Jung Street is chaotic. Agile rickshaw boys tear through the crowds, barely skirting Hare Krishnas crossing the road. In their brilliant saffron robes, the Krishnas happily chant their mantras and petition passersby for alms. Behind them they abandon a trail of flower petals to the hard soles of the street life. A lone Krishna lingers, disregarded.
As her fellows continue chanting through the bustle of the Cross, Mantis leaves them to dart down a dirty side street, her alms bag bouncing against her thigh. Glancing back, she makes sure that no one is following. The surrounding throng minds its own affairs.
She enters a butcher shop to harass the boy behind the counter. "Namaste, good sir, would you give arms to the poor?"
His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Go away," he says in Hindi, "before I chop you up!"
As he reaches for a cleaver, Mantis zips past him and inside through some hanging beads. Her cold and calculating eyes quickly adjust to the dim lighting and she notices the man sitting to her right, by the curtain. Short-cropped dark hair, stiff bearing. Former military.
The boy tumbles through the beads, cleaver still in hand. "I am sorry, bharasaap, but she was too fast for me!"
"Mind the meat, Sanjay. I'll take care of this."
The arms dealer realises this is no ordinary Hare Krishna come to visit. He returns his own cool gaze. "Regular meat not good enough for you, ma'am? Looking for arms now, are you?"
Mantis leans on the counter, chin in hand. "Actually, I look at a guy's legs first. How're yours, hmm?"
"Prosthetic from the waist down. Souvenir of the last war."
"Too bad. Mind if I look around?"
He shrugs. His security system has never disappointed him. One false move, one dead perpetrator. Just more meat for the shop.
Carefully, Mantis walks around the few square metres of the back room. She stops at one showcase and points to a pair of light, dull black gloves.
"What're these?"
The arms dealer grins. "You'll like these little beauties." He unlocks the showcase and presents the gloves to her.
"They're Krueger claws. Short range anti-personnel technology. When you put them on, micro-filaments penetrate your skin, locking on to your hands's afferent and efferent nerves. An internal computer operates the monomole claws. By simply thinking about it, you can control their extension and retraction." Another big grin. "It doesn't hurt a bit."
She nods sceptically.
"Wait a sec." Mantis examines the fingertips of one glove closely. "Won't the extended claws -- and their sheaths -- tear off the fingertips when used? The material is pretty soft."
"That's right." The arms dealer nods. "It's of a tightly-woven fibre adhering to new standards of molecular bonding. Practically untearable. There's also an endo-skeleton to harden the weave once the claws are extended." He points to a marketing poster behind him. "Durability and style -- trademarks of Krueger Technologies."
"Sounds neat. May I?"
"Please do."
Immediately the micro-filaments pierce skin and burrow into flesh. "Kinky feeling." She smiles. "I like it."
Imagining the claws extended silently unsheathes ten steel threads a single molecule thick. Her first initial becomes part of the showcase before a low-intensity laser flashes off the index claw.
"Oops."
The arms dealer smiles between hands open in a pacifying gesture. "Just a warning: the laser has different settings. So don't carve up my showcase any more, OK?"
Mantis plays with the claws. Out-in, out-in, out-in. She admires the workmanship. Black is such a wicked colour.
Out-in, out-in, out-in. Like pistons gathering momentum.
"How much?"
"You shouldn't have to ask."
Ignition. "It's too much then."
A crescendo of roaring machines begins in her head. Her arm slices the air to part the dealer's neck in a sea of red -- instant laryngotomy. Shrinking into a still ball, she avoids the motion detectors and then easily disables the lasers after they dice the thrashing body.
Mantis shreds the bloodied outfit from herself. Her body armour is intact, unmarked. From her bag she withdraws black leather boots and jacket, which she puts on quickly. A mohawk wig she takes extra care in attaching so it looks realistic. Finally, she dons her shades and fills her bag with weaponry.
As she leaves the butcher shop, Mantis sees the boy returning with a posse of Hindus. She runs towards them with claws extended, invisible and ready.
"Call the police. There's some dead meat in there."
She remembers the remaking of her body, the day she received her little machines.
She had gone down to the neighbourhood clinic and made a booking.
"Reason for treatment?" asked the receptionist.
