The Softest Murder

Elizabeth held a staring contest with the bottle, the odd corvid livery looking right back. Her hand hovered over the glassy beakish stopper, fingers twitching slightly.

“Are you sure you wish to do this child?” asked Slate again, that single glacial eyeball glaring at her. “These vigors and their effects are no mild endeavor, especially for the uninitiated...”

Doubt flashed through her mind, and she stilled her fingers. Why was she doing this?

She remembered those “Zealots of the Lady”, as they called themselves. Odd fellows, bursting into crows and flitting about a scene with reckless and nigh unstoppable abandon. Supposing she was capable of doing that, by herself, or even with another in tow? Escaping from from bad situations wouldn't be so hard, fights could effortlessly be fled from, and it certainly would be easier on her protector...

There was a thoughtful glance in Slate's direction. Elizabeth was constantly reminded of how old the man was, from the way he spoke, to the way he moved. He was easily in his late fifties, if not older. And that was to say nothing of his own reliance on vigors and salts.

Most bottles found were quickly guzzled, seemingly giving Slate some minutes of comfort before his scowling returned twofold. Even now, his hands were trembling, much as he tried to hide their movement from her gaze.

No, it would be better for the both of them if she went through with this.

“Yes, I want to do this,” Elizabeth proclaimed stoutly, her jaw set, yanking the top clear of the bottle and pressing it to her lips.

The draught was sharp and vinegary, like wine left far too long, with a bitter copper aftertaste that scraped against her tongue. It passed down her throat, the bizarre concoction churning in her belly like a thing alive, and her vision swam. She staggered as the world faded out, arms reaching out to steady herself, only for a crow to perch upon her extended appendage.

It was a humpbacked thing, far heavier than Elizabeth would have assumed. Those beady black eyes shone with an insidious intelligence, and it called out hoarsely before taking flight once more.

Steadily, color came back to her sight, and the dizziness fled, but still, she could feel it. She could feel where every crow was around her, without looking. They were like a pressure on the back of her mind, one that she could move and push with just a little effort. If she just...

The crow returned, with others, roosting all around her. Several tried to land on Slate, only to be shooed away with a series of aggravated swipes and curses.

Now... how did the others manage to jump from place to place like that? Maybe if...

Elizabeth concentrated, briefly closing her eyes. She stood there, breathing slowing, growing more even as she slipped deeper into a meditation. Slate shuffled from one foot to another in annoyance, eventually shooing more birds from a nearby bench and sinking into the seat.

As he watched, more and more crows clustered around the girl, flocking to her. They fluttered to her slowly at first, but grew in number with every passing moment, until the girl was not visible for the murder. With an odd screech, they dispersed explosively, leaving naught but emptiness behind.

She was with them, behind every set of eyes, looking at the world from a dozen different angles, soaring, flying, peeling around one another, riding the wind as many.

And then it was over, as Elizabeth came together as one once more, several feet to the left of Slate. She stood there for some seconds, before attempting to take a single step and stumbling into an awkward heap. Getting used to a single pair of legs again even after such a short time as the murder was surprisingly difficult.

Slate regarded her with a frown, but made no attempt to help her, as she picked herself up with a giddy staggering.

“I would rather we made haste soon,” he told her grumpily, starting to stand up when she stopped him.

“No no, let me just practice with this a little bit more. I think I can get the hang of it really soon, and I promise I'll be quick,” she told him ecstatically, clearly loving every moment of what she was doing.

The veteran grumbled, falling back into his seat with a thick frown, but said nothing more.

Elizabeth did this several times again over the course of the next hour, jumping from place to place as she swapped forms. Each time it transpired a little faster, and she grew a little less clumsy each time she coalesced. The longer she practiced, the more her face shined, and the surer her step.

“This is amazing Mister Slate, you have to try this!” she chimed happily, starting to tug on his arm, pulling him up and off of the bench.

“No, I woul-” started Slate hurriedly, only to be pulled alongside Elizabeth as she changed.

When they came to, on the top of a nearby building, she turned to him with a lightheaded smile. He did not reciprocate the feeling, on his knees, coughing madly, gasping for breath. The girl tried to help him up, putting her hands on his shoulder and arm, only for him to snarl at her with a choking bark.

“What on God's green earth do you think you are doing!?” he yelled at her, taking a quick swig of salts as he rose to his feet. “Do you believe this to be some sort of cockamamie game!? That good, God fearing men and women have not died by in droves because of you!? We are at war with the city of Columbia, and I would not have the brave soldiers that I have fought and killed dishonored by the laughter of an ignorant girl who knows not the price of her freedom!”

His face grew redder as he screamed, a thick vein in his temple popping out, to be lost amidst the network of pale scars that covered his crown.

Elizabeth said nothing, staring at her feet, lips pressed thin as guilt and anger rampaged through her. She swallowed loudly, hands held in fists, but would not look at Slate.

He snorted derisively, raising a hand as if to slap her, but stopped, grimacing.

“Were I your father, I would teach you respect for those who have given their lives, but I have neither the right nor the inclination, when such effort would be better spent on obtaining safe passage!” he snapped furiously, devolving into another bout of coughing. This time, Elizabeth made no effort to help him, instead turning away to glare at the skyline, wiping the beginnings of tears from her eyes.

