Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The car crunches along deserted mountain roads. Over the last hour, only one truck has passed by on the opposite lane. The trees are beautiful, the region serene.

This could easily mean my death.

We're heading into the middle of nowhere. Even for the Roughs, this region's all but deserted. And they haven't asked a single question. Odds are, they plan to dispose of me. All four of my captors carry handguns, and they completely ignored my objections, before I gave up on reasoning with them. I have no clue who they think I am, but they certainly have the wrong man. I can think of only one thing that might make me a target, but I've carefully kept it secret, and they clearly don't know about it. If they did, they never would have used steel handcuffs.

I ride in silence, slumping in the seat, totally passive. Hopefully they take me for catatonic, unable to face the peril of my predicament. I keep my eyes closed, or else they might notice something very odd whenever I blink.

Thankfully, none of the men speak, and none are suspicious of their "helpless" prisoner, who appears to have retreated fully within himself. If they do expect me to speak, or even move, they'll immediately grow suspicious, especially since I suspect one of them is a Tineye.

The car turns off the road, bumping and rumbling through a sparser section of forest. As I feared, they aren't taking me anywhere in particular. They simply don't want me to be found any time soon.

After slowly winding about a mile through the woods, the car stops. The large, silent men on either side of me get out, one of them drawing his gun. A semiautomatic pistol, likely with a dozen or more shots per magazine. Likely, they expect to need only one bullet.

The driver orders me out of the car, and I stop filling my metalmind. Most people, if kidnapped, would want the journey to be short. They'd want to be near enough to home to make rescue possible. But in my case, I wish we'd gone farther, to give me more time to store my Feruchemy. Hopefully it was long enough…

Clear of the vehicle, I straighten, facing the man with the drawn gun. Without a word, he raises his weapon.

I tap my steelmind. The metal they gave me in their ignorance when they cuffed me.

My handcuffs, my steel handcuffs, return the speed I Invested them with, over the course of that hour in the car. Had I been forced to speak or move during that time, it would have been instantly apparent what I was doing: Only a Steelrunner Ferring can move so slowly and smoothly, without a quiver.

Now, I run.

An hour's worth of speed might not seem like much, but a Ferochemist can draw on their stored attribute as quickly as they desire. To my eyes, the men slow dramatically as I dash away many times faster than even a Thug can run. If I push to the point of being a human blur, my stored speed will run out far too quickly, so I force down my fear while rationing the power. I crest a nearby rise just as the first gunshots ring out. I zigzagged during this sprint, and the shots go wild, but I still experience jolts of fear with each crack. Even at this speed, I come nowhere near actually dodging the bullets, I simply make a very difficult target.

Out of their line of sight, I run toward denser forest, where the car can't follow. I drop the rate at which I draw on what little speed remains in my steel, stretching it out more efficiently. By the time it runs out, I've begun to tire. Occasionally sparring with Wilma hasn't been enough to keep me in shape, and running hurts. I'm lost in the woods, handcuffed, and I don't dare slow myself to start refilling the steel. My abductors are surely following, and if I'm right about them having a Tineye, my considerable lead won't stop them from tracking me.

This morning in Elendell, they caught me at a particularly vulnerable moment, when I carelessly went out with no steel on me. I'm so accustomed to hiding my abilities, I've gotten sloppy over the years. This was clearly just terrible timing, as they didn't know I'm metalborn. Almost no one knows I'm metalborn. I've carefully kept it secret from all but my wife and my Terris teacher. With old Dawnshot gone, it's too likely that I'd be pressed into service as a lawman, or even a soldier. I might even be pressured to take Ladrian's place as Harmony's sword… a role I would absolutely hate. I love Harmony, and I follow the Path… but I would want to be His Preservation… not His Ruin.

At least Wilma wasn't with me at the time of my abduction. My wife is brilliant in how she uses her powers, but that still might not have been enough to save her against four gunmen. At least, not with her foolish husband unprepared and useless…

I try not to think about what would have happened to me if these handcuffs were any other metal. And from the ease with which I Invested these impromptu metalminds, I can tell the steel of these handcuffs is particularly pure. This fact might save my life, but only if I can somehow break them first.

I stagger on, growing ever wearier, wondering how I can do what needs to be done. They clearly don't have a Steelrunner or Coinshot among their number, otherwise I'd already have been overtaken and gunned down. But hired killers like that are certainly stronger and faster than me, as I've lived a mostly sedentary life. With a Tineye listening for my footsteps, it's only a matter of time before they catch up.

And then I crest another rise, and through the trees I see a sight that fills me with hope.

The house doesn't look occupied, but that's for the best. With hired gunmen following me, I don't want to involve an innocent third party. With hope–and desperation–granting me something of a second wind, I dash to the door and find it unlocked. Inside, dust and cobwebs cover what little furniture remains. An old-fashioned wood-fire iron stove stands in the kitchen, just the right size for what I have in mind, but first I need something.

I find my way to the garage and desperately search through the drawers of an abandoned toolbox. Nuts, bolts, screws, I carefully sift through them all. With each, I take a couple seconds, trying to Invest them with physical speed, but only to test their composition. In many cases, nothing happens: they aren't steel at all but some other metal. But then I come upon a particularly tiny screw, the sort likely used for a pair of glasses. I stand still, divesting myself of speed, and with considerable resistance, the metal accepts. Steel… but not the right mixture. Good thing it's so small. Any more, and this would be a very bad idea…

I swallow the screw.

For I'm not only a Steelrunner.

I'm also a Coinshot.

As I return to the kitchen, I feel a weak, ominously altered version of the warm, comforting presence I'm used to. A vial of properly prepared shavings of Allomantically pure steel would have generated a wholesome and empowering sensation. Instead, this threatens illness and pain.

It'll have to do…

The old iron stove in the kitchen is clearly very heavy, and bolted to the floor. And it's barely small enough for me to get my arms around it despite the handcuffs. I do so, crouching down, focusing on the sensation of that tiny bit of inferior steel in my stomach. This will be extremely unpleasant…

I burn Steel.

Instantly my head begins to throb, and I start to grow ill due to the impurity of the metal. Even so, I should be able to wrench just enough power out of it to make this work…

I flare the steel and push.

The floorboards groan where the stove is bolted down, but it doesn't break free. So instead, as I hoped, the Allomantic push hurls me backward. The handcuffs bite fiercely into my wrists, and I feel an awful crack as my left wrist brakes… but so do the handcuffs. The chain snaps, and the last of my steelpush smashes me into the opposite wall.

I slump forward, dazed, ill, and with terrible pain in my broken wrist, but I can't rest yet. Dizzy, I crawl across the floor, searching the dusty floorboards with my right hand. Exhausted and sick, I just want to lie there, but not yet, not yet…

My fingers brush against something metallic, and instinctively I try Investing physical speed.

It works.

Now I do let myself rest, my palm in contact with that lone link of the broken chain of my handcuffs. I lie there, my broken wrist throbbing, both wrists bleeding, weary, nauseous… and triumphant. I have all I need. I divest myself of speed, pouring it into the high-quality steel of that broken bit of chain.

After a while, I hear the snap of a branch outside. Earlier, that sound would have terrified me. Now though, I feel a steady resolve.

I'm ready.

I rise to my feet, with the link of the chain in my hand. I walk through the house to the front door.

Approaching, guns out, are the two men that sat on either side of me in the car. To have caught up already and yet not show signs of weariness, they must be Pewterarm Mistings. Ordinarily, that would make them extremely dangerous opponents. But they face a Twinborn.

And not just any Twinborn.

Steelrunner. Coinshot.

Steel Feruchemist. Steel Allomancer.

Compounder.

I raise the chain link, which is now a tiny but pure steelmind, and I swallow it.

Then I burn Steel.

To my eyes, blue lines sprout from my center of mass, pointing toward nearby sources of metal, particularly the guns in the hands of the two Thugs.

Even more importantly, I feel a surge of another power. For that small broken link of chain is filled with my Feruchemical speed. And as the steel burns, my Allomancy multiplies that stored attribute tenfold.

I dash forward in a blur many times faster than my earlier sprint. Wind rips at my hair and clothes, and I have to squint. To my eyes, the men barely move. I rapidly close on the man who would have been my executioner, and he doesn't have time to even start to aim. And as I do so, I focus on the blue line pointing at his gun, held forward in both hands. I flare steel, burning away the last of the metalmind I swallowed.

Under normal circumstances, the two of us would have been hurled away from each other, me especially because of the difference in our weight. But I'm tapping a tremendous burst of speed, and I recover far, far faster than him. To my eyes, he slowly drifts through the air, a look of shock only just starting to form on his face.

I snatch the gun from his hand.

Two shots echo through the forest.

My speed runs out.

But now it doesn't matter.

I walk slowly back into the house, and sit against a wall, resting. Refilling my broken handcuffs with speed. And still holding the stolen gun.

For their sake, I hope the other two stayed back at their car.

Author's Note:

I didn't consciously make this chapter up. It was a dream I had some time after reading "Shadows of Self." After waking, I was proud of having managed to think through the process of how to use my limited resources to start Compounding.

Several readers wanted to see this story continued, and I found a way to do so that I hope will feel unique and fun. The user "retro mania" suggested a project based on a classic Twilight Zone episode, and I realized it could slot neatly into this Cosmere story. The idea expanded and grew, culminating in quite a wild ride. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Text

Three days later, I awake in bed next to my sleeping wife. I immediately wish I could have stayed asleep. I'm normally way more responsible than this… but a hangover pummels me. I roll over in bed, fully clothed from last night's party. Peering over my slumbering wife, I can't quite make out the hands of the clock. Awkwardly reaching over Wilma, I manage to snatch it off the end table.

It's already after nine. "Oh great," I mumble to myself. "Just great." My shift at the bank started at eight.

I try to return the clock to the little table, but I miss by a mile and it crashes to the floor. I can't bring myself to care, and Wilma doesn't stir. She's grown so skilled with her Feruchemy, she can store mental speed while sleeping. This results in her rarely if ever dreaming, and it's very hard to wake her. But it also means her numerous zincminds are very heavily Invested, allowing her to draw on the stored mental speed far more often than anyone but a zinc Compounder. Right now, this incredible talent means little to me. I wish she'd woken up in time to get me to work…

Or maybe, I wish I'd just stayed asleep.

With my pounding headache intensifying, I wish I had Wilma's Feruchemy. Sure, my Steelrunner powers saved my life three days ago… but a Sparker can largely skip past a hangover, or any physical misery. Back before Wilma became a Feruchemical Savant, she found ways to benefit from the times when she stored mental speed. The most useful was when sick or in pain. By divesting herself of mental speed, she not only fills her metalminds at the maximum rate, but she can effectively zip past unpleasant experiences. If she had a migraine, she could experience mere moments of it during the hours it took for her to recover. More than once, she also stored mental speed to skip past a long period of boring waiting, similar to what some Pulser Mistings do. But while a Pulser would have to expend cadmium for that effect, Wilma is gaining future mental speed.

I realize I'm just trying to distract myself from how miserable I feel… and I decide on just a little more of that. Similar to hitting snooze on a modern alarm clock, I need a moment to collect myself and let this headache lighten up just a bit.

If I weren't a Compounder, I would be more obsessed with what some refer to as "Free Traits," or what a scholar might informally call "End-Positive Feruchemy." That is, the types of Feruchemy where there can be benefits to storing your trait, not just tapping it. Skimmers are the best example, as storing their Feruchemy can make them nearly weightless. Windwhispers can deaden specific senses to better focus on others. Right now, I'd love to be able to switch off tactile sense, which might help with the jackhammer pounding away inside my skull. Archivists can essentially choose to forget whatever they wish, so long as they never tap the stored memories. Firesouls can stay cool while physically exerting or enduring hot weather. Sentries never have trouble falling asleep, since they need only divest themselves of wakefulness and bam, they're out like a light. Right now though, I most wish I were a Subsumer. That way, I could have stored away the excess alcohol from last night, and this hangover never would have happened.

Despite my current misery, I've already killed more time than I had. No matter how late I am, it can always get worse.

My head throbs, cloudy and under unpleasant pressure. I clearly had way too much to drink last night. It's so hard to say no to Pate, especially when celebrating my discharge from the hospital after a near-death experience. I might have been there far longer, but I dipped into my savings for some Invested help. A Malwish Doctor used a Bloodmaker medallion to heal the bones in my wrist, but they still kept me for a few days of observation. It's nice being back home, but this headache is almost as bad as my wrist felt before the healing. "Oh, never... Never, never again."

I'd love a little support from my wife right now. She was exceptionally attentive and nurturing when I drove back into Elendell a few days ago, and she did everything she could to help me get over the guilt from having killed two men and wounded two others. But I guess I got patched up too quickly, so now it's back to business as usual. "Oh, sure. You go right ahead and sleep." I wallow to the side of the bed and rise shakily to my feet. "That's right. Never mind about how I feel." I know I'm being unfair, but unless she's secretly awake and tapping zinc she probably can't understand my soft grumbling. "I'm an hour late to work but so what? No skin off your pretty little nose, right?" I stagger toward the bathroom. "Oh, boy. What a wife. What a doll of a wife. You could have at least taken my shoes off, you know."

My mind drifts back to my ordeal in the Roughs. The deadly peril that caused me to take human lives for the first time, dropping the two Thugs with bullets to the head. The Tineye and Smoker waited back at the car, and were very little threat to me by the time I reached them, with handcuffs Invested with speed. Those two men are still in the hospital, recovering from the gunshots I dealt to their arms and legs. I hope the police can get more out of them than what little they've admitted to thus far.

A wave of nausea washes over me, scattering these thoughts. "I didn't want to go to that stupid party…" Last night, I told Wilma I was still shaky from the ordeal, and I ought to stay home and read. But no… She insisted I couldn't hurt old Patey's feelings…

I blink, doing a double-take. My vision is swimming, but I've never had it this bad. The counter looks… wrong. Like an elaborate symbol is embossed on the surface. But it flows away and vanishes from sight before I can be sure.

I really shouldn't let Pate pressure me into drinking so much…

"Oh boy, oh boy. I go to work and suffer all day and you sack out until noon. That's fair. Oh boy. Oh boy. What next?" Until now, I've tried to keep my voice down. My miserable muttering is no more than a vent for my pain and frustration. But now I actually need her. "Wilma! Wilma, what have you done with my razor?" Bleary-eyed, head trying to split, hands unsteady, it's hard to find any of my things. Did Wilma rearrange the bathroom completely while I was drinking myself sick? What an odd prank. I tap steel to rapidly search through every drawer and cabinet, baffled at my inability to find the razor, or anything of mine. I swallow a vial of steel shavings, and begin burning it. In my mind's eye, blue lines streak from my center of mass to every metal source nearby. Even by following those, my razor is nowhere to be seen. None of my things are.

Nausea worsening, I stop drawing on either aspect of my Investiture. I stagger to Wilma's side of the bed. "Hey, hey, come on." She rolls over, but nothing more. "Come on, wake up." I give her shoulder a shake. "Come on, will you? I'm late."

I've known her long enough to recognize when, even asleep, she stops storing mental speed in her zincminds. She stirs, slowly coming around. Her thick brown hair and lightly-tanned skin look fresh. She must have showered before bed, and she clearly had far less to drink than I did. Her brown eyes open.

She takes one look at me… and recoils.

"Wilma... hey…"

She frantically rolls off the far side of the bed, scattering covers. Leaping back to her feet, she looks ready to run.

The fog in my head lifts somewhat as I try to make sense of this reaction. "Never mind the dramatics, Wilma, just tell me where you put my razor."

I recognize the moment when she taps zinc. Her eyes dart from place to place, examining me in extreme detail in under a second, her mind accelerated far beyond what I experience when tapping steel. Overwhelmed, I begin to step around the bed, wanting to comfort her. Her hands clench into fists, and she orders, "Stay where you are!"

"What's the matter... You sick? You left the party too early for that."

"Who are you?"

I blink and shake my head. "What?"

"Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?"

This has to be a joke. "You mean this isn't the Wayne Sports Complex?" My pitiful attempt at humor just makes her more combative. She draws back one fist, ready to throw a punch, while her left hand opens for grappling. This is downright silly. I'm visibly wearing my steel bracelets, and with her mind enhanced she should be able to tell that I'm also wearing my large steel bracers under my long sleeves. Even while tapping zinc, her body could never keep up if I tapped my metalminds. "Honey, will you knock it off? I'm late. Tell me where you put the razor."

She leaps onto the bed. Our difference in height has now been flipped, but surely she can't think she could fight me? "Darling, I am in no mood for jokes."

"You get out of here."

Head pounding, I'm starting to get seriously annoyed. This is not the time for something this silly. "Wilma. Wilma? Why are you doing this?"

"How do you know my name?"

She flinches as I throw up my hands in exasperation. "It's on the marriage certificate. Remember?"

"Mister, I've never seen you before in all my life."

Angry now, I reach out for her.

She takes a swing at me.

Against a normal man, that punch might have been deadly, with all the precision and accuracy of a Sparker Ferring. But I tap steel. She aimed for a potentially lethal hit to my larynx, but there's no chance of that against an alert Steelrunner. My arm moves in a blur, catching her wrist, and when she strikes out with her other hand I snatch that wrist as well. Though she trains her body far more than I do mine, she still can't match me in a contest of raw strength.

Despite my headache, I manage to smirk in a way that I hope is roguishly charming. "Honey… I love you… but this farce has gone on way too long. I'm late for work."

If anything, her expression of fear and anger intensifies. "Look, Mister. Whoever you are, I don't want any trouble, but if you don't leave I'm going to call the police."

Ready to tap steel again if necessary, I release her and throw my hands up in exasperation. "Call the police. Call the fire department. Tell them to bring an oxygen mask. There is a man dying of frustration."

"I'm not bluffing. If you don't get out of here by the time I count to five, I'll call them."

"Oh, come on!"

"One. Two."

"Cut it out."

"Three. Four."

"I am not amused!"

"Five! All right..."

She grabs the phone off the wall, but before she can dial, I've proven how powerful steel Feruchemy can be. I've moved the dresser, unplugged the phone from the wall, pushed the dresser back into position, and righted the mirror and lamp that fell over in the process.

"What is the matter with you?" I demand. "Calling the police on your own husband!"

Astonishingly, she lunges for the revolver we have stored under the bed. I intercept her and pin her arms.

She shrieks, "Don't touch me!"

"This is what I call a delayed reaction! Two martinis at midnight and she's tipsy the following morning!" I release her again, speed buzzing within me in case she takes another swing, and I head back over to the dresser. "Look, I suggest you go to bed and sleep it off. I shouldn't have bothered waking you at all."

"What are you going to do?" The fear in her voice is downright baffling. How could she keep a dumb joke going so long, especially when I'm late to work?

"I'm gonna change my clothes, if you don't mind." I open the first drawer, and see only Wilma's things. "Where are my socks?" I check the next drawer. Again, none of the clothes are mine. "What in the name of…" Another drawer. This one's empty. "All right. Would you mind telling me what is going on? Where are my clothes?"

Wilma's tapping zinc again, accelerating her thoughts, and a wave of expressions wash over her face. None of them good. Maybe she's using the mental speed to help her improvise, keeping this prank going long after it stopped being funny.

A thought occurs to me. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don't know exactly what's going on but I suppose it's another one of Pate's ridiculous little gags. Well, you can tell him that the joke didn't land." I give myself another look over. My suit is not in great condition from having been slept in, but I guess I'll have to live with it. "Now, I'm going to work. When I come home, you had better have everything straightened out, do you understand?"

I reach the door, hoping this will finally cause her to drop the act. But she stays where she is. With my headache fueling my frustration, I sarcastically say, "No, no, that's very thoughtful of you but I'm not much in the mood for breakfast. Thanks for offering." I throw open the door and march out. "Nut."

I'm halfway down the stairs when I hear the click of a revolver cocking. Burning steel, I push. The gun flies from Wilma's hand as she crashes into the wall. With her tapping zinc, she reacted quickly enough not to hit her head, which I counted on. I pause. "I hope you're done with this terrible joke when I get home. Maybe we can find time to spar then."

I continue down the stairs, and she wisely chooses not to go for the gun again. She's athletic, and exquisitely fit, but with my speed enhanced, she has no realistic way to compensate for our difference in strength. If I were so unhinged as to attack her, Wilma's electrum Allomancy would warn her, and with her mind enhanced she might be able to react in time. Forecaster Twinborn like her can be extremely difficult to pin down, even by gunmen or Steelrunners. But electrum is not the mythical atium, and she has no hope of landing a successful attack against a Steel Compounder. We've sparred in the past, but always under carefully controlled circumstances. Right now, neither of us is in the mindset for such things.

Fed up, confused, and physically miserable, I head out the front door.

At times like these, I wish I didn't have to be so careful about hiding my powers. By Compounding steel, I could move too fast for normal eyes to track, and I could get to work in two minutes flat. But in the busy metropolis of Elendel, I'm far too likely to be detected by a Tineye, Windwhisper, Sparker, Spinner, or Seeker. Even another Steelrunner might be able to see me, if they happened to be tapping enough speed of their own.

I can't risk that. Decades ago, the serial killer known as "Bleeder" caused dozens of deaths by misusing Feruchemical speed. As a Steel Compounder, I have enormously greater potential for dealing death and devastation. Any military, police, or criminal organization would view me as their single greatest asset. My private, peaceful life would be lost forever. Taking just two lives, even knowing the Thugs intended to murder me, still tugs at my heart. I follow the Path, obeying the teachings of Harmony. His primary message: Do more good than harm. The amount of harm I could do if pressured or manipulated to misuse my powers… it would be impossible for any good to outweigh it.

And thus, forced to hide my extraordinary combination of Investiture, I'm doomed to be very late to work.

I trot to the nearest intersection, tapping just a trickle of speed to make up for my poor athleticism. Only a Seeker might notice such a mild use of Investiture, but that power is far more precise at detecting Allomancy. With so many metalborn using their powers in the city, I've never before drawn attention by such subtle enhancement. After all, a younger or more athletic man could easily move this fast without needing Feruchemy.

Reaching the intersection, I hail a taxi. Normally, I get up early enough to take the more charming and quaint horse-drawn carriages, but they're too slow when I'm late. I climb into the car, reminded of my awkward and technically illegal drive back from the Roughs. Maybe I should look into getting a driver's license. I've worked at the bank long enough I could afford my own automobile if I saved up.

The driver asks for my identification, and to my dismay I discover that my work ID isn't in my wallet. Last night really must have been wild…

Thankfully, a wad of cash as an up-front tip is enough to get things rolling.

As the taxi makes its way to the First Octant, I try to calm my nerves. The sight of a Coinshot messenger leaping through the sky fills me with longing, while a skinny youth who must be a Pewterarm casually carries a steel beam that weighs many times more than she does. The city is thriving, which easily might not have been true. Decades ago, Dawnshot and the heroic Wayne prevented a catastrophe that would have been second only to the Catacendre. There was even talk of an extremist religion known as Trellism attempting to overthrow every government on Skadrial. For now though, an uneasy peace reigns. Tensions with the Roughs and the Malwish persist, but there isn't any serious talk of war.

The car passes through a major intersection, and I see a Faceless Immortal standing on a small platform, addressing the crowds. While most of Harmony's kandra servants have left Skadrial, those that remain have grown more open in their dealings with humanity. I wish I had time to hear him out.

There's also a somewhat suspicious figure in a nearby alley, staring at me way too intensely. But in a city this vast, there's always gonna be some nut or other, so I choose to ignore him.

At last, the taxi pulls up to the First Union Bank. My headache has only faded in intensity, not cleared up entirely, but I've run out of time for recovery. I toss more money at the driver and hop out. Now to put Wilma's tasteless prank out of my mind and get to work.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Jinn." I force a smile, hiding my headache and mild nausea. But Jinn doesn't bother to reply. Maybe he had a rough night too.

"Good morning." Garet completely ignores me.

"Hi, Nack. Good morning, Jewl, Thed." Each of them looks up, but they seem more confused than anything. Did something happen this morning that has everyone out of sorts?

I stride toward my desk, and I stop, doing a double take.

There's a man sitting in my chair.

Finally, someone acknowledges me, seeing my confusion and concern. "Yes, Sir, may I help you?"

"Gorj, who's that?" I point at the interloper.

"That's Mr. Copper."

Frustration rises up again. Why is Gorj avoiding the real issue? "Mr. Copper" has a nameplate and a picture of himself right there on my desk. He came prepared to run with the prank. "Would you mind telling me what Mr. Copper is doing at my desk?" Sure, I'm late, so it's possible another employee might have temporarily filled in for me. But this man doesn't even work here.

Gorj's confusion looks genuine. "Beg pardon?"

Oh no… Did Wilma convince Gorj to join her in this idiotic joke? Did she involve everyone?

I'm tired of this. I stride over to my desk and loom over this "Mr. Copper." The undersized stranger smiles up at me. "Who in Ruin's name are you?" I demand. Though Sliverists swear by Ruin, many others consider it more than a little offensive. But I follow the Path, and Ruin is half of Harmony after all. Invoking it feels reasonable when there's a conspiracy of pranksters wrecking my day, especially when I'm already hungover and late to work.

The man's smile falters. "How's that?"

"I said, who in Ruin's name are you and what are you doing at my desk?"

"Your desk?" This guy must be a trained actor. His confusion looks sincere.

"That's right. My desk."

The room has fallen silent. It's growing more likely that Wilma really did involve the entire office in her joke.

"I've had enough of this today." I point directly at this fraud. "Get out of that chair, now."

"I'll do nothing of the kind."

Even without knowing about my Investiture, this little man shouldn't think he can take me. I'm not athletic, but I'm larger than him, and seriously angry. "Get out or I'll throw you out!"

"There's no need to get excited…"

"After the morning I put in!" I yank the charlitain to his feet, knocking over the chair in the process. Someone cries out on the far side of the room, but they've all earned a little fear for taking part in this tasteless game. "And would you be kind enough to take this junk with you?" My voice is far from friendly as I snatch the picture and nameplate off my desk and shove them at Mr. Copper.

A deep voice comes from behind me. "What's the trouble, Sir?"

I turn to the security guard. "Look, Jinn, this stupid joke has gone far enough. Tell everyone to drop it! This wasn't even funny at the start, and it's dragged on way too long!"

Jinn has never been one for fakery, so it genuinely worries me when he turns to Mr. Copper and asks, "What's this man's issue?"

"He says this is his desk," Mr. Copper answers, with not a hint of subterfuge.

Jinn takes a step closer to me, and my anger begins to mix with fear. "Step outside, Sir, we can settle this."

I fight to restore my composure, but my worsening headache makes this very difficult. "There's nothing to be settled except I would like my nameplate back and my picture."

The guard's expression hardens. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist."

Surely, surely, if I stand my ground, everyone will give up on this farce, and I can get back to work. So I stand tall. "I'm not budging."

"Yes, you are." Jinn grabs my shoulder and pulls me toward the door.

"Jinn, you get your hand off me or I'll see to it that you're fired!" There. I said it. All of these people, who've worked with me for years, must realize that they've gone too far. They're risking their jobs by disrupting the entire bank.

But Jinn doesn't even blink. "We'll talk about it outside."

All the confusion, frustration, and physical discomfort boil over, combining with my lingering guilt over killing two men and maiming two others. For just a moment, I completely lose my cool, and I shove Jinn, hard. The larger man slams into the wall, and his anger visibly spikes.

I find myself staring down the barrel of his revolver. His aluminum revolver. "Put your hands up, Mister."

My heart skips a beat. "What?"

"Put your hands up!"

Aluminum is immune to Allomancy, so there's no way for me to steelpush his gun. If I dodge by tapping speed, bullets might hit someone else. And either option would expose me as metalborn, a secret I've kept my entire life. "Has everybody gone crazy?" Even to me, the words sound weak, even pathetic. With each passing moment, it's feeling less and less believable that this could all be an elaborate trick. Out of the corner of my eye, I see what looks like a faint distortion flow across Nack's desk, but I don't dare look away from the gun.

