Squatting like a wounded beast on the edge of the waterfront, the hextech factory keened and shuddered, sporadically belching gasps of hissing steam into the rose-red morning sky. Enormous brass pipes studded with jittery meters and rusty valve wheels snaked from the openings cut in the corrugated tin siding, running in neatly paired lines the short distance over weed-choked asphalt to dip into the murky waters of Piltover's harbor.
Pumping industrial runoff into the harbor was strictly prohibited by no less than fourteen environmental sanctions, and were this a real factory, the Sheriff would have been glad to slap a misdemeanor charge on the first person who looked like they were even remotely involved in its operation. Given that the weary metal monstrosity's prevailing offense was that it housed a rising mob lord's stashed blood money, Caitlyn had decided to let the incidental pollution (a somewhat lesser evil) slide, if only for the time being.
Adjusting her sights as the sun began to burn away the low clinging mists, Caitlyn gave the facility a sharp, nearly clinical inspection in the changing light. She sat in the operator's booth of a shipping crane in the lot adjacent the not-factory, an eagle's eye vantage point from which she kept a close watch over the action. However, the action in question was, regrettably, a solid twelve hours of little more than the tide washing in and out against the docks. Never had a tip off from this particular source resulted in such a spectacular absence of results, and as Caitlyn snapped the lenses back in place atop her hat, she wondered if there weren't some unknown variable in play.
The eager sun had properly risen by now, peeping hale and hearty above the distant Zaunite cape of the eastern horizon. Almost directly to Caitlyn's right, the light blazed off the brass and tin of the factory; the glaring reflections changing her sniper's nest from an asset to a handicap in the blink of an eye. Nothing more to be gained in this position, she sighed inwardly, starting to pack up her gear. She had, at the very least, satisfied her personal promise to attempt to keep the peace through nonviolence. Unfortunately, as so often was the case in this business, the situation now called for the careful application of appropriate force.
Frustration was not an obstacle Caitlyn often faced, but it seemed to be the flavor of the day. Standing in the back row of action-ready officers, she felt a vein throb in her temple as she surveyed the factory floor. In every available corner, machinery hissed and hummed like grumbling metal giants, belching sulphur as though dissatisfied with their lot. Overhead, but still lower than the rusting catwalks, veins of slender tubing twisted web-like through the entire space. Here and there various pipes ran a ways together, steel-banded arteries to pump a high volume of some substance between calcified tanks and gigantic copper vats of unknown content. In the dusty foreman's office hung a salacious calendar pinned to the wrong month, and threadbare work gloves sat in a greasy pile under a sign which read "Days Without Accident:" where the panel for indicating the proper number had been torn clean off.
Down to the rat droppings under the shadiest of areas, the place looked every part a working factory and not at all like a front for underworld activities – putting the pollution aside for a moment.
With a scowl pulling at her nonetheless attractive features, the Sheriff signaled her men to spread out and check the hextech apparatuses one at a time until something (or, perhaps, nothing) turned up. She had come to put a lot of faith in this source of hers, whose info routinely returned a dollar on the penny. Her dark eyes swept the contours and recesses of the factory's interior in the same fashion a bird of prey scours the waving grasses of a distant meadow. She had to be missing something. All she had to do was find it.
That the building had been recently inhabited, that much was evident. Sniffing the coffee in the suspiciously rusty carafe, she found it burnt but not stale. Brewed yesterday but no earlier, at some point before her surveillance began. A set of time cards, whether real or faked, had been punched in but not out, four in total. Additionally, the foreman's keys hung on a peg beside the aforementioned calendar; the pistol holster which hung one peg over was conspicuously empty.
Slipping out of the office and crossing to a stocky blonde woman decked out in full riot gear, Caitlyn instructed the officer to pass on the likelihood of four or five possibly armed subjects sequestered somewhere in the premises. The officer responded with a curt nod before gliding off, unexpectedly silent in all her dark body armor, stopping by her nearest teammate and then the next, and so on.
While the update circulated amongst the ranks, Caitlyn double checked her rifle, toggling through the settings with calculated precision. Armor-piercing round, .90 caliber net, Piltover Peacemaker; each one of her tactical options were ready for action when (or if) needed. Satisfied with her gear, the Sheriff stalked quietly into the heart of the factory floor.
Things were noisier here, and she worried less about being heard than not hearing an assailant's approach under the rumble and clang of the moving parts. Her officers were already spread evenly throughout the area, though, and keeping at least one in her peripheral at all times gave her a measure of reassurance. She trusted her team to watch her back, a trust earned through years of shared experience, of careful preparation and a good deal of bloody luck. Her faith in them allowed her to shift focus to the tanks and valves, the pipes and the steam outlets, anything which might point her in the right direction.