As Slate doubled over, hacking between labored wheezing, Elizabeth saw an ominous shape crest over the high rise.

“...Mister Slate...” she murmured quietly, only to be waved away in the throws of coughing fit.

“...Mister Slate,” she repeated, now with a much greater urgency, trying to tap him on the shoulder, only to be swatted away.

“Slate!” she yelled, shoving the old man out of the way as a Handyman came crashing down where he had been only moments before.

“Go!” roared Slate, kneeling on all fours before the mechanical man. The girl reached out to him, but the glare in his eye brooked no argument. She was away, a swarm of fluttering black, by the time the rest of the soldiers came down.

A hand of steel encircled Slate's waist as he struggled to stand, and before he had a chance to retaliate, he was hurtling through the air like some errant missile.

Slamming into the square with a shockwave that carried the whinny of raging steeds, the old man braced himself against the cracked pavement, gulping down another quick bottle of salts. The Handyman swung down the side of the building like some lanky gorilla, and the soldiers lined up their rifles with a resounding series of clacks.

He tensed, flames licking his hands and shoulders, and a flicker of lightning crawled up his body. There was a crash as he shot upwards, tearing up the pavement in his wake, striking the top of the building with an echoing crack of thunder.

Bullets cut nicks out of his skin, adding to his ever growing collection of scars as he fought, a bolt of electricity that traveled from soldier to soldier, leaving another charred and smoking corpse behind. Those who were not burned or shocked, fried or beaten, were cast from the rooftop to meet a sudden end at the hands of gravity.

“Worthless tin men!” screamed Slate to no one, hands smoking with the fires of vigor, bleeding from half a dozen nicks and bruises.

That pale blue eye searched aside frantically for any remaining, but none were left, save the Handyman now trying to clamber up the side of the building.

Stepping a few feet back, Slate stared up at his last opponent as the beast cleared the wall.

“Stop making so much noise!” the creature roared, swiping at the old man.

The captain responded with a bolt of lightning, the fires cascaded around him growing dim. It dissipated harmless from the metal carapace, flickering into nothingness. Slate huffed heavily, slouching with fatigue, hand patting his chest as he searched for a free bottle of salts, only to be found wanting.

Glowering in his direction, the Handyman advanced slowly, only for a crow to land directly on his scalp.

Deeply confused, he tried to look at the roosting corvid, only for it to peck sharply between his eyes. He bellowed angrily and snatched at the creature, but another number settled on his shoulders, they too jabbing at his face. Soon, there was an entire murder, cawing loudly and biting at his flesh, and the automated monstrosity waddled backwards in pain and confusion.

“Slate, salts!” yelled Elizabeth, chucking a glowing blue bottle at the aging veteran.

With a hurried swallow, Slate drained the liquor, casting aside the glass. Bracing himself once more, he threw himself forward, smashing into the Handy's glass chest and sending the two of them careening over the edge.

As they fell, Slate raised one incandescent hand, its heat searing through the gloves. Cracked and brittle, shining bone white hot, flesh giving way to fractured crystal, it was barely the hand of a man. It plunged through the Handyman's chest, sinking through the glass plate, warping the material like soft clay. His burning fingers curled around the heart as they hit the ground, and he ripped the heart free with the impact. The Handyman groaned in agony and was still.

Elizabeth burst into being beside him with a few drifting feather.

“Slate, that was amazi-” she started, amazement turning to horror as she saw his hands. Bloody crystal ran up the entirety of his forearms, and his fingers tapered to metallic bone at the knuckles. Fissures laced up his limbs, and stray sparks climbed between.

“Oh my god...” she breathed quietly, taking a few steps forward.

Slate rolled off the fallen machine, using up the last of his strength to avoid crumpling with exhaustion, trying to crawl away from the girl.

“I will be fine Beth,” he rasped, barely able to breath. “But I must confess, some further salts would not go amiss,”

A bottle was gingerly offered, and snatched unconsciously, frantically swallowed.

“Thank you... Slate,” whispered Elizabeth, pointedly not looking at the desiccated ruins that were Slate's arms. She had no doubt that such foul humors extended further into the old man's body, and would only get worse with the abuse of vigors. But watching him now, it was obvious that his addiction was probably the only thing keeping him alive, let alone capable of fighting.

He did not respond immediately, scrounging clothing from a dead soldier, hiding the marks of his battle.

“I am merely finishing the last mission afforded to me child. Give me no thanks, for I do it not for you, but for a debt I must wipe clean,” Slate told her sullenly, experimentally opening and closing his now gloved hands.

“Oh,” was all Elizabeth said.

Her gaze drifted, until she saw the oddest thing. A man and a woman were at the entrance to a store, both dressed near identical. The man opened the door for the woman, who saw Elizabeth and smiled, putting a finger to her lips. Then the pair disappeared within, the entrance slamming shut.

“Mis-... Slate, I-”

“I witnessed it too girl,” he croaked, stepping before her.

Slowly, they made their way over to where the couple disappeared, opened the door. The inside led to nothing, but that would not dissuade them. Taking a chance, the Slate and Elizabeth followed after.

And stepped into light.