Jinn gestures toward the front door. "Walk three paces in front of me. Don't cause any trouble or I'll have to shoot."

I hesitate, still unwilling to accept the horrible likelihood that this might not be a joke. That, perhaps, my wife and all of my coworkers have actually forgotten me…

"Move!" Jinn shouts.

Stunned into silence, I slowly make my way to the front door.

Turning to Mr. Copper, Jinn commands, "Call the Police, Sir."

Passing Gorj, I manage to ask, "What's going on…?"

But Gorj doesn't answer, and Jinn gives me a shove. "All right, keep moving!"

I step outside, and I'm horrified to see Police are already here. Two constables, both wearing Mistcoats, declaring their status as Metalborn. The one with a Lurcher badge on his shoulder wears a metal plate over his center of mass, allowing him to pull incoming bullets toward it, potentially protecting an entire squad from gunfire. But the other wears the symbols of both a Pewterarm and a Steelrunner. That's a frightful combination. "Hero" Twinborn are very rare, and terrifying in battle. Even I would have to be careful and strategic to actually defeat someone like him. If it comes to that, I'll run away instead.

Except… if the Lurcher reacts quickly enough and Allomantically pulls on my belt buckle, I might not be able to escape. He's heavier than me…

All these thoughts vanish when I see who the constables are interviewing. The brown hair and eyes… the lightly tanned skin…

"Wilma!" I rush over to her, and only the relief and joy on my face stops Jinn or the constables from intervening. "Wilma, please, this has gone way too far. Will you tell these people who I am?"

But the Lurcher asks Wilma, "Is this the man?"

There's no love or even familiarity in Wilma's voice when she answers, "Yes. He's the one who invaded my home this morning."

My jaw drops.

The Twinborn Hero turns to me. "What's your real name, Mister?"

I feel tears willing up, and I fight them back. "Ask her," I say, unable to prevent the growing betrayal and loss from showing in my tone.

"She doesn't know," the Lurcher says.

"She doesn't know? After eleven years of marriage she doesn't know?" With all my willpower, I collect myself, regain my composure, and turn to Wilma. "Mrs. Gurnet, allow me to introduce myself. I'm David Gurnet, your husband, remember? Please. I beg you. Remember."

She looks sad, but in the way you might show sympathy to a beggar on the street… or a raving madman.

I turn back toward the bank, and I see that most of my coworkers have gathered. Many of them show similar sympathy, but nothing resembling recognition. "Please… please… Don't just stand there… At least one of you must remember me! I'm David Gurnet, and I've worked here for years."

Jinn has holstered his revolver, hopefully deciding I'm not actually dangerous.

"Jinn, now, please, will you tell them? I've worked with you for twelve years. Now, tell them!"

He looks uncomfortable, but not in the way of a liar.

"Jewl… Thed… Gorj, will you tell them? Tell them who I am!"

A couple of the onlookers are starting to look irritated, but most of the others now look sad. It's not every day you see a man so out of touch with reality. Or, that's how they clearly see it.

The Hero puts a hand on my shoulder, though thankfully he's not burning pewter to enormously enhance his strength. "All right, let's go."

"Wait a minute! You say I'm not David Gurnet, right? I'll prove it to you." I reach into my jacket, and now I feel strength flowing through the Twinborn constable. But I pause, make eye contact, and he allows me to slowly pull out my wallet. "Let's see what you have to say to this." I already know that my work ID isn't in my wallet, but it's not the only thing with my name. I own three of the new-fangled credit cards, and I remember putting my wristband in there after I was released from the hospital.

But… they aren't there.

None of them.

My wallet isn't empty. But nothing with my name on it is there. I have a punchcard from a local coffee shop, and a coupon for a free Soothing at a local Brass Parlor, but those prove nothing. The thought of Emotional Allomancy briefly has me suspicious… but no. Even a fabled Mistborn of old, able to enhance their Rioting or Soothing with a flash of Duralumin, couldn't explain this. Briefly suppressing everyone's emotions could never cause people to forget something.

Tearing up, I turn back to Wilma. The woman I love, my wife of eleven years.

"My work ID and credit cards… Did you happen to find them anywhere? Please try to remember…"

I notice the subtle signs of Wilma tapping zinc, and she genuinely seems to be trying to remember. But her face falls, and she shrugs helplessly.

As a last, desperate effort, I say, "Your earring! The one you were given by the Faceless Immortal on the day we were engaged!"

Surprised, she brings a hand to her ear, only to remember she isn't wearing it.

"Go home, take the earing from the secret drawer in the Sitting Room, and ask Harmony! Please! Ask Harmony!"

But the rest of the crowd is losing patience with me, and there's no way they'll all wait for her to comply and return.

Bewildered, heartbroken, and still weary and shaken from last night, I stop resisting. The Lurcher informs the Hero of my steelminds and Allomantic vials, which are confiscated. "Fancy yourself a Twinborn Flash?" the Hero asks. Thankfully, he sounds on the edge of laughter. He must assume that a real Steel Compounder would have used his powers to escape. Capitalizing on everyone's belief that I'm crazy, I bluff. "Not just a flash, a Calamity. I'm a Coinshot and a full Feruchemist, like the Worldbringers of old!"

"Sure ya are," the Hero says, as he slides me into the back seat of their car. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to sell me some Unkeyed steelminds? If you're the first full Feruchemist in centuries, you must–"

"Don't taunt him," the Lurcher says, sitting next to me in the back seat. "This man is clearly unwell."

The Twinborn takes the wheel and starts the car. "You think'n we shouldn't take him to jail?"

"That's not what he needs. Let's head to Koslenko hospital in the Fourth Octant."

Author's Note:

Sanderson's upcoming Cosmere RPG looks glorious, and it apparently will supply us with a ton of official Twinborn names. My story predates it by a couple years tho. In this story, all Twinborn names come from a chart I made years before we had any official ones besides "Crasher." It would be a huge (and unnecessary) headache to go back through this story and swap all the Twinborn names with the new official ones, so just remember this story is definitely an alternate timeline fic.

Chapter Text

"I'm David Gurnet. David. Gurnet. If I'm making this up, how do I know so much about all those people who say they don't know me?"

Dr. Koslenko remains infuriatingly calm. "It's common for the mentally disturbed to fixate on others in an unhealthy way."

"I'm not a stalker! I'm David Gurnet! I don't care what you say, or what anyone says! I know who I am!"

The short rest in the car did me some good, despite the misery of being cooped up next to a constable on my way to a mental hospital. I've got a bit of my spunk back, and I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to prove my identity and reclaim my life.

"Mister…"

"Gurnet! Gurnet! David Endrew Gurnet!"

"There's no need for excitement."

I feel a wave of relaxing calm wash over me, but it isn't subtle. This doctor's Soothing me, and I won't have it. "Oh, of course not! All of a sudden, everyone's telling me I don't know who I am, and you say there's no reason for excitement! Well, what do you expect me to do, relax?" I'm deliberately riling myself up, fighting against the Emotional Allomancy, and Koslenko stops bothering to burn Brass.

"No, I suppose not. I know it must be quite a shock, but, look, if we're to help you, Mister, you've got to face facts."

At his calm, rational tone, I feel my suspicion and anger start to subside. But this could just be a gentler, more subtle Soothing, so I keep my guard up. "If you wanna help me, you could start with something for beating a hangover."

The doctor nods.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve eaten, hydrated, and downed a few pills. Only then does Koslenko continue. "You see, Mister 'Gurnet,' this man you think you are… He doesn't really exist. Except in your mind. Whether pieced together from people you've met, or completely from scratch… you've invented him. There is no David Endrew Gurnet."

I keep my voice low and calm, but adamant. "You're lying."

"Oh, come now. Why?"

"I don't know. I don't know who you are. But you've got to be lying. A man doesn't live thirty-five years knowing who he is, and then just because he drank too much and lost his ID he decides he's someone else!"

"No, no, no. It wasn't just that. This is bigger than any hangover."

"You've got that right," I growl.

He ignores my tone. "This woman, uh, Miss Berenson… The woman you think you're married to–"

"I know I'm married to her, and her name isn't Berenson, it's Gurnet!

"I see you'll require more proof. Well, that can be arranged. Come with me, please."

Resenting the white patient jacket they forced me to put on, I follow the doctor through the hospital. He pauses by a man who sits alone and silent in a corner. "Oh, uh, you haven't met your fellow patient." He gestures toward the man, who doesn't even blink. "That's Eland Venture, the Last Emperor." The doctor gives me a look. "Or so he thinks."

"Poor chap," I say. But I know I'm not like him. This poor man is clearly unwell. I'm in control, and my memories are stable. I'm not making things up as I go.

"No one knows who he really is," the doctor says.

"But I do know who I am," I say, calmly and quietly so as not to disturb the patient. "Now, let me see how I can prove it to you. May I use the phone?"

Koslenko continues down the hall. "Of course. I anticipated your request. Follow me."

A strange glimmer catches my eye, and I pause while the doctor walks on ahead. Wedged into a door frame is a small, intricate device, about the size of an earring. The twisted wires are of a metal I don't recognize, and a tiny gemstone faintly glows…

"Come along, Mr 'Gurnet,'" the Doctor calls back. I tear my eyes away from the strange object and hurry to catch up. A young aid slips out of the Doctor's office, avoiding eye contact with either of us, and Kosloenko holds the door for me. He ushers me inside and sits down at his desk. "What number?"

"Second Octant. 5-2131."

The Doctor dials, then hands me the phone.

I surge with hope when a familiar voice answers. "This is Mister Haron."

"Hello, Pate? It's Dave."

My friend sounds hesitant. "Dave? Do you mean Davin Urbain?"

"No, Pate, it's Dave Gurnet. Your best friend! You threw a party for me last night after I got home from the hospital!"

"I apologize Mr. Gurnet but I don't know you. I've gotta go…"

The line goes dead. Doctor Koslenko gives me a sad look.

"Him too…" I say, a bit dizzy. "He's my best friend. We went to school together."

"Another?" The doctor prepares to dial.

"Yes. Yes, call Seventh Octant, 5-3472. Ask for Mrs. Gurnet."

He does so, then he hands me the phone again. I'm surprised at just how comforting it is to hear her voice on the line. "Hello?"

"Hello, mom? Oh, thank god, thank Harmony…"

"Mom, you say? I don't have children…"

"Wait… Mom, this is Dave."

"The only Dave I know is in his eighties…"

"What's the matter, Mom? Don't you recognize my voice? It's Dave. Your son."

Her confused reply sounds scared. I can't hide the emotion in my voice. "Mom. Mom, now stop it. Don't do this to me, please! I need you now more than ever!"

But Doctor Koslenko takes the phone. "Forgive the call, please. It was a mistake. Thank you."

He gives me a look clearly intended to shame me, at least a little, for troubling a innocent woman. "So, you still insist that you are David Endrew Gurnet."

I fight back tears as I nod.

"You live at 2457 Goradel Avenue?"

"That's right."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure! I have decades of clear memories! This cannot be made up!"

"Do you have your own telephone?"

"Certainly, I have a phone. I work at a bank."

"It's likely that your number would be listed in the directory, isn't it?"

My eyes light up. "Yes! Of course!"

The doctor pulls out a hefty phone book and opens the cover. "You'll notice that it is the current edition."

"Go ahead," I say, impatient.

The doctor turns to the correct page, and points. There's a Aethon Gurnet, and a Tindwell Gurnet, but nothing in between. My mind reels. I flip a few pages, confirming that everything about the phone book looks official. How would anyone fake this?

"Now do you believe me?"

I step back. "I don't know… I don't know. Maybe I should, but I…" I clench my fists, and lock eyes with the man who thinks I'm insane. “If I'm not David Gurnet, then who am I?"

"That's what we're going to try to find out."

"In other words, you think I'm crazy, like that guy who thinks he's The Last Emperor, is that it?"

I feel another wave of comfort and relaxation that's clearly a Soothing. "No. Let's just say 'mentally disturbed.' I know it's very difficult to believe, but looking at it logically, there isn't any other explanation. Sometime last night, you had what is known as a total loss of orientation. You entered Miss Berenson's house–"

"NO! No, no, no! That's what you want me to believe, but in spite of everything, I know who I am! Either I am hopelessly crazy or somebody's going to an awful lot of trouble to blot me out!"

The Soothing intensifies. "Now, now, now. Why would anyone want to blot you out?"

And then… it hits me, though I try to keep my expression the same.

Someone might go to a lot of trouble to manipulate me. Because I might well be the most powerful Invested alive… and I blew my cover. I used my powers out in the Roughs… The two surviving gangsters haven't told the police anything… but if they quietly shared my secret with someone else…

And then, another realization hits me. Wilma saw me use both of my powers this morning… That means she knows what I am too… but she clearly didn't tell anyone. Why?

Hiding my growing confusion, I snap, "How should I know?" The doctor shrugs as if I've conceded something, but I press on. "Whoever or whatever it is, they can rig every phone book and they can pay off everyone I know but they can't get inside my mind. And I'll tell you something else, they can't think of everything."

He narrows his eyes. "And what does that mean?"

"Just that. A man's life is made up of a million details. Some of those details are private. I've gone places, I've done things that I've never told to anyone, not even my wife. Not out of shame, but because it wasn't important enough to talk about."

"Of course. I'm sure that's quite true. Now, suppose we go back to your room and you think about it–"

"Oh, no! You think about it because I'm going to find one of those details. Now!"

My patient room has bars on the windows, but this office doesn't. And they might have taken away my vials, bracelets, and bracers, but that's not all of my steel. After my abduction by those gangsters I've been far more careful. Every morning, I swallow a few fully-Invested steel ball-bearings…

I snatch up a letter opener, causing the doctor to dive for cover. He thus doesn't see as I use a steelpush to launch it through the window, shattering it half a second before I dive through. We're on the ground floor, and soon I'm back on my feet and running. With steel at a low burn, I quickly identify three of the nearby parked cars as having a key under the driver's seat. The second one I try has an unlocked door. I have the car started and rolling before orderlies charge out of the building. One moves with the grace and power of a Pewterarm, but he can't keep up with an automobile. I tear off the white coat and toss it out the window, glad that I wasn't forced to change out of my pants and dress shirt.

I know I can't evade the law for long, but I'm determined to use this chance. Whoever's trying to erase me, there must be some detail they've overlooked…

Chapter Text

I stagger into the upscale bar in the third octant, stressed and shaky from driving so far in the city. Before this, the only time I ever drove was on my way back from the Roughs.

This time of day, the place is nearly deserted, so the bartender immediately turns toward me. I hold up a hand. "Wait a minute. Before you say anything, give me a drink."

"Anything in particular?"

"The usual."

"Huh? The…"

My heart sinks, and I know I sound a bit pathetic when I repeat. "The usual."

Sam raises an eyebrow, and I whisper. "Penrod whiskey."

The bartender raises his hands, palms out. "Sorry buddy. Guessing would have been rough with a selection as broad as what we offer."

He pours the drink, and I down it in a single gulp. "Another." He pours, turns away, and I knock it back in one go. "Sam… Sam, look at me."

Patient, he turns back. "Okay, I'm looking at you."

"Who am I?"

"How many guesses do I get, huh?"

My heart sinks still further. I order and chug another shot. "Please think, Sam. Who comes in here every Friday night for the last three years?"

"My wife."

"Who else?"

"A lot of people come in here. We're the best in the Octant."

Though I can already tell it's hopeless, I just have to press on. "What about… What about Dave Gurnet?"

"Who?"

"Dave. Dave Gurnet. I'm a regular."

Sam shrugs, apologetic.

So they got to him too… But how? I kept this place a secret. I never told anybody about it…

I jerk my head to the side just in time to get a decent view of a strange, patterned distortion on the bar stool next to me, but it vanishes in half a heartbeat. Please… please don't be losing your mind…

"Would you like another drink?"

I turn back to Sam. "Yeah. A double."

He fills the glass. I guzzle it. The first drink's already hitting, and I hope the others will hurry up and do their job. "Sam. Sam…" He turns back to me, holds out the bottle, and I nod. "What would you do if all of a sudden everybody started telling you you weren't you?"

He finishes pouring. "What?

"I mean, everybody. Your wife, your friends. Everyone suddenly couldn't recognize you anymore. They didn't even remember ever knowing someone like you. They were saying Sammot Baker didn't exist.

"I'd tell them to switch brands."

I chug the latest double. "But you wouldn't believe them?"

"Why would I?"

"Give me another one."

He hides the bottle behind the bar. "Unless you're a Thug, Bloodmaker or Aluminum Savant… I think you've had enough."

"Oh. I've had more than enough, Sam. I'm up to here."

"Say, how do you know my name?"

"Because we're friends, but I'm the only one who remembers. Your wife's name is Pearl. Your kids' names are Joeth and Lindal. You live in White Oak. You used to be a prizefighter. 'Powerhouse Baker.' They joked that you could have fought in the Pewterarm league if you wanted. Your picture's on the wall right next to Harry Grebb." As I speak, Sam doesn't show recognition, but he does grow more suspicious.

"Wait a minute…" That last thought, about the picture, has given me an idea. "Wait a minute! That's it!"

"Are you all right?"

"I think so. Or at least I will be…" I throw some cash onto the table and rush toward the door. "Keep your fingers crossed, Sam. I may have found that little detail they overlooked!"

"What's the number again?"

The out of breath young lady doesn't seem especially good at her job, but I'm too excited to care, despite the stress of another drive through town. "Item 6708-777."

She sifts through the folder. "You sure?"

"The photographer gave me a slip but I remember because of the four sevens."

"Maybe your wife's got it already?"

"She doesn't know it was taken. I was going to surprise her."

"You sure it was taken on the 14th?"

"Yes. We were at the zoo together."

While the lady rifles through the envelopes, I notice a faint red glimmer on the wall. Leaning in close, it reminds me of the strange wire contraption at Doctor Koslenko's institute. It's made of yet another metal I don't recognize, but the tiny glowing gemstone might be a ruby…

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr, I don't think we have… Hey, wait a minute!" She pulls out an envelope and shows it to me. "Is this a seven or a one?"

"Seven! You found it!" Infuriatingly, she doesn't immediately give it to me, so I snatch it out of her hand. She frowns. "Is that it?"

I slide the photograph out… and overwhelming relief washes through me, far more comforting than the buzz from all that whiskey.

There we are. Me and Wilma, side by side, smiling at the zoo. So whoever's trying to erase me, they finally missed a detail. "Yes… Yes, this is it...

"Are you okay, mister?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Now that I finally have proof…" Pushing through the fog of alcohol, I dash toward the door."

"Hey, wait a minute! That photograph isn't free! You owe me money."

I toss open the door, and freeze. Doctor Koslenko stands there, frowning, flanked by the two constables from earlier. But my initial spike of fear quickly fades, when I remember what I hold. "Well, Doctor, what brings you here?"

"I might ask you the same question. If you wanted to elude us, you shouldn't have left that stolen car downstairs."

The young woman steps forward, trying to take the photograph. "This man owes me money!"

Without even turning, I toss a few bills at her. "Money well spent! Proof that I'm not crazy. I told you they couldn't think of everything."

The Doctor looks sad, sympathetic. "I suppose you found a signature or a receipt, but–"

"Oh, you're going to say that's not proof because I could've signed any signature anytime."

"Right."

"Or I could have had a card printed up, or faked a driver's license… But what about a photograph, doctor? What about a photograph of me holding hands with a woman who claims she never laid eyes on me. How would you explain that?"

I shove the photograph into his hand. The young employee holds her breath, but I'm done with her silliness. "Look at it! Then just try to think up an excuse!"

Koslenko looks at the photograph, then looks back up at me, his expression unchanged.

"Well?" I demand.

The doctor hands the photograph back, and abject horror grips me.

The picture has changed.

Before, it showed me hand in hand with Wilma. But now…

It shows only me.

The depth of this disaster crashes home. Either I'm utterly insane, or whoever's erasing me has power unheard of. To the best of my knowledge, only Harmony has the ability to alter photographs, by employing the power of Ruin. Surely, surely the compassionate Sazed isn't the one excising me from the lives of everyone I ever knew?

"Sir…" the doctor says, gently, "are you saying, that when you look at this picture, you see–"

I spin on the young woman. "You! You saw the picture. You saw my wife!"

She takes a step back, daunted by my intensity. "Oh, listen, Mister, you didn't show me nothing. You took the picture and ran."

"But I tell you she was there!"

Desperation and helplessness beat upon me, and all the whiskey threatens to overwhelm me. "We were together! In the picture we were together!"

The doctor looks more sympathetic, but the Twinborn constable has his guard up.

"We were together!"

The Hero activates his metals, tapping speed and burning pewter for strength.

But I compound steel.

The constable moves far faster than a normal man… but I can afford to move in a blur.

"We were together!" I scream, as I dash around the man, barely evading his grip. While burning pewter, his strength would be too great for me to escape if he got a good hold. But I'm too fast, drawing on speed beyond what any normal Steelrunner could realistically amass. Air resistance rips at my clothing, and my eyes would dry out quickly if not for my weeping.

"We were together!" To the Twinborn, my words must come so fast as to be barely intelligible. For everyone else, they would sound like a single, high-pitched note. I zip between the doctor and the Lurcher, unbuckling my belt and pulling it from the loops. I'm halfway down the hall, almost to the stairs, when an ironpull snatches at the belt buckle. I would have been yanked back toward the constables, but instead only my belt flies toward them. I'm down the stairs and out the door, leaving even the Twinborn far behind.

Together… together…

I have to get home. Pedestrians and even traffic appears to be barely moving. A Coinshot sailing through the sky moves in slow motion, and a flock of birds hang in the air.

Together… together…

I'm in danger of blacking out, but I don't stop running. I cross the bridge over the Irongate River. To the rest of the world, I'm but a flicker, but from my perspective, I'm running at normal speed. My heart pounds, the drink threatening to drop me.

We were… together... to… gether…

"Dave?"

My head pounds, but at least I'm in bed.

"Dave, honey, wake up."

Dave… Someone… knows my name?

"Wake up, honey."

My eyes flutter open. "What? Oh… Oh, Wilma, Wilma… You remember me…"

"Oh, wait a minute," she heads toward the bathroom. "Let me get this junk off my face." She has revitalizing cream covering her entire face, and her hair is bundled up under a towel. "Don't go away."

Through the pounding headache and the nausea, I'm still relieved beyond description. "Oh, don't worry. I won't. I'm not going anywhere."

She calls from the bathroom. "What's the matter, honey? You sound terrible. Did you have a nightmare?"

"Oh, baby, I had the nightmare… The granddaddy of them all."

"Well, that'll teach you to mix scotch and martinis."

I roll over to check the time, but I quickly decide I don't care what time it is. If I work today, I'll call in sick. "Yeah, that'll teach me all right…"

"I'm sorry I didn't put you in your pajamas, honey but I was a little out of it myself. You forgive me?"

"Yeah, sure, sure." I notice that I'm not wearing any of my steelminds, so one of us must have remembered to remove them before I turned in last night.

"Well, you're in a rare mood. Thanks for understanding."

She's returned to the bedroom. Despite my pounding headache, I roll over again and look up at my wife.

My heart freezes.

The woman looks confused by my expression. "Honey, what's wrong?"

This… this can't…

"Are you ill?"

No… how?

"Dave, why are you looking at me like that? Dave? Honey?"

The woman looking down at me… this isn't Wilma. Her facial features are very similar… but her hair is blond… her eyes blue…and her skin lighter…

"Dave? Please tell me what's wrong."

It's not over.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

I refuse to panic. This woman, whoever she is, recognizes me, and she seems familiar with my house. Further, it's clear she's started tapping zinc. I school my expression, and check the time. 6:55 AM. So either I slept through the night without the police ever looking for me at home, or it really was a nightmare.

But… this woman…

Though her enhanced mind will notice my worry and suspicion, I still try to sound calm and collected as I ask, "Honey, did you want to spar today? Yesterday morning, when I was late for work, it certainly seemed like you wanted to."

Her expression shifts so fleetingly that I can't really tell, or even guess, what it was. That can happen when someone's tapping zinc, thinking many times faster than normal. "I'll be back in a minute." Her tone is calm, relaxed, but I know she's worried. Despite her different coloring, this woman has the mannerisms of my wife. Has someone with a very similar face studied Wilma in order to impersonate her? Who would go to all of that trouble and then fail to use makeup and dye to match her coloring?

Striding from the room, she casually says, "Clean yourself up."

She steps out, and I hear her heading downstairs. I spring out of bed and take inventory. I quickly find my hidden Invested ball-bearings. There are only three, not seven, which tracks with the four I remember swallowing yesterday. Sickened by this evidence, I gulp them down. With enhanced speed, I check the drawers and cabinets.

My clothes, razer, and largest metalminds are still missing. All the more proof that yesterday was not just a nightmare.

I hear the woman returning, and I quickly clean up. I have to be efficient with the water. I might be moving ten times faster than usual, but this means the water flowing from the faucet seems to move very slowly. While shaving, I can't help but notice that my beard has grown too much if it's only been a single day. It's getting more certain all the time…

I manage to finish, change, and collect myself just as the woman enters. I stop tapping speed before she has a chance to see.

She holds the morning paper, and she makes no attempt to hide her haunted expression. "It's the sixteenth. I have no memory of yesterday…"

I choose my words carefully. "Yesterday… was a very odd day. Not a single soul recognized me, or remembered ever having known me. My name wasn't even in the phone book. So… just to be sure… Who are you?"

Again, I notice the subtle signs that she's tapping zinc. She looks down at her hands and arms, noting her lighter skin tone, then returns to the restroom to look in the mirror. When she comes back, her expression is grave. "I know that I'm Wilma Gurnet, your wife. But I don't recognize the woman in the mirror." She opens Wilma's purse and deftly pulls out her ID card. Then she nods and shows it to me. "This is what I should look like." Sure enough, the image has not been tampered with. It looks exactly as my wife should.

"Alright, next question: Are you Invested, and if so, describe your capabilities."

Calm, clinical, she maintains full composure as she answers. "I'm a Twinborn Forecaster, possibly the most capable in history. My electrum Allomancy allows me to see my own immediate future, and my zinc Feruchemy allows me to store mental speed and draw on it later. I'm something of a Savant with both powers. I can actively store Feruchemy even while sleeping, and while tapping zinc I'm exceptionally good at interpreting my electrum shadow. When we spar, you have to compound steel to actually make physical contact with me."

I gulp. This woman, though of such different appearance to Wilma, might just be my wife after all. "The newspaper could be faked, but we can still determine if yesterday actually happened. Tap zinc, and try to gauge exactly how much mental speed you have in your metalminds. You used your powers extensively yesterday, so you should find your storage is lower than—"

"It's as you say," she answers.

I'm not surprised that she finished such an analysis before I even completed my sentence. "So… nobody recognized me yesterday… including you, and I even saw a photograph of us change to exclude you. The power of Ruin could do that, but I pray Harmony isn't the one harassing us. Further, you probably aren't the only person who's forgotten what happened yesterday. Doctor Koslenko and two constables surely would have come looking for me last night, unless their memories were tampered with."

"So…" Wilma says, connecting dots faster than me despite knowing less about the situation, "whoever forgot you yesterday has now forgotten yesterday's events. Perhaps they would even remember you now. I wonder if they have changed in appearance, like I have. And on that note… You and I need to be sure of something…"

Without preamble or further explanation… this strange woman swiftly strips down to her underwear.

I blink.

But I don't blush.

Clinging to the hope that this is somehow my wife, the sight doesn't shock me. Quite the opposite, though it's rare for Wilma to be this casual about it. I briefly wonder if I'm dreaming again… but then I understand her purpose. I can now see that her different coloring is just a distraction: her entire figure is identical to what I remember. She might not be quite the bombshell she was on our wedding night, but she's taken very good care of herself over the years. Far better than I have. When we spar, I depend on my Investiture and greater size. But for her to get the most out of her own powers, she needs a high-performance body that can react to what she foresees. Her intense physical training is motivated entirely by that practical need, knowing that our powers might one day make us targets. But the aesthetic result of all that training is quite a bonus, at least in my opinion. Her youthful, athletic figure is dominated by firm, crisp lines, supplemented by just enough curves to still look clearly feminine.

