The Bleeding Hands
Dox came through the acid rain like a blade through silk.
Lira heard her before she saw her—a rhythmic click of clockwork joints cutting through the downpour, steady as a metronome. The mural was half-finished on the clock-tower's base, a wave of painted hands reaching upward, each finger stretching toward the tower's humming core. The paint still glowed wet, pulsing with the stolen chrono-energy Lira had poured into it.
She'd forgotten the taste of oranges. The memory had slipped away three strokes ago, replaced by a dull ache behind her eyes. She'd forgotten the sound of her mother's laugh two strokes before that. The journal in her pocket listed what she'd lost, but the words were starting to look foreign, like she was reading someone else's handwriting.
The clicking stopped.
Lira turned, paintbrush still dripping, and saw Dox standing twenty feet away. The enforcer's full-body clockwork suit gleamed under the neon spill from a nearby sign—brass plates riveted over black leather, gears turning at her joints, a visor of smoked glass that hid everything but the faint blue glow of her implant. She carried no weapon. She didn't need one. The suit was a weapon, each movement amplified by stolen time.
"Lira Voss." Dox's voice came through a speaker grille, flat and metallic. "Councilor Vane sends his regards."
"Tell him I'm busy." Lira raised her brush, paint dripping like blood. "Come back in a century."
Dox moved.
The first strike came so fast Lira barely saw it—a clockwork fist aimed at her chest. She threw herself sideways, paint splattering across the wet cobblestones. The fist hit the wall behind her, cratering the brick. Dust and debris sprayed. Lira rolled, came up with her brush still in hand, and painted a line across the air.
The paint solidified into a razor-thin barrier, translucent and humming. Dox's second punch shattered it, but the impact slowed her long enough for Lira to scramble backward.
"You're fast," Dox said. "But speed doesn't matter when you're out of time."
She lunged again. Lira painted a circle on the ground—a trap, a sinkhole of chrono-energy that would swallow anything that touched it. Dox stepped right over it, her boots leaving no mark. The suit's sensors had read the energy signature before she'd even finished the stroke.
"Clever," Dox said. "But I've studied your work."
She grabbed Lira by the throat.
The grip was iron. Lira's feet left the ground, her brush clattering to the pavement. Dox's visor stared into her face, the blue glow reflecting in Lira's widening eyes. She couldn't breathe. She clawed at the clockwork gauntlet, but it was like trying to bend steel with her bare hands.
"Councilor Vane wants you alive," Dox said. "But he didn't specify in what condition."
A blur of motion from the left.
Kael hit Dox like a freight train, his shoulder driving into her side. The impact sent both of them sprawling, Dox's grip releasing Lira. She hit the ground hard, gasping, her vision swimming. Through the rain, she saw Kael and Dox roll across the wet street, a tangle of limbs and clockwork.
Kael was faster than a normal man, but Dox was faster still. She twisted, planted a boot in his chest, and sent him skidding backward. He caught himself on a lamppost, the metal groaning under the impact.
"You're supposed to be shadowing me," Dox said, rising. Her suit hissed, steam venting from the joints. "Not interfering."
"Change of plans." Kael pulled a blade from his coat—a curved length of clockwork steel, its edge glowing with chrono-energy. "I'm done taking orders."
Dox tilted her head. "You've chosen her over the Syndicate. Over your memories."
"I've chosen the truth."
"The truth is what Vane tells you." Dox's voice dropped, almost soft. "You think she can give you back what you lost? She can't even remember her own birthday."
Lira's hand found her brush. She forced herself upright, her throat burning, her lungs screaming. The mural behind her pulsed, the painted hands seeming to move in the corner of her vision. She'd lost so much already. She couldn't lose this—not the tower, not the city, not the chance to break the Syndicate's grip.
"Kael," she rasped. "Don't."
He didn't look at her. "She's right. I don't know what I've lost. But I know what I'm fighting for now."
Dox attacked.
The fight was brutal and fast. Kael met her blade with his own, clockwork grinding against clockwork, sparks flying in the rain. He was good—better than Lira had realized—but Dox was a machine. Every move was calculated, every strike precise. She drove him back, step by step, her suit's servos whining with each acceleration.
Lira's hand trembled. She could paint. She could help. But every stroke cost her something, and she was running on fumes. The journal in her pocket listed the memories she'd already burned: her first pet, her high school graduation, the taste of rain, the smell of coffee, the sound of a song she used to love. She didn't even remember what the song was anymore.
But Kael was going to die.
She painted.
