The Color of Will

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This is a direct continuation of Machine Instinct, so be sure to read that first: https://pastebin.com/Qr40FNks
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Alita quickened her pace as the sound of battle echoed ever so faintly from further ahead; it seemed Greenhorn had caught up to Vigoro and was giving him her best. She wouldn't last long, of course, but a moment's distraction was all Alita could ask for, all she needed — just a bit of proximity and instinct would take care of the rest.

Instinct, was it? Something deep within had been stirred by the events of the evening, a wash in personality that always accompanied matters of life and death. Again the question began to gnaw at her conscious, the one of desire and design. Was this her? The question was perished and replaced by another, brought to the mind's fore unbidden: wasn't there anything nearby she could kill? A shame Jejunum couldn't die twice.

The walls of the corridor encroached in her manic perception. Credits stimulated the hunt, but in such a state she would gladly slaughter for free.

The clanging of steel stopped abruptly, and before long the body of Greenhorn came into view, slumped at a pained angle over the tunnel's central rail. Her breathing came at erratic intervals; Alita knew well the sound of a death rattle and this wasn't it. But it was close. Deep puncture wounds peppered her midsection, and corrosive acid bubbled from a gruesome claw-like tear across her leg. Alita made note of the secret to Vigoro's bahg nahk and left the poor rookie to an uncertain fate. She would find the strength to extricate herself or she would die a slow and agonizing death in the corridor black. Cruel but fair, as any Hunter-Warrior ought expect.

There was nothing left now keeping Alita from her mark and the man in possession of it. This realization prompted a fresh rush of adrenaline that carried her legs on all the quicker. Vigoro had made a fool of her outside the stadium and she was very much looking forward to paying him back — in the only fashion she knew how.

With scant light to herald it, the corridor opened up into a cavernous chamber; the crisscrossing rails and boxed substations marked it as an interchange, where cargo trains of old would be sorted, shuffled, and sent along to their destinations. Much like the depot where Alita made her entry, it was a shambles; the dark sky far above peeked through a ceiling ravaged by time, while lower layers of the Underworld had claimed much of the station floor — collapse upon collapse, as was so often the case in the darkest corners of Iron City.

Steel beams and narrow walkways spanned the space between in a great tangle of perpendiculars, bowing under the weight of decay. It was upon one of these treacherous paths Alita spotted him at long last, still toting the black bag containing a most lucrative cyber core. Even across the great distance between them, she could see the vulnerability of Vigoro; he moved with a crook at the hip, favoring his right side where blue blood seeped through the navy vest — a subtle tell, but one that couldn't escape Alita's notice. Greenhorn had managed to leave her mark after all.

Vigoro reached a ladder at the walkway's far end and continued his ascent with renewed desperation, having caught a glimpse of his pursuer who seemed none too interested in a clandestine approach. Alita regarded the ladders as a hindrance and ignored them entirely; with the Damascus held firm between gritted teeth, she began to clamber along the steel structure itself, rapidly closing the distance with her wounded target. In truth, there was no rush; while there were numerous exit tunnels leading away from the interchange, all but the one had been cut off by collapses below. Vigoro had no choice but to climb and hope the tangle's highest point stretched far enough to reach the ceiling, and the city beyond; the dawning realization that it didn't roused a panic within, so he ignored it and chose delusion instead.

From a hip pouch he retrieved a clutch of incendiaries, losing one through blood-slick fingers. It skipped off the handrail and fell to the station floor far below, filling the interchange with a rare flash of color. Two others he cast down at the lower walkway where Alita continued her pursuit. His aim betrayed him as both charges missed their mark, landing harmlessly in advance of the charging Berserker. Alita leaped through the curtain of fire without hesitation.

At this, Vigoro stopped for a moment of observation; it was always his strong suit and perhaps now the only thing that could save him. Alita pulled herself up from beam to beam with inhuman speed, marking each with a glow where plasma-coated hands stained steel. The frenzied look, frantic movements, and unconscious flame told of a Battle Angel in the throes of blood lust. Such a warrior could not be beaten — not in the state he found himself — but she could be fooled. Of course she could be fooled — he had done it once already.

Vigoro's feet lagged as his mind raced, scanning the walkways for signs of structural weakness. Centuries of exposure to rainwater from the ailing ceiling above had left the highest layers brittle; the metal groaned and listed under his weight and he knew then that such untrustworthy footing would be his only salvation. With a twist, he set a timer on the last of his incendiaries and activated their adhesives before sticking them at points of apparent vulnerability. Either the flash and fire would set the beams buckling, or he would be forced to fight the battle he had been running from all evening.

Hope died quick. Even through a haze of red, Alita saw the ploy. With a pair of titanic leaps, she cleared the rigged walkway entirely. Her hand caught the bottom rung of the next and she flung herself over the top just as the charges went off; it was all a wasted effort in the end as the structure stood firm against the trauma. She was now upon him, and there was nowhere left to go: above was nothing but an expanse of stale air much too large to traverse, and beyond ten paces the walkway ended with a cluster of frayed steel. He placed the bag containing Arbalest at his heels and turned to face his pursuer.