Then, I realize… my growing desire is a very good sign. I've never considered being unfaithful to Wilma, entertaining no interest whatsoever in other women. Therefore, if I'm even contemplating romantic notions toward this woman, I have all the proof I need: Deep down, I know with total certainty that this really is Wilma, my wife of eleven years. Her hair, eyes, and skin have changed color, but that's not enough to fool me.

It's clear that Wilma has come to the same conclusion by examining herself. She nods, satisfied both by her conclusion and by her self-appraisal, and smiles with just a hint of well-deserved pride.

All of my thoughts, feelings, and physiological responses are easy for Wilma's accelerated mind to notice and interpret. Now that both of us agree that she's the real Wilma Gurnet, she starts quickly dressing again. With unknown powers conspiring to manipulate us, we certainly need to hurry and address the issue. This disturbing mystery must be resolved without delay, and everything else will have to wait.

As she dresses, Wilma asks, "What should be our first priority? I can think faster than you, even when you're compounding steel, but you're the one who actually remembers yesterday."

"We need more data. We should go to my bank and see if everyone remembers me, if they've forgotten yesterday's events, and if they look different. That'll let us know if whatever's happening is a single, large-scale effect, or if something more subtle and selective is going on."

"I concur." Fully clothed again, in modestly-fitted yellow business casual, she has shifted back from intoxicating to elegantly dignified. I've always admired her both ways, just as I love her intellect, her discipline, the warmth she reserves for me alone, and her incredible talent as a Twinborn. Lastly, Wilma affixes the earring she was given by that Faceless Immortal, proof of her faith in the Path, and of Harmony's trust in her. I am not the only person who holds Wilma in such high regard. The god of Preservation and Ruin respects her too.

"Oh! Wilma, I forgot! Yesterday, I asked you to put in that earring and beseech Harmony if He had anything to say about why everyone forgot me. I wasn't there for what happened when you did."

Another moment of enhanced mental speed, then Wilma frowns. "If I got a response from God yesterday, even that's been removed from my memory. Most disturbing…" She pauses, closing her eyes, and I realize she's communing with Harmony. I wait in patient silence until she opens her eyes. "I have a vague sense of concern, and sympathy, but no words. I'm sad to admit it's been a full decade since I last received a verbal response from Sazed. But I suspect He isn't the cause of our troubles."

I've never gotten any response from Harmony, and I have an urge to ask what it was He told her a decade ago. Further, I consider piercing my own ear right now, so that I can try using the earring myself… but that would feel irreverent. That tiny Hemalurgic spike was gifted to Wilma, not me, and the Faceless Immortal said nothing to imply it should be shared. "Let's head out."

I check my wallet and find that my work ID and credit cards are still missing. And of course, my steelminds are mostly gone too. But I've swallowed all of my Invested ball bearings, and I slip on a pair of fresh steel bracers from our stash. Wilma takes the revolver and spare ammunition, and I take a moment to compound. I Allomantically burn two of the ball bearings, releasing ten times as much physical speed as they contained, and all of that speed is shunted into my steel bracers. They are now nearly full. Wilma hides her gun in her purse, and we head out.

"Let's assume Harmony has nothing to do with this," I propose. "He certainly has the power to manipulate memories, appearances, and images. After all, he reshaped the world and all life during the Catacendre. But not only is this not at all the sort of thing I'd expect from him, but there'd be nothing we could possibly do if he's the culprit."

"I agree," Wilma says as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

"So… what else could do all of this?"

Wilma takes my hand to make it easier for her to walk with her eyes closed. She must be calculating very fiercely. She opens her eyes just as we step out the front door. "Feruchemy," she answers. "Though it must be employed in ways not even the Terris understand."

I nod as we trot toward the corner. "Alright, so the cognitive and spiritual traits are being employed in external ways. If I were fully divested of spiritual Identity and Connection, and if everyone else experienced subtle memory manipulation, that could perhaps explain it. And it would even be reversible. Just return the memories and restore my Identity and Connection."

"Malwish technology could potentially be the mechanism for such externalization of Feruchemical powers," Wilma says. "Though we're looking at implementation vastly more complex and powerful than anything they've revealed to the Basin."

A cab pulls up, we climb in, and Wilma shows her ID. I hold my breath as the driver takes a quick look, but thankfully he doesn't react to the dramatic difference between the picture and Wilma's current look. We're off.

With the driver able to hear us easily, our conversation has to get more subtle and indirect. "What of my missing ID and credit cards?" I ask. "And there's the issue of your… striking new look."

"The missing cards might be the simplest aspect of this whole strange affair. You were genuinely inebriated after Pate's party. It might have been childsplay for a pickpocket to slip them from your wallet. And with me such an unnaturally deep sleeper, such an individual could have even gone through our things, completing the deception by taking your clothes and razor."

The driver sounds more than a little worried. "Rust and Ruin, you've been robbed? Are you sure you want to go to the bank instead of the police station?"

"Yes," Wilma answers. "There are a few things we must see to first, but you are of course right. We'll go to the police next."

"Should I wait at the curb to give you the ride?"

"That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer."

Trying to keep my voice down without sounding more suspicious, I ask, "And what of the issue of… appearances? This goes far beyond forgetting something. Your lovely face, and the photograph of us at the zoo… these things can't be explained via our other theories."

With a brief, low burn of steel, I note the blue line connecting my center of mass to one of her zinc bracelets. She's almost used up all the mental speed stored in that one, though she has many others.

We ride in silence for a time, with me evading the driver's attempts to learn more about the robbery. We're almost to the bank, and two more of Wilma's bracelets are empty, when she says, "Nothing on Skadrial can explain it. But I've heard rumors over the years. We'll discuss it after checking in with your coworkers."

The taxi stops, Wilma pays the driver, and we climb out. She surreptitiously checks her purse, ensuring her revolver is easy to grab if needed, and I compound just a little more steel to ensure my bracers are completely full.

I'm immediately glad we took such precautions.

Chapter Text

"That madman's back!" Mr. Copper shouts, jumping to his feet and reaching into my desk. "And he's brought a strange woman with him!" He then pulls out a modern pistol, which likely has ten or more shots per magazine.

And the blasted thing is aluminum.

The fear, suspicion, and outright anger on the face of every employee and customer baffles me, but Wilma hisses, "Duralumin!" Then she dives for cover behind a desk.

So… someone nearby, possibly Mr. Copper himself, has at least one Hemalurgic spike. He's intensifying all of these people's emotions, stoking their fear and anger, and with duralumin that power has far exceeded what any normal Rioter can achieve.

I'm already tapping tremendous physical speed from my full bracers, but for the moment it's only for the mental bonus. It still can't match Wilma's Feruchemy, but time appears to have slowed. Mr. Copper is already taking aim, Jinn is drawing his own revolver, and I notice two new security guards as well. None of my coworkers look different, I see no sign of them remembering the real me, and they clearly haven't forgotten yesterday's events. So whatever exactly is going on, it's selective. Along with Wilma, it's likely that Doctor Koslenko and those two Invested constables have forgotten yesterday. Otherwise, they would have arrested me at my home last night. But these people are still under whatever delusion made yesterday such a living nightmare. Many look hostile, and the rest look scared. Burning steel, I see that the guns of the new guards aren't aluminum, but that doesn't really matter.

I must make a choice, now.

Do I hope they're bluffing, and let myself get arrested? Or do I give up my most important secret, using my full power in front of all these witnesses?

I push my speed to the limit, and I see the moment when Mr. Copper starts to pull the trigger.

So be it. He's made my decision for me.

Sidestepping the gun barrel just before it fires, I cross the room in a blur. The bullet zips by on my right, just slow enough for me to briefly see it, and I reach my bewitched coworker. I snatch the gun from Jinn's hand, turn to put a bullet through Mr. Copper's right wrist, and then burn steel to push against the handguns carried by the new guards. The weapons fly from their hands, and I zip about, snatching guns out of the air. A bit cheeky, I even stuff my pockets with ammo and magazines stollen from the gunmen. In under a second from the perspective of my coworkers, I've stolen four guns and am back at Wilma's side. I see that she already has her own weapon out, and her eyes are turning toward me. Even with my speed at max, her mind is still faster than mine. Her eyes can't really track my movements, but she has time to ponder what she saw in her peripheral vision. She can therefore interpret my actions easily, as I would have moved in slow motion from her perspective.

"Let's go!" I spit out the words as fast as possible for Wilma's sake. Everyone but her would have heard a single, high-pitched chirp, but to Wilma, it would have taken considerable time for me to utter those two words. I put the two aluminum revolvers in Wilma's purse, and I brandish the other two guns threateningly. I cut back on my speed, and together, Wilma and I sprint from the bank.

The taxi driver hasn't gotten far, and we both shout for him to stop. In his rearview mirror, his eyes widen almost comically at the sight of our three firearms, but he still stops.

"The bank is being robbed!" Wilma shouts, as the taxi driver leans out his window and looks toward us. "The robbers tried to kill us! Please, get us to safety!"

Incredibly, the deception works. Perhaps Wilma calculated his reaction based on his earlier concern for our well-being. Or perhaps the driver took a shine to her. Either way, he backs up his car so we can reach him more quickly.

"To the police station!" Wilma shouts as we leap in. Several of my coworkers are already spilling out of the bank in pursuit, but thankfully Mr. Copper and the guards were far from the front door. The car peels out, burning rubber.

"Thank you!" I say. "What's your name?"

"My friends call me Spook!"

Despite the serious peril of our situation, I still blurt, "As in… the Lord Mistborn?"

"My friends think I'm pretty metal! Speaking of which…" He scares me as he briefly takes one hand off the wheel, despite weaving through traffic at high speed. He swallows an Allomantic vial, then says, "Impressive! You're both Allomancers! A Coinshot and an Oracle!"

Realizing this "Spook" must be a Seeker, I stop tapping steel, but it's too late.

"Wow! Not just Allomancers, Twinborn? Epic! I'm not as good at reading Feruchemy, but I can tell you're both tapping metalminds! I've never had two Twinborn as fares before!"

"Please focus on the road," Wilma says.

I lean over, and whisper in her ear. "The police station makes sense for our cover story, but where are we actually going?"

"No tricks. We really do want the police station."

My confusion lasts less than a second before I make the connection. We could learn a lot by discovering whether those two constables changed their appearance, and if any others in their department have lost their memories.

"There's even more than you probably think," Wilma whispers.

I love how brilliant my wife is. I take a moment, thinking it through. There's a very high chance that those responsible for all of this are criminal in nature. They manipulated police, robbed my house, and got that Mr. Copper to take my place and try to shoot me. Enlisting the support of Invested constables could be enormously helpful. Our secret's out anyway…

"So, 'Spook,' let's be open with each other. I see you're wearing several bronze bracelets and earrings, but my metalsight can barely detect them. Unless you paid extra for Invested bracelets that Allamancers can't manipulate, these are your metalminds. You're a bronze Compounder, aren't you?"

"Ya got me!" the driver says happily. "Yep, I'm a Twinborn Sentinel. I haven't had to sleep since I snapped as a kid!"

"You are not just a taxi driver," Wilma postulates. "A man who can detect kinetic Investiture and never needs to sleep?"

Though still driving quite swiftly, Spook falls silent.

"What's your guess, honey?"

One of Wilma's smaller bracelets starts to become more visible to my metalsight, indicating that she's drawn out a significant chunk of the mental speed stored therein. "The police would find a bronze Compounder immensely useful. And if two constables lost their memories of yesterday, they would have had time to discover this by now. If any of their written records survived the tampering of our mysterious malefactors, they've likely discovered only in the last hour or so that you might be a person of interest…" She turns her attention back to Spook. "It was no coincidence that you were the taxi driver waiting on our street corner. You are a constable, and you were deliberately sent to pick us up, observe us, and report back. It better explains your willingness to brave gunfire to rescue us from the bank. Further, it's quite convenient, for you, that we want to go to the police station."

When Spook speaks, his silly, frivolous air has been replaced by serious contemplation. "I think I've guessed your Feruchemy, lady Forecaster."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Well, you weren't as subtle as you thought. You connected the dots way too quickly, and most of your bracelets and jewelry are zinc."

"Your friendly airhead act was quite convincing, and your charming demeanor disarming."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wait," I say, "if you're a constable, then when we said the bank was being robbed, why didn't you–"

"We thought there was a chance you might go to your bank, so we had four plainclothes constables posted nearby, led by a Tineye. In the rear mirror, I saw them heading in before we drove away."

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I lean forward. "Level with me: what do the police know of yesterday's events?"

"More than the mysterious enemy wants us to know," Spook answers, as we turn right. "Yesterday evening, Constables Neltson and Turstein lost all short-term memory, and their reports for the day were missing or blank."

"By any chance do they look different today?" I ask.

"Ah... so your wife's ID isn't fake," Spook says slyly. "I've been trying to figure out why she showed me a picture of another woman. Wacky to learn that it's her that apparently looks wrong, instead of a picture."

"Please answer my husband's question," Wilma says, polite but firm. "It's important."

"The constables with the missing memories have not changed their appearance. No idea why such a thing happened to you. But the officers called HQ not long before their memories cut off, so we knew there was a strange man claiming to work at a bank where no one recognized him. Our initial search showed no records of a David Gurnet, but a few things didn't add up. Most importantly, our file on two gangsters under guard at the hospital no longer contains the name or description of whoever brought them in. With such poor records, we worried we'd have to release them.

"You better not," I insist. "They may be small fry compared to whoever's messing with Memory, Identity, and Connection, but those two still tried to murder me."

"Oh, we're putting the pieces together, and we haven't let on to the gangsters that anything's wrong. Anyway, as we dug, hospital records showed various gaps in the schedule relating to a specific room, and no one knows why one of their Malwish Bloodmaker medallions is much lower on stored health than it should be."

"Your people work quickly," I say, genuinely impressed.

"Well, we may have been tipped off by a Faceless Immortal," Spook admitted. "Harmony has been… unwell in recent years, but he still sent one of his servants to warn us of suspicious Investiture that he hasn't been able to track. I'm gonna level with ya: Harmony's agents think those responsible aren't from Skadrial at all. Local Investiture can't fully explain what's going on."

"Along those lines…" Wilma sounds worried, and I turn toward her. She's pulled out a little mirror, and stares into it with a mix of confusion and resignation.

For the second time today, I don't recognize my wife.

Her skin is even paler now, but liberally freckled. Her eyes are a brilliant green, her hair a fiery red, and her clothes have changed from yellow to brown.

"What in the Survivor's name?" Spook demands. "What happened to you?"

"I have a question for you," Wilma says, accepting her latest change in appearance and exchanging the mirror for her revolver. "You've been very generous with information… but you are not heading toward the police station. You just missed the last turn that would have made any sense."

I doublecheck the street signs, and realize she's right.

"Don't stress, Forecaster," Spook says. "And you won't need that gun. We're going to meet several allies, most of them police. But HQ is too obvious, and there are likely hostile agents embedded in the department. We're heading to a rendezvous point in the Roughs. Hopefully, we'll have some privacy while we share what we know and try to figure out what's next."

I try to keep calm. "Who exactly will we be meeting there?"

"A total of five people," Spook answers, changing lanes. "The two constables whose memories were manipulated will be there, along with our most… unique Investigator. She's the protégé of the retired Marasi Colms."

"Will Doctor Koslenko be there too?" I ask.

"Very shrewd," Spook answers. "He also lost his memories of yesterday, and everyone hopes talking things through will help."

Wilma smiles and says, "Is the fifth person a Faceless Immortal?"

My head spins. Sure, zinc lets her think quickly, but that alone can't explain such leaps of intuition. My girl would have been brilliant even if she weren't born a Sparker Ferring.

Spook shakes his head, bewildered. "There's no hiding anything from you, is there?"

"My private research suggests the kandra VenDell is a leading expert on cognitive and spiritual Feruchemy," Wilma says with a dismissive wave. "It's only logical to enlist his help with this matter."

My jaw drops. "You know the name of an Immortal servant of Harmony? I mean, other than the famous TenSoon?"

She shrugs. "Sazed teaches that all truth is important, and we're expected to meditate at least fifteen minutes per day. It just so happens that I can think a lot during those fifteen minutes, and I usually do so in Sanctuaries sometimes visited by Faceless Immortals."

Flummoxed, I lean back into the seat. She makes it all sound so matter of fact and commonplace. "Dear… sometimes you impress me more than–"

"Accelerate!" Wilma shrieks, leaning forward and grabbing Spook's shoulder. The intensity of that scream, combined with Spook likely sensing an increase in the power of her Investiture, barely saves us. He hits the gas, putting on a burst of speed barely in time to avoid being hit by a bus coming from the side.

Bullets from the bus shatter the rear window, and I tap steel, shoving Wilma down toward the floor. Bits of glass slice my cheek, and Spook hisses in pain as a bullet grazes his left shoulder. I spin, taking aim with the two guns I stole at the bank, and return fire. Though I'm untrained, and both vehicles are moving in different directions, I'm able to fire both weapons at the maximum possible speed allowed by their internal mechanisms. The front right tire blows out, and the bus fails to turn in time to follow us.

"I officially declare this an emergency!" Spook shouts over the rush of air through the shattered windshield. He winces as he uses his injured arm to place a light on the roof of the car, followed by a siren. Affixed magnetically, they declare this taxi an official police vehicle, and traffic parts as we speed up. "I'll take that murder attempt as a good sign!" Spook says, with some of his earlier, lighter persona back. "Our current plan is something the mysterious enemy does not approve of! Also, it's epic to see that you're a Twinborn Flash!" He smiles at me in the rearview mirror. "That might just be the single most potent combination of Investiture on Skadrial. Seriously, not even a legendary Mistborn of old could take you on without atium."

With my speed enhanced, I've had just enough time to recover from that near-death experience, and Wilma is sitting back up. "Excellent interpretation of your electrum vision," I say.

"It wasn't especially complicated," Wilma says. "The shadow of my future self abruptly smashed flat and flew sideways. A high-speed collision was by far the most likely explanation. Though, I did calculate the possibility of someone combining Allomantic steel and duralumin with the tapping of Feruchemical iron. But if we were facing someone that strong we'd have been killed no matter what."

She swallows a rich vial of electrum shavings, closes her eyes, and falls silent. I can tell that she's focusing her enhanced mind exclusively on her electrum shadow, ready to get as much intel as possible from every little detail. The Words of Founding report that Allomancers before the Catacendre referred to electrum as "poor man's atium," feeling its only value was canceling the extreme advantage granted to an opponent burning Ruin's metal. But my brilliant wife, with her mind accelerated, can make far greater use of that power than any Oracle before her.

I lean forward. "Spook, I need you to focus on the road, but if Wilma says anything, you need to follow her directions immediately. Her electrum vision gives very little warning, and even she will need to use just a little of that time to interpret what she sees and shout a meaningful command. If you hesitate, even slightly, it might be too late."

"No pressure, huh?" But Spook seems to be taking this seriously.

I'm alone with my thoughts for a time, with Wilma absorbed in her electrum shadow and with Spook ready to respond to her command. We have theories regarding how the enemy is manipulating us, and their motive almost certainly involves my exceptional Investiture. But who are they? And if they want to force me to join them, why did they just try to kill me? Did they know Wilma would sound the warning? Were those bullets intended to kill Spook rather than me?

Siren and lights still blazing, harsh wind blowing through the car, we escape the city and pick up speed, heading north. Electrum burns slowly, but even so, Wilma's supply won't last for the entire journey, and neither will her mental speed. She whispers that she's using both powers at a minimum, intending to tap more mental speed and flare her Allomancy if she detects even the slightest irregularity in her electrum vision. That'll have to be enough.

We pause briefly in Alendel to check the tires, and we make it as far as Drypost without incident, but all three of us have grown quite hungry. Wilma especially is starving. Feruchemy might empower her mind to process data and observe reality at far greater speed, but her brain still needs to burn enough calories to make it possible. I stand guard, badly stressed, as Spook runs into one of the newfangled "convenience stores" that were thought up by the Wayne Estate. He dashes back out with three impressively large sandwiches and a giant bottle of something sugary, and we eat while we drive.

"It's a very good sign that we haven't seen trouble since Elendel," Spook observes, having finished the last of his sandwich. "Maybe that van was the only vehicle the enemy had access to. Blowing out that tire might have saved the day."

"Thanks." I stuff the last of my sandwich into my face, noting that Wilma finished eating very quickly and returned to her meditative trance.

The taxi passes into the narrow gap between the Channeral Range and the Faleast Range. We're almost to the Roughs. We still have about an hour left before we reach the rendezvous point. Our fuel should hold out, since Spook said he filled the taxi's large reserve gas tank. If he's right about that van being the only–

"Brace!" Wilma screams.

An instant later, the taxi crashes to a violent stop.

Chapter Text

By tapping speed, I react in time to withstand the punishing deceleration without major injury, though my recently-healed wrist aches and I'm briefly winded. Spook is saved by the explosive inflation of a strange bag that bursts from his steering wheel. I've never seen one of the experimental "airbags" before, but I'm glad the police were so quick to adopt the technology. Wilma grunts in pain, but she's light enough that her seat belt stopped her without cracking any ribs.

With my speed greatly increased, I have time to ponder what on earth caused this. We didn't hit anything, and there's no way this car has brakes powerful enough to–

An avalanche of grinding boulders and flowing dirt crashes across the road. If we hadn't stopped so unnaturally fast, we would have been buried…

A police van barrels toward us from behind, and I recognize the constables in the front seat. These are the people we were supposed to meet.

"Everybody out!" Spook shouts. "Turstein's ironpull trashed the engine!"

Mind reeling at the thought of an Allomantic pull stopping a car, I obey. We pile out, hyper alert for threats, and sprint toward the incoming van. With my speed at max, I'm saved by Wilma's warning to "Duck!" A dart passes over my head, and Spook curses as a rifle bullet punches through his right elbow.

"Keep going!" I shout, then I reverse direction and run. With my speed so high, I can conserve my energy, moving at a slow jog, while still too fast for most enemies to see. I scramble over the fallen boulders, following the trajectory of the dart. Soon, my steelsight reveals multiple sources of metal at three sheltered vantage points high on the western slope. I pick up speed, since that many snipers are far too likely to finish off Spook–and Wilma–if I hold back.

Panting, I reach the first cluster of metal sources. Three men crouch low, aiming rifles down the slope in the direction of the crashed car. I still don't know how the Lurcher constable was able to stop a moving vehicle, but that'll have to wait. Time to act.

My steelpush disrupts the aim of all three riflemen, and I raise my stolen guns. I pour fire into their arms, wincing at the sight of blood spraying away in slow motion. Do more good than harm. Well, these people would happily kill my wife and allies, and I'm not actually killing them. A follow-up push launches the rifles from their now limp hands and off into the distance.

Satisfied with the results, and trying not to regret causing such pain, I promptly change course and run toward the next cluster of metal signatures. A rifle fires, and I can only hope the very long range shot misses its target. I flare steel, pushing against the four rifles, but one man resists with extraordinary strength and keeps his weapon on target long enough to fire. Guessing he must be a Thug, I put twice as many bullets into his arms as I send at the other three snipers. Sure enough, the bullet holes are small and shallow compared to what the others suffer.

Then the man starts to swell.

I hesitate, stopping, as the man's impressive musculature quickly expands beyond any reasonable level. His biceps alone are soon far larger than my torso. His baggy, stretchy clothes are soon stuffed to the brim, and the hulking brute rises and begins to turn.

Not good!

I know this man is burning pewter, but he's also clearly a Brute Ferring.

A pewter Compounder.

Knowing this won't actually kill a man of such power, I pour all of my remaining bullets into his chest, which now packs more muscle than any ten men should have in their entire body. His huge arms are slowly rising to shield his face, but I've done enough for now. Against a Twinborn of such power, our best option by far is to flee.

I start to head toward the final sniper post, but the Twinborn constable is already there. He can't generate as much speed as I can, but it was enough for him to reach the last of the riflemen. A bullet strikes his right arm, but he's burning pewter, and the wound isn't enough to disable the limb. He reaches the riflemen, and although he is moving a little slow from my perspective, he must look like a storm of destruction to his opponents. With enhanced stomps, he shatters the wrists of two riflemen, then he reaches down to slap the final gunman. She collapses into unconsciousness, and the constable races back down the hill.

Wilma and Spook have reached the police van, which has stopped and thrown open the side door. My heart skips a beat when I see that Wilma has a bullet hole in her lower back, toward her left side. And a patch of red spreads across Spook's back. It looks like the bullet hit a lung.

I empty spent shell casings into my hand, drop one, and launch myself with a steelpush. This isn't as fast as I can run with Feruchemy, but I'm badly winded from the fight. And there's no point reaching the van before the Twinborn constable.

I land maladroitly, having had very few opportunities to train in steel jumping over the years. But tapped steel lets me react far faster than the speed of my fall, and I avoid injury. Fighting to fill my lungs, I climb into the van. I notice that the vehicle doesn't shift in the slightest, as if my weight means nothing. Quickly leaning back out, I see that the frame is heavily reinforced, and the tires are positively massive. This van could run over a koloss and not even notice.

Constable Turstein, the Lurcher, is behind the wheel. Doctor Koslenko holds a Malwish medallion to Spook's back, and relief washes over me as the bullet wound closes. The Doctor then applies the medallion to my wife. Wilma's bullet wound heals, but then Koslenko slips the medallion into his pocket. "It's running low," he explains. "We should only use it on the worst injuries."

I turn to Constable Turstein. "Your colleague is quite impressive."

The Lurcher shrugs. "Hero Twinborn always are. But Neltson's especially bold."

"How much speed does he have stored?"

"More than you'd expect. By constantly burning pewter, he can function well even while storing a little speed. And he doesn't need to tap very often, since pewter is usually enough to handle trouble. Compounding isn't the only way to store up a lot."

Hugging Wilma, I note the other two passengers, which must be the Kandra VenDell and the young protégé of Marasi. Neltson arrives and jumps into the passenger seat, and we peel out. Turstein leaves the blocked road, and we rumble and crunch up the hillside to bypass the boulders.

"How did you stop the taxi?" Wilma asks Turstein. "You should have been torn out of this van and smashed into the back of our car. Instead, you saved us from the avalanche."

Turstein makes eye contact with me in his rearview mirror. "Check your metalsight, then you can explain."

I do so. "What the… this van… it must be custom built. The amount of metal…" I take a moment to note just how heavily constructed the vehicle is, especially the driver's seat. It goes far beyond what I noticed simply by looking at the exterior. "This only makes sense if…" I smile. Another Compounder. "So… your badge hides the full truth. You're not just a Lurcher. You're also a Skimmer Ferring. A Twinborn Juggernaut."

Turstein smiles. "Yep. I made myself heavier than your taxi. This van is designed to survive that kind of weight."

"Coincidence feels increasingly unlikely." Wilma says. "In this car, we have a Hero, a Juggernaut, a Flash, a Sentinel, and a Forecaster…" She pauses, taps tremendous mental speed, and looks Doctor Koslenko up and down. "And you aren't just a Soother. Despite the warm day, I see no sign whatsoever of you having sweated. You're a Firesoul. Brass Compounder. Twinborn Inferno."

The Doctor blinks, then shakes his head in wonder. "Unreal. You discovered that in mere seconds. Most of my coworkers don't even know."

"Have you mastered Blazing? At least well enough to avoid burning yourself?"

"I can even protect some of my clothing. Though my jacket and tie might not survive…"

We crash back onto the road, past the avalanche, and we race northward. With all of us together, it's no longer necessary to reach a specific rendezvous point, but getting farther from the ambush sight feels like a very good idea.

