The walk back from the runoff vents was a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. Marzell's boots were partially melted, the soles clicking unevenly against the wet cobblestones. In his pocket, the three Brass Marks felt heavy—hard-earned currency, stained with the literal sweat and near-death of his first shift.
He stopped by a flickering street lamp, pulling the coins out. They were dull, stamped with the gear-and-cog crest of the city's industrial board. To any citizen of the Upper Sector, this was pocket change. To Marzell, it was three days of food. Or half a vial of lung-clearing serum.
As he looked at the coins, his left wrist began to tingle again.
He watched, horrified yet fascinated, as his fingers began to play with the coins. He wasn't doing it—it was doing it. The coins danced across his knuckles with the fluid speed of a professional card-shark. They vanished into his palm and reappeared behind his ear. They spun in the air, catching the sickly yellow light of the lamp, looking like golden sparks.
"Stop it," Marzell hissed, grabbing his left hand with his right.
The coins fell into his palm. He squeezed them until the metal bit into his skin. The "mischief" was always there now, waiting for a moment of weakness to turn his life into a performance.
He hurried toward the pharmacy—a jagged lean-to made of brass pipes and reinforced glass. Inside, a man with a "Three of Diamonds" card embedded in his forehead sat behind a cage of iron bars.
"Serum. Rank One. Now," Marzell said, slamming the three marks onto the counter.
The pharmacist didn't even look up from his ledger. "Prices went up this morning, Leftie. Supply lines from the Upper Sector were throttled. It's five marks now."
Marzell felt a cold snap in his chest. "Five? It was two last week! My mother is dying. I worked in the acid vents for these!"
"Then work another shift," the man sneered, finally looking up. His eyes landed on Marzell's left wrist. "Or don't. Not like your kind contributes much to the census anyway."
Marzell's vision blurred. A red haze descended. He felt the Joker card pulse—a violent, thrumming beat that echoed in his ears like a drum. He reached for the iron bars, his fingers twitching, ready to swap the pharmacist's heart with the heavy ledger on the desk.
Do it, the voice in his head giggled. It'll be the best joke of the day. A heart for a book. He'll die enlightened!
"Marzell?"
The voice was small. Thin.
He turned. Elara was standing at the pharmacy door, her face smudged with soot, her eyes red from crying. She had run all the way there.
"Marzell, come home," she sobbed. "Mom... she stopped talking. She's just making a clicking noise. Please."
The red haze vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, hollow terror. He scooped the three marks off the counter and sprinted past Elara, grabbing her hand as he flew into the smog.
The shack was silent when they arrived. Too silent.
The smell of copper and rot was thicker here. His mother lay on the mattress, her chest heaving in shallow, spasmodic jerks. Every breath sounded like a rusted gear grinding against stone.
"Mom?" Marzell knelt, his hands trembling.
She didn't answer. Her eyes were rolled back, showing only the whites. A thin, dark liquid—alchemical waste filtered through her own blood—was leaking from the corner of her mouth.
"I have the money, Mom. I almost have enough," Marzell lied, his voice breaking. He took her cold hand in his.
His left wrist began to glow. Not the brilliant, holy light , but a dim, flickering violet—the color of a bruise.
Suddenly, Marzell's hand moved. He didn't try to stop it this time. His left palm pressed flat against his mother's chest.
A swap, the Joker whispered. A little trade.
Marzell felt a sickening surge of heat. It felt like liquid fire was being sucked out of his mother and poured directly into his own arm. He gasped, his back arching, his teeth baring in a silent scream. He could feel the poison, the soot, the literal weight of the slum's air entering his lungs.
His mother's breathing suddenly smoothed out. The rattling stopped. The dark fluid on her lips vanished. Her eyes flickered open, focusing on Marzell for the first time in days.
"Marzell?" she whispered, her voice clear. "You... you look so tired, my bird."
Marzell couldn't speak. He was doubling over, coughing violently. He spat a glob of thick, black sludge onto the floor. His lungs burned, but his mother was sitting up, the color returning to her sallow cheeks.
He had used the Joker's power to take her sickness into himself.
"I'm fine, Mom," Marzell wheezed, wiping his mouth. He looked at his left wrist. The Blank card seemed to be smiling at him, the metallic surface reflecting a distorted, leering version of his own face.
He had saved her. But as he looked at his hand, he realized his skin was turning a faint, sickly shade of grey.
The Joker didn't give anything for free. It only traded. And Marzell had just started a debt he could never hope to pay back.