A line of blue-white light shot from her brush, curving through the air like a living thing. It struck Dox's shoulder, and the clockwork there seized, gears grinding to a halt. Dox stumbled, her arm locking mid-swing. Kael capitalized, driving his blade into the gap between her chest plate and her collar.
The blade stopped an inch from her skin.
Dox grabbed it with her free hand, the metal screeching as she squeezed. "You'll have to do better than that."
She headbutted him. The visor cracked, and Kael reeled, blood streaming from his nose. Dox kicked his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, his blade skittering away.
Lira painted again—a shield, a dome of solid light around Kael's prone body. Dox's fist slammed into it, and the light flickered. Lira felt the memory drain: the name of her first art teacher. Gone. She didn't even remember what he looked like anymore.
"Pathetic," Dox said. She hit the shield again, and cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. "You're burning yourself alive for a man you barely know."
Lira's vision blurred. She could feel the memories slipping, each one a thread pulling loose from the fabric of who she was. She didn't know how many she had left. She didn't know if she'd recognize herself when this was over.
But she knew Kael's face. She knew the way he'd looked at the woman in the mirror, the way his hands had trembled when he'd seen her smile. She knew he deserved better than to die in a flooded street, his blood mixing with the acid rain.
She painted a second layer on the shield. Then a third. Each one cost her something—the feel of a brush in her hand, the sound of rain on a tin roof, the weight of a spray can in her palm. She didn't know what she was losing anymore. She just knew she couldn't stop.
Dox roared in frustration. She stepped back, raised her fist, and brought it down with all the force her suit could muster. The shield shattered.
But Kael was gone.
He'd rolled, grabbed his blade, and come up behind her. The blade punched through the gap in her backplate, where the suit's armor was thinnest. Dox froze, her body jerking as the chrono-energy in the blade disrupted her implant. She turned, slowly, her visor meeting Kael's eyes.
"You'll die for this," she said. "Vane will—"
"I know." Kael twisted the blade. Dox's suit went dark, the gears locking, the blue light in her visor fading. She crumpled, a dead weight, her clockwork limbs clattering against the pavement.
Kael stood over her, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the rain. He looked at Lira, and she saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen before: fear. Not of Dox, not of Vane. Fear of what she was becoming.
"Lira." He stepped toward her. "Your hands."
She looked down. The paint on her fingers was glowing, pulsing with a light that came from somewhere deep inside her. She could feel it pulling at her, drawing out another memory, ready to spend it on nothing.
She closed her fist, and the glow died.
"I'm fine," she said. The words tasted like a lie.
Kael knelt beside Dox's body, checking her pulse. "She's alive. Barely. We need to move before she wakes up."
Lira nodded, but she didn't move. She stared at the mural—the wave of hands, reaching upward, each one a stroke she'd paid for with a piece of herself. She didn't remember what she'd lost. She only knew the weight of the absence, the hollow spaces where memories used to live.
"Lira." Kael's hand on her shoulder. "We have to go."
She turned away from the mural. The tower hummed above them, its gears turning, its clockwork heart beating in time with the city's suffering. She'd barely scratched its surface. She'd lost so much, and the tower still stood.
But the hands were reaching.
And she wasn't done yet.
They ran through the rain, Kael half-carrying her when her legs gave out. The streets of the Dregs were empty, the curfew keeping everyone indoors. The neon signs bled into the puddles, painting the world in shades of red and blue and green.
Lira's hand found her pocket. She pulled out the journal, flipping to the last page. The entries were sparse now, the handwriting shaky. She'd written: *Forgot the taste of oranges. Forgot the sound of rain on a tin roof. Forgot the name of my first art teacher.*
She stared at the words, and they meant nothing.
"Kael," she said. "What's my favorite color?"
He looked at her, rain streaming down his face. "You told me it was blue. The color of the sky before the smog."
She nodded. She didn't remember telling him that. She didn't remember having a favorite color at all.
But she believed him.
They reached the safehouse—a crumbling tenement in the heart of the Dregs, its walls covered in faded murals from artists long dead. Kael kicked the door open, carried her inside, and laid her on a threadbare mattress.
She stared at the ceiling, her brush still clutched in her hand. The paint on her fingers had dried, flaking off like dead skin.
"I'm losing myself," she said.
Kael sat beside her, his hand finding hers. "I know."
"What if I don't remember who I am when this is over?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Then I'll tell you."
She closed her eyes. The tower hummed in the distance, a constant reminder of what she had to do. She didn't know how many memories she had left. She didn't know if she'd survive the final stroke.
But she knew the hands on the mural were reaching.
