Sockdologer

I hop side to side before steadying myself, raising my hand to face Marshall. The old man stands as unyielding as the wall he's named after, merely smirking as I prepare. But after a moment, he extends his palm out, challenging me.

"This... may be our last battle, young man. I hope it is not, but without my spy, Florence, I have no knowledge of the movements behind their lines. Any day now, Azra may show themself. So, give it your all. Try new things. Combine the old. Integrate the Bloody Palm with all that you already know. Meanwhile, I will do what I can to aid your development."

He finishes his words and brings his arm back, signaling we can begin. I wait a moment. It's not hesitation but instead preparation.

I breathe in deep, not one of Ether yet, as I simply take in the air, enjoying the stormy smell that is on its way. Then, I exhale, removing the air from my lungs before moving my Ether. Slowly, unhurriedly, I expand my Ether throughout my body as I inhale a gasp of Ether.

The Bloody Palm and me...

I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a central area of thought the past few weeks of training. How do we combine? Truly? Here and there, we have worked together, but only once have we ever genuinely fought together. It was when Johnny used his Fixation skill on us, which he's never tried again because of the after-effects of the artifact's anger.

How did that go? I was hauled along behind the Bloody Palm and let it fight foes as I fought my own. It wasn't even authentic cooperation. It was... false.

Yes. That's the only word for it.

It just felt... false.

There is no other way to put it.

Yet... how do we do it, then? What is the optimal way to fight with my artifact? Those were the questions I had days ago. And... when I cannot think of an answer to a question, there is a man I go to, for I can't do what I usually do, that rabid method. Sure, the Bloody Palm will keep me alive, but I've only ever won those battles for a simple reason.

My brutality and desire to survive evened the balance between my enemies and me. Perhaps they were traditionally more powerful than me, but I outlasted them because I'd ignore wounds and trade injuries for injuries. I was never alone, no matter how much it felt that way. It was always a two versus one. That can no longer happen, or at least, it won't matter as much in the future.

The threats to my future are too strong. That gap... intrepidness is not enough. The strife cannot be overcome like that. The constant battles against Marshall have taught me this. The last straw was the moment he beat the Bloody Palm into the ground repeatedly days ago, so much so that only when we worked together could we even scratch him. Never before were we... thrashed so one-sidedly and clearly.

No one else battles like I do. For a while, I thought maybe they were cowards or that I was special, my body capable of handling the trauma. But that's a lie. The truth is that it is inefficient. A waste. An unnecessary risk. Nor can I truly handle the trauma. These days, I feel aches. They're uncommon, but they are there. I can only imagine what the injuries will feel like decades from now.

So... how do I remove that risk? Earl had an answer when I had none.

I attack, defend, and retreat intelligently, using the Bloody Palm to the utmost degree. We combine our greatest assets with synchronicity.

While I'm still limited to one arm as Earl is creating my other one, that does not mean I cannot fight like others with precision and careful actions.

And perhaps I was like that in the past from the Bloody Palm swaying me partially, but I believe that brutality has always been in me.

Ether swirls in my body to extreme amounts, Strugglers Gasp, Strugglers Defiance, Breakneck, Release, and Daydream all enhance me in their own ways, with Daydream focusing on the Bloody Palm and Release on my legs and arm as a whole. Straining my mind a bit further, I construct three Ironbounds, one on my right knee, one on my right side, and one on the right of my head. The Bloody Palm can mostly cover my left, but I need some defense on the right.

An Arbalest readies itself in both feet and the Bloody Palm as I ask the artifact to begin, speaking to it softly in my mind. Meanwhile, I grit my teeth merely containing all this Ether, Ironheart working overtime. Before I attempt Earl's idea, however, I want to see if mine holds any splendor.

"You want to hurt him, right?"

A harsh response comes, shuffling through my skin to my ears.

"Yes."

Nodding, I give it the go-ahead.

"Okay. Sacrifice the pinky for speed. Then, start with a spear, the blade, and the shield. He'll be fast. But... so are we."