"General health improvement and vision enhancement," she answered.
"Thank you. Have a seat, please."
The operation itself was as painful as the insertion of a needle. Her wild imagination pictured the nano-agents replicating themselves in her blood. They were cell-repair computers, smaller than viruses. Programmed to make her own body more efficient, they quickened her reflexes and increased her strength. The doctor improved Mantis's eyesight by programming faster adaptation to different lighting conditions.
"How soon before I can go back to work, doc?"
The doctor sighed. She was familiar with her patient's occupation. "You can return to maiming and killing in a few hours. I want you to rest a bit so the nano-agents can do their job and self-destruct. The clients for your form of 'population control' can wait until then, I'm sure."
"Well, doc, you know what they say: 'Dying is money.'"
She smiles as she flexes her fingers. She remembers her excitement as the little computers executed the invasion of her body. That day she began to hear the roar of the machines.
CUM OUT CUM OUT. NEW TOYS 2 SHO U
The e-mail message reflects off Mantis's face in phosphorescent green. Sitting cross-legged beside her on the paper-strewn floor, Roach opens his glazed eyes. She helps him pull free the cable connecting his skullplug to the computer. Gradually his eyes focus and he recognises Mantis and the flat he shares with her. She smiles and pecks him on the cheek.
"Welcome back. Sorry to take you from your work."
He nods blankly. Finally he notices her gloved hands. He swears in outraged Cantonese.
<<Tell me you're not turning cyborg!>>
His reaction pleases her. "OK, I'm not turning cyborg. Here you go, hon." Mantis passes her new toys to him. "See? They're only gloves."
Roach grunts. He recognises good workmanship when he sees it. He whistles in admiration.
<<Krueger claws. Nice. Black market only.>> He raises an eyebrow questioningly.
"Tsk. You know better than to ask." Mantis shakes her head at this breach in propriety. "They're a gift. From Santa."
Roach smirks knowingly. <<Sure they are. Along with the rest of your collection. Listen, I'm meeting Mach at Darklands. Want to come?>> He passes the gloves back to Mantis.
She nods. "A night off would do you some good, too. You've been looking pale lately."
As Roach rummages by the futon for his jacket and helmet, Mantis pulls off the mohawk and ties on a bandanna. They walk hand in hand down to his waiting motorcycle.
The steel-alloy fist lightly punches Roach in the chest.
"Relax, Vlad. He's my guest."
Red eyes blink out of the darkness. Mantis: she's cool. She's helped out before when there was trouble at the door. He growls at her friend's skullplug. All joyjuice addicts should fry their brains ASAP. The Darklands management pays him good money to deal with scum. Too bad this scum is with Mantis.
Vlad grunts his permission and stands aside. He glares at the retreating Roach, branding his red eyes into the other's leather back.
"Roach! Mantis! Over here!"
A waving ghost solidifies as Mantis weaves through the crowd with Roach. He tugs at her sleeve.
<<Hold on. I'm going to the loo first.>>
She nods. "You know where we are."
Mantis sits beside Mach and the two woman yell tete-a-tete over the crashing din of the loudspeakers.
"What is this noise?"
"'Corruption,'" answers Mach. "New EP from The Black Label Virgins."
"Pretty raucous. Look what I got today!"
She takes off her new black gloves to show Mach. They lie limp and dull until the other woman puts them on. "Ugh! It feels like worms digging into my skin!"
"Oops. Forgot to tell you about the micro-filaments."
Mach returns the gloves hurriedly. "They feel gross, but they look really gothic. Knowing you, though, they can't just be ordinary gloves."
Mantis grins. "Watch this."
While one hand steadies her glass, her other hand's thumb and fingertips caress the surface. When she removes them, ten tiny trickles appear, five on either side.
"Instant fountain. Neat, huh?"
Mach laughs in delight. A passing waiter places the leaking glass onto his tray. "You ladies want anything else?"
"Another jug would be good, thanks," responds Mach.
Mantis studies the other patrons, their pale faces contrasting with the omnipresent black. "The crowd hasn't changed much since I was here last."
"You're right. They're still losers and dropouts. All they do is go to clubs to impress people. Their entire lives revolve around going to clubs."
"They also keep me employed," declares the waiter returning with the jug of beer. He puts out an open palm. "So revolve already."