And she knew she had to finish what she'd started.
Lira heard her before she saw her—a rhythmic click of clockwork joints cutting through the downpour, steady as a metronome. The mural was half-finished on the clock-tower's base, a wave of painted hands reaching upward, each finger stretching toward the tower's humming core. The paint still glowed wet, pulsing with the stolen chrono-energy Lira had poured into it.
She'd forgotten the taste of oranges. The memory had slipped away three strokes ago, replaced by a dull ache behind her eyes. She'd forgotten the sound of her mother's laugh two strokes before that. The journal in her pocket listed what she'd lost, but the words were starting to look foreign, like she was reading someone else's handwriting.
The clicking stopped.
Lira turned, paintbrush still dripping, and saw Dox standing twenty feet away. The enforcer's full-body clockwork suit gleamed under the neon spill from a nearby sign—brass plates riveted over black leather, gears turning at her joints, a visor of smoked glass that hid everything but the faint blue glow of her implant. She carried no weapon. She didn't need one. The suit was a weapon, each movement amplified by stolen time.
"Lira Voss." Dox's voice came through a speaker grille, flat and metallic. "Councilor Vane sends his regards."
"Tell him I'm busy." Lira raised her brush, paint dripping like blood. "Come back in a century."
Dox moved.
The first strike came so fast Lira barely saw it—a clockwork fist aimed at her chest. She threw herself sideways, paint splattering across the wet cobblestones. The fist hit the wall behind her, cratering the brick. Dust and debris sprayed. Lira rolled, came up with her brush still in hand, and painted a line across the air.
The paint solidified into a razor-thin barrier, translucent and humming. Dox's second punch shattered it, but the impact slowed her long enough for Lira to scramble backward.
"You're fast," Dox said. "But speed doesn't matter when you're out of time."
She lunged again. Lira painted a circle on the ground—a trap, a sinkhole of chrono-energy that would swallow anything that touched it. Dox stepped right over it, her boots leaving no mark. The suit's sensors had read the energy signature before she'd even finished the stroke.
"Clever," Dox said. "But I've studied your work."
She grabbed Lira by the throat.
The grip was iron. Lira's feet left the ground, her brush clattering to the pavement. Dox's visor stared into her face, the blue glow reflecting in Lira's widening eyes. She couldn't breathe. She clawed at the clockwork gauntlet, but it was like trying to bend steel with her bare hands.
"Councilor Vane wants you alive," Dox said. "But he didn't specify in what condition."
A blur of motion from the left.
Kael hit Dox like a freight train, his shoulder driving into her side. The impact sent both of them sprawling, Dox's grip releasing Lira. She hit the ground hard, gasping, her vision swimming. Through the rain, she saw Kael and Dox roll across the wet street, a tangle of limbs and clockwork.
Kael was faster than a normal man, but Dox was faster still. She twisted, planted a boot in his chest, and sent him skidding backward. He caught himself on a lamppost, the metal groaning under the impact.
"You're supposed to be shadowing me," Dox said, rising. Her suit hissed, steam venting from the joints. "Not interfering."
"Change of plans." Kael pulled a blade from his coat—a curved length of clockwork steel, its edge glowing with chrono-energy. "I'm done taking orders."
Dox tilted her head. "You've chosen her over the Syndicate. Over your memories."
"I've chosen the truth."
"The truth is what Vane tells you." Dox's voice dropped, almost soft. "You think she can give you back what you lost? She can't even remember her own birthday."
Lira's hand found her brush. She forced herself upright, her throat burning, her lungs screaming. The mural behind her pulsed, the painted hands seeming to move in the corner of her vision. She'd lost so much already. She couldn't lose this—not the tower, not the city, not the chance to break the Syndicate's grip.
"Kael," she rasped. "Don't."
He didn't look at her. "She's right. I don't know what I've lost. But I know what I'm fighting for now."
Dox attacked.
The fight was brutal and fast. Kael met her blade with his own, clockwork grinding against clockwork, sparks flying in the rain. He was good—better than Lira had realized—but Dox was a machine. Every move was calculated, every strike precise. She drove him back, step by step, her suit's servos whining with each acceleration.
Lira's hand trembled. She could paint. She could help. But every stroke cost her something, and she was running on fumes. The journal in her pocket listed the memories she'd already burned: her first pet, her high school graduation, the taste of rain, the smell of coffee, the sound of a song she used to love. She didn't even remember what the song was anymore.
But Kael was going to die.
She painted.