A rumble agrees with me as I burst off, Arbalest instantly sending me forward at full speed. My whole form is tinged red like the crimson taint of blood as my artifact consumes a finger to flow its uncomfortable Ether through my body.

As we move, I raise my left arm, the flesh transmuting and shifting until the hand turns into a spear of bone crafted from my forearm. The distance between Marshall and us turns to nothing, the many feet reduced to a few. Sand flies up, obscuring part of my form, but I know it will do little to distract Marshall. The Wall is never distracted.

I stab forward with my spear of flesh, the tip pointed at his midsection. Yet, expecting him to dodge, I yank back the last second, the flesh twisting into a blade of bone that I sweep from left to right. My prediction is correct, the hours of battling the Unyielding Wall bearing fruit.

But the man is even faster than I expect as he begins to take me seriously. His whole form twists, the man standing on one leg as he lurches over horizontally under my swing.

Cursing inwardly, I pull back, raising my arm to block my head as a fist slams me in the gut. The force is so much more than usual that I almost puke out my Ether rather than spit it out, but the Bloody Palm constricts my lungs as a second fist impacts the bone shield into my chest.

The world spins as I land up on my stomach, my guts wanting to run for the hills. Looking forward, I see Marshall fixing his stance as he pats his uniform. Fucking hell. What was that? Did he just punch me sideways while on one leg? The fuck?! I can only manage not to exhale my Strugglers Gasp as I push myself to my feet.

"Progress. Keep going."

Internally sighing at his encouragement, I try something else, grasping for a tool to help us from the Bloody Palm—time to get serious. I never truly expected my plan to work. It could on a lesser foe. But not Marshall. Time for Earl's.

Madness grows from Insight within my Colt several feet away as I see a surge of visions. I planned with Lily what to do with this and for her to draw what I needed her to do so, I could conjure it. I pull all three of my figments at once, the drain on my Ether papable as it leaves my form and enters the constructs in my hand.

Earl spent hours with me going over Madness, making me wish I had him with me earlier. The way to Bent, I should have spent far more time with him, but that's over now.

The genius taught me a way to use this skill at the highest level of lethality. I'm limited to three non-living constructs that I understand, which are simple in design and size. Earl expended only an hour to outline a plan for me and four more to explain it. It all came down to one sentence.

"The plan is simple to execute; just follow my directions."

Taking the two parts of a hand crossbow, I twist them together, a glass-like creak telling me they are in place. Yet, the man across from me is not going to simply wait, so I backpedal toward the wall as I fit the bolt onto the weapon. Then?

"The draw weight of this will be with the toughness of your figments... at least a ton."

The Bloody Palm twists, flesh and bone turning into levers and gears as they connect the limb to the imagined weapon. Meanwhile, Marshall charges at me, but I use the last of my Ether saturation, feeling it hazardously build as I erratically use Arbalest repeatedly to keep the old man off me. My speed with the skill is still slower than Marshall's dash, but it buys enough time for the Bloody Palm to do what Earl envisioned.

I must say. This man... he is a genius with no equal. I have no idea how any of this works, only how to make it.

And so, as Marshall gets within five feet of me, I complete the plan by forcing all the Ether from Strugglers Gasp into a Hone of the bolt, the action calculated by Earl as the effective length of the bolt extends half a foot from the actual head.

"Your Hone will increase its lethality majorly by making people underestimate its timing. My only worry is that the bolt may break from the Ether put into it... that part is up to you. I can't do math with something like that."

His limits run to things he cannot reasonably calculate or estimate. But that is fine. That is why I have a simple yet effective solut

ion.

Now that the Bloody Palm is done nocking the hand crossbow, I divert my Daydream to the bolt, dreaming that it holds itself together despite the pressure it's under as my Ether flows into it.

And as Marshall takes another step of his dashing, getting within striking distance, I squeeze the rudimentary trigger of the weapon, releasing the bolt. The force of over two thousand pounds and with the sharpness of the greatest Ether I've ever put into either Whetting or Hone hurtles toward the Unyielding Wall with a screech. And just as fast as the arrow moves, the hand crossbow shatters into translucent Ether, Earl only designing it for one shot.