Alita tore the Damascus from her teeth with such force it spat sparks into the void. For a moment she held it at full extension to her side, then swung it straight ahead with tip brought level to Vigoro.

"Cede the mark, and I shall allow you to live. The Hunter's Code will not protect you from me." She spoke the words clearly, without a hint of fatigue to labor them. The same could not be said for Vigoro; his crisp delivery had long abandoned him and now blood and words passed his lips in equal measure. "Yes, I suppose you're right. We've both run afoul of the Code in this godforsaken place, haven't we? Zalem's leash anyway — never had much of a stomach for it." He raised his fists and dropped into a compact stance. "Never knew you to slay the innocent."

"She is marked."

"You know nothing. Perhaps that's how you like it. Details can be such a burden to one's conscious."

Vigoro shot forward like a whip, driven by a trick mechanism in his plant leg. The speed of the injured man caught Alita flat-footed; the teeth of his claws glided across her chest, leaving a thin trail of acid in their wake. Just as quick, he retreated beyond her wild counterattack and reached for another weapon on his belt. Alita charged with the Damascus drawn to strike, but she was once again second-best. Vigoro disappeared in a veil of thick grey smoke, long gone by the time she cleaved it in two. Deception was no insult from a man without options, but Alita had been taken twice by his trickery and was beginning to resent it terribly.

She doubled back in time to avoid a piercing lunge through the wisp, close enough to splash droplets of acid on her sword arm. Designed to eat through standard cybernetics, it was no match for the Berserker body's nanites. When Vigoro next laid eyes on Alita, it was as if he'd never landed a blow at all.

"Regenerative technology? That's a cheat."

Again he reached for his belt, but this time Alita was quicker. An advancing flurry from the blade sent Vigoro somersaulting over the edge of the walkway with all the grace of a practiced gymnast — one carrying a garish blade wound, at any rate. The structure whined as he caught a hold on one of the beams below and positioned himself hanging beneath Alita. Without so much as taking a moment to compose himself, Vigoro used the bahg nahk of his free hand to tear through the walkway like paper. Alita responded in kind with the Damascus. The two Hunter-Warriors exchanged blind blows through the steel partition for a spell, failing both to land even a single hit and succeeding only in eliciting a groan from the injured old length of rust.

Vigoro slipped another smoke bomb through one of the holes to conceal his movement; any more damage done to the walkway would risk a collapse that would surely kill the defenseless Arbalest. Alita had no such concern for the girl, but silenced her sword out of caution.

A rare measure of quietude fell over the interchange as dust kicked up by battle once more came to rest upon the derelict. Even the tired iron held its tongue.

"She was never anything more than a runner, you know. Guilty only of naivete." Vigoro's voice broke the peace, his location masked by the cavern's generous echo.

"I've killed thieves before."

"Thief? Oh, open your ears, would you? She played courier girl for some midtown gutter king, moving Factory product this way and that to fund her Motorball outfit. You'd be surprised the lengths some people will go to realize their dreams."

Alita gripped the Damascus tight, circling cat-like upon the tattered walkway in search of her foe. What little patience she did have was spent long ago.

Vigoro continued, nearer now than before. "But she was too good with that pistongun of hers. Promotion to First League brought a lot of fresh eyes, and that spooked the benefactor. So he set her up to take a fall on a dummy job before the Factory got too wise. Not all that uncommon, really."

"Only a fool would get so close."

"Not my choice, little angel. But by all means, kill her! There she is, still wrapped up in the bag just as you left her, stripped of her body, cries muffled by rags, utterly defenseless before your sword. You'll be a coward, of course, but who's here to witness it?"

A glint of steel flashed in the periphery. Alita reacted on instinct, catching Vigoro at the wrist as the spitting claws missed her ear by a hair's breadth. She squeezed with all the force she could muster, so distracted by the crackle of crushed cybernetics and the narcotic scent of cold sterility she hardly noticed Vigoro activate the trick mechanism in his leg once more. He howled in pain as his iron shin cracked against Alita's sword hand, sending the Damascus flying into the teeth of the interchange below. Still holding firm to his mangled wrist, she turned to face Vigoro; agony was written plain in the creases, but Alita could sense a hint of accomplishment pulling thin at his lips; the blade had given her reach over the longer man, and that advantage was now gone.

Alita dropped her hips low and made to toss Vigoro over the walkway railing, but he tore himself away at the last moment with a tremendous jerk of the shoulder, shearing his hand clean off at the wrist. Without hesitation he advanced, raining blows upon Alita with a fluency that belied his wounds. His live hand pistoned furiously, motivated by something more than money, more than combat instinct — it must have been. For whatever reason, this man was staking his life to protect someone he believed to be innocent.

The stabs of the bagh nahks were easy enough for Alita to parry. The doubt was more difficult to repel.

Vigoro's assault withered as fatigue set in. Finding an opening, Alita ducked forward past a particularly wild jab and sent Vigoro reeling with a palm strike near his blade wound. She caught his undamaged arm beneath her own and brought them both crashing down upon the walkway with a vicious twist. Blood was pouring from the gash now, freshly agitated, and Alita stressed his arm as hard as she could without ripping it off entirely.