They pay him and wonder about Roach's fate. The bacteriology in a Darklands washroom is enough to make one wish for prosthetic genitals.
Returning from the loo, Roach wipes his moist hands on his jeans. A passing figure suddenly turns and walks into his surprised arms.
<<Hey!>>
Her lithe dancer's body flirts within the long white coat. Nightsky hair caps the narrow, pointed face of ashen complexion. Crimson lips smile between fleury crosses swinging from her ears.
The woman's dark eyes flick over his body and meet his gaze. She mouths one word:
Outside.
Roach swallows and nods hesitantly. "I tell friends I go out for a sec."
The woman's brow furrows but she nods assent.
Mach notices the approaching Roach first. "Where've you been? It's your turn to buy."
"Sorry, Mach, I go out now for fresh air, maybe smoke. Back soon. OK, Mantis?"
"Sure, but be careful. Remember Vlad thinks you look better as protein spill."
"I be careful. See you, Mantis, Mach."
The two women watch his form recede into the crowd.Uneasiness crosses their faces when they see his companion.
"She looks familiar," says Mantis worriedly.
"That slut! Whenever she comes to Darklands, she always leaves with someone different. No one ever sees them again. Honestly, I don't know why guys find her interesting."
"I don't like her either. She seems so . . . self-assured. Even arrogant. There's one other thing."
Their eyes meet. "Roach doesn't smoke."
Mantis sucks back a last gulp of beer and stands. "I'm checking this out."
"Want me to come with you?"
"No, you stay here and watch our table. I'll be back soon."
Mantis can see that Roach's motorcycle is still where they left it, so he could not have gone far in the last few minutes.
"Yo, Vlad! Seen Roach?"
The demon at the doorway growls. "Protein Spill? In that alley 'cross the street. This bitch in white was leading him."
As she crosses to the other side, Mantis wonders fleetingly if "this bitch" has ever rejected Vlad. He's never shown misogynic tendencies before.
Newly-fallen rain masks the smell of old beer. Broken bottles underfoot crunch as Mantis stalks through the garbage, treading carefully across the homeless. Ragged breathing plays counterpoint to dying moans in a blind alley duet.
Could be pleasure, could be pain, could be simple humping, again and again. The shadows only show one body sitting astride another. The telltale white coat on top means Roach is underneath. He always liked a bit of domination.
A neon sign close by pulses:
VACANCIES
NO VACANCIES
VACANCIES
NO VACANCIES
The woman bends down to kiss the prone Roach. She straightens, her wet lips dripping. Sloppy kisser. Wonder if she's a screamer, too.
The machines in Mantis ignite. Pupils dilate. She sees a drop fall from crimson lips, glistening redly in the spectral light, spattering into a hundred droplets against Roach's pallid skin. Several droplets converge to join the slow stream trickling from two wounds upon his neck.
Redly the woman's lips shimmer.
Redly the falling drops glisten.
Redly the open wounds flow.
The machines roar. "Roach!"
The startled woman turns. Mantis slams into her and the two fall to the ground. Quickly, they discover their evenly-matched skills. The woman smiles ferally and displays her sharp canines. Custom job, thinks Mantis. They look real.
The woman lunges. Mantis ducks and quickly rises behind her. In turning, the woman's jaw meets a gloved fist. She screams as unseen claws shred her face. She screams again as Mantis reaches for her eyes. The battle is over as the woman, now blind, falls backward into garbage and lies there.
The roar dies down as Mantis gulps deep breaths. She crawls over to Roach's still form and gathers him into her cradling arms. She bandages his neck with her bandanna, staunching the blood flow. She sobs.
"I told you to be careful . . ."
Roach's eyes flutter. <<Mantis . . . ?>>
"Yeah, it's me. You're going to be alright, Roach."
He nods weakly.
Mach and some uniforms break through the murmuring crowd at the alley's open end. She runs to them and drops to her knees, concern etched upon her face.
"Mantis? Roach?"
Mantis hugs Roach tightly. Tears run from her eyes as she sniffles.
"We're OK. Everything's going to be alright."
The uniforms place Roach upon a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. As the vehicle departs, Mantis and Mach trail after it with hands in pockets. Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain begins again.