But that screech immediately turns to a sonic boom that has me stumbling backward as I see the after-effect of my arrow. Grasping my hand in pain from the explosion of the figments and the recoil, I stare forward in awe as Marshall pants, his hand holding the tiny bolt just before his heart.

Instantly, I sigh, Earl's warning smacking me in the back of the head.

"Now... if this doesn't end the fight, you're done for. I can't even imagine the Ether you're whipping up for this sort of thing, but it seems to lay you out after one attempt. So... be careful with it."

I promptly fall to the sands beneath, sticking out my arm to catch me as I struggle for air. The short battle was exactly that, short, but it took so much out of me. In and out, I force air into my lungs as I try to recover. Meanwhile, the flesh and bone of my left arm rights itself, returning the limb to normal. I say a quick thanks to the artifact, but Marshall's voice pulls me from it.

"I must say--" A cough cuts him off, the man stumbling for a moment before continuing. "-- I was not expecting that. I had to use Painsforge for a second there alongside Bulletspeed. Who came up with that thing?"

Paying close attention to his body, I see the old man taking deep and long breaths as he attempts to stabilize himself. That... I made him try that hard? Could I have really hurt him? No way... he's...

"Wyatt?"

My attention rises again, and I answer the question I forgot about.

"Uh... yeah, Earl designed it. Well, most of it. The first part was me; the crossbow was him."

Marshall laughs and joins me on the sand, slapping me on the back.

"Well, tell him he did good work. I see a young Eli within him. You just have to be sure to keep him on the right track. Those of high minds tend to... see the dark the clearest. That thing with a crossbow is ingenious and is definitely a game-ender for most."

The old man pauses for a second as he thinks, his chin twisting in concentration.

"Of those I can think of, only ten or so would be fast enough or have some way to avoid that arrow. Many could live it, sure, but they would be quite injured. I say... that it could kill an Angel if adeptly placed and timed. Though so can a similarly coordinated cannon, but you get my point."

His compliment makes me beam, the idea of finally being helpful in a battle between Angels excites me, but the man quickly diminishes them.

"Still, you must be careful, for you only have one shot at that. From now on, you are to train here with Tomas should time allow. Get that creation time down. It needs to be a seamless process, and never use it twice on the same enemy. I will come when I can, but they will be shorter, more concise lessons of Ether or skills. Now, I must be going. You should go above and rest, perhaps spend time with the soldiers?"

He offers me to hang out with the soldiers, the same people that recently endeavored to rebel against him. I refuse. There is no reason for me to do so. We have nothing in common. I'd instead go see Earl's progress with the arm, check out Blake and her Absolution with Lennox and Silas, or Abraham and Bonfire with their search for Heath.

"I'm... fine. They don't seem like nice people."

Marshall snorts as he stands, refuting me.

"Don't hold that stint against them. Forces here are trying to break us apart. From Nahullo spies and Motherbound Manipulators to simple Estate espionage, we are at an impasse, constantly assaulted of mind and body. If it were any other force, they would have broken weeks ago. Sure, some have left, and some are traitors, but Tomas and Millie are dealing with that. The rest? They are good men doing their damnedest to protect their families, friends, and homes."

I fall silent for a moment, finding his meaning. Then, I nod, seeing his point. Sighing out my exhaustion, I stand alongside him.

"Alright. I'll go eat dinner with some."

He smiles at me and ruffles my air. Not wanting him to, I push off his hand and pick up my hat from the ground I put down when the battle started.

"Good. I'll see you when I see you. Have fun, kid."

"Bye."

I wave as he leaves, saying my goodbye shortly. He knows I hate when I'm called a kid, and that slight smile after he says it only makes it worse. Then, I take a moment to gather Lily, the Colt set on a bench aside from the spar. After that, I leave the Pit, taking my time to find a group of soldiers near the Pit. It feels odd searching for people to spend time with. Just glancing around at these men and women gives me an uneasy gait.

