Malory didn’t answer. Instead, she thought about Maya, her sister, and a memory of watching her reset the weights in their heirloom grandfather clock. The slow ascension, the creaking of cables, the fragrance of mahogany stained wood. Her sister, filled with joy turning the key, hadn’t yet known pain. The needle went deeper. Malory always gave her turn to wind the clock to her sister to make her smile. In the corner of the memory was a shadow, the shimmering space where her mother stood watch. An ink-blot vibrating in and out, suppressed by her own subconscious. She would not allow herself to remember here. The needle inched deeper until only the eye protruded from under her recently chewed nail.

  “Tell me about your friends,” the man said. He turned around, grabbed a second needle, and set the point at the tip of her middle finger. "I’m looking forward to the pliers the most. The versatility is unmatched. Fingernails, sure, but also teeth, ears, noses, eyelids, anything they can grab. You won’t grow up to be a memory star, but it’ll be a blast. For me. What are their names?”

  “Lacey Lantern, the Mythological Merc,” she laughed. The new needle slithered deeper and Malory reached for another memory of her sister: a fountain lake in the park, surrounded by jets blasting arcs of water into the air, Maya spinning in circles and drenched to the bone. The mildew smell did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm. She wanted to swim in the center, but the excision that used to be their mother wouldn’t let her. Malory hated the place, the way it was built as a cheap imitation of something out west, the crowd of spectators, how everyone knew they were poor from their ragtag bathing suits. The needle creeped in, and the water turned red. Parabolas, spirals, and criss-crossed streams of blood blossomed around her sister. The edges of the memory curled like rotten leaves, and their mother threatened to re-emerge. Malory took one last look at her sister’s face and let the recollection die as the last of the needle buried itself beneath her fingernail.

  “Where are your friends?” the man asked. If he was surprised by her resilience, he didn’t show it. He turned around and grabbed the pliers.

  “I’m going to kill you, someday,” she promised.

  “We all daydream,” the man said. He moved the pliers from one hand to the other, reveled in the weight. “Our founder, Ridge, was the only surviving member of the Prophet’s companions. Got thrown in jail a few days before the uprising.” He looked up at nothing, took a moment to contemplate. “I always wondered what it’d be like to miss your life’s purpose.”

  “You need help,” she said. Her hand radiated agony to her elbow.

  “Maybe,” he shrugged. He pointed the pliers at her face. “But the skills Ridge passed down will lead us to the second uprising someday, and free this city.” His mouth twitched with an adherent’s fervor, spittle flying free.

  “Bullying children, are we?” a third voice asked. It was soft, melodic, like the notes of a closed-lid piano. The newcomer was tall, wore a dark pinstriped suit, and leaned on the door frame with an air of authority. “You should know better, Banks.”

  “It’s only fair,” he said. He lowered the pliers, resigned to the fact his fun was over.

  “It’s not the first time your brother’s gotten himself shot,” the newcomer said. There was a hint of danger in his words. He let the statement hang in the air a moment, two, then stepped into the room. His boots echoed with finality, a promised ending to a story only whispered in back alleys and homeless shelters. He stopped in front of Malory and knelt, his attention on her tortured hand, implant pupils spinning like clockwork gears. “That’s a shame. Mundane tissue is so very obsolete, after all. Better to do without.”

  “I’m not giving up my friends,” Malory said. She stared at the drain between her feet and knew gray matter would be sliding down it soon.

  “That’s nice dear, but I don’t give a shit about any of that,” the newcomer said. He reached up and grabbed her face, lifted it until their eyes met. His hand was mechanical, cold, all lines and elegant curvature. “You can call me the Stranger, and I want to make a deal.”

  “What?” she asked. She had nothing to give, nothing to trade.

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  “This,” he said. He raised his other hand, the crab Nadia made clutched between metal fingers. “I want it. The design, the rights, all of it, and you’ll be free to go.” The offer tempted like songbird tunes. “No police, no record. No evidence you were ever here. Just me, you, and this lovely design changing hands. What do you say?”

  “Yes,” she croaked. There was nothing to think about.