My metalsight shows one of Wilma's bracelets go from barely detectable to fully visible. She just consumed a monstrous amount of mental speed. She nods, and turns to the young woman who hasn't been introduced yet. "Your name?"

"Detective Watsel, Subastral Specialist." She shakes Wilma's hand.

"We've been told you're the protégé of Marasi Colms, but I strongly suspect you are also Twinborn."

Watsel blinks, and I have to hold back laughter. It can feel downright surreal when Wilma deploys her full intellect. "Yes…" the Detective says, sliding her decorative pauldron aside to reveal the badge of a Twinborn Omnipresent.

"Nicrosil Compounder," Wilma muses. "Esoteric. In any case, consider the following: Within this van, we have a kandra of Harmony and seven Twinborn. Further, five of those Twinborn are Compounders. It feels most unlikely that such a concentration of Investiture is pure coincidence. Whoever exactly is targeting my husband and me, they seem especially interested in Twinborn."

I manage to follow Wilma's words despite a most bizarre phenomenon that occurs as she speaks. That strange, patterned texture that I saw multiple times yesterday now flows across her neck… and her appearance changes again. I've never seen anything like this. Her skin is an ultra-rich jet black, her eyes are an inhuman orange and seem to glow, and her hair has shifted to a shimmering silver. Her clothes are now a strange, flowing pattern of swirling gold and red. Wilma notices the change, but she doesn't address it until she finishes her sentences. Now, all she says is, "They also appear to possess powers unknown to Skadrial. I'll admit it's quite unsettling that they can manipulate my appearance in such a way."

"I have no theories…" Doctor Koslenko observes, leaning forward to see her better.

"I do," Detective Watsel says, "The last time I visited Silverlight in the Cognitive Realm, I encountered some Nalthian Awakeners. Their Investiture directly involves color."

"We might also be dealing with Rosharan Lightweaving," the Kandra VanDell hypothesizes. "Though normally that would require the Radiant or Fused responsible to be very close by…"

"Harmony's name, what are you going on about?" I've never heard of any of these people or places.

"Calm yourself, my dear," Wilma says. "We already knew there were powers at work not from our world. We've simply been brought into contact with a few individuals with knowledge of other worlds."

Barely acknowledging my bewilderment, Detective Watsel rattles on. "There's even a chance we're dealing with an Essence Mark, though it only could have been made by someone with intimate knowledge of Mrs. Gurnet's history and memories."

"As for the external manipulation of Identity and Connection," VenDell says, starting to give me a headache, "I grow increasingly confident in my theory." I notice for the first time that the kandra's skin color exactly matches his tan suit. Were that true of a human, I'd assume they picked out the suit to match their skin. For a kandra, it's probably the other way around… "I believe your earlier theory has merit, Watsel. We're likely dealing with an organization with access to the Investiture of multiple Shardworlds. Further, they may possess several of the God Metals, perhaps even in alloyed forms. I surmise that the early groundwork of all this manipulation occurred when Mr. Gurnet was in the hospital. Perhaps trace amounts of Aonium, Edglidium, or Teravangium were alloyed in ways to allow internal, Identity-locked expressions of Feruchemy to be disseminated throughout Elendel and decoupled from–"

"Please make more sense!" I demand. "Make any sense at all! It's great that you have ideas, but it would be lovely if the rest of us had a clue what you mean!"

"I second that," Spook says.

"Seriously," Constable Turstein agrees.

"Surely it's not that hard," Doctor Koslenko says calmly. I'm reminded of how much his easy certainty yesterday made me want to punch him, but I guess he's on our side now. "A lot can be derived from context."

"Not a single bit," Constable Neltson says cheerily. "Please dumb this down. Now."

"Even I would appreciate some simplicity," Wilma observes. "All the mental speed in the world can't supply raw data to which I've never been exposed. This 'explanation' is perilously close to an Outside Context Problem for which I have none of the necessary tools."

"Fine, I'll try." Detective Watsel holds out a photograph. It's the newest color variety, which is impressive to see. It shows a wondrous city, of architecture I've never even imagined, set against a backdrop that cannot be real. "This is the city of Silverlight. It is in a realm adjacent to ours, the realm of thought. Those who live there know far more of the Cosmere than anyone born on Skadrial. It is a center of learning, where they share knowledge of many worlds, cultures, technologies, and Investiture. And some of these groups are known to… meddle."

"Personally, I suspect the Ire," VenDell says. He pronounces it "eye REE," which has an exotic feel that I don't find comforting. "This wouldn't be the first time they meddled on Skadrial in a big way. During the final days of ash, while Leras was dying under Aty's constant pressure, the Ire actually tried to steal the Shard of Preservation. Only the intervention of Kelsier's Cognitive Shadow subverted their scheme and allowed the stage to be set for Sazed's ascension."

My head is still spinning, but at least some of this feels vaguely familiar. I've never heard of these "Ire" creeps, but Leras, Aty, Kelsier, and Sazed… these are beings of legend… and of true history.

"So," Wilma says, "let's assume you're right. If these Ire are from another world, and they possess Investiture and resources we do not, allowing them to manipulate the memories, identities, and connection of others… what is their motive?"

"Power," I say, suddenly certain.

Spook and Turstein laugh. I blush, realizing how generic that sounded. "I mean, they specifically want Twinborn power. Investiture from two different sources, combined in one person. Especially Compounders."

"Resonance," Detective Watsel says. "Whenever two sources of Investiture combine, the term is 'Resonance.' Some legitimately groundbreaking things have been accomplished on Roshar regarding the combining and altering of Stormlight, Voidlight, and Lifelight. And all Selish Investiture technically counts, being powered by a mix of the Investiture left behind when Devotion and Dominion were killed and splintered."

My worldview twists and reels. If Devotion and Dominion were in any way similar to Ruin and Preservation…

But Watsel takes no note of my internal crisis, and just barrels on ahead. "But to the best of my knowledge, Compounding might just be the most awe-inspiring form of Resonance known."

"That's enlightening," Wilma says. "If organizations with knowledge of many worlds believe that Compounding is uniquely powerful, then we have our motive. They learned of my husband's extreme power when he used it to survive that abduction. Then, through manipulating everyone's memories of my husband, they created a unique crisis that would bring together many Twinborn. I suspect they intend to enlist us, either through further manipulation, or perhaps by force."

"Wouldn't it be safer to just take our powers using Hemalurgy?" Neltson asks.

"That would be wasteful," I say, relieved that I can finally add to such a complex discussion. "Killing someone with Hemalurgy can only steal one power."

But of course Wilma is a step ahead of me. "If the enemy possesses multiple unknown God metals, along with the knowledge and Investiture of multiple worlds, anything is possible. Atium and Lerasium have extraordinary power, so the metals of other gods—"

"Wilma!" I interrupt. "We follow the Path! We acknowledge no god but Harmony! He wields both Preservation and Ruin, He saved the world, He—"

"And he commands us not to worship him!" Wilma snaps. "Sazed was a wise, learned academic before he ascended, and he preached the virtue of hundreds of religions. Now, he holds the power of two gods, and yet he says we'd be 'wasting time' if we worship him. That, plus what we have just learned, leads me to suspect there are others that could be called 'gods.'"

The words sting. I love Harmony, and everything about the story of Sazed's life as a man. But Wilma has quite simply had more time to ponder such issues. I know she loves me, and respects me, so I'm not hurt by these words. But I am left silent and thoughtful as the discussion continues to sail right over my head.

"Lovely," Neltson says, pulling out another vial of pewter. "So if they could steal all of our powers Hemalurgically, why not just do it? It's gotta be easier than messing with everyone's minds, screwing around with Identity, Connection, Memory, and all this other crazy stuff."

"Hemalurgy would only work with you and me," Wilma says. "No one has yet found a way for Hemalurgy to unlock Compounding. Something about… 'Identity Decay?'" She turns to VenDell.

The kandra shrugs. "Close enough."

Neltson throws up his hands. "But what if there's a 'God Metal' that can even get past that?"

Wilma laughs in delight, and I'm glad I'm so certain of her loyalty. "Touche, Constable Neltson, Twinborn Hero. But, for the sake of argument, let's assume they haven't cracked this particular arcane problem. Or at least they haven't found a practical solution given their current resources. If they had, my dear beloved husband would have been murdered in the hospital."

"Conceding an argument to a Sparker Ferring is not shameful," the constable allows.

"Amen," I mumble.

"So, they want at least most of us alive," Wilma says confidently. "I suspect they're familiar with our powers, at least enough to have a solid notion of what we can survive. They’re trying to push that limit without going too far. But I imagine they also have different levels of priority for each of us. Watsel's Compounding might have esoteric and technical uses beyond my ability to guess, and David's power might be the single most exploitable 'Resonance' on Skadriel. But my Investiture, and Spook's, likely mean less to them. The Ire might consider our deaths acceptable if the more powerful members of our group can be taken alive."

"This conversation just got way less fun," Spook observes.

“I’m probably expendable too,” Constable Neltson says, impressing me with his calm tone. “My powers are useful, but simple to achieve with Hemalurgy. Good thing I’m not easy to kill.”

The van has cleared the mountain pass, heading into the Northern Roughs. There's a small, abandoned mining town up ahead, with the skeletal remains of large steel structures beginning to rust.

"Based on what you know of the Ire, what's our next move?" Doctor Koslenko asks. He still feels way too casual, to my annoyance, but I force the feeling down.

"They clearly have many local allies," Watsel observes. "That ambush involved many riflemen of considerable skill, and I'm still not sure how they caused that avalanche."

"They already have some Twinborn," I say. "Specifically… they have a Hulk."

The van falls silent. Eventually, it's Neltson who recovers first. "Not good. Pewter makes me very powerful in combat, but if he can also tap extreme levels of Feruchemical strength…"

"Further, I strongly suspect that Mr. Copper at the bank is with the Ire," Wilma observes. "He appeared out of nowhere yesterday, passing himself off as a longtime employee, and he forced David to blow his cover by aiming a bullet at his face."

"I'm also guessing Mr. Copper was the one who enhanced a Rioting with duralumin," I say. "So Hemalurgy is at least part of the enemy strategy."

Turstein sums it up in a way that is not encouraging. "So we could be dealing with pretty much any kind of Investiture on Skadrial… and Investiture from other planets." The iron Compounder slows the van as we pass over a bumpy stretch of road in the middle of the ghost town.

Then, I realize I made a mistake earlier. The enemy pewter Compounder surely has the strength to cause an avalanche…. But the boulders flowed from the wrong direction. However the enemy caused that landslide, it wasn't their Hulk that did it…

Before I can share this realization, Spook whirls to stare at Wilma. I'm tapping enough steel for everything to be in slow motion, so I have a little extra time to figure out what this must mean. Wilma must have started flaring her electrum, hard enough for Spook to notice and worry… I turn to Wilma, who's thinking very hard, but she looks more confused than anything. "What…?" she whispers. If she can't interpret whatever her electrum shadow showed her, it must be something that won't directly affect her very much…

The window next to VenDell shatters, and blood sprays from the Kandra's head, showering Wilma in red drops.

Chapter Text

The surreal sight, of blood blasting from VenDell's head, is pushed to an extreme when Wilma's appearance shifts yet again. As the red droplets splatter her face and clothing, she goes completely, featurelessly white. Eyes, hair, skin, and clothing, all are the same, bleached shade, and the blood is no longer visible. I notice a rippling pattern of raised markings slide inside her left sleeve… but there's no more time to ponder.

"Incoming!" Spook roars. "I detect many sources of kinetic Investiture closing on our position! We're surrounded!"

"Full stop! " Wilma screams, clearly having seen something terrible in her immediate future. "Now!"

The van's tires blow out, and its reinforced body groans and buckles, as Constable Turstein Compounds iron. I can't begin to guess how heavy he's grown, but the van grinds to a violent stop. The front digs several feet into the ground, plowing a short trench through the pavement and into the dirt below.

A building smashes into the ground mere feet in front of where we stopped. An entire house, glowing with a faint blue light. It bursts on impact, and several broken beams fly toward the van. Flaring pewter and tapping steel, Constable Neltson springs through the broken windshield and knocks aside the incoming debris. A rifle bullet hits him in the right shoulder blade, and even with his pewter burning, I see bits of bone fly from the shallow wound.

"Prepare for battle!" Wilma shouts, drawing a revolver, leaping from the car, and running in a serpentine pattern for the cover of an abandoned house.

Compounding steel, I'm out of the car and sprinting through town.

Multiple figures are on the move. From my perspective, most are very slow, but I can still sense that we face a terrible fight. Dozens of armed men and women take aim from rooftops or windows, while others move in squads. The tallest intact building, which may have once been a Church of the Survivor, has a high tower that overlooks the town. Four people peer out from the highest window, and two of them barely look human. Ancient beyond description, those two wizened, silver-skinned weirdos are completely bald, and wear hooded white robes with silver embroidery. I briefly consider blitzing to them and demanding a surrender, since they certainly look like they're in charge of this whole weird mess. But if they're openly showing themselves, despite knowing I'm a Twinborn Flash, I fear a trap. With Investiture from other planets at their command, my speed might not be enough...

Instead, I'll show my full power against their goons. This many rifles are deadly dangerous to most of my allies. It could easily save lives if I focus on diminishing enemy firepower immediately.

I move, tapping steel to the point that air resistance becomes painful. I tear off my suit jacket and throw it away, as it might as well be a parachute at this speed. A Steelrunner is protected from the acceleration of their enhanced speed, but not from friction with the air. I have to navigate purely by metalsight, because my eyes must be clamped shut against the wind. I race down the center of twenty riflemen who've formed up in a triple firing line. I flare steel, shoving all of their rifle barrels off target before their volley can tear into my allies. Against so many rifles, gripped in strong hands, the force of my push crushes in on me painfully, but it was worth it. I snatch a combat knife from the belt of the closest gunmen… then I go to work.

My experience in the forest after my abduction taught me better restraint. With my speed advantage, it should rarely if ever be necessary for me to end a life. I can take the time to be more careful. I may follow the teachings of Harmony, but I greatly prefer Preservation to Ruin.

I move from one enemy to the next, briefly slowing enough to make opening my eyes safe. I sever the tendons powering their fingers, leaving their hands crippled. In less than two seconds in real-time, I have maimed this entire group of riflemen, who can no longer hold a weapon or pull a trigger. I shove the knife in my belt, and draw my revolver as I speed away.

This brutal work is painful for me. Do more good than harm. Harmony fought, and even killed, during his years as a human, but the core tenet of the Path is that one's good must outweigh any harm. I just crippled twenty people… but they will all survive, Invested healing might restore them someday, and they can no longer threaten my–

A bullet tears through my left wrist, right where it had broken before my stay in the hospital. My metalsight gave no warning, meaning it must be aluminum.

The pain is excruciating, but it competes with the confusion and fear brought on by the accuracy of that shot. I just started moving toward the next group of enemies, meaning I should be too fast to clearly see let alone hit. And the bullet came from the side, perpendicular to my path.

How could anyone land such a shot?

Fighting through the pain, I change course, dropping a shell casing and steelpushing to–hopefully–make a trickier target. I see a man in a tasseled gray mistcoat, standing alone in the open, not bothering to use any cover. Smoke rises from his rifle, and he's smiling.

I spare just a moment to glance back at the police van. Wilma is nearing the cover of an abandoned house, with Spook, Watsel, and Doctor Koslenko close behind. Constable Turstein is in the open, clearly burning iron, since a volley of rifle bullets are twisting toward the iron plate he wears. Sparks slowly fly off that plate, as the constable bravely pulls all bullets toward himself. If a shot comes from behind, this tactic will essentially guarantee his death, but he doesn't flinch at that possibility.

The kandra VenDell, wobbling and deformed, staggers out of the van, his misshapen head slowly returning to normal. He'll need to obtain a new skull, but otherwise a bullet to the head will mean little to him. Kandra thought processes are handled by their entire body, and their flesh can reshape almost as quickly as a Bloodmaker can heal.

I wish I could help them all directly, but right now my most useful role is aggressive offense.

Landing from the steelpush in a careful roll, I speed up, clamping my eyes shut against the wind. If I can reach the sniper that shot me before he fires again–

A sudden mental breakthrough comes barely in time to save me from maiming injury.

The enemy wants Compounders, extreme examples of "Resonance," and some of them are incredibly dangerous. They have a Hulk, and likely they have others as well.

There is one kind of Compounder that just might be able to snipe a Flash.

A Twinborn "Miracle."

A chromium Compounder, capable of generating extreme levels of spiritual Fortune. Literally lucky enough to hit my recently healed wound while I'm moving so fast I can't even open my eyes.

Realizing the extreme danger posed by such a foe, I throw myself to the side, drop a shell casing, and launch myself into the air. I feel the burn of a bullet grazing my cheek, and I steelpush off the metal frame of a nearby building. Shielding my eyes with my right hand, I squint, and see that the sniper has closed his eyes too. He's depending entirely on luck, and his modern aluminum rifle can be fired very quickly.

With the world in slow motion, I manage to manipulate my flight through precise and subtle pushes, crashing through the upper story window of a dilapidated house. A bullet blasts a chunk from the window frame an instant later, and I avoid splatting on an inner wall by pushing off a rusty, first-gen refrigerator. He's firing as rapidly as his rifle allows, and luck means these shots aren't random.

A chromium Compounder… I remember a sensational newspaper article years ago, where readers were invited to vote on which Twinborn would be deadliest in a fight. Dominators, Heroes, Smashers, Curses, and Crashers (like the late Waxillian Ladrian) ranked high, and a case could be made for Sharpshooters, Supersonics, and Unharmed (like the famous Wayne). But of course, the top votes were all Compounders. And while Hulks and Hundredlives might have their fans, the only Twinborn variety that got almost as many votes as mine… was the Miracle.

His luck defies description, and if he touches me, or I him, it's over. His Allomancy can leach my metals. A single leaching wouldn't be enough to outright destroy all of my ingested steelminds, but it might completely purge them of stored speed. In a single instant, I would be left unable to Compound until swallowing another steelmind. And that's a big problem. All of my other steelminds are too large to swallow, and he could leach them with a single touch.

Just as I finish reloading my revolver, a bullet blasts into the refrigerator near my head. With my speed enhanced, I can see the sparks and bits of metal showering away from the point of impact. How could he have made that shot? He doesn't even have line of sight!

Then an old chandelier falls toward me.

I zip out of the way, noting a blackened dent on its surface. Did he ricochet a shot off that chandelier? At least I'm seeing the limits of what Fortune can allow. Just hitting the chandelier at all would have been nearly impossible at that range, so successfully tagging me with the ricochet wasn't within his power. But it still got close…

Staying in one place is not a good idea.

I turn, just in time to see a silvery blade slice through the wall as if it's paper.

I don't know what to make of this… The sword, of a beautiful, elegant design that should not be practical in combat, is easily longer than I am tall, and it slices through wood as if it were air. The wielder is very quick. To normal eyes, the swing would have been terrifyingly fast. I'm back on my feet, but the backswing is already cutting another slash.

Then the section of wall delineated by those slashes glows blue… and flies toward me.

As I dash out of the way, I catch a glimpse of the woman with the impossible sword. She's pale, red-haired, and an absurd seven feet tall.

She's also glowing blue… and floating in the air.

This is not external physical Allomancy. It's something else. This giant woman must be the one that dropped a house in front of our van…

A bullet grazes my left arm. That insanely lucky sniper instantly took advantage of the hole in the wall, and his shot must have passed very close to the glowing flying giant. With such dangerous opponents, I can't just focus on staying safe. As the most powerful Invested of my group, I need to push back.

I crouch, take aim, and shoot the glowing woman in both of her arms, three times each, then I hurry to reload. In slow motion, she flinches, and the huge sword falls from her grasp. It bursts into mist the moment it leaves her hand, proving without a doubt that it is not a natural weapon. Hoping that I've neutralized this unusual opponent, I move to zip past her and back into the fight.

Several things happen, almost simultaneously, to badly shake my confidence.

That glowing blue gaseous aura starts to spiral into the flying giant's bullet wounds, and they start to close like a Bloodmaker. Her right hand flexes, the fingers functional despite the wounds having only just started to heal. That terrifying sword reappears in a burst of mist and water droplets, and now it's even longer than before. The blade is already starting to swing toward me, but I know I can easily dodge it with my speed so high…

Then a bullet bites deep, all but severing my crippled left hand. The sniper sent his bullet through the glowing swordsman, apparently confident that she can heal.

Screaming, I lose my balance and fall through the hole in the wall. At least I dodged the giant magic sword, but I'm in plain sight of that impossible lucky sniper.

I hear the shots of many more rifles elsewhere in town, and I see Constable Neltson zigzagging toward a company of gunmen at high speed. A bullet drills into his chest, but with his pewter burning it probably didn't get through the muscle layer. He drops six of the riflemen with bullets to the head, then holsters his revolver and switches to devastating hand to hand combat. Apparently, a very capable constable has concluded that we can't get out of this if everyone pulls their punches. I still hope that I can avoid taking lives, but I understand Neltson needing to go for the kill.

But one of the men he shot didn't fall. Despite everything moving in slow motion from my perspective, the hole in the man's head has already sealed, and the twisted bullet falls to the ground. A Bloodmaker. And to have healed that quickly from a shot that should have caused instant death… we might be dealing with a Twinborn Hundredlives. A gold Compounder. They used to be called Unbroken, before an infamous criminal made headlines using the power. Neltson doubles back, hammering away with ruinous hits, shattering bones and spraying blood… but his target doesn't go down. Horrible injuries heal as fast as they come, and the Hundredlives even starts striking back. Two men are turning their rifles toward Neltson, and I pour on the speed. My metalsight gives me at least some idea of where I'm going, and I focus on the lines connected to the constable's revolver and badge. Twice, I almost stumble, as I don't dare open my eyes while moving so fast.

I've nearly reached Neltson by the time the enemy gunmen are in range of my Allomancy. I flare steel, and the push against their rifles hurls us away from each other.

Then a blast of air and heat hits me.

An explosion, significantly stronger than a single stick of dynamite, originated from where Constable Neltson battles the Hundredlives.

If I'd been closer, if I hadn't just thrown myself backward with an Allomantic push, I might have been killed. Even at this distance, my face is burned, and my maimed left hand is torn completely off. Horror grips me as I feel my hand vanish, and it intensifies when I detect Neltson's metallines moving away from me… in different directions.

Nearing panic, I open my eyes despite the danger. I expect to see Neltson blown apart, but it isn't quite that bad. He must have noticed the danger and tried to retreat an instant before the explosives detonated. Much of his clothing has been torn off, with his badge, revolver, and spare ammo going in different directions. He's seriously injured, with much of his skin burned and his right arm horribly broken. I also see some broken steel bracelets flying.

So… the enemy Hundredlives detonated an explosive, knowing he could heal from it more effectively than Constable Neltson could endure it.

Tactics like that are what make gold Compounders so dangerous, despite their Investiture not directly increasing their offensive power. Such extreme healing, combined with eternal youth, allowed the Lord Ruler of the Final Empire to pass himself off as a god. Not even a Twinborn Hero can overwhelm this level of physical regeneration.

But perhaps I can save the constable's life.

With most of his steelminds torn from his battered body, Neltson might not have access to enough speed to survive out in the open. With Feruchemy locked to the identity of the one who stored the trait, my steelminds would be useless to him. But I can still help.

I zip through the smoke, fire, and debris, catching two of Neltson's metalminds out of the air. That's all I can manage with just… one hand…

Then I reach Constable Neltson and place the steel bracers in his hands. His fingers close around them, and his speed increases far beyond any of his enemies. Only by burning pewter is he able to awkwardly use his broken right arm. If his ingested metals run out, or are leeched by–

A bullet rips into my lower back, just to the right of my spine.

Agony crashes upon my mind, and only my fear for Wilma stops me from giving up and collapsing. The bullet came at an angle, exiting out my right side. Composed of soft aluminum, it twisted and warped on its way through my body. One of my kidneys has likely been hit, the exit wound is larger than the entry wound, and the agony almost causes me to black out.

Against a sniper with literal luck, anything less than my full attention might well lead to death. Though larger and stronger than my wife, I'm certainly not tough enough to withstand a bullet, and unlike Wilma, my tolerance for pain is hardly impressive.

With my left hand missing, and a bullet hole drilled from right side to lower back, I can't defeat the enemy Miracle.

But I won't be alone.

Incredibly, Wilma has broken cover, charging out of the far side of the house where the others have holed up. She can think faster than me, even with my speed at maximum, and she's come to the same conclusion as I have. The chromium Compounder must be neutralized, and any hopes of him falling to a single opponent was lost when I suffered these injuries.

Wilma's path toward the enemy Miracle will take advantage of several sources of cover, but only during the first third or so of the distance. And she'll also pass uncomfortably near the giant flying woman with the magic sword…

Then, I realize her arms aren't moving as I'd naturally expect from an athletic woman running at top speed. One arm is pointed in the general direction of constable Neltson, and the other hand is holding up three fingers…

I briefly push my Feruchemical speed to a dangerous level, while slowing my jog to an easy walk. I needed to do this anyway. My missing hand and the bullet hole in my side have me staggering along, weakening and miserable. Relative to everyone else, I'm moving about as fast as before, but my thoughts are more than half of what Wilma can achieve. Trying to imitate my brilliant wife, I ponder deeply. What does she mean by those gestures, and what does this tell me of her actual plan? In such a deadly firefight, she knows there isn't time to actually explain what she has in mind, but maybe…

Neltson… Three fingers… and she's on course for the deadliest enemy on the battlefield, the Miracle whose luck defies–

In a rush, I understand. It's quite a satisfying sensation. And Wilma feels this way on a regular basis.

My wife has calculated that defeating the chromium Compounder will require three of us, including Constable Neltson.

With that information, I try to calculate how we three could defeat the most powerful of the enemy Invested. With Neltson and me both badly injured, and Wilma's Investiture not directly enhancing her strength or speed…

I have it. With adequate support, Wilma's ability to perceive her own future has the potential to outweigh the enemy's luck. But she'll have to be close.

Neltson can get Wilma to the enemy, while I cover them.

Against the deadliest sniper alive, standing in a wide open area, providing no cover on our approach.

This will… hurt.

Author's Note:

As you've surely picked up by now, I'm having a ton of fun with this. Try not to freak out too much if certain details of Investiture don't match your current understanding of the Cosmere. For instance, at the time of this writing, Sanderson's novels have not yet shown a way to get Stormlight off Roshar, and as the story continues there will be more and more things like that. So my story is set a few decades after "The Lost Metal," and I've imagined numerous ways that the various worldhopping organizations might have made multiple breakthroughs regarding Investiture. Because this story is First Person POV from a Skadrian man who wasn't Cosmere aware at the beginning, not all of these ideas can reasonably be discussed as they happen. Part of the fun is that the Cosmere is suddenly slapping David in the face and he has very little idea of what's going on. So feel free to speculate in your reviews, and even to get technical, but don't hate me for "inaccuracies." Future Cosmere novels are guaranteed to invalidate most of my theories and ideas. For instance, Stormlight 5 will almost certainly wreck a lot of what happens in this story. Try to remember when I wrote this, what was known, and what wasn't known yet. Hopefully, deep down, you also would love to see a wild rumble involving Investiture from multiple planets, even if I can't (or realistically shouldn't) explain all the details. This is severely non-canon, despite me trying very hard to accurately represent what the Investiture itself does.

If you're willing to roll with it, I'll do my best to entertain you.

UPDATE:

Yeah... so I just finished Stormlight 5. And. Ahem. Yep. I underestimated just how extremely it would change things. So this is even more non-canon than I figured. Oh well! Have fun!

Chapter Text

I alter course, staggering toward the Hero, whose pewter means his injuries from the explosion are less serious than my bullet wounds. My surviving hand tries to clamp down on the hole in my side, but I can't do anything about the blood flowing from the smaller entry wound in my lower back. An inch to the left, and it would have severed my spine.

