BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

Wulfwin, with twisted conviviality. “Round one went to you. I’ll hand it to you, you’re tougher than you look. Now we enter round two. Same rules. I ask you a question; you answer it. Let’s see how we get on, shall we?” He cocked his head, playing to his audience. Then he removed his trench coat, laying it carefully on the table beside him. His bared arms made for a bold statement of strength. Rubbing his hands together, he approached Ursel. “Let’s practise. I say: where are the Music Makers? And you say?” He held a cupped hand to his ear in a mock-listening pose.

Ursel glared at him, unflinching. Her face was white. Her clenched teeth and trembling upper lip hinted at the agony her eyes denied.

“And still she plays tough. So, User, let us be clear. Round two is different. My colleagues have provided the warm-up. Now, we get down to business. You’ve proved that you can withstand a little general pressure. This time, I’m going to hit you where it hurts. By way of example, let’s start with this,” he said, pointing to the question mark tattoo on her arm. “Good at asking questions, but not so great at answering them, is that it? A little ink joke? Well, it ain’t fucking funny.”

He walked over to the table and picked up a scalpel and a wad of lint. He returned to Ursel and, without hesitation, made an incision on her upper arm, level with the top of the tattoo. Holding the knife steady, he said, “I ask, you answer. Where are the Music Makers hiding?”

Ursel stared ahead, then closed her eyes.

“You asked for it, bitch.” He drew the scalpel down, cutting a long, straight line through her skin. Blood oozed, extending the line down her arm before dripping to the floor. In slow, deliberate movements, he cut a square around the tattoo. Then he said, “Where are the fucking Music Makers, User scum?”

Silence.

He held the lint against her seeping flesh and in one, swift movement, he tore the square of skin from her arm.

Ursel screamed.

Dent retched and attempted to turn away. His trooper guard held him by the shoulders, forcing him to face forwards. Dizzy and white, he made his eyes glaze over, fighting back the urge to vomit.

“Sort it out, for fuck’s sake,” hissed Wulfwin to the troopers beside the rack, while he went over to wash his bloody hands under the standpipe tap. One of the troopers held the lint to Ursel’s bleeding wound, while the other fetched a bandage from the table and wound it around her arm, covering the crimsoned wad.

Ursel’s eyes remained tightly shut, tears leaking uncontrollably from beneath swollen lids. She breathed quickly, flinching with each rise of her diaphragm as bruised ribs pushed against broken skin.

Wulfwin glanced at Dent, then spat at the floor. His demeanour had changed – the jovial showman replaced by a dark ruthlessness and violent fury without bounds.

He stared at Ursel, fists clenched, slowly nodding. “Okay, here’s the score,” he said. “That was my pre-amble. I hope it set an appropriate tone for what’s to follow. If it has, I’m going to be kind and give you the benefit of a heads-up. If you know what’s coming, you might prefer to deny me my amusement. Save us all some time and save yourself considerable loss. With that in mind, let us talk long view. Apart from your life, what have you only got one of? What part of you can you least afford to lose?” He grabbed her arm around the makeshift bandage, causing Ursel to cry out. “That is my end game. Do yourself a fucking favour and avoid the unnecessary pain in reaching that conclusion, because it will take some time to get there. Understood?” He glared once more at Ursel, trying to hold her blinking, rolling eyes. “Let’s try again. Where are the motherfuckers hiding?”

Dent trembled, willing her to speak. His trooper guard maintained a firm, two-handed grip on his arms. He looked about him, frantically searching for a means of intervention.

Ursel said nothing.

“Okay, play it your way,” said Wulfwin. “For my next move, I claim something I assume is of significant value to a User. You flout the law of the Authority so that you can indulge in your addiction. How would you feel if you were unable to hear your precious music ever again?”

Ursel stared at Wulfwin, her eyes suddenly wide and steady.

“Well now, I seem to have your attention at last. Let’s make the most of the moment, shall we? Last chance. Where are the Music Makers?”

Ursel held her stare. Then she closed her eyes tight, bracing herself. Her swollen lips remained defiantly sealed.

Dent yelled, “No!”

Wulfwin spun around. “Shut up, Lore. Whose fucking side are you on?” He looked back at Ursel and spat in her face. “User Scum deserves it.”

He strode over to the table and took a moment to select his means. Grabbing a pencil, he returned to Ursel’s side. Her contorted face was wet with tears. Her eyes and mouth were firmly shut.

“Your loss,” Wulfwin hissed, as he held the pencil to her left ear, placing its sharpened point inside the canal. With the heal of his other hand, he slammed against the end of the pencil, forcing it far enough to pierce the drum.

This time, Ursel’s scream was acute and unending.

With her head firmly braced, she was unable to move as Wulfwin crossed to her right side and held the pencil tip inside her other ear. He did not hesitate; there was no second chance.

At the moment of impact, the screaming stopped and Ursel hung limp. “For fuck’s sake. Find a pulse, quick,” he said to the troopers. “Keep her alive. She’s not getting out of it that easy. She’s not going to win. I will not let the bitch beat me.”

He stormed past Dent and kicked the door twice. On the threshold, he turned around and said, “This is what we’re up against, Lore. This is