A line of blue-white light shot from her brush, curving through the air like a living thing. It struck Dox's shoulder, and the clockwork there seized, gears grinding to a halt. Dox stumbled, her arm locking mid-swing. Kael capitalized, driving his blade into the gap between her chest plate and her collar.
The blade stopped an inch from her skin.
Dox grabbed it with her free hand, the metal screeching as she squeezed. "You'll have to do better than that."
She headbutted him. The visor cracked, and Kael reeled, blood streaming from his nose. Dox kicked his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, his blade skittering away.
Lira painted again—a shield, a dome of solid light around Kael's prone body. Dox's fist slammed into it, and the light flickered. Lira felt the memory drain: the name of her first art teacher. Gone. She didn't even remember what he looked like anymore.
"Pathetic," Dox said. She hit the shield again, and cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. "You're burning yourself alive for a man you barely know."
Lira's vision blurred. She could feel the memories slipping, each one a thread pulling loose from the fabric of who she was. She didn't know how many she had left. She didn't know if she'd recognize herself when this was over.
But she knew Kael's face. She knew the way he'd looked at the woman in the mirror, the way his hands had trembled when he'd seen her smile. She knew he deserved better than to die in a flooded street, his blood mixing with the acid rain.
She painted a second layer on the shield. Then a third. Each one cost her something—the feel of a brush in her hand, the sound of rain on a tin roof, the weight of a spray can in her palm. She didn't know what she was losing anymore. She just knew she couldn't stop.
Dox roared in frustration. She stepped back, raised her fist, and brought it down with all the force her suit could muster. The shield shattered.
But Kael was gone.
He'd rolled, grabbed his blade, and come up behind her. The blade punched through the gap in her backplate, where the suit's armor was thinnest. Dox froze, her body jerking as the chrono-energy in the blade disrupted her implant. She turned, slowly, her visor meeting Kael's eyes.
"You'll die for this," she said. "Vane will—"
"I know." Kael twisted the blade. Dox's suit went dark, the gears locking, the blue light in her visor fading. She crumpled, a dead weight, her clockwork limbs clattering against the pavement.
Kael stood over her, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the rain. He looked at Lira, and she saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen before: fear. Not of Dox, not of Vane. Fear of what she was becoming.
"Lira." He stepped toward her. "Your hands."
She looked down. The paint on her fingers was glowing, pulsing with a light that came from somewhere deep inside her. She could feel it pulling at her, drawing out another memory, ready to spend it on nothing.
She closed her fist, and the glow died.
"I'm fine," she said. The words tasted like a lie.
Kael knelt beside Dox's body, checking her pulse. "She's alive. Barely. We need to move before she wakes up."
Lira nodded, but she didn't move. She stared at the mural—the wave of hands, reaching upward, each one a stroke she'd paid for with a piece of herself. She didn't remember what she'd lost. She only knew the weight of the absence, the hollow spaces where memories used to live.
"Lira." Kael's hand on her shoulder. "We have to go."
She turned away from the mural. The tower hummed above them, its gears turning, its clockwork heart beating in time with the city's suffering. She'd barely scratched its surface. She'd lost so much, and the tower still stood.
But the hands were reaching.
And she wasn't done yet.
They ran through the rain, Kael half-carrying her when her legs gave out. The streets of the Dregs were empty, the curfew keeping everyone indoors. The neon signs bled into the puddles, painting the world in shades of red and blue and green.
Lira's hand found her pocket. She pulled out the journal, flipping to the last page. The entries were sparse now, the handwriting shaky. She'd written: *Forgot the taste of oranges. Forgot the sound of rain on a tin roof. Forgot the name of my first art teacher.*
She stared at the words, and they meant nothing.
"Kael," she said. "What's my favorite color?"
He looked at her, rain streaming down his face. "You told me it was blue. The color of the sky before the smog."
She nodded. She didn't remember telling him that. She didn't remember having a favorite color at all.
But she believed him.
They reached the safehouse—a crumbling tenement in the heart of the Dregs, its walls covered in faded murals from artists long dead. Kael kicked the door open, carried her inside, and laid her on a threadbare mattress.
She stared at the ceiling, her brush still clutched in her hand. The paint on her fingers had dried, flaking off like dead skin.
"I'm losing myself," she said.
Kael sat beside her, his hand finding hers. "I know."
"What if I don't remember who I am when this is over?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Then I'll tell you."
She closed her eyes. The tower hummed in the distance, a constant reminder of what she had to do. She didn't know how many memories she had left. She didn't know if she'd survive the final stroke.
But she knew the hands on the mural were reaching.
And she knew she had to finish what she'd started.