The enemy Hundredlives was all but blown to bits in his own explosion, but extreme healing is already restoring him. I see that many of his goldminds are grafted to his ribs and spine, and I shudder to imagine the surgeries required to implant them. But right now, that seemingly immortal foe is not the primary concern.

I reach Neltson, and speak slowly enough that he should be able to understand, despite me tapping far more speed than he can afford to. "Carry Wilma to that sniper! I'll cover you!"

I turn, trusting the battered constable in tattered rags to understand and comply with the plan. My first task is to counter the giant flying woman with the enormous magic sword.

Yay.

Wilma has made little progress since I last saw her. Though running at top speed, she is still far slower than my Feruchemically-enhanced lurching shamble. The glowing blue woman is falling faster than makes sense, and her sword is raised high…

Screaming in pain, I force myself to run. The wind tears at me, trying to rip my wound wider, and I wish I had tight goggles that would allow better vision. I have one eye at a time open just a crack, and the air resistance is still painful. But right now, I can't afford to slow down. Blood trickles from my back, and flows heavily from my side, but I must ignore both injuries if I'm to save my wife.

I reach the flying glowing redhead when her enormous sword is barely a foot from Wilma's neck. With my left hand gone, I have no way to reload my revolver, so I need to save my bullets if possible. I pull out the stolen combat knife, and hack repeatedly at the giant woman's swordhand.

With my speed so extreme, the slashes bite very deep, and I feel the shock of so many powerful impacts adding up. The huge, beautiful sword falls from the woman's grasp, and it bursts into mist with the blade barely an inch from Wilma. My wife never even flinched: her electrum shadow showed her I'd succeed.

With profound relief, I start stabbing at the glowing woman's other hand. Sure enough, she already has that hand moving as if to strike Wilma. The sword manifests again, but the redhead's fingers tear away, and the blade vanishes as soon as it appears.

And then my knife turns to dust.

For a moment, I don't believe my eyes. What just happened? My knife drove into the woman's palm, trying to delay her healing powers… but the blue light didn't flow into her injuries. It flowed into my knife… and the weapon disintegrated.

Steel flakes slowly fall from my grasp. And the woman's maimed, bloody hand is reaching for me, overflowing with blue light…

I dodge away, heart pounding. Even without her giant sword that can slice through walls, this flying, fast-healing woman is deadly. If she can disintegrate steel on contact, I cannot let her touch me, or Wilma. I have no choice but to take harsher action.

As I draw my revolver, the enemy Miracle fires another shot. Distracted as I am, I likely would've been hit, but I'm not the target.

He aimed for Wilma.

My wife was already diving in a somersault, pitching to the right in the process. I see the deep graze and spray of blood as the bullet skims her right side, just below her outstretched arm. Apparently, luck can be matched by my wife's vision of her own future, at least when combined with high-speed mental calculation. Wilma really might be our best chance of defeating the Miracle, but only with some serious assistance in getting within reach.

I bring the barrel of my revolver close to the glowing woman's face, but I carefully avoid making contact. I can't let her turn my gun to dust like she did with my knife. From barely three inches away, I fire two shots, one through each eye. With her healing powers, she probably won't die, but surely this will put her out of action for at least a few moments.

I rush toward Wilma, who twists to avoid several more bullets from random enemy riflemen, but as I hoped, the Hero reaches her first. Though badly wounded and missing most of his clothes, the battered constable doesn't hesitate in doing his part. He scoops her up with his left arm, and hefts her over his shoulder, pewter making it look easy. For just a moment, woozy from blood loss, I feel a minor twinge of jealousy. A handsome, brave, battle-scarred, shirtless constable is gallantly carrying my wife across a warzone, and his physique is waaaaaaay better than mine. But such feelings are irrational, even stupid. If I'm not shallow, then Wilma is as deep as the ocean. She won't be distracted from the goal, and I shouldn't be either. I force myself to keep moving.

Constable Neltson zigs and zags to avoid fire, closing on the Miracle. Wilma has her eyes clamped shut, and I can tell she's dizzy and weak. The Hero's Feruchemy might protect him from the acceleration, but not her. Everything depends on her being so good at interpreting her own future that she can overwhelm the sniper's luck. Neltson's maneuvers and evasion might make her black out.

But he has no choice. Despite his speed, gunmen on rooftops or firing out of windows will have a chance of a lucky shot if he moves in a straight line.

And even with those maneuvers, he won't be able to dodge the Miracle's next shot.

Pocketing my revolver, which has only four bullets left, I clamp my hand over the terrible wound in my left side and speed up. I compound steel as I trot along, knowing that my ingested ball bearings might all get purged in the process of fighting a chromium Compounder. Better to burn them up now topping off my steel bracers. Cutting across Neltson's path, I hope to draw the Miracle's attention, but the rifle remains trained on the others. My heart all but stops when the sniper pulls the trigger, but Neltson is already twisting. With his eyes on the barrel of the rifle, the Twinborn Hero shifts and twists as he runs, raising his mangled right arm. The bullet hits thick, pewter-enhanced muscle on the Hero's upper arm. But the semi-automatic rifle will have time for at least two more shots if the sniper doesn't consciously aim.

Sure enough, the sniper closes his eyes, depending entirely on luck, and his rifle barrel shifts and dips, trying to get around this defense. Despite his superior speed, Neltson can't perfectly keep up, not with his arm so badly broken.

The rifle cracks. Bone blasts from the constable's elbow, and the bullet deflects rather than stopping.

Blood sprays from Neltson's neck.

Without pewter, that hit would have killed him outright. Even with pewter, he won't last long without Invested healing. Blood pours from his carotid artery. If he gives up on the mission and retreats back toward the house where the others are holed up, he might survive. They have that Bloodmaker medallion that might heal him…

But Neltson lives up to his Twinborn name. He keeps moving forward.

Heart pounding from exertion, blood loss, and fear for the others, I continue toward the target. My ingested ball bearings are at last fully consumed, topping off my bracers for what might be my last time. But compared to what that constable is suffering, I suppose I shouldn't complain.

As I close on the Miracle, I swallow an allomantic vial of steel shavings. Not enough for meaningful Compounding, but enough for Allomancy. I can't reload my gun anymore, but my spare ammo still has value. I throw the bullets ahead of myself and flare steel, launching them all forward. The old-fashioned attack just might get the enemy's attention.

With his Fortune tapped at such a high level, the sniper started to twist and shift before the bullets even left my hand. Now, the tumbling projectiles miss him by inches on all sides. At least it delayed his next shot.

And now the rifle is swinging toward me instead…

Good.

I'm a far more difficult target than the constable carrying my wife. He has very little speed left in his steelminds, but my bracers are nearly full.

I almost stumble from weariness and blood loss, but I manage to pull a sharp right turn and duck just as the sniper starts to squeeze the trigger.

It's still not quite enough. With the wind forcing me to keep my eyes mostly closed, I don't see exactly how he does it, but one way or another his aim shifts in time. The shot skims across my chest, a deep graze that burns like fire and sprays my blood off to the right. When I spar with Wilma, we focus on speed, perception, and skill. For obvious reasons, we don't wail on each other with full power punches. I am not good at enduring pain, and my injuries are pushing my willpower to a breaking point. Only the knowledge that Wilma is being carried toward an extraordinarily deadly sniper keeps me going.

Then it occurs to me… survival might not be possible. At least not for me.

Spook, Doctor Koslenko, Detective Watsel, and Constable Turstein, have likely been forced to use up all the remaining stored health in their Bloodmaker medallion. They've been pinned down in an old, rickety house under constant fire this whole time. The Kandra VenDell won't need healing, but if even one of the others took a deadly hit, our group is likely out of healing power by now. Blood loss alone will likely mean that I'm done for. Constable Neltson too, since pewter might not be enough to keep him alive with such a serious neck wound.

And if I'm probably going to die anyway…

I turn back toward the Miracle… and sprint straight toward him. I clamp my eyes shut, navigating purely by the metalines connecting me to the bullets I threw earlier, and the metal components of nearby buildings. I force my failing body to a jog, which results in severe wind resistance with the level of speed I'm currently tapping. All of my wounds pummel me with pain, but I force my body to obey. I draw my revolver and crank off shots as fast as the mechanism allows. Hopefully, using enough luck to avoid the bullets will delay the inevitable rifle shot. I launch my empty revolver with a steelpush, then I bring up both of my arms to protect my face. A marksman this lucky can probably put a shot through the gaps between my arms, but it's the best I can do. If the next bullet doesn't go through my brain or spine, I might live long enough to reach him. If Fortune isn't enough for him to dodge me, ramming him at this speed will kill us both.

The bullet shatters my right knee.

My maimed leg gives out, and in desperation I switch from tapping speed to storing speed. I decelerate barely enough to avoid lethal injury when I tumble and roll across the uneven ground. The Miracle reaches out in time to touch one of my steel bracers as I crash past him, and I feel all the stored power vanish from it. Half of my speed reserves just disappeared, but that might not even matter. My left leg and right arm break, along with multiple ribs, by the time I drag to a stop. I'm not actually paralyzed, but I might as well be. I resume tapping speed, purely for the increase in my perceptions and thinking, but I'm no longer able to rise.

So… The sniper is not authorized to kill me. As the others theorized, my Compounding is too valuable to the Ire. They didn't assign their Miracle to target me purely because he can hit me. He's lucky enough to maim instead of kill. The enemy likely has some means of keeping me alive despite my injuries.

But we also theorized that the Ire might consider Constable Neltson, and my wife… expendable.

I open my eyes, and see that they've nearly reached the sniper. To my horror, Neltson's steelminds become fully visible to my metalsight. He's just run out of speed.

The rifle has swung back around, and Neltson pivots, tossing Wilma from his shoulder so his body is between my wife and the chromium compounder. The next two bullets punch into his back. The Hero continues his spin, his broken right arm limp and flailing. He reaches the sniper, and throws a punch with his left hand. Pewter lends tremendous strength to that swing, but not enough additional speed to overcome the enemy's luck. The Miracle is already twisting, ducking, and bringing up his rifle. The punch knocks the gun out of his hand, but as the enemy falls both of his hands move with fluid perfection. One hand reaches out and brushes Neltson's wrist. Instantly, the constable's bleeding increases and he starts to collapse. His pewter has been leached, and the power keeping him going has vanished.

The Miracle's other hand draws a pistol… and puts a shot through Neltson's forehead.

Without thinking, I tap extreme levels of speed. I can't move, but time seems to flow very slowly. I see the life leave Neltson's eyes, and I get a clear look at just how badly he was injured prior to this moment.

A constable… just died… protecting my wife.

If I weren't so weak, if I weren't so untrained and unsure, perhaps I could have defeated that sniper without getting anyone else involved. But now someone far more brave, open, and selfless than I am has lost his life. For all the years that I hid my great power, working at a bank and pretending to be normal, this Hero openly used his powers for the people of Elendel.

A bullet streaks past the Miracle's head. He begins to turn, bobbing and weaving in a seemingly wild and random way as his Fortune takes over.

Dizzy, staggering, but with her expression fierce and hard, Wilma closes on the Miracle. Her revolver appears to fire very slowly, but I know she must be blazing away with wild abandon. Her powers don't let her see her enemy's future, but firing at such short range means it takes all of the enemy's luck for him to twist and shift quickly enough to avoid getting hit.

As she runs, Wilma's coloring shifts yet again. She goes from pure white to deepest black. Hair, skin, eyes, clothes, even gritted teeth, all the same inky darkness. The faintest confusion begins to appear on the Miracle's face, but not enough to shake his resolve.

By the time Wilma's revolver clicks, out of ammo, she's almost on him. The Miracle's own pistol begins to rise, but Wilma spins. The shot tears through her chest, but too high to hit either her heart or lung.

Then she's on him.

Both combatants move in ways that seem utterly nonsensical and bizarre. Nothing resembles typical boxing or more advanced martial arts. They aren't using any specific style or set of moves. The Miracle has given himself over to luck, his seemingly random movements guided by Fortune. And Wilma moves according to ultra-fast analysis of her electrum shadow, seeing her own immediate future.

The Miracle strives to make skin to skin contact so he can erase Wilma's ingested electrum. Wilma avoids the pistol's barrel while trying to get a grip on it.

The Miracle's luck has more application, since Wilma can't see her opponent's future, but his conscious mind can't keep up with the wild and bizarre fight. He only has his luck… but in such extreme quantity…

For just an instant, the gun barrel is pointed at Wilma's stomach.

It fires.

In almost the same moment, Wilma smashes a fist into the Miracle's nose.

I can't believe my eyes. She chose to make physical contact. Yes, she hurt her opponent, but nowhere near as badly as he just hurt her. And now her electrum is gone…

And yet her precognition doesn't end. She's already seen the next two seconds.

Another bullet tears into Wilma, but then she has the gun gripped in her left hand. She leaps, spinning, wrenching the pistol from his hand, and the momentum of that movement has the Miracle toppling backwards. For just a moment, with no purchase on the ground, his options are too limited for luck to save him.

Wilma's shot, perfectly calculated even as she twists and falls, enters the bottom of the Miracle's chin and exits out the top of his head.

Agony, both physical and emotional, threatens to overwhelm me. My own body is a wreck, my wife can't possibly survive without Invested healing, and Neltson lies dead nearby.

But I manage to hold onto a surge of pride. My brilliant wife just defeated one of the deadliest men on Skadriel.

By interpreting and responding to the bullets she knew would hit her, and perhaps even the deformation of her fist while landing that punch to the enemy's face, she managed to overwhelm his luck.

Do more good than harm.

The Miracle might still be alive. The tiny chance of surviving a bullet to the head must be far more likely for a chromium Compounder. Perhaps my wife, who follows the Path even more fervently than I do, still hasn't taken a life. But even if she did… the man who killed Neltson would have kept causing terrible harm if he hadn't been neutralized.

This is a dangerous, slippery slope. One could easily find mental loopholes for explaining away terrible actions. But I may never have a chance to face that danger, not with everything falling apart around me.

Then, I realize how I can keep Wilma alive… at least for a little longer.

The Miracle purged one of my bracers of stored speed, but he didn't actually leech me. Steel flakes still provide a reassuring warmth in my stomach. As a Compounder, I tend to think more about my Feruchemy, but with my limbs trashed, only Allomancy gives me a chance of assisting.

This abandoned, decaying town is littered with trash of all kinds. Some small bit of metallic refuse lies near a concrete curb. With a careful Allomantic push, I shove myself painfully across the ground, sliding to a stop against Wilma. "Lie still," I gasp. "The other riflemen… might not risk… firing this close to me."

"Neltson died following my plan," Wilma whispers. I'm not surprised this matters more to her than her own injuries. She doesn't try to move, curled up with her hands pressed against her worst bullet wounds. "I gambled all our lives… and lost his."

"Don't think of it that way," I say. "He chose… to save your life. He lived up to his calling."

"I will never forget him. And if we survive, I'll try to do more."

"I'll second that." We can try to uphold what he valued. Instead of hiding our powers, we can stand in the open and serve those in need.

But it's far more likely that I'll be captured by these horrible Ire.

And Wilma…

They might use Hemalurgy to–

I can't let myself think of that. I came to rest in a position that lets me see the distant house where the others took cover. An absurd number of bullet holes cover the old building, no glass remains in any of the windows, and dozens of riflemen keep up the barrage. One entire wall has collapsed, along with about a third of the roof. But I can also see why the enemy haven't stormed the position yet, at least not successfully. Several gunman lie strewn about, twisted and broken. Metal signs, an entire streetlight, and half of the van we arrived in lean against the building, in some cases caving in the walls. My metalsight shows multiple metal sources under the house, and some are moving.

So… the others hid in the basement, making it relatively safe for Constable Turstein to use his powers. Compounding iron to grow enormously heavy, his Allomancy allows him to pull very large metal objects toward his position. Enemies trying to enter keep getting flattened by objects pulled toward Turstein. This can't last forever, but it's possible all of the others have managed to survive so far. Is there even the slightest chance they can win the day?

And if so, could it possibly happen before Wilma and I bleed to death?

But no. The enemy Hundredlives has fully healed from his self-destructive stunt. His clothing has been completely blasted away, but his body shows no sign of having detonated a powerful explosive. He'll be able to get inside the house, as blunt force trauma can't realistically kill him. Unless Turstein gets lucky enough to fully pin the gold Compounder under rubble, he will get in, and they won't be able to stop him.

Worse, the seven-foot tall woman with the giant magic sword is back on her feet. There's no sign of the bullets I put through her eyes. That mystical blue glow is far less bright than before, but she appears unharmed. Her enormous beautiful sword again materializes in her hand, and she strides toward me and Wilma.

Then I hear an approaching car. Racing down the road at top speed.

Tapping steel, I again observe my surroundings in slow motion to get a better look at the three people inside. Could there possibly be reinforcements capable of turning the tide?

The newcomers are reinforcements… but not for my team.

I recognize the driver as "Mr. Copper" from the bank. The one who, at the very least, is capable of burning Zinc and Duralumin.

The passenger is the man I wounded in the earlier ambush, before we reached this town. The Twinborn Hulk, capable of achieving extreme size, strength, and durability.

As for the person in the back seat, I don't recognize him… or her… or… it…? But they have alien carapace covering their face and neck.

And the inhuman thing is glowing blue.

Chapter Text

My hope hangs by the merest wire.

So much struggle, confusion, and loss… and it's on the brink of ending in catastrophe. An entire day of fear, existential dread, and sickening bewilderment, for which I still have no hard answers, only theories I barely understand. People trying to erase me from the lives of everyone I've ever known. For whatever reason, their manipulations lost some effect the following day, only for my wife and several others to lose all memory of yesterday's events. My wife's appearance has changed enough times I've lost count, and a small army has my few allies surrounded. The enemy has compounders, hemalurgy, and Investiture from other planets. That very concept still mystifies me. Before today, I had no notion any other planets contained life, let alone gods like Harmony, and powers other than the three Metalic Arts. There is a vast universe out there, with places, nations, and powers I never dreamed might exist… and today, it's all conspiring to bring death, tragedy, and slavery to me and those that stood with me.

Constable Neltson is dead. Wilma and I lie helpless, bleeding out. VenDell, Spook, Detective Watsel, Constable Turstein, and Doctor Koslenko are pinned down and surrounded. The strategy that has kept them alive, holed up in a basement to let our Juggernaut use his powers with impunity, is likely to be shattered by the enemy Hundredlives and the Hulk that just arrived. And that's to say nothing of the two otherworldly glowing champions. As a brass Compounder, Doctor Koslenko has the potential to unleash terrible destruction with the rare and difficult Blaze technique, but the current situation won't allow it. He'd need to be a safe distance from his allies, and doesn't dare break cover with so many bullets flying.

The only possible chance of survival lies in Constable Turstein. Spook has likely warned him of the strong Investiture approaching, and if Detective Watsel uses her nicrosil Allomancy to enhance Turstein…

She does.

And it's glorious.

The incoming car buckles and warps as an invisible force of awesome power wrenches it toward the battered house where my allies hide. Turstein must have made himself many tons to safely act as an immobile anchor for a pull that strong against something that heavy. The tires blow out, the windows shatter, and the car begins to roll. Turstein must have stopped pulling almost immediately, allowing the car to go wildly out of control.

But it still isn't enough to kill the two men in the front seat.

With my perceptions sped up, I see the pewter Compounder deliberately tear free of his seatbelt, wrap his arms around "Mr. Copper," and smash himself backward through the passenger door. He doesn't grow in size, but that doesn't mean he isn't tapping pewter. Hulks have the option to store either their natural strength or the strength generated by their Allomancy. He's likely Compounding that source of strength, allowing him extreme power without growing in size, which would have risked crushing his ally. This trick allowed the Lord Ruler of the Final Empire to kill the Mistborn Kelsier with a single blow while leaving his appearance unchanged.

The vehicle tumbles and crashes, crumpling and catching fire, and I dare to hope that the glowing alien in the back seat will be too severely injured to fully heal and still fight. A burst of brilliant blue light flashes from inside the vehicle, which smashes all the way through the house and out the other side. The Hulk lands safely, setting Mr. Copper on his feet, and for a moment, everyone watches the spectacle. The ruined house finally collapses, though hopefully the basement is still intact. The mangled car finally comes to a stop against the neighboring building.

Did we defeat at least one of them?

A figure tears itself free of the burning vehicle. It's fully encased in glowing, fantastical armor of a design that shouldn't be functional. It might be the same exotic material as the seven-foot-tall woman's magic sword, and he moves with no sign of injury.

The last of my hope dies.

We can't possibly beat these mysterious "Ire." My allies felt compelled to take multiple lives, Wilma may have killed that Miracle, Constable Neltson lies dead… and it was all for nothing. The enemy may kill some of us to steal our Investiture, and anyone they keep alive might be tortured or subjected to Ruin-knows-what otherworldly powers to force our compliance. If I ever learn the truth of what's really going on, it will be as a broken captive. If I can't withstand their tortures and machinations, I may even be twisted into a monster who abandons the Path entirely, doing only harm…

Then a new hope arrives.

"So sorry we're late!"

I painfully turn my head and see a glowing figure streaking in from the north. The light is the same as with the seven-foot-tall red-headed woman and the carapaced alien that now wears the magic armor. Other than that, she looks nothing like them. The middle-aged woman's deeply tanned skin isn't quite as dark as a full-blooded Terrisman, and her long black hair whips in the air in a chaotic tangle. She's skinny as an underfed girl, so lean it looks painful, all elbows and knees. But what stands out most is how she moves. While the giant woman with the enormous sword openly disobeys gravity, this newcomer ignores friction. She skates barefoot across the uneven ground with speed and grace that doesn't feel real, and she's heading straight toward Wilma and me.

A rapid series of high-pitched whistles sound from the building containing the bald, ancient weirdos with the silver skin. If I'm right about them being in charge, those sounds are probably coded orders…

With a shout of "Oo'kali'laa'e!" which feels like a curse, the giant woman runs to intercept the newcomer. Hopefully, her diminishing blue glow means she needs to conserve her power. I don't see how this can be enough to change things though. One otherworldly ally can't turn this disaster around.

"You're on the wrong team, Kun'alar!" the skating woman shouts. "There's no starvin' way you really believe in what they're doing!" She holds out her right hand, and mist coalesces into a silvery rod. It's probably the same material as the redhead's sword and the alien's armor, but it looks so… boring. So simple.

It still does its job.

The huge, glorious sword glances off that simple rod, the smaller woman ducks and dives, and the newcomer dashes the rest of the way to me and Wilma. "The name's Lift! I already know who ya are!" She exhales, and a cloud of glowing blue gaseous light flows into me and my wife. Her own glow diminishes greatly, and I feel my strength returning. Horrible injuries begin to twist and mend, but Lift doesn't have time to stick around. "Wyndle! Stay with'em to make sure my Awesomeness works!" Her weapon vanishes in mist, a barely visible line of spectral crystals appear to grow on Wilma's arm, and Lift snatches up the fallen Miracle's aluminum rifle. She curses when a rifle bullet punches through her left shoulder. "I hate bullets! Anyway, my team wants to talk after this is over!" She then skates back toward the towering redhead.

Despite recovering from so much lost blood, my head still spins. "What… just… happened?"

"We have a new ally," Wilma whispers. "If she's from the same world as the two enemies that glow, perhaps this isn't the first stage of an interplanetary war. Perhaps we're caught in the crossfire of someone else's struggle."

Lift's shoulder heals as she clashes with the glowing swordsman. Apparently, the giant sword can't slice through aluminum. Very good to know…

I'm still not ready to stand, though the blue light filling me brings relief and strength. I turn toward the collapsed house where the others hide, and to my dismay, the Hulk and the Hundredlives are trying to get them out. More whistled commands cause the two Compounders to briefly step back. The alien in the magic armor emits a flowing wave of blue light that spreads across the ground and into the ruined building. Then the rubble begins to shift and spread apart, and the metalines belonging to my allies start rising toward the surface.

What… what is it doing?

"We shouldn't move a muscle until we're fully healed," Wilma whispers. "The moment the enemy soldiers realize we're recovering, they're sure to open fire."

"Right. Plan?"

"When I say, you move to interfere with the Invested targeting our allies. While you draw fire, I'll start targeting the enemy snipers in the buildings. Compared to facing a sniper with Fortune, that should be manageable on my own."

The last of my pain has faded. To my immense relief, my hand has fully regrown. "Ready when you are."

"Move."

I burn steel, pushing off a nail buried in the dirt beneath me to launch into the air. A followup push against a doorknob at the limit of my range sends me on a ballistic trajectory toward the demolished house where the others shelter. Numerous enemy riflemen turn, startled by my sudden movement, and some try without success to shoot me out of the air. Immediately, Wilma springs to her feet and charges toward the nearest structure, which shelters at least four Ire gunmen.

As I sail through the air, I calculate my chances of actually saving anyone. Even if the collapsing house didn't injure any of my allies, the forces arrayed against them are far more than I can realistically handle. The glowing alien in that magic armor is likely similar in deadliness to the redhead with the giant sword, and whatever it's doing to raise the ground may leave my allies totally exposed in just a few more seconds. Mr. Copper has at least one Hemalurgic spike, so I can't be certain what abilities he commands. The enemy Hulk will be an absolute nightmare to fight, and the Hundredlives might be all but impossible to–

A figure smashes through the rubble of the house, launching into the air toward the ruins of a steel framed apartment complex. It's Constable Turstein, and that stunt clearly broke many of his bones. But his injuries heal as I watch, proving he holds the Bloodmaker Medallion.

Before the Constable reaches the apartment building, he taps iron and pulls. Most of the collapsed house now flies into the air toward him, pulled by old nails embedded in the wood. He immediately makes himself all but weightless and pulls against a higher level of the apartment building, arcing upward. He lands hard, cracking bones, but clinging safely to the side of the building as rubble crashes into levels below him. Riflemen on a nearby rooftop open fire, but their bullets arc toward the Constable's center of mass, hitting the small, thick metal plate he wears. The alien in the strange armor charges toward Turstein, thankfully abandoning its work to bring my allies to the surface. The glowing armor must be extremely heavy, as his footsteps are loud even from a distance. But he still moves faster than most unarmored men could run.

Between the alien's strange powers and Turstein's Allomancy, most of the collapsed house has been cleared away. The floorboards are buckled or broken in a hundred places, and the stairway to the basement is now visible. The enemy Hundredlives snatches up a fallen rifle and charges down, and I can only hope he's walking into a trap. But the Hulk moves to follow, and that cannot be allowed. Detective Watsel might be able to turn the tide against the Hundredlives, but none of them will have a chance against that Hulk.

It'll be my job to distract him.

Behind me, Lift continues to battle the seven-foot-tall woman, the one she called "Kun'alar." Both of them glow only dimly, as whatever power sustains them is running out. But when the redhead overcommits to a swing, Lift ducks, disengages, and pulls a bottle from her belt. Popping off the lid, the cheeky woman guzzles the contents, though she doesn't have time to finish before her opponent slaps the bottle away. It shatters against the asphalt road, and the spilled contents look like… milk? Just milk? Nevertheless, Lift's power suddenly erupts into blue brilliance. Her opponent curses, and their battle intensifies.

I turn my attention back to the fight that lies ahead of me. Gunshots from the basement fill me with worry, as the Hundredlives fights my allies where I can't see the outcome. But I have to trust them. It's time for me to battle the enemy Hulk.

Unarmed.

Yay.

Tapping steel, I carefully turn my landing into a roll to avoid serious injury, then come up at a full run. I come from behind, digging my fingers into his neck, right at his carotid arteries. Pewter enhances his durability enough to stop this tactic from doing serious harm, but it still gets his attention. I leap back as he grows to enormous size in an explosive burst of Feruchemy. He's switched which pewterminds he's drawing on, so now his strength comes from natural physical power instead of Allomantic power. I'm far faster than this man, but I still need to be very careful. His movements might look slow to my accelerated senses and awareness, but objectively he's still moving faster than any ordinary person, and the strength behind it boggles the mind. If I take even one hit, it could easily be fatal.

