The Boy with Scissors for Hands

A glint of light in the dark, like a piece of fallen star.
A series of silver blades, curved at their tips.
They lie still, carefully arranged.
The dismantled scissors, quiet.
One pair snaps shut with a metallic snip and suddenly the others jump from their places.
Like spiders they move, restless and snicking against one another.
A boy emerges from the shadows.
His hair, a tangle of ebony strands. 
Shadows sweep under his dark eyes.
Fair is his skin, snow white to the dark leather of his clothing. 
Silver scars fleck his alabaster complexion.
His hands, a complex pattern of gears, cuffed with thick leather.
His fingers, blades, they click as they move.
Metal cords run from handles, up his arm.
They retract and release, the scissors follow.
The boy with scissors for hands.