The Heartsmith's Daughter

Chapter 7.

Once darkness fell, it didn't take long for the telltale screams to fill the air. Whether it was a complaint of the chill, the lack of quality in prison food, or simply thinking her treatment was unfair, one was sure to hear the shrill cries of the widowed Victoria Bolleman ringing throughout the cell walls.

"That's our cue, Eva," Oliver whispered into my ear, and I didn't appreciate the shivers its cool sound sent through me. His eyes were shadowed, his brows furled in determination, and yet, his movements became much more controlled and fluid as he slunk towards the prison. I tried my best to follow his example, keeping my footsteps light and silent.

"Ugh. There that witch goes again," a guard sighed in exasperation, seemingly not noticing us.

His co-worker replied, "Right? I'm lucky I can even hear you right now amidst all this chaos."

"Yes. I suppose I would call myself lucky, wouldn't you?"

The guards whipped around to see Oliver right besides them, with myself ducked behind his lead.

"Who are you? Don't you know-" but the first didn't even have the time to finish before Oliver swift hand ran his dagger through his throat. I gasped. It was all so quick, and the blood's flow even quicker.

The second guard then made his way near, slipping a smooth, golden revolver from his holster. "Oliver, watch out!" I cried, too shocked to even make a move.

Turning around, he spotted the gun, and tackled the man's waist. He continued to scream, but I doubted it couldt be heard in the commotion. A few wet, revolting noises came from Oliver's direction, and I turned my head so as not to be sick at the sight.

"Thanks Evan." Oliver laughed. "Although a helping hand would be nice here."

"What? I warned you."

"Oh I don't mean that," he replied. "I was talking about finishing off these guards." Sitting on the unconscious man's chest, he inserted his dagger into the weak flesh around the man's perforation, or was I supposed to call it a keyhole now?

"Wait... You wouldn't!" I cried, but no sooner had the words left my mouth then he had slid the blade cleanly around the metal rim, and removed the piece. He held the steel piece in his hand for a moment, admiring the gears and springs, waiting to be would be a key that would never be inserted again, and chucked it off into a random bush. "Your turn." He gestured to the knife I still tightly clutched in my sweating hands.

"No. I can't do this. This isn't right! He won't even wake up dead. He'll have to suffer for days on end until he ceases to move!" The very thought terrified me. It was too similar to myself. The whole reason I was even in this situation was to free my father, and prevent myself from having the same fate. How could I possibly...

"We don't have time to fully finish them off! I would love to do this a more moral way, but we don't even have enough time to even be sitting here trying to get you to help." He pushed me aside lightly and finished the job on the second victim. "Look, I don't like it either, but if you're going to turn away at every awful sight and can't bring yourself to kill, then this entire mission was a waste. Are you willing to give up your life that easily? You want to go down as easy as these men?" He stared at me intently. I tried not to look away.

"No," I finally answered, returning his stare.

"Then get ready to change your clothes again, and be ready to fight this time." He began to unbutton the grey overcoat, embroidered with it's bronze, silver, and gold design of a lock and key. "We're heading in."

The coat lay heavy on my thin body, and the trousers I had borrowed from Oliver were a bit lighter of a shade of brown, but it was close enough, I supposed. The heavy door of the prison swung open, and the screams inside became much louder, and I realized they weren't entirely Victoria's. Some were of random cell keepers, shouting at one another if they could kindly shut her up, but others yet were of inmates crying out in pain, and I thought I even could discern the wail of an infant. Dogs barked, people bustled about, and a stench most unbearable rank from some indiscernible spot. So when Oliver and I stepped in dressed in the matching attire, not one had the peace of mind to tell us apart. "Stay close," Oliver whispered in my ear, giving me shivers once again. "Walk not too slow, not too fast, and with your eyes straight ahead. Pay no one else any mind, and they'll do the same."

From there, it was easy to follow the cries. I walked alongside Oliver, peering into each cell along the path. One of them held the wailing child I had heard before, clutched tight by a weary-looking mother. Though it was covered by raggled, brown hair, I could see that her keyhole had been removed. She would only live for a few more days, at best, in these rust-inducing conditions. I wondered what would happen to the child she was nursing. I tried to hope for the best as we passed, when my thoughts were shattered by the rattled off someone shaking their prison bars.

"You gotta let me out. You gotta get me out of here!" A toothless old man convulsed wildly, and I jumped backwards in fright. Oliver kept walking though, not even offering a second glance, and I tried to do the same, even as he shouted, "It's not me! It's the Heart-Status! You have to let me out. I was framed! I'm innocent..."

Hearing the idea of Heart-Status irked me once again, and I dug my hands into the coat pocket, finally finding, and taking hold of the knife. Such rubbish.

"I told you it was real. Look around. All the people you see in here, Copperhearts... Nickelhearts, even Aluminumhearts. But have we seen a single Silverheart, or even a Bronzeheart? No. They always get off scot-free."

"There are a lot of them in here, but it's just because they're lower-class," I argued back. "I'm not going to argue the fact that they don't get to live as well off, but it's because they live that way that they commit more crime."

"Oh, because every Goldheart that has ever been is perfect, right?" Oliver turned on me, his voice now dangerously low. "It's because everyone believes this messed up idea that people should be treated based on their metal, that everything is as messed up as it is. We can't have the ones in charge look bad, so we cover up all their crimes, and frame some Tinheart on the street, because no one will care about them." He then turned back around, breathing out frustratedly. "But enough about that. We have a job to do. The question is, are you able to actually handle it?"

The screams swirled around me, and the air felt suffocating. The knife's handle dug into my palm, asking to be used, and Oliver pierced into my soul with those deep, green eyes of his, seemingly as though he held wisdom that was beyond his nineteen years.

"I'm ready."