Thorough, watchful, she circled through the central vat containment area once, then back again the other direction. No cry had been raised regarding any non-police individual on the scene, but she still felt it in her bones that there was more to this set up than appearances seemed willing to tell. Not only did she stubbornly believe in the credence of her source, her sleuthing sense told her that she hadn't yet sniffed out whatever it was that she needed to find. The proverbial missing piece.
Caitlyn stopped her careful patrol at a valve-equipped meter she had passed twice already. Something about the way its needle twitched and jumped got under her skin, like it had some message to pass on but she possessed neither the means nor the mentality to translate it. Taking a step back, her dark eyes flicked upwards as she traced the path of the silvery tube to which it was attached, up and down and winding through the maze of piping that carried who-knew-what to who-knew-where.
Unexcitingly, this tube as well as her suspicions dead-ended at the same place as so many others did: the main control panel for one of the dull copper vats which brooded in the center of the floor. This massive object she circled, once, twice, then once more from the other direction. Unlike the jumpy meter which had caught her eye, this container stood out not a jot from its brothers. Just a huge, rumbling, empty . . . .
Now hold on a minute. Caitlyn froze in place, tentatively reaching up to place a gloved hand against the vat's tarnished surface. Ever so faintly, she detected an irregular thumping that seemed to come from within.
Shouldering her rifle, she quickly crossed to the next closest vat, where she pressed her hands against the side. For a minute she stood there, earning the curious attention of her men. Finally, she drew back, boot heels snapping with conviction as she went now to the control panel for this container. She carefully considered the dials and meters there, memorizing the value and function of each.
Striding back over to the vat to which the jumpy-metered pipe had led, she inspected the console, comparing the numbers of the two. She tapped one finger to a dial that had been turned all the way to the left, her purple nail clacking on its polished surface. Her sharp eyes went to the narrow catwalks above, which already bore a small phalanx of her finest sharpshooters spread out across the works.
She whistled, the shrill sound catching the ear of every officer in the factory, and the patter of hurried footfalls began to ricochet off of every tin and copper surface. To the two closest officers stationed on the narrow pathways overhead, Caitlyn gestured at the suspicious vat. "I want this opened up, immediately," she ordered. Turning to a few of the newly assembled riot team, she beckoned her front line to climb up as well. "Be on your guard, there may be armed personnel inside there. Steady as she goes." With a confident nod, she saw them hustle on their way.
A thrill of excitement stuttered through her system as she peered down into the dim belly of the opened vat, her heart pounding at the sight of the conspicuous little note tacked onto one side. She took the light from the officer who held it, and carefully swung herself onto the rickety ladder that led down the interior side of the container.
Never mind the five burly men bound and gagged inside the vat, pounding their work boots against the thick metal frame. Of slightly more interest were the sturdy pallets hammered into place along the wall, forming a sort of floor midway down. The men were wrapped mummy-like in dust covers bearing the emblem of the Piltover mint; these trappings, along with other physical evidence, suggested that the pallets had until recently held a large quantity of gold bullion. They held nothing but the men, now.
Processing this visual information in a solitary glance, Caitlyn spared not an extra thought in her single-minded quest to reach the intoxicating note. Its obvious presence lit a fire under her, not just of excitement (the chase is on), but of stinging embarrassment (just try and catch me this time). Caitlyn hopped lightly from the ladder to the pallet on the left, an area of the "floor" thankfully devoid of mummy-men. The platform held firm despite its DIY disposition, supporting not only her weight, but also her theory that this emptied vat was indeed the secret vault suggested by her informant.
Had been a secret vault, rather. That the gold was gone, or that its guardians were currently hog-tied and squirming under the gaze of at least fifteen officers of the law, troubled the Sheriff of Piltover less than who had perpetrated the heist. Her jaw clenched of its own accord as she neared the note, the strange mixture of exhilaration and dread putting her all out of sorts. Time and time again, she found herself prey to the artistry of C's handiwork.
She stepped up to the note and went stock-still, hand hovering in the air where she had sought to pull it down. Caitlyn frowned, reading and re-reading its unexpected contents, imagining huge comical question marks joyously dancing above her head.
The note did not have the single monogramed letter she had initially assumed it would have. In fact, it had a lot more than just the one. With an angry huff, she yanked the bit of paper from the wall of the vat and turned to issue orders to her slack-jawed men above. She had wasted enough police resources on pranks like this already, and like hell would she abide by ones that played her for a fool. Climbing the ladder back to the catwalks, the Sheriff decided it was high time she delivered a certain hot-head rebel one of her trademarked house calls. The kind that ended in five to ten years behind bars.
The note, which she folded into neat fourths and tucked into her bodice, read thus:
Hey Cupcake – come and get it!
VI