into the apartment by the arm. “I never thought we’d see you again, blasphemer.”
Elder Addington was older than his appearance made him seem. He was a farmer, tanned like leather, and hard as a rock. On the compound, people worked hard and prayed harder. He was a walking testament to that, his body solid, his soul immoveable.
“Fuck you,” Verity spat.
Elder Addington released his hold on her hair and slapped his hand across her face so hard it sent her reeling back and falling to the ground. Her hand landed in a pool of Wicksham’s thick sticky blood.
Imogen screamed, and Verity’s mind spun. The sound gargled in her ears, mixing together with the ringing from Addington’s strike. Her screams didn’t stop, and something crashed behind them. Grayson yelled, as Imogen bit him, and Verity pushed herself up, her head clearing.
Imogen kicked and screamed, as the two men took her arms and started to haul her out of the apartment.
“You are not taking her!” Verity shot to her feet, vertigo hitting her like a steam engine. She barreled forward, letting inertia dive her body into Addington for all she was worth. She lashed out, scratching at his face and kicking until he had to drop his hold on Imogen to defend himself.
“Leave us to our business, devil girl!” he screamed.
Verity smacked the heel of her hand against the center of his chest, but the strong older man didn’t move, just looked at her and laughed. He raised his hand to strike her again, but Verity was prepared. She ducked and kneed him in the groin before he could hit her, and then as he bent over, she slammed her knee up again into his face, just like she’d seen Chance do. Blood spurt from his broken nose.
Grayson tightened his hold on Imogen and pulled out a knife. “We killed him to get to Imogen. Don’t think we won’t do the same thing to you.”
Verity was ill at the sight of Wicksham’s dried blood on the blade.
“Let. Her. Go.” Chance stood in the doorway of her apartment, so tall he took up the entire opening. His cybernetic arm glowed a deep pulsing blue, and the cuts and darkening bruises on his face added to his overall menacing appearance.
Verity’s heart swelled with relief. Help was here, but not just that. It was Chance. He had come to find her, not even knowing what was going on. All worries about his past, or what he’d done vanished, as she soaked in his appearance.
His eyes seemed to darken to a black impenetrable void of emotion, and his jaw twitched as he stared down Grayson.
From the floor, Addington moaned. “A cyborg? Imogen, you must come home. What kind of life has Verity seduced you into? You are meant to be the mother of a generation. Your beauty and piousness passed down to your offspring who will be raised by the worthiest women in the compound. It’s an honor. Why would you choose to be here? This city reeks of sin.”
“That’s why we call it Cyn City, motherfucker.” Chance came inside and grabbed Addington by his shirt, lifting him into the air, and pressing him against the wall. He leaned in close. “You’re going to leave, or you’re going to fucking die. Your choice.”
A shiver went through Verity at the threat she knew he could carry out, but she stood ready to fight next to him for her freedom, and for Imogen’s.
Grayson shoved Imogen into the apartment and rushed Chance, shoving him away from Addington, so the older man could regain his footing.
Verity ran toward Addington, but she couldn’t even get a hit or kick in before he backhanded her and sent her flying to the ground.
Addington drew Chance’s attention, taking a solid punch in the face from a metal arm that tossed him backwards, but not before Grayson stabbed through Chance’s plesh and directly into the connection between his cybernetic arm and his body.
Like a slow-motion flash frame, Verity watched as Grayson dragged the knife down Chance’s back, slicing through muscle and metal until Chance fell to his knees, crying out in pain.
Her brain stalled, and she launched forward onto Grayson’s back, wrapping her arms around his neck and using all of her weight to choke the man as much as she could.
He gasped and reached for her but couldn’t get a good hold.
When Addington recovered enough to come forward, he misjudged Chance’s ability to bear pain. He walked too closely. Chance grabbed his leg with his cybernetic arm and dragged him to the ground, so he slammed his head on the floor. Gears whirled and wheezed, and Verity was sure she heard something snap.
“He’s unconscious,” Chance said, turning toward Grayson.
The elder stopped fighting, and Verity fell to her feet and shoved him forward.
Chance dragged himself to his feet, leaning his weight on his flesh shoulder against the wall. “We can keep doing this. But at least one of us won’t make it out of here alive, and I guarantee you I won’t be the first to fall. Or you can leave. Let them go. They don’t want to be with you, why do you even want them?”
“These girls belong to us. We raised them, fed them, and educated them, all so they would continue our lines.”
Chance shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Verity shoved Grayson again. “What’s wrong with you? We aren’t property. We aren’t breeding stock. Just leave us alone.”
“You’ve always been more trouble than you were worth. We only want Imogen.”
Imogen appeared next to Verity. “You can’t have me. I’ll kill myself first.” She held out Grayson’s knife that she’d swiped from the ground. “You took Hiram, and you killed our baby. I will never go back.”
Addington made a mewling sound on the ground, and Chance stepped on his leg.
“Enough pressure at the right angle, and he could break the femur,” Verity pointed out calmly. “If you want to leave in one piece, you should go. Because you aren’t taking us with you.”
Chance shifted his weight, and Addington cried out, his eyes flickering open.
“Fine. We’ll leave, but I can’t promise no one will come back for you. Your mother is heartbroken.” Grayson glared at Imogen before sidestepping around Chance to help Addington up.
“My mother betrayed me when she should have loved me and my baby. She’s as good as dead to me, all of you are.” Imogen handed the blade to Verity who held it out at Grayson before using it to wave him t
oward the door.
The two Elders stumbled out.
Once Verity locked all of the bolts and chains, Chance sank to the floor.
“How bad is it?” Verity asked, falling to her knees next to him. His face was pale and moist and she didn’t like the low hum coming from his arm.
“Oh, I’ve had worse, sugar. Don’t you worry. Just do me a favor. Comm Enver. Tell him I need a cynker. One who can come here.”
Verity searched his pockets quickly for his comm and pulled up Enver’s contact.
It felt like hours before they arrived. Imogen mixed together a poultice, and Verity tended to the flesh wounds she could see without moving Chance’s body too much. He flickered in and out of consciousness, his skin growing paler by the moment. It was hard to tell which injuries were fresh and which were from the fight, so she treated them all as best she could.
The knock on the door came just in time. Chance’s breathing had become labored and Imogen’s pacing grated on Verity’s last nerve. She couldn’t take care of them both.
She let Enver and a small stocky man with round glasses and a tool bag enter.
“Get him on the bed.” The small man directed, and Enver hauled Chance’s body easily. The wall and floor were soaked in blood. His injuries were much worse than Verity had thought.
Enver and the cynker got to work inspecting Chance’s wound. They murmured to one another and exchanged sighs and unsure glances toward Verity and Imogen.
The smell of the room overwhelmed her. Blood, oil, and an unnatural synthetic burning smell filled the space, but she didn’t dare open the window. Fear had her frozen in place, petrified like the forests of an earth long past. What if something evil floated in on the air? A disease or germ that would mean the difference between Chance surviving or not? Superstitions of her upbringing resurfaced, and she found herself raising her hands in prayer.
Enver finally pulled off his blue gloves and approached her. “He’s bad off. The knife went in deep, severing the neuro-bond.”
“How is that possible? He used the arm to fight Addington after he was stabbed.”