Everyone I find is in a group larger than three, for Marshall outlawed solos and duos from walking on their own. I get some odd looks, but a quiet whisper from another stops the stories as people seem to recognize me.

The stares are uncomfortable, mainly because more and more soldiers are doing it. I guess with the new rules, I'm easy to notice when alone. Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'll just do this for Marshall, then go see Earl. I want to tell him how we almost got the Unyielding Wall with the Ballista.

I step further through the fortress, finally finding a group of only three as they sit around a relatively small campfire. They seem quite friendly and don't gape at me oddly, so I choose to join them. I wave to them as I sit across from the three. The one on the left nods to me while the one in the middle smiles, greeting me.

"Wyatt, right? Yur' kinda famous 'round 'ere, boy. Hope you settle in nicely. Dinard, Holt, and Rich' 'ere gots the fingers of the Devil."

The man in the middle points to the woman on the left, Dinard, then himself as Holt, then the man on the right as Rich as he introduces all of them. And after he ends, Rich thrums the instrument in his hands, a kind of fiddle or guitar.

The tune is soft and low, continuing as the sun rapidly sets. Cooks come around in teams of three, dropping off cooked rations that we all eat except for Rich. The man leans back and stares skyward, his fingers moving in a strange melody.

I glance back at Dinard and Holt, but the two are simply eating and listening to Rich. So, I join, not wanting to ruin anything. And of course, because the music is good.

Yet, after only a few bites of the soup I'm given, something definitely not enough to sustain the Bloody Palm and me, Rich lets out a voice. The stone-cold man, lithe in form with a thick red beard, has a deep rumble, one that adds gravity to his melody.

It starts with a hum before ascending into gradual song.

"O'~ darlin', darlin'.

What have I done?

Well, you've been gone so long...

And all my days have turned a darker stain...

And I believe my core has turned to stone.

O'~ darlin', darlin'.

What have I done?

Now I'm left here all alone...

O'~ darlin', darlin'.

What have I done?

I do my sleeping with a gun,

I do my talking with lead,

Spill blood that's only just begun,

And stain rivers with the dead.

O' Darlin', o' tell me what I've done.

Can I stop at one?

Or have I just begun?"

Rich pauses momentarily, his lungs inhaling a breath from his constant melody. Every note turns darker, just as the sun does. Yet, at the same time, it feels good. Good to hear, good to feel, and good to let out the emotions. I can see the catharsis visually within his frame. I resonate with his words. The remorse. He's felt the pain of killing—the pain of killing a lot. A long time ago, I spent most my time talking with Ma, learning, or farming. Now? I spend most of it spilling my blood, someone else's life, or preparing to do so.

Exactly as I wonder if he'll continue, the musician-turned-soldier does. He's a 4th Sigil, equal to the two beside him, yet I can hear it. He hates what he does.

"O' Darlin', o' tell me what I've done.

Can I stop at one?

Or have I just begun?

I don't reckon I'll see you again, hun.

My body's aching.

Every bone a breakin'.

Nothin' can shake it.

It just keeps keepin' on...

There is no peace here.

War is never cheap, you hear?

None will walk from here.

We just get sold a plot.

I cannot resist it

All the world accepts it.

Blink open to a gun.

Let your torments run."

Again, Rich pauses, his eyes staring into the fire as he breathes in. This time, it is slower and more... depressed than before. But he's right. This world is broken. So many are ready to draw a gun at a slight inconvenience. I'm mostly left alone due to my reputation and my last name, but not all are.

"I wanted to be the very best,

Best there ever is.

The quickest draw.

The toughest motherfucker in these lands.

I wanted to be the very best.

Yet, it was just for show,

A way to hide from those that were,

Without getting a bullet in my head.

Home is a far wish.

Death is close, only a block away.

My momma is gone.

My daddy ne'er showed.

There is nowhere to run,

Without getting a bullet in my head.

Home is a far wish.

Death is close, only a block away.

A day from now,

I'll be giving hurt.

A year from now,

I'll be in the dirt."