Spit’s birth name was Cassandra, but everyone called her Spit on account of inability to keep herself from drooling. Whether it was a birth defect or a brain injury from a less than stellar childhood, she honestly didn’t know.

Either way, Spit wasn’t anyone special. The daughter of a whore and some asshole she’d never met. She’d ended up an orphan after her mother had ended up the collateral damage in a gang shootout.

She’d spent the last few years on the streets on the streets, scavenging to get by, and like most other kids in her situation, she’d leapt at the chance to work for the Mechromancer.

Safety. Hot food. Beds. Even Pay.

She’d been bullied of course. Kids. Little oversight. Her unfortunate habit of drooling. Spit wasn’t a name she’d been given affectionately, even if she thought of it as her name even within her own head.

Still despite all that, it had still all seemed too good to be true, and like a lot of the older and more experienced kids, she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which was why when a brand-new app appeared on everyone’s Omni-pads, she’d been suspicious. Especially when said app turned out to be a game.

She should have known something was up. Especially when high scores started having rewards attached. Higher pay. Better food. Priority use of the TV. More shower time. Still, it had been enough to get her and most of the sceptics on board with odd little strategy game.

Not that they’d needed much persuasion; the thing was all the rage amongst the electronic deprived kids of the Block Party. As soon as work hours were over, it seemed to be all some kids seemed to think about. Challenging the randomly generated scenarios, or each other until the mandatory lights out.

She’d been good at it. Even with so few people willing to play with or against the ‘dribbling idiot’ she’d managed to rack up a sizeable number of rewards by beating the computer.

Which had invited envy of course, a few kids trying to steal her rewards. The ever-present drones had put a stop to that though. They wouldn’t raise a finger for words or emotional abuse, but they were quite liberal with their rifle butts when things got violent.

No one tried to steal from her, or any of the other winners again after that.

Still, though out it all, at the back of her mind, she was still wondering what the Supervillain’s plan was.

What he stood to gain.

Because unlike a lot of the starry-eyed fans of the Artificer, she was bright enough to see that the man never did anything that he didn’t stand to benefit from, even if the benefit he received wasn’t immediately obvious.

She was grateful of course, but that didn’t make her blind to any other motive the man might have.

Which was why she got her answer when the day of the ‘tournament’ rolled around and her and a few other top players were rounded up and guided into a warehouse a street over.

Helots.

Those were the first things she noticed. Not the Mechromancer watching from the gantry above, or the mishmash of materials that made up an impromptu battlefield within.

No, it had been the gleaming rows of drones.

Five groups of them, armed and all painted up in different colours.

Red. Green. Blue. Orange. Purple.

Five teams. Five players. The drones using live ammo and getting swapped out with replacements between rounds.

She’d won, and she’d also gotten her answer as to what the supervillain wanted.

And now I’m here, she thought as she nervously accepted the omni-pad from the villain, a familiar app already loaded up.

The colourful interface seemed decidedly garish, now that she knew what the program’s final intended use was.

She shivered from more than just the cold.

“Are you ready, Spit?”

It was funny, the way the Mechromancer said it. It wasn’t derisive. Cold and impersonal perhaps, but there was no maliciousness there.

Perhaps he doesn’t know it’s an insult?

The thought sent an almost hysterical titter through her mind. The idea of the almost omnipresent overlord of the Block Party being ignorant to such an obvious thing.

“Yeah,” she slurred, trying not to flush at the way a string of saliva dripped from her chin.

“Good,” the villain nodded, utterly unperturbed by the dribble. “Please remember that these are Spartois, not Helots. They are superior in almost every respect than the units you are familiar with. Their only failing is that they are a significantly larger investment in time and resources. My time and my resources.”

The threat was implicit. Don’t use them wastefully. This wasn’t a game.

The girl nodded nervously, eyeing the powerful machines that were still lined up on the pavement.

“You know your primary target?” He asked, bringing up an image of Manacle.

Again, she nodded.

“Good, you may commence when you are ready. Perform well, and I will see about rectifying the numbness in your right side, which should cease the constant drool, should you so desire.”

Spit’s heart skipped a beat.

Did he just say what she thought he said?

She almost blurted out a request for him to repeat himself, but she caught it at the last second. She’d only spent a little time in the villain’s company, but she’d quickly learned that the guy hated repeating himself.

Keeping her mouth firmly shut, she started bringing up the camera displays of all her drones.

“Is the mini-map accurate?” She asked distractedly as she glanced up at the ‘hostiles’ displayed inside the diagram of the building. Already she could see likely points of entry that would allow her to proceed to her target most efficiently.

Assuming that was where her target actually was.

The game often gave faulty information so as to throw off kids. At the time she had thought it was just a way to arbitrarily add challenge. Now she knew it was a way of preparing people for the realities of fog of war in real combat.

Real combat…

The words still didn’t sound real in her head. Nothing that had happened after getting up that morning did.