  “Excellent,” he said. He released her and stood. “Pull those out of her pitiful hand.”

  “Wait,” Banks said. “She shot my brother.” His grip tightened on the pliers.

  “Oh, fine,” the Stranger said. “If you must, take her to the market square and have her whipped. No more of this basement barbarity. Then, you will let her go.” He turned and quit the room without looking back. There was no argument to be had. The corpo’s word was law in the depths of the market.

  Banks moved, one wound at a time, a needle and a yank. Blood stained the wood, the floor, the cattle drain. He removed the ropes from the chair, but left them wound around her wrists and held them as they marched down the hallway, past holding pens and loading elevators, the smell of animal and shit and bleach, to the stairs and smooth concrete. Her feet slipped and she noticed a wad of gum stuck to the underside of the handrail and then she was inside the storefront and visible to rushed customers, their shopping, the clean glass cases and digital displays, advertisements for different cuts of meat, rich clientele illuminated by hanging lights, tiny placard labels, and so much raw red. The bell rattled as Banks shoved her through the door and out into the market. He led her to an open square, past gawking onlookers, and forced her arms around a stone support column for a discount furniture store that specialized in sectional sofas no one shopped at. Malory focused on the cool of the stone against her abused face instead of the back of her dress ripping open, the jeers from the audience, or the way her teeth clenched near breaking.

  The whip was made of clear filament with a heated core to cauterize as it rended flesh. It unspooled as Banks flexed his arm, eager to start. The air parted in a devastating crack and Malory’s shoulder blades burst in pain she couldn’t dissociate—she screamed until her vocal chords tore, and screamed more. Each lash was annihilation: pristine skin separated, blood cooked to evaporation, and the spreading scent of well-done synth-steak, over and over and over, until Malory was on the edge of permanent collapse. The crowd cheered for the first, the second, then faded to silence as the grotesqueries unfolded. Fourteen lashes sculpted the jagged branches of an oak tree in scars along her spine that would never bloom. When the punishment was over, Banks untied her and sent her on her way.

  Malory kept her head down as she walked; she wasn’t sure she could control herself if she saw pity, if she saw disgust on the faces around her. One foot in front of the other, back to the intersection of the market where their heist had taken place. She paused at the stained ground, the only evidence left of what they’d done—the market moved on, ever busy, ever selling. The few minutes they halted a small, myoclonic jerk in the boundless musculature of commercialism. She headed up the stairs to the exit and never looked back. The sun was setting, and her dress fluttered in the wind. Each flap of the loose fabric made her wince. At a stop light, a flock of holo-hummingbirds circled around her head, each a fractal array of blue light that glistened in her eyes. She cried then, and did not stop until she reached a public bathroom and saw her face in the mirror. The side was black and blue, deformed with swelling. She used the free sample from the faucet to scrub grime and blood, and when it wasn’t enough, she tore fabric from the hem of her dress and used it to tie the back closed. It was dark when she reached the orphanage and the others were celebrating.

  Everyone but Oscar was in the living room: Martin was shoveling strings of dried meat into his already stuffed mouth, Spencer was modeling different designer outfits that all hung loose on his tiny body, and they all had beers in hand. Mal’s focus gravitated to Nadia, who was surrounded by screens and electronics and assorted hardware. It was easy to tell she’d come up with something new to build, another tool that could change all their lives.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Made sure no one would follow us,” Malory said. She touched her swollen face. There wasn’t enough left to crack a joke the way she normally would, just an ever-present bitterness. She walked over and sat next to Nadia. “I need a drink.”

  “You can have mine,” she said. She took a swig, belched, and handed it over. Their fingers touched, lingered, separated.

  “Where’s everything else?” Mal stared at the mouth of the bottle a moment, then chugged until it was gone.

  “The attic,” she said. “Hid most of it from the director until we could come up with a bogus donation that was at least half believable.”

  “Smart.” There was a silence that hung between them. Her face, her hand, her back all threatened to undo her. She sighed, set the empty bottle aside, and leaned until her face was next to Nadia’s ear. “I love you,” she whispered. She hoped the night would be free of nightmares for the first time in years.