Vigor Mortis

Returning to the streets without armor on is both extremely familiar and extremely weird. I never noticed how comfortable I got with people fearing me. Fear is the right word for it, too: people in full expedition gear don’t exactly frequent our part of town, and rarely do people wander around here as heavily armed as I do without being up to no good. Couple that with the fact that I’m less than five feet tall, and I’m like a glowing beacon that screams ‘deadly talent here.’ People my size don’t keep that kind of gear without being able to prove they can use it.

Without gear, however, people my size just look like a free mark. Yes, it’s entirely possible that any random schmuck can blow your head up with a talent, but the thought is if I had a talent like that, I wouldn’t be here. A risk? Sure. But people are desperate enough in this part of town to take that gamble. My face may be an unwashed mess but the clothes I borrowed from Orville are clean and devoid of holes. Not to mention I do actually have a bunch of money on me. If I’m stupid about where I go, I’m going to get attacked.

Not that I plan on being stupid, of course. I descend into the bowels of my part of the city via a larger street, only ducking into alleyways when I’m sure no one is watching. Eventually I make my way to the bread stand I like, nodding to a surprised shopkeep.

“Hey, Dathus,” I address him.

“Hmm? Vita? Vita! It is you! Made it back alive I see?”

The old man grins in proud defiance of his toothlessness, to which I grin back. He’s a shriveled old fellow, and while his soul isn’t at all powerful, it is certainly warm. Soft and green, smelling like grass in the sunlight. He’s a kind soul, one I’m glad also happens to run the cheapest bread stall in the city.

“This and every time,” I promise. “Death would be inconvenient.”

He chuckles amicably, nodding and preparing my usual order without instruction.

“That it would, that it would! Not here with your boyfriend today, eh?”

I tilt my head, having to think about that one.

“Uh, do you mean Orville? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Of course, of course!” Dathus laughs. “Well, I’m surprised to see you out of your armor for a change. Your new outfit is lovely.”

“Thanks, I guess. It’s Orville’s.”

He stops baking for a moment, staring up at me. I stare back. An awkward silence passes between us as his soul pulses with amusement. Without a word, he soon returns to his work with a grin on his face that he’s clearly trying and failing to repress.

My face falls into a scowl. I don’t get this apparent joke and I’m too tired to ask. I just wait in silence for the bread to finish, grabbing it all before I head to a nearby veggie vendor.

“You be careful hauling all that, Vita,” Dathus calls after me. “Don’t get hurt now!”

I shrug, about the furthest thing from worried. If anything, he should be worried about anyone trying to mug me. I buy some tiny, slightly squishy and sad-looking vegetables before cutting away into an alley, heading home. I’ll absolutely get mugged if anyone sees me unarmed with all this food, so I take a circuitous route there, avoiding human contact. Frankly, I probably would have done the same even if I had armor; I’m not exactly in a social mood today. After about an hour of meandering, my home finally hits the edge of my senses, the dozen hungry kids I call my siblings popping into the range of my soul-sense.

...As do a half-dozen other people. Hmm. I worm my senses deeper into one of my… sisters, I think. The little black soul pulses, still growing its form and color like most children I sense. I focus, trying to get a read on her emotions. Concern. Fear. Resignation. Anger.

Pain.

Gritting my teeth, I pick up the pace, going from a meandering walk to a full-blown sprint towards home. Who the fuck dares to mess with my family? The six souls I don’t recognize are all stronger than the kids, of course, but compared to me they’re weaklings. Barely even snacks. Do these shitstains seriously think they can get away with this?

I hear the stupid bastards before I can see them.

“Come on, brats. You know the drill. Money. Where is it?”

“We don’t have any today!” one of my brothers protests. “A-and mom or dad will be back soon, so you’d better—”

A sharp smacking sound cuts off his voice as I round the corner, fury and death on my face as I watch the aftermath of Jarod getting backhanded across the face. All but the youngest kids are out in front of the shack, as if to bar entry. Though the assailants have their back to me, they turn to face my direction as I run into view.

“Don’t you fucking touch them again,” I command.

Five of the six are men, or perhaps more accurately they’re male. Two of them are just boys, barely thirteen or fourteen, though they loom just as aggressively over my family as the adults leading them. One of the younger one’s eyes just about bulge out of his head when he spots me. Do I know him from somewhere?

“Oh, hey, free food! Thanks for fetching that for us, little miss,” one of the pathetic degenerates sneers. “Bring it right over here, will you?”

I certainly start to approach, but I have no intention of giving them a single crumb.

“Big sis!” a little one cheers. She’s the one I gave a piggyback to the other day, I think. Angelien.

The girl has no visible wounds, but I can tell she’s in significant pain. These bastards know to only bruise below the collarbone, to let the kids hide the evidence. They know to scare children enough to make them do just that, to hide from the people that would be, should be helping them. Some of the kids look at me with fear, with guilt. As if getting their asses kicked, getting stolen from by these lowlifes, was their fault.