“Each icon represents a person,” the Mechromancer said. “However, the machine I’m using to map the building operates off the same basic principle as Sonar.”

At the confused glance she sent his way, he let out a long-suffering distorted sigh.

“It can identify that something a human shaped being is present. It cannot identify whether that person is a Meta, a gangster, or some random person who lives in that apartment block.”

Spit frowned as she looked over the mass of icons that occupied the 3D map of the building.

She would have to go room by room to find the target. Which meant she was likely to forgo the element of surprise entirely and be forced to waste a lot of time on false targets as she would have to move from the ground floor up.

Or not, she supposed. If I make enough noise on my entry it might be enough to prompt the Kings into either fleeing or fighti-

“Uh boss, is this really necessary?” A voice asked, drawing her from her thoughts.

Looking over she saw Uncle Ethan – he insisted all the kids call him that, though not many did – warily watching her, two other Saints nervously shuffling behind him.

“Be specific Ethan,” the Mechromancer’s artificial voice crackled.

“The kid.” The man responded sheepishly, “does it have to be the kid? I mean she’s going to…”

He trailed off, and in spite herself, Spit felt an odd sort of indignance rise up in her at his words.

Kid. She wasn’t a kid. She hadn’t been one since the day she got chucked out onto the street while her mother’s corpse was still cooling in the street.

She’d fought. Kids. Bums. Animals. She’d fought to survive.

True, she’d never killed, and to be honest the thought of doing so made her a little sick, but she wasn’t some ignorant child.

You killed to survive. Maybe not everyday, but someday you would face that choice. That was life.

For her, that day was today. If she wanted to keep living, enjoying the sensation of hot showers, soft beds, and a full belly, she was going to do as the Mechromancer asked her.

Otherwise he would cast her aside, just like the other urchins he couldn’t find a use for.

Once she’d been supposed to build things. Now he wanted her to kill things.

It was just that simple.

“I can do it.”

The look Ethan gave her was both surprised and… sad.

Why was he sad?

“I don’t doubt you can sweetie,” the older man murmured, “but you shouldn’t have to. Give me the pad, I can-”

“You can’t,” Mechromancer’s voice cut in.

Ethan flinched slightly at the man word’s but continued on – stupidly in her opinion. The Mechromancer had said she was going to do it. Ethan was just upsetting him by arguing.

“Look, boss, I’ve killed people before. At least double digits,” the man persevered nervously. “Let me control the drones, I can-”

“You can’t,” Mechromancer cut him off again. “You lack the finger dexterity to manipulate the control panel, and the neuroplasticity to quickly pick up the skill in the command scheme that is required.”

“I don’t know about that-”

“But I do,” the villain stated. “I’ve seen you and a few of the other recent inductees to my organization utilizing your pads. You are slow. Clumsy.”

Ethan wilted.

“Well yeah, I’ve never been too good with the new fangled touch screens and shit, but what about Willis, him and his pals are always on there gizmos.”

“Willis and his pals were supplied the same training program as everyone else. If they had displayed a higher aptitude than Spit, or her nearest contemporaries, they would be here.” Mechromancer gestured to the empty air, “however they did not, and as such we are here, and you are wasting my time.”

“But…” the man began, only to trail off. “She’s just a kid.”

The Mechromancer’s helmet tilted slightly, “as were the three individuals my security drones apprehended trying to sneak explosive devices into my workshop just last week. Discovering their bodies after the fact discomforted me, but I acknowledged the necessity of it. This is the same, and I can safely say that a child utilizing my technology to kill bothers me not at all.”

A clawed metal gauntlet moved to rest on Spit’s head.

It was cold.

“If it makes you feel any better, think of her as a weapon,” the masked villain continued, eyes gleaming a sickly blue light. “Spit is not killing these men. I am. The girl is merely the vessel through which my will is being conveyed.”

Ethan looked like he wanted to argue, before sighing in defeat and strolling off. One of the Saints with him looked between him and the Mechromancer before hurrying after the retreating man. The other stayed, a neutral stare watching both her and the Boss.

The Mechromancer cared not at all.

“Now Spit, if we are quite done with the interruptions, you may proceed.”

A faint sick feeling in her stomach, Spit nodded as she looked down at the screen. Her initial breaching plan was already inputted and ready to go. The commands would only take her drones as far as the first floor, but that was only so that she could adapt for the next stage of the assault once she had eyes inside the building.

Still, that initial plan had two targets slated for elimination. Two icons she believed to be guards based on their position in the lobby.

Two deaths.

“What’s the hold up?” Mechromancer’s voice came over her shoulder.

I’m not killing them, she reiterated in her head. He is.

“Nothing,” she said as she brought one trembling finger down on the ‘execute' command.

The drones behind her whirred to life, guns glinting ominously in the moonlight as they started striding toward the apartment block.