The Hulk stops advancing toward the basement where the Hundredlives fights my allies, instead focusing on me. He turns continuously, flailing his massive arms randomly, ducking and weaving. He can't see me clearly, not at the speed I'm moving, but his unpredictable movements are still deadly dangerous. I circle and dance, looking for an opening, knowing that a single mistake could end me. Worse, several enemy riflemen have started firing at the ground near their Hulk. They can't really aim for me either, but by laying down fire all around their champion, they make my job even harder. I have to split my attention, trying to gauge where all those rifle barrels are pointed, avoiding the line of fire even as I try to battle an enormous, flailing, spinning Hulk. Pewter gives him the coordination, stamina, and balance to keep up this chaotic strategy for a long time, and for the moment, all I can really do is keep him busy. Punching him would only injure my hand.

The armored alien pours blue light into the ground ahead of himself, and suddenly that ground is rising. A column of earth, rock, and concrete lifts upward like a giant snake preparing to strike, bringing the armored enemy toward Turstein. But I'll need to trust the constable to stay mobile and keep his distance

A foreign curse in Lift's voice causes me to turn her way. From the momentum and angle of Kun'alar's giant sword, it looks like it must have gone through Lift's arms. But it didn't sever the limbs. Instead, Lift's arms flop limply, the skin gray. I'm horrified on behalf of the woman who healed both Wilma and myself, but she treats this unnatural malady as a mere inconvenience. She goes fully evasive, skating across the ground, dodging and weaving, while blue light flows into her maimed limbs.

The alien in the magic armor crashes into the apartment building, along with the moving column of earth that he controls like a giant arm. Turstein dives off the building, then lurches upward by pulling on a higher level. Two more bullets ping off his armor plate, and the glowing warrior pursues. The offworlder is incredibly strong, though not to such an extreme as the Hulk I'm contending with. He leaps, crashes, and climbs with ease, smashing through floors, digging his hands into walls, and clambering up exposed sections of steel frame. Again, Turstein escapes by leaping from the building and lurching to another position, but his pursuer reacts more quickly this time, almost catching him out of the air.

A bullet grazes my cheek, and I barely duck a wild swing. This dance with the enemy Hulk is getting very dangerous. I need to do something decisive, and soon. Following the metalines filling the area around me, I see that one of the bullets must have hit something more solid than dirt. The misshapen bit of metal lies on the surface, rather than having dug deep into the ground. I snatch it up, take a step back, and briefly pause to take careful aim. As the Hulk spins, I try to line up a shot at his left eye. A full-strength steelpush might be enough to–

A blast of pure terror hits me, triggering unrestrained animal panic.

A tiny corner of my rational mind knows this can't be natural. After the last few minutes of extreme combat, there's no way a bullet graze would trigger my flight response so strongly. This must be emotional Allomancy. Mr. Copper has burned zinc and duralumin to riot my fear to an unbearable level.

My logical mind has no chance against terror this extreme.

I drop the bullet, turn, and run for my life. Even breathing is hard. My legs shake, and I almost trip, which could be deadly at this speed. Wind rips at me, forcing me to close my eyes. Then, mercifully the worst of the fear passes, leaving me shaken but capable of rational thought. If this effect lasted any longer, I likely would have maimed myself in a crash.

Then it hits me again.

My frayed nerves respond even worse this time, though I manage to make one important change: I greatly reduce the amount of speed I'm tapping. Thus, despite running about in a wild panic, the wind isn't enough to force my eyes closed.

Like a hunted animal, I dash about, screaming in terror, trying to look every direction at once. I see that Lift's arms have regained most of their color. Two of the rifleman in the house Wilma entered have stopped firing, proving she's doing her part. Constable Turstein avoids the latest lunge from his armored enemy by divesting himself of weight and pulling toward something in the basement. I need to help them, but right now Mr. Copper is prioritizing me with these devastating riots.

I force myself to turn back toward the basement, and the allies that so desperately need me. Turstein pulls off the metal plate he wears, throws it straight up, and burns iron. With his weight all but eliminated by his Feruchemy, he lurches slightly upward just before he would have crashed into the ground. He catches the iron plate, lands safely, and charges down the stairs.

A third blast of artificial fear beats upon me, but I'm finally growing used to it. The sight of the enemy Hulk charging toward that basement, coupled with my certainty that this fear isn't really my own, at last lets me fight through it. I shake, and quiver, and feel ready to vomit, but I seize control of my body and dash in. I pause to snatch up a rifle from a soldier that fell to Neltson earlier, and I close the distance. I come to a stop mere yards from the Hulk, level my rifle at his head…

…and hesitate. Against a hulk, anything less than a killshot may not be enough to stop him. But if he enters that basement, he could kill everyone in seconds.

I pull the trigger.

An instant too late.

An invisible force smashes into my rifle. My shot grazes the Hulk's face from the side, damaging both his nose and right eye, but it wasn't enough to kill. My fingers nearly break as the rifle wrenches from my grasp and spins off into the distance.

So… Mr. Copper has at least two Hemalurgic spikes. Harmony can seize control of anyone pierced by four spikes, and the Ire surely know that. So it's likely he has one more power he hasn't shown yet. Wait… he could have up to three more, if he's naturally Twinborn.

Lovely.

I duck, avoiding the Hulk's vengeful swing. Though it looked slow to my eyes, that punch could have effortlessly splattered my head if it made contact. Keeping him focused on me is still vital for the sake of the others, but I also need to worry about Mr. Copper.

A rumbling crash draws my attention. The alien in the glowing armor must have jumped all the way to the ground, but he doesn't look injured from the fall.

This is now way more than I can handle alone.

Then, an Ire gunman rolls from a rooftop and hits the ground, limp. Then another.

Could Wilma be firing from a window? No… the range is very far, and her Forecaster powers would be of limited use trying to snipe someone so far away.

Many of the enemy riflemen stop aiming for me, and instead turn their attention north.

The direction Lift came from.

Chapter Text

"About time the rest of ya showed up, ya starve'n chulls!" Lift's arms have fully healed, and she again holds that mystical silvery rod, meeting Kun'alar's giant sword strike for strike. Their difference in physical strength is great, but Lift is always moving, skating across the ground, circling and dodging. Not truly graceful, but a functional approximation. "Kun'alar's almost out of Stormlight, but I don't wanna have to tangle with some of the other creeps the Ire brought! Do your jobs!"

"Out of Stormlight?" Kun'alar chuckles. "Not for long."

Another series of sharp whistles comes from the church tower where the gathered enemy leaders oversee the battle. Coded orders in response to this new development. Then, a brilliant flash of light briefly fills the tower, followed by another flash on the ground next to Lift's opponent.

It's the largest sapphire I've ever seen, nearly the size of a fist. And it's overflowing with blue light.

With a smirk, and a sharp inhalation of breath, the red-headed Kun'alar draws all of that glowing power into herself.

"Odium's dangly-bits!" Lift shrieks. "I did not need this! If Wyndle has a panic attack, I'll be unarmed again!"

Kun'alar accelerates upward, almost like falling in reverse. Then she dives at Lift, sword outstretched. Squealing, the dark-skinned woman zips out of the way barely in time, and the redhead lurches sideways, pursuing her without touching the ground. Her free hand surges with concentrated blue light, and I remember how she turned my knife to dust earlier. Lift must avoid, not just that unreal sword, but Kun'alar's mere touch.

In response to the whistled orders, the armored alien pounds northward to intercept whatever allies Lift brought, and more of the riflemen redirect their fire that way. One man topples over with a hole in his forehead, but I have to deal with the closer threat.

I dash after the rifle that flew from my hand, snatching it up in aching fingers and taking aim. The Hulk is ready, raising those enormous arms to shield his face. As I zip around him, he turns in place, struggling to keep up with my barely-visible movements. I take note of Mr. Copper's expression as I move. Burning Duralumin completely consumes any other metals you're burning, so each time he enhances one of his powers, it takes a moment for him to swallow more of whatever metal he just used. Instead of traditional vials, his spare metals are stored in tiny aluminum containers, preventing Allomancers from manipulating them. He's already replenished his steel, but if I react quickly enough…

I'm finally in position to take direct aim at the Hulk's head. His arms aren't quite in position to guard his face, meaning…

The extraordinary push comes exactly when I expect it to. I've already let go of my rifle, and it spins off into the distance.

Then I sprint directly for Mr. Copper.

His eyes instantly widen in alarm. Recognizing the danger so quickly… he may be tapping zinc, like Wilma. Sparring with my wife has taught me the limits of what mental speed alone can do, and I know I can reach him before he swallows more steel. I quickly tally up what I know about his powers. He has the abilities of a Sparker, Coinshot, Rioter, and Burster. That last used to be called a Duralumin Gnat, as the ability is useless on its own. But the growing availability of Hemalurgy and Nicrosil Feruchemy turned it into one of the most useful powers on Skadrial. If Mr. Copper is naturally Twinborn and has three Hemalurgic spikes, he only has one more power…

It crashes upon me in that moment.

A wave of empathy and connection so intense, I briefly feel like I've badly misjudged this man. Despite everything I've seen him do, his efforts to erase me yesterday, and his arrival with the enemy… I must be wrong. He must be a double agent. I know that he's the closest friend I've ever had. Dearer than a brother. I'd die for him without a second thought.

Then I almost do.

Smiling, Mr. Copper draws a revolver and aims for my right lung. "Stand still, Mr. Gurnet. You can trust me…"

I come to a stop, smiling at my dear friend, knowing that whatever he intends, it's for the best…

Something envelops me from behind, throwing me to the ground just as the revolver fires. The bullet grazes my right arm, then I find myself rolling across the pavement. What is this? It doesn't really feel like being grabbed. More like being tangled in bedsheets.

Then, my total conviction that Mr. Copper is a friend fades dramatically. I still feel an inexplicable connection to him, a sense that we are very close, but now my logical mind can resist. As if in response, my captor stands me up, sets me on my feet, and lets me go. Tapping steel, I zip to the side just before Mr. Copper's next shot fires, and I turn to look at whoever just saved me.

Wait… not a who… a what.

It's a black hooded cloak. It briefly hangs in the air, assuming a shape as if someone is wearing it. Then it collapses into a ball and shoots away.

Whaaaaaat…?

With my perception of time altered by my speed, I have to focus for quite a while to understand Lift's shouted words. "Nice save, Iyatil!"

So… one of Lift's allies can manipulate this cloak, and used it to save me… I genuinely have no clue how, but I won't object to life-saving help just because I can't understand it.

In any case, I now know all of Mr. Copper's powers. For him to fill me with a totally unfounded sense of camaraderie and friendship… he must be tapping extreme levels of Feruchemical Connection, likely via Compounding duralumin.

So… a Charismatist. He naturally has both powers that use duralumin, meaning his Sparker, Coinshot, and Rioter powers must come from Hemalurgy. This man can think as fast as Wilma, and by enhancing a Rioting, he can push spiritual Connection to a level that borders on mind control. Lovely. But now he's out of both zinc and steel, greatly limiting his options until he consumes more. I blitz toward him, fiercely fighting the false feelings of friendship generated by his Feruchemy. In hand to hand combat, I know I can defeat him easily. All my training with Wilma will make it easy to cope with his mental speed, since he doesn't have Allomantic electrum to inform his calculations.

Do more good than harm.

This manipulative man can cause great harm, but I still hope to stop him without killing him. If I cause tremendous non-lethal injury, he'll still use up his healing medalion trying to restore himself.

As my fist rockets toward Mr. Copper's jaw… he vanishes in a flash of silvery light.

I blast through the space he just occupied, baffled, then I turn. My unnatural sense of "friendship" with him has only slightly faded, so he can't have gone far. That wasn't extreme speed, but some form of teleportation. Is this how the enemy deposited that glowing sapphire right next to Kun'alar?

And can my brain handle even one more mind-warping use of powers I've never seen before?

I duck and roll, narrowly avoiding a broken beam. The Hulk has started snatching up rubble to throw my way. The projectiles are far slower than bullets, but their greater size forces me to move farther to get out of the way. A trashcan, a streetlight, and two tires fly toward me. Looking past him, I see Mr. Copper.

Barely in time to avoid maiming injury.

The Hemalurgically enhanced Charismatist stands at the upper window of a four story building, and he has a handful of silverware and kitchen implements held in front of him. Burning steel and duralumin, he sends all that metal blasting toward me with terrible speed and force. While still slower than bullets, I didn't realize the danger until the projectiles were already in the air. Tapping enough speed that the air feels thicker than water, I push with all my strength to clear the danger zone. I feel my speed reserves draining fast, and I can see that I won't get completely clear of that rain of metal. Focusing, wishing my mind could be sped up more than my body, I try something crazy. While most of the knives, forks, and metal plates miss me, I swat desperately at the plate that's still on course for my neck. I feel bones break in my hand, since in real-time that impact is brutal, but it's enough to save me. The spinning metal misses my neck, I reduce my speed to a safer level, and I somersault to avoid the broken door the Hulk hurls my way.

My hand throbs horribly, but it's nothing compared to how ruined I felt before Lift healed me. This will complicate some tactics and options, but it'll have little impact on my mobility.

It occurs to me that I'm thinking like a warrior for the first time in my life. I may have little concept of the big picture, or who most of these people are, but I'm determined to use my powers to turn this mess around. No one else is going to die defending me or my wife. A little pain isn't going to stop me. Do more good than harm.

If I turn the tide of this battle, I may upend the plans of an organization that seems eager to cause harm on a grand scale.

That's a very big "if."

Another enhanced Rioting dials my sense of connection to Mr. Copper back to an unreal level. For a moment, nothing I know or believe can compete with these sensations. I'm totally certain that this unassuming little man in the simple business suit is a friend worthy of total devotion. At his shouted command, I come to a stop, smiling stupidly, arms flung wide. If he says the Hulk just wants a hug, who am I to argue?

Then, in an instant, the sensations are gone. The enhanced Rioting has ended sooner than it should have, and even the Feruchemical connection no longer has a hold on me. I twist aside barely in time to avoid the lunging tackle that would have left me helpless in the Hulk's grip, and I accelerate to a sprint. Someone else is in the building with Mr. Copper, grappling with him. I can see metalines that weren't there before, suggesting that the man's Duralumin has been leached of stored power. The plump woman wears her blonde hair in a bob and moves with the speed and strength of a Pewterarm. Mr. Copper fights back with the precision and tactics of a Sparker. Then another figure joins the fight. Wearing the mask of a Southern Scadrian, along with the black cloak that rescued me moments ago, they aid the Pewterarm.

Overmatched, Mr. Copper throws himself from the window. As he falls, he downs the contents of an allomantic vial, tosses a bullet downward, and launches himself away with a steelpush. If he has even one invested bit of duralumin small enough to swallow, Compounding could restore his Connection in no time…

"Iyatil! Codenames!" Lift manages to sound cheery despite running for her life from the flying woman with the death hands and the doom sword. "Glad ya made it! Why were ya so slow?"

Constable Turstein vanished inside the basement some time ago, and the shooting has died down. Hopefully they captured the Hundredlives without too much difficulty. And Wilma seems to have cleared out an entire building, subduing one rifleman after another. She's sprinting across the street, dodging fire, headed for a two story house. I fully expect her to clear that building as well. From this distance, I only recognize my wife by the precognitive skill she displays in avoiding a light spattering of potshots from gunmen. Her skin is now a riot of ever-changing green and yellow, while her hair is a painfully bright shade of garish orange. This should be baffling and terrifying... but in the context of everything else, it doesn't even bother me anymore. If anyone deserves to be visually unique and striking, it's my magnificent wife.

If these newcomers who know Lift are able to counter the Hulk and the armored alien thing that can reshape the ground, we might actually get through this with no more deaths.

And now my original allies join the fray.

The battered and buckled floor of the demolished house finally gives way, all at once, suggesting deliberate action by those in the basement. Constable Turstein, who may not yet know about his partner's death, just tore all the remaining nails free. With Watsel enhancing his allomancy, and his metal plate to protect him, such a tactic isn't too insane, and the others could have sheltered against the walls.

Scrambling over rubble to escape the basement, Spook, VenDell, and Doctor Koslenko sprint toward the house held by Lift's allies. Most of the enemy rifleman are busy exchanging fire with someone to the north, so my friends have a solid chance of reaching safety. As they run, Spook blazes away at Mr. Copper, who takes cover in the battered apartment building. Constable Turstein smashes free of the broken timbers, holding the enemy Hundredlives close. As expected, the gold Compounder shows no signs of injury, but he does show bewilderment and panic. If Detective Watsel managed to nicroburst him while he was actively Compounding, he's probably reeling from a brutally vivid Auger vision. Far more importantly, his ingested metalminds have been purged of power. His other goldminds likely still contain tremendous healing power, but if we can manage to do enough damage…

Turstein kicks the Hundredlives downward, hurling himself back and away in the process. The Hundredlives crashes into the side of the apartment building, and Turstein lands lightly near the basement. He's emptied an Allomantic vial into his mouth, but he hasn't swallowed… yet. Watsel dashes to his side, and places a hand on his cheek, burning nicrosil …

Then I witness the single most extreme use of external physical Allomancy since the Catacendre.

Compounding so much weight that his feet split pavement and dig into the earth, Turstein pulls on the entire steel frame of the eight story apartment complex. Mr. Copper's accelerated mind reacts quickly enough for him to blast clear with an enhanced steelpush, but the Hundredlives isn't so lucky. The crumbling building rips from its foundation, tearing itself apart as it crashes toward Turstein. The Hundredlives vanishes under thousands of tons of steel, concrete, and rotten wood. Swallowing the iron shavings already in his mouth, Turstein wraps his arms around Detective Watsel, divests himself of weight, and burns iron. They lurch into the air barely in time to avoid the ruinous collapse of the apartment building, aiming for the upper story of the house the others just entered.

Despite the awe-inspiring sight, Mr. Copper stays focused. Even while falling earthward from the steelpush that saved his life, he shouts, "Doctor Koslenko! Blaze!"

I find myself dashing over the crumbling ruins, horrified as I realize Mr. Copper's plan. When he burned duralumin and steel, he must have also burned zinc and tapped Connection. But this time, it wasn't me he targeted. It was Doctor Koslenko.

The twinborn Inferno that just entered the house along with so many of my allies has just been bewitched by Mr. Copper's powers…

Even with my mind enhanced, the eruption of flame comes so quickly. Compounding brass, the Doctor obeys the command of his "dear friend." He generates such extreme body heat that most of his surroundings ignite. He survives by simultaneously storing heat in other brassminds, a continuous thermal loop that maintains a buffer of safe temperatures close to his body, but still superheats his surroundings. Mercifully, Spook and VenDell are already running, aware of Mr. Copper's abilities after he manipulated me with similar powers. Even so, both of them scream in pain as their clothes and hair ignite. Spook manages to dive out a window, but the kandra handles this kind of pain very poorly and fails to do the same.

I near the house, and I brace for extreme pain. Fire is one of the few things that can realistically kill a Kandra. Even if he weren't an ally in this battle, I could never let myself stand by and watch him die. A Faceless Immortal, a servant of Harmony, must not fall with a champion of the Path on hand.

I clamp my eyes shut, hold my breath, and enter the house at a full run. Fire engulfs me, but I do not falter. I crash into VenDell, wrap my arms around him, and burn steel. Pushing against a light fixture, I launch both of us through a broken window.

I was in the fire less than one second in real-time, and while my clothes didn't actually ignite, my skin is still burned and my hair is singed.

Of course, VenDell's clothes are very much on fire, and hugging him so tightly is not pleasant.

I overdid it with my steelpush, and the kandra's shrieks of agony add to my disorientation. We crash to the ground in a messy, chaotic roll, and I hear bones snap. Not mine, as tapped speed helps me react in time, but VenDell is not happy. His clothes were extinguished by our roll, but he's quite a mess.

"My hands! My beautiful hands! The legendary Breeze gave me these hands! Irreplaceable!"

We've come to a stop next to a crumbling post office, and an enemy gunman lies dead close by. I point to the corpse. "Take those bones if you wanna live!" Then I'm off.

Even with a Hulk and two glowing offworlders to deal with, Mr. Copper is my top priority. Extreme Connection intensified by enhanced Rioting is guaranteed to ruin everything if he's allowed to just keep trying. I circle the burning house, noting that Spook has managed to extinguish his clothes and hair. He surely would have been gunned down if not for the newcomers holding the attention of the Ire riflemen. He's already halfway to cover.

The upper story of the burning building smashes into splintered ruins as multiple huge steel beams spin through it with horrifying power. The Hulk is killing two birds with one coin, trying to dig the Hundredlives out of the collapsed apartment building and launching attacks while he's at it. He's heaving two massive beams at a time and throwing them in our general direction. With my speed enhanced so greatly, I get a clear look at the devastation. The twisted lengths of aging steel pack far more force than a cannon. If the Hulk had line of sight to Spook, the wounded constable wouldn't have a chance. Turstein still has Watsel held close, and with strategic ironpulls he manages to avoid the flying debris. In the distance, silvery glowing lines begin to manifest in complex patterns surrounding the church tower, bending my concept of reality even further, but that'll have to wait. The Hulk must be convinced to ignore the others, and Mr. Copper needs to be put down.

Perhaps I can do both.

I zip past the pewter Compounder on a course that will take me nearer to Mr. Copper, but not directly toward him. I snatch up a chunk of broken concrete, and I sling a fallen rifle over my shoulder. I'm not certain if it's loaded, but I don't actually care. I only need to force Mr. Copper's hand, ensuring that I can predict exactly when his mind control will hit me. Doctor Koslenko has started extinguishing fires in that house by absorbing heat and shunting it into his metalminds, proving that he's already recovered from the last Rioting. But he could easily be mind-controlled again if my plan doesn't work.

The Hulk heaves a mass of wreckage aside… revealing a very dead, barely recognizable mess of what was once the enemy Hundredlives. Apparently, with his ingested gold purged of healing power, his remaining reserves weren't enough. Staying alive under such crushing weight must have required extreme levels of healing. In the brief time it took for the Hulk to dig him out, that healing had been exhausted.

One enemy Compounder down. Now to exploit the rage of another…

The chunk of concrete thwacks the side of the Hulk's head with enough speed to crush a normal skull. His pewter allows him to endure the hit, but the concrete shattering against his head still gets his attention. Enraged by the loss of a powerful ally, and frustrated by his inability to land a hit on me, the Hulk spins to track my movements. I'm farther from him than earlier, and I'm moving a bit slower, allowing him to keep me in his sights. Mr. Copper stands ready, focusing on me, clearly planning to use all of his key abilities at once.

It's efficient, powerful… and exactly what I need him to do.

The pewter Compounder hurls two huge steel beams spinning toward me.

I raise my stolen rifle, aim for his head… and clamp my eyes shut.

The enhanced steel push strikes the rifle exactly when I hoped it would, and I've already let it go. Tapping extreme speed, I now have my hands covering my ears and shouting to block out all other sound. I concentrate entirely on metalsight, tracking the massive spinning metal. I feel an intense sense of Connection and friendship, but I can't actually see or hear Mr. Copper. I've experienced his manipulations twice already, and I allow the pain of my burns and broken hand to wash over me.

Taken together, it's all barely enough to disregard the wishes of my "dearest friend."

The hurled metal would have missed the Charismatist by several yards, but I jump and flare steel. My push hurls me backwards through the air, and it shifts the course of the smaller beam.

My sense of unnatural friendship toward Mr. Copper abruptly vanishes. I open my eyes, and see that my plan worked too well. I hoped that the giant spinning steel beam might take Mr. Copper at the legs, allowing his healing medallion to stop the bleeding and save his life… but no.

From the scattered aftermath, I conclude it must have hit him at roughly the level of his shoulders.

The man that replaced me at the Bank, forced me to give up my secret, and repeatedly manipulated my mind… is very very dead.

Chapter Text

Do more good than harm.

I fight down my surge of guilt. I hoped to avoid taking another life, but a man capable of forcing people to attack their friends demanded an all-in response. Mr. Copper lies broken and scattered. Some of his belongings are strewn about, including a small medallion with hints of gold. If it had stayed in contact with him, there's the faintest chance he might have survived. But as things are…

I dash in, forcing down my revulsion and snatching up the filthy medallion. I sense it contains a significant reserve of stored health, enough to heal multiple people. I heal my broken hand and soften the pain of my many burns. I need to find Constable Turstein next. He has many broken bones, and is likely moving only with his Allomancy.

The Hulk's anger has spiked. I tricked him into killing someone who likely had a high rank in the Ire organization. With all of his extreme physical strength, he kicks off, shattering pavement into a cloud of gray dust and launching toward me like a multi-ton cannonball. Briefly, he matches my speed, and I have to clamp my eyes shut and sprint to the side. Wind rips at me, I almost lose the medallion, and I trip on something I can't see. An emergency steelpush launches me slightly upward, avoiding a lethal tumble across the uneven ground, but I can't open my eyes yet. I hear my roaring enemy pass narrowly behind me, and I focus on the metal lines in front of me. A few of those lines lurch about in sudden bursts of movement. That must be Constable Turstein. He's been fighting on, heroic like his partner, despite major self-inflicted injuries.

Reducing my speed to a manageable level, I carefully hit the ground running and blitz toward Turstein. "I have healing!" I shout, and the Juggernaut turns toward me. I inexpertly hurl the medallion, and with an ironpull, the constable yanks the device into his hand.

The Hulk is clearly losing it, an unrestrained mass of rage and vengeance. Lift's allies are quite capable, but I doubt any of them can actually defeat a pewter Compounder. Without Mr. Copper to interfere, I can probably land a killshot to his head…

Do more good than harm.

Though this man must be stopped, my mind still races to find a nonlethal alternative. This might be foolish, even selfish. The hidden sniper, or perhaps snipers, allied with Lift have shot many Ire riflemen. My desire to avoid personally taking lives could get my allies killed.

I snatch up a rifle, and prepare my heart.

A call gets my attention, and I turn to see Wilma racing toward me. Her coloring rapidly switches between shimmering gold and silver, with her dress glowing green. For her to be moving to join me in the open, she must have finished clearing the nearest buildings of gunmen. With her surgical precision, she probably didn't have to take lives in the process. Her zincminds are almost fully visible to my metalsight, suggesting she's nearly out of mental speed. And I don't see any metallines coming from the hidden pockets where she keeps electrum vials. My wife may be out of metals. And yet here she is, determined to help me anyway. I'm glad she's still so far away. She can't possibly fight a Hulk.

All at once, Wilma's coloring returns to normal. For the first time today, she looks exactly as I remember. At this point, it feels more surprising than her earlier, impossible color changes. Thick brown hair, lightly-tanned skin, no unnatural glowing. I can finally see how much sweat, dirt, and blood covers her tattered clothes.

Correctly guessing what to look for, I see a complex mix of textured symbols racing westward across the pavement, away from Wilma.

And a woman's voice comes from the west.

"Thanks for marking her, Pattern! Sorry I took so long."

Pale, lightly freckled, with light blue eyes and auburn hair, the newcomer may be a little older than Lift, and she glows with blue radiance. The pewter Compounder launches himself toward her with a powerful leap, but the woman doesn't flinch.

I race in, hoping to help, but I needn't have worried.

In a flash of light, the woman is covered in glorious shimmering armor, similar to that worn by the carapaced alien. She brings up her left arm to block, and the Hulk's punch shatters that section of her armor into molten fragments. The outward force of that blast seems to have protected her arm from injury, and she holds out her other hand. The patterned texture flowing across the ground vanishes, and in a burst of mist, a magnificent sword appears in the woman's hand. The Hulk's followup punch smashes into her chest, bursting the breastplate of her magnificent armor, but not quickly enough. That otherworldly sword has already struck, swiping through the man's legs. He collapses, howling in dismay, his legs limp and dead. The newcomer dismisses her armor in a burst of light. With two more slashes of her mystical sword, she disables both of the Hulk's arms.

