Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

to roll over, Miles grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, then laid into him with a fist to the face. Marasi gasped, though she had been told to stay back. She did her part.
    The punch slammed Wax down to the ground, and he tasted blood. Rust and Ruin … he’d be lucky if his jaw wasn’t broken. He also felt like he’d ripped something in his shoulder.
    His wounds suddenly seemed to crash down upon him. He didn’t know if it was the mists, some action of Harmony, or simple adrenaline that had helped him ignore them for a time. But he hadn’t been healed. His side screamed from where he’d been shot, and his leg and arm had been burned and scraped raw by the explosion. He’d been clipped by bullets in the thigh and the arm. And now, Miles’s beating.
    It overwhelmed him, and he groaned, slumping down, struggling to merely remain conscious. Miles pulled him up again, and Wax managed to get in one thrashing swing that connected. And did nothing. It was very, very difficult to brawl with a man who didn’t flinch when you hit him.
    Another punch sent Wax to the ground again, head ringing, eyes seeing stars and flashes of light.
    Miles leaned down, speaking in his ear. “Thing is, Waxillium, I know you feel it too. A part of you knows that you’re being used, that nobody cares about the downtrodden. You’re just a puppet. People are murdered every day this city. At least one a day. Did you know that?”
    “I…” Keep him talking. He rolled onto his back, aching, meeting Miles’s eyes.
    “People murdered every day,” Miles repeated, “and what was it that brought you out of your ‘retirement’? When I shot an old, would-be aristocratic wolfhound in the head. Did you ever stop to think of all the other people being killed in the streets? The beggars, the whores, the orphans? Dead because of lack of food, or because they were in the wrong place, or because they tried something stupid.”
    “You’re trying to invoke the Survivor’s mandate,” Wax whispered. “But it won’t work, Miles. This isn’t the Final Empire of legend. A rich man can’t kill a poor one just because he feels like it. We’ve gotten better than that.”
    “Bah!” Miles said. “They pretend and lie to make a good show.”
    “No,” Waxillium said. “They have good intentions, and make laws that prevent the worst of it—but those laws still fall short. It’s not the same thing.”
    Miles kicked him in the side to keep him down. “I don’t care about the Survivor’s mandate. I’ve found something better. That doesn’t matter to you. You’re just a sword, a tool that goes where it’s pointed. It rips you apart that you can’t stop the things that you know you should. Doesn’t it?”
    They met eyes. And, shockingly—despite the agony—Waxillium found himself nodding. Truthfully nodding. He did feel it. That was why what had happened to Miles terrified him.
    “Well, someone has to do something about it,” Miles said.
    Harmony, Waxillium thought. If Miles had been born back then, in the days before, he’d have been a hero. “I’ll start helping them, Miles,” Waxillium said. “I promise it to you.”
    Miles shook his head. “You won’t live that long, Wax. Sorry.” He kicked again. And again. And again.
    Waxillium curled around himself, hands over his face. He couldn’t fight. He just had to last. But the pain was mounting. It was terrible .
    “Stop it!” Marasi’s voice. “Stop it, you monster!”
    The kicks stopped falling. Waxillium felt her beside him, kneeling, hand on his shoulder.
    Fool woman. Stay back. Unnoticed. That was the plan.
    Miles cracked his knuckles audibly. “I suppose I should deliver you to Suit, girl. You’re on his list, and you can replace the one Waxillium set free. I’ll probably have to track her down.”
    “Why is it,” Marasi said angrily, “that small-minded men must destroy that which they know is better, and greater, than they?”
    “Better than me?” Miles said. “This? He isn’t great, child.”
    “The greatest of men can be taken down by the simplest of things. A lowly bullet can end the life of the most powerful, most capable, most secure of men.”
    “Not me,” Miles said. “Bullets are nothing to me.”
    “No,” she replied. “You’ll be brought down by something even more lowly.”
    “Which is?” he asked, amused, voice growing closer.
    “Me,” Marasi replied.
    Miles laughed. “I’d like to see…” He trailed