“All right, hand it over,” another one of the assholes orders.

I walk right next to him, glaring upwards.

“You can fuck off or die,” I promise.

A shocked silence settles over the little nook that passes for our street. Even most of my own siblings are looking at me with surprise, nowhere near as happy as Angelien seems to be. They’re scared for me. They think I’ve set myself up for a beating. They know vaguely that I’m a hunter, but they’ve never seen me fight.

Most of them have never seen me mad, either.

“Stupid bitch, I said hand it over!”

He raises a hand to slap me, but my tendrils are already wrapping around his soul. Terror crawls onto his face in an instant, my spiritual arms squirming and squeezing. Disgusting filth. I don’t even want to touch him.

“Go on,” I hiss, taking a step forward. “I’m not going to give you a damn thing. So hit me.”

He backs away, towards his group. All eyes are on me now. I step after him, squeezing his soul harder.

“I’ve had a very, very bad month,” I tell them. “I was already in a fucking shit mood before walking in on this. So try it. Hit me. Steal from me. See what happens.”

“Th-that’s her,” the boy that was staring at me earlier whispers. “She’s Vita! She took my dad away!”

I glance at him again. Oh, that’s right. I do know him. Grig’s son. Wow, that feels like a lifetime ago. The kid’s words seem to spur a bit more life into the confused thugs, all but the one I’m squeezing quickly recovering their bravado.

“This is her?” the woman of the group asks. “This is the tramp that put you and your mom on the streets?”

Of course. Isn’t this just typical? The group moves to surround me, my blood boiling. Is this my fault? I really want to kill them, but I know I shouldn’t. I don’t have a ton of non-lethal options, though. I might be able to out-fistfight them, but I doubt it, especially if any of them have a knife. Maybe I can spook them all with soul-grabs? Yeah, that might work. It really seems to freak people out. I just need to get them all in range at once. Let them surround me, let them get close...

“Leave her alone!” Angelien screams, running at the gang as they close in on me.

The tiny girl pulls out a shiv, scraped together from wood, twine, and a broken coin. Sharp, chitin-tipped. Deadly if she hits just the right spot. A bunch of the other kids do the same, pulling out hidden weapons and approaching alongside her. I can’t help but feel my spirits lift a little. The kids are proper street rats. They haven’t been sitting here and taking it. They didn’t hide their bruises out of fear, they hid them because they wanted to fuck these assholes up themselves. Still though, I don’t want to see them get hurt.

“Guys, I’m fine!” I insist. “I got this. Back o—”

Grig’s son steps towards Angelien, smacking her in the side of the head with a kick that sends her sprawling to the dirt. Her neck twists at a terrible angle, a snapping sound ringing behind the dull thud of the impact. I watch in horror as her soul floats up from her body.

All six of my family’s assailants fall dead to the ground, their souls in my arms.

“Hide downstairs,” I order the kids, dropping the food I’d brought.

“But—”

“Go,” I snap, and they all scurry to obey. Except Angelien.

I eat four of the bastard’s souls. They don’t deserve anything better. Two others I put shards in, raising them as my Revenants. I make sure Grig’s son is one of them. I want him to hurt. The whole family is rotten.

“Take these bodies to the sewers,” I order. “Don’t let anyone see you. Hide them in an outflow channel by the walls, then walk in with them and kill yourselves.”

“W-what?” Grig’s little monster whispers, confusion and horror warring on his face.

“You heard me, murderer,” I snarl. “Follow my orders or I’ll send you home with worse ones.”

The terrified Revenants hop to the task, taking two bodies each. Carefully, delicately, I kneel down by Angelien’s body, scooping up her soul and holding it safe. In a kind of desperate madness, I check her body, confirming what I already know. No pulse. No breathing. Dead. She’s dead from a single kick.

Killed by a child with a dangerous talent. It could happen to anybody. Grig’s kid had inhuman strength, just like daddy, and when I killed the man… I put his son on the street. The kid joined a gang. I found him roving around with adults despite being half their age. Of course he had a damn talent! His soul was so weak, but I should have known, I should have known he would be fucking dangerous. They underestimated me and died for it. I underestimated them, and Angelien fucking died for it.

My sister.

...She’d be mad at me if I left the food here. I collect it off the ground, taking it inside and tossing it down the trapdoor to the other kids.

“Vita!” one of them calls up. Fuck, but I can’t even remember his name. “Is Angelien…?”

“Sorry,” I mumble back. “Just… stay here until Lyn and Rowan come home. Okay?”

It never should have come to this. I should have killed them all the moment I saw them.

I lift Angelien up in my arms, holding her close. Still warm. Her knife drops from her tiny hand, so I reach down and grab that too. My sister’s soul is inside me. Dead does not mean gone. I’ll bring her back.

None of these thoughts stop the tears. They well up from my face, dripping down on a dead girl’s body. I find myself surprised that I care this much, then disgusted that such a thing would be a surprise. But it is, isn't it?

I barely even knew her name.