Restraint? That was unusual.

"You're beaten!"

Vigoro offered no response. With the stump of what had been his free hand, he tried to manipulate something at his belt; he succeeded only in knocking it loose, donning a splash of blue. It rolled harmlessly off the walkway.

"YOU'RE BEATEN!"

Lost in the haze, he muttered something indecipherable. Alita could feel the tensions running through his body as he brought all his strength to bear in an effort to escape the hold. But his body was not a Berserker's body, and the difference between was one no amount of will could overcome. So he thought to call upon the trick mechanism one last time, contorting himself into a more opportune position for a decisive blow.

Alita had seen enough. Bracing her hand against his chest, she pulled. Tears and cracks began to appear at the shoulder; tubing snapped and anchorages shattered as the purple fibers of Alita's musculature ran taut. And then, in a spectacular explosion of grays and blues, she rended his arm entirely.

Vigoro writhed in pain as he bled out onto the walkway; cerulean streams snaked their way around the diamond protrusions and spilled off into the abyss. Alita stood over him for a while, still holding the ruined appendage in a vice grip and feeling none of the red vigor that so often accompanied such violence. An old hand like Vigoro wouldn't go so far for fifty-five thousand credits, no matter how desperate.

Alita ran from the details — that much he had been right about. It was much easier to kill the murderer without knowing the crimes of their victim, much easier to end the thief without knowing what motivated their theft. She would cut down the meek without hesitation, while the brave earned themselves a chance at survival; only in the final moment could leniency be gained. To one bred for war, it all seemed quite fair.

But interwoven with the soul of a warrior was the spirit of a guardian. And while the spirit could accept the brutal simplicity of the soul's methods, it recoiled mightily when asked to slaughter one whose guilt could be questioned; guilt more fundamental than any the Factory assigned. So to carry on as a Hunter-Warrior, Alita ran from the details whenever she could. And on a night of endless pursuit, the details had caught up.

She set the arm down next to Vigoro with a gentle touch, not much caring that it was beyond even the finest cybersurgeon's ability to salvage. Vigoro had composed himself as much as he would bearing such injuries, but he said nothing. His eyes begged for a selfless grace, peering deep into Alita's own for some semblance of response. None was given as she turned to make for the mark — she was asking the same questions of herself, and the answers were proving difficult to grasp.

The Berserker plasma flickered to life upon the surface of her arm as she advanced on the black bag, still set near the walkway's furthest edge. That lashing blue was a constant companion in moments of strife, often erupting forth without a conscious thought to summon it. Alita had long relied on such automations, but in this moment she resented it; with a sharp wave the flame was extinguished.

Alita dropped to a knee and began unzipping the bag. The first thing she saw were the eyes, red-streaked and brimming with raw betrayal. Next came the nose, bloodied by rough transit. But the mouth was most interesting of all: somewhere along the way Arbalest had freed herself of the rags used to silence her, yet Alita could not recall once hearing her cry out.

Upon seeing her captor, Arbalest found her voice — raspy and wounded, but threaded with resolution.

"Alita. Of all the Hunter-Warriors in Iron City to bury me with my secrets, it just had to be you. A shame we'll never meet on the track, though by the way you've handled this business I'd be surprised if you had the guts to face me."

"The Factory didn't leave me a choice. I would have preferred a fight."

"Say whatever you will. Have you killed my kin?"

Alita was no longer concerned with Vigoro's motives and wasn't interested in pressing the issue. She looked over her shoulder at his mangled body and thought it best not to give Arbalest the same view.

"No. But he can't protect you any longer."

Alita didn't expect Arbalest to believe her, but the terse nod of understanding said that she did.

"I take it he gave you the full story, then? Motorball funds, running hot product through the sub-levels, the Fulcrum Company job, all of it? Oh hell, of course he did — that man never could keep his mouth shut. Serenaded me with reassurances all along the way, as if that was going to do me any good."

Arbalest shifted her eyes up and down, suddenly noticing something amiss.

"Where's that blade of yours?"

The question went unanswered for quite some time, hanging in the air with what Arbalest could only interpret as menace. Alita's mind had wandered elsewhere to settle a question of a different color, one that had been teasing at her from the moment she stole Arbalest away from the repair assemblage. Desire and design, spirit and soul — perhaps the two would inhabit her always, but she knew one must win now.

Decisive as ever, it was settled in an instant: Alita realized with all finality that she did not wish to kill this woman.

"Do you have anywhere to go? Any contacts in the Badlands?"

They were simple enough queries whose significance was not lost on Arbalest. A bit of the steel faded from her voice as she gave in to a shimmer of hope.

"I know some people out by Farm 15, had a spot all prepped in case something like this happened. Just didn't think I'd have a marker sprung on me in the middle of a race."

Arbalest shook her head and broke into a wide smile that cracked the dry blood.

"First executioner, now escort?"

"You won't need an escort. But you will need that pistongun."

"Back to the stadium, then?"

"I'll help Vigoro over to Ido's first, then we'll get you back in that body of yours."

Alita rose to her feet and slung the bag's strap over her shoulder, feeling more herself than she had all night.

"What happens after that is up to you."