I skid to a stop, marveling, at the sight of the mighty opponent lying helpless and terrified at her feet. "That was… abrupt."

"Summoning my Shardplate to Skadrial was taxing… but yes. A hulking warrior with extreme strength who fights hand to hand… he's the sort of opponent Shardblades are made for. If the Ire expected rival Radiants, they would have issued him aluminum gear. Fortunately, my team avoided detection."

I have so many questions for this woman, who appears to have been responsible for Wilma's frequent changes in appearance. But the battle is not yet won.

I now have a name for the magnificent swords that can cut almost anything, and I have just the use for it. My speed is running very low, since the enemy Miracle left me with only one bracer. Without any steel small enough to swallow, I couldn't compound… but perhaps I can now.

I rush to remove my bracer, speaking to buy time. "The church tower has several Ire that might be in charge."

"Yes. My team came to counter them. The name's Shallan, by the way."

I get my bracer off and hold it out. "Thanks for coming. Could you chop this into pieces small enough to swallow?"

"Clever." The wondrous blade shrinks down to a small knife, and she starts cutting. It faces some resistance, just as the sword seemed to tug as it passed through the Hulk's limbs, but soon my bracer has been sliced to bits. A few are big enough that I decide not to swallow them: The razor-sharp edges could do horrible things to my throat.

Wilma arrives and promptly thrusts a canteen into my hand. She must have taken it off an enemy, and I gratefully guzzle it to get the bits of steel down more safely. She addresses Shallan. "That textured design… It lead you to us?"

"I sent Pattern ahead to keep watch on you, but he's been unstable on this world. The transit was difficult, and he's been badly confused without me nearby to support him."

Wilma ducks, and a bullet misses her. We're out of time for words.

"Help the Ghostbloods mop up the Ire soldiers," Shallan commands, transforming her knife back into a glorious sword. "The Seventeenth Shard will neutralize their Radiants and the leaders in that tower."

With that, she races toward the church.

"Ghostbloods" sounds decidedly less friendly than "The Seventeenth Shard," but since we all share a common enemy, I'll let that slide for now.

"I'll help Lift neutralize Kun'alar," Wilma says, snatching up the rifle I dropped when removing my bracer. "We shouldn't leave all the Ire Invested to Shallan's people."

"Then I'll help bring down the armored alien." When I woke up yesterday, that sentence would have been pure nonsense. Oh how things have changed…

I've burned enough of my ingested steelminds to Compound considerable speed, reinvesting it into the bits of metal in my stomach. They're full now, meaning all future Compounding will be easy. Time to end this madness and get some answers.

My goal is the last two buildings that shelter numerous Ire gunman. If they're cleared, the remaining soldiers are likely to retreat. Knowing this, the armored alien focuses his efforts there, preventing my allies from aggressively engaging all those snipers. To end the threat efficiently, I first zip to the house where Doctor Koslenko shelters. His nerves are clearly frayed, but he manages not to scream at my sudden arrival. "Can you Blaze again?"

He hesitates, then nods.

"This will leave you dizzy, but try not to black out. And don't Blaze until I'm a safe distance from you."

Straining, I heft the Doctor, wishing I'd put real effort into strengthening my body over the years. I tap enough speed that my slow, shambling walk must be a blur of motion to everyone else, and I can tell that Koslenko is struggling to stay conscious. Fortunately, the vicious acceleration didn't last long in real time, so he'll have a moment to recover as I carry him toward the target.

I watch in wonder as yet another newcomer displays powers that defy logic. His rich dark skin, goatee, and stylish white duster are meaningless compared to the glowing white threads whipping and spiraling around him. An open briefcase lies at his feet, so it's possible he brought this mystical material from another planet. Further, he's wearing multiple nicrosil bracelets, suggesting he's tapping Investiture he stored offworld. With my brain totally failing to process this new power, I'll just settle on being grateful that he's on our side.

To avoid hurting Doctor Koslenko, I had to carry him in such a way that his head wouldn't bounce around at high speed. This was very awkward and difficult for me… but now it pays off. Outmaneuvering the armored alien champion, I enter the first of the two buildings that hold most of the Ire snipers. I set the good Doctor down, and he slumps to the floor, dizzy and ill. But he nods when I give him a thumbs up. He's ready.

I dash out of the building, and the Doctor promptly Blazes. Compounding brass, he generates extreme levels of body heat, utilizing his other metalminds to avoid burning himself or even his clothes.

Everything else near him isn't so fortunate.

Even with me tapping enough speed for everything to again move at slow motion, it's impressive to see how fast the fire spreads. The ground floor of the house is engulfed in flame, and the numerous enemy snipers have no choice but to abandon their position. Men and women throw down their weapons and leap clear, many of them suffering broken legs from the fall. The Doctor then sprints next door, heat visibly wafting off him, setting fire to that building as well. It will take a minute or two for the house to collapse. Koslenko can shelter inside for now, so long as he stays near the door and low to the ground. The heat can't hurt him, but the smoke can.

I'm briefly torn about my next move. The closest enemy champion is the armored alien, Wilma's helping Lift fight Kun'alar, and the Ire leadership are the ultimate objective. Where am I most needed?

As I watch, things get far simpler.

The man controlling the glowing white threads ensnares the armored alien, not trying to pin his strength-enhanced legs but instead lifting him high into the air. This is clearly very hard, as the armor's incredibly heavy, but it makes all the difference. The enemy has lost the glowing blue power he previously used to shape the earth, so he now hangs helpless in the air, clearly defeated. In a flash of blue light, his armor vanishes in surrender, revealing his otherworldly features and natural carapace.

And in the opposite direction Wilma isn't alone in assisting Lift.

Two individuals out of legend have joined that front.

Demoux, General of the Mistfallen, moves with precognitive grace beyond even my brilliant wife. It's clear that he's burning the lost metal Atium, and the giant woman has no hope of touching him. Recognizing Demoux helps me identify the woman at his side. This must be his wife, Aslydin, who after the Catesandre was discovered to be one of the first Twinborn: a Dauntless. Like the Lord Mistborn, she was granted her powers as a direct act of Harmony. In her case, it was a sign of Sazed's gratitude to Demoux, and for all the sacrifices of the Mistfallen. Like my wife, Aslydin can burn electrum to see her own future, and by Compounding she can generate awe-inspiring levels of determination and willpower. Kun'alar's giant sword passes through Aslydin's right arm, turning it gray and limp, but she doesn't flinch. Aslydin leaps, curling around the giant's sword arm. Panicking, Kun'alar channels the last of her glowing blue power into Aslydin, and my heart nearly stops, expecting this legendary figure to turn to dust. But it must be possible to resist this destructive power, because the light is expended without Demoux's wife suffering any harm. Her iron will held her together, and the other combatants move in.

With physical contact no longer deadly, Wilma grapples Kun'alar's other arm just as the Shardblade transfers to that hand. Demoux sees the huge woman's next move before it happens, and he intercepts a headbutt that would have connected with my wife's face. Lift's silvery metal rod cracks the back of Kun'alar's head, and the exhausted redhead hits the ground, helpless.

Everywhere I look, Ire forces are broken, scattering, and in total disarray. With two offworld factions intervening to stop their plans, victory is near. I set my sights on the church tower, the last bastion of the malicious invaders that tried to erase me.

Chapter Text

With the enemy riflemen in full retreat, my allies begin to break cover. Spook reaches me first, bloody, out of ammo, but able to walk on his own. A moment later, Constable Turstein sails through the air, holding a short portly man I don't recognize. Tapping steel, I reposition and roughly match their speed, helping them to control their landing. The Constable sets the stranger down and gives me a salute. "I found the Ghostblood sniper landing all those perfect headshots. It was even more impressive than I realized: He was positioned half a mile away."

I reel at the thought. But this strange little man does carry a rifle unlike any I've ever seen. Covered in coils, small hoses, glowing gems, and metals I don't recognize, it looks like something out of a science fiction broadsheet.

"Greetings," the elderly little fellow says, shouldering his rifle and shaking my hand. "The name's Dean."

"This one's a tin Compounder," Spook observes. "With senses so extreme, I can see how he could land such long range shots."

A Twinborn Omniscient. A Tineye who can also generate inhuman levels of any of their senses, or deaden specific senses to better focus on others. It's possible he even heard our conversation in the police van earlier, perhaps from many miles away. I'm suddenly certain he's the reason the Ghostbloods were able to find us and assist within minutes of this grand ambush triggering. I give him a firm handshake, and he tips his bowler hat.

"Pleased to meet you all. My role is likely done, for now." Dean flips a switch on his rifle, rotates a couple gemstones, and the thing goes dark and silent. "The four Ire in that church tower are worth taking alive. But I'll do my best to keep you up to speed on how the attack progresses. My people didn't expect additional help, but I'm still grateful for it. The Seventeenth Shard almost never intervenes in the affairs of the Cosmere, but I suppose the Ire's plans were scary enough to force their hand. We Ghostbloods might not have been enough to stop them without great cost, but with the Seventeenth Shard assisting…"

Before my eyes, an unreal display of esoteric arcana begins to play out, with my recent experiences utterly insufficient to give it context. Vast, complex glowing symbols, most silver, but some in other colors, spread from the church tower. Some of these expand into polygonal planes of shimmering energy, others create spiraling vortices of light, and energetic discharges similar to electricity crackle and spread.

As promised, Dean attempts to explain. "Reokai and the Ire leader, Alonoe, are tapping into the Invested conduit they extended through the Cognitive Realm. It's allowing them to employ Aon Dor on a grand scale, despite being so many lightyears from Elantris. Fortunately, from what I've overheard, the Seventeenth Shard brought an Elantrian of their own…"

In a flash of light, a tall solid mystic manifests as if from nothing. His bald head and dark silvery skin feels unreal, and he immediately goes to work. Similar to the man controlling the white glowing threads, he wears numerous nicrosilminds, likely bearing investiture from other worlds. His hands dance across the air, scratching lines of silver light, like thin windows into another reality. He swiftly draws many complex symbols, some resembling geometric art, others feeling like mathematical equations, and some resembling simplistic maps.

Dean smiles and waves. "Nice to finally meet you, Galladon."

"Doloken!" the newcomer hisses. "I'm a bit busy, kolo?" As he draws, some of his symbols flash and vanish, while others grow solid and stable, as if etched onto invisible surfaces. "I'm tryin' to prevent spatial or realmatic transit."

My head spins, but two more of my allies have just arrived. The Kandra VenDell is mostly recognizable, as he did his best to reconstruct his earlier appearance. But it's obvious he's wearing different bones than before. Detective Watsel's left arm hangs limp from two bullets, but she manages to contain her pain. "Wait… you're saying the enemy can teleport and move between realms? No wonder they managed to amass such a potent force without Ellendel knowing."

"You look like a healed Elantrian," VenDell observes, getting no reaction from Galladon. "If you can counter the Ire transportation Aons, they won't be able to escape."

"I'll need to do more than that," Galladon hisses, rapidly drawing a new series of symbols. A glowing energy shield springs to life in front of us, and half a heartbeat later I see why. A terrible blast of blinding silver energy streaks down from the church tower toward us. Galladon's shield shatters to bits of light, but so does the attack. "It's time! Seventeenth Shard, move in!"

Shallan inhales deeply, her glowing blue aura intensifies, and she resumes her charge. Demoux and his wife are right behind her. Sailing through the air on a vortex of spiraling white threads, the man in the white duster joins them. On closer inspection, the threads look like they're composed of flowing sand.

In a silver flash, a cuboid chunk of earth, rock, and concrete appears in the sky above them.

"Doloken!" Galladon shouts, frantically scribbling symbols. "I missed that equation completely!"

My heart skips a beat, fearing all these mysterious allies are about to be crushed. Those white sand threads can't possibly catch and lift so much mass. But Shallan isn't concerned. She holds up her free hand, which surges with blue power, and she leaps while her allies duck. The instant her hand touches the mass of falling earth, all of it bursts into smoke.

Lift laughs, shouting, "You've finally mastered Soulcasting! Not bad, Shallan!"

"You and I are having words after this is over!" Shallan snaps, resuming her charge.

Still laughing, Lift shouts, "Codenames! Iyatil! Let's get in there!" Blue energy covers Lift's feet, and she skates across the ground toward the tower. "We can't let these Sharders have all the fun!"

"Not yet, fool girl!" Dean shouts. "Get back here so I can return your metalminds!"

Calling this woman a girl might have seemed rude, but with Dean's great age and Lift's lighthearted silliness, it feels fair.

"Oh, right!" Lift circles back, zipping toward Dean, who hurls a pair of bendalloy bracers. She catches them, though almost fumbling one. She barely keeps her balance as she circles around yet again. On course for the tower, she quickly puts on the bracers. "Wyndle! Bring them healing and hurry back to me!"

"Lift is unique in several ways," Dean explains, as a glowing line of crystals spread toward us. "She alone can power Surgebinding with Lifelight instead of Stormlight. Further, she can metabolize calories into Lifelight. When I heard the attack on your van trigger, I foolishly spoke of the danger you faced before reminding Lift to gear up. She zipped off without her metalminds, leaving the rest of us to chase after her."

"I'm glad she did," Wilma says. "My husband and I would be dead without her healing."

Lift's barely visible friend "Wyndle" reaches us, spreading glowing light among our wounded. My remaining pains fade, and my allies are restored. I can't help but marvel. "We'd all be dead without her."

Dean grunts. "Well, it's a miracle she didn't die, running off without her enormous power reserve. Bendalloy Feruchemy allowed her to spend the last three days constantly eating, blowing through half our budget. But it was worth it, since she can tap those stored nutrients to generate Lifelight."

As I watch, Lift does so. Her dull glow erupts into a brilliant nova, and she accelerates past most of the others. A great gush of that power enters Aslydin, rapidly restoring her maimed arm. Soon, Lift is out in front. Another giant cube of earth manifests in the air, this time above Lift. The woman laughs, holding a glowing hand aloft. When the mass of dirt crashes down on her, it breaks up into smaller clods, flowing around her glowing body. Briefly slowed, but healing from what little harm she suffered, Lift resumes her charge.

"I can't keep up with two Elantrians," Galladon says, even as he struggles to create more glowing equations. "I'm stopping all long-distance or realmatic Aons, but I keep missing the smaller equations. Hopefully they won't have time to drop another ten tons of dirt on our assault team."

Doctor Koslenko staggers over to me, hair and clothes singed. My metalsight can no longer see his brassminds, suggesting they're filled to maximum. "That was close," the Doctor says, panting. "I almost didn't notice my metalminds reaching their limit. Another few seconds in that fire…"

"Thank you for taking such risks for us." I can't take my eyes off the battle. "You helped break the spirit of the Ire soldiers. Now, these offworlders can finish this… I hope…"

While Galladon continues to frantically draw silver symbols on the air, Wilma, my allies, and I watch the final attack unfold. Dean gives commentary, but a lot of it sails right over my head.

Moving like living things, dozens of scarves and blankets flow out of the tower, twisting in the air like eels, zipping toward the charging Invested. Some of the blankets are covered in glowing silver inscriptions and trail white fire. Iyatil spins, flinging her cloak into the air. I didn't notice earlier, but the cloak is lined with dozens of very full pockets. Gloves pour out of those pockets, zipping through the air, followed by the cloak itself. The gloves intercept the scarves in a bizarre aerial battle. The scarves try to reach and grapple with Ghostbloods and Sharders, while the gloves grab and slow the scarves. Threads of white sand join this surreal battle, and Shallan's Shardblade slices through several scarves that get too close. But when the sword hits one of the larger blankets, it doesn't slice through. The glowing symbols flow from the blanket to the Shardblade, which vanishes in a burst of mist. The blanket engulfs Shallan, and I tap steel, intending to intervene…

"Don't," Dean says calmly, his unequaled sensory enhancement detecting the change in my heartbeat. "Without detailed knowledge of Aon Dor and Awakening, even you would be a liability. But don't worry… They've got this."

The blanket pinning Shallan turns to blood, a hideous but effective means of escape, and a moment later she's back on her feet. With visible struggle, she manages to summon her Shardblade again.

Without Dean's running commentary, I would have little understanding of what follows. Thankfully, he's concise and focussed, providing just enough context and explanation for me to grasp the basics.

Lift is the first to reach the church tower. She pulls a pouch from her belt and scatters seeds, then her power flows across the ground. In seconds, those seeds have grown explosively, forming vines that rapidly snake up the tower. A scarf reaches her, and tries to grapple her, but it slips off, unable to get a grip. Her "Abrasion" powers let her manipulate friction. She's made herself all but impossible to hold, retaining friction on only her hands and feet so she can climb the vines. Demoux, Iyatil, and Aslydin follow right behind her. The woman referred to as "Codenames" has swapped out her Hemalurgic spikes, and she launches herself skyward with a steelpush. When she reaches the upper window, a focussed energy blast from inside punches through her chest, but she rapidly heals. Apparently, she has a broad collection of Hemalurgic spikes, full metalminds, and allomantic vials, making her ready for nearly any contingency. Baon the "Sand Mastrell" soon joins her, using ribbons of sand to elevate himself to the window. Drenched in blood from her earlier "Soulcasting," Shallan doesn't bother climbing, instead slicing her way into the church with her Shardblade.

Dean's right. This is way too crazy for me to get involved. Not when he's confident that they'll win.

Flashes of light, blasts of concentrated energy, splitting stone, and discharging weapons make me all the more relieved that I'm not in that upper room. Dean's commentary can't keep up with the action, and all I can do is hope no one suffers lasting harm. The roof of the tower vanishes in a gush of fire, far too quickly to be natural, and in seconds the fire is extinguished and the roof no longer exists. Apparently, the roof didn't actually burn. It became fire.

My brain hurts.

Lashing ribbons of sand and thrashing vines can be seen battling with living ropes and spinning coils of geometric light. Then, in a shocking instant, the entire church tower transforms into translucent crystal… and then shatters into tiny cubes.

In the midst of the crystalline rain, the Ire and Ghostbloods howl in surprise and alarm, but those of the Seventeenth Shard look calm. I guess this mind-blowing development was planned, for Galladon immediately activates a vast and complex collection of arcane symbols. Countless silver lines dance between the falling crystals, slowing everyone's fall. Tapping steel to better observe the chaos in slow motion, I focus on the four figures that make up the Ire leadership. The two bald, silver-skinned mystics are trying to draw equations on the air, but the silver lines flickering between the unnumbered crystals keep disrupting their efforts. The two other figures with them, a short man and a Terris woman, make no attempt to resist.

When everyone comes to rest on the heap of tiny crystals, the will of the Ire leaders is clearly broken. Shallan holds her Shardblade to the throat of the ancient woman Dean identifies as "Alonoe." Vines and sand ribbons bind the wrists and ankles of all four hostiles…

…and it's over.

Silence descends. My heart pounds, my body aches, and my allies pant in pain and weariness. I slowly turn, taking in the sight of the ruined town. Some buildings burn, others have completely collapsed, and bullet holes riddle every surface. Dozens of riflemen litter the area, though thankfully many are only wounded. The heroic Constable Neltson lies dead next to the still form of the Twinborn Miracle.

But at last, we're on the brink of getting some answers.

Galladon erects a series of shimmering energy fields around defeated Ire, who make no attempt to resist. Their expressions show a mix of frustration, loss, and weariness, but little fear. It seems the Seventeen Shard don't have a murderous reputation.

Lift and Codenames hurry over to the Ire Miracle, and it seems my earlier theory was correct. With unnatural luck, he survived the bullet my wife put through his head. Swapping out Hemalurgic spikes, Codenames searches the Miracle carefully, leeching him and all of his metalminds, ensuring he can't Compound. Handcuffing him, Lift heals the man with a gush of glowing blue light, and his eyes flutter open. Codenames stands guard, a boot on his back, forcing him to stare at the corpse of the Twinborn Hero.

"You healed that murderer?" Shallan snaps, disgusted.

"He's no starve'n threat right now," Lift insists, her voice a mix of defensive and defiant.

"He killed a far better man than he is," Shallan counters. "And if he ever gets access to more chromium…"

"I won't let ya kill a helpless–"

"He's only helpless for now!" Shallan shouts. "Forgive me, flighty chaotic Edgedancer, but you can't expect me to trust your judgment. Not after you joined the very people that handed you over to the Fused."

"These people didn't do that!" Lift insists, getting up in Shallan's face. "The Ghostbloods back home might be nasty and scary, but the ones on most other worlds aren't like that!"

"They all answer to the Lord of Scars!"

"And his only goal is to protect his homeworld! The people of Skadrial have suffered enough! They might not have Odium here, but they–"

"The Ghostbloods murdered your friend Gereh, accidentally killed a Herald, and tried to blackmail me into–"

"Not these Ghostbloods!"

Expression darkening, Shallan summons her Shardblade. In response, a silver rod manifests in Lift's hand. Galladon and Dean rush forward, the one taking position at Shallan's side, the other reactivating his advanced rifle. Soon, the Ghostbloods and Sharders have squared off. Some look confused or reluctant, but others are clearly itching for a fight.

"We have to prevent this," Wilma says, her voice strained.

Detective Watsel nods. "Absolutely. They saved our lives, and their organizations can help Skadrial."

Do more good than harm. In this case, by doing just a little harm, I might be able to prevent a tragedy. "It's too dangerous for the rest of you," I whisper. "Stay back…"

Dean starts to turn toward me. "I wouldn't–"

He doesn't finish his sentence. I tap steel, and move. I rip the rifle from Dean's hands, flinching at the sound of his fingers breaking, and I steelpush the weapon away.

The latest healing I received from Lift did two things for me. First, the obvious: I've fully recovered from the earlier battles, and I'm in better condition than when I woke up this morning. Second, I know I can take major risks, since any self harm from moving too quickly can be mended. If Lift healed the enemy Miracle, she'll certainly heal me… and anyone I injure.

First, to negate a couple powers I don't understand, and that I probably can't handle if they're turned against me.

I dash up to Baon and Galladon, who are focussed fully on the Ghostbloods. I push my speed so hard that even small dextrous motions cause air resistance to burn my skin. I remove Baon's nicrosil bracelets, followed by Galladon's bracers, trying to minimize the amount of skin they both lose. Wincing at the necessity, I then rip out Galladon's earrings. To use Feruchemy for the storing and tapping of offworld Investiture, they likely both have bendalloy Hemalurgic spikes, but these are wisely hidden from sight. Hopefully, taking their nicrosilminds will be enough to deny them access.

Despite moving so fast I feel my skin trying to peel off, I can't avoid the notice of so many powerful Invested. Dean's superhuman senses have him tracking me with ease, along with Iyatil and Codenames. If I slow down, there's no telling what these offworlders might be capable of. I blitz Codenames, whose flexibility in switching out Hamalurgic spikes makes her uniquely vulnerable: those spikes need to be easy to get to. I pull out the three she's currently wearing, and manage to rip a pouch from her belt. I doubt it contains all of her spikes, but hopefully I've limited her options.

I doubt much more than a second has passed in real-time, but most of the Ghostbloods and Sharders are already reacting. Galladon tries and fails to draw on the air, and Baon's white sand refuses to obey him, but the others are still dangerous. Codenames is reaching into a coat pocket, Iyatil is whispering something to her cloak, and Dean's drawing a concealed pistol. But it's Lift who manages to counter me first.

Blue light flows from her across the ground, faster than even me, and my feet shoot into the air. A frictionless surface is terrifying while running so fast, and I fully expect to die in a high-speed crash. But Lift only wants to stop me, not kill me. The glowing light has two roles. While much of it doomed me to a dramatic wipeout, the rest flows into my body. I tumble and roll, but my bones heal almost as fast as they break. My neck twists at a horrible angle, but my paralysis is fleeting. Exposed skin rips away only to be replaced. In the end, Lift's healing is more effective than she probably intended. Despite my spectacular crash, I'm back on my feet, dizzy, bewildered, but intact.

And Shallan's Shardblade is spinning through the air, aimed at my legs. I doubt she wants me dead, but if that ethereal weapon hits, I'll be helpless. Lift's light covers the ground all around me, with only this one small patch safe to stand on, and I have no more metal to drop and push off of…

Before I can panic, the glorious sword bursts into mist and vanishes inches from my legs.

Startled, I hesitate, unsure what this might mean. Shallan's expression shifts to frustration, and even a hint of betrayal… but she's already switched tactics.

The air around me shimmers, and in a flash, I'm encased in stone from the neck down.

I stop tapping steel, shouting for Wilma and the others to stay back. All around me, a storm of angry dialogue breaks out. Shouted accusations and fierce arguments warn of impending bloodshed, and the anger directed at me is already shifting away. I deliberately attacked both parties in hopes of holding everyone's attention, but now that I'm trapped in a multi-ton stone block, they ignore me. Shallan briefly chastises her Shardblade, which I finally understand is "Pattern." The ethereal entity clung to Wilma for most of the day, and followed me around yesterday before I had any knowledge of the "Cosmere." Apparently, having spent so much time with us, the strange creature refused to harm me.

Too bad all my efforts might have been in vain.

The Ghostbloods and the Seventeenth Shard now seem more at odds than they did before. The Hemalurgic spikes, nicrosilminds, and other gear I separated from their owners have already been reclaimed, and everyone looks ready to fight. Even if my allies tried to intervene, it would likely just cause a three-way battle. The two bald Ire leaders laugh bitterly from where they lie bound. The enemies they couldn't defeat are on the brink of attacking each other.

Thankfully, someone else intervenes.

The shimmering heaps of broken crystal from the destroyed church tower transform into smoke, which swirls and shifts, briefly forming a vast, winged shape. A deep, booming voice roars, "Stand down, petty children!" A powerful soothing hits me, dampening all of my emotions, and the belligerent offworlders visibly fight to resist it. When the smoke dissipates, a glowing golden figure stands in the midst of the opposed groups, smiling with easy confidence. Over eight feet tall, impossibly glorious, and clearly more than human, he effortlessly seizes the attention of all.

And, like I did, he becomes everyone's target.

As she did with me, Shallan turns the air surrounding this newcomer into rock. This time though, the transformation lasts less than a second. The rock turns to water, gushing outward and dousing everyone near the golden giant.

The Ghostbloods and the Seventeenth Shard rally. Ribbons of white sand from Baon and Awakened gloves from Iyatil converge on the newcomer, while Galladon rapidly inscribes Aons on the air. Dean takes aim, and Codenames scrambles to swap out her Heamalurgic spikes. Lift, Demoux and Aslydin come in low, trying to grapple.

None of these attempts succeed.

And Shallan doesn't even try. She hesitates, pondering…

In a flash, the man's appearance changes. He shrinks to normal size, replaces his golden glow with blue Stormlight, and now looks clearly human. I get only a brief look at his white hair, narrow face, and sharp features before he launches himself into the air with a duralumin-enhanced steelpush. His movements speed up to a blur, and the only Awakened glove that comes close zips off at a random angle. He's burning bendalloy to create a bubble of accelerated time. The air around him seems to twist and warp, prismatic color flows from his left hand, while his right hand rapidly draws Aons. Despite everything I've seen, this display still manages to blow my mind.

This man is Mistborn… and possesses many other forms of Investiture as well. Multicolored energy shields manifest around him, fending off the white sand and the grasping gloves, while enhanced Allomancy deflects any metal sent his way. In mere seconds, he's made the combined efforts of these superpowered offworlders appear weak.

"Stop ya starve'n goons!" Lift shouts. "His first appearance was just a Lightweaving! Don't you recognize him?"

"It's Wit," Shallan calls, exasperated. "He literally can't harm us, despite all his power."

The bubble of accelerated time vanishes, along with the shimmering force fields. "Alas, tis so!" The multi-Invested Mistborn manages to pull off an elaborate bow in midair. "Though it's most impolite for you to come out and say it! One's mystique of dangerous cunning and unfathomable potential can only suffer when such an important secret is spread."

