Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

smashed to the ground, and his vision flashed. He lost a few moments.
    He came to, bloodied, dazed, rolling to a stop. His head swam. He was unable to move or even think, his heart thumping in his chest.
    A figure stood up in the railcar. Waxillium’s vision was too blurry to make out much, but he knew it was Miles. His clothing had been shredded, much of it blown off his body, but he was whole. He’d set off dynamite in his hand in order to free himself from the nets.
    Rust and Ruin … Waxillium thought, coughing. How badly was he hurt? He rolled over, numb. That wasn’t a good sign.
    “Is there any doubt that I have been chosen for something great?” Miles bellowed. Waxillium could barely hear it; his ears were nearly useless after that blast. “Why else would I have this power, Waxillium? Why else would we be what we are? And yet, we let others rule. Let them make a mess of our world while we do nothing but chase petty criminals.”
    Miles hopped down from the train car, then strode forward, bare-chested, trousers hanging in rags. “I am tired of doing what the city tells me. I should be helping people, not fighting meaningless fights as prescribed by the corrupt and the uncaring.”
    He reached Waxillium, leaning down. “Can’t you see? Can’t you see what important work we could be doing? Can’t you see that we’re meant to be doing it, perhaps even ruling. It’s almost like … like we, with the powers we have, are divine.” He seemed to almost be begging for Waxillium to agree, to give him justification.
    Waxillium just coughed.
    “Bah,” Miles said, straightening up. He flexed a hand. “You don’t think I realize that the only way to stop me is to tie me up? A little explosion can serve a man so well, I’ve found. I keep the dynamite in the cigar cases. Few people look there. You should have questioned the criminals I caught back in the Roughs. A few of them tried capturing me with ropes.”
    “I…” Waxillium coughed. His own voice sounded wrong in his ears. “I couldn’t have talked to any of the criminals you caught. You killed them all, Miles.”
    “So I did,” Miles said. He grabbed Waxillium by the shoulder, hauling him to his feet. “I see you dropped my gun as you jumped out of the train. Wonderful.” He punched Waxillium in the stomach, causing him to exhale with a grunt. Then Miles let him fall to the ground, wandering over toward a gun lying nearby.
    Dazed, but knowing he needed to get to cover, Waxillium somehow lurched to his feet. He Pushed against a piece of machinery and sent himself sailing across the room, where he landed beside the boxes. Those had been scattered in the blast, but they still provided some protection.
    Coughing, bleeding, he crawled behind them. Then he collapsed.
    * * *

    Wayne spun between two Vanishers. He brought his dueling canes to the side, slamming them into the back of one of the men. He was rewarded with a satisfying crack . The man fell.
    Wayne grinned, dropping his speed bubble. The other man who had been trapped in it with him spun about, trying to draw a bead on Wayne—but while sped up, he’d inadvertently moved into the path of several of his comrades who’d been firing.
    The Vanisher fell to a spray of bullets. Wayne jumped back, erecting another bubble around just him and one confused Vanisher.
    Everything outside slowed—bullets stilled in the air, shouts vanished, the waves diffusing as they hit the speed bubble. That did strange things to sound. Wayne spun about and knocked the gun out of the hands of the Vanisher behind him, then lunged forward and rammed the end of a cane into the man’s neck. The man gurgled in surprise; then Wayne smacked him on the side of the head, dropping him.
    He stepped back, puffing and spinning one of his canes. His bendalloy was running low, so he ate another bit. His last. More worrisome were his metalminds, which were almost completely spent. Again . He hated fighting that way. A single gunshot could end him. He was as fragile as … well, everyone else. It was most disturbing.
    He stepped up to the perimeter of his speed bubble, wishing it would move with him. That Pewterarm was still wearing Wayne’s lucky hat; the man had ducked behind cover when Wax had thrown the dynamite, and had only just emerged. He didn’t appear to have been injured badly; a few scrapes to his face, the sort of thing a Pewterarm could ignore. Too bad. But at least the hat was doing all right.
    The man had begun