Shallan shrugs. "You've meddled too frequently on too many worlds for your secrets to hold much longer. Everyone will know who you are sooner or later."

The kandra VenDell surprises me by stepping forward. "Might you be the erudite wanderer 'Cephandrius'?"

Galladon scratches his chin. "I've heard him referred to as Midius."

Detective Watsel says, "No, he's 'Hoid.' Silverlight has numerous theories about him."

"He's the Queen's Wit from Roshar!" Lift says, chuckling. "Stop making things up!"

The Ire Radiant Kun'alar has recovered from her earlier beating, though she's bound and helpless. "You're all wrong! This is the god Lunu'anaki! Show him respect!"

"Stop, all of you," the white-haired Mistborn says coyly. "You'll make me blush. All that matters is that I'm here to prevent exceptional stupidity. There is, admittedly, a near-infinite supply of stupidity in the universe, but even I have limits to what can be overlooked. There are perils in the Cosmere far too dire for ones such as you to waste time squabbling. Stopping the Ire on this world was splendidly done… but it would be a shame for you all to cooperate so well only to spoil the ending."

If this strange man has many names, I'll stick with the one used by Harmony's Faceless Immortals. "Cephandrius" seems fitting for someone of such power and grandeur.

A gunshot causes most of the onlookers to flinch. Incredibly, the bullet tears through Cephandrius, maiming his left arm... for perhaps a quarter of a second. He merely looks irritated, maybe a bit insulted, as the wound vanished in the blink of an eye. "What… What was that for?"

Dean ignores the outraged looks from his colleagues and deactivates his advanced rifle. "Just a bit of science. I heard that Hoid possesses healing from more sources than Stormlight alone. And, sure enough, you healed quicker than any Radiant could. I'm a lot more willing to accept that you might be a Mistborn Radiant Elantrian Awakener… and perhaps more."

Blinking, Cephandrius drops to the ground, landing with an elegant steelpush to counter his momentum. "I'm not sure if I should be offended or flattered."

A new voice I don't recognize seems to come from empty air. "You're quite capable of feeling both at once."

Cephandrius smirks. "Ah yes. I forgot to mention I didn't come alone."

The air behind him shimmers, a ripple of colored light folds back, and two more figures come into view.

"May I introduce Duchess Khrissalla of Taldain, Scholar of Galactic fame, and the Threnodite Cartographer, Nazrilof."

Author's Update: I don't plan on massively overhauling this story to incorporate any of the monumental reveals of Stormlight 5, but I couldn't resist adding yet another of Hoid's aliases to the scene where no one could agree what to call him.

Chapter Text

"Ido reo… Aan shao!"

That sentence, coming from the defeated Ire leader Alonoe, needs no translation. Her tone is a miserable blend of disgust and fatalistic resignation. She is not pleased with this turn of events… so I choose to be very pleased.

I then have a more tangible reason to celebrate, when Cephandrius places a hand on the stone block that has me trapped. It transforms back into air.

I'm relieved to be free, but I'm even more happy that it didn't involve getting doused in a thousand gallons of blood. Shallan's still dripping.

The two newest arrivals don't look especially unusual. The woman could almost be Terris, with her dark skin, hair, and eyes. Even her clothes, though elegant and clearly expensive, have elements of Terris design. The man she arrived with is lanky, with blond hair and blue eyes, but dressed like a common laborer of Elendel.

But their arrival… changes everything.

Cephandrius may have gotten everyone's attention, but this "Duchess Khrissalla" now completes what I started. The hostility between the Ghostbloods and the Seventeenth Shard can't compete with hero worship.

"THE Khrissalla?" Dean shoulders his rifle, dashes over to her, and extends his uninjured hand. "It's an honor to meet you!"

In a flash, Galladon's latest batch of silver symbols vanish, and he rushes toward the Duchess as well. "I second that, Lady Starcarved!"

"It's been too long, Khriss," Baon says. "I've missed you."

Detective Watsel, the Kandra VenDell, Iyatil, and Aslydin crowd in as well, all exhibiting the awkward enthusiasm I'd expect of a lifelong fan getting to meet their favorite musician. Even two of the captured Ire seem excited to meet Khrissala. Not the bald creepy weirdos of course, but the others that had been with them in the church tower. Despite being bound and trapped within Aonic energy shields, they eagerly introduce themselves as Glendwyl and Kanderin. Shallan, Codenames, and a few of the others look a bit flummoxed at this change, but those who were ready for a fight are now clearly in the minority.

Wilma, the constables, Doctor Koslenko, and myself have never heard of this famous Duchess, but she now acts as a unifying force. I can finally rest easy. I may still have little understanding of all that's happened, but the killing is finally over.

Wilma and Constable Turstein turn away from the excited crowd, and instead march solemnly toward the body of the Twinborn Hero. Silently, Spook and I follow.

Turstein kneels down by his dead partner, and drapes his mistcoat over the bloody, battered corpse. "We both knew he'd die in the line of duty," he whispers. "That's why he never married, even after seeing how much joy my wife and boys bring me." He places Neltson's twisted and blackened badge on the mistcoat. It was blown off when the Hundredlives set off all that dynamite, but the Lurcher constable must have tracked it. "Since before he joined the force, he always lived up to his Twinborn name. He believed his incredible power indebted him to the people. I never once saw him flinch away from danger, or fail to put the welfare of others ahead of his own." The constable sighs deeply, and Wilma puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sure he died proud," Spook says. "Not just of his choices, but that it took a chromium Compounder to bring him down."

"I knew him for mere minutes," Wilma says quietly, "but I still know I've never met a nobler soul."

I'm surprised that I feel no jealousy or shame to hear my wife say this of another man. I already agreed. But since I'm still among the living, I have the opportunity to grow. To be more like him. I doubt I'll ever be the equal of this fallen Hero, but I can certainly do my best. "Neltson fought brilliantly," I say, "and without fear. I watched him stop rifle bullets meant for my wife, and he still attacked that Miracle head on."

"Not surprised." Turstein brushed a bit of dirt off his partner's badge. "Years ago, he made it clear that if he ever took a lethal wound, and there wasn't Invested healing nearby, he'd immediately throw himself at the deadliest threat and give it his best shot."

"We're all alive because of him," Wilma says. "These offworlders would have been too late to save us if that Miracle had remained in play."

That very Miracle lies nearby, helpless and bound. To my surprise… he begins to weep.

A faint glimmer of crystals spread across the ground at my feet, and I've come to recognize this as Lift's nonhuman companion. It sends a gush of glowing light into me, and I sigh in relief as my latest wounds fade. I'm very weary, but again unharmed.

Constable Turstein rises to his feet. "I'll have plenty of time to mourn later. Right now, we need to learn what we can from these offworlders."

With tin Allomancy, and possibly more, Cephandrius easily hears these words over the hubbub of conversation. "Yes, indeed. It is time for the Person Unknown to finally get some answers. This humble banker was the primary target of a conspiracy yesterday, and today he had to fight for his life. I would love to fill out his story."

"It's only fair he receives closure," Nazh observes.

"And opportunity," Khriss adds.

A strange, vibrating voice comes from Shallan's Shardblade. "Yesssssssss. The bankerrrrr… and especially his wiiiiife… deserrrrrrve respect."

Soon, the majority of the Ghostbloods and Sharders have dispersed, making their way through the ruined town and checking for survivors or useful gear among the Ire soldiers. At the suggestion of Cephandrius, only five offworlders remain on hand to give some explanation to me and my local allies. These include Khriss, Nazh, Baon, and Codenames. The last explains her full moniker is "Codenames are stupid," which I find oddly charming. Shallan's "spren" Pattern is the fifth member of this diverse delegation. He expands his size to about two feet across, making his ever-shifting textured design easier to see against the broken pavement.

Though I was the person most seriously harassed yesterday, I don't mind when it's the kandra VenDell who speaks first. "Harmony keeps his immortal servants informed of the various interplanetary organizations. He knows that the Ghostbloods defend Skadrial, the Ire serve only themselves, Silverlight fosters knowledge, and the Seventeenth Shard… well…" He turns to Baon, not hiding his distrust. "Sazed suspects you take issue with his very existence. You believe the surviving Shards should remain separate."

"We reluctantly accept Harmony as an important exception to that rule," Baon says. "If it were possible for a second Shard to be bound to Odium in a way that neutralized his harmful intent, we'd consider that for the best as well. But you're correct that we fear any trend toward bringing all Shards together. Adolnalsium was killed for a reason, and nothing like him should ever be reforged."

VenDell nods. "In any case, a cursory knowledge of these diverse organizations does not grant understanding of recent events. Yesterday, David Gurnet's Identity was suppressed and his Connection severed, and I suspect there were many additional factors at play. Why would the Ire torment him in such a way? Our only theory is that the Ire hoped such manipulations might allow them to recruit Mr. Gurnet or coerce him into serving them, but beyond that…"

Two of the captured Ire, Glendwyl and Kanderin, eagerly speak up.

"I'm willing to tell all I know in exchange for clemency," Glendwyl says.

"Same here," Kanderin adds. "After what I saw today, the Ire don't deserve my loyalty."

Alonoe and Reokai rage at that, but Galladon pauses his search of the ruins to modify the glowing Aons surrounding them. The sounds of their voices are now blocked by the shimmering shields, and Galladon resumes healing the Ire soldiers.

"Does that sound-canceling effect go both ways?" Kanderin asks.

"Yessssssss…" Pattern hums.

"Good."

Glendwyl, who's clearly of Terris descent, plunges ahead. "The Ire never abandoned their quest to seize a Shard of Adonalsium. They recruited me because I'm a Clairvoyant, a copper Compounder that can generate memories. They employed numerous techniques for multiplying my Connection to Skadrial and modifying my identity. Eventually, I accessed memories from the source of the Metallic Arts."

VenDell can't hide his disbelief. "Other Clairvoyants can only retain stored memories or duplicate their Copperminds…"

"They didn't have Ire support. So far, I've accessed many of Harmony's memories, which were immensely valuable. I suspect if I continued this process, I could access memories of previous vessels of Ruin and Preservation. The Ascendant Warrior, The Survivor, Leras, Aty…" She smiles proudly. "Potentially, I might one day even touch the ancient thoughts of the murdered Adolnalsium."

"That's… quite an impressive claim…" Khrissalla says carefully. "What did Alonoe and the other Ire leaders hope to do with such arcane knowledge?"

"That's where I came in," Kanderin says. He has few Terris features, but the shape of his ears are enough to give it away. "I'm a Mastermind, able to Compound Zinc for mental speed." He nods to Wilma. "You accomplished a great deal with your power, but mine never needs to run out. From my perspective, I've already experienced a dozen lifetimes. They set me to work processing possibilities and likely outcomes based on what Glendwyl learned. The hope was to one day exploit Sazed's gradual shift from Harmony to Discord. The Ire would stoke the imbalance in a way that might allow the powers to be separated again."

Most of those present can't hide how horrifying that idea is. VenDell in particular staggers back, nearly falling. "That… that would kill Harmony!"

Glendwyl has the decency to show genuine shame. "Yes… the split would kill Sazed, and leave the Shards of Ruin and Preservation open for the taking. Even the Ire know it would be too difficult to control Ruin indefinitely, so the plan was for Alonoe to ascend to Preservation. Before its Intent could begin to limit her actions, she would splinter Ruin into two hundred fifty-six pieces, which the other Ire could safely harness."

"We don't hate Sazed!" Kanderin insists. "He's the Hero of Ages! He saved our world! But his burden… is too great. It's only a matter of time before Ruin's influence overwhelms his Preservation. Leras gave up more of himself than Aty when they created the people of Skadrial. Over time, the tiny imbalance of power will grow too great for the current Vessel. If Harmony becomes Discord, all may be lost! Neither balanced nor bound, and twice the power of any other Shard!"

"At the cost of that one noble soul," Glyndwel whispers, "the Ire's plan would have permanently ended the threat of Ruin."

"Then why betray them?" Wilma asks. I'm not surprised she recovered before the rest of us.

"Although I believe that outcome would be for the greater good…" Glendwel hesitates, and turns to Kanderin, who nods in encouragement. "Today you all proved that the plan is too likely to fail. Just this early stage, hoping to recruit or coerce multiple Compounders, drew too much attention. And even if we'd succeeded, every subsequent stage would take decades, and would be even harder than what we attempted already."

Kanderin sums it up. "In short, the Ire plan is an impossible dream. And I no longer trust them to serve a greater good if they gain Divine power."

Glendwyl's eyes actually tear up as she turns to me. "Just what they did to you had me doubting the cause. They wanted to utterly break you, to leave you lost, alone, and unloved. Welcome nowhere, rejected by all. They planned to step in as your saviors, giving you family and purpose. If they'd succeeded, the process would have been repeated on many others… starting with you, Detective Watsel."

Watsel blinks, but otherwise contains her surprise well. "I assume they have theories for how my Compounding could be exploited?"

"Theories that my calculations proved possible," Kanderin admits. "By Compounding nicrosil, you have the potential to convert the Investiture of Ruin and Preservation into other forms of Investiture, and on a large scale. You could be a living transducer, able to power advanced devices that require many forms of Investiture at once."

"And as a Twinborn Flash, Mr. Gurnet would have acted as your supremely powerful bodyguard," Glendwyl adds. "Watsel, Kanderin, and myself would be key to advancing Ire technology, while those of you with tremendous combat potential would ensure our safety."

"You impressed me, Mr. Gurnet," Kanderin says, giving me a chagrined smile. "Even with so many Ire manipulating you yesterday, it wasn't enough. You kept trying new ways to prove who you were, and you relocated so quickly. At the photographer's office, you nearly spoiled the entire charade. Reokai barely had time to teleport herself there ahead of you and alter her appearance. And when it was clear she couldn't stop you from finding that photograph, Reokai's soulstamp was a rushed job. The picture didn't have time to transform before you saw it. It only changed to delete your wife as you were handing it to Doctor Koslenko."

The Doctor looks deeply shaken to have been so thoroughly deceived. "Are you saying, the photo really did include Mrs. Gurnet?"

"Reokai's forgery temporarily rewrote its history, making the photograph 'believe' that Wilma hadn't been in the frame. But with David right there, passionately insisting on the truth, it was very hard to enforce the lie."

Glendwyl shifts her position, avoiding the Aonic shield but making herself more comfortable. "In the end, your greatest success came from simply… losing control. When you Compounded speed and blitzed across the city so fast you could have killed yourself, you disrupted all of Alonoe's subtle plans. By the following morning, the Ghostbloods and--apparently--the Seventeenth Shard were getting more effective in their interference and countermeasures. It was all we could do to suppress some memories."

The shifting, patterned texture of Shallan's Spren vibrates and spins. "I'm sooooo sorrrrryyyyy that I made things even worse… I was supposed to mark your wiiiiife's location… so Shallaaaaaan could find you. But my mind was strrrrrretched and confuuuuuused, and I kept lightweaving without purpose."

"It's alright, Pattern," Wilma says, her tone comforting. "It didn't take long for David to accept it was still me. And a few of the color changes you caused were… enlightening. I think I might change my look."

A happy, satisfied thrum vibrates the pavement.

Nazh sweeps his eyes over the devastated battlefield. "So... What comes next?"

"I propose that all of you be given a choice," Khriss says. "You've all learned so much about the Cosmere and various worldhopping organizations, there's no point trying to make you go back to your former lives. Further, you've all proven your potential value." She gestures broadly, in a way that feels both grand and warm. "I represent numerous scholarly groups of Silverlight, and I extend an invitation to you all. Your insights, powers, and resourcefulness would be most welcome."

"And I offer membership to the Ghostbloods," Codenames says, "in the Survivor's name, of course."

I find myself chuckling. "With so many interstellar visitors popping out of nowhere, I'm kinda surprised he didn't make an appearance."

"Kelsior is very busy, especially for a Cognitive Shadow. That's why he sent us."

My smile vanishes, and my eyes widen. But I probably should have expected something mind-blowing, all things considered.

Clearly irked by my interruption, Codenames takes a moment to compose herself before continuing. "Today, you fought in defense of Skadrial's future, even if you didn't know it. As Ghostbloods, you'd have far more resources and support in keeping this world safe."

"The Seventeenth Shard would welcome you all as well," Baon says. "We may not intervene often, but our efforts are grand. We seek the good of the whole Cosmere, not Skadrial alone. With your help, we may one day find a way to limit the harm certain Shards can do."

From the top of a partially collapsed warehouse, Cephandrius calls, "If my input isn't too invasive… all of these options come with quite a perk: The organizations in question have such long-term goals... they've found ways to greatly slow the aging of their members."

My head swims. So that's how Demoux and his wife still so closely resemble their portraits and statues. By joining the Seventeenth Shard, they gained access to extended youth.

With my new drive to be a nobler man, and the example set by the fallen Constable Neltson, I know I won't make a longer life my true motivation. If I take up one of these causes, it will be for what I can give, not for what I can receive.

Nazh waves to Cephandrius. "Could you come over here for a moment? I have something important to demonstrate, and you'll be very helpful."

Raising an eyebrow in suspicion, the Mistborn nevertheless launches himself toward us with a steelpush.

Nazh gives the Duchess a meek and awkward look. "I hate to compete with my employer, but I can offer a fourth choice. In all the Cosmere, I feel it's fair to rate my homeworld as the single most tormented planet we know of. Many thousands of years ago, Odium mortally wounded Ambition in a way that damaged the Cognitive and Spiritual aspects of my old home. The people are constantly at the mercy of corrupted Cognitive Shadows."

"It's a miserable place for a vacation," Cephandrius agrees. "The Shades are nasty. Even the slightest misstep can–"

"Do you have any aluminum ingested?" Nazh asks carefully.

The Mistborn's eyes widen. "Uh… yes…"

"Then I think a demonstration will be most effective." Nazh draws a strange pistol from his belt, and to my alarm he takes aim at Cephandrius. "You're the only one here who can easily recover from this."

The only thing that stops me, and likely others, from intervening is the expression of the Mistborn's face. "I'm always keen to make a dramatic performance…"

The gun fires. There is no sharp crack of gunpowder, but something far worse. A white spectral form, almost gaseous but lacking real substance, bursts from the gun's barrel. It envelops Cephandrius, and the effects are gruesome. His flesh rapidly withers, turning black and pulling taut. In seconds, he's nearly skeletal, an abomination that draws shouts of dismay and revulsion from many of the onlookers.

Then the twisted figure smiles with what little remains of his lips… and the withering stops.

"He's burning aluminum," Spook whispers.

Nazh adjusts a dial on his weapon, and the ghastly white cloud is sucked back into it.

Swiftly, the horrid transformation reverses. In a few seconds of explosive regrowth, Cephandrius is fully restored. "What a hideous sensation. Never do that again."

Nazh solemnly nods. "If Hoid was a normal person–"

"Rude."

"-that would have killed him, trapping his damaged mind in the form of yet another Shade."

Wilma's voice is unsteady. "That was… the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. And considering the last half hour…"

"Threnody is swarming with these things," Nazh says. "Worse, they're starting to breach containment. The forces blockading the Threnodite subastral are having a harder and harder time keeping them in. There's a real threat of them reaching other worlds. And if a society doesn't know the Rules for appeasing them…"

"Well, I think you've all made excellent pitches," Cephandrius says. "If I were a 'normal person,' I don't know if I'd be able to choose. These impressive Skadrians have multiple thrilling options laid out before them. Whatever each decides, I wish them well."

With that, the baffling Mistborn inhales sharply, briefly glows blue, and then his appearance shifts. In the form of a tall, slender Terris academic, he strides purposefully southward, whistling to himself.

VenDell is the first to speak. "It is true… that Harmony is… unwell. Though all the causes represented by these organizations seem noble, I must remain beholden to Him alone. Sazed… needs me. But as for the rest of you… may you choose wisely."

Chapter Text

The gloomy forest is nearly silent, with even the nocturnal animals cautious and secretive. I have nothing to fear from them. All predators on this cursed world went extinct long ago.

Introspective, I think back to the day when that weighty decision was set before me. I'm still grateful that Wilma independently made the same choice.

The discussion lasted hours, during which the surviving Ire soldiers were treated. Constables Spook and Turstein both chose to remain on Skadriel, but as secret members of the Ghostbloods. While still serving the people of the Basin, they now have the aid, counsel, and resources of the Survivor's shadowy organization. VenDell remains loyal to Sazed alone, but he now acts as a bridge between Harmony's servants and the Ghostbloods. Detective Watsel is now a researcher for a university in Silverlight, which was originally founded by the Duchess Khrissala. Though she never would have helped the Ire with their plans, Watsel loves the idea of functioning as a Resonance transducer, allowing new technology to utilize many forms of Investiture at once. Perhaps she might even find a way to help Harmony. Doctor Koslenko chose to join her, in hopes that some of the new technology will prove useful in treating the mentally ill. Invested healing is sadly limited in treating such ailments, but if the power of multiple Shards are cunningly combined, perhaps anything is possible.

At the request of many, the Ire soldiers were given the same choice as us. Kanderin, Glendwyl, and the Radiant Kun'alar chose to join the Seventeenth Shard. The Twinborn Miracle, Telnet, struck by the heroism of Constable Neltson in his final moments, chose to join the Constables of Elendel. That, in turn led the Twinborn Hulk Silmon to do the same. Many of the non-Invested Ire soldiers chose to join the Constables too, or to serve the Ghostbloods, the Seventeenth Shard, or the city of Silverlight.

There were two people, however, who made the same choice as Wilma and me. One is a petite young woman named Grentin, who admits to having made many attempts to shoot Wilma during the battle. The young Tineye now defends her instead. The other is Lezash, the nonhuman Radiant who was my first exposure to Shardplate. His carapace armor and marbled skin always get quite a reaction from the locals.

Far more importantly, his Shardplate makes him completely immune to Shades.

Because the four of us took the most dangerous of the options presented.

I close my eyes, taking in the faint sounds and rich smells of the forest night. Shades make no sound, but Codenames gave me her Seeker spike. Burning bronze, I can sense their exact locations.

"I hear something," Grentin whispers. "About a mile south southeast. A crying child, and angry voices."

"Listen for my signal." Tapping steel, I move.

Do more good than harm.

Threnodites live by three Simple Rules to minimize the ever-present risk of the Shades. The spectral nightmares only attack when the rules are violated, otherwise no life could exist on this blighted world. Do not kindle a flame. Do not shed the blood of another. Do not run at night.

I have the tremendous advantage of being able to circumvent the final rule. By tapping steel, I can "walk" far faster than any normal person could run. As Cognitive entities, the Shades sense, not my actual speed, but the fact that I'm only walking. I thus reach the crying child in under a minute without ever breaking into a jog. Only one Shade took fleeting notice of me, and I left its field of awareness in mere seconds.

I find the child weeping, and quickly I understand the situation. The baby herself isn't in danger, but the agitation of the adults set off her crying. In the darkness, the parents didn't notice the speed of my approach. "How can I help?"

The father's face is torn with stress and fear, while the mother is stoic and silent. "We couldn't spare the silver to surround our campsite. A Shade blundered through and grazed her hand. We didn't break any rules, but…"

I've already drawn out a pouch of silver shavings, pouring it over the woman's blackened, skeletal hand. I made it in time, and much of the damage is reversed. The hand isn't functional though, so I also take out a Malwish medallion. I touch it to her wrist. "Do you sense a comforting warmth from this device?"

The woman nods.

"Accept that feeling as good and right, and you'll recover."

Though her expression is incredulous, she must have complied on some level. She draws on the Feruchemy, and her hand is fully restored.

While the parents thank me profusely, weeping in astonished relief, I pour out a thin line of powdered silver around their sleeping bag. I imply that it's all I have, since it wouldn't do for the locals to know just how much silver we carry. With my contacts amid the Ghostbloods, Silverlight, and the Seventeenth Shard, all of whom have access to Soulcasting, my small team can deploy more silver than even the wealthiest of the local forts. Even Cephandrius occasionally arranges hefty shipments of the precious metal, which Threnodites value above all else. Back on Skadrial, silver is considered pretty, but nothing more, as it's only true value is in alloyed form. But here, it is life.

Wilma, Grentin, Lezash, and I frequently wander the forests of Threnody's Physical Realm, aiding those in need, providing silver, and studying the Shades. And that's the easy part of our job. We also patrol Threnody's Cognitive Subastral, assisting the soldiers of the quarantine blockade in preventing the Shades from reaching other worlds. It is terrifying work… but also deeply fulfilling. We are odd strangers here, never staying in one place for long, avoiding contact with the forts, and keeping our secrets well. But rumors are starting to spread of strange wanderers who arrive precisely when they're needed, aiding all and asking nothing in return. Without wanting to, we're impacting the local folklore in a big way.

Wilma and I will never forget the heroism of Constable Neltson. We both concluded that, if he had lived, he would have chosen to aid Threnody. This planet's need is so great, and our work so dangerous, it's certain he would have taken this role.

Returning to my wife, whose hair is dyed a metallic gold to match her striking contact lenses, I again feel the dread and danger of this world. But I cannot be daunted. Most of my past was spent in selfish secret, hiding my tremendous power in hopes of a simple, ordinary life. But over the course of two extraordinary days, Wilma and I learned that we had the potential to serve the Cosmere. Through the manipulations of the Ire, I saw that my coworkers and colleagues on Skadrial could continue their lives happily even without me. Over the course of a terrible battle, I saw just how vast and complex the universe really is. And by the noble sacrifice of a fearless constable, Wilma and I learned the sort of people we want to be. We may no longer live on Harmony's world, but we still follow the Path. We do far more good than harm.

Upholding the life course of the Hero who died for us, standing vigil in a blighted, desperate world, we look to the future, determined and unafraid.

Author's Afterword

Thanks for reading. I had a ton of fun taking that old dream of mine and spinning it into a bigger story. I especially liked writing a complex battle involving many Compounders with plenty of non-Skadrian Investiture thrown in for good measure. It reminded me of the delightful time I had writing "Keyblades and Benders," which similarly involved a load of super-powered individuals in an epic brawl.

It was the user "retro mania" who suggested that I write a fic based on the classic Twilight Zone episode "Person or Persons Unknown." I'd already written "After Hours: Three Brides To Be" at his request, I have many projects lined up, and I really want to focus on them. So I almost said no. But when I listened to the radio drama of that episode, my mind immediately started thinking of Feruchemical Connection and Identity. Since other readers had said they wanted to see my "Metalborn" story continued, I decided it would be a delightful way to satisfy both requests in a manner that has certainly never been done before.

Further, this gave me a chance to show the tip of a very nerdy iceberg. In "Alloy of Law," Wayne claimed to have memorized the unique names for every Twinborn combination. But we're only actually told that Wax is a "Crasher," and there's at least a chance that a gold Compounder is a "Hundredlives." Well… guess what? As a massive fan and equally-massive nerd, I actually made a giant chart and went nuts. So, yeah… I assigned way more Twinborn names than those used in this story. I named 'em all! [cue Pokemon theme] And it's even crazier than it sounds. My chart isn't 16 by 16, for a total of 256 possible Twinborn. My chart is from a massively homebrewed RPG campaign where there are 400 combinations. Cuz I use nineteen metals, as well as Mistborn and full Feruchemists. If you reeeeally appreciate my little story, and want to see that hilarious chart, here's the link:

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1ILQ081MHbL3sLAgQhQGOH2-hflQyYH3nYNOd37N7w-8/edit?usp=sharing

When I printed that chart at the library where I work, a coworker picked it up and said, "I have no idea what this is… but I like it." If you're my kind of nerd… you might like it too.

Bonus: Congrats if you realized that I included the word "maladroitly" as a reference to one of Sanderson's earliest writing tells, which he confessed to in one of his classes. Certainly the first time I've ever typed that word out.

Reviews are always welcome. Especially if they are well thought out and detailed. I will never get tired of "long" reviews. They tell me how much the reader appreciated the work. And it might just give me a hint as to the reviewer's writing skill. More than once, a well-written review led me to go